by Philip Craig
I told him about the incident with the Padishah in the Cape Pogue Gut and about the one in the alcove the night of the party.
“So you think it’s him? The Padishah?”
I shrugged. “He’s the only guy I can think of. Zee hit him and shoved him overboard. I broke up a play he made for Helga Johanson. He’s used to having his own way, especially with women, and has the reputation of being pretty ruthless with people he doesn’t like.”
“In Sarofim, maybe. But this is the U.S.A.”
“That’s right. But the guy on the phone also said that everything would probably be all right if Zee and I just dropped out of sight for a week. I don’t know how long the Padishah is planning to stay in this country, but maybe it’s for another week.”
The Chief scribbled a note. “I’ll find out. Just to be on the safe side, it might be nice if the two of you actually did go away for a while. They tell me that Nova Scotia is a lot like the Vineyard was twenty years ago . . .”
“The point is,” I said, “that the people who kidnapped Zee were obviously not the ones who, according to my guy, want to hurt her. If they were, they’d have done it. So we’ve got some kidnappers and we’ve got these people my guy says want to hurt Zee and me. And they’re not the same people.”
“Even I, a simple small-town policeman, understand that,” said the Chief. “But look at it this way. If you two go off for a week, I won’t have to worry about you and I can maybe shake a man or two loose to try to find out what’s going on. Why don’t you do that? I’d really appreciate it.”
“I have to work,” said Zee.
“I have to work too,” I said.
“No you don’t,” said the Chief.
“I want to find out what the hell is going on.”
“I’m your boss,” said the Chief. “I can order you not to snoop around.”
“You can have your badge right now,” I said, reaching for my wallet.
“Now hold on, J.W. You may want that badge before you’re through. Just settle down.” I settled down. “Look,” said the Chief, “Zee already got grabbed once up at her place. And that was by people who didn’t want to hurt her. If there are people who do want to hurt her, what’s to keep them from kidnapping her too?”
“Put an officer on guard. Let somebody ride around with her.”
“I don’t need anybody riding around with me!” said Zee. “I can take care of myself!”
“No you can’t.”
“Yes I can! If I know I have to be careful, I can be careful.”
“Like you were careful on Friday night!”
“On Friday night, damn it, I didn’t know I had to be careful. Now I do. Don’t you try to play those ‘Protect the Little Lady’ games with me, Jeff Jackson! And I’ll tell you something else. I’m not going to let anybody scare me away from my work or my house or this island. I’m going to live my life the way I want to live it!”
“But—”
“No buts!”
I looked at the Chief. He looked at me. “So much for Nova Scotia,” he said. “But I’m going to arrange to have people check up on you when they have time, Zeolinda, so don’t get your nose out of joint if a cop comes by now and then to see if you’re still in one piece. The same goes for you, J.W.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“Sure. You and Zee can both take care of yourselves. Tell me this: Why do you think that the people who snatched Zee never talked to her?”
“Because they were afraid she’d recognize their voices?”
“Can you think of any other reason?”
“No.”
“Neither can I. This whole kidnapping thing is odd. They grab Zee, keep her for three days, then let her go. No rape, no ransom note, no talk, no anything. It doesn’t make sense. Jake Spitz is still on the island working on the jewel theft. I’m going to talk to him. The FBI knows more about kidnapping than I do. Maybe he can figure it out.”
“Maybe they had some plan and then changed their minds,” said Zee.
“What plan? Ransom? Do you have any relatives with money?”
“No. Aunt Emily has money, but she’s Aunt Amelia’s sister. She’s not really related to me.”
“What, then?”
“I don’t know. Maybe they thought I was somebody else and found out I wasn’t and let me go.”
“I’d like to hear what Spitz thinks,” I said.
The Chief reached for his phone, looked gratified when his call went through, and arranged to meet with Spitz the next afternoon. “One o’clock. You’re both welcome to join the party,” he said, hanging up.
“I have to work tomorrow,” said Zee. She looked at her watch. “And right now I have to get home and iron a uniform.” We all stood up.
“I’ll feed you first,” I said. “And I’ll be here at one, Chief.”
