Ottermole, perhaps thinking of his own mortgage, demurred. “I already spoke to his wife this morning.”
“He may have something of his own to add. Anyway, we owe him the courtesy of a personal call.”
Ottermole couldn’t see why. Neither, in fact, could Shandy, but they went anyway. Pommell was in his office out behind the tellers’ booths and seemed willing enough to grant them audience. He was what Shandy’s grandmother would have called a fine figure of a man, though somewhat on the portly side for cholesterol-conscious modern taste. Pommell ought to have a heavy gold watch chain stretched across his front with an elk’s tooth dangling from it, Shandy thought as they shook hands.
“Come in, come in. I’ve been expecting you. All well down at the station, Ottermole? Professor Shandy, I understand you’re trying to help us clear up this dreadful business about Professor Ungley. I want you to know, sir, that you have my fullest cooperation. We townsfolk value the prestige of the college just as much as you people up on the hill do. As they say, one rotten apple in the barrel—”
“Huh?” Ottermole was lost again. “You’re calling Ungley a rotten apple?”
Pommell froze him with a look as only the man who holds the mortgage can freeze. “Certainly not. Professor Ungley was a scholar and a gentleman. I’m referring to the college students, whom I should have thought you’d be investigating right now. Our local residents don’t go in for assault and robbery, I’m relieved to say, but with all those young who-knows-whats from here, there, and everywhere—”
“At least fifty percent of them from right here in Balaclava County,” Shandy interrupted rather testily, “and all of them too damned busy trying to learn how to run their family farms so you won’t foreclose on their parents to have time for any shenanigans in the village. Furthermore, Ungley wasn’t robbed. Chief Ottermole can testify to that.”
“I can,” said Ottermole, relieved to have a piece of evidence to fall back on. “I searched the body in accordance with regulation police procedure, and found his wallet in his hip pocket with his money still in it.”
“How much money?” asked Pommell.
“Fifteen dollars and thirty-two cents.”
“Ah, there’s your answer. Who but a college student would have been clever enough to leave enough cash to disguise the true nature of the crime?”
“What makes you think Professor Ungley had any more than that?” Ottermole was shocked into asking.
“Because he withdrew five hundred dollars in cash only yesterday afternoon,” Pommell replied, with a one-up smile. “I can show you the slip, if you like. Now, since Ungley told me he was going straight back to his rooms, to rest up for the meeting last night, he would have had no opportunity to spend the money on the way. If he didn’t have that remaining four hundred and eighty-five dollars on him suppose you tell me what happened to it, eh?”
“You mean to tell me he was wandering around town with that much dough in his pocket?” Ottermole demanded. “What the heck for?”
“Ungley had the old-fashioned habit of paying his bills in cash. To the best of my knowledge, he never had a checking account in his life. If it were my business to wonder what my depositors do with their own money once it leaves the bank, I’d have assumed Ungley was planning to pay his rent and settle whatever other bills he might have outstanding. He ran monthly charges at the market and the drugstore, I believe. You could verify that, no doubt. Ungley always preferred to withdraw a sufficient sum to take care of everything at once, rather than run to the bank every time he found himself short of pocket money.”
Then he’d have run a charge at the college dining room, too, Shandy thought. Mrs. Mouzouka would know if he’d paid up his account that same afternoon before he was killed. It really was typical of Ungley’s lazy habits, to run the risk of being robbed every month rather than take the trouble to write a check or stroll around the corner to the bank a little oftener.
That five-hundred-dollar withdrawal also fitted in with the way his apartment had been searched. What could be more easily tucked behind a sofa cushion, for instance, than a roll of bills? And what could be more readily interlarded among the contents of those vanished files than paper money? Suppose somebody had whacked the old man over the head, perhaps only meaning to stun him, and found that unexpected bonanza in his pocket? Risky as it was, might not the thief then think it worthwhile to search the apartment for whatever else Ungley might have stashed away?
Shandy didn’t like it. Most particularly, he didn’t care for Pommell’s readiness to pin the crime on a student.
