The Laughing Man

by Forrest, Richard;

  She wore a checkered bandana wound over her head, a brief halter and skimpy shorts. She looked at him blankly, until a frown crossed her forehead and she slowly shook her head.

  “Can I come in?”

  Jan shook her head again. “I’d rather you didn’t,” she said, but stepped aside as he pushed past her into the living room. At a momentary loss where to begin, he carefully examined the small room as if to discern some revealing fact of her personality. Nothing was indicated by the antiseptic room with its minimal furnishings. She leaned against the living-room archway in quiet resignation. “What do you want?”

  “You called them.”

  “Called who?”

  “The police. About me.”

  “Why would I do that?”

  The frustration of the past day welled up to form a knot of anger that made him pull her away from the wall by the shoulder. “Because of Jerry!”

  “Jerry’s dead, and take your hands off me.” She pushed him away and sat on the edge of the couch to light a cigarette and regain her composure. “Jerry’s gone, and what happened between us at the lake was an accident. I was weak, but now I’ve had time to think … and one of the things I’ve thought about is that I’m not going to be a part of any massive game of paranoia.”

  “It had to be you.”

  She stubbed the cigarette out in an immaculately clean ash-tray and gave him a push toward the front door. “Go on, please leave.”

  He saw no feeling in her eyes as he put his arms around her. “Jan …”

  “Don’t.” Her anger was lost.

  “Yes.”

  Her warmth became part of him as they pressed together. The rigidity of her body gradually turned to a sensual tension, as her arms went around his neck and she pressed deeply against him.

  “It wasn’t you?”

  “No … oh, Brian … oh, Jesus.”

  Brian awoke to find her bent over him, her hair trailing along the edge of his cheek. “You were dreaming.”

  “I lose more girls that way.”

  Jan kissed him. “Want a drink or something?”

  “What time is it?”

  “Three. I have to be at work soon.”

  “I’ll take you.”

  “You have a date.” She bounced from bed and into the bathroom. He sat on the edge of the bed and heard the shower through the partly open door. As the last tendrils of the dream left, he wondered if recent tension caused the constant repetition of the nightmare. In times past, it had come only spasmodically, but in recent days it had been a constant feature of any sleep.

  She called through the door as the shower stopped. “Have you seen your uncle today?”

  “No. You might say that recently I’ve been detained.”

  “Yes, that’s right.”

  He stood in the bathroom door and watched her dry herself with a large terry-cloth towel. “You’re very attractive.”

  “You’re embarrassing me, but I like the compliments afterwards. Somehow they seem to mean more.”

  “Why do you ask about Lockwood?”

  “While you were sleeping, I began to think about how strange he behaved during Mary’s illness. He became very agitated and would constantly come over to the nurses’ station and tell me how much pain she was in, and ask if he could do something. One night he was so upset, I thought I was going to have to ask him to leave.”

  “He told me he didn’t do it.”

  “You haven’t spent much time with him in the past few years. How close are you?”

  “When I was a kid, I’d spend hours in the barn with him. But that was years ago.”

  “Then he could lie to you?”

  “I should probably check on him anyway. Maybe he’s calmed down enough to reveal something. Would you mind if we stopped by the house on the way to the hospital?”

  She pecked him on the cheek as she bustled past him into the bedroom. “Fine, but don’t you think you should put some clothes on first?”

  The door was slightly ajar as Brian crossed the yard and pushed it completely open. He stood in the entrance to the tack room, unable to assimilate what he saw. The three-legged stool lay on its side a short distance from the dangling feet above the floor. The rope around Lockwood’s neck was looped over the rafters.

  “Oh, my God,” Jan said.

  Chapter Six

  Jan leaned over the limp body they had placed on the cot and felt for a pulse or heartbeat. She shook her head. “I’m sorry. He’s been dead for over an hour, maybe two.”

  “I never appreciated what he was going through.”

