The Knowledge

by Martha Grimes

  “David associated a gibbous moon with misfortune, for some reason. The moon waxes and wanes going from a full to a new moon. David could stand out there—” She inclined her head as if “out there” were actually their home in Connecticut. “—and stare upward for what seemed hours on end. When he was a little boy, one night we couldn’t find him; he wasn’t in his room. Finally it was our cook who found him. She’d walked around the grounds, looking up at the sky, and saw him at the top of a tree, a very tall tree. ‘Looking at the sky, he was, of course.’

  “When we asked her what had prompted her to look up at the sky, she said, ‘Because that’s what Master David would have done.’

  “We called the fire department. David was very polite to them when they helped him down, but I could see that underneath it all he was absolutely seething. He was furious with us for ‘treating me like I was a cat.’ He wouldn’t speak to his father for days and barely would he to me.”

  Jury smiled. “What about your cook?”

  “Oh, she was all right because, he said, she used her brain; she tried to think like he would.

  “Later, when he was talking to Max once more, he told him he’d been studying that tree for weeks. He’d climbed it a little at a time for two weeks, going a bit higher each night; noting all the branches, the footholds; gauging the distance from one branch to another; taking in the ones big enough to sit on if he got tired. He had calculated the time and steps necessary to go from one part of the tree to another. He had charts—Mr. Jury—charts, and drawings he’d made. He was nine years old.

  “He said to his father, ‘Do you think I’d be so foolhardy’—his word—‘as to climb that tree at one go without knowing where the branches were, how long it would take, how high it was?’”

  “Not only careful, but a perfectionist.” He was silent for a moment.

  Paula frowned. “He’d said it once before when he called me from Lake Tahoe.”

  “Said what?”

  “‘It’s a gibbous moon, Mom. Bad luck.’”

  “When was this?”

  “Several years ago. He liked to go to Tahoe. I think because it was so near Reno.”

  Jury thought about the Metropole. “Are you sure he wasn’t calling from Reno?”

  She looked puzzled. “But why wouldn’t he have said so?”

  “Maybe because he didn’t want you to think he was losing his shirt.”

  She laughed. “David never lost his shirt. He won ninety percent of the time.”

  “Maybe this was the other ten percent.”

  She moved her arm as the waiter set down another plate full of little cakes and tarts. “He knew he was addicted, but he didn’t fight it. For one reason because he could afford it; for another because he rarely lost.”

  “Do you think he really had a system? Or was he just lucky?”

  “I don’t know, but I doubt he had a system. I doubt he would have bothered using his time to work one out. I expect they’re very difficult to invent. He liked to tell people his gambling had to do with the uncertainty principle … or was it … what’s it called? The completeness theory? But I imagine that was just a tease.”

  “Incompleteness.” Some tease, thought Jury.

  Harry Johnson was in the Old Wine Shades, sitting on his regular bar chair. Jury was pleased to see Mungo was also there. The dog sat up, alert, when he saw Jury. There was no other bodily action, no wriggling in delight as though Jury were the person he’d been waiting for half his life, and certainly no tail-wagging.

  Jury suddenly had an idea that would not have occurred to him had he not seen Mungo, the smartest animal he had ever come across. Mungo and the kids, Tilda and Timmy; Mungo and Timmy—no, no. Of course Mungo would recognize Timmy’s scent; anyway, could the behavior of a dog really count as evidence? He pictured what a barrister would do with that procedural line.

  “Looks like that lightbulb just went out,” said Harry. “Sorry, but your expression really did remind me of a cartoon bulb over a head.”

  “I look that stupid, do I?” Jury nodded to Trevor, the barman.

  “No, merely expressive. Pour him a tumblerful, Trev,” Harry said, inclining his head toward the bottle of Côte de Nuits resting behind the bar. “He needs it.”

  Jury said, “Thanks, but I want the subtle taste of struck matches.” That should confound Trevor.

  It didn’t. Trevor nodded and moved off.

  “Just to have an argument,” said Harry.

  “No, just to have a whisky.”

