“Right.” Max stood up and brushed off his pants. “All the same, I think you'd better play this one by the book, Jofferty. You can use the radio in the cruiser to call in, can't you? Ask them not to use the siren, I don't want my family to know what's going on.”
“If you say so, Max. Just let me get a little more information on the corpse. What was his name?” He nudged the foreman, who was still staring at the body. “He did have a name, didn't he?”
Mortlake shook his head. “Poor old Mac,” he intoned. “He was a man, take him for all and all.”
“His full name,” Jofferty insisted. “Mac what?”
“Macbeth.”
“Come off it.”
“Macbeth, I said. Joe Macbeth. He said we should call him Mac. I have a hard enough time keeping track of the names of the crew, they come and go so fast, but I couldn't forget his. I happen to be a Bacon buff.”
“Yeah? Me too. All those health nuts keep saying it's not good for you, but I say what the hell, something's gonna get you sooner or later.”
“Just a minute” Max said, trying to keep a straight face. Laughter wasn't suitable for the occasion, but at that moment he was grateful for a little comic relief “I don't think he means that kind of bacon, Jofferty.”
“Certainly not. It wasn't Shakespeare wrote those plays, you know. It was a guy named Bacon. Macbeth is one of his masterpieces. Personally I thought Orson Welles's performance was the best, even though the critics tore him to pieces.”
8
Max returned to the bosom of his family just in time to prevent the two most immature members of it from rushing out to find out what was happening and why. He managed to distract Davy by offering to play camel, but Jem Kelling rejected the invitation to be another member of the herd. Heel heard about the body from Sarah and was determined to offer his advice and assistance. He'd also polished off the last of the second batch of muffins, which was okay by Max, since it was almost lunchtime anyhow. By the time Max had been led across the Sahara and helped to discover a new pyramid (built by Martians), he was ready for a nap even if Davy wasn't. However, the elder Bitter-sohh was rescued from the younger by the devoted wife of the former and handed over to Mrs. Blufert, who took him off to his room for a picnic lunch. Jem had returned, accompanied by Sergeant Jofferty, and they settled down at the kitchen table for food and conversation.
Sarah refused Egbert's offer to play chef “There are enough leftovers to last for a week. We'd better finish some of the perishable items before they go bad. Sergeant, would you prefer caviar or smoked salmon?”
“Only if he cant get bacon,” Max said. “Don't bother looking for it, süssele, that was a joke. Not a very good one, I admit.”
Nobody laughed when he explained. “It was murder all right,” Jofferty said heavily. “How'd you know, Max?”
“Not enough blood” Jeremy Kelling said with obvious relish. “I'll have some of those pickled beets, Sarah.”
“That was one indication.” Max indicated he did not care for pickled beets. “The blows on the face were inflicted after he was already dead. He'd been killed elsewhere and the body placed under the tent after the blood had dried and rigor was well advanced. I don't know why the murderer went to all that trouble. Nobody would believe death was caused by the balloon.”
“An insult to the force,” Jofferty agreed, helping himself to pasta salad. “We may be hicks, but we're not stupid.”
“What did kill him?” Sarah asked.
“Well have to wait for the results of the autopsy, but even a hick cop like me couldn't help noticing that the back of the skull was a peculiar shape.”
“Don't take it personally,” Max advised. “A more important question is that of motive. The poor devil appears to have been an elderly itinerant, trying to eke out his Social Security check with whattever part-time work he could pick up. Mortlake said he'd been with Omar Inc, for less than a month. He'd moved here from Chicago. Said it was too damned hot in the Midwest in July.”
“The classic innocent bystander?” Sarah asked. “Maybe he was killed because he saw something he shouldn't have seen yesterday.”
“Like what?” Jofferty asked. He pushed his plate away and cast a hopeful eye at the remains of a chocolate decadence cake. “You said it was a long story, Max, but make it as short as you can, will you? I've got to report back to the station sometime today.”
Max tried. He began with the discovery of the necklace and then described his brief encounter with Louie and his Gorgonzola sandwich. He tried to gloss over this part of the story, since he hated admitting a wizened old maniac had knocked him flat, but Sarah wouldn't let him get away with it.