At my place I sent Zee out to the garden to chase away the Bad Bunny Bunch and pick a salad while I filleted the mackerel, unwrapped a loaf of Betty Crocker’s white bread (made with the recipe in the old red-and-white cookbook), and put a bottle of Chablis in the fridge and two martini glasses in the freezer beside the Absolut. One always keeps one’s vodka in the freezer so it will be cold enough to drink whenever one wishes. While I was working I had a bottle of Yuengling in celebration of the arrival of the bonito. When Zee came in, we rinsed the lettuce, sliced the radishes, cukes, and a baby zook and tossed it all in a bowl.
Zee’s fine nose sniffed toward the bread I’d unwrapped.
“Bread!” she said. “You are a devil. You know I’m a sucker for homemade bread.”
“True,” I leered, rubbing my hands together. “Now, my dear, if you’ll just slip out of those clothes for half an hour or so, all of that loaf will be yours, heh, heh.”
She gave me a kiss instead.
We had slices of bread and butter for hors d’oeuvres, and washed it down with ice-cold Absolut. When I am wealthy enough to afford Absolut, I rarely corrupt it by adding vermouth or tonic. I use those adornments only when my wallet dictates that I buy the cheap stuff.
“Not bad,” said Zee, patting her flat belly, then holding up a restraining hand. “No more bread right now. It’s murder on my waistline. Besides, didn’t you fillet a Spanish mackerel?”
I went into the kitchen and got the oven going. Three-quarters of an hour later, we pushed our plates back. Zee touched her lips with her napkin. “Another fine meal at the Jackson place. I believe I detected mayo, dill, and Grey Poupon in the sauce, Chef.”
“But of course, madame. An old family recipe. We will now have coffee and Cognac. No dessert tonight, in deference to your figure.”
“Thank you.”
Before I drove her to her house I asked if she wanted my pistol. “I think you should have it,” I said.
“No thanks. I don’t like pistols. Besides, I’m sure I won’t need one.”
It was the answer I’d expected.
As I drove her home I found myself looking in my rearview mirror, but no one was ever there. At her house I went in when she did and looked around. No bad guys were hiding in the closets.
“I’ll be fine,” said Zee.
“Keep the windows and doors locked.”
“I will.”
“Maybe I should stay the night.”
“Not tonight. Sooner or later I have to be on my own. I may as well start tonight.”
“Maybe I’ll park out in the yard all night.”
“If you do, I’ll call the cops. Go home, Jefferson.”
“If anything odd happens, call me right away.”
“Good night, Jeff.”
Outside, I walked around the house once in the gathering darkness and then drove home.
I was doing the dishes when the telephone rang.
“Hello,” said the caller. “Mr. Jackson? My name is Jasper Cabot. I’d like to talk with you.”
Jasper Cabot. My brain clicked and whirred and photos in Amelia Muleto’s album appeared. Jasper Cabot, one of the y
oung men in Amelia’s life when she too was young and later the coprotector with Williard Blunt of the Stonehouse Emerald Necklace.
“When?” I asked.
“This evening, if possible. I realize that it’s late.”
“Where?”
“Your place? I’m in Edgartown. I have a car.”
I gave him directions.
I’d finished cleaning up when I saw lights coming down my driveway. I didn’t hear any engine. Jasper Cabot’s large car was the sort that muttered powerfully but quietly. It pulled to a stop in front of my porch as I went to the door, and a short, solid-looking man slid from behind the wheel. He looked to be sixty or seventyish. Nowadays I find it hard to judge people’s ages, what with the benefits of cosmetics and exercise being popular and people wearing similar clothing, irrespective of their years.
“Mr. Jackson? I’m Jasper Cabot.” He put out his hand and I took it. It was a medium-sized hand, firm and smooth. No calluses.
“Of StonehoUse, Chute, Cabot, and Adams.”
“Yes.”
