Victor said, “If I tell you anything, it will be as a favor. You can chalk it up to my account."
"I'm doing you a favor not hauling you in,” Portman said. He tried to submerge his hostility, but it always found a way to rise to the surface. When it was least convenient.
"For what?"
"As a key suspect."
"What happened to the presumption of innocence?” said Victor. “I'm innocent until proven guilty."
"Agreed. And then you do your time. And then you're innocent again."
Victor spat the candy into his hand. He flung the candy at the office window. The sharp clank caught the ponytailed boxer's attention.
When the boxer came in Victor said, “Show him out."
Then, when Portman was leaving, Victor said, “She told me nothing. Yes? Nikki. She is a good wife."
Portman didn't reply.
* * * *
Portman watched the road ahead. He felt as grim as the streets they drove on: row after row of one-story bungalows with smashed windows and beat-up Ford Falcon sedans parked in driveways.
A few minutes passed before Block asked, “How'd it go?"
"Nothing."
"A hard man, your brother-in-law. Is he still...?"
"You spoke to Molloy?"
"Left a message."
Light drizzle sprayed the car's windshield. Block let the droplets grow in size until they began to resemble scurrying gray mice and the headlights of the oncoming cars were no more than vague blurs before he turned on the wipers. Portman's irritation grew.
Block checked his watch. “We're out of luck here, boss. And it's a Friday. My missus—"
Portman said, “There's one more lead."
Block checked his watch again. He sighed. “No kiddin’ . . . what . . . where to . . . ? But it is gettin’ late."
"Avondale Heights."
A one-lane road splintered off from Maroondah Highway and meandered through empty fields toward the Avondale Heights development, a complex of two-story townhouses on the outer edge of Chirnside Park.
Block pulled up next to the first house, beside a flower bed overrun with weeds and spindly bush.
Portman left the car, looked around. None of the windows had curtains, some were broken. There was no sound other than the muffled whoosh of cars from the nearby highway.
He walked a short distance along the narrow strip of unkempt lawn in front of the houses and toward an eucalyptus bent into a question mark, then returned to the car. “Deserted."
Block looked uncomfortable. He pointed to a rusty sign a few steps away. Below a yellow triangle outlined in black with a black exclamation mark inside, the sign read: asbestos—hazardous area. And next to it, in white lettering on red background, do not enter.
Block said, “How long's this stuff take? To act?"
Portman tried the door to the first house. It was locked. So was the second; the door to the third house stood ajar.
Inside the house they walked along a beige corridor, past beige bedrooms separated from one another by thin layers of beige plywood, and into a beige kitchen. Their footsteps sounded hollow on the beige floorboards.
Block said, “How's this? Not a single syringe. And no squatters."
"Too far from the city,” said Portman. “Nowhere to buy drugs, no public transport. No soup kitchens."
Block slapped on a pair of rubber gloves. He said, “What're we lookin’ for, boss?"
"Anything."
Block threw open kitchen cabinet doors while Portman checked the built-in bedroom wardrobes. In one wardrobe he stumbled on a family of nestling mice. Portman was watching the mice scutter when he heard Block shout, “Boss!"
He found Block in the laundry. Block was squatting beside the laundry sink from under which he pulled an eighteen by eighteen inch cardboard box. Inside the box were kitchen utensils, still veiled in cellophane. Only the block of knives was unwrapped. Black knife handles gleamed dully. There was one knife missing. The slicing knife.
* * * *
Portman called Molloy on his cell from outside the house. “You didn't get my message?"
Molloy said, “What message? I've two dozen I've not listened to. Yet."
"I'll refresh your memory. Hedge fund boy, Willsworth, the wife."
"Nothing. Both were at the benefit. The only interesting thing, a block of knives. Bought by Willsworth last week. On his credit card."
"Delivered to Avondale Heights?"
"How'd you know?"
"We're there now. Did you speak to the courier?"
"You telling me how to do my job?"
"Who signed on delivery?"
Molloy said, “What's this Willsworth look like? The courier kid says it was a short guy. Glasses, bald. Looked like a turtle."
* * * *
Closing the house door with one hand and holding the box of knives in the other, Block said, “I don't get it. Boss? You don't think it was Willsworth?"
"He wouldn't have used his own credit card."
"Who else could've used his card? Dunkirk's wife. But they were at this function together."
Portman said, “And someone else."
Block said, “Right. But why meet in Dandenong?"
"A quiet spot with a bus stop nearby,” said Portman. “And buses are terrific. I mean, public transport is punctual. And good for the health."
Block checked his watch. His face fell. He said, “Sure . . . but we still don't have a motive."
"Once we've picked up the accountant,” Portman said, “he'll cough it up. It won't take more than a day."
It turned out that Portman didn't have to wait that long.
* * * *
For the first time in weeks Portman was home before midnight. Friday, seven p.m. In the bathroom, he splashed his face with cold water, then entered the living room.
He froze.
Nikki sat curled up on the living room couch. She was watching a black and white Russian film, Andrei Rublev.
On a brand-new flat-screen TV.
Nikki pressed the pause button and jumped up to her feet. She was wearing a mid-length black dress with a tight bodice and pleats edged with yellow.
She said, “Well? I've been waiting. Your turn to cook dinner."
