Monkey Puzzle

by Paula Gosling

  ‘Why? Because she knows something we don’t?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘You’ll get it out of her,’ Toscarelli said, confidently. He moved around a stranded bus, cutting in front of a florist’s van that couldn’t make up its mind whether to go or stay.

  ‘Sure. If there’s no other way,’ Stryker said.

  Toscarelli took a moment to give him a look. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ he asked.

  Stryker just shrugged and sank a little deeper into his seat and his thoughts.

  TWELVE

  The Security Guard usually ate his dinner in the Student Union, but the cafeteria wasn’t open out of term-time, and he had to make do with a local café that was twice the price and half as good. He resented this, feeling the University had somehow let him down. On the way in he picked up an evening paper and settled himself to read over his meal.

  There wasn’t much detail.

  But when he got to the part about Adamson’s tongue being cut out he nearly choked on his fried potatoes. He’d missed that. He’d seen the argument, and the stabbing, and the frantic search, and the robbery, but he’d missed the tongue business.

  Out of sight, below the window level, of course.

  This left him feeling slightly cheated.

  He sat back and stared at his empty plate, his eyes out-of-focus as he tried to decide how he was going to go about this.

  Suddenly, he smiled.

  Well dammit, why not?

  Of course, he’d have to take it carefully.

  Because two murders cost no more than one.

  But he was no fool, not him.

  He worked at a university, didn’t he?

  THIRTEEN

  Stryker envied plumbers.

  He envied electricians, insurance men, computer programmers, stock-market experts, bricklayers and secretaries.

  None of them had to work on Sundays.

  Even thieves, pimps, and killers could put their feet up on Sunday if they chose to – drink a little beer, watch a little pro ball on the box, read a book, scratch their balls or just sleep the hours away.

  Not cops.

  They’d spent most of the early part of Sunday checking out the alibis of Adamson’s fellow academics, as a matter of routine. Later that afternoon they had an appointment to view the home of the deceased.

  Adamson’s estate was handled by Benning, Stewart and Tate. Although dead, Adamson was still accorded the rights and privileges of any citizen unsuspected of a crime. His home was his castle. They could get a court order, or they could just break in on ‘suspicion’ and take the consequences.

  But the best way was usually the simplest.

  Ask nicely.

  Someone from Benning, Stewart and Tate was going to meet them at the house after lunch. Meanwhile Stryker had been writing up his initial report on the previous day’s activities, talking the Captain around to letting him stay on the case, and building up his strength while the others ran the errands. Mostly he was just going around in circles, like his goddamned chair. When they brought Wayland in for further questioning, it was almost a relief.

  ‘I resent this,’ Wayland said, loudly. Nobody paid the least attention to this protest, including Stryker, who merely guided the other man into the interview room, and closed the door. After a night’s sleep he felt more able to ignore Wayland’s mouth, but only just. He wasn’t certain how long he could go on ignoring it.

  ‘Nobody forced you to come down.’

  ‘Nobody forced? Crap. They came to the fraternity house and loomed over me in front of all the boys. They obviously meant business.’ Wayland settled himself in a chair and resentfully watched Stryker opening a file.

  ‘I’ve been given some new information concerning your alleged timetable on Friday night,’ Stryker said, evenly. ‘I have a witness who saw you leave Miss Trevorne’s home before midnight. Would you care to amend your statement?’

  ‘Who saw me?’

  ‘Would you care to amend your statement?’

  ‘Did Kate tell you?’ Wayland demanded. ‘What a load of crap. She never.’

  ‘Not Miss Trevorne. A disinterested witness.’

  ‘Someone passing? How could they know – ’ Wayland paused, slumped back in the chair, and regarded Stryker with deep suspicion as his mind worked over the possibilities. ‘Liz Olson,’ he finally announced, in a bitter voice. ‘Wasn’t it? Disinterested, my ass.’

  ‘Would you care to amend your statement?’ Stryker repeated, politely.

  Wayland considered this. ‘No, I damn well wouldn’t.’

