by Goulart, Ron
"You sure you aren't getting the Gossamer Library of Regency romance mixed up with Bare?"
"Hey, everything sells better with extra cleavage." He consulted his watch. "Is Arnie's Deli okay for lunch?"
"Sure, as long as you don't have two pieces of cheesecake this time."
"Promise." Dobkin made his way around the desk. From a lopsided, eagle-topped hatrack, he grabbed a tweedy sport coat. "'Also I'd like you to do me a favor."
"Okay, what?"
After shrugging into the coat, he opened the top drawer of his desk. He extracted a nine-by-twelve-inch manila envelope. Its flap was sealed with a wide swatch of brown tape. "Keep this for me in a safe place." He handed it across to her.
"Are you going to tell me what's in it?"
"Something I think is valuable. I want to have at least one spare, in case they find my files."
"Lloyd, it would be smarter, really, not to get yourself involved with something that—"
"I'm already involved. I can't get off now."
She dropped the envelope into her open portfolio. "Before we head for lunch, tell me what you meant about leaving this world. Have you been sick?"
"I know I told you about that attempt on my life last week."
She studied his pale face. "I thought maybe that was just one of your jokes."
"Somebody stretched a wire, low, across the top of the stairway." Dobkin touched his chest and then his ribs. "I plummeted down an entire flight of stairs and suffered, according to my overpriced Westport medic, an injury to the chest wall. It could've been a hell of a lot more serious if I'd fallen differently. And I'm near certain that's what they intended."
"Is this the same 'they' who figure in all those paranoid delusions people have?"
Dobkin answered, "It all has to do with . . . well, with this research project I'm involved in. I started digging about a week and a half ago. But I don't think they got wind of it until a few days later, and that was probably my fault. They made their first attempt right after that."
"Couldn't it just have been Eva who stretched the wire?"
"This incident didn't occur at home. I thought I gave you all the choice details when you dropped in last week," he said. "It was at the palatial home of a lady who's young enough to be my daughter and whose husband is away on an extended business trip in Tbbago. I was departing her bedroom when it happened."
"Still could've been Eva, if she knew where you were."
"She doesn't. Trust me."
"How about the young woman herself?"
"Micki's too dim to plan anything like that. Cute, but no Mensa candidate."
"Isn't Micki the one I saw you with at the Athena Diner that time?"
He lowered his voice. "No, no. You met Terri."
"I guess I made the mistake because she seemed dim, too," said H. J. "Did you, by the way, say that was only the first attempt? You never told me about a second."
"That took place over the weekend."
"At Micki's again?"
"No, this was . . . well, somewhere else. I left there about eleven. Her house, see, is up at the top of a steep, winding hill in Redding Ridge. On the way home my brakes went out."
"That could be because—"
"Nope, I had a complete tune-up just a month back. Somebody deliberately drained my brake fluid."
"But still . . ."
"If I hadn't managed to drive off the road, into a ditch and then across a bumpy field to slow down, you'd be depositing a wreath on my casket about now."
"It would have to be a small one. I'm saving up for a new easel."
"Hopefully, I'll survive," he said, grinning. "If I do, I stand to be as rich as I've always wanted to be. And that, in case you ain't guessed, is very rich indeed. At any rate, I intend to stay above the ground at least until next Wednesday."
Dobkin pointed at his desk calendar. "Until the thirteenth of June."
"My birthday?"
"I have a surprise party planned. I'm telling you about it now, so that if they succeed in bumping me off, you'll know what you missed." Coming around the desk, he took her arm.
"You really aren't kidding about all this, are you?"
"Wish I were, my dear."
"Then why don't you go to the police? Ben and I know a detective on the Brimstone force who—"
"I can't bring the cops in right now," he said. "Soon, but not now."
They started down the red brick steps together. H. J. noticed that the Dahlman limousine was no longer there.
"Even when I strike it rich and depart from this pesthole," Dobkin was assuring her, "they'll keep using your covers."
