Fenimore imagined Bannister coming here after dinner—no, late at night—after a difficult day and having made perfunctory love to his wife. He pictured him quietly entering his den. Almost tiptoeing over to the TV set. Punching the next-to-top button. Waiting impatiently for the machine to complete its rotation. Flicking the light switch. Sinking into his comfortable armchair to enjoy—no, to revel in—his collection of coins, and the thought that he owned one of the best in the world!
“Bridge is resuming in the drawing room,” a voice spoke behind him in a mock-falsetto tone.
Fenimore jumped.
Jennifer’s smile vanished. “What’s wrong?”
He stepped aside, allowing her to see the contents of the case.
She moved closer. “Are they valuable?”
“Probably. Yes.”
He reached behind the TV and punched the second button from the top. Nothing happened. He punched again. Nothing. The set refused to revolve.
“Maybe there’s a remote stick.” Jennifer went behind the desk and opened the top drawer. Fenimore felt sweat break out on his face as he waited for an alarm to bleat. Nothing happened. He went to the door and checked the hall.
“Here it is!” Jennifer held up the stick.
Together they examined it. It had the usual START, STOP, FAST FORWARD, and REWIND. But there was an extra button with no label at the end of the row. Before Fenimore could stop her, Jennifer pressed it. Slowly the coin case began to rotate away from them, and the TV screen re-emerged. Jennifer put the remote stick back in the drawer.
“Here you are.” Bannister stood in the doorway. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“Just catching up on those ball scores,” Fenimore said.
“Oh, right. I forgot I promised to take you to a TV. Well, I see you found it on your own.” He looked at Jennifer who was still standing behind the desk—an awkward position from which to watch the TV. “And—are you a baseball fan, Jessica?”
“Jennifer. Actually, I was admiring your bird prints.” She turned to the one nearest her.
“Yes. That’s an original Audubon. Are you a bird fancier?”
“No. A print fancier.” She moved away from the desk. “My father and I own a bookstore which specializes in rare books and old prints.”
“Is that so?” He took them both by the arm and guided them from the room, as if they were two children who had strayed.
“So you prefer books and prints to baseball?”
“I used to like baseball, when I was in my teens. Actually I was quite a tomboy,” she chattered on. “I followed the games very closely.”
Bannister paused at the head of the stairs to give her an appraising glance. “You don’t look like a tomboy,” he said.
Thank God for Jennifer, Fenimore thought. She’s disarming him. But he underestimated the lawyer. As they started down the stairs, Bannister asked casually, “By the way, Fenimore, what were those scores?”
Jennifer stiffened under Bannister’s hand. He was still holding her arm, although he had dropped Fenimore’s.
“Guess I won’t know till tomorrow,” Fenimore’s tone was light. “When I turned it on they were into a commercial break and I didn’t want to wait.”
Bannister smiled. “Oh, well, bridge is a better game anyway.” When they reached the bottom of the stairs, he finally released Jennifer.
As Fenimore and Jennifer took their places at the bridge table, their opponents fixed them with reproachful glares. Next to hardened criminals, there is no more dangerous species than the serious bridge player who has been kept waiting.
CHAPTER 59
When they had finished their fourth rubber, Mrs. Bannister announced that coffee and soft drinks were being served in the dining room. Fenimore looked for the liquor bottles that had been in the living room. Gone. If they had been there, he would have been tempted to have a scotch. The guests stretched and chatted and were gradually drawn by the fragrant aroma of coffee (even though it was decaf) into the dining room. Jennifer was heading in that direction when Fenimore waylaid her. “That was a pretty stupid bid you opened with … .” he spoke loudly.
Jennifer looked at him in dismay.
His back to the others, he winked.
“I beg your pardon?” She pretended indignation.
“If you’d followed my lead with a decent trick, we might have taken that last game.”
“I was trying my best.” She sounded hurt.
