“You lousy scum,” Bander growled, “I’ll fuckin’ make you pay for this.”
Valentine slammed shut the street door.
Back in his apartment, Valentine got undressed and took a quick shower before climbing into bed. As he reached to snap out the nightstand light, he noticed that his closet was ajar. Hanging from the inside doorknob were at least a half-dozen neckties. Valentine sat up and stared at the ties. He rarely wore them. He’d given to charity all but a half dozen. Those were always kept neatly folded on one side of his top bureau drawer—not on the doorknob of the closet.
Chapter Eleven
“MY GOD,” VALENTINE said with mock astonishment, “I was expecting Medusa’s daughter, and I get Little Mary Sunshine.”
Clarisse, carrying her telephone with her as she answered her apartment door and with the receiver tucked securely between her left ear and shoulder, motioned him to silence.
It was eight forty-five on Sunday morning, and Valentine had shown up at her threshold with a pot of freshly brewed coffee and a string-tied box of muffins.
Clarisse took the round glass pot from him. Valentine kicked the door shut behind them and followed her across the room to a table by an open back window. He placed the box next to the electric warmer on which Clarisse placed the pot. The table was already set for two, complete with a slender vase of fresh-cut orange-and-yellow tiger lilies. Valentine gave her a puzzled look, which she ignored, and then sat down.
“Fascinating,” Clarisse muttered into the receiver. “I never knew…” She covered the mouthpiece briefly enough to whisper, “Be off in a second, Val.”
Silently, Valentine mouthed the question, Who is it?
Clarisse again briefly covered the mouthpiece. “Paul Harvey,” she replied. “Would you like your buns warmed?”
“The Paul Harvey?” Valentine said aloud. “The news commentator Paul Harvey?”
“Shh!” Clarisse snapped, and then added a nod to his question. “Amazing,” she said into the receiver.
Valentine watched her with growing curiosity. Clarisse opened the refrigerator and retrieved a tub of soft butter from a lower shelf. She transferred a generous amount to a small plate and carried it to the table. She seated herself opposite Valentine and undid the string about the box of pastries and tossed it into the trash can between the stove and the refrigerator. “Unbelievable,” she said with a soft click of her tongue as she rested her elbows on the table. A balmy morning breeze gently rustled the long, curved petals of the tiger lilies and pushed at Clarisse’s hair. As she listened, she gazed out the window at Tremont Street a block away. Her Lucille Ball puff of the previous night was gone and her hair repaged. She wore a loose-fitting melon-colored blouse, jeans, and sandals. The palest hint of rose rouge tinted her cheeks. She turned suddenly away from the window.
“Fine,” she said briskly. “Good day to you, too, Paul.”
Clarisse hung up and flipped open the box of muffins.
“Why in the world would Paul Harvey call you ?” Valentine asked suspiciously.
“He was telling me everything there was to know about German cockroaches,” she confided. She tilted the box in Valentine’s direction. “Which would you like? Orange, cranberry, walnut, or blueberry?”
Valentine selected the blueberry and put it on his plate. Clarisse filled their mugs with coffee. “I never knew cockroaches— German cockroaches,” she amended, “could be so interesting. They’re a growing problem in this country, you know. Paul tells me they could become a plague if something isn’t done about them.”
Valentine put his knife and muffin down. He looked about the kitchen with widened eyes. “Have I just stumbled into the Twilight Zone?”
Clarisse edged the telephone over in front of him. “Answer it,” she directed.
“It didn’t ring. Are you on drugs? Is that why you look so fresh this morning?”
“Just answer it.”
Reluctantly, Valentine lifted the receiver and put it to his ear. He listened a moment and then covered the mouthpiece with his palm and said to Clarisse, “It’s Sister Rozinnia. She says the Virgin Mary is going to appear next Friday evening at the Medford Twin Drive-In with an important message for mankind.”