  “It answers the question about your mother, but don’t blame yourself. He couldn’t live with it.”

  He turned from the body to examine the room. A pile of shavings lay in a half-circle around the overturned stool, and a can of lacquer had tipped over to run across a completed carving. Brian’s old portable typewriter, which had been in the room under the eaves yesterday, was on the far end of the workbench with a paper wound around the platen. He tilted the paper forward to read the short message.

  “Brian—I know you don’t want me here and I got no place to go.”

  “I think we had better call the police.”

  “Yes,” she replied. “The medical examiner will have to take a look at him before he’s moved.”

  “Not only that. Lockwood’s been murdered.”

  Brian watched from the kitchen as the blanket-covered body on the stretcher was rolled from the barn and levered up to the bed of the ambulance. The vehicle left slowly, but still remaining were Tallman police cruisers, several state police cars and a large Olds with M.D. plates.

  Willie Dockery, carrying a large acetate envelope, entered the kitchen and accepted a cup of coffee from Jan. “If it makes you feel any better, we got lots of help out there—not only my guys, but the M.E. and state forensic people. Let me tell you, they’re going over the whole place with a fine-toothed comb. The way we see it, he stood on that stool, threw the rope over the rafter and kicked off,” He sipped on his coffee with obvious pleasure.

  “That’s the way it’s supposed to look.”

  “Right. The state print boys took a preliminary dusting from the note.” He waved the acetate envelope in the air. “And they seem to match your uncle’s. ’Course that’s a preliminary opinion.”

  “He didn’t kill himself.”

  “Now, Brian. We’ve all known your uncle since we were kids. What I mean is, he sometimes used to wander around town and we all saw him. He was, like they say, eccentric. And we all know how upset he was over Mary’s death … and with your not being here and maybe going to jail … it seems pretty logical.”

  “Lockwood could not read or write.”

  “Everybody in Connecticut reads and writes.”

  “Not Lockwood. For God’s sake, I grew up here. I saw the man every day of my life until I went off to college.”

  Willie shook his head. “Exactly right. And after college you went in the army and then to Canada. You haven’t been home for ten years. There was a note in the typewriter typed by your uncle. Hell, he might have taken one of those adult-education courses. Lots of people learn enough reading and writing to get by.”

  “Lockwood had a severe case of dyslexia.”

  “Well, now I know a little bit about that. I got a boy going into the fourth grade, and he’s had trouble learning to read. With the new methods they have now, they do wonders.”

  “My mother would have told me.”

  “Maybe she knew she was sick and wanted Lockwood to be self-sufficient before she died.… Doesn’t that make sense?”

  Brian stared into his coffee. “I suppose.”

  “You’re upset over the arrest. I’ve seen it happen before; the family refuses to admit to the possibility of suicide. They just can’t accept it, but they come around. Happens in the best of families. Tragic, but a fact of life.”

  “And that’s the way you’re leaving it?”

  “That’s the wa
y the M.E.’s going to write it up. Well, we got to finish up and leave.” Willie stood by the window with his mouth agape. “My God, Jesus H. Christ, would you look at that!”

  Brian and Jan crowded to the window as a car swerved over the lawn, barely passing between two parked police cruisers. It seemed to be on a direct trajectory for the barn door until the last moment when it swiveled into a bootlegger’s turn and stalled.

  Irate policemen raised fists in anger. “What am I going to do with that crazy son of a bitch?” Willie said. “Can you imagine me trying to arrest him in this town?” They watched Clinton Robinson slide his bulk ponderously from the car and, oblivious to angry officers, lumber through the barn door. “Now, where in hell is he going?” Willie yelled through the screen door. “He can’t go in there! That’s sealed property.” The door slammed shut as he ran across the yard.

  Clinton and Willie stood arguing before the barn. The words were inaudible, but Willie’s gestures were obvious. Clinton shook a finger in the police chief’s face, until Willie turned and tore the police sign from the barn door.

