The Manx Murders

by William L. DeAndrea

  Benedetti leaned back in his seat. “Ronald, Janet, I have a confession to make.”

  “Maestro, are you feeling all right?”

  “I am feeling,” he said, “better than I have in days. That is the point. My behavior since the morning after Clyde Pembroke’s body was found has not been the moody workings of my genius. It has been the petulant sulking of a child.”

  “You weren’t so bad,” Janet said. “You just weren’t around much.”

  Benedetti smiled the kind of warm smile he seemed to save only for Janet. “Believe me, cara arnica, in the privacy of my own room, I was very bad indeed. I was bad to the point of becoming disgusted with myself.”

  “What was the problem?”

  “I was wallowing in the sin of Pride. I had a desperate desire for something for which my conceit would not let me ask.”

  “To stay on the case,” Janet said.

  “Precisely. My reputation, and therefore my effectiveness, have come to depend on a perceived aloofness on my part to any one particular crime. This ensures cooperation. It ensures that our efforts, being the harder to come by, will be more appreciated.”

  He reached for his pocket and took out a cigar. Then he looked at it, frowned, and put it back. To Janet, he said, “Forgive me. I shall refrain from smoking in this enclosed space.”

  Ron was getting nervous. This was not the Benedetti he knew. Before this, the Professor didn’t give a damn whom he grossed out with his cigars. Next thing you knew, he’d even be reaching for a dinner check. It wasn’t that Ron wouldn’t like to see the old man a little more considerate; it was that he was worried that a change in personality would be the first step in the dissolution of one of the century’s most amazing minds.

  “Va bene,” the old man went on. “So I would not bring myself to ask to continue, though Chief Viretsky dropped less-than-subtle hints that he would appreciate our staying. And, yet, what compelled me to want to continue was also pride.”

  “I wasn’t too crazy about having a kidnapping and murder pulled off under my nose, either.”

  “It wasn’t just that, Ronald. There was something about the events that occurred that night, something not right. You reflected the unease yourself.”

  “I haven’t felt right since I got here.”

  Benedetti slapped his thigh. “Well,” he said. “Chief Viretsky wanted us, the Pembrokes wanted us. Now, they have got us.”

  “So what do we do, Maestro?” Ron asked.

  “Today, we paint, plan, and pack. Tomorrow morning, we will relocate to Alpha House. I have a few requests to make of the chief. Ron, you talk to everyone again. Janet, you will spend the day researching the Pembrokes, with emphasis on the brothers. Could they have aroused the type of hatred that would cause someone to ignore a million dollars in cash?”

  Janet knitted her brows for a second, then said, “Oh. Oh. You mean, the express purpose of the whole operation may have been to murder Clyde?”

  The Professor nodded. “And to cause suffering to Henry as well. And Chip. Do not forget the last of the Pembrokes.”

  “I’d like to meet the person,” Ron said, “no matter how rich, who could walk away from a million dollars in cash.”

  “We may,” the Professor said impassively, “already have met the person.”

  Back at the inn, the Professor hightailed it back to his room.

  “Ready to start painting,” Janet suggested after he was gone.

  “Either that, or he was dying for a cigar.” Ron turned on the TV to a Big East college football game, and began to pack.

  “Be sure to leave out things we need for tomorrow,” Janet said.

  “Right. Um, aren’t you going to help?”

  “In a little while. I have to sit for a few minutes. Do you mind?”

  Ron said of course not, and Janet plopped down into an armchair and watched the screen as though she had a lot of money bet on Rutgers against West Virginia with the points. She kicked off her shoes.

  Ron made conversation as he stuffed things in suitcases. “He’s never passed up a cigar before. I think you’re probably his favorite person.”

  “He puts up with me because you love me.”

  “No, that’s why I put up with you.” Ron walked around the chair and kissed her on the lips.

  Janet said, “Mmm. Maybe. But the Professor is more perceptive than you are.”

  “Of course he is. That’s why he’s the Professor.”

  “He notices more about your life than you do.”

