by Philip Craig
And like the Pied Piper, she led them into the ballroom. Happy sounds replaced the unhappy ones. More champagne appeared at the bar.
I stood at the front door without even another soda and twist. No one tried to escape. From time to time someone came out of the library and someone else left the ballroom and went in. The corporal of the state police went upstairs. Smart Thornberry had put guards around the veranda and allowed the dancers to go out for air. Below them the water glimmered with lights reflected from the far shore and from the boats, now moored for the night. I reckoned that from the water and the houses across the bay it must have seemed that the Damons were having quite a party.
People appeared at the top of the stairs. The corporal, Willard Blunt, other men in tuxedos, women in party dresses. The search committee, their faces indicating that they had found nothing. Actually, they had found the two young couples but had decided to leave them where they were after searching both their rooms and their clothes, which latter were mostly not being worn by their owners. The searchers were not in the morality business at the moment.
I thought about the upstairs layout of the house and remembered that from the window of the master bedroom you could see the upper reaches of Katama Pond and the narrows leading into Edgartown Harbor.
I wondered if anyone had told Thornberry that in the old days people used to swim their cattle across those narrows so they could pasture on Chappy for the summer. I guessed not.
I had been most impressed by the unexpected decorations on one of the bedroom’s walls: a display of the souvenirs of some Damon fond of collecting primitive weapons in far off places. The wall was hung with dusty assagais, dark bows and long reedy arrows, wooden shields, crude machetes, blowguns and darts, slingshots, shark’s-teeth swords, and similar hunting and fighting weapons. An exotic decor for a master bedroom. Maybe the Damons were more interesting people than I had thought.
A Thornberry guard had stood outside the locked bedroom door, and two others had been on the balcony outside of the locked windows, one to watch the rooftops and one to watch the balcony door. (Each to watch the other?) Yet another guard had stood at the end of the hall that led to the bedroom. Inside the room, inside the locked safe, inside their rosewood boxes, had lain the necklaces.
I imagined Emily Damon and Willard Blunt passing the guard at the end of the hall, passing the guard outside the door, entering the room. I imagined Willard Sergeant Blunt opening the box holding the pastes, and Emily Damon donning the necklace. (Where? Before a mirror? Bending her neck to allow Willard Blunt to fasten the catch? Did it make any difference?) I imagined the two of them locking the safe, then leaving the room, Willard locking the door, the two of them walking to the top of the stairs and descending. And then I didn’t have to imagine what happened, because I’d seen it.
But later Emily Damon had repeated her trip upstairs, this time in the company of both Willard Blunt and her husband. What had happened then? Presumably Blunt had opened the safe and then the box supposedly containing the genuine emeralds and had found the necklace missing. Either he hadn’t opened that box when he and Emily had gone for the paste, or the real necklace had still been there at that time. Otherwise the alarm would have been sounded earlier.
Unless, of course, he had stolen the emeralds himself. I looked at his craggy Yankee face as he came down the stairs. He looked unhealthy and was leaning on the polished railing as he descended. I had read of doctors who could diagnose diseases from the mere appearance of a patient, but I was no doctor, alas. As if suddenly aware that he was revealing some weakness or distress that was inappropriate, he straightened and released the railing and seemed to grow taller, stronger. The evening clothes, which moments before had hung on him as on a scarecrow, now were revealed to be custom fitted and subtly splendid. He wore them with casual old New England grace that would have bordered upon grandeur had he not insisted upon being gray and respectable instead.
I had a hard time seeing him as a thief, but who else was there? I had never been good at locked-room mysteries. Could, perhaps, a trained ape have stolen the necklace? What would Poe have imagined?
It was one in the morning before the last person in the house had been interviewed. Thornberry came forth from the library with a weary Edward C. Damon, the Chief, the state policeman, and a petulant looking Padishah of Sarofim, who did not bother to put on a happy face for his public. Damon mounted the bandstand and announced that the inquiries had ended and everyone could go home, but that the police might wish further interviews later.