  Trevor set the glass before him, poured a couple of fingers of Talisker single malt into it.

  “Do you know everything, Trev?” said Jury.

  “Yes,” Harry answered for the barman. “So don’t try to be clever. Now, what was it?”

  “What was what?”

  Harry sighed. “Your idea du jour?”

  “Nothing. It was no good, worse luck. And with Mungo here, too.” Jury reached down and gave the dog’s head a good rub.

  Mungo bore it.

  “But I do have a question.”

  “And I have an answer,” said Harry.

  “I’m sure. I’m also sure you’re aware the man shot outside the Artemis Club was a physicist.”

  “Half of London knows that. The half that can read.”

  “How would you apply the uncertainty principle to the game of twenty-one?” Jury hoped the question would draw a small gasp from Harry.

  Which of course it didn’t. “I wouldn’t.”

  “Poker?”

  “Ditto.”

  “Any form of gambling?”

  “Is that what this unfortunate chap is supposed to have done?” Harry raised his empty wineglass, signaling Trevor. “Ridiculous.”

  “You’re claiming it can’t be done?”

  Harry grimaced. “Of course it can’t.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “If you recall, the ‘uncertainty’ in the uncertainty principle is that you can’t know the position and velocity of an object simultaneously. It’s not the ‘uncertainty’ of where things are, such as cards.”

  “Mathematics is applicable—”

  Harry groaned slightly. “Physics is the study of the interaction of matter and energy. Not card-counting. Do you know what gambling is?”

  “No.”

  “It’s a battle of wits. It’s more psychology than the way the cards fall.”

  “Well, what about Niels Bohr? Schrödinger?”

  “What about them?”

  “Other theories.”

  “Oh, you mean wave and particle? I can see how that would influence a poker hand. Instead of wasting your time trying to understand quantum mechanics, why don’t you spend it trying to solve the problem of why a Kenyan would murder two Americans in front of a ritzy casino? Now there’s an event even Niels Bohr couldn’t sort out.”

  Trevor had come down the bar to replenish both glasses, “Don’t let him get your goat, Mr. Jury,” he said with a smile and a sideways glance at Harry.

  “Thanks, Trev.” Jury raised his glass. Then to Harry, “A man’s profession might have something to do with his murder.”

  “Obviously. But you’re trying to take this way beyond the victim’s being a physicist and a gambler. You’re wandering into the neverland of a straight flush depending on some theorem in physics. This professor,” said Harry, with a smile, “was just winding people up.”

  “I guess he wound up the wrong person.” Jury drank his Talisker.

  “I guess he did.” Harry drank his Côte de Nuits.

  Jury thought about Paula Moffit’s comment. “What about Gödel?”

  “You mean the incompleteness theorem. That’s also ridiculous. Gödel’s theorems have had more harebrained interpretations attached to them than any other theory I could name.” Harry stopped. “Unless …”

  Jury was surprised that Harry seemed to be honestly considering. “Unless what?”

  “That you can’t prove a system from within
the system. Maybe what this Moffit was doing was applying this to cards. I’m vastly oversimplifying here. What if your professor was saying that no ‘system’ in a systematic game of cards would work so he decided he might as well bet on nothing.” Harry laughed. “And if he had enough money—he was rich, you said—”

  “Very.”

  “So he could simply have played and waited and won. That’s not exactly a betting system. Did it occur to you that he might have been reading the dealer?”

  “Dealers have giveaways? Tells?”

  “Not the best ones. But yes. Do you know a croupier? He could enlighten you.”

  Jury smiled. “I do happen to know one, yes.”

  “This professor. I think he might have had a hell of a sense of humor. I wish I could have met him.”

  It disturbed Jury that he’d like to have heard a conversation between David Moffit and Harry Johnson.

  “This guy must have had both a highly original and a very quirky mind. I’m sorry he’s dead.”

  Jury thought it was the only time he had ever heard Harry make a sincere declaration of sorrow about the life of anybody.

  “That makes two of us.” Jury was even more disturbed that he would make two of anything with Harry Johnson.

