“Eat there? I didn’t even want to breathe there. Anyway, I got the name of the night people from the manager. Boiling Widentsky. You know him?”
“No.”
“He’s the night cashier. You know, the cashier just sits by the window there and he can look right out at Roberts’ building. So, anyway, this Widentsky. I got a whole bunch of names but I didn’t need them, because this Widentsky lives right nearby the place and I went and talked to him.”
“Yeah?”
“So we talked awhile and he finally remembered that he saw a guy coming into Roberts’ building at around four A.M. He described him and it was that Hubbaker. Tall, skinny as a pencil. Beard. Does he drive a Jeep?”
“I don’t know,” Trace said. “Wait. There’s a Jeep out at the countess’s place. Why?”
“Okay. Widentsky remembered this guy because he saw him pull up and park out in front in this white Jeep, he said it was.”
“Felicia’s Jeep is white.”
“Good. So he parked out in front and went inside. Widentsky said he was inside just a couple of minutes and then he came out. He said he wasn’t running, but he was hurrying, kind of, and he got into the Jeep and rode away fast.”
“Around four o’clock, you say?”
“That’s what he says,” Sarge said.
“Didn’t the cops talk to Widentsky? Are Rosado’s cops so bad that they wouldn’t check that out?”
“They talked to him. They got there before me, but he didn’t tell them that.”
“Why not?”
“He didn’t remember it.”
“How come he remembered it for you?” Trace asked.
“He didn’t really want to.”
“No? Hold on, Sarge. You didn’t—What did you do?”
“Don’t worry. I didn’t hit him or anything like that. God, you’re getting squeamish.”
“What did you do?”
“I told him I was Roberts’ uncle. And if he didn’t talk to me, I was going to blow his brains out. It’s a wonder how that’ll often improve somebody’s memory right away. Go ahead, eat the pickle. I don’t want it.”
“I’ve changed my mind. Hubbaker. I don’t understand it.”
“Don’t you read English detective stories?” Sarge said. “Those barons are always phoneys. They’re always the killer. Usually they don’t use knives, though.”
“He’s a detective,” Trace said. “Why the hell would he be killing another detective who was working on the same case?”
“Nobody ever told you this work was going to be easy, son. If it was easy, anybody could do it. That’s one of the questions we’ve got to answer.”
“I don’t know any better way to do it,” Trace said. “Let’s go talk to the baron.”
“Good,” Sarge said. “I’ve never been to a countess’s palace. Don’t tell your mother.”
“This is it?” Sarge said. They were driving up the long road to the countess’s house and he sounded disgusted. “This is her palace?”
“Afraid so.”
“This ain’t no palace. It looks like Long Island, except with more sand. I’ve seen bigger houses in Queens.”
“It’s pretty big for around here,” Trace said. “Now listen, Sarge. These people are a little strange.”
“How strange?”
“They’re druggies, kind of. They keep parrots. Don’t get upset if they’re sniffing, snorting, smoking, or swallowing.”
“You think I live in a hothouse? If they’re into Better Living Through Chemistry, that’s their business.”
They parked the car and walked through the ever-open front door, passing back toward the pool section where they heard voices.
Sarge whispered, “You didn’t tell me they weren’t going to have any clothes on.”
“Try to ignore it,” Trace said.
“Oh, to be sixty again.”
“Please. I’m going to be forty tomorrow. No talk about age.”
National Anthem was doing her exercises naked on the far side of the pool, and as usual, Willie Parmenter was sitting on a lounge chair near her.
The Neddlemans were in their accustomed spot, side by side, silent and unmoving, on a chaise longue, and the countess and Ferrara were sitting at a small umbrella-shielded table at the far end of the pool. Felicia, bare-breasted, saw Trace and waved. Ferrara was wearing a long-sleeved white shirt and trousers, and his face clouded over when he saw Trace.
They walked toward Felicia, and Trace saw that Ferrara was mashing between his fingers an inch-and-a-half-square lump of something that looked like black tar.
