Chandler awoke with Ezzard noncommittally sitting on his chest, licking his paw and styling his whiskers. It was seven-thirty and raining. He heard the breakfast sounds coming from the kitchen. He smelled coffee. “Come on, Ezzard,” he moaned, immediately aware of his stiffness, the pains in his nose and ear. Unable to breathe through his nose he’d slept with his mouth open. His tongue felt and tasted like Ezzard’s box.
Polly was eating an English muffin and reading the Globe when he staggered into the kitchen. She nodded over the rim of her coffee cup. She was wearing a heavy blue sweater and jeans poked out from beneath the table.
“Make a list of the clothing you need,” she said. “I’m going to stop by your house first—”
“Are you kidding? They might be watching—”
“Don’t worry. I’ll check—if anybody is watching I’ll call you and pick up some things at the Coop. Trust me, I can handle it. God, you look ghastly … eat. Toast a muffin, fry an egg, get your strength back.” She put the newspaper aside and began making a list on scratch paper. “How do you feel?”
“Wonderful. For a man my age who’s been beaten to a pulp and chased halfway across Boston in the middle of the night. English muffins should make me good as new …” He split a muffin and dropped the two halves into the toaster.
“Okay, first I go to your place and get the clothes. What do you need?”
“Raincoat, shirts, a sweater, there’s a pair of gray slacks, a pair of cordovan shoes, socks, a brown tweed coat, that’s about it.”
“Professor—”
“Colin.”
“Colin, aren’t you forgetting something?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“Hmmm. Aren’t you the sexy little thing.”
“I fail—”
“No underwear. Very provocative.” She batted her eyes at him, smiled dazzlingly.
“Yes, yes, bring underwear. And a duffel bag. Who knows when I’ll be back.” He told her where to find the clothing.
“Right. Two, I’m going to stop at your office and dig out the bug. Do I need a key?”
“Pocket of the brown jacket. Why?”
“Evidence. And I want to have it checked. Place of manufacture. You never know what you might find out. Three, I’m going to check on McGonigle and Fennerty—”
“Look, I’m telling you, they’re real, I saw their papers …”
“Right, well, I’m going to check.” She stood up and left him buttering his muffin. Munching, he followed her back into the living room. “Would you pour a saucer of cream for Ezzard, please? And put half a can of catfood in his dish … I’ve got a lot to do.” She looked at her Carrier tank watch with the sapphire on the stem. “I’ll be back by ten. That’ll give us time to get out to Lexington by eleven.” She slipped into a sheepskin jacket and pulled on the tight brown gloves. “Why don’t you get all cleaned up so you’re ready when I get back. I hate to wait.”
He watched from the window as she went to her car. Water was coursing in the gutters, dripping steadily from her soaked awning. She looked up and waved. Her car was a dark green Jaguar XKE, maybe five years old. Naturally.
By a quarter past ten they were crammed into the Jaguar’s front buckets and Chandler felt like himself again, showered and out of his ratty old bathrobe. The three synchronized wiper blades swept furiously across the narrow expanse of rain-spattered windshield as Polly maneuvered through traffic toward Lexington. He sighed, trying to accustom his long legs to being stretched almost full length before him. He watched her in profile, concentrating on driving, both hands in the tight gloves wrapped around the wheel. She was devastingly good-looking, there was no getting around that, and he found himself growing curious about her. For instance, he’d found complete masculine shaving gear in her bathroom medicine chest, along with a variety of prescription pills, cosmetics, cough syrup, Tampons, dental floss, several toothbrushes in various colors. When he’d told her he’d used the razor, shaving cream, and the lime aftershave, he’d expressed the hope that their owner wouldn’t object. He’d given the speech some premeditation, knew he was prying, and couldn’t help himself.
“Don’t trouble yourself, I’m the owner,” she’d replied archly. “You can never be too prepared for—well, the unexpected guest.”
