Текст книги "Death Trick "

Автор книги: Richard Stevenson

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"Now, baby, now! You know you want me!"

She was panting and squirming against me. Underneath it all, she was slim and hard and muscular—male. She was getting to me fast. I yanked myself free and stood up. She fell back against the arm of the couch, the erection in her shorts poking up through the front of the negligee.

She looked at me contemptuously and snorted, "You're queer, aren't you?"

I said, "The thing is, it can't happen for us just now, Sondra. That's the truth. Not this afternoon. But don't despair—I'm bisexual."

She made a little-girl look. "Tonight then, baby? You said tonight. I heard you say tonight."

"Yes," I said. "Tonight."

"What time?"

"Eight. Around eight." I'd figure a way out.

She sat up, crossed her legs, and lit a pale green Gauloise. "All right then, Donald. I've learned to be patient. I know that men have their male things they must do. Holding sales conferences, splitting wood, jerking each other off in the shower—all that pigshit. While we women sit around watching the soaps and causing static on the police radios with our defective vibrators. But it's okay. We will survive. I can wait for the ERA. I can even wait until eight o'clock tonight—for you. Hunk." She blew me a kiss.

I remained standing and said, "Tonight's social, but now's business. Look, you really have to answer a few questions for me, Sondra. Like, why had Steve been so depressed, and whether or not Mike Truckman had anything to do with it Don't you understand why I have to know these things?"

She let herself relax—or tense up—into being Harold Snyder just a bit, and said, "Yes. I do. But I don't believe there's any connection between Steve getting killed and anything else that happened. I really don't, Donnie."

"Between what else that happened and Steve getting killed?"

She sat with her back stiff, the hand with the cigarette resting on the crossed knee, like Gloria Graham in The Big Heat. She said, "That part did have something to do with Mike. What Steve was freaked out about, I mean. Steve saw something. I saw it, too, darling. But, that's—there was no connection. No, I don't think so." She grimaced, remembering it.

I said, "I'm as eager as anyone in Albany to show that Mike had nothing to do with the killing. You can help me do that by telling me what you know. It'll be between us, Sondra. Just something to clear the air. If that's what needs to be done."

"No," she said, shaking her head, "if a woman isn't loyal, then what is she?" She gave me a Greer Garson look. God.

I said, "A life was taken. Another life could be taken. The life of a man."

"I'm sorry," she said. "I'm terribly sorry. You have your job to do, Donald. I understand. Now you must try to understand me. And you will in time. But—does this mean—?" She sat poised.

I wasn't about to get roughed up by this one. "No," I said. "I'll be here. How could I not? Eight o'clock, then."

She stood end walked over to me. One arm came up around the back of my neck, like Grace Kelly's arm around Cary Grant's neck in To Catch A Thief.

"Till tonight, then, darling."

"Till tonight."

Our tonsils met.

As I headed down Washington Avenue, I ran the standard list through my mind:

1. It's been a long day, and I'm worn out. I'm really very sorry.

2. I drank too much tonight, it'll never work.

3. I think I've got clap.

4. I'm too nervous—this is only my second time.

5. Oh, God, I just can't do this to my lover!

6. I'm into scat, what are you into?

At seven-thirty I'd phone Harold, pick from the list at random, ask for a rain check, and that would be that. Except I did have to have a talk with Harold. Maybe what she knew about Mike Truckman was unconnected to the Kleckner killing, but I was beginning to have a sickening feeling about Truckman's involvement in all of this, and I had to find out everything I could, as fast as I could. Maybe I'd look Harold up out at Trucky's and we could talk in a public place. Sure. I'd work it that way. Wednesday night. I relaxed.

I found the landlady for Steve Kleckner's Hudson Avenue apartment in her own first-floor-front quarters. She was a plump, middle-aged woman with blue eyes, a pretty mouth, and

a small white goatee. I introduced myself as Lieutenant Ronald Firbank, an associate of Sergeant Bowman's, and she agreed to let me into Kleckner's basement apartment. She said his rent had been paid through the end of the week and that she was waiting for his relatives from Rensselaer County to pick up his belongings so she could clean the place up before the new tenant arrived on Monday. The apartment, she said, was as it had been on the night of the murder, "except for what those other policemens took away."

