Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine 12/01/10

by Dell Magazines

  “Wash your hands,” Mama said.

  Gina said, “We won’t be a minute.”

  “Murder he talks about, this Salvatore,” the Old Man said. “Do you hear that? Murder.” Only the Old Man had ever solved a murder case for the agency. “What I could tell you about a murder.”

  A moan rose from around the table.

  “What?” He looked around.

  “Not now,” Mama said. “Here, have more king prawns with cashews.”

  The Old Man liked his cashews. And his king prawns. After a moment he moved his plate closer so she could serve. Sharing his wisdom could wait for later.

  Gina and Angelo were not away long.

  “It’s not that we want to hear about any more cases,” Angelo said as he sat. “I just don’t want Papa eating all the prawns.”

  Faces turned to the Old Man to see what response he’d make to this nudge. But he just said, “What? You think I can’t take a joke? Huh! Also I can take a hint.” He pushed a plastic tray closer to Angelo.

  “So, c’mon, Sally, tell us,” Gina said.

  As the food made the rounds, Salvatore said, “Well, to recap, my new client objected to the familiarity with which the registrar greeted her husband-to-be when they went in to arrange their wedding. Well, it turns out that the registrar does know Jonathan Aloysius Appleby. Quite well.” Salvatore spread his hands. Everyone recognized this as an invitation to speculate about the case.

  “Personally?” Gina asked.

  “Strictly business,” Rosetta said.

  “Interesting. Because a registrar’s business is births, deaths, and marriages. Is there anything else they do?” Gina turned to her husband.

  Angelo shrugged.

  “If there is,” Salvatore said, “you needn’t look for it.”

  “Births, deaths, and marriages?” David said. “So did Jonathan thingy have a lot of children?”

  “By different mothers?” Marie said. “Or maybe with this registrar herself?”

  “Or he just registered them all with this registrar?” Angelo asked.

  "No,” Salvatore said. “Nothing to do with children.”

  “That only leaves marriages and deaths,” David said.

  “Correct,” Rosetta said.

  “Which?”

  “Both.”

  “There’s marriage and death in Hedda Gabler,” Marie said. “If anybody cares.” She tossed her hair.

  The family agreed that, really, Salvatore should ring Polly Mainwaring after dinner.

  Oh well, Salvatore thought. If I must ring the most gorgeous woman I’ve met in ages and tell her news that ought to end her engagement.

  He contemplated how he would feel about being a rebound boyfriend.

  He decided he’d feel just fine.

  However when he rang, Polly’s phone was switched off. “I have new information for you, Ms. Mainwaring,” he said in his message. “It’s quite important, so I would like to see you either later tonight or tomorrow morning. Ring me. Anytime.”

  He hoped that he’d managed to balance urgency and not frightening her. However when Polly called at nine fifty she was frightened. “Mr. Lunghi? What is this about? You’ve found out things that I should know?”

  “Yes, but there are documents you really need to see, so I’d prefer to meet you so you can see them for yourself. If you’d like me to come over now . . .”

  Polly’s flat was much more modest than her fiancé’s and not in the city center. It took Salvatore twenty minutes to get there and it would have been longer without the sat nav because her building was at the end of a cul-de-sac that was missing its street sign.

  Polly opened the downstairs door immediately when he pulled up outside. She must have been watching from upstairs and guessed his would be the only car arriving at that time of night.

  Once in her flat she turned to face him. “What have you found out? Because Jack is acting like everything is completely normal.”

  “Please,” Salvatore said, “let’s sit somewhere.”

  She pointed to a couch. She picked a matching armchair.

  “As you know, Jack has been married before,” Salvatore began after he’d put a black folder on the table in front of them.

  “To Belinda. I told you that this afternoon.”

  “Belinda Rogers.” Salvatore removed prints of two documents. “Marriage and death certificates.”

  Polly’s face showed her puzzlement. She did not reach for the papers.

  Then Salvatore pulled out two more pieces of paper. “Harriet Martinson.” Then two more. “Rosalind Perry.” Two more. “Gladys Anne Horowitz.” Two more. “Felicity Jarbaum.” Two more. “Arabella Marlow.”

  “What are these?”

  “Marriage and death certificates.”

  Polly’s eyes widened.

  Quietly Salvatore said, “Jack has been married six times. At least six times. These are copies of documents he keeps in a folder in his desk.”

  “Married six times?”

  “And, in each case his wife died within a few months of the wedding.”

  The large eyes got larger still. “Died?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re . . . you’re saying that he murdered them?”

  Salvatore shook his head. “I can’t say anything of the kind. In each case the death certificate gives a natural cause of death, a cancer as either the primary or a secondary cause.”

  “But you can’t kill someone by giving them cancer.”

  “I don’t know enough about medicine to know what is or isn’t possible.” He paused and watched her fill in a blank: possible for someone with medical training. “I can look into that if you want me to. However you should also know that in each case—all six times—the wedding was conducted by Beverley Norbury.”

  “But that’s—”

  “Ms. Norbury is, indeed, the registrar Jack took you to the other day. She’s been a registrar here in Bath for nearly fifteen years. Jack’s first wedding was twelve years ago.”

