by Peter Ponzo
"And you were adopted?" I asked.
"Yes, by a very nice middle-class couple. They're now living comfortably in a retirement home."
"And you want to ask me for money, am I right? Well, you can forget that. I don't owe you anything."
"Money? Hell no. I teach history at Burlington High, live alone in a commodious bungalow and have no need of your money."
"Then why are you here?" I asked.
"If neither you nor I were in that bank, then who was?" he asked.
We sat and stared at each other for several minutes. Clyde smiled. I immediately knew what he was about to say.
"Triplets?" I said, rising from my chair.
"Triplets," Clyde said with a grin. "We need to find him, to get the police off my tail."
"This has nothing to do with me!" I said, angrily. "The police are not on my tail!"
"I must tell you that I learned about our relationship, yours and mine, about a year ago. Although your name is in the papers every week, never a photo."
"I don't like publicity. I don't want to be recognized by every jerk who walks the street," I said, still angry.
"I can understand that," Clyde said. "However, there was a photo of you in a business magazine from about a year ago. I was shocked to see the likeness, I must say. I asked my parents, my adoptive parents, and they admitted that I had been adopted and that my birth parents were very rich. I checked with Child Welfare to find my biological parents, but they don't give out that information. However, I have a friend who works with Child Welfare and he got me the information: Dorothy and Daniel Marcello. He also said, with a grin, that there were two children given up for adoption."
Clyde paused, as though he wanted that comment to sink in.
"I thought that meant twins, so when I saw your picture in that magazine, I assumed that there was an error of some sort. You were clearly not adopted. In fact, you inherited the Marcello fortune."
I sank slowly into the chair again.
"So, now you think that there were, indeed, two children adopted, you and another," I said.
"Yes, and that other is the guy who robbed the First Dominion Bank."
"Fine," I said. "Then find him and clear your name, get the police off your tail ... but leave me out of it."
I got up from the chair and walked to the front door. Clyde looked weary, but he followed me. I opened the door and he stood in the doorway.
"You may think you're out of it, but you'd be mistaken. Have you seen this morning's news? Your picture is now on the front page of the Burlington Times under the heading:
James Clerk Marcello: a suspect in bank robbery.
"Our robber-brother will see it. He will find you," he said.
Then, before I had a chance to say anything, Clyde walked away.
Chapter Two
It was less than a week later that I got the phone call. Abbott, my man-servant, brought me the phone. I was going over the books for the hotel in Bermuda.
"He doesn't give his name," Abbott said. "But he says it's important."
"Thank you Abbott. I'll take it."
I took the phone and sat back.
"Yes, this is James Clerk Marcello."
"I know exactly who you are and you will soon know exactly who I am," said the raspy voice. "I will come to your place tomorrow evening. Get out your checkbook." A grating laugh, then, "Get ready to meet your brother." Then he hung up.
Damn! I don't have time for this! Why me? Why not that other guy, the teacher, whatever his name was ... Clyde, I think. I have absolutely no interest in twins or triplets or whatever.
Did he say 'get out your checkbook'? Does he intend to ask for money? I'll just call the police. I picked up the phone which lay on my desk. I punched the police speed dial button.
"This is James Clerk Marcello. I just received a call from someone who is undoubtedly the fellow who robbed the First Dominion Bank. He said he will come to my house tomorrow evening and ... no, he didn't say the time, but I expect he intends to ask for money and ... no, I don't know his name, but ... yes, I am quite sure he's the robber because ... because he looks like me."
There was a long pause on the line, then:
"This is inspector Clifford. I understand that a person that matches your description intends to meet with you tomorrow evening. Is that right?"
"Yes! That's what I just said. Am I required to repeat everything I say? I expect officers will be stationed ..."
"Mister Marcello, we will most certainly have officers there, but you must understand that, should this fellow see police cars, he will postpone his meeting with you. Now, why do you think he looks like you? Have you met him?"
