Improvisato

by David Crossman

  “Yes.”

  “Then you replaced the ashes with . . . with cigarette ashes . . .”

  “. . . From the ash trays?”

  “Yes. Some of Mr. Sweetman’s pipe ashes, too, I think.”

  “For . . . why?”

  That seemed self-evident to Albert. “In case he checked to see if they were still there.”

  This was a two-sigh conversation. “Okay—and I’m looking forward to this—why did you give Mrs. Sweetman’s ashes to Senior Sergeant Hawkes?”

  “Because if she wasn’t all there when she was cremated,” said Albert. “If parts of her body were missing, then there wouldn’t be as much ash in the bottle as there would be if they weren’t.”

  Suddenly the sun broke through the cloud, revealing a bright, sensible landscape of the kind occupying the background in a Harvest Lossberg painting of a cherished barnyard animal. The air was clear and sweet and perfumed with logic. “You think she was . . .?”

  “I wasn’t sure,” Albert said. “But now I am.”

  “Sergeant . . . Senior Sergeant Hawkes weighed the contents?”

  “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “He said that there was about two thirds the weight of ash that a woman of her size would make. He knew her size.”

  “Meaning that her death is connected to the others on the Row—like you said.”

  “Murder,” said Albert.

  “Murder,” Jeremy Ash echoed. “All of them, murdered by Dr. Marcos and Nurse Hogan?”

  “And Tanny,” said Albert.

  “Yeah. Tanny, too.”

  “Two Caduceii, and one Frankenstein.”

  “The rings?”

  Albert nodded slightly, but enough to jar loose a bubble of inspiration that had been trapped in his subconscious. “That bird,” he said.

  “The one on the rings?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about it?”

  “The other things mean something. The snakes mean medicine. The heart means body parts.”

  “So the bird must mean something?”

  Albert let the thought soak in the fertile marinade of Jeremy’s possibility machine. “Something about a bird,” said the boy, then, with an unmistakable raspberry—which surprised even him—raised a knowing finger. “Got it! Patricia Hogan—when she was Elsbet—was s’posed to be writing a book about a bird.”

  “Which bird?”

  “Dunno what it was called,” said Jeremy Ash, “but Frenchie, or Milly or somebody said it was rare—and only lived on Pitt Island.”

  “No,” said Mr. Sweetman, examining Nurse Hogan’s ring carefully, “not a kiwi.” That had been Pyle’s suggestion. “It clearly has wings, first of all, and feathers. To say nothing of the fact that it can’t be found on Pitt Island. I’m surprised you should suggest such a thing, Mr. Pyle. Nothing like a kiwi.”

  Pyle chortled. “Well, the old eyes aren’t what they once were.”

  “For the sake of humanity in general, and the walking public in particular, I should stay well away from the wheel of a motorized vehicle, if I were you,” said Sweetman, good-naturedly. “No. The shape is undeniable. It’s a shag.”

  “That’s it!” said Jeremy Ash. “The Pitt shag. Almost extinct. That’s the bird she was s’posed to be writing her book about!”

  “But, she wasn’t really writing a book,” said Pyle, lighting his pipe, yet again, an action that drew Albert’s attention, which was further attracted by the fact that Pyle wasn’t wearing a ring, or, rather, that the place usually occupied by a ring—evidenced by both the indentation and the discoloration in his ring finger—was ringless.

  Mr. Sweetman had been combing assiduously through a book from his shelf: Rare Waterfowl of New Zealand. “Here it is!” He held the ring beside an illustration in the book. “Yes. The Pitt Shag. Phalacrocorax featherstoni. Undoubtedly that’s what this is!” He shook the ring.

  “She’s giving us nothing,” said Senior Sergeant Hawkes. The cool, indifferent light of the moon borrowed colors from the stained-glassed rendering of the Crucifixion as it passed through, and laid them like the swatches of a subtly animated quilt upon the three figures in the front pew.

  “Have you spoken to the others?” asked James Simon. “Those with the rings.”

  “That’s what I called you here to talk about,” said Hawkes, enigmatically.

