Now He Thinks He's Dead

by Goulart, Ron

The officer shook his head. "No, sir, Mr. Spanner. But someone hit her on the head and knocked her cold."

  Ben swallowed, then pointed in the direction the ambulance had gone. "That was her in the ambulance?"

  "Yeah, they're taking her to the emergency wing at Brimstone General."

  "Do you know what happened?"

  A lean, bearded man in a clerical suit came over to them. "I'm Father Hellinger," he said. "I found the young woman. All we know is that she was hit over the head and fell there beside the car."

  "Is it a fracture, a concussion?"

  "There was some bleeding," the priest said, "but I can't guess at the exact nature of the injury."'

  Ben glanced around. "Her things?"

  "Someone had gone through her shoulder bag. We gathered up the contents, put them back in the bag, and sent that along with her."

  "I've got to get over there right away."

  Father Hellinger caught his arm. "Try to keep calm, Mr. Spanner," he advised. "Drive carefully."

  "Yes, sure, I will. Thanks."

  "We'll pray for her," promised the priest as Ben ran back to his car.

  Chapter 15

  After two tries Ben got one of the nurses behind the long, white emergency counter to notice him. "It's about my wife," he began. "She was just brought in and—"

  "The maternity ward is on the next level up, sir."

  "No doubt it is. But she was hit on the head, and I'm trying to find out how serious the—"

  "Oh, that would be Ms. Mavity, wouldn't it?" The thin, dark-haired nurse picked up a metal clipboard from the counter.

  "That's her, yeah. How serious is—"

  "And you're Mr. Mavity?"

  "Actually I'm Ben Spanner. Now, what sort of—"

  "What is your relationship to the patient?"

  "She's my wife. That is, she used to be my wife."

  "Is this injury the result of some domestic squabble?"

  "No, from her poking around an old cemetery, I think. The point is, what exactly—"

  "How is the bill going to be handled, sir?"

  Ben took a slow, careful breath. He rested both palms on the counter and looked directly across at the thin nurse. "First tell me how seriously she's been hurt," he requested. "'After that we'll talk about the bill."

  "Ms. Mavity is in an emergency room with Dr. McClennan now, sir," she answered. "Is she covered by your medical insurance or—"

  "Can I go in and see her?"

  "Not yet, sir. Or does Ms. Mavity carry her own—oh, this is Dr. McClennan."

  A medium-sized black intern had appeared behind the counter and taken the clipboard from her. "Yes?" he said, glancing across at Ben.

  "H. J. Mavity is my wife. My ex-wife. How is she?"

  The doctor made a few notations on the chart. "There was a moderate laceration of the scalp at the rear of the skull, and that required six stitches," he replied. "Also a modest hematoma. She was hit hard enough to put her into a semicomatose state, though there's no fracture and probably not even a concussion. But, with a head injury such as hers, she ought to spend the night here so that we can keep an eye on her."

  "But far as you can tell, she's okay?"

  "Yes, though I do want to run a few more tests."

  "Can I see her now?"

  "Yes, but only for a few minutes." Coming out from behind the counter, he led Ben down a green corridor.

  Behind the curtains of one of the emergency rooms they passed an elderly man was complaining, "How the hell can I take a piss if I'm not supposed to get off this goddamn bed?"

  H. J., wearing a light blue hospital gown, was in the next room. She was sitting up on the emergency table, legs crossed, scowling. She looked very pale, and the back of her head was bandaged. "Ben," she said in a thin voice. "Things have gone somewhat awry."

  Putting his arms carefully around her, he kissed her on the cheek. "You okay?"

  "About as well as can be expected," she said, hugging him. "This shade of blue, by the way, doesn't suit me at all and there's too much ventilation."

  "Listen, they think you should spend the night in a room here. That way—"

  "Hooey. I'm fine," she insisted. "Well, not fine, but passable. Gather my clothes and—"

  "Ms. Mavity," put in the doctor, "it really isn't wise."

  "Can you force me to stay?"

  "No, yet I really—"

  "Ben, help me get my clothes."

