by Howard Fast
“I’ll buy that,” Beckman said.
“Did she know why they wanted to put her on trial?” Masuto asked. “That’s at the crux of this matter, and I can’t make head or tail out of it. I have theories—”
“So have I,” Geffner cut in. “Let’s hear yours.”
“There’s really only one explanation that holds water,” Masuto said. “Everything else I’ve thought of breaks down.”
“Go on,” Geffner said eagerly.
“Well, there’s no question in my mind that Feona Scott killed the man in the tub, not alone, but I have the feeling that she conked him over the head. So I have to draw the conclusion that they worked out the charade with Eve Mackenzie to cover up Feona’s guilt.”
“You mean once Simpkins closed the book on her, threw the case out of court, it was over.”
“Something changed,” Masuto said. “Your sister’s death, the empty coffin. Let’s look at it this way: there are a number of people in Washington who don’t want Feona prosecuted for murder. Why? If she’s one of their agents, if she’s C.I.A., then they surely would try to avoid the scandal and smell of murder. But—” he turned to Jo Hardin—“what do you think? Do you think Feona Scott was a C.I.A. agent?”
“I don’t know—why? Why would the C.I.A. plant an agent in my sister’s home?”
“It was also Mackenzie’s home.”
“Yes—but—”
“How long ago did Feona come to work at the Mackenzies’?”
“About four years ago.”
“Do you know how they hired her, how they found her?”
“No, I’m afraid not,” Jo said.
“Tell me something else, Miss Hardin. Your brother-in-law, Robert Mackenzie—did he have a heavy Scottish accent?”
“Rather heavy—yes.”
“Did he ever tell you where he was born and educated?”
“Oh, yes, Edinburgh. But, you know, whatever you’re thinking of Robert—well, all I can say is that he was endlessly tender and patient with Eve. When Eve heard that he would never come back—”
“What!”
“You never mentioned that to me,” Geffner said.
“Didn’t I? But I was sworn to silence about so many things, and it’s only a few days since Eve died. You see, Eve knew immediately that the man in the tub was not Robert. Not only were certain scars that Robert had missing, but a woman knows. Of course, it must have been Robert’s twin brother. Well, they told her that Robert had left for Canada before the murder. Eve did not drive up to my house. Robert brought her to my house and left the car there. I drove him to the airport, and then the following morning Eve insisted on returning to Beverly Hills. But Robert was actually in an airplane on his way to Canada when the murder took place. So neither he nor Eve could have done it.”
“No, of course not,” Masuto agreed, “but you mentioned something about Eve finding out that her husband would not come back.”
“Yes. You see, at the beginning, when they talked Eve into that ridiculous trial, they insinuated that when it was over, Robert would come back and they could resume their life in Beverly Hills. Poor Eve was out on bail, staying with me at that moment and talking about her life with Robert when he returned and what she would do, and possibly joining Alcoholics Anonymous and even adopting a child, and most of it was the bottle talking, except her statement that Robert would return. I asked her who told her that, and she said her lawyer, Mr. Cassell. Well, you can imagine that I did not tell her how ridiculous it was. It would have been too much for her to bear. But a few days later, I was in Beverly Hills and I went to Mr. Cassell’s office and asked him how he dared to delude my poor sister in this manner. How could Robert ever return? They were moving heaven and earth for the world to believe him dead. How could he return?” she demanded of Masuto.
“He couldn’t. But how did Mr. Cassell persuade you to remain silent?”
“For Eve’s good, for Eve’s benefit, just be patient, no, it doesn’t mean she’ll never see her husband again, just give us time to straighten this out and everything will fall into place, and then Eve can join her husband. But I don’t think they ever intended Eve to join Robert again. They intimated that a drunk could not be dealt with. Poor Eve—to be so badly used, and all her beauty and talent just wasted—” She was close to tears.
“Miss Hardin,” Masuto said gently, “during those years when your sister and Robert Mackenzie were together, you would see them?”
“Of course.”
