“That’s the way it is, eh?” I said, giving him the smile of a good loser.
“That’s the way it is,” he said. “You can turn your car around just over there to the right.” He picked my suitcase up and put it in the back of the car.
“Right,” I said, tramping the accelerator to the floorboards and gunning the Morris directly at the wooden barrier. It didn’t disintegrate the way they do in the movies, but it sure swiveled out of my way in a hurry, laying low the other guard, whose scowl had turned to a terrified grimace. Through the rearview mirror I got a satisfying glimpse of chaos in my wake.
I skidded to a halt in the parking lot at the side of the mansion and discovered that The Institute had other guests. Two squad cars from the Monterey County Sheriff’s Department and an ambulance. A young deputy was leaning against one of the cars practicing his squint.
“What’s happening?” I asked.
“That depends on who you are,” he said.
I gave him a look at my I.D., adding: “Lieutenant Grenby knows I’m here.” He read the card, moving his lips slightly, and then thought about it for a while.
Finally he said: “They’re bringing some old dude up from the rocks.” He gestured vaguely in the direction of the sheer rocks up above the mansion.
By the time I got near the top of the cliff, I was puffing and blowing like a gut-busted concertina and swimming in sweat. A black haze of exhaustion had settled over my eyes, and I made a vow to get in shape.
When I could see again, I got a good grip on the stitch in my side and continued along the cliff face with the sea on my left. I didn’t get far before I was met by a grim little procession.
Leading it was Lieutenant Michael Grenby looking somber and efficient. Behind him was an anonymous man in his shirtsleeves carrying a medical bag and walking as if he were on a tightrope, although the edge of the cliff was a good ten feet away. Following them, a sheriff’s deputy and two ambulance attendants in dirty hospital whites shouldered a body bag that looked to be half empty. Bringing up the rear was Hugo Fischer with Emma Carter leaning on his substantial shoulder. She wasn’t crying, but her head lay against his collar bone at a peculiar angle as if her neck were broken. I didn’t have to guess who was in the bag.
Grenby’s eyes took me in without much joy. “I’ll see you down at the house,” he told me softly as he walked past. The man with the medical bag nodded politely, but the three bearers didn’t even see me. All they wanted to do was get rid of their load. Mrs. Carter’s blue-veined eyelids were tightly closed as she passed, but Fischer was all eyes. He didn’t say anything, but his look said he had marked me up for later slaughter.
I watched the cortege out of sight around a bend and then proceeded along the path they’d just covered. In less than fifty yards, I was back just outside J. B. Carter’s cave hideaway, where two more sheriff’s men, wet to the armpits, were struggling to pack up a portable block and tackle and a thick reel of steel cable. With his back to me, a little man wearing sergeant’s stripes and built-up shoes was watching their struggles but resisting the urge to jump in and help.
There was something familiar yet alien about the back of his head. The familiar part was his ears, low slung and slightly crimped as if recoiling from something they didn’t want to hear. I knew those ears, but they didn’t belong on that head. Then he said: “I think we’re winning, boys,” in a high, nasal voice, and I knew.
“You’re doing a great job, Harry,” I said, “but why aren’t these lads giving you a hand?”
Harry Shearer turned around in a single graceful motion, and I suddenly knew why it had taken so long to recognize him. Since I’d seen him about a year and a half before, he’d acquired a head of thick, semi-wavy auburn hair that lay on his round little head like moss on a cannon ball. The last time I’d seen him he’d been trying to make six greasy strands cover about half an acre of highly polished scalp. I’d have to ask him how he did it, when I got up the nerve.
“Goodey,” he said flatly. He showed about as much surprise as a chorus girl on her seventh honeymoon. “Grenby said you were hanging around, but I heard they gave you the boot.” His eyes went to mine, and I started looking anywhere but at his hairline.
“Nah,” I said. “They love me here.” His snort said he’d have to see it in writing. “What’s the scam?” Harry hesitated, so I said: “You may as well play know-it-all or Grenby will. He and I are like this.” I held my two index fingers up and as far apart as my arms could get them.
