Monkey Puzzle

by Paula Gosling

  Stryker glanced at the others, warningly. ‘All right,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘How about coming down to the hospital with me right now? Maybe you can get through to Pinchman – he certainly isn’t responding to anyone else. Want to try?’

  ‘Oh, yes . . . please.’

  ‘Right. You go and get the lift back up – I just want to give these guys a few jobs to keep them busy.’ She went out, and he went over to them. ‘I think it was Wayland who brought him home. I think she thinks so, too.’

  ‘She wants to help,’ Pinsky protested.

  ‘Help who, exactly?’ Stryker asked, cynically. ‘Check with the fraternity house again. If he’s still not there, I want an APB out on him, stat. Also, I want all alibis checked again, this time for both yesterday afternoon and Friday night. That may close some bolt-holes and open up some others. We’ll cover them all, in case Wayland can explain himself to my satisfaction.’

  ‘Do you think that’s likely?’ Neilson asked.

  Stryker’s eyes were cold. ‘No,’ he said.

  The room was in semi-darkness. Edward Pinchman was lying on the high hospital bed, his normally ruddy cheeks pale and flat. All Kate could see from the door was the hawk-line of his nose and his grey hair drifting across the pillow. The covers were drawn up under his chin, and he looked to her like one of those medieval saints carved atop a tomb, motionless, dead.

  Then she noticed the shallow but steady rise and fall of his chest. She swallowed a twenty-nine-pound lump in her throat and went slowly towards the bed. On the far side a young policeman was seated, pad and pencil in hand. Waiting to take down everything Edward said? To be used in evidence? She looked again at the sleeping face. Had she been wrong about the note? Could Edward have murdered Aiken? Written his goodbye? Taken barbiturates – and then walked thirty feet without the aid of his crutches?

  Either she had to accept Edward was a murderer, or that someone else was a murderer – someone she knew, perhaps even someone she loved. The result of the conflict came without warning. One moment she was standing there quietly, the next gushing like a geyser. Hot tears overflowed. Desperately she looked around the room. There were vases and bouquets everywhere. ‘He hates cut flowers,’ she said, wildly, ‘Please have them taken away. That’s why he raised cacti, he said they were survivors, as he is . . .’

  ‘All right,’ Stryker said, softly.

  ‘Flowers die,’ Kate went on. ‘All beautiful things die, he said. They age and wither . . .’

  ‘Take it easy.’ Stryker’s voice was strong, calm, something to hang on to.

  As Kate rummaged in her purse for a tissue, she saw how the sheet dropped pathetically from Edward’s knees, and supposed they had his ‘tin legs’ in a closet somewhere, like left luggage. In coma the lines of age had disappeared from his face, and only the slack falling back of his flesh told his years. ‘Oh, God,’ she snuffled. ‘How cruel to hurt him even more . . .’

  ‘Has he said anything, Calder?’ Stryker asked.

  ‘No, sir, nothing,’ the young policeman said, wearily. It had obviously been a long night of waiting and listening to a man breathing. From behind her tissue Kate glanced at Stryker. The boy had called him ‘sir’ and it struck her that this man she resented and feared was someone who had won authority in a world not noted for easy promotion.

  His glance was cool and impersonal. ‘Would you like to try to wake him?’ he asked. ‘Sometimes a familiar voice can work wonders.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ she said. She took a breath and spoke in as firm a tone as she could manage. Her ‘teacher’s voice’. ‘Edward? Edward? It’s Kate. Wake up, please. Wake up and tell us what happened to you.’

  There was only silence in the room. No flicker, no movement. Nothing changed. He lay as he had lain before.

  ‘Edward – it’s Kate, dear. Wake up, please.’

  Still nothing. She looked at Stryker. ‘It isn’t working.’

  ‘You give up too easily,’ he said, mildly. ‘These things take time. Go on, try again.’

  After ten further minutes, a nurse came in and ostentatiously lifted Professor Pinchman’s wrist, to take his pulse.

  ‘I guess that’s it,’ Kate said, turning away. She took a step towards the door and stopped, abruptly, as an eerie sound filled the room. It was Edward taking a deep and ragged breath. A hurricane couldn’t have been louder, or so she thought. But when he spoke, in a perfectly normal tone, it was deafening.

