"The library, sir. You may go in."
Whipley had paused, standing to one side. His leathery hand indicated another door. Melissa huddled next to me, like a frightened little girl. I squeezed her hand.
"Thank you, Whipley. See you later."
"Perhaps. Forgive me, I must go now. There are details—" He bowed from the waist, turned on his heel and drifted off. I took a deep breath and cranked open the ornate handle of the library door. For all its massive size, the door opened easily. I stepped in, dragging Melissa in with me.
Our first impression was nothing but bookcases. Miles of bookcases. High, glassed, filling the walls of the room. There was also an enormous fireplace that could have accommodated a whole army of Santas. French doors to the left of the fireplace showed a view of trees and blue sky. The parquet floor shone like polished glass. But there were desks, chairs and tables, all dovetailing neatly with the motif of oaks and mahoganies and teaks. The room was lit by a large chandelier of so many crystals and pendants it looked artificial. Standing directly underneath this, stood Stallings Spanner. It had to be him. He had Lord-of-the-Manor written all over him.
"Mr. Noon?" His voice was a whisky bass. Cracked, fizzled and tired. He had the red face, the mottle complexion and the glassy blue eyes that went with the expression. His smoking jacket, for all its brocade and expensiveness, could not hide the fact that what was once a very military bearing, had rapidly gone to seed. He was adding to his pot, and his wispy, iron-grey hair was more like brillo than distingue!
"Hello, Mr. Spanner. Thank you for letting us in. This is my secretary, Miss Mercer."
His face crumpled with irritation as he waved us to chairs. His left hand was curled around a highball glass that had a lot of ice in it. But he seemed duty-bound to retain a gentleman's air despite his new grief. The death of a spoiled son.
"I know all that. Sit down. You think I'd let just anyone in the place today? Today of all days. Come to the point, sir. There is no time at all for long-winded introductions. You have something to tell me or ask me, I hear. Ask or tell away."
He was right, of course. I wasn't going to question what strange largesse had granted me this interview with a wealthy giant who had kept the press of the world at bay so that he could bury his famous son in peace. I could only guess. So I handed Melissa into a deep comfortable chair and took up a stance across from Old Man Moneybags.
"All right, Mr. Spanner. Cards up and dealing. I want you to tell me about your son. Tommy. That's why I came."
He stared at me as if I was insane. Then he looked at Melissa. The first curve was too much for him. He turned to his cocktail glass for comfort, swallowing noisily. The ice tinkled.
"Oh—this is rich. You come, unannounced, find me in my grief, and then you blandly ask me to go over the whole thing again for you. Good God, you are being monstrous, Mr. Noon!"
"Am I?"
"Indeed you are. Tom is dead. Already sacrificed to this dear government of ours. Yet you stand there bare-faced and ask me to go over all the old ground again. No, I won't do it! Not even for—no, not even for him! We were great friends once and he is a great man but—no, you ask too much. Can't all this—" He waved his hands furiously, almost helplessly at the vast wealth on all sides of us—"spare me anything?"
I took the cue he had so readily offered.
"The Chief wants me to ask. I'm his confidential agent. He asked me to come here today because he wants to make certain that the enemy lets Tommy Spanner go to his grave without any further disturbance."
Stallings Spanner stiffened. His blue eyes flared.
"Damn you all. You all belong in books, movies. On television. Such dreadful nonsense. Playing at spies, running all over the world, with these absurd tricks about plans and rockets and missiles. Lord, I had no idea it was all so—" He staggered over to another chair and subsided in it, staring at Melissa and me. Only Melissa was looking at me as if I had two heads. She was right. I had.