"I plan to retire from the cover trade fairly soon. But thanks anyway." Her portfolio snagged on something, a branch of one of the decorative shrubs probably, and was jerked from her grip. "Wait a second." She stopped, bending to pick it up.
Dobkin kept going. He started walking across the parking lot, frowning. "Senility is rapidly creeping up on me. I can never remember where I left my damn Mercedes."
H. J. retrieved the portfolio and straightened up.
She heard the roar of an approaching car. A silver Audi was racing in their direction.
For a few seconds she didn't realize what was going to happen. Then she saw that the speeding car was heading straight for Dobkin.
Dobkin saw it, too, and turned to run.
"Lloyd! Look out!"
It hit him. The bumper and the right fender slammed into him.
Dobkin cried out in pain and rose off the ground. He flew up into the gray afternoon, arms flapping, legs twisting in a strange scarecrow way.
He seemed to stay up there longer than he possibly could have.
H. J. was able to see him and at the same time get a quick look at the person driving the car. The driver wore a black knit ski mask and some kind of black jacket.
Dobkin hit the ground, his head smacking hard against the lowest brick step. It made an awful sound.
Crying out, not saying any actual words, H. J. stumbled forward to kneel next to him.
There was blood all over his face, more spilling out of his mouth. "See?" he murmured, glancing up at her. "I told you they were out to get me." Then he let out all his breath and died.
The silver Audi was speeding away up Rivergate Road.
Chapter 3
Like the dwellers in the Alps who don't notice the avalanche until it's carrying their chalet down a steep hillside, Ben Spanner had not the slightest suspicion of what was heading his way. On that gray Tuesday afternoon he had just finished carrying two cardboard cartons of H. J.'s cooking utensils into his spacious white kitchen.
His former wife's collection of pots and pans was a battered and mismatched lot, and he wasn't certain he wanted the stuff to merge with his. Deciding to stow the boxes temporarily in the pantry, he draped a neatly folded dropcloth over them.
He was a sandy-haired man of thirty-seven, almost five foot eight and about thirteen pounds heavier than he thought he ought to be. He returned to his large, white living room, sat down on the sofa, and picked up the script he was supposed to be studying.
On this particular radio commercial he was going to play not only Chumley but also one of the crispy English muffins served at the hundreds of My Man Chumley Fish & Chips restaurants around the country.
The basic Chumley voice he'd worked out when he took over the assignment some weeks ago. It was a blend of Arthur Reacher and Ronald Colman, with just a trace of Claude Rains. But he wasn't yet sure how to do the muffin. "Well, how about a bumbling Dr. Watson, old boy?" he asked himself in his Nigel Bruce voice.
Nope, that didn't suggest crispness.
"How about a jolly Prince Philip then, what?"
Too nasal.
The phone on the end table rang.
Dropping the script onto the sofa cushion beside him, he reached over and grabbed the receiver. "Spanner residence, don't you know," he said in his Basil Rathbone voice.
"Lord, I don't see how she can s
tand living with you again. Silly voices morning, noon, and night."
"Hi, sis," he said in his Archie Andrews voice. "Gee, it's sure swell to hear from—"
"Ben, please. Address me in your real voice," requested H. J.'s sister in Westchester.
He kept on as Archie. "Gosh, Betsy, this is my real voice."
With restraint Betsy Hodgins asked, "Is H. J. home?"
He became himself again. "Out to lunch."
Betsy sighed. "Well, maybe this is better," she said, not sounding exactly certain of that. "I did want to talk to you, too. It's about Helen Joanne."
"Okay, go ahead, sis." He retrieved the script and scanned the muffin's dialogue, underlining the key words with a red porous pen.
"Is my sister really going ahead with this insane thing?"
"Which insane thing? Knowing her, you ought to realize she's got more than one insane thing in the works at any given—"
"Moving back in with you full time. That's the specific insane thing I mean, Ben."
