by Goulart, Ron
"No, we figure that Larry killed Dobkin. Someone else killed him."
"Huh?"
"I'll explain later." Getting up, he crossed to the wall phone and punched out a number.
"Brimstone General Hospital."
"Helen Joanne Mavity's room, please."
"One moment, sir."
"I hope you folks have Major Medical," said Sankowitz, sipping his coffee.
"I'm sorry, sir, Ms. Mavity is no longer a patient."
"What is she then?"
"She checked herself out."
"When was that?"
"An hour ago."
"Thanks." He hung up. "An hour ago—she should've gotten home by now."
"Not there, huh?"
"Never live with an independent woman."
"Too late now, you should've warned me earlier."
"H. J. says she'll wait until I call to come get her and then checks herself—"
The doorbell rang.
"This might be her." Ben hurried to the front door and opened it.
"I think we better have a talk," said Detective Ryerson of the Brimstone police.
Chapter 17
Ryerson was a tall, blond man, getting close to being forty. The tan suit he was wearing had collected several days' worth of wrinkles, especially at the elbows and knees. "Is H. J. here?" he inquired as he entered Ben's living room.
"Expecting her at any moment. Like a cup of coffee?"
"I gave it up."
"Herb tea?"
"Nothing, thanks," said the police detective. "Why don't we sit down?"
"Sure, fine." Ben took an armchair.
Sankowitz emerged from the kitchen. "Well, sir, I appreciated this pit stop," he said. "I'll talk to you later, Ben. Heed my advice, huh?" After nodding at the detective, he let himself out.
"What was he advising you about?"
"Stock market," answered Ben amiably.
Ryerson sat in a straight-back chair facing him. A multitude of new wrinkles formed in his trouser legs. "You were more or less helpful during that Kathcart business, Ben," he acknowledged. "Your wife was something of a pain in the butt, but it all worked out."
Ben nodded, striving to keep looking amiable and cooperative.
Ryerson continued, "Now we seem to be embarking together on another screwball murder case. I don't like these kinds of cases; they give me, to be honest, stomach cramps."
"You're referring to Lloyd Dobkin's death?"
Ryerson held up his left hand. "Dobkin is run down, and H. J. Mavity happens to be on the scene," he said, ticking off a finger. "Then H. J. herself is assaulted in front of a church that she isn't even a member of. Next Larry Dahlman is killed, after being roughed up considerably. He, too, was a sometimes business associate of your sometimes wife."
"Just coincidences."
The detective leaned forward. "What the hell is she up to this time, Ben?"
"H. J. didn't actually cause any of this," he assured the policeman. "It was purely by chance that she—"
The front door snapped open and H. J. came in. She had a paisley scarf tied over her hair. "Detective Ryerson, how nice to see you," she said sweetly. "It still is detective, isn't it? You haven't been promoted to sergeant or inspector because of your brilliant handling of the Kathcart case?"
Ryerson stood up. "I dropped by the hospital this morning to have a talk with you," he informed her. "You'd left."
Ben was watching her. "I thought I was scheduled to transport you home."
"I took a cab because I wanted to pick up my car," she explained, walking over to him. Bending, she kissed him on the cheek and then sat on the sofa. "Did Ben offer you a cup of coffee, Detective Ryerson?"
"I've given up coffee."
"How about a doughnut?"
"No, thanks." He sat again in the straight-back chair. "How about a waffle? I was thinking while I was driving home that I'd love to have—"
"How's your head?" Ben asked her.
"Lovely." She touched the scarf. "Except they shaved a patch of hair off me so they could stitch me up. I look sort of funny from the rear. I'll show you later. How about those waffles, Detective Ryerson?"
"No, thanks, H. J. What I'd like to do is ask you some questions."
"Fine." She leaned back on the sofa. "How about you, Ben? Waffle?"
"Already had breakfast."
Ryerson asked her, "Do you have any idea who hit you?"
