Five Classic Spenser Mysteries

by Robert B. Parker

  I got five ten-dollar bills and a spare set of keys out of my top bureau drawer and slipped them into my pocket. Went to the front closet and got my other jacket. It was my weekend-in-the-country jacket, cream-colored canvas, with a sherpa lining that spilled out over the collar. I was saving it in case I was ever invited down to the Myopia Hunt Club for cocktails and a polo match. But since someone had shot a hole in my other coat, I’d have to wear it now. It was 8:10 when I left my apartment. Smart, clean, well fed, and alive as a sonova bitch.

  Chapter 22

  I took a cab back out to Jamaica Pond. My car was where I’d left it, keys still in the ignition, sunglasses still up on the dashboard. Hubcaps still on the wheels. Ah, law and order. I got in, started it up, and drove on back into town to my office. I opened all the windows to air the place out and checked my mail. Called the answering service to find that Marion Orchard had called three times and Roland Orchard once. I called Quirk to see if they’d found Hayden. They hadn’t. I hung up and started to lean back in my chair and put my feet up. My side hurt and I froze in midmotion, remembering the wound, and eased my feet back to the ground. I sat very still for about thirty seconds, breathing in small shallow breaths till things subsided. Then I got up quite carefully and closed the window. No sudden moves.

  It was time to start looking for Hayden. I looked down at Stuart Street; he wasn’t there. I felt a good deal like going home and lying down on my bed, but Hayden probably wasn’t there either. The best I could think of was go out and talk to Mrs. Hayden. As I was driving out to Marblehead again, the pain in my side began to be tiresome. At first it was almost a pleasant reminder that I was alive and hadn’t bled to death in Jamaica Pond. But by now I was used to being alive and was again accepting it as my due, the common course of things; and the pain now served no other purpose than to remind me of my mortality. Also, the drive to Marblehead is among the worst in Massachusetts. It is only barely possible to reach Marblehead from anywhere, and the drive from Boston through the Callahan Tunnel, out Route 1A through East Boston, Revere, and Lynn is narrow, cluttered, ugly, and long. Particularly if you’ve recently been shot in the side.

  There was a sea gull perched on the ridgepole of Hayden’s gray weather duplex when I pulled in to the driveway. There was a larger number of people on the wharf than there had been last time, and I realized it was Saturday.

  The shades of Hayden’s place were drawn, but there was a stir of motion at the edge of one by the front door. I rang the bell and waited. No answer. No sound. I rang again. Same thing. I leaned on the bell and stayed there watching the ocean chop and flutter in the harbor and the bigger waves break against the causeway at the east end of the harbor. Inside I could hear the steady bleat of the bell. It sounded like a Bronx cheer. I felt it was directed at me—or was I getting paranoiac? She was tough; she hung in there for maybe five minutes. Then the door opened about two inches on a chain and she said, “Get out of here.”

  I said, “We’ve got to talk, Mrs. Hayden.”

  She said, “The police have been here already. I don’t know where Lowell is. Get out of here.”

  I said, “Lowell’s got one chance to stay alive, and I’m it. You shut the door on me and you’ll be slamming the lid on your husband’s casket.”

  The door slammed. Persuasive, that’s me. Old silver tongue. I leaned on the bell some more. Another four or five minutes and she cracked. People who can endure bamboo slivers under the fingernails begin to weaken after ten minutes of doorbell ringing. She opened up again. Two inches, on the chain.

  I said real quick, “Look. I saved your husband’s life last night and got shot in the chest for my troubles and damn near bled to death because your husband ran off and left me. He owes me. You owe me. Let me save his life again. You won’t get another chance.” The door shut, but this time only for about thirty seconds. As I started to lean on the bell again I heard the chain bolt slide off and the door opened.

  “Come in,” she said.

  She was as sumptuously dressed as she had been on my previous visit. This time it was brown corduroy pants that tapered at the ankles, brown leather sandals with a loop over the big toe, and a gray sweat shirt. Her hair was in the same tight bun, her face as empty of make-up as it had been. Her eyes behind the big pinkish eyeglasses were as warm and as deep as the end of a pool cue.