I left the door and went into the library. Helga Johanson was there, leaning over a plan of the house.
“What did Blunt have to say?”
She was tired and not in a generous mood. “I don’t think you need to concern yourself with this matter anymore. Your job is over when the last guest leaves this house.”
“I’m a police officer,” I said. “Are you withholding information from a police officer?” That seemed an unlikely ploy, but instead of laughing she shrugged.
“He said the jewels and the pastes were in their cases when he left Boston and that they were still there when he examined the cases and locked them in the safe in the master bedroom. Dr. Youssef concurs. He testified that he and Blunt examined the gems together, in their cases. Blunt put the pastes into the safe while Youssef verified the authenticity of the emeralds. Then Youssef himself put the emeralds in the safe and locked it. Blunt says that the only people who entered the room after he and Dr. Youssef left were himself and the Damons. And none of them were in there until this evening, when they went in to get the necklaces. The guards agree.”
I ran times through my mind.
“When did Blunt bring the jewels to the house?”
“Early Friday afternoon. One-thirty or so. He came in by corporate jet to the airport and from there by one of the Damon cars. The cases were in a briefcase cuffed to his wrist. A guard was with him.”
I really didn’t know what I was trying to find out. “And afterwards the bedroom door and windows were locked? Could the guards have gotten inside?”
“The windows have inner bolts. Blunt kept them locked.”
“The door?”
“Locked.’ Her mouth curved into a brief ironic smile. “No secret passages, I’m afraid. No trap doors. No hidden stairs.”
“So no one got inside?”
“Someone did.”
“You mean a fourth someone, someone besides the Damons and Willard Blunt? Why look for a fourth suspect when you have three good ones to start with?”
She gave me a cold look, then focused her eyes beyond me. I turned as eight men came into the library: the Padishah, Colonel Ahmed Nagy, the Chief, the state police corporal, Damon, Thornberry, and two men who looked federal to me.
“You can go, Jackson,” said Thornberry. “The evening has ended. Your check will be in the mail tomorrow. Thank you.”
I looked at the Chief, who nodded and gestured toward the door. I felt two pairs of Sarofimian eyes on my back as I went out.
I didn’t sleep well. I dreamed that Zee had some guy on the hook that I didn’t know about. I woke up and thought about the Padishah of Sarofim, whose father kidnapped women and kept them in his harem and gave the uncooperative ones to his secret police. Later I had more bad dreams.
Early the next morning, while I waited, fuzzy headed, for other people to get up and get going, I went fishing. The sea’s rhythms are indifferent to our fretting and can bring us back from inner chaos. I fished until early mass was over. Manny Fonseca always went to early mass so afterwards he could be the first one at the Rod and Gun Club shooting range. He was already popping caps when I drove through the club gate, which he had left open. I walked down the track to the range, then stopped to watch him shoot. He was very quick and sure. I wondered how he would do if one of the targets was shooting back. I knew I hadn’t done so well when I had shot at people shooting at me.
When he had emptied all his clips and was
reloading, he finally noticed me. I put the borrowed pistol and harness on the table holding his weapons and shooting paraphernalia. Manny always shot several guns on Sundays.
“Thanks, Jesse.”
“Don’t give me any more of that crap about working up at Fort Wampanoag, J.W. I heard you were over on Chappy last night. What went on there, anyway?”
I’d not heard of Fort Wampanoag before. Manny had been working on his vocabulary. I told him about the Damon party, and he almost threw his favorite shooting hat on the ground and stomped it. “Damn! I miss everything interesting that ever happens on this bleeping island!”
“You didn’t miss much, Sundance. Not a shot was fired. Tell me, is Fort Wampanoag all of Gay Head or just the Tribal Council headquarters?”
He grinned, happy about something, at least. Having missed the big robbery, he could at least insult the Wampanoags. “The whole damn town. Injun country, I call it. A man has to be ready to pull himself into a circle every time he goes up there.
