The Balloon Man

by Charlotte MacLeod

  “The library was where you had all those fancy wedding presents. Anything missing?”

  “No. Maybe I showed up before he had a chance to steal anything.” Max decided not to mention the jewels. Not that he didn't trust the old boy, but it was unlikely he could contribute anything useful.

  “So then what?” Lomax demanded.

  “Well, then we had a smoke bomb, one of those things that are set off when directors are making a war movie or the army's training rookie troops for the real thing, God help us. I'd gone for a stroll, down to the end of the drive, when all of a sudden everything went black, coal black, like the inside of a mine. It was the damnedest feeling. I didn't dare move for fear I might walk in front of a car or run into a tree trunk.”

  “I did hear somethin about that,” Lomax conceded. “Damn fool stunt, somebody could've been hurt. Any idea who did it?”

  “No.”

  Lomax scratched his head. “Pure meanness an deviltry. Sounds like the kind o' thing a Zickery might do”

  “You knew the Zickerys?” He must have, Max realized. He was almost as old as Jem, and he'd lived in Ireson's Landing all his life.

  “Used to see 'em at the store. They didn't have much to say to the likes of us. Crazy as bedbugs, all of 'em. One female used to walk around town in a one-piece bathing suit.” Lomax permitted himself a slight smile. “She didn't show much, I guess, compared'to what you see on the beaches these days, but back then it was a pretty startling sight. I hear a couple of 'em's turned up again.”

  “In the balloon,” Max agreed. “One of those big hot-air balloons, like the ones they have at carnivals. Luckily it didn't come crashing down on the caterer's tent until after most of the guests had left”

  “Sounds like the sort of damn fool thing they'd do. Been nobody over there for years, but I did hear as how somebody's fixing the old house up.”

  It hadn't occurred to Max to suspect the Zickerys of setting off a smoke bomb. There was no proof that they had, except for Lomax's memories of a bunch of bad hats who ought by now to be past childish pranks. The more he heard about the Zickerys, the less keen he was on having them as neighbors.

  “I don't suppose we can suspect them of hiding a corpse under the wedding tent,” Max admitted. “That happened yesterday—finding the body, I mean. The poor devil was apparently one of the crew that put up the tents, but that's all anybody knows about him. That's all, except for Mr. Jem Kelling's car being stolen.”

  “All?” Lomax permitted himself a tight-lipped grimace that was his version of a smile. “Sounds like a cartload of trouble to me.”

  “Nothing's happened today,” Max said optimistically. “Not so far. I promised to drive Sarah's uncle Jem and his man, Egbert, to Boston so they can get into their apartment and bring back enough clothes to last the week. They claim they want to stay here and help out.”

  “That ought to be int'restin'.”

  “I expect they'll manage well enough. Sarah needs somebody around to watch Davy and tell him wild stories about the Wild West. Jem means West Roxbury, of course. He doesn't know the difference between a cowboy and a cow-bird, but Egbert has sense enough for the pair of them. Whether any of them will last out the week remains to be seen. There's Jem, I'd better get him in the car before he thinks of something else he wants to do first. Keep an eye on things for me, will you, Jed?”

  With Jed Lomax and Mrs. Blufert and her crew on hand, Max wasn't too worried about leaving Sarah and Davy. Anyhow, hadn't Theonia insisted the danger was directed at him?

  Jem was pleased as punch to be chauffeured by somebody who wasn't afraid to drive over thirty miles per hour. Since Max had better sense than to waste time making obscene gestures at drivers who cut him off, tailgated, and committed other sins against common sense and safety on the road, Jem did it for him. In between shouting complicated invective out the window, he remarked, “This is a pleasant change. There's nothing like a whiff of carbon monoxide every so often. You haven't visited our little pied-à-terre for some time, Max; you'll be surprised at the changes Egbert and I have been making”

  Max smiled and forbore to comment. The changes would consist mainly in finding a handier place to stash the extra gin bottles in an already overstuffed apartment. Jem had staked out his little claim on a half mile or so of Beacon Hill pavement many years ago; he was not likely to make any significant changes now. Whether he'd have the fortitude to last out a whole week of absence from dear old Pinckney Street didn't really matter; he thought he was helping, and if push came to shove, Sarah could find a way to cope with him. Max only hoped she wouldn't have to. She'd had to do too much coping already in her relatively short life. Max intended to make sure that her life became a long one, because what would be the use of living if Sarah wasn't with him all the way?