The woman led me outside the turn-of-the-century three-story brick building and into a narrow alleyway just off the street. We went down three cement steps into an alcove, and she unlocked the old wooden door with a skeleton key. A second door, leading from a bare passageway into the apartment itself, was opened with a key fitting into a newer Yale lock. She said, I'm

not gone in there no more till I hafta," and left me alone.

The living room had an old greenish rug over the concrete floor, a thirties-style brown velveteen overstuffed couch, two easy chairs, a black and white Philco TV resting on a vinyl-covered hassock, a large expensive Technics sound system on a wooden table, and about a thousand records, all disco, on big metal shelves against a wall. The room had been fairly recently painted a pale mauve. Dim light came from two windows that began at ground level halfway up the wall facing the alleyway.

A doorway to the right led into a tiny, windowless kitchen. The refrigerator contained a can of V-8 and a half-dozen eggs, nothing more. I checked the counter drawers and found some five-and-dime silverware. The one sharp knife was an ivory-colored, plastic-handled paring knife.

I went through a second doorway at the back of the living room and entered the small bedroom. A double bed sat in the corner, its veneer headboard against the rear wall, its left side next to a wall with a ground-level window. The bedding had been removed and I could see the big dark blotch on the mattress. I crawled onto the bed, raised the yellowing window shade, and lifted the sash; its weights clanged down inside their casing and the sash went up easily. I breathed in the fresh air from the alleyway. I groped around between the bed and the wall and pulled up the adjustable window screen that probably would have been in use on the night of the killing.

Access to the bathroom was through a door on the bedroom's right wall. I looked inside, then went back to the living room, took Anita Ward's "Ring My Bell" from the record shelves and placed it on the turntable. I waited for the amplifier to warm up, then played the record at high volume. A second set of speakers fed the sound into the bedroom.

I went back to the bathroom, closed the door securely, turned on the shower in the metal stall, and stuck my head inside. I stayed out of the direct line of spray but still got a wet face from the ricochet. I listened. I could hear an occasional bass note and, just barely, a distant thump-thump-thump. But I had to work at it. Mass carnage could have taken place in the bedroom outside and I might or might not have heard it.

I shut off the shower, dried my face with a towel on the rack by the little sink, then went out to stop the music.

The landlady was standing in the doorway. "That stuff gives me a headache," she said. "The new guy, I gottim from the deaf school. I figger, they can't hear, they won't play no loud music. I hadda do it, see. That stuff gives me a headache."

Back at the office, I called Ned Bowman. I said, "You've got the murder weapon. What kind of a knife was it? The papers just said 'kitchen.'"

"First you tell me what you're doing, Strachey. Account for your activities for the past six hours. Then I might bend the rules a bit and reveal official police information. Remember, I said might."

"Jesus, you know what gay life is like, Ned. It's constantly a lot of raunchy stuff you really wouldn't want to hear about. Like, I spent the earlier part of the afternoon getting fondled by a drag queen who thinks she's Rita Hayworth. That kind of craziness. You want to hear more?"

"Strachey, your credibility with me is just about zilch! I'm seriously thinking of cutting you off. Or maybe arranging for you to have a wee licensing problem. How would you go for that?"

I said, "St, Louis."

"Tell me more."

"So far, that's all I know. Check St. Louis. St. Louis, Missouri."

A dribble of sweat ran down my ribs. I'd checked the St. Louis number on Chris Porterfield's business phone bill and reached another travel agency.

"I'll check it out," he said. "I'll have to alert the St. Louis department to watch for the Hertz car from Wyoming. It'll take time."

Right, it would. I said, "The knife, then. Please describe it."

