Текст книги "No Police Like Holmes: Introducing Sebastian McCabe"
Автор книги: Dan Andriacco
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Текущая страница: 7 (всего у книги 15 страниц)
“Like you? God help me, Jeff Cody, I still love you, you idiot. Now please get out of my car.”
I couldn’t begin to understand that, much less think of an exit line, so I just closed the car door and headed for Muckerheide. After just a few steps in that direction I looked back to follow Lynda with my eyes. The Mustang was getting ready to turn left out of the parking lot.
Left, I realized with a start. That wasn’t the way to Lynda’s apartment. I followed her so fast I didn’t even put on my bicycle helmet.
And that’s how I wound up in a hallway at the Winfield Hotel, with Lynda in my arms talking about murder.
Chapter Sixteen – “We’ll Know It When We See It”
I hugged her for while, then pulled away and pounded on the door. Lynda shook her head. “No use knocking. He won’t hear you.”
“Get me in there.”
She pulled a flat rectangular key card out of her purse, slid it into the opening, got the green light, and pushed open the door. I brushed past her into a luxurious Winfield room with real paintings on the walls and heavy quilt spreads on the two beds.
Hugh Matheson lay on his back on the floor a few feet from the first bed. Bright red blood had gushed out of the right side of his neck, dripping on the deep pile carpet. The lawyer’s blue eyes, fixed and unseeing, stared up at the ceiling.
It seemed impossible that a spark of life could remain in the motionless body. But if there was even the slightest chance...
I moved toward Matheson.
“The place in the neck where you check for a pulse isn’t even there anymore,” Lynda said. “He’s dead, all right. And he didn’t do it to himself. I could see right away that there’s no gun nearby.” Her voice was jagged, bordering on hysteria.
“He was shot? How could you even tell with all that blood?”
“I looked closely. I’ve seen autopsy pictures.”
She looked away from the body and hugged her shoulders as if trying to warm up in a deep freeze. She breathed in deep gasps. I was feeling sick and scared myself, but I had to keep it together for her sake. Lynda may be the toughest person I know, but right now she needed a rock to hold on to.
“It’s going to be okay,” I promised, wrapping a comforting arm around her. “I’ll get you out of this somehow. I know you didn’t do it. You didn’t have the time.”
She jerked away from me. “Didn’t have the – That’s how you know I didn’t kill him? Of course I didn’t kill him. Who the hell would think that I killed him?”
“Almost anybody but me who found you leaving a hotel room with a fresh body in it,” I said. My voice rose a bit. “And I do mean fresh. The blood is still wet.”
Lynda glanced at the gruesome thing on the floor, then looked away again. I couldn’t blame her, but I felt guilty for being so repulsed at the bloody sight. He had, after all, been a human being.
“I was leaving to get the manager so he could call the police,” Lynda said. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
“I followed you from Muckerheide on my bike.”
“What! I can’t believe it. No, wait. You’re Jeff Cody. I believe it.” Was that irony or sarcasm, Lynda? I still get the two confused. “What a sneaky thing to do.”
“I was sneaky? You’re the one who lied about where you were going. But I can see why you didn’t want to tell me you were coming here to meet Matheson in his room.”
“So that’s what you think! I should have known. Damned jealous... You’ve got the wrong idea totally. Matheson came on to me-”
“Then I don’t have the wrong idea,” I interrupted.
“Shut up. Sitting next to me at the colloquium he kept on and on about his collection of Sherlockiana and made snide comments about Chalmers’s. He didn’t even try to hide his delight that somebody had made off with the best parts. I figured it was probably Matheson who’d done it, or somebody paid by him, and that he would brag about the whole thing if I got him loosened up enough.”
“Hence the key, I suppose – part of the loosening up process.”
Lynda nodded. “When he invited me to have a few drinks with him, I suggested we go someplace where we could talk quietly. I’m sure he didn’t think I really meant talk, but I did. Anyway, Matheson said he was going to try to have a word with somebody for a few minutes right after Kate’s talk. He slipped me a key to this room and told me to wait for him if he didn’t show up right away. I was hoping to beat him here and look around for the stolen books, but talking to Post ran a little long and I was too late for that.”
“Matheson didn’t say who he was meeting?”
“No.”
“Of course not. That would be too easy. All right, try this on for size: Suppose the meeting turned nasty and they parted with words. The other person could have come here later with a gun and plugged Matheson.”
Lynda grimaced. “We’d better let the police deal with that.”
“The police?” If I sounded incredulous, it’s only because I was. “Don’t you know what Oscar would do if his people were to find you with that?” I pointed to the late Hugh Matheson, his life’s blood seeping into the expensive carpet of the Winfield Hotel.
“Muck up the evidence?” Lynda said.
“Hang you out to dry, that’s what. He’s been looking for an excuse for months. A murder charge is beyond his wildest dreams.”
