by Ron Goulart
"Afraid not, my dear girl. It's imperative that I have these few words directly with her."
Another pause. "Well, she isn't at home today," said the perplexed secretary finally. "But she did phone in a temporary number just an hour or so ago. For emergency use."
Bingo! thought Ben. "Do pass it along like a dear girl," be urged.
"This is in Westchester County. That's in New York State. In a town named New Milman," she said. "There's an inn there called Victorian Village Lodge."
We spent a weekend there six years ago, said Ben to himself. "Sounds a jolly quaint little spot. The phone number is what?"
The young woman gave him the telephone number and the number of H.J.'s room. "You might mention to her, if you get hold of her," concluded the secretary, "that we considered this important enough to bother her with."
"I shall, my dear. Thank you ever so much. Tally ho." Ben hung up, grinning. He picked the phone up again and punched out the inn number.
"Thank you for calling Victorian Village Lodge, a bit of nineteenth century tranquility amidst the hustle and bustle of modem living. My name is Angie, how may I help you?"
"This is Dr. Mackinson." he told her in his E.G. Marshall voice. "I have a message here that one of my patients—a Miss Helen J. Mavity—has been trying to reach me."
After a few seconds the woman replied, "I'm sorry, there's no one here by that name."
Ben said, "The room number I was given is 616."
"Oh, yes, she's registered as H.J. Spanner."
"Her married name I believe. Would you, please, connect me with her room?"
"She's not in just now, doctor."
"Are you certain, young woman?"
"Yes, I saw her go out about an hour ago, and her key is still in the slot."
"Hmm," said Ben in a thoughtful, medical way. "Perhaps it would be best if you didn't mention I called, young woman. Yes, I don't want to upset Mrs. Spanner unduly in her present condition. I'll make it a point to telephone her again later in the day."
"Whatever you think best, doctor."
"Do you have any notion when she'll return to the inn?"
"I don't, sorry."
"Thank you anyway, you've been most helpful." After he put the phone down, he clapped his hands together. "Off we go to Victorian Village."
Chapter 19
At a few minutes after two, H.J. had gone strolling. She'd left the inn, which looked like the mansion of some 1890s robber baron with questionable taste, to take a walk across Victorian Village. It covered five rolling acres and consisted of an eclectic main street some two blocks long with a collection of transplanted and refurbished last century buildings. Beyond that stretched fields and woodlands, a few antique barns, and a small white New England church sitting on the pinnacle of a low, gentle hill.
H.J., wearing a tan windbreaker, a checkered shirt, and jeans, had her purse held close to her side. Within it, in a separate envelope now, were the negatives of Rick Dell's photos. She'd attached strips of package tape to the envelope while she was back in her room.
The village hadn't changed much since she and Ben had been there five or so years before. It didn't look any older; everything seemed frozen in the nineteenth century yet well cared for. Among the restored buildings were a small-town drug store with apothecary jars cluttering its window and a swinging-door saloon with a sign depicting a huge foaming glass of beer sitting on the wooden sidewalk in front of it. There was also a dark-wood general store with long-gone products lining its shelves and, as H.J. had anticipated, a narrow, two-stow museum trimmed with gingerbread and painted a lively lemon yellow.
She had picked the inn as her base of operations because Victorian Village was not an especially crowded place at this time of year and it was out of the way. Earlier in the day, soon after she'd made a cautious stop at her house in Brimstone to pack a quick suitcase and then take off in her own car, she'd sent a message to Les Beaujack. She'd had it transmitted from the fax machine in a twenty four-hour market in Westport. It said—
I have pictures. You'll have to deal with me now. Will contact you as to terms.
(Signed) Buggsy.
That had amused her at the time, using the dummy's name on the note. Now, though, as she walked toward the small museum, she felt it had been a dumb touch. Juvenile and far from slick.
"This isn't turning out to be much fun," she admitted to herself as she took another look back over her shoulder.