He said, "A carving knife. Wooden haft. Long, thin, stainless-steel blade. Fourteen inches end to end. Sheffield."

"That sounds expensive. Kleckner's other kitchenware is junk. Do you think Blount carried a carving knife with him that night? In a violin case?"

A pause. "I concede that there exist certain questions relating to the alledged murder weapon. All that'll be cleared up once I've had the opportunity to chat with William Blount. Of that, Strachey, I am certain."

"I don't think Blount would have had a knife like that either," I said. "One of the disadvantages of being young and gay, Ned, is that you don't get any wedding presents. People with Sheffield cutlery are well off, or married, or both. Also, you still haven't explained how someone else's prints were on the knife, not Blount's. You're heading the wrong way, Ned, admit it."

"I'll admit no such thing. In fact, if you want to know the truth of it—not that truth is anything you'd care that much about—the truth of it is, I'm now working out a theory that Blount had an accomplice—the guy who busted into Blount's apartment and made off with his phone book."

"Guy?"

"We went out to Blount's place and found a witness to the break-in you reported. A woman on the first floor let somebody in the front door behind her around eleven o'clock Friday night and a bit later heard the door get busted in. Ten minutes after that she sees the guy out her window getting into a gold-colored car. Ring a bell with you?"

Friday night. The night I'd been in Blount's apartment around seven, answered the phone, and heard the caller wait and then hang up. I said, "A gold-colored car? Nope, haven't run across that one. How come the woman didn't report the break-in?'

"She—well, she did."

"Let me guess—"

"Fuck you, Strachey."

I said, "A patrolman checked it out, wrote it up on some forms, and you weren't told. Right?"

"I retire in six years, two months, and twenty-six days. In the big picture that's not a long time. It'll pass. Time flies when you're having fun."

"Describe the man—the lock smasher."

"It's blurry. Twenties, light hair, light blue sweater. Carried a gym bag of some kind, probably with the tools in it. Big, new gold-colored car. Keep an eye out among your fag friends, will you?"

It could very well have been Zimka, though he struck me less as a gym-bag type than a paper-bag type. I said, "I'll be on the lookout. He's probably one of us. The light blue sweater is a code. It means he's into ice cubes."

"Ice cubes? Kee-rist!"

"You don't want to hear it, Ned. It's pretty kinky. Real Krafft-Ebing."

"Kinky, you call it! You people draw some pretty fine distinctions."

"It's a way of life," I said. "Just another way of life." He muttered something. "I'll be in touch, Ned. You too, okay?"

"Sure, I will."

He hung up, still muttering.

I called PBS in New York, got the name of its Denver affiliate, KRNA, Channel Six, then phoned out there and asked what programs the station had run on Monday night. I was told the Paul Robeson special had been on from eight to ten, local time, and at ten o'clock Monty Python came on. That would have been midnight, eastern time. Just right.

I phoned American Airlines in Albany and made a reservation for a 9:50 a.m. flight on Thursday, changing at O'Hare for a Continental flight to Denver.

I looked up Huey Brownlee's place of employment in my notes, then called Burgess's Machine Shop. The woman who answered put me on hold; a male voice came on the line, then I listened to five minutes of roaring and grinding sounds before Huey answered.

"Donald, my man, how's it shakin'?"

"Huey, I've got a funny question."

"You want a funny answer to it or a see-ree-yus answer, baby?"

"It's serious. I haven't found Billy Blount yet, but I'm getting close to him, and meanwhile I'm trying to verify something. Did Billy always take a shower after sex?"

He laughed. "At first, I kinda took it personal. I never knowed anybody to do that—except for this married dude from Selkirk who used to drop by wunst and a while. Damn Billy'd spend ten minutes in there washin' me off him, even when he slept over. I kidded him, and he said it was just a habit he always had, so I gave it no mind after a while. Why you want to know that?"

"Because Billy told someone that he was in Steve Kleckner's shower at the time of the killing. It makes sense."

"I'd believe that. Spic 'n' Span Billy."

