Hound

by Vincent McCaffrey

  Henry said, “What was your plan?"

  Peter took a slow breath. “I was hoping to get an estimate of the value of the estate, together with a legal statement of my position as an heir, so that I might get a loan. I have spoken to a bank officer, and they are willing to help. It's just a matter of paperwork ... and Arthur. Arthur is not cooperating."

  "Why?"

  Peter shrugged. “Taxes, of course. If the estate is valued to the high side, the taxes will be levied accordingly. This was already a problem. Morgan said she didn't really want to sell the condominium just now, because of the market—because she would get less. Arthur told her to wait, I think. The taxes are going to be so great, he wanted to hold out for a higher price to help cover some of it. In the meantime, the medical bills are mounting .... Now this has happened. Everything's at a stop. I'm afraid the situation can only get worse. I know Arthur wants his rightful share of the estate. Heber's will left everything to Morgan, and I believe she never made a will herself. However, she did speak to me about selling the beach house to raise the funds to help. And, of course, Arthur is her only son. It all becomes a matter for probate."

  Henry shook his head. “It doesn't sound like Morgan. She was always more efficient."

  Peter answered, “Arthur doesn't want a contest. So here we are. Back to the books. Arthur is willing to sell the books to avoid any added difficulty."

  Morgan never exactly planned things. She just always seemed to know what was next. Henry let the thought slip away. He said, “She must have been torn."

  Peter said, “I suppose she hadn't the chance to think very much about it, after Heber's death."

  Henry nodded. She probably just wanted to escape it all. She had gone to the safe haven of her house on the Cape for just that reason.

  Henry said, “You'd better eat."

  Peter half smiled at his cold eggs. “Yes."

  Peter Johnson's idea of “famished” was not at all what Henry would have experienced. The man ate small bits off his plate and looked uncomfortable doing it.

  Henry ate most of his breakfast before going on.

  "Well, I'll give you the appraisal, certainly. We don't need Morgan's lawyer's approval for that. Mr. Downes seems like a reasonable fellow to me. But the value is pretty high. I think those ten thousand or so books are worth more than half a million dollars."

  Peter Johnson took a breath. His eyes did not rise from his plate as he searched for something small with his fork. After a moment, he said, “I thought as much. With all those signed copies."

  Henry had to speak to the facts.

  "But"—he paused to gather the thought—"this is my problem. Morgan told me she wanted to donate them. It was for Heber. She wanted something to represent his work. She was hoping that Boston University would set up a small memorial library of late-twentieth-century popular literature along with his papers and things."

  Johnson shook his head and exhaled as if in exasperation.

  "I know. She explained it all to me. It was a very fine idea. But there are other considerations now. Arthur says he wants to wait until the market rises before selling the condominium or the beach house. He is fine with selling the books. If I can sell the books now, he has told me I can keep that money pending the sale of the rest of the estate, so long as we avoid causing any trouble. It might be enough. It could get us through."

  Henry answered, “I see."

  He said the words, but he did not see, really. Why had Morgan told him she was selling the condominium this year and needed his appraisal of the books as soon as possible? It was clear that Arthur was in control of the estate now, and whatever Morgan's intentions, her own son would determine the final outcome. But Henry was not sure he should be telling Peter Johnson something that might only cause more worry.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Eleven

  It's either money or sex, or both. The only other reason people kill is because the commanding officer said so. If you are going to keep putting your nose into this, it's me who's going to present the unpleasant facts to you."

  Albert was annoyed.

  Henry moved his queen forward into the path of Albert's bishop, and in line with his king.

  "Check ... I think it's money."

  Albert could not resist the bait.

  "Slam, bam, thank you, ma'am. I think it's sex."

  He took Henry's queen with his bishop. Henry took the bishop with his knight, leaving Albert's king exposed now to Henry's bishop. Henry's knight guarded the escape.

  Henry put on his worst imitation English accent. “Thank you, good sir. You are as easy as one of Boswell's threepenny whores."

