Olson was now at full rolling boil. “Where’s that diary?”
“Right now it’s in my house at Balaclava Junction. My wife’s in the midst of making a full written translation.”
“The hell she is! I want that diary.”
“I’m quite sure you can’t have it,” Peter demurred. “I’m not sure of the protocol, but I rather think it has to be sent back to the sheriff at Hocasquam, then go through the— er—proper official channels. My wife is going to give a copy of the transcription to District Attorney Wetzel. I don’t suppose she’d be breaking too many laws if she slipped you a copy, also.”
“Shandy, I’ve got a damned good notion to run you in. Who’s seen that diary besides your wife?”
“Several people have seen the diary, myself included. So far, though, my wife is the only one who’s been able to read it. Ms. Quatrefages wrote backwards in a mixture of French, Spanish, and a few other things. To complicate the matter further, she appears to be a poor linguist and a worse speller.”
Olson made a menacing noise deep in his throat. “Does Swope know about this?”
“Oh yes. My wife told him when he came to the house to tell me about the upcoming raid. We discussed it further while we were riding out to Woeful Ridge together.”
Olson thought that one over for a while. “Huh! I guess Swope figured he’d better have some poor sucker along for protection when the crap hit the fan. God, how I hate that young punk! He’s going to need somebody a damn sight bigger man you when the D. A. hears about this little party he fixed up. Do you realize what it cost to bring the National Guard out like that? His lousy paper’s going to get sued for every cent of the money, you can bet your boots on that.”
Olson went on in much the same vein all the way to Balaclava Junction. Peter made no effort to answer back. The man was obviously in a state bordering on apoplexy. As far as Peter could see, Olson had every right to be. Peter was thinking seriously of indulging in a mild snit himself as soon as he got the chance. At least he didn’t have to worry about picking up a speeding ticket on the way with one police chief in the car and another, God willing, at his house.
Yes, Fred Ottermole was there. As he turned up into the Crescent, Peter was immensely relieved to see Balaclava Junction’s lone police car in front of his house. What with time’s decay and its infinite variety of dents and bangs, the vehicle looked about the way the Fane and Pennon’s staff car had before that incredible metamorphosis. Incredible being definitely the operative word, Peter decided as Cronkite Swope pulled up in the Plymouth behind his and Fred’s car.
Olson wasn’t about to stand on ceremony. He leaped out of Peter’s car before it was fairly stopped, charged up to the front door, and began pounding on it with both fists.
“Open up!”
To Peter’s secret joy, Chief Ottermole had got the door open before Olson could balance himself. Fred held out a kindly arm.
“Oopsy-daisy, Wilbur. What you been drinkin’?”
“Don’t get funny with me, Ottermole. Where’s Mrs. Shandy?”
“Right there. Can’t you see her?”
Helen was halfway down the stairs; she’d started as soon as she heard the commotion. “Are you all right, Chief Olson? That doorstep’s rather tricky, I’m afraid. Peter and I have been meaning—”
Olson was in no mood for chitchat. “Where’s that diary? I want it and I want it now. Come on, hand it over.”
“It’s up in the den,” Helen told him. “But you can’t—”
The hallway was tiny, the stairway going straight up from the doorway with only a few feet between, as is often the way in small old houses. Helen was still on the stairs since there was really nowhere else for her to stand. Olson brushed her aside so roughly that she missed her footing. Peter rushed to grab her. Ottermole grabbed Olson. The Lumpkinton chief struggled, but it was no contest. Ottermole was twice his size and twenty years younger.
“What’s the big idea knocking a lady around in her own house?” yelled Fred. “Mrs. Shandy’s charging you with assault and battery. Aren’t you, Helen?”
“I certainly am, Fred, and thank you for reminding me. Peter dear, could you please help me to the sofa? That brute gave my ribs an awful whack, and I think I’ve sprained my knee. It hurts like the dickens. Honestly, Chief Olson, I must say you’re setting a fine example to the youth of Balaclava County. Cronkite, I hope you got a photograph of him shoving me.”
“I sure did, Mrs. Shandy!”
“Gimme that camera!” yelled Olson.
