The Manx Murders

by William L. DeAndrea

  “Why, they had the confidence of madness. Could they not order the forces of nature so as to make the birds disappear? Were they not ruthless enough to murder innocent cats on the virtual doorstep of the area’s best-known and most powerful cat lover?

  “And no wonder we never found a trace of them, for they didn’t exist.”

  “There’s another possibility, Maestro,” Ron said.

  “Yes, amico?”

  “He might have played his little stunts, and made bad blood between his father and his uncle, to hold up production on the smoke scrubber.”

  “Why? The smoke scrubber would only enrich Pembroke Industries. Full control of that is the prize he sought, eh?”

  Chip sneered at Ron. “Your turn. This is fascinating.”

  “It is,” Ron said, “in its own sick way. You wanted to delay the smoke scrubber because you knew the EPA was hot to have the thing in production. They’d send somebody to get to the bottom of it, somebody good.”

  “And, gosh,” Chip sneered, “I got me the World-Famous Professor Benedetti.”

  “That must have just made your day, too,” Ron said. “Because in your mind, you’re not the pathetic little vicious shit-head you are in real life, you’re an undiscovered genius, aren’t you, who should be running the vast industrial empire you’ve grown up wanting instead of a small regional ice-cream company. Those two old fogies had no business standing in your way Your father was a cuckold who’d let your tramp of a mother give him AIDS, and your uncle was a fool who wasted his affection on cats who didn’t even have tails. Right?”

  Nimrod, still in Benedetti’s arms, said “Mrowr!” Ron wondered if the old man had pinched him.

  In any case, the timing was perfect. Chip’s glance shot to the cat much more quickly than that of a man as calm as he was pretending to be.

  “The really pathetic thing about you was that you did all this in jealousy of Harry Swantek.”

  “Me? Jealous of that jumped-up jock? Don’t make me laugh, Gentry.”

  “Yeah, jealous of that jumped-up jock. That got to you, didn’t it? Because Swantek had started with nothing and gotten with hard work what you wanted handed to you on a silver platter. You would inherit the family business in time, or a goodly portion of it—your father’s half. But you couldn’t count on Clyde’s anymore, could you? Clyde always liked Harry; he’d already arranged to leave him a block of stock in his will. I don’t know if you knew that, but you damn well suspected it. The question was, would he get enough influence over your uncle, enough stock in the will, to be a nuisance to you when you took over? You couldn’t risk it.

  “I’ve got to commend you for not just killing Swantek. That would have been messy—your motive might have been uncovered. And, besides, he’s very good at what he does. You didn’t mind having him running the plant and making you money, you just didn’t want him to have the power. The power was going to be all yours, right, Chip? Power’s what this whole thing is all about, isn’t it? Power over the business, power over the beloved Pembroke brothers, power over the World-Famous Niccolo Benedetti”—Ron grinned sourly—“and his entourage, power over the town, and power over poor Sandy Jovanka. Body and mind. Life and death.”

  Chip laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back in the chair. “Even if everything you say is true, even if I admit spraying grape flavoring in that section of woods and bashing a few stray cats—”

  “Do you?”

  He grinned. “Sure. I admit it, at least here to you. Why the hell not? It was good for a few laughs. But as I was saying, even if all that is true, you don’t have any evidence. Not one single goddam shred of evidence.”

  “Oh,” the Professor said in a silken voice, “but we do.”

  For the first time since they’d arrived at the big old barn, Benedetti came around so that Chip could see him. The old man smiled grimly at Chip and said nothing. Chip’s hands came loose from behind his head. The front legs of the chair hit the ground, and the smile left his face. He met the Professor’s gaze in silence for a few seconds. Ron thought he saw him starting to sweat.

  “Bullshit,” Chip said at last. “This is a bluff.”

  “A bluff?” The Professor put a hand to his heart. “You wound me, Chip. I am the World-Famous Niccolo Benedetti, for whose presence here you are directly responsible. Would you want to match wits with a man who bluffed? I can’t believe it of you.” Benedetti leaned over the chair. “No, we have evidence, and it is the evidence of your own mouth, sir.