  Clinton sat at the kitchen table and looked disdainfully at the coffee. “I will not ask who dredged this up. Making good coffee is rapidly becoming a lost art.”

  “Are you charging for the time?”

  “My usual rate.”

  “Then, for God’s sake, let’s not discuss the coffee.”

  “Impatience destroys reflection, my boy.”

  “He didn’t kill himself. I’m positive that Lockwood did not climb up on the stool and loop a rope around his neck. Did you see the note?”

  “Briefly, before our local constable saw fit to leave.”

  “Lockwood could not read or write,” Brian said.

  “He might have learned enough to hunt and peck a short message,” Jan said.

  “Doubtful,” Clinton said.

  “How’s that?”

  “When Mary set up the trust, they both came to my office to sign the final papers. Lockwood could not read any of the documents and could only partially complete his own name. Did you tell Willie about this?”

  “He didn’t believe me.”

  “Perhaps just as well.”

  “How’s that?”

  “With Lockwood dead, his trust reverts to you. I really don’t care to defend you on two murder charges.” He lumbered toward the screen door. “Let’s take another look at that room.”

  The police had removed the rope, stool and typewriter from the tack room. The spilled lacquer had dried in uneven coats around the carving. It bothered Brian that his uncle’s last piece of work had been desecrated. Or was it the last? There was still a small circle of shavings where the milk stool had stood. He envisioned his uncle straddling the stool, delicately fashioning a small block of wood. He began to search the room for a finished or partially completed carving.

  “What are you looking for?” Clinton asked.

  “I think he was carving something. It might mean something.”

  They searched the room without success, until Brian stood on the workbench and felt along the ceiling rafter toward Lockwood’s secret place. His fingers grasped a small carving in the hollowed-out beam.

  “What is it?”

  “A puppy. An unfinished puppy.” Brian turned the carving over in his hand. The knife cuts were rough, but the shape and attitude of the finished animal were apparent. “Bellchamp,” he said softly.

  “What’s that?”

  “It was the last thing my mother said to me. ‘I’m sorry about Bellchamp.’ Afterwards, when I asked Lockwood about it, he told me she was referring to a small dog of mine that she accidentally killed.” He stuck the carving in his pocket, still wondering over its significance.

  “I’ve seen enough,” Clinton said, and the others followed him outside and over to the large oak that dominated the yard. He leaned against the trunk with half-closed eyes. “We must proceed on the assumption that everything that’s happened is somehow interrelated. There’s a cohesive plan here, although for the life of me I can’t discern why. In the meanwhile, a little prevention is in order.”

  “How?”

  “You should not stay here, Brian. Go to a friend’s or a motel in another part of the state.”

  “I haven’t lived here in years. Gordon and the Rubinows are the only people I know.”

  “You can stay with me,” Jan said. “That is, if you’ll take me to work and pick me up afterwards.”

  “I’ll do that,” Brian said, “but there’s a stop I want to make.”

  The Rubinow house was a long ranch on a double lot near the center of town. A brick veneer reached to window level, while a grouping of white iron chairs and a table were centered on the closely cropped front lawn. Brian parked in the drive and crossed the asphalt to the side door.

  Martha Rubinow was on her hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor. She grunted and struggled to her feet when Brian knocked on the windowpane. She walked splayfooted toward the door, with a frown that changed to a smile when she recognized him.

  “Brian! Come in and let me fix you something to eat.”

  “No, thank you, Martha.”

  “Coffee and cookies, then?” She ushered him to the kitchen table and bustled through cabinets, until a heaping plate of Toll House cookies sat before him. “Harry will be home in a few minutes and the three of us can have dinner.”

  “Lockwood’s dead.”

  A cup fell to the floor and shattered into a dozen shards. Martha stared at the broken fragments without comprehension for a long while. Finally she began automatically to pick up each sliver. Brian watched the silent ritual as she placed the broken glass in the garbage, and swept and mopped that portion of the floor. Her breath came in short, cooing gasps until her obsessive cleaning was complete.

