Hog Murders
Page 22
“I’m not saying Buell didn’t have a sincere desire to do good—”
“Never have I seen more terrible evil from such a desire,” the old man said.
“Your painting,” Ron said. “The good and bad colliding, and resulting in blood ...”
“Of course he wanted to do good,” Dr. Higgins said impatiently, “Hog even said so in that last note. But I say the deep-seated reason Buell felt he had to kill Jastrow (that’s what he always says in the article; he has to kill him) is because then he could feel he was really killing Uncle Willy. It could even be—”
She never told them what it could even be. She was interrupted by a knock at the door of the office. Ron went to answer it and opened the door to Diedre Chester.
Diedre had been crying. Janet felt sorry for her, naturally, but she couldn’t suppress a little bit of jealous irritation when she saw how attractively Diedre wore a red nose and bloodshot eyes.
“I have a message for you, Professor,” Diedre said.
“Yes? From Buell?”
“Yes. I—they wouldn’t let me see him, but his lawyer told me to tell you he has no hard feelings.” She sniffled. Ron opened a desk drawer and gave her a Kleenex.
“I am gratified to hear that,” Benedetti said.
“Yes,” Diedre said.
Janet said, “If there’s anything I can do ... If you want to stay with somebody for a few days ...” Diedre couldn’t help it if she was beautiful, after all. Silly thing to hold against her.
“No, thanks.” She seemed to lose her balance; staggered around a little. The professor led her to a chair. “I can’t believe it,” she said. “I just can’t believe it.”
The old man showed her a sad shrug.
Diedre looked up at him. “Buell will still get his money, right?”
“What happens if he doesn’t?” Ron asked.
She looked angry. “It doesn’t matter to me! I’m standing by Buell no matter what! But it means everything to Buell. He didn’t kill his uncle, right? There’s no reason he shouldn’t inherit. He’ll die if he has to go to prison without accomplishing what he had to do.”
The professor grinned more enigmatically than he ever had before. “It may be,” he said, “that Buell might not have to go to prison.”
Diedre gasped. “Tell me!”
“I must warn you, the alternative is not especially attractive.”
Janet could almost hear Diedre’s hopes crash. “You mean kill himself?” she said contemptuously. “What good does that do anyone?”
“None at all,” he said. “That was not what I had in mind.” He held up the stack of newsprint. “This document,” he said, “might well be the basis of an insanity plea, eh? It will not get him acquitted, that I know, though I am not an avvocato, a lawyer. However, there is in this state a concept (a foolish one, but still the law) known as ‘diminished responsibility.’ With this, he might, just might, be penalized less severely, and get the intensive psychiatric care he needs.
“However, if he does plead insanity, he will not get his uncle’s money. The insane do not inherit. An interesting dilemma, eh?”
Diedre swallowed a couple of times. “Let me see that,” she said. She read it through, then again, then said, “But this is supposed to be for the Courant. Aren’t you going to give it to them?”
The professor shook his head. “Non é possibile. Once this were made known, it would be impossible to empanel an impartial jury on this case, and it has been carnival enough without that.
“No. This is a valuable opportunity for my studies. Eventually, you will be allowed to see Buell. Tell him this, please. If I give this to his attorney, it is possible, with skill, he can minimize Buell’s punishment. But if so, he forfeits his inheritance, as he has already forfeited the other thing he sought to protect; the chance of a happy lifetime with you.”
Diedre started to cry softly into her hands.
The professor ignored her. “But tell him this, also. A confession is not needed from the police. In Inspector Fleisher’s possession is the pen used to write the notes, and even more incriminating, a glossy photograph of you, your son, and Buell. Jastrow induced you to mail it to him with a spurious advertisement; Buell recovered it the night he killed him. It was to be evidence against Buell to his uncle—now it is evidence against him to the state of New York. It has Jastrow’s fingerprints on it.
“The rest will follow. Buell may have no doubt of that. Now that the police know the nature of the evidence they seek, they will find it. The bolt cutter, for instance. Did he own one? They will learn.
