by James Yaffe
“So how did he go about making this happen? First of all, he was careful that everybody should know how upset and bitter he was about losing his job. He even planted in your mind, Davie, when you ran into him at the poetry show, that he was afraid he could commit a murder. Everybody’s going to know he has a motive for this murder anyway, so he might as well get credit for not trying to hide it, for admitting it, for struggling to overcome it. This way people will feel sympathetic to him, they’ll want to believe ahead of time that he isn’t the guilty party.
“Next he called Bellamy up on Wednesday afternoon and talked him into reading the last paragraph of Black Boy over the phone. And while Bellamy was talking, his voice was being taped, and afterward Russo edited this tape. He knew how to do it from when he was a boy, working in his father’s store, repairing phonographs and television sets.
“So now that he had a nice little one-way conversation between Bellamy and Samantha Fletcher on his tape, Russo took the next step. At seven-fifteen or thereabouts, he drove out to Bellamy’s house—”
“Just a second, Mom. This whole scheme you’re accusing Mike of couldn’t have worked if Bellamy had gone to Van Horn’s party along with everybody else. But Bellamy didn’t let Van Horn know he wouldn’t be there until an hour or two before the party began. So how the hell could Mike have known he wouldn’t be there?”
“Yes, I worried about this for a while,” Mom said. “Particularly when I heard from Samantha Fletcher that on Tuesday afternoon Bellamy told her and her alone, in strict confidence, that he planned to stay away from the party. But then it occurred to me, this conversation between them took place in Bellamy’s office at the college around three in the afternoon—and at exactly the same time Russo was in his office, which is right next door to Bellamy’s. Fletcher heard him using the typewriter in there, that’s why she decided not to disturb him. And the walls between those offices are as thin as paper—which you found out yourself when you were searching for Bellamy’s class lists.
“So like I was saying, Russo drove out to Bellamy’s house at seven-fifteen on Wednesday night, and he parked his car down the street, at a snowy part of the curb so there wouldn’t be any question later on which car had been parking there. It wouldn’t surprise me, in fact, if Russo deliberately gave his car a flat tire on Wednesday morning, just to make sure nobody would think it was parked near Bellamy’s house earlier than Wednesday night.
“So he rang Bellamy’s doorbell, and when Bellamy let him in he was ready with some excuse why he was paying a call. They went into the living room, and while Bellamy’s back was turned to him, Russo picked up the paperweight from the desk and hit him. Then he took Bellamy’s phone off the hook and went home quick. Then he dialed Van Horn’s number, and played the edited tape through the phone to Van Horn and Samantha Fletcher and also, as it happened, to you.”
“I can see another problem, Mom,” I broke in. “How could Mike be sure, when he edited that tape with Bellamy’s voice on it, that it would take just exactly a certain amount of time for me, or whoever else picked up the receiver, to bring Fletcher to the phone? How could he possibly time the pause on the tape? The person who answered the phone might’ve taken too long to find Fletcher, and in that case Bellamy’s voice would’ve started in talking to nobody at all. Or this person might’ve found Fletcher right away, and in that case she would’ve said hello into the phone long before the voice was ready to answer her. Either way, the whole plot would’ve blown up.”
“Who says so? Your argument would make sense if the tape-recording trick had actually been what Russo wanted everybody to believe it was. If the tape, that is, had been playing in an empty room somewhere, while the maker of the tape, the murderer, had been in Van Horn’s house, establishing his alibi. But with this scheme the tape didn’t have to unwind itself in an empty room. Russo could be right there in the room with it, listening on his own phone in his own house to what was being said at the other end of the line. And tape recorders are equipped, isn’t it so, with ‘pause’ buttons? So as soon as Van Horn went off to fetch Fletcher, Russo pushed the ‘pause’ button, and he let go of it again only when he heard her voice on the line.
“As it is, incidentally, he didn’t let go of it soon enough. You told me yourself there was a hesitation—for a few seconds, and for no particular reason—between the moment when Fletcher said hello into the phone and the moment when Bellamy started in to tell her about the paragraph from Richard Wright. What could account for that hesitation, except that Russo wasn’t quick enough on the uptake when he had to release the ‘pause’ button?