  “You must leave Tallman, Brian.”

  “They say he killed himself and left a typed message for me, but you and I know that’s not possible.”

  “I knew it. I knew it from the moment she told me what she was going to do. It won’t stop until we’re all dead.”

  “If I’m going to be killed, I want to know why.” He held her by the wrists.

  “No.” It was a long, anguished cry. “Please go away.”

  “My mother was going to tell me about Bellchamp.”

  Martha’s head swayed back as if she had been struck. “Don’t ever say that again, or he will kill you.” She began to cry. “Mary was my best friend, and when you’re my age that can’t be replaced. She was so proud of you. She hated your living in Canada and not being able to come home, but—”

  “Martha! I want to know.”

  She dabbed her eyes with a tiny lace handkerchief and poured a cup of coffee from the electric percolator. “You haven’t touched a cookie. You can take them home with you, if you’d like.” She held the cup of coffee over the sink and poured it down the drain. “You must go before Harry comes home and hears what you’ve been saying.”

  “Harry hears what?” said the robust voice from the doorway as Harry Rubinow entered. “You pouring good coffee out, Martha?”

  “Lockwood’s dead,” Martha said.

  Harry’s smile vanished as he stiffened. “What happened?”

  “He was murdered like my mother,” Brian said.

  “My God, my God, it’s beginning.” One of Harry’s hands repeatedly brushed the side of his face, as if to dispel imaginary cobwebs. “You know what we have to do, Martha. We talked about it after Mary … We’ve got to do it quickly.”

  “I think it’s about time I had some answers from both of you.”

  “There’ll be no answers or questions,” Harry said. His voice sharpened as he told his wife, “Get going.”

  Brian grabbed Martha’s arm as she started from the room. “I mean now!”

  “You have to leave.”

  “Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

  Harry disappeared into the hallway and returned with an ancient .12 gauge shotgun. He le
vered back the hammers and pointed it at Brian. “Get out of here!”

  “We don’t want to hurt you. We wouldn’t do that for the world, unless you make us,” Martha said.

  “Just get the hell out,” Harry said as the gun barrel wavered in a nervous circle.

  Brian drove aimlessly, feeling that the world had spun off in a strange direction that had no relation to physical laws. After his forcible removal from the Rubinow’s, he had tried to call Clinton, but Margaret informed him that Clinton had left for the day. Jan was at work, and there seemed no one to help focus his confused direction.

  The car that followed began to close the distance between the two vehicles. Brian recognized it as the nondescript Ford that had followed them on their return from the lake. Clinton’s warning, and the Rubinow’s extreme fear, caused him to feel alarm. His hands turned clammy on the steering wheel.

  The road before him was empty as he turned onto the causeway that bisected the reservoir. As if wishing to end the charade, the following car accelerated until it pulled abreast of him. Brian glanced over at the other driver as the two cars moved in tandem. He was a black man with a massive torso and sunglasses that reflected dashes of light.

  The black man drove with one hand, while the other raised a long-barreled revolver.

  Brian ducked to the left as the first shot tore into the car and through the side window. As the front wheels swerved to the side, the car brushed noisily against the guard posts alongside the narrow road. Brian braked, hoping his car would fall behind the chasing vehicle.

  The black man’s car dropped back. Brian downshifted and floored the gas, but the other car kept pace and pulled alongside. The gun rose again and pointed toward Brian until he turned his wheels into the other car and they met with a screeching whine. Both vehicles rocked dangerously on their chassis, and the black man had to use both hands to fight for control. Brian swerved toward the Ford again. A snap shot whined off the car roof.

  Brian turned away from the Ford into the feeble guardrail. The front bumper splintered the wood, the car seemed to hesitate a moment with its wheels over the water, and then plunged downward into the reservoir.