"Look, Sir," I said as earnestly as I could. "I know a lot about Tom. I live in New York. I know he didn't follow you into the shoe business. I know how he squandered his breeding, his background and his family name in playboy shenanigans. I know how ashamed you've been. You're a soldier. You distinguished yourself at the Western Front. Tommy was a rich bum. But when he went to Russia, he proved he loved you, didn't he? He proved he had the goods. He sacrificed himself and all the skin on his back to help this country, this government come out ahead in the international sweepstakes. He helped the United States. He wanted you to be proud of him. So he had that crazy map-diagram tattooed on his back because it was the only way of leaving Russia with the information. You know that. You also know that Tommy died because he was mentally ill. He had a quirk, a genius for low company. He was a sexual pervert. And sooner or later it always happens. That sort of person always runs into someone sicker and the game gets rough. So this Ralston woman killed your son. But he hasn't shamed you. He hasn't led a wrong life all of his years. He did help this government. And the Chief knows that and honours that. But Tommy has died and the enemy now knows about that diagram on his back. They might prevent his body from ever getting buried to see it. You understand? I was sent here today to make certain that all your plans for him go off without a hitch. Understand that, Mr. Spanner. I am on your side. So is the Chief."
"Yes." He said that in a humble, quiet voice. "I know that. I had his telegram yesterday. He phoned this morning. It was good of him. With all that he must have on his mind—" Stallings Spanner set his cocktail glass down and pressed his mottled face into his hands. "Sorry. Forgot my manners. Haven't offered either of you a drink."
"We're not thirsty. But you can make up for it by answering some questions."
"All right, go ahead. Anything you ask."
"What time is the funeral ceremony?"
"One o'clock. There's to be a service in the Hempstead Memorial. Non-denominational. Then we will go to the Faraway Hills. They've a crematory there. Thomas is to be cremated. He said so in his will. The will isn't public yet but—I am his father. I knew of his wishes in the matter. It was just about the only thing I ever really knew about him. When his mother died, he was but a boy of twelve. I never had touch with him after that. One school after another. So many nannies. And then the final break. Off by himself, squandering his annuities and his allowances. Oh, God. A father hopes for so much and gets so little—from a son, he wants to have pride and a sense of loyalty. But—" The old millionaire spread his hands so we could see his face again. "You know all that. Don't worry about any interference from outsiders today. The house is well-guarded and there will be some men from a local detective agency. My son will go to his grave in peace. That's the last thing I can do for him."
I nodded. "Your gate. The guard. Pocked face, scar on the cheek Do you know him personally? Or did Whipley hire him?"
"You must mean Cristo." Spanner looked puzzled. "He's been with me—let me see—oh, six months at least. A Cuban refugee. He barely got away from the Castro regime with a safe skin. Why do you ask?"
"Are any of your employees or servants bearded? About Cristo's size?"
"What is this, Mr. Noon? You are beginning to sound like some sort of detective yourself. Beard, you say? Why, yes to that too. My lawyer Raf Villez wears a beard. Youngish man, too. But surely there's nothing peculiar about that?"
"Also Cuban, I take it?"
"Why, yes. It was he who arranged the freedom of Cristo. Got him out of Cuba with the help of some underground friends. See here. What has all this to do with Tommy?"
"Can't say yet for sure. Where is Villez now?"
"In town. Making some last arrangements at the church and with the Faraway Hills people. Again, why?"
"Trust me, Mr. Spanner. I'm only trying to help you." I took a careful beat, measuring this man who had come up the hard way, converting shoe leather into the key to a fortune. I had to risk it. "One last question and then I'll stop acting like a detective. Where is Tomm
y's body right now? Exactly this second, as we're standing here talking?"
Stallings Spanner sighed. The mention of his son's name was obviously a hammer blow to memory. He winced.
"He is lying in the Hempstead Solace Parlour as of this moment. From there, he will be shipped to the Faraway Hills, after the church services."
Now, I winced, remembering my reading. The American Way Of Death. Miss Mitford was so right. The hokum and hypocrisy of it all. Solace Parlours for funeral parlours. Grief experts for funeral directors. Morticians for undertakers. Cremains for cremated corpses. A rose by any other name. Completely hiding the truth of the brutal thing called Death. A well-staged, well-planned funeral was like a Broadway show. With lights, cues, performances and studied effects.
