“If you say so. I didn’t know his first name was Joseph,” Sarah confessed.
“So you didn’t do your homework. Come on, take that foolishness off your head so you won’t scare the guards, and give Ira a chance to park the car so he doesn’t land in the jug himself. We’ll see you inside, Ira. With any luck, we’ll see you outside as well.”
Since he was double-parked outside a jail, Ira was only too willing to move on. Sarah and her uncle-in-law went inside, where they were met by two guards and a small, thin man with a briefcase who walked like Groucho Marx and resembled him too. This must be the bail bondsman. Jacob Bittersohn greeted him affably by name and insisted on introducing him to Sarah, who was in no mood for socializing. She found him somewhat unnerving. Having disposed of her improvised wig and wiped the unbecoming makeup off her face, she got down to business.
“As far as I can make out, this whole debacle started merely because the Wilkins’s new head of trustees wanted to play Perry Mason. Having been subjected to one of Elwyn Fleesom Turbot’s totally unfounded harangues this past Sunday myself, I know how devastating it must have been for Mr. Melanson to be yelled at and berated and bullied into confessing that he’d murdered a colleague whom in fact he wouldn’t have dared to touch with a ten-foot pole. Mr. Melanson’s a very timid middle-aged bachelor, compulsively afraid of putting a foot wrong and easily cowed by practically anybody. I’m told he’s already tried to commit suicide and I’m not surprised, not because he’s guilty of anything but because he’s been mistreated to the point where he just couldn’t handle the stress. We’ll have to bring suit, Uncle Jake.”
“So? How do you know about the suicide?”
“Uncle Jem told me over the phone, while Miriam was getting supper. He said Lieutenant Harris wanted to talk to me. I’m afraid I did most of the talking. Harris was supposed to meet us here on the dot of eight, blast him. I don’t want to spend the night twiddling my thumbs, either bring Melanson out or show me where to find him.”
“Oy, such a macher.” Lawyer Bittersohn gazed upon this embattled niece-in-law with wonderment and delight. “How come Miriam didn’t join the war?”
“She had to stay and baby-sit my child for me, which is another thing I’m cross about. Never mind that now, it’s Melanson I want to talk to. Where do I find him?”
One of the guards made the mistake of trying to placate her. “I don’t think he’d want to see you. He’s clammed up.”
“More likely he’s slipped into a catatonic fit,” she snapped back. “Has he been seen by a doctor?”
“Well, no.”
“Please make a note of that, Uncle Jake. We may have to sue his jailers also. Come along, all of you. I want to see Joseph Melanson right now, no matter what state he’s in.”
“Hi, Mrs. Bittersohn.” By now the voice was familiar. “Am I late?”
“Yes,” snapped Sarah. “Oh, Lieutenant Harris, do you know my husband’s uncle, Attorney Jacob Bittersohn? He’s going to arrange about bail, should that prove necessary. In the meantime, I’m going to see Mr. Melanson.”
“You said something about a doctor,” one of the guards ventured.
“We can’t wait for a doctor. Just seeing one might be enough to push him over the edge, if he’s in the kind of shape I suspect he is. He knows me, I’m not at all a threatening person.”
“You couldn’t prove it by me,” murmured Lieutenant Harris. “Okay, Mrs. Bittersohn. This way, please.”
Chapter 20
SARAH SAW MELANSON THROUGH the bars. He looked just about as she’d expected to see him, a gray wraith sitting slumped over on the edge of an iron cot, his head bowed down by weight of woe, hands hanging loose between his knees, his eyes seeing nothing. Even when the guard opened the cell door, he didn’t move a muscle.
“Thank you,” Sarah told the guard. “I’ll go in alone. Please move back where he won’t be able to see you.”
“Doesn’t look to me as if he’s seeing anything,” the guard replied.
“Yes, that’s our big problem, isn’t it. You’ll need to lock the door, I expect.”
“With you in there? He’s a murderer!”
“Oh, I don’t think so. I’ll call you if I need you.”