  “I will tell you what happened Friday night. Of course, you could come and go as you pleased. You grew up in those houses, on this estate. You, better than anyone, could slip through the woods quickly and quietly, and in and out of Alpha and Omega house without being seen. And who would there be for you to answer to? You are a grown man, older, as you frequently point out, than you appear. Furthermore, of course, you have the creamery on the grounds. There, at least, you are the unquestioned boss. No one there would question your comings or goings.

  “So late Friday afternoon, you slipped away from the creamery, planted the kidnapping announcement in the estate mailbox, and sent the Federal Express ransom note to the factory for Swantek to read. You knew Mr. Jackson’s routine; you knew the express company’s and Swantek’s. You could be assured the notes would be delivered in the proper order. Before you left the estate, or after your return, you slaughtered a cat you procured for the purpose, and left it as close to your uncle’s cattery as you dared, hoping he’d find it and precipitate a ‘crisis.’

  “Luck was with you. Everything worked as you had anticipated. Your uncle stormed into Omega House cursing your father and blaming him for the death of the cat. Perhaps then, but probably earlier, you had told your uncle that you had formed the desire to adopt a kitten, but, of course, it wouldn’t do for his brother to know yet. Perhaps you promised to keep the cat at the factory; perhaps you said you were procuring it for a friend or employee.”

  Chip’s eyes gleamed. On some sick level, Ron could see he was enjoying this. “Sure. Sandy, maybe. She was the cat type.”

  “Very likely,” the Professor said. “In any case, you met your uncle, overpowered him, tied him, gagged him, and took him for a ride in his own car. As you did, you used a miniature portable tape recorder to describe your trip. You made the actual drive, so that the timing between your supposedly spontaneous messages would be right. You planted that first sign by the side of the road and left a few other traces of yourself at the sites you would pretend to be the following night.

  “It must have been fun for you, with your uncle powerless beside you, to enact your charade, preparing your alibi for the time, some twenty-four hours later, when you would murder him. Was he conscious?”

  Chip didn’t answer.

  “I rather think he was,” Benedetti said. “The autopsy showed no blows to your uncle’s head, and revealed no trace of drugs in his system. Having him conscious, confused, and frightened added sauce to the feast of evil you were preparing for yourself. But no matter. That is something else we can discuss when you are safely behind bars.

  “Finally, having completed your zigzag course, and having provided yourself with enough time for the following evening, you drove the Lincoln Town Car to the barn. There you left your uncle tied to this chair.

  “That was something we missed. The fact that Clyde Pembroke was hidden right on the family estate was more than just a gesture of contempt—it was a coldly calculated practical move. It obviated the need for another vehicle, one that might be traced. You could simply walk home through the woods.

  “Everything was going your way. Your uncle was safely abducted and hidden. You might have killed this kitten, but I suppose it amused you to leave your uncle a Manx cat as a companion for his last day on earth. I suppose also that you transported the kitten in the trunk, since we heard nothing of it on the tape. The smooth ride of the heavy luxury car had ensured a high-quality, easily understandable tape for you to play for a
ny benefit over the cellular phone on the following night.”

  Benedetti rubbed his chin. “And how it must have amused you when I, myself, played directly into your hands. You would report your movements on a cellular phone, I said, so that we might keep you safe. Here was the World-Famous Niccolo Benedetti advancing your own plan for you! Of course, had I failed to, you would have suggested it yourself. You said as much before your departure Saturday night.”

  “I was afraid for you, you bastard,” Ron said. “I liked you.”

  Chip was still unruffled. “I’m a likable guy,” he said. “I have my kinks, like anybody else, but I’m very likable.”

  “Don’t,” Ron said, “get me started on what you are, okay?”

