by John Dunning
“They started at eighty,” he said. “That’s very reasonable for this place, even in these times, don’t you think?”
I did think, and I said so.
“When it didn’t sell, they came way down. I hear it’s sixty-five now and still no takers. I can’t understand that. I’d buy it myself if I had money to burn. I don’t know real estate but I know sixty-five for a place like this is nothing. Ten years ago Stan turned down an offer of a hundred and ten. But those were better times.”
“There are people who think better times are coming back.”
“Then those people could find worse things to do with their money. It’s what I’d do, if I were a young man like yourself. I’d buy it strictly as an investment. I’d make them an offer of forty-eight five.”
“They’d never take it.”
“They’ll take it. They just want to get rid of it. They’ve sold everything but the house and it’s hanging around their necks like a millstone. Those two never want to lay eyes on each other again, and this house is the only thing that ties them together. They’ll take it, Mr. Janeway. In fact, I think they’ll take less than that.”
“I didn’t think you remembered me.”
“I’ve got a good set of eyes and a good memory for a face.”
“If they’d take fifty I’d buy it in a heartbeat.”
“Try it on them. They’ll fall all over themselves taking it. You see if I’m not right. I’ve never seen anything like it. Such hate… such pure venom. So much energy wasted, just burnt up, on hate.”
“Where’d it get started?”
We looked at each other and I knew what I had begun to suspect: this old man had secrets that he hadn’t yet told anyone.
“Where’d it get started, Mr. Greenwald?”
“There are things I can’t talk about… matters of honor.”
“There are also three dead people. I understand about honor, sir, but somebody out there is killing people and I’m trying to stop them. It’s pretty hard if I’m only playing with half a deck.”
He seemed lost in thought. Then his eyes locked on mine and he said, “They are not actually brother and sister.” He got up, poured us more coffee, and returned the pot to the stove.
“How do you figure that?”
“It’s not something I figured; Stan told me. Val Mallard was an adopted child.”
“Well, that explains a few things.”
He nodded. “Stan’s brother Charles married a delicate woman. Physically delicate… you know, frail. It was thought she couldn’t have children, so they adopted the boy. Years later she became pregnant with Judith…a mid-life baby, a great surprise.”
“I’ll bet.”
“There didn’t have to be any great conflict with that. Sometimes those things work out fine, and Stan told me they really did try. Charles and his wife did everything possible to raise them equally, to play no favorites. But from the beginning there was anger, resentment, extreme jealousy.”
“A modern-day Cathy and Heathcliff,” I said.
“Except that love was at the bottom of it all in that story, and here you have just hate.”
“I thought something was out of whack when I questioned them. Judith said something—it didn’t make sense at the time and I let it get past me. Something like, ‘If you’re looking for all the living Ballards, I’m it.’ ”
“Yes. I don’t know what good it’ll do you…”
“It could be a motive for murder.”
“If they were going to murder anyone, it would be each other.”
“Maybe. Or maybe they enjoy the hate.”
“Now you’re talking in riddles.”
“You’ve got to allow for the quirks of human nature,” I said. “Maybe they like what’s going on between them. You know what I mean. The sweet sorrow, the hate that’s really love, the pull of opposites in a single emotion. Maybe they’d be lost without each other. This is the stuff Shakespeare wrote about, isn’t it? If you kill off a hate object, it’s over. So much better to do him in in other ways… to get the better of him in business, to rook him out of his eyeteeth… That you can savor all your life.”
“I don’t believe it,” he said, but I had a feeling he might believe it, deep in his gut.
“You still know something you’re not telling me,” I said.
“It’s nothing… harmless.”
“I think I’ll have to ask you to let me be the judge of that.”
He shook his head. “It’s just something Stan told me. It couldn’t have any bearing on this.”
“I think if Mr. Ballard were here, from what I know of him, he’d want you to tell me.”
“That may be, but he’s not here, and I can’t go back on him.”
“There are things that make no sense at all about this deal. The man had ten thousand books. I know he got them from the clubs; I’ve been through every statement going back almost fifty years. They’re legitimate, they’re in his name, they’re annotated in his hand. He writes in the margin when he received a book and when he read it. The books were appraised and the appraiser, who is a helluva respected authority, found nothing of value. And yet, in the last two days, two hundred books have turned up. They did not come from the clubs. They were fine first editions… very desirable, very valuable, worth maybe twenty-five thousand dollars. I don’t know where they could’ve come from but here in this house.”
“Unbelievable,” he said. “People really pay that much, just to own a first edition?”
“Sometimes more than that. Are you telling me, Mr. Green-wald, that neither you nor Mr. Ballard knew what first editions can be worth?”
“We never discussed money. In our generation money was a man’s private business. Besides, it’s so uninteresting. We didn’t care about money.”
“Somebody did. Were you here when the woman came to look at the books?”
“I was minding my own business. Stan told me how it had gone, after it was over.”
“He told you the woman had appraised the library as worthless.”
“That’s what he said, yes.”
“You never met the lady?”
“No.”