“Felicia, this is my father. You probably bumped into each other the other night,” Trace said.
She nodded and Sarge leaned forward and kissed her hand.
“Good manners will get you everywhere,” Felicia said with a warm smile.
“Hopefully out of that family,” Ferrara mumbled, then looked at Sarge and extended the black lump toward him. “Want some hash?”
“No, thanks. We just ate lunch,” Sarge said.
“Very funny.”
“He wasn’t being funny,” Trace said.
“It’s funny turning down Afghan hash. I mean, look at this stuff. Have you ever seen anything like it?” Ferrara said.
“I used to have a dog who couldn’t be house-broken,” Sarge said. “He’d leave me presents like that all over.”
“Not like this. Do you know they use opium for a binder to hold this stuff together?” Ferrara said. “Raw opium. Processed opium gets too crystalline, but the raw stuff holds this like gum.”
“I thought they used lamb’s fat,” Sarge said.
Ferrara raised his eyebrows in surprise. “Very good,” he said. “Knowledge is everywhere around us.”
“Oh, get off it, Paolo, will you?” Felicia said. “You’re being obnoxious.”
“Sarge, what do you know about this?” Trace asked.
“I know what I know. The Afghans use lamb’s fat to bind their hash.”
“That’s why this is special,” Ferrara said. “Even the binder’s a kick. Oh, beauty, thy name is cannabis.”
“Ferrara, thy name is bullshit,” Trace said. “Felicia, we have to talk to the baron. Is he around?”
“I just heard him inside taking a shower. He should be out any minute. Want a drink?”
“No, thanks, we’ll pass. Mind if I show Sarge the safe?”
“Go ahead. Anything to get me my money,” she said.
Trace and Sarge walked back toward the house. National Anthem saw them and waved, and Parmenter nodded to them.
Sarge said, “Boy, can that woman wave. Who are all these people? I saw them the other night but none of them registered.”
“The two statues on the lounge chairs are the Neddlemans. They say they’re into shipping, but I think they just ship their bodies around to anyone who’ll have them. Ferrara there is some kind of Italian drug dealer, and the mousy guy across the way is his valet. Felicia, you know. The girl with the jugs is National Anthem. She makes porn movies.”
“Disgusting,” Sarge said. “Where are they playing?”
“Her first isn’t out yet,” Trace said. “I’ll let you know when. We’ll go together.”
“And these are all house guests?”
“Them and the baron,” Trace said. “Felicia says they’re a bunch of parasites.”
“I believe it.”
“Where did you learn so much about drugs?” Trace asked.
“I don’t know. I read a lot. He’s the guy you almost hit the other night?”
“Yeah.”
“You should have,” Sarge said.
“I probably will before he leaves town. This is where Jarvis’ body was found. Did Rosado show you the pictures?”
“Yeah,” Sarge said. “Christ, that water’s filthy. How can goldfish live in it?”
“God knows.”
“Remember that aquarium you had when you were a kid?” Sarge asked.
“Yeah. T
he fish were always dying.”
“It was my fault. I always killed them,” Sarge said. “I’d be sneaking a drink around the house and your mother’d catch me and I’d dump the drink into the fish tank so she didn’t find me with it, and the damn alcohol would kill the fish.”
“There’s a great lesson in there somewhere,” Trace said.
“Yeah. Fish shouldn’t drink,” Sarge said.
“This is where the coroner said he hit his head,” Trace said, touching the ceramic fish statue with his toe. Then he led his father into the living room and showed him the panel that popped out to reveal the safe.
“How’d the thief get into the safe?” Sarge asked after looking at the front cover.
“I don’t know. He was drilling, then changed his mind.”
“He must have opened it with the combination,” Sarge said.
“Right. But if he had the combination to begin with, he wouldn’t have started drilling, would he?”
“No,” Sarge said. “So he starts drilling and then he gets the combination. And the only change is that Jarvis came home.”
