“I know a guy at the Gazette. Takes pictures for the sports pages. He dug up this gem for me.”
To see it better, I held it close to the red-glass chimney of the candle lamp on the table. In the low light, it looked like a photo of the winner’s circle. I could read the caption on the picture: “No. 6 Clean Hands, Wednesday, August 8, 1962. Saratoga Race Course. Race 9.” There was a horse in the middle, of course—the aforementioned Clean Hands—a group of well-heeled folks beaming at the camera, and some bystanders in the background.
A cigarette lighter appeared next to the photo, and a thumb spun the flint wheel, producing a spark then a flame.
“You’ll need more light to see,” said Jimmy. “There, in the back, to the right of the lady in the big hat. See him?”
“This guy?” I asked, indicating the man in question with my left index fingernail.
“That’s the one.”
“He looks like a strangler of small children.”
“He does have a certain Medusa twinkle in his eye.”
Surely he’d meant to say Medea, though from which dark recess of his education he’d plucked that reference was beyond my ken; I wasn’t about to correct him.
“Who is it?” I asked.
Jimmy flicked the lid of his lighter closed, dousing the flame, and withdrew his hand. “That’s Dan Ledoux.”
I gave a lot of thought to Dan Ledoux as I drove west on a darkened Route 5, heading for New Holland. His eyes had been fixed somewhere near the horse or the owner; it was impossible to say for sure in the small photo, but the general impression he threw off was both unsettling and unforgettable. I recalled an old physiognomy chart I’d seen in a history book in college. It purported to show the physical facial characteristics of criminals. There were pronounced brows, narrow eyes, small crania, and the like, each supposedly a marker for villainy, depravity, and immorality in humans. I had thought at the time how wrongheaded such theories were, and I knew that some had used similarly offensive illustrations to depict Semitic features to promote their racist agendas. Grotesque exaggerations of fat lips, hooked noses, and swarthy complexions. All that was missing was the horns. But the book I’d studied at Barnard came back to me as I stared down the lonely road as “Breakin’ up Is Hard to Do” crackled on the radio. I had to admit that Dan Ledoux’s physiognomy struck me as the very model of a modern major murderer. His close-set eyes, seemingly without lids, like a snake’s; the crooked, broken nose; and the twisted smile that surely concealed a set of vulpine teeth made me grateful I was speeding along at sixty miles an hour in a locked car, far from wherever he might have been at that moment.
Jimmy Burgh had assured me that he was hot on the trail of the elusive Dan Ledoux. The two men roamed the same mean streets, after all, one in Schenectady and Albany, the other in Baltimore and points south.
“I can’t promise you he won’t be dead when I’m finished with him,” he’d told me in the booth at Gloria’s a half hour before.
“Do you really want to tell a reporter that?” I asked.
He smiled, baring his gold tooth. “We have an understanding. I know you won’t quote me.”
It might well have been the suggestion of Dan Ledoux’s evil, from Lou Fleischman and Jimmy Burgh, but I had swallowed the bait. And, while I felt no desire to confirm my worst assumptions—at least not without a gorilla like Fadge or a grizzly bear like Frank Olney at my side for protection—I knew that I would have to meet him face-to-face at some point. For now, however, I was content that the chilling eyes staring out of the photo figured nowhere in my immediate future.
Neil Sedaka chanted in my ear, seemingly urging me to calm-a down; at least that was what it sounded like to me in my agitated state. I pushed the gas pedal a touch closer to the floor, coaxing more speed out of my Dodge in hopes of reaching home sooner and pouring myself a friendly drink behind a locked door.
I found a note shoved into the mail slot of the storm door downstairs from my place. It was from Fadge.
Stop by the store when you get in. I’ve got some news for you.
I glanced across the street and saw Fadge clearly through the plate-glass window. He was seated on a stool, mouth open, leaning on a broom and staring at the television behind the counter. I was tired and wanting that drink, so I resolved to phone him instead. I trudged up the stairs and let myself inside.
