by Barry Day
To cover the psychic shock that act entailed, I helped myself to a refill of P-J. The almond eyes widened a tad, I thought.
“Mr. Chan,” I said, “you are looking at a free man. You want your Bird. Well, here’s what you do …”
For the next several minutes he listened—and so did Holmes—as the limo prowled the streets of Greater L.A.
“It’s a little devious,” I concluded. He clearly liked devious.
“So you want me to sell drugs to Mr. Parmentieri?”
“No, I want Mr. Parmentieri to think you’re going to sell him drugs. Like you, Nicky is between a rock and a hard place. His bosses expect him to deliver and they don’t much care how. They’re running a business and the drugs let Nicky make his bottom line. It’s the good all-American way. Perlman is terminally out of the picture and the connection is blown. Now, I’m betting Mr. P. hasn’t quite got round to telling the Pomona family of this unfortunate happenstance and is casting round for alternative sources of supply. He won’t feel comfortable with the Colombians. And the last thing he wants is to let old man Kane back into the game. So you, my friend, will look like the answer to a maiden’s prayer …
“Old English saying,” I added in answer to his puzzled expression. “Don’t let it bother you.”
He thought it over for a while, as we purred on in our tinted time capsule. Then he turned to me with a grin that would have sent a shiver up many a spine.
“So, Mister Plivate Eye, You wish Charlie Chan make likee Dlug Rord, yes?”
I cursed bugs and all forms of insect life.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Watson, but I couldn’t resist it. Please help me finish the champagne. A toast to our unlikely partnership. There is something highly ironic in even discussing the provision of drugs to a race of people who are steadily gorging themselves to death on a diet of fast food, empty calories and high cholesterol without the need for any further assistance. But if appearing to pander to Western decadence and self-indulgence is the best way to achieve our ends … so be it. It could even be considered to be politically correct.”
We clinked glasses.
“Now, Mr. Watson, how do you suggest we proceed?”
“Excellent, Watson. I confess I never get your limits. Here have I been thinking that you were being merely buffeted by events, when all the time you were formulating your master plan. My dear fellow, I apologize most humbly.”
I waved a modest hand. It would only have undermined that precious confidence for me to tell him that my decision had little to do with the gradual construction of an overarching concept and everything to do with a pigheaded determination not to be used as a psychological football. So now we’d tip all the chips out on the table and let them fall where they may. Frankly, I didn’t give a rat’s ass who had the Bird. A simple search for a spouse of either sex who’d gone walkabout would seem pretty attractive round about now, providing I could keep my noggin intact this time.
But Holmes now had the bit between his teeth.
“I presume, old fellow, you intend to follow the procedure I believe is commonplace in these affairs?”
Procedure. What procedure?
“Oh, yes, the usual procedure, certainly.”
“Summon all the usual suspects to a single location without giving them reason to suspect the presence of the others and inviting each of them in such a way that they find the invitation irresistible? Capital, old fellow. Capital.”
Yes, it was a good idea, wasn’t it. I could hardly believe I’d thought of it unaided. I gave Holmes a sharp glance but he didn’t quite catch my eye.
“I wonder if I might suggest one small embellishment on this occasion?”
Never let it be said that the pride of the Watsons was too proud to consider an improvement to a master plan.
“I see now the cunning of your asking your friend McNulty to hold back the news of Mallory’s death for twenty-four hours and I suggest that a news embargo will prove effective for our purposes.
“Each of the suspects should appear to be invited by the person they most want to meet and their invitations should be spread. In a well constructed play the author never brings on all his characters at once.
“Miss Grace will think her invitation comes from Mr. Parmentieri, while Kane and Miss Nana will believe they are going to meet Mallory …”
“But surely Nana …”
“I think you will find that Miss Kane is already into deep denial on that particular subject. Besides, she has her father to contend with and under those circumstances …
“Mr. Parmentieri, of course, will be allowed to believe his invitation comes from your new Chinese associate.
“As a venue, may I suggest Mallory’s beach house? He is unlikely to require it this evening and it is suitably isolated. I assume you saw the magazine article pinned to the wall of the workroom. He appears to have been very proud of it. The address, unless memory fails me, was Cormorant Cove. We do seem to be infested with birdlife, do we not?”
We were back in my apartment, the limo having dropped us off at the front door.
On the way upstairs we had had a brief exchange with Mr. Gryppe, who had clearly recovered his confidence.
“Some people are flying high, I see.” A reference to the departing limo that did, indeed, make the neighborhood look even shabbier by comparison. And maybe he was right. I don’t remember being conscious that it touched the ground.
Then, in case that had come out sounding too flattering—
“Haven’t heard a peep out of him upstairs. Suppose he’s all right.” Bang.
Not only was ‘him upstairs’ all right—Mike was still sitting and staying with a beatific expression on his face. It took me all my time to snap him out of it and he was positively grouchy until I’d found some old hamburger at the back of the Fridgidaire, which he grudgingly accepted as a quid pro quo.