She was absolutely certain that nobody, ski-masked or otherwise, had followed her here from the house. But they'd been there again while she was staying with Ben, violated it and torn things apart once more. It was unsettling.
To say the least. Yes, having your home bulldozed by goons can certainly spoil your day.
She didn't especially want to dwell on the sort of people Kathkart and Beaujack had working for them. People who'd tortured poor Rick to make him talk.
"Think about money instead," she urged herself as she pushed open the wooden doors of the museum.
She was the only visitor apparently. The outward room had two reconstructions of nineteenth century interiors, each behind a faded purple plush rope. On the left was a Victorian parlor jammed with claw-footed furniture, flowers, and small statuary under bell glasses and a not very convincing grandfatherly wax dummy slumped in a bentwood rocker and pretending to be reading a tattered copy of Harper's Weekly. On the right was a small country kitchen where, with a stuffed Cocker Spaniel eagerly watching, a plump wax housewife was kneading a loaf of bread.
Same loaf she was working on when Ben and I dropped in.
In the next room, exactly as she'd remembered it, was the display of old carriages—five in all. Still standing at the back was a hearse, five of its six black plumes still extant. Inside the glass-walled vehicle an ornate silver-trimmed black coffin rested on a cradle of planking.
After taking another look behind her, H.J. approached the hearse. She edged along, brushing against the surrey next to it, to the backside of the vehicle and opened the rear door. From her purse she took the envelope of negatives. Reaching into the hearse, and using her other hand to pry one of the lengths of sticky tape loose from her wrist, she slid the envelope beneath the old coffin. She pressed it to the bottom of the black box, smoothed out the strips of tape and withdrew her hand.
A fairly safe hiding place for now.
Carefully shutting the door, she moved away from the old hearse.
Out in the other room now, a thin blonde woman and a girl of about six were looking at the nineteenth-century kitchen.
"What did they do to that poor doggie?" the perplexed little girl wanted to know.
"Nothing, Vicki, honey."
"Yes, they did, mommy. Did they kill him and stuff him full of cotton?"
"Oh, no, dear, I imagine they simply . . ."
H.J. returned to the sunny afternoon outside.
I ought to feel a hell of a lot happier than I do, she remarked to herself. Within a few days, with any kind of luck, I'll have . . . Well, at least a million dollars. Tax free, since you don't report blackmail earnings on your IRS return.
She walked slowly out of the two-block town and crossed a rustic wooden bridge over a narrow stream to sit on a wrought-iron bench beneath a weeping willow.
I really shouldn't have looked up Ben, she decided. He's like . . . like Jiminy Cricket to me. He can probably even do the voice. Always trying to be my conscience.
Of course, if she hadn't gotten her former husband's help she wouldn't have found out what the hell Rick Dell had been trying to tell her while he was dying. Then she never would have found the film hidden in Buggsy's hollow leg, and she wouldn't be on the brink of wealth.
Or possibly on the brink of the grave.
H.J. crossed her legs, looking out across a wooded hillside.
She'd never done much in the way of landscape painting. Soon, however, with a million dollars or so to play with, she could paint anything she wanted. Or she could paint n
othing at all.
No more ripped bodices to paint, no more heaving bosoms, no more dippy beach bum types leering. I'll never have to do a romance cover again.
She leaned back on the bench, trying to look content. But contentment didn't arrive.
"Damn Ben," she said aloud, sitting up straight.
Well, it could be he was right in some ways. Blackmailing the Chumley gang probably wasn't that smart an idea. Maybe, as Ben kept suggesting, she simply ought to turn over all the pictures to the police. Or better yet, mail them in anonymously. Let them go after Kathkart and the rest.
And bid farewell to a million dollars.
The interest on that alone, once you worked a way to deposit it at enough different banks so that the government wouldn't get wise— the interest would be something around $100,000 a year.
Imagine that. More than she'd ever earned in any given year since she'd become a professional artist. Quite a lot more actually, despite the fact she'd hinted to Ben that she was doing nearly as well as he was these days.
