by Philip Craig
I was not optimistic, but on the other hand the Fireside was a popular hangout for young folks and it just might be that some lonely Sarofimian, tired of cleaning hotel rooms and planning revolutions, had dropped in for a beer and some company generally uninterested in politics.
To my surprise, Bonzo’s blank face lit up. “Sure! I heard that word just the other day!”
It seemed too easy. “You did?”
“But not in here, J.W. In church!”
In church? My brain stopped, then started again. Why not? Some Sarofimians probably went to church just like other people. Maybe even Sarofimian revolutionaries went to church. A lot of revolutionaries think that God is on their side. “Who mentioned it, Bonzo?”
“Hey, you know who talks in church, J.W. The priest! Father Jim. He said it, Cherubim and seraphim. Two kinds of angels. Father Jim said the cherubim were high, but the seraphim were higher. Is that what you wanted to know, J.W.? I heard that in church, so it must be true.”
I drank some beer and tried again. “I’m sure it’s true, Bonzo. Now think carefully; did you ever hear anyone in here, not in church, mention Sarofim? It’s the name of a country, and I’d like to talk to anyone from that country, if I can find somebody.”
Bonzo’s brow wrinkled then smoothed. “Gosh, a country with a name like an angel. No, J.W., I don’t think I ever heard anybody but the priest say that name.” He brightened. “But I’ll tell you what I can do. I’ll ask my friends. I got a lot of good friends here and they know a lot and I’ll ask them. Then when you go fishing I can tell you what they tell me. Is that okay?”
I put my hand on his thin shoulder. “That will be a big help, Bonzo. One more thing. Did you ever hear of a musical group called the Gits?”
“Gosh, J.W., everybody’s heard of the Gits. We got two Git songs on the box over there. Say, you want me to play that music for you? You can hear ’em clear over this noise. I tell you, J.W., the Gits are loud!” He grinned and reached into his pockets for coins.
The room was already a cacophony of voices and screaming electronic instruments.
“Louder than this, Bonzo?”
“Oh, sure. This is nothin’.” He had his money out. “I’ll play you some Gits and you’ll see! They’re really good!”
Ye gods! “No, no! I’ve got to go. Five-thirty the day after tomorrow. I’ll pick you up. Okay?”
He looked at the coins in his hand, then slid them back into his pocket and smiled his sweet, dreamy smile. “Okay! I’ll be ready. We’ll catch us some bonito!”
I finished my beer and went out. Circuit Avenue was filled with walkers wandering between the bars and restaurants. Young people mostly, of all shades and shapes. Unlike lily-white Edgartown where many people still blanch at the thought of non-Caucasian neighbors, Oak Bluffs has for many years been racially integrated, so the flavor of the street inclines more toward Neapolitan than vanilla. It seemed the sort of street where a wandering Sarofimian might feel comfortable, but if I saw any, I didn’t know it. I found my LandCruiser and went home. So far, I’d been held scoreless in the Sarofimian Bowl, but I had hopes for the morrow.
On the morrow I had a brisk, get-the-day-going shower in my outdoor shower and, naked, toweled myself dry in the yard between my house and my garden. One of the advantages of living in a place hidden from other houses is that you can do things like that. The Chiefs theory notwithstanding, no low-flying airplanes examined me during this procedure. Only two bunnies, who studied me between explorations for holes in my garden fence. In the garden, towel flung Hercules-style over my shoulder, I plucked a few weeds and picked a couple of zooks that, as zucchinis are apt to do, had grown hugely overnight and needed to be eaten before they ate me. On my way into the house, I paused to study Archie Bunker’s chair. A little glue, a few well-placed wood screws, and some paint and it would be as good as new.
Inside, I judged the time to be right and telephoned Zee. I was correct in my guess. Zee was between breakfast and departure for work.
“Just checking up,” I said.
“Everything’s fine. Do you plan on doing this every morning?”
“If you move in with me, I won’t have to.”
“I’m late, Jeff. I’ve got to go to work.”