"Thanks, Huey, you've helped me a lot. Hey, one thing– did you get that window lock fixed?"

"Sposed to be fixed today, Donald. Landlady said she'd see to it."

"And you haven't gotten any more weird phone calls?"

"I wouldn't know, baby. I ain't been home the last coupla nights. Don't ask me where I was, 'cause I ain't sure I could tell ya. Rotterdam, it might of been. Anyways, I'll be back home tonight—if you'd like to drop by for coffee."

I could see him leering wholesomely. "Well, to tell you the truth—a small part of it, anyway—I've got to work tonight. Look, now, you be careful. And let me know if you get any more of those crazy phone calls. Somebody who might be mixed up in the Kleckner killing has got hold of Billy's phone book with your number on it, and someone else whose name is on the book has been getting crank calls, too."

"Don't worry about ol' Huey, Donald. Asshole come after me again and he gonna be carried outta my place in one of them puke-green trash bags."

"Right. Just—be loose."

"Always, sweetheart. All-ways.''

I called Timmy's office and caught him just about to leave for the day.

"I'm not going to be at the alliance meeting tonight," I said, "but I've got Truckman's check. And tomorrow I'll have another one for the fund. From an anonymous donor."

"Great; we're going for four thousand. How're you doing? Are you working tonight?"

I'd made a decision without knowing I'd made it. I said, "Tonight I'm going to do something immoral."

"Oh? Immoral by what standards?"

As a teenager, he'd considered becoming a Jesuit. I knew why. "Immoral by just about anybody's standards," I said. "Believe me."

"Then don't do it."

"I've already decided."

"That's sound thinking. Charles Manson should have used that one. 'But, your honor, we'd already decided.'"

I said, "Don't make it worse."

"Ahh, now I'm an accomplice. Will it be fun, our immorality tonight?"

"I'm going to hang up now, Timmy."

"Don, the predestinationist. My mother once warned me about getting mixed up with Presbyterians. See you around, lover."

"Yeah, bye."

I wondered if there was a patron saint for the sarcastic.

14

I EXERCISED, JOGGED AROUND LINCOLN PARK FOR HALF AN

hour, showered, dressed, and had a bagel and a cup of plain yogurt while I read the Times Union. I went over my notes on the case and added to them. I left the apartment at five after eight under a starry autumn sky, aiming to arrive at Harold Snyder's apartment fifteen minutes late for the sake of dramatic tension. Not that his life lacked it.

"Donnie! Donnie, Donnie, Donnie!"

She had on a sheer negligee with a leopard-spot design and panties to match. In the" afternoon she'd worn a cheap, wavy orange wig, but now I witnessed her own hair, honey-colored and longish, a smooth whorl combed down over one eyebrow.

I said, "Sondra, would you mind calling me Don? My mother calls me Donnie."

She tapped the tip of my nose with her finger and cocked a freshly drawn eyebrow. "Maybe I'll just call you—Buck."

"I could be trained to respond to that."

"Mmmm. I'll bet you could—Bucky."

We were on the couch. A lamp with a two-watt lightbulb burned in the corner. The phonograph was playing the soundtrack from The High and the Mighty. She poured me what she called a martini. It was bright red. She lit a Gauloise and we told each other about ourselves.

Sondra described her "tragic childhood," which did, in fact, sound difficult and ugly: seventeen years in an Adirondacks crossroads called Sneeds Pond, with fundamentalist Baptist parents who kept telling her she was "abnormal" and "not right" and locking her in her room with a Bible, a football, and a photo of John Wayne.

"Did you play football, Buckie?" She examined my thighs and calves.

"In high school," I said. "And off and on in the army."

"Ooo, which army? Whose side were you on?"

"Ours. Though I once met Jane Fonda and she said I was making a mistake."

"Tacky bitch. Where does she get off."

"History will treat her more kindly than some."