“That’s certainly going to make it an interesting evening for all those teenagers showing up to see Roller Zombies and Sorority Girls in the House of Pain.” Clarisse turned the point of her knife toward him. “You don’t have to cover the receiver. No one can hear you.”
“What’s going on, anyway?” he asked, hanging up the telephone.
“I’ve been getting radio stations on that thing for nearly an hour. I was about to call you when I got Paul Harvey instead, talking about roaches.” She shrugged. “I wouldn’t mind so much if it were FM at least…”
Valentine pulled his muffin apart and generously spread one side with butter. “You know, I thought I’d find you still in your bathrobe, nerves and hair frazzled, stumbling bleary-eyed from wall to wall. Instead, you look as bright as these tiger lilies.”
“Which, by the way, I bought this morning at the Greek market down the street.”
Valentine furrowed his brow. “Are you sure you’re not sick or on something?”
“What I am, Mr. Valentine, is a professional woman.”
“Oh, yeah?”
“Yeah. I’ve decided that if I’m going to be a viable partner in the running of this bar, I’m going to do it right. Positions of responsibility suit me quite well—I think.”
“You’ll do fine,” he said, idly snatching unsuccessfully at a large fly that had just flown through the window, headed for the muffins.
“Thank you for that incredible vote of confidence. A true friend—whether he felt it or not—might have forced a little enthusiasm.”
“I’m not feeling too enthusiastic just now. Sorry.”
“Bad night?”
“Moderately awful.”
“Insomnia?”
He shook his head. “Not insomnia. A nightmare on two legs. I found an unexpected visitor in my apartment when I got up there.”
“You went out cruising? In the middle of the night? I thought you just closed up and went to bed.”
“I didn’t go out anywhere. I found an unexpected visitor in my apartment when I got up there.”
Clarisse put down her knife and the portion of muffin she’d not yet eaten. Her expression was suddenly troubled. “Someone broke in?”
“More or less.”
“Please, Val—details, not riddles.”
Valentine told her about finding Bander in his bedroom, their ensuing argument, and his forcibly ejecting the man from the building. He held back his having found the neckties hanging on the knob of the closet door.
“That’s very upsetting,” Clarisse said, tossing her napkin beside her plate. “I think you should walk directly across the street and report that man. I’ll go with you if you like.”
“What I’d like is another cup of coffee.”
Clarisse stared, taken aback.
Valentine leaned back in his chair. “Clarisse, if I go to the police, what do you propose I tell them?”
“About that false repair call. About Bander deceiving you to gain entrance to your apartment. About his attacking you.”
“I told you, Bander covered his tracks as far as the repair call goes—and he actually did adjust the pilot light. The cops will ask one question—‘Did you ever sleep with this guy before?’ Answer? ‘Yes.’ End of questioning. They’ll wink knowingly at each other and say, ‘Lover’s quarrel.’”
“But—”
“All right,” Valentine said, “suppose they do question Bander. It’s his word against mine.”
Clarisse sat back and glanced disconcertedly out the window. “Do you think Bander pulls this sort of thing very often?”
“I think he’s done it before. He had it down pat. What difference does it make?”
“Remember the Boston Strangler?” Clarisse asked quietly.
/> “We never tricked,” said Valentine.
“When he was killing women in Boston, no one could ever describe him, and he didn’t rely on makeup or a disguise.”
“So?”
“He used something much better than a disguise. He wore repairman’s overalls. Witnesses only remembered seeing a repairman going into the building—and most of them didn’t even remember that. Repairmen are invisible. Bander wears a uniform. He can get into apartments day or night without any trouble.”
“No. I’m ahead of you this time. Bander’s unpleasant, and I don’t like him, but I would not peg him for a psychopathic killer. Or I wouldn’t, except for something I found this morning.”
“What?”
Valentine told her about finding his neckties draped over the knob of his bedroom closet door.
“Oh, that,” said Clarisse guiltily. “That was me.”
“You? What were you doing in my bedroom?”
“I needed to borrow your tan webbed belt. You know how color coordination rules my life. Anyway, I forgot to put the ties back.”