By and large, the students didn’t have much to do with the village anyway. There wasn’t much to draw them down here. They had their own student union, bookshop, library, a superb cafeteria, and adequate recreational facilities. They didn’t haunt the chic boutiques in which college towns often abound because in the first place, Balaclava Junction didn’t have any and in the second, who’d wear designer jeans to muck out a pigpen in? As to banking, the college also had its own credit union. Maybe that was why Pommell was so down on the future farmers.
“I question whether Ungley wanted the money to pay his rent,” Shandy said aloud. “Mrs. Lomax claims he always paid on the first of the month, never a day in advance. And you say he told you he was going straight home, so that doesn’t sound as if he meant to drop in at the market or the drugstore. Ottermole, why don’t you give them a ring and find out if Ungley paid his bill in either place yesterday?”
Ottermole obeyed, after receiving a gracious nod of permission from Pommell. He learned that Ungley hadn’t been to either place, and never paid his bills before the first of the month anyway.
“So there we are,” Shandy mused. “A man renowned for his indolence walks downtown twice on the same day, the first time to obtain a large sum of money he has no ostensible need for, and the second time to be mugged and robbed.”
“The second time to attend the meeting at which he was to speak,” Pommell amended.
“I stand corrected. As to this alleged mugging, could you cast any light on the fact that it appears to have taken place behind the museum? According to your wife, all the members left in a group after the meeting. Attorney Hodger says the same. He testifies that he himself walked directly across the street to his own home, without looking back. As we all know, Hodger is constrained by his infirmity to walk very slowly. His hearing seems to be acute enough, though. It would seem reasonable that if Ungley was accosted right after he’d left the museum, there might have been some outcry or disturbance. In that case, Hodger would have turned around to see what was going on, wouldn’t he?”
“It would be a natural reaction, I suppose,” Pommell admitted.
“Mrs. Pommell said that you and she came to the meeting in your car. Did you go directly to the car after you’d left the museum, or did you—er—hang around a bit? Chatting with one of the other members, or whatever?”
“It was no sort of night for chatting, Professor. There was a heavy frost, as you surely realize. Mrs. Pommell and I merely said good night and went on our way. We’d have been glad to give Ungley a lift, but he always made a point of walking home by himself.”
“Inconsistent of him, wasn’t it, considering how averse he was to exertion in general, and especially since he’d already had that earlier walk to the bank?”
“I suppose it was, now that you mention it, but he didn’t have far to go and we’d offered and been turned down so many times that we’d got out of the habit. I believe I may have said, ‘Does anybody want a lift?’ or something of that sort, but perhaps I didn’t. Anyway, nobody seemed interested and Mrs. Pommell was rather hustling me into the car because I’d forgotten my muffler and she was worried about my catching cold. You know how women are. The long and the short of it is, we drove home by ourselves and I have to say I never gave Ungley another thought until I heard this morning about what had happened after we left.”
“How did you hear?”
Pommell sprea
d his fat, mottled hands. “How could I not have heard? Everybody who’s come into the bank today has been full of it, and everybody gives you a different version of how it happened. Luckily for me—though I suppose that’s hardly the way to put it—Mrs. Pommel! happened to have been on the scene shortly after the body was found by Mrs. Lomax who had, as I understand it, gone looking for Ungley because her cat brought in his toupee. Sounds pretty silly to me, but I suppose that’s what you call female intuition.”
The banker waited for a laugh and didn’t get it. “Anyway, he’d apparently tripped and hit his head on that old harrow we’ve been storing out back for want of space. How he got there is still a mystery to both of us. My wife seemed to think it had something to do with his having left his keys inside the clubhouse. He was perhaps hoping to find the side door open. Who knows? Anyway, my wife says she opened the door with my key, which she had on her ring, and found Ungley’s on the table where he’d been exhibiting a collection of penknives during his talk. The knives may be valuable. I don’t know. I’m not much up on antiques; though I suppose I ought to be, considering how many people are buying them as hedges against inflation. A chancy way to tie up your money, in my opinion. If you happened to be looking for a genuinely sound investment, you couldn’t do much better than the Guaranteed’s two-year plan. Let me get you a brochure.”