She said, "Sure, it was Larry Dahlman."
"You actually saw him?"
"I smelled him, though I didn't get a look at him. I couldn't testify in court that it was Larry, but I know it was."
"He had a particular smell?"
Ben told her, "He's dead, H. J."
"I know. I saw it on the news while I was still in the hospital this morning."
"About this guy's odor?" persisted the policeman.
"Larry insisted on wearing a very strong and distinctive aftershave," she explained. "You couldn't miss that aroma."
"That's not much of an identification, but, okay, let's accept it for now," said the detective. "Why did he hit you?"
H. J. took a deep breath while looking from Ryerson to Ben and back to the policeman again. "I did a lot of thinking while I was lying there in my hospital bed," she said. "I'm aware, Detective Ryerson, that you consider me something of a nitwit. A spoiled suburban matron who pokes her nose into other people's business and makes a habit of withholding information."
"You have to admit that in the—"
"But from now on, especially in the light of what's happened to Larry Dahlman, I've made up my mind to tell you absolutely everything I know."
"That's smart."
Ben was watching her, and he noticed that she'd ceased looking in his direction. "Everything, H. J.?"
"Yes, the whole story as I've lived it," she answered, not meeting his glance. "So, Ben you just keep mum and let me explain to your friend what's been going on."
"Go right ahead, dear." He started studying the distant ceiling.
H. J. toyed with the knot of her scarf. "I'm not one for giving the police advice on how to go about their business," she began. "But I think if you look into Larry's alleged alibi for the time of Lloyd's death, you'll be able to prove that he was lying. He didn't run five miles at all that day. Instead he probably only jogged to wherever it was he'd hidden that stolen car."
Ryerson straightened up. "You're saying Dahlman killed his brother-in-law?"
"That's it, yes."
"Then who killed him?"
"Well, there I can't help you, Detective Ryerson. I don't have the slightest notion," she replied. "'And, since I'm washing my hands of this whole affair, you'll simply have to find that out for yourself."
"How about motive? Why, assuming that he actually did, would Dahlman kill Lloyd Dobkin?"
H. J. sighed, evidencing disappointment in herself. "'All I can tell you is this," she said. "Lloyd had something Larry wanted. So he killed him and then started looking for it."
"Wouldn't it have been simpler to find it first and then kill him?"
"To a rational person such as yourself, of course. But I don't honestly believe that Larry—probably all those aftershave fumes affected his brain—was exactly rational."
Ryerson sat watching her for a moment. "Is that why Larry supposedly slugged you? Because he wasn't rational?"
"He must have thought I might have the object that he was hunting for," she suggested. "Because I was a friend of Lloyd's and had been with him the day he died."
"Uh huh." Ryerson got up, rubbing at a wrinkled elbow of his suit. "Now fill me in as to why you were at the Brimstone Denominational Church last night."
"That was Lloyd Dobkin's favorite church," she said. "I just wanted to say a prayer for him."
"I see. Larry just happened to be passing by?"
"I imagine he followed me."
"Do you know what this valuable object is?"
"All I know is that Lloyd mentioned he found som
ething that was worth quite a bit. He was afraid people might attempt to swipe it from him."
"Can you guess what it might be, H. J.?"
She spread her hands and shrugged. "Nope. Sorry."
"I'll look into your suggestions." He started for the door.
Ben rose up and went along. "Let us know what you find out."
"Oh, I will," Ryerson promised. "I'm glad to see you up and around, H. J. Take care of yourself."
After Ben had shut the door, he went back to where H. J. was sitting. "Not a bad performance," he said. "You didn't convince him, but at least you muddied the waters."
"And I did it all without changing my voice once."
"Is your head really okay?"
"Seems to be functioning fairly well. Dr. McClennan looked me over from stem to stern this morning and pronounced me ready to return to my loved ones."
"Okay, what you better do now is rest and then—"
"Have you talked to Juster yet?"
