We sat in padded captain’s chairs at an oak dining table tucked into one corner of the living room. I sampled the wine, and it was just right.
“Who goes first?” Al asked.
“You start,” I said. “My amazing revelations can wait.”
He got up to fetch his notebook. He was wearing tan jeans and a T-shirt. He was unshod but his meaty feet were stuffed into white athletic socks. I noticed he was getting a belly, not gross but nascent. Most cops don’t eat very well. They think a balanced diet is an anchovy pizza and a can of Dr Pepper.
“Okay,” the sergeant said, hunching over his notebook, “here’s what I got from Atlanta. Those people the Glorianas named as references just don’t exist at the addresses given. The Atlanta bank they named was a savings and loan that folded three years ago.”
“Beautiful,” I said.
“Then I got through to a detective in the Atlanta PD who knew all about the Glorianas. Jerry Weingarter. A nice guy. He’s a cigar smoker, like me. He was a big help so maybe I’ll send him a box of the best.”
“McNally and Son will pick up the tab,” I said.
Al grinned. “That’s what I figured,” he said. “Anyway, this Weingarter told me that Irma Gloriana and her husband were—”
“Whoa,” I said, holding up a hand. “You mean Irma is married?”
He looked at me. “Sure she’s married. What did you think?”
“I didn’t know what to think,” I said honestly. “Is her husband still living?”
“He was about six months ago when he got out of the clink. His name is Otto. Otto Gloriana. Got a nice sound to it, doesn’t it? Drink your wine; there’s another bottle cooling. Irma and Otto were running what my dear old granddaddy used to call a house of ill repute. It wasn’t a sleazy crib; the Glorianas had a high-class joint. All their girls were young and beautiful. The Johns paid anywhere from a hundred to five hundred, depending on what they wanted. Irma was the madam, Otto the business manager. They had been in business four or five years and had a nice thing going with a well-heeled clientele of uppercrust citizens. The law got on to it when one of their girls OD’d on heroin.”
I finished my glass of wine and poured myself another. “A pretty picture,” I said. “And what part did the son, Frank, play in all this?”
“He was like a bouncer, providing muscle if any of the Johns got out of line.”
“And Hertha?”
“Apparently she had no connection with the cat-house. Weingarter says she had her own racket, doing what she does now: holding séances and doing horoscopes. He also said she’s a crackerjack psychic. Once she helped the Atlanta cops find a lost kid. Weingarter doesn’t know how she did it, but the lead she gave them was right on the money.”
He paused to refill his glass, and I had a moment to reflect on what he had told me. I think I was more saddened than shocked.
“What happened after the cops closed them down?” I asked.
“Otto cut a deal. He’d take the rap if his wife and son got suspended sentences and promised to leave town.”
“Very noble of Otto,” I said. “How long did he get?”
“He drew three-to-five, did a year and a half, and was released about six months ago. No probation. Present whereabouts unknown.”
I gazed up at the ceiling fans. “Al,” I said, almost dreamily, “do you have a physical description of Otto?”
“Yeah,” he said, flipping pages of his notebook, “I’ve got it somewhere. Here it is. He’s—”
I interrupted him. “He’s tall,” I said. “Reddish hair. Broad-shouldered. Very well-dressed in a conservative way. About sixty-five or so.”
The sergeant stared at me. “What the hell,” he said hoarsely. “You been taking psychic lessons from Hertha or something?”
“Did I get it right?” I asked.
“You got it right,” he acknowledged. “Now tell me how.”
“He’s down here,” I said. “Using the name Charles Girard.”
Then I gave Rogoff an account of how I figured Peaches might get sick, how the catnappers would seek medical help, how I canvassed emergency animal hospitals with a flapdoodle story, how I finally found a veterinarian who remembered treating Peaches and gave me the name and address of the man who brought her in.
Al looked at me and shook his head in wonderment. “You know,” he said, “you have the testicles of a brazen simian. You also have more luck than you deserve. Where is Otto living?”
