The Laughing Man

by Forrest, Richard;

  “Haven’t had calls for that since they opened up that place next door. It’s ruining the small businessman. How can I compete when I have to hire a model, develop the stuff myself, and they sell them dirty books for a buck apiece? It’s a communist plot.”

  “I don’t think that.…”

  “Here’s the best I got.” He lifted a shoe box from under the counter, blew dust off the lid and flipped through a series of pictures. He found what he was looking for and spread it on the counter with pride. “One of my favorites. That’s Mary. Ann with her legs … well, see for yourself.”

  Brian glanced at the photo of the bovine-eyed woman in an obscene pose and wished he hadn’t. “That wasn’t what I had in mind.”

  “Set used to go for fifteen bucks. Because of those bastards, I’ll let you have them for four bits apiece.”

  “No, I’m interested in this one.” He lay the picture of the man he had called his father on the counter. “It was taken a long time ago, but your name is stamped on the back.”

  Egan picked it up gingerly. “Yep, this is an oldie … back in the forties. Place was really hopping then.”

  “Do you remember anything about it?”

  “Remember? Look at the grain on this pic. It was taken during the war. How could I remember?”

  Brian laid a twenty-dollar bill on the counter next to the photograph. “Anything at all?”

  Egan picked up the photograph and the money. The money disappeared into a vest watch pocket before he turned the picture over in his hands. “Well, it’s mine all right. That’s my stamp on the back, and that number is my lot number. That’s what I use to identify the package with the negatives.”

  “Would you still have those records?”

  “You crazy or something? That was thirty years ago. Besides, this picture was picked up and paid for.”

  “It’s been in my house for years. Can you tell me anything at all about it?”

  “The guy was a soldier.”

  “I can see that.”

  “The YD patch.”

  “The Yankee Division.” Something ticked in the back of Brian’s mind, but he couldn’t pin down the elusive thought.

  “Yeah, I remember taking that batch. The Division was nationalized at the beginning of the war, and I must have taken hundreds of shots of those guys before they shipped out.”

  “Wasn’t the YD made up of New England National Guard units?”

  “Sure. This kid was probably right over at the armory when I took this.”

  The Connecticut State Armory sat in a square boxed by an interstate highway and the state capital. A directory in the lobby indicated that the personnel office was in room 101. Brian walked down the long hall toward the office, past walls lined with photographs of army units in various poses of combat formations, parade and group formations. He knocked and stepped inside the personnel office.

  A regular army master sergeant looked up from a typewriter. “Help you, sir?”

  “I’m trying to locate a man who was once in one of the units.”

  “Sure. What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Harder that way.”

  “I have a photograph.”

  “Not much help without the name. Do you know the unit or date of enlistment?”

  “Sometime in the early forties.”

  “All those guys are either dead or retired by now.” The sergeant picked up the photograph with feigned interest. “This here’s an oldie, all right. Look at the uniform, no Ike jacket. But he’s wearing the regimental shields for this unit. That’s one thing hasn’t changed.”

  “Any way you can help me?” Brian realized that a tinge of desperation shaded his voice.

  “Sorry.” The sergeant resumed his typing and then stopped, as Brian slouched desolately in the doorway. “That important to you, huh?”

  “It sure is.”

  “Let’s see the picture again.” He frowned down at the photograph. “That’s a rough one. Don’t know what to tell you. Like I said, he’s wearing the old dress blouse before the Ike jacket, probably one of the original guys in the early forties. The only thing I can suggest is for you to see if you can find his face in one of those other pictures on the walls. The guys in those days were picture crazy, thought they were about to save the world or something, and took shots of everything they did. If you find one with him in it, the name will be on the back of the frame.”

  There were hundreds of photographs from a great many wars posted on all the walls of the cavernous building. It took Brian two hours with a borrowed flashlight to find the smiling man. He wore combat fatigues and sat behind a .30 caliber, water-cooled machine gun at some distant firing range. Even hunched over the gun, the smile still cleft his face. Brian took the picture from the wall and carefully turned it over. The typed inscription read, “Corporal Wilton Henry, on gunnery range, Camp Drum, New York, December 1941.”

