Huckleberry Fiend

by Julie Smith

  “Why melancholy?”

  “Because that manuscript brought me the first real happiness I’ve had in twenty years. Since I bought a certain painting.”

  I was pretty sure I knew the one he meant.

  “I loved it so much I kept it on my library table, to read whenever I took a notion. It made me happy, Mr. Harper; it made me laugh.”

  “So would a $16.95 edition of it.”

  “If only I had had the sense to put it in the safe.”

  “Why didn’t you? I mean, I know you’re a collector, but if you wanted to read Huck, why did it have to be the original? I’d think a serious collector would be careful to touch the pages as little as possible.”

  “Most would, and ordinarily so would I. But I picked up the first page of that thing and something strange happened. I realized that, touching the pages he touched, I felt close to the author— with whom I identify quite strongly. He, too, was a pathetic and bitter old fool in the end.”

  “You’re not quite that.”

  “It’s what I’m becoming. Don’t you agree?”

  I merely raised an eyebrow. I agreed so heartily I was starting to feel sorry for the pompous ass.

  “But he wasn’t merely that. He left something for us.”

  “Oh, no. Don’t tell me you’re a frustrated writer.”

  He seemed taken aback. “What made you say that?”

  “Just a thought.”

  “The manuscript inspired me, you see. I could feel something happening within myself —”

  “How long have you been writing?”

  “I’ve been wanting to all my life, I guess.” He shrugged. “There just hasn’t been time for it. But it was about to happen. I could feel it.”

  “And then you lost the manuscript. No wonder you laughed when I said I could get your money back. That’s not the point, is it?”

  “It’s not, but that isn’t why I laughed. I laughed because you’d be hard put to get it back.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I didn’t pay a penny for the thing.”

  “No?”

  “Shall I tell you the whole story? I’d like to, I think.”

  “By all means.”

  “Splendid. Shall we have another drink?”

  “By all means.”

  Somehow I had a feeling the story Kittrell was about to tell wouldn’t be the whole one— he’d at least leave out Beverly’s murder if he’d done it. But I didn’t doubt it would be interesting, and probably inventive.

  “As you surmised,” he said, “I was offered the manuscript by the woman who called herself Sarah Williams. She phoned and asked me to bid. I did, naturally. She eventually got back to me and asked if I wanted to raise my bid, saying my offer had been topped. I said I thought it was time to see the manuscript. And so she brought me some pages from it.”

  “You met her?”

  “Of course.”

  “What was she like?”

  “Blonde. Pretty. Early thirties. Not dumb. She was very well turned out, and very plausible— reminded me of the sort of woman who works for Sotheby Parke Bernet. At any rate, it wasn’t she but the pages that caught my eye. I could say I satisfied myself that they were genuine, but that would be oddly understating the case. In fact, I was convinced of it before I even began my comparisons. As I told you, I’m a very sophisticated collector. The people at the Bancroft Library have pestered me for years to see my collection, which, truth to tell, is rather famous in some circles. For reasons of my own, I declined.”

  I didn’t ask what reasons— the man was not only rich and elitist, it was obvious he considered himself the sole member of his particular elite.

  “This will undoubtedly mean nothing to you— you may even take me for a superstitious fool— but the minute I touched those pages I knew they were genuine.”

  I shrugged. “Some kinds of magic really exist.”

  “I beg your pardon; I’m not talking about magic. Trust me, Mr. Harper, when I tell you I know quite a lot about Mark Twain documents.”

  “I trust you.”

  “I knew that I had to have that manuscript. But it wouldn’t have been good business to say so. I told her I’d think it over. I asked about the provenance, of course, but she declined to tell me. I used her hesitation to pretend my own hesitation, if you follow.”

  “I do.”

  “She refused to give me a phone number, but I knew I’d be hearing from her again. And of course I did. At that time I raised my bid.”

  “May I ask what it was?”