  Victoria Station, London

  Nov. 11, Monday morning

  46

  Jury called Wiggins to tell him he’d be a couple of hours late because he had something he had to do.

  He’d hired a small café for two hours. The people who ran it thought he was a nutter, but since he was a Scotland Yard nutter, they went along with the crazy idea. For a price. Jury would have paid twice as much, but, again, seeing he was a Scotland Yard detective superintendent, he had to pay only half. Besides, they liked him. They thought it was wonderful that a cop was having a party for a bunch of kids and was going to the trouble and expense of keeping on the cook and a waitress and a boy to clean up afterward.

  They were quite taken by his reason. He’d told them it was because the kids had done New Scotland Yard a big favor. So the café manager agreed to hang a “Private Party” sign on the door for this short period of time.

  Jury told the kids to wear their best, which for most of them meant the same thing they usually wore. They asked Jury why they couldn’t have this party at Waterloo as always—

  Like where you always have your parties? Because the Orient Express doesn’t pull out of Waterloo. It leaves Victoria Station for Paris and Venice.

  Are we going to Paris, then?

  No, you’re not going anywhere.

  But “wearing her best” was enough for Patty Haigh, who considered herself the railway costume queen. She wanted to know if Lord Ardry was coming to this party.

  Jury had met Patty Haigh by having Robbie Parsons drive him to Heathrow, since he couldn’t get Robbie to drive him to the Knowledge. Terminal 3. Robbie had found Patty Haigh through Aero, who was outside on his skateboard (“Pickin’ pockets,” said Robbie).

  “My God, I’m surprised he hasn’t been nicked.”

  “He has. Several times.”

  “Why didn’t he wind up in care, then?”

  “He knows somebody.”

  “Who?”

  “Don’t ask me. But every time cops take him in, somebody comes round and he’s back ’ere again.”

  Jury looked down at this mite of a girl with the ebony hair and pointed chin and said, “You’re Patty Haigh?”

  “I’m Patty Haigh. Why?”

  Jury took out his ID, hunkered down and showed it to her. “I’m Richard Jury.”

  Her eyes widened. “You’re that friend of Lord Ardry.”

  “I’m that friend of Lord Ardry, right. And we’re having a party tomorrow morning to which you’re invited.” He looked at her. “Tell me, how in the bloody hell did you do it?”

  Patty looked puzzled. “Do what?”

  Robbie Parsons laughed.

  He was at Victoria Station at 9:30 A.M. that morning, running his eyes over the crowd—there was always a crowd—searching for the kids. He saw no one, but it was early yet. He’d told them 10:00 at the latest.

  He started toward the Daybreak Café when a voice at his elbow said, “Hi.” It was Martin. No wonder Jury hadn’t recognized him. Martin was scrubbed, brushed and polished. He was wearing a fresh white shirt with a small red-and-white-checked cloth drawn under the collar. His brown hair was combed straight back and from the little runnels in it Jury could tell that he’d had a shower. The bright smile on his clean face was almost beatific.

  “Whadya think? I look all right?” Martin took a couple of steps back and held out his arms so that Jury could get the whole picture.

  “You look better than just all right,” said Jury. “You look—redeemed.”

  “You mean like J.C.?”

  “Correct.”

  “Yeah. Jesus wouldn’t be caught dead in this lot.” Martin flicked the checked scarf.

  “You think you’ll get a chance to use that in Victoria Station?” Jury gestured toward the skateboard.

  “Sure. There’s always an unpeopled platform.” Aero cast about, came to the British Pullman and said, “Not that one, o’ course.”

  “O’ course,” said Jury. “Let’s go to the caff, shall we?”

  “Where is this caff?” said Aero.

  Martin pointed straight ahead toward the rising sun on the sign of the Daybreak Café. “Right there.”

  “Okay,” said Aero. “Race you.”

  They took off, mauling their way through the crowd. Jury was happy to see that underneath it all, there remained a streak of normal boyhood. He lost sight of them.

