Perish the Day

by John Farrow

  “I’ll pass, if you don’t mind.”

  “Don’t blame you one bit. Dreadful places. Repulsive. I wouldn’t want to live there.”

  The man who is observing him through sea-glass lenses remarks, “We were discussing our president’s homily, regarding the dreadful business. What is your opinion on the matter, Mr. Cinq-Mars? Will Dowbiggin recover from this dark day?”

  Havilland-Clegg answers for him. “Mr. Cinq-Mars believes that we have a PR catastrophe on our hands, sir. He spoke previously. He believes we’re doomed.”

  “I’m inclined to believe him,” the sea-glass man allows.

  “Cynics! I’ll leave you to it, then. Would either of you like a Manhattan, by the way? I’ve taught our man how to concoct a good one. The Manhattan was the first cocktail to introduce vermouth, did you know? A classic. It deserves a revival.”

  Cinq-Mars knows the technique well. While he may not have invented the tactic himself, he’s not sure that he hasn’t perfected it in his day. Confuse an adversary with a variety of topics until his head spins. In this post and riposte, he’s very much at home, and gives his foe a nick with his own rapier.

  “I like my whiskey neat and not be rye,” Cinq-Mars attests. “Which is how I prefer my criminals.”

  “Ah, pardon me? You like your criminals not to be rye?”

  He fails to observe the third man in their conversation scratch his head. After giving his scalp a good mauling, he takes a step back.

  “I like them neat. Tidy. All the facts in a row. Like ducks. I like my criminals, I’ve known a few, to be tidy ducks in a row, their grand schemes brought to dust and suctioned up with a vacuum. Then, when all the nasty criminals are sleeping, lying on their cots, I ship my barbed wire around them to keep them docile. It’s my contribution to society.”

  The third man is committed to his escape now and Cinq-Mars notes that Havilland-Clegg wants to flee as well.

  “We did a little experiment across the room— Mrs. Heidl!” Cinq-Mars calls out, catching a break here. “Tell this man what we did across the room to help out the police in their investigation.”

  Mrs. Heidl is beaming, delighted to be called upon. “We exposed our rusty elbows. You must do it, too. We must all! Everyone must expose their elbows!”

  At the very least, Cinq-Mars has managed to get Havilland-Clegg to wear a frown.

  “We both have double-barreled names,” the detective goes on. “I find it to be a nuisance, don’t you? People think the humble hyphen is anything but, that its very existence indicates a declaration of superiority. I mean, I was born with it, it’s not my fault. It’s not as though we had any say in the matter.”

  “Quite.”

  Cinq-Mars has his suspect entirely to himself.

  “One thing about barbed wire, it does a lot to keep criminals in their rows. Nobody likes to mess with it. Nobody likes to cross it ever.”

  Hammond and Till are closing in. They sense that an action is afoot.

  “I’m glad that your life’s work gave you satisfaction. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

  “What was your life’s work?” Cinq-Mars puts to him.

  He smiles. Deflects the question.

  “Another topic. Another time,” Havilland-Clegg begs off.

  “I admire your jewelry.”

  “Do you? Thank you. I see that you’re bereft of trinkets yourself.”

  “Trinkets! No, sir, I’m sure that you’ve adorned yourself with the finest of gemstones. May I see them more closely? I’m keen.”

  As if offering his arm to give blood, Havilland-Clegg permits Cinq-Mars to examine a bracelet. “You can help, you know. With your expertise. With your knowledge.”

  “Help? Who, you? To buy jewelry? Are you sure you wouldn’t rather start with something more conventional. Such as tattoos. Or a nose ring.”

  “You jest!” Cinq-Mars exclaims. He’s never had to play the fool to this extent before—he’s enjoying the role. At the very least, he’ll give his wife a few laughs with the retelling.

  “The police—that one over there, he’s in plainclothes, the rank of chief—he said the dead girl was wearing a necklace. He’s certain that it harbors clues. What do you think? With your knowledge? I’m certain of it, you can help the case. Are you willing?”

  “I’m not a jeweler, I only wear attractive gemstones.”

