He led me on. He told me he loved me, and now he’s tossing me aside. I called him after I got his letter, and he said my mother had phoned his wife and told her everything. I suppose that’s my fault, but that liar had said he’d already told his wife! He promised me that he was leaving her, that we’d be together by Christmas, but he was just stringing me along. Ginny warned me about getting involved with a professor, but I fell in love with him anyway. And you were right about him, too: David Jerrold is a liar and a cheat. I want to forget him forever, but I know I can’t. I can’t because I’m still in love with him.
Less than two weeks later, Jordan welcomed the cheating liar back into her bed, this time for the last time, at the Mohawk Motel.
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 8, 1960
“Ellie, it’s Frank Olney,” came the voice over the line. “You better get over to my office right away. We picked up that Indian guy after midnight, but there’s a snag.”
“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I said, rolling out of bed with great difficulty.
George Walsh was waiting outside Frank Olney’s office when I arrived. He glared at me, inspecting my fading bruises, and wrote something on his pad.
“This is my story, Stone. You can’t see the sheriff; I was here first.”
I smiled, then Pat Halvey entered from the sheriff’s office. “Is Frank in?” I asked.
“Sure, Ellie. Go right in, he’s expecting you.”
I turned to George Walsh and shrugged.
“That does it!” he said, rising to leave. “I’m calling Mr. Short.”
“Get me some coffee first, will you?” I said as he stormed out.
Frank Olney was lodged behind his steel desk, and the DA was staring out the window when I came in.
“We got trouble here,” said the sheriff.
“The guy claims he’s with the Indian consulate,” said Don. “Produced a diplomatic passport. He demanded his one phone call right away, and when we finally let him make it at about three a.m., he called New York. He spoke for a couple of minutes in Hindi or some such language, then handed the phone to Frank.”
“A man named P. V. Singh was on the line,” said Frank, reading from some notes. “Said he was the consul general of India, for God’s sake. He was hooting that we had no right to hold his son, and we’d better let him go immediately if we didn’t want an international incident right here in New Holland. He said his son was protected by a diplomatic passport, and he was calling the State Department!”
“So what did you tell him?”
“Don talked to him,” said the sheriff, motioning to the DA.
“I told him he could call the State Department if he wanted, but we were going to hold his son regardless. A diplomatic passport doesn’t mean we can’t detain him. We’ve got the right to process him and check his status, like anybody else we bring in. Then the Indians called back and hollered a little more, said they were sending a representative immediately to fish him out of jail.”
“What’s the bottom line?”
“We’re going to release him. I’ve been on the phone to Washington, Boston, the state police, and J. Edgar Hoover. His papers are in order.”
“How much longer can you hold him?”
“Not long. They’re due within the hour.”
“So, that’s it,” said Frank, standing up to circle his desk. “I don’t want to risk an international incident over this damn turbanhead. I want that guy out of my jail before George Walsh finds out he’s here. That’s all I need, the whole town knowing I had Jordan Shaw’s murderer locked up, then let him go. I promised Pat Halvey I’d rip his tongue out of his mouth if he breathed a word. So nobody knows but us: Don, Halvey, you, and me. And that’s the way it stays.”
“Can I talk to him?” I asked. “Maybe we can get some answers without an international incident.”
“Go ahead,” he said in disgust. “But that damn Indian is leaving when his paisans come to fetch him.”
Roy was not in a cell. The sheriff had locked him in a holding room used for prisoners awaiting arraignment. How ironic, I thought; Judge Shaw had passed sentence so many times on men who had waited in that room. Frank let me in alone.
“Miss Stone, yet again a pleasant surprise!” said the jolly prisoner, rising to greet me.
“Hello, Prakash,” I said, opting for his given name. “Or is it good-bye?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“Will you answer a couple of questions for me?” I asked.
“Of course.”
“Tell me about November 25th.”
“Don’t blame me, Miss Stone. It’s indeed unfortunate that any harm came to Jordan; I rather liked her, actually.”