He’d let it drop, curiosity growing but too inhibited to pursue the inquiry. Now, watching her, he imagined the energy with which she must continually be courted by the men in her life. That was the trouble with women: you always got to sex and jealousy and the touchy business of your masculinity, simple and straightforward, and their blasted feminine game-playing. Of course, he’d been the one playing the curiosity tango, not Polly. Well, the hell with it. She was nothing to him; it was all an accident. She was after a story and that was all there was to it. He had to keep that clear in his mind.
“So what happened in Cambridge?” he asked.
“Well,” she pursed her lips, preparing, as if the video was about to roll. “I drove past your house on Acacia, everything seemed calm and deserted, but I went on around the corner and parked on Ash—”
“Call it Windmill Lane—a bit of history, prettier—”
“Then I went through a couple of backyards, sneaked up your back steps—you know, you really shouldn’t leave your back door unlocked—and went in, got your stuff—”
“I wasn’t home to lock up, sorry.”
“Right. Then I came back downstairs, took a look at the mess, peeked outside to make sure the coast was clear and guess what I saw?”
“Please—”
“A red Pinto parked across the street, a little way toward Hawthorn, full of two guys who looked a lot like the goons you did it to last night … big one with bandages all over his face and a little one with that porkpie hat. They were getting out and heading toward the house.” She looked at him expectantly, made a wide-eyed scared face.
“What did you do? God, it makes me sick to my stomach.”
“Me, too. Involuntary. And the fact is I’m rather a brave person. But,” she said, sliding in front of a truck and stepping on the gas in the straightaway, “I got out the back door as I heard them clumping around on the porch. I don’t think they saw me. I was skulking away through the backyards carrying your raincoat wrapped around your clothes, Queen of the Hoboes.”
“They aren’t giving up,” he mused, pulling his lip. “They took the chance that I wouldn’t have had the cops there—”
“I was surprised, too, when I wasn’t busy being scared. Anyway, I went to your office, dug the bug out of the window box, no problems there. Nobody paid any attention to me. Then I went right down to Boston Homicide and left the bug with Lascalle and no, I didn’t tell him where it came from. He’s a pal, he’ll check it out and let me know whatever they can learn from it—God knows how long it’ll take, though.”
The rain continued its tattoo, turning to sleet in the chill. The muck spattered up from the pavement. The Jaguar was so close to the ground, driving at high speed was like burrowing through a wet, gray tunnel.
“And the leprechauns?”
“Lascalle ran a check for me. No such men as Fennerty or McGonigle exist among the members of any metropolitan Boston police department, D.A.’s office, or special branch.” She slid the car toward the Lexington off ramp, the signal light blinking.
“Watch out for the Cadillac—”
“Oh, really, Colin …” She braked at the ramp, handling the rack-and-pinion like an extension of herself, and exited like butter sliding off a hot knife.
“Well, we never thought they were real, did we … but the question is, who the hell are they?”
“We haven’t got a clue.”
“Not a theory.”
“Oh, and the other two, the walking wounded, I rang the D.A.’s office and they haven’t sent anyone to see you, they haven’t got anybody working on the Davis/Underhill thing at all.” She stopped at a light, got her bearings.
“And these four guys are watc
hing each other as well as raising hell with me, like competitors.” He made a disgusted face and rolled down his window, took a deep breath. They drove on into Lexington, down the wide main drag. It was vaguely familiar to Chandler: he’d once taken a date to an Italian restaurant which he glimpsed through the downpour.
“Maybe Nora’s got all the answers,” Polly said. “And maybe not.”
“There’s Kennedy’s Drugstore.” He checked his Rolex. “Right on time.”
She nodded, smiling: “Trust me, Professor. Old dependable.”
Old Dependable was the sort of name that would have suited Nora Thompson from her tightly wound gray bun to the low heels of her sensible shoes. She met them among the high-piled aisles of the drugstore with a thin smile and a firm handshake. She wore a tweed suit and a hardy raincoat. Introductions complete they found a booth in the fountain section and ordered coffee. “Now, Miss Thompson,” Chandler said, feeling oddly comfortable for the moment in the warmth with the rain slamming against the window, “what can I do for you?”