  “You see? You know the difference. What did you say you did again?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Oh, sir, don’t make me guess. What did you do? Shall I guess? Shall I? I’ll ask others to join us. Or perhaps they already know. I’m the newcomer here. I told you. I’m in wire. Fair is fair. What’s your profession?”

  Havilland-Clegg’s smile wavers, vanishes, then repeats itself. While he revels in being rude, he is unaccustomed to being the object of even mild derision, and finds Cinq-Mars’s behavior objectionable.

  “I spend my father’s money,” he lets him know. “If anyone has a problem with that, they can damn well see my lawyer.”

  Cinq-Mars lifts his head back to laugh. “You’re a hoot,” he says.

  “I’m glad to be such an entertainment to you, sir. Perhaps I’ve missed my calling.”

  “Jeweler?”

  “Comedian.”

  “Perhaps you have. Will you help? Let me call that nice policeman over.”

  Havilland-Clegg cranes his neck to peer over a few heads. “Which one is he again?”

  Cinq-Mars moves close to him, their cheeks almost rub, and points. “That guy there.”

  “Oh sure. Call him over. Anything,” he says, rocking back on his heels, giving himself personal space, “to get me out of this.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  “I do.”

  “You’re a kidder. A frustrated comedian.”

  “Oh, sir, one thing I am not, is frustrated.”

  Cinq-Mars is waving Till their way.

  “How kind of you to help our local constabulary.”

  “Not at all. I merely wish to be informed. I hate being left in the dark about all this, don’t you? If we’re to overcome our PR catastrophe, and I agree with you, it’s a catastrophe—”

  “I think those were your words, Mr. Havilland-Clegg.”

  “Now who’s the kidder?”

  “They were!” He cannot press the point, as Chief Till has arrived. Addressing him, he says, “Chief, Mr. Havilland-Clegg is an expert on gemstones.”

  “An amateur, truth be told.”

  “I explained about your interest in the necklace that you told me was around the young woman’s neck. I believe—Mr. Havilland-Clegg believes—that he can be of assistance to the police. I thought the two of you might like to go off for a chat. Please, I hope you don’t mind my initiative.”

  Till and Havilland-Clegg nod to one another, and both seem to indicate that they agree—that they are in the company of a nitwit.

  “Perhaps, in a small way,” the benefactor suggests, “I can be of assistance. I do know this and that about gemstones. If I may take my Manhattan away with me, and if this man promises to replenish with another before it’s done, then yes, perhaps I can be of minor assistance.”

  “A Manhattan,” Till replies, a rejoinder so perfect that Cinq-Mars could kiss him, “My God, I haven’t had one of those since I was in the army on leave.”

  Havilland-Clegg seems perfectly content now. Excited, even, as a liveliness returns to his eyes that was absent a moment ago. “Why don’t we find ourselves a cozy little alcove, I know a few, where we can arrange for a steady stream of Manhattans to arrive as we enjoy our conversation. I want a leather chair, though. I insist on leather chairs whenever I return to Dowbiggin.”

  “I’ll arrange for the drinks,” Cinq-Mars offers.

  “Fine,” Till concurs while meeting Havilland-Clegg’s glance. “You understand, Mr. Cinq-Mars, that this is police work. It will be a private chat.” Excluding him suits their suspect’s sense of entitlement.

  “Sure, su
re,” Cinq-Mars agrees, playing the dunce who doesn’t understand what’s going on. “I’m just the wire guy,” and he’s off to flag down his niece for the Manhattans. While he’s at it, he’ll have a word with Palmerich, to assure him that the conversation taking place at that moment between the police and Ben Havilland-Clegg is not only voluntary on the part of an enduring Dowbiggin benefactor, it’s the man’s own idea. He is prepared to quote Havilland-Clegg verbatim: “I can be of assistance.” His very words. All is aboveboard.

  Besides, Palmerich has the incriminating necklace in his pocket and Cinq-Mars must retrieve it from him now. It’s evidence.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Cinq-Mars and the police devise a plan. Their target has taken leave for a washroom visit, and in his absence Émile has a word with Hammond, specifically, before whispering a straightforward strategy to both him and Chief Till. The latter is assigned to take the lead in the interrogation—ostensibly, a chat—with Bennington Havilland-Clegg.

