The Manx Murders

by William L. DeAndrea

  They were led through more Victorian splendor to a room on the ground floor. Clyde Pembroke sat in front of wooden-shuttered windows at a desk whose black top was as large and smooth as a skating rink. The room was littered with trophies, the walls hung with pictures of cats overlapping complicated genetic charts.

  Clyde was on the phone as the housekeeper showed them in. He looked up at them, wrinkling the purple mark on his forehead. Then he ignored them.

  “Listen, Miller,” he barked, “you sent me the wrong goddamn cat. No, he’s beautiful. I’m sure he’s a champion. Yeah, he’s the right color. But he’s a rumpie, you flaming idiot!”

  He slapped the black desk to emphasize his point. “Yes, my queen is a rumpie, too. Do you think I want her to give birth to a bunch of deformed freaks? Do you think I enjoy killing kittens, you goddamn fool? I told you to send me your best red-tailed stud. Tailed, got me? Top show quality in every respect, but with a tail. Do you have one? If you don’t, I’ll look—You do. Good. Ship him here overnight. Have somebody drive all night, if you have to. My cat’s not going to be in heat forever, you know, goddammit. And pick up the one you sent me. I won’t be responsible. And, Miller,” he concluded loudly, “you’re paying the extra transportation.”

  He slammed down the phone and looked at his visitors. “What the hell did you come here so early for?”

  Ron saw Flo Ackerman start to explode, think again, then think one more time before she answered. “You said five-thirty sharp, Mr. Pembroke.”

  Clyde Pembroke looked at his watch. “It’s not even five-twenty-eight. ‘Sharp’ means not bent in either direction, Miss Ackerman, and I resent the interruption. Just be quiet for a minute.”

  Ron looked over at the Professor. A small smile bent the corners of the old man’s mouth. Ron knew that expression as a sign of amusement that could easily turn to anger.

  Clyde Pembroke picked up another phone on his desk. “Swantek!” he snapped. “I’ve been over the depreciation schemes on the new machines. I see nothing wrong with them. If my idiotic brother agrees, put them into effect. All right? Good.”

  A tiny beepeepeepeep split the air like a small but cheerful bird. Clyde Pembroke pinned the phone with his chin, pushed a button on his watch, and turned it off. “... And Swantek? Good job. Go home now. The business will still be here in the morning, and so will I, by God. Give my regards to Emily and the kids. Good night.”

  He put down the phone, leaned back, then took a deep breath. He smiled at his guests. “There,” he said quietly. “That’s better. When I relax, I like to relax in the knowledge that I haven’t cheated on the day’s work. Won’t you join me in a sherry? Or anything you like, of course. I think we’ll be most comfortable in the study. Mrs. Everson will show you back there; I’ll join you in just a few minutes.”

  Mrs. Everson, was waiting outside the door for them; apparently, she’d been expecting this. Clyde Pembroke disappeared, and the three visitors followed the housekeeper back to the study.

  Ron sank down on a chair that was comfortable enough to be a womb. His biggest problem was going to be staying awake. He decided to get a conversation started.

  “What was that all about?” he asked.

  “What?” Flo Ackerman wanted to know.

  “That performance just now. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Mellow. I mean, I’ve heard of good-cop, bad-cop acts, but I’ve never seen one person try to pull off both roles.”

  “That was no act,” Flo said. “He means it. He starts at eight o’clock in the morning and works like a madman for ten and a half hours, driving everybody else crazy in the process. Then his watch beeps and it’s all gone. Just wait until he gets back—”

  Ron was about to say of course it was an act. If it hadn’t been an act, there was no reason to summon them to the office at all. He didn’t get the chance.

  As if he’d been standing at the door listening, Clyde Pembroke walked in. Gone was the stiff pin-striped business suit. Now he wore gray flannel slacks, slippers, a smoking jacket of red silk, and (Ron almost goggled) an ascot.

  His smile was bland and benign as he apologized for making them wait and asked what everyone was drinking. Everyone agreed to join him in a sherry. Clyde Pembroke said, “That makes it easy,” went to his bar, grabbed a decanter, and poured.