“Fairly often? Once a week? Once a month?”
“No—Christmas, Easter, once or twice a year they’d invite me to go sailing with them. Robert was a good sailor. He had a twenty-seven-foot sloop—”
“You say he had it. Did he sell it?”
“I don’t know. It never entered my mind.”
“And where did he berth it?”
“At Oxnard, which was convenient for me, halfway between here and Santa Barbara.”
The men exchanged glances. Geffner was about to speak when Masuto shook his head slightly, and Geffner swallowed his words.
“I was wondering,” Masuto said, “whether in the time you knew Robert Mackenzie—whether during that time any questions arose in your mind?”
Geffner and Beckman had both of them put away large plates of pasta. Masuto had nibbled at a sandwich. The salad in front of Jo Hardin remained untouched.
“Questions?”
“About Robert Mackenzie.”
“Well, he was a rather depressed personality. But that is not unusual among the Scots, is it?”
“I don’t know. Did you ever doubt that he was Scottish?”
She thought about it. “No—no, not really. I remember on New Year’s Eve, he sang ‘Auld Lang Syne’ with a wonderful Scottish accent, and not just the first verse but the whole song. It was wonderful.” She wiped her eyes. “I seem to cry at everything today. It’s the funeral, I think, so soon after poor Eve’s cremation. And once in a while, he’d read to us from Robert Burns. I never knew how Burns should sound or what it meant until I heard Robert read it. You know, there’s a sound in Scots that is almost impossible for Americans to make—the sound och. You see, I can’t really make it either, and I remember one night he was trying to teach us how to do it—it was such fun.”
“Then there’s no doubt in your mind, Miss Hardin, that Robert Mackenzie is a valid Scot?”
“Oh, no—no. I have sat and listened to him narrate the history of the Mackenzies, and they were such great people. Robert was descended from the famous Scottish lawyer, Sir George Mackenzie, who was born in Dundee in 1636. You see, I remember the date, Robert spoke of him so often, and of Sir George’s defense of the Marquis of Argyll, who was tried for high treason. You see, Robert’s branch of the family became very poor and stayed poor, so while many other Mackenzies are in Who’s Who, Robert still had that as his goal, as if to vindicate the Mackenzie name in what he felt was the stain placed upon his father and grandfather.”
Listening to her, Masuto had the impression that she was not a little enraptured with her sister’s husband—perhaps all unknown to herself.
“Yet he wasn’t in Who’s Who, was he?”
“I’m afraid not, Sergeant Masuto.”
“Yet I’ve heard him described as one of the most brilliant engineers in America.”
“By whom?” Geffner wondered.
“Oh? Let me see.” He turned to Beckman. “What about it, Sy?”
“Did you tell me that, Masao?”
“If you have any doubts about Robert’s brilliance, you can set them at rest. He perfected the heat-seeking automatic pilot that guides a missile to its target.”
“Yet he isn’t in Who’s Who,” Masuto said.
Geffner said, “I’m afraid you’re wrong, darling. I was reading about that particular weapon. I don’t think it was devised by a Robert Mackenzie.”
“I’m not wrong,” she said with irritation. “Eve told me.”
“Well, I could be wr
ong,” Geffner said gently. “I think we’ve told Sergeant Masuto and Detective Beckman all that we know that might be helpful.” And to Masuto, “Are you sure we can’t pick up your check? Heaven knows, it’s small enough.”
“Small enough for us to pay it,” Masuto insisted.
Outside, and in Beckman’s car, Masuto said to Beckman, “Come on, I want your reaction—quick and off the top of your head.”
“I think she had a case on her sister’s husband. I hope Mark can live with it. He’s a nice guy.”
“He’ll live with it. What about Mackenzie?”
“He’s very good, isn’t he? Very big with Scottish patriotism or culture or whatever you’d call it. You ever heard of this Sir George Mackenzie?”
“I’m not up on Scottish history, but I’m sure that if we look him up, we’ll find him there, just where Robert says he’s supposed to be.”
