The Second Reginald Bretnor Megapack

by Reginald Bretnor

  Though Hector Grimwood had gone back to working on Evangeline, he too was thoroughly disturbed. Coulter had been unable to get Hanson out on bail, partly because the crime was murder, and partly because Hanson had jumped bail once before. Then Eisenstein and Primrose, his senior partners, had come in to help, and finally bail had been set—but at five hundred thousand dollars. Hemmet had urged the doctor to underwrite it, but his own lawyers said he shouldn’t. If Hanson disappeared, for whatever reason, it would be financially disastrous. Hanson had said, “Hell, no! I been in brigs before, and I can stay in this one a few days.” But the doctor was still torn between his sense of duty and good sense.

  Besides, several friends had called to tell him that Kielty, with a detective and a police stenographer, had come to visit them. He had arrived without warning, and had bombarded them with questions, all aimed at one point: whether Dr. Grimwood, privately or publicly, had ever threatened the late Errol Vasquez Munrooney’s life or person. And had they, at Dr. Grimwood’s house, ever encountered a Mrs. Twinkle Mossmaker, described as a teaching assistant in sociobionomics at Pinole State College?

  “I don’t believe it,” said Timuroff. “No human being could be named Twinkle Mossmaker.”

  “She is,” Hector Grimwood assured him. “I remember her—a long blonde girl with a long nose, long hair, an almost nonexistent skirt, and a great many scarlet toenails, drinking too much and arguing with people. Her friends call her Twinkie. She must be saying dreadful things about me.

  Timuroff, who guessed that she was one of Kielty’s prime witnesses, agreed but did not say so. He asked what else had happened, and learned that Mario Baltesar had phoned. Baltesar was embarrassed—he knew that Heck was not involved in Errol’s murder, in spite of what was being said, but there was his position, now that he was mayor. And his wife was Errol’s sister, after all. And he was sure there’d be no misunderstanding, would there? Dr. Grimwood, a little cynically, had promised him that there would not.

  The picture was definitely unpromising, and Timuroff was relieved, when he got home, to learn that Liselotte had again invited operatic dinner guests, friends of the maestro’s more concerned with the dramatic possibilities of Lucrece and Muriel Fawzi and Evangeline than with the slaying of any mere politician. He made his mind up that, come what might, he would enjoy the evening.

  Pete phoned shortly before supper to say that Olivia had prepared several postcards which an aunt of his would mail from Disneyland, while they themselves went on to San Diego, mostly to see the zoo. He sounded cheerful and relaxed, and Timuroff did not trouble him with new developments. Then, from the phone in his study, he called the Pennsylvania number once again. It rang and rang, and finally an old man answered.

  “Is this the Marianne Denham residence?”

  There was a long silence before the answer came, its words spaced far apart, as though produced only with great effort.

  “Who…is…speaking?”

  “I knew her when she was working for the government,” said Timuroff.

  He waited. Then the voice said, “Did you know my boy?”

  “No, sir,” answered Timuroff.

  “She married him.” The old man seemed almost to be talking in his sleep. “It only lasted a few months. She is dead now. Something happened to her, and she died. Her mother lives here. Do you want her number?”

  Timuroff said that he did not, and thank you, and he was sorry to have troubled him.

  “It was a terrible thing,” the old voice said. “Good-bye.”

  Momentarily, a Muscovite depression threatened Timuroff, and he used all his Scots resilience to defy it. If the signs were not pointing where they should, one couldn’t force them to. He went back to the party grimly determined not to worry.

  Next morning, having enjoyed the evening after all, he ran Hector Grimwood out as usual, and came back to the shop in a fine seventeenth-century mood, looking forward to his luncheon with Clayton Faraday. The only call had been from Mr. Millweed, and he ignored it. Then, at about eleven, Faraday phoned apologetically to take a raincheck until next day—he was being consulted in some urgent matter.

  Timuroff was disappointed, and said so. “I’d really hoped we’d have a chance to talk, Clayton. This Munrooney business has taken some strange turns—some of them almost unbelievable.”

