by Parnell Hall
I lay there, chuckling at my own folly, and thinking about Richard and Sam Gravston and Sergeant Clark and the Rosenberg and Stone murders and fictional detectives and neat and tidy solutions and murders and alibis and suspects, and the end result was I fell asleep and dreamed I was no longer the sidekick Hastings but Hercule Poirot himself and I was solving the case.
I awoke with a start and sat bolt upright in bed. My body was tingling all over, and I discovered I was trembling. I was not surprised.
Because I knew who had committed the Rosenberg and Stone murders.
And why.
36.
“AGATHA CHRISTIE.”
MacAullif looked at me. “What?”
“Agatha Christie. The British novelist. She wrote murder mysteries. The Murder of Roger Ackroyd is considered a classic, one of the best murder mysteries of all time.”
“I don’t need a biography,” MacAullif said. “I know who she is. What about her?”
“You ever read any of her books?”
“No.”
“Sam Gravston has. He’s got a whole shelf full of ’em.”
MacAullif was looking at me narrowly. “Have you lost your marbles?”
“More than likely. Which is why I need your help.”
“With what? What are you getting at?”
“The A.B.C. Murders.”
“What?”
“The A.B.C. Murders, by Agatha Christie. It’s a murder mystery in which a man invents a serial killer in order to disguise his crime as part of a series.”
MacAullif was still skeptical, but for the first time he showed interest. “You’re saying there’s a parallel?”
“There’s more than a parallel. It’s an exact duplicate.”
“But that’s absurd.”
“Maybe.” I opened my briefcase. “At any rate, I brought you a copy. You should read it.”
MacAullif took the book gingerly, as if touching it might contaminate him with literature in some way. “So that’s why you came here. To give me a book to read?”
“No. To tell you who committed the Rosenberg and Stone murders.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“All right. Who?”
“Sam Gravston.”
“What?”
“Sam Gravston did it. He needs money badly. He will inherit a bundle from his uncle. That’s the motive.”
“I see,” MacAullif said.
I can’t say he looked entirely convinced. I can say I know the look homicidal lunatics must have seen on his face before he had them locked in a padded cell.
“And what evidence do you have?” MacAullif asked.
I held up The A.B.C. Murders. “Sam Gravston has this book. I’ve been to his apartment. I’ve seen it on his bookshelf.”
MacAullif blinked. “Oh?”
“He’s read it. He has a whole shelf of Agatha Christies. They’re well read. The guy’s a mystery buff.”
“That’s very interesting,” MacAullif said. I don’t think he was attempting to impress me with his sincerity.
“It is,” I said. “But the thing is, Sergeant Clark is off on his own tangent about some client Rosenberg wronged, and the son of a bitch is so sure of himself he’s never going to listen to me.”
“That could be annoying,” MacAullif said. He looked uncharacteristically uncomfortable. I thought he might even begin to fidget.
“Don’t worry,” I told him. “I haven’t really lost my marbles. I have the solution to the murders, but no one’s gonna believe me. Which is why I’ve come to you.”
“I see,” MacAullif said cautiously. “And what is the solution to the murders?”
I pointed to the book. “It’s in here. That’s why I want you to read it. Sam Gravston read it, and he saw a neat way to cash in on his rich uncle’s estate, so he just followed what it said in the book.”
Sergeant MacAullif looked at me narrowly. “And just what makes you think Sam Gravston did that?”
I reached in my briefcase and pulled out another book. “This,” I said.
Sergeant MacAullif blinked twice before he looked at me and said, “What is that?”
“The Clocks, by Agatha Christie.”
I handed the book to MacAullif. He took it and looked at it as if it might have been booby trapped and somehow might explode.
“Oh?” he said. “What about it?”
“The Clocks is another book Sam Gravston owns and has read. In it, an efficient but unimaginative murderer, adapts the plot of a mystery novel in order to commit a totally baffling crime.”
MacAullif stared at me. “You’re saying Sam Gravston—”
“Yes, I am. It’s all in there. That’s why I want you to read the books. The Clocks gave him the idea. The A.B.C. Murders gave him the plot.”
MacAullif shook his head. “I dunno.”
“All right, look,” I said. “Suppose the Rosenberg and Stone murders hadn’t happened.”
“What?”
“The murders. Suppose they hadn’t happened. And then Sam Gravston’s uncle got killed. Who would be the logical suspect?”
MacAullif shrugged. “Sam Gravston.”
“Of course he would. He stands to benefit. He would not only be the logical suspect, he would be the only suspect.”
MacAullif frowned. “That’s hardly fair. His uncle was cutthroat businessman. He undoubtedly had a lot of enemies.”
“Let’s not quibble. Sam Gravston would be the main suspect. In which case, there would be a good chance the police could prove he did it.”
“So?”
“But now there isn’t. Because the murder isn’t an individual crime. It’s part of a series of crimes. It’s the work of a serial killer. And now there’s a good chance Sam Gravston will get away with it, because the police aren’t looking for a motive for the murder of Sam’s uncle, they’re looking for a motive for a whole series of crimes, and the thing is, they aren’t going to find it because there isn’t one.”