  "Whoa now." He stepped back from her. "You've had a head injury, and you're not going to risk some serious side effects by leaving the hospital too soon."

  "We don't have time for me to loll around in here overnight."

  "You're more important, Helen Joanne, than—"

  "Doctor, may I speak to him alone, please?"

  "Yes, certainly." Dr. McClennan withdrew.

  Sitting on the cot beside her, Ben put an arm around her waist. "Who hit you?"

  "We'll get to that in a minute," she told him. "First, I found Lloyd's file. With the pictures of the Timberlake heiress and all."

  "But you don't have the stuff now?"

  "I was hijacked," she admitted forlornly. "There was no manila folder among my effects when I woke up here. I asked. Now, make a note of this name and address before I forget it. Mark Juster, Box 226, Willmur, Mass. I don't remember the zip. Did you write that down on something, Ben?"

  "I'm a quick study. I'll remember."

  "Repeat it then."

  "Mark Juster, Box 226, Willmur, Mass. Who is he?"

  "He's the gonzo who took the pictures of the butterfly woman."

  "Was her name in the notes?"

  "No, Lloyd may have hidden that someplace else." She took hold of his hand. "You've got to phone Juster, warn him to look after the woman."

  Ben asked, "Do you know who hit you and swiped the file?"

  She said, "Larry."

  "Larry Dahlman?"

  "That Larry, yes. I didn't actually see the bastard, but I smelled him," she said. "You've got to get over to his place and retrieve that file. It may be too late, but—"

  "Yeah, I'm anxious to have a chat with him. In fact, most anybody who's bopped you on the coco is—"

  "Excuse me." Dr. McClennan had returned. "We really have to take care of getting you into a room, Ms. Mavity. There are a few more tests that ought to be done."

  "All right," H. J. conceded. "I guess I had better spend the night. I really do feel sort of wretched."

  Ben said, "Phone me in the morning, and I'll come spring you."

  "Be careful if you have to do any housebreaking," she told him. "Don't lose your temper if you run into Larry. The file has 'Timberlake Matter' written on the cover. And warn Juster."

  "I'll do all that and more." After kissing her again, he left the small white room.

  The doctor followed him into the corridor. "I'm a bit concerned, Mr. Spanner," he confided. "She seems to be babbling in an irrational way."

  "To the outside world she frequently gives that impression," explained Ben. "Actually, trust me, everything she's been saying makes perfect sense."

  "Obviously you understand her better than I do."

  "A little better," he admitted.

  Ben reached Larry Dahlman's ranch-style house in the nearby town of Weston at a few minutes shy of eleven. There was light showing at several of the windows, and in the open garage he saw Larry's Mercedes.

  Dozens of trees dotted the acre and a half of ground, and a low stone fence separated the property from the nearest neighbor. Downhill somewhere a dog tried a few mournful howls and then fell silent.

  Using the brass gargoyle knocker, Ben gave the front door several resounding whaps.

  Nothing happened.

  He knocked on the door with his fist.

  Off in the night the dog howled again.

  Larry still didn't show up to answer the door.

  Reaching out, Ben tried the handle. The door was locked.

  Next he undertook a slow circuit of the house. The drapes
were drawn tight on the living room, so he wasn't able to get a look inside.

  At the rear of the place, he discovered that a panel of glass had been smashed out of the laundry room door. Using his handkerchief, he turned the knob.

  The door swung open inward.

  After counting slowly to ten, listening as he stood there, he entered the house.

  Moving cautiously, he checked out each room. Larry wasn't there, though the powerful smell of his aftershave was everywhere.

  In the living room, a chair was lying with its legs in the air, a broken lamp lay beside it. In front of the fireplace he found several fresh spots of blood on the tan carpeting.

  Next to the sofa, which had been shoved back into the wall, was a stapled manila folder. "Timberlake Matter" was lettered across the cover.

  There was nothing inside the folder.

  Ben kept it anyway and then searched the house again. He could find no trace of the photographs and notes H. J. had told him she'd seen.

  He left the way he'd entered.