I sank into my favorite chair—for once no one else was competing for it—and put my feet up with, a sigh of relief. Frankly, I was no nearer solving the case than I had been when it began but at least I’d played my highest card. Now we’d see what everyone else had in their hand.
It was in the euphoria induced by that conviction and endorsed by Monsieur Perrier (not to mention Jouet) that Holmes had made his surprising remarks.
“Ah, yes, Mallory’s beach house. A stormy night. Sea birds calling. Surf pounding. I can see it now. And then the guilty party, wracked by remorse, gives himself—or herself …” I quickly added, not wishing to appear sexist … “away,” I ended limply.
“Ah, Watson, it is good to hear that pawky sense of humor of yours at work once more. Frankly, I had wondered over the past day or two whether it had perhaps deserted you but I see not. You, of course, will have primed the psychological pump, so to speak, before any one of them sets foot in the place.
“Now then, old friend, what do you say to our composing the invitations to the party? And incidentally, since we shall need a messenger to deliver them, what harm would there be in our bringing friend Petit into our confidence? He has the added advantage of being able to afford us access to the beach house.”
“My thought, exactly, Holmes.” I crossed everything that would cross. I’m sure I would have thought of it—eventually.
I picked up the phone and called Petit.
An hour or so later the three of us were sitting—or, rather, two were sitting and one was hovering—around the card table that served as my desk.
Petit had been pleased and flattered to receive my call and glad of any excuse to leave the gloomy surroundings of Mallory’s premises, where he apparently slept on a cot in a back room.
“Everywhere I look I see that silly scarecrow face of his,” he said, his own tiny face scrunched up until it resembled nothing so much as one of the gargoyles on Notre Dame. “He was a devious old devil but he was a good friend to me
and anything I can do to fix whoever killed him—well, sir, you may count on Dwight G. Grandhomme.” He gave me a look which defied me to make something of it.
“My granddaddy was from the South.”
Ah, well, that explained it.
By the time he arrived Holmes and I had composed the invitations and I confess I was pleased with them. When I say ‘Holmes and I, of course, I did the actual writing and, come to think of it, Holmes never said a word. So why did the odd word or phrase drop into my mind unbidden? A thought for another day.
By now Charlie Chan would have made one of his famous ‘teaser’ phone calls to establish contact, so Nicky Parmentieri’s note was simple …
“My Dear Mr. Parmentieri,
“May I suggest we sample one another’s merchandise forthwith, so that our new friendship may be cemented expeditiously? A mutual friend, who is out of town, has made his premises available.”
And then the address and time—11:30 p.m. It sounded a little flowery but, hey, what else would a Mafia-educated kid expect from an Oxford-educated Chinaman?
To Kane …
“The Bird sings at midnight. There is a golden secret in its song. Be there—or be square. And back to square one. Sieg heil!—Q.M.”
I was particularly pleased with the rhythm of that one. And the ending would certainly make him sit up in his wheelchair.
To Nana Kane …
“If you or your sister ever hope to spread your wings, the Bird will teach you how to fly at midnight tonight—Q.M.” To Linda Grace (I always bet a few bucks on outsiders) …
“The situation has changed and we have to make plans right now. My place is too public. Meet me at 11:45 p.m. on the button. N.” And then the details.
It was only as I had them all laid out in front of me that I realized something very strange. The handwriting was nothing like my normal scrawl. It had a pleasing calligraphic formality that was almost—Victorian.
A few minutes later Petit—I couldn’t handle Grandhomme—had scurried off on his mission and I knew with absolute certainty that nor rain nor snow would prevent the US mails from getting through. Midnight would be a witching hour, one way or another. But who would the wicked witch turn out to be?
Then, to prove that I was still on a roll, I got to my feet and addressed Holmes, who looked to be on the point of lighting his pipe and putting his feet up. Really—when I’d done all the work!
“Come, Holmes,” I cried, “the game’s afoot. We haven’t a second to lose.”
“Where to now, Watson?” And was that a gleam of amusement I detected in those deep-set gray eyes?
“To see the one character we need to complete the cast of our play. We shall pay our respects to Miss Nana Kane …
“Mike. Sit and stay!” He grumbled but obeyed. I really was on a roll.
Thirteen
Kane Towers had an embattled look today. Macbeth could easily have been holed up inside waiting for the fuzz to finger him for the Banquo and Duncan jobs. Never cheerful at the best of times, today it positively loured.
I half expected the chimes to play “Nearer My God To Thee” but it was still Wagner, though in less ebullient mood, I felt.
Today’s butler, though, was pure Jeeves. Presumably whoever did the hiring considered a stiffish upper lip was now called for. A solid presence, his face would have graced a coin and his prow a stately man o’war.
“And who shall I say is calling, sir?”
And when I’d told him— “I’m afraid Mr. Kane is not receiving callers today, sir, but Miss Kane did lead me to believe that we might expect a visit from you.” Did she, indeed? “If you will follow me, sir …”
I did as requested and found myself in what was presumably the Library. I say ‘presumably’ because, although it was filled with books from floor to ceiling, I would have bet Mike’s bottom dog biscuit that none of them had had its spine cracked. They were even arranged in blocks of colored bindings.