  Getting into Boston was, as usual, a gamble with fate, but Max knew all the tricks. He even found a parking place not more than a healthful walk to the worn granite steps up which Jem had toiled so many times. He followed a tactful step behind, just in case, as Egbert and Jem puffed up the stairs and into the elevator that took them to the second floor.

  The apartment was a shambles.

  Worse than that, the apartment was occupied. Sprawled face-down across Jem's good sofa was a body. It was attired in a paisley dressing gown and a pair of backless leather slippers that were too big for it. One of them had fallen off the dangling foot.

  “Good heavens,” Egbert exclaimed. “He's dead!”

  “Damned impertinence!” Jem growled. “He's wearing my dressing gown and slippers! I don't know what the worlds coming to, people dying in one's clothes. What are we supposed to do now? Rent a wheelbarrow and dump him out on the Common?”

  “That wont be necessary,” Max said, wrinkling his nose. The odor was unmistakable. “Why did you do it, Louie?”

  The corpse sat up, Gorgonzola sandwich in hand.

  “Do what?”

  “Steal Mr. Kelling's car.”

  “I didn't.”

  “Then who did?”

  “He did.”

  “He who?”

  “Him.”

  “Can't you talk straight for a change?”

  “No.”

  Max shook his head. “Ask a stupid question and you get a stupid answer.”

  “Maybe he's still in shock, Mr. Max.” Egbert was relieved to find they didn't have a dead body on their hands. “How did you get in here, Louis? We left this place locked up tighter than a drum; I've told you that Mr. Jem does not want you here when he's not around. We can't be changing the locks every twenty minutes.”

  Max stared at Egbert. “You know this guy?”

  Egbert looked embarrassed. “Not to say know, Mr. Max. You see, what happened was that the Comrades of the Convivial Codfish decided the society ought to form its own musical group, so at Mr. Jem's insistence I advertised for people who could play a musical saw, an old-fashioned policeman's rattle, and a penny whistle. Louis here showed up a couple of weeks ago with a penny whistle—”

  “Which he probably pinched from someone,” Max interrupted.

  “He doesn't play it very well,” Jem remarked critically. “However, I remembered him from the old days, when he was a callow youth who used to hang around Danny Rate's Pub, near the Old Howard, picking pockets and stealing tips off the tables. He assured me he'd led a respectable life since, and he's quite well informed on English music hall ballads, especially the vulgar variety written and sung sometime around the turn of the century. I refer to the century that's now just about kaput, as opposed to the one that's waiting to clobber us with new horrors that I for one shall be happy to escape. Louie, do you know that little gem whose chorus ends And the body's downstairs'?”

  “Let me think a minute.”

  “Damned if I will,” Max snarled. “Hey, Jem, where the hell are you going?”

  “For a brief nap, I expect,” Egbert replied as his employer vanished into the bedroom and slammed the door. “He's developed napping t
o a fine art, you know, just flops down on his bed and sleeps for an hour or so, then hell be fresh as a daisy for the next couple of hours. I think having Louis around tires him.”

  “He would tire me,” Max agreed.

  “I know, Mr. Max. But you see, Mr. Jem's used to having a lot of people around, and his old friends are starting to die off, and when he found out Louis knows more of those old music hall ballads than anybody else Mr. Jem has ever run into, he got in the habit of inviting him over for a friendly little sing-along, as you might say. You know, how Mr. Jem loves to sing about the Fall River line and the old overnight boats. I must admit that Louis's habit of slipping Mr. Jem's gold watch and cuff links into his pocket can be annoying, but he always returns them when I ask.”

  Max was halfway to the boiling point by this time. “I don't believe this! No, I take it back. Knowing Jem, I do believe it. Did he give good old Louie permission to steal his car?”

  “Did you do that, Louis?” Egbert looked disapprovingly at the stand-in, who had risen to his feet. “Shame on you!”