Fenimore guided her toward the stairs. At the bottom he spoke rapidly, in a low tone, “I forgot to turn off the light in the coin case. I don’t dare go back up there. Pretend to be upset by my bullying, run upstairs to the den and turn it off. The switch is under the left side of the case. I’ll keep Bannister occupied.”
Jennifer saw Bannister coming toward them and exclaimed, “If my game isn’t good enough for you, you can bring someone else next time,” and she ran up the stairs.
“Don’t be too hard on her. There’s always the next game. Let sleeping dogs lie. Besides,” Bannister added with a smirk, “she has other assets more important than a head for bridge.”
A real chauvinist, thought Fenimore. “You’re right,” he agreed heartily. “They haven’t escaped me, I assure you. There’s more than one way to score, isn’t there?”
Bannister’s laugh approached a schoolboy snicker. Then his manner changed. “Speaking of scores, this would be a good time to check those baseball scores.”
Fenimore cursed himself for his poor choice of words. “Never mind,” he said, “I can catch them tomorrow.”
“No, now you’ve got me interested. I’d like to see how the Phils are making out.” He started up the stairs.
Fenimore lagged behind. “I don’t want to take you away from your guests …”
“Nonsense. They won’t miss me.” He was halfway up the stairs. There was nothing Fenimore could do but follow.
“I thought you didn’t care for baseball,” Fenimore spoke as loudly as possible to alert Jennifer.
“I loved it as a boy. Haven’t had time for it in recent years. I’m surprised you have time, Fenimore, what with your practice—and your extracurricular activities.”
Fenimore felt cold. There was only one extracurricular activity Bannister could be referring to. “I manage to fit in a few games each season,” he said. “But the Phils were a big disappointment this year. They never got off the ground.” They had reached the top of the stairs and were turning down the hall that led to the den. No sign of Jennifer.
“I used to get season tickets, but found I was missing half the games.” Bannister was walking faster, a few feet ahead of Fenimore.
Fenimore pressed the button on his pager. The hall was filled with a series of shrill bleats. Bannister stopped short. “What the … ?”
With an apologetic look, Fenimore showed him the device. At the same time, over the lawyer’s shoulder, he saw Jennifer emerge from the den. As she came toward them she made the victory sign behind Bannister’s back.
“Could I use your phone?” Fenimore asked.
“Of course.” He directed Fenimore to a bedroom nearby. While Jennifer chatted with Bannister about rare prints, Fenimore made his bogus phone call.
The rest of the evening passed uneventfully. Jennifer and Fenimore lost the last rubber (as they had all the others), and graciously thanked their ungracious opponents. Rachel Bannister took Fenimore aside at the door and presented him with a faded black-and-white photograph—a group of young ladies on horseback—including their respective grandmothers. It seemed they had belonged to the same hunt club as well as the same school. Fenimore felt a twinge of guilt over the means he had used to get into the home of his hostess. But he dismissed it as soon as he remembered his motive.
On their way to the car, Fenimore noticed a man in a dark suit wearing a chauffeur’s cap in deep conversation with another man in a Buick. As they approached, the chauffeur glanced at them, and the man in the Buick took off. The chauffeur bega
n talking on his cell phone.
“Did you see him?” Fenimore asked Jennifer.
She nodded. “Coming to pick up one of the more affluent guests, no doubt.”
“I meant the guy who drove off.” Maybe he was imagining things, but he thought the driver resembled that city dude who was hanging around the Strawberry Festival.
Once in the car, Jennifer burst out, “I felt like Ingrid Bergman in Notorious when she was caught poking around her husband’s wine cellar.”
“Ah, yes. And Cary Grant diverted Claude Rains by giving her a timely kiss. I wasn’t so ingenious,” he sighed. “I had to rely on my prosaic pager.”
“If it hadn’t been for your ‘prosaic pager’ Bannister would have caught me red-handed,” she said.
They rode in silence, contemplating their narrow escape.
