The Cool Cottontail

by John Ball

  After he received nodded permission he picked up the instrument on the counter, dialed, gave his credit-card number, and in a few seconds had Bob Nakamura on the line.

  “I have a make,” he reported. “I’ll get a few details and then come in.”

  When he had hung up, he turned toward Ellen. “Miss Boardman, I understand how you must feel, and I don’t want to intrude on you at this time. It is very important, however, that I talk with you as soon as you feel up to it. You understand why.”

  Ellen Boardman stared out of the window for a moment, seeing nothing; then, with wet eyes but in control of herself, she looked at Tibbs. “If you could let me have just a few minutes. I want to phone my father so that he can break the news to mother. And I’d like to—think a little bit. After that I’ll be glad to do whatever I can.”

  “Perhaps you’d like to wait until after a formal identification. I might be wrong.”

  Ellen studied him for a moment. “Are you?” she asked.

  It was one of the things a policeman had to do. “I don’t think so,” he answered. He rose to go.

  “Sit down, please. I won’t be too long.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Tibbs replied, “I’d rather go outside. It’s very pleasant up here and I’d enjoy walking around a bit.”

  As soon as he was gone, Ellen rose tensely and turned toward the telephone. She had to make the call and she wanted it to be over. A few minutes later, she hung up, grateful that the brief ordeal was behind her. She wiped her eyes, replaced the snapshots where they belonged, and glanced at the clock. In ten minutes it would be noon. Relieved that she had something to do, she walked into the small kitchen that served the family and mechanically began the motions of preparing lunch. She set two places.

  As she cut a tomato into wedges for the salad, she thought about her Uncle Albert. Now that he was gone, there was little she could do for him. She could pray, and she could help the police, if she was able to, in their search for the person responsible. She did not understand why they had sent a Negro, but then, she reflected, the old differences were disappearing rapidly and perhaps she was just behind the times.

  Outside the day was lovely. Somewhere in the neighborhood someone was hammering; it was the sound of life going on, of something being accomplished.… She finished the salad and put it on the table.

  Ten minutes later she had the lunch ready. She went back to the lobby, but the policeman was not there. She pushed the front door open and saw him; he was standing on the fence railing replacing the sign that had been knocked down. He drove a final nail with the hammer in his hand, jumped down, and put the tool in the trunk of his car.

  Ellen walked over to meet him. “That was very nice of you. You saved me a job, and I’m not very good at that sort of thing.”

  “You’re quite welcome,” Tibbs said. “If it’s not too much trouble, could I wash?”

  “Yes, of course, and then come in for lunch. It’s not very much, but we can talk, if you like.”

  Tibbs followed her in, used the washroom she pointed out, and then joined her in the small dining room. He accepted his lunch without comment and waited until he sensed that she was ready to talk to him.

  “If you feel up to it now,” he began, “I’d like to ask you some questions about your uncle. Suppose we start with his name.”

  She nodded. “His name is—was Albert Roussel, Dr. Albert Roussel,” she added with emphasis.

  “He was a physician?”

  “No, a chemist. Uncle Albert majored in chemistry at college and was good at it, good enough to earn a scholarship and to go on to his master’s. After that he joined a company that encouraged advanced study, and four years later he got his Ph.D.”

  She thought for a few moments. “He stayed with that company for several years while he did some work on his own at home. His hobby was photography and he worked on the chemistry of films and things like that. After a while he hit on something—” She stopped and shook her head. “I’m getting ahead of the story.”

  She paused and poured Tibbs a cup of tea. “When my uncle was in college,” Ellen went on, “he met a well-known girl, Joyce Bachelor. From what I’ve been told, I don’t think she was a very admirable girl. I gathered that Joyce was for Joyce, and that was all that mattered to her.”

  She paused, but Tibbs said nothing.