  It took another twenty-dollar bill to still the sergeant’s grumbling, and another hour to find the early enlistment records of Wilton Henry in the basement. “According to this, he enlisted in 1941, from 2223 Zion Street, Hartford.”

  The heavy door creaked open to the extent of the chainlock. Wisps of pure white hair extended through the opening until the thin wrinkled features of a very old woman were visible. “What are you selling?” The voice was a high, cackling falsetto.

  “I’m looking for Wilton Henry.”

  “What you want him for?”

  Brian wondered if she stirred caldrons in the back room. “Ah, I’m doing a book on World War II, and they said he might help with some information on the early days of his unit.”

  “No money in that. He goes after lobster.”

  Though the city of Hartford sits astride the scenic Connecticut River, for the past decades, the only fish in the river have been found floating belly up. “Are you related to Mr. Henry?”

  “You call a mother a relative? I don’t call a mother any kind of relation. A mother is a burden. A terrible weight that children want to leave … all five of them … all gone … all away. I’m lucky to get a Christmas card, but I tell them not to worry about me. Someday the gas man will find my moldering body, then they’ll know.”

  No wonder the five Henry children took off. “Can you tell me where Mr. Henry is?”

  “Lobstering, I told you. Has a boat called the Mary D he sails out of Lantern City. When he’s sober.”

  Lantern City was on the coast, a few miles below New London, perhaps an hour and a half drive. “Thank you.”

  “You a bill collector?”

  “No, not a bill collector. At least, I don’t think so.”

  There were only four neighborhood bars in Lantern City, and it took the third to find a bartender who knew where Wilton Henry docked the Mary D. Brian stood on the decking in front of the Pier’s End Restaurant at the Dog’s Point Marina and looked down at the dock, where the Mary D bobbed at the end of its mooring line.

  A man stood on the deck immediately behind the cockpit, dumping a bucket into the bait box. He wore faded denims, and although his face was rounder and florid to the point of being a near caricature of the smiling man in the old photograph, it was undoubtedly Wilton Henry. As he cast off the front mooring line, Brian hurried down the steps and across the pier.

  When the rear line was cast off, Wilton Henry stepped into the cockpit.

  “Mr. Henry! Can I see you a minute?”

  The man at the wheel turned as the lobster boat began to drift away from the dock. “Have to catch the goddamn tide. See me later, unless you want to come along.”

  The small boat was beginning to drift further away from the dock, as Brian took a running jump and fell on all fours on the rear decking. Henry pushed the throttles forward, and the boat began to turn away from the pier and head down the short estuary to the Sound.

  “Now, what’s the goddamn hurry? You a bill collector?”

  “No,” Brian yelled over the noise of the en
gines, which sounded inordinately loud for their slow speed.

  “What’s so goddamn important?”

  “Your engines don’t sound so hot.”

  “Need an overhaul. Come on, goddamn, what you want? Or do you go over the side with the first pot?”

  “Would you really do that?”

  “Don’t know.” He laughed. “Goddamn, might attract more lobster!”

  “Ever see this?” Brian handed the man the picture from his mother’s room.

  Wilton Henry took the picture with one hand as he steered into Long Island Sound. He glanced at it a moment and then back at Brian. “You goddamn kidding me?”

  “Why?”

  “This is me. Where’d you get that?”

  “A friend of mine had it.”

  “Old. Old as the goddamn devil. Wish I looked like that now.”

  They cleared the harbor and Wilton pushed the throttle forward, causing the small boat to leap ahead through the light waves. Late sun was directly in their eyes as they headed west.

  “Do you know who you gave this picture to?”

  “You got to be kidding. That’s at least thirty goddamn years ago. I don’t even remember when it was made.”

  “Ever know anyone named Mary Elizabeth Dwight? From Tallman?”

  “Who are you?” The smile left. “A cop?”

  “Her son.”

