Close Up

by Amanda Quick

  Dear Mr. Feathergill:

  I regret to inform you that I fear there is no hope for a cure. The insanity that afflicted your father has been passed down to your brother, Edward. We have attempted several forms of treatment but nothing has proven effective. He is, and will always be, a danger to others. All I can offer you is the guarantee of a safe, secure environment here at Maple Tree Farm.

  As you know we maintain the highest levels of discretion. The details of your brother’s medical condition as well as his location will not be divulged to anyone except the members of his immediate family. I understand that you are his only living relation . . .

  The letter was signed Dr. Clement Hulton.

  There was one more note from Hulton.

  Dear Mr. Feathergill:

  I write to inform you of news of the most serious nature. Edward Feathergill was reported missing three days ago. We have conducted an exhaustive search of the grounds and the surrounding woods. We have found no trace of him. We believe he attempted to leave our remote location by means of a small rowboat during the recent storm. The vessel no doubt capsized in the high seas. I and the members of my staff are convinced that Edward perished. Please accept my condolences but under the circumstances perhaps it is for the best . . .

  Nick put the letters back into the folder. He fired up the Packard and drove to the nearest phone booth. He arranged several stacks of coins on the small tray beneath the phone and dialed the operator.

  “Long distance, please,” he said.

  When the long-distance operator came on the line he gave her the name and address of Maple Tree Farm. She, in turn, told him the initial charges. He fed the coins into the slots.

  It took a few minutes to put through the call but eventually a man came on the line. He sounded like a secretary or clerk.

  “Maple Tree Farm. How may I assist you?”

  “This is Jonathan Feathergill calling for Dr. Hulton.”

  “Yes, of course, Mr. Feathergill. I’ll connect you immediately.”

  A moment later a polished, professional male voice came on the line.

  “Mr. Feathergill, I must say, this is a surprise. What can I do for you?”

  “A year and a half ago you informed me that my brother died while trying to escape Maple Tree Farm.”

  “That is correct.” Hulton’s voice tightened. “We assumed he perished at sea. What is this about? Has there been some news?”

  “Edward Feathergill not only survived that storm, he made it out to California and adopted a new identity. He called himself Morris Deverell and, as far as I can tell, he murdered at least three people before he was finally caught while attempting to kill a fourth victim. He tried to escape. This time he didn’t make it. You may have seen the stories in the press. The papers labeled him the Dagger Killer.”

  There was a short, fraught silence on the other end of the line. Then Hulton heaved a weary sigh.

  “I did see something about the Dagger Killer murders in the press,” he said. “It caught my attention, as I’m sure you can imagine. But there were no photos in the local newspaper. It considers itself a family paper. It does not print sordid pictures of deranged murderers. But I did check the name of the killer. When I realized the name was unfamiliar, I set my concerns aside.”

  “Why did the story catch your attention?” Nick asked.

  “Why, because of the daggers, of course. I remember very clearly that when you brought Edward to Maple Tree Farm you explained that your brother had used an antique dagger from your father’s collection to murder your mother. One doesn’t forget that sort of detail.”

  Nick hung up the phone and called Raina Kirk in Burning Cove. He told her what he wanted. “You can reach me at the Pacific Horizon Hotel in Adelina Beach. That’s where Vivian and Lyra and I are staying while Vivian looks for a new place to rent.”

  “It’s going to take some time to track down the people who might have the answers you’re looking for,” Raina warned.

  “Do whatever you have to do. Please call me as soon as you’ve got something.”

  “Of course,” Raina said. “How’s the shoulder?”

  Nick glanced at his right shoulder. His shirtsleeve covered the bandage. “Better, thanks. Stitches will come out next week.”

  “Lucky it was just a twenty-two. Not much stopping power.”

  “I’m hearing that a lot.”

  “Oh, one more thing,” Raina said. “You can tell Vivian I happened to walk past the Ashwood Gallery this morning on my way into the office. One of her photos was in the window.”

  “She’ll be thrilled.”

  “She certainly knows some interesting men,” Raina said.

  “Don’t remind me.”

  Chapter 43

  The following afternoon Nick was drinking coffee with Vivian and Lyra in the hotel gardens when he heard his name.

  “Long distance for Mr. Sundridge.” A page dressed in a snappy little cap and the livery of the Pacific Horizon Hotel strode briskly across the terrace, an ornate telephone in his gloved hands. “Long distance for Mr. Sundridge.”

  Nick put down his cup and signaled the page. The young man hurried forward, set the telephone on the table, and plugged the cord into a nearby wall jack. He paused to give Rex a couple of pats and then sped off.

  Nick picked up the receiver. “This is Sundridge. What have you got for me, Raina?”

  Vivian and Lyra put down their cups and listened intently.

  “I’ve got some answers,” Raina said, cool satisfaction edging her polished voice. “Luther is here with me. We just finished going through my notes. Jonathan and Edward were the two sons of Harold Feathergill, a wealthy New Yorker from an old, established family. Harold evidently took his own life when the boys were in their teens.”

  “Evidently? The authorities aren’t sure of the cause of death?”