  “I didn't steal, it, I just borrowed it. It's parked just around the corner. I even adjusted the meter so it stays on two hours all the time, so you wouldn't get a ticket,” Louie added virtuously.

  Max sighed. “Dial 911 for me, would you, Egbert, and hand me the phone when you get hold of whoever's in charge of impertinent corpses and car thieves.”

  “It was only a bit of fun, for goodness' sake. Some people are so picky. Can't even take a joke. I can't sit around here all day twiddling my thumbs. I've got things to do.”

  “Such as what, for instance?”

  “Oh, I don't know. Whatever happens, happens. At least I'm fairly sure it does. It always has, so far. Well, so long, folks. It's been great.”

  “Cut it out, Louie,” said Max. “Your oblique conversational style may suffice to distract people like, uh, these kindly gentlemen, but I've had about enough. You aren't leaving until the police show up. And put Mr. Killing's walking stick back in the umbrella stand. I'm not stupid enough to fall for that trick again.”

  “Dear me,” exclaimed the former corpse, examining the heavy gold-headed stick in pretended surprise. “Did I pick this up? I do suffer from a harmless spot of kleptomania, you know; my analyst tells me my parents are to blame, or would be if they were still around, which they aren't, Mum having flown the coop some years ago with a traveling plumber, and dear old Dad—”

  “I said, that's enough.” Max took the phone from Egbert. “Who's this? … Oh, KilkaUen. This is Max Bittersohn. Remember me?” The telephone squawked at him. Max grinned. “Yes, I remember the incident fondly, too.… Yes, I know you don't do car thefts or breaking and entering. We found a dead body at our place at Ireson's Landing yesterday.… Yes, I know that's not in your jurisdiction, but the suspect is. He stole Jem Killing's car and fled to Jem's apartment in Boston, where I just found him. You know where it is. Send somebody over to pick him up, will you?”

  “Hey, wait a minute,” Louie exclaimed. “You can't pin that one on me. I never killed nobody in my life!”

  Having received a profane acknowledgment of his request from Kilkallen, Max hung up the phone and studied his suspect with satisfaction. He'd pegged Louis the Locksmith as nothing more vicious than a petty crook, an inveterate scrounger, and a grabber up of anything potentially useful to Louie himself. The threat of a murder charge had sobered him.

  “So you've decided to stop playing games, have you? We've got plenty to hold you on, Louie. Two counts of breaking and entering, one count of assault, one of auto theft. And I'll bet I can think up a few more if I put my mind to it, including accessory before, after, and maybe during a murder.”

  “I didn't have nothing to do with that!”

  “You're protesting too much, as my recent acquaintance Mr. Mortlake would say. If you didn't kill the guy, Louie, you know who did. Don't you think it would be a good idea to come clean?”

  “Oh, Mr. Bittersohn, you wound me! That would be a serious breach of etiquette. I may be a crook, but I'm never gauche. Surely you wouldn't want me to rat on a friend.” He gave Max a calculating look. “However, I've no objection to spending a few days in police custody. It's the least I can do, I suppose, to make up for my inadvertent social lapses. Do you want to put the cuffs on me now?”

  12

  “Its beginning to look as though we might not make it back in time for lunch,” Egbert said. “Shall I give Mrs. Sarah a ring and let her know we've been held up?”

  The police had come and gone with their prisoner. Louie hadn't put up a fight or even an argument, but he hadn't admitted anything, either. His final comment had been “Don't bother putting up bail for me, Mr. Kelling.”

  “She wasn't expecting us for lunch,” Max said. “Lets get this show on the road. Got everything you need, Jem?”

  “No, blast it, I still haven't been able to locate that ballad about the body downstairs. Egbert, are you planning to spend the rest of the day folding my pajamas?”

  “They're all folded and packed, Mr. Jem, along with your spare dentures and your nightcap. I was thinking that we might better save the ballads until we take that trip to England you've been talking about for the past thirty years or so. The Brits love that kind of stuff, or used to; they're bound to have scads of ballads over there.”