“Be careful.”
“I will. You don’t have to worry about me.”
“Let’s get married.”
She laughed. “Not this morning, but thanks for asking.”
“Goodbye?”
Another laugh. “Goodbye.”
I chopped part of one of the zooks into a skillet with some butter and sautéed it while I dug out some eggs and grated some cheddar. Zook omelet and toast made from homemade bread, washed down with coffee. Not bad!
Then, since it was going to be another warm August day, I put on my thrift-shop shorts, sandals, a tee shirt, and my new hat—the baseball type with an adjustable plastic band in back and a logo on the front. Mine said HT-8 and was decorated with a picture of a helicopter and had my shellfishing license pinned over my left ear. Properly attired for detecting, I set off to Chappaquiddick to visit Ms. Helga Johanson, the well-known blond-and-blue-eyed private eye. I doubted if she’d be glad to see me.
Outside the gateway to the Damon house I discovered a uniformed guard. Grady Flynn, one of Edgartown’s finest. On private detail. Big bucks for soft duty.
I suggested as much and he grinned. “It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it.”
I told him I wanted to talk with Helga Johanson, and he pulled out his radio, talked into it, listened, and waved me through. The LandCruiser looked a bit out of place when I parked beside the house not far from the helicopter I assumed was the Padishah’s. Another man, this one in civvies but with the unmistakable look of a cop—private, I guessed, in this case—opened the door at my knock and, after eyeing me in general disapproval, led me into the library. There, it seemed, Thornberry Security had set up war headquarters. General Johanson stood beside a table covered with papers. She was wearing a light blue blouse and a darker blue skirt. He blue shoes had low heels, and her legs looked terrific. Her eyes moved over me from head to foot, and a flicker of suspicion crossed her face. I, in reply, ogled her without shame.
“Blue is your color,” I said.
She put out a cool hand. “Mr. Cabot has informed me that you are his agent and has asked that we cooperate with you. Naturally we’re glad to do so.”
“Naturally.” I held her hand a moment after she attempted to withdraw it, then let it go. “I’ll tell you everything I know in return for everything you know and a chance to go up to the master bedroom.”
“The master bedroom? I doubt if you’ll find anything of importance there, Mr. Jackson.”
“Call me J.W. I’d like to look at it anyway. I was only there once and may have missed something.”
“It seems very possible that you might,” she said, “but I assure you that Thornberry Security did not.”
“Come with me,” I said. “You can guard the house from me and I can prove to you that I can walk and talk at the same time. You can get away from these papers for a while. Do you good.”
It was not a bad ploy. Who doesn’t want an excuse to get away from a table covered with papers?
She hesitated, then nodded. “All right, Mr. Jackson.”
“Great,” I said, taking her arm. “You and me and the master bedroom. Sounds like a terrific combination.”
She shook my hand away. “I haven’t much time for you either professionally or personally, Mr. Jackson.”
“Call me J.W.,” I said and took her arm again. She shook her arm less vigorously and gave a sort of annoyed snort. But I hung on and smiled down at her, and after a moment she relaxed. Together we walked out of the library.
16
A man came in as we went out. He was firm of step and purposeful. A Thornberry man, apparently. One of Helga Johanson’s underlings, in that case. He looked slightly askance at her arm tucked in mine, but said not
hing.
She gave him a stony look as I walked her past him. “We’ll be in the . . . we’ll be upstairs for a few minutes, George. The list you want is on the big desk.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said George.
We went up the grand staircase. She gestured down a hallway. “The Padishah and his people are there. That is to say, they are occupying that wing of this floor. At the moment I believe they’re all in Washington, except for Colonel Nagy.”
“Is the Colonel out checking up on the SDL?”
“What do you know about the SDL?” she asked sharply.
We were walking down a hall leading away from the Padishah’s wing.
“Only what I heard from your boss and from Jasper Cabot.” I told her what Cabot had said. “My master plan is to try to track one or two local Sarofimian types down and ask them some questions.”