Having checked out the shape of my legs, she moved on to my chest, a long, smooth hand sliding up under my turtleneck. She said, "Did you see A Bridge Too Far on TV the other night? Liv Ullman was too—aloof. She's so unwomanly. Sean Conn-ery, though—God, what a man! You could have played him, Bucky."

I thought, Christ, Sean Connery must be sixty by now. I said, "How old do you think I am, Sondra?"

"Thirty—nine."

"Not bad. You only missed by a year."

"Thirty-eight?"

"Yup."

"You have great nipples—for a man."

Was she a lesbian, too? I'd heard that about some of the famous starlets. She hiked up my shirt and ran her tongue around a nipple. I felt the heart under it begin to pump faster.

"Sondra—look, if we could just talk about some things for ten minutes, then I could be a lot more relaxed and we could really—"

She came up to my face and gave me a hard look. She said, "This is a social visit. You said so. It was your idea, Bucky. You wanna fuck, or you wanna fuck off? Hey?"

What would be would be. I said, "What do you think– sexy?"

She sighed and moved to the other nipple. I pulled her up and we sat kissing and feeling and massaging each other's legs and arms and backs and fronts while the record changed and the sound track from An Affair to Remember came on. She got my cock out of my pants and mouthed it for a while; I bent forward over her back, reached around, and got hold of hers. I wondered if Kim Novak was built like this.

We ended up on the floor, our garments soon strewn around us, kneeling and facing each other, kissing each other's faces, she massaging my cock and balls, me with a middle finger working into her warm, prelubricated anus.

"Bucky—baby—baby—Bucky—you've found my weakness."

We stood together and she led me into the bedroom by the finger. She flung the chenille bedspread aside and we fell onto the sheets. I was on top of her and she said, "Wait—more grease." The romance of the gay life.

She groped my cock with a palmful of Vaseline Intensive Care lotion—I was afraid I was going to come and in order not to I had to think about Eric Severeid–and then I got some of the stuff on my fingers and lubricated her asshole, which opened at my touch like a baby's mouth.

Her legs came up in the air, as if sprung into their natural position, and I eased myself into her, and felt her working her

sphincters like miraculous strong hands. Then we were moving together, she saying ohhhh, ohhhh, ohhhh into my ear, me grunting and sighing, and thinking from time to time of Eric Severeid.

After a long, wonderful time her face convulsed, tears ran down her cheeks, and she began to moan, "Oh, Donnie– Donnie, love me—love me real good, Donnie!" and suddenly it hit me. Oh Christ, I thought—this was no longer Sondra the movie star pumping and humping under me anymore, but this sad, fucked-up human being whispering and sighing and weeping into my ear was in fact the hopeless, unloved boy, now the lost, unlovable man, Harold Snyder of Sneeds Pond, New York.

I was panicking, having second thoughts, trying to decide whether or not I could go through with it, when Harold began to moan, "Ohhhh—ohhhhh—Yes-s-s—Yes-s-s-s—"

I hesitated, stopped, slid it out.

"Oh, don't stop, Donnie! Donnie!" He was grabbing wildly, trying to find it. I shook my ass around, evading him.

My mouth was at his ear. I said, "First, Harold—you've gotta tell me something."

"Donnie—Donnie, what's the matter? What did I do? You were making me feel so good—so—so loved—"

That was it. I collapsed onto him. I wept into his neck– great gulping sobs that made the both of us shake and slide and make slapping sounds in each other's sweat. He threw his arms around me and held me tightly for a minute, or five, or ten, until the tension was gone and we both lay still. We lay like that for a long while, breathing together.

I said, "It's okay, Harold. I'm sorry. I had a cramp."

He kissed my eyes and stroked my head. "Oh, Donnie– poor Donnie—"

I was hard again. Modern ideas about the human brain to the contrary notwithstanding, I've always thought the damn thing had a life of its own.