“That’s a relief. I was about to compose an anonymous tip-off to the cops on Bander.”
“I still think you should.” She glanced at the clock. “I also think we ought to go for a walk in the neighborhood before this beautiful morning turns too hot.”
Valentine swallowed the last of his coffee and pushed back his chair. “Good idea, and while we’re at it, you can tell me about the vicarious thrill you got from rummaging around in my drawers—if you’ll pardon the expression.”
Clarisse groaned as she rolled her eyes. She snatched her sunglasses and keys from a table as they walked to the apartment door.
On the sidewalk outside they began to walk leisurely down Warren Avenue.
“Excuse me, but can I see you a minute, Valentine?” a male voice said behind Clarisse.
The couple turned around and saw a handsome uniformed policeman holding his hat in one hand and erasing sweat from his brow with the other. His hair was strikingly blond and wavy.
The policeman smiled at Clarisse in greeting, and she raised her glasses and looked him over. Lowering them back onto the bridge of her nose, she said, “You look just as good in uniform this morning as you did last night wearing cutoffs and a T-shirt in the bar.”
The policeman’s expression sobered markedly as he looked to Valentine for an explanation.
“I pointed out the plainclothesmen for her last night,” Valentine explained to the man. “I really felt I had to.”
“I keep secrets better than the dead,” Clarisse put in. “I’m Clarisse Lovelace, by the way.”
“Chester Arthur,” the policeman said, and shook hands with her.
“Like the president,” Clarisse replied, delighted.
“Yes, except I’m Chester B. Arthur.” He put his hat back on. He took a moment before he spoke.
“You did want to talk to me?” Valentine prompted.
“It’s about some of your customers—three of them in particular—who were at the talent show last night. A woman who calls herself B.J. and two men she’s always running with.”
“Ruder and Cruder,” Valentine confirmed. “We know them.”
“What can you tell me?”
“When I say we know them,” Valentine confided, “I don’t mean to imply they’re friends. They’re not. They’re customers.”
“Then what do you hear about them?”
“Heavy leather, heavy drugs, heavy action,” Valentine said. “What you see is what you get.”
“But the two guys are gay, right?”
“Of course,” said Clarisse.
“But they run with a woman,” the policeman insisted, not argumentatively but as if trying to reason it out.
“Some gay men will do the sort of things B.J. likes,” Valentine continued, adding, “the sort of things straight men won’t do.”
The policeman nodded slowly, evidently trying to make some sense of it. “I just came from a little visit with B.J. At the South Mortuary. She made a positive ID on both her two playmates.”
Valentine and Clarisse were completely taken aback by this revelation. Clarisse pulled off her glasses.
“They’re dead?” Valentine asked. “ Both of them?”
“Ruder and Cruder are dead?” Clarisse blurted out.
The policeman supplied them with the victims’ real names. “They were strangled,” he went on. “Neckties.”
“What else is new in this town?” Clarisse snapped, shoving her glasses back over her eyes.
“They were at the talent show last night,” Valentine said.
“And they were killed last night also,” the policeman emphasized.
“Where were they killed?”
“Back Bay. Marlborough Street, between Fairfield and Gloucester. In a building undergoing renovation. A carpenter putting in overtime on the place found their bodies this morning. They were in separate rooms on the top floor—one in the back, one in the front.”
“Wait a minute,” Clarisse interrupted. “Those two never wore neckties, and where do you find neckties in a building that’s being renovated?”
“The murderer brought them with him,” Valentine supplied calmly. “Am I right?” he asked the policeman.
“It looks like that’s what might have happened.”
“Were there just two neckties used in the killing?” Clarisse inquired.
“Yes. Why?”
“Because other murder victims were practically hog-tied.”
“Were they handcuffed?” Valentine asked.
“How did you know?” said Chester B. Arthur, startled.
Valentine shrugged. “It makes sense. Ruder and Cruder wore handcuffs wherever they went.”