“What’s the matter with that man?” Helen was using her most librarianly tone now. “Perhaps we should consider hitting him over the head with the fire shovel to quiet him down. It doesn’t count as assault if the prisoner’s resisting arrest, does it, Fred?”
“That’s okay, Helen, I can manage him.” Ottermole did something particularly nasty that caused Olson’s knees to buckle. “Take that pair of handcuffs off my belt and hook ‘em around his wrists, will you, Cronk? For Pete’s sake, Wilbur, hold still and quit yellin’. You know the protocol, you’ve made enough collars yourself. Cripes, I should have brought a straitjacket. When you’re finished with the handcuffs, Cronk, you’d better call up Budge Dorkin at the station and ask him to bring that other pair of handcuffs. I’m going to secure the bugger’s feet. Wilbur, if you kick me in the shins once more, I’m going to snatch out your false teeth and bust ‘em on the sidewalk. What’s he all steamed up about, Professor?”
“He’s afraid we’ll read what Elisa Alicia Quatrefages has written about him in her diary.”
“Him?” Despite the pain she was in, Helen began to laugh. “That’s Paraguay? Well, they do say everybody looks good to somebody. How did you sniff him out, Peter?”
“I didn’t have to. He blew his cover high, wide, and handsome out there on Woeful Ridge. I have to say I’d been wondering about Olson for some time, but I couldn’t convince myself he had the brains or the energy to organize a large-scale criminal operation. Today’s raid on Woeful Ridge convinced me he at least had the energy. He’d called out the National Guard, got hold of an armored car, even put together a SWAT team.”
“How grandiose!”
“Oh, it was all that and then some. So now we know how Olson’s mind works. He wasn’t satisfied with hiring a few thugs to do his dirty work when he ran into an opportunity to pick up some easy money, such as looting and burning the Binks estate. He didn’t even stop at corrupting half his own police force. He went ahead and set himself up a whole paramilitary operation. And you have to admit he made a damned good job of it, using that so-called survivalist colony as a cover.”
“He certainly had the brains to pick the perfect aide-de-camp in Roland Childe,” Helen agreed. “A psychopath with a cloak-and-dagger mentality was just the man Olson would have needed to organize his ammunition dump and run his drills and pull off his crimes according to plan.”
“Yeah,” said Ottermole. “Wilbur could manage the cover-ups easily enough, but he’d have had to keep his nose clean when it came to the rough stuff.”
“And Elisa Alicia was too busy being his inspiration and his messenger and fencing his loot for him,” Helen added. “I can see why an adventuress in search of adventure would have been attracted to a man like this. I suppose he’s quite impressive, in his way, and he certainly fits her idea of the perfect male specimen. He’s not quite swarthy enough and I don’t suppose he’s much good on horseback, but one can’t have everything. Does she really call you Paraguay, Chief Olson?”
She probably did, for he started to bluster again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re going to be damned sorry for this, all of you!”
“Oh, I hardly think so,” said Peter. “I’d say we’ve got you pretty well dead to rights. Childe’s going to fall apart, you know, if he hasn’t already. Those mentally unstable types usually do, once they’re made to face reality. So will the SWAT team, I expect. You made a serious mistake using the same chaps who�
��d been playing survivalists the day they roughed up Swope and me and wrecked the Fane and Pennon car. They won’t stand up long to interrogation, I shouldn’t think. By the way, Ottermole, who gets to grill them?”
“Beats me, Professor. Maybe the Lumpkinton Town Council will appoint an acting chief, if they can find anybody on the force who hasn’t been one of the survivalist gang. District Attorney Wetzel must know what to do.”
“Then we’ll leave her to it, though I expect we ought to get on the phone and let her know there’s some more to be done.”
“I’ll do that right now,” said Cronkite Swope. “I guess I know pretty much what you’re going to say next anyway, Professor.”
“M’yes, I should think you might. Use the phone in the kitchen, so you won’t be drowned out if Olson decides to start bellowing again. As I was about to mention, Chief Olson, I found it a highly suspicious circumstance that the ammunition dump had been cleaned out and demolished. Since so much emphasis had been placed on keeping the raid a secret, this implied inside information, and nobody could have been farther inside than you. I shouldn’t be surprised if the ammunition were found in the police station’s basement, or under your guest room bed. You were probably hard put to find another hiding place in a hurry, and with your kind of moxie, you’d never have dreamed of getting caught.”