  Suki and Henry were waiting in front of the Daybreak. Reno sat calmly. “Jimmy’s inside, tuning up,” said Suki. “He gonna play something?”

  “Something,” said Jury, smiling. “Let’s go in.” They had turned to the door when a young girl with very blond hair and wearing a bright red dress came toward them. Underneath the silky skirt were what looked like reams of tulle. Definitely a party dress, thought Jury. Her bulging backpack looked as if she’d packed it with a week’s wear. She was also carrying a shiny red purse on a long strap that crossed over her torso.

  “Dressed up like a dog’s dinner,” said Suki.

  Patty Haigh reached them just after Martin and Aero went into the café.

  Inside, the boys pulled from their pockets and under their shirts a variety of things: wallets, passports, pound notes and a little velvet box that held diamond earrings. There it all lay on the Formica table: the swag.

  The girls congratulated Martin and Aero.

  Jury shook his head. “Can’t we all act like ordinary citizens for one day?”

  Aero said, “Yeah, maybe you can. You look ordinary enough.”

  “This stuff has got to be returned. Passports. Wallets. We’re going straight to security with them.”

  “Ah, come on, guv. Wasn’t easy gettin’ this lot.”

  “Easy to take it back, though.”

  Jury left the cash on the table, picked up passports, wallets and the diamond earrings, which he had to bat out of Suki’s hands.

  Martin’s and Aero’s stories to security were, “Found this lyin’ outside the Gents” and “This passport was in WH Smith. Someone got careless!” Similar stories accompanied the rest of the swag.

  First came Vivian Rivington in a pale blue cashmere dress and matching cape—perfect for traveling, had she been going anywhere. “Seeing Melrose off?”

  Next came Melrose in his beautifully tailored suit.

  “Remember? I’m giving the Waterloo kids a party.” Jury tilted his head in the direction of the café.

  “That’s nice,” said Vivian, “but who are the Waterloo—”

  “Sorry, I’ve got to go. Have a great trip,” he said to them both. He clapped Melrose on the shoulder, gave him a kind of hug to give himself an opportunity to stick something in Melrose’s breast pocket.

  Jury went into the café and got J
immy, brought him outside and pointed out Vivian and Melrose. “What are you going to play?”

  “I thought ‘Fascination,’ that’d be good. It’s a waltz.”

  Jury watched as Jimmy joined the colorful crowd on the platform. Some of them seemed caught up in an emotional turmoil as if the first step weren’t Paris but the moon.

  He watched this little crowd dressed in turn-of-the-century (the old century) clothes. But “costumed” was a more fitting description than mere “clothes.” One woman’s neck and chin were buried in a violet feathered boa; the man with her was wearing a velvet jacket and a cravat. Another couple flashed with gold and silver, some from their jewelry, some from their clothes.

  Jimmy looked from Vivian and Melrose to Jury, his look a question. Jury nodded and Jimmy stuck his violin under his chin and began playing. He had a delicate silvery touch. The passengers thought this entertainment had been laid on by the Orient Express’s public relations and, taking advantage of it, started dancing. Waltzing. First, it was the couple in the boa and the cravat. Then another couple joined in and another and finally Melrose held out his arms for Vivian. And that violin just kept on playing.

  Jury thought it was the most beautiful thing he had ever heard.

  Until Marshall Trueblood sidled up, gave his shoulder a little punch and said, “Nice try, mate.”

  The train was about to pull out with its pricey cargo of costumed passengers, when the kids rushed out of the café and said to Jury that they wanted to say good-bye to these grown-ups they didn’t know but had a liking for because they had the nerve to wander through Victoria and board a train dressed like clowns.

  “You want to say good-bye, that it?” said Jury. “That’d better be all you do.”

  A stagy whistle sounded and the attendants were calling for everyone to board, the train would be leaving in three minutes.

  “Well, go on, Melrose. The train’s going to leave.”

  “Me? I’m not going to Paris—”

  “No? Then what’s this?” Vivian flicked a polished nail at the bit of cardboard in his breast pocket.