  The smile never returned as he clenched the helm and stared forward. Angrily, Wilton gave the throttle another push forward and the lobster boat bucked against oncoming waves. He stretched an arm toward Brian. “Get me a beer out of the ice chest.” Brian ripped a can off a six-pack and handed it to him. Wilton tore off the tab, flipped it over his shoulder and took a sip of beer. Easing back on the throttle, he turned to Brian and asked: “What’s this got to do with me?”

  “Then you knew her?”

  “If it’s the same girl I’m thinking of, maybe.”

  Brian flipped through his wallet and extracted a small snapshot of Mary taken some years before. He handed it to the smiling man. “Recognize her?”

  Wilton glanced down at the picture and then back toward the sea. “Yeah, that’s her. We went together for about a year. I was serious about her until she wrote me a flush letter when I was in the Pacific.” He paused for a moment and turned to Brian with concern. “How is she?”

  “Dead.”

  “That happens to a lot of us.” He stepped out of the cockpit. “Take the wheel. Keep us parallel to shore. I got to check something.” The helm spun as he disappeared into the small, cluttered cabin forward of the two-sided cockpit.

  Brian grabbed the spinning wheel and corrected the boat’s erratic course. He bent slightly sideways to see into the cabin. Wilton Henry was sitting bent over, with his head in his hands, on a crate in the corner. His shoulders convulsed silently. Brian liked the man’s blustery good nature and the fact that he also emanated compassion and concern. He wished the man were his father.

  Wilton Henry’s head poked through the companionway. “Get us another beer. I’ll take the wheel.”

  They drank half a can of beer in silence. “Tell me about you two,” Brian said.

  “You never told me why.”

  “Your picture’s been next to her bed since I can remember.”

  “Yeah. I’ll be goddamned. What’d your father say to that?”

  “I never knew who my father was.”

  The broad smile returned as Wilton Henry turned toward him. “Then that makes you a bastard, don’t it, son?”

  Chapter Eleven

  They arrived at the beginning of Wilton’s first string of pots. He put the engine in idle, swung out the winch arm and hooked it to the lead string on the buoy. “Make yourself useful, son. When I pass the pot, the lobster goes over there and bait goes back in before she goes back overboard.”

  “I want to ask you about Mary.”

  “So you do, so you do, but let’s get the goddamn lobsters first.”

  Brian found it hard work. As he opened the third pot to take out a large three-pounder, crustacean pincers caught him on the finger. Wilton laughed and showed him how to wedge small wooden pegs between the claws. Henry seemed pleased with the day’s catch, but he did not show further inclination to talk about Mary. He seemed to be assimilating her death as they worked without further conversation. They pulled the last string, and the lobster boat turned back toward the marina.

  Wilton opened more beer and tossed a can across the deck to Brian. “Goddamn Sunday boaters musta been driven off by the storm yesterday. Good haul, looks like none were stolen.” He blinked across the water. “You say she kept my picture all those years?”

  “That’s right. She talked about you a lot also—although it would seem that some of it wasn’t true.”

  “How’s that?”

  “You were supposed to have died in the war, and she gave you a different name.”

  “Doesn’t sound like the girl I used to know. Then, that was a long time ago. When were you born, son?”

  “Nineteen forty-four.”

  “That doesn’t make goddamn sense, either. If we’re talking about the same lady, she couldn’t have any children. Least that’s what she told me.”

  “She’d had a hysterectomy.”

  “Well, at least she wasn’t telling a story about that. That’s what she told me in the Dear John … we couldn’t have any children, and it wouldn’t be fair … said her decision was firm, even if that didn’t make any difference to me. Hell, I can remember that goddamn letter as if I got it yesterday.”

  “You cared for her?”

  “Only woman I ever did. I kept writing her, but she never did answer. I never could figure her dumping me. The last leave I had before going back overseas, it was all set—we were to be married when I got back. Goddamn, it seemed perfect. I guess I never did get over it. Never married, stayed in the service to be a thirty-year man. Probably drink too much, too.” As if to punctuate his last remark, he opened the cooler and flipped another can toward Brian. “So, I guess she adopted you and didn’t want a lug like me around. She ever marry?”

