The first postcard was from Crete, some ruins. Mother had taken me to the library so I could read about the discovery of Mycenean civilization and the mysteries of Linear A and B. Under it was a photograph of a Sumner Class destroyer, its bow knifing a stormy sea. It was not his ship, but one just like it, and it was easy for me to visualize the Captain, one hand on the rail, the other holding the camera. A third photo was of him standing before the Parthenon, a lean, fit figure in khakis, ready to fight another battle of Salamis to defeat the evil forces of the East.
The next page was blank and I knew why. That was the year she died. I closed the album and tried to remember what she had looked like but it was hard; something kept blocking her out, as if the memory was too painful. He’d flown home on a Navy transport, and he’d stood there at graveside, rapier-stiff, eyes straight ahead, as if it would be a bad example to betray emotion. I wondered what he was thinking now.
The phone rang out an alarm and I jumped. I reached slowly out, as if trying to catch a snake, and then I snatched it up and brought it to my ear.
“Yes?”
“Mr. Dunn, this is Katherine Degas, Professor Thorpe’s secretary.”
I took a deep breath of relief. “Yes, Mrs. Degas?”
“I’m afraid something terrible has happened. I mean, something even worse than before, and I need your help.”
I could see her calm but determined face at the other end of the phone, always there, always anticipating a problem. What was it that she had failed to anticipate this time? Before I could answer, she told me.
“Dr. Thorpe has been arrested.”
There was a long silence as I tried to digest the news. “The police think he murdered Gordon Leeds?”
“It’s ridiculous, isn’t it? But they have the car and a Lieutenant Mancuso came around with a warrant, so there was nothing we could do. I’m trying to find a lawyer right now, but I thought it best to inform you as well. He wants to talk to you. I know he regrets letting you go this morning.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “Where is he, parish lockup?”
“Yes,” she said as if she had tasted something sour. “I’m afraid so.”
“I’ll go down to see him. But may I make a suggestion?”
“Please do.”
“There’s an attorney I’ve worked with. His name is John L. O’Rourke. If you’d like, I’ll call him.”
“O’Rourke. You mean the old district attorney’s son? The protest lawyer?”
“He used to be.”
“Well, I suppose …”
“Believe me, he’s good.”
“But excuse me, Mr. Dunn; you’re a veteran, a Naval Academy graduate. Don’t you find it difficult to work with someone who evaded the draft?”
“Mrs. Degas,” I said, “it was a long time ago.”
“Yes, it was. Well, call your Mr. O’Rourke. We’ll see what he has to offer.”
I’d met John O’Rourke ten years before, after I was dropped by one of the bigger security agencies. It was a bad time in my life, when I was trying to drink my way out of a bad marriage. He’d trusted me with a routine records check and then tried me with an investigation. To my surprise, I found I liked it and in the ensuing decade did a number of jobs for O’Rourke, and, when his own marriage foundered, had been there as he had for me. It seemed strange to be bringing him into a case instead of the other way around, though, and the thought must have crossed his mind as well as my own, for I saw him smile as he unwound his lanky frame from the car he drove only in the most extreme circumstances.
“I hope this is a good one,” he said, as we shook hands. “I almost got killed twice coming down here.” He took the trolley to work and rode his bike most other places, and if I’d called him a relic of the sixties he would have laughed, because at least he wore business suits these days, even if they seldom fit, and the idealism of twenty years ago had been softened by hard experience.
“How often do you get to defend a professor on a murder rap?” I asked as we walked up the steps and into the parish prison.
“How many times do I get an Agent Orange case—where the victim dies twice?” he joked, alluding to our last case together. I glanced at his long, good-natured face and said nothing; the case had almost got him killed and had been a worse trial for his emotions.
I briefed him as we walked down the hall, past forlorn people waiting on benches and bored deputies carrying papers from one office to the other. The Orleans Parish prison is an old building and the sins that have been confessed in its interrogation rooms would shock a mission priest. The dregs of New Orleans pass through these doors, from sullen, handcuffed robbery suspects from the Desire Project to brawlers from the docks. Even as we walked, an officer was escorting two handcuffed hookers, one white, one black, to the holding cells, and I caught O’Rourke’s head giving a little shake.
We came to a green steel door and he turned to me. “So how do you know he didn’t do it?”
“Well …” I gave a little shrug. “It seems to me he’s too inept.”
O’Rourke considered for a moment, nodded, and opened the door.
They brought Thorpe into the interrogation room ten minutes later. He was haggard and his hand trembled as he held it out to shake our hands.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” he apologized. “I … I had no idea … I mean that they thought I …”
“Why do they think so?” I asked quietly.
“My car. They say it was my car. The Buick.”
“You didn’t notice it this morning? That it had a dent?”
“No. I mean, I live in the University District, on Calhoun. I usually walk to work. The car was in the driveway, as usual. Why would I look at the front end?”
“Where were you last night?” O’Rourke asked.
“At home, of course. I came home after the party and stayed there all night.”
“Did you and Leeds get along?” I asked. “I think you had some kind of argument with him at the party last night.”
“My God,” Thorpe protested, horrified. “I thought you were supposed to be on my side.”
