The Manx Murders

by William L. DeAndrea

  “The money in the suitcase was fine. They just didn’t take it.”

  “What?” Janet said.

  “They didn’t take it. Never touched it, as far as we can figure. One of my men found it in what’s left of the old stone guardhouse, at the old entrance to the estate that was used when Humbert One lived in the main house.”

  “Which is now gone,” Ron said.

  “Right.”

  “But the barn is still there.”

  “You know it is,” the chief said. “You were in it.”

  “And the old guardhouse is still there.”

  “What are you driving at, Gentry?”

  “And the money was still there. A million bucks.”

  “That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. I don’t suppose this is the time to tell Henry Pembroke, but at least he has the consolation of knowing that it didn’t cost him a million dollars to get his brother back dead.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense.” Ron was so confused he was angry.

  “Sure it does,” the chief told him. “Before, he had a million bucks and a brother. He might have had no million bucks and no brother. Instead, he’s got no brother, but he hangs on to the million bucks.”

  “That wasn’t,” Ron informed him, “what I was talking about.”

  “I know,” the chief told him, “but what you were talking about is going to keep me awake nights as it is, without having my nose rubbed in it.”

  “As a favor to me, Chief Viretsky, let Ronald go on. I believe sleep will be difficult for all of us.”

  Ron could see Janet shudder. She was probably thinking about the scene in the barn. She sometimes said she had too much empathy to do this kind of work. She stroked the cat again as if the action soothed her.

  The chief shrugged assent. “All right. They plot this thing out in detail, to the point of learning the Saturday routine at the factory. They had so much confidence, they sent their ransom note before they made the snatch.

  “Then, Friday night, right on the grounds, they kidnap Clyde in his own car—that was his car you found out in back of the barn, right?”

  “That was the one. Clean as a whistle, too. These guys are good at cleaning up after themselves.”

  “Any trace of a fourth car?”

  “Fourth car?”

  “Yeah. Yours, Chip’s, Clyde’s, and the car they must have gotten away in. Any oil drips or tire tracks?”

  “Not on gravel,” the chief said. “They could have had a Rolls-Royce or a pogo stick, for all the lab can tell. The only way we can prove they were ever there is because they left a dead body behind. It’s what we call circumstantial evidence.”

  “Figures. Sometimes you wonder what makes them so lucky,” Ron said.

  “It runs out,” Benedetti said. “Luck of any kind always runs out.”

  “I hope you’re right, Maestro.”

  The Professor looked at his protégé. “I am not in the habit,” he said, “of being wrong.”

  If Ron had said anything to that it would have been either a lie or a boost for the Professor’s ego, which needed a boost like a porcupine needs a pin cushion, so he skipped it.

  “To continue,” Ron said. “They kidnap Clyde in his car. Somehow they winkle him out of his house. ... No. They pick him up outside the cattery, right? That’s where he got the cat. He’d been on the way there when he found the dead cat in the first place, and that distracted him. So he went back to the cattery to get that one.”

  The green-eyed kitten looked up from Janet’s lap.

  The chief raised his hands. “Of course. He had it with him when he was snatched. I’ve been going crazy trying to figure out some Satanic message or God knows what in leaving a cat on the corpse. The cat was there because he was with Clyde, that’s all.”

  Janet frowned. “Well, he certainly was hungry when we got here, Chief. He drank most of the milk in the refrigerator. Not that there was much.”

  Janet rubbed the red fur under the chin, and the kitten let loose an audible purr. “I don’t understand why Clyde would be there at night taking a cat away, though.”

  “He might have been on his way to give it to somebody,” Ron suggested. He told his wife how Clyde Pembroke made a practice of giving away the kittens he wouldn’t keep for breeding.

  “See,” he explained, “that one’s a stumpie. Couldn’t show him. Probably was planning to give him away to someone.

  “All right. So the kidnappers pick up Clyde outside the cattery, and then they have the unmitigated gall to hide him on his own estate. They plant a note that’s supposed to be found ahead of, or simultaneously with, the one with the ransom instructions.