  ‘I would strongly advise you to tell us the truth, Mr Wayland, because – ’

  ‘Because you’ll arrest me if I don’t?’ Wayland sneered. ‘You can’t do that. I remember my statement, I remember what I said. I said I didn’t know what time I left Kate’s, and I still don’t know, because I didn’t look at my fucking watch.’

  Stryker sighed, tapped a pencil on the table, looked up at the ceiling. ‘You said – you claimed – to have “spent the night” with Miss Trevorne. We commonly accept that to mean a major portion of both night and the following morn–’

  ‘You can commonly accept what you damn well like. I didn’t come down here to argue semantics with some High School drop-out.’

  Stryker made a sound of disappointment. ‘Oh, come now, Mr Wayland, that’s a bit strong, isn’t it? If it really worries you I can easily have a transcript of both my university and police college grades sent to you just anytime. I studied semantics with Professor Culpepper and I assure you I know what is commonly meant by SPENDING THE GODDAMN NIGHT!

  ‘It doesn’t worry me, but it obviously worries you,’ Wayland said annoyingly. ‘I’m just dazzled by your qualifications, all right?’

  Stryker closed his eyes, counted to eleven, and smiled. ‘Do you care to amend your statement, Mr Wayland? Alter-natively, I could interview all the boys down at the fraternity house – I’m sure at least one of them might be able to remember when you came in Friday night – if you came in.’

  ‘Don’t you dare,’ Wayland said, paling.

  ‘Not a matter of dare, a matter of routine,’ Stryker said. ‘There’s a good deal of routine going on, now, even as we sit here and chat. Detectives Pinsky and Neilson are currently going over old records, checking out class lists, interviewing waiters and cab-drivers – oh, all kinds of people. You’d be surprised what people overhear and see. You don’t think we take everyone’s word for things, do you, Mr Wayland? We’re just the most suspicious people you ever met. Care to change your statement?’

  ‘To what?’

  ‘To the truth. It usually serves.’

  Again, the long look of reflection. Wayland, dressed in jeans, shirt and pullover, regarded his polished loafers and the dark interval of his socks below the bottom of the jeans. His long body was slouched in the chair, his legs outstretched. In the harsh light of the interview room, Stryker could see that the carefully perpetuated image of handsome graduate student was beginning to show signs of wear. Little lines had begun to appear around Wayland’s eyes and mouth. There was a slight scatter of grey in the sideburns, a surfacing of broken veins at the tip of the nose, a sag under the chinline.

  ‘I don’t care to change anything’, Wayland said, finally.

  ‘Why not? What the hell are you so afraid of?’ Stryker wanted to know. He sincerely wanted to know. ‘Don’t you see you’re drawing fire with all this bullshit? If you’d told a simple story, I’d probably have dismissed it. But now I’ve got to start looking hard at you, Mr Wayland. At you, around you, and behind you. I’m going to get very nosey. Now, isn’t that a shame? Especially if it’s such a waste of time?’

  ‘I don’t give a damn how you wear your ass out,’ Wayland said.

  ‘Maybe not. But I could hang yours out to dry.’

&
nbsp; ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘Good heavens, no!’ Stryker widened his eyes. ‘I’m not the threatening type – I’m the stubborn type. I just keep going until I get there. And I’ll definitely get there, believe me.’

  ‘Good luck to you,’ Wayland said, with a smile. He sat up. ‘If there’s nothing else, I’ll be on my way, then.’

  ‘I’ll arrange to have you driven back.’

  ‘No, thanks.’

  As Wayland reached the door, Stryker spoke again, in a conversational tone. ‘How far do you think I’ll have to go back to find out what’s worrying you, Mr Wayland? Five years? Ten? Fifteen? Or will Miss Trevorne tell me, eventually? She’s not a natural liar. She may be fond of you, but she can’t keep it up for ever, you know. It’s not in her, she feels uncomfortable with lies and secrets.’

  ‘You do one thing to harass or upset her, and so help me – ’

  ‘My, my . . . such chivalry,’ Stryker said, mockingly.

  Wayland, white-faced, turned on his heel and went out.

  Neilson, standing aside to let him pass, raised an eye-brow at Stryker and came on in, shutting the door carefully behind him. He was carrying a computer print-out. Stryker, glad of any distraction to calm his anger, asked him what it was.