MacAullif took out a cigar and inspected it gravely. It gave him an excuse not to look at me.
“I see,” he said.
I sighed. “No, you don’t. But you should. Look, it all starts three weeks ago. Sam Gravston’s uncle breaks his leg. Now, Richard pays a hundred-fifty dollar bonus to anyone who brings him a new client, so Sam sees a chance to make some money and tries to sign up his uncle. But the uncle’s a pain in the ass type, he hasn’t got time for Sam, he doesn’t care, he’s going to Texas as soon as he gets out of the hospital. But Sam persists because he really needs the money, and the long and the short of it is his uncle agrees to an appointment when he gets back from Texas three weeks later.
“So now Sam’s got three weeks to sit around and stew about that. And think about what a tightass his uncle is, and how rich he is, and how he’s never done shit for Sam. And slowly Sam comes to the realization of how great it would be if his uncle were to die.
“And he thinks about that some, and he starts playing with the idea, probably as a joke at first, and he starts figuring out how he could possibly do it.
“And eventually it come to him. His uncle’s a client, just like all the other clients he calls on. Suppose a whole bunch of clients were to die, and his uncle just happened to be one of them? His motive would be hidden, he’d get away with it and he’d wind up rich.”
MacAullif tapped the cigar into the palm of his hand. “That’s quite a theory,” he said. “Why bring it to me? Why not Sergeant Clark?”
“It would be a waste of time. Sergeant Clark has his own theory of the case. He’s convinced the killer’s some black man from Harlem that Richard’s wronged. He wouldn’t listen. He’d think I was out of my mind.”
MacAullif looked at me. “Now why would he ever think that?”
I stood up. “All right. Fine,” I said. “Don’t believe me. I didn’t really think you would. I didn’t expect you to act on this. But I want you to do one thing for me. OK?”
; MacAullif looked at me suspiciously. “What’s that?”
“Read the books.”
MacAullif squirmed uncomfortably. “Oh, now look—”
“Just read the damn books,” I said irritably.
I turned and walked out.
37.
IT WAS MADDENING. I had the solution—I was sure of it—but no one would believe me. I couldn’t go to Sergeant Clark. As I’d told MacAullif, he’d have laughed in my face. I could tell Richard, but what good would that do? Richard was on Sergeant Clark’s shitlist, too. Clark wouldn’t listen to him any more than he would to me.
I thought about talking to Richard anyway. And I didn’t want to do it. I know that seems strange. After all, Richard was the one who’d asked me to look into this thing in the first place. But I didn’t want to go to him with something I couldn’t prove. Not when it was an accusation against one of his employees. Somehow that didn’t seem fair.
If that was the real reason. If it wasn’t that this was my solution, and I didn’t want to share it.
At least not until I could prove it.
That would be entirely different.
That would be just fine.
But how could I prove it? That was the thing. What the hell could I do?
I drove around that day on my appointed rounds, and thought about what to do. My first beep from Wendy/Janet supplied me with the information that Sam Gravston had indeed given in to Richard’s entreaties, and was back on the job. So Sergeant Clark’s plans, whatever they might be, were set in motion. But what about mine?
My first case was an old man out in Queens who had slipped in his bathtub and broken his hip. I drove out there, signed him up and shot pictures of the offending bathroom fixture. I was so preoccupied with thinking about Sam Gravston and the case that it wasn’t until I was on my way out the door that I realized that it had never even occurred to me to wonder if the gentleman I was calling on would be alive.
Which started me thinking again. Were the murders over? I realized that without consciously considering it, I had assumed they were. Because I had picked Sam Gravston for the murderer and the murder of his uncle as the real murder, the one that completed the sequence.
But did it?
I realized, of course, that it didn’t. It couldn’t. Sam couldn’t stop now. Because if he did, then the murder of his uncle would eventually stand out for what it was—the real murder. If there were no more murders, even the dumbest cop would soon realize that the murder of Sam’s uncle had ended things. And it wouldn’t take much thinking after that to arrive at the truth.
So there would have to be at least one more murder.
Sam Gravston would have to strike again.
And I would have to catch him at it.
I thought about that. I thought about that a lot. How the hell would I do it? Shadow him all the time? I couldn’t do that. It might be days before he struck. And it might be by day, by night, any time at all. How the hell should I know? I couldn’t stick with him. I’m no good at shadowing people, even if I had the resources and the time. So what the hell could I do?
It was excruciating. Sam could pick a victim, any victim. He could kill him, and then call in, using his jive black voice, and make an appointment. And that would be that.
He’d have won.
I couldn’t let him win.
I had to get him.
But how?
Driving out to Brooklyn on my second assignment, it came to me.
A trap.
I needed to set a trap.
It was a nice idea. Not very original, I realized, but then I never was very original. And at this point, any idea at all was rather nice.
I drove on out to Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, and considered the dimensions of the trap.
By the time I had signed up the client—who was very much alive, and whose only problem happened to be fourteen stitches in her forehead she received when the taxicab she was riding in slammed into the back of a bus, catapulting her into the divider—I had my preliminary ideas all mapped out.
