The Resurrection Man
Page 24
“Curses! Foiled again. How wily of you, Barty. I suppose now you’re going to evict me from the atelier.”
“Don’t worry about that, Mr. Goudge,” consoled Levitan. “We’ve got a nice, cozy cell all ready and waiting. Would you mind phoning the station, Bittersohn? Ask the dispatcher to send along a stretch limo instead of the meat wagon, Mr. Goudge is used to traveling in style.”
“That’s awfully kind of you, Lieutenant,” said his prisoner, “but please don’t bother about the limo. Now that I seem to have run out of things to do, you may as well have them bring back that hearse.”
“Well,” said Max after he’d helped Levitan and Greenaway unshackle themselves from Goudge’s corpse, “that was thoughtful and considerate. He must have had a cyanide capsule parked behind his bridgework.”
“Crazy as a bedbug.” Officer Greenaway’s articulation was much improved, Anora must have bought top-quality soda water. The policeman started to say something else, but his words were drowned out by the loud wails of the little brown man in the bright-red suit.
“What’s the matter with him?” cried Sarah above the tumult. “Can he be mourning that ghastly murderer?”
“No,” said Arbalest, “he’s lamenting the fact that Goudge has died without having paid him the money he was supposed to get for all those clever tricks he’s been playing. He says running around Boston in that red suit is worse than being downwind of a burning ghat. Poor fellow.”
Arbalest shouted a few words in Tamil, the ululations turned to what could only be an outpouring of gratitude. Sarah thought perhaps a round of soda water might help. She was on her way to get some when she met Anora, waddling through the hall in a lurid yellow-and-magenta chenille bathrobe and her brown felt slippers.
“Anora! What are you doing up? I thought the doctor had given you a sleeping pill.”
“So did he. What’s going on down here? Who’s doing all that howling?”
“The man in the red suit, the one George saw running across the yard. He’s all right now. It’s a long story, Anora. Are you sure you feel up to hearing it?”
“No, but I will be once I get something into me. Phyllis, quit fluttering around like a wet hen. Go tell Cook to make a fresh pot of tea and heat up some soup, I’m starving. Who’s here? Sarah, what are you looking at me like that for? Don’t tell me there’s been another murder?”
“Not exactly, this last one’s a suicide.”
“Who?”
“That man Goudge, who drove the car for Mr. Arbalest.”
“The fellow with the mean little eyes? I caught him staring at George that second night they came here, he gave me a funny feeling. Was he the one who speared my George?”
“Yes, Anora.”
“Too bad he killed himself,” Anora grunted. “I’d gladly have done it for him. Where’s Max?”
“In the den with the policemen and the body. He’s called an ambulance.”
“Good. Tell him I said thanks. What happened to Marcus?”
“He and Lydia Ouspenska drove back to Boston with Brooks and Theonia,” Sarah explained. “He said to tell you he’d be out next Sunday and to phone the atelier between times if you want him for anything.”
“Well, that was quite a speech for Marcus, bless his heart. Is Amadée’s son still here?”
“No, he went in the other ambulance with his father’s body. Jacques is going to let you know about the arrangements.”
“They’ll have Amadée cremated here and hold the funeral in Arizona, I suppose, it’s the only practical way these days. I’ll have to go, if I live that long. He did as much for me. Not much else to live for, now that George is gone.”
“Don’t be too sure of that, Anora. Go sit down before you fall down. I’ll tell Max you’re here, he wants to see you.” Sarah hurried to the den. “Max, Anora’s downstairs. Would you bring George’s letter, and the photograph? Mr. Arbalest, you may as well come too. And the Tamil man, does he have a name?”
“Why—yes.” Arbalest got rather uncertainly to his feet. “It’s Cijay, he says, Cijay Cattahoochee, if I’ve got it right. It’s so long since I’ve spoken Tamil. Cijay’s really a nice fellow, we’ve been chatting a bit. He’s in the country illegally, as you may have guessed. Carnaby found him wandering around the waterfront a few weeks ago, scared him into thinking he was in immediate danger of being sent to jail forever, and offered to become his protector. Translated, that appears to have meant using him as a slave, which was a terrible shame because he’s quite a bright, sociable fellow. He says he knows a little English but he can’t speak it well enough because Carnaby wouldn’t teach him and warned him against talking to anybody else.”
“Did he tell why Goudge made him do all that running around?” asked Levitan.
“He believes his master was a very strange man. He doesn’t understand why he’s been made to wear that red suit and do monkey tricks. He thinks Carnaby may have been slightly off in the head.”
“It never occurred to him that Goudge might have been trying to make him look crazy, with the object of pinning him for George’s murder?” said Max. “Well, it’s water over the dam now. Come on, we’d better get straightened out with Anora.”
“I hope Mrs. Protheroe isn’t too—oh, well, we’d better go and get it over with. Perhaps if I just lurk in the background?” The Resurrection Man was scared stiff, why wouldn’t he be?
“Whatever you feel comfortable with,” Sarah told him.
She let Max lead the way carrying the leather portfolio and the fateful letter, and laid her hand on Arbalest’s arm. He needed all the moral support he could get, she could feel him trembling. Anora was in her big armchair, her hands resting on its rubbed-bare plush arms, her eyes on nothing at all. She barely turned her head when they came in. Max opened the portfolio and held it up for her to see.
