Even the Butler Was Poor

by Ron Goulart

  "Yeah, but you were forever bailing her out of trouble. If she got a flat tire out in the boondocks, you'd drop everything to rush over there and change it for her rather than letting her phone the damn Triple A. When she was overdrawn on her checking account, you were always the one who—"

  "That's love, Joe."

  "Bullshit."

  "Look, we're chums and all, but I didn't drop by for marriage counseling. Especially since I'm not even married at the moment. Just, c'mon, please, fill me in on what you found out about the old gentleman they carted off in Beaujack's Mercedes."

  After a few seconds Sankowitz picked a manila envelope off the taboret beside his board. He took out two sheets of photocopy paper. "His name was Myron Zepperman, aged seventy-three," he said. "The reason I recognized him is that about five years ago he got a small write up in People."

  "Who was he?"

  "Zepperman, who does look quite a lot like my Uncle Herschel except not so sour, had an unusual occupation. He was chief researcher for Odd, Isn't it?"

  "That newspaper cartoon panel full of unbelievable facts?"

  "Yes, and one of my favorites in my youth. I was especially fond of people who grew potatoes that bore an uncanny resemblance to Richard Nixon. Zepperman, who never got a credit on the panel, supplied most of the oddities for the past forty years."

  Ben took the two pages from his friend. They were copies of newspaper obituaries. "Says here he was found dead a couple miles from his home in New Rochelle, New York, eight days ago. The police speculate that he went out for a late night walk and was mugged. His wallet was missing, his watch and so on."

  "The alleged mugger beat him so severely that he died of internal injuries. The body was dumped in the alley where it was found."

  "That's one of the things we figured they might've done." Ben studied the photo that accompanied the larger obit. "This is sure enough the guy in Rick Dell's pictures."

  "Impress on your pea-sized brain the part about his being severely beaten," advised Sankowitz. "You could well be the next in line for internal injuries."

  "Nope, it was most likely Kathkart who did the beating." He handed the copies back. "Kathkart will be long gone before I hit his place. I wonder why he killed the old man."

  "From what you've told me about the Kathkart temperament, it wouldn't take much to incite him to slug somebody."

  "Yeah, but what was somebody like Zepperman doing at Kathkart's mansion in the first place?"

  "No way of telling for sure," said Sankowitz. "Although one or two possibilities did occur to me."

  "Such as?"

  "Zepperman was, by profession, somebody who devoted his days to digging up odd and obscure facts. Possibly, as a sideline, he dug up odd and obscure facts that people paid him to keep quiet about."

  "Meaning that Rick Dell was blackmailing them about the murder of a blackmailer?"

  "And got murdered for his troubles."

  "A mite farfetched maybe, huh? Of course, we have no way of knowing if Zepperman really was a blackmailer."

  "No, it isn't something they would have mentioned in that People profile."

  "Still, it could be an angle that—"

  "Why are you two sitting here in the dark?"

  "It's not dark, Rhonda my love. Darkness doesn't officially begin in these parts until the sun sets."

  A plump blonde woman, decked out in white tennis shorts and a white cardigan, had appeared in the doorway of the studio. "Tell him, Ben, that he'll go blind if he sits around in the dark."

  "That is a proven fact, Joe."

  "Welcome home, darling," Sankowitz said in the direction of his wife. "Go away."

  She reached over and clicked on the light switch. "How are you, Ben? You don't look especially worried for someone who's facing a long term in prison."

  "Prison?" He looked from her to her husband.

  "From what Joe's been telling me about your escapades over the past few days, I'd guess five to ten in the slammer," said Rhonda amiably. "Would you like some organic grapes and a cup of herbal tea?"

  "Maybe I ought to have bread and water instead, to get in training for prison life."

  She said, "As I recall, H.J. was perpetually leading you astray during your turbulent marriage."

  "So all the gossip columns proclaimed."

  Sankowitz told her, "Loved one, this isn't England and nobody wishes afternoon tea. Scram."

  "Ben looks as though he hasn't eaten for a week."