Nora Thompson grew younger as she spoke, face coming to life, eyes shining, the years falling away. She was frightened, she mistrusted authority, and she was angry as much as sorrowful when it came to Nat Underhill. And, as it turned out, she was an attentive, observant individual. Quickly she took them back to Monday, ages ago before things had begun coming undone.
“It was Monday, late in the afternoon with the sky looking like a storm was coming. Bill Davis came to see Mr. Underhill—he was carrying one of those green Harvard bookbags—they’d known each other for several months, since last autumn. That’s all I know about Monday—Mr. Underhill told me to close up the shop and go home before the storm hit …” She paused for a moment, eyes cast down at the cup of steaming coffee, as if remembering her dead employer’s small kindnesses.
“But Tuesday morning, right after I’d gotten there to do some book work, earlier than usual, about nine-thirty, Nat came in and I could see right away that he wasn’t himself, face all red and blotchy … he had high blood pressure that kicked up when he was upset … and he told me to come into his office. He was slumped in his chair and I began fussing with the tea things and he cleared his throat and told me that he’d just heard on the radio that Bill Davis was dead, murdered in the street.” Her dark blue eyes searched Chandler’s face as if he might have an explanation for the enormity of the crime: you were his professor, she seemed to say, you must have an idea … Chandler shook his head.
“Nat was very distraught. And then was when your name came into it, Professor. He told me that Bill had left a very valuable package with him the previous day, that he—Nat—wanted to discuss it with Professor Chandler at Harvard … he called the item a ‘document’ and he sort of rambled on, half talking to himself about it and then he threw a scare into me—he said he had an intuition, a hunch about this document, that it was involved in Bill’s murder!” Caught up in the memory, she almost gasped.
“Did he say anything about the document?” Chandler asked. “Any clue to what it actually was?”
She shook her head: “No, he was very closemouthed about it right from the beginning—”
“And when was that?” Polly interjected.
“Well, Nat had known about it since the autumn, as I was saying, when Bill first came to see him. He was very excited the first time he ever saw it, he told me that much. He even took it with him to a convention of antiquarians in Bucharest during the winter—yes, he was very, very proud of it. I think it might have been what convinced him to go.” She thought a moment: “At least I think he took it with him. If he didn’t he was certainly planning to tell some of his old friends about it. Anyway, when he got back from Bucharest I knew he strongly suggested to Bill Davis that the document should be officially authenticated—that’s where you came in, Professor Chandler … But you know college kids, they’re going to live forever, he put it off … and now they’re both dead …” For a moment she looked as if her composure would crack but she was made of stern New England stock, Chandler observed thankfully, and kept herself under control.
The drugstore bustled with noisy activity: Chandler had never seen anything like it. It seemed to be Lexington’s equivalent of a general store. You had the feeling that everyone could hear your conversation until you realized they were making too much noise themselves and were far too immersed in their own business. He realized Nora Thompson was talking again.
“When Nat heard of the murder he didn’t want to keep the package anymore, he didn’t want to just give it to Bill’s parents, try to make them understand about it in the middle of their grief. Then he decided that he was going to mail it—he had me get all the mailing and wrapping supplies but then he shut himself up in his office, then took it out for mailing himself. He took it out to the post office and I never saw it again. That was Tuesday afternoon …
“On Wednesday he was uncommunicative, even more distracted … I went home that night—” She swallowed against her emotions and looked out the window at the street blurred beyond the rain. “I never saw him alive again … I found his body at noon the next day, Thursday …”
Polly nodded consolingly, patted her hand.
Nora spoke again: “What I want to know,” tapping her finger on the tabletop in a no-nonsense manner, “where did he send the document, whatever it is? His murder convinces me that the document is behind it … it’s his connection with Bill Davis—I thought that he might have sent it to you. I knew he wanted you to see it.” She looked expectantly at Chandler. She wasn’t at all the mouselike spinster he’d expected, but rather a woman who struck him as a formidable adversary were you to find yourself on the wrong side of her intentions.