  “Keep it neat, keep it cordial,” is the gist of his suggestion.

  “I’ll stroke the prick’s ego,” the Hanover police chief promises.

  “But not the ego’s prick,” Hammond mutters, and the others give him a look. They’re amused. That was fast, and they didn’t know he had it in him.

  The trooper, of course, is free to pull rank at any moment. To secure his secondary support, Cinq-Mars makes the case that the suspect’s personal radar will be thwarted if the humbler police force is out front and visible. Fearing Till less makes Havilland-Clegg more vulnerable. “What he can’t see coming stays invisible.”

  “Gotcha.” If anything, Hammond is annoyed that his colleagues are making allowances for him. He’s excited, and part of the kick derives from their collaboration.

  The next shoe must not fall from the benefactor’s foot until he himself kicks off a leather penny loafer and hurls it across the room. In the interim, the interrogation will benefit if the man’s supercilious demeanor remains intact. A devotee of precious gemstones, he’s been touted as an asset: They need him wholly convinced of that fib. By hook or by crook, they must delay revealing to Ben Havilland-Clegg, and even to themselves, the depths and contours of his own depravity.

  Provided, of course, they’ve got the right guy.

  “Shit creek if we’re wrong,” Hammond notes.

  “You guys will be up it without a paddle,” Cinq-Mars points out. “Me, I’m retired.”

  Their suspicions run deep, yet they have no way to validate them. Havilland-Clegg must do that on his own. As police work goes, their case is flimsy, at best, and Till treads lightly, aware that the man harbors an alibi in his hip pocket.

  Their suspect returns to the selected venue where Cinq-Mars and Hammond leave him alone with Till.

  “Thanks for this, sir. Appreciate it.”

  “Do I call you ‘Chief’? I wish you were called ‘Sheriff’. Chief feels Native American to me, doesn’t fall off the tongue in a natural way. I feel I’m disparaging you.”

  Already he’d like to smack him. “Please, sir, call me Alex.”

  “Glad to. Alexander, is it?”

  Till nods. They seat themselves in a small antechamber where the green-shaded lamps are dim, in part to keep the aging oil paintings of the school’s founding fathers from damage by light. Portraits dominate three walls, the fourth faces a corridor and is mainly glass. A quiet, if public, place to study. Anyone walking by might imagine them on a stage. The interview can be conducted at this time of year with little or no interruption, yet it’s still a public place and therefore seems safe. The guest is content to ease himself farther back into a plush leather chair, careful not to spill his drink.

  “As I was saying, I appreciate it. We have no suspects. We can’t hang our hat on a single significant clue. I hate to admit it, the guy we’re looking for must be a mad genius. All we can do is go over the same ground, try to shine a light, see if we can’t trip over our own thumbs, you know?”

  “How may I be of assistance, Alexander? I heard mention of a necklace?”

  “We’ll have a copy for you shortly,” Till lets him know. “We showed it to an expert, got nowhere. Maybe the more people who take a look, the better our chances. A shot in the dark. Oh. Pardon the expression. My mistake. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  Havilland-Clegg smiles in sympathy of the faux pas by the bumbling officer. “No problem. You’re hoping the gems have meaning, is that the idea?”

  “If they offer any clue at all, we’ll take it. If not, no harm no foul.” Till extracts a notebook from his suit pocket. “I don’t usually do this out of uniform, Bennington. While we’re waiting for the necklace—”

  “Not to mention my Manhattans, they’re on their way, as well.” He claims a coaster from the drawer of his table stand, which he tests by placing his current glass down gently. Then he promptly retrieves it for another sip.

  “While we wait, if it’s all right with you, protocol, procedure—a formality—for the record, can you account for your whereabouts on the night in question?”

  Havilland-Clegg peers over his lowball glass at him. “What night in question?”

  “The night Addie Langford was murdered.”

  He smiles, and knits the fingers of his hands together. “Am I a suspect here, Alexander? Such a question.”

  “Heavens, no, Ben! Procedure. That’s all. Formality. Frankly, if I had my way, I’d know what every person from three states around was doing on that night.”