  “If you are talking about Flo Ackerman, I plead innocent.”

  Janet arched an eyebrow. “Innocent? Of what?”

  “Of anything! I’m innocent in the childlike sense. That’s an admirable trait.”

  “Yes, dear.” Janet fought a smile and lost.

  “Besides,” Ron went on, “am I not a better person for not suspecting every woman I meet of wanting my body, for God’s sake?”

  “Well, you’re certainly a better person than if you thought every woman you met did,” Janet conceded.

  “Okay, then. So enough about what a jerk I am not to have seen Flo coming on to me. And, besides, I still don’t think she did.”

  “She did,” Janet said. “She’s admitted as much to me. But that’s—”

  “Wait a minute. You went to dinner last night, and Flo told you she took a run at your husband?”

  “She didn’t think of it as a run. Just sort of a few jogging steps. Girls who grow up thinking of themselves as homely have a tough time believing great-looking guys are anything but slime.”

  “There are so many things wrong with that, I don’t know where to start.”

  “Let it go, then, because what I really want to talk to you about—”

  “I think the Professor should let Evil slide for a while, and try to figure out women.”

  “Well,” Janet said slyly, “the Professor’s figured out enough not to light his cigar.”

  Ron sat on the edge of the bed. “I give up.”

  “It’s simple, dear. This is confession day. Benedetti made his confession; here’s mine: I’m pregnant.”

  “Pregnant. Like you and me are going to have a baby together?”

  “Yup.”

  “No fooling?”

  “Nope.”

  There were some words said in the next five minutes, and though none of them was especially coherent, they were all joyous. Ron scooped Janet out of the chair, spun her around a couple of times and plunked her down on the bed, very, very gently. There were kisses and hugs and squeals of delight.

  “... and if it’s a boy, we’ll call it Niccolo, and if it’s a girl, Niccolette, and—”

  “I’ll kill you.” Janet laughed and bopped him on the head.

  “I was only kidding. Honest. I don’t even think the Professor can stretch his pride far enough to rejoice in a kid named ‘Niccolo Gentry.’ ”

  “Okay, then.”

  “How far along are you? When did you know?”

  “About two months. I found out shortly after you took off for Canada.”

  “We talked on the phone every night. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “Because I wanted to tell you in person. After I got here, there hardly seemed a good time to do it. I wanted everything to be perfect.”

  “Darling,” Ron said, “if you waited for everything to be perfect, the kid would be on his way to college before I ever knew he was coming. Or on her way.”

  “You’re the detective. You would have figured it out eventually”

  “I suppose so. As you say, I have been a little slow on the uptake lately. So that’s why the Professor spurned his cigar. I wonder how he knew.”

  “Don’t ask him.”

  “I won’t ask him. But we’ve got to tell him. Officially, I mean. In a little while. Certainly, before we tell anyone else.”

  “Of course.”

  “How are you? Have you been throwing up mornings when I haven’t noticed?”

  “
No, nothing like that, thank God. Yet. I just get a little snappy. Maybe you’ve noticed.”

  “Maybe a little. I thought you were mad at me about something I hadn’t figured out yet.”

  “Nope.”

  “God, this is great.”

  “You’re really happy?”

  “Happy? I’m ecstatic. How about you?”

  “Same here. Now you know why I didn’t come down here right away.”

  “I do?”

  “Cats. I knew I was pregnant, and I knew we’d inevitably be exposed to cats, so, of course, I couldn’t come until I’d had my test for toxoplasmosis.”

  “Oh, right. That’s the disease you get from cat doo.”

  Janet smiled at him. “How scientific.”

  “From feline feces. Happy now? It seems like a cold or the flu, but it can cause brain damage in unborn—Hey, what the hell are we doing with Nimrod in here? He’s been all over us for a couple of days!”

  “Relax, honey. That was the point of the test. Toxoplasmosis is one of those things you can only get once. I was sure I’d had it at one point or the other as a kid—we always had a cat around the house—but, of course, I had to be sure. So I had a blood test, and it turned out I’ve got the antibodies, so we don’t have anything to worry about on that score.”