“In a fleabag motel on Federal Highway. But I haven’t told you the punch line, Al. I went out there this morning to pay a visit to Charles Girard, or, if he wasn’t present, to see if Peaches was on the premises and could be rescued. But I took one look and departed forthwith. Roderick Gillsworth’s gray Bentley was parked outside Otto’s cabin.”
The sergeant stared and slowly his face changed. I thought I saw vindictiveness there and perhaps malevolence.
“Gillsworth,” he repeated, and it was almost a hiss. “I knew that—”
But I wasn’t fated to learn what it was the sergeant knew, for the phone rang at that instant, startlingly loud.
Al waited until the third ring, then hauled himself to his feet. “I’ll take it on the bedroom extension,” he said.
He went inside and closed the door. I wasn’t offended. If it was official business, he had every right to his privacy. And if it was that schoolteacher he dated occasionally, he had every right to his privacy.
He seemed to be in there a long time, long enough for me to finish what was left of the cabernet. Finally he came out. He had pulled on a pair of scuffed Reeboks, the laces flapping, and a khaki nylon jacket. He was affixing his badge to the epaulette of the jacket. After he did that, he took his gun-belt with all its accoutrements from a closet shelf and buckled it about his waist with some difficulty.
Then he looked at me. I could read absolutely nothing in his expression, because there wasn’t one; his face was stone.
“There was a fire at Roderick Gillsworth’s place,” he reported tonelessly. “A grease fire in the kitchen. The neighbors spotted it. The firemen had to break down the door to get in. They put out the fire and went looking for Gillsworth. They found him in the bathtub. His wrists were slit.”
I gulped. “Dead?” I asked, hearing the quaver in my own voice.
“Very,” Al said.
“Can I come with you?”
“No,” he said. “You’d just have to wait outside. I’ll phone you as soon as I learn more.”
“Al, there’s something else I’ve got to tell you,” I said desperately.
“It’ll have to wait. Go home, Archy. You better tell your father about this.”
“Yes,” I said. “Thanks for the wine.”
“What?” he said. “Oh. Yeah.”
We both went outside and paused while Al locked up. Then he got in his pickup and took off. I stayed right there, smoking a cigarette and looking up at the star-spangled sky. Another spirit had passed over. Another ghost. It had never occurred to me before that the living were a minority.
Chapter 12
THE DOOR TO MY father’s study was open. He was seated at his desk working on a stack of correspondence brought home from the office. He looked up when I entered.
“I’m busy, Archy,” he said irritably.
“Yes, sir,” I said, “but I have news I think you should hear immediately. Not good news.”
He sighed and tossed down his pen. “It’s been that kind of day,” he said. “Very well, what is it?”
I repeated what Al Rogoff had told me and, like the sergeant’s, his face became stone.
“Yes,” he said in a quiet voice, “I heard the fire engines go by earlier this evening. The man has definitely expired?”
“According to Rogoff. He promised to phone me when he learns more about it.”
“Does the sergeant believe it was suicide?”
“He didn’t say, father.”
“Do you think it was?”
“No, sir,” I said, and told him of my early morning meeting with the poet. “He seemed very up, as if he was happy Lydia’s funeral was over and he could get on with his life. He said he had some errands to do today, shopping and so forth. A man planning suicide doesn’t go to a supermarket first, does he?”
“He was sober, I presume.”
“As far as I could tell. He did offer me an eye-opener but in a joking way. Yes, I’d say he was completely sober.”
My father drew a deep breath. “And now all my fears come true. As things stand, he leaves all his worldly goods, except for his original manuscripts, to a wife who predeceased him. As far as I know, he has no immediate survivors.”
“None?” I said, shocked. “Siblings? Cousins? Aunts? Uncles? No one at all?”
“Not to my knowledge. Would you pour us a port, please, Archy. I believe we both could use it.”
I did the honors, and the sire gestured me to the armchair alongside his desk. He sipped his wine thoughtfully.
“If an investigation proves I am correct and he had no survivors, then I imagine Lydia’s aunt and cousins will have a claim on the bulk of her estate inherited by Roderick.”
“A mess,” I offered.