"No luck." He shook his head. "I tried him twice more last night and then again this morning. All I get is the guy's tape. He's got a very nasally voice, by the way."
"Go pack a suitcase and we'll depart."
"For Willmur?"
"Where else?"
"Don't you want to have some waffles first?"
"You know I hate waffles," she said.
Chapter 18
Ben handled the driving. By ten that morning they were traveling along the Merritt Parkway. The day was overcast.
H. J. had a small sketchbook open on her knee. "What did you just say?"
"That Sankowitz is probably right," he repeated. "We ought to notify the police."
"We did." She tapped her chin with her pencil and frowned down at what she was drawing. "We just had a cozy chat with Ryerson."
"The Willmur police are the ones I'm alluding to," he explained. "We should phone them now and—"
"And what?" She began drawing again. "We don't even know the woman's name."
"They can contact Juster."
"How? He's not answering his telephone."
"Well, they can go over to his place. Judging by the way he's listed in the Boston phone book, I'd guess it's his photo studio. Anyway, the cops rush there and warn him."
"Warn him about what?"
"That he's in danger. That the Timberlake baby is in danger."
H. J. produced a negative sound. "The police wouldn't believe us if we told them that," she said. "I mean, we call them and say we have a hunch that the long-lost Timberlake heiress may be living right there in their own town. We know this because we happen to have a photo of a lady's bottom with a butterfly on it. Heck, they'd just wait until we pull into Willmur, and then toss a net over us."
"But we aren't going to reach there for another three hours at least. In that time all sorts of dire things could happen."
"Whoever took the stuff off Larry is probably already in Wilmur."
"So why are we rushing?"
"We're not sure if Larry knew the woman's name or whether or not he told it to anyone," she said as she drew. "It could be our competition has to track down Juster, too, to find out where she is. It's possible we can still beat him to the prize."
"It's more likely they've found this damn photographer by now and persuaded him to tell all."
"That's possible."
"And once they find her, they'll probably knock her off."
"No, not yet."
"Why not?"
"Because they can't be certain that she is Sue Ellen Timberlake, for one thing. I'd want to establish that before I took the trouble of murdering someone," she told him. "For another, they don't know who else is aware of her existence. Maybe Lloyd told Juster about his theory, and maybe the photographer told the woman and lots of other people."
"And maybe they'll be having a ticker tape parade in her honor as we get there," he said. "But, in reality, we don't even know if Lloyd Dobkin ever got around to contacting Juster."
"Oh, I'm betting he did. I'm just uncertain as to how much he told the guy."
Ben concentrated on his driving for a moment. "I'm still not too clear about why Larry was killed."
"Several possibilities," she said. "To keep him quiet, first off. Maybe once he told Timberlake what he knew, they figured it was best to silence him."
"The thing is, H. J., we also know just about everything Larry Dahlman did."
"And we're probably on somebody's list," she said. "One more reason to solve this mess quickly."
"One more reason to call the cops, rush home, dive into bed, and pull the covers over our heads."
"She made a scornful noise. "There's another possible reason for removing Larry. It could be somebody else was aware of what he'd swiped and wanted the stuff for themselves."
"A freelance hunter of missing heirs?"
"Lloyd may have hinted at his discovery to others besides me," she said. "Larry may have confided in someone besides Don T. Timberlake."
"What are you saying we have here—a Maltese Falcon set-up? With various parties swiping the file from one another?"
"Sure, why not?"
"Larry knocks off Lloyd to eliminate the competition. He takes the file after knocking you cold. But then someone unknown—let's call him, oh, the Clutching Hand—this Clutching Hand kills Larry to get hold of the stuff."
"Hey, I got a real bump on the head." She touched her head through the scarf. "This isn't a matinee at the Bijou we're attending, Ben."
"I'll attempt to be more serious in the future, Ms. Mavity," he assured her in his Richard Haydn voice.