  If it weren’t for the birthmark on his forehead, Ron would have doubted it was the same man.

  Clyde passed drinks around and sat. “Well,” he said. “I must say it’s an honor to meet you, Professor. I read one of your books in college.”

  “One of my early ones, I trust.”

  “What? Oh, of course, that was longer ago than I care to admit. Still, I was impressed, and I’ve followed your career closely. At least your public career. Your detective work.”

  Ron waited for the ritual correction, but to his surprise it didn’t come. Ron sneaked a glance at Benedetti; the old man’s face told him nothing.

  Instead, the Professor said, “Thank you. I would like to ask you a few questions, if I may. If I duplicate anything Miss Ackerman or anyone else has already asked you, I apologize.”

  “I understand. You want to lay your own foundation. Sound approach.” Clyde Pembroke put his fingertips together and pursed his lips. “Very sound. I’ve learned in business one can pass along authority but not responsibility. In a matter of this importance, you want to cover all the ground yourself. I approve.”

  “Thank you,” Benedetti said. “Actually, the first thing I want to ask you is about the first telephone call we overheard during our premature arrival—for which I apologize.” The Professor’s head moved in the suggestion of a bow.

  Clyde Pembroke waved it away. “Don’t mention it. But what can that call possibly have to do with my brother’s neurosis? Or the birds being missing, for that matter?”

  Benedetti shrugged. “Chi sa? I make it a practice to satisfy my curiosity whenever possible. Knowledge is never wasted. What I learn from you may serve a need a day or a week or a year from now. Or never. At least, my curiosity will be satisfied.”

  “What would you like to know? Fellow just sent me the wrong cat, that’s all.”

  “Yes. A ... ‘rumpie,’ if I recall. And you requested a cat with a tail. I was under the impression the distinguishing genetic mark of the Manx cat was to have no tail.”

  Clyde Pembroke nodded. “Among other things,” he agreed. “But the tail business can be misleading. The Manx cat, as it’s known today, is probably the result of a mutation that took place on the Isle of Man, you know, off the coast of England—”

  “I have been there,” Benedetti said.

  “Really? I’d like to visit the place myself. Maybe I will, once all this nonsense is squared away. Swantek can run the plant, and I’ve got good assistants at the cattery. You’ll have to come see the cattery. They’ve got a special one on the Isle of Man, you know, royally chartered and funded, just to maintain the breed. You didn’t happen to visit that while you were there, did you?”

  “No. Sorry to say, my curiosity over the creatures had not yet been aroused.”

  “Watch it,” Pembroke said, with a smile of genuine enthusiasm. “The Manx is an amazing creature, charming and strong and smart and loyal—and friendly. It even gets along with dogs. I met my first one at a friend’s house about ten years ago, and I was hooked. I have one of the best operations in the East now.

  “But to get back to your question. The mutation was a change in a dominant gene, but it’s the kind that can be modified by the recessive gene. Forgetting colors—and Manx cats come in any color a cat can come in—you’ve got four kinds.” He ticked them off on his fingers. “Rumpies have absolutely no tail at all, a dimple where the tail ought to be. Risers have a flap of skin there, or even a piece of cartilage or a tail vertebra or two. Only rumpies and risers are eligible to be judged as Manx in shows, you see.

  “Then you’ve got stumpies, who have short little tails, and the tailed Manx, who have all the other Manx characteristics—
and there are a lot of them—but with tails. You can’t show these, but you keep the fine ones around for breeding.”

  “Why? Aren’t you just introducing tails back into the gene pool?”

  “You sure are,” Pembroke said heartily. “You have to. Because if you breed two rumpies, the dominant genes reinforce each other, and you get kittens who not only have no tail, but who have deformed hind legs and can’t walk, or with spina bifida, or with absolutely no control of their bowels. You have to kill them. ‘Euthanize’ is what the old-line breeders say, but it’s heartbreaking, no matter what you call it.”

  “So you breed cats who lack the dominant gene into the strain,” Ron said.

  “Exactly. A usual litter is three to five kittens. Out of five, you might get a rumpie, a stumpie, two risers, and a tailed cat, or any other combination you can think of. But your chances are much better of having five viable kittens. You can’t show them all, but you can sell them or give them away for pets.

