“I have a man next door who’ll swear—”
I cut in: “You don’t have anybody next door. Not tonight. Why would you want someone around to testify that for twenty minutes during dinner, when you were supposed to be looking through a couple of apartments in the main building, you were right here in Daskalos’ cottage? That time element was on your mind, and you covered it every way possible. In fact, you covered it too well.”
“Too well?”
“That bonfire in there. I was supposed to have killed Daskalos ten minutes ago. But he was already two hours dead—and what if some shrewd medical examiner started wondering about that discrepancy? He’s lying there cold and dead, and I’m lying there warm and dead. What to do? You overheat the room to make sure his body is kept nice and warm until the police take over. And that was the giveaway. That bonfire.”
Araujo moved his head slowly from side to side. “None of this means anything. You’re still in trouble.”
“The story of my life.”
“It’ll be life in prison. Get away while you can. I’ll help you.”
I said, “I’ll think about it. Meanwhile—”
He offered no resistance when I gagged him. Then I worked a length of cord through the trigger guards of both guns, hung them on a hook in the bedroom closet, locked its door, and pocketed its key. In the process I realized that my jacket and pants were stained with salad oil, my best jacket at that. But there’s always a silver lining. After all, it could have been blood.
And all mine.
In the lobby, the security man—security boy, to go by his age—was sitting on the table keeping the punch-bowl mailbox company. He hastily stood up and gave me a stern, wide-awake look. I said, “All quiet?”
“Uh-huh.” He nodded in the direction of the screening room. “Anyhow, nobody came out so far. Not after Mr. Araujo.”
“Good. You know Miss Riley?”
“Oh, sure.”
“Then, here’s what Mr. Araujo wants you to do. You go in there very quietly and tell Miss Riley—but so nobody else can hear it—that he wants to see her in her office right away. Got that straight?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Just say it into her ear and walk out. That’s Mr. Araujo’s orders. And if you’re wondering why he’s cutting it so fine, it’s because anything you do or say differently is going to start trouble in there. Afterward, he’s going to ask you why there was trouble.”
“Ah, hey. He knows he can count on me.”
“Just make sure he can.”
I watched him approach the screening room. Then I moved quickstep down the hallway to the office and unlocked it with my all-purpose. Two minutes later, Maggie arrived breathless. She must have made the trip at a run. She stood in the doorway bewildered. “The man said it was Virgilio.”
“I told him to. I figured otherwise you’d start wondering.”
“I am wondering. Aren’t you still supposed to be with Kalos?” She frowned at me. “And what happened to your clothes?”
“Araujo’s at the cottage, and never mind my clothes. Look, just come in and shut the door. Lock it.”
Her eyes opened very wide. She said with foreboding, “Something’s gone wrong.”
“Yes.” I drew her into the room and attended to the door myself.
“Kalos?”
“Dead. Araujo shot him. I’ve got Araujo roped up there.”
She looked ready to pass out. I caught her around the shoulders and steered her to the chair facing the desk. She sagged into it and lowered her head almost to her knees. When she raised it the color was returning to her face. “Milano, don’t just stand there looking at me like that. What happened? How did it happen?”
“You need a drink. So do I. If you tell me where Quist keeps that private stock—”
“No. I just want to hear what happened. Please.”
I went around the desk and sat down in her chair. Her manuscript in its box was in the middle of the desk. I carefully put it to one side. Then, keeping it low-keyed, I described in detail everything that had happened after I walked into the cottage.
She was, as she had said, tough. Maggie Riley, girl of the Everglades. Tough-minded as well as tough-spirited. Her immediate response made that plain. “But aren’t you in trouble? The way Virgilio said?”
“How?”
“It’s your story against his. And you did have reason to hate Kalos. He didn’t.”
“I suppose not.”
“Milano, don’t you understand what I’m getting at? You’re always talking about motive. Virgilio had no motive for the killing. It doesn’t make sense that he did it.”