  ‘Cradle,’ he said. Quite clearly.

  And again. ‘Cradle.’ Kate turned, but for all the change in his outward appearance, he might never have made a sound.

  ‘He did speak, didn’t he?’ Kate gasped. ‘It was he?’

  ‘Calder?’ Stryker asked, ignoring her.

  ‘It sounded like “cradle” to me, sir.’

  ‘Me, too.’ He turned to Kate, who was clutching the bedclothes in the region of Pinchman’s shoulder, watching his still face. ‘Try again,’ he commanded, and she did.

  ‘Edward . . . wake up. Please, Edward.’

  ‘Try repeating cradle.’

  ‘Cradle. What do you mean, Edward? What cradle?’

  ‘He’s asleep,’ the nurse whispered. ‘His pulse has changed. You won’t get a response, now.

  ‘Homeostasis,’ Kate murmured.

  The nurse looked sharply at her. ‘Yes, exactly.’

  ‘What the hell is homeostasis?’ Stryker exploded, his exasperation making his voice seem even harsher in the quiet of the room.

  ‘The body is healing itself,’ Kate said. She nodded towards a small tag at the end of the bed. ‘Edward is Dr Wilkie’s patient. Good doctors, and he’s one, let the body do as much of the healing as possible. Right?’ She looked at the nurse, who nodded, almost smiling.

  ‘So now you’re a part-time doctor, too?’ Stryker snapped. ‘Isn’t teaching crime enough?’

  ‘Look, I don’t know what “cradle” means, either,’ Kate snapped back. ‘But I do happen to know Dr Wilkie, and what other doctors say about him. My uncle is a doctor, two of my cousins are doctors, and . . .’

  ‘All right, all right,’ Stryker muttered. He looked up, suddenly wary. ‘You got any cops in your family?’

  ‘Not one.’ From her tone, it was an achievement.

  ‘Thank God for that.’ He spoke to the young policeman. ‘Stick with it, Calder. It’s not the most exciting assignment you’ll ever have, but it’s important.’

  Kate looked at Calder sympathetically. He probably could think of a million better things to do than sit hour after hour in a dark room with a sleeping patient and an elderly nurse with varicose veins. Not even anything to read. He probably prayed for a fist fight to break out in the hall. ‘Try reciting “The Walrus and the Carpenter” from memory,’ she suggested. ‘That’s what I always do when I’m trapped somewhere.’

  ‘You would,’ Stryker grunted, and opened the door for her. ‘Come on, I’ll drive you back to school.’

  ‘You don’t have to – I can get a cab.’

  ‘I know I don’t have to,’ he snarled. ‘I happen to be headed that way, myself. All right?’

  For some reason the car had shrunk while standing in the car park. Kate, sitting in the passenger seat of an unmarked police car, felt stifled. Her heart pounded and thudded like a prisoner beating on the walls of a cell, and her throat was tight. The car moved through the slush in the streets with an adhesive sound, the windscreen wipers went whack-thunk at the splatters from the truck ahead of them, and she saw that Stryker was driving very carefully and correctly, the way a good policeman should. He wore his glasses. He used his turn signals when passing. He didn’t even cut in on the motorway, not once. She kept waiting for him to scream or shout or curse, but he did nothing, said nothing.

  All right, she thought, you win. ‘Do you know what cradle might mean?’ she asked.

  ‘
Nope.’

  ‘Maybe it will be like “Rosebud” in Citizen Kane.’

  ‘Jesus, I hope not.’

  More silence, except for the windscreen wipers. ‘What do you want me to do?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘About helping you?’

  ‘Tell me about Pinchman. Did he get along with Adamson?’

  ‘As well as anyone did?’

  ‘Did Adamson snipe at him the way he did the rest of you?’

  ‘Not really – I suppose because of Edward’s disability. But he didn’t like him, I know that. I think he was jealous, actually.’

  ‘Jealous? Adamson was jealous of Pinchman?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Edward didn’t have students following him around, the way they did Aiken, but everyone on the faculty liked him. He was so generous with his time – I loved the hours I spent with him, talking about everything under the sun and moon. He made me laugh so much. In spite of all his suffering, the world is a game to him. “We’re all marks in a big scam,” he used to say. “The fun is trying to figure the play before the touch.”’