He nodded. "She is, yeah. Should have all her essential belongings here by the end of the week or thereabout."
Another sigh. "And you are planning to remarry?"
"We haven't decided. But that does seem, to me anyway, the next logical step, Betts."
"When you two were married before, it wasn't exactly smooth sailing."
"No, but we're both older and wiser. Not to mention richer."
"That's another thing that bothers me," continued his ex-wife's sister. "H. J. tells me she's thinking of giving up her career."
"Not exactly, no. What she is figuring on doing is giving up the paperback covers for a while and trying some gallery painting again," he explained, setting the script aside. "Then this fall she's going to take a couple courses at the New Haven School of Fine Arts."
"She's only thirty-two, a little early for a midlife crisis."
"Thirty-one," he corrected. "Her birthday isn't until—"
"Who's going to pay for all this?"
"She's saved some from her commercial artwork, and she'll probably sell her cottage."
"But with the real estate market the way it is, she may not see any money from that for—"
"On top of which, Betts, I am doing okay these days. Since I landed the My Man Chumley account, my income has gone up to—"
"Oh, I don't like to have people tell me how much they—"
"To five hundred thousand a year. So, if H. J. runs out of her own funds, she still won't—"
"That's going to make her completely dependent on you."
"Listen, she's being doing very well painting book covers. She can always fall back on that if and when she comes to her senses and ditches me."
"And that Chumley business," continued his sister-in-law. "I suppose it's a plum for you, but after all you killed the poor man who used to be Chumley in the commercials, and to me that—"
"Now just a minute, sis," he cut in, angry. "The police shot him. Not me, not H. J. And the poor man was actually a murderer."
"But it was you who got Helen Joanne tangled up with all those terrible people. Murderers, blackmailers, and—"
"No, she got me entangled," he corrected. "And, if you'll search through the memories filed in that peabrain of yours, Betsy dear, you'll maybe recall that it is often Helen Joanne who gets those near and dear to her mixed up in various and sundry messes. Now, don't think I'm ungrateful for your interest in me and my humble career, but, dammit, I saved her life. Those bastards were going to kill her and—"
"Yes, all right, Ben, I know. I'm sorry," said Betsy, not sounding especially contrite. "But you can see that it's only natural for me to be concerned about my younger sister. Especially if you take into consideration that she's obviously inherited not only our father's artistic talent but also his tendency to stir up—"
"Whoa, halt," he warned. "I've vowed never to discuss the late Edwin Mavity with anyone."
"Yes, I can understand how you feel, considering how he treated—"
"I have to go now. I'll tell her you phoned. How's Spike?"
"Who?"
"Spike, your husband."
"His name is Buzz."
"Right, that's the one. Give him our best. Bye." He hung up. He was still leaning back on the sofa, staring at the distant white ceiling, when H. J. let herself in.
She shut the door quietly, stood leaning against it. She was holding a manila envelope to her chest.
He stood, frowning. "What's wrong?"
"I'm afraid," she said faintly, "that I'm involved in another murder."
H. J. was clutching the coffee cup with both hands, both elbows resting on the big butcher -block kitchen table. The manila envelope was resting near her right elbow. Setting the cup carefully down, she began, very softly, to sob. "I'm sorry," she murmured as he moved his chair around next to hers. "It's been a very . . . um . . . bizarre day. I spent all afternoon being grilled by your cop buddy, Detective Ryerson. Even when they finally let me head for home—when I started driving up Rivergate, Post Road was shut down and everybody had to make a circumlocutious detour because a truck had overturned and spilled something all over the damn street."
He put an arm gently around her shoulders. "Spilled what?"
"I'm not exactly sure. Either toxic waste or maple syrup. Made a big mess." She picked up her coffee cup, sipped. "Earlier, I almost got killed, too. It was only by chance, I think, that I didn't."
"Tell me what happened."
"Lloyd Dobkin, Ben." She shook her head, sniffling. "He's dead. He was murdered."