“So that's how you got that awful bruise on your shin! Why didn't you tell me?”
“Because you were chin deep in relatives all day and dead beat last night. So far today we've had a smoke bomb and a corpse to distract us.”
“You think all these things are connected?” Jofferty asked, polishing off the remainder of the slice of cake Sarah had cut for him.
Jem snorted. “Dash it, man, they must be.”
“How?” Max inquired politely.
“Well, uh, I haven't had a chance to ponder them yet. Egbert, what do you think?”
“I try not to, Mr. Jem. However, it seems to me that we ought to consider our next move. We brought only enough clothes for an overnight stay. Your wardrobe will need to be replenished if we remain longer. With your permission, I will return to the apartment and pack a suitcase.”
“I thought you were going home today,” Max began.
“Abandon you and Miss Sarah and the child with a murderer running around loose? You can hardly suppose we would be so craven.”
“Damn right,” Jem agreed. “I don't need any more clothes, though. Max can lend me something.”
Max was about to expostulate when Egbert took the matter out of his hands. “Not under any circumstances, sir. I have enough trouble keeping you from committing sartorial excesses with your own wardrobe.”
“What does he mean by sartorial excesses, Max?” Jofferty asked curiously.
“Dont ask me, ask Jem. He's been to Harvard. I think its like wearing white cotton sweat socks with your white tie and tails, assuming that you have any. Its the sort of thing you just don't do unless you happen to be the serf who scrubs the floor so that the women's ball gowns won't get too grungy around the bottoms.”
Sarah's taut face relaxed. “Don't say ‘bottoms’ for goodness' sake, Max. ‘Hems’ is easier to say and less likely to give offense. We do have to be on guard these days or we're likely to get swatted by a belligerent pronoun or hit with a preposition we didn't see coming. These are perilous times for the English language, in case you hadn't noticed.”
Max smiled at her. Having Jem hanging around wasn't his idea of fun, but for Sarah it might work like the decompression process that deep-sea divers had to go through before they could come up to the surface and shed the load of weights that had felt all right in the water. She looked as if she could do with a little decompressing, after the frantic preparations for the wedding and the subsequent discoveries.
“Okay, Jem, if that's how you want it. But I'll be damned if I'll let you wear my clothes. I had meant to run you two back to Boston today, and stay overnight at Tulip Street with my assorted henchmen, but its getting late and Sarah said she didn't want to disturb Davy's routine. I'm sure as hell not leaving her and the kid here alone. Sarah, why don't you and Davy come along, and stay with Brooks and Theonia until we figure out what's going on?”
Sarah wasn't having any of that. “And leave you alone? Maybe we're getting all het up about nothing, Max. It's been such pandemonium here for the past month or so that I can't think straight. I wish I could just do nothing except get the house in order, then sit down with Davy and read him a silly picture book. I'll read you one, too, if you want, but that's about as far as I'm equipped to go right now.”
Jofferty took the hint, though it wasn't mea
nt for him. “Thanks for lunch, Miz Sarah. I'll be on my way. There's just one more thing, if you don't mind. I wouldn't mind a peek at those jewels, if you happen to have them handy.”
“They're not handy, but you're entitled to a peek.” Max got the rubies out of the safe and brought them downstairs. Jofferty shook his head in wonder.
“My gosh! What do you suppose it's worth?”
“I couldn't give you a figure without doing some checking. I know what the last buyer paid for it, but that was over seven years ago and prices fluctuate according to the market.”
“It's yours, isn't it, Sarah?”
“Yes—no—oh, I don't know, Sergeant. Legally it belonged to my first—to Alexander. The wife of the owner was entitled to wear it, but she couldn't sell it or lend it or even wear it unless she was entertaining royalty or a reasonable facsimile thereof. Only my mother-in-law did sell it, or rather she handed it over to someone else who sold it. She wasn't supposed to, but she did.”
