“You’re the one in trouble!” Albert said, pulling down and away from DuShane the way Cindy had from Jimbo. It worked. He coughed several times while he caught his breath and got his heart started, then lit another match. “You killed Judge Antrim!” Finesse was a foreign language. Albert spoke only music, and a little English.
It was time for DuShane to look struck. “What are you talking about?”
“You told the police that someone had broken into your house, so it would look like your knife was stolen. Then you used it to kill Judge Antrim.” Albert’s mouth was on auto pilot. It was the first time the chain of thoughts had been verbalized, and he was examining it for weak links.
“You’re sick,” said DuShane. He took a few casual steps between Albert and escape. “Who else knows you’re down here?”
“You used this tunnel to get to the Judge’s house,” Albert continued unabated. He lit another match. “Into his study. You killed him from behind.
“Then . . . then . . . ” Then what? “Then you saw he was writing a letter accusing . . . ” What was his name? Mike? Spike? “his partner, of absconding with money from the bank.” A large vocabulary was a good thing to have. You never know when it might come in handy.
“You’re delirious,” said DuShane cooly, but his eyes, sparkling treacherously in the match-light, betrayed alarm.
“You took it, so you could use it later . . . if your plan didn’t work.”
“What plan would that be?” said the spider.
“Double Jeopardy,” said the fly. “Youwantedto be arrested for the crime. Youwanted to be tried and found guilty. Then Maudanne would come back and be your alibi. She didn’t know about the tunnel. She didn’t see you leave the house because you never did. You were in the front parlor . . . which is open to the dining room. You just went from there, through butler’s door into the pantry and the kitchen, then down to the cellar. Down here.
“You thought she’d be away a lot longer, taking care of her mother. Then you got a letter from her, when you were in jail, telling you she was coming back soon. Too soon.
“That’s why you wanted a quick trial all of a sudden.”
The match went out. DuShane clicked on a flashlight and shined it in Albert’s face. It was shaking slightly and his voice cracked. “An amusing theory. Sounds like I’m the first to hear it.”
The Albert Express was chugging down the track and could not be diverted.
“You forged the Judge’s letter . . . making it look like he was going to change his will and leave Heather some of the inheritance.”
“To make myself look like the killer, I suppose?” said DuShane from the pitch darkness behind the nervous flashlight. Interesting.”
“You practiced,” said Albert, holding up a crumpled piece of paper. “Down here. Then you burned the papers.” He shielded his eyes from the light. “That’s why Sarah always smelled something burning. The tunnel. You planned this a long time.” He knew that made a difference in court, though he couldn’t imagine why. The Judge was no less dead, one way or the other.
“I was on the hill the day you were arrested. You asked Matt Harvey if you could take a shower. That’s when you took the Judge’s letter . . . about” – what was that partner’s name! – “the partner back to the Judge’s den . . . and taped it to the bottom of the bookcase, loosely, so it would fall . . . and be found eventually. Not too soon.
“So even if you ended up in prison, you knew you’d be out sooner or later. I bet the tape is still there, stuck to the bottom of the bookcase. If you wet the ends or something . . . the letter would fall, but the tape would stay.”
The flashlight flickered and DuShane slapped it a couple if times.
“But . . . when Tanjore Trelawney was arrested, you went back to get the letter. You couldn’t get in, though, because someone had moved the Judge’s chair sideways. So the tunnel door wouldn’t open.
“That’s when you kicked Heather and Kitty Odum out of the house, so you could come and go whenever you wanted, without being seen.
“Then you could find the letter . . . or have it found . . . whenever you needed to. When there was a witness . . . someone who’d see it there under the bookcase, all covered with dust. And that’s just what you did, when you found out Tanjore was innocent.
“You told Heather you were going to burn the Judge’s papers. You knew she’d try to save them . . . and that she’d find the letter.
“So people would suspect Pike.” Pike! That was the name! His tongue had come up with it when his brain couldn’t. “That Pike had killed the Judge . . . then run away with the money.” Albert thought of something he’d heard once in court. “That would make you reasonably doubtful,” he hadn’t said it right, but the meaning was there. “There’d be a re-trial, and they’d have to let you go. Because Pike might have done it. But he didn’t.”