“Never mind,” said Ottermole. “What we mainly want to know is how much money Professor Ungley had in the bank.”
“Eh?” Pommell looked as if the police chief had said something dreadfully improper. “Whatever for?”
“Because in case you haven’t heard, we’ve got a long-lost heir in town.”
“An heir? To Ungley’s estate? Well, well!”
The banker fairly bounced out of his grandiose leather desk chair. “This puts a new complexion on the whole affair, doesn’t it. Who is it, or shouldn’t I ask?”
“I’m surprised you haven’t already heard,” sighed Ottermole. “I’ve known myself, for almost an hour. His name’s Bulfinch.”
“Bulfinch? Now, why does that ring a bell? Oh yes, the architect. Professor Ungley mentioned him in one of his talks. Designed the State House, not that we get much good out of Beacon Hill out here in Balaclava County. If it weren’t for Congressman Sill, we’d have pretty slim pickings among the cherry sheets,* though the man we’ve got in now seems to be—” He caught Shandy’s look of astonishment, and veered off the subject.
“This would be a different Bulfinch, of course. A descendant, possibly. However, that’s none of our concern. You wanted to know about Professor Ungley’s bank account. I’m afraid I’d have to check with Henry Hodger before I gave out that kind of information.”
“Hodger’s not in,” said Ottermole. “He had to go over to the county courthouse. We’ve already seen him and he told us to talk to you.”
“That so?” Pommell stuck out his lower lip. “Then I suppose there’s no sense in my sending you back to him, is there? I wish you’d got his permission in writing. However—perhaps if Professor Shandy wouldn’t mind just stepping outside while I ask my clerk to bring in the information.”
“Professor Shandy’s working with me,” Ottermole replied. “Hodger knows all about it. He talked with us both together, and President Svenson too, for that matter. I don’t see why Shandy has to leave.”
“Oh well, in that case.” Pommell pushed a button, said something into an intercom, replied, “Thank you,” and took a folder off his desk.
“My staffs a little too efficient for me sometimes,” he remarked, adjusting his reading glasses. “Now let’s see what we have here.”
He held up the papers from the folder, slid his glasses down to the tip of his fleshy nose, juggled them back and forth until he achieved the correct focus, then scanned the totals.
“Rounding things off, though these figures aren’t quite on the button because our computer’s been giving us a little trouble the past few days, Ungley’s holdings at the Guaranteed amount to approximately six hundred thousand dollars.”
“Huh?” Ottermole gaped at him, bug-eyed.
“Five hundred ninety-seven thousand dollars and seven cents is the last total I’ve got here, but that doesn’t include this month’s compounding of interest. I’ll have the exact figures when the will’s filed for probate. As I recall, it’s divided into thirds. That means a nice little windfall for your college, Professor Shandy, as well as for your Mr. Bulfinch.”
“And for your Balaclavian Society as well, Mr. Pommell,” Shandy reminded him.
“Two hundred thousand bucks just for being related to the guy,” Ottermole was murmuring. “Jeez! Wait’ll the Lomaxes hear this. Where the hell did old Ungley get his mitts oh that kind of money?”
“Professor Ungley was a thrifty man and a careful investor, and let that be a lesson to us all.”
Pommell put the papers back in the file folder, took off his glasses, and set them down on the desk with a little slap. “Glad I could be of service, Ottermole. Professor Shandy, if you’d care to give some thought to the Guaranteed’s special two-year plan—”
“I’ll talk it over with my wife.”
Shandy took the brochure he was being handed because he could see he had a fat chance of leaving without it. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Pommell.”
*In Massachusetts, the so-called cherry sheets list the amounts of state aid given to the individual cities and towns each year. They are printed on cherry-colored paper.
Chapter Eleven
THE POLICE CHIEF WAS still looking stunned when he and Shandy left the bank. “Two hundred thousand dollars!” he exploded. “Jeez, maybe I better go pick up Bulfinch right now.”