Shaking his head slowly from side to side, the guard turned his key in the lock and backed away. Sarah sat down on the cot beside Melanson and, with the same delicate touch she’d have used if she were trying to pat a field mouse, felt for a pulse in his wrist.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Melanson.” She tried to keep her voice as gentle as her touch. “You’ve been given a bad time, haven’t you? You know me, I’m Brooks Kelling’s cousin Sarah, you’ve seen me at the Wilkins lots of times. Brooks is away on vacation just now, but he’ll want to see you as soon as he gets back. So will my husband, Max Bittersohn. Max has always liked you.”
She could barely feel the pulse, a faint thread of life; she tried harder to rouse him. “Do you remember the day when poor old Joe Witherspoon fell over the balcony? All the other guards left their stations, which they shouldn’t have done, but you stayed right where you belonged. You always do the right thing, Mr. Melanson. You were the one who noticed those two paintings that had been changed around. Do you remember that? That’s how we found out that the museum was being robbed and Dolores’s copies hung in place of the old masters.”
It hadn’t been that simple, but no matter. “Nobody ever tried to steal anything from your station, did they? You have the longest and best record of any guard the Wilkins ever had. You know that, don’t you?”
Sarah felt a small tremor in the wrist she was touching. Melanson turned his head a tiny fraction, slowly, carefully, like a rabbit wondering whether it was safe to move. Sarah froze. He put out the tip of his tongue and ran it around his parched lips. Sarah went and beckoned through the bars to the guard.
“Mr. Melanson is thirsty. Could you bring him a drink of water, please?”
The guard went down the hall a short way and came back with a small paper cup. It wasn’t much, but it was something. Sarah took the cup from him and held it to Melanson’s lips. He took a tiny sip, then another, then emptied the cup. “Thank you,” he whispered.
“Would you like something to eat, Mr. Melanson?”
“I—I—”
“I know, this is all strange to you. Let’s see what we can do.”
Sarah signaled through the bars again. “Mr. Melanson thanks you for the water. Do you think you could find him something to eat?”
“He had his supper but he wouldn’t eat it. Just sat there and wasted good food.” The guard was, however, human. “There’s hot coffee in the guards’ room. I guess it would be okay to give him a cup.”
“That would be splendid. Cream and sugar in the coffee, don’t you think? Luckily I’ve brought a sandwich. It’s chicken, Mr. Melanson. My sister-in-law made it for you in case you might be hungry. Ah, here’s your coffee, and here’s the sandwich, you’ll feel better when you’ve got something inside you. Just take your time. Your lawyer is outside with a bail bondsman. As soon as the formalities have been dealt with, we’re going to get you out of here.”
Out, that was the magic word. The prisoner accepted the sandwich, took an avid bite and chewed. And chewed and chewed. Thirty chews, Sarah counted. At least this compulsive mastication gave the coffee time to cool. Another bite, another thirty chews. A vague hint of animation was starting to show in Melanson’s face, but the pulse still felt awfully weak to Sarah. He took another sip of coffee, another bite from the sandwich. It was slow going; at least he was back among the living. He finished the first half. That was as much as he could manage, he closed his eyes and flopped over on the cot.
“Guard!” Sarah thought Melanson’s collapse was most likely plain exhaustion, but this was no time to take chances. “We must get him to the hospital.”
“You’re the one that gave him the sandwich.”
“What’s that supposed to mean? Call my lawyer, he’s with the clerk of th
e court. Now!”
Sarah spent some anguished moments alone in that cell with a body that looked like a waxwork. She kept her finger on Melanson’s pulse, she couldn’t feel that it was any stronger but it wasn’t any worse. The hospital, thank God, was just next door. Uncle Jake would know what to do. If he didn’t come right away, she’d scream until he did. She was pumping up to wake the whole jail if she had to when both Jake and Ira came thundering down the concrete, the guard running a poor third.
“What’s the matter?” panted Jake.
“I think he’s just been through more than he could handle. He was in a stupor when I got here. I talked to him a bit, he rallied enough to drink some coffee and eat half a chicken sandwich that Miriam sent, then he passed out. He looks to me now as if he’s merely asleep, but his pulse is still weak and he’s barely said a word. Hadn’t we better get him into the hospital?”