  “At the time, Uncle Albert was nevertheless very attracted to her. They went together for some time, during school and afterward. But I gather she felt that the man she married would either have to have or to make a lot of money. I think she liked Uncle Albert—she went with him enough—but she just couldn’t see him as a future millionaire, and so that was that.”

  Telling the story seemed to be relieving her mind. She kept her voice even and almost impersonal.

  “Well, she got her way. She did meet a man—an older man—who had the money she wanted, and she married him. At the end of several years he dropped dead on the tennis court one day, and Joyce was left with practically everything. Meanwhile, as I told you, Uncle Albert hit on something—a photographic process of some kind having to do with color. He sold the process on a royalty basis, made a little name for himself, and the money started to flow in.”

  “And so did Joyce,” Tibbs suggested.

  “Yes, but not in the way you might think. I’d rather like to think that Uncle Albert told her he wasn’t interested any more. By this time he was living in France. Our family on mother’s side is of French descent and he spoke the language well. He had a villa there that he liked very much and he said the rural atmosphere of the place helped him in his work.

  “I know he was very popular over there; he was such a fine man that he had a host of friends, so Joyce just wasn’t in the running any more. At least that’s the way I think it was.” She paused and took a deep breath. When she went on, her voice had changed in tone. “Anyhow, Joyce had a lot of money now and ideas about making more. So she had an inspiration—to form a holding company to handle Uncle Albert’s patents. Maybe she felt he would come up with more if he had additional capital to work with, and she knew where it could be found. So they made a deal.”

  Ellen stopped as though she had run down; she was on the thin edge of her control.

  Tibbs ate very quietly and did nothing to distract her.

  Finally she went on, “Three or four people came into the thing and it prospered—on the ideas that Uncle Albert developed, of course. Then he more or less quit. He spent practically all his time in France and only came over here once a year to visit us and to attend a board meeting of the company. Since he was the person who made everything possible, his opinions and ideas were pretty well respected.”

  “I should think so,” Tibbs agreed.

  Ellen swallowed hard and then drank some tea. “This year the board meeting seems to be especially important. I don’t know the details, but apparently one of the big companies has made an offer to buy out everything. There are only four or five people in the company—Uncle Albert’s company, that is—and they have to decide.”

  “Most of them live locally?” Tibbs asked.

  She nodded. “That’s right—Joyce and the others. Again, I don’t know, but I have the idea that some of them want to sell and others don’t. Uncle Albert wrote us that he wanted to be certain he was present this time, though of course he always is anyway.”

  “How did your uncle feel about the sale?”

  Ellen shook her head. “I don’t know that. He just wrote that he was definitely coming, that’s all.”

  “He could well have been in a position to hold the balance of power,” Tibbs guessed aloud. “In that case, some very strong emotions might have been aroused.”

  “You mean one of them might have done it?” Ellen asked.

  “It’s something to look into,” Tibbs said.

  He drove back to Pasadena with many things on his mind. When he walked into his office, Bob Nakamura was waiting for him. “You’ve been sold into slavery.
” he said.

  Tibbs sat down behind his desk. “Do I have to address a Boy Scout conclave?”

  Bob shook his head. “San Bernardino is delighted that you have identified the body. They were very impressed. Also they added something about what a happy circumstance it was that you were there just when they were shorthanded.”

  Tibbs looked for a longing moment at the top of his desk. “I have other things to do,” he said with a sigh.

  “They know, and so does Captain Lindholm. However, officially you are to continue on the case until it is closed. A successful outcome is expected.”

  Tibbs shook his head. “Why did my mother raise her boy to be a policeman? Why couldn’t I just play second base for some nice minor-league team?”

  “Because you’re not a good enough hitter, I suspect.” Bob paused and looked at him sidewise. “Are you enjoying your visits to the nudist camp?”

  Tibbs laughed. “It’s different, I’ll grant you that. Helps to break the monotony. Nice people, though.”

  “Any pretty girls?”

  Tibbs returned the knowing glance. “Wait till you get a load of Linda. Also you might try sitting across from people who are comfortably undressed—completely, that is—and who ask you how you like police work.”