  “Tim,” the judge sighed, “—nothing is unbelievable, not anymore. Ten years ago, who’d have believed Watergate? Or Chappaquiddick? That’s why I’m genuinely concerned about your being involved in this. But we can talk about it all tomorrow.”

  Timuroff, again depressed, made the best of it by surprising Liselotte and Penny Anne, and taking them to lunch at the Jade Pavilion. Afterward, he forced himself to concentrate on his neglected correspondence.

  He was interrupted only twice.

  At around three o’clock, the answering service told him a Mr. Wallton wanted to talk to him, a Mr. Dennis Wallton. Timuroff placed him just in time, and had her put him on.

  “Mr. Timuroff?” a deep voice said.

  “You’re Sergeant Wallton, aren’t you? Pete’s friend?”

  “I’m a friend of Pete’s all right, but I’m not sergeant anymore. I turned my badge in yesterday, and I’m going to be working out of town for the state, a sort of temporary deal starting right away. I’ve got this target gun Pete lent me, a Smith & Wesson. I guess he told you all about it. I figure it’d be safer left with you while I’m gone, if that’s okay. Any chance we can get together sometime tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Of course,” said Timuroff. “About when?”

  “Four or four thirty would be best for me. I’ll bring it by.”

  “Fine,” Timuroff told him. “I’ll put it in my safe.”

  He hung up slowly, wondering what Wallton really had.

  The second interruption came at half-past four, when he was tidying up before taking off to pick up Hector Grimwood. This time, the answering service put the call through directly, as they had been instructed to.

  “Jake Harrell here, Tim. Listen closely. I’m calling from a booth and I’ve got to make it fast so Kielty won’t catch on. I’m on my way back to the station from Kalloch’s place—”

  “You mean Wade Kalloch?” Timuroff broke in.

  “Yeah, Wade Kalloch. You heard about his selling all those guns and swords and stuff?”

  “What happened?” rapped Timuroff.

  There was an instant’s pause.

  “Tim, Judson Hemmet killed Amos Ledenthal.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll give it to you as quickly as I can. It looks like self-defense. Ledenthal went out into the patio with one of these two-handed Jap swords, to get a better look at it, he said. Hemmet went out a minute later, with Miranda Gardner. He had been looking at a rapier, and he took it with him. He said something as a joke to Ledenthal, and Ledenthal turned on him without warning, called him a dirty bastard, and aimed a cut right for his skull. Hemmet says he parried it, and lunged out automatically to protect himself. Anyhow, he got Ledenthal right through the heart.”

  “He parried it?”

  “That’s what they say, both Hemmet and the Gardner woman. He ‘parried it in six’ was what he said, whatever that means. I’ve got it written down, and it’s all on tape.”

  “Damn him.” Rage welled in Timuroff. “May his soul burn in hell!” Then, before Jake could speak, he asked, “Were there any witnesses?”

  “Well, yes and no. Only Mrs. Gardner saw it, really. The rest either weren’t looking or couldn’t see enough. Kalloch’s place is all glass onto the patio, but he’s got great big plants around the doors, and about all anybody saw was Ledenthal’s head and the flash of that big sword. They heard him yell, ‘You dirty bastard!’ and saw the flash, and then Miranda started screaming her fool head off. And that was that. L
ook, I’ll call you later, when I get a chance. I’ve got to go.”

  For several minutes, Timuroff simply sat there, eyes narrowed, nostrils slightly flared, fingering the tight white scar across his cheek.

  In his mind, the scattered pieces came together, each in its place, each fitting neatly and inevitably. He had already been quite certain about Hemmet and Miranda Gardner. Now he knew.

  He knew that they had had Munrooney murdered. He knew that Hemmet had murdered Amos Ledenthal. He knew who had been the Phantom of the Opera, and who had killed van Zaam.

  But there were still two things he did not know—why Munrooney had been murdered, and how to prove his case against the murderers.

  CHAPTER XII

  The Weight of the Evidence

  The death of Ledenthal was the keystone. From it, all else derived; on it, all else now depended. Where there were pieces missing, Timuroff s mind interpolated them, bridging the gaps logically. Carefully, he planned what he would have to do. Then, taking a sheet of Olivia’s best notepaper, he wrote on it in his bold, clear hand:

  If the abductor of Miss Muriel Fawzi will meet the writer of this message at nine this evening in the apartment where he left her, he will be given information about the murder of Amos Ledenthal, and will find it otherwise to his advantage.