“But you didn’t want to flunk out of Tufts, right? So you killed her regardless of your affection for her.”
“I did not kill her.”
“But you cut out a piece of her skin.”
Roy smiled again, but didn’t answer yes or no. “Dr. Jerrold put himself in great jeopardy with his indiscretion. He’s up for tenure and would be of little use to me if he were sent away. An affair with an undergraduate could be fatal to his career. And mine. After Monday, the question will be settled once and for all; the faculty are meeting to take their final decision. With no scandal, he’s a sure bet for tenure.”
“Jerrold says you killed her.”
“Not true,” he said. “He’s been imagining conspiracies ever since I ran into them in Delhi last August. He was horrified, of course; he assumed he was safe from scrutiny so far from home.”
“So you don’t want to leave Tufts?” I asked. “Is flunking out so bad? Worth blackmail?”
“I don’t believe there is any proof I have blackmailed Professor Jerrold. Has he lodged a complaint with the police?”
“You know he hasn’t,” I said, and Roy smiled.
“As for my studies, you don’t know my father. He would send me back to Delhi. I’ve grown accustomed to this country; I like it. What would I have in India? A government job, an arranged marriage to the daughter of some backwater babu, and the attentions of my overbearing mother. I like to smoke, enjoy a beer or whiskey in the evening. I can’t do that there. No, I want to stay here.”
“Even if it means exerting a little influence over a randy professor? A couple of innocent girls die, but so what? So long as Jerrold walks away unscathed and in your debt.”
“It is not as heartless as you make it sound. I told you I didn’t kill Jordan.”
“But you did remove all evidence of Jerrold’s presence in her room that night, tampered with evidence, and probably jeopardized the investigation.”
He smiled but said nothing.
“And maybe you palmed Jordan’s things, too. Her purse, for instance?”
“I’ve read the papers and know that the purse was discovered in her Boston flat. Perhaps she neglected to take it with her for the Thanksgiving break.”
“She took it with her, all right,” I corrected. “The police found a receipt from the Mohawk Motel inside, dated November 25th.”
Roy’s eyebrow inched up his forehead, but there was no other sign of concern. “I’m sure the Boston police tested the purse for fingerprints?”
“Wiped clean.”
“I see. Did you expect anything else?”
I confessed that I had not.
“Just a few more questions, then,” I said. “To satisfy my own curiosity, you understand.”
“As many as you like, Miss Stone. You’ve worked long and hard on this investigation; your curiosity is understandable.”
“Who do you think killed Ginny White?”
Roy frowned. “Why do you think I would know that?”
“Because I went through Jordan’s apartment before the police did,” I said. “I believe someone removed incriminating evidence against Jerrold. That leads me to think of you.”
“But I’ve admitted to nothing of the kind. You present interesting theories, but all are conjecture.”
“I think you removed all of Jerrold’s effects from the apartment: clothing, letters, photographs . . . You couldn’t risk having the police link him to the deceased, or the scandal would sink his tenure bid. But I’ll wager you’ve saved every last item you took. How better to hold a threat over Jerrold’s head? It was a thorough job, to be sure. But you missed something.”
“Obviously,” said Roy. “Otherwise, you would never have pursued Dr. Jerrold with such zeal. Tell me, Miss Stone, what did you find?”
“The brush-off letter he’d sent Jordan,” I said. “It was under her pillow.”
“And you’re sure it was from Jerrold? He actually signed the letter?” asked Roy.
“No, there was no signature,” I conceded.
“Then how can you be sure it was Jerrold and not someone else who wrote it?”
“He spelled realize the British way.”
Roy’s eyes sparkled, and he granted me my small victory with a smile. I couldn’t figure him; it was just a game, nothing personal at all, and he enjoyed the friendly contest.
“Your burglar clearly underestimated her romantic side. He should have checked the pillow.”
I was ready to turn up the heat. “What about the tattoo?” I asked.