“Is there any way I can persuade you to talk to me?”
“That’s what I’ve been doing.”
“You have nothing else to say to me?”
“Not at this time.”
I got up to leave.
He rose with me, his eyes linked to mine. He won’t let me walk out of here, I thought: it’s bothering him too much. But when he spoke, it was only about the house. “I think you should buy Stan’s house, Mr. Janeway. I really do.”
“I’m thinking about it.”
“A man would be foolish if he could get a house like that for fifty thousand and he didn’t snap it up. You could rent it for more than the payments. In a few years… who knows?”
I tried to penetrate that wall. A vast enigmatic gulf lay open between us.
“Sometimes, I’ve heard, houses talk,” he said. “Sometimes they give up secrets. This one may be like that. Sometimes I feel Stan’s presence… sometimes it seems like he’s still there, sitting in the library reading. That’s a solid house, Mr. Janeway: more than that, a kind house. I’d buy it myself, if I were younger and had the money.”
41
It was just a matter of geography. Val Ballard lived in Littleton, south of town: Judith Ballard Davis was in Park Hill, a few minutes’ drive from Madison Street. I went there first.
She peered at me through the screen door and struggled to put a name with my face.
“Detective Janeway,” I said. “Remember?”
“Ah,” she said, and let me in.
If she knew anything about my recent history, she didn’t let on. To her my life began and ended and began again when I walked into, out of, and now back into hers. “You ever catch that guy?” she asked, leading me to the living room. I said no, I was still working on it. She motioned me to the big stuffed chair and asked if I
wanted a drink. I said you betcha and she made me a double. She watched me take off the top third in one gulp. She never stopped watching me. I knew I didn’t look much like a cop anymore, and I sure didn’t feel like one, but she never asked any of the obvious questions— where was my tie, why weren’t my shoes shined, how come I was drinking on the job. She just looked at me and waited.
“I went by your house a while ago,” I said.
She looked momentarily confused. “Oh, you mean Stan’s house.”
“It’s a nice place. I’m surprised you haven’t sold it yet.”
“It’s a white elephant. You couldn’t give it away, the way the Denver market is.”
“Maybe you’ve got the wrong realtor. I think that house should sell.”
“Put your money where your mouth is, Detective. You could have my part of it damned cheap. I mean damned cheap.”
“I’m listening.”
“Is this why you came here?”
“No, but I’m listening anyway.”
“Make me an offer.”
“I’m not really in the market. I wouldn’t want to insult you with what I could pay.”
“Insult me, please. I’ve got thick skin and I want to get out of this.”
“I’m almost embarrassed to offer it…fifty?”
“Give me twenty-five and you could walk out of here with my part right now.”
“What do you think your brother would say?”
“Do you mind if we don’t call him that? Just hearing it makes my stomach turn.”
“What do you want to call him, then?”
“What I call him wouldn’t be allowed on the radio. Let’s keep it on a high plane. Let’s not call him anything. That matches his personality.”
“Okay. What do you think he would say?”
“He needs the dough worse than I do.” She grinned maliciously. “Alimony. I hope she takes the little pissant for everything he’s got or ever will have.”
“Well, let’s put it this way,” I said: “At that price, I’d definitely buy it.”
“Detective, you’ve made my day. Let me freshen up that drink for you.”
I put my hand over the top. “I’d better not. I’ve got a lot to do yet tonight.”
“Going to see him?”
“I’ll have to, won’t I?”
“Call me later, let me know what he says. I know he’ll say yes. He’ll cough and sputter and blow smoke out of his ass, but in the end he’ll be as delighted to be out of it as I am. We can have the papers drawn up over the weekend and I’ll never have to see that idiot again.” She lit a cigarette. “So what’s the real reason you came over here?”
“I’ve been thinking about those books. I even found some of them.”
“So?”
“They weren’t exactly the kind of books everyone thought.”
“I don’t mean to be short, but why should I care? They’re gone now. Ancient history. None of my business anymore.”
“You might decide to change your mind about that.”
“You’re talking in riddles, Detective.”
“I think you people screwed up. Or maybe just one of you screwed up.”
“You’ll have to make it plainer than that.”
I watched her eyes particularly. Liars usually look away unless they’re very accomplished. She was meeting me head-on.
“I think somebody pulled a scam,” I said. “I think those books were worth a helluva lot more than anybody ever knew.”
“Who pulled a scam? Are you talking about that little man that got killed?”
“He was just a tool. Somebody else was the main guy.”
“And you think it was one of us?”
“Coulda been. The question is, which one?”
“I don’t even know what was supposed to’ve been done.”
“I think you’re brighter than that, Mrs. Davis.”
“Ms. Davis, please. There is no Mr. Davis: never was, never will be. It’s my mother’s maiden name.”
I didn’t say anything. I could see by the color in her cheeks that she was getting a glimmer.
“That son of a bitch,” she said in a voice that was almost a whisper.
“Somebody’s a son of a bitch,” I said.
She got up, walked to the window, and came back.