  The meeting, and anything which may transpire during the course of it, will of course remain completely confidential.

  Sincerely,

  A. A. Timuroff

  It pleased him, reminding him of notices in the Agony Column of the Times in Sherlock Holmes’s day. He folded it, sealed the envelope, addressed it, and put it in the inside pocket of his coat. Then he phoned the Ledenthals’ residence.

  Jessica’s sister answered. A married daughter was driving up from Redwood City; Reese Guthrie had been over, very much upset, and had gone off again after the doctor came; Jessica was pretty much in shock, but there was a nurse there now.

  Timuroff asked her to tell Jessica that he had called, and, trying to control his voice, said all the futile words required on such occasions.

  After that, he took off for Kemble Street. He had expected days or weeks of apprehensive waiting, of inaction, of trying to fit inadequate data into a coherent pattern. Now the rapier that killed Amos had cut that Gordian knot, and—because he is primarily a man of action—his doubts, frustrations, and annoyances had vanished. Cold anger drove him—cold anger and hot anticipation.

  He found Hector Grimwood still busy with Evangeline—now fully clothed and seated in an antique high-backed chair appropriate to her time and place in history. He murmured, his appreciation, and sat down on a corner of the workbench.

  “Heck,” he said gently, “there’s bad news about Amos Ledenthal. You’d better sit down while I tell you.”

  The doctor saw the expression on his face; he put down the fine jeweler’s pliers he was holding; he fumbled for a chair.

  Timuroff told him what had happened. He answered his shocked questions. “I’m absolutely certain, Heck,” he said, “that Hemmet didn’t lunge in self-defense. Amos was murdered just as surely as Munrooney was—by one of Munrooney’s murderers. He was notorious for his violent temper, and he was under indictment for assault—the timing of the incident and Kielty’s provocation show it was rigged deliberately to pave the way, if not for what occurred, then for something like it.”

  “But, Tim! My God, why would Hemmet want to kill Munrooney? They were partners—they were in everything together!”

  “That’s what I don’t know. But a third murder has just been committed—and I can prove it. Take my word for that. And a calculated attempt is being made to falsify evidence and pin the first two killings on you and Hanson. We can’t waste any time. We’re going to have to break the case wide open—in self-defense.”

  “H-how do you propose—?”

  “I intend to have a talk with our Phantom of the Opera. I have the invitation in my pocket. If you approve, I’ll meet him here tonight at nine o’clock, down in the room where Muriel Fawzi is.”

  “Who is he?” Hector Grimwood asked.

  “Someone we both know. I’d rather keep his name to myself until I’ve talked to him. I just might be wrong.”

  “Can you be sure he’ll come?”

  “My invitation’s worded so that I don’t think he can refuse. Heck, I’m asking you to buy a pig in a poke, I know, but if anything goes wrong we’ll be no worse off than we are already.”

  “We may not be, Tim, but what about you? If he really is the phantom, he killed van Zaam. You’ve done enough for me already. I don’t want you running that kind of risk in my behalf.”

  “It won’t be just in your behalf. I was fond of Amos, and Jessica is still my friend. Besides, I really doubt if I’ll be in danger; I think I know my man.”

  Hector Grimwood closed his eyes; and Timuroff saw that now his years hung heavily upon him. Then abruptly the eyes flashed again with their accustomed fire. “I’ll buy your pig, Tim,” he declared, rising to his feet. “Amos was my friend too. How can I help?”

  “You can call Liselotte,” said Timuroff, “and tell her you’re having dinner with me. We can take Traeger with us, and I can tell him all he needs to know. Then we’ll come back here and he can disconnect the mikes downstairs; I’ve promised that our talk will be completely confidential.” His expression hardened. “But the bugs at the alley entrance and in the passage must not be disconnected, and we ought to have an extra man or two around. If anything goes badly wrong, I don’t want our phantom to get away with it.”

  “We don’t have to go out to dinner unless you want to. Mrs. Hanson tells me a roast is in the oven—she enjoys feeding Traeger and his men—so there’ll be plenty for the lot of us.”