  “And so you took off,” the Professor went on, “in the Samurai, a small, two-seated, four-wheel-drive vehicle with a canvas roof. You had a million dollars in the back, but as we have already said, that meant nothing to you. You left Omega House, with our concern for your welfare ringing in your ears. How hard it must have been not to laugh out loud at us.”

  “Actually, it’s pretty difficult right now,” Chip said. “If I weren’t so furious, I’d be amused. Or vice versa.”

  Benedetti ignored him.

  “And so you drove off. Before you were even off the property, you activated the tape—you had a miniature tape player concealed either in the car or on your person. You had carefully prepared us for not being able to speak to you. You played the tape, probably through a relay direct to the mouthpiece of the telephone and not through the air—a simple matter to construct, or even to buy. An earphone plug at one end of a wire, and two alligator clips at the other.

  “You followed the routine of the previous night for a time, then you went to the barn, and with this cat”—he elevated Nimrod in his arms—“for a witness, you coldly strangled your uncle to death, far enough in advance so that the medical examiner’s report would show that he died at a time we would be sure you were on the road, still following the senseless instructions of the kidnappers. Of all the people in the world, you were the one who could not possibly have killed your uncle. You alone had a perfect alibi.

  “Except,” the Professor said. “Except for one thing. Your tape. That smooth-voiced, high-fidelity tape. It was recorded in a luxury car, a vehicle designed to minimize external noise. That night, you were riding in a vehicle that may have many virtues, but quiet and smooth-riding are not among them.

  “If you had truly been talking to us from the Samurai, we would have heard engine noise. We did not. We would have heard the sound of other cars going by you, as they inevitably would, even on the quiet back roads you so deliberately chose. And we would have heard the unsteady, shaky voice of a man in a vehicle moving on the pitiful gravel roads of the estate. We would have heard them at the very beginning and very end of your purported journey. We should—I should—have noticed the lack of this sooner. We have each been remarking on the roughness all week. But we did not hear that. Did we, Chip?”

  Ron now knew what the Professor’s last canvas showed—a shaky set of human vocal cords.

  Chip was not quite as blithe as he’d been a little while ago, but he was by no means quivering. He ran his tongue along the inside of his mouth.

  “Is that,” he said, “all you’ve got?”

  “For now,” Ron told him. “It’ll do for Viretsky to haul you in. Then he’ll go around with pictures of you. The electronic stuff you used came from somewhere—he’ll find out where you bought it. It went somewhere, too. I can see two hundred state troopers with dogs, combing the estate. There’s the stuff that went into the bomb you blasted Sandy with. The evidence will pile up, Chip. You’ll be buried under it.”

  Humbert Pembroke II raised his eyebrows. Then he started to laugh. “Well, maybe I will. Possibly. You might find that stuff. Maybe. So what?”

  “I don’t think you’ll like it in jail, Chip. I really don’t.”

  “I won’t go to jail. Are you kidding? Two or three nights in the Viretsky Hilton, maybe, but that’s it. I’ve got a couple of hundred million dollars behind me, Ron. When I give my poor, ailing pop my sob story I’ll have all the lawyers that money can buy—and the best ones, too. And I’ll have a bunch of oh-so-respectful expert witnesses, a parade of them, telling why my rotten childhood drove me crazy, you know? I mean, I was raised by a servant who wasn’t even a goddam nanny. What the hell, a guy who’d use a chemical to drive birds away from his father’s woods, a guy who’d bash cats (except for your ‘witness’ over there; I kind of like him), must be nuts, don’t you think? Well, a jury will think so. And the Pembroke fortune, augmented by the smoke scrubber, I might add, will pay for appeal after appeal until a jury says so.” Chip smiled amiably.

  “So, let’s chalk this up to a pleasantly wasted afternoon, shall we? Or does the World-Famous Professor Benedetti want to spend the rest of his life in Harville, testifying against a poor, sick boy?”

  “Neither,” Benedetti said. He nodded to Ron.

  Ron grabbed Chip’s arm and hauled him out of his seat. “This is called a citizen’s arrest. I’m arresting you. Viretsky can word the exact charge.”