We went inside, and Jasper Cabot’s lawyer’s eyes took the place in. Old, saggy, comfortable furniture. No TV. Bookshelves. Fishing rods hung across the ceiling. A bachelor’s house. While he was doing that, I found two snifters and the Cognac bottle and put them on the coffee table. I poured two glasses and handed one to him and gestured toward the couch. He sat down, and I sat across from him. He cupped the snifter in his hand and swirled the Cognac under his nose. I did the same. Good Cognac has a wonderful appley aroma that I love.
“I like your place.”
“The rug came from the dump. My lawn mower and vacuum cleaner and some other of my stuff came from there too. It used to be the greatest store on the island. We called it the Big D. Now you have to pay for everything you take there, and they’ve got a machine that buries everything as soon as you unload it. No more recycling of good stuff. The environmentalists have seized control of the world and the golden days of dump picking are a thing of the past.”
He nodded. “And the dump had a one hundred percent guaranteed refund policy too. You could always take it back if you weren’t completely satisfied. We used to have one of those dumps up in Maine where I summer. It’s a rich town, like this one, and the people in the big houses were always throwing away things that were perfectly good. The local folks said they could build and furnish a house with what the summer people threw away. I think they were right.” He paused and gave a small smile. “We Cabots were summer people in a big house, of course.”
I lifted my glass. “Here’s to the summer people. You didn’t come here to talk about the Big D.”
“No. Amelia Muleto suggested I talk to you. She thinks you may be the man I need to assist me in an inquiry I’m making.” He swirled his Cognac. The eyes in his smooth, plump face were sharp and evaluative. “Amelia told me that you were a policeman in Boston before you retired down here. She told me that you and her niece are friendly and that you are trustworthy and”—here he dropped his eyes politely before raising them again—“free to do some work if we can agree that you are the man for the job.”
“If you mean that I’m unemployed and therefore have time to do what I please as long as it doesn’t cost very much, you’re right. What job do you have in mind?”
“You do not live in the style of a man with a great deal of money. I can offer you an honest wage for your work.”
“I can always use an honest wage. Or an extravagant one.”
Again that brief smile. “The Cabots did not accumulate their fortune by paying extravagant wages to their employees, Mr. Jackson. The wage will be fair, if we agree that you’re the man for the job. I want to investigate the theft of the Stonehouse emeralds and the death of my colleague and friend, Mr. Willard Blunt. I need an island operative to assist me since I will be working primarily in Boston. Are you interested in the work?”
“I’m not a private detective. Why don’t you hire a professional?”
He nodded. “A professional agency is already working on the case. You know of them, I believe. Thornberry Security, an excellent firm.”
“They weren’t so excellent that the emeralds weren’t stolen.”
“True enough, although there is some question as to exactly when the emeralds were stolen. Perhaps they were stolen before Thornberry Security was hired to protect them. Your face suggests that that possibility has occurred to you. I advise you not to try making a living as a poker player, Mr. Jackson.”
“It’s the face of innocence,” I said. “I am without guile.”
“I certainly hope that is not the case, Mr. Jackson. I want my agent to have a bit of the fox in him.”
“Why not trust Thornberry Security? They’re a big outfit. They have the operatives and the money to do the job. Besides, there are a lot of police on the case too.”
“Thornberry Security is working for Stonehouse, Chute, Cabot, and Adams. You would be working for me. I need an experienced man with local knowledge, one who has time to do the work. The local police have all of their usual responsibilities to occupy them and limited funds, to boot. Similarly, for the state and federal investigators these crimes are only two of the many that will be occupying their time and sapping their resources. Finally, Thornberry Security, for all of the firm’s expertise, lacks the local knowledge that I think necessary for a proper investigation of these crimes. I need a man who is discreet, focused upon his work, trustworthy, and—I hope this does not shock you, Mr. Jackson—not tied by official rules of evidence. Do you understand me?”
I sipped my Cognac and looked at him over the brim of my snifter. He mirrored my action. I ran the weekend crimes through my mind.
“You think that the theft and Blunt’s suicide are tied together.”
“Yes. If, in fact, it was suicide.”
“Do you think it wasn’t?”
“The coroner has not officially announced the cause of death.”
“Why do you really want a private agent working on this case?”
We looked at each other. After a moment, he nodded.