“What about B.J.,” Clarisse demanded. “Where is she in all this?”
“Somewhere else,” the policeman answered with deliberate vagueness.
“I’ll just bet she has one interesting alibi,” Clarisse remarked.
The policeman did not reply.
“That woman was always with Ruder and Cruder,” Valentine said. “Always.”
“They were practically Siamese triplets,” Clarisse added.
The policeman ignored their comments and asked instead, “In the bar last night, did either of you see them talk to anyone for any length? Someone they might have gotten together with?”
“The only thing I heard from them,” Valentine said, “were orders for drinks.”
The officer looked to Clarisse. “I saw you have a little encounter with them over by the edge of the stage.”
“Yes, but it was hardly a conversation. If you’d been listening, you’d have heard sexual innuendo from them and a sharp retort from me. That’s all.”
The policeman accepted this with a nod. He glanced toward the station house and then back to them.
“Just one more thing,” he said to Valentine. “Were you here all night?”
“This is the first time I’ve been outside since the parade yesterday afternoon. Am I a suspect?”
The policeman forced an unconvincing smile of dismissal. “I have to get back. Thanks for your time.”
Clarisse and Valentine watched the policeman in silence as he turned and walked back across the street.
Chapter Twelve
AT FOUR O’CLOCK IN THE afternoon it was hotter than it had been at noontime. The sun beat mercilessly down on the shoppers in Boston’s Downtown Crossing, the designated main shopping area of the city. The heat wilted the workers who were coming down from their air-conditioned offices. Teenagers from the suburbs, radios perched on shoulders, wandered about listlessly. Street vendors and sidewalk singers shouted in such garbled voices that it was impossible to tell what they were selling or singing. There was a salsa band, in full regalia, stationed in front of Jordan Marsh’s bridal display window. A bag lady with a portable loudspeaker system in a small upright shopping cart was singing at full volume a medley of songs from My Fair Lady. Beneath the
street, the Red and Orange Line subway trains rumbled and shook every fifteen seconds or so.
Clarisse stepped out from Filene’s perfumed coolness into this cacophony of heat, noise, and odor. She was laden with packages from Filene’s (upper store as well as basement), Waldenbooks, Capezio, Lane Bryant, and Woolworth’s. She scanned the headlines of a street vendor’s afternoon papers, trying to decide if any of the headlines were worth her putting down her packages to get at her purse, inaccessible beneath the pyramid of bundles she carried in front of her.
All the newspaper stories seemed to be political or criminal. Clarisse frowned and told herself that she’d had enough of crime and politics for the rest of the summer.
The two latest necktie killings, of Ruder and Cruder, would have made the front page of the Boston Herald had not a well-known Mormon pop singer chosen that particular day to announce her second divorce. But the deaths of the two men made the top of page three, where a full column was devoted to a simple listing of what the dead men were wearing. Everything seemed to have been fashioned either of leather or of steel. Even the relatively sober Globe pointed out the sadomasochistic tendencies of the two men, referred (though not by name) to B.J., and suggested that perhaps the previous deaths should also be looked at in the light of homosexual game playing. Gay Community News, caught between deadlines on its regular issues, came out with a special four-page edition decrying the inability of the Boston police to make any headway in the investigation into the murders. Several letters hinted darkly that the “reprehensible police inaction and gross inactivity” was a conspiracy against the gay community in retaliation against its recent political and economic progress. Channel 4 News very quickly started up a series of reports, airing at noon and eleven, on “Fear and Trembling in the Gay Community.”
They interviewed Clarisse, presiding over a near-empty Slate. All this past week Slate’s business seemed to be made up principally of reporters and plainclothesmen. Although there was a traditional summer outflux after Gay Pride Week, Clarisse knew that the murders were destroying business. It had been announced everywhere—on television and in the papers—that the double murder victims had last been seen in Slate. Everyone was also reminded that the other victims had been seen in the bar in the hours directly before their murders, as well.
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