  Till hopes that he hasn’t pushed him too far too quickly: The man appears compliant. “Of course.” He puts his glass down and considers his response. “I had a rather long evening, Alexander. Not unlike today. By the way, would you mind calling me Mr. Havilland-Clegg? Ben and even Bennington are reserved for only my closest associates. I believe in restoring a proper formality to American discourse, you see. Or perhaps you don’t.”

  “Certainly, sir, not a problem. Your whereabouts and activities at the time in question, sir?”

  A gesture with a hand dismisses the worth of the question. “A few drinks in the late afternoon, through the cocktail hour. Over dinner, a bottle of fine wine. Perhaps a second. Shared with friends, of course. I was feeling a trifle tipsy. After dark I chose a coffee shop to sober up and while away the time. I hate waking up inebriated, don’t you? Anyway, it turned out to be a congenial evening, Alexander. People saw me there if I need to provide you with an alibi. Isn’t that exciting? Being required to state an alibi! Many of us in the coffee shop conversed. I spoke to a barista at length, a delicate young woman, full of ideas and ambition, and a waitress, as well. I’m sure they’ll remember me. Patrons, also. I don’t imagine I can find the latter unless it’s their habit to show up there again. The young people who work there, they’ll vouch for me.”

  “Sorry,” Till intrudes, “the coffee shop crowd doesn’t strike me as being your usual sort.”

  He smiles. He feels complimented. “A nostalgic hour, in a way. A sensibility takes hold of me when I come up here. Old reveries from college days. I step back in time, talk to young people, feel like a kid again myself. I forget the name of the coffee bar. It’s new, I can point it out to you. After that I went across to the Holyoake Inn, where I’m staying—”

  “What time do you think?”

  “After midnight.” He picks up his glass, without sipping, then puts it down again as he remembers. “Closing in on one. Does that take me off the hook or put me on it? When was the crime committed?”

  “Ah, the murder occurred during that hour, actually. The rape, a while before, we believe.”

  “Then I’m standing in the clear light of the sun! Multiple witnesses will confirm my whereabouts through the late afternoon, evening, until the witching hour. At the inn, I had quite a lengthy chat with the desk clerk. I guess that cinches it. Then I went up. Sorry, Alexander, no one can say whether I snored or not.”

  Till chuckles on cue. “Thank you, Mr. Havilland-Clegg. I’ve often wondered, a
way on my vacation, fishing in the north woods, what would happen if I was accused of a crime elsewhere at that moment? Who would vouch for me, off on my lonesome like that? You’ve got it covered; that’s great.”

  “I hear what you’re saying. I’m a social animal, Alexander. I usually have it covered. Certainly on that terrible night I do.”

  Hammond arrives with the necklace. A door opening and closing down the hall releases a burst of party sound. The event is still going strong. Hammond offers a perfunctory smile, removes the necklace from the box, places it on the coffee table at their knees, then sits in the big armchair beside Till as if he’s hardly interested. He wears a placid expression and intertwines the fingers of his hands.

  Bennington Havilland-Clegg picks up the necklace to examine it at close range. His eyes squint, emphasizing the wrinkle lines on his face. When he puts it down, he takes up his glass again, and laments, “A bit clumsy overall, don’t you think? The gemstones themselves are interesting. Not without value. Pretty enough, I’d say. On the busy side. I prefer a necklace on a woman to be more delicate. That said—and I’m being picky, I admit—it’s interesting. On the right neck, with the right dress, the right cleavage, shall we say, the right atmosphere, proper lighting, it could be lovely on certain women.”

  “It’s radioactive,” Till tells him.

  “Pardon?” He seems taken aback, then recovers. “Obviously, many gems have a faint trace of radioactivity, that’s to be expected—”

  “More than a trace in this instance. The charoite—do you know which stones they are?”

  He nods that he does.

  “Normally, they’re slightly radioactive, a trace, as you say. These happen to be highly so, to a degree both harmful, I’m told, with prolonged contact, and illegal. Can you imagine? The Russians. What a society. Chaos. Anyway, a party from there shipped them here. Callous bastards, hey? Fortunately, we’ve determined that the American distributor wasn’t part of the scam, only a victim. Once he caught wind of the problem he stopped his sales before too much of the supply hit the streets.”