Portman slowly walked to the galley kitchen. He poured himself a whiskey and put on a green apron. He drank the whiskey and poured himself one more.
He said, “I see Victor's paid us a visit."
"The television? It's my birthday present. He said that you came to see him today. He said you were rude."
"We'll have to return it."
"Not a chance."
Portman started chopping the onions. Nikki, leaning against the kitchen wall, watched him. She had the same green eyes as Victor. Her face and neck and crossed arms looked tense.
He said, “Did Victor say anything else?"
"Many things."
"Such as?"
"He said Dunkirk's killer was arrested this afternoon. It was the accountant. The accountant and Dunkirk were running a scheme together. Did you know that?"
Portman heated some oil in an aluminium frying pan and dropped the onions in with a sizzle and started chopping the zucchini and carrots into small cubes. He said, “Tell me something I don't already know."
She said, “Don't think you can trick me that easily. And the television is staying."
Portman didn't reply. As the pasta sauce began to bubble, he uncorked a bottle of red. All the while, Nikki hovered around him. She walked up and down the galley kitchen three times, each time brushing against his back.
"Something on your mind?” Portman said, arranging two wine glasses side by side.
She said, “Okay. This is what happened."
She paused.
Portman said, “Surprise me."
"Dunkirk managed Victor's money."
"Sure."
"Don't interrupt! Last year, stock markets lost twenty percent while Dunkirk claimed to lose four. But in fact he didn't
lose anything. He kept all of the money in cash. On that cash he earned interest of around five percent. So he pocketed, like, nine percent for himself."
Portman didn't say anything.
Nikki said, “You don't believe me?"
"Finance,” Portman said, “it's an art."
He poured the wine and passed a glass to Nikki. He said, “And Victor? What did he do?"
"Don't think he did anything wrong! He's a legitimate businessman. Now, that is. He said that he sent some of his friends to talk to Dunkirk, but Dunkirk said that he needs to get his papers in order and that he'll see Victor the following day."
Portman said, pouring the wine, “You'd make a great detective."
"Really?"
"But there's still no link to the murder."
"Okay, okay!” She took her glass “But that's easy. When Dunkirk and the accountant's scheme came close to being exposed, Dunkirk wanted to flee the country. The accountant was scared that he'd be blamed for the entire scam. So he killed him. With a kitchen knife."
She shuddered. “I don't know how you can spend your days dealing with these people."
Portman couldn't help smiling. He poured them both a second glass of wine. “But how did Victor—"
"So is the television staying?"
"How did Victor know about the scam?"
Nikki shrugged. “Some woman called him. He didn't even know her. All he knew is she sounded severe. And very posh."
Portman put one arm around Nikki. Her hips felt round, firm. With the other hand he added a few drops of oil to the spaghetti boiling in a stock pot.
She said, “Well? I suppose I shouldn't have told you. Now you're going to run off to the station. Tell me you're not?"
Portman checked his watch. Seven thirty. He thought that Block would be in the office stuck with the paperwork at least until nine. Maybe ten. He had a couple of hours.
Portman said, “How long does this film take?"
"Andrei Rublev? Another three hours."
Portman groaned.
"You promised to watch it! I'll put on the subtitles."
"I won't even understand it,” said Portman.
"You don't have to,” she said. “It's high art."
Copyright © 2010 Andrei Bhuyan
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Department: SOLUTION TO THE MYSTERIOUS CIPHER
For a moment she stood quite still; then she made a curious gesture with her right hand, gave a small breathy sound and fell forward at his feet.
—Ngaio Marsh
From “I Can Find My Way Out” (A Treasury of Great Mysteries, Vol. 2, 1957)
wayout vxzbcdefghijklmnpqrs
ABCDEF GHIJKLMNOPQRSTUVWXYZ
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Department: COMING IN MAY 2010
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Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine (ISSN:0002-5224), Vol. 55, No. 4, April 2010. Published monthly except for combined January/February and July/August double issues by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications. Annual subscription $55.90 in the U.S.A. and possessions, $65.90 elsewhere, payable in advance in U.S. funds (GST included in Canada). Subscription orders and correspondence regarding subscriptions should be sent to 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. Or, to subscribe, call 1-800-220-7443. Editorial Offices: 267 Broadway, 4th Floor, New York, NY 10007-2352. Executive Offices: 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. Periodical postage paid at Norwalk, CT and additional mailing offices. Canadian postage paid at Montreal, Quebec, Canada Post International Publications Mail, Product Sales Agreement No. 40012460. © 2010 by Dell Magazines, a division of Crosstown Publications, all rights reserved. Dell is a trademark registered in the U.S. Patent Office. The stories in this magazine are all fictitious, and any resemblance between the characters in them and actual persons is completely coincidental. Reproduction or use, in any manner, of editorial or pictorial content without express written permission is prohibited. Submissions must be accompanied by a self-addressed stamped envelope. The publisher assumes no responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts or artwork. POSTMASTER: Send changes to Alfred Hitchcock's Mystery Magazine, 6 Prowitt Street, Norwalk, CT 06855. In Canada return to: World Color St. Jean, 800 Blvd. Industrial, St. Jean, Quebec J3B 8G4. GST #R123054108.
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