The winding road was dark except for an occasional pair of passing headlights or a light in a bedroom window. Fenimore missed the cheerful glow of the city. He could never understand why people thought the suburbs were safe. All that dark shrubbery surrounding their homes—ready-made camouflage for robbers or rapists. French windows and glass patio doors begging to be jimmied open or broken into. Some had alarm systems, of course, and watch dogs. But many had neither. Bannister had no security system, Fenimore had noted. And if there was a dog, it was certainly not in evidence. How did they sleep at night?
“What are you thinking?” Jennifer asked.
He glanced at her. A beam of moonlight had found its way through the windshield, turning her face a startling white. Her eyes seemed bigger and darker than usual. Bannister was right. She did have other assets. But not the kind he was referring to. She was beautiful. And tonight she had demonstrated the makings of a good investigator. A good partner in every way. “Uh … I was just thinking how dark it is out here, compared to the city.” His eye was drawn to a car emerging from a driveway up ahead. Was it going to wait for him to pass? Fenimore slowed down. The other car paused, as if waiting for him to go on. Fenimore pressed his accelerator.
“Watch it!” Jennifer cried.
The other car plunged into the road in front of them. Fenimore wrenched the wheel to the right, skirting the other car’s tail pipe, landing them in a flower bed.
Jennifer and Fenimore sat motionless, reveling in the fact that they were still alive. A dog barked. Behind some trees, a light sprang up. Through the trees they watched the wavering beam of a flashlight making its way toward them. The dog’s bark grew louder.
“Hey there!” A man’s voice. “Anybody hurt?”
“No. We’re OK,” Fenimore called. Simultaneously they got out of the car and began stretching and bending to make sure everything was intact.
The flashlight played on their faces. A wet nose snuffled at their hands and feet. After playing his light on the ruined flower bed, the man said, “Been partying, huh?”
“Yes. And the only beverage served was coffee,” Fenimore said regretfully. “Sorry about your flower bed. I’ll take care of the damage.” He handed the man one of his appointment cards. “Send me your bill.”
“A doctor, eh?” As he looked up from the card the glow of the flashlight revealed his sneer. “Well, you can afford it, then.” He glanced at the car. “Can’t you do better than this? I thought all you docs drove Mercedes or BMWs.”
“This is my car,” said Jennifer, getting in the driver’s side.
With one foot in the car, Fenimore asked, “Did someone come out of your drive just now?”
The man looked puzzled. “No. My wife and I have been in bed for over an hour. Unless it was one of my neighbors’ kids. They turn off their headlights and sneak up here sometimes to park and neck.” He leered in the window beside Jennifer. “Was that what you two had in mind?”
Jennifer rolled up her window. Fenimore shut his door. After a few false starts and several showers of dirt, she maneuvered the car out of the flower bed and onto the road.
After they had been driving for a few minutes, Jennifer said, “I don’t know how Scottie and Zelda managed it.”
“Managed what?”
“All those parties. Just one has aged me fifteen years.”
“The Fitzgeralds’ hosts ran to friendly bootleggers, not ruthless lawyers,” he said.
CHAPTER 60
Fenimore spent a restless night. He hadn’t mentioned it to Jennifer, but he was beginning to think that their near-collision after the party was no accident. He had a faint suspicion that it might have been set up by their host. The chauffeur with the cell phone and the familiar face of the other driver lingered in Fenimore’s mind. They could have been working for Bannister. They could have been watching for them and when he and Jennifer left the party, the driver could have sped ahead to wait for them in that driveway. The car that hit them was much heavier and sturdier than Fenimore’s old Chevy. It was built to withstand a crash much better than his. Whoa, Fenimore. This is all speculation. Back off. If you really think Bannister was behind the crash you have to prove it. On impulse he decided on a frontal attack.
He dialed Bannister’s office and gave his name. The secretary put him right through. A good or bad omen?