  Sneaking into the garage, he searched it and the car. Neither Larry nor the missing notes on the Timberlake matter were there.

  The unseen dog howled once more at Ben hurried to his car.

  Chapter 16

  Ben had just hung up the phone, when it started ringing. Sitting again on his living room sofa, he answered. "Spanner-Mavity residence."

  "Well?" inquired H. J.'s voice.

  "Are you all right?"

  "Fit as a fiddle. I passed all my tests," she assured him. "Where you calling from?"

  "My hospital room. I have a private one. So tell me about Larry."

  "All I can really tell you about is Larry's house," he explained and filled her in on what had happened.

  "Somebody else obviously wants that material on the Timberlake heiress," she said, when he'd finished. "Might be the same person who followed me."

  "Followed you when?"

  "Oh, that's right, Ben. I haven't told you that I dropped in on Alicia Bertillion this afternoon. While I was driving over there I noticed that a—"

  "Are you the same Helen Joanne Mavity who recently gave me her solemn word she'd wait for me before rushing off to grill people?"

  "C'mon, you must know there's a time limit on my promises. I mean, when you decided to loiter in Manhattan, I figured I—"

  "Who was following you?"

  "Don't know. Somebody in a dirty Fiero. I succeeded in ditching them."

  "Maybe," he said. "'Are you certain, though, that it really was Larry who knocked you out?"

  "Had to be him. You found the file folder at his house."

  "The person in the Fiero could have conked you and then planted the folder there."

  "Naw, too devious and complex. Besides I got a whiff of Larry's overpowering aftershave lotion just prior to being slugged," she said. "'And, listen, that's what I must've smelled at Alicia's."

  "He was there, too?"

  "I didn't realize it at the time, but, yes, there was a trace of that distinctive Larry aroma lingering in the air," she explained. "I must be allergic to it, and I sneezed. Alicia saw him, Ben, and he was wearing a ski mask, just like—"

  "Whoa. Rewind and explain. She saw Larry?"

  "She came home and heard noises inside her house. She lives in this terrific converted barn with beamed—"

  "I'm not in the market for a barn, so skip the real estate details. Tell me about Larry."

  "That's exactly what I'm attempting to do, but you bitch about every touch of colorful description that I use. Anyway, she walked in on this big man who was searching her house. Quite obviously, hunting for Lloyd's file. This intruder was built like Larry and wore a ski mask and the same sort of dark outfit as the driver of the Audi that ran down Lloyd. He hit her, using a blackjack. Probably the same one he later used on me."

  "How'd you get from her place to the old church?"

  "'Although Lloyd hadn't stored anything with her, he did tell her that he'd stashed something at St. Swithin's."

  "Doggies, daughter," he said in his Gabby Hayes voice, "I can't make heads or tails out of this here yarn."

  "The church on my Love's Claimant cover is called St. Swithin's in the novel, and I'm using, at Larry's suggestion, Brimstone Denominational as the model," she explained, a bit impatiently. "It occurred to me that their old graveyard would have been a neat place to hide something. I was right."

  "But Larry tracked you there?"

  "Right, exactly how I don't know. It was after I got a look at the stuff in the folder, though. Hey, have you phoned Juster to warn him?"

  "Yep, I just tried. All I got was his answering tape. I told him to call collect as soon as he got the message, that it was an emergency."

  "Dammit, if only we knew her name."

  "This photographer will know. Soon as we connect with him, we—"

  "Somebody may well be on the way there right now Where is Willmur, anyway?"

  "Few miles this side of Boston, small town."

  "We aren't even sure who else is involved in this besides Larry. The Timberlakes or somebody else entirely."

  "I'd bet on the Timberlakes."

  "Why? Did Laura indicate that they—"

  "Nope. But I ran into Larry on the train going in. I trailed him, and he went right to the Timberlake Building," he said. "Since Laura came to the lunch with me, he probably saw Don T. As I recall they're classmates."

  "So who beat up Larry and stole the file stuff from him?"

  "We don't know if that's what actually happened," he reminded her. "From what I know of Don Timberlake, though, he's not above doing that or, more likely, hiring someone."

