Castle Murders

by John Dechancie

  “Well, now. Since I’ve recalled this, several possibilities have come to mind.”

  “Such as?”

  “The obvious.”

  Tyrene nodded. “A thrown knife, perhaps?”

  “Yes. Even though a stiletto isn’t a good throwing knife, the thought did occur to me, yes.”

  “A stiletto is not a good throwing knife at all. But I suppose we must consider the possibility that it was thrown. Did you see anyone in a position to throw it?”

  Trent looked to his right. “That hedge is man-high. Someone could have stepped out from behind there and done it.”

  Tyrene looked. “Yes. Possibly.”

  “Well, there you are. That’s what happened.”

  Tyrene looked doubtful. “Why would the murderer take such a risk?”

  “Unless he were an exceptional knife thrower.”

  “Ah. And do you have such a person in mind?”

  “Tyrene, I’m rather hesitant about casting suspicions on anyone. Besides, I think you know who I’m thinking of.”

  “My apologies, Y.R.H. I just wanted to hear someone else vocalize it. Yes, I have someone in mind. But I have a problem. Why would the murderer choose to throw while you were in the way?”

  “I may have been the target,” Trent said.

  “I suppose we cannot rule that out.”

  “Or he simply might not have seen me. I may have walked into his blind spot.”

  “Also possible. But if it was this certain person I have in mind, only the second reason would apply, since the man is an old friend of yours.”

  “Damik,” Trent said. “Yes, he and I go way back. Damn it, Tyrene, I said I didn’t want to compromise anyone.”

  “I have no reason at the moment for believing that the count was the culprit. His being an excellent bladesman does not instantly bring him under suspicion. There are many such among the inhabitants of Perilous and its environs.”

  “I’m glad you realize that, because Damik’s no murderer.”

  “There is no reason in all the universes to imagine that he is. In fact, I believe he was a friend to the viscount as well.”

  “No accounting for taste.”

  Tyrene looked at the trampled grass. “Yes. Well. I’m very grateful to you for this interview, sir.”

  “Only too glad to help.”

  Tyrene looked back toward the portal. “Here be the horses.” He heaved a sigh. “And now, it devolves to me to inform these gentle lords and ladies, every Jack and Jane of them my better, that they’re all going to spend the night in the lockup. Gods have mercy.”

  Tyrene moped off.

  “Where is this castle?” Thaxton asked.

  “Just follow the sun down to the sea,” Trent said. “There’s a bridle path that runs by on the other side of the pond. Takes you right there.”

  “What say, Dalton, old boy? Ready to walk it? It’s only five miles.”

  “Oh, I suppose I’m up to it. I’m not much of a horseback rider.”

  “I’d join you gentlemen,” Trent said, “but I’m waiting for my wife. I sent word to her, and she sent back that she was coming, hell or high water notwithstanding.”

  “Are you going to take Sheila to Peele?” Dalton asked.

  “If she wants to come. I don’t give a damn what anyone thinks.”

  “Well, I suppose we’ll see you both there,” Dalton said. “Later.”

  “Wouldn’t miss the fun.”

  The two erstwhile golfers circled the pond, in which grew a profusion of pretty water plants. On the other side they found the bridle path winding through hedges and thickets of forsythia. Here and there were lilac trees, all blooming in endless shades of lavender.

  “How do you suppose they get horses up into the castle?” Dalton asked.

  “Freight lift?”

  “Have you ever seen a freight lift in the castle?”

  “Can’t say as I ever did, but that, as you well know, means nothing.”

  “Right. More important,” Dalton said, “do you think Trent is still as hotheaded as he was reputed to be in his youth?”

  “Which was about two hundred years ago,” Thaxton pointed out. “Who knows? Don’t know Trent very well. He and Sheila don’t come out of their island paradise much.”

  “Myself, I’ve never found him to be anything but the soul of civility. But castle legend has it that he once challenged Incarnadine for the throne.”

  “I’ve heard that. But that’s all patched up, isn’t it? Besides, what’s it got to do with Trent’s being a likely candidate for the viscount’s killer? That is what you’re insinuating, isn’t it?”