“So tell Buell that if he chooses to be tried and judged as a sane man, and keep his vow and control of the money from his prison cell, that Niccolo Benedetti will have no qualms about destroying this story. I will answer to Inspector Fleisher and the law itself, if need be.”
The old man laid a big hairy hand on Diedre’s shiny blonde head and tilted it back, until his eyes met hers.
“Will you do that?”
“I’ll—I’ll tell him,” she whispered.
“And bring me his reply.”
Diedre nodded, rose, and walked to the door. She looked back as though she were about to say something, but didn’t. She left the door open. Ron got up and closed it behind her.
TWENTY-THREE
“DO YOU THINK SHE really will?” Janet asked.
“Really will what?” Ron said.
“Stand by him.”
Ron shrugged. “For a while, I guess.” He turned to his mentor. “Ramifications upon ramifications, eh, Maestro? Buell has really painted himself into a corner.”
“Ah, that reminds me.” The old man lit a new cigar. “Tuesday morning the workmen will come to paint my room. I had forgotten to tell you. The color the walls are now is no longer bearable.”
Ron raised an eyebrow. “So you’ll be staying in Sparta?”
Benedetti shrugged. “Does your brain retire when a case is through, Ronald? I will be forced to stay for the trial, no? The three of us will be the star witnesses.” He grinned. “Besides, I have promised Mrs. McElroy, Mrs. Zucchio, and our own Mrs. Goralsky that I would improve my acquaintance with each of them at the earliest opportunity. Niccolo Benedetti does not break his word!”
He said it with an air of such righteousness that Janet couldn’t help laughing. “Sounds like a busy spring, Professor,” and everybody laughed.
Ron said to Janet, “Hey, you never answered my question, you know.”
Janet’s eyes were bright. “What question?”
Ron made a noise. “What question! Will you marry me? of course!”
“I just wanted to be sure you meant it,” she said playfully. “Yes, Ron, I will marry you. I love you very much.” He kissed her.
“Mmmm,” the professor mused. “We shall have to take steps, then, to prevent Ronald from losing his license, since he will have a wife to support.”
“And a stingy old philosopher,” Ron murmured in Janet’s ear.
Just then she thought of something. “Professor!” she said. “I am right here. What is it?”
“Hog! You’ve explained everything but that. Why Hog?”
Ron shook his head. “I forgot all about that,” he said, wondering.
“Ah, yes,” the old man said. “That is perhaps the biggest mystery of all, eh?” He heaved a deep sigh, and became very grave.
“Unless Buell says so,” he went on, “we shall probably never know for certain why those notes were signed the way they were.
“But I have an opinion.
“My opinion is based on several things. The victims Hog claimed. Human beings, from an innocent child to a sexually precocious young girl—hardly the most terrible of people. Aside from Jastrow, of course, and he does not count. Victims of accidents, or in Leslie Bickell’s case, of vice. The great horror Hog caused was the fear of an individual who could cause such inoffensive people to die so horribly.
“Buell had the same horror of his uncle, eh? Until he found out his pa
rents’ deaths were truly accidental. But does that lessen the horror, really? To find that instead of the result of an evil design, your loved ones have died at random? Arbitrarily?
“I think not. And noticing that Buell, in his notes and in his confession, always rendered the name in upper case, I have decided that the word is an acronym, as so many have suspected all along.”
“But what does it mean, Maestro?” Ron asked. The professor took the cigar from his mouth and blew smoke through a humorless grin. “Buell himself has told us,” the old man said. “Look again at the confession. Hog was a truthful killer. From the first, the taunting notes told the simple truth about the agency that struck down the six innocent victims—the same agency Buell convinced himself struck down the seventh guilty one as well ...”
The grin fell from the old man’s face, to be replaced by a look of weariness. “All were killed by the Hand of God.”
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 1979 by William L. DeAndrea
Introduction: copyright © 1999 by Orania Papazoglou
cover design by Jason Gabbert
978-1-4532-9463-5
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