“Here.” He handed me earplugs, glasses, and a pistol unlike any I had seen before. “Try this. Most of it’s plastic. Gun of the future. Glock 17. Nine mm. Go right through an X-ray check if you happen to want to hijack a plane, ha, ha.”
I wasn’t interested in hijacking any airplanes, but I did shoot the pistol. The bullets went out fast and pretty straight. Shooting something made me feel better.
“Not bad,” said Manny. Then he shot the Glock, and my shots seemed pretty wild by comparison.
I had to shoot two more pistols before I could leave without hurting Manny’s feelings. I didn’t mind at all. I might have stayed longer, but I wanted to see if Amelia Muleto had heard anything more from Zee. I was irked because it was possible that Zee might even have phoned me and that I’d have been home for the call if I hadn’t gone fishing. But I had gone fishing, so now I wanted to see Amelia.
10
Amelia was on her knees by the flower bed. She got up and came toward me, pulling off cotton gloves. “J.W., I’ve been trying to phone you, but nobody’s been home. Have you heard from Zee?”
A little cold spot formed somewhere inside of me. “No. I was hoping you had.”
“Come inside. I’ll fix us some tea. I don’t know, it’s just not like Zee not to phone and tell us, you know, when to expect her, at least.”
Amelia looked distressed. “She’ll probably call later,” I said. “Maybe she was up all night and is getting some sleep.”
Amelia was heating water in the kitchen. “That’s probably it. It’s too bad she had to miss the party. She was looking forward to it. Her dress looked lovely when she was here Friday.”
She brought in the tea. “It seems so long ago . . . So much has happened since. We spent the afternoon together, and the three of us ate down at Martha’s. Willard was quite taken with Zee and she with him, I think. We had a fine time together. Afterwards, he insisted on driving her home.”
“Lucky man.”
Amelia smiled and patted my knee. “You should definitely be jealous. Zee is worth it. She took her dress with her so she could do a bit of last-minute stitching we hadn’t managed during the afternoon. I remember she said she had to get some sleep because she had a lot of work to do on Saturday, prepping for the party. We laughed about that. Little did we know how much work she’d end up doing!”
“That’s for sure. Who called you about her going off-island?”
“The hospital. About noon.”
“What’d they say?”
‘Oh, that there’d been an emergency and that Zee was flying to Boston with a patient and wanted me to know what she was doing and why she wouldn’t be here for the party.”
“What was the emergency?”
“I didn’t ask. I’m sure you can phone the hospital and find out. What with all the goings-on at the party, maybe she won’t be sorry she missed it.”
High times on Chappy. “And she’ll be back Monday?”
“As I understand it. I’m surprised she hasn’t called . . .”
“Must be some kind of a private case to keep her away that long. I know she had the weekend off . . .”
“Zee has a kind heart. I imagine it was important and they were shorthanded and called her, and she, being Zee, couldn’t say no. More tea?”
I thought she might be right about her scenario. “No. I have a date with my garden. I’ll call you if I hear from Zee.”
“And I will do the same for you.” She smiled. She seemed a bit more content than she had when I’d arrived.
I couldn’t say the same for myself. I looked inside to find out why and after a while dug out the answer: I was mad at Zee for not calling. I was like a parent waiting in growing vexation and worry for an overdue teenager to come home at night. But I was not Zee’s father and Zee was a grown-up woman who didn’t owe me any explanations about anything, and my anger seemed so childish that I decided it would be better directed at myself, where it more properly belonged. So I worked on that as I drove home.
During the afternoon I picked and canned tomatoes. I burned a hand because I wasn’t paying attention to what I was doing. When I was through, I had enough tomatoes to last all winter, but more were still growing on the vines. It was almost as bad as trying to keep up with the zucchinis, an impossible job. I had about a million zucchini recipes and someday was going to write the definitive zucchini cookbook for all of those people whose zucchinis are about to overwhelm them and conquer the world. The working title for the book was The Attack of the Zucchini Monsters. So far I hadn’t written one word. I didn’t get started that afternoon, either.
