“He beat you up, didn’t he?”
I got up on my machismo. “I just like to think that proves he was sneaky enough.”
“That still adds up to a possible killer, doesn’t it?”
“That much does,” I said. “But not the rest.”
“The rest of what?”
“The rest of what we know about him.”
“So tell me the rest,” she said, “and we’ll see.”
I shook my head. “It’s nothing you don’t know already. Look, Weiskopf was a maniac, but he wasn’t an idiot. He knew the jig was up, and he cleaned out as many incriminating documents as he could, but he wasn’t in a panic about it. He didn’t torch the building. He’d taken plenty of money out of that place, and no doubt he was planning to go to wherever he’d stashed it and spend the rest of his life with it, with or without a stay in prison first.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Look. Weiskopf is running a very illegal and very profitable business. He comes under some suspicion, then passes through the first waves of publicity relatively unscathed. What does he do now? He writes an anonymous letter to Lady Arking, getting at least one newspaper back investigating in a serious way. I’ve got to admit, I still can’t figure that part of it out. Like I said, he was at least part maniac.
“Still. He’s got the investigation going. Joseph Aliou somehow gets around to him, and he gets on to Joseph Aliou. Whom he has killed, for investigating what Weiskopf practically gave him an engraved invitation to investigate. It’d almost be like Weiskopf was setting himself up so that he had to murder somebody.”
“That’s not very smart, is it?”
“No. It’s idiotic. Especially when there’s no reason on earth for it. That kind of behavior is likely to end you up dead.”
“Which it did,” Roxanne pointed out.
“No,” I said. “Some chain of events ended him up dead, but we don’t know just what yet. This theory makes no sense. Especially when you consider that I walk into the room and he quotes the anonymous letter for me. Remember, he knew who I was. If he’d been hiding knowledge of the murders of Aliou and Winston, I doubt he would have quoted his anonymous letter, consciously or unconsciously.”
“So he didn’t do it.”
“Got me,” I said. “But if he did do it, it’s one of those maddening things in life that will never make any sense. I try not to accept those until I have to.”
“Cobb’s razor.”
I grinned. “I never thought of it that way before. Kind of makes me see myself in a whole new light.”
“So what do we do now?” she asked.
The whole new light flickered and died. “Go to bed, I guess. I’m tired. How did your day go, by the way?”
“Pretty well,” she said. “I gave an abstract on my paper of American imports of medical supplies from Britain, 1860 to 1865, and they actually listened. Some of them. Why is it easier to answer intelligent questions than stupid ones?”
Being an intelligent question, that one was easy to answer. “Because,” I said, “when somebody asks you a stupid question, you have to educate them to a certain level before they can even understand an answer.”
On that note of intellectual triumph, we went to bed, where, to our mutual surprise, we scored a couple of physical triumphs and more or less decided a trip to the doctor tomorrow would be superfluous.
Then the phone rang. It was Stephen Arking.
“Cobb,” he said. “I understand you spent the day with my wife. I think we should have a little talk.”
16
“I’ve started, so I’ll finish.”
Magnus Magnusson
Mastermind, BBC
STEPHEN WAS LESS THAN forthcoming on the phone.
When I hung up Roxanne said, “What was that all about?”
“Not sure,” I told her. “My best guess is that Phantastic Phoebe told him some sort of story.”
“Oh no.”
“And now he wants to challenge me to a duel.”
“Right,” she said. “Swords or pistols?”
“Neither. Dirty limericks at ten yards. First one who cracks up laughing loses. Although I’d consider honor satisfied with a snicker.”
“You’re doomed,” she said.
“What do you mean? I know more dirty limericks than anybody. ‘There was a young fellow from Kent—’”
“I like that one,” she said. “But that’s not the point. I don’t know Stephen very well, but my impression of him is that he’s not the type to laugh at dirty limericks. He might not even be the type to get dirty limericks. And even if he did, he would hate them as insults to Poetry.”
“You’re probably right,” I said. “I’m doomed. I’ll switch to pistols. After all, I’m an American. We’re gun-toting, bloodthirsty killers one and all, right? I mean, if you read the English papers. Geez, now I’m sorry I gave the pistol I got from Phoebe to Bristow.”
“Seriously, Cobb, what are you going to say to him?”
“Seriously, Rox, I don’t know. I’ll probably tell him his wife is certifiable, and I don’t even know how he manages to sleep with her, let alone me.”
“Oh, that’ll make him feel better.”
“My love,” I said sincerely, “I am too tired to care. Let’s get some sleep.”
“You sleep, love,” she told me. “I’m going be up all night; I’m going to get some steel wool and knit you a bulletproof vest.”
I dreamed about that damned bulletproof vest. It occurred to me that Americans had the reputation, but it was the English who were slinging the hardware in this case. Assuming an Englishman had killed Winston, of course.
Assuming further that Phoebe had been telling the truth (a risky proposition, to be sure), I was going to spend the morning talking to a man who had had access to at least one illegal gun. I think my subconscious had decided that a bulletproof vest, even a homemade one, was a good idea.
I woke up mumbling, “But what if it rains?”