  ‘Well, it’s funny. You know the address Heath gave us, where he lives with his mother?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Well, it’s her place, not his. He’s got another address, which he didn’t think worth telling us about.’

  ‘Maybe he just owns it and rents it out.’

  Neilson shook his head. ‘No, I just now checked it out. The janitor says he lives there, all right, although he’s “away” a lot. He seems to think Heath is some kind of travelling salesman or something. I rang the bell – it’s a pretty fancy apartment – but there was nobody home. The doorman says – ’

  ‘There’s a doorman?’

  ‘It’s that kind of place,’ Neilson said. He sat on the edge of the table and lit a cigarette. ‘He says Heath is probably out to church or running. He runs a lot, when he’s at home. I asked if he was around now, and the guy said he’s usually around at weekends, so I said was he around last night, and he says, yeah, and I said was he around Friday night, and he says, yeah.’ Neilson drew in a lungful of smoke and let it trail out slowly. ‘He said both Heath and his wife were there, Friday night.’

  ‘Heath told us he was divorced,’ Stryker said, sitting up.

  ‘Uh-huh.’ Neilson’s eyes glittered. ‘He did.’

  Stryker stood up. ‘Let’s go.’

  Pinsky was reciting from his little black book.

  ‘The taxi-driver, we located him, he confirms picking up Dr Coulter at the hotel and taking her to the faculty car park at eleven-fifty. He watched her get into her car and he followed her as far as Jefferson, where he turned off, and she went on out Gratiot towards the Hills. That’s that one.’ He turned over a page. ‘Heskell’s fiancée confirms they were together.’ He leaned forward slightly. ‘I think maybe we should put some pressure on, there. She sounded angry about it, like she was saying they were together against her better judgement, you know? It was just a feeling I got.’

  Tos and Stryker exchanged a glance. Pinsky’s ‘feelings’ were generally reliable, if a little vague.

  ‘Okay, do it,’ Stryker agreed. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘Fowler, okay, Stark okay, confirmed by their wives for what it’s worth, but they seemed straight. Rocheleau okay – his wife is worth a detour for, but that mother-in-law, Jesus, he was right. She would have loved to land him in it. Pinchman and Grey-Jenner still unconfirmed. Underhill . . .’ he paused. ‘Now, there’s something funny there.’

  ‘Well?’ Stryker and Toscarelli both said together, when Pinsky didn’t continue.

  ‘It’s . . .’

  ‘Just a feeling?’ Neilson asked. Pinsky nodded.

  ‘According to a neighbour, Underhill came home around seven-thirty, parked his car in the drive, went in and didn’t come out. But the neighbour’s wife says she heard the Underhill car start up and drive away around midnight. He does that quite a lot, apparently, and it gets her goat because the driveway is right under their bedroom. The neighbour’s bedroom, that is.’

  ‘Right, we’ve got the picture.’

  ‘So anyway, the guy, the husband, says the car was still there in the morning, and she dreamt it. So they had an argument about it.’

  ‘Terrific,’ Neilson said. ‘And?’

  Pinsky shrugged. ‘She says it went, he says it stayed. Take your pick. She also says the Underhills don’t get along so good, arguing a lot, and so on. But that Underhill is absolutely crazy about his kids, and “puts up with it”, to keep the family together. She says he’s a saint.’

  ‘Puts up with what?’ Tos asked.

  “‘Goings on” is how she put it,’ Pinsky grinned. ‘She obviously doesn’t like Mrs Underhill much, so you can consider the source. I figure Mrs Underhill is pretty good-looking, and the neighbour . . .’

  ‘Here we are,’ Neilson said. ‘This is it.’

  It was one of the newer condominiums in an area being ‘reclaimed’ and developed as part of the urban renewal and ‘Renaissance’ of the city. To the right the view was river and the wooded far bank, ahead the sky-scrapers of the downtown area – and to the left, the grimy shreds and tatters of Junktown. There was a doorman cum security man on the door, and he nodded at Neilson.

  ‘Is he in?’ Neilson asked. ‘Has he come back?’

  ‘Yeah – about twenty minutes ago,’ the doorman said, looking at the others. ‘I didn’t say nuthin’, like you said.’