  “Here rather than the police station, you mean,” said Simon. “You suspect some of your . . . your comrades are involved in the business?”

  Albert was beginning to suspect the whole nation of involvement. He kept silence.

  “I don’t like to think so,” said Hawkes. “But there doesn’t seem any other explanation for the lot of them disappearing all at once.”

  “Who disappeared? The people with the rings?”

  “All of ’em.” Hawkes lobbed a meaningful squint over the tops of his silver-rimmed glasses. “Simsing, Witheridge, Clay Pigeon. The lot. Every man jack one of ’em. Gone.”

  “Meaning somebody told them you were on to them.”

  “Bingo.”

  “And that somebody must have been in your office.”

  “Not must, necessarily,” said Hawkes, feebly defensive. “Could’ve been one of you lot . . .”

  “I assure you . . . !” James Simon protested.

  “Oh, not intentionally, Vicar,” said the senior sergeant. “I mean . . . well, you haven’t been living in a cocoon, exactly, have you? There’s the help—people hear things, bits of this and that, and gossip and whatnot. A lot can be read in an unintentional remark if it’s heard by the wrong people.

  “Still, we have to consider all possibilities.”

  “Hence this meeting.”

  Hawkes smiled. “Not likely to be heard here this time of night.”

  “Nor any other time of day,” said Simon, sadly aware that New Zealanders, though surrounded by some of the Creator’s finest handiwork, by and large refused to give Him a tip of the hat. This was not a religious nation, and this church, this building, was a monument to a time when it might have been, by those who prayed it would.

  “Point,” Hawkes acknowledged.

  Albert was wondering what he had to do with the meeting, and couldn’t imagine he had anything of value to contribute. He said as much.

  “Don’t sell yourself short,” said Hawkes. “It often takes the perspective of someone like you—far enough from the trees so you can see the forest, if you take my meaning.”

  “What trees?” Albert wondered. “What forest?”

  “Your suspicion about Clay Pigeon, for instance. You were right. Jeffreys found out he was in debt to some half dozen bookies, turf accountants, and betting shops around town, to the point that none of them would take his bets any more.

  “Then,” he snapped his fingers, “within a week, he pays them all off! Keeps gambling, of course, and losing, a lot more heavily than before, but keeps coming back to the table with cash in hand. And on that hand were five fingers, and on one of those fingers, surprise, surprise . . .”

  “A Caduceus,” said Simon.

  Albert didn’t think so. “An ‘F’ and bolt.”

  “Give the man a stuffed monkey!” said Hawkes. “Frankenstein.”

  Aside from the moon, there was no illumination in the church, the cavernous interior of which hissed with the sibilance of their hushed conference, calling to mind a convocation of penitents.

  “To put it bluntly, while there are others I feel a bit foolish, paranoid, not trusting, I know I can trust the two of you.”

  “That’s flattering,” said Simon. “And with sixpence might buy you a cup of tea, but I can’t see how we’ll be much help. I mean, it’s a bit like trusting a plumber with the electrics, or . . . or, well, I’m not thinking fast enough to come up with a clever analogy off the top of my head, but, well, Albert’s a musician, and I’m just a vicar.”

  “Like I said,” said Hawkes, brushing aside the implications, “don’t sell yourself
short. I can trust you. I can tell you what’s on my mind, and you can do the same, and that’s a start.”

  Simon sighed, stretched his legs out and thrust his hands in his pockets. “Well, we could do worse than act as sounding boards. What’s on your mind?”

  “What’s on my mind is the notion,” Hawkes began, “that there’s a spider at the middle of this web.”

  “Some sort of mastermind, you mean?”

  “If you will. I’d have said puppeteer, but yes, someone. . .” he balled his fist, “who’s in control of everyone else.” He splayed his hand. “And he—or she—or they—are the only ones who know everyone else, and what they’re all up to.” He wiggled his fingers. “The possibility—likelihood—was brought home to me when all these ring-wearers disappeared at once. That suggests a pretty sophisticated network of communication, which tells me there’s a command center of some sort; someone calling the shots.”