“Hey, I’m home,” I said into the phone as I poured myself a drink in the kitchen. The bottle of Dewar’s Jimmy Burgh and I had cracked open the other night was still sitting on the kitchen table.
“I’m closing up in a bit,” said Fadge. “I’ll stop by.”
I dragged myself into the parlor and shuffled through my records, finally deciding on Glenn Gould playing Bach partitas and fugues. Like a ticking clock, Bach’s metronomic precision somehow always eased my mind into a mood that fostered clear thinking. I kicked off my heels, collapsed onto the couch, and closed my eyes to listen. For several minutes, I thought of nothing beyond the music. Then I sipped my drink. The sting of whiskey acted like a tonic on my weary body. I put my stockinged feet up on the coffee table and savored my late-evening reward.
The partita number 6 in E minor played. Wedged into the cushions of the sofa, I wondered what was so important that Fadge felt compelled to leave a note inside my door. Probably wanted to brag about winning another bundle at the track. I shrugged and took another gulp of Scotch, figuring I’d find out soon enough. Then I noticed the breeze. Had I left a window open that morning?
I pushed myself up off the sofa, crossed to my bedroom, and switched on the light. The curtain in the west window, the one that faced Mr. Brunner’s house next door, was fluttering gently in the night air. I took a step toward it, intending to close it, but I stopped in my tracks. There was broken glass on the floor.
Turning to hightail it back to the kitchen where I intended to barrel down the stairs, I ran headlong into a man.
I gasped, breath gone in one terrifying instant, and he raised his left forefinger to his lips, a sign for me to keep quiet. Disbelief, horror, fear, all wrapped up in one cruel surprise. I stumbled backward into the bedroom doorjamb, and the strange man stepped forward, displaying a long knife vertically for my benefit. He pressed me to the frame with his body, holding the blade lengthwise against my cheek. Crossing my eyes, I tried to focus on the gleaming edge of the weapon, but it was too close. I closed my eyes tight and held my breath as he drew his face to mine. He smelled like an ape—old, sour perspiration permeated his clothes. And there was a strong odor of campfire about him. Nose nearly touching mine, he whispered to me.
“Make one sound and I’ll slit your throat.”
Then I felt him back off, slowly. I opened my eyes and saw him holding the knife cocked at the ready in case I tried anything foolish. I remained flat against the doorjamb, trembling and afraid to move, even to exhale. My gaze was firmly fixed on the long knife in his right hand. One of my carving knives. He must have been in my apartment long enough to go through the kitchen and arm himself.
My intruder stood still, three feet away, giving me room to breathe but not enough to risk an escape. Now, for the first time, I studied his face. Then the entire man. Dressed in soiled, rumpled trousers, shirt, and a tweed cap, he looked to be about five feet eight or nine. A patchy light-brown beard grew on his cheeks and chin. He gave the impression of a desperate man who was slowly starving. The face was familiar, but I couldn’t place him. Something was different and throwing me off. Then, like a forgotten name, it suddenly came to me, and I dismissed the thought just as quickly. Impossible. He stared back at me, blinked, and I looked harder. My first hunch had been right. He was too tall, of course, but it had to be him. I glanced down at his heavy boots. Heels at least two inches high, and the cap on his head added another two inches of height. The man glaring at me—the one holding a knife to me in my parlor as Glenn Gould played Bach on the hi-fi—was probably closer to five-four or five-five. I gazed at his face again. Those fair eye
s against tanned skin. Yes, it was him. There, beneath a beard I never would have expected, stood Johnny Dornan, wild, menacing, and very much alive.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“You’re supposed to be dead,” I stammered at my most inane.
“Don’t play dumb,” he said in a low voice. “You knew I wasn’t dead.”
I shook my head. Should I deny his accusation? I doubted it would have helped me out of my current predicament, since I was now painfully aware of the knowledge he’d clearly wanted to keep hidden.