  “Twelve,” Polly said quietly.

  “And,” Salvatore said, “you should know that Beverly Norbury also registered all six deaths.”

  Polly Mainwaring sat holding the documents.

  “So it’s no wonder that Ms. Norbury knows Jack. She’s met him on at least a dozen previous occasions. She says—”

  “You talked with her?”

  “My sister did. Ms. Norbury acknowledged knowing Jack but she denied that the relationship is personal.”

  “But if she’s in league with him, if she helps him marry women and then kill them . . .”

  “I haven’t said or suggested any such thing. All we know are the dates and details of these twelve events. They do explain why Ms. Norbury might call him Jack. However, they don’t explain why she greeted him in that personal and friendly way.”

  “Yes,” Polly said. “Yes, she did.”

  “There may be a good reason,” Salvatore said, “and I’m making no accusations. But I hope you see why I thought you ought to have this information sooner rather than later.”

  “Yes,” Polly said. Quietly.

  Salvatore could see that his client was upset. “Look, can I get you a cup of tea? Or something stronger?”

  As the evening went on, the Old Man became restless. The television was on but he wasn’t watching it with his usual critical attention.

  “Why do you twitch?” Mama said.

  He thought about it. Then he realized. “The certificates. Salvatore’s marriage and death. I don’t like them.”

  After a moment Mama said, “They don’t have to be a murder.”

  “I don’t care about that.” They always thought his murder was so precious to him. “Huh!”

  “No?”

  “Let the boy solve a dozen murders. Or half a dozen, if that’s how many. Maybe the boy will be proud and work full time and give up painting that doesn’t pay.”

  “He values his independence too much.”

  “Tha
t we all value. Doesn’t mean he shouldn’t work here. Let him paint in spare time. We could even make him a room.” He didn’t know which room, but there was bound to be one. The Old Man rocked forward.

  “You go somewhere?”

  “Downstairs. To talk.”

  “About the independence or because you don’t like the certificates?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why not? Give them your benefit. But don’t be out all night.”

  Gina and Angelo sat in the living room. They were finally beginning to relax after the case that had occupied them for months. And made them a lot of money. “Cheers.” Angelo offered his glass.

  “Cheers.” They clinked wineglasses, not the first time in the evening.

  Rosetta came in. “Join us.” Angelo held up the wine bottle.

  “No Sally?”

  “Not yet. You have something? Tell us.”

  Rosetta sat and Angelo poured.

  “What do you think of computer dating?” Rosetta asked.

  He looked at her as if she’d asked his opinion of holidays on the moon. But Gina said, “It seems like a good thing, if you’re reasonably cautious.”

  “Thank you,” Rosetta said with a nod.

  “That’s what you’ve been doing since dinner?” Angelo asked. The idea of putting personal things on a computer made him shiver.

  “No. I’ve been going through the documents from the Jonathan Aloysius flat.”

  Gina said, “And you’ve found something?”

  “Jonathan Aloysius has an income. Or, more accurately, incomes. Every month seven deposits go into his account and only one is the salary from his job.”

  The room’s door opened. David’s head peeped around it. “Is he back yet?”

  “Go to bed, ” Gina said.

  David bowed with mock respect. “Yes, oh ancient one.” He left.

  “Cheeky,” she said with a fond smile. “Go on, Rose.”

  “And eleven payments leave his account every month.”

  “Payments?” Angelo said. “For what?”

  “Named people. No indication of what they’re for.”

  “For how much?”

  “About half the value of the non-salary deposits.”

  “Usually, regular payments . . .” Angelo frowned. “They’d be mortgages or credit cards.”

  “There’s a mortgage payment,” Rosetta said. “And he uses a credit card, but he pays that off each month.”

  “Hmm.”

  “And he has five-figure savings. I can’t tell where most of that money came from, though. During the period I have records for only a little has been added to savings.”

  “Low five figures? Not life changing but . . .” Angelo lifted his glass. “Enough to celebrate, from time to time. Here’s to savings.”

  “Savings?” the Old Man said as he came through the door. “Savings I happily celebrate.”

  When Salvatore returned at ten thirty he found Rose, Gina, Angelo, and his father waiting for him. “Wow. A welcoming committee.”

  Gina said, “David wanted to be here too. But I beat him with a stick and sent him to bed.”

  “What? No Marie?”

  “I think she fell asleep learning lines.”

  “I bet David’s listening outside the door,” Angelo said.

  “He’d better not be,” Gina said. Then louder, “He’d better not be!”

  “So,” the Old Man said, “you told this Polly that her Aloysius Jack plans to kill her?”

  “No, Papa. I just showed her the marriage and death certificates.”

  “And did she know about the other weddings?” Rosetta asked.

  “The five additional wives were news to her.”

  “And their deaths,” the Old Man said. “Don’t forget their deaths.”

  “And, of course, she didn’t know about them either,” Salvatore said. “Jack told her he was a widower. Polly couldn’t swear he ever said he’d only been married once. But even if he cloaked the words to avoid telling a literal untruth, she certainly feels that he has lied to her about all this.”

  “And misled her,” Rosetta said.

