Too Many Murders

by Colleen McCullough

  “I know, I know.”

  “Did Hartford lay down any conditions? Like, how long I have to stay away?”

  “Considering strains on the budget, I’d think the quicker you’re back, the better. The anonymous benefactor can’t bankroll a public servant.”

  “Any bets?”

  “How can I help?” Silvestri asked.

  “Run interference with Hartford for me. It’s Desdemona and Julian preying on Myron’s mind, so if I come back in a couple of days, I’ll have to leave them in London for a few days more. If I can find the name of someone who can tell me about Erica’s time there before I leave Holloman, it will help. I can fly back as soon as I’ve milked the thing dry,” Carmine said.

  “Delia! Put her on finding that name, Carmine.”

  “She’s the one should be going to England.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I agree, but Myron wouldn’t. However,” said the Commissioner, looking conspiratorial, “we might be able to throw some dust in everybody’s eyes. Don’t tell a soul where you’re going, just give it out that you’re moving your family out of Holloman for a while, and drive off to JFK as if you’re going to L.A. I’ll talk to Myron and put the fear of a Catholic Hell in his Jewish soul. He’s to tell everyone that Desdemona and Julian are going to stay with him. It makes sense, so I doubt you’ll be tailed to the airport, at least as far as the departure gates. That way, if you can finish London in two or three days, no one will get too cocky at your absence.”

  In the end only Delia and John Silvestri knew where Carmine took his wife and son two days later. After some thought he also decided to confide in Ted Kelly, who could bumble around Cornucopia telling all and sundry that Carmine had gone to L.A. and could arrive back on the next plane if things got out of hand.

  Desdemona was relieved and excited, explaining to the women of Carmine’s family that she was looking forward to revisiting the place where she had honeymooned: Myron’s Hampton Court Palace. That gentleman’s lavish hand was everywhere, Carmine discovered; they were picked up at their house by a limousine that had enough space in its nether regions to hold a small party, and whisked onto their 707 aircraft without joining the crush of people waiting to board. Though Carmine objected that his own ticket was economy even if his wife and son were traveling first class, he was put next to them in first class because, the chief hostess said smoothly, he had been upgraded. It didn’t escape his notice that the rest of the first-class passengers shuddered to see an infant and popped extra pills to ensure that they slept through a wailing baby. They needn’t have bothered, he thought with an inward grin; Julian enjoyed the experience, wincing as ascent and descent altered the pressure on his eardrums, but not howling. To him it must be small potatoes after Holloman Harbor.

  “I prefer a train,” said Desdemona, thoroughly bored.

  Myron had put them in the Hilton, clever enough to know that London’s luxury hotels were not well endowed with big elevators, level floors, high doorways and vast beds; Desdemona needed room, especially in an elevator with a baby buggy. Thus, the Hilton.

  It wasn’t his first visit to London by any means, and Delia had given Carmine a name: Professor Hugh Lefevre. She had even arranged an appointment for him: eleven the next morning, at the professor’s residence in St. John’s Wood. Apparently Dr. Lefevre didn’t care to eat out at a restaurant, even an expensive one; Carmine could have a cup of tea, he told Delia.

  Expecting some degree of affluence, Carmine trod a street of conjoined houses, rather dilapidated, faintly Georgian, each with a flight of dirty steps leading up to a front door alongside which was a panel of handwritten names. He found his house, went up its steps and discovered that H. Lefevre lived in 105, up a dingy staircase in a dingy hall. There was no bell connection, and 105 of course was not the ground floor. A glance at his watch informed him that he was on time, so he bounded up the dark stairs onto a landing with five doors. His was the back one, would look down on whatever passed for a yard behind the house. He knocked.

  “Enter!” said a voice.

  Sure enough, the knob turned and the door opened. Carmine stepped into a large room lit only by two windows and the grace of a heavily overcast day. Like the whole house, it was dingy. The wallpaper had faded and peeled, the thick velvet curtains were stained, and the furniture, a mixture of styles, was chipped and battered if wooden or oozing stuffing if upholstered. Books lay everywhere, including a wall of shelves. The desk was piled with papers, and a small manual typewriter sat on a low table to one side of the desk chair, which rotated to face it or the desk.