  "Actually he looks like an overstuffed sofa," countered her husband. "Begone, dear, and allow us to finish our important and private conversation."

  Rhonda said, "I think it's very Christian of you to have anything at all to do with H.J., considering all the grief she caused you."

  "Well, it's a well-known fact that I'm in line for sainthood."

  "Rhonda, really now, take your leave."

  "He never likes me to drop in on him in his studio here," she told Ben. "Most normal people, thank you very much, find me most comforting. Over at the Brimstone Hospice, where I do volunteer work twice each week, they think of my visits as—"

  "We're not dying is the trouble," her husband pointed out. "Were we bound for immediate glory, I'm sure we'd both delight in having you hang around."

  "I guess I'll change and shower. Would you like a plate of oat bran and carob chip cookies, Ben?"

  "Not really, no."

  "Well, good luck with the tremendous botch you've made of your life." Smiling, she took her leave.

  "Do you have a gun I can borrow?" Ben asked the cartoonist.

  "You'd need silver bullets for Rhonda."

  "No, I mean a gun I can take along with me to—"

  "This isn't the local chapter of the NRA."

  "What's that over there on the bookcase?"

  Sankowitz turned to look in the direction he was pointing. "Merely a prop, a Colt Six Shooter. Barrel's plugged."

  "Can I borrow it?"

  "I guess so, sure. But I think guys who stick knives in comics and beat up gents in their seventies aren't going to be much intimidated by a prop cowboy gun."

  Ben went over, picked up the gun, thrust it in his waistband and pulled his sport coat over to conceal the protruding butt of the weapon. "Might come in handy."

  "Be careful when you sit down now. It's quite easy to drive the barrel right down into your groin."

  "Helpful Hints On Gunhandling by Joseph Sankowitz."

  He checked his wristwatch. "I'd better be going."

  "What time do you intend to burst in?"

  "At the latest it'll be a little after seven."

  "Forget it," advised Sankowitz. "Stay right here and call the law."

  "No, I have to give it a try."

  "Maybe you ought to stop long enough for those cookies and some tea. Could be your last meal."

  "I'll see you." Ben, adjusting the six-shooter, headed for the doorway.

  Chapter 22

  A very uninteresting shade of brown, roughly the color of peanut butter after it's been exposed to the air for several days. She awoke to find herself surrounded by it.

  H.J. contemplated her possible location for a moment and then decided she might get more information if she opened her eyes further.

  That proved to be an extremely unpleasant experience. Too much light came rushing in and a very jittery display of dancing specks started up. Even shutting her eyes didn't stop the light show. It reminded her of something second rate Canadian animators might have turned out.

  She tried opening her eyes again, though more slowly and carefully this time. The godawful shade of brown was emanating from the rough woolen blanket she found she was sprawled on face down. The blanket, she determined by prodding it with the hand she wasn't lying on top of, seemed to be part of a bed.

  But sure as hell not the bed in . . . In where?

  H.J. had the feeling she'd been until recently somewhere other than here. Wherever here might be.

  Victoria Station?

&nb
sp; Not quite right.

  Victorian Village?

  That sounded like it. Yes, she'd been in her room at the inn there. Doing what?

  Talking on the phone, she answered silently.

  Right, she'd been talking to her husband. Well, not her husband anymore, but she knew whom she meant. She'd telephoned Ben. But she hadn't talked to him, only to his answering machine.

  She made a faint, rusty, moaning sound. Her right arm, just below the shoulder, hurt a lot. Somebody had stuck a needle in her. H.J. remembered that now.

  I hope it was a clean needle.

  Be a shame to get AIDS or hepatitis or lockjaw now that she'd decided to become a better person.

  How was she going to do that exactly?

  It had something to do with Ben. Oh, sure, right. By telling him she needed his help again. Only this time she wanted him to help her get rid of all of Rick's damn pictures.

  The pictures. Where the hell were they?

  Easy now, don't panic.