“So the guests at the party, including Van Horn and Fletcher, had their alibis now, and Russo didn’t. A very touchy situation for him—he was pretty sure the police would arrest him. But it wasn’t his intention he should stay arrested for long. This is what Zorro was for. And Captain Blood. And The Shadow.”
“That was Mike?”
“Who else? It was necessary for his plan that he should find some way to get that edited tape and that tape recorder into the hands of the public defender and the police. Because the tape was conclusive evidence that he was an innocent man and that somebody was trying to frame the murder on him while they set up an alibi for themselves. So he made up a fictional character, this student who makes money on the side by being a sneak thief. He wrote a letter in this character’s style, he sent it to his own lawyer’s investigator—”
“You’re saying there was no sneak thief? The tape recorder was never stolen from anybody’s office in Llewellyn Hall?”
“Exactly. This was strictly part of the story he had to make up—”
“But Mom, Van Horn did have a tape recorder stolen from his desk. I can swear it wasn’t there when I interviewed Van Horn the day after the murder. The desk was a mess, but even so I can swear there was nothing on it but books and papers.”
“Who says it was there before the murder?”
“Of course it was. Mike described the things on Van Horn’s desk—” I gulped and couldn’t finish the sentence.
“So it all comes down to Russo’s word, isn’t that right?” Mom said. “If he didn’t mention it, how would we know Van Horn ever had a tape recorder in his office? As a matter of fact, didn’t Van Horn tell you he does his research and dictates his notes at home? Which means that’s where he keeps his tape recorder.
“So let’s get back to Zorro. What a fancy plot Russo cooked up! Zorro makes a phone call to you in a low hoarse voice, like he’s got cloth over his mouth. He sends you mysterious letters with crazy signatures. He gives you this exciting story about stealing the important evidence and trading it for Russo’s rare book. It’s better than a television cops-and-robbers show. Though naturally he does all this with a minimum amount of talking to you, because even with his voice disguised you might recognize it.
“And then, when you report to Russo about Zorro’s proposition—what a performance he puts on for you! He’s in such an upset state, the book is his most precious possession, he can’t give it up even if he has to risk his life. And then, bit by bit, while all the other possibilities for saving him are going out the window, he’s forced to change his mind. Finally, for such an unselfish reason—he doesn’t want Samantha Fletcher’s career to be destroyed—he agrees you should trade the book for Zorro’s evidence. And everybody is in tears from such self-sacrifice.
“Only Russo is laughing up both his sleeves—because at a quarter to twelve you took the book from him, and twenty minutes later, without knowing it, you gave the book right back to him. In other words, he never lost his precious possession at all. It was strictly a smoke screen, which he put up to make everybody believe in a miracle: the sudden appearance of the evidence that’s going to save his neck.”
“But why did this scheme have to be so complicated, Mom? If all he wanted was to get the tape recorder into our hands, why not just send it to Ann and me, with an anonymous note? Why all this hocus-pocus with the park and the book?”
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“My guess is he had three reasons. First, if the tape recorder just arrived one day in your mail, this would look too easy, too convenient. You’d be more likely to smell a rat. You had to think you were really working to get hold of that evidence. Second, he wanted to build up for you a very definite picture of Zorro’s character and personality—the wild happy-go-lucky student, the childish nut who gives himself names from movies and comic books, the joker who’s also got a nasty streak in him and wants to take poor Professor Russo’s book away from him out of pure malice. To make you believe in this picture, he had to go through the hocus-pocus.
“And third. I think maybe he enjoyed the hocus-pocus. It’s not such an exciting life being an English professor in a town like this—especially if you grew up in New York. It’s a nice life, and he likes it, but sometimes maybe it gets just a little bit boring. Playing kiddie games, throwing up smoke screens, being Zorro and Captain Blood and The Shadow—it’s one way to kill the boredom.