  A man standing by one window turned to face Carmine as he advanced with hand extended to his host, who shook it.

  “Professor Lefevre?”

  “That is I. Be seated, Captain Delmonico.”

  “Whereabouts, sir?”

  “There will do. Where the light falls on your face. Hmm! Women must make utter fools of themselves over you. It’s a New World look—America, Australia, South Africa—makes no difference. The Old World look is softer, less blatantly masculine.”

  “I haven’t noticed any women making utter fools of themselves over me,” Carmine said, smiling easily. It was a good technique, flattering him yet making him uncomfortable. Well, two can play at that game, Professor. He gazed about, seeming puzzled. “Is this the best England can do for a full professor?” he asked.

  “I am a Communist, Captain. It is not a part of my ethic to submerge myself in comfort when so many people know none.”

  “But your private way of life can’t benefit them, sir.”

  “That is not the point! The point is that I choose to live in a spartan fashion to display my ethic to people like you, who do live in comfort. I imagine your house has every luxury.”

  Carmine laughed. “I wouldn’t say every luxury, just those that mean my wife doesn’t have to drudge nor my child know the horror of monotony.”

  Ah, a hit! Professor Hugh Lefevre stiffened in his chair, no easy feat for one being devoured by arthritis. Twenty years ago when Erica Davenport had been his student, he must have had a certain attraction for women, been tall, probably moved with languid grace and enjoyed his handsomeness, a thing of straight thin nose, black brows and lashes, a wealth of black hair worn long, and cornflower blue eyes. The remnants of it still showed, but pain and an unnecessary degree of hardship had chewed away at him, outside as well as inside. Warm air, decent food and some help keeping house would have held his diseases at bay. But no, Carmine thought, he had an ethic, and now, when I said “the horror of monotony” to him, he reacted like a steer to a goad.

  “What do you do with your money?” Carmine asked, curious.

  “Donate it to the Communist Party.”

  “Where, in all likelihood, some lip-service member uses it to live in comfort.”

  “It is not so! We are all believers.”

  Time to stop annoying him. Carmine leaned forward. “I’m sorry, Professor, I don’t mean to denigrate you or your ideals. My secretary told you—I’m glad you have a phone, by the way—that I need some background on Dr. Erica Davenport, who was one of your students, as I understand it.”

  “Ah, Erica!” the old man said, smiling to reveal bad teeth. “Why should I answer your questions? Is there a new McCarthy in the Senate? Is she being persecuted by your capitalist government? You’ve had a wasted trip, Captain.”

  “Erica Davenport is dead. She was murdered in a particularly brutal way, after a torture that consisted of breaking all the bones in her arms and legs,” Carmine said steadily. “I’m not a capitalist tool, I’m simply the homicide detective assigned to investigate her death. Her political views are not my concern. Her murder is.”

  Lefevre wept a little in the easy way of the old; too many cracks develop in the emotional dam wall as the years go by, Carmine thought. And the old man had felt something for her.

  “Just tell me what she was like twenty years ago, sir.”

  “Like?” The faded blue eyes widened. “L
ike the sun, the stars! Ablaze with life and enthusiasm, champing at the bit to change the world. We were all very left at the L.S.E.—in fact, we were famous for it. She arrived already indoctrinated to some extent, so to finish the process was easy. When I discovered that she spoke fluent Russian, I understood her future importance. I allowed her to think she had seduced me, then I went to work to—I believe the phrase is, ‘turn her.’ Naturally Moscow was interested, especially after I learned how able and intelligent she was. The chance to insert a sleeper in some huge American business enterprise was too good to miss. But she began to dither—demur, even.”

  “Why so frank, Professor? Aren’t you talking to me about your treason as well as hers?”

  “What treason? I’ve never done a thing,” Lefevre said smugly. “There’s nothing at the L.S.E. would interest Moscow apart from persons.” He stopped suddenly and looked at Carmine in confusion. “Tea! You’re here for a cup of tea,” he said.