  “As a matter of fact, I don’t see why not. It was $950,000. I’d have gone to a million if I’d thought it really necessary, but I never pay more than I have to. My offer seemed quite fair, frankly. I’m not sure the thing is really worth more than half a million, but you see, I had to have it.”

  “In the end, I guess that’s how the value of anything is determined.”

  “Indeed. But after making my offer I didn’t hear from her for quite a few days. And when I did, it was by letter. Or note, actually— a note in my mailbox. It asked for $100,000 in cash and the rest in bearer bonds. It gave me two days to get the money together and set a date and time to be at a certain bank. There, it said, I would find the manuscript in a safe-deposit box. I would be free to examine it to my satisfaction, and I would leave the money there. The key to the box was included in the envelope with the note.”

  “It seems an odd way of making the transfer.”

  “I thought so at the time, and to tell the truth I didn’t much care for it. I didn’t know the woman and didn’t know where to find her if something went wrong. But I wanted the manuscript, Mr. Harper. If I were going to get it, I’d have to play by her rules. Therefore, I arrived at the bank in good faith, money in hand. But the manuscript wasn’t there.”

  “Really!”

  “Only half of it was. And there was another key and another note. The note said to leave half the money— half the cash and half the bearer bonds— and to go to a second bank where I would find the other half of the manuscript and leave the rest of the money. Need I tell you, Mr. Harper, how furious I was?” It was a good thing he had, because the thing seemed reasonable enough to me. The rich, I remembered, simply aren’t like the rest of us.

  “I can imagine,” I said.

  “Really! Men don’t play games like that— certainly not businessmen. But I was dealing with a woman and apparently one who didn’t know the first thing about integrity. She had brought my good faith into question. I saw what she intended, of course— to make sure the money was there before she put the rest of the manuscript in the second box. Really!” he said again. “Why not simply meet with me and make the exchange?”

  I thought I had an idea, but I kept my mouth shut; I didn’t want him to lose the thread.

  “As a matter of fact, I determined to make her do that. I took the half-manuscript, kept the money, and left a note suggesting she meet me at the second bank if she still wanted to make the deal.”

  “Wasn’t that risky?”

  “Not at all. I had half the manuscript and all the money.”

  “I see your point.” I could also see what a manipulative bastard he was; I’d known people like him before, and I hadn’t much cared for them either. However, they always seemed to do well in business. A shame he hadn’t opted for a career as a robber baron— but I guessed he didn’t need the money enough to make it worth the effort.

  “I drove to the second bank and opened the second box, just in case I’d misjudged her and it was actually there. It wasn’t, of course. However, there was one little surprise— two, actually. Another key and another note, directing me to a third bank. And then I understood what she was really doing. The manuscript was already there. If she hadn’t found the money in the first box, she’d have time to remove it from the third one while I was on a wild-goose chase to the second. But she’d made a very big mistake in her choice of banks. It wouldn’t be entirely inaccurate to say I more or l
ess own the third one. In a manner of speaking. It took only a simple phone call to have the manuscript removed.”

  “But that’s got to be illegal!”

  He shrugged.

  “Do banks even keep keys to people’s boxes?”

  “Certainly not— but they have locksmiths on the payroll. Some people don’t pay their rent, you know.”

  “So you stiffed her.”

  “I’m afraid it came to that. Of course, I still had to go to the bank and pick up my package. She could have waited for me there and demanded her money if she chose. I would hardly have made a scene, merely administered a severe tongue-blistering. However,” he said, spreading his hands, “she chose not to. And so, as it turned out, yes. I stiffed her.” He looked utterly delighted with himself.

  “I guess,” I said, “that’s how the rich get richer.”

  “Of course.” Canary feathers fairly fell out of his mouth. “However—“ He sighed,“Apparently, Miss Williams is not without resources. As you heard, somehow or other, she’s apparently reclaimed her property. Or perhaps some other interested party has jumped into the fray.”

  “Did anyone know you had the manuscript?”