“Yes.”
Jacob Bittersohn was gone as fast as he’d arrived; he was back in a blessedly few minutes with an intern, an orderly and a gurney. The intern listened to Melanson’s heart, raised an eyebrow, injected something into one flaccid arm, helped the orderly to get him on the gurney, and ate the other half of Miriam’s excellent sandwich.
“Nothing wrong with the food,” was her verdict. “I think the guy’s just plain pooped. Has he been through a particularly bad time lately?”
“He certainly has,” said Sarah. “He’s been falsely accused of murder and summarily fired from a job that he’d held for over thirty years by a bullying half-wit who’s about to get slapped with a lawsuit. Right, Uncle Jake?”
“Right, Sadele.”
“When did this happen?” the intern asked.
“Just this afternoon,” Sarah answered. “Is Lieutenant Harris still around, Ira? He’s the one who booked Melanson as a material witness, whatever that’s supposed to mean. Melanson is one of those compulsive neurotics who are perennially afraid of doing the wrong thing. Unfortunately it was he who spotted the body of that woman who was killed with a hatpin Sunday afternoon at the Wilkins Museum, where they both worked. He’s been carrying that around; and today the new head of trustees, who knows nothing whatever about Melanson’s long record as a thoroughly reliable employee, jumped on him simply because he’s the type who wouldn’t dare fight back. Is that enough for you?”
“Plenty. I don’t like the sound of his heart. He’ll probably have to be kept under observation for a day or two anyway. Come on, Bill, let’s move him out. What about bail?”
“Everything’s arranged,” Attorney Bittersohn assured the intern. “I’ll handle the paperwork while you get him settled. Sarah, you’d better go back with Ira and get some sleep.”
“Yes, Uncle Jake.” Sarah turned to the intern. “I’m the one who gave him the coffee and sandwich. It didn’t hurt him, did it?”
“Might have saved his life. It sure saved mine tonight, I never got time for supper.”
Feeling a good deal better, Sarah followed the gurney down the drafty corridor. Under observation was exactly where she’d have wanted Melanson to be. She’d been thinking of asking Lieutenant Harris about a special officer to keep watch over him, but the intensive-care unit would be even safer. She doubted whether the patient would be allowed any visitors for a day or so; she needn’t feel guilty if she didn’t get to see him right away.
“What happened to Lieutenant Harris?” she asked Ira, who happened to be next to her.
“He went home. He lives in Dorchester, he told me he hadn’t had an evening at home for the past three weeks.”
“Then I’m sorry I was snippy to him; but how was I to know?”
Sarah didn’t apologize for having taken up Ira’s evening. He and Miriam were night owls; Miriam was no doubt thinking up some tantalizing midnight snack about now. But it wasn’t midnight, or anywhere near. Sarah was surprised to see from the clock on the wall that it wasn’t even ten o’clock yet; she felt as if she’d been here for ages on the deep.
It was curious, now that she thought of it, that she’d been born and reared so close to this old building and never once until tonight got so much as a peek inside. She wondered whether any of her relatives ever had been there, and thought it unlikely. Any malefactions they or their acquaintances might have committed would have been the sort that didn’t get punished. Renting rat-infested hovels to poor people who’d have had to scrape for pennies to pay the rent collector or find themselves out on the sidewalk would have counted as business, not exploitation. Naturally it would have been the rent collector who got the curses and the complaints, and the absent landlord who ignored them and kept the money.
Kellings had been shipowners during the days of the China clippers. No doubt some of their captains had managed to circumvent the Chinese officials’ herculean efforts to keep opium from being smuggled in through their ports by this new lot of foreign devils who were, with true Yankee zeal, emulating their British counterparts who had plied the opium trade so long and so successfully. Should his lucrative sideline have been discovered, the resourceful captain would have been more apt to get an extra bonus than a reprimand.
Sarah was sure that none of her ancestors had ever gone blackbirding; she was not sure their refusal had been entirely on humanitarian grounds. The slave trade had been economically unsound. Human cattle took up too much cargo space, even when crammed together in the noisome holds as tight as they could fit. Too many of them died on the long voyages and had to be thrown overboard at considerable loss of profit. It was altogether a chancy business, and Kellings seldom left anything to chance if they could help it.