  “Thanks, I don’t need one. Go on about Erica.”

  “My superiors in the Party took over and arranged for Erica to go to Moscow and meet all the most important people. It was done on a special passport the KGB prepared for her, while her own passport was stamped to show a pilgrimage to the classical world, and she was equipped with souvenirs. Considering that the cold war was just commencing, Moscow was very careful with Erica, who might have to wait a very long time before she was activated.”

  Lefevre got up and went to the window, staring down into a yard filled with unkempt long grass and rusting pieces of junk—old kerosene heaters, chamber pots, tin trunks. No discarded washing machines here, Carmine thought, coming to gaze over the old man’s shoulder. The tenants must all belong to the Communist Party.

  “So Erica went off to Moscow in the summer of 1948?”

  “Yes.” Lefevre stopped again, frowning and pulling at his lower lip. Sighing, he returned to his chair.

  “What happened in Moscow?”

  “The first trip—three weeks—went splendidly. Erica returned in alt—over the moon. She had met all the members of the Central Committee, and held Josef Stalin’s hand. He wasn’t terribly well, you know. Then she had to return to Moscow for her training, and Moscow wanted to be absolutely sure of her loyalty. It was a nine-week sojourn. For anyone else it would have been longer, but she was an apt pupil, on fire with zeal. Also capable of significantly contributing to her story.”

  He stopped again, clearly distressed. Had it not been for the news of her horrifying death, Carmine knew, he would have fished in vain for any of this. No doubt FBI and CIA agents had encountered him in their own enquiries when Ulysses first came on the scene, and he had stuck to Erica’s “pilgrimage” to the classical world. Luck travels with the harbinger of death, Carmine thought. He’s old, lonely and by-passed. Now he can talk about her without endangering her.

  “You’ve already told me she was a traitor, Professor. What else is there to know?”

  He finally took the plunge. “On her last night in Moscow, Erica was raped. From what she told me, it was at a drunken dinner attended by Party officials and KGB officers just below the top ranks. Why they picked on her I don’t know, save that she had been highly favored by their superiors, she was American, very beautiful, and not sexually generous.”

  “It was a terrible rape,” Carmine said softly. “On autopsy twenty years later, she still bore the physical scars. How did she survive, sir?”

  “Bound herself up and came back to London as arranged. To me. I sent her to Guy’s Hospital, where I had a friend. It was manic in those days, battling with the teething troubles of the National Health. We arranged that her medical records should get lost in the system. London was a very different place then. The country was still on ration books for food, it was difficult to get decent clothes—a fruitful situation for us teaching in institutions of higher learning. Some very promising students fell into our hands like ripe peaches.”

  “What about Erica? She must have returned from Moscow that second time changed out of all recognition,” Carmine said.

  “In one way, yes. In another, no. The fire had gone, but an icy determination took its place. She abjured all sexual activity until someone in high authority made her understand that sex is a beautiful woman’s best tool. She was instructed in the art of fellatio. A large amount of money was placed in a Boston bank in her name, and, as far as I know, she began her upwards climb. After a few mawkish letters, I lost contact with her.”

  “Then you don’t know that she rose to be the highest executive in a very large American company that manufactures weapons of war?” Carmine asked.

  “No, really?” Hugh Lefevre looked delighted. “How truly marvelous!”

  “But she didn’t spy for Moscow.”

  “You can’t possibly know that. After her training, she would be able to dupe anybody.”

  “Erica was a blind for someone else. She must have had a controller—someone who guided her actions and told her what to do. She never behaved like a master spy because she wasn’t a master spy. She was just a blind.”

  “I hope you’re correct, Captain. If you are, then Erica’s company is still penetrated. Splendid, splendid!”

  When Carmine left, he walked all the way back to the Hilton, as much of his way as possible through Regent’s Park, among azaleas and rhododendrons, blossoming trees and rich carpets of impossibly green grass. Hyde Park it wasn’t, but it had its charms. Only when he found a refreshment pavilion and had that cup of tea did he lose the last of the sour taste in his mouth that was Professor Hugh Lefevre. Old, crippled, fueled by an ideology. There were plenty of people like him; differing ideologies, perhaps, but the same end result.