  “That’s reasonable. But I thought Dr. Marcos was . . . ”

  “Just one of the players,” Hawkes interjected. “He was dead when all these other ring holders flew the coop. Someone else warned them. So, no, he wasn’t the mastermind. I just need to get my head ’round this nest of threads.”

  “Let’s say strands of the web,” said Simon encouragingly. “Or we’re going to drown in metaphors.”

  “Strands then,” said Hawkes, with a rare smile.

  “So, pick a strand,” said Simon. “Any strand.”

  “Well, let’s begin with the girl on the beach.”

  “Phuong,” said Albert.

  “You say she’s safe?”

  “Yes.”

  “But you won’t tell me where?”

  “No.”

  “That’s obstruction of justice, you know?”

  Albert said, “Someone in the police is involved.”

  Hawkes inflated to object but, being an honest man, was unable to put all that air behind his words. Instead, he said, “You’re sure she’s out of harm’s way?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. I’ll just have to take your word for that.”

  “Next strand?” Simon prompted.

  “Is who killed Dr. Marcos, and why?”

  “I should think this group, or cabal of ring-wearers,” said Simon.

  “That’s as may be,” Hawkes agreed. “But I want the one whose fingerprints are on the wrench that sabotaged his car. With a charge of first-degree murder hanging over him, that’s the man I can get to talk. He’ll lead me to the rest of ’em.”

  “Maybe to the theoretical spider himself?” said Simon.

  Hawkes shrugged. “Let me know if you can up with something more likely.”

  Albert was about to speak, but he stopped himself when Simon replied. “What makes you think you’d have an easier time with that individual than you’ve had with Patricia Hogan?”

  “A murder charge carries a life sentence. That’s a bargaining chip. I’ll tell him if he grasses on the others, the Crown will reduce his sentence. If he gives me the spider . . .”

  “If he exists. . .” Simon interjected.

  “Have it your way, Vicar: if the spider exists, and he leads me to him, then another year or two can be taken off. He’ll have nothing to lose, and life to gain. At least a sliver of it.”

  “Which still leaves us with: Why was Dr. Marcos murdered?” said Simon.

  “It’s Mr. Pyle,” said Albert, out of the blue.

  “What’s Mr. Pyle?”

  “The spider.”

  “Pyle? That squirrely little fellow from Pitt Island?”

  “Yes.”

  Hawkes, trying not to laugh, nearly choked himself, a sentiment shared in echoes by a host of plaster saints in their niches.

  Chapter TwentySeven

  “Why would you say such a thing?” Hawkes demanded, once he’d caught his breath. “From what I’ve seen of him—which, I grant, is very little—still, I’d’ve said he’s more the butterfly-catching/birdwatching type than a criminal mastermind.”

  “Isn’t that what the spider would be?” said Simon who, as the senior sergeant spoke, had been thinking. “The person you’d least expect.”

  Hawkes turned sharply to Albert. “Okay, I’m ready to jump down the rabbit hole. What makes you think Pyle is behind it?”

  “Four things. First, he started smoking,” said Albert, with just the faintest suggestion of a smile. The reason he had been convinced of Tewksbury’s innocence, all those years ago, was that he had stopped smoking while, supposedly, plotting the murder of Dr. Harlan Glenly. Albert, a heavy smoker, couldn’t imagine anyone who was thinking about murdering someone quitting smoking.

  He’d been right.

  He was right now. Pyle had said, more than once when lighting his pipe—which invariably set him coughingthat he’d only just started smoking again, after years, to settle his nerves.

  What had a retired grocer and former medic living on Pitt Island to be nervous about? He had a little garden, a few sheep which he’d named, meaning they were pets and would never occupy place on his dinner plate. He was unmarried and had no children. He left the island for two months every winter, for parts unknown, and came back before spring—always with a tan.

  All this Albert had learned at the inn the night he’d been pulled from the ocean, and Milly and Frenchie had been chattering about the events of the day and the people involved.

  Amazing the things you learned if you just listened, he thought, especially to women. He began to suspect that questions were more apt to get in the way or, because of the way they were framed, to color an answer, than just listening; especially if you pretended not to listen. Especially if it seems that you didn’t have a clue in the first place.