  ‘That’s con-man’s cant,’ Stryker said, in surprise. ‘Did he always talk like that?’

  ‘Oh, of course not. We both love slang – any kind. Another shared shame. I thought he was my special private discovery – until I found out that everyone on the faculty thought the same thing. He has a knack of making you think you’re the only person who really knows him. I don’t think it’s conscious – he just has that kind of charm. He . . .’ She paused, fighting the tears. ‘He sort of lights up when he sees you. As if he’d been just sort of ticking over until you appeared.’

  ‘You sound half in love with him.’

  ‘So is everyone else.’

  ‘But not Adamson.’

  ‘No. Looking back, I suppose Aiken was like a naughty kid – when he couldn’t get love, he went for attention, any way he could get it.’

  ‘And succeeded. Can you think of any reason why Pinchman would have been driven to striking Adamson with his walking stick?’

  ‘No.’

  The sun off his glasses turned them into a mask, hiding him, making him strange and menacing. The car, too, unsettled her. It smelled of men and cigarettes and spilled coffee and something else she couldn’t place until he raised a hand to lower the sunvisor and his jacket opened.

  ‘You’re wearing a gun,’ she said, involuntarily.

  ‘I’m a cop on duty,’ he said. ‘I’m carrying a badge, too.’

  His hands on the wheel were competent and sure, but they were hands she didn’t know. And she certainly didn’t know where they’d been. ‘Have you ever killed anyone?’

  He sighed. ‘Yes. Twice.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Is that what everyone asks?’

  ‘More or less. What about secrets – any secrets Pinchman might have had – aside from slang and touch-typing?’

  She couldn’t take her eyes off the gun. And his hands. And his mouth, especially his mouth. He had to repeat his question, startling her out of the dark cave where she was hiding with her new-found discovery, terrified he would turn and see what had happened to her. She faced front, and clutched her handbag tightly. ‘As far as I know Edward had only one secret, and it’s hardly anything that would lead him to hit Aiken.’

  ‘Well?’ Stryker asked, impatiently, when she didn’t go on. ‘Come on, what was it? You said you wanted to help.’

  ‘I . . .’ She was struggling. ‘You must promise not to tell anyone. He made me promise and I never have.’

  ‘I’m conducting a murder investigation, Miss Trevorne. If it’s relevant . . .’

  ‘It’s not. It can’t be. But it’s the only thing I know about him he’s ashamed of, and you mustn’t tell him I told you.’

  ‘Oh, for crying out . . .’

  ‘He writes books.’

  Fortunately they were stopped for a red light, otherwise he might have run into something. He gaped at her. ‘I would have thought that was something he’d be proud of, being a literary – ’ He paused. ‘Dirty books?’

  ‘No.’ Her tone implied much worse.

  ‘Well?’ Why the hell was she sitting there like that, eyes straight ahead, cheeks flushed and mouth trembling? He wondered. She looked frightened, vulnerable, years younger. The way she had –

  ‘He writes Westerns,’ she finally managed to say. ‘Edward Pinchman is really Jake Laredo, creator of Silver Whip, Zack Murray, and the Rainbow Kid.’

  He had managed to stop laughing by the time they reached the campus. Kate on the other hand, had grown more and more angry. He pulled up to the kerb and cut the engine. ‘All right, I promise. I won’t tell a soul unless I find it’s relevant to the case.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘It does explain one thing.’ He told her about the legacy in Adamson’s will to the Cattlemen’s Association. ‘Obviously Adamson knew about it.’

  ‘Not from me, he didn’t.’

  ‘Okay, okay – no need to get so uptight. Personally, I think it’s great. My son is a total fan of the Rainbow Kid.’

  She turned slightly. ‘You have a child?’

  ‘My ex-wife has him. In California. I’m allowed to send him presents. On high days and holy days, I’m even allowed a brief phone call.’

  The sudden, unexpected bitterness in his voice cut into her. ‘Don’t you ever see him?’