  He joined Desdemona for lunch in the coffee shop, as she had just come in from a long walk through Hyde Park pushing Julian in what she now called a “pram”—less than a day, and his wife’s Englishness was back with a vengeance. But she looked rested and relaxed despite her hike. Myron might be a pain in the ass, but occasionally he got some things right.

  How to tell her that he was going home? Directly, no apologies and no prevarication.

  “I got everything I needed from Professor Lefevre,” he said, reaching to take her hand. “That means I have to go home.”

  The light died in her eyes, but she mustered all her resources and managed to look merely disappointed. “I know you’d stay if you could,” she said steadily, “so it must be very urgent. I imagine all policemen’s wives go through this sort of thing—the divorce rate is so high.” She stretched her mouth into a smile. “Well, Captain Delmonico, you’re not going to get rid of me as easily as that! Yes, I’m disgruntled, but I knew when I married you what sort of person you are. And you do have a fatal attraction for nasty cases! It rubbed off on me straight away, so I must have the same quality. My bed will be cold, but not as cold as yours—I have Julian. Just promise me that when it’s all over, you’ll bring me back here. Not in Myron’s luxury! Some smelly private hotel out on the Gloucester Road will do—I can bear the curry and the cabbage. And we won’t need to hire a pram because Julian seems to prefer a stroller. He’s inherited your curiosity, my love, and likes to see where he’s going.”

  “It’s a deal,” said Carmine, kissing her hand. “I’ll worry just the same. London’s a big place.”

  “Oh, we won’t be in London,” Desdemona said blandly. “I arranged it with Delia. We both knew you’d go home quickly, so Julian and I are going to stay with Delia’s parents in the Cotswolds. No one will find out where we’ve gone. Myron’s generosity can get us there—I confess I quail at the thought of battling with a baby, a pram and luggage on a train. We’ll travel in a Rolls.”

  “It will be trains, buses and taxis next time,” he warned.

  “Yes, but you’ll be there to help. I am a very large person, Carmine, but I have only one pair of hands.”

  Light was dawning on Carmine. “You are pissed off at me! What a relief!”

  “Yes, of course I’m p
issed off!” she said crossly. “It’s no fun trying to be a perfect policeman’s wife, I can tell you! I didn’t expect you to find what you were looking for quite so quickly. I thought Julian and I would have you for at least three days. I’ve never seen the crown jewels!”

  “That’s good, neither have I.”

  “How long have I got?” she asked.

  “I was going to see if there’s a plane tonight, but I’ll try for one tomorrow morning. Is that a lynching party?”

  “No, at least we can cuddle in a king-sized bed tonight. I’ll call Mrs. Carstairs to tell her we’re coming, then we’ll check out together tomorrow morning and set off in Myron’s Rolls. Our route is west, and so is Heathrow. We can drop you off,” said Desdemona.

  “That’s very smart, lovely lady. I don’t think you’re in any danger here, but it won’t do any harm to behave covertly, to use spy terminology. No one knows Delia has parents here.”

  “This is a spy thing, isn’t it?”

  “My interest is purely murder,” Carmine said.

  At last, thought Carmine complacently as the car set him down at the bedlam of Heathrow, I am free of Myron Mendel Mandelbaum! I can use my economy class ticket and suffer the proper indignities of air travel for nine hours. But Myron had the last laugh. No sooner was Carmine on board the 707 than the chief hostess came swanning into the tail of the plane and upgraded him to first class. Accepting a bourbon and soda in a crystal tumbler, Carmine surrendered to the fleshpots.

  “You have all the luck,” Ted Kelly said when Carmine ended his story. “We had several tries at Professor Lefevre, but he swore that Erica Davenport was just one more bright American student availing herself of the economic wisdom of the L.S.E. The lying old goat! He fooled us, all the time prating about his membership in the Communist Party. England’s riddled with open Communists, while our really dangerous ones dived underground with the coming of Joe McCarthy. He did more harm than good.”