“Wrong. He had half a million dollars’ worth of motive. That’s what he wanted Quist to invest in his Free Cuba movement. My guess is that Quist agreed to pay it in return for murder.”
“Andrew? Are you saying he had something to do with it?”
“Everything. It’s been his game from start to finish. And Daskalos was only a pawn sacrifice in it. Just like that pet dog that was butchered. And that security guy who got his skull cracked open. Because I’m the one Quist was out to get all along. John Milano, none other.”
“That’s paranoid!”
I said, “Baby, if I’m paranoid I’ve powerful good reason for it. How about those drinks now?”
Maggie came to her feet. “Never mind drinks. I want Andrew to hear all this.”
“Not yet.”
“If you’re going to level charges at him—”
“I am. Now, sit down and I’ll tell you why.”
Unwillingly, she seated herself on the edge of the chair. “Well?”
I said, “As far as Quist is concerned, Sharon is the ultimate trophy. He is crackbrained, drooling possessive of her. Do you want to argue that point?”
“The language maybe. I’ll concede the point.”
“All right, then. Last July he found out the contents of that letter I returned to her. Later on, it was her Christmas letter. There it was. Clear evidence that she was determined to trade him in for me sooner or later. A powerful inducement for him to decide that the one permanent solution to the problem was to have me knocked off. When this movie crowd showed up—with Daskalos tagging along—he came up with a game plan.”
Maggie said, “And having Kalos murdered was part of it? Kalos of all people? You are out of your mind. Andrew liked the way he kept Sharon in line. He told me so himself.”
“He told me the same thing, and one of my mistakes was believing him. Because Sharon was already on her way to cutting loose from Daskalos, and Quist knew that. He had no more need or use for Daskalos at all.
“But this was only one of my mistakes. Another lay in not recognizing that Kalos, poor bastard, had come to believe his own preaching. Had really made the conversion. And was honestly trying to be protective of Sharon. I think Quist was shrewd enough to count on my not accepting that. One thing is sure. He never let me or anyone else here forget that I was violently antagonistic to Daskalos. A very important thing to have on the record when the bodies would be carted away.”
“Of course,” Maggie said in a flat voice. “All part of Andrew’s satanic plan to have you knocked off.”
“Whatever you want to call it, baby, it was one lovely plan from start to finish. He needed some kind of case as bait for me, so there were those threatening notes. To give substance to the threats, he had his dog killed. That would also keep me from suspecting him of any conniving, because what dog lover woud dream of having his faithful hound’s throat cut? Then he pulled one of his cleverest moves. He set it up so that I’d think Sharon was inviting me down here. But as I learned from her this afternoon, she had been conned into mentioning my name and setting up the invitation. When I did arrive on the scene, all Quist had to do was keep me looking at everyone but him until I was set up for the kill. The son of a bitch came about thirty seconds from pulling it off, too.”
Maggie sat there open-mouthed. Finally she said, “That’s it?”
“That is it.”
“Milano, do you realize how much of this is conjecture? How many holes there are in it?”
“Yes. Like conjecturing Quist somehow knew I hated Daskalos from long ago. Which would mean, after the smoke cleared away, that my murdering him was plausible. And since Araujo was then supposed to kill me in my attempted getaway, I couldn’t disprove that. But if I get the answer to one simple question, I think all such holes would be plugged. Want to try answering it?”
“Why me? How about asking Andrew to try? Or are you afraid to confront him with this lunacy?”
“It really is a simple question. How did he know what was in Sharon’s letters?”
“What makes you so sure he did?”
I said pleasantly, “Because you gave him that information. Just the way you told him everything Sharon confided to you. Your Andrew may be suffering from arrested moral development, baby, but he’s nobody’s fool. He knew exactly what he was marrying. But with you on the job, he’d never have to wonder what she was up to. He’d know about it as soon as she spilled it to you.”
