Two Jakes

by Lawrence de Maria

  A woman shrieked. One of the cleaning ladies had chanced a peek into the bathroom. Maurice was now dragging her away.

  “Would you mind looking at the lady on the lanai?” Scarne said. “She has had quite a shock. The man tried to strangle her.”

  “Your wife?”

  “No.”

  “Way to go.”

  He spent a few minutes with Alana and came back.

  “She’s shaken a bit and there’s a little bruising to the neck, but she’ll be fine. Tough lady.”

  The local constabulary finally arrived. A tall black officer in a crisp tan uniform, complete with matching cap and baton, started barking orders.

  “Don’t nobody touch nothing.” He walked over to Scarne and pointed at the bathroom. “You do that in there?”

  “This man has to get to a hospital,” Bonamo said. “He was attacked.”

  “Who are you, man?”

  “I’m a doctor, and I want you to call an ambulance.”

  The policeman started to object, but Bonamo interrupted him.

  “Now!”

  The cop turned to an underling and told him to get on the radio.

  Bonamo winked at Scarne and said, “My wife and I are in 211. There are a bunch of us sawbones from Pittsburgh down for a week.” He picked up the vodka bottle and took another healthy swig. “If you need anything, give us a call. We can send in the Marines if these people start fucking with you.” He tapped Scarne gently on a part of his arm that didn’t hurt and left.

  Another man walked into the cottage and started talking to the police officer. He, too, was obviously an American. He was sturdily built and was wearing a lightweight tropical suit. Scarne could see the bulge under his left shoulder. He heard the word, “Ballantrae” and the cop walked over to Scarne. His whole demeanor had changed.

  “The ambulance will be here directly. Apparently the lady was attacked and you saved her life. The man had a knife and you were unarmed. That was very brave. We can wait until later to take your statement.”

  ***

  Scarne spent two hours in the local hospital. In addition to the more than 60 stitches in torso and calf, his badly bruised hands were X-rayed and bound with gauze. His upper back and neck, which had taken the brunt of his fall into the tub, ached. He knew that by the next day the pain would be much worse. He was given a tetanus shot and a prescription for Cipro.

  “No sense in messin’ around,” the emergency room doctor said. “If you won the fight, Mon, I’d hate to see the other fella.” He also provided some suspiciously large orange-colored pills.

  Scarne looked at him.

  “Who was your last patient, Secretariat?”

  The doctor laughed. “Don’t take more than one at a time. No booze.”

  “Doc, I won’t be running at Epsom Downs, but I’m gonna have a drink.”

  “Well, not too much booze. And don’t drive.”

  When he and Alana finally left the hospital, the kid-glove treatment continued. They were allowed to drive to police headquarters in St. John in a Ballantrae corporate car without escort. Once there, they gave their statements in each other’s presence, which broke every rule of interrogation procedure. The man in the suit never left their side. Alana introduced him as the head of security for Ballantrae Antigua. His name was John Merryman, and if ever a name didn’t fit, this was it. He didn’t smile and spoke mostly in monosyllables. Scarne wondered when Alana had called him. The local cops obviously knew him. It was almost his meeting. And since he obviously answered to Alana, she was subsequently treated very gingerly by the Chief Inspector who debriefed them over a pot of very good tea. To keep up appearances, the Inspector, a distinguished looking and highly starched man named Wilmoth Baldwin, initially was more formal with Scarne.

  “And you found it necessary to kill the gentleman by garroting him in the bathroom?” British accent, perfect diction. “Why was that, sir? Could you not have merely immobilized him?”

  When Scarne started to reply, Merryman interrupted.

  “Don’t answer that.”

  Scarne said, “Excuse me Inspector,” and slowly turned to Merryman. “I don’t take orders from you. Let the man ask his question.”

  The room got quiet. The only sound was from an overhead fan and the tinkle of Alana’s spoon as she stirred her tea. The Inspector cleared his throat.

  “Well, yes, then. Suppose you tell me why you had to kill your, ah, assailant.”

  “It seemed like the right thing to do, given the circumstances.”