Olson had turned to stone, which was perhaps the best thing he could have done in the circumstances and a great deal easier on his captors than his former frenetic behavior. Peter hurried to finish before the ex-mastermind started up again.
“Of course you had to move on Woeful Ridge after Swope had told his story to Attorney Wetzel. It was really brilliant of you to stage that three-ring circus and then expose the whole show as a hoax Swope was trying to pull in order to get his brother out of trouble. It was clever of you to frame Brinkley by planting the gun-powder on the cannon. Your only mistake was in trusting Elisa Alicia Quatrefages to do the artwork on that 1974 Plymouth you faked up to replace the one your playful cohorts had trashed. Not that Elisa Alicia didn’t do her usual expert job, you understand, but as I remarked a while ago, she’s a lousy speller. So are you, evidently, or you might have noticed in time that she’d left out one of the n’s in Pennon.”
“Jeez!” said Ottermole. “Even my kids would know better than that.”
“He’s a liar,” Olson wasn’t quite out of steam yet. “It was always that way.”
“Save your breath,” said Peter. “I’m sure the Fane and Pennon’s files have enough photographs showing the original staff car to prove this one’s a doctored-up fake. Very skillfully doctored up, I have to admit, which may open up a new field of interrogation concerning the correlation of Lumpkinton’s auto-theft rate with the scope of your— er—enterprise. I believe that’s Budge Dorkin coming up the walk. Excuse me a moment.”
It was, and Budge had the handcuffs with him. “Who’s the pinchee, Fred? I mean, Chief.”
“Him,” said Ottermole.
“Chief Olson? Wow!” It took a lot to awe Budge Dorkin these days, but now he was definitely awed. “What’s he done?”
“He’s a master criminal.”
“That old bucket of guts? You’ve got to be kidding.”
“You must remember, Budge, that one person’s bucket of guts may be somebody else’s Errol Flynn,” Helen said, though she didn’t look any too convinced herself. “What happens now, Fred? Not that I’m trying to get rid of you, but we have out-of-town guests who’ll be along in a while, and I do think Peter ought to get some rest between times.”
“I dunno,” Ottermole replied. “Hey, Cronk, you find out anything?”
Young Swope came in from the kitchen. “Yup, it’s all set. Mrs. Wetzel says to park Chief Olson in the lockup and she’ll be over with the warrant as soon as her cake comes out of the oven. I had to track her down at her house. It’s her kid’s birthday and she took the afternoon off to get ready for the party. She says she doesn’t know how in heck she’s going to get the cake frosted in time.”
“Call her back and tell her to bring it here,” said Helen. “Iduna’s a whiz at birthday cakes. No, I’d better call her myself. I’m sure you’ll want to take photographs of Chief Olson being lugged off to the lockup.”
“When are Guthrie and Catriona coming back?” Peter asked her. “Have you heard anything from them?”
“Yes, they called from New Haven a little while ago. They had no trouble picking up Elisa Alicia. They just went down to the waterfront and there she was, sitting on a bollard, disguised as a jolly jack-tar from the HMS Pinafore, waiting for her ship to come in. They had a couple of Connecticut policemen with them so the arrest was no problem. Of course, it does mean the police from three states are now involved. She’ll have to go through the usual channels, whatever they are, but I expect you’ll be allowed to see her at the arraignment, Chief Olson. Now if you people will excuse me, I’ll go make that phone call.”
“I have a right to telephone my lawyer,” Olson was shouting as they shoved him into the police car.
Fred Ottermole was yelling back that he could call from the station and to quit making a public spectacle of himself. Cronkite Swope was blissfully snapping photographs and making mental notes for the lead article he was going to write as soon as he got a chance to sit down. Budge Dorkin was trying to figure out how the gears on the fake Fane and Pennon staff car worked so that he could drive it down to the station. Mrs. Wetzel would be wanting to impound the car as evidence as soon as she and Helen had got the business of the birthday cake sorted out.