Oscar Hummel is Erin’s chief of police, a retired desk sergeant from Dayton who never tires of telling Mac how unrealistic his Damon Devlin plots are. (I’ll give him points for that.) He’d had a feud going with Lynda over unfavorable coverage of his department in her paper. Last winter one of his overeager officers had arrested an out-of-town drug dealer who turned out to be under surveillance by the Sussex County Sheriff’s Department. The evidence was thrown out of court for lack of a search warrant and the dealer walked. Then earlier in the spring, Oscar himself – in hot pursuit of a stolen truck – had driven his cruiser through a cornfield. The Erin Observer & News Ledger’s editorial asserted that the chief’s operation had gone “from Keystone Kops to bull in a china shop.” As news editor, Lynda didn’t write the editorials, but that distinction was lost on Oscar.
“That’s absurd,” Lynda said. “What possible reason would I have-”
“Lovers’ quarrel.”
She said a rude word, followed by, “I barely knew the man. And what would you be doing here – cheering me on?”
Apparently the question was hypothetical, because she didn’t wait for an answer before she reached into the outside pocket of her purse and pulled out her Android.
“No you don’t,” I said firmly, grabbing the phone. “If you don’t believe that scenario will appeal to Oscar, how do you think he’d like the ever-popular ‘Love Triangle with Jealous Ex-Boyfriend’? Consider what we have here: you, me, and a formerly handsome corpse. Oscar may not be as dumb as he likes to pretend sometimes, but he is totally lacking in imagination. He always goes for the most obvious explanation. Remember the Parsons case?”
When a popular city councilman was strangled with his own necktie, Oscar arrested his promiscuous wife. But her attorney proved in court that Parsons had died during an autoerotic evening gone awry.
“But Oscar’s your buddy,” Lynda objected.
“I’d say we’re friendly in a casual way. He calls me once in a while when he gets free tickets to a Reds or Bengals game, and I’ve gone fishing with him a few times when I had questions about police procedure for a mystery I was working on. But I don’t think our personal relationship would hold him back for twelve seconds from doing his job if he thought I’d killed a man, not even if we were best pals.”
“So that’s what you’re really afraid of!”
“Partly,” I conceded, hoping to disarm her with my candor. Actually, it was a tossup between Oscar’s jail and Ralph’s wrath as to which I was more afraid of. Ralph would not like for me to have found a body. “But I’m worried about you, too.”
Spearing me with a skeptical look, Lynda yanked her phone back, but returned it to her purse.
“Well, we can’t just leave the body here to rot.”
“We’ll call the police from the pay phone.”
There was still one left in Erin, about two blocks from the Winfield.
“All right, all right,” Lynda said. “Whatever you say. Let’s just get the hell out of here.”
I shook my head. “We can’t just leave. We have to search the room first.”
“For what?”
“For any clues that Oscar and his crew might not understand,” I said. “Something Sherlockian maybe.”
“If you have some crazy idea of solving the murder, forget it. That’s police business.”
“Tell that to Mrs. Parsons.”
“Let’s leave, Jeff. Please.”
“You can go.”
“I don’t want to be alone.” She pulled a stick of gum out of her purse.
“Don’t leave the wrapper here,” I warned her. “When did you start chewing gum, anyway?”
“When I gave up smoking,” she said. “I eat too much candy, too, and pretty soon I’m going to get fat. Quit giving orders. And make this fast, will you?”
This was no time to tell her that she’d probably be okay on the weight because of the running. I got down on my knees in front of the bed closest to the door and flipped up the bedspread. “It would go faster if you’d help,” I said.
“Then I’ll help.”
Good girl, I thought but did not say.
A minute went by while I crawled as far under the bed as I could.
“Nothing under here,” Lynda reported from beneath the other bed. “Not even dust bunnies.”
“Same here,” I said.
Standing up, I stepped around the hideous corpse and looked at the night stand. Bingo. Right next to the hotel phone was a notepad with the fancy Winfield Hotel logo on top. The number 525 was neatly written on it in blue ink. I copied the number into the reporter’s notebook I carry in my back pocket.
“What’s that?” Lynda asked from the other side of the bed.
“Probably a hotel room number that Matheson called. Maybe even the person he hoped to meet this afternoon. That could be important.”
“Well, there’s your clue,” she said. “Now we can leave.”
“Not yet.” I reached over the bed to look inside the brass posts, then checked under the bedspread. Lynda observed and did likewise. No secrets there.
While Lynda went into the closet area just inside the door, I attacked the dresser, a reproduction Queen Somebody that was clearly a few cuts above the usual Formica-topped furniture in the motels where I stay during my infrequent road trips for the college. The only thing in the top drawer was a Book, courtesy of the Gideon Society. I paged through to see if maybe it had been hollowed out and something slipped inside. Clever idea, if I do say so myself, but unfruitful.