  He looked at Merryman, who nodded imperceptibly. Scarne turned his attention back to the officer. He had noted the use of the term “assailant.” The man was going through the motions. After a few more desultory questions, the interview was over.

  “I will have your statements typed up and send someone round to your hotel for you to sign them,” Inspector Baldwin said. “This appears to be a simple case of a burglary going bad. The man panicked when Ms. Loeb walked in on him. He got more than he bargained for, and probably what he deserved. I think we may even be able to do without an inquest, although I certainly can’t speak for the Chief Magistrate’s Office.”

  “I’m sure we can rely on your judgment in this matter, Inspector,” Alana said. “We will be happy to fulfill our legal obligations, whatever they may be.”

  No questions about who the dead man was. Or why he would break in to a cottage early in the morning, when every guest at a sold-out resort was likely in bed. The man had been well dressed. Then there was the matter of Jake being called to the hotel just before the attack. It was only chance that brought him back in time. Which meant Alana was a deliberate target.

  The Inspector wished them “the very best of luck.” As they walked out, Scarne remarked, “Next time I kill someone, I’ll be sure to do it in Antigua.”

  Merryman didn’t smile, but Scarne thought he came close.

  They had to wait almost four hours before a Ballantrae corporate jet arrived from Venezuela. The next commercial flight out wasn’t scheduled until the next day and despite the home-team treatment they had gotten from the authorities, Alana and Merryman were anxious to get Scarne off the island. He wasn’t about to argue. He didn’t know the nationality of the man in the shower and until that was resolved he would feel safer back in the States.

  The Ballantrae hanger at the airport was almost as large as the main terminal, and much better appointed. It had a bar, conference room and lounge. Attendants provided them with a decent lunch and some much-needed drinks. The only time Merryman left Alana’s side was to speak to two tough looking men who were obviously security. Scarne had little time alone with her.

  There were no local police in sight. Their only visitor was a man who brought their suitcases from the hotel. Scarne went into the men’s room and changed into fresh clothes. It was a painful experience, but he felt a lot better for doing it. He thought about asking for his cell phone, which was probably now buried in one of his bags. Then he remembered it had not survived his fall into the tub during the fight. The face was smashed and the whole device now sounded like a baby’s rattle when he shook it. He considered using a hangar phone or borrowing someone’s cell but decided against it. He’d wait until he got to Miami. Besides, he was dead tired. The adrenaline had long since worn off and the horse pill he had been given at the hospital made him groggy. The double bourbon he inhaled didn’t help.

  There was a small room off the main lounge for pilots and other staff. It had a couch and Alana went in to lie down. An attendant covered her with a blanket. Scarne made do with a deep leather seat in the lounge. No one gave him a blanket. He put his feet up on a table and was almost instantly asleep. He was awakened by a whining roar in his ear and a sharp pain in his shoulder. Momentarily disoriented, he sat up and lashed out in self defense.

  “Hey, easy pal. I’m on your side.” Merryman was shaking his shoulder to wake him. The roar was from a mid-size Citation as the craft taxied towards them. The sleek corporate
jet didn’t pull into the hanger but swung into position just outside, engines idling. “Come on pal, time to go.”

  “Let’s get a couple of things straight, Merryman. I’m not your pal. Touch my shoulder again I’m going to feed you into one of those turbofans.”

  Merryman took the crankiness well. He was a pro.

  “Sorry. I forgot about your arm. Please get on the plane.”

  “What about the police statements?”

  “I wouldn’t concern myself about any statements.”

  CHAPTER 37 – RUSH HOUR

  The mood of the rush hour crowd pouring down the stairs at the 34th Street station could best be described as sullen. It was an abominable Spring, with only brief flashes of warmth to break up days of cold drizzle. The jet stream, which had dipped farther south than normal in the winter, bringing absurdly frigid temperatures to the Northeast, was apparently still on vacation.