That evening two interesting things happened. The first was an anonymous phone call. The calling voice was muffled and male.
“Mr. J. W. Jackson?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve been trying to phone you all day. You don’t know me, but I hope you will listen carefully and take what I say seriously. There are some people on the island who are making plans to harm you. Seriously harm you. They are of foreign nationality, and the attack, should it come, will come soon. Within days. Be on your guard, Mr. Jackson. The best advice I can give to you is to leave the island for a week or so. By that time, I believe the danger will be over. Do you understand me, Mr. Jackson?”
“Yes. The only foreign nationals who might be mad at me just now are from Sarofim. Are they the ones? And who are you?”
“You have a friend, a Mrs. Madieras. I have been trying to telephone her with the same warning I’ve just given you, but I cannot contact her. If you know where she is, please tell her what I’ve told you.”
“She’s off-island right now.”
“She is in danger, just as you are.”
“She’s been gone since Saturday and won’t be back until tomorrow. Do you have a name?”
There was a silence at the other end of the line. Then the voice said, “It would be better if she stayed away longer. I suggest that you make that recommendation if you can contact her.”
“I don’t know how to contact her. Who are you?”
Another silence. Then, “Well, do advise Mrs. Madieras of this warning when she returns. Meanwhile, Mr. Jackson, you be careful. Leave the island if you can.”
The phone clicked.
The second interesting thing was a shooting on the bluffs overlooking the bathing beach just west of Wasque. The victim was Willard Blunt. The shootist was good at his work. Willard Blunt died instantly.
11
I got the news the next morning by phone from Amelia, who had gotten it from her sister.
“I almost fainted,” she said. “I had to sit down.”
“You never struck me as the fainting type. Are you okay?”
“I’m all right. I think that it was just that everything has piled up so. The robbery, then Zee being gone, and now this. Besides, I’m probably still tired from being up so late. I’m usually asleep by nine, you know, so I can be up with the sun and have a little peace before the cars start going by.”
“What happened?”
“It’s not completely clear. Willard was at the Damon place. Early in the evening he borrowed Edward Damon’s Jeep and he and Colonel Nagy drove to town. A meeting with the FBI man in Edgartown, apparently. Then he came to visit me. I never guessed it was the last time I’d see him. I . . . Willard had originally planned on flying to Boston with the Padishah’s party yesterday afternoon, but those plans changed because of the theft. The Padishah’s party flew up there by helicopter this morning, instead.
“When Willard didn’t return to the house last night, the Damons got worried. He was elderly, after all, and had been under considerable strain. They called the police. Then this morning when it got light the Trustees of Reservations people found the Jeep in the parking lot there on reservation land. They found Willard in the driver’s seat.”
“Shot?”
“Once in the temple. The gun was in his hand.”
“Suicide?”
“I guess his wallet was there and nothing was missing, so suicide seems the best bet.”
“Any note?”
“No.”
“Where’d he get the pistol?”
“I don’t know.”
“How are you doing?”
“I’m all right. No, I’m not; but I will be.”
“Do you want me to come over?”
“That would be nice.”
“Have you heard from Zee?”
“No.”
“I’ll be right over.”
So I drove over, picking up the Boston Monday papers en route.
We met at her door, and I put down the papers and held her in my arms. Strong Amelia looked almost frail. We sat in the living room, and she talked about what a wonderful man Willard Blunt had been, while I listened. After a while she suddenly took a deep breath and got up.
“All this time and I haven’t even offered you tea. Now where are my manners?”
While she was in the kitchen, I wandered her living room, feeling nervous, picking up this, looking at that. Her mail was lying on an end table, waiting to be taken to the post office. A package lay with three letters. One of the letters was to her son out in western Massachusetts. The package was being sent to Professor Hamdi Safwat at Weststock College. I remembered the name.