  Stryker, Pinsky and Toscarelli suddenly became interested in architecture as Neilson paid off his informant. ‘She’s in, too,’ the doorman threw in for free, as they went in through the glass doors. ‘Come in about ten minutes ago.’

  ‘What do you reckon a place like this costs?’ Pinsky asked, in the lift, which was panelled in black walnut and trimmed in brass.

  ‘More than the four of us make in a year,’ Neilson said. ‘The janitor says when it was built the apartments were going for a hundred thou, but a lot of them have changed hands since then, with the price going up each time. He reckons the last one went for nearly three.’

  ‘Hundred thousand?’ Pinsky gasped.

  ‘Hundred thousand.’

  ‘Jesus,’ Toscarelli breathed. ‘He must be into something on the side.’

  ‘I think you could safely say that,’ Neilson grinned.

  They all looked at him, but he just kept on grinning, and led them down the hall. ‘This is it,’ he said and rang the bell. There was a long wait, and then the door swung back, revealing Professor Lucy Grey-Jenner wearing a velvet robe that had been hastily thrown over nothing else.

  Neilson looked at Stryker, Pinsky, Toscarelli, and ‘Mrs Frank Heath’. ‘Surprise!’ he murmured, with great satisfaction.

  ‘Four years now,’ Heath growled. His massive presence in the room was like a storm front building up. ‘And if it weren’t for my mother, we would have made it public long ago. She’s an old, stubborn woman, and me marrying a white would just about kill her.’ He looked away, abruptly. ‘Not that she’s got much longer, anyway. But there’s no call to spoil her last months when it isn’t necessary. Lucy understands.’

  Professor Grey-Jenner had reappeared, dressed in a skirt and sweater that revealed the still-young lines of her slim body. Nervously she lit a cigarette and sought reassurance from Heath, but his eyes were on the far horizon. His big hands were clenched by his sides, and he was making a great effort to control his anger. Even Toscarelli felt intimidated by his powerful outline against the window.

  ‘Did Adamson know about your relationship?’ Stryker asked.

  Heath stood very still, then shuddered briefly from head to toe. Neilson and Pinsky stepp
ed back involuntarily when he turned around, and Toscarelli stepped forward. Stryker did not move. ‘Yes. He reminded me of it during the meeting. He said he thought it would be a real step forward in race relations if we made our love public. He thought it would be wonderful.’ The scorn in his voice tore the words to shreds. He looked Stryker in the eye. ‘He said that. Wonderful.’

  Short of apologising for the existence of his entire race, Stryker could think of no adequate response. The one thing that was beginning to bother him most about this case was why nobody had killed Adamson sooner.

  ‘People on campus would understand,’ Lucy said, wistfully. ‘There would be no question of children; I’m too old to have children, now. Frank already has three beautiful children by his first wife. All we’d have is each other, there’d be no trouble there, you see, it’s just Mother Heath . . .’

  They could see how much it tore at her, and Heath reached out to touch her arm, gently. ‘She’s a strong woman,’ he said, meaning his mother. ‘My old man left when I was born, and there were four others beside me, all hungry, all needing. She did what she could for us, she was stubborn and crazy and she did it all for us. Everything was for us. I got a brother who’s a doctor, another a lawyer, sisters both teachers like me. I was lucky. I got an athletic scholarship to USC. Got a taste for campus life . . .’

  Tos snapped his fingers, suddenly. ‘You played for the Packers,’ he said, in some awe.

  Heath nodded. ‘Until I busted both knees,’ he said, wryly.

  ‘He was also Phi Beta Kappa,’ Lucy said, quietly.

  ‘Yeah,’ Heath said. ‘That and fifty cents will buy me a cup of coffee anywhere.’ He amended that. ‘Anywhere up north, that is.’

  ‘But why don’t you just . . . get married secretly?’ Neilson asked.

  ‘That would be cheating,’ Lucy said, in a thin voice. ‘She never cheated him. He’s paying her back.’

  Heath looked at her. ‘You’re doing the paying,’ he said, and pulled her to him, held her close. He looked at the others over the top of her head, and his eyes hardened. ‘I suppose you think it’s crazy?’