“You know, Masao, we never had a case like this one, where everything is stood on its head, and we never had a case where not one damn bit of it made any sense.”
“Oh, I think it’s beginning to make a little sense.”
“For you, maybe.”
“No, it’s when people do things contrary to law and decency that it becomes turgid and beyond understanding. Understanding is conditioned by some rules of humanity. When you drop all the rules, understanding revolts. So much for that. Now, let’s go back to the station house where I can yell my head off at Sweeney.”
“Because he hasn’t come up with Feona Scott’s prints?”
“Precisely.”
“Blame me. I should have told you. Shelly Langer at Records called me in early this morning and told me that the F.B.I. showed nothing for our Feona. I told her to wire every source, including Scotland Yard. She should have something when we get back.”
But back at the station house, Shelly Langer had only an inviting smile. As for Feona Scott, “This lady never existed,” Miss Langer said.
“She existed. She was alive and now she’s dead.”
“But no fingerprints anywhere, Sergeant. Either she was careful, or she was a farm gal who lived a life of great purity and never set foot out of Kansas.”
“It gets curiouser and curiouser,” said Masuto, who read Alice in Wonderland to his children.
Chapter 23
“It’s half past two,” Beckman said. “Would you mind giving me an agenda for the rest of today? Didn’t you mention that you told Kati she could come home with the kids tomorrow?”
“I said she might, and I shouldn’t have said that. Where did Geffner and his new lady say they were going?”
“To Eve’s house, I think. Geffner got her the key.”
“Yes, of course. Eve died intestate, and with Mackenzie legally dead, the whole thing goes to Jo.”
“But Mackenzie isn’t dead.”
“Oh, no,” Masuto said. “Mackenzie is dead. The State of California declared him a murder victim and tried Eve for his murder.”
“Technicality.”
“Sy, we live in a very technical world. Let’s stop over at Lexington Road. One very important question I never asked Jo Hardin.”
Both Geffner and Miss Hardin were surprised to see the two policemen, and Geffner said to Masuto, “It shakes you, because the guilt in this thing is so tenuous, so amorphous, that you begin to feel a part of it.”
“No, we have no suspicions, please believe me. Only I forgot to ask Miss Hardin what were the relations between Eve Mackenzie and Feona Scott.”
“Eve hated her.”
“Ah, so!” Masuto shook his head with annoyance. “All that time at lunch, I never asked you the important question. Of course, you intrigued me with your description of Robert Mackenzie, but afterward, thinking about it, I remembered that you had called him depressed. But your description was not of a depressed man—no, indeed. You described an ebullient man.”
She thought about it for a while. “Yes, I suppose I did.”
“Now, please, think about this, Miss Hardin. Depression is an illness that affects a man’s entire personality. Unhappiness is simply a condition of being human. A person could be deeply unhappy without having a pathological case of depression. So please tell me, were there long periods when Robert Mackenzie was not depressed?”
Again, she thought about it. “Yes, I believe so.”
“Ah. Before Feona Scott arrived?”
“Yes, now that you mention it.”
“Do you think,” Masuto asked slowly, “that he was having an affair with Feona Scott?”
On this, she didn’t hesitate. “Good heavens, no!”
“Why so violent?”
“Because he detested her.”
“But kept her on and paid her wages. You told me before that you saw your sister only occasionally. How can you be so certain about the relationships in their household?”
“Come on, Masuto,” Geffner protested, “there’s no reason to interrogate Jo in this manner. She came forward to volunteer the information.”
“I am not interrogating her. I am investigating a case in which three people have already been murdered, and you and I survive only by virtue of luck and your superior driving. I have to ask questions, Mr. Geffner. You know that as well as I do.”
“Mark, please let me answer. You see, Sergeant, you can see people only once in a while yet be very close to them, and I was close to my sister and Robert. I once asked him why he hired Feona Scott, and he said something about how hard it was to find someone willing to take care of an alcoholic. That happens to be true, and I suppose that’s the reason why he kept her on. But he did not sleep with her and he did not like her.”