  “Officially his death was an accident. He fell from a high window at his summer home. But my contact at a New York newspaper told me that rumors of suicide circulated widely at the time. You know how it is when it comes to suicide. Families go out of their way to cover it up.”

  “Right.”

  “My contact said there were a few other rumors about Harold Feathergill as well,” Raina continued. “Looks like he may have murdered a housemaid. Her death was listed as accidental, too, but the maid’s family refused to believe it. They claimed he killed the girl with, get this, an antique dagger. He owned a large collection of blades. After his death the collection went to his eldest son, Edward.”

  “Who became Morris Deverell,” Nick said. “Like father, like son.”

  “It was shortly after the housemaid’s death that Harold Feathergill apparently jumped out a window. However, Mrs. Feathergill was found dead a few months later. This time there was no doubt that it was murder. She was killed by a dagger from her husband’s collection.”

  “Edward murdered his own mother.”

  “According to the authorities, a madman broke into the house and attacked Mrs. Feathergill, who was home alone at the time. But my contact says people who were acquainted with the family were sure Edward was the madman who murdered her.”

  “Were there any rumors about the brother’s mental health?”

  “According to my source, Jonathan Feathergill was supposed to be the stable son,” Raina said. “It was said he appeared to have escaped the family curse.”

  Nick closed his eyes and took a couple of deep breaths. Raina was just using a casual turn of phrase. He didn’t have a curse, he had very strong intuition. The Sundridge intuition had its downside but a few nightmares and visions did not constitute a curse. He had that on good authority, first Caleb Jones’s old journal and recently from Vivian. Vivian saw beneath the surface. She would know a curse if she encountered one.

  “Nick?” Raina said int
o his ear. “Are you still there?”

  He opened his eyes and found Vivian watching him intently.

  She smiled.

  The California sunlight got a little warmer, a shade more golden. The Pacific sparked and flashed and dazzled. The elegantly manicured hotel gardens appeared more lush. The scents of flowers and the sea stirred his senses.

  Everything that was important to him now was in Vivian’s smile—trust, friendship, understanding, acceptance, approval. She believed in him. And maybe, just maybe, she loved him. He devoutly hoped so because he was sure he would be doomed if she didn’t.

  He knew now that the jolt of unfamiliar sensations that had blindsided him the first day when she opened her door and found him on her front step was not a sign of lack of sleep. The rush of exhilaration he had experienced was his Sundridge intuition telling him she was the one he had been waiting for.

  He forced himself to focus on what mattered at that moment.

  “I’m here,” he said to Raina. “Go on.”

  “We know from his poems that Jonathan was every bit as mad as his brother but he was a lot better at concealing his crazy side,” Raina said. “He was in the murder-for-hire business in New York for at least two years before he moved to California.”

  “Not crazy. Just plain evil.”

  “What?” It was Raina’s turn to fall silent for a beat or two. “Oh, yes. I see what you mean. Evil is the right word, isn’t it? It’s just that, in the modern era, we’re supposed to believe that human motives and emotions can be explained by psychological theories.”

  “We’re not there yet,” Nick said.

  “No,” Raina said. Her voice was very firm now. “Not yet. To continue with the history of the Feathergill family, Edward Feathergill vanished from society shortly after his mother was murdered. He was said to be on an extended voyage around the world. Eventually he was declared lost at sea.”

  “Instead, Jonathan had him locked up in a private sanitarium, Maple Tree Farm,” Nick said. “Then, with his brother safely out of the way, Jonathan moved to California, reinvented himself under the name Jonathan Treyherne, and went back into the murder-for-hire business.”

  “It must have come as a shock when his brother escaped and tracked him down in L.A.,” Raina said. “But there wasn’t much Jonathan could do. Then Edward started killing again. He finally got arrested for murder, thanks to Vivian. Jonathan must have been frantic. He could not afford to have his brother talking to the police.”

  “So he smuggled Edward out of the hospital, drove him to a lonely highway, and ran him down,” Nick said.

  On the other side of the table, sudden comprehension lit Vivian’s eyes.

  “That bastard Treyherne blamed me,” she said. “He convinced himself I was the reason he had to murder his own brother.”

  “Yes,” Nick said. “That fits. He blamed you and he wanted revenge.”

  “I heard that,” Raina said. “We finally have a motive that explains why Vivian’s name is in the journal. In his own twisted way, Jonathan was determined to avenge his brother’s death.”

  “That’s why there was no client named in the final entry in the journal,” Nick said. “The Poet was the client.”

  “Hang on,” Raina said. “Luther wants to talk to you.”

  Luther came on the line.

  “It’s over,” he said. “I’m going to give the journal and your uncle’s transcriptions of the poems to someone I know in the Bureau. The FBI and the Los Angeles police will probably conduct their own investigations into the murders that have already occurred.”

  “It’s going to be hard to reopen any of those cases,” Nick said. “The Poet was very, very good at making the deaths looks like accidents or natural causes.”

  “Don’t worry,” Luther said. “The most spectacular cases will be tried in the press. I’m sure there will be a few convictions. Regardless, those other crimes are not our problem. Our job was to stop the open commission, the murder that was still in the planning stage. Thanks to you, Vivian Brazier is alive. Nice work, Nick.”

