by Gene Wolfe
“Or if they’re not the children of your parents’ friends, I suppose. You’d know them, I imagine.”
Before I could think, I said, “My parents don’t have any friends.” It was out of my mouth before I realized I’d never thought of it before, but it was true.
“Really?” Sandoz cocked his head to look at me, just the tiniest little bit.
Blue said, “Mr. and Mrs. Hollander are widely acquainted.”
“You butt out, or I’ll call that doctor and have you take a walk after all.”
I tried to fix it. “What I mean is they don’t have friends together. My father’s are mostly business people. My mother’s are ladies she’s met in various clubs she belongs to—women from around here.”
“Which were the Munroes?”
“Neither one, as far as I know. Why don’t you ask Elaine?”
Sandoz turned to Blue. “You say the Hollanders are widely acquainted. Did they know Mr. and Mrs. Munroe?”
Blue shrugged. “They might well have, but to the best of my knowledge they did not.”
“Okay.” Back to me. “What about this guy Lief?”
“What about him?”
“You know him?”
“Naturally I knew him. He was my best friend’s brother.”
“But your mother didn’t know him?”
(Watch it!) “Sure she knew him. She was the one who fixed it for him to open the box. Everybody you’ve talked to must’ve told you that. Everybody knew it—she was in charge. You think she had something against him and set this whole thing up to do him in? Nuts again.”
“You said that, Miss Hollander. Not me. Did your father know him?”
“Sure.”
“Although he and Mrs. Hollander have no friends in common?”
“That’s not what I meant. He wasn’t that kind of friend.”
Blue asked, “Are you working on the theory that the deaths of Munroe and Lief were planned in some way? In other words, that the bomb was intended to kill those two men specifically?”
“We consider that one possibility.”
“That interests me. I would have thought it obvious that they were simply the people who happened to be closest to the explosion. Unless you’re back to Munroe’s dynamite belt again.”
Sandoz scratched his cheek with a thick forefinger. “Some guy gets run down in traffic. Would you figure he just happened to be standing in front of somebody’s bumper at the wrong time? That would make a car a hell of a lot better weapon than a gun—it is anyhow in my book, but if we thought like that it would be better yet. No, when we find some poor bastard flattened on the pavement, we kind of routinely ask if somebody wanted him dead. Pretty often the answer is yes.”
“And you think someone wanted Munroe and Lief dead,” Blue said.
“No, I don’t think so. I’m just willing to consider it.”
Before I could shut my mouth I said, “The little kid!”
“Yes, Miss Hollander?”
“The little girl. She was up on the platform blindfolded. She pulled out the ticket.”
Sandoz nodded, and for just a minute there he looked like he might be somebody’s grandfather. “Her name’s Nancy Noonan. A sweet child, I’m told. I haven’t talked to her yet.”
“But if somebody wanted Mr. Munroe killed, they’d have had to arrange for him to win.”
“That’s a good point,” Sandoz said. “In fact, I’d call it an excellent point. In my opinion it wouldn’t have been utterly impossible for somebody to do that, however.”
“You’re putting me on.”
“No, not really, Miss Hollander. I used to work the bunco squad, and a lot of what we did concerned crooked gambling. You wouldn’t know about that, I’m sure, but you’d be surprised just how easy it is to fix a game that looks like it’s on the up-and-up. Take that drawing. You and Mr. Blue here both saw it, from what I’ve heard. How was it done, Mr. Blue?”
Blue shook his head, his lips tight. I said, “They put all the tickets in a big wire drum—my mother borrowed it from some church. They cranked it around, and the little girl pulled out the winning ticket.”
“Not quite, Miss Hollander. A couple of our officers have already talked to several witnesses. Shall I tell you how it was really done?”
Naturally I nodded. I knew damned well he was setting me up, but there wasn’t anything else to do.
“You said that ‘they’ cranked the drum. It was Mrs. Elaine Hollander who cranked it. Then little Nancy, blindfolded, took out a ticket. She gave it to Mrs. Hollander, and Mrs. Hollander announced the number—five ninety-six.”