“The police are doing that now,” she said. “You’re probably just wasting your energy.”
I smiled down at her. “I’ll save some for the really important things. What’s your theory about the missing necklace?”
“Thornberry Security prefers to work from facts, Mr. Jackson, not theories.”
“Call me J.W.”
“Oh, very well . . .”
“Good. I have a couple of ideas, Helga. Want to hear them? They’re not much, but they’re what I’ve got.”
“I don’t expect them to be much, Mr. . . . J.W., but I suspect I’m going to hear them whether I want to or not.”
We came to the master bedroom and went in. The room was as I remembered it. The wandering Damon’s dusty weapon collection was still hanging on the walls. I peeked into the adjoining bathroom. I didn’t find the missing necklace lying in the middle of its floor.
“Naturally you’ve searched the house thoroughly.”
“Naturally. Water closets and all. You were going to tell me your ideas.”
“Well, I figure there are a lot of ways the necklace could have been stolen. First, of course, it might have been stolen before it even got here. Willard Blunt is the obvious suspect since he’s been in charge of the necklaces for decades and afterwards apparently shot himself on the beach. Guilt, shame, and all that. Maybe he bought off Dr. What’s-his-name of the Sarofimian National Museum to just say he put the necklace in the safe. Or, second, maybe Blunt could have stolen it from the safe between the time Dr. What’s-his-name put the necklace in there and the night of the party. Who’d have suspected him? Trustworthy old New England lawyer and all that. Maybe he just carried it out in his pocket. Did anybody search him? I don’t know. Third, still on old Willard’s case, maybe he passed them to a crony from here in this room. What do you think so far?”
“Naturally we have considered all of those possibilities, Mr. . . . J.W. However, Mr. Blunt insisted on being searched that night and the guards on the tower also were searched and nothing was found. No one else could have gotten in there, unless, of course, you assume that someone in a rather complex conspiracy bribed all of our guards or came across the roofs and escaped the same way . . .”
“I’m willing to consider those possibilities. On the other hand, there are a couple of better ways to get the necklace to some cohort.” I gestured. “That slingshot. Open one of these windows and wrap the necklace in, say, a handkerchief, and the right man could throw it clear over the far wall. Or if he was an archer he could have tied the necklace to an arrow and shot it off quite a ways. Remember the commotion at the dock and the fireworks. Which way do you think the guards out on the balcony were looking while all that was going on? Open a window behind them and they’d never have noticed it. Do you know how many arrows there were before the theft? Did you count them afterwards?”
“No. That’s nonsensical anyhow. Look at these old bows. They’d snap if they were used.”
“You an archer?”
“No.”
“Neither am I. Was Willard Blunt?”
“I don’t know.”
“Could old Willard use a slingshot? He might have been a pretty handy sort of guy.”
“I don’t think it makes any difference. Mr. Blunt’s reputation was impeccable and he had no motive.”
The best embezzlers almost always have impeccable reputations. “Maybe old Willard had some motive you don’t know about. Maybe he needed the money.”
“Willard Blunt left a considerable estate. I assure you he had no need of money.”
“Maybe he wanted to impress a lady friend.”
“Please.”
“Okay. He worked for Stonehouse, Chute, Cabot, and Adams. Maybe somebody in that outfit took it and somehow conned old Willard. Maybe Jasper Cabot did it.”
“I believe that the owners and employees of Stonehouse, Chute, Cabot, and Adams are above suspicion. But inquiries are being made, of course . . .”
“Ah, that’s why Thornberry isn’t here. He’s in Boston where the real action is.”
She colored slightly. “There’s plenty of action here, I assure you. We and the police are investigating the case thoroughly.”
“Maybe one of the guards up here that night, or both of them, pulled the theft. Got inside and lifted the ice. Maybe Willard slipped him the combination of the safe . . .”
“You’re really something. You can’t get Mr. Blunt out of your head.”