  Max put an end to the conversation by picking up the largest and heaviest bags before Egbert could get at them. Egbert took the smaller and lighter ones. Jem Kelling made heavy work of carrying a shaving kit that must have weighed almost a quarter of a pound. Max stowed the luggage away in the boot, as Jem insisted on calling it, and stowed his passengers in the tonneau, got in behind the wheel, glanced at his watch, swore, and switched on the engine.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Max,” Egbert said politely, “but would you mind seeing if we can find where Louis parked Mr. Jem's car? I've no doubt he can bollix a parking meter as efficiently as he can pick a lock, but I have been informed the police have other methods of ascertaining whether a vehicle has been left too long in a specific location and we ought perhaps make arrangements for moving it.”

  “Good point,” Max admitted. “I should have told Kilkallen about Louie's ingenuous admission, but there was so much else going on that I forgot. Louie didn't happen to mention which corner he'd parked it around, did he?”

  “I don't believe he did. Perhaps we could cast about, so to speak.”

  “The trouble is, I've got an appointment out in Sturbridge at two o'clock. I had planned to leave you two at a likely watering hole nearby and maybe even join you in a bite, but this business with Louie has taken longer than I expected. I'll have to drop you off and come back for you, and I don't have time to fight my way through this unholy maze of one-way streets. Suppose you telephone Kilkallen from the restaurant and let the cops look for the car? Ten to one its been towed by now anyhow.”

  “What's this appointment?” Jem demanded.

  Egbert coughed genteelly. “‘With whom is this appointment’ would be better, grammar, sir”

  “Tracy's father.”

  “Aha!” Jem crowed. “Good thinking, Max. But you don't really believe that self-centered old satyr sprung for a gift of that value, do you? Not that the necklace isn't vulgar enough to appeal to him, but he'd be far more likely to bestow it on one of his floozies. I remember a diamond bracelet with which I won the lavish favors of the luscious Lucy Lazonga—”

  “Tell me about it another time,” Max interrupted. He didn't believe for a moment that any Kelling, even a self-proclaimed satyr like Jem, would have shelled out for diamonds. Paste or glass, possibly, if the Kelling in question were desperately enamored, but never genuine stones.

  “I unquestionably will,” Jem said. “And I can give the narrative the panache it deserves once I've got a couple of martinis under my belt. You're not leaving me and Egbert, though. I insist on being present to assist in the third degree.”

  “But you just said the old boy probably doesn't
know anything about the necklace,” Max objected, sliding neatly past a taxi that had stopped to let off a fare.

  “We won't know for certain until we've subjected him to intensive questioning,” Jem said with relish. “Egbert, did you pack the rubber hose?”

  Max had had about much cockamamie Kelling conversation as he could stand for one morning, so he concentrated on getting through the grisly city traffic as expeditiously as possible without jarring his elderly passengers. In fact, he mused, it might not be a bad idea to take Jem with him. Maybe they could play bad cop, good cop. Jem would love that, and he'd be good at it, too. Nobody could be ruder than a Kelling.

  He wondered whether Egbert had packed a rubber hose. And of course the penny whistle.

  “What about lunch?” he asked. “I doubt we'll have time to stop anywhere, and you must already be peckish, as Egbert would say.”

  “Oh, that's quite all right, sir.” Egbert's genteel tones were accompanied by a rattle of paper. “I took the liberty of packing us a little picnic. One never knows what will eventuate, and it is best to be prepared for the worst. Would you care for chicken salad or pastrami?”

  “Need you ask?” Max stretched an arm back and accepted a neatly wrapped sandwich and a cylindrical object encased even more securely in foil. “I might have known you wouldn't forget the pickle, Egbert. This wouldn't happen to be one of Warty's best, would it?”

  “It certainly would not, Mr. Max. Only desperation would force me to add a product of Warty Pickles to our larder.”

  “That bad? Come to think of it, I've never seen a jar of Warty's on the pantry shelf at my mother's or Miriam's.”

  “Nor would you, sir. They are ladies of taste and discernment. Would you care for another chicken salad sandwich, Mr. Jem?”

  “Pastrami,” Jem said through the last mouthful of his first sandwich. “And a martini to go with it. Max, there's a place half a mile up the road on the right— McGillicuddy's. You'll spot it by the neon sign.” Jem cleared his throat, hemmed a time or two, and burst, or rather slid, into song. “The shamrock, thistle, rose entwine the maple leaf forever.”