“And he did a good job at it, we have to give him credit. In fact, there were only two little problems that he didn’t plan for ahead of time. The first one was, the assistant district attorney decided, after he was arrested, that he shouldn’t be released on bail. What a terrible blow this must’ve been to Russo! If he was locked up until he went on trial, how could he get at that tape recorder, how could he arrange it so the tape was delivered to the public defender? No wonder he turned pale and his voice shook when he told you how much he hated being in jail. But this part of the story had a happy ending for him. The judge let him loose, he could go on with the rest of his scheme.
“The second unexpected problem that came up wasn’t nearly so important. Did you notice how, for your first appointment with Zorro, he was right on time, on the stroke of midnight, but for your second appointment he was five minutes late? Why? He’s so anxious to get his hands on that book, and still he’s late? The answer is, he couldn’t help himself. You made it necessary he should be late, Davie, when you told him you’d stop by his house to get the poetry book from him just before you went to the park to meet Zorro. This meant, naturally, that he couldn’t leave for the park until after you did.
“Mostly, though, his Zorro scheme worked fine. We all fell right into the trap. Me, too, for a while. I can hear myself giving out with the brilliant psychology, how the book was a symbol in Russo’s mind for the way he escaped from his childhood poverty! I’m a little ashamed of myself, I wouldn’t deny it. But luckily, I stopped making with the psychology and started using my brains, and I saw the mistakes he made.”
Mom sat back in her chair. The lecture was over, and I wish I could say it left me cool and collected. But I was more than confused and upset; I was good and mad, positively boiling. I kept thinking about Mike Russo, my young friend, my fellow bagel lover, laughing up his sleeve—up both sleeves, as Mom said—while he made a damned fool out of me. All right, I wasn’t only mad—underneath I was hurt.
And another thing I have to confess—I was just a bit annoyed with Mom, too.
“One thing I don’t understand,” I said to her finally. “Why didn’t you tell me all of this last night, when we unwrapped the tape recorder? Why did you let Ann and me go to Wolkowicz today and arrange for the charges against Mike to be dropped?”
“I’m sorry, Davie,” Mom said. “Believe me, hiding things from you doesn’t give me any pleasure. But it was necessary so that justice can be done.”
“How do you figure that one, Mom?”
“Suppose I told you all this last night, what could you do with the information? You’d tell all about it to your boss, that nice Mrs. Swenson, and the two of you would have to keep it quiet. Because you’re officially defending Russo, and everything a lawyer finds out about his client, if it’s connected with the case, has to be kept confidential. So it wouldn’t matter what you knew, it would still be your legal duty to bring that tape to the district attorney and use it to get Russo free. And you couldn’t come out with the truth about him afterward, because you learned that truth while he was still your client. This is the law, isn’t it, or am I wrong?”
I was beginning to see her point, and my annoyance was easing up fast. “Yes, that’s the law all right.”
“On the other hand, look what’s happening because I didn’t tell you everything last night. You forced the district attorney to drop the charges, the case is over—and Mrs. Swenson isn’t Russo’s lawyer anymore. So anything you find out about him now, it’s strictly legitimate for you to tell the police about it.”
“You know, you’re absolutely right about that, Mom. I guess you had to keep a few things from me last night. Please don’t make it a habit though.”
“Believe me, Davie, such a thing couldn’t happen.” She leaned forward a little. “So what now? You’ll call up the district attorney, and you’ll tell him how Russo is the guilty party after all?”
I smiled at this, feeling just a bit superior. An unusual feeling when I’m dealing with Mom, and therefore, I admit, rather gratifying. “You’re pretty good at discovering killers,” I told her, “but I think I’ve got a little more experience than you when it comes to catching them and getting them convicted.”
“I don’t follow you, darling.”
“What you’ve figured out about Mike Russo sounds dead right to me, Mom, but it’s still strictly a theory. We don’t have any evidence yet, at least not the kind that would stand up in court.”