  “One of them actually exposes himself to danger to get Chip’s attention for the first of the paper-chase notes—by the way, did Chip keep them?”

  Viretsky nodded, lips tight. “Not that they’re worth a damn. Lab is working on them, but they tell me not to expect much.”

  “What about that sign?”

  “What sign?”

  “The one that told Chip to stop in the first place.”

  “Oh. I’ve had men out looking for it. No luck yet.”

  “So Chip’s doing everything they want. He goes up hill, down dale, and all around the estate—his path I traced on the map looked like an electron cloud, with the estate as the nucleus—he actually drops off the money.

  “But what have our playmates done in the meantime? They’ve decided, ‘Oh, to hell with it. Let’s just murder the poor bastard and forget the money, what do you say?’ ”

  Ron slapped the chief’s desk. “I do not believe it. I simply do not believe it.”

  The chief shrugged. Ron noticed he was doing a lot of that lately.

  “I wouldn’t believe it, either. But we’ve got the body. And we’ve got the dough. I’m just a cop; that’s all I know now. The question I want to ask is, what the hell can I do about it?”

  Benedetti roused himself enough to light a cigar, a twisted, black, evil-looking thing. He took a drag on it, then said, “The cat.”

  “The cat?” Ron and the chief spoke simultaneously; they turned to look at the kitten in Janet’s lap, who returned their stare and raised them a meow.

  “I do not refer to the animal itself. Although undoubtedly an eyewitness to the crime, I do not think it will be easy to get his testimony.”

  He stood and walked over to Janet, stroking the kitten with one lean brown finger. “I refer to the circumstances of the kidnapping as we have imagined them. The trip to the cattery. For whom was Clyde Pemberton choosing this kitten, eh? I should like to know that. I should like to know everything about it. Perhaps it was not coincidence, but a part of the plan.”

  “You mean, Maestro, that they used a request for a kitten to finger Clyde?”

  “It presents itself. The enemy tries to exploit the weakness. How many people have told us Clyde Pembroke cherished a weakness for cats?”

  “Okay” the chief said, “I’ll find out who worked at the cattery. Or they’ll find me. There’ll be no keeping this quiet. I’m going to turn that Sandy loose, I guess. Then I’ll track down Clyde’s cat people.”

  “My associates and I should like to talk to them as well.” The Professor was gracious. “After you have finished with them, of course, Mr. Viretsky.”

  “Yeah,” Ron said. “It will give us an opportunity to return the kitten.”

  His wife shot him a dirty look.

  “This cat is property of the estate,” Ron told her. “And evidence, for all we know. The only reason the chief let you take him was that nobody else had the time or the inclination to take care of him.”

  “Well, he’s sweet,” Janet said.

  And that had been the moment Ron had known he was doomed to be a cat owner. Or, more accurately, owned by a cat.

  Sunday was a quiet day; the only thing on the agenda was the professor’s trip to the cattery.

  On the way there, jouncing yet again on a rutted gravel road, Ron deci
ded that if he were ever rich, he’d either have a fleet of luxury cars, or, more sensibly, pave all the goddam roads on the estate.

  The cattery was a long, low rectangle of cinder block—it reminded Ron of a bunker in a war movie—clean, neat, and loud, with various cats—all red Manxes with tails of various lengths—making an astonishing variety of noises. It was like walking into a jungle.

  “Nimrod’s relatives,” Ron said.

  Janet, who was suddenly having trouble controlling a cat who hissed at every other of his kind he caught sight of, said, “Looks like a dysfunctional family.”

  The attendant’s name was Fred. He was in his sixties, had unruly salt-and-pepper hair, and wore wire-frame glasses, through which they could see weepy eyes of a beautiful blue.

  He didn’t know, Fred said, who Mr. Pembroke would have been giving the kitten to, though he was a bonny one, wasn’t he? No, nobody else would know, either, he was sure. Mr. Pembroke often came by at night to make sure everything was all right, or just to spend time with his cats.