  Albert didn’t find it difficult to create that impression.

  “He started smoking?” said Hawkes. “That’s it? So what? A lot of people start smoking.”

  Albert shook his head. “He’d stopped smoking years ago.” Albert had never personally tried to stop smoking, but he had heard of people—like Tewksbury—who had done it, and it almost killed them. He couldn’t imagine someone who’d put themselves through that kind of hell just starting up again for no reason. “There was a reason he started again. He was nervous.”

  “Nervous,” said Hawkes, before giving himself time to think. “What had he to be nervous ab . . .”

  “You think he began smoking again when things began to unravel?” said James Simon.

  “Yes.”

  “Okay. We’ll accept that for the moment,” said Hawkes. “You said you had four reasons?”

  “His ring is missing.”

  “Ring? What ring?”

  “He was wearing a ring, on his . . .” Albert massaged the ring finger of his left hand.

  “Okay, let me put the cart before the horse,” said Hawkes. “You think it was one of those rings—the Caduceus?”

  “Yes.”

  “What makes you think it’s missing?”

  Albert cocked an eyebrow. “Because it isn’t there.”

  “I mean,” said Hawkes, attempting to hide his exasperation. “What makes you think it was there in the first place?”

  “You can see where it was, on his finger. A dent. Not the same color as the rest of his finger.”

  “Why would he have taken off his ring?”

  James Simon piped in. “Because he knew that we know—that is, you know—about the rings.”

  “And third?”

  “He didn’t help pull me out when I was . . . when I was in the water.”

  “Why should he?” said Hawkes. “As I understand there was no shortage of hands.”

  “He was a medic . . . in the Viet Nam war,” said Albert. The memory of the medics who responded to his call after Melissa Bjork had been shot came vividly to mind. “They’re not the kind of people who stand by and wait. And there’s another thing.”

  “It’ll be most welcome, I’m sure.”

  “Two things, actually.”

&
nbsp; “Even better.”

  Albert held up a finger. “The bird.”

  “The Pitt Shag?” said Hawkes.

  “Why would that be on the ring? Because it’s code for the place . . . for where the spider . . .”

  “The spider’s headquarters,” said Simon.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re building an interesting case,” said Hawkes, “I must say. Circumstantial, of course. Nothing they could sell to a judge and jury. Still. . .”

  “And don’t forget,” said Simon, “the second, or false Venice Regent, was moored not a hundred yards off South East Island, just two miles from Pitt.”

  Hawkes was still for a long time. “I suppose I could do worse than bring him in for questioning,” he said at last. “Though I still have a hard time getting my head ’round the thought of anyone so, well, so insignificant, masterminding an operation of this kind.”

  “The very disguise for the perfect mastermind, I should think,” said Simon. “Well done, Albert!”

  “Don’t let him know,” said Albert.

  “Pardon?” said his hearers in unison.

  “What if there are still . . . still flies in the web?”

  “How do you mean?” said Simon.

  Hawkes knew. “He means there may still be victims who’ve not been harvested.”

  “Didn’t they go over both the Venice Regents?” said Simon.

  “The second one—the Polaris —was gone by the time the Navy got there,” said Hawkes. “Sergeant Jeffreys said that as soon as he took the tape off her mouth, Nurse Hogan demanded her right to a phone call, which she made from The Fishermen’s Friend. Assuming you’re right, Professor, she’d have called Pyle.” He referred to a notebook in his hand. “According to Jeffreys, Pyle did make a call from the airport while they were boarding the plane.”

  “And he’d have called the ship,” said Albert.

  “And they put to sea,” Simon concluded. “That would also explain why he showed up suddenly at the airport and hitched a ride.”

  Hawkes wasn’t sure. “That would be taking a chance. He’d have to have been pretty confident that Hogan wouldn’t betray him.”

  “Or he knew his being there would keep her quiet,” said Albert.

  “If the Polaris is at sea,” said Albert, “only Pyle—if he’s the spider—will know how to get in touch with them.”