“There was no way she could have know what the number on that ticket would be.”
Sandoz got a cigar out of his shirt pocket, peeled off the plastic, and rubbed it between his hands. If it had been one of those see-how-smart-I-am numbers, it wouldn’t have bothered me, or anyway I don’t think it would. Only it wasn’t. He was just sitting there with that blank brown face, rolling a new stogie between mitts that looked like they could crack coconuts.
Then he said, “Why would she have to know the number of the ticket? Say she wanted five ninety-six to win. All she’d have to do would be to look at the ticket—whatever number it was—and call out five ninety-six. Who’d know the difference? The little girl? She was blindfolded. After the number was called, the ticket would go back into the barrel.”
I stopped chewing while he lit up. He looked like a guy who’d carry kitchen matches, but it was an old beat-up Zippo, the kind that works forever.
“Those folks watching weren’t gamblers,” he said, “and your mother’s a prominent woman there in Barton. Nobody’ d accuse her of cheating. Nobody has.”
“You just did.”
“No, Miss Hollander, I didn’t. I told you it wouldn’t have been utterly impossible to get Munroe up on that platform. You didn’t believe me, so I gave you an instance.”
“Elaine couldn’t have know what his ticket number was,” I said.
Sandoz shook his head, “Hypothetically I could give you three ways, easy.”
“Okay, give them! I still won’t believe you.”
Sandoz looked from me to Blue as if he was waiting for Blue to object. When he didn’t, Sandoz said, “In the first place, we asked about those tickets. There were two gates where people could get in, and there were rolls of tickets at each gate. The tickets on each roll were numbered sequentially. Suppose that somebody—anybody—was hanging around there and spotted Munroe in line. Say there were nine ahead of him and this somebody saw that the person being sold a ticket right then had five eighty-seven. That’s one.
“Or suppose that this somebody had herself a badge and a ribbon. She goes up to him and says, ‘Pardon me, sir, but do you have a ticket?’ What would he do—holler that he’d never been so insulted in his life? I don’t think so. I wouldn’t have, if it was me. I’d have just pulled out my stub, the stub I was saving because I knew there’d be a drawing, and shown it to her. I think most people would. That’s two.
“Or she could just ask him. Why not? That’s three.”
“Because it would be dumb,” I told him. “That’s why not. Elaine was in charge of everything, and in charge of the drawing especially. And it would have looked as fishy as hell for her to go around asking people what their numbers were.”
“I wasn’t talking about your mother,” Sandoz said. “I was just talking about somebody who wanted to find out. But if this somebody were involved with the drawing some way, she could have somebody else do it for her. A kid, maybe. After all, they got a little girl to pull out the winning ticket, and that’s because people tend to trust little girls.”
“She’s my mother. God knows I’m not crazy about her, and you’ve probably found that out. But do you think that if she … I’d …”
For a minute I could have sworn that wooden face looked unhappy. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t.”
Softly, Blue told me, “He wanted to watch your expression.�
�
It took me a while to get it. Then I said, “Well, he saw it.”
Sandoz was looking at Blue. “You a lawyer?”
Blue shook his head.
“Well, you look like one. What are you?”
“I’m a criminologist.”
“I thought you said you worked for the father.”
“Didn’t it ever strike you that a company that manufactures safes and locks might make good use of a criminologist? I said I was a Hollander employee, I think. I am.”
“Did you know Munroe?”
Blue shook his head again.
“How about Lief?”
“Yes. I knew Lief.”
“Everybody knew Lief, it seems like. Only not together. Did you meet him through Mr. Hollander or Mrs. Hollander?”
“No.”
“See, I told you. How did you meet him?”
“That’s my affair.”
“You’re not going to cooperate with the police?”
“Not to the point of divulging my personal affairs when they are not germane.”