“Yes I can. I can think of several other people. How about the Padishah or one of his cronies? Or how about the SDL? Or how about you, for that matter.”
She actually smiled a real smile. “You really are a cop, aren’t you? You suspect everybody.”
“Or nobody. It amounts to the same thing. You have to be careful about suspecting particular people too much; it can make you overlook other people. Now, Helga, you know my most secret thoughts on the matter, so tell me yours.”
“Are you through up here? Let’s go down, then. I do have work to do.”
“Here you have me at your mercy in the master bedroom and you want to leave? What kind of a seductress are you, anyway.”
“My God!”
“All right, all right. We’ll walk and you can talk. Sheesh . . .”
We walked and she talked. “We’re running checks on everybody who came to the party. That will take time. So far we have nothing. We’re also checking the help who came in for that night. The caterers, maids, and so forth. Most of them are island people who never got above the ground floor. There were maids upstairs, but no one was allowed in the hall to the master bedroom. I don’t expect to find the jewel thief among them, although we may re-cover a few pieces of silverware. We’re also working the hotels and restuarants to find out if there are any Sarofimians employed there, our assumption being that any such people might be SDL members.” She touched her yellow hair and looked up at me. “Jason is in Boston, as you know, and the police are working on Blunt’s suicide. You can talk to them about that.”
“You think the theft and the suicide are tied together.”
“For the moment. Of course they could be unrelated incidents, but the coincidence seems too great. Willard Blunt was a key figure in the theft and now he’s dead. A suspicious guy like you shouldn’t have any trouble tying the two things together.”
No trouble at all. “ ‘Once is happenstance, twice is coincidence, three times is enemy action,’ ” I said, wondering if I was quoting or misquoting and suddenly thinking of Zee’s abduction as I did. Suicide, theft, kidnapping. Three crimes close together in time and space. Hmmmmm. “Do you have any leads?” I asked. “Any evidence I should know about?”
“You mean a clue, like in detective stories?” She seemed to be warming a bit.
“That’s the word. I’m Theseus and you’re Ariadne. Give me the clue.”
“I know that one,” she said. “As I recall, all she got for her efforts was being abandoned on Naxos.”
“Your fate will be a kinder one,” I said. “You can be abandoned on Martha’s Vineyard.”
“Abandoned is abandoned.”
“And a clue
is a clue. Do you have one?”
“Well, not really. Not yet. I think the guards upstairs that night are clean. They’ve been with the firm for a long time and they’ve been totally reliable. They say nobody else got into the room . . .”
“So Blunt didn’t do it and nobody else did it either. And then Blunt shot himself. Do you know why?”
“You’ll have to ask someone else about that.”
“I will. Where shall I start?”
She waved a graceful hand in the general direction of Edgartown. “Out there. Talk to the police. The local guys and the state guys and the feds. We’re all cooperating with one another.”
“And with me, of course.”
“Of course.” We had arrived back at the library. George was at a table, talking into a telephone. Helga Johanson paused and looked at her fingernails. I looked too. They seemed all right to me. “Maybe we could discuss this further over dinner sometime,” she said.
“Do you see yourself as the hostess or the guest?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“If you’re the hostess, I know some terrific expensive places to eat. If you’re the guest, it’ll be pizza and beer.”
She touched my chest with one of the fingernails she had just been examining. “It’ll be on Thornberry Security. Business expense. Choose someplace where they won’t let you in in those clothes.”
“The tux was rented,” I said. “This is the real me.”
She smiled and shrugged. “Okay, pizza and beer it is. When?”
“On the other hand,” I said, “I do own some red pants and a tie with little whales on it, so I can get into most places.”
“Great. Wear your tie. When?”
“How about tomorrow night? Maybe by then I’ll know something about this case and you’ll feel more moral about charging the meal to the firm.”
‘Don’t worry about my morals. You just tend your own. What time?”
“I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“Seven it is.” She tapped that fingernail on my chest, turned, and walked to her desk. She had a nice shape. And blue was definitely her color.