"No, I haven't met him. I haven't even seen him. It's just that ... that I think that he may be my twin."
"Mister Marcello, we have been looking for your twin for several days. His name is Clyde Samuelson and he's a teacher at ..."
"No! No! You have the wrong person. I know Clyde. Yes, we are twins, but Clyde did not rob the bank. The fellow coming tomorrow did. You see ... we were triplets. Clyde told me about this third fellow, that he was the robber and that I could expect a visit from him."
There was another long pause.
"Mister Marcello, there will be three officers at your place by four p.m. tomorrow. They will be hidden. You will not know they are there, but they will have visuals on your house at all times. In the meantime, I would ask that you not leave your house tomorrow. Is that understood?"
"Do you think I have little to do? I have businesses to run, people to meet and ..."
"Mister Marcello, it was armed robbery. The fellow has a gun. I wouldn't play games. He is serious. If he wants money you can be sure he'll threaten you. Now, is there anything you don't understand? You must cancel all appointments tomorrow and stay home. Keep watch and, whatever you do, do not go outside the house. Do you live alone?"
"Certainly not! I have two gardeners, a maid, a cook and a man-servant. How do you think five acres of property gets looked after?"
"Do you understand my instructions, Mister Marcello?"
"Yes, yes, stay home, do not go out."
"Thank you. We will be in touch."
Inspector what's-his name hung up. I couldn't concentrate on the accounting files for the Bermuda hotel. I asked Abbott to call my secretary and cancel all appointments for tomorrow. I was feeling rather shaky. I made myself a whiskey and soda. I thought about the meeting with that teacher. I called Abbott and asked if he could call the teacher and whether he had left an address or a phone number. Abbott reminded me that the teacher was here on his day off. Abbott never saw the man. Damn!
"Do you have a name?" Abbott asked.
"Yes, he told me his name ... uh, Clyde something. Clyde Samuels ... Samuelson. Yes, that's it, Samuelson."
"Then I shall attempt to locate Mister Samuelson."
I didn't sleep well that night, thinking about the visit from the third triplet, the bank robber and his demand for money. Could I get rid of him by giving him a few dollars? I doubt it. He would be back, again and again. The only way was to pray the police would catch him.
In the early afternoon, the next day, Abbot said there was someone to see me. That was curious because I hadn't heard the door bell.
"Yes Abbott, bring him in. I'll be in my study."
In a few minutes a mangy looking individual walked into the study. He wore a dirty grey shirt, blue jeans and a cap pulled down over his eyebrows. I was about to call Abbot.
"Well if it isn't the illustrious James Clerk Marcello," he said. "We've never met ... well, not recently."
He pulled off his cap and it was me!
"Yes, you are seeing correctly. It's me, Bobby, the third triplet, the evil one, the beggar, the indigent, the pauper, the one who robs banks in order to survive while my brother lives in a mansion."
"What do you want?" I said, my voice shaking. "Do you want money, is that it? How much?"
"Oh brother, I want everything."
Just then Abbott came in with three glasses: whiskey and ginger ale.
I sipped mine without thinking.
"Abbott, this has ginger ale!"
"Sorry Mister Marcello, but this gentleman insisted upon ginger ale."
I turned to this evil man.
"How did you get in?"
"I know all about the police that'll be arrayed against me, but that's not until four p.m., so I came early and knocked on the back door. Good old Abbott let me in."
I looked at Abbot. He was smiling. This fellow, Bobby, was smiling. They began to look fuzzy, their voices fading. I looked at my drink. It didn't taste right ...
Chapter Three
Bobby and Abbot sat comfortably on the sofa in the drawing room. Bobby looked about at the lush surroundings.
"We done good, don't you think?" he said.
"Yes, Robert, we done good. I don't think James had any idea. I figured that the ginger ale was so unfamiliar he wouldn't taste the drug, a form of choral hydrate. I knew it would knock him out rather quickly."
"What about our other friend?"
