To my beloved grandson, Mark. May he understand the secret of the karst and why it was necessary. Your loving grandpops.
Beneath the message was a finely drawn series of minute symbols:
Lyon turned the page, uncapped the pen, wrote his own inscription, and returned the book.
“Thank you. It will make the book more precious to my grandson. I glanced through it at the store; you can’t be too careful what you place in the hands of children. It seems to be about some sort of monsters fighting other monsters.”
“The Wobblies are the good guys.”
“Yes, the Wobblies. And their village is attacked by the …”
“Waldoons. They had wings and two heads, as I recall.”
“Yes, but not too frightening. I love the Wobblies and I think Mark will too. My only quarrel is that hole the Waldoons come from. You make it seem such a dark, dank place.”
“That’s probably because I’m a terrible claustrophobic, which is why I prefer hot air ballooning.”
“Really, how interesting. I’d like to hear about that. Perhaps on the bus tomorrow?”
“I won’t be going with the rest of you. The police want to see me again tomorrow.”
“Oh, that’s disappointing. Somehow I’d feel safer with you on the bus.”
“I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, and I doubt that I could help if there was.”
Collins tapped Lyon’s photograph on the book. “I’ve also heard that you sometimes do things of an investigatory nature besides writing your books.”
“Once or twice, accidentally.”
“There are police in the hallway. Did you know that?”
“Yes, I understand it’s purely precautionary and probably designed to calm our fears.”
“It could be that the woman who talks about voodoo is right after all.”
“I wouldn’t have thought you were superstitious, Mr. Collins.”
“Demons can take other forms than the strange names she calls them. I’m an accountant by profession, and tend to believe more in the laws of probability and chance. There’s a rumor among the passengers that the gun you used this afternoon wasn’t yours.”
“It belonged to a man sitting behind me.”
“Did you know him? Is he here?”
“No, he slipped away. I can hardly recall what he looked like except for his cap and beard.”
Collins looked out the window over the darkening city. “A strange set of circumstances.”
“You’re from Yugoslavia, Mr. Collins.”
“Serbia. We used to make a distinction. I didn’t realize it still showed after all these years.”
“And you aren’t a retired army officer.”
“You’re either very perceptive or make wild guesses.”
“You hadn’t heard of a two-oh-one file.”
“That revealed me. What is it?”
“A service records jacket.”
“No. I haven’t been in the army. Let’s say I was involved in a war of a different sort.” He went to the bathroom door. “I know you must be very tired. Good night.”
“Good night, Mr. Collins.”
Sometime during the night a nightmarish dream of a hundred men with revolvers walking bus aisles jolted Lyon awake. He lay on his side staring across the darkened room. Collins sat hunched in a chair by the window. A flashing neon sign from below intermittently illuminated the lower portion of his face. Lyon watched the sad man in silence for a few moments until waves of sleep again released him.
Police Chief Rocco Herbert didn’t hate the state police; he merely liked to avoid them as much as possible. Ordinarily he considered any intrusion into Murphysville matters a violation of his domain, but this morning he had no alternative. The governor had insisted that Bea Wentworth be chauffeured to New York in her official car driven by a state trooper.
He did luxuriate in the width of the rear seat and found he was nearly able to extend his legs their full length. Bea was huddled in the corner staring out the window. “He’s all right.”
She turned and smiled. “I know. Do you know this is the second time I’ve seen you in your full dress uniform?”
Rocco reddened. “When was the first?”
“At the Bicentennial parade a couple of years ago.” She laughed. “And what in the world are those things on your shoulders?”
Rocco turned a deeper hue of embarrassment. “Stars.”
“General’s stars?”
“As chief I’m entitled to wear them.”
“Rocco Herbert! A twelve-man force and you wear stars?”
“They were Martha’s idea. Damn it all, Bea! It won’t hurt to impress those jokers in the city.”
She gave his shoulder a pat. “I only hope they don’t need to be impressed.”
The Department of Internal Affairs had provided Lyon with photographs of all men authorized to wear a gold shield in the city of New York. After examining the fiftieth or sixtieth picture, he found they were all beginning to merge into one image, and he wondered if he’d even be able to identify himself. Nevertheless, he kept doggedly at it, looking for the man who had occupied the seat behind him.
They had sequestered him in a small, glass-partitioned cubicle off the main squad room. Captain Nesbitt, McAllister of the FBI, and two men from Internal Affairs were clustered in a small knot near the elevators and occasionally glanced in his direction. He turned the last page of photographs and closed the heavy binder. The man on the bus could have been there, but even a tentative identification was impossible. He left the cubicle and walked toward the officers.
“You buy that cockamamie story of someone slipping him the piece?”
“Hell, no!”
“Does the Pope say mass?”
They laughed.