  “I think I might just enjoy that,” Bob mused. “When I married Amiko, I accepted certain restrictions, of course, but I wasn’t struck blind.”

  “I’ll get you an application,” Tibbs offered generously. “They already have several Nisei members—they told me.”

  “I don’t think Amiko would go for it. Though personally I wouldn’t mind,” Bob said. “Some of my best friends are Caucasians.”

  Calmly Virgil picked up his phone and dialed both area code and number from memory. After the normal amount of clicking and three audible rings, Linda’s voice came on the line.

  “Good afternoon, Linda,” Tibbs said, carefully underlining her name. “This is Virgil.”

  Without hesitation Bob Nakamura picked up his phone and pushed the button that would put him on the line.

  “Why, hello, Virgil!” he heard her say. “Are you coming in?”

  “Not today, but I called to let you and your family know that we have identified the body found in your pool.”

  “Please-who was he?”

  “I’m sure you didn’t even know of him. He was an American scientist who was living in France.”

  “You were right!” she exclaimed over the line. “Everything you said was true. I don’t know about the swimming part, but I bet you were right there, too.”

  Tibbs noted with mild disapproval that Bob had elected to listen in.

  “Linda, how is the weather out there?” he asked.

  “Beautiful. I just came out of the water. I’m on the pool-side extension now. Come and take a swim.”

  Bob puckered his lips and looked toward the ceiling.

  “Thank you for inviting me. And when you get back to the house, I’d like to ask you to do me a favor,” Tibbs went on smoothly. “A close friend of mine would like an application for membership. A Mr. Robert Nakamura. Would you send him one in care of the Pasadena Police Department?”

  “Is he a single?” Linda asked.

  “No, he has a lovely wife; you’ll like her.” Tibbs’ face showed no sign of emotion. “And a son six, a daughter four.”

  “That’s fine, Virgil. If they’re friends of yours, then I know we would like to have them. I’ll send you an application, too.”

  Recognizing instantly that he was being flanked, Tibbs said a quick “Thank you” and hung up. “You’re in,” he said to Bob with pleasant candor.

  “So are you.”

  Tibbs shook his head. “I don’t think so. They don’t accept singles; you heard her. And besides—” He stopped.

  The frivolity was gone.

  Bob picked his words carefully. “She invited you. You didn’t even have to ask. And she called you Virgil.”

  “They call everybody by his first name,” Tibbs explained, almost too quickly. “It’s a custom they have.”

  On the way to Beverly Hills and on through to Bel Air, Tibbs was annoyed with himself. Linda had pulled his leg, just as he had been pulling hers. But regardless of her friendliness, and that of her family, he felt that it was one more place closed to him because of his background. The neighbors had apparently accepted the nudist park well enough, but what would their attitude be if they spotted Negro members going in and out of the gate? He remembered the applicant he had encountered on his first visit. If a Negro family were to join the club, how many others would resign in protest? There would be some, he felt sure of that.

  He consulted the address slip clipped to the hot sheet and then turned in through an ornate gateway to the exclusive residential area. The winding roadway climbed slowly up toward the foothills of the Santa Monica Mountains, passing the elaborate mansions of the movie colony and the owners of electronics plants. Sprinkled along the curb were the neat compact trucks of the Japanese-American gardeners who maintained the carefully combed appearance of the lawns and shrubbery.

  The residence of Mrs. Joyce Bachelor Pratt was a little smaller than some of its neighbors, which put it somewhere in the eighty- to one-hundred-thousand-dollar bracket. An asphalt driveway led uphill to a three-car garage and a small parking area beside the house. For a moment Tibbs contemplated leaving his car at the curb and walking the rest of the way; then he decided to drive in, as any other visitor would do.

  He ignored the sign that pointed the way to the rear entrance, and pressed the button at the front door. A Negro maid answered; when she saw Tibbs, her face broke into a pleasant smile. “Yes, sir?” she inquired.