“My interest is more than simply professional. Willard Blunt was not only my colleague, but my friend. I am interested both in his death and in securing the reputation that survives that death. Mrs. Amelia Muleto is also a friend who may be hurt if this matter is not resolved, and I am concerned with defending her interests. Finally, you must understand that I watched over the emeralds for the best part of my life and have a personal interest in their fate. That will have to satisfy you for the moment, Mr. Jackson.”
I was surprised to hear a kind of passion in his voice.
“Maybe it will,” I said. “When did you talk to Amelia Muleto?”
“This morning. I drove down from Boston this afternoon.”
“Did she tell you about her niece being missing for three days?”
“She did tell me that. But she said the girl had reappeared and was all right.’
“Yes. That’s what I told her this morning. In fact, her niece was kidnapped.” He looked at me steadily. I told him about the abduction and about the phone call I’d received. “There may be some tie between the things that interest you and the things that interest me, but I have my own agenda. I couldn’t care less who stole the emeralds or why or what the consequences may be for relations between Sarofim and the United States. In fact, like a lot of people, I’m inclined to think that people who wear their jewels in public places more or less deserve to have them stolen. I never weep when I hear of somebody’s million-dollar bracelet being lifted from her apartment in Palm Springs. I am interested in finding out who grabbed Zee Madieras and who wants to hurt her.”
“It is my impression that we may in fact have some common objectives, Mr. Jackson. Perhaps the answers to your problems will be the answers to mine.” Then he told me what he would pay, and the image of Jeremy Fisher’s catboat sailed through my brain.
I sipped my Cognac. I could see no disadvantage to making some mon
ey doing what I was going to do anyway.
“Okay,” I said, “I’ll take the job.”
14
“If we are to work together, we must be frank with one another,” said Jasper Cabot.
“Yes.” I recalled Dostoyevsky, who believed that even in our most secret thoughts we lie to create images of ourselves that we would prefer to believe.
“What do you know of Sarofim?”
I told him. He nodded. “Very good, Mr. Jackson . . .”
“My friends mostly call me J.W.”
“I do not make friends hurriedly, Mr. Jackson. For the moment we are only business partners. I hope you are not offended.”
“No.”
“Have you ever heard of the SDL?”
“The Sarofim Democratic League?”
“You are more knowledgeable than I’d hoped.’
“What country doesn’t have a national liberation front of some sort these days?”
“It is an age of revolution, Mr. Jackson. I believe, in fact, that a few years back your own island threatened to secede from Massachusetts.”
“Indeed. We also tried to save the substandard bump, but that move failed too.”
He frowned, as any off-islander would do. I explained that years before, the State Highway Department had decided, in its wisdom, that a section of the highway out by the airport, where the road dropped into a shallow dale, was too abrupt in its descent and constituted a “substandard bump,” which was a hazard to motorists and needed to be corrected. Delighted by the phrase, islanders, particularly teenage boys who liked to make their cars temporarily airborne by racing them over the descent at illegal speeds, had immediately issued SAVE THE SUBSTANDARD BUMP stickers and launched a campaign to restrain the Highway Department from improving things. The Highway Department had prevailed and the once-interesting substandard bump was now only legend. “Another revolution gone astray,” I concluded.
Jasper Cabot nodded, but was not to be distracted. “The revolution in Sarofim has not yet gone astray, although the issue is in doubt. The SDL is headed by intellectuals and radicals who wish to overthrow the Padishah and replace his government with one of another sort. A democracy with a socialist economy seems to be the choice of the majority of the membership, but others favor a Communist model. Needless to say, the Padishah and the members of the oligarchy controlling Sarofim, wealthy families all, have much to lose if the SDL happens to prevail. The secret police are therefore active. The university in Gwatar is routinely closed for weeks or sometimes months at a time. Writers and teachers and students ‘disappear.’ For many years Amnesty International annually listed Sarofim as one of the countries employing torture and murder as part of a national policy of quelling dissent. However, of late the opponents of the Padishah seem inclined to die of natural causes. Heart attacks. An unusual number of them. The government of Sarofim naturally denies any responsibility.”