“He is,” O’Rourke told him, “and so am I, if I’m to be your lawyer. But these are questions the police will ask, and the prosecutor will ask, and if it comes to that, the jury will ask themselves. It’s best to anticipate them.”
“I suppose so.” He bowed his head. “Never in my worst nightmares. Arrested.” He shook his head helplessly. Then an idea seemed to seize him and he looked up at me through red-filmed eyes. “But you were there! You saw the whole thing! You can tell them I wasn’t driving the car.”
“I wish I could,” I told him. “But the trouble is I couldn’t see the driver.”
“Oh my God.” He bowed his head in his hands. “This can’t really be happening.”
O’Rourke and I waited a moment and then I broke the silence. “Katherine Degas said you wanted me to go back on the case, is that right?”
“Yes. Anything. I’ll pay. Just get me out of this. The same goes for Mr.—”
“O’Rourke,” the lawyer said. “I’m flattered, Dr. Thorpe, but it isn’t quite that simple. I have to decide to take the case.”
Thorpe blinked and I guessed it had never occurred to him that his case might not be accepted. “Well …”
“Tell you what,” my friend said smoothly, “why don’t I sit down and we’ll talk and at the end of that we’ll decide whether we want to work together or not?”
Thorpe nodded mechanically. “Yes. Of course. Whatever you think.”
I left them and found Mancuso in the crowded office of the Criminal Division, trying to talk on two phones at once.
“Is it true Thorpe’s car was used?” I asked him. “Is that what you were talking about this morning when you were being so cagey?”
“That?” Mancuso smiled, swiveling in his chair. “That was only part of it. Hey, what you think we run down here, Dunn, some half-ass operation? We do our homework and we got the
whole pizza.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning motive, means, and opportunity.” He folded his arms, proud of himself.
“Maybe you can spell it out. I don’t get going until nightfall.”
Mancuso guffawed. He was a good cop, overworked like most, and he was always glad to wrap up a case quickly.
“Okay. First item: Your man Thorpe hated Leeds. Leeds was his student, Leeds had some different ideas, good ideas, I guess, but what the hell do I know about archaeology, right? Anyway, they argued last night about some little technical thing.”
“Hardly enough to kill somebody over, from what I heard.”
“Course not. Except that it was just one part of a relationship that was headed for a funeral.” Mancuso leaned forward, his dark face intent. “Look, that business about the artifacts showing up where they shouldn’t. What don you think that was all about?” Before I could reply he answered his own question. “I’ll tell you: It was something Leeds concocted to embarrass Thorpe. He knew Thorpe’s asshole was so tight he shits once a month. It was his way of getting back. It was a joke, the kind somebody pulls when they haven’t got any other way to get at somebody. Christ, man, Thorpe was the master. He kept Leeds under his fucking thumb. They all do that to their students, only Thorpe was worse. He was a tyrant and his students hated him. So one of them decided to ruin his reputation. Unfortunately for Leeds, Thorpe figured it out. Bongo. You may have noticed he’s a man who takes his shit seriously. Not much sense of humor. Perfect victim for a practical joke. Perfect killer.”
“But he says he was at home all last night.”
“Sure he does. But his car is smashed up and I’m willing to bet there’ll be a perfect match between the paint and the samples taken from Leeds’s body.”
“What about his wife?”
“What about her? She’d lie anyway, right? I’m more interested in the neighbor who had an upset stomach and was up at one o’clock and heard the side door of Thorpe’s house close, then heard the car start up and saw somebody leave.”
He smiled, knowing he had scored. “That’s the way it goes, bro.”
“We’ll see,” I said and wrote down the neighbor’s name. I started out. The two hookers were gone, replaced by a wild-haired figure of indeterminate sex who mumbled unintelligible phrases while two policemen talked as if the prisoner were not there. I went out down the steps into the hot sun and almost collided with Katherine Degas, coming up the steps.
“You’ve seen him,” she said. Perhaps it was her slightly mussed hair, perhaps the slight tremor in her voice, but all at once I caught a glimpse of a vulnerability that had been hidden before.
“Yes. John O’Rourke is with him now.”
“Do you think he has a chance?”
I must have shown surprise at the plaintive tone of her voice because she looked away, embarrassed.
“Well, it’s too early to say very much,” I equivocated. “There’s a lot of background work to do. But I think there’re some things the police haven’t looked at.”
I thought of Jason Cobbett’s reaction to the jade, but it was premature to say anything about it. “By the way, he mentioned his wife. Where would I find the second Mrs. Thorpe?”
“At the house, I expect,” Katherine said with evident contempt. “I expect she’s busy having hysterics.”
“You sound like you know her pretty well.”
“I do. I’ve known Cora since she was one of his students. She’s quite a bit younger than he is, you know. He married her shortly after Roberta died. She’s very pretty.” She spoke as if it were the best that could be said for the woman.
“And given to hysterics?”
“Histrionics.” I could tell she felt she had said enough, so I let her give me the address and left. The faithful secretary, passed over for the younger woman. It was not a new story. But then, neither is murder.