  The apartment smelled of cat food. The front door opened into the living room. Beyond that I could see the kitchen and to the right of it a closed door, which I assumed led to another room. Maybe the master’s study. In front of me, opposite the door and along the right-hand wall, rose a staircase.

  The living room was big and sunny and looked like the display window at Sid and Mabel’s furniture outlet. There were four canvas director’s chairs, two blue ones and two orange ones, more or less grouped around a clear plastic cube with an empty vase on it. On the far wall was a blond bookcase with a brilliant coat of shellac on it, which held an assortment of textbook-looking books, mostly paperbacks, and a pile on the bottom shelf of record albums and coarse-paper magazines without covers, which were probably academic journals. On top of it were a McIntosh amplifier and a Garrard turntable. On each side, standing three feet high on the floor, were two Fisher speakers. The whole rig probably had cost more than my car, and surely more than the furniture. On the floor were two rugs, fake fur in the shape they would have had were they real and skinned out to dry. One was a zebra, one a tiger. House beautiful.

  “Sit down,” she said, and her thin lips barely moved as she talked. “Coffee?”

  “Yes, please.” I eased into one of the director’s chairs. A fat Angora cat looked at me from the chair opposite, its yellow eyes as blank as doorknobs, its fur snarled and burry. It was the first time I could recall sitting in a director’s chair. I had missed little, I decided. Mrs. Hayden appeared with the coffee in a white plastic mug, insulated, the kind you get with ten gallons of gas at an Exxon station. I took it black and sipped. It was instant.

  “You say my husband needs your help. Why?”

  “He’s involved in one larceny and two murders. There is obviously a contract out on him. And if I don’t find him before the contractors do, he’s going to have all his troubles solved for him with a neat lead injection.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I bet you do. But I’m not going to argue with you. I’m telling you that if he doesn’t come in under cover, he’s dead.”

  “What makes you think you can help him?”

  “That’s my line of work. I helped him last night. I can do it again. There’s a homicide cop named Quirk who’ll help too.”

  “Why should I trust you?”

  “Because I got a hole in the left side of my body to prove it. Because you could trust me last night a hell of a lot more than I could trust your husband.”

  “Why do you care what happens to him?”

  “I don’t. But I care what happens to a twenty-year-old kid who’ll end up in the women’s reformatory unless I can find out the truth from your husband.”

  “And what happens to him when you find out whatever you think the truth is?”

  “He’ll live. I can’t promise much else, but it’s better than what he’ll get if Broz gets there first. The Supreme Court has outlawed the death penalty, but Broz hasn’t.”

  “This is ridiculous,” she said in her flat thin voice. “I do not know anyone named Broz. I do not know anything about any killings or any girls going to jail. My husband is away for a few days on professional business.”

  She had her hands in her lap and was twisting the gold wedding ring round and round on her finger. I didn’t say anything. Her voice went up half a note.

  “It’s absurd. You’re absurd. It’s an absurd fairy tale. My husband is a respected scholar. He is known all over America in his field. You wouldn’t know that. You wouldn’t know anything about us. You’re nothing but a … a …”

  “Cheap gumshoe?” I sugges
ted.

  “A snoop! A sneaky snoop! Nothing will happen to my husband. He’s fine. He’ll be back in a few days. He’s just traveling professionally. I told you that. Why do you keep asking me?” Her voice went up another half note. “You bastard. Why are you hounding him? Why does everyone hound him? He’s a scholar, but you won’t leave him alone. None of you. You, the police, those men, that girl …” Tears began to run down her face; her voice thickened.

  “What girl?”

  She wailed then. Her face got red and contorted and her mouth pulled back from her lips so that her gums were exposed. Her nose ran a little, and she cried with her whole considerable frame—huge, gasping sobs mixed with a high eerie sound like locusts. She drooled a bit too. I sipped on my coffee and said it again.

  “What girl?”