  It was his turn to stare straight ahead. ‘It’s better that I don’t. Apparently it would traumatise him, and interfere with the benign influence of his step-father, who is rich, influential, and an all-round good guy. Nothing dirty, like a cop.’

  ‘That’s terrible.’

  He shrugged. ‘The world is full of terrible. Killing is terrible.’

  ‘That is killing. A kind of murder.’

  ‘Please don’t bleed on the upholstery,’ he said, shortly. ‘It leaves a stain.’ Through the closed windows they could hear the bell from the tower of Oldfield Hall. ‘Don’t you have a class, now? You’d better get moving.’

  ‘Yes. Thank you.’ She opened the door. ‘If there’s any change in Edward . . .’

  ‘I’ll let you know.’ He watched her get out and close the door, watched her come around the front of the car, the wind pushing the heavy dufflecoat apart, moulding her sweater against her breasts. She clutched the coat shut. He rolled down the window. ‘And remember – you’ve promised to tell me if anything odd happens. I’m counting on you.’

  He started the engine and pulled away. She was three steps on to the Mall before she remembered. ‘Wait . . .’

  But he was gone, the car caught up in the river of traffic, turning a far corner now, disappearing.

  She’d meant to tell him about Aiken’s manuscript, the one the girl had brought in. It probably wasn’t important, just a bit of unfinished business, one of a million ends Dan would have to tie up, she supposed.

  Oh well.

  It would give her an excuse to call Stryker, later.

  She paused, momentarily, one foot lifted to mount a pile of slush. The hesitation put her off-balance and caused her to come down squarely in the middle of it. Ice slithered into her boot. She stood there, staring down at it.

  An ‘excuse’ to call him?

  Oh, Kate, she thought. You bloody fool.

  TWENTY

  ‘Mrs Underhill?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My name is Stryker.’ He showed her his badge and card. ‘I’m investigating the death of Professor Adamson. May I come in?’

  She was a vivid woman, pale-skinned, with a shining cap of black hair and enormous blue eyes. Her clothes were bright and colourful, and she moved quickly, like a nervous colt. Her fingers were stained with nicotine, and there was a freshly lit cigarette in her hand. He had a feeling there usually was.

  ‘Sit down, please,�
� she directed, when they’d reached the living-room. It was also colourful, with a mixture of modern and antique furniture, the latter recovered in primary colours. ‘Can I get you anything? Coffee? A drink? Or is it true, about being on duty?’ Her voice was edgy, thin, too bright. Like the clothes. Like the room. He had the feeling that if he’d had a silver hammer, and knew where to tap her, she’d shatter into a million shards of crystal.

  He wondered if she was always like this. If so she was a strange partner for her poetic husband. Underhill would surely have been better suited by a quiet woman, tender, gentle, who gave him space? This woman gave only signals of fear and tension. Was it her nature, or was it the situation?

  ‘Nothing, thank you. I’d like to talk to you about Friday night?’ He spoke slowly, gently, trying to get her to relax. She kept looking at the clock, her watch, his watch, upside-down. Checking, comparing.

  ‘Friday? But . . . I thought it was all settled. That Professor Pinchman confessed.’

  ‘You know about that?’ It hadn’t been in the papers, yet.

  ‘Chris called me a little while ago.’

  ‘I see. Well, until we can talk to Professor Pinchman we still have to follow on with the original investigation. Just routine.’

  She laughed, brightly, brightly. ‘You mean “just routine, ma’am, just routine” – like on television? It must make it difficult for you, all those television cops. Stealing your best lines.’

  ‘The hardest part is seeing them solve everything in an hour. Sometimes it takes us weeks, months – even years.’

  ‘But you always get your man?’

  ‘That’s the Mounties. I wouldn’t say our percentages are quite that high,’ he conceded, with a smile, trying to make her let go of whatever it was she was clutching inside, with a grip like death. He took out his notebook, and saw her nod to herself. Just like on television, he could almost hear her saying to herself. Just the same. ‘Now, your husband came home on Friday night around seven-thirty, and stayed in for the rest of the evening, is that right?’

  ‘Oh, yes, that’s quite right.’ She had put out her cigarette, and was now lighting another. ‘All evening.’