Roxanne was lying beside me, snoring softly. For once I managed to get out from under the hand she inevitably placed in the middle of my chest without waking her. I took a shower and got dressed. She hadn’t actually knitted the vest, so I decided to go as I was.
I left her a note and took off.
It was a lousy day for a duel. It was cold, overcast, and even snowing a little. People were talking about it. The first November snow in London for twenty-four years, they said.
I was glad I hadn’t missed it.
I got to Stephen’s studio just about the appointed hour of ten o’clock. This was the top floor of the Kensington house. As Phoebe had said, there was a separate entrance, so I didn’t have to run the risk of running into her and adding to whatever offenses I’d already committed.
I rang the bell down in the street and got buzzed in. Stephen was waiting for me at the top of the stairs, looking especially Byronic with a strand of hair across his forehead and white silk shirt open at the collar.
He looked ready for a duel, but he made no mention of one. Didn’t indicate any hostility. He shook my hand and offered me a drink; when I told him it was a little too early for me, he grinned.
“I live on my own private clock, I’m afraid, here in my little snuggery. I’ve been at work for six hours already, so I will indulge, if you don’t mind.”
“Not at all.”
“Meanwhile, may I offer you some coffee or tea?”
“I’d like some tea,” I said.
“Won’t be a minute,” he said, and went around a partition to a kitchenette. “Make yourself at home.”
I looked around the place. I didn’t know if Stephen was much of a poet (though I soon found out), but I admired his taste in snuggeries. If he’d designed the place himself, I decided, he was more of an artist than even Phoebe thought.
It was just a large, comfortable room, with lots of big chairs and comfortable sofas and cushions. There was even a big, solid-looking rocking chair, the first one
I’d seen in England after three months of assiduous looking.
One wall was curtained windows, one was a desk with a word-processor screen glowing green-on-gray on top of it, and the other two were bookshelves.
As an incurable and unabashed bookshelf snoop, I took a look. Poetry. All the classics, from the English tradition and in translation, but most of it was contemporary. Acres and acres of it. It occurred to me that if Stephen actually read all this, no wonder he was on a different time scheme from the rest of humanity.
It also occurred to me that he was undoubtedly the only one in the world who had bought copies of even half this stuff.
There was a good shelf full of the works of Stephen Arking, bound in blue leather, stamped in gold.
As I was beginning to learn (and to warn myself about) having money in the family could make virtually everything in life nicer.
Stephen seemed to be taking an awfully long time over a cup of tea. I wondered if anything had happened to him. Then I realized what was going on. A guy who had enough money to have his poetry bound in leather and gold leaf could undoubtedly afford a screen saver for his computer. A quick look at the wiring setup showed me that Stephen did. The fact that it was not in use implied that he wanted me to see what was on the screen.
I thought of ignoring it, to see how long he’d wait before giving up, but I decided against it. I’d come here after all to talk to the man, not to drive him nuts.
I went to the screen and read.
In orgasmic ecstasy,
I plied my blade
Heedless of resistance
Of supplicant hand
Of cowered posture
Of bone, of flesh,
I swung
And swung and swung
Till no “he” remained
Bits only, unrecognizable
Is this a head?
No more. A half.
Brainless
A bowl to retch in
I said Good I
Rested content.
Jesus, I thought. I remembered that whole shelf of books, presumably filled with stuff like that, and suppressed a shudder. I mean, I knew poetry was dead, but this was dancing on the grave.
Stephen came back in with the tea.
“I brought, cream, sugar, and lemon, since I don’t know how you take it.”
“Thanks,” I said. I sat down next to the table on which he had put the tea, and started adding cream and sugar.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“What about?”
“No need to be coy. I saw you at the computer screen.”
I thought I liked my tea sweet, but this guy was ridiculous. After about seven spoonfuls of sugar, he took a sip, made a face, and added another. “You must have read my current opus in progress. What do you think?”
I managed a sheepish grin. “I didn’t mention it, because I didn’t know if you’d mind.”
He waved off any concern. “Just a little test to see how curious a guest is.” Which was a lie. If I hadn’t read that screen, he’d still be out in the kitchen futzing around with the tea.
“And,” he went on, “to get feedback on my work, you see. The audience for good poetry these days is, ah, shall we say ... select?”
Shall we say ... extinct? Along with good poetry? I have a reputation as a nice guy, but only because my mouth is more disciplined than my brain.
“I’ve decided that anyone curious enough to read the screen will be perceptive enough to have a useful opinion.”
“Interesting reasoning,” I said.
He leaned forward, arms and legs both crossed in the defensive yet somehow vulturelike pose made famous by Sir David Frost.
“So, what’s yours?” he asked.
“Oh, the tea will be fine.”
He was haughtily amused. “No, dear boy. What’s your useful opinion of the poem?”
I was trapped now.
I pursed my lips for a moment and said, “It’s powerful.”
That was not a lie. So is ipecac.
It made Stephen’s day. He unwound himself and clapped, applauding either my perception or his own brilliance, it was hard to tell.
“That was the effect I was striving for. Editors at the journal say it’s too powerful for them, but I refuse to soften my work. One’s art must not be subject to compromise, don’t you agree?”