"He should be here shortly," Abbott said, sipping his whiskey and ginger ale.
Just then the doorbell rang, but neither Abbot nor Bobby moved. Clyde Samuelson walked into the drawing room.
"Hello fellas. I assume everything went as planned?"
"Exactly as planned, brother," Bobby said.
Clyde slipped into a chair, helping himself to the third glass of whiskey and ginger ale that was on the coffee table.
"So what now? I assume that we all live happily ever after, eh?"
"You got that right, Clyde," Bobby said.
"I've arranged for us to spend a month on the estate, our estate, in Kauai," Abbott said, grinning.
"Excellent," Clyde said. Then, turning to Bobby: "What did you do with the money you stole from the First Dominion Bank?"
"Charity. That mission on Lakeshore Drive, the one that helps the poor, free meals and all that ... as an anonymous donor."
Abbott filled their glasses and they all stopped talking and began drinking in earnest, each with a colossal smile.
And James Clerk Marcello?
He was in a jail cell, dressed in a dirty grey shirt, blue jeans, his cap on the floor.
"I tell you I am not the bank robber! You have the wrong man! I've been drugged, duped. I am James Clerk Marcello ..."
But no one was listening.
He was old, even when I was a boy. His face seemed withered even then, like parchment, wrinkled with deep furrows. Then, his beard was grey ... it's now quite white. It's also scruffy and completely covers his mouth. It isn't easy to determine if his lips are moving when he speaks, but his stories are marvelous. They were always marvelous. It's as though this gentleman had been everywhere and seen everything. His voice is sometimes raspy, yet still powerful. Sometimes, when he pauses, it's difficult to know whether he's ended his story or just stopping to gather his breath. Sometimes he whispers and I have to lean forward to hear him, but mostly he speaks with a clear and booming voice, though sometimes hoarse. We still sit on the front porch on many Saturday afternoons and sip the lemonade that Grandma makes. Grandpa was always in his overalls and straw hat. Some things never change.
It was on a Saturday almost ten years ago that he told me of the most peculiar story. I remember it well because as he told the story it began to rain and the thunder seemed to punctuate his story at the most opportune times. As you might imagine, I was thoroughly impressed. I was twelve years old at the time and the weather was so hot and humid that I dropped by just to ask Grandma for some cool lemonade. Grandpa pointed to the chair on the porch and I sat and Grandma brought us both a lemonade. Grandpa always sat in his rocking chair, even thought he never rocked, but the shape of the chair seemed to fit his frame perfectly. He began the story as he usually does, saying: "You may not believe this sonny, but..."
*****
"I was in Africa, looking for the black panther. That devil had evaded me for years, but I was determined to find him this time. There may have been others on the slopes of Mount Kenya–though I've never seen any–but I knew this one well. I had seen him before. We stayed for a day at an Embu village. To the Embu, the mountain is sacred and they build their houses facing the mountain. On the mountain lives their God, Ngai. We eventually got to a clearing at 5700 feet. We had a shack there from previous expeditions and we stayed for almost a day, in that shack. There were three of us: me, Jones and Leboo, our Masai guide. Eventually we reached 7000 feet. Above that level there is no dense forest, so if we are to find Nero, our black leopard, we should go no higher."
Grandpa took a sip of his lemonade and looked to see that I was still listening intently. Now, in retrospect, I'm surprised that he could remember such details, so many years after the event. Then he slowly set his glass on the small table and continued.
"We camped on a wooded ledge overlooking the Hobley Valley. From there we could see for miles so our Oberwerk 25/40x100 Long-Range Observation Binoculars were set up to scan the valley. If Nero was there, we'd see him."
"Leboo was always babbling about the danger of being in this particular area of the mountain. He wasn't afraid of anything, this fellow, but he knew the mountain well and kept warning us of what he called the 'Gorosh'. Jones and I assumed that Leboo was speaking of some godlike entity which lived on the mountain. After all, many of the local natives believed that a God lived on the mountain. The Emeru natives called it Murungu. As it turned out, Leboo was not speaking of a God but of something more unusual."