“I believe it,” Harry said. “How much do you know?”
“You just brought old man Carter up from the base of the cliff in something less than perfect condition,” I said. “He didn’t tell you how he got there.”
“Wonderful, Joe,” Harry said. “You know, you ought to be a detective.”
“There’s no money in it,” I said. “What did he look like?”
“Not his best,” Harry said. “Those rocks down there can play hell with the complexion.”
“Did the coroner come to any instant conclusions?”
“Some,” Harry said. Then he hesitated.
“Come on, Harry,” I said wearily. “Grenby will tell me, and I’ll see the coroner’s report. Save me some time. I’m double-parked.”
“All right,” he said. “His best guess at this point is that death was fairly simultaneous with the old man’s arrival at the rocks down there. The usual massive fractures, contusions, hemorrhaging, that sort of thing.”
“It sounds like a carbon copy of the Pierce girl’s injuries,” I said.
“Close,” Harry agreed, “but with one difference, Joe. According to the coroner, not all of Carter’s injuries were sustained at the bottom. He suspects that he knows what put Carter there.”
“And what would that be?”
“A fairly sharp blow across the superciliary arch. That’s the lower forehead to you. Not hard enough to kill him, but with plenty of force to stun him or even put him out completely.”
“And over?” I asked.
Shearer shrugged. “It sure didn’t happen on the way down.”
“Did the man happen to say how long Carter had been dead?”
“Not to the minute, but he brackets it between ten and fourteen hours. Isn’t science wonderful?”
“Yeah, dazzling,” I said. “You got any idea of who or what hit him? I mean, just a rough idea. Don’t strain your mush.”
He looked at me with wonder tinged with disgust. “Christ, Goodey, you’re worse than Grenby, and I don’t even work for you. No, I don’t know what hit him, who was holding it or what sort of grip he was using. But I will, and if you read the newspapers, you will, too. What do you care, anyway? I thought the Pierce high dive was your meal ticket.”
“It is,” I said. “But I’ve got a bit of spare time on my hands, and I thought I might give you a hand. You know, in an amateur sort of way. Mind if I have a look around?” I gestured vaguely in the direction of the late J.B.’s cave hideaway.
“I sure as hell do,” said Harry. “You take one step, and we’re going to reenact the crime using you as a stand-in. Once I’m finished up here, you can nose around all you want. Until then, you keep away. Now, would you rather walk back to the mansion or take a short cut? Boys…” he said to his two bird dogs who had finished with the lifting tackle and were standing eyeing me coldly.
“That’s okay, Harry,” I said, backing off. “I’ll walk. I need the exercise.”
When I got back down to the mansion, Fischer was waiting for me on what in a less impressive house would have been called the front porch. He was backed by Moffitt and a couple of other thugs, and he didn’t look happy. Grenby stood off to one side, leaning on a fluted pillar and trying to look detached yet in charge of things at the same time. He wasn’t succeeding.
“You!” intoned Fischer, pointing a majestic finger at me as if it were about to flash lightning. “Get out! If you’re not off my property in five minutes, you’ll wish you’d never b
een born.” He had apparently heard about the gate-crashing incident.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Fischer,” I said, “I’d love to, but I can’t. Not just yet.”
“Can’t!” Fischer shot the word at my head as if it were a bullet.
“I’ve got a job to do here,” I said, trying to sound reasonable. “I can’t do it if you throw me out.”
Fischer’s expression of Olympian disdain said he wasn’t about to waste any more of his golden time on me. He was going to scrape me off his shoe like so much dog shit. “Don’t,” he said, and Moffitt and a couple of light-heavies took a step toward me.
I took a step backward and said: “Besides, I don’t think Lieutenant Grenby can afford to lose his best suspect.”
That stopped the mayhem squad cold, and even Fischer lost a little of his regal detachment. Grenby decided to let the pillar stand on its own and edged forward slightly. “What do you mean, Goodey?”
“I mean that it’s very likely that I was the last person to talk to Carter before he was killed. Or the next to last, if you don’t think I killed him.”
“This is not something to joke about,” Grenby said angrily. “An old man is dead.”