“Good Lord, that’s George! Where did you get that photo, Max? I’ve never seen it before.” She fumbled a tissue out of her bathrobe pocket and blew her nose. “Very nice. Except that the eyes are wrong. Whatever possessed whoever took the picture to color them green?”
“That isn’t George, Anora.” Max handed her the letter. “You’d better read this.”
Now he had her full and undivided attention. “Max, this is George’s writing. Where did you find it?”
“Amadée Dubrec brought it with him. George wrote to you years ago in the hospital, when he was so sick and expecting to die. He gave the letter to Dubrec, who was supposed to hand it over to you after the funeral. As it turned out, Dubrec had to wait a lot longer than he’d bargained for. He was intending to give you this tonight, after the rest of us had cleared out.”
“Hand me my reading glasses, Sarah, they’re on the mantelpiece.”
Anora put them on and read through the yellowed pages, taking her time. At last she folded the sheets together, took off her glasses, laid them very carefully on the small table beside her.
“Well! All these years, and I never had a notion. What happened to the boy, I wonder?”
“I’m here.”
Bartolo Arbalest’s voice was low and shaky. He knelt down before the widow either in supplication or because he had no strength left to stand.
“I knew who he was as soon as I saw him, Mrs. Protheroe. I sensed it, just from being near him. And I had the feeling he knew me, and was glad to see me. I realize you’ll never want to see me again, I just want you to know how desperately sorry I am to have been the reason why he died. I’d far rather have died for him. Oh, God, if only I had!”
“There, there.” Anora was patting his shoulder, smoothing his grizzled hair. “Don’t cry, laddie, it wasn’t your fault. Let’s go and have some nice hot soup, just the two of us. You’ll forgive us, won’t you, Sarah? My stepson and I have some things to talk over. For one thing, George, I’m not sure Marcus is taking his medication regularly. You’ll have to lean on him about that. You don’t mind my calling you after your father, do you? You’re so like him, I’m bound t
o keep forgetting and saying George anyway. Before we eat, I want you to shave off that bush so I can see your face. And what are we to do with this chap in the red suit? Can he garden?”
“I’m sure he can do lots of things, once he gets the chance. His name is Cijay Cattahoochee. He says he knows how to drive a car, he can bring Marcus out to visit you on weekends. And me too, if you want me.”
“What do you mean, if? This is your home, George. And somebody’s got to keep the place from falling to pieces. You can’t expect me to do everything, not at my age. Does Cijay have anything to wear besides that silly red suit? You’ll have to get him fitted out. Where’s he been living?”
Arbalest said something in Tamil, the other smiled for the first time and said something back.
“Cijay’s been living in an apartment Carnaby rented across the alley from the atelier. I’ve seen him out there several times, he’s always upset me because he reminded me of so many things I’d rather forget. He says he has some other clothes that a kind lady gave him last week.”
“Anne,” exclaimed Sarah, “my Cousin Percy’s wife. Ask him what he did with the painting of the girl holding the parrot.”
“Oh yes, that nice little primitive.” More words were exchanged, Cijay looked worried. Arbalest didn’t.
“He says the painting’s in the apartment. He’s sorry he stole it but his master made him. His master took his clothes away and made him go naked down through the vent in the greenhouse. He handed the painting out the window to his master, then got stuck trying to get back up through the vent. He couldn’t get loose for a long time, his master got impatient and drove off without him and he had no clothes. Then the kind lady brought him some and he walked back to Boston. I’m afraid Carnaby hasn’t been treating him very well.”
“Phyllis,” said Anora, “take this man out to the kitchen and give him something to eat. His name’s Cijay and he’s going to be working for us till we find him something better. He can have the room over the garage. And this is my stepson George, whom Marcus works for. They’ll both be coming to Sunday dinner tomorrow. How are you going to manage without a chauffeur, George?”
“I can drive, mother. Oh, it feels so good to say that! Mrs. Bittersohn, Mr. Bittersohn, Mr.—I’m sorry, I don’t know this young man’s name.”
“He’s Jesse Kelling,” said Sarah. “And I’m Sarah and my husband is Max. And we’ll call you George too, if you don’t mind.”
“I’ll be delighted. Quite frankly, I’ve never cared much for the name my mother gave me, though I suppose I’ll have to keep it for professional reasons. You’re off then?”
“Yes, we have things to do.”
“Tell Cijay I hope I didn’t hurt him too much when I jumped him,” said Jesse.
“It was in a good cause, Cijay will understand. I do want you all to understand how deeply I appreciate your good offices on my behalf. And Brooks’s too, of course. I must drop him a note. I’ll see that you get Mrs. Percy Kelling’s painting back tomorrow and I’d be delighted to entertain everyone at the atelier as soon as we can fix a date and mother feels up to traveling. I’m afraid all this has taken a lot out of you, mother. Perhaps we’d better go get that soup.”
“I thought you were going to shave first,” said Anora.
Over the newly christened George Protheroe’s face spread a smile of ineffable delight. “Isn’t she wonderful? She’s bullying me already.”
Max Bittersohn shrugged and grinned. “So what’s a mother for? Come on, Sarah, let’s take Jesse back to Tulip Street and go pick up our kid.”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1992 by Charlotte MacLeod
cover design by Mauricio Diaz
978-1-4532-7733-1
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