"Jesus, we've both know him for years. That's terrible. What happened?"
"A car hit him." H. J. put down her cup but kept both hands tightly clasped around it. "See, Lloyd and I were coming out of the Dahlman Building. About one o'clock, to go to lunch. Then this big silver Audi just came speeding across the parking lot. I'd—I don't know why—dropped my portfolio and I stooped to pick the thing up. Lloyd kept walking for his car. We were going to drive over to Westport to Arnie's and . . . the car just hit him. Hit him very hard and sent him flying into the air. He cracked his head on the steps when he landed. The car kept going and drove on out of there and up Rivergate Road."
"Sounds too deliberate to be a hit-and-run."
"Especially, Ben, since the person driving the car was wearing a ski mask."
"You sure of that?"
"Yes, I saw the driver clearly. Even though I didn't get the license number, I saw who was behind the wheel. Please don't start sounding like your pal Ryerson."
"He's not, Helen Joanne, exactly my close buddy. I appeared, you know, at a police benefit once and did some of my voices. That's how I got to know Ryerson casually. Then when you and I got mixed up in Rick Dell's murder a couple of months ago, Ryerson was the one who—"
"When I got you mixed up in the murder, you mean."
"Whatever it was, that mess brought us back together again."
"You sound like you're saying, 'That's how I caught bubonic plague.'"
"No, I'd say that like this," he explained, and then repeated her line in his Boris Karloff voice. "Does anybody around the Dahlman works have any idea why Dobkin was killed?"
"Most of them were reacting pretty hysterically, so they weren't too coherent." She sipped her coffee again. "Eva tried to throw herself on his body, which was probably closer than she'd been to him in months. Then she took me aside to assure me that even though Lloyd was a first-rate son of a bitch, she had loved him dearly. That the squabble I'd overheard between them just before he got killed was nothing more than a little spat."
"Was it?"
"I don't know. She turned purple and told him she hoped he'd die—soon and painfully. But for her maybe that is only a spat."
"Did you tell Ryerson about their fighting?"
"I gave him a toned-down version," answered H. J. "Brother Larry was there, too. He broke down and cried. He was wearing this purple and gold running outfit and blubbering about how while he'd been out running
the same old route he runs faithfully every day, why, his dear brother-inlaw was being slaughtered. If he'd been there, he might've saved him and so on. The implication being that if I hadn't been a frail woman, I could've pulled Lloyd from the path of the death car or something."
"That's doubtful, H. J."
"I couldn't help, though, thinking about how my father died and—"
"You couldn't have prevented that either. Tell me more about what happened today."
"Old man Dahlman drove up in his limo while they were still taking pictures of the body. He'd been there before and then came back for some reason. He stayed hidden in his car and sent his chauffeur to ask the cops what was going on."
He watched her face. "Do you have any notion about why Lloyd was killed?"
After a few silent seconds she answered, "I do, yes."
"Did you tell Ryerson?"
"Not exactly."
"Not exactly?"
"Not at all, actually." She let go of the cup to push the manila envelope three inches to the right. "Ryerson already thinks I'm a loon. So I kept my theories to myself."
"He doesn't think you're a loon."
"If not a loon, at least a dimwit."
"Possibly a dimwit. Why do you think Dobkin was murdered?"
She said, "Remember last week I mentioned that Lloyd thought somebody was trying to kill him?"
Ben frowned thoughtfully. "Nope."
"I didn't take it very seriously myself, so I didn't dwell on it. It was while we were having dinner at Orlando's restaurant down by the Sound."
"I've forgotten what you said."
"Well, you told me at the time that Dobkin had a great imagination and was continually dramatizing himself. That he was always overflowing with get-rich-quick schemes, and on top of that he suffered from persecution mania."
"Hey, I was pretty eloquent. I wish I'd paid more attention to what I was saying."
"I'm afraid I more or less agreed with you. Worse than that, I told Lloyd I was sure he was exaggerating."