Now Roy was surprised; his smile faded. “What?”
“Jordan had a tattoo,” I said. “At least when she arrived at the Mohawk Motel.”
“Are American girls in the habit of getting tattooed?” he asked after giving it some thought. “I’ve never seen one in this country.”
Neither had I, at least not outside a carnival sideshow.
“Did the police find a tattoo on her body?” asked Roy.
“You know they didn’t. Someone cut it out of her skin with a large knife. Maybe something like a kirpan?”
Again the smile. “That’s an interesting theory, but difficult to prove.”
“Not so difficult.” I paused for effect. “Wasn’t there something in the paper about pictures shot through the window?”
“That was just your bluff,” he said, unnerved just the same.
“Do you think so? How else would I have known about the tattoo?”
I had him there. He had been forthcoming with a lot of information, as long as he thought I was holding nothing. Now his attitude changed. He couldn’t risk talking to me about the tattoo; only a select few could have seen or known about it, and he didn’t want to be on that list.
“If she had a tattoo, it’s news to me,” he said coolly. “I don’t like them anyway. You see them on villagers and junglees in India, but what respectable Western girl wears a tattoo?”
“Jordan Shaw,” I said. “At least for a couple of weeks.”
Roy screwed up his face. “What do you mean by that?”
“Her tattoo was temporary,” I said. “Just some henna. It would have faded away in a couple of weeks.”
Roy seemed genuinely surprised, impressed even, but he said nothing. This was dangerous territory for him.
“I wouldn’t know anything about that,” he mumbled.
“Jordan had some henna powder in her room in Boston. And an icing cone to apply it. She must have learned how when she went to that wedding in India. Still,” I said, “it would have looked awfully bad for Jerrold if that tattoo had been seen by the police. Henna or no, that tattoo had to go.”
I felt I had all the information he was willing to share. I stood to leave and noticed Roy’s troubled expression. He wanted to say something but couldn’t get it out.
“Maybe you have a question or two for me?” I asked.
“One thing has made me curious,” he said. “You’ve been very thorough in your questioning, but there’s one thing you haven’t asked me.”
“What’s that?”
“Who ransacked Nichols’s apartment?”
He was right. There seemed little utility in asking him that, since I was sure Hakim Mohammed had carried out that sloppy job. That’s where he got the letters and photographs of Jordan and Jerrold in India. Poor D. J. Nichols was obsessed with Jordan and must have followed her to Fatehpur Sikri and taken the photos of the lovers. Thinking back on Roy’s ordered searches of Jordan’s room at the Mohawk Motel and her apartment in Boston, I was pretty sure Hakim had also trashed my place and Jean Trent’s digs, probably looking for Julio’s film. But I wasn’t about to share this information with Prakash Singh.
“So?” I said, retaking my seat. “Did you break into his place?”
He shook his head and said he had assumed I was responsible for the burglary.
“Really? How exciting you make me sound.”
“I know that reporters sometimes get carried away,” he said. “I figured you were looking for something—pictures from last summer’s Indian tour, perhaps? Letters from Jordan?”
“Sorry, it wasn’t me,” I said.
Roy grinned one last smile at me. “I suppose if something of the sort turns up, I’ll know you were lying.”
We stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment. I had nothing more to ask him, and he had nothing more to tell me.
“Your ride will be here soon,” I said. “Good luck.”
“Luck is for the unprepared,” he said, taking my hand. “Good planning is the better strategy.”
“So, did he kill Jordan Shaw?” asked Frank.
“I don’t think so.”
“Bull!” said Frank Olney, slapping his hand down on the desk. “He’s lying. He killed Jordan Shaw and Virginia White, and that’s that. You never want to give up, do you? ‘The Case That Never Ended,’ by Eleonora Stone,” he proclaimed, framing headlines in the air. “Well, I’m satisfied he’s guilty; and the voters’ll just have to accept that we couldn’t hold him because of his immunity.”