I'd better talk to him, she thought, standing up, before I go any further with this.
She'd discuss her feelings with him, not necessarily letting him talk her out of the scheme. But, well, to kick around the pros and cons of dropping the whole damn scheme before somebody came and killed her or arrested her. Striding rapidly, she headed back toward the inn.
Chapter 20
The clock in the old church tower was striking 3:30 as Ben parked in the tree-lined lot at the back of Victorian Village Lodge. They were apparently baking apple pies in the nearby kitchen and a pleasant spicy aroma surrounded him as he got out of his car. He was carrying his attaché case, to give him an official aura should anyone question his prowlaround.
He checked around the parking lot, but didn't spot H.J.'s car. There was no one behind the small horseshoe desk in the quaint hotel lobby. Ben leaned an elbow on the deck, squinted toward the cubbyholes. The one labeled 616 was empty. So H.J. had returned to her room and was pretty likely, even though he hadn't seen her car outside anywhere, to be up there now.
He walked over to the narrow, dark-wood stairway and started climbing to the third floor. For some reason the 600 rooms were on the third floor of this four story inn. The same flowers-and-vines pattern carpeting was on the quirky flights of stairs as when he and H.J. had stayed here years ago.
"Faith, that was during happier times to be sure," he muttered in his Barry Fitzgerald voice.
H.J.'s room was around a turn in the narrow hallway, just beyond a stunted palm that squatted in a dented, threelegged brass pot. Ben stopped short of the door, when he noticed that it stood about two inches open.
"Not a good sign."
He shoved the door and, ducking low, went on into the room. There was no one inside. But someone had been there, someone besides H.J. The sheets and blankets had been pulled from the bed, the mattress had been removed and dumped on the hardwood floor. All the drawers, from the bureau and the bedside table, lay upended on the hook rug.
Taking a deep breath, Ben quietly shut the door behind him. The closet was empty, no sign of the suitcase he was fairly sure she must've brought here with her. He took a slow walk around the room, looked into the open bathroom. There was nothing in there of interest.
He studied all the floors again more closely, for signs of blood. He found none. Finally he sank into a chintz-covered chair next to the claw-footed phone stand. "Looks like they found her . . . and took her out of here with them."
After a moment, he picked up the phone and pushed the button that gave him an outside line. He phoned his own number to get a playback of his recent messages. It was possible H.J. had gotten away from here on her own and would try to contact him.
"Clutching at straws."
The messages commenced. "This is Chuck Ramsey with Reisberson Brothers Investments, Mr. Spanner. Get back to me about some great buys in—"
"Get off the tape, asshole."
The next voice said, rather plaintively, "This is Candy again, Ben. Are you really ticked off at me or what?"
"Dimwit," he commented.
"Ben, this is Joe. Give me a call. I know who the old gent was."
Then came, "Ben, it's me. Listen, I've been thinking about things and I'd like to talk to you. Call me at—" H.J.'s phone, probably the one he had in his hand now, was abruptly hung up.
"They either walked in on her then," he said. "Or she had second thoughts."
He sat frowning at the phone for nearly a minute. Then he reached into his breast pocket for his address book. He lowered his head, straightened up and punched out a number.
"Lenzer, Moon & Lombard."
"Okay, hon, put me through to Artie Moon," he demanded in his Barry Kathkart voice.
He could hear the young woman on the switchboard inhaling sharply. Very evenly she replied, "As I told you less than twenty minutes go, Mr. Kathkart, Mr. Moon is still away at an important luncheon with a prospective client and simply can't be disturbed for any reason."
"Well, make sure the old fart phones me as soon as he's free. Does he have the number?"
"You're still at home, aren't you?"
"Yeah."
"Then we certainly have the number, Mr. Kathkart."
"Okay, thanks for nothing, bimbo." He hung up, giving a satisfied nod.