  The elderly man was jostled on his way down the stairs. The steps were slick with muddy rain and he held the railing. There were no apologies as sodden people brushed past him. Manhattan subway riders, not the most civil of urban animals anyway, were being sorely tested, and not only by nature. A recent fire at a crucial Midtown switching complex had severely curtailed service at two major lines that served a million people. One out of every five trains were dispatched and routed manually. In effect, much of the system was being run the way it had been in the 1920’s. In some locations, conductors could not leave one station until a dispatcher at the next called and said the line was clear. Needless to say, savvy straphangers avoided the first and last cars.

  The fire was caused by a homeless man using newspapers to heat a can of soup right under the antiquated switching box. Even had he cared, the vagrant would probably have assumed the rusted mass of metal and wires above his fire was an abandoned relic from another era. He barely survived the explosion and subsequent meltdown. When the head of the Transit Authority predicted it would take five years to fix the prehistoric wiring in the damaged switching station (which now resembled molasses) the tabloids went berserk. The Mayor’s security detail wouldn’t let him take the subway to work anymore.

  With service so unreliable, many platforms were crowded. The old man, who in normal times would have made his way to the front of the platform so he could exit nearest the stairs most convenient to his destination, was now content to stand near the stairs he had just descended. A young girl with a backpack shouldered past him. She was a cute thing, he noted, who would be even cuter if she ever learned some manners. He almost said something but then caught himself. Kids, he thought. I shouldn’t be too judgmental. She’s in her own little world. He moved just far away from the stairs to avoid the flow of people, edging closer to the yellow line behind which passengers were supposed to stand for safety.

  Many people ignored the line as they craned their necks to look down the tunnel for an approaching train. One of them was the young girl who had bumped him. She kept looking into the void and then down at her wristwatch, a look of annoyance on her face. She was late for something. School? Work? A young man? The elderly man hoped it was the latter. What the girl lacked in comportment she more than made up for in looks. Not for the first time he felt that pang of envy that youth invariably stirs in the mind, and loins, of the old. Oh well, I had my innings. Some young fellow is probably stepping up to the plate with this gal. Lucky bastard. His thoughts were interrupted by a comforting rumbling. A train was heading toward the station. He leaned forward and peeked down the tunnel but couldn’t see any headlights. As he straightened up he felt someone brush up against his back.

  “Sorry,” a man said.

  Well, at least someone had manners. He caught a whiff of expensive cologne, which stood out amid the general mustiness. Now he could see as well as hear the train. Its lights shimmered and wobbled in the tunnel as it approached the station.

  “It’s about fucking time,” the young girl just down the platform said.

  The old man gave her a disapproving look and smiled sadly. The girl saw the look. The old fart didn’t like my language? Who was he to judge? She thought about flipping him a surreptitious bird but then caught herself. He looked a little like her gramps. No harm, no foul, she thought. As the train roared into the station, the man instinctively stepped back a bit, and bumped into the fellow behind him. It was now his turn to apologize.

  “Excuse me.”

  He turned to the right and looked back over his shoulder, catching a glimpse of a wintry smile and a red ski cap. The man leaned past as if looking down the tunnel.

  “You’re excused,” he whispered, and shoved his victim off the platform.

  It all happened too quickly for distinct impressions to register with witnesses, which worked in the killer’s favor, as he knew it would. The old man tumbled to the tracks silently, too stunned to cry out. He landed on his feet but almost immediately his knees buckled and he pitched forward, arms outstretched to break his fall. He was splayed across both rails. He might have cried out when his face hit the ground, but in any event it would have been drowned out by screams from others on the platform and the screeching from the train’s brakes as the motorman made a valiant, if futile, effort to stop the hurtling metal monster. The train finally stopped three quarters of the way down the platform. By then, it didn’t matter to the man on the tracks. The motorman leaned out of his cab and vomited, splattering boots and trousers.

  After the train came to a halt, Christian Keitel casually dropped a manila envelope between the train and the platform. In the ensuing pandemonium no one noticed. He had considered planting it in the man’s pocket before pushing him but didn’t want to chance the enclosed disk being crushed by the subway car’s wheels. The police would move the train to recover the body and would undoubtedly collect everything from the track area. Since the envelope had the man’s name on it, it would be added to his effects.