Jofferty nodded sympathetically. Sarah assumed he knew the story, or some of it, but he was gentleman enough not to say so. He had known Caroline Kelling. “The point is that the buyer acted in good faith and socked out a considerable sum for the horrid thing. I never got the money, but that wasn't her problem. As Max can tell you, the laws about stolen property, especially art objects, are subject to varying interpretations in different countries and at different times. We'd have had to go to court to get it back, and that would have cost a lot of money, which I didn't have, even supposing we had won the case. To be honest, I didn't want the thing. I still don't want it.”
Her voice was unsteady. Jofferty removed himself as gracefully as possible, and Max put his arm around his wife's quivering shoulders. “I'm sorry about this, stissele.”
“I don't know why you re sorry, it isn't your fault.” Sarah wiped her eyes with her fingers. “Max, maybe it was meant for Tracy after all. It was with the rest of the wedding presents, wasn't it? I know it sounds a little crazy, but some of my relatives are a little crazy. We ought to have warned her what she might be getting into before she decided to marry Mike.”
“Oh, I expect she'll bear up under the blow,” said Max. “Her fathers a pickle baron, and they're neither of them Kellings. That ought to help some. I'm afraid you're grasping at straws, darling, but it's a possibility that has to be investigated. Would you want Tracy to have the rubies?”
“If I had my way, I'd pitch every single one of them over the cliff,” Sarah said with sudden violence. “I wouldn't wish the cursed thing on my worst enemy, much less that sweet innocent.”
“The curse of the Kellings, is it?” Jem sniffed. “Get a grip on yourself, girl. A true Kelling wouldn't throw away money if it came with a dozen curses attached to it. Fix her a drink, Max, she's not herself. And you can get one for me while you're at it.”
Sarah declined the suggestion, insofar as it pertained to her, and they left Jem happily ensconced with a pitcher of martinis ait his elbow and Egbert lecturing him about socks. Max had returned the jewels to the safe and then joined Sarah in Davy's room. Against all the odds Mrs. Blufert had managed to get the scion of the Bittersohns into bed for a nap. They bestowed sentimental kisses on the oblivious cherub's brow and tiptoed out.
“I can't thank you enough, Mrs. Blufert,” Sarah said gratefully, “I didn't mean to leave him with you so long, but we ran into a few problems.”
“Why, it's no trouble at all, you know that. You want to start work clearing the wedding presents out of the library now? I can get that worthless nephew of mine and his friend over here in ten minutes to lug the boxes over to the carriage house.”
“I don't think I have the energy to start the job now,” Sarah admitted. “There's a lot of fragile china and crystal that needs to be repacked very carefully and put down where it won't get squashed, and someone will have to check the gift list to make sure everything is properly labeled with the name of the sender.”
“You do look kind of worn put,” Mrs. Blufert agreed. “Takes a while to rest up after the big job you did. I'll just do my usual cleaning, then, and get along home unless you're planning to go out this evening and want me to stay with Davy.”
“We're not going anywhere tonight,” Max assured her. “You did reach Brooks, didn't you, Sarah?”
“Yes. They'll be here around six-thirty, with Charles and Mariposa.”
“Company for supper?” Mrs. Blufert shook her head disapprovingly. “You shouldn't take on so much, Miz Sarah. Suppose I just whip up a batch of potato salad and run home to get that ham I baked yesterday?”
Sarah gave her a quick hug. “Bless your heart. That's sweet of you, but there's still the biggest part of a ham left from the buffet, not to mention a dozen other things, and if I know Cousin Theonia, she'll bring her usual goodies. Max, what are you going to do about Egbert? He's bound and determined to drive into town, and it's getting late. He couldn't be back before dark.”
“Should I offer to rinse out Jem's socks and underwear?”
“There's a grand new invention called a washing machine, darling, in case you hadn't heard. Let's see if Egbert will settle for that as a last desperate expedient.”
Jem was in the living room, whence, as he indignantly explained, he had been chivied by Mrs. Blufert.
“Chivied?” Max repeated blankly.