  “Why take chances?” Ron asked. “We can get you a kitten after the baby is born.”

  “Don’t you like Nimrod?”

  “I like him better than anything else that’s ever ruined my shoes, but that’s not the point. The point is our child. You’re going to be a terrific mother.”

  “That’s right, I am. And you ought to know that I wouldn’t take the slightest chance of hurting our child.”

  “Of course not, but—”

  “But nothing. The doctor said I could take up lion-taming if I wanted, so far as my immunity to feline feces was concerned.”

  “All right, then.” Ron kissed her again. “Let’s get this wrapped up so we can get back home and start planning a nursery.”

  “Deal,” Janet said. “I’ve got an idea I want to check out, anyway.”

  “What is it?”

  “I’ll tell you tomorrow. You and the Professor aren’t the only ones who get to be mysterious around here.”

  Four

  THE ONE AND ONLY time the late Sophie Havelka Pembroke had seen the small three-room suite up under the eaves of Omega House that was occupied by Lewis Jackson, she had been horrified. She had given the decorator (number four, as Jackson remembered it) specific instructions about making all the rooms conform to the futuristic scheme of the place.

  That had been done, and it had lasted about half a day. Jackson had personally carried the chrome and pastel stuff to the attic, painted over the lime-green walls with no-nonsense white, and filled the room with solid, comfortable furniture made of God’s own wood.

  When Mrs. Pembroke poked in to check up on the decorator, and saw a normal man doing normal work in a normal room, she screamed that he was fired. How dare he do this to her?

  Jackson showed her the calm face he showed everyone, no matter what turmoil he was going through. For a black man of Jackson’s generation, it was one way to survive while keeping one’s self-respect intact.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” he said, not sounding sorry at all, “but I couldn’t work or sleep in this place the way you had it. I need a comfortable home, or I won’t be worth my salary.”

  “You’re not worth anything!” She had a pretty face, but it was ugly when she was being mean. That was why she was very careful to keep her meanness away from the view of Mr. Henry Pembroke. “And you don’t work here anymore, either, do you understand? Pack your things.”

  Jackson remained impassive. “Yes, ma’am. But I work for Mr. Pembroke, for both Mr. Pembrokes, you see, and have been since before you came along. As soon as I hear from one of them, I’ll start packing. But until I am fired, I still have work to do, so good afternoon.”

  He closed the door on her. It was a good, solid, thick door (somehow, none of the decorators had gotten around to purging it), but he could still hear her cursing as she went down the stairs.

  He sighed, and figured he might as well start packing, at that. Mrs. Pembroke had a way of being sweet when she wanted to be, and she plain sweeted her husband into doing the most foolish things you could think of. This house, for instance. Jackson sighed again, and went back to his adding machine to figure the maintenance accounts.

  Now, here it was, forty-odd years later, and he was still doing maintenance accounts on that same adding machine. There had been offers over the years to provide him with everything from a pocket calculator to a personal computer, but Jackson had turned them all down. Punch, punch, punch, pull the lever. The rhythm soothed him somehow, and he’d never had any complaints about the accuracy of his figures. That was the trouble with people. They wanted something different before they appreciated what they had.

  Lewis Jackson appreciated the good things he had. Like good people to work for. They paid him well, and treated him with respect. So much respect, in fact, that Jackson had never heard another word about being fired, not from the Pembroke brothers or from anybody else. In that one thing, at least, Mr. Henry Pembroke hadn’t let his wife sweet him into doing wrong, or shrew him into it, either. Jackson had appreciated that. That kind of loyalty and respect was important to him.

  Of course, they weren’t his friends. The life Jackson had led didn’t lead to friendship, as such. He didn’t mind. He’d provided top-notch service to the Pembrokes—keeping their houses staffed, supervising the planting and the mowing of the landscaped portions of the estate, doing whatever needed to be done when it needed to be done, even more or less raising Chip.