“Why don’t you think Roy killed Jordan Shaw?” the DA asked me. “Just because he denied it?”
“That’s part of it,” I said. “He was pretty straight with me in there because he thought he had nothing to fear. Even so, he was careful; he’s not rash enough to brag about breaking the law. But what really convinces me he didn’t kill them is his car.”
“What about it?”
“Jean Trent saw three cars in the parking lot that night. The first belonged to Jerrold, Jordan’s lover, probably driving his wife’s cream-colored Bonneville. The second, I believe, was Roy’s. Finally, a third car of unknown ownership showed up. I think it was driven by a Pakistani from Tufts, Hakim Mohammed, but it’s a moot point since Jordan was already dead when Roy arrived.”
“So what about the car convinces you he didn’t kill her?” repeated the DA.
“No oil drippings,” I said, and Frank screwed on his most incredulous expression.
“What are you talking about, Ellie? Oil drippings? What’s next, a Ouija board and tea leaves?”
“The morning after you found Jordan Shaw’s body in the woods, I came across a distinctive pattern of oil drippings on the water-tower service road, not fifty yards from her grave. The next day, I found the same pattern on that little dirt road behind the Mohawk Motel. The person who drove the car that left those spots killed Jordan Shaw. The killer never parked in the lot. Jean Trent never saw his car.”
“So who do you think dripped the oil?” asked the Thin Man.
I shook my head. “I just don’t know. For the past ten days I’ve been bending over, looking for oil under every car that’s not moving. It’s just not there.”
“What about Julio?” asked Frank, hopefully. “Or that hood, Pukey Boyle?”
I shook my head. “Frank, when I said every car, I meant every car. I’m wearing out the knees in my stockings. The spots are gone.”
Thursday afternoon: barely twelve hours to go before I had to give Artie Short my answer. My head was pounding. I felt as if I had fought a grueling game, outplayed my opponent at every turn, but still lost, striking out with the bases full in the ninth. I shuddered at the idea of looking underneath one more car, of postulating one more theory of how the oil spots had
come to be near the grave and behind the motel. I was tired, yearning for a long sleep with nothing more momentous to worry about than my fuzzy television reception. I lay down on the couch with a Scotch and tried to empty my head.
My thoughts drifted from the insipid to the banal, without ever truly freeing themselves from undercarriages, crankcases, and motor oil. Worse still, nightmares of Greg Hewert infected my dreams of cars and greasy pavement.
I remembered my dream of Jordan Shaw and felt I had let her down, along with my father and myself. That beautiful young girl was dead, and her killer had gone unpunished. All for want of a triangular oil spot. The clock was running out, and I was failing. I sensed I would be covering basketball games and VFW meetings very soon.
“Is it ready, Vinnie?” I asked as the mechanic scrubbed some of the day’s grime off his hands.
“Your Dodge is out back,” he said. “Good as new. How’d you like the loaner?”
“Greased lightning?” I said. “Good thing you’re at the bottom of a hill; I was tired of pushing that thing around.”
“Yeah, but I don’t hear you complaining about the price. Which reminds me: it’ll cost you thirty-six fifty for the miracle I performed on your car.”
“I’ll call her Lazarus,” I said, but Vinnie had forgotten his catechism.
I wrote a check, hoping the paper would reimburse me, hoping I’d still have a job tomorrow, and reclaimed my keys. I went around back to get the car, but it was the heap next to mine that caught my attention: a rusty, white Plymouth. I returned to the garage and corralled Vinnie Donati.
“Isn’t that Tommy Quint’s car over there?” I asked.
Vinnie looked out the window over his shoulder. “Yeah, that thing’s always breaking down.”
“Two times in ten days?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t talk if I were you,” said Vinnie with a grin.
“When did he bring it in this time?”
“This morning. We had to tow it from his old man’s driveway.”
“He’s not in Rochester?”
“He rode with me in the cab of Dom’s wrecker.”
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