Stallings Spanner frowned up at me from the chair. "You had a good reason for asking about Cristo and Raf Villez. What was it? Tell me, Mr. Noon?"
"I don't want to worry you, Mr. Spanner."
"Tell me I say," he demanded imperiously. "Do you imagine I earned millions, won the friendship of kings and presidents and built Spanner House because I am a worrier? Come, come, sir. You look as if you had some sense yourself. If there is something I ought to know—"
"Tell him, Ed," Melissa said in a quiet voice somewhere behind me. "He has a right to know. A perfect right."
Spanner favoured her with a gentle smile. "Thank you, my dear. That is gracious of you. Far more gracious than I have been. Well, Mr. Noon?"
I took out my Camels and extended the pack to him. He waved me off, his eyes on my face, his hands pyramided before him. I could see he was measuring me now, too. All the way.
"All right. Here it is. Cristo and your Mr. Villez tried to kill me yesterday. They are obviously working behind your back and are as interested in Tommy's body as the government is. All that suggests to me that they are them. The other side, working for the enemy. Do you read me, Mr. Spanner? You have been nursing a pair of foreign agents to your bosom. Mr. Spanner—?"
He was staring past me, to the wide door of the library, a perplexed frown distorting the mottled face. He started to say something but then could only shake his head. Melissa blurted, "Oh!"
That said it all.
I turned easily, not mistaking foolhardiness for good sense. I didn't go for my gun.
The doorway was crowded with two men. One of them was the gate guard, Cristo. The pump gun was levelled at me. Cristo's pitted face was immobile. He wasn't even smiling.
The other man was faultlessly dressed in a Continental suit. A grey suit, two-buttoned. His shirt was ruffled and a red tie gleamed out at the room. His face was triangular, with black eyebrows, black bushy hair and the skin was smoothly, darkly olive too. White teeth smiled at me, the illusion heightened by a spade black beard that jutted just as much as the long-nosed revolver in his right hand.
"I am sorry, Mr. Spanner," the man said in a musical voice that sounded like the plucking of Spanish guitar strings. "Your visitor, alas, is correct. And now it is time, to show all our cards on the table. There is no further need for games. In fact, the game is over. Regrettably, one phase of it is all that remains. You three, all of you, of course, cannot leave this house alive."
"Raf Villez as I live and breathe," I said, not raising my hands. "You haven't changed a bit?"
"Senor?" He scowled at me, knowing we had never met, not formally. "You know me?"
"Sure I do. Read about you when I was a kid, saw you in the movies and even met a whole army of your friends. Yeah, I know who you are. You're a double-crossing, cheating, lying Judas. A fink. F-I-N-K. How do you say fink in Spanish?"
Raf Villez raised the nose of the revolver.
"It is always a pity to kill a brave man. But that man's bravery is usually the very reason why he has to die. I trust you will not compel me to lose my head and do it that much sooner. Senor?"
"Touche, Mr. Villez."
I raised my hands. So did Melissa. Only Stallings Spanner didn't. He sat where he was, glaring up at the foul balls in the doorway. His red face had gone almost crimson with rage.
"Raf!" he bellowed in his whisky bass. "What have you done with my son?"
THIRTEEN
WHO'S GOT THE BODY?
□ "Senor," Raf Villez said easily, as if he were merely pouring cocktails at a party. "My mission is accomplished. Mine and Cristo's. Your son's remains are no longer in the Hempstead Solace Parlour. Another man is in his place. No one will see the body until it is ashes. A good day's work. All that is left now is to cover our tracks and that is simply disposing of yourself and these two newcomers. I have waited long for this day. Senor Noon had merely pushed the clock ahead." He shrugged. Easily, grandly. The spade beard wagged. "It has been a most tiresome masquerade. Now I can go back to Havana and join my countrymen."
Stallings Spanner rose from the deep chair. He seemed to tower in his rage. Also, he couldn't take his eyes off the man with the beard.