  She'd hidden the negatives in a safe place. In the coffin with the ventriloquist and his dummy at. . . No, not there. A coffin, though. That was it, under the coffin at the Village museum. The contact prints, though, were in her purse. And she had no idea where her purse had gotten to.

  She'd been phoning Ben and then the door of the bathroom had come swinging open. A man came out, a big man in a dark windbreaker and dark slacks, wearing a ski mask. Before she could say anything about him into the phone, a second man—he must have been in the closet— had grabbed her from behind. He slapped a hand over her mouth, twisted the phone out of her hand and hung it up. Then he—or maybe it was the other one—had stuck a hypodermic in her arm and shot something harsh and burning into her.

  That had happened. . . well, she had no idea how long ago that had been. She'd passed out as soon as they stuck the damn needle into her. Well, no. First she'd felt suddenly very sick to her stomach and then she'd become dizzy. After that she passed out.

  Now she took a few careful breaths in and out. Her lungs still seemed to be working. Now to find out how some of the other important parts were functioning. Legs, arms, and so on.

  That was, you know, really stupid. Letting them jump you so easily.

  H.J. had no idea how they'd been able to find her at the inn. She was absolutely certain no one had tailed her from Westport over into Westchester County.

  Okay, she'd figure it out later. Right now she needed to put all her effort into getting up off that bed.

  She twisted, managing to pull the hand she was lying on out from under her pelvis. It was numb and her fingers started hurting when she tried wiggling them back to life. Finally, after a few rough minutes, she managed to do a shaky pushup. Then, struggling, she was able to swing her legs around. The light show played a return engagement.

  When her vision cleared, she noticed she was sitting on the edge of a narrow cot that was pushed back against the wall in a small, windowless room with pale tan walls. She also saw that there was a large, wide man in dark clothing seated in a wicker chair less than five feet from her. He was no longer wearing his ski mask and a faint grin showed on his rough, weather-beaten face.

  H. J. eyed him. "I thought," she said in a creaky voice, "I was alone."

  "I been guarding you," he explained. "That hasn't been too bad, especially since you got such a cute little ass."

  Ben jerked upright, tossed the binoculars on the passenger seat and turned around to see who had started pounding on his car window.

  There was a husky, tweedy man with a bristling white moustache hitting on the glass with a gloved left hand.

  Rolling down the window less than four inches, he inquired, "Yeah?"

  "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

  Ben had parked his car off the road on the street above the one where Kathkart's white mansion sat. From up here, using the binoculars he'd just bought at a sporting goods shop, he could get a fine view of the driveways.

  He tried his tough Robert DeNiro voice. "What do you think I'm doing here?"

  "This is a private road and you've probably come here to drink beer," said the annoyed man. "They do it most every night, although unusually much later than this. Park here, drip crankcase oil on the greenery, guzzle beer, toss beer cans, cigarettes and God knows what all around."

  The dog tried to get one of his paws into the car far enough to touch Ben. He whimpered when he failed.

  "I wasn't aware I was trespassing," said Ben, still tough but a bit conciliatory. He was parked on a stretch of weedy grass. There was a low stone fence and a field beyond that, but no sign of a house nearby.

  "It's not my property, but I live just over the hill." The man gestured with his heavy, gnarled walking stick. "I've lived there for almost nine years, a long time by Westport standards. Most of them around here, they come and they go. All at the whim of some giant corporation or other."

  "Yeah, that's sure true. In fact, that's why I happen to be here."

  "What's why?"

  "I'm doing some checking on a top corporate executive."

  "Which executive might that be? As I understand things, that fool television fishmonger lives down below."

  "He does, true. But this exec's wife is suspected of. . . Well, I need say no more."

  The white-mustached man tapped his stick thoughtfully on the ground a few times. "I suppose you do have your job to do."

  "Don't we all. You're very understanding."

  "You won't be drinking any beer?"

  "Not while on duty, it's against the rules."

  "There isn't likely to be any shooting, is there?"

  Ben shifted on his seat, causing the six-shooter to dig into his thigh. "Oh, no. Hell, this is nothing more than a very routine surveillance job."