“It would help a lot if we knew what we were looking for,” Lynda said from the depths of the closet.
“I’m hoping we’ll know it when we see it.” Max Cutter always does.
The next drawer held underwear and socks neatly folded and stacked by the dead man. There was something pathetic about that, something that touched me more than actually seeing Matheson’s bloodied body.
“Here it is!” Lynda called. “Get over here.”
In seconds I was at her side. Inside the closet area she had the spare blanket from the overhead rack spread out on the floor, kneeling over it.
“I just unfolded it and found these tucked inside,” she said, holding up a faded red book and a fat sheaf of handwritten manuscript pages.
I took the manuscript first, instinctively holding it with respect. At the top of the first page was a chapter heading, “Mr. Sherlock Holmes,” and then the beginning of the story:
“Mr. Sherlock Holmes, who was usually very late in the mornings...”
What I had in my hands was the opening pages of The Hound of the Baskervilles set down as Arthur Conan Doyle wrote them in his own hand. All of the millions of copies of the book that had been printed in all the languages of the world had started with this. As a writer myself, I was moved by that.
I set the pages down and picked up the red volume. It, too, was the Hound and I knew what it had to be. Sure enough, there on the title page was an inscription in the same cramped handwriting of the manuscript:
To my dear Robinson – with thanks for the ripping good idea that put Holmes back in action.
A.C.D.
“This seals it,” I said. “Matheson was the thief, all right.”
“But who killed him?” Lynda said.
I intended to find out.
Chapter Seventeen – Going Home Again
We put the books back where we found them. We were halfway out the door in some haste before I remembered what Max Cutter never would have forgotten – fingerprints. I stepped back in and spent a fast two minutes applying my handkerchief to every surface we had touched.
Downstairs we unchained my bike from the NO PARKING sign in front of the hotel and tied it on top of the Mustang.
In the car, I tried to come to grips with the idea of Hugh Matheson as a thief – and such a small-scale thief by the standards of his huge net worth. Valuable as it was, it was a pittance for a guy who owned three homes in different cities and four antique Duesenberg roadsters.
“It made sense all along in one way, because he was the only big-time Holmes collector on the scene,” I mused aloud. “But he was so rich and successful. Why would he risk all that to steal something that was worth less than his take on just one good lawsuit?”
“Ego and lust, I guess,” Lynda said. “I was around enough to see both of those.”
I studied Lynda’s pretty profile. “You really didn’t like him, did you?”
“No. He was too full of himself. For that I actually felt kind of sorry for him, though. Still do.”
By this time we were sitting in front of the last pay phone in downtown Erin, which looks like the TARDIS in Doctor Who. I got out of the car and called 911 to report a disturbance at the Winfield. “It was a noise, almost like a shot,” I told the dispatcher who answered, talking in a squeaky voice unlike my own. “It seemed to come out of room 943.”
“Did you call the hotel desk?”
“Just check it out.”
“Where are you calling from, sir?”
From the TARDIS, lady. Fortunately, I saw a trap in the question. Wouldn’t 911 have industrial strength Caller ID? I hung up.
Back on the road, mentally going over all that had happened, I was struck by a glaring omission.
“The third book,” I told Lynda. “What was it? Oh, yeah, that Christmas annual with the first Sherlock Holmes story. Why wasn’t it with the other books?”
“That’s easy,” Lynda said without taking her eyes off the road. “The killer took it.”
“But why just that one book?”
“Maybe he’d only gotten that far when he heard me starting to come in the door.”
“Okay, then how did he-”
“Or she,” Lynda added.
“-get out of the room. Unless...”
Lynda darted a glance at me. “Yeah. Unless she or he never left. We didn’t get around to checking out the bathroom.”
“So for all we know the killer could have been just a few feet away the whole time we were in the hotel room. There’s a creepy thought for you.”
Right away I had another thought as well: If that scenario had actually happened, then the killer would be as late for the banquet as we were. I wanted to drive straight there and check out the crowd, but Lynda insisted on continuing to her apartment first.
“I’ve got to change my clothes and redo my hair,” she said. “I’m as eager to get back to Muckerheide as you are, Jeff, but I described my whole outfit for the evening to Kate. If I don’t show up dressed that way, she’ll wonder why. Besides, I need a shower. After what we’ve been through, it’s the only way I’ll feel, I don’t know, clean again.”
I argued the point all the way to her place, but she was the one driving and I didn’t want to leave her any more than she wanted to leave me.
Lynda’s apartment is on the second story of a two-family home in a comfortable Erin neighborhood of wide lanes and big trees. I mean comfortable the way your favorite piece of old clothing is comfortable – nothing fancy, it just feels right. The house is brick and stucco, with three gables and a small octagon-shaped room on the first floor. Its owners have lived there since 1974, and they bought it from the wife’s parents.