Nana Kane was sitting in a wingback chair with her back to the door pretending to read. The butler must have pressed some sort of buzzer, because she knew I was en route and had had time to art direct herself to receive me. Just one small detail wrong. She was either reading an Australian book—or she was holding it upside down.
In a properly-organized world she’d have rung a small hand bell and said—
“I was just about to have tea and cucumber sandwiches. Won’t you join me?”
Instead of which, she said—
“I knew you’d turn up like a bad penny sooner or later.” She threw the book on a side table. Also Sprach Zarathustra. Somehow I hadn’t figured her as a reader of Nietzsche. Genetic influence, presumably. “What do you want?”
If she thought her manner would have me running for the hills, she was sadly mistaken. I wasn’t turning my back on anybody or anything until this whole thing was signed, sealed and delivered to—whoever it was signed, sealed and delivered to.
“I just called to return something.”
“What can you possibly have of mine?”
“Who said it was yours? Actually, it belongs to your sister.”
“Sister? I don’t have a sister.”
“Maybe you should tell her that. She certainly thinks she has one—you.”
And I pulled the blonde wig out of my pocket and tossed it on to the table. Nietzsche Meets Blondie … Could sell a million, properly marketed.
From the way Nana Kane recoiled, you’d think she was Cleopatra having a sudden change of heart about the desirability of an asp.
“Take that horrible thing away. I hate the sight of it.”
“As you wish. Might as well have it complete, though, before we bin it, don’t you think?”—
And I reached over and delicately picked a single blonde hair from her sleeve, where it was competing with dark brown silk and ivory lace.
From the corner of my eye I could see Holmes perched in the window embrasure. He applauded silently. “My first glance is always at a woman’s sleeve.” Lesson learned, Holmes. Thank you.
She pulled her arm away as though my touch had scalded her and stood with her back to me. What she apparently didn’t notice, though, was that she was now facing a large mirror in which I could see her reflection.
And what I saw almost unnerved me, for it was as though I were looking at the magic mirror in Snow White, where the Queen turns into the wicked witch. Except this time it was the other way around.
Nana turned into Anna before my eyes. The gray eyes lost their somber depths and seemed to positively sparkle by comparison. The chin came up. She even held her body differently, as she turned back to face me.
“Mr. Watson, please forgive my rudeness but I have been under a lot of strain lately, what with my father’s health and …” She didn’t complete the sentence but I could guess what else. Splitting logs is marginally easier than splitting personalities.
“I know you’re only here to help us. And as for my ‘sister’, as you call her, I only wish I had a sister sometimes to share the burden. I can only assume there is someone out there who bears a passing resemblance to me. If I run across her, I will most certainly give her this …” and she picked up the wig, as if it were a joke between us, and held it up against her face. “After all, it’s hardly me, is it?”
“Oh, I don’t know, dear. Some people might say it was quite an improvement. Stepmother’s little joke, darling. We can take a joke, can’t we?”
Standing in the open doorway—and using the frame more for support than decoration—was Linda Grace. She was nursing a highball glass that seemed to have been receiving a lot of recent attention, to judge from the blood red lipstick smears around its rim.
“Well, hello there, Mr. Whatever-Your-Name-Is Private Eye. Missed you at the movies the other day—yesterday, was it?”
This lady wasn’t
nearly as drunk as she’d like us to believe but the impression was great protective coloring. It may just possibly have been her best part. And it wasn’t scripted.
“Didn’t miss much. Oh, except the final scene when I fired that fucking fag director …”
“Oh,” Nana/Anna chimed in sweetly, “is this the film where three old ladies in the twilight home fight it out with zimmer frames?”
“Now, listen, sweetie …”
But then she controlled herself and smiled at me from under her lashes, as if to say that we were the only two grown-ups here and I’d understand grown-up talk.
“Listen to her—the original good time that was had by all.”
It was a good line, even if I had heard it before.
But Nana was playing her scene now. She looked at me. They were competing for the attention of an audience of one.
“You’ll find that my stepmother has a movie speech to suit every occasion and, believe me, I’ve heard them all. They’re usually culled from the works of the late, great Bette Davis. It’s about now that she says—‘Fasten your seat belts. It’s going to be a bumpy night.’ All About Eve. Twentieth Century-Fox. Nineteen-fifty.”
“Fuck you, sweetie!”
“Now, that one I can’t quite place.”
“At least Bette never played boring little—spinsters!”
Mistake. Big mistake. Even I knew that.
“What about Now, Voyager? Warner Brothers. Nineteen—”
Check.
“Yeah, but she turned into a glamorous woman.”
Mate.
“Will you two overgrown children stop this stupid game at once. It has long outlived its amusement value. Mr. Watson will think we are running an institution for the mentally retarded.”
Mr. Watson knew they were running at least one called Sunnyvale.
Osgood Kane’s silent-running wheelchair now filled the doorway behind them.
It was fascinating to see how Kane’s two women reacted.
Nana shook a curtain of dark hair across her face. Linda took a defiant slug of whatever-it-was she was drinking. Both of them shut up.