"What? What have you done with Tom? Tell me or by God—"
"Senor. Please. Don't make me shoot you just yet. What is this sorrow for a boy who was not a man! It is unbecoming! Have I not watched him squander all you gave him? He has caused you much grief. Don't be a hypocrite, old man. He is better off dead. You are well rid of him. Concern yourself with your own fate. I have worked a long period of time in your employ, for the use I have been put to. It is a war, Senor. The winner goes his way. We are the winners. I, and Cristo here, and my people. Your son was but a miserable sparrow. A tool of your Democracy. I say—good riddance to him. And you would say that too, if you were not thinking like a woman."
Cristo raised the pump gun. "Villez," he said softly.
Villez smiled. The teeth flashed again. "Yes, you are right, my friend. There is no need to explain ourselves to the losers. Why should they understand. You will all turn around, please, and face the windows."
Stallings Spanner was clenching and unclenching his hands. I saw the veins stand out at the back of them. He was only three feet away from Raf Villez and his pistol. But Cristo was there too, to one side. The pump gun was too wicked to risk. One blast and a spray of lead would catch us all in its path.
"Take it easy, Mr. Spanner. Don't try anything silly. It's all on their side. The odds, I mean."
Melissa, looking at me helplessly, was trying to smile. I smiled back a smile I didn't feel. Raf Villez was too intelligent to trick. He knew it and I knew it. And the arsenal they were waving at us was all the argument in the universe and outer space.
"You've kidnapped my boy's body," Spanner said in a dazed, killed voice. "You ghoul—" He started forward, one step. Some of the old military bearing had come back from the grave.
Villez didn't move. He merely cocked the pistol. It made a noise like a brittle peanut shell being split between a thumb and a forefinger. Cristo swore in Spanish and trained the pump gun at Stallings Spanner. Villez held up a restraining hand. His fingernails were smoothly manicured, like all the rest of him.
"Do not alarm yourself, Cristo. The old man is weakened by shame. He will not fight us. He is trying to save his face in front of these strangers. He is beaten. You only have to look at him."
Stallings Spanner halted, trembling. He lowered his eyes. But his hands kept up their crazy strangling game. His whole body was shaking like a tambourine.
"How can you betray me, Villez? After all I've done for you. For your family in Havana—" Spanner's voice trailed off. Dying, knowing it was useless.
"Villez," I interrupted. "Hear me out."
"Senor." His eyes settled on me. "You wish to say a word before you die?"
"I'll talk for hours if you'll let me."
He smiled, knowing he held the hand that took the pot. The gun centred on my chest, about the level of my tie.
"You have one minute. Say all that you have to say. It will change nothing."
I nodded, my arms feeling the pressure of being kept up in the air. Cristo's pitted, ugly face favoured me with a glare of pure hate an
d disgust with his partner for permitting me to talk.
"Garcia Lopez," I said. "The little man. He is on this rodeo too?"
Villez's eyes were sceptical of my sanity and intelligence.
"Of what possible use is such information to you now?"
"I'd like to know all the same. If you don't mind."
"You are a curious man, Senor. You did not even accept the warning of a dead cat in a box. You fly in the face of danger. Yes, you are a curious fool."
"Make me uncurious anyway. Last request of the condemned man and all that sort of jazz. Where does Garcia Lopez fit into your oh so very secret schemes?"
Raf Villez chuckled. A luxurious laugh. He sounded now as if he was enjoying himself. Himself, the situation and Stallings Spanner's realisation that he was no mere lawyer for hire. That he, Villez, was a ranking figure in some higher, greater scheme of things.
"The dwarf man came into this accidentally. As did his pitifully large wife. Muy grande senora. What a mockery of a pair! They should be painted by Picasso. In the act of passion. What a painting that would be. Yes?"
"Yes. No. Go on. I want to hear about Lopez and Lopez. More."
The Horrible Man Page 10