“I’m not joking, Grenby,” I said. “I spent quite a little time with Carter at around one o’clock this morning. If your coroner knows what he’s doing, that was just before J.B. went over the cliff.”
I snuck a look at Fischer’s face, and something told me that I wasn’t telling him anything new. I didn’t think there was much that went on at The Institute that escaped his notice.
“What were you doing up there with Mr. Carter at that hour?” Grenby wanted to know.
“Oh, discussing this and that,” I said. “Mostly who killed Katie Pierce.”
That got a reaction, all right. Moffitt and his braves snarled on cue, and Fischer started to puff up like a Christmas gobbler.
I appealed to Grenby: “Are you going to let this two-bit despot throw out your best chance of finding out what happened, to J. B. Carter?” This wasn’t strictly true, since I had no more idea who helped the old man over the cliff than he did. But I had developed one or two little ideas that I couldn’t do much about if Fischer gave me the boot. “You’re the law here, aren’t you?”
Grenby pivoted this way and that, ending up looking Fischer’s way. “Hugo,” he said, in a not very authoritative voice, “don’t you think…”
“No, I don’t,” boomed Fischer. “I don’t care what you do with this character, but I want him off my property—now! Take him, put him in jail. Put him under the jail, but get him away from me. If you have to bring him back, bring him in handcuffs. That’s the only way I’ll tolerate his presence in my house.”
Jesus. Fischer really believed it. He wasn’t just playing the guru; he’d taken out a patent on the role. And it looked as though nobody in this crowd was going to challenge him on my behalf. I was beginning to be sorry I’d said anything about my little visit with J.B. At least before I hadn’t been a murder suspect.
“Goodey,” Grenby started, “I’m going to have to…”
“Wait a minute,” I said. I was going to go down with guns blazing. “I get an uneasy feeling, Mr. Fischer, that you couldn’t care less who killed J. B. Carter. He was a nuisance to you, wasn’t he? Aren’t you the teensiest bit glad that you don’t have him for a problem anymore?” Fischer wasn’t going to answer me. He’d already turned his great head toward the mansion when somebody came out of the open front door.
“It’s not true what this man says, is it, Hugo?” asked Emma Carter. She was still pale, and the skin around her eyes was drawn tight with grief, but she’d obviously bounced back fast. J.B. wasn’t the only Carter who was made of durable stuff.
Fischer stopped short, and within a blink he’d changed gear and was a loving God, compassionate and all-caring. “Of course not, Emma,” he said reaching out and taking both of her hands in his. The rest of us could have been in another state. Emma Carter had all of Fischer’s attention. You could almost see it wash over her like s0oothing balm. “You know I care. We all share your loss.”
Fischer reminded me of the slickest undertaker in the world about to sell her the solid walnut coffin with the bronze handles. But there was something in the set of Emma’s jaw that told me that she couldn’t quite book his act, either. Fischer was trying, in a genteelly compassionate way, to muscle her back through the doorway so that his thugs could wrap me up and leave me on the road for the garbage truck.
But Emma Carter wasn’t being moved. She stood her ground against that juggernaut of compassion and certainty. It was easy enough for an outsider like me to sass the Great God Fischer. Win or lose, I wouldn’t have to hang around to face his wrath. Now that she’d lost J.B., Mrs. Carter would probably need Fischer and The Institute more than ever.
But Fischer also wanted something from her, and Emma Carter’s eyes said she hadn’t forgotten who still owned the mansion. “Yes, I do know, Hugo, but I don’t see what harm it can do for Mr. Goodey to remain here until…’’ she bit her lip and blinked hard, “…until the police find out who killed J.B. After all, Mr. Goodey may well have been the last person to talk to him. And if…”
Fischer knew an opportunity to back off a bit when he saw one. “Of course, Emma,” he said. “If you think it would help for this man to stay for a while, he will. He’s a nuisance, of course, but…” He made a generous gesture as if I were a present that was his to give.
“Thank you, Hugo,” she said simply, and I felt that she meant it. Around there, even the right to say who stayed in your own house was a gift from Hugo Fischer. “And now I’d like to talk to Mr. Goodey alone.”