  In fact, in Jackson’s mind, he had raised Chip. The boy’s mother hadn’t been interested, and now she was gone. Chip’s father, with all due respect, hadn’t been cut out to look after a child, either. Chip’s Uncle Clyde and Jackson himself had been the major influences over the boy. Together, they tried to make him feel less lonely and scared, which, wealth or no wealth, Chip certainly had been.

  Now, Mr. Clyde Pembroke was dead, Mr. Henry Pembroke was—well, Jackson didn’t like to think about what Mr. Henry was, these days—and that left him to watch out for a boy (Jackson still thought of Chip as a boy) who was soon going to be very alone and very rich.

  They’d do fine together. Because behind his impassive face, Lewis Jackson loved Chip as much as any father loved any son.

  Nobody knew Lewis Jackson well enough to be able to discern that, and Jackson wasn’t the type to tell. It was possible even Chip didn’t know it. Well, someday he would.

  Jackson looked at the clock, carefully tore the figures off the adding machine roll, flattened them, and put them in their file in the filing cabinet he’d used for the estate’s accounts since he’d started doing them.

  He took a set of car keys from a row of hooks by the door. He had another little errand to do for the Pembrokes.

  Five

  MR. JACKSON CAME IN the black Town Car to pick up all their stuff, certainly the most elegant moving van with which Ron had ever been associated. Janet and the Professor rode with Jackson, while Ron took Nimrod in the rented car. When they reached the gravel drive up through the woods, the cat swished his tail stump angrily, and made loud protests at the jouncing.

  “Come on,” Ron said. “You’ve been over this at least twice before.”

  The kitten meowed again; Ron said, “Boy, if you could talk, this case would be over.”

  Nimrod seemed pleased at that idea. In any case, he settled down in the bottom of the cat carrier Ron had dashed out to buy that morning and went to sleep.

  After they got settled in their rooms at Alpha House, Janet was off for her work in the newspaper morgue, and on her own private project, whatever the hell that was. She’d turn in the rental car at their office near the newspaper. Ron would pick her up later, and they’d do some shopping.

&nb
sp; As she drove off, Ron turned from the window and said to the Professor, “My God, I’m becoming something I never could tolerate.”

  “What is that, amico?”

  “One of those expectant fathers, like in the movies. Janet’s driving off alone, and I’m scared to death over what might happen to her.”

  “Janet will be fine.”

  “I know that. It’s just that all of a sudden, I don’t believe it.”

  “It was a very smooth ride coming up here today, comparatively speaking,” the old man said.

  “Depends on the car. I was bouncing so badly, Nimrod couldn’t even meow straight. You were in a land yacht. The suspension in that one costs more than the car I was driving. That kind of thing makes all the difference.”

  “Yes, I suppose it does. Are my paints convenient?”

  “On top of the dresser near the big window. I put your easel up there. I know you like the light.”

  “When I can get it.”

  Ron was looking out the window. Janet was out of sight now. Ron worried some more.

  “My God,” he said. “She hasn’t been gone two minutes. How am I going to last seven more months?”

  “I have noticed a tendency in you to worry too much, my friend. You must try to calm down.”

  “Maestro, we are talking about a woman who spends a good portion of her working life locked in a small room with a succession of crazy people.”

  “None of whom has ever hurt her in the slightest.”

  “That I know of. What the hell, she waited a week and a half to tell me she was pregnant. She’s got some angle on the case she won’t tell me about. What else is she keeping from me? For all I know, she’s had to shoot seventeen violent patients. She’s very staunch on confidentiality, you know. Miss Ethics I had to marry.”

  “Miss Ethics you wanted to marry.”

  Ron grinned. “I sure did. I’ve never regretted it for a second. But I’m afraid this fatherhood thing might be a little too big for me.”

  “Nonsense. Niccolo Benedetti would not pick a student who was not equal to any task that might befall a man, let alone the most basic of all. As a father, as at everything else, you will be all a person could want.”