“Did he ever say what part of Scotland she came from? She was born in Scotland?”
“I think he once mentioned the slums of Glasgow.”
Masuto and Beckman were back in the car, driving out on Sunset Boulevard toward the Pacific, when Masuto said, “Twins from Edinburgh who never existed and a maiden fair from Glasgow. Trouble is, she drew a better name than Mackenzie. I’ve never looked at a Glasgow telephone book, but I presume there are more Scotts there than one could shake a stick at and even a few Feonas.”
“And now,” Beckman said, “since you suggested that we drive west on Sunset, I presume we’re returning to the Fenwick Works. I see it on television all the time, the stupid cops walking into the bad guys’ trap. Suppose they put us in a vat or something and dissolve us with some fancy acid.”
“I think they’ll be very polite, and anyway, it’s a nice day for a ride along the Pacific.”
It was such a day. There was no smog, and the sky over the ocean was alive with small cumulus clouds, a rare thing for this time of the year. At the gate to Fenwick, Masuto showed his badge, and after a few words on the phone the guard waved him in. The same efficiency at the door of the main building, after which they were told that Mr. Soames would be delighted to talk with Sergeant Masuto and Detective Beckman. They had to wait ten minutes, but during that time they were served coffee by a tall, pretty, young woman.
In his office, Soames greeted them pleasantly and told them to sit down. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“I would like to ask you some questions,” Masuto said. “Of course, you have the right not to answer and you also have the right to tell us to leave. But I’m sure you’re aware of that.”
“Indeed I am.”
“All right. Have you ever heard the name Albert Dexel?”
“No.”
“Why did you try to detain me the other day?”
“It was a clumsy and stupid effort, for which I apologize with all my heart. For an American businessman to resort to any such thing is utterly deplorable. But I had two people coming up from Washington, and they were most eager to talk to you, and they begged me to keep you here even if I had to handcuff you to do it.”
“Then why didn’t they come to the Beverly Hills police headquarters and talk to me there?”
“After our discussion, they changed
their minds.”
“Yes, of course. Do you know where Robert Mackenzie is?”
“No, I don’t. But I presume he’s still in Canada.”
“No, he isn’t—or at least he was not in Canada yesterday. Yesterday he killed Feona Scott.”
“Oh? I saw no such accusation in this morning’s paper. Or is this another secret of the Beverly Hills police?”
“Isn’t it time we stopped playing games, Mr. Soames. This is not an entertainment we’re discussing. It’s murder, and Robert Mackenzie is guilty of that murder. You know it and I know it, and we both know why he shot Feona Scott. Let him give up and be tried—”
“No!”
“Scott killed his twin brother. You have the best lawyers in California. You can certainly get a mitigated sentence.”
“Sergeant Masuto,” Soames said, “I am trying to be very patient with you. You are a fine and honest policeman, and I respect anyone who does a good job of work. I am not trying to hoodwink you or to tamper with the law. But you function on a certain level, and there are other levels in this great nation of ours. The Mackenzie case is closed, and for all purposes, legal and otherwise, Robert Mackenzie has ceased to exist. This is not from me, but from people far more powerful and important in the scheme of things.”
“Are there levels,” Masuto wondered, “where murder is not murder?”
“Sergeant, we live in a different world than what existed when we were children. Murder has become a way of international relationship. Consider Iran, the P.L.O., Libya, Bulgaria—murder is simply a word, and in defense of national policy and national security, it is condoned.”
Masuto felt a shiver run up his spine. What does one say? What is good and what is bad? “I am a policeman who works in Beverly Hills,” Masuto said quietly. “When a murder is committed in a house in Beverly Hills, I must find the perpetrator.”
“That’s simply rigid and unthinking.”
“Perhaps.”
“You will not find Mr. Mackenzie. Give it up.”
“It used to be simpler to be a cop,” Beckman said once they were outside.