  “Of course not. Only the pseudonymous Miss Williams. Who, I’m forced to conclude, is a practicing member of the criminal class.”

  “A shame the sorts of people who prey on honest businessmen.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Afterward, I went to Little Joe’s for some food to get rid of the cloying taste of the Irish coffee— not to mention the taste of Kittrell. There were two ways of assessing him— either he was a crook, or he’d told that preposterous story to cover up the fact that he was a murderer. Perhaps he didn’t have $950,000 lying around but he’d wanted the manuscript as much as he said he did. And he simply killed Beverly Alexander to get it. Had he killed Rebecca Thaxton too? Were she and Beverly playing the game together?

  His story made no sense at all. But if it was a lie, it must mean he’d burglarized my house as well, and I couldn’t see a man like him stooping to burglary— actually I could see him stooping, I just didn’t think he could pull it off.

  There was one thing that argued his story was true— the fact that he’d told it to me. When I left him, he’d looked at me steely-eyed and said: “You’re wondering, I suppose, why I told you all this.”

  “I thought you were the ancient mariner.”

  “And you’re quite as anonymous as the wedding guest. The fact is, I don’t know who you are, Mr. Harper, or how you really fit into this.”

  “I told you.”

  “Of course. But rather sketchily, wouldn’t you say? I just want you to know that I’d be happy to leave the door open for negotiations. If you should find the manuscript and that original owner of yours wants to sell, I still have my $950,000. And if he doesn’t, I feel sure I could make it an even million. Do you understand me?”

  “Perfectly.” I wanted to be polite, but I couldn’t control my voice. It was as cold and hard and nasty as a knife blade.

  Odd, considering I’d never before been offered a million dollars. I intended to find the manuscript, and there was a good chance I would— I had once, already— but I wasn’t even tempted. It was worth at least that much never to have to see Kittrell again.

  On the way home, I picked up the early edition of the Chronicle, for the story on Tom Sawyer’s arrest. It should have been on page one, but a quick perusal showed it hadn’t made the paper at all. I phoned Joey the second I got home, not even playing my messages first.

  He said: “They’re not talking.”

  “Who’s not?”

  “Nobody in Nevada, so far as I can see. I sent my best man on it—”

  “Debbie’s not a man.”

  “Picky, picky. Anyway, if Debbie couldn’t pry their jaws open, no one could. They won’t hold out long, though. Someone tipped Debbie they’re trying to find the body— what’s left of it— and get it identified. In fact, if you want the truth, they think your Tom might be a crock.”

  “I can see that.”

  “But she says they’re excited as hell and it’ll be like Niagara Falls as soon as they’re sure they’ve got a story to give her. Nobody in Storey County ever had their name in a big-city newspaper before.”

  “That’s not the half of it. The networks are going to be on this thing like sand on a beach.”

  “Okay, okay, Mcdonald. Three-fifty for the sidebar— if it’s worth a damn.”

  “It’s Tom Sawyer’s life story, that’s all. I could sell it to a magazine for at least seven-fifty.”

  “Five hundred.”

  I sighed. It was a bird in the hand. “Done. Just give me Debbie’s number in Nevada, okay?”

  “What for?”

  “I miss her. I want to talk to her.”

  “You can’t kid me, Mcdonald. You miss reporting.”

  “Yeah. Like I miss my teenage acne.”

  What I needed Debbie for was to talk to Tom once she got the story and could get permission— to see if he was still willing, after he talked to a lawyer, to let us run the sidebar. But I wasn’t about to tell that to Joey. Even Debbie told me I’d gone soft. But she also promised to phone as soon as she got the go-ahead; she was a little on the soft side herself.

  That taken care of, I listened to my messages— Booker had called to say his dad and Isami were back from the Sandwich Islands, and it was music to my ears. If there was one person I needed to talk to, it was Isami.