“My God,” Maggie said. She regarded me with wonderment. “Do you hear yourself, Milano? The perfect frame-up. Concocted by Andrew Quist, who is not merely neurotically jealous but murderously jealous. Carried out by Virgilio Araujo for the sake of—how much did you say it was?”
“Half a million.”
“Right. Half a million dollars which he needs to raise for the invasion of Cuba by his private army.”
“You raise the army first,” I pointed out. “The invasion comes later.”
“Whenever. Both abetted by me, who provided necessary intelligence. For what reason I provided it, deponent sayeth not. Probably I was demonstrating a fierce loyalty to the murderous Quist.”
I said, “Scratch the murderous Quist. Try Vincent van Gogh.”
“What?”
“Van Gogh. You remember. That artist you’re planning to do so much expensive research on.”
“What about it?”
I said, “Well, fifty thousand dollars does buy a lot of research.” I held up a hand. “Not that you’re shortchanging Quist. I mean, look what you’re being paid for. Keeping tabs on Sharon. Attending to me personally to make sure your boss is always a step ahead of me. That drama when Kightlinger used your typewriter. And then the big one. The one you were scheduled for at the inquest. Telling the law with a straight face that after the bridge game last night you had no idea where I went to, but I certainly hadn’t been with you. After all, if I had been, how could I have set off that blackout and swiped that gun to kill Daskalos with? You know, that lie alone would be worth the whole fifty thousand to Quist.”
“Are you talking about my grant money?”
“Sure. What other jackpot is coming your way?”
“Then let me make very clear that this jackpot—if it does come my way—is not coming from Andrew. He had nothing to do with it in any shape, form, or fashion. Nothing at all.”
“Not even a little something?”
“Nothing at all. That money is coming from a highly reputable Boston foundation that has my application and précis right there in its files. And whose return correspondence I have right here in my files.”
“The Lucas Foundation,” I said. When she blinked at that I said, “Sharon mentioned it.”
“It was supposed to be confidential until the final decision. But that doesn’t matter. What does matter is that you knew this would be a legitimate grant. So all your wild deductions—”
I said slowly, “Mary Henrietta Lucas Quist. The subject of that Sargent portrait in your museum. Quist’s mother, so you told me. I haven’t checked it out yet, but my wild deduction is that the Lucas Foundation is all Quist’s. And, as it must have struck him, a very handy device for washing dirty money. Like money he’d have to pay someone for joining his conspiracy to commit murder.”
Maggie stared at me. Her face was suddenly very white, the freckles blotchy on it. Then she said surprisingly, “Did you really think for one minute that I’d deny you were with me when that blackout started?”
I nodded sadly.
She stood up, and taking a pen from its holder and using a sheet of her manuscript paper, she leaned over the desk and wrote busily. I followed the words upside down.
To whom it may concern: John Milano was in my company at the time the blackout of Hesperides Estates occurred on January 23rd.
The signature was in the same minute, unadorned script: Margaret Riley.
She twisted the paper around on the desk so that it was right-side up from my angle, then sat down in a version of Sharon’s schoolmarm position, shoulders squared, hands tightly clasped in her lap. One difference. The balls of her thumbs were pressed together. It gave her a prayerful look.
I rested my hand on the paper. “What is this? A small repayment for having set me up?”
“I expected that. No, it’s proof of good faith, Milano. Beyond that, it’s the preamble to a small confession. Yes, I did keep Andrew informed about Sharon. I wasn’t happy about it from the start, but he insisted it was for her good, and somehow that made sense. But I never went beyond that. So help me God, I didn’t know what he and Virgilio were up to. I didn’t spy on you for him. I didn’t write those notes to Kalos. You have to believe that, Milano. Is it so hard to believe?”
I said, “That new book about Bligh and the Bounty you had on the shelf there—you got rid of it, didn’t you? Not that it matters. The price sticker had the store name on it. The Book Nook, Coconut Grove. Sounds like a cozy little place. I’m sure they’d remember selling it to you. Probably charged it to your account, for that matter.”