“We’ve got to take a position on this,” Nesbitt said. “The goddamn mayor is coming down here and the commissioner wants the official line to be lily white.”
“Which means we believe he found the gun?”
“You better believe it!” Another officer left the elevator and crossed to them. “There’s a mile long Connecticut State car downstairs with a trooper driver and a guy in dress blues that’s seven feet tall and must be in charge of every cop in New England.”
“We officially believe it,” Nesbitt concluded.
They sat in a row along the divan in Nesbitt’s office. Rocco seemed uncomfortable in his tight dress uniform, and Bea held her husband’s hand tightly.
“We’re very proud of your husband, Madam Secretary.”
“Please. Call me Bea.”
“Of course, and I’m John. In fact,” he glanced at his watch, “in an hour the mayor would like to make a presentation with radio and television coverage.”
Lyon abruptly went to the window and stood with his back to them. “There will be no coverage as there will be no event to cover.”
“Mr. Wentworth, the mayor and police commissioner …”
“Am I in custody?”
“Of course not. You can leave at any time. However, we would like you back again if anything further turns up.”
“Do you know anything about the man I killed?”
“We haven’t had time to complete a full investigation.” He picked up a thin file folder. “But there’s enough here to tell me he was a real loser.”
“May I see it, please?”
John Nesbitt hesitated a moment and then handed over the folder. Lyon stood at the window reading the sparse outline of William Banning Shep’s brief life. A room search on East Tenth Street had yielded few possessions except an irate landlady concerned over back rent. His neighbors knew him as a moody, taciturn man who kept to himself; his job history was splotchy, with continued bouts of unemployment. There were several photographs, including a group taken inside the bus, that showed the dead man sprawled in the aisle as Lyon so vividly remembered. He closed the file and gave it back to Nesbitt. “I’m going home now.”
Rocco sat in front with th
e trooper driver while Lyon stared moodily out the rear window. He was unable to shake the sheen of depression that engulfed him. He had tried to view the events with logic, but coherent thought could not dispel his depression.
“You shouldn’t have looked at the file.”
He didn’t answer for a moment. “How’s the campaign coming?”
“Lousy. My unworthy opponent has accused me of everything except soliciting votes on my back, and I believe that’ll be suggested next week. Did you know that I’m a dupe of the Communist party?”
That penetrated his depression and he smiled. “What kind of dupe are you: Russian, Maoist, Red Guard, or CP U.S.A.?”
“He doesn’t know the difference.”
“Is he reaching the voters?”
“He talks a lot about what haunts people: taxes, crime, inflation. People hear what they worry about.”
“I keep going over it again and again.”
“I was afraid of that.”
“He keeps coming down the aisle and I’m holding that damn gun in my lap. There must have been another way.”
“I’ve thought about it, and I could never see what else you could have done under the circumstances.”
“There are always alternatives.”
“Not in this case.”
Rocco turned toward them and pointed out the window. They were overtaking a Nutmeg Transportation Company bus. As they passed, the passengers waved out the window. Lyon recognized Hannon, with his arm in a sling, the voodoo lady, and a few others. He gave them a thumbs-up sign as they pulled past the bus and it began to recede in the distance.
He wondered if he’d ever see any of them again. The camaraderie of the cocktail party the night before had been strong, and the promise of a yearly reunion well-intentioned, but might be forgotten as life continued and feelings diminished.
An accident of life had taken a dozen and a half people and put them into extraordinary circumstances. For the present they were riding an emotional high, but it would fade, just as he hoped the face of the man he had killed would eventually go away.
But there had been an additional passenger—the man with the beard who gave him the gun. Why did he leave and disappear?
The shock wave from the explosion was sufficiently powerful to rock the heavy car.
“What in hell was that!” The trooper driver fought the wheel and glared into the rearview mirror.
A plume of black smoke had mushroomed skyward. A second explosion shattered it into long streamers.
“Get back there fast!” Rocco yelled at the driver.
“Yes, sir!” Without further instruction, the driver swerved onto the grass, bumped across the median divider, and swiveled into the far lane. He accelerated toward the burning wreckage.
Bea put her hands to her face. “Good Lord, it’s the bus!”
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About the Author
Richard Forrest (1932–2005) was an American mystery author. Born in New Jersey, he served in the US Army, wrote plays, and sold insurance before he began writing mystery fiction. His debut, Who Killed Mr. Garland’s Mistress (1974), was an Edgar Award finalist. He remains best known for his ten novels starring Lyon and Bea Wentworth, a husband-and-wife sleuthing team introduced in A Child’s Garden of Death (1975).
All rights reserved, including without limitation the right to reproduce this ebook or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1978 by Richard Forrest
Cover design by Andy Ross
ISBN: 978-1-5040-3785-3
This 2016 edition published by MysteriousPress.com/Open Road Integrated Media, Inc.
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Death Through the Looking Glass Page 20