  “Actually, you can show your stumpies and tailed cats, but not in the Manx variety. They have to go in the AOV section, and there’s no prestige in that.”

  “AOV?” Ron asked.

  “All other varieties.”

  “Where is your ... cattery, I believe you said?”

  “It’s on the grounds. About a quarter of a mile from here. Indoor-outdoor setup, heated and air-conditioned inside. You ought to come by, you know. One of my queens had a litter five weeks ago, and they’re just about weaned. You’ve never seen anything cuter in your life. A rumpie, a stumpie, two risers, and a tailed cat. Simply charming.”

  Ron asked what he did with the cats he couldn’t show.

  “Well,” Pembroke replied, “the really fine ones I keep for breeding, tails or no tails. Usually to cats from other catteries—too much inbreeding is a mess with the Manx. The ones who don’t meet standards, I give away for pets. To kids of my employees, you know. Or just anybody responsible in town who wants a cat at the right time. You know.”

  “I bet the pet stores in this town just love you to pieces.”

  Clyde Pembroke smiled at Ron. “I don’t know. They do sell a lot of cat food and cat toys because of me.”

  Benedetti said, “Why is the cattery so far from the house?”

  “Couple of reasons. One is me. I like the little things so much, I might spend too much time with them and not enough working. The second is the cats. Tomcats like to mark their territory, especially when they can smell other toms, and things can get pretty bad out there in terms of smell. I’ve a good staff, and they change all the litter boxes twice a day, but it’s easier to keep household staff if the cattery isn’t too close to the kitchen, say”

  “Do you think,” Benedetti mused, “that the birds can be smelling the cats and staying away out of fear?”

  Pembroke’s face reddened. He looked a little more like the high-powered businessman they’d observed using the phone.

  “Professor Benedetti, have you ever heard of a thing like that? Have you ever been to the zoo? Don’t you see sparrows hopping around inside the goddam tiger cage, for God’s sake? Besides, the area where the cattery is is teeming with birds. We have to be especially careful they don’t get inside the cages where our cats can eat them. My cats get a scientifically balanced diet, and wild birds, with their bugs and parasites, are definitely not on it.”

  Benedetti gave a big grin, happy to have gotten where he was going no matter how much he provoked Pembroke. “I think that answers my question, sir, thank you. I should indeed like to visit your cattery if the chance presents itself.”

  “At your convenience, Professor.” Pembroke was winding down, but he wasn’t done yet.

  “Look,” he said. “No matter what my crazy brother says, I didn’t do anything to the birds. My cats didn’t do anything to the birds. I like birds. I mean, not the way Henry does, with the binoculars and the life list and the rest, but I can tell a cardinal from an oriole, you know, and I like having them around.”

  I can tell the difference, too, Ron thought. Cardinals play in the National League, Orioles in the American.

  “I haven’t spoken to your brother,” the Professor told him. “I intend to later this evening, if I can. But from what I have been told, it seems he believes the disappearance of the birds is some kind of escalation of an old feud between you.”

  Clyde Pembroke sipped his sherry, which reminded Ron to take another nip, too. It was nutty and smooth—good stuff.

  Pembroke shook his head sadly. “The feud is—I mean, there really isn’t—the feud is, if you’ll pardon the expression, Miss Ackerman, a load of bullshit.”

  Miss Ackerman, who undoubtedly heard lots worse things every day in D.C., assured him he was forgiven.

  “It’s supposed to be about Sophie, right? I dated her, then he took her away and whisked her off and married her.”

  “That’s the way the story goes,” Ron acknowledged.

  “It’s ridiculous. Totally ridiculous. I won’t deny I was mad, and that I said some harsh words. It was the first time either one of us had ever deceived the other, you see.” He rubbed his forehead. “No, unless you’re an identical twin yourself, you can’t see. But it was that more than Sophie. So I got mad, and I stayed mad for a couple of weeks. I got over it. I was best man at the wedding. I’m godfather to Chip. It just doesn’t bother me.