  Albert hung his head in mock shame. “That was sloppy. I can't believe I missed that. We have to play that one over. I was distracted with all this crap about Peter Johnson and Arthur Johnson.... The only Johnson I want to hear about is old Sam. That's the life I'd want—to live like Samuel Johnson. I'd like to live in the Inner Temple and spend my time in coffeehouses discussing the events of the day, going off to Drury Lane in the evenings to see a little Sheridan or Garrick—I've told you I went there with Alice when we were in London on our honeymoon."

  Henry said, “More than once."

  Albert did not catch the hint. “No, we went only once. A cold and dismal day. Almost everything from Sam Johnson's time is gone. But you can stand at the spot and imagine—if you put your hands over your ears to kill the Fleet Street noise and close your eyes—"

  Henry interrupted, “I can do that just as well right here in Boston."

  Henry began to put the chess pieces back in their places. The sound of a voice from Tim's radio buzzed with anger from the end of the bar, too low to comprehend.

  The tone of Albert's voice changed, the annoyance increasing. “But it's not the same here. You can't imagine that particular past time the same way. The smells are different. I would think a fellow with a nose as sensitive as yours would be more discriminating."

  Henry moved a pawn forward. He said, “Did you know what Boswell did the day after he met Samuel Johnson?"

  Albert answered, “No,” his tone dismissive, as he moved his own pawn into place.

  Henry pushed his morsel of knowledge forward with another pawn. “He sallied down the street and picked up a ‘fresh, agreeable young girl’ named Alice Gibbs."

  Albert's eyes opened with greater attention. “Alice...? How do you know that was her name?"

  Henry smiled smugly. “He tells us. It's in his journal. No pretense. If he has the urge, he goes out and finds himself a whore."

  Albert blew air in a silent whistle and moved his own pawn to confront Henry's.

  "I'm glad my Alice didn't know that the cold day I dragged her out of that cozy bed-and-breakfast down by Victoria Station and walked her all the way up the Strand in her brand-new shoes just so we could stand in front of an ugly soot gray office building in the rain. She had blisters the size of acorns."

  "See? You could have done that right here in Boston."

  Albert frowned with irritation at such an idea and sat back to consider the board. Henry thought his friend was still pouting about his loss of the previous game, and it came out with Albert's next words.

  "I had my eye on that knight. I knew he was there the whole time. Then I lost sight of him."

  Henry smiled. It would annoy Albert if he smiled. “It's the sex that distracted you. That's because you're basically just a decent guy, Albert. You have your priorities in the right order. But I think it's the money that attracts most people. They do things just for the money. Even sex."

  Albert's chair shifted backward with his weight, the wood groaning painfully. He looked over the empty tables around them before speaking.

  "What if someone saw you there...? I'm not trying to put any guilt in your head, understand, but things happen for a reason. Okay? Let's take that approach. What if someone did? And what if he somehow knew she had just spent the night with you? He might be jealous, righ
t? And he'd be afraid he was going to lose his meal ticket, right? If she married you, there goes the inheritance. So, there are two reasons in one."

  This had never occurred to Henry. His thoughts overran. “How would he know?"

  "She might have told him."

  "But why?"

  "To get him to leave her alone.... You said you heard another voice on the phone. What if it was the killer's voice? What if he was there when she made the appointment to see you? What if he already knew she had been involved with you, back years ago...?"

  Henry needed time to consider this. He could not dismiss it.

  "What if ... we get another ale?"

  Henry rose from the table and leaned on the bar, with two fingers out as Tim looked his way.

  Tim answered as if he had been part of the conversation all along. “There are other reasons to consider. It might have been a matter of love."

  Albert grunted and spoke up from the table.

  "Tim, you are the most God-awful romantic son of a gun I have ever run into. Why aren't you married with six or seven brats clinging to your heels?"

  A silence passed between Tim and Albert so great even the ice machine quieted. Other conversations in the room seemed to pause. Traffic on the street appeared to stop. Tim's love life was a raw subject.