“Go on, go on,” said DuShane. “I’m fascinated.”
“Someone came to the door just after you killed the Judge. It was Pike. He’s the only one who had a key. He caught you, so you had a fight. You knocked him out . . . or killed him . . . and put him behind the wall.
“Then you heard Heather call. You ran down the back stairs to the first landing and waited for her to get to the top of the front stairs. Then, when you were sure she’d seen you . . . and could recognize your college jacket . . . you ran down the rest of the way and out of the house.
“Pike never ran away, though,” said the prosecution in summation. “He’s down here somewhere. Dead.”
DuShane was silent.
The flashlight flickered as its beam drifted away from Albert, down the wall and across the floor to a low heap of freshly turned earth in the corner, then it went out. “Looks like he’s going to have company.”
A heavy object descended from the darkness and stung Albert on the skull. His legs folded beneath him, and he collapsed.
When he woke, the smell of gasoline filled the air. He felt as if his head had been dipped in it. It was a smell with which he’d become familiar, comprising, as it did, the bulk of Agnes’s diet.
The flashlight had only struck a glancing blow, more probably owing to darkness than compassion.
A door opened, and the light cut a pie-shaped wedge from the darkness. It was the back of DuShane’s wine closet.
“I should have hit you harder,” said DuShane. “It would have saved you a lot of pain.” He struck a match. “I had to go upstairs to make sure the coast was clear. You know, it was never supposed to happen like this,” he said philosophically. “I had it all planned out so neatly. If Pike hadn’t showed up when he did, and if Maudanne’s mother hadn’t gotten better. I wasn’t counting on that. The old woman was deathly ill. Who knew she’d recover?
“Now, it’s a mess.”
Albert agreed.
“I don’t know how you figured it out, but I’m not surprised, really. I had to improvise too much.”
He was holding the match straight up, so it burned slowly. “Like now.”
Fortunately it was a wooden match. Unfortunately it was not a fireplace match. Albert would have preferred a lighter. DuShane looked dreamily at the flame as he spoke.
Albert needed time. Time to figure out what to do. A backed-up stream of consciousness overran the banks of his lips and poured forth in a desperate eddy as he explained about the garlic and the cat and the family tree. Every sentence bought another second. Every second cued up and formed an audience, watching stupidly as the end approached.
DuShane smiled and shook his head. “Maudanne wouldn’t cook garlic in her kitchen. Swore she couldn’t get rid of the smell, so she’d do in the old kitchen, just above us. I never noticed it.”
The match was nearly out.
“At least I got the money,” he said. “That’s the important thing.” He peered off into the darkness. “I’ve poured gasoline all along the tunnel. All the way to the Judge’s house. That old tinder box will go up pretty fast.
“I don’t
know if Sarah’s will catch. Depends how hot these rafters burn, I guess.” He turned the light on the rafters. “When they go, you’ll be buried under twelve feet of earth. You and him.” He tossed a nod at Pike’s grave. “I have a plane to catch, I’m afraid.” He consulted his watch. “I can just make it to Spartanburg if I leave now.”
“All for nothing,” said Albert. He needed time.
“Pardon?”
“She wasn’t going to get anything.”
“Who? Heather?”
“She’s not really Heather,” said Albert. “Her real name’s Angela.”
DuShane shook out the match. It’s tiny soul wisped heavenward all by itself rather than as part of a general Albert-scented conflagration. “What are you babbling about?”
Albert told him. It was difficult to talk and plan an escape simultaneously. By the time he’d finished explaining, no plan had taken shape. None at all. However, he’d subconsciously composed twelve bars of a requiem. The brass section was tense and fearful while the strings wept overhead. His mistress had returned just in time to score the closing credits of his life.
The irony was not lost on DuShane. For what seemed an eternity, he stood in the doorway staring at Albert. “Well,” he said finally. “All for nothing.” He struck another match. “And now this. The best laid plans, huh?” He dropped the match into a puddle of gasoline, stepped onto the stairs, and closed the door behind him. Albert heard it lock.