We began again, taking it slower and easier this time. We'd build, ease off, build again, ease off again, then ride away, up, and up, and up. And, in fact, Harold Snyder—Sondra the cleaning lady, the unrisen star and dirty-mouthed shrew—

turned out to be, in bed, a strong, sweet, knowing, graceful, warm-hearted homosexual man.

At eleven-fifteen, after a second go-round, Harold smoked a Gauloise, I had a black coffee, and then I drove home.

Timmy had let himself in and was waiting in my apartment. He looked up from the copy of The Nation he was reading.

I said, "How'd the meeting go?"

He said, "Talky, but useful. How'd the immorality go?"

"Not talky, but useful."

"That's par."

"But not entirely lacking in redeeming personal value."

"Do you want to talk?"

"No," I said. "It'll wait." I hung my jacket in the closet. I removed my clothes and tossed them in the corner. "A shower."

As I went into the bathroom, Timmy got up to pick up my clothes. Not just a sarcastic Jesuit, but a sarcastic Jesuit mother.

When I came back, the lights were out and Timmy was in the bed, his clothes neatly folded beside mine on the big ledge of my bay window. I slipped in beside him in the hazy blue of the streetlight, and we rolled gently together.

I said, "We're very lucky. You and I."

"I know," he said. "We are. Let's keep it up."

There was an undertone of apprehension in his voice. There needn't have been. He should have known that by then, but he didn't. So I told him.

15

During breakfast the phone rang, timmy was sitting beside it and answered it.

"It's Harold," he said. "I think you've made a friend."

Harold made complimentary and affectionate comments that were good for my ego but not for my conscience. My brief responses were friendly but vague. Then Harold got to the point. "Donnie, I really shouldn't be telling you this, and you must never, ever tell Mike I told you. Will you promise me that?"

"I promise."

"Donnie, I—I really can't tell you what Steve saw that upset him so much, 'cause I don't think you'd believe it. I saw it with my own baby blues, and I could hardly believe it! So if you must, doll, you'll just have to see for yourself. He doesn't meet them at the side door anymore, it's somewhere away from the place. You'll have to follow him somewhere. Tonight, after closing. He goes Wednesdays, and either Fridays or Saturdays."

"Meet who, Harold? Who does Mike meet?"

"You'll see, baby. You'll see."

"Does Mike know that you know this, whatever it is?"

"Ohhh, no-o-o-o, Donnie, and you mustn't tell him. Mike's so liquored up and crazy these days he'd fire me, and I might be forced to hit Hollywood and break into the business. And, God, it's such a debilitating experience out there in these crude times we live in—air pollution, dyke agents, Joan Crawford's shoes getting sold off like scrap metal. Within ten years I'd marry a degenerate disco franchiser and OD on Baskin-Robbins and heart-attack pills. Donnie, I have to stay in Albany, where I can be me. In a place where a certain amount of class is still respected. No, I can't—I cannot afford to lose my job, Donnie. You do understand, don't you, bunny?"

I said, "I won't tell him, Harold. But I might want to talk to you again. After tonight."

Huff, huff. "Well, I should hope you'll want to speak to me again. Now that we're lovers. Bye the bye, love-buns, who was that who answered the phone just now?"

"That was my houseboy."

"Ha, I should have known! You older guys! Is he Filipino?"

"Eskimo."

"And you told me you weren't queer!"

"I swing both ways, remember?"

"You're a flawed masterpiece, Donnie, that's what you are. But what's a woman to do?"

"Tell me another thing, Harold. Did Mike know that Steve saw whatever he saw?"

"Yes, it was horrible. Steve confronted Mike the day after—Steve told me—and Mike was sloshed, as usual, and started screaming like a bitch. He even fired poor Steven—but then he changed his mind five minutes later. See, that's why I'm so scared; Steve was the hot jock, and Mike needed him, and anyways Mike always had a soft spot for Steven even after they broke up. Me, lovable as I am, I'm just a charwoman to Mike, and I can be replaced by any sleazy slut who walks in the door."

"Where were you when you saw—it?"