I refined them on the way back.
There was one major refinement.
The trap, primarily, was for Sam Gravston. He was my chief suspect. I was sure that he’d done it. To me, no other solution seemed possible.
But I felt it couldn’t be only that. You see, I didn’t want to make the same mistake Sergeant Clark was making. Sergeant Clark had his own idea of who had committed the murder, and his problem was that he was so pigheaded he wouldn’t consider anything else. Now, certain as I was that I was right, it occurred to me that I should recognize and provide for the eventuality that I was wrong. To concede the possibility that Sergeant Clark could be right. I didn’t believe it for a minute, but I was willing to concede the thought. Thus, I reasoned, the trap I designed would be one primarily to catch Sam Gravston, but it should also be designed to catch the killer, whomever he might be. In other words, specifically including the killer presumed by Sergeant Clark.
Thinking along those lines caused me to broaden my scheme, to lay out my grand design.
By the time I got beeped for my third assignment, which sent me back to Queens again, I had a pretty good idea of the specifics of the trap.
There was only one more thing I needed, and that was the one thing all traps need.
Bait.
38.
“I NEED A FAVOR.”
Leroy Stanhope Williams twirled the cognac around in his glass and looked at me inquiringly.
Leroy was one of Richard’s clients. At least, one of Richard’s former clients. And he was certainly not a disgruntled one. Leroy was someone I’d signed up way back in the first few months I’d worked for Richard. At the time he’d had a broken leg. Aside from Tessie the Tumbler, Leroy was the only client I’d ever called on more than once. Leroy had helped me out of a couple of jams in the past, and now I was hoping he could do it again.
We were sitting in the living room of Leroy’s house out in Flushing. I was sitting on the couch, Leroy was in a chair. The chair was an antique, a period piece of some sort—I couldn’t tell you what period, I’m no good at that—but it seemed medieval to me, and it resembled a throne. Or perhaps it was just Leroy that made it seem that way. Something about Leroy Stanhope Williams always struck me as regal.
Leroy was a black man somewhere in his mid-thirties, with chocolate brown skin, a high, sloping forehead that gave him an intellectual look and bemused eyes. His speech, cultured with a British hint, added to the impression of royalty.
As did his home. The room in which we were sitting was furnished with paintings, sculptures, hangings, tapestries, bric-a-brac and what have you, all of which, at one time or another, had adorned other people’s homes.
You see, Leroy was a thief.
And not just an ordinary thief. He was an anachronism.
A gentleman jewel thief.
“What kind of a favor?” Leroy asked.
“A big one,” I said.
“I figured that,” Leroy said.
“Oh? Why?”
“Last time you wanted a favor you called. This time you came.”
“True,” I said.
“So, what is it?”
“Well, for one thing,” I said, “it may cost a little money. Money I don’t happen to have.”
“That’s not necessarily a problem,” Leroy said. “Unless you’re talking millions.”
“More like a few hundred.”
“You have not deterred me so far,” Leroy said. “Go on. What do you want me to do?”
“Do you have a good doctor?” I asked him.
“What kind?”
“The kind that will keep his mouth shut.”
Leroy looked at me. “This is serious, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. Do you have one? A general practitioner, I mean.”
“I have one. What would he have to do?”
“He would have to dispense some treatment and then forget about it.”
Leroy
frowned. “Any drugs involved?”
“No.”
“Then it shouldn’t be a problem. What do you want him to do?”
“I want him to put a cast on your arm.”
Leroy looked at me. “Are you serious?”
“Absolutely.”
“Do you intend to tell me what this is all about?”
“I’m getting to it,” I said. “Unless you’d like me to cut to the punch line.”
Leroy held up his hand. “No, no. I’m enjoying the buildup. Go right ahead. So, the doctor puts a cast on my arm.”
“That’s right.”
“Which arm?”
“I leave you your choice.”
“Considerate of you. What then?”
“This is where the money comes in.”
Leroy smiled. “I see. The doctor worked for free. So tell me about the money part.”
“You have to rent an apartment.”
“An apartment?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“In Harlem.”
Leroy smiled. “A black man in Harlem? I’ll stand out like a sore thumb.”
“You stand out anywhere,” I told him. “That’s another thing. You’ll have to dress down for the part.”
“Another expense,” Leroy said. “How long must I rent this apartment for?”
“You’ll only need it for a few days.”
“That shouldn’t be too bad. I still have connections in Harlem. I might not have to rent one at all.”
“That’s fine,” I said. “But nobody can know about this.”
“It’s that bad?” Leroy said.
“It’s worse,” I told him.
“All right,” Leroy said. “Let’s say I am installed in this apartment in Harlem with a cast on my arm. Then what?”
“You take the name Duane Wilson.”
“Hmm,” Leroy said. “Sounds black.”
“Probably is.”
“Then what?”
“Then you call Rosenberg and Stone. You tell ’em your name’s Duane Wilson, you give ’em the address of your apartment in Harlem, you tell ’em you want to see an investigator.