“Yes,” he said, “it is that.” Suddenly he was angered. “Why the devil the idiot didn’t make out a new will immediately after his wife’s death I’ll never know.”
“You tried to persuade him, father,” I said, hoping to mollify him.
“I should have been more insistent,” he said, and I realized his fury was directed as much at himself as at Gillsworth.
“You couldn’t have anticipated what happened,” I pointed out.
“I should have,” he said, refusing to be assuaged. “I learned long ago that in legal matters it’s necessary always to prepare for a worst-case scenario. This time I neglected to do that, and the worst happened. You say Sergeant Rogoff will call you when he learns the details of Roderick’s death?”
“He said he would.”
“Please let me know as soon as you hear from him.”
“It may be very late, father. After midnight.”
“Then wake me up,” he said sharply. “Is that understood?”
“Yes, sir,” I said, drained my glass of port, and left him alone with his anger. The old man likes things tidy, and this affair was anything but.
I went upstairs but I didn’t undress, figuring it was possible Al might want to meet me somewhere else. I sat in my swivel chair, put my feet up on the desk, and tried to make some sense, any sense, out of Gillsworth’s death.
Despite the corpse’s slit wrists, no one was going to convince me the poet was a suicide. If I tell you why I refused to accept that, you’ll think me an ass, but it’s how my mind works: I could never believe that a man with the joie de vivre to wear a Lilly Pulitzer sport jacket in the morning could kill himself in the evening. Unless, of course, he had suffered a cataclysmic defeat during the day, and so far there was no evidence of that.
Do you recall my mentioning that I had a vaporish notion of what had gone down and was still going down? It was so vague that I couldn’t put it into words. But now Gillsworth’s death made a difference. I’m not saying all the mists had cleared, but I began to see a dim outline that had shape if not substance.
I obviously dozed off because when the phone rang I discovered my head was down on the desktop, cradled in my forearms. I roused and glanced at my Mickey Mouse watch: almost two-thirty A.M.
“Rogoff,” he said. “Why should you be sleeping when I’m not?”
“You still at Gillsworth’s house, Al?”
“Still here. If I take a breather and run up to your place, do you think you could buy me a cup of coffee?”
“You bet. How about a sandwich?”
“Nope, but thanks. Just the coffee, hot and black. I won’t stay long.”
I went down to my parents’ bedroom and knocked softly. Father opened the door so quickly that I guessed he hadn’t been sleeping, even though he was wearing Irish linen pajamas: long-sleeved jacket and drawstring pants.
“The sergeant called,” I said in a low voice, hoping not to disturb mother. “He’s coming for a cup of coffee.”
“May I join you?” the pater asked.
That was so like him. I mean it was his home, he was the boss, he could have said, “I’ll join you.” But he had to couch it as a polite request to sustain his image of himself as a courtly gentleman. He’s something, he is.
“Of course,” I said. “Decaf for you?”
He nodded and I went on down to the kitchen. I put the kettle on and set out three cups and saucers, cream and sugar, spoons. In less than ten minutes I heard tires on our graveled turnaround and looked out the window to see Rogoff’s pickup.
He came in a moment later, looking weary and defeated. He collapsed onto one of the chairs without saying a word. He put a heaping teaspoon of regular instant into his cup and I poured boiling water over it.
Then my father came in. He had changed to slacks, open-necked shirt, an old cardigan, and older carpet slippers. The sergeant stood up when he entered. I admired him for that. The two men shook hands, wordlessly, and we all sat down. Father and I had instant decaf with cream, no sugar.
“He is dead, sergeant?” the senior asked.
“No doubt about that, sir,” Rogoff said. “The exact cause will have to wait for the autopsy. I’m no medic, but I’d say it was loss of blood that finished him.”
“Exsanguination,” I remarked.
Al looked at me. “Thank you, Mr. Webster,” he said. “Well, there was enough of it in the tub.”
“How do you interpret it?” father asked.