"If there's no third party, then it's just the Timberlakes." She was studying the drawing she'd made. Holding her pencil in her teeth, she dug an eraser out of her shoulder bag. "You still haven't told me all that you found out from Laura Timberlake Barks."
"Not a hell of a lot," he admitted. "What's that you're drawing, by the way?"
"Show you in a minute. Well, anything?"
"I mentioned to her that I'd seen Larry entering their building. Laura says he's a friend of her brother's, not hers."
"We already knew that."
Ben continued, "I did pick up one interesting item, though."
"Finally. What?"
"Laura swore me to secrecy, but there's apparently a plan afoot for Majutsu, Ltd., the immense Japanese concern, to buy the Timberlake set-up."
She glanced over at him. "So?"
"Though I'm not exactly an expert on world finance, it seems to me that if another Timberlake were to appear right now and cause a big legal frumus over who really owns what . . . well, it might just futz up this whole Majutsu deal."
She nodded. "More reason for the Timberlakes to suppress this whole business."
"Reason to suppress, but is it reason for bumping off people?"
"We're talking about millions of dollars here, are we not?"
"Yup. Could be billions."
"That's sufficient motive then." She added a few new lines to the drawing. "As soon as we pass this clunky Subaru in front of us, I want to show something."
"I wasn't planning to pass it."
"They're doing less than fifty. We don't want to be stuck behind them from here to Hartford."
"Okay, okay." He glanced at the mirrors in turn, then eased around the slow-moving car ahead of them.
"You can go faster than fifty-five yourself, you know. They rarely give tickets unless you're doing over—"
"Show me what you were going to show me."
"Take a quick look." She held up the sketch. "This is Sue Ellen Timberlake."
Ben took a quick look. "Only her head."
"Sufficient for identification purposes."
"She's pretty, and there is a slight resemblance to Laura."
"I had a chance to study all the photographs before they were swiped from me. I'm certain that this is a good likeness of the woman in those pictures."
"Could come in handy."
Taking a porous-point pen from he
r bag, she commenced inking the pencil drawing. "If we can't find Juster, we can schlep this around to various places."
"Such as?"
"Oh, places where people go all the time. The post office, churches, the library."
"Do skin models frequent the library?"
"Just because a woman poses naked doesn't mean she's a dimwit," said H. J. "I remember my father telling me once that—"
"Whoa, halt," he warned. "I really don't want to talk about your father."
Snapping shut the sketchbook, she dropped it and the pen into her bag. "Then we won't talk about anything." She folded her arms and started glowering out at the highway.
After seven or eight quiet miles, just before they reached the tunnel in New Haven, Ben said, "Okay, talk about your father."
H. J. continued to stare out at the overcast morning. She did not speak.
"You're aware that I never liked him," Ben said after another mile and a half. "'And, lord knows, he sure didn't like me."
"He thought you were very gifted," she mentioned finally, her voice a shade hoarse.
"Did he? That's news to me," said Ben, hunching his shoulders slightly as they entered the tunnel. "All he ever called me to my face was 'asshole.'"
"He only did that when he'd been drinking."
"Your father was always drinking. He kept himself marinated, from the inside, every hour of the day and night."
"'All right, okay, my father was an alcoholic," she admitted as their car emerged from the tunnel and into the grayness of the day. "That doesn't mean he wasn't fond of you."
Ben shook his head. "We really can't seem to talk about him," he told her. "What I mean is, I saw Edwin Mavity not simply as an alcoholic, but as a vicious drunk. He used to hit you when you were a kid, your sister, too. He tried to take a sock at me on several memorable—"
"You just never got to see the gentle side of him."
"Time, hey, that's true. 'What did you do to my daughter this time, asshole?' Nope, that wasn't his gentle side."
"Don't."
"Don't what?"
"Do his voice."
"Was I?"
"Yes, but please, don't." She still wasn't looking his way. "My father really was a very good illustrator. His tragedy was he happened to get started when magazine illustration was going down the chutes. Eventually he had to leave commercial art altogether."