  “She must feel terribly betrayed,” Gina said.

  “So how did she react when you told her?” Angelo asked.

  “She went quiet.”

  “A lot to take in.”

  “I offered to make her a cuppa or pour something stronger but she didn’t want anything.”

  “Did you offer to stay and comfort her?” Rosetta asked, with raised eyebrows.

  In fact Salvatore had offered to stay. But to his sister he said, “No, no.” He wasn’t proud of his willingness to take advantage of Polly’s vulnerability.

  “Tell me something else,” the Old Man said.

  “What, Papa?”

  “All of these married dead women, they share a registrar . . .”

  “Beverly Norbury.”

  “But did they have the same death doctor?”

  “Doctor?”

  “To sign for the natural cause of these married deaths.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to study the certificates for that.” Salvatore looked at Rose.

  “I didn’t either,” she said. “I concentrated on the bank records.”

  “Because,” the Old Man said, “this certifying is well and good for history and for weddings that aren’t white, but if Aloysius Jack was murdering them, he had to murder them past a doctor.”

  The others looked at each other.

  “To murder them all past one doctor is one thing, but past six different doctors? That’s hard, unless his method is perfect.”

  “Where are our copies of the certificates?” Salvatore asked Rosetta.

  “In my room. I’ll get them. But it also makes me wonder if any of the payments Jonathan Aloysius makes each month are to doctors.”

  “Payments?”

  “Money he pays every month to different named people. We can compare the names with those on the certificates.”

  Angelo said, “Polly won’t confront Jonathan Aloysius tonight, will she, Sal?”

  “I don’t think so. When I left she was going to take a sleeping pill. I asked her to ring me in the morning. It’s not like she’s in immediate danger. Unless he shows up at her door at midnight and drags her off to Gretna Green.”

  “Gretna Green wouldn’t work anyway,” Gina said. “He only gets married with his favorite registrar.”

  “Six wives, all dead?” the Old Man said. “Even the famous Henry VIII couldn’t match Aloysius Jack for that.”

  Salvatore slept over in case Polly Mainwaring rang the office line in the morning. Although he had given her his mobile number and told her to ring at any time.

  Before he went to bed, he and Rosetta went through the names on Appleby’s bank records. None matched that of a doctor on a death certificate. And to answer his father’s question, five doctors had shared the six causes of death, one having two. Salvatore couldn’t think of anything unreasonable about that.

  Less reasonable was Rosetta’s asking what he thought of online dating sites. “Refuges of the desperate,” he said immediately. “Does anybody post an up-to-date picture?”

  “Really? That’s what you think?”

  But as Salvatore lay in bed in the morning he wondered if he had been too hasty. Only a bad brother would discourage a single sister from trying to find someone. A good brother would introduce her to his friends. If he had any friends who were male.

  Salvatore shook his head and got up, though seven thirty was early for him. But Polly’s call didn’t come as the time reached business hours. Nor did it come as the day progressed.

  All morning he sat sketching versions of Polly leaning over a desk while Gina and Angelo took turns being the agency person on duty. They also talked with Rosetta about whether they should buy a new range of micro cameras.

  Just before noon Salvatore rang Polly’s mobile. His call went straight to voicemail. So he rang Baum and Carteret and was told that
she hadn’t come to work.

  “Is she ill?”

  “I don’t know,” a young man said. “I know she rang in but that’s all.”

  So, she was sufficiently alive this morning to make a call to work. But why not a call to me? Where was she and what was she doing?

  Salvatore rang the Royal United Hospital and asked for the maternity ward.

  “Putting you through to Neonatal,” the operator said.

  Salvatore asked for Jack Appleby.

  “I don’t think he’s in,” a woman there said. Salvatore heard her ask someone nearby. “No, Jack’s not in today. Can someone else help you?”

  “Wasn’t he scheduled to be in today?”

  “Yes, but he called in sick.”

  Nothing too trivial, I hope, Salvatore thought. “Okay. I’ll maybe try him at home.”

  Which was an option. Salvatore still had keys to Jonathan Aloysius’s flat.But should he just wait for Polly, or should he try to do something?

  In all likelihood Polly and Jack were together, each having taken the day off work. And they did have things to discuss. Whether they would live happily ever after, or whether he was planning to murder her . . .

  But was Polly safe?

  Probably. But . . . suppose Jonathan Aloysius was a serial murderer, and suppose Polly had told him that she knew his secret. How would he react? And how would Salvatore feel if something happened while he was waiting for Polly to call?

  He went to the kitchen. Angelo was heating something in the microwave. “A word, bro.”

  Jonathan Aloysius’s flat was closer than Polly’s so they went there first. After a perfunctory ring on the bell Salvatore used the keys and he and Angelo went inside.

  Things appeared to be just as they were the day before. There was certainly nobody home.

  So they headed for Polly’s. But as they got out, Salvatore said, “I don’t think they’re here. At least he’s not here. I don’t see his car.”

  Even so they tried the bell. Nothing perfunctory this time. They rang several times without response. They tried the other flats’ doorbells, hoping to be let in to try Polly’s own door. But without response. Short of finding a ladder and looking through her windows there was nothing more to do.