“I don’t,” Rogoff said. “Not yet. There are too many questions and not enough answers. Let me set the scene for you. The people next door were having a barbecue on their patio. One of the guests spotted flames behind the window of Gillsworth’s kitchen. The men ran over there but the back door was locked. Meanwhile the women called nine-one-one. When the firemen arrived, they had to break down the back door. It was locked, bolted, and chained. They also broke through the front door of the house. That was closed with a spring lock but not bolted or chained.
He paused to blow on his coffee and then sipped cautiously. It wasn’t too hot for him, and he took a deep gulp. Father and I sampled ours.
“That’s significant,” I said. “Don’t you think? The front door on a spring lock but not bolted or chained?”
“Maybe,” Rogoff said. “Maybe not. Anyway it wasn’t much of a fire. There was a big frying pan on the range. The pan had grease in it—butter or oil, it hasn’t been determined yet. But it caught fire and spattered, igniting the curtains and cafe drapes. The range coil was still on High when the firemen got there.”
“Then he was preparing dinner,” my father said, a statement not a question.
“It sure looked like it, sir. There was a plate of six big crab cakes on the countertop, ready for frying. And in the fridge was a huge bowl of salad, already mixed.”
“Any booze?” I asked.
“Yeah, an open liter of gin on the countertop, about two slugs gone. Also a highball glass still half-full. Looked like a gin and tonic. It had a slice of lime in it. And there was a six-pack of quinine water in the cabinet under the sink. One of the bottles was half-empty.”
I shook my head. “That doesn’t compute. A man is making dinner. He has a drink, mixes a salad. He gets ready to sauté his crab cakes. Then he decides to slit his wrists instead. Do you buy that, Al?”
“Right now I’m not buying anything. Could I have another cup of coffee? I’m not going to get any sleep tonight anyway.”
I fixed him another regular and another decaf for myself after my father put his palm over his cup.
“Please continue, sergeant,” he said. “How was Gillsworth found?”
“The firemen figured things didn’t look kosher and went searching for him. They found him in the tub of the downstairs bath
room, the one next to his den. He was fully clothed. There was a bloody single-edge razor blade on the bath mat alongside the tub. Both his wrists were slashed.”
“Both?” I said. “If you slit one wrist, do you then have enough strength in that hand to grip a razor blade and slit the other wrist?”
“Don’t ask me,” Rogoff said. “I’ve never tried it. We’re going to need a forensic pathologist on this one.”
“Did the body show any other wounds?” father asked.
The sergeant looked at him admiringly. “Yes, sir, it did,” he said. “On the back of the head, high up. The hair was matted with blood. But after he slashed his wrists he could have slipped down in the tub and cracked his head on the rim. In fact, there’s a bloody mark on the rim that looks like he did exactly that. It’s one of the questions the ME will have to answer.”
“What’s your guess, Al?” I said. “Suicide or homicide? I’m not asking what you’re absolutely certain about, but what’s your guess?”
He hesitated for just a brief instant, then he said, “Homicide.”
“Of course!” I said triumphantly. “No one is going to slit his wrists in the middle of preparing dinner—unless he finds worms in the crab cakes.”
“That’s not my main reason for calling it homicide,” Rogoff said. “Suicides sometimes do goofy things before they work up their courage to take the final exit. No, it’s something else that makes me think someone cut Gillsworth’s wrists for him. Archy, do me a favor. Show me how you’d slit your wrists if you were determined to shuffle off to Buffalo.”
I stared at him. “You want me to pretend to slash my wrists?”
He nodded. “Use your spoon.”
I picked up the spoon from my saucer. I held it in my right hand, gripping it by the bowl, the handle extended. I held out my left forearm and turned it palm upward. I was wearing a short-sleeved polo shirt; my arm was bare.
“I feel like a perfect fool,” I said.
“Nobody’s perfect,” Al said, “but you come close. Go ahead, slit your wrists.”
As my father and the sergeant watched intently, I drew the spoon handle swiftly across my left wrist, just hard enough to depress the skin. Then I transferred the spoon to my left hand and made the same slashing motion down across my right wrist. I admit the playacting gave me the heebie-jeebies.
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