  “But that wasn’t good enough for Henry. He’s always so goddam melodramatic. This has to be some goddam gothic novel or something, with me standing on the roof here shouting for revenge into a thunderstorm or some such ridiculous thing.”

  “No hard feelings at all, then?” Ron asked.

  “None. Sometimes I even thought he was coming to believe that, but this bird business has wiped out any progress we’ve ever made. I mean, I’ve never actually been crass enough to say this to him, but he did me a favor.”

  Benedetti raised a brow. “A favor?”

  “Well, yes. Sophie was a beautiful girl, and fun to be with, but she turned out to be lousy wife-and-mother material.”

  Benedetti was silent. It was a technique Ron still had trouble mastering. People have a tendency to want to fill a silence. The idea is to suppress your own urge to do it so that the subject will indulge his.

  It worked again. “Sophie grew up poor. Well, not poor. Her father worked in the mill, and we pay damned good wages there. Never had a strike, you know. But she wasn’t from the circle of girls our father encouraged us to meet. Anyway, Sophie herself was working in the steno pool in the shop when she caught my eye, and we had some fun.

  “But after she married Henry, it was as if she was born Lady Sophia of Budapest or something. Twenty-seven interior decorators retired to Florida on the money she spent redecorating the inside of Omega House. I can barely stand to walk into the place now. If my father’s will hadn’t specified that the outside of the buildings remain as originally designed, I’m sure Henry would have had it painted pink, or something, to please her.

  “But it wasn’t only that. She foisted the kid off on nannies, and had no time for him while he was growing up—I swear, Chip spent almost as much time here with me and Mrs. Everson as he did with his parents. And with Jackson, of course. Jackson is the manager of the whole estate, but he lives at Omega House.

  “Chip spent so little time with his parents because Sophie was always hauling Henry off to New York to watch some ballet company she’d donated his money to. Got him in the habit—he still goes off to New York at the drop of a hat, or he did until recently. Now he thinks I’ll be out there shooting his birds or something if he goes away.”

  Clyde Pembroke shook his head grimly, lips together. He set down his sherry glass and said, “It was more than that, though. She cheated on him.”

  “Indeed,” Benedetti said. “Did he know?”

  “Probably not. Or he willed himself not to know. He was probably the only one who didn’t. I certainly didn’t tell him, though she even made a pass at me one time. Henry was ou
t bird-watching or something. ‘For old times’ sake,’ she said.”

  Pembroke looked up, expecting a question. He didn’t get it, but he answered it anyway. “And for the record, no, I did not. I’m no monk, but I’m proud to say I’ve never dallied with a married woman. And how the hell any of this is going to get the smoke scrubbers built is beyond me. What are you, Professor, a hypnotist?”

  “You have been most helpful, Mr. Pembroke.” Benedetti rose and extended a hand. Their host rose too, and shook it.

  “Anything I can do to help,” Pembroke said.

  “Va bene,” Benedetti said. “There is something.”

  “Name it.”

  “The request is simple. Just allow me and Mr. Gentry—and his wife, when she joins us—to stay here at Alpha House while we look into the matter.”

  “You want to stay here?”

  “If at all possible,” the Professor said, as if asking to use the bathroom. Then he did ask to use the bathroom. Two of them. He wanted rooms with private baths.

  “We will take our meals with you or separately, as you prefer, Mr. Pembroke. The expenses of our stay will be reimbursed by the Environmental Protection Agency, won’t they, Miss Ackerman?”

  Ron suppressed a smile as he looked at Flo. A woman who dealt habitually with congressmen must have seen her share of chutzpah, but this was something new. She stared at the Professor for a moment, then closed her mouth, swallowed, and said, “Of course.”

  “Well, if it will help get this business squared away ...” Pembroke was having a hard time mustering enthusiasm.

  “It will, I assure you. Of course, if you find it a hardship, we can see if your brother can accommodate us.”

  Ron could almost see the wheels turning in Clyde Pembroke’s head. If they wind up at Henry’s house, Henry will be propagandizing against me day and night, and who needs that, how much bother can they be ...?

  “No, no inconvenience at all,” Pembroke said. “When would you like to move in?” Pembroke decided he didn’t like the sound of “move in.” He tried again. “When would you like to come over?”