"In the DJ booth with Steve. It was a quarter to five, and Mike thought everyone had left for the night. But I was depressed about one thing or another, and I was hoping Steven might cheer me up—he had once before. But he wouldn't this time, the little faggot. Anyway, we did get to talking, though– Steven was a dear, dear man—and then we looked out and saw it. We just sat there then, scared half to death, until Mike turned the lights out and left, and we got out with Steve's key. It really blew our minds, Donnie. The pits, the absolute pits."

I said, "Thank you, Harold. You've done the right thing telling me this. But you mustn't tell anyone else, okay? And I won't either."

"My lips are sealed, lover. Except when I'm with you. Then they are parted."

"Good. Thank you. One last thing, Harold. Do you know a guy named Frank Zimka? He's a hustler I think Mike has done business with."

"I know who he is, yes. He's weird. I've seen him around. Once with Mike."

"When did you see him with Mike?"

"Last summer once. Or twice maybe. I don't like him. When Zimka's down, he's a real depresso, and when he's on speed, he gets crazy. I heard one time he bounced a toilet seat off a guy's head. Some other whore who'd turned on to Zimka's trick."

"A toilet seat? Does he carry one with him, or what?"

"I wouldn't know the answer to that, sweet thing; I'm only saying what I heard. Donnie—Donnie, I had a wonderful time last night. You made me feel like—like—"

A nat-u-ral wo-man-n-n—

"—like a human being."

A wave of dizziness. I'd made a terrible mistake. This was going to be hard—impossible. I said, "Um. I'm glad."

"Till the next time, lover."

"Oh. Right. See you, Harold. Thanks again."

"It is I who am the one who is grateful."

"So long, Harold."

I hung up. Timmy looked up from his Wheat Chex, then down again.

I said, "Shit. I am made of shit."

"Come on now," he said. "You have your good points."

'Today my one good point is I'm beginning to understand this whole Kleckner-Blount-Zimka-Truckman phantasmagoria. I think."

"Right. As a detective, you're sterling silver. It's only as a human being that you're made of—clay. What do you think you've found out?"

I told him. He didn't finish his breakfast.

Timmy put on some of the clothes he kept in my closet and left for his office. I gathered up my notes, retrieved the two letters for Billy Blount from "I'm Here Again," stuffed everything in my canvas tote bag, and drove over to Central.

In the office I made another appointment with the Blounts at one. Low tea on State Street.

I was going over my notes again when Margarita Mayes called.

"Mr. Strachey, I've been in touch with Chris." "She called me too, as you said she would. Thank you." "I talked to her last night. She said I could tell you she'd be in Albany Saturday night, and would you come for brunch on Sunday? She won't tell you where Billy is, though; she said I should emphasize that. And if you go to the police, she'll deny all of these things. Will you come?"

"Well, that's certainly a lovely invitation. And I'll let you know—by Friday or so, if that's all right."

"That will be fine. Call me at the office. I'm not staying at the house. Someone tried to break in last night, and I'm staying with a friend in Westmere until Chris gets back. There have been so many burglaries lately. It's really quite frightening."

"Margarita—let me ask you a question. Have you been getting any more crank phone calls?"

A silence. "How did you know that?"

"Because another of Billy's friends has gotten them. Describe the calls."

"There's nothing to describe. Someone calls, and then listens, and then hangs up. There have been eight or ten."

"At your office, or just at home?"

"Just at the house. But I'm out of there now."

"Were you home during the break-in attempt? What happened?"

"I'd been asleep for about an hour," she said, "when the burglar alarm went off. I thought I heard a banging or thumping noise out behind the house, and I called the police right away. I was just scared to death, and I locked my bedroom door until the police came, in about five or ten minutes. They looked outside and found that our stepladder had been taken off the back porch and propped up under the kitchen window. The policemen helped me put the ladder away and said I was safe with the burglar alarm working and to keep everything locked up and not to worry. It frightened me, though; I could hardly sleep at all last night, and I'm not going back there until Chris is home."