  Had she buried her face in her hands, or turned away, or fled the room it would have been tolerable. But she didn’t. She sat, looking at me full face, and cried harder and harder till I began to think she would hurt herself. I couldn’t keep looking. I got up and walked around the room. I looked out at the harbor. There was dust in random patterns on the windowpane. I put my hands in my pockets and walked back across the room and looked out the other window. She continued to howl. My side hurt and my head throbbed and I felt a little sick.

  I looked at her sideways. She was trying to pick up her coffee cup but her hand shook so violently that the coffee sloshed out onto the coffee table and formed a brown puddle on the clear plastic. She kept trying, even though most of the coffee had sloshed out, and finally threw it frantically on the floor. The cat jumped off the chair and went into the kitchen.

  She was screaming now steadily, except for the wrenching gasp when she had to breathe. I went over and put one hand on her shoulder. She jerked away and scrambled out of the chair. Both her hands were pushed out in front of her as she backed away from me, across the room. She stopped in the far corner and screamed with her hands straight out before her, palms up, as if pushing against something.

  She swore at me now, the curses bubbling out through the screams as if her saliva were viscous, repetitious obscenities, including one I hadn’t heard before. Then she stopped. The gasping breaths became more frequent, the screaming interludes shorter. Then she was whimpering. Then she was breathing as if she’d just run three miles, her chest heaving under the sweat shirt, her face wet with tears and sweat and saliva and nasal mucus. The effect of her hysteria had loosened her hair in strands, and it stuck to the wetness on her cheek and forehead. She let her hands drop and straightened up in the corner. Her breathing slowed a little and the air ceased to rasp as it went to and from her lungs.

  I said, “What girl?”

  She shook her head without speaking. Then she went to the kitchen. I stepped to the kitchen door to make sure she didn’t guillotine herself on the electric can opener, but her plan was better than that. She took a bottle of Scotch out of one of the cabinets—they kept it in with the Wheaties—removed the cap, and poured about half a cup into a water glass. She didn’t offer me any. She drank it as if it were a nighttime cold medicine. All of it. And poured another. This she carried back out into the living room and placed before her on the glass cube as she sat back down. She wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweat shirt, and pushed her hair back off her face. From one pocket of the corduroy Levi’s she took a bent packet of Kents. It took her two matches to get a cigarette going. But she did it and dragged a big lungful through the filter. The cigarette was old and dry and the big drag consumed nearly half of it, leaving a big glowing end which faded into ash and dropped on the floor. She paid it no attention. What looked like a descendant of the shaggy cat I’d seen earlier appeared from the kitchen and mewed at the front door. Mrs. Hayden seemed not to hear it. The cat mewed again, and I got up and let it out.

  I turned back from the door and leaned against it with my arms folded. My side didn’t seem to hurt quite as much if I stood that way.

  “What about the girl?” I asked.

  She shook her head.

  “Look, Mrs. Hayden, you’re in a box. You’ve got trouble you can’t handle. There are people trying to kill your husband, the cops can’t help because your husband is involved in a criminal act, you don’t know what to do, and you just had hysterics to prove it. I’m all you’ve got. That may not make you happy, but there isn’t any way around it. Asking your husband to go one-on-one with Joe Broz is like putting a guppy in the piranha pool. If we don’t find him before Broz does, he’ll be eaten alive.”

  Maybe it was the “we.” Maybe it was my impeccable logic. Maybe it was desperation. But she said, “I’ll take you to him.”

  Like that. No preamble.

  I said, “Okay.”

  She went to the hall closet and put on a red quilted ski parka with a hood and brown knitted woolen gloves with imitation leather palms. She stepped out of the sandals and stuck her bare feet into green rubber boots with yellow laces. They were all laced and ready to go. She put on a white and brown knitted ski cap with a yellow tassle on the top and we went.

  In my car I said, “Where?”

  She said, “Boston, the Copley Plaza.” And she didn’t say another thing all the way back into town.