  “I don’t know what’s gonna become of them, now. This is such a nice cattery. Well run. I don’t suppose the other Mr. Pembroke will want to keep it going, him and his birds. Blamed nonsense that a bunch of cats in cages can scare off birds a couple of miles away. I don’t know, maybe Mr. Swantek will work something out. Mr. Pembroke thought an awful lot of Mr. Swantek, thought Mr. Swantek was never much for cats.”

  They thanked Fred for his time, and tried to return the kitten.

  “Oh, no, no,” Fred said. “I see how it’s taking on with the other cats. Happens sometimes when they’ve been away from their mothers, you know. If he were show material, he’d be worth coaxing out of it, but as you can see, he’s a stumpie, and, besides, his ears don’t sit quite right.” He lowered his glasses and leaned forward. “Tell you something else,” he said. “I won’t feel quite right around this cat, him being with Mr. Pembroke when, when—”

  “Okay,” Janet said quickly. “What do we do with him?”

  “Keep him. At least for now. I guess he belongs to the estate, you know, but that won’t be settled for a while. It’s not like the cat was worth anything. ...”

  And that was where it had been left. They’d gone back to the inn, for two more days of waiting before the funeral.

  Things got strange.

  For one thing, the Professor just flat out disappeared. He retreated to his room, smoking and painting, taking his meals from room service and never calling for Ron even once.

  Ron wondered what the hell the old man could be painting, since one way or another, the job was done, and the smoke scrubber would go into production, tra-la, and everybody but Clyde Pembroke would have the benefit of it.

  For another thing, Janet was acting weird. She’d get mad over the strangest things, then five minutes later tell him he was the most wonderful man in the world. She positively doted on the cat, and seemed to take it personally when he was less than crazy about the thing.

  And, of course, the cat just loved Ron to bits. It sat on his morning paper and purred at him. It climbed into his breakfast and purred at him. It killed his shoes and purred at him. It gave his trouser cuffs a nice coating of red cat hairs and purred at him.

  Monday night, when Janet went out with Flo Ackerman (she’d told Ron not to worry, there’d be no bloodshed), Nimrod had made Ron his own private gymnasium, climbing him like K2 before finally deciding to settle down on his lap.

  Actually, it wasn’t so bad when the little fur ball just sat there warm and fuzzy and purred.

  Then Janet had come home and they’d gone to bed and made love, and Nimrod showed he had enough sense not to interrupt that, then he climbed in with them, and nestled down on Ron, and dug in his claws every time Ron moved.

  And Tuesday morning was the funeral.

  Two

  HARRY SWANTEK WAS CRYING so much he couldn’t knot his tie; Emily had to do it for him. Harry couldn’t do much of anything over the weekend. Couldn’t see. His eyes were always filled with these goddam tears.

  Harry had always thought of himself as a tough guy. Not in the bar fighter sense, but in the sense of being able to deal with anything that came up. Now he was facing the fact that that wasn’t true.

  Emily was understanding, but the kids were scared, staying clear of Harry as though afraid to make matters worse. He’d stayed in a locked office at the factory all day yesterday, fielding condolences to the company from vendors and customers and competitors. Personally, he didn’t feel very condoled.

  Harry had always known what a big part Mr. Pembroke had played in his life, how he’d helped his ma with money so Harry could go to college instead of work, how he’d hired him and trained him and put him in his current position at the factory. But he hadn’t realized how much he’d loved the guy. He hadn’t cried this much since his own father had died, and he’d been twelve then. Harry wished he’d done a better job of letting Mr. Pembroke know how much he appreciated it all.

  He also never realized how easily he could be scared, or how thoroughly. As a kid, he’d never backed down from a fight, no matter how big or how tough the other guy was. He gave his lumps, or took them, with the same stoic valor that was part of the world he grew up in. As a man, he’d steered clear of bars and other supermacho venues where men’s grips on their tempers slipped with the lubrication of alcohol. Harry had too much to lose to risk blowing it in a fistfight, but he’d learned that in business you had to be just as tough, and just as resilient. He’d taken a few hits when he was learning the ropes, and he’d learned. He hadn’t cried, and he hadn’t run.