  Nick hung up the phone and looked at Vivian and Lyra.

  “Luther says it’s over,” he said.

  Lyra shuddered. “I still can’t believe that my sister was the target of not one but two killers. The fact that they were brothers makes it even more bizarre.”

  “Yes, but it does explain the coincidence factor,” Nick said. “We now know why Vivian was attacked twice within the same month.”

  Vivian looked thoughtful. “One thing I still don’t understand. How did Jonathan Treyherne, or Feathergill or whatever his name was, figure out that Toby Flint would know how to find me?”

  Lyra waved a hand in a casual gesture. “According to Nick, the Poet had a history of stalking his victims for a full month before he acted. He collected information about them. If he was watching your beach cottage he would have seen Flint stop by to borrow some film or gas money. It wouldn’t have taken much research to discover Flint was always in need of cash.”

  Vivian sighed. “In exchange for a few dollars, Toby would have been happy to answer a couple of seemingly innocent questions. I guess that explains it. Coincidences do happen.

  “That,” Nick said, “has not been my experience.”

  Chapter 44

  Late that afternoon Nick eased the Packard to the curb and shut off the engine. For a moment he sat quietly, studying the run-down boardinghouse Toby Flint had called home. There was a faded ROOM FOR RENT sign in a downstairs window.

  He got out of the car and went up the cracked path to the front door. He clanged the knocker several times before someone finally responded.

  There was some shuffling in the hallway and the door opened. A middle-aged woman in a floral-patterned housedress, her hair in an old-fashioned marcel wave, peered out.

  “If you’ve come about the vacancy I’ll warn you right now the rent has to be paid in advance at the start of every week and I don’t allow men to take women upstairs,” she announced. “This is a respectable establishment.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Nick said. He took out his wallet and removed a couple of bills. “But I’m not looking for a room. I wanted to ask you a few questions about one of your previous boarders. Toby Flint.”

  “You’re looking for Flint?” The woman was briefly distracted by the sight of the bills. She looked up quickly, eyes narrowing. “All I can say is, good luck to you. He skipped out on the rent a few days ago. Haven’t seen him since.”

  “Flint is dead,” Nick said. “He was hit by a car in Burning Cove.”

  “Huh. Would have thought Burning Cove was too expensive for the likes of Flint. He was always short of cash. Well, that explains why he didn’t come back for his things.”

  “He left his belongings behind?”

  “Yeah. I cleaned out his room this morning. Not a lot of stuff. He pawned everything except his darkroom equipment and the shortwave radio. I took the radio. Figured it would cover a couple of weeks’ rent.”

  “What did you do with the rest of his possessions?” Nick asked.

  “Put ’em in a box. I was going to take them to a secondhand shop to see if I could get a few bucks for the photography equipment.”

  “I’ll give you twenty dollars for the box.”

  The landlady narrowed her eyes. “What would you want with Flint’s things?”

  “I’ve got a friend who’s interested in photography. She might be able to use some of his equipment.”

  “Uh-huh. I’ll take the twenty bucks first. No changing your mind if it turns out you don’t want anything in the box.”

  “You’ve got yourself a deal, ma’am.”

  Nick handed her the money. She made it disappear inside the bodice of the housedress.

  “Follow me,” she said. “The box is in a closet at the end of the hall.”<
br />
  A short time later Nick settled the box that contained Flint’s worldly belongings into the trunk of the Packard, got behind the wheel, and drove back to the hotel.

  The front desk clerk looked up when he saw Nick come through the door.

  “Mr. Sundridge,” he said. “Let me get a bellhop to take care of that box for you.”

  “Never mind,” Nick said. “I’ve got it. Would you ring Miss Brazier’s room and let her know I’m back?”

  “Both Miss Braziers went out while you were gone,” the clerk said.

  “Shopping?”

  “No.” A flash of excitement lit the clerk’s eyes. “Mr. Ripley Fleming the movie actor sent a limo around to fetch Miss Lyra. I believe there was something said about a tour of the studio followed by tea. As for Miss Vivian, she got a phone call and immediately took off in Miss Lyra’s car.”

  Nick paused, thinking. Ripley Fleming was no longer a suspect. At least it was no longer possible to suspect him of being the assassin for hire. And the real killer had been his own client so there was no mysterious client left to identify. Lyra was safe with Fleming.

  “Do you know who telephoned Vivian Brazier?” he asked.

  “A secretary who said she was calling from the Penfield Gallery here in town. Miss Vivian appeared to be quite excited when she left a short time later.”

  “Did she have her portfolio with her?”

  “A flat leather case? Why, yes, as a matter of fact.”

  Nick relaxed. “Sounds like she’s been invited to show her work to the Penfield Gallery again. That’s very good news.”

  So why was he suddenly sensing ice-cold fingers on the back of his neck?

  Damn Sundridge intuition.

  He and Rex went through the lobby and up the main staircase to the second floor. He let himself into his room, set the box on the table near the window, and took off his jacket. After arranging a couple of sheets of notepaper and a pen on the table, he went to work.

  Sorting through the belongings of a man who had gambled away everything of value including, in the end, his own life, proved a depressing business.