“Let me get this straight. You think one of us found out what the books were really worth, hired somebody to buy them, and…is that what’s going through your head? Is that what he did to me?”
I shrugged.
“So tell me, how much did the bastard take me for?”
I wasn’t sure I wanted to tell her that yet.
“How much?” she pressed.
I finished off my drink.
She lit another cigarette. “Can we get a straight answer here? Christ, you men are all alike.”
“If I had a straight answer I’d give it to you. Like I told you, I’ve only seen two hundred books.”
“Then let’s start with that. How much would those two hundred books be worth?”
“There’s no guarantee they even came from here. It’s just my hunch.”
“What’s your hunch? Talk straight, please. How much are those two hundred books worth?”
“In a bookstore, at retail… twenty grand. Maybe as much as thirty.”
Her nostrils flared, blowing smoke. She looked ready to erupt.
Then she did erupt.
“Thirty thousand dollars! Thirty thousand dollars for two hundred books!” She leaped up and spilled her drink. “Son of a fucking bitch!” she screamed. “Do you have any idea how many books there were in that goddamn house?”
“Books are funny things,” I said calmly. “Just because one’s worth a lot, that doesn’t necessarily mean anything as far as the others are concerned.”
She was trembling now as, she faced me. “What it means, Detective, is that old Stan wasn’t quite the klutz that everybody thought. What it means is that Stan knew exactly what he was doing. And what that means, Mr. Janeway, is that there’s an excellent possibility that all those books were worth money. Christ, we could be talking a million dollars here! Even the house is nothing compared with that!”
I didn’t say anything.
“I will kill that bastard with my own bare hands,” she said.
“I wouldn’t try that.”
“Get away from me! Don’t you dare try to stop me.”
“I will stop you if you take another step.”
“Don’t you threaten me…”
“I’m trying to reason with you. Do you want to listen or do you want to fly off half-cocked and screw everything up?”
She sat and folded her hands primly. She made no effort to blot her spilled drink, which was seeping into the carpet at her feet.
“First of all,” I said, “we still don’t know for a fact that it happened that way. Two, I still don’t know if it was him: it could be you. Three, whoever it is has killed three people. I’m not talking metaphorically here, Ms. Davis. Have you ever seen anyone who’s been shot in the face?”
She looked at her hands, which were trembling uncontrollably.
“It’s one thing to say you’re gonna kill somebody. This boy, whoever he is, is the one with the track record. He bashed the bookscout’s brains out and shot two people in the head not two days ago. Do you think you want to get involved in something like that?”
She spoke through clenched teeth. “What do you want?”
“I want you to do nothing… understand? Don’t make any phone calls, don’t go ripping over there. Just sit tight and wait for me.”
“God!” she cried. “How can I sit back and let that flaming asshole get away with this!”
“Nobody’s getting away with anything. You can’t hide eight thousand books in your hip pocket. I’m gonna find them, if I can get you to stay out of the way.”
She didn’t say anything. I said, “Can I get a couple of straight answers out of you?”
“About w
hat?”
“You and him.”
“There is no me and him. Never was. He has nothing to do with me.”
“You were raised together.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“Come on, Ms. Davis, what happened between you two?”
“Nothing. It was just a case of hate at first sight.”
“Were you jealous of each other?”
“He always was.” She lit another smoke; didn’t realize that she had one going in the ashtray. “He was an adopted child. He always hated that. Hated me. I never had a chance with him, not from the first.”
“Did he ever show any signs of violence, either as a child or later?”
“He never had the guts. He was always sneaky.”
“Sneaky how?”
“I caught him looking in the window once…I was thirteen… that kinda stuff.”
“Do you think he’s capable of murder?”
She seemed to melt suddenly, and for a long, strange moment, I thought she might cry. She pulled herself out of it just as quickly.
“No,” she said.
“That took a lot of effort.”
“Damn right. I’d like to say yes, but I just don’t think he could ever find the nerve to shoot someone. No, he’d be more the type to hire it done.”
I thought of Neff’s turtle-faced man.
“A hit man,” I said.
“Sure. He’d do that, all right. I wouldn’t put that past him at all.”
42
I drove south, into the coming snowstorm. I thought about the U-Haul truck and the mileage that Bobby Westfall had racked up. I thought about Greenwald and the screwed-up Ballards and the turtle-faced man. Snow began to crust around the edges of my windshield. The road was getting slick. I had an odd feeling of some omniscient demon riding with me, a malignant force waiting to spring. The strange thing was, I couldn’t remember Val Ballard’s face: I could hear his voice and see his hands working as he sifted through his uncle’s stuff; I could see his red tongue flicking as he licked and stuck labels on this item and that, but his face remained a blank. 1 could see Bobby Westfall easily enough, and we had only met a few times, months ago. I could see Peter and Pinky: silent passengers with the demon curled up between them. C’mon, people, talk to me. “Talk,” I said out loud. Tell me something I don’t already know. Who’s the turtle-faced man, and where are the books, and how-oh-how had Rita McKinley’s appraisal been so far off the mark?