  “No. She always said she had been married to a Maston, but kept your picture by the bed.”

  Wilton Henry shook his head. “Doesn’t make any goddamn sense either. It would seem she got rid of me about the time you came along.”

  “Something like that.” Brian gazed over the water. It sparkled in the sun, but nothing would dispel the sheen of depression that had descended over him. Another lead going nowhere, and now he knew he had exhausted every avenue.

  “You’re looking sad, son. Depressed over her going, I suppose. How long ago did it happen?”

  “Just a few days.”

  “Did she … did she have a chance to say anything about me?”

  “There wasn’t much time. The only thing she said to me was how sorry she was about Bellchamp.”

  “Bellchamp! I’ll be goddamned!”

  Brian looked at the smiling man with renewed interest. “Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Hell, yes. Bellchamp is where we met. Friend of hers from her home town was working for my C.O. and introduced us. Martha something or other.” The boat nosed toward the dock, and Wilton eased up on the speed and gently slid into the slip.

  “This Martha who introduced you. Was her last name Rubinow?”

  “Sounds like it. She and her husband worked for the Colonel.”

  “In the town of Bellchamp?”

  “Hell, no. Bellchamp’s a house. A goddamn mansion.”

  Brian sat before the microfilm reader in the Tallman Public Library and threaded the first spool. The indexes on Bellchamp had led to further references, and a dozen small boxes were piled haphazardly in front of him. The date of the newspaper now illuminated on the screen was May 8, 1946. He felt reluctant to turn the knob. If the pieces fit, his past life would be irrevocably shattered. His fingers rested over the on-off switch as he considered leaving the library. He gave a sigh for l
ost things, turned the knob rapidly and concentrated on the flashing pages.

  When Brian left the library two hours later, his hands trembled to the extent that he had to stuff them deep into his pockets to control the shaking. He walked three blocks to the green and stood silently before the war monument before turning toward Clinton Robinson’s law offices.

  Clinton was scribbling rapid notes on a legal pad as Brian sat before the desk. When he looked up, his heavy eyebrows bunched into a scowl. “You look God-awful. Drinking again?”

  “A few beers with an old friend on a lobster boat.”

  “Traced the airplane to Teeterboro.”

  “Where’s that?”

  “Jersey Meadows, not far from New York City. From the description I gave him, the charter pilot said he remembered your large friend. Listed his name as Nat Turner, which I think we can safely assume is a pseudonym. Paid cash for the round trip to Williamstown, and was last seen leaving the airport on a bus. Pretty much of a dead end to find him, but it does give you credibility with the Massachusetts authorities, who, I might point out, are becoming quite impatient and might ask Willie to pick you up.”

  “I discovered some interesting facts in the library.”

  “Libraries are renowned for that.”

  “Did you ever hear of the Wright kidnapping case?”

  “Of course. About thirty years ago. Crime of the decade, they called it, and other nonsense like that.”

  “You think it’s nonsense?”

  “Only in the way the newspapers of the time handled it. They pulled all the stop on purple prose: rich war hero, beautiful young wife, missing child, quarter of a million in ransom—quite a pile in those days.”

  “Colonel Wright wasn’t quite the war hero they made him out to be. In fact, he came within a hair of being court-martialed. It was hushed up at the time, but the true facts came out in the late fifties.”

  Clinton showed his interest by tilting his chair back. “I appreciate all this historical trivia, but why?”

  “Trace and research, you said. That’s what I’ve been doing.”

  “Do you want me to pay you by the word? Or do you plan to start out at the logical end—the beginning?”

  Brian paced the room and accentuated his remarks with short chopping motions of his arms. “You found the Civil War reference to Bellchamp in the encyclopedia. Well, Colonel Wright of more recent vintage was evidently related to that Confederate officer. His full name was David Bellchamp Wright, and damn if he didn’t nearly repeat the same events as his forefather.”