“No,” he said. “At least I didn’t get it yesterday. I’m sorry.”
“But you’re the only person I can think of,” she said. “I was so sure … Where else would he send it? Yours is the only name he mentioned—”
“But, look,” Polly said, “at the mail service we get these days. I’ve had a first-class letter take a week to get across town, so why not a package? It could just as easily get there today, either at your office or your home—it’s worth a hope, Nora—”
“Of course,” Chandler said. “We can check. I’ll call Hugh … you see, I’ve got to stay out of sight for a few days …” Quickly he recounted the events which had followed Nora’s telephone call. He was surprised at the resolve he saw building in her face.
“Well,” she announced, “that pretty well does it, wouldn’t you agree? These hooligans think you’ve got it, too. And I’d bet they killed Nat … You were lucky last night, Professor … There’s something really fiendish going on here.” She swallowed some cold coffee. “Words sound so silly … Fiendish.”
“There’s an inconsistency, though,” Polly said, clearly taking Nora into their confidence. “There are two other men who knew about Nat’s death before you found the body.” In another five minutes Nora knew most of the story. When it was all out the three sat staring at one another trying to make sense of it.
“It’s like a puzzle with too many pieces,” Chandler said. “Where do they all fit?”
Polly pushed onward: “You said Nat went to Bucharest. Romania. If he took the thing with him, or even if it was uppermost in his mind, he would surely have shown it to someone, or talked about it … So, who would have been there? Old cronies, men in the same field. We need names—would they be in his diary? Correspondence? Maybe an appointment book at the office …” Nora was nodding. “Is there any way you can check? Any files he kept?”
“Nat handled his own correspondence,” Nora said slowly. “But he was quite methodical, kept carbons … Yes, by gosh, I believe I can check on it.” She pushed her coffee away. “No time like the present!” She slid out from the booth, stood up, buttoned her coat.
“We’ll go with you,” Polly said matter-of-factly, urging Chandler out of the booth.
“I’ll take my own car if you’ll just take me b
y my house.”
They all three piled into the Jaguar, obscuring Chandler’s view and cutting off the circulation in his right leg. It was thus pinned blindly to the seat that he missed what came next. Polly had followed Nora’s directions through side streets leading into a homey residential area, white frame houses with evergreens and tall naked trees glimpsed from the corner of his eye past Nora’s shoulder. “Now, just past the middle of the block on the left,” Nora said with her quiet efficient tone, and it was then that Polly delivered herself of a cry of surprise Chandler had never heard before outside of a certain kind of British comedy film.
“Oh, crikey! Look at that!”
Chandler felt the power surge back in the Jaguar’s innards, felt the tires slide for a moment on the pavement, then take hold.
“What is it, dear?” Nora said. “You’ve gone by the house—”
“Red Pinto,” Polly said a trifle breathlessly. “Look inside!”
The warning registered in Chandler’s mind but he was helpless to take a look for himself
“The bandaged man!” Nora exclaimed. “I don’t believe it—”
“What the hell,” Chandler cried. He craned his head but it was no use. “My bandaged man? He’s here?” He felt his stomach give way. Polly turned at the corner and gave the Jag some gas. “Ladies,” he bellowed, “tell me what’s going on!”
“Yes, Colin,” Polly said deliberately, keeping her voice calm. “It was the red Pinto, the one I saw at your house this morning … no question, a man with a white bandage on his head sitting in the passenger seat of a red Pinto, I’ve got to believe it’s the same.” She took another corner without braking and, oddly, without sending the car into a fiery, exploding roll.
“My God, are they following us?”
“No, no, they were watching Nora’s house—”
“Well, then, slow down!”
“You needn’t scream, Colin,” she replied primly, slowing down. “It was a reflexive adrenalin rush. Fright … I could swear I heard sound-track music!” She laughed weakly.
The Glendower Legacy Page 11