  The man brought his stick up and stroked his prominent chin with it. "Very well, I'll continue with my walk and leave you to your work," he said. "I assume you also won't be playing loud rock and roll on your car radio."

  "That would spoil the element of surprise."

  Nodding, he said, "Good evening then. Come along, Togo."

  The dog gave a final whimper before dropping away.

  Ben waited impatiently until they'd walked several hundred feet uphill, then grabbed the binoculars again.

  Chapter 23

  He was My Man Chumley when he came into the little room. Full butler rig, including black tail coat, silvery hair slicked down.

  "You damn bitch," began Kathkart.

  "There was no need," she said from the corner where she was standing, "to dress so formally."

  "I don't have all that much time right now," the actor told her. "But when I get back from this stupid personal appearance, we'll have a nice long conversation. As long as it takes, Miss Mavity."

  "That'll give me something to look forward to."

  "How'd your shirt get torn?"

  "It's the trend around here."

  Frowning at the big man over near the door, Kathkart asked him, "What did I tell you, Chico?"

  "Watch the broad till she woke up. Then get hold of you."

  "Asshole—what else?"

  Chico didn't meet the other's eyes. "Don't mess with her."

  "What was that you just mumbled? I didn't quite catch it."

  "You told me not to fool around with her, Barry. And I didn't— hardly at all."

  "While we're gone," Kathkart told him, "I want you to stay out in the hall. You comprehend?"

  "Yeah, sure. But it's not like I molested her or anything serious. Only just, you know, a little fooling around—"

  "Get the hell out of here. Now!"

  "She's only some dumb bitch, so I don't see why—"

  "Out. Get out."

  Giving an annoyed grunt, the big man left them.

  Kathkart grinned at H.J. "You know, lion, it occurs to me that if you don't tell me exactly what I want to know, I just might let that ape loose on you after all."

  "You look like the kind of man that sort of id
ea would occur to."

  "The photos," he said, "the ones we found in your purse. Is that the entire set, is that all of them?"

  She nodded slowly. "Yes."

  "Fine, hon." The actor moved closer to her. "Now here's the important question. Where are the negatives?"

  She blinked. "What are you trying to do?"

  "The negatives, sweetheart, where did you stash them?"

  "If you have the pictures, you must have the negatives, too," she insisted. "Everything, the whole works, was in my purse. Could be Chico and his buddy are holding out on you."

  He glanced over at the door. Then, chuckling, he shook his head. "Nice try, but no cheroot," Kathkart said. "Chico and Leo are too dumb and too chickenshit to try anything like that."

  "Are they?"

  "I want the negatives." He walked up to her. "I'll get them out of you, too. Tonight, tomorrow at the very latest, you'll tell me where they are."

  "I'm telling you right now. They were in my purse along with the prints."

  "If that were true, I wouldn't need you at all," said Kathkart, laughing. "No, not at all. See, I'd get Leo and Chico to give me the negatives, then I'd tell them to get rid of you."

  "I see."

  "So maybe you better forget your bluff and tell me the truth."

  "And then what happens? Don't I still get handed over to your goons?"

  "We can work something out."

  "Such as?"

  "Listen, I'm getting tired of all this chitchat," he warned. "You tell me and then we'll make a deal."

  "I don't see how that would be to my advant—"

  "Tell me!" He swung out with his right hand, slapping her, hard, across the face.

  She pressed back against the wall. "Careful, you don't want to get blood on your nice uniform." She touched at her cheek.

  "I'm not in the mood for any more—"

  "This isn't at all wise, old buddy." Les Beaujack had quietly entered the room.

  "Don't you start—"

  "I'm serious, Barry. Leave her alone." He nodded at H.J. "I apologize for this, Miss Mavity."

  "Oh, sure. Up to now it's been simply a nice, pleasant kidnapping," she said. "Then he had to go spoil it with rough stuff."

  "I don't especially," said Kathkart, "like your kind of smartass—"