“So he got it from Jarvis,” Trace said. “But why would Jarvis give him the combination?”
“Were they working together? Or maybe he had a gun and he forced it out of him?”
“Maybe,” Trace said. “I don’t know.”
The baron bounded through the open patio doors into the living room.
“Felicia said you were looking for me?”
“Hello, Baron,” Trace said. “We wanted to talk to you. This is my father. Patrick Tracy, Baron Hubbaker.”
“Call me Ed,” the baron said.
His father stepped forward, shook hands warmly with the tall lean man, and then, almost casually, strolled behind him.
“This isn’t official,” Trace said.
“Well, I’m glad of that, whatever it is,” Hubbaker said with a small smile. “Mind if I sit down? That way, your father won’t have to tackle me from behind.”
“Help yourself,” Trace said.
The baron sprawled casually on the sofa, facing the fireplace.
“R. J. Roberts.”
The smile vanished from Hubbaker’s face.
“You know?” he said.
“Yeah,” Trace said. “We found witnesses who saw you going in and coming out early this morning.”
“The man in the diner across the street?”
Trace nodded.
“I thought he saw me. I was hoping he wouldn’t have, but I thought he did.”
“He did. Want to tell us what happened?”
“Sure. Hold on. Wait. You think I killed him?”
“It’s as reasonable as anything else I’ve heard,” Trace said.
“No, no, no, no, no. He was dead when I got there. Somebody slit his throat open.”
“We saw the body,” Trace said. “Maybe you ought to start from the top and tell us what happened. How did you know Roberts?”
“I didn’t. I never even met the man,” Hubbaker said.
“Come on, you’re at his office at four A.M. and you don’t even know him?”
“This is the way it was,” Hubbaker said. “Right after you left here last night, Roberts called. We were sitting around watching sex movies. I didn’t even know who he was. He told me he had to talk to me about the jewels. Something that he said was important to me and he wanted to see me. Initially, I thought he was crazy, but he was very insistent. Vague but insistent, and finally I said okay, I’d meet him.”
“Who picked the time?” Trace asked.
“He didn’t really pick it. He told me he was going to be out of his office most of the night, but I should try him really late. I told him that I could just as easily see him tomorrow, that’s today, but he said no, it wouldn’t wait. The cheek of the man.”
“So why’d you go at four o’clock?” Trace asked.
“I fell asleep. I had a little too much to drink. When I woke up, it was almost three. I called him and he said I should come over and he’d wait for me. I did. By now, I was intrigued by what he wanted. When I got there, his office door was open and he was dead.”
“Why didn’t you call the police?”
Hubbaker shrugged. “It was stupid, I guess. But I thought for a minute and I thought how dumb it was that I was there at all. Would the police believe me? I mean, going to a four-A.M. meeting with a man I’d never met? Did that sound believable?”
“No,” Trace said. “Actually, it still doesn’t.”
“That’s why I didn’t call the police. I hadn’t touched anything. I just walked in and saw the body. I don’t know what he wanted to talk to me about. The police, well, I couldn’t be any help to them. So I left and I came back here and went to sleep. I don’t mind telling you, I didn’t sleep well at all.”
“Roberts slept like a dead man,” Trace said.
“You can’t believe I had anything to—”
“It’s not for me to believe or disbelieve,” Trace said. “That’s for the cops. When they find out your background, I’m sure—”
Hubbaker interrupted him back. “What do you mean, my background?”
“Your work with the insurance companies,” Trace said. “You had a perfect right to talk to Roberts.”
“Will someone please explain to me what you’re talking about?” He looked at Trace, then at Sarge as if for help. Sarge shrugged. Hubbaker said, “Everybody’s talking as if I’ve got something to do with insurance. You, that ridiculous dwarf you work for. What is going on here?”
“Don’t you work for an insurance company?”