“What for?” said Shandy. “He hasn’t got the money yet. He’s not going to leave town without it, is he? Would you?”
Ottermole’s face relaxed into a grin. “Hell, no. Okay, Professor, where to next?”
“We have our choice of Congressman Sill, Mr. Lutt, or Mr. Twerks.”
“Some choice! Okay, let’s head for Twerks. He’s nearest. Anyway, Lutt’s probably over at the soap factory and Sill’s not back from Boston yet.”
“How do you know he went?”
“Saw him catching the early bus when I was on my way to the station. He was babbling about some bill coming up for a hearing, I forget what. Chances are Sill did, too, but that won’t make no never-mind to him. He’ll get up and gas along for as long as the moderator’ll let him even if he hasn’t got a clue what he’s talking about, same as he does at Town Meeting.”
Shandy fully understood the cause of Ottermole’s rancor. Last session, Sill had managed by sheer volume of words to sabotage the purchase of a new boiler for which Ottermole had put in a request on the perfectly reasonable grounds that the existing one at the station was sixty-two years old and all shot to hell. He himself couldn’t have agreed more with Mrs. Elizabeth Lomax’s expressed opinion that Sill was nothing but an old gasbag.
That wasn’t to say he held any kind regard for Twerks, nor did the greeting they got from the squire of Twerks Hall make him feel any kinder, though it was affable enough. Twerks himself came to the door in what was presumably his leisure garb of slacks in the Buchanan tartan with a peacock-blue pullover stretched across his paunch.
“Well, well,” he boomed. “To what do I owe the honor?”
“That’s a redundant question, isn’t it?” Shandy replied. “You are a member of the Balaclavian Society, are you not?”
“Sure. I get it. So now I’m going to be grilled about Ungley. Poor old duffer, I thought he was retired from the college.”
“He was.”
“Then how come Svenson’s put his tame sleuth on the trail? Watch out, Ottermole. Now that Shandy’s muscled in on your territory, he’ll be taking over the police station next thing you know. Come in, come in. What’ll you have to drink?”
This was Shandy’s first time inside Twerks’s house. Once, he decided, would be plenty. He didn’t like the furniture
made of animal horns. There was even a frame of caribou antlers around a steel engraving of President Buchanan and a probably spurious family tree linking the Buchanans with the Twerkses. The carpeting was in the Buchanan tartan, which is among the livelier ones. So were the draperies. Twerks’s slacks, which had looked so incandescent on the doorstep, blended into this mélange of colors until he gave the impression of being a peacock-blue floating blob with a shiny pink bobble on top.
Despite his burly physique, Twerks was not a lovesome sight. His face suggested what happens to a wax figure over a slow fire. Swags of half-melted flesh hung from cheekbones and jawline, so hectic a raspberry shade that had Dr. Melchett been of the party, he’d no doubt have upped Twerks’s dosage of blood pressure pills on the spot. Even the scalp that showed beneath Twerks’s white hair was bright pink. The hair itself was short, flat, and fine, reminding Shandy of a white mouse he’d had to dissect as a youth in biology class. It was that mouse, he’d always felt, which had clinched his decision to stick with plants instead of animals.
Twerks was still offering drinks. Shandy shook his head. “Nothing for me, thanks.”
“Me neither,” said Ottermole with a touching air of conscious virtue. “We just want to ask you a couple of questions about last night. You were at the meeting, right?”
“Sure. I always go. When I can’t think of anything better to do.”
“What time did you leave?”
“When the meeting broke up. Quarter of eleven, something like that.”
“What did you think of Ungley’s talk?” Shandy put in.
Twerks shrugged. “To tell you the truth, I didn’t hear much of it. I’d had a few drinks with my dinner and I kind of dozed off for a while. You know how it is. He was talking about cutting up feathers to make pens, I remember that. Didn’t make much sense to me. And buckshot in the inkwells, and sand for a blotter. Hell of a mess to go through just to write a letter. Must be why What’s-his-name invented the telephone. You sure you won’t have a drink?”
Something the Cat Dragged In Page 9