  “Yup,” Dalton said. “He could have thrown the dagger, or simply slipped it in as he passed.”

  “Odd way to do someone in, that,” Thaxton ruminated. “En passant, at a picnic, with people around.”

  Dalton said, “And all because the guy made a pass at his wife.”

  “Unless …”

  “Hm?”

  “Unless,” Thaxton said, “there’s something more to it. Something more to the pass, that is.”

  “You mean Sheila … and the viscount were —?”

  “Well, that sounds unlikely. We both know Sheila. But we don’t know the circumstances of the alleged incident. ‘Long bomb into the end zone.’ If I know my American rugby that’s serious business. Suppose it were more or less a rape?”

  “Okay, I see what you’re driving at, but we don’t know what happened, and I don’t see how we could find out. Trent is certainly not going to elaborate.”

  “Yes. But ‘sexual assault’ is a tad bit more serious than a pass, isn’t it?”

  “I would have to agree,” Dalton said, smelling the lilac.

  Chapter Eleven

  Necropolis

  It was dark in the alley behind the Pelican Club, a single bare bulb glowing above the back door of the oriental restaurant next door. Kitchen fans blew food smells to blend with the reek of garbage. A rat skittered across the broken concrete of the pavement, stopped to sniff at an oily puddle, moved on.

  Carney and Velma waited in the shadows, her hand on his arm. He was in topcoat and hat, she hatless in a dark seal coat. It was chilly, but there was no wind.

  A car made the turn into the alley and approached. It was a long cream-colored sedan with flaring fenders, a continental kit on the driver’s side, white tires, and a big front grille of gleaming chrome. The radiator cap was topped with a winged Nike.

  The car pulled up behind the nightclub. Montanaro was at the wheel. Carney ushered Velma into the front seat and got in, closed the door.

  “So, boss,” Tony said, “where to?”

  “Velma’s place. Tell him where you live, Velma.”

  “The Tweeleries.”

  Tony grinned. “Boss, you either have some powerful mumbo jumbo workin’ for you tonight, or you’ve gone nuts.”

  “Neither. But I figure the straightforward approach is best.”

  “You’re just going to call him out, or what?”

  “Actually, just going to call on him. Tweel likes to talk.”

  “He likes to do the talking. Boss, I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “No, but it’s inevitable. Something’s up, and I’ve got to find out what — what his game is. What’s eating him, maybe. Do you know, Velma?”

  “Clare doesn’t have anything eating him,” she said. “He’s an eater. He feeds.”

  “It’s a rough universe.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” she said, pulling out a cigarette. “Can I smoke?”

  “Sure,” Tony said, as he slid the ashtray out of the dashboard. “This baby has everything.” He took the cigarette lighter out of the dash, flicked it. Flame danced, limning her rouged cheeks, her glistening red lips. She puffed. He put the lighter back and closed the door to its tiny receptacle.

  She inhaled deeply, then let it out. Smoke billowed against the windshield. “Yeah, it’s rough. There are the eaters, and those that get eaten. C
lare’s an eater.” She looked at Carney. “You are, too.”

  “How about me, babe?” Tony wanted to know.

  “You’re dumb, but cute.”

  “Let’s see if I have this straight now,” Carney said. “There are bastards and simps, and the consumers and the consumed. Have I got it all now?”

  “You got it.”

  “Where do you fit in?”

  “I just swim along with the current. Just swim along.”

  “Okay, now you have a marine metaphor going. Big fish, little fish.”

  “Big fish with big teeth, little fish with suckers. That’s pretty much it.”

  They pulled out onto Whiteway Boulevard, merging with the stream of late-night traffic. Crowds were just getting out of the darkening theaters, couples arm-in-arm on the sidewalks, still laughing at the gag lines, humming the tunes, occasionally pausing to window-shop. Drunks threaded in and out of the milling throngs. Beyond the canyon walls the many-footed city murmured in the neon night-mist, a monster stirring in its sleep

  “They gotta be tailin’ us,” Tony said.

  Carney gave a look back. “Don’t see anything yet.”