  Chip shrugged. His expression did not change. “It’s your funeral.”

  “We’ll see. Oh, there’s something else you ought to know. Janet!” Ron yelled. “Bring them in now.”

  The door of the big, old barn had not been shut all the way. Now it opened wide, and Janet stepped in, flanked by two old men, one white, one black.

  “Were you gentlemen able to hear everything?” Benedetti asked.

  “Loud and clear, Professor,” Janet replied.

  “Va bene,” the Professor said.

  Ron said, “Let’s go.”

  Chip’s face was stunned. He let Ron lead him along like a zombie. Near the door, however, he stopped. “Dad ...,” he said, but he was unable to say more.

  That was the last word spoken, though there were sounds of sobbing.

  Tears ran freely down the brown cheeks of Lewis Jackson.

  Henry Pembroke’s face was stone.

  Thirteen

  BENEDETTI WAS WATCHING Once Upon a Time in the West up in his sitting room when Ron knocked and entered. It was one of the old man’s favorite movies. Nimrod, now eight months old, squirted into the room ahead of Ron, and immediately attacked the old man’s shoes.

  Benedetti laughed and grabbed the mighty hunter by the scruff of the neck, then proceeded to stroke him. A low purr came from somewhere under the red fur.

  “Yes, amico? To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?”

  “I got a phone call from Viretsky down in Harville. He thought we’d like to know. Henry Pembroke died this afternoon.”

  Benedetti gave a somber nod. “I don’t suppose his son will care one way or the other.”

  “No. The state attorney has already taken steps to make sure Chip doesn’t get out of the joint to go to the funeral.”

  “Sound.”

  “Viretsky wants to know if we’ll be going. Says Jackson would like us there.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I said I’d call him back.”

  The old man continued to stroke the purring kitten. “What do you think?”

  “I think, unfortunately, that we’d better go. We owe the poor bastard that much.”

  “We could not have let him maintain his illusion of his son, amico. Not at the cost of letting such an evil one go free.”

  “I know, I know. I did my part, didn’t I?”

  “Indeed you did. Still, it’s not one of the investigations we will look back on fondly, is it? I make such a point of studying humility because its own lessons are so harsh. But, tell me, how is Chief Viretsky?”

  “Oh, he’s great. Pennsylvania Law Officer of the Year, and he’s grateful. Hinted we might be getting invited to a wedding soon.”

  “Miss Ackerman?”

  “Yeah. Flo’s quit the EPA, you know. She’s working for Pembroke Industries, no
w. Selling smoke scrubbers. So we can all breathe easier.”

  “I detest puns.”

  “No, I think that’s their real slogan. Oh ... and Viretsky’s had a sneak peek at Henry’s will, apparently. Henry’s money and stock in the company all go to a foundation for AIDS research.”

  “A worthy cause.”

  “But Swantek is the trustee. He’s running the whole business, for as long as he wants. Complete control. Hope he’s up to it.”

  “People rise to occasions, Ronald.”

  “Or sink to them.”

  There was a long silence. Then Ron said, “Maestro? It scares me.”

  “What does?”

  “Chip Pembroke. Oh, his father left him a bottle of grape soda in the will, by the way.”

  Benedetti laughed. “Why should he scare you? There is no danger of his being released to seek revenge.”

  “It’s not that, it’s—Maestro, there’s no such thing as an evil baby.”

  “No.”

  “Well, with Janet due any day, I just wonder—how does a Chip Pembroke get that way? All the hatred he had for everybody close to him, to want to hurt them so much ...”

  “If I could answer that, amico, my work would be finished, and I could retire. But I will say this—Chip Pembroke could not have hated others so much if he didn’t hate himself the most.”

  “I’m going to be a father sometime in the next two weeks. The amnio told us it’s going to be a boy.” Ron thought it over. “Well, I can’t guarantee he’s going to love himself, but I can make sure he never doubts for a moment that Janet and I love him.”