Suddenly it wasn’t dark anymore.
Albert stumbled to his feet, threw his arms in front of his face and, bent nearly in half to keep from hitting his head on the rafters, ran for all he was worth, two steps ahead of the little river of fire that chased him down the tunnel.
As he ran, he realized he’d been soaked from head to toe with gasoline. Even he knew what that meant.
He ran a little faster.
The flames revealed the cavern opening under Sarah’s house a few steps ahead. He flung himself forward and frantically began sweeping armloads of dirt on the gasoline trail.
Albert’s first dam.
Dam good.
Thus contained, the fire turned its attention to the rafters at the northern end of the tunnel. Albert scampered up the ladder, tumbling into his bedroom ahead of a cloud of smoke and sulphur.
Epilogue
“Here it is! Here it is!” Cindy cried. She and Maylene were running up the sidewalk waving a copy ofNewsweek.
“Here it is!” yelled Maylene, spilling surplus joy all over the place.
“Well, let me see it,” said Sarah, a little impatiently as she rose from the porch swing. She held out her hand.
“Look at that picture,” said Cindy, pointing to the cover.
“That’s him alright,” said Sarah. She held up the magazine for everyone to see.
“Well, I’ll be,” said Basil, who was.
“He shaved,” Commander Beecham observed, stroking his chin.
“He shaved,” Maylene echoed.
“I’d hardly recognized him,” said Alice. “And look at that tuxedo. Isn’t it lovely?”
“What color socks do you think he’s wearing?” Angela Marie wondered with a wry smile.
“What does it say?” Cindy asked, worrying the edges of the pages with her fingertips.
“Leave it be, Cynthia,” said Sarah, slapping playfully at her hand. “Be patient. You’re worse than a child.”
“Worse as a child,” said Maylene, knitting her brows and wagging a cautionary finger at her mother.
“Has everyone had a look?” asked Sarah, resuming her seat.
“Look what it says,” said Basil. “‘Maestro of Murder’. ‘Maestro of Murder,” he repeated for the benefit of those who’d missed it the first time. “That’s our Professor!”
“Elmo!” said Maylene, pointing at the picture as she persuaded herself onto Sarah’s lap. “Elmo!” she clarified for Cindy.
“That’s right, darlin’, Mr. Elmo taught you theVulgar Boat Man, didn’t he?” said Cindy proudly.
“Yoho heave ho!”
“Volga,” Sarah corrected as she turned to the table of contents. “It’s a river in Russia.”
“Funny name for a river,” said Cindy, with an Elvisian curl of the lip. She leaned over Sarah’s left shoulder.
“There it is!” said Basil Carmody, over Sarah’s right shoulder. He pointed at a box on the lower third of the page captioned ‘Cover Story: The Maestro of Murder, page 6.’ There was more copy over Albert’s picture. Sarah read.“‘The beloved maestro’s renown as a sleuth may soon eclipse his fame as a composer and concert pianist.”
“Page six,” Alice prodded.
Sarah turned the pages a little more deliberately than necessary. “I know. I know,” she scolded. “I swear, Alice, you’re as bad as Cindy.”
“Worser as a child,” Maylene peeled, pointing at Alice.
“Here we are!” said Sarah, relishing every second like a cream-filled petit four. A large, softly focused and carefully composed black and white photograph of Albert, leaning on his arms on top of a huge grand piano, monopolized the two-page spread.
“That’s the picture from the record I got,” Commander Beecham remarked. “His last one.”
“So it is,” said Sarah. “So it is. And look, there’s a picture of Marchant DuShane, and the Judge, and there’s Asherton Pike.” She was referring to three small photos inset over Albert’s face. “That’s not a very good likeness of Asherton, is it? Do you think so, Alice?”
“Oh, for pity sakes, who cares?” Basil complained. Sarah was enjoying the spotlight a little too much for his liking. “Read on.”