6
The University District adjoins what was once the town of Carrollton, a short train ride upriver from the downtown Vieux Carré. In time the train gave way to a streetcar, and the town of Lafayette, closer to downtown, became the Garden District. Rich people live in the Garden District; the University District, on the other hand, is home for university employees. There are shade trees and it has an air of gentility. The homes are convenient to the streetcar line on St. Charles, and to Tulane and Loyola universities. There is a spacious park across from Tulane, named for John James Audubon, and the New Orleans Zoo, once a fetid horror, is recognized as one of the best in the South.
All in all, a nice place to live, I thought, as I pulled up in front of the white Victorian two-story on Calhoun. Like many other of the houses on the block, it dated from the turn of the century. There was an iron fence in the front, and azaleas that looked a little beaten down by the heat. The driveway was on the left and beside it was another house of the same vintage, this one boasting a fresh coat of bright-yellow paint and neo-classical pillars. One of the green-shuttered windows looked out on the side door of the Thorpe house and I guessed this was the one through which the neighbor had seen a shadowy figure leave.
Despite the storm clouds already roiling the sky, the neighbor house had a sprinkler playing across the front lawn and I had already formed an impression of the owner as I went up the sidewalk and lifted the big brass knocker.
The man who opened the door did not disappoint me. Dressed in a vest and silk tie, Albert Beasley gave the impression of a man who had just left his brokerage to come home and issue instructions to the staff. Maybe sixty-five, he had neatly combed gray hair and black patents of the kind you hardly see anymore. But most remarkable were his thick lenses, so that I wondered how I appeared to him as he squinted at me from the dimness of the house.
“Mr. Beasley?” I asked. “I hope I’m not disturbing your lunch.”
“Lunch? No, sir, it’s after two o’clock,” he said courteously. “If I were to eat, I would have eaten two hours ago. But the fact is that I didn’t eat, that I can’t eat. My stomach, you know.” He touched his midsection and smiled. “How may I help you?”
“My name is Micah Dunn. I’m an investigator working for Dr. Thorpe. I’m trying to find out what happened last night. If you need to verify me, you can call Lieutenant Mancuso, with the police department.”
Beasley pursed his thin lips. “Mancuso, Mancuso. Oh, yes. I remember now. That Italian policeman.” He said it as though it were important to make the point, lest Mancuso be confused with someone else. “Well, I told him everything I saw. Was there something else?”
From over his shoulder I caught the interior of the house, almost pathologically neat. But something else wafted out with the odor of mothballs, like a hospital smell, and I had to repress a shudder.
“Maybe you’d just tell me again, sir,” I asked.
The old man heaved an exaggerated sigh. “Very well. It was just after one o’clock. I know that because my bedside clock said so. My stomach was hurting, and so I rose for some medicine. I put on my robe and went into the kitchen. It looks out on the driveway there.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I was washing my glass. You can’t take anything from the cabinets without washing them. Cockroaches, you know. And the exterminator sprays that stuff all over. I washed the glass and I heard something outside, so I looked out through the window. It was dark, but I saw someone come out, slip out is a better expression. They went from the side door to the car and got in. I thought it odd, but not unheard of. I thought perhaps someone was sick. As I was ill myself, I realized there was nothing I could do, so I took my medicine and went to bed. When I awoke this morning, the police were there, examining the car.”
“So you didn’t hear the car come in last night.”
“No. I was asleep.”
“And you couldn’t see who it was that went out.”
“My eyesight, as you may have noticed, is not very good.”
At least that was in our favor.
“Do you know the
Thorpes very well?”
“We do not socialize, if that is what you mean. I am retired from Myerson, Woodworth, and Hawkins. You may have heard of them. Public accountants.”
I indicated I had. They had half the business in the city and were as arrogant as a multinational oil company.
“Professor Thorpe bought this house in 1977, during the Carter inflation, when real estate prices were headed upward. He paid fifty-five thousand, and even in today’s depressed market I’m sure he could get a hundred. Where he lived before, I don’t know, but I understand he bought the house within months of his marriage.” I sensed that he wanted to say more but was hesitant, so I waited, and after a few awkward seconds he spoke again: “She was twenty years his junior, you know. A student.” Did I only imagine the disapproving little shake of his head? “A flighty girl. I assume he was taken by her. I must say I’ve never spoken to her more than a few times. He seems to have somewhat more substance.”
“Do they get along?”
“Mr. Dunn, was it? Mr. Dunn, I do not eavesdrop on people, or monitor what goes on in their bedrooms. If you are asking if they have screaming matches in the middle of Calhoun Street, the answer is no. But, for what it may be worth, I find it very difficult to believe that Professor Thorpe killed anyone, as the police evidently maintain.”
“Why is that, Mr. Beasley?”
Beasley’s lip curled down in disdain. “My God, Mr. Dunn, the man is a university professor. People who teach in universities are incapable of doing anything.”
I nodded and thanked him. “I hope your stomach is better,” I said.
He gave a stiff little bow. “Thank you. But I think that extremely unlikely. You see, I am eaten up with cancer. My physicians refuse to tell me, but I know. I don’t expect to have more than a few months. I am spending my remaining days cataloging my possessions and assigning them to my heirs.”
The Maya Stone Murders Page 5