Grandpa stopped. There was the violent sound of thunder nearby. As I recall, it looked like he was falling asleep. His eyes were closed and his head tilted forward, his beard lying on his chest. I could see Grandma peering out of the window. She was smiling, so I guess Grandpa was alright. Then he opened his eyes, saw that I was listening, then continued.
"For days we saw nothing. Then, one morning, Jones and I woke up to find that Leboo had vanished. We had suspected that he would leave, the stories about the evil Gorosh being on his mind every day. He never did explain what this evil was. We asked, but he seemed reluctant to speak of it as though the act of discussing the evil thing would bring the evil upon us. I think that, now, Jones and I knew what Leboo was speaking about. In any case, Jones and I intended to stay on the mountain for at least another two weeks."
Grandma came out to refill our lemonade glasses. She was happy to see Grandpa telling stories. That meant that he was enjoying himself. Grandpa blew a kiss in Grandma's direction, sipped some lemonade and continued.
"In the afternoon, Jones and I finally saw Nero, the black leopard. He was walking slowly, as though he was hurt. Jones and I were each looking down into the valley, each with our long range binoculars.
'Looks like he's hurt', Jones said.
'Is that a scar on the side of his head?' I said.
'Yes, I see it,' Jones said.
We waited and saw that Nero was coming up the slope, approaching our position. We just watched, not knowing what to do.
'Shoot!' I said to Jones."
A loud thunder clap! I jumped up from my seat. I couldn't believe that Grandpa would shoot an animal, any animal.
"Grandpa!" I said. "Did you shoot that leopard?"
Grandpa looked up at me and smiled.
"Yes, sonny. Jones shot him with a camera. We didn't carry guns."
I was so happy I collapsed into my chair again. Grandpa waited until he was certain that I was listening and continued.
"Soon, Nero was just a few hundred feet away. Jones and I ran to our tent. We thought that, if we hid inside, with the door zipped up, the beautiful cat wouldn't know we were there. He could smell us, of course, but he couldn't see us. There was a clear plastic window, quite small, and we peered out. The cat walked right past the tent. We waited for several minutes then carefully unzipped out tent door and went out. Sonny, you won't believe what we saw."
The thunder
seemed to die down but the gentle sound of rain continued. Grandpa waited, sipped some lemonade. I held my breath.
"Behind the tent was a mountain gorilla, a silverback. He was sitting, was leaning against a tree. On his lap was Nero. The gorilla was licking Nero's head, where the wound was. The gorilla seemed unperturbed by our presence. He just kept licking the big cat and I swear that the cat was purring. It's as though the cat was a pet, a pet to the gorilla. Jones and I were flabbergasted."
Grandpa stopped talking. He leaned back and closed his eyes. He seemed to be sleeping. Grandma came out and quietly asked me to leave.
"But, did you hear that story." I asked.
"Yes, it's one of his favourites," she said.
"But he's just making it up, right?" I said.
"Come inside," Grandma said. I followed her and she pointed to a chair. I sat and waited while she went into another room. When she came back she had a photo in her hand. She handed it to me. It was a black and white photograph. It showed Grandpa, a much younger Grandpa, with his arm around a huge gorilla. In front of them was a black leopard, sleeping.
*****
That was ten years ago. I still have that photo and I still find it hard to believe. Grandpa died six months ago. Grandma is still going strong and lives comfortably in a retirement home. I did try to find the fellow called Jones, but Grandma didn't know where he was or even if he was still alive.
To this day I believe that Grandpa was pulling my leg.
Chapter One
I was going to kill myself, but it had to look like murder. If I slit my wrists, it'd be difficult to imagine that someone had murdered me. So, how could I commit suicide in such a way that no one would suspect it was a suicide? Further, how could I make it look like my wife had done the deed.