  Henry took the opportunity to be glib. “What do you mean, love? That's the same as saying it was sex."

  Tim finished pulling the two ales and set them onto the bar. “You don't think you can love without sex?"

  But Henry's heart was not in the fun. He considered Tim's rebuke seriously as he took the ales to the table. Possibly in another time. Not now. Not today. Christina Rossetti could have loved without sex. In Helen Mawson's time, perhaps. And, of course, there was the love of a parent and a child.

  "I will not so easily fall in love, Father,” Helen had written “You have set too difficult an example for that.” Henry had read all of the letters now—some several times over, in search of even an inflection of meaning in her words. The letters from her visits to East Aurora were the best. She had found in that small utopian community the intellectual excitement she sought.

  Albert was giving Henry the raised eyebrow, waiting for his response.

  Henry raised his glass to Tim. “Sure ... For love."

  That was the element on the great periodic table of life which carried the greatest weight of all. Not gold or lead. If someone had killed Morgan out of some twisted love, wouldn't it be somehow apparent? But then love was the invisible element.

  In one letter Helen Mawson had said, “I wish to love, free from chains and shadow. I am sure Mr. Hubbard has found this with his Alice."

  Henry sat back in his chair and put an eye on Albert that made both his friend's eyebrows rise in question. Henry teased. “You know, Elbert Hubbard's wife was named Alice, too."

  Albert was not impressed.

  "Really. So was Ralph Kramden's."

  Albert moved a knight's pawn forward. Henry ignored the comment and studied the board as he spoke.

  Henry developed his distraction. “It was Hubbard's second marriage. She was from somewhere around Boston, you know. And it was a friend of Alice's who introduced Helen Mawson to the Hubbard community. A neighbor, I think. She was on her way to East Aurora, and Helen tagged along."

  He moved his queen's pawn reflexively to gain a center defense.

  Albert shook his head at Henry's effort. “Let's move the game along. My Alice wants me home by dinnertime.” He brought his queen's bishop out to the space vacated by his own pawn.

  But Henry's mind wandered between the pieces in front of him. Helen had been fascinated by another guest at the Roycroft Inn during that first visit. She had mentioned him only twice then. But he was there the second time she visited, as well. Henry imagined her father might have worried over his daughter's welfare and wished she had not returned to East Aurora. Mentioning a young man could have been an additional worry. Henry moved his king's bishop out behind his queen's pawn. Always counter an aggressive move with aggression. Albert sat back.

  Helen had written of a Marcus, a newspaperman who had come from Chicago to interview Hubbard. Marcus had been put off at first by the same glibness in Hubbard's words that bothered Henry.

  "Very rude,” she had called the fellow, “with the dark eyes of an anarchist.” Yet she had taken the trouble to call the fellow by name.

  "Marcus Evers stood up at his table, halfway across the room in what they call the Phalanstery, and addressed Mr. Hubbard whilst he was still eating his soup.

  '''Do you think they eat so well as this, below the factories in Buffalo or Erie, Mr. Hubbard?’ Mr. Hubbard made use of his napkin for the moment to catch his thoughts. The room fell quite silent as heavy utensils were momentarily set aside.

  "'I think not, Mr. Evers. Nor perhaps in East London or much of Russia or China, for that matter. Our own starvation will not feed them, in any case. But our effort to set an example for improvement might make a difference to a few, and those thus enlightened may then spread that knowledge to others.'

  "Mr. Evers did not seat himself with this response. We had all heard him arguing his points before the meal when Mr. Hubbard arrived. This newspaperman pursued his purpose now without embarrassment.

  '''Your hopes for the future, Mr. Hubbard, feed no child tonight. Your pretty copper utensils carry no food to thin lips, or ever shall. Your illuminated pages cannot alight the minds of those in the dark of ignorance for want of good schools.'

  "Mr. Hubbard stood up at his table in a deliberate fashion now to face his accuser.