“Harrassed, driven, annoyed with petty vexations, often for a specific purpose,” said his intellectual wife. “I expect Mrs. Bluferts specific purpose was to clean the kitchen without you leering at her and making suggestive remarks, Uncle Jem. Did she chivy Egbert, too?”
“You'll have to ask him.” Jem finished the last of his last martini, settled back in the chair, and closed his eyes.
“I will if you'll tell me where to find him,” Max said.
“The garage, I expect, unless he's already left”
“Damn,” said Max, “Maybe I can catch him.”
He ran, but he needn't have bothered. When he got to the garage Egbert was still there, standing in the open doorway. Max began, “There's no need for you to drive to town tonight—”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Max. Need is no longer a relevant consideration. The fact of the matter is that I cannot drive to town unless you would care to lend me one of your vehicles.”
Max stared at the assorted vehicles. There were three of them, Sarah's little compact, his own elderly but elegant Mercedes, and the gleaming restored Thunderbird that had been Ira's gift to the newlyweds. There should have been a fourth.
“What happened to Jem's car?”
“I am not in a position to answer that question,” Egbert said calmly. “Nor, to judge from your question, are you. Two possibilities come to mind. An inebriated or confused wedding guest borrowed it by mistake, or it has been stolen. In either case it would seem sensible to notify the police.”
9
Max let Egbert make the call. This was becoming embarrassing. Smoke bombs, bodies, stolen vehicles, all happening under the very nose of the great detective Max Bittersohn, who hadn't the faintest clue as to what was going on. Anyhow, Egbert could supply the necessary information, including the license number and description. Let him explain why the keys had been left in the car. It had seemed like the logical thing to do at the time. Most of the guests had done the same, handing over car and keys to the stalwart local youths who were supposed to park the cars neatly and efficiently in the area roped off for that purpose. Since Jem and Egbert were staying overnight, Max had suggested they put the lovingly tended antique in the garage with the other family vehicles.
The culprit couldn't have been an ordinary car thief or a compulsive and impecunious collector of vintage vehicles. Most of the Kelling vehicles fell into the latter category. Once a Kelling got his or her hands on a car, only the death of the Kelling or the total destruction of the car parted the twain. Sometimes both, Max thought, remembering the antique Milburn Electric in which Sarah's first husband and his mother had plummeted to their death
s. The Kellings had had the Milburn ever since its debut in 1920; Alexander had been planning to bequeath it to the Larz Anderson Auto Museum when the time came. He'd checked it over carefully, as he always did before they'd started out for their usual ride around the cliffs. It was only by the mercy of God, and Caroline Kelling's dislike of her daughter-in-law, that Sarah hadn't been with them. She had stayed home to make clam chowder for their supper. She'd never served that meal; numbed by shock and horror, she had been on her way back to Boston when she happened to run into a guy named Bittersohn who'd been hanging around his brother-in-law's gas station.
Max didn't want to think about Alexander Kelling or his homicidal maternal parent, but he had to. He remembered something else he had to do. Leaving Sarah to calm her infuriated uncle, he sneaked upstairs.
His natty gray wedding suit wasn't where he had left it, draped over the back of a chair. He hadn't bothered to hang it up, since it would have to be sent to the cleaners anyhow, but Mrs. Blufert didn't put up with that kind of thinking. After some profane searching, Max found the garment in the closet and fumbled in the pocket of the jacket.
The note was there all right. If he hadn't been so tired and distracted, he'd have emptied his pockets when he'd undressed. Or maybe he wouldn't have. His mother had tried to raise him right; she'd lectured him frequently about loading the pockets of his good jackets with heavy objects. That made the pockets sag or something, as if anybody cared except mothers.
Max's pockets often did contain heavy objects, especially when he was working on a case or when he was in the company of his son. Davy was a picker-up of unconsidered trifles, including rocks and feathers, shells and snails, and an occasional irritated caterpillar, all of which he wanted to take home, not in his own small pockets, but in those of his father. Max hadn't changed into his wedding suit until after he'd left Davy at Mrs. Blufert's, so the pockets were empty except for a crumpled paper napkin.
The Balloon Man Page 7