“Milano—”
I said tiredly, “I was standing there looking down at Daskalos when I remembered where I saw that line before, the one in the first note to him. I am in Hell, capital H and all. It was what Fletcher Christian said to Bligh when he declared the mutiny. It would be in any authoritative book about the Bounty, so it had to be in that book you were reading, the one you borrowed it from. What’s the sense of denying you wrote those notes when we both know you did? And you did report on me to Quist. And were part of his conspiracy.”
She remained silent and unmoving, her brows knit, the edges of her teeth, just barely meeting each other, showing behind the retracted lips. She cocked her head at me. “What do you intend to do about it? You know that the kind of money Andrew would be willing to—”
“No.”
“Totally incorruptible?”
“I doubt it. Just enough not to be bought off by somebody who tried to murder me.”
“I see. Well, then?”
“It’s up to you. When you’re questioned, tell the truth. Offer to be a witness for the prosecution. A smart lawyer can plea bargain a good deal out of that.” I came around the desk and handed her the phone. “It starts with a call to the police. It’ll earn you points if you’re the one to break the news to them. Whoever answers, tell him you want to report a murder, and make sure he’s got your name right. Tell him to have the gateman here bring the responding officers straight to the screening room in the main building, where you’ll be waiting. Oh yes, and tell him someone’s badly hurt too, and needs an ambulance. That’s it.”
Not quite.
Eyes narrowed, Maggie was doing some heavy calculation. I rested my butt on a corner of the desk and waited. Finally she said, “I didn’t have to write that.” She motioned with her chin toward the sheet of paper on the desk. “Suppose I hadn’t?”
“It wouldn’t change anything.”
“But it’s your alibi, isn’t it? What if I told the police you made me write it?”
I said, “I’ll save you the trouble.” I held up the paper, put my lighter to it, and after the flame had risen high I dropped it into the ashtray on the desk. Maggie, phone in hand, watched it smolder into ash. Her whole body seemed to go slack. She looked at me in confusion. “I thought—”
I said, “I have
the murder weapon—that stolen gun with Araujo’s fingerprints still on it—locked away. And Pablo, his nephew or whatever, planted your last note in the cottage, and he is not going to deny it long, once the cops start turning the screws. That’s just for openers.”
Kightlinger had said she packed a mighty wallop with her fist. She had better than a fist now, she had that phone. The unexpected stunning impact of it high up against the side of my head sent me right off the desk to the floor. I didn’t see stars. I saw massive astral bodies, constellations, galaxies, and beyond them, as I managed to get to hands and knees, I dizzily saw Maggie working the key in the terrace door. She got the door open, she was on her way through it, and she suddenly stopped and turned back.
It was her baby she had come for, the manuscript in its box on the desk. She was on her way again when I hit her with a shoulder tackle. Pages of manuscript flew one way, she flew another, and I went with her, desperately trying to grab whatever I could grab through that storm of fists and knees and hard-toed shoes. When I finally got her under control, flat on her belly, her arm twisted up behind her, she still strained to get free.
I put pressure on the arm, and she groaned. I could hear her breath rasping in her throat, each exhalation culminating in a barely audible whimper.
I said, “God damn it, get it into your head that I’ve been trying to do you a favor. I don’t even know why. Maybe it’s not you. Maybe it’s Vincent van Gogh I want to do a favor for. But will you try to understand what I’m getting at?”
She made a noise in her throat.
I said, “All right, that didn’t sound like no, so I’ll take for granted it’s yes. Now, listen close. When the showdown comes Quist will buy himself a dozen psychiatrists to swear him into a nice cushy sanitarium. Araujo’s had it. He pulled the trigger, he goes up for life, maybe gets the chair. You are definitely not going to get the Quist treatment. And your one chance of not getting the Araujo treatment is in lining up with the prosecution.”
She could barely manage to get it out. “And where does that leave me?”
“In very hot water,” I said. “Which is still a lot better than boiling oil.”
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