  Tibbs offered his calling card. The maid glanced at it, lifted her eyebrows slightly, and opened the door wider. “Please come in, sir,” she said. As Tibbs stepped inside, she added, “I’ll see if Mrs. Pratt is at home.”

  She disappeared with the card; as she walked away Tibbs noted with approval that she kept her hips still and her body straight.

  Presently he heard voices from another room. He caught the words “This gentleman is calling to see you, Madam.”

  He was fully prepared for Mrs. Pratt to be an impressive woman, not necessarily large, but somewhat in the grande-dame style. When she appeared, he was reminded again never to jump to conclusions. She was very small, just touching five feet, and slender enough to suggest that she did not weigh much over a hundred pounds. He had expected her to be fifty, which she obviously was despite considerable effort on her part to halt the progress of time. There was about her mouth and still-dimpled chin a certain kittenishness and the hint of a seductive pout. In her youth she had clearly been the little warm thing who was fragile, “cute,” and who offered sex potential in a compact package. Her hair was light and had been cut just short enough to frame the small features of her face.

  When she saw Tibbs, she stopped dead and the half smile that had curved her mouth disappeared. “You wished to see me?” she asked, and let a trace of emphasis linger on the first word.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Pratt. Yes, I would—officially.”

  Joyce Pratt wrinkled her small brow and looked at his card once more. “I haven’t been in Pasadena for almost two months,” she protested.

  The maid, who was standing behind her, watched Tibbs intently.

  “This concerns you only indirectly, Mrs. Pratt,” he told her. “But it is necessary for me to ask you a few questions.”

  The maid stepped back to enable her to invite him in.

  Mrs. Pratt took her time. “Did you want to come in?” she asked in a tone that clearly suggested a negative answer.

  “Thank you,” Tibbs replied, and walked in. He found himself in a living room that was half boudoir; the furniture was extremely feminine as were the many varicolored pillows scattered about and the curtains that spanned the wide windows. The painstakingly created atmosphere told him a lot about the owner and why the big man who lay in the mo
rgue in San Bernardino had found her attractive. Her petite size and her apparent need for protection had been, and were, her stock in trade.

  He turned and waited until his hostess had reluctantly followed him in. When at last she sank into a chair with studied care, he chose one end of an astonishingly soft davenport, where he could be near enough to talk easily but still far enough away to avoid any familiarity.

  “Mrs. Pratt,” he began, “I understand you are a close friend of Dr. Albert Roussel’s, and a stockholder in the company that markets his patents.”

  There was no femininity in her voice when she answered him; her tone was cold and sapphire hard. “I do not care to discuss Dr. Roussel. If you want to know anything about him, I suggest that you speak to him personally, if he will see you. Will that be all?”

  Tibbs pushed his fingers together to give her time to understand he was not that easily dismissed. “Mrs. Pratt,” he said presently, “I dislike very much to bring you distressing news, but it may not be possible to do that.”

  She looked sharply at him. “What do you mean?” She snapped the words out, hard and brittle, as though she would not allow him to tell her such a thing.

  “Mrs. Pratt,” Tibbs spoke very slowly. “I greatly regret to inform you that a man closely answering Dr. Roussel’s description was found dead a few days ago. Although there has been no formal identification as yet, we believe it to be him.”

  “Not the body in the nudist colony!” She almost barked the words and then pointed with obvious distaste to the morning paper that lay folded on a table.

  “That is the man.”

  “It’s outrageous.”

  Tibbs nodded in agreement. “Murder usually is.”

  They were interrupted by the maid, who appeared pushing in a mahogany cart that held an exquisite Japanese tea service on its glass top. She advanced quietly into the room and stopped beside her mistress.

  Joyce Pratt turned and looked at her. “What is that for?” she demanded.

  “You instructed me to prepare tea for all guests, Madam,” the maid said.

  “This man is not a guest.”