“The police will trace the tape recorder—”
“I tried that already—all day today I tried it, and I couldn’t do it. Do you think I’ve got more confidence in Marvin McBride’s efficiency than I do in my own? Believe me, if I go to the police with your theory, they won’t do a thing. They’ll laugh in my face. And Mike will get away with murder.”
“Then what do you think you should do?”
“Catch him off guard. Throw a scare into him. Trick him into admitting what he did.”
“But how are you expecting you should do all this?”
“It’s simple. When I go to Mike’s party tonight—”
“Davie, you’re not planning on going to that party! Knowing what you know about this fellow—”
“I’ve got no choice. I’ll wait around till after the party is over, till Mike and I are alone in his house. And then I’ll tell him everything you just told me. With a little luck, the shock will make him break down and confess what he did—and somewhere in his story will be some facts that the cops can build a case on.”
“If it doesn’t work—”
“Then the situation won’t be any worse than it is right now. This is the best chance, believe me, Mom. If you think it’s important for justice to be done.”
She shook her head, a worried look on her face. “You’ll be alone in his house with him. And he already killed somebody once.”
“I’ll tell him I’ve explained my theory to Ann Swenson and a lot of other people. He’ll realize it wouldn’t do him any good to kill me, it wouldn’t be logical.”
“Providing he’s in the mood to think logically!”
I laughed and put my arm around her shoulder. “It’ll be all right. After all, it’s—”
“It’s your job. Thank you very much, I heard that one before.”
Then she sighed and patted me on the cheek and told me to go off to my party since I obviously had my mind made up to do it. But where I got my stubbornness from she’d never be able to figure out.
At nine o’clock I said good-bye to her. It did occur to me that her manner was strangely calm and untroubled. In fact, she had made a positively miraculous recovery from her earlier mood of anxiety. But there wasn’t any time to give this mystery much thought.
CHAPTER 28
MIKE LIVED IN A middle-grade neighborhood not too different from my own. His house, which I had never actually been in before, had the same New Englandy outside as mine, but it was about half the size and there was only one floor to it. It looked clean and painted, and t
here was no junk on the lawn or the front porch.
His living room, which wasn’t very big, was crowded with people. They overflowed into the kitchen and the hall, and their coats were piled up in an adjoining bedroom. You couldn’t see the big double bed for coats. There was a table in a small dining room located between the living room and the kitchen, and this table was spread with bottles, everything from whiskey to wine to imported Dutch beer, and with trays of hefty meat sandwiches.
Mike came up to me, and I saw that he had Ann in tow, too. He took us each by the arm and led us around the room to introduce us to people. He called her “Perry Mason” and me “Sam Spade,” and sounded off to everybody about how the welfare of the downtrodden in Mesa Grande couldn’t be in better hands than ours. His face had a flush on it, his eyes were bright, he did a lot of laughing, even when there wasn’t anything in particular to laugh at.
He finally let Ann and me enjoy our drinks and food without being pulled in a dozen directions at the same time. She looked as if she were suffering intensely. She kept glancing at her watch. “Joe’s in surgery tonight,” she said, “but he ought to be home by ten. I want to be there when he gets in.”
As good an excuse as any to duck out early, I thought.
But I couldn’t use an excuse, I had promised Mom I would stick it out to the bitter end and after. So I took a seat on the couch and noticed for the first time that the room was filled with music. Harsh pounding screeching music that came from two large stereo speakers in the corners. I thought I recognized it, but when Mike came within reach again I asked him what it was.
He confirmed that it was the Bartok Sonata for Two Pianos and Percussion. It’s a piece I’m crazy about myself, as a matter of fact, though I don’t let too many people know about my fondness for classical music. They look at you as if you’re some kind of dinosaur. Classical music isn’t big in the Mesa Grande courthouse world.
I turned my attention to the guests. And they were quite an assortment. I recognized seven or eight people from the English department. There was Samantha Fletcher gulping a glass of beer, deep in argument with a pudgy dough-faced young man whose whole personality seemed to be concentrated in his horn-rimmed spectacles. There was Marcus Van Horn, fondling a wineglass between his fingers, smiling and purring at Lewis Bradbury, the white-haired dean.