“Fenimore? What can I do for you?” His voice was easy, self-assured, registering no surprise that Fenimore was alive and well and able to use the telephone.
“I need some information. We had a slight accident on the way home last night.”
“Oh? Sorry to hear that. Nobody hurt, I trust.” His tone was polite, neutral.
“No. But I’m afraid I destroyed one of your neighbors’ flower beds. I’d like to make amends, but I don’t know the fellow’s name … .”
Either innocent or too astute to fall into his trap, Bannister failed to offer the neighbor’s name before Fenimore gave him the address.
“The address was 110 Magnolia Drive,” Fenimore said.
“Bill Randolph. Tennis partner of mine.”
“Thanks. Good party, by the way … .
“We’ll do it again. The party, not the flower bed.” Bannister rang off with a laugh.
After he hung up, Fenimore sat pondering. Was he on the wrong track or was Bannister a good actor? In his Who’s Who blurb, which Fenimore had looked up that morning, it had mentioned that he was a member of Grease Paint, the drama club at his college. Hardly the sort of acting experience to prepare him for the polished performances he was delivering today. Fenimore paced his office twice. Sat down. Stood up. And dialed another number.
“Nicholson’s Books,” Jennifer announced.
Speaking in a high, fluting voice, Fenimore said, “I’d like a copy of War and Peace in Serbo-Croatian.”
“Just a minute. I’ll transfer you to our foreign language department.” (Her father.)
“Jen, wait …”
“Wise guy.”
“I need some advice.”
“From me? Since when?”
Mrs. Doyle came in just in time to catch the end of Fenimore’s conversation.
“Do you think Bannister suspected us?”
Silence. “Maybe. But not of anything specific. Only in a general sort of way.”
“Do you think he arranged that accident?”
“Oh, no,” she gasped. “It happened too quickly. Bannister would have had to be superman to plant a driver at that location between our finding his coins and the end of the party.”
Not superman, Fenimore thought. Just super smart. If he had had two men at his command, the chauffeur and … Jennifer had apparently forgotten about them. “Thanks.”
“Anytime,” she said.
He proceeded to consult her on problem two: the coin collection. Did she have any ideas how they could find out more about it?
“Elementary,” she said, after the slightest pause. “Plant someone in their home. Wasn’t Rachel Bannister bemoaning the loss of her housekeeper? As I remember, that was one of the high points of the less-than-sparkling dinner conversation.”
“My dear, you’re wasting your ta
lents as a bookseller. Whom?”
“Whom what?”
“Should I plant?”
“Doctor,” Mrs. Doyle interrupted. “You have an emergency on the other line.”
“Never mind,” He told Jennifer. As he hung up, he smiled mysteriously at Mrs. Doyle.
After taking care of the emergency call, he turned to his nurse. She had felt a twinge of jealously after eavesdropping on his call to Jennifer. Had he found a new Watson? But the next moment her fears were dispelled.
“Have you ever been a housekeeper, Doyle?”
“All my life,” she said, matter-of-factly.
He described the job he had in mind for her.
She hurried home to pack, while Fenimore forged her references.
Fenimore woke up in the middle of the night. What if that chauffeur and his buddy were the two thugs that had kidnapped Doyle? He would cancel the housekeeping scheme tomorrow.
Come Up and See My Etchings
CHAPTER 61
Mrs. Doyle was sorry her trip to the suburbs was canceled. She had been looking forward to a few days ensconced in suburban splendor. As it turned out, however, circumstances transpired to make her trip superfluous.
Jennifer stopped by the office to announce that she had received a call from Owen Bannister, inviting her to look at some bird prints he had just purchased. She had showed such an interest in the ones he already owned, Bannister said, he thought she would enjoy these new acquisitions.
“I’ve never been invited to see someone’s etchings before,” she told Fenimore with a wicked grin.
The Doctor and the Dead Man's Chest Page 24