  Chapter 23

  The Copley Plaza fronts on Copley Square, as do the Boston Public Library and Trinity Church. In the center of the square is a sunken brick piazza where in the summer a fountain plays. It is very nice there and a classy area to hide out in. The hotel itself is high ceilinged and deep carpeted. At four each afternoon they serve tea in the lobby. And if you want a drink you can go to the Merry-Go-Round Room and sit at a bar that revolves slowly. There is a good deal of gilt and there are a good many Grecian Revival columns, and the bellboys are very dignified in green uniforms with gold piping. I always felt I should lower my voice in the Copley Plaza, although my line of work didn’t take me there with any regularity.

  We went in the elevator, got off with another couple at the fourth floor, and walked down a corridor rather elegantly papered in pale beige. She knocked on the door of 411. The other couple passed us and went around the corner. They looked as if they might be on a honeymoon, or maybe they just worked in the same office and were on their lunch hour. Mrs. Hayden knocked again twice and then twice more. Christ, a secret code. Made you wish Ian Fleming had taken up music or something.

  The door opened an inch on the chain. Hayden’s voice emerged.

  “What is it, Judy?” Judy? The name was bad; Mrs. Hayden wasn’t a Judy. A Ruth, maybe, or an Elsie, but Judy?

  “Let us in, Lowell.”

  “What’s he doing here? Has he forced you, Judy? I told you never to bring anyone—”

  Judy’s voice got sharper. “Let us in, Lowell.” And then more gently, “It’s all right.”

  The door closed. The chain came off, and it opened again. In we went. It was a nice room with a big double bed, unmade now, and a window that looked out onto Dartmouth Street. The television was tuned to a game show. The Boston Globe was scattered around the room.

  Hayden shut the door, put the chain lock back on, and put the bed between me and him.

  “What do you want?” he said.

  The game show host introduced their defending champion, “Mrs. Tyler Moorehouse from Grand Island, Nebraska.” The audience cheered. I reached over and shut it off.

  I said, “You owe me a favor.”

  Judy Hayden went over around the bed and stood beside her husband. She was at least three inches taller.

  “I don’t owe you anything, Spenser. You just stay away from me.”

  He was a consistent sonova bitch.

  “If I hadn’t happened along last night, Hayden, you would now be enriching the soil in the area of Jamaica Pond. And if you don’t help me now, that time will come again.”

  “They were supposed to kill you.” He seemed to be repeating some kind of litany—by rote, as if, like ritual, the repetition of it, if done just right, would save him.


  “They are not going to kill me, Hayden. They are going to kill you. Here’s why. They want this case closed and forgotten. I keep nosing around in it, and it is you that I’ve nosed up into the light. If they kill me that’ll cause some more nosing around, by other people who know I’m nosing around you. You’re the key, Hayden. You’re the one who knows the stuff that Broz doesn’t want known. If they kill me you are still the one who knows and you are still around and someone, like say a homicide cop named Quirk, might take hold of you and begin to shake you until what you know falls out. But”—Mrs. Hayden had put an arm around her husband’s shoulder, maternal—“but if they kill you there isn’t anyone around who knows what Broz doesn’t want known and Quirk and I can shake each other till we turn to butter and no information is going to fall out because we don’t have it. How’s that sound to you?”

  Hayden just looked at me. I plowed ahead.

  “I figure that you and Powell were involved in pushing dope at the university. Maybe for money, maybe because you wanted to turn on the sons of the middle class, maybe because you’re a screwball and Tim Leary is your idol. Why doesn’t matter so much for now; you can tell us that later. Broz supplied you. For him the university was a nice new market for some goods he had on hand, and as long as you could deliver the market he could use you. But you and Powell had to get fancy. You stole that manuscript and held it for ransom. That was dumb, because that got the university police and me involved. No big threat, maybe, but there’s no advantage to having legal types sniffing around. But what was dumber was that you and Powell had a falling out. About what, I don’t know. You can tell me that, too. But it was you he was arguing with on the phone, and it was you who set him up for the mob hit. It had to be you because you’re the only one around who could have supplied Terry Orchard’s gun. You got it through Cathy Connelly.”