“Alright, alright,” said Sarah. “I don’t know what everyone’s so tense about, honestly. Keep your powder dry a moment.” She folded the magazine neatly over her lap and began to read.
“The Maestro of Murder,’ by Candace Arch-Zbedny – I think that’s how you pronounce it. Sounds like a disease.”
“That’s her,” said Alice, with a not-altogether approving nod at the yellow house across the street. “And to think she and Standish were in it together,” she added disdainfully.
“He was getting paid from more places than he had pockets,” said Carmody.
“All that and what he made from finding that stolen money in the lake – over fifty thousand dollars right there,” said Alice.
“To say nothing of the reward he got from the school for finding the Professor in the first place. I’ll wager that was nothing to sneeze at.” Sarah wagered.
“Oh, you’re all just miserable ‘cause you didn’t make anything on the deal,” said Carmody, baring his salesman’s soul. He silenced the ladies with a wave of the hand before they could protest. “Go on. Go on,” he said with a sparkle in his eyes. “Read it nice and loud so the Aged One can hear.” He nodded at the Commander and laughed. So did the Commander.
Sarah read on.
“Let me see –‘until recently the life of Professor Albert . . . ’so on and so on,” she said, skipping through the preliminaries. “It talks about his awards and . . . ”
“We know all that,” said Basil. “Skip it.”
“‘ . . . was one of scholarly solitude,’” Sarah continued undaunted.“‘Cloistered in the privileged halls of academe and spirited to the musical capitals of the world in royal jets and darkened limousines, the gifted composer and pianist, known to those closest to him as, simply, ‘Professor’ . . . ’”
“She phrases things nicely, doesn’t she?” Alice observed. Someone who could write that well couldn’t be far beyond redemption.
“‘ . . . breathed the rarified air of universal acclaim known to few in this day and age. However, the Professor seems oblivious to fame and its trappings; if not averse to it.’”
From that point on, Sarah had the undivided attention of her audience as the article chronicled recent events in Albert’s life, both familiar and unfamiliar. Whatever silence there might have been between sentences was punctuated by sighs of condolence
, commiseration, shock, surprise, and sympathy.
“‘In all, the Professor has solved or provided information that led to the solving of six baffling murders. One of which was Melissa Bjork, a public defender . . . ”
“That’s the one he was in love with,” said Angela Marie.
“‘And brought two multiple-murderers to justice. Marchant DuShane was arrested attempting to board his flight to exile in South America. The College will say only that the Professor has returned to his apartment near the campus and is expected to rejoin the faculty in the fall.’”
“Doesn’t say anything about how he saved Maudanne from the fire that night – pulled her out of bed, kicking, screaming, and clawing at him – into the front yard just in time,” said Carmody.
Everyone entertained their own thoughts for a moment.
“Or how he taught Maylene to play the piano,” Cindy reminded.
“Well, he made it back alright. That’s good to know,” said Commander Beecham. “I confess, I had my doubts when he struck off up the hill on that little purple machine of his. He didn’t look much the fellow in these pictures then, did he? That sparkly helmet . . . ”
There was a flutter of pleasant laughter and the bobbing of heads. Eventually all eyes drifted toward the vacant lot next door, home to charred remains and the ghosts of DuShanes past. The air was still thick with the smell of soggy charcoal and roasted garlic.
“He don’t like to see nobody,” said Jeremy Ash.
“Who is it, Jeremy?” said Mrs. Gibson from the kitchen.
“Some guy,” Jeremy replied.
“Would you mind telling him I’m here anyway?” said the guy.
“You ain’t a reporter, are you?” Jeremy inquired, pressing the wheels of his chair against the door, in the event of an answer in the affirmative. “‘Cause if you are, I can tell you . . . “
“No. I’m not. My name’s Trelawney. Tanjore Trelawney.”
“What in the bright blue world kinda name is that?” said Mrs. Gibson as she waddled into the hall, fumbling with her hearing aid. She didn’t expect it was Mr. Gibson, but he’d turned up after seven years once before. She wiped her hands on her apron. “I thought you was gonna be black, with a name like that.”
Dead in D Minor Page 26