  Now, though, he cried so constantly he embarrassed himself, and his legs were twitching with the urge to get out of town. Harry had to face it, he was scared. Not just the fear you overcome, the fear that’s the measure of courage, but real, deep-down gut fear, the kind that turns your mind to mush and your knees to jelly.

  Yesterday morning, trying to console him, Emily had said, “Well, honey, Clyde Pembroke left at least part of the company in good hands. You’re going to do him proud.”

  The fear had rushed over him like a polluted wave, freeing his long-caged anger. He jumped to his feet, roaring, knocking over the table. His big hands were fists, and he was flailing them.

  Harry thanked God that he still had enough humanity left not to have hit his wife—he would have killed her. Instead, he took his anger out on things, things he’d bought with the money earned as a Pembroke employee. He smashed the table, then used the table leg to demolish a couple of interior doors.

  He screamed at his wife. “Don’t you say that! Don’t you dare say that in front of anybody! Do you want me to go to jail for the rest of my life?”

  God bless Emily. She might be a little plump, and have some gray in her thick brown hair, but she was still twice the woman any other female in this town was. She was scared—who wouldn’t be?—suddenly closeted with a maniac like that, but she stood her ground, and asked him what he thought he was doing. “All I said was—”

  “You as much as said we ought to be happy Clyde is dead because of the block of stock he promised to leave me!”

  Emily shook her head, speechless.

  “The police call that a motive, Emily. I could be accused of killing a man who saved me from a life in the mills—”

  “Oh, bull,” Emily spat. “You sell yourself short, Harry Swantek, and I want you to stop. You weren’t handed this, you know. You earned it. You prospered, but only because you helped the Pembrokes prosper, and don’t you forget it.”

  “You don’t understand,” he said. “You’re just like the rest of them. You don’t understand a goddam thing.”

  She left the room. “You clean up this mess,” she told him over her shoulder. “I’m not going to make the cleaning lady do it.”

  A little while later, Dr. Espinoza showed up and gave Harry a needle, and soon after, the anger went away.

  He still couldn’t stop crying, though.

  It
was time to go. Emily took his arm. “Honey, the limo’s here.” Harry Swantek, and Emily and the kids, all dressed in black clothing, some of it bought specially for this occasion, headed for the car.

  Flo Ackerman’s black dress had also been bought especially for the occasion. Of all the things she had expected to be doing in Harville, Pennsylvania, attending the funeral of a kidnapped and murdered government contractor was not among them.

  This was a big deal. The governor was here. Both senators. The congressman, and all the state reps from the area. In this crowd, the mayor was small potatoes. The eulogy at the graveyard (the Pembrokes had an enormous family plot in the municipal cemetery—Chip would have to get busy if there were going to be enough Pembrokes around to fill it up) was the mayor’s big chance, and he knew it.

  Small and handsome, His Honor pulled into all the stations, with “Great American,” “Great Humanitarian,” “Close Personal Friend,” and “Shining Example for the Youth of Today” major stops on the itinerary.

  Flo checked out the crowd. Despite the density of the clichés, the speech seemed to be going over well enough. She supposed Great Men didn’t die as frequently out in the boonies as they did in Washington, D.C., so maybe the citizens didn’t hear the speech so often.

  Flo looked for individual faces. She saw Henry Pembroke, standing ramrod stiff, with a frown that seemed engraved in his face. Chip stood by his father’s side, looking younger than ever in a black suit and dark glasses.

  Harry Swantek was wearing dark glasses, too, and probably for the same reason, to hide the ravages of crying. There was a delegation from the Manx Cat Society, and the National Association of Manufacturers, and Flo couldn’t guess what all.

  Janet stood at the back of the crowd, but as tall as she was, it was easy to spot her. Flo thought about their outing Monday night, whereat Janet had humorously and indirectly—but unmistakably—warned Flo away from her man on pain of death.

  Gawky, mousy Janet had changed a lot since college. Flo guessed she had, too, and not only on the outside, but she still hadn’t reached the point of actually going after married men. She managed to get that across to Janet, too.