Peter decided he wasn’t needed any longer and went back into the house. He collapsed into his armchair, stuck his feet up on a cricket, and shut his eyes. Helen came in from the kitchen, stood watching him for a moment, then began to tiptoe out of the room. But he stopped her.
“Whither, my love?”
“Hence, was my intention. I thought you’d gone to sleep.”
“No, I was just cogitating. What do you suppose Olson was planning to do with all that money he’s been piling up?”
“Flee to Paraguay with Elisa Alicia and raise hand-decorated police dogs, I should think. Or else set up a separate kingdom on Woeful Ridge and have himself crowned as emperor, which seems the likelier course. Could I interest you in a little tea?”
“You could interest me in a little wifely consolation.”
“So I could, but not just now. Mrs. Wetzel will be along with that birthday cake. If she caught us in the act, she’d probably arrest me for tampering with the evidence.”
“Tea, then,” said Peter. “Did you think to get in touch with Iduna and let her know she’s been volunteered?”
“Of course, darling. She’s going to do a sunbonnet baby with yellow ruffles and a bunch of daffodils. Mrs. Wetzel’s daughter is eight years old, her name’s Abigail, and she goes to day camp.”
“Eight seems a trifle elderly for a sunbonnet baby these days, wouldn’t you think?” Peter demurred. “Wouldn’t Abigail prefer a rock star with a purple and orange punk hairdo?”
Helen shook her head. “Little girls are still little girls, no matter what anybody tries to make you believe. Abigail will adore the sunbonnet baby. If you don’t intend to sleep, how’d you like to come out to the kitchen and help warm the teapot?”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Breakfast had been going on for quite a while. Catriona and Guthrie had remarked a few times that they ought to be getting back to Sasquamahoc, but nobody was taking them seriously, least of all themselves. Iduna had been over with a pan of hot cinnamon rolls and stopped long enough for a cup of coffee, but she’d had to leave because Daniel’s plane was due in at noon and she didn’t want to be late getting to the airport.
Fred Ottermole had dropped by to let them know former Chief Olson had been transferred to the county jail, the missing arsenal had turned up in the room over Olson’s garage, and Mrs. Olson was being treated for nervous prostration and compound fracture of the self-esteem. He’
d eaten a few of Iduna’s rolls and drunk a large glass of orange juice because he felt the need of some extra vitamins, then charged off to bask some more in the glory of having bagged a genuine, grade-A master criminal.
The Shandys were more than content to let Fred do the basking. They’d been pestered with so many phone calls from interested neighbors that they’d been forced to turn off the sound so they couldn’t hear the rings. The really important calls, such as the ones from Huntley Swope’s wife and Cronkite’s brother Brinkley, had come last night.
As for Cronkite himself, they hadn’t seen him all morning. It was not until Guthrie had refused a fourth cup of coffee and told Catriona in a firmer tone than heretofore that they really must be going that the Fane and Pennon’s star reporter hurtled up the Crescent on his motorcycle and rushed into the house, too excited to stop and knock although Cronkite was a well-mannered young man as a rule. He was waving a long sheet of paper.
“Hey, Professor! Look what just came off the computer from Associated Press.”
“Let’s see it, Swope.” Peter adjusted his glasses, read a few lines, and began to chuckle. “By George! Can you beat that?”
Helen gave him a poke in the ribs. “Peter, don’t be infuriating. Tell us.”
“ ‘Power Outage in California Cryonics Laboratory. Residents Thaw But Nobody Wakes Up’! The gist is that a small group of elderly people, including Balaclava County’s only multimillionaire, one Jeremiah Binks, willingly participated in an experiment which involved their being deep-frozen by some—er—arcane technique. The idea was that they’d be defrosted at a future time when a method had been discovered to reverse the process of aging and they could be restored to eternal youth.”
“What the hell for?” demanded Guthrie. “I can’t imagine a more horrible fate than having to stay twenty-five years old forever. How did they get thawed?”
“It appears that the laboratory had been left unattended for several days, it being not unreasonably assumed that there wasn’t much to hang around for. When somebody finally did drop in to check, it was discovered that a minor earthquake had caused a power outage. The participants had not only thawed but also—er—mildewed.”
Vane Pursuit Page 21