As a matter of fact, I did. I told him so.
“I am fortunate enough to have been provided for by my father—not lavishly, but comfortably. My stepmother keeps the level of support artificially low because she still hopes to drive me into the family business. Not to denigrate the news or anything, but nothing can be further from my interests.
“You see, what Pamela doesn’t understand is that one’s muse is a much more demanding boss than any of you ... television executives could ever be. I’m sure you at least, can understand that.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “We are not a muse.”
He frowned, then mumbled, “We are not a ... Oh! Excellent, Cobb, excellent. As you undoubtedly noticed, I’m not averse to a bit of the old paranomasia myself. Did you like the double meaning—‘cowered’ and ‘coward’?”
“Daring,” I said.
He shrugged. “How can there be Art without daring?” My assumption that the question was rhetorical turned out to be correct, and, boy, was I glad.
“But, dear boy,” he went on. “I’m being selfish. I didn’t ask you out here to talk about my poetry.”
It was nice to have that stated categorically. I was beginning to wonder.
“We’re here to talk about my wife.”
He sat there looking at me. It went on for a long time. I kept looking for something other than bland good-fellowship, but I never found it.
That was somehow more unsettling than outright hostility would have been.
“Quite a gal,” I ventured.
“Yes indeed,” he said. “Underneath that bone-china exterior is the spirit of adventure that made the Empire. Or so they tell me. Absolutely devoted to me and my art; builds her life around my poetry. Have I mentioned she handles all the tedious secretarial and accountancy chores for this household?”
“I think you have, yes, the other night at your stepmother’s.”
“Well, she does. You don’t know what a relief it is to a chap never to worry about money. Or, ha-ha, maybe you do.”
I looked into that nudge-nudge, wink-wink smile, and I swore to myself never to budge an inch on the issue of the prenuptial agreement. I smiled back, a little wearily. “I was eating regular before I ever met Roxanne Schick,” I said.
“Of course you were. Look at the size of you. No wonder Phoebe is smitten with you.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Come, come, Cobb. We’re all adults here, aren’t we? All I’m saying is, next time, take the poor girl to a decent hotel instead of dragging her into dangerous criminal things. She might have been hurt, and I couldn’t live without her, for all that I spend too much time with the muse. I am totally fulfilled in my work, eh? But Phoebe must have her outlet, too. I don’t mind, especially when she shows such excellent taste.”
It takes a lot to get me sputtering, but this did it. “Wait a minute—you think I—she—that I—what the hell did she tell you?
“That you arranged an assignation, but went off on this case business, and the fellow got careless and got himself killed, and you never got around to doing anything, poor children.”
“I have no sexual interest in your wife!”
“Now, I know America is still a Puritan country, my boy, but there’s really no need to keep up appearances. Phoebe and I are beyond all that.”
“Puritan, my ass! Phoebe and you are both nuts. Where did you get that gun?”
“Gun?”
“The unlicensed gun I took away from her yesterday afternoon. The one you gave her to protect herself.” I shivered in retrospect. “God,” I said, “the idea of either one of you maniacs with
a gun is enough to make me want to paste hundred-dollar bills to myself and run naked through Times Square. I’d feel safer.”
“Cobb, there’s no need to introduce extraneous topics like guns into a civilized conversation. If you’re uncomfortable with my knowing, forget I ever said a word. Carry on as you’ve been. I daresay it’ll add a bit of spice for Phoebe.”
“You and Phoebe,” I said, “deserve each other. I am leaving. I will deal, henceforth, through Lady Arking. Get out of my way.”
“Does this mean you won’t be calling Phoebe?”
I stormed downstairs, hailed a cab and went home. I was still storming when I walked in. Rox looked up at me with questioning eyes.
“Pack!” I screamed.
17
“It is time now, ’astings, to employ ze little grey cells.”
David Suchet
Hercule Poirot, LWT
WE DIDN’T PACK, MUCH as I wanted to at that moment.
For one thing, I think that particular trick would have torn Bristow’s nose clean off his face. He wasn’t too pleased with me at the moment as it was, and an attempt to leave the country might well provoke an international incident.
For another thing, I was goddamn mad.
“I,” I told my sweetheart some hours later when she’d managed to calm me down a little, “am goddamn mad.”
“At who, precisely?” she asked.
“Whom,” I corrected automatically.
“Whoa,” she laughed. “You are mad. When you start giving me that English major crap, you are on the boil.”
“I wouldn’t mention it under ordinary circumstances,” I said, “but I want you to make a good impression on these professors and things you hang around with.”
“You mean like you, when you told Professor Manders you were convinced he dropped his accent and talked regular when there were no Americans around.
“He laughed.”
“Yeah. He laughed. I almost died. Have a scone.”
“Good idea.” I split the scone open and spooned some rich, thick clotted cream on top, with an artistic red drop of strawberry jam in the middle. This creation, especially the cream, was in itself an argument for staying in England.
We were sitting at a massive, scarred wooden table in the kitchen, with the booty of the pantry and the fridge spread before us. Rox knew me well enough to know that I’d get calmer as I got fuller.
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