He needed a voice to use on Kathkart and now he had one. He needed to know where Kathkart was and now he did. After drumming the fingers of his left hand on the edge of the telephone stand, he phoned the actor's home in Westport. A woman with a sharp nasal voice answered, "Kathkart residence."
"My dear, this is Arthur Moon," Ben said in his Moon voice. "I understand Barry's been trying to get in touch with—"
"You bet your wrinkled up old ass I have, Artie," said Kathkart, coming loudly onto the line. "I think, by the way, you ought to fire that bitch you have answering the—"
"Barry, Barry, calm down, please. Do you have any news about the Mavity girl?"
"I have the Mavity girl, which is what I've been trying to get through to you about."
Ben's grip tightened on the receiver. "She's at your place now, my boy?"
"She will be any minute. Leo and Chico are bringing her here."
"Where was she hiding—"
"I'll give you all the details later, Artie. That little tracking bug they planted in her car paid off," Kathkart said, chuckling. "How soon can you get out here?"
"I'm afraid I won't be able to leave the new client for several more hours, Barry."
"Shit, then we won't be able to question her until I get back from that half-assed personal appearance you and Les talked me into."
"That will be satisfactory, my boy," Ben said, sounding exactly like the advertising executive. "And, please, see to it that she isn't harmed in anyway."
"That bitch has given us a lot of trouble. She should be taught—"
"Nevertheless, Barry, I want no further violence."
"Okay, nobody'll hurt her, Artie. Not until we start asking our questions, trust me." Kathkart hung up with a slam of the phone.
Ben next called the Lenzer, Moon & Lombard office once more. "Hi, bimbo. This is your favorite television personality," he told the switchboard, using the Kathkart voice.
"Mr. Kathkart, I've already told you that—"
"Zip your lip, hon, and pay attention. Something has just now come up," he said. "So tell the old fart I won't be home or available on the phone until after my half-assed personal appearance tonight. He can forget bout returning my call until then."
"Very well, Mr. Kathkart. I'll convey that message."
"Love the way you say my name. It'd freeze the balls off a whole tribe of Eskimos. Bye, sweetie."
Hanging up, Ben leaned back again and sighed, then rose and very quietly slipped out of the room.
Chapter 21
"It's too risky."
"I'm going to try anyway."
"Call the police, try your friend Ryerson."
"If I can get her out of Kathkart's on my own the police won't even have to know she was involved in this mess."
"Ben, these guys have kidnapped her. That happens to be a serious crime."
"So is murder Joe. And once H.J. is safe we can tip the police off—anonymously—that Kathkart and his cronies have a couple of murders to their credit."
"Maybe the score will be three before you can do anything about it."
The two men were in Sankowitz's big, white-walled studio. It was nearly 5:30.
Ben, pacing slowly in front of the row of black filing cabinets, said, "From that fragment of phone message, I'd guess that H.J. was planning to drop the whole damn blackmail idea," he told his friend. "So if I can keep her clear of the law then—"
"For Christ's sake, every cop in this part of the state has a picture of her bending over a corpse," reminded Sankowitz, who was sitting with his back to his drawing board. "So even if you succeeded, possibly with divine intervention, in springing her from those bastards, she'd still—"
"What the police have is a muddy picture of a blurry woman who could be just about anybody."
"Not just anybody, but someone who knew Rick Dell. And by this time they're probably aware that Helen dated the guy."
"So did Trinity Winters, among several others," Ben said. "Now tell me who the victim was."
"What time do you intend to attempt this ill advised Rambo operation?"
"Soon as Kathkart and company leave for his personal appearance. He's due over in Westchester in 8:00, isn't he?"
"According to the newspaper yarn."
"Then he'll be leaving Westport between 6:30 and 7:00. I have to be stationed someplace where I can keep an eye on his mansion not later than 6:15."
"Foolhardy," said the cartoonist. "I'll tell you something. Most of the time you were married to her—at least during the years when I knew the both of you—you were always doing stupid things like this."
"Nope, wrong. I never once rescued H.J. from kidnappers."