He motioned toward the kitchen behind him and ordered me to go sit at the table. I stepped past him, and he helped me along with a little shove. Once in the kitchen, he pulled out one of the aluminum chairs, scraping it along the floor, and indicated that was where I was to sit. I complied, and he eased himself into a seat opposite me. We stared at each other for a long moment. The bottle of Dewar’s stood tall between us on the table.
“You want a drink, do you?” he asked. “Well, you’re not getting one.”
“You reek,” I said. “Do you know that?”
He watched me with hard eyes. “I haven’t had a bath in over a week. No running water in that house on Tempesta Farm. And now no house on Tempesta Farm, thanks to you.”
“What do you want?” I asked.
“You’ve got two things that belong to me. I’ve come to get them.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“No games. I know you took the newspaper and my pistol. Where are they?”
“How did you get in here?” I asked, avoiding his question and trying to buy some time.
“Through the window. I’m a good climber. Now where’s my stuff?”
“You have no right breaking in here.”
I realized that was a weak argument to use against a triple or perhaps quadruple murderer, depending on whether I counted Mack Hodges or not, but I was desperate to stall him until Fadge showed up as promised.
“So call the cops,” he said. “And besides, I’m only returning the favor.”
“That wasn’t your house I broke into.”
“I want that gun now.”
I gulped. “It’s not here.”
He slapped his left hand down hard on the table, startling me. “Did you turn it over to the police?”
How to answer that? If he knew that the gun and newspaper were lost to him, there was no reason to continue with threats. No reason to keep me alive. He’d slit my throat and flee into the night, still deceased as far as anyone else knew.
“No. The Saratoga sheriff thinks he has his man.”
“Bruce Robertson?” asked Johnny.
“I tried to hand it over, but he wasn’t interested.”
“So where is it?”
“Not here.”
“Okay,” he said, pushing back his chair and rising to his feet. “Let’s go get it.”
“It’s in a safe deposit box at the bank,” I lied.
He stood there, staring me down for a long moment. “Show me the key.”
I asked for permission to fetch my purse. He nodded. Two years earlier, following my father’s death, I’d taken out a box at the First State Bank of New Holland to store some stock certificates and family jewelry. Johnny Dornan would have no way of knowing there were no Colt pistol and the previous Wednesday’s edition of the New Holland Republic inside the safe deposit box. At least not until the morning. And then, only if I was still alive and able to appear in person to retrieve them.
He followed me to the parlor, his boots thumping across the kitchen floor, as he held the knife inches from my back. I reached into my bag and fished out my key chain. Johnny snatched it away and herded me back into the kitchen.
“Sit down,” he said as he examined the keys. I did as I was told. “Which one is it?”
“The long one. Brass.”
He turned the key over a couple of times, surely wondering how he was going to get in and out of a bank in the middle of the night. Or in the morning, for that matter.
“Do you have something to eat?” he asked at length. “Bologna or cheese or something?”
“In the icebox.”
He opened the door and rummaged through the contents, pulling out some cold cuts, mustard, pickles, and one of the two quarts of beer left over from my last music appreciation evening with Fadge.
“Bread?”
“In there,” I said, indicating the breadbox next to the toaster on the counter. Arms full, he hooked an open bag of potato chips with his pinky finger and hauled his shopping spree back to the kitchen table where he dumped it without ceremony. He slapped together a sandwich with one hand while the other held the knife. Then he fell on the food, tearing into the sandwich, eating the chips out of the bag, and washing it all down straight from the bottle of beer.
Once he’d had his fill, he glared at me. “Who did you tell about me?”
“No one. I thought you were dead.”
“Don’t lie to me. Who did you think you were chasing down on the farm? You knew, and you must have told someone. Your boss, maybe? Or that big guy you were with?”
Fearing my denials would only antagonize him, I said nothing at first. He reached for the bottle of beer again, all the while holding the knife tight.
“You’ve seen the papers,” I said finally. “If I’d known you were alive, I would have printed it. I was trying to track down someone else. Someone who I’m just starting to understand has been dead for ten days.”
“And who’s that?”
“Dan Ledoux.”
“You’re too smart for your own good.”