Furthermore, slavery as it was known and practiced in the South before Lincoln signed the Emancipation Proclamation was not well-adapted to the northern way of life. Why should it have been? There were always plenty of green immigrants coming off the boats and finding themselves compelled by circumstances to labor long hours for wages hardly sufficient to keep body and soul together. Instead of being whipped for laziness or insubordination, they got docked or fired with no redress until, after long and bitter fighting between the workers and the bosses, the unions came into being.
These were topics that did not, as a rule, get discussed among the Kellings. Sarah had learned a great deal since she’d stepped out from under the family umbrella, perhaps all those conflicting ideas had contributed to her urge to rescue lame ducks and all-but-gone geese. No wonder Walter Kelling had had such a rough time trying to write the truth about his forebears without running afoul of his chauvinistic relatives. It was a lot to think about; Sarah didn’t feel up to thinking.
Ira noticed her silence. “Long day, eh?”
“Oh, today was a picnic compared to yesterday.” She was trying to be airy but a yawn got in the way. “I can’t tell you what a relief it is not having to drive myself back to the lake. It’s too bad poor old Milky’s heart’s started acting up—Milky is what the other guards at the museum call him—but he’s surely better off in the hospital than having to be pent up in that dreary little cell. And it’s all wrong, somehow.”
“What do you mean?”
“I don’t know, Ira. I just have this uncomfortable feeling that I’m holding the wrong end of the stick. Perhaps my head will be clearer in me morning, I couldn’t be more befuddled than I am now. You know, I completely forgot to ask Melanson if he has anybody who ought to be notified. If Dolores were alive, she’d know, of course; but with her gone, there just doesn’t seem to be anyone who knows anything.”
“Well,” Ira replied sensibly, “if he has a wife or a mother or anybody, they’ll have called the museum, don’t you think?”
“It closes at five. There always used to be a night guard, but I doubt if he’ll have been told about what happened this afternoon, assuming he hasn’t been laid off. Surely the last place any connection of Melanson’s might call would be the Charles Street jail. They’d phone the hospitals, or ask the police to. So that’s a relief of sorts.”
Sarah emitted a la
dylike snort. “I don’t know why I say that. The problem is that I keep thinking I ought to be doing something and I can’t think what to do.”
“You’ve done more than enough tonight, Sarah. That poor slob was about ready to cash in his chips. He’d probably be dead by now if you hadn’t intervened. You won’t try to see him tomorrow, will you?”
“I doubt very much if they’d let me, since I’m not a family member or even a close friend. I’ll call and see how he’s doing, naturally; I can do that from my own house. I thought I’d drive over to Ireson’s Landing in the morning and spend a little time with Anne. But I don’t know about taking Davy with me. I’ll have to keep up my disguise and I can’t risk involving him.”
“That’s a relief,” said Ira. “I was afraid you were planning to take him with you, and I’d promised to teach him how to call a minnow in Yiddish.”
That got a giggle out of Sarah. “How do you call a minnow in Yiddish?”
“You go ‘Fisch-e-le! Fisch-e-le!’ ”
“Oy!” Sarah was not at all surprised to feel tears running down her cheeks. Fischele, “little fish,” was one of Max’s pet names for her. If only he would call! All she had for a possible connection was the number of that bistro, or whatever they called their taverns in Argentina, and she had no idea whether it would be open at this hour. She didn’t even know what hour it might be down there now. She tried to pretend she wasn’t crying, but Ira had sensed her mood.
“Then you won’t be needing my shirt tomorrow?”
“No, you can wear it this time.” At least she could put on a decent pretense of cheerfulness. “One reason I want to go to my own house, if you really want to know, is that I need to collect some fresh underwear. Furthermore, I’m afraid I just won’t be able to stand that awful getup of Charles’s another day. I’m thinking seriously of pretending to be Aunt Bodie. Did I mention to you that the wig Charles fixed up for me is what remains of the beard in which he played Noah?”
The Odd Job Page 21