  “Wait till we turn off. Boss, this is gonna be suicide. One, they’re gonna try to zotz us before we cross the river; two, if we do get into Hellgate, we get wasted before we drive a block; three, say you do get to the Tweeleries. They either let you have it at the check station, or they take you in and do it, maybe for Tweel to watch.”

  “Drive to Manny’s Garage first,” Carney said.

  Tony nodded slowly, then smiled. “I gotcha. Change cars, huh?” The smile faded. “But they’ll just wait for us to come out.”

  “You drive in, drop me off. You take the new car and drive out with Velma. They won’t follow you. I’ll slip through the celebrity duck-out hole into Lucky’s basement. I’ll go up into the restaurant and out the front door. You pick me up there.”

  “That’s great, boss.”

  “Nobody but Lucky and his celeb customers know about the hole. And Manny. And me, since I own half the joint. And Manny’s employees.” Carney chuckled. “Now that I think of it, it’s not such a big secret. Still, it should work.”

  “It’s a little risky, but I like it,” Tony said. He shrugged. “Hey, you gotta take a shot, you know what I’m sayin’?”

  “You pays your money and you falls on your face.”

  Tony laughed. “Yeah, that’s exactly what we’re gonna do if they tail me, maybe thinkin’ you’re hidin’ in the trunk or some stunt like that.”

  “If they do split up to tail you, what you do is —”

  “Hey, boss, whaddya think, I’m some kinda mamaluke? If they tail me, I drive around until they get sick of it. I lose ’em and then I come back for you.”

  “Hey, you gotta some brains.”

  Tony cackled, then checked the rearview window. “Hell, I see ’em already. That’s Seamus Riordan’s Durant Roadmaster. I can tell by the grille.”

  “Seamus got first crack,” Carney said. “But he won’t have time.”

  Tony turned right onto 43rd Street and went half a block before turning into a steep ramp under a sign that read MIDTOWN PARKING.

  Down in the garage, Carney got out near the glassed-in office.

  “Park it. Get the new car and get over there as fast as you can. If you’re delayed, when you pull up in front of Lucky’s, blink your lights. The doorman will let me know, so I don’t have to stand out there waiting and maybe get spotted. Got it?”

  “Got it, boss.”

  “Manny will take care of you, or whoever’s on tonight.”

  “Check.”

  He closed the door and went into the office. The night manager was Billy Pinsk. Carney ordered a nondescript rental car.

  “Got just what you need, Mr. Carney. A Leland sedan, gray, no flashy stuff.”

  “Tony Montanaro’s out there. You fix him up. Right now I need you to let me through to Lucky’s.”

  “Door’s unlocked, Mr. Carney. Always. You know where it is?”

  “That door back there and to the right?”

  “That’s it, Mr. Carney. Straight to the end of the corridor, you can’t miss it.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  “Dark back there, Mr. Carney. Watch your step.”

  “Right.”

  He walked to the back of the garage, opened the steel door, and stepped through. It was quiet on the other side. He turned right and proceeded through gloom until he came to another door. It was ajar. He went through and followed a short corridor, came out among boilers and pipes, weaved through and around, then mounted a wooden staircase.

  He pushed open the door at the top and let himself into Lucky’s kitchen. It was big, full of men in white aprons and hats working furiously at counter and stove. Steam mushroomed to the ceiling. The odor of chopped onions stood out among myriad others.

  Nobody gave him a look as he walked through. He thumped through swinging doors and passed the men’s room. He gave a fleeting thought to relieving his bladder pro forma, not really needing to, giving Tony a little time. But he was anxious and in a hurry.

  He went to the front door by way of the smaller of the restaurant’s two rooms, not seeing anybody he knew.

  Outside, he looked up and down the street. No Tony. The doorman asked if he needed a cab, and he shook his head. He stepped back under the sidewalk canopy and gave it three minutes, looking for signs of Tony’s Leland or Riordan’s Durant.

  Neither showed. He beckoned to the doorman, spoke his instructions, and handed the man a fiver.

  “Sure thing, Mr. Carney.”

  “Just let Alphonse know. I’ll be at my table.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Inside, after he had checked his hat and coat, Alphonse greeted him with a smile.