Sandoz turned back to me. “What about you, Miss Hollander? You said you knew him because he was your best friend’s brother, which is entirely reasonable; but you said that your father knew him, too. Are you willing to tell me what the connection between them was?”
“Sure,” I said. “Locks.”
“Locks?”
“It’s obvious, isn’t it? Locks are my father’s business, and his hobby, too. Larry was a locksmith. He sold some of the products our company makes, and he was about the only person in town my father could talk to about tumblers and false wards and double-key systems and all that junk.”
“How about your mother?”
“My mother knew him because he came to the house sometimes to drop off Megan, or to pick her up.”
“Through you, in other words.”
“That’s right. Through me.”
“Judging from the pictures I’ve seen he was a good-looking man. She like him?”
“No.” I shook my head, thinking that Elaine never really liked anybody except Elaine. Then all of a sudden I remembered what the bomb must have knocked out of me, and I told Sandoz all about coming to see Megan at the Magic Key shop, and what Molly had said, and about the car and so on. Only for Molly’s sake I left out her gun.
This time his smile was practically real. “You should’ve given us that sooner,” he told me.
“I know.” I felt humble. “Only I didn’t think of it. I wasn’t thinking that the bomb might have been aimed—you know what I mean—at Larry. You were the one who started me doing that.”
It looked like Sandoz was going to smile again, but he got it under control. He stood up, brushing the cigar ashes off his legs. “I’ll be going now,” he said. “I think I’ll have a talk with Mrs. Lief. I may be seeing you again later, Miss Hollander. And you, Mr. Blue.”
Blue raised his cane to stop him. “Before you leave, I’d like to ask you one question. It will influence the report I make to Mr. Hollander a great deal, I think.”
“Go ahead and ask,” Sandoz told him. “I don’t promise to answer and I don’t care what you tell your boss, but there’s no harm in asking.”
“You indicated obliquely that you suspected Mrs. Hollander. I know you said nothing actionable, and you may not even have been serious. But whether you were serious or not, do you have any real evidence to show that the bomb was in that box?”
Sandoz pushed the cane to one side. “I have evidence that shows that it wasn’t, Mr. Blue,” he said. “That it wasn’t even a bomb.”
He went out the door.
How Blue Helped Me Figure Things Out
I took a deep breath, maybe two or three. Then I said, “Well, that’s over with.”
Blue shrugged. “I hope so.”
“Did you really call my father in New York? That was nice of you.”
“I was angling for a job. I still am, because I need the money. Anyway, everything I told Lieutenant Sandoz was true. A safe and lock company should have a criminologist on its staff, or at least have a criminological consultant to call in at need. I am a Hollander employee—you’re a Hollander, and you’ve asked me to help you and offered to pay me. I accept.”
“What did he say?”
“Your father? He was concerned about you and your mother. Your mother had called him at his hotel last night, and he had watched a morning news show—”
“My God, you’re right! We must’ve been on TV. How do you turn that thing on?”
Blue looked as though he was disappointed in me, which I suppose he had a right to. “There won’t be anything now until six. You’ve got plenty of time.”
“Just the same, I want to know.”
We hunted around and finally found a remote that had fallen down behind the table. When I had tested it out, I asked Blue again about my father.
“He wanted to know if I had seen your mother; he was afraid she had been concealing something when she had assured him that she was not injured. I told him I had not, but that she wasn’t hospitalized. We talked for some time about the extent of your injuries. I’m certain he’s spoken with your doctor by now. He expressed the opinion that the bombing—that, at least, was what we called it—had been the act of radical terrorists. I believe that was all.”
“How did you know where to call him, anyway?”
“I telephoned your housekeeper and inquired. He had wisely left the name of his hotel with her in case of emergencies, and I was able to catch him in his room this morning before he left for his meeting.”
“I’m surprised Mrs. Maas gave it to you.”
“I think she did so under the impression that I was calling in an official capacity, although I did not say I was.”
“What a shock when she thought so, I’ll bet. I wonder how she ever got a wild idea like that! You’re pretty slick, aren’t you?”