“Right,” I said eagerly, bounding up the steps. Fischer gave me an interesting look as I passed him, and Grenby said: “I’ll want to talk to you when you’re finished, Goodey.”
Emma Carter led me through the entrance lobby of the big house, past the marble stairs and through an inconspicuous doorway I hadn’t noticed in my tour of the mansion. “This used to be a sewing room,” she explained as she turned on an overhead light, “but now I use it as a sanctuary when things get too hectic.”
It was a small, comfortable-looking room, furnished with simple but expensive taste. Unlike what I’d seen of the rest of the mansion, it seemed a truly private room. There was no public-address box on the wall. Mrs. Carter gestured toward a small, overstuffed couch and we sat down knee to knee. I didn’t say anything, figuring that she would come up with what was on her mind. She did.
“Mr. Goodey,” she said, “I’m not so sure that I like you very much.”
What could I say? Like J.B., she came to the point in a hurry, but at least she didn’t try to hit me on the head.
“That’s okay,” I said. “Lately a lot of people seem to feel that way. Maybe I’m using the wrong toothpaste. But I don’t think you brought me in here to say that.”
“No, I didn’t,” she said. “But I believe in being honest. Do you?” She gave me a probing look, but nothing I couldn’t handle.
“As often as possible,” I said. “But if you’re asking whether I’ll tell you the truth, the answer is yes. I can’t think of any reason to lie to you.”
Her expression said she didn’t think much of my limited candor, but she said: “Tell me about seeing J.B. last night.”
So I did. Everything. When I told her how he slugged me with his sock of sand, she said: “Oh, that was terrible.” But she couldn’t totally repress a wry old smile. I assured her that the damage had been minimal and went on with my tale. She listened intently, not interrupting again until I’d told how J.B. had disappeared into the foliage and I’d come back down to the house.
Then she said softly: “It’s such a shame.” I thought she meant that it was a shame that he was dead, but then Emma went on: “If only J.B. could have trusted Hugo, there’d have been no need for him to hide out in that cave. He could still be here with…” She lowered her eyes.
“Do you r
eally think so?” I asked. “I got a very strong impression that he’d rather have lived out there forever than come back down here a0nd be Hugo Fischer’s lap dog.”
“Is that what you think I am, Mr. Goodey?” she asked with her chin up and her eyes firmly on mine.
“I haven’t been around long enough to form an opinion on that,” I said. “But your husband seemed pretty convinced that you’d gone soft in the head to even think of signing this place over to Fischer.”
“To The Institute, Mr. Goodey,” she corrected me. “To The Institute.”
“From what I’ve seen so far,” I said, “The Institute walks around inside Fischer’s fancy moccasins. I haven’t seen anybody else who seems to be more around here than a…” I remembered just in time that I was talking with a very nice old lady who’d just been violently widowed.
But Emm0a Carter wasn’t going to let me get away with being chicken. “A flunky?” she asked with a probing look. “Is that what you meant to say, Mr. Goodey?”
“It’ll do,” I said. “This place doesn’t seem to be overcrowded with people eager to spit in Fischer’s eye. You’re the first I’ve seen even bother to stand up to him.”
She blushed a little as if she hadn’t thought about it in exactly that way. “Hugo does tend to dominate at The Institute, Mr. Goodey,” she said, “but I assure you that he is not nearly so autocratic as you seem to think. But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about. I get the feeling that you think that Hugo might be a suspect in my husband’s murder. You don’t really think that’s possible, do you?”
“May I be completely honest?” I asked.
“That’s all I ask of you.”
“Then,” I said, “even if I was impressed with Hugo Fischer, as the rest of you seem to be, there’s no way that he wouldn’t be a principal suspect. Ask yourself, who else stands to gain so materially from your husband’s death?”
After a pause, she said: “I do, Mr. Goodey. I am J.B.’s sole beneficiary. I now own this estate entirely, as well as the rest of our property.”0
Charles Alverson - Joe Goodey 02 - Not Sleeping, Just Dead Page 14