  “Then everything’s arranged,” said Timuroff. “Now all I have to do is phone a messenger and send the invitation to our guest.”

  “There’s one thing more.” Dr. Grimwood smiled. “When this is over, you can explain it all to Penny and get me off the hook.”

  They went upstairs. The messenger was called, and came, and was instructed to report success or failure instantly. Forty-five minutes later, while they were at table, he phoned to say the invitation was delivered.

  At twenty minutes to nine, they went downstairs, and Traeger, telling Timuroff politely that he was out of his cotton-picking mind, set about disconnecting microphones. Two chairs were brought down from the poker parlor through the armoire and placed, one three feet to Muriel Fawzi’s left, the other to her right.

  At ten minutes to the hour, Hector Grimwood asked hesitantly, “What shall we do now?”

  Timuroff sat down on the chair to Miss Fawzi’s left. Out of his pocket he took the latest Christie’s catalogue. “Just make sure all the doors are closed,” he said, “and wait for me upstairs.”

  They left, and silence fell—that subterranean silence, broken only by dry crepitations and slow creaks, which five peculiarly under large old houses.

  In the yellow light, he forced himself to concentrate on an exquisite fowling piece by Lebeda of Prague, presented to a princeling by his emperor, and by the princeling to a terribly rich American whose sister he had hoped to marry for her money.

  When he heard the footsteps, he did not look up.

  They were not cautious footsteps. They did not tiptoe. They did not hesitate. They approached firmly, steadily.

  Timuroff did nothing until they broke their cadence a dozen feet away and stopped.

  Then he closed the catalogue, and laid it in his lap, and looked around. “Good evening, Reese,” he said.

  Reese Guthrie stood looking down at him, jaw muscles knotted, his eyes deep bowls of shadow in his bloodless face.

  “You knew?” he said.

  “I wasn’t sure,” replied Timuroff, “not until today—unti
l Judson Hemmet murdered Amos.” He pointed at the empty chair, and suddenly command rang in his voice. “Sit down,” he said, almost contemptuously. “And you won’t need that pistol in your pocket. We’re going to have to trust each other, you and I.”

  Slowly, Guthrie took the chair. “If I’d not trusted you, I’d not have come.” His voice betrayed his turmoil, and as he spoke the accent of his native South became more marked. “I—I figured if Amos trusted you, well, I could too.”

  “You were fond of him?”

  “He was the closest to an uncle I ever had. He—he used to take me fishing as a kid, and it was he taught me how to ride, and after Dad’s death—” He broke off. “You know the rest of it. Tell me, Mr. Timuroff, what’s all this about Hemmet murdering him? The police are pretty sure it was self-defense.”

  Timuroff’s fingers strayed across his scar. “Hemmet murdered him. I know what weapons were involved. Gottschalk had only two Japanese katana, but both were excellent. One was by Yasutsugu, who was renowned for his blades’ cutting qualities, and that was probably the one that Amos took outside. Hemmet told the police that Amos cut at him two-handed, at his head, and that he parried it in six—a standard parry for that sort of cut in sabre fencing. But I assure you, on the basis not only of expert knowledge”—he smiled thinly—“but of direct experience, that if Hemmet had parried such a cut made with such a sword, he’d have been lucky to have survived at all. The Yasutsugu would have sheared through the blade of any rapier ever made, and through the guard, and through the hand that held it—and it might not have stopped even then. Therefore it was deliberate murder. The flash of steel the witnesses describe came as the blade fell after Amos was run through.”

  “But why? Wh-why did he kill him?”

  “Because he thought Amos had taken the Munrooney murder weapon and put the khanjar in its place. Because he thought Amos was ruining his and Miranda’s well-laid plans. He may have thought so because Amos was so overtly hostile to him. He blamed it all on Amos—not on you.” For a moment, Reese Guthrie raised his eyes and looked at him. Then he bent his head, covered his face with his two hands, and wept. He wept without a sound, betrayed only by the shaking of his shoulders. Timuroff watched him silently, and Muriel Fawzi, on her cushion, smiled her small, pretty smile.