“I really thought you were dead. And so did everyone else. You did a great job covering your tracks. If you hadn’t barged in here tonight, no one would’ve ever suspected a thing.”
Perhaps I should have kept that last bit to myself. After all, I was still the only person who knew he was still alive. And I didn’t want to remind him of that easily remediable situation. But he wanted his gun and newspaper. That was the only card I had to play. I decided to keep him talking.
“What happened nine years ago? Why did you go along with the plan to fix the race?”
Johnny drew a breath and closed his eyes for a short moment, as if the memory caused him physical pain. When he opened them again, I saw the red. His face flushed as if he might be holding that breath he’d just taken. It wasn’t the healthy red that comes from exercise or brisk weather, but from intense pressure, like a blood vessel about to burst. In fact, his temples seemed to throb under my scrutiny. Then a big, rolling drop of a tear escaped his right eye.
“It was for her,” he said, barely managing more than a croak from his throat.
“Vivian?”
He nodded as he pinched both his lips and eyes in an effort to stem the tears. “She asked me to do it, and I said yes.”
“Why?” I asked, wondering if I could make a grab for the knife while he struggled to compose himself.
“I was in love with her, what do you think? She could’ve asked me for anything, and I would’ve done it.”
“Whose idea was it to throw the race?”
“Mack was the guy behind it all. I found out later that he made twenty thousand on that race. Twenty thousand. And what did I get? Blackballed from racing. My career ruined.”
“Did Mack approach Lou Fleischman to have you ride Robinson’s Friday?”
Johnny wiped the back of his hand across his nose. “Yeah. Ledoux set me up as a morning rider for Mack. It was part of the plan. Bring in some young rube who would do as he was told. That was me.”
“And Vivian was with Ledoux? Even while she pretended to be in love with you?”
“Who wasn’t she with? Mack, Ledoux, me, the blacksmith, the track announcer . . .”
I chalked up the last two to sarcasm on Johnny’s part but, in truth, wasn’t entirely sure. At any rate, I didn’t want to break his momentum with stray questions about Vivian’s catalogue of lovers, so I encouraged him to tell me how h
e’d fallen for her.
Johnny’s voice was low and measured and rough. Careful. “I saw her for the first time at Polo Park in Winnipeg. She was standing there in her light dress, looking like a million dollars. God, those legs. She was so damn beautiful.”
“And she spoke to you?”
“She turned on the charm. A couple of megawatts’ worth. Smiled at me, batted her eyelashes, wet her lips just so. I thought she really liked me. Maybe she was one of those crazy fans, I figured. The girls who’ll do anything to get close to a jockey.”
“Are there such girls?” I asked, then realized it might have come out all wrong. He didn’t seem to notice. “So she seduced you?” I continued. “But it was all a lie?”
“Yeah, and I was such a sap I fell for it. She told me we’d go to Maryland and get married. I could be a jockey at Pimlico and Churchill Downs and Saratoga and Belmont.” He paused to laugh bitterly and take a swig of beer. “Get married? She was already married. Twice. And she had a boyfriend and was sleeping with his boss to boot.”
“And you.”
“Yeah. Me too. She liked small guys, you know. Jockeys. Some kind of weird thing with her. Ledoux was a shrimp, too. No bigger than me.”
“It doesn’t make any difference now,” I said. “But I really thought you were the dead man in the fire.”
He looked deflated. “You’re right. It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.”
“How did you find me?” I asked.
“You should’ve locked your car that night at the farm.”
“So you figured out I worked for the Republic?”
“Yeah. I started following your stories in the paper. Then when I realized you managed to get inside the caretaker’s house, I was sure you knew it wasn’t me who died in the fire.”
“And that was you who followed us to the pizzeria that night?”
“Your friend caught on. Kept driving in circles and slowing down until I had to give up.”
I didn’t tell him that Bill Goossens had memorized his license plate number, and that reminded me that Fadge was supposed to call Benny Arnold at the DMV. Was that the important information he wanted to tell me? Where the hell was he anyway?
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