“Of course not. Actually, I don’t work at all,” Hubbaker said. “Is that what this is all about? Does Marks think I work for an insurance company? Is that why he called me the other day to tell me that idiotic theory of yours?”
Trace nodded.
“Well, I don’t,” Hubbaker said.
“Too bad,” Trace said.
“Why?”
“Cops’d be less likely to think you were a killer if you were a detective.”
“I guess you have to tell them I was there?” Hubbaker said.
“You guess right. Withholding information from the police is a very serious matter. One I could not countenance in any way,” Trace said.
“Amen,” Sarge said.
19
“Tell me,” Trace asked Hubbaker. “Anybody here know you were going to see Roberts? Did you tell anybody?”
Hubbaker thought a moment, then said slowly, “Yes. Actually I told everybody.”
“Everybody in the house?”
“Yes. And, let’s see, Spiro. He was serving drinks. He would have heard too.”
“All right,” Trace said. “I’ve got to call Dan Rosado. You’re not going to try to leave or anything, are you, Baron?”
“Where would I go? Out into the desert and live like a prospector? Suck water from the roots of cactus? Of course I’m not going anywhere.”
Trace walked around to the kitchen telephone, leaving his father to watch Hubbaker. He dialed Rosado.
“This is Trace. You still mad at me?”
“You bet your ass I’m mad at you,” Rosado said. “What do you want?”
“I want to make amends for all my failures as a human being in the past.”
“It’ll take too long. What do you want now?”
“Sarge and I found a witness who saw somebody leaving Roberts’ office at four o’clock this morning.”
“You did? Who was that?”
“I’ll tell you all about it when you get here,” Trace said.
“Where’s here?”
“I’m at Felicia Fallaci’s place.”
“What are you doing there?”
“We found the guy that was seen leaving.”
“And you went to talk to him yourself first?” Rosado snapped. “You’re doing it again.”
“No, I’m not. We came here to make sure it was the same guy. We thought we recognized the description, but we didn
’t want to accuse an innocent man. He admits it.”
“He admit the killing too?” Rosado asked.
“No.”
“I’ll be right there,” Rosado said. “You know, Trace?”
“What?”
“I used to like you better when you weren’t involved in my business.”
“I know. This is the last time. I’ll never get in your way again.”
“I’ll be right there. And you better tell me who the hell that witness was too. I don’t know how my men missed him.”
“Your men didn’t miss him. It’s just that Sarge was more persuasive,” Trace said.
“The police will be here in a few minutes,” Trace told Hubbaker.
“You know, this is quite terrible,” the baron said. “They are going to try to put the blame for this murder on me and I didn’t do it.”
“Then they won’t pin it on you,” Trace said.
“I wish I were as confident as you are,” Hubbaker said. “Can the condemned man have a final swim?”
“Be my guest. Just don’t try to swim out of town,” Trace said.
The baron got up, peeled off his shorts and shirt, then walked past them and dived into the pool. He was a powerful swimmer and he coursed up and down the pool in solid, steady strokes, leaving only a thin wake behind him.
“I guess I ought to protect Felicia,” Trace said. Sarge looked quizzical, and Trace said, “The drugs.”
He walked to the end of the pool where Felicia was still talking to Ferrara. National Anthem was sprawled out naked in the sun on the far side, and if eyes could satisfy hunger, Willie Parmenter would never have to worry about another meal.
“Felicia, the police are on their way here. They want to talk to the baron.”
“Oh? Anything I should know about?” she asked Trace.
“Not really. I just thought it might be wise if you stashed all your goodies before they arrive.”
“You mean to say the police are busting in here without a warrant,” Ferrara said. “Sniffing around like watchdogs. That’s not legal.”
“Talk legal, talk from jail,” Trace said. “I just thought I’d tell you.”
“Thanks, Trace,” Felicia said.
Ferrara curled a lip. “Police are really stupid things,” he said. He was fondling his stick of Afghan hashish. “All detectives are, actually.”
And 47 Miles of Rope (Trace 2) Page 15