  '''Your uncivil words, Mr. Evers, offer no hope of true discourse. But let me briefly defend myself in the public place you have chosen for your attack. Our aim here is not to feed the stomachs of the hungry, but to carry the burden of knowledge that it may one day reach their minds. We are not farmers. We are printers and painters, coppersmiths, carpenters, and leatherworkers. By example we show the potential for beauty in everyday things.'

  "Mr. Evers attempted to interrupt at that point, but Mr. Hubbard continued. ‘You are a guest in my home. Have some manners, or you will be shown the door.... In a world of countless millions, there is no hope possible to any one man except to set an example—unless you advocate the use of force.... You declaim my commercialism. Yet it is through that very salesmanship that we are able to continue our efforts. You assail my motives, yet my life has been quite open to scrutiny for some years. You have come to do a story on your own preconceived idea of what we are about. Why not just stay at home and fabricate? Why come here to show your belligerence? I'll tell you why. Because your own ideas have failed you. Fifty years of German socialism have produced more guns than butter, more bodies than books. Ours is a peaceful way. Your own troubled mind disdains peace. Yet I can wager that you came not because of your political confusion or need to write falsehood about our small efforts here. You came in veiled hope of finding an alternative. You see the cold, dark road you are on and stop at our small inn for some light and warmth. I regret only that we have failed to nourish your soul. Yet I would not have expected such success with someone so religious in their beliefs as yourself. Our audience is with that portion of humanity which has already agreed to the terms of a civil society and wishes to endow it with the grace and beauty it deserves. Such people do not attack their host at dinner with boilerplate arguments better left at the union shop."'

  Albert's voice interrupted the argument Henry had envisioned. “You have to take the pawn. There is no other move."

  Henry took the pawn from the board.

  He had read the letter more than once. He had looked for something in Hubbard's words to find fault with. He wanted very much to dislike this pompous ass who wore his hair in a style more suited for the age of Benjamin Franklin and had written the single worst essay Henry had ever read, “A Message to Garcia.” Now what he liked most came from Helen Mawson's retelling of what Hubbard said. Would she have altered the word
s ... or the content?

  Albert intruded again. “I am starting to feel the first pangs of hunger. You've got to make your move."

  During the battle for Cuba, a man named Rowan had carried a message from President McKinley to a leader of the insurgents gathered somewhere in remote mountains against the armies of Spain. Rowan had asked no questions and required no other motivation than that his President had asked him to do it. The essay extolled Rowan's act as an example of “Initiative,” getting the job done without excuse or complaint. Carrying the “Message to Garcia” was a metaphor in Hubbard's world for the ideal employee. Don't ask why. Don't ask how. Do it, and do it well. The pamphlet which carried Hubbard's essay became one of the most widely distributed pieces of literature of all time. It had firmly established Hubbard's Roycrofters in the public mind and made Fra Elbertus, as he wished to be affectionately known, famous. Henry considered it balderdash.

  Albert groaned. “We aren't going to get this one finished, buddy. Your mind is not in the game."

  Henry looked down at the board. Albert had advanced his queen's bishop across the board to a position threatening Henry's castle and limiting the escape of Henry's king. Henry brought his own queen forward to check Albert's king and force a defensive move before Albert could bring his other bishop out as well. Albert was trying to move the game along, and getting careless again.

  Albert moved a pawn forward to block the check.

  Henry took the weak defender with his own pawn.

  Albert sat forward as if the battle was his.

  "I might have to take your traveling queen with my knight.” Albert moved the piece into position.

  Was Helen taken by the rude newspaperman? No. In her quest for “love, free from chains and shadow,” she would not have given her heart so easily—not the girl who had been wooed by twelve farm boys. Her father had “set too difficult an example for that."

  Who was her father, then? What kind of man had he been?

  Albert lifted his glass. He was looking for a distraction of his own. There was calculation in his voice. “What was Heber Johnson's role in all this, anyway? He is the father of two sons, both anticipating an inheritance. He's only been dead for a few months. How much did Morgan love the old guy?"