  But it was nearly ten, I’d just driven back from the city, and Spot wanted to discuss the sound of one paw clapping. Since the story hadn’t run, I figured I could risk waiting till morning, but it would have to be very early morning. When Isami went to work, she went to New York, and I didn’t want to take a chance on missing her.

  I arrived at eight a.m., an uncivilized hour by most standards, but Isami couldn’t have been nicer. Wrapped in a light-blue robe and rubbing sleep from her eyes, she assured me she wasn’t going to work that day— hence not going to New York— and that I’d be very welcome at eleven A.M. or so. I could have gone out for breakfast like a normal person, but maybe she was lying. For all I knew, she’d been Beverly’s partner and was giving me what used to be called the slip. So for the next three hours I sat in the Toyota.

  By eleven I felt like a human pretzel— a very sleepy one at that, rather desperately in need of a bathroom. And hardly prepared to meet Booker’s dad. But apparently he wasn’t going to work that day either. He probably felt he had to stick around to make sure his sweetie didn’t get bullied by the mysterious stranger.

  Isami Wommy had changed into jeans and a pink shirt. Kessler senior was wearing khakis and a polo shirt. They’d been drinking coffee in the kitchen and I would have been a lot happier if they’d asked me to join them there, but they led me into the living room. Which I promptly left to visit the bathroom.

  When I returned they were together on the sofa, holding hands, Dad Kessler looking ready to do battle. I sat in a chair across the room, feeling outflanked.

  “As I mentioned before,” I said, “I work for the Chronicle.”

  “That’s funny,” said Kessler. “I called there and they didn’t know you.”

  “You must have talked to someone new. I haven’t been on salary there in quite a while— I’m freelancing now.”

  “Could I see your press card, please?”

  “Freelancers don’t get them, but if you’d like to call the city editor, he’ll vouch for me.”

  “I already talked to him.”

  “I beg your pardon? You talked to Joey Bernstein?”

  “Is that who answers when you get City Desk?”

  “Not often. Usually, it’s a copyperson.”

  “Mr. Mcdonald, watch my lips. They don’t know you there.”

  “But they do. All you have to do is talk to the right person.”

  Isami appealed to him with helpless almond eyes. “Shall I try them, Jack?”

  “Oh, hell, I
’ll do it.”

  When he was gone, I tried small talk. “Had you known Beverly long?”

  “Jack told me not to comment unless he was present.”

  Oh, comment, comment, comment! Why did perfectly normal people talk like second-rate politicians around reporters? After an interminable time in which neither of us commented even on the weather, Jack came back.

  “Well?”

  “Bernstein’s in a meeting. I think you’d better go.” Forseeing this might happen, I’d worked up a contingency plan. “Actually, I’m here as a private citizen as much as a reporter. Miss Nakamura indicated this morning she’d be glad to talk to me and if you don’t mind, I’d like her to tell me if she wants me to leave.”

  She stared at Kessler, stricken. She was obviously a girl who couldn’t say no, and he’d told her to. Or else she was a good actress.

  “My house was burglarized after I came here, and I want to know why.”

  The almond eyes went almost round. “But I was burglarized too.”

  Good. I had her attention. “Several times, I hear.”

  “Three.” She spoke in a whisper, as if she still hadn’t taken it in.

  “Mcdonald,” said Kessler, “why don’t you get to the point?”

  “Frankly, I do think the burglaries have something in common. I really am working on this damned thing for the Chronicle— as you’d know if you’d paid a little more attention to getting information and a little less to trying to be a hero— but I’m also damned mad about the burglary. Your roommate got killed in a burglary, Miss Nakamura. Maybe I would have been killed too, if I’d been home. I don’t feel safe in my own house any more and I’m trying to get to the bottom of this.”

  “With all respect, Mr. Mcdonald,” said Kessler, “that’s a job for the police, isn’t it?” He was soft-spoken and ingratiating now, apparently trying out some of that psychology he taught.

  But I’d given Isami something she could identify with. She said, “Why do you think I can help you?”