  "There could be others involved, non-Timberlakes."

  "Such as who?"

  She made a murmuring, shrugging sound. "I don't exactly know, Ben," she admitted. "Both Eva and old Oscar, however, seemed awfully curious about what, if anything, Lloyd might have confided in me before he died."

  "Anybody who worked in the Dahlman Building could've found out that Lloyd was on the trail of the Timberlake baby."

  H. J. said, "I just thought of something. If Larry went into New York when you did, could he have made it back here in time to ransack Alicia's?"

  "When did that happen?"

  "Around four."

  "Sure, it's only an hour from Grand Central to Westport, usually," he answered. "Larry could've caught either the 1:07 or the 2:07. Oh, and he has a new version of his run yesterday."

  "Different from what he told me?"

  "The latest version has molasses in it."

  "Okay, then, it was pretty certainly Larry who drove the stolen car that ran Lloyd down. The running stuff was his try at an alibi."

  "He probably just ran as far as the spot where he'd hidden the car. Around here people don't pay much attention to joggers."

  "Somehow—he was his assistant after all—Larry became aware of what Lloyd was digging into," H. J. said thoughtfully. "But he figured you could make more money by selling the information to the Timberlakes. He knows Don T., and he assumed that the family might not want to rush right out and embrace the missing heiress. Maybe they aren't going to kill her, but they sure might want her to stay unaware of who she actually is."

  "Lloyd wouldn't want that, though. To him this was probably the biggest story he'd ever run across, the stuff of bestsellers and media fame," said Ben. "He'd never agree to keep quiet, no matter what the bribe for silence. His ego was involved just as much as his bankbook."

  "So Larry had to silence him."

  "After which he had to gather up all the notes and pictures Lloyd was holding."

  "Sure, so he went to all the women he knew his brotherin-law was tied up with. He has to be the one who searched my cottage, too."

  "Yeah, you're right," she said. "Okay, we're all being really clever. But how do we find out who actually has the Timberlake material now?"

  "We don't have to do that, H. J. We just have to get in touch with this photographer
Juster."

  "But that's what they'll try to do."

  "Yep, probably."

  "I'm going to stay here tonight, but—"

  "You bet your ass you're going to stay in the hospital."

  "But, as I was about to say, first thing tomorrow we are going to Willmur, Mass."

  "I don't think that's necessary."'

  "I do. You keep trying Juster. I'm getting drowsy."

  "I'll see you in the morning."

  "I notice that you never say you love me anymore."

  "I love you," he said in his Elmer Fudd voice and hung up.

  Sankowitz appeared on Ben's doorstep just before eight the next morning. "Oh, shit," he said when Ben opened the door.

  "And the same to you, my boy," he replied in his Barry Fitzgerald voice. "What are you lamenting about?"

  Dressed in a gray running suit, the cartoonist had a small radio attached to his waistband and earphones on his head. He pointed down at the radio. "I sometimes listen to the news of the day as I dash along these rustic byways."

  "Something bad about H. J.?"

  "No, no, relax," he said, coming into the house. "But close. She still in the hospital?"

  "Yeah, I'm going to call her in an hour or so and see if she's fit to come home. What did you hear on the news?"

  "It's Larry Dalhman."

  Ben had been returning to the kitchen and the coffee maker. He stopped, frowning. "He's dead," he said.

  "Right, you got it on the first guess."

  He continued on into the kitchen. "Where'd they find him?"

  "In his office at the Dahlman Building. Place had been ransacked, he'd been beaten, tortured, and then knifed. Very messy."

  "Oh, shit." Ben sat at the butcher-block table.

  "My exact reaction, as you may recall." Sankowitz poured himself a cup of coffee and then leaned against the sink.

  "This makes two people Helen was associated with who've met violent ends. The time has come to tell the police all you guys know and then retire to the sidelines."

  "In many ways, Joe, she's like a boulder rolling down a hillside."

  "She gathers no moss?"

  "She's damn hard to stop."

  "You better try. We're talking here about people who list murder among their job skills. They've already knocked off two—"