Blue shook his head. “I used to think I was, but I’ve been disabused of that idea. I know a few tricks, and occasionally I invent a new one. That’s all. With the right backdrop and the right lighting, I can fool most of the audience on a good night. Not without them, and not all the audience—not ever.”
“Modest, too.”
“Are you in much pain?”
“A little. I guess being so hungry took my mind off it, or maybe they gave me some kind of dope and it’s getting weaker now. I imagine I’ll be going around like you, with a cane, for a while.”
As soon as I was finished, I was sorry. I could see the hurt in his eyes. He said, “You are wondering whether my own trouble is permanent or temporary. It is permanent.”
“How’d it happen?”
“That doesn’t matter now.”
He was getting set to stand up, so I yelled at him. “Hey, don’t go, I promise not to talk about it anymore. I thought you wouldn’t mind, since I’ve paid dues myself.” All the time I was feeling around inside my head for something that would keep him where he was and not make him mad. “Where do you live?”
He stopped pushing on the handle of his stick. “In South Barton. I own an old farmhouse.”
“A farm, huh? That’s nice.”
“Most of the land has been sold off, but there are still a few acres of woods left. The house was built during the Civil War, and I suppose nine out of ten people who see it think it abandoned.”
I said, “I’d like to come by and take a look, when I’m up and around again. Listen, I’m not keeping you from anything, am I? It’s just that I like your company.”
“You’re afraid of your uncle. That’s very understandable, but I’ll have to go soon.”
Those blue Blue eyes could see right through me; that was scarier, almost, than thinking about Uncle Herbert.
Blue continued, “If it’s of any comfort to you, I think you tend to exaggerate the threat posed by your uncle. As I’ve told you before, psychotics rarely harm anyone except themselves; and from what the judge has passed along to me, it’s b
een ten years or more since Herbert Hollander posed a problem to the staff at Garden Meadow.”
“Going over the wall isn’t a problem?”
“It certainly doesn’t indicate a propensity for violence.”
“Let’s change the subject. Do you know Megan Lief? Was she hurt? Nobody’ll tell me.”
“I don’t believe so,” Blue said. He reeled off the names of the other casualties. I didn’t recognize any of them.
I said, “I sort of expected that Uncle Dee would come up to see me.”
“I didn’t know you had another uncle.”
“Not a real uncle. Uncle Dee is De Witte Sinclair—do you know him?”
Blue was smiling. “I’ve scouted books for him a few times.”
“Scouted?”
“A book scout is to a rare-book dealer what a jackal is to a tiger. He buys books cheaply and sells them to the dealer for what they’re worth. Then the dealer locates a customer willing to pay a great deal more than they’re worth, and resells them to him. That, at least, is the way we book scouts tell it. Have you considered that if De Witte tried to see you they wouldn’t let him come up? At least, not unless he told the kind of fib I did.”
That made me feel better. “No,” I said, “I hadn’t thought of that. Maybe he came after all, huh? But you know, I’ll bet he’s too busy trying to straighten up the book sale—that would be just like him. What do you suppose they’ll do with all those books now?”
“I have no idea.”
“Save them for next year, I guess—if there’s a Fair next year at all. Do you think it was those guys who were bothering Larry?”
Blue shook his head.
“Why not? That Lieutenant Sandoz did. Don’t you think he’s a good cop?”
“Yes,” Blue answered slowly. “Yes, I think he’s a good cop.”
“You’re holding something back.” (Sometimes I’m damned insightful myself.)
Blue said, “Holly, you have to understand that, at least in nine cases out of ten, the police are not actually interested in arresting the guilty party. Under the law, the determination of guilt isn’t even their responsibility. What they want and need is someone who can plausibly be brought before a judge. A good cop—and I agree, I think Sandoz is probably one—still has that urge, sometimes at least, to discover what really happened. But even a good cop cannot help being influenced by his training and pressure exerted by his superiors.”