  “Your table, Mr. Carney?”

  “Yes. I probably won’t be staying long. Just enough for a drink.”

  “Anything you say, Mr. Carney.”

  A waiter showed him across the main floor. On the way he saw a table occupied by the Bakunin triplets — Grumpo, Cisco, and Heppo — and two chorines, all in for a late bite after another performance of their long-running hit musical comedy, Have I Gotta Deal For You! He detoured over.

  Cisco took his nose out of a racing form to say, “Johnnie, sweetheart.” It was always a little disconcerting to hear his normal voice, untainted by the put-on Latin accent of his stage and screen character. “Hey, what do you say?”

  Grumpo smiled his lizard smile. “Killed anybody recently?”

  “Nobody. Haven’t zotzed a soul since, oh, it’ll be a year come Michaelmas.”

  “Well, that’s disappointing. Next thing you know you’ll be taking stray kittens home.”

  Heppo’s childlike grin was as wide as the bald strip that ran from his forehead almost to the back of his neck. Without his wig and makeup he looked like a garment maven or a bookkeeper, anything but the brilliant comedian he was. “Hi, John,” he said. “Haven’t seen you in for lunch at the Penobscot lately.”

  “Crossing foils with that Penobscot Forum crowd is tiring. I can’t stay up late writing ad libs.”

  “How do you think I feel sometimes,” Heppo said, “mixing with the literati? Me with an eighth-grade education.”

  “They like you, Heppo.”

  “Dara Porter says I’m a rhinestone in the rough.”

  “She knows her gems.”

  “Rhinestones are a girl’s best friend,” Grumpo said.

  “Me, I’ll take the money,” Cisco said. “What do you think, John? I got a tip on a twenty-to-one long shot, a two-year-old filly in the fifth at Via Appia tomorrow. She has a terrible track record, but I got the word in training-runs she clocks like the wind. Crazy? or should I bet my wad?”

  Carney thought about it “Yeah, it’s only a matter of time before she overcomes her skittishness. Put it all down to win, Cisco.”

  “Hey, I will. Thanks.”

  Carney said, “Gru
mpo, how’s the new show coming?”

  “Lousy.”

  “What, with book by Geoff Katzman and music by Ira Bremen?”

  “It’s going to cost a fortune to stage, which means they’re not going to offer us any more money than we’re getting now. And I just bought a house. I need a raise.”

  “Didn’t you just film Have I Gotta Deal?”

  “Yeah, but I already spent that money on the down payment.”

  “Must be a terrific house.”

  “It was a steal. They stole my money.”

  “John, have a seat,” Heppo said.

  “Actually, I’m just waiting for my driver. He must have gotten a flat or something. He’s late.”

  “Well, you got time for a drink, then. Sit down.”

  Carney dismissed the waiter and pulled up a chair. The two chorines smiled at him and he grinned back amiably.

  “Hear you’ve been having trouble recently,” Grumpo said.

  “Nah, just a little misunderstanding,” Carney said.

  “The Daily Times is billing it as the biggest gang war Necropolis has ever seen. Pictures and everything. It wasn’t pretty.”

  “I don’t imagine. Still, they’re blowing it all out of proportion, as usual.”

  “Yeah, they have the box office to think of, too,” Grumpo said, phlegmatically munching the end of his cigar.

  “Strange things are happening,” Cisco said. “I got a friend in the mayor’s office says they haven’t seen him for two days.”

  “Who?” Carney said. “The mayor?”

  “Yeah. Nobody knows where His Honor is. They got no message from him, nothing. The papers are sitting on the story.”

  “Interesting. But he’s probably down in Palm Coast again with the phone off the hook.”

  “A reporter I know says he’s at the Tweeleries. On ice.”

  “He and Clare are buddies. Or were.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t think this is friendly.”

  Food arrived, stacks of sandwiches and piles of cole slaw. Carney ordered a drink, and it came with lightning speed.

  “You want half my sandwich?” Heppo offered. “I can never finish these.”

  “No, thanks, Hep.” Carney looked at his watch. “I can’t imagine where my driver got to.”

  “You need a lift?” Cisco asked.