While Lynda cleaned up, I sat on her wicker couch and looked around, feeling as if I’d come home again after a long absence. Not that I was even on first base again with Lynda, but at least I was no longer in the dugout. The room hadn’t changed much in the few weeks of my exile from her life: tall bookcase, overflowing with books; a couple of wicker chairs on either side of the bricked-up fireplace; flat-screen TV above the mantle; brass spittoon with sunflowers poking out of it; wicker and glass coffee table. But the picture of Lynda and me on the mantle was gone, along with the stuffed frog holding a red heart that I’d given her for Valentine’s Day one year.
Stifling a mad impulse to pick up a sunflower and play “she loves me, she loves me not,” which wouldn’t have worked too well considering that they were artificial, I forced my mind back to what we’d done in Matheson’s hotel room. It had seemed the right thing to do at the time, but now I wasn’t at all sure. First of all, if our actions ever came out, we would look guilty as hell. Plus, we’d been in such a hurry to get out of there we might have left the murderer behind. Not that I was really sorry we hadn’t encountered the armed killer, I admitted to myself gloomily.
How differently Mac would have reacted, I thought. The big man would have been in his element, playing the role of amateur sleuth to the hilt with never a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. And then at some point he would have pulled a rabbit out of his hat, leaving me feeling like a fool for not even knowing he had a hat, much less a rabbit.
Mac had known all along that Matheson was the thief. Or at least he’d said he knew the identity of the thief. With him you can never tell when he’s just blowing smoke. Even now I didn’t understand Mac’s hocus-pocus about the keys to Hearth Room C – those questions that he’d asked Decker. Not that it made any difference, of course. Still-
I pulled out my phone and called Decker’s office. He was gone for the day, so I tapped the home number next to his photo on my contacts list.
“Cody,” the lieutenant growled by way of greeting. “Don’t you ever quit working, for crap’s sake? It’s nearly seven-thirty.”
“Thank you, Big Ben. I want to know what you found out about that key to the room where the Holmes books were stolen. Was it shiny?”
“I already told McCabe that-”
“Tell me, damn it.”
“-it wasn’t.”
Okay. Now I knew the answer to the question, but I still didn’t know what it meant. “So what the...”
“A real cute idea McCabe had, it just didn’t work out. Phil Oakland – you know, the locksmith over on Spring Street – he tells me that when a key’s been copied it gets shiny on top. Based on that, it looks like neither key to Hearth Room C was copied.”
And both of them were accounted for on Friday, so they couldn’t have been used by the thief. That was an interesting fact. Maybe it was a semi-good thing that the keying system in Muckerheide was a decade or two overdue for a security update, unlike the one at the Winfield Hotel. Before I had a chance to digest Decker’s information any further, I heard Lynda’s bathroom door open.
“Thanks, Ed,” I said in a rush. I disconnected and put the phone back in my pocket.
But it was eternity before Lynda made her appearance. When she did, the sight of her almost made me forget to breathe. She was decked out in a dress with a vaguely Victorian air, creamy satin with lots of white lace, and not even her ankles peaking out at the bottom. It was as feminine a garment as I’d ever seen, accentuating Lynda’s curves – which are considerable – while revealing nothing. The contrast of the dress against her dark complexion was stunning. Lynda paused in the doorway, one hand upon the frame like a countess in a painting.
“You look great, Lyn,” I said, a catch in my voice. I used to call her that sometimes, but not for a while.
The painting came to life as she moved out of the doorway. “Sorry it took so long. It was the hair. This isn’t just once-over-lightly. It takes time.”
“You should wear it like that more often. I mean, if you want to.” See, I’m not bossy.
Lynda had swept her hair off her face, clipped it with pins, and supplemented it at the back by a chignon bun tied with a lace bow. Curly tendrils framed her face. She wore a cameo on a black ribbon around her throat, which I found quite fetching.
I stood up and moved close enough to hear her heart beat – or maybe it was mine, pounding in my ears. To my surprise she put her arms around me and hugged me, not in passion but in search of comfort. In heels, she was almost my height. The seductive scent of Cleopatra VII, Lynda’s favorite fragrance and mine, made my legs weak.
“How do you feel?” I whispered.
“Better,” she said. “Not good, but better. I could really use a stiff bourbon on the rocks, though.” One of her favorite blogs is called Bourbon Babe.
“Sorry. No time for Knob Creek. Besides, you’re driving.”
“I keep remembering-”
“Try not to,” I said.
Session Three
The President’s Dining Room
6:30
Reception
Hors d’oeuvres and cash bar
7:30
Banquet
Sherlockian sing-along
Traditional toasts
Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding
Awards for best costumes – Kate McCabe
9:00
Reader’s Theatre
“The Adventure of Charles Augustus Milverton” – Directed by Dr. Sebastian McCabe, BSI