  Keitel pulled off his red cap, pirouetted and started up the stairs, yelling, “Oh my God, a man jumped! Call 911!” When he got to the top, he removed his ski cap and pulled another one out of his pocket – this time it was blue. As he put it on, two cops rushed by him, heading down to the platform. He doubted anyone would chase him, and if they did, they would be looking for a red ski cap. He debated reversing his dual-zippered jacket but decided against it. Somebody might notice him doing that. On the street he hailed a cab. There was plenty of time for a swim in the hotel’s indoor heated pool and perhaps a massage. Then a leisurely dinner at his favorite French bistro on 61st Street.

  ***

  On a subway platform crowded with hundreds of distracted, miserable people, there was only one real eyewitness to the murder. The girl whose curse had earned her the old man’s rueful smile had glanced back to see if the old gent was still looking at her. His head was turned in her direction. He was apparently saying something to the man behind him. She saw him pitch forward with a startled look on his face, right into the path of the oncoming train. Later, she would remember certain things. How the old man’s arms shot out to brace himself. How he landed awkwardly, almost on his knees and then pitched full forward on his face, an umbrella flung to the side. Then, it was all a jumble of screams, screeching metal, a horrified look on the motorman’s face – eyes wide open, mouth making a perfect O! – as the train roared past her.

  But she was sure she saw a hand on the back of the old guy, pushing. The man the old guy was talking to. The left arm of the stranger straightening against the old man’s back. The black glove. She even started to call for someone to grab the man with the red ski hat, but was drowned out by more screams. And the man lingered. He looked like he was peering down along the side of the car in front of him, not even interested in the man he had pushed to the tracks. But when he started shouting and running away, she excitedly began telling people what she saw. Two young black kids actually believed her and ran up the stairs looking for a red ski cap. But they came back empty handed. They went to get a Transit cop for her
. Finding one was no problem. The platform was now swarming with them, in an out of uniform. A couple looked like panhandlers, real skells, but, of course, that was the idea. Two uniforms jumped down to the tracks between one of the cars, and came back looking ill. She thought she heard one of them say, “Just a leg.”

  Another cop walked up.

  “Did anyone see what happened?”

  Someone said, “I think he jumped.” Others chimed in, turning what they heard second and third hand into gospel.

  The girl was beginning to doubt what she saw, but after things settled down she approached a young cop (he was very cute).

  “Are you sure, Miss?” he asked politely. (She was cute herself.) When she said she was “pretty sure” he told her to wait around until a detective could take her statement. “Meanwhile, could you describe the man?”

  She did, and the young cop spoke into his radio. Cops topside found only one white male wearing a red ski hat, and he was pushing a stroller with a squalling infant whose face matched the cap. A very fat woman, apparently his wife, was berating him. Something about his mother. He didn’t appear to be making a getaway, although they wouldn’t have blamed him.

  When the detectives arrived on the platform, the young cop pointed the girl out. They introduced themselves, and the younger of the two, a tough-looking Hispanic, pulled out a notepad.

  “What’s your name, miss?”

  His voice was mellifluous, not at all in keeping with his appearance.

  “Nancy Lopez, like the golfer. I don’t golf, though. I mean, I took lessons at Dyker Park with my boyfriend. I just can’t seem to find the fucking time. Sorry. He’s not my boyfriend anymore.”

  The cop smiled. The kid was nervous. Better get her back on track before she forgot.

  “That’s fine. Just tell me what you saw.”

  She did. It started to come out in a rush, but the detective soothed her to a manageable rate. It was embarrassing to tell them why she was looking directly at the old man, but it needed to be said, especially when one of the detectives pointed out that everybody else was saying the man jumped. Actually, she started feeling pretty good about herself. She was going to miss her first class at Pace, at least, but she was doing her civic duty. She hoped the cute young patrolman noticed. He was still hanging around, a good sign. Then she felt bad. She hadn’t even been thinking about the poor old guy who was killed. I wonder what his name was. He looked like my gramps. And how horrible was the death! I bet they won’t be able to identify him. That’s silly, he was well dressed. He must have had a wallet. I’m glad I didn’t say or do anything to him. What a shit I can be! She thought she might start blubbering, but didn’t.