Dead Letter (Digger) (17 page)

"There are just three keys. Front door. Main office door. Private office door." He handed Digger a single chain with three keys on it. As Digger put it in his pocket, he said, "The silver one is the outside door."

"How’d you get them?" Digger asked.

"I stopped in to see her and drive her home. I made it a point to lock up for her so I could check the locks and all and I told her she ought to get a burglar alarm. When we got to her apartment, I went upstairs so I could see about that peeping tom again and when she went in the can, I took the keys from her pocketbook."

"If she misses them?"

"I’ll tell her she must have dropped them in my car and I left them home on my dresser. You just better get them back to me before then," Terlizzi said.

"I will. Where are you eating dinner?"

"I’ve got to pick her up at 8 o’clock. A place down near the harbor. Muggsy’s. Ever hear of it?"

"I know where it is," Digger said. "Don’t eat the scrod."

"If you get done early, you can pop in there and figure out a way to get them back to me. Call me to the phone or something. If I don’t see you at Muggsy’s, I’ll bring her back here. And I’ll wait for you as late as it takes, but dammit, try to be early ’cause I want this chick in my house tonight before midnight."

"What are you planning on turning into?" Digger said.

"Just turning in, if I’m lucky," Terlizzi said. "I hope this isn’t a wild-goose chase."

"I do, too. I just want to get the hell out of this town. I hate Boston."

He was sure no one had seen him enter the building that housed Doctor Langston’s offices. The building was dark and after a few moments of standing silently, but hearing nothing, he walked to the back of the building, and let himself into the psychologist’s office. He carefully double-bolted the door behind him and pulled the drapes tightly closed over the two windows in the room, before he switched on the small gooseneck lamp on the desk.

When Digger tried the drawers of the three filing cabinets, side by side next to her desk, they were all locked.

He opened the center desk drawer and found a key on a little hook, hanging next to the compartment for paper clips. The one key opened all three cabinets. Of course, he mumbled to himself. Women always locked things and then left the keys right next to the locked object. It must have been a woman who first left the key to the front door under the welcome mat. He was glad that, even though a shrink, Doctor Langston was also a woman and he hoped that Terlizzi would get half a chance to prove out that theory.

"
Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match
," he sang softly under his breath as he began to root through the files. The first cabinet contained administrative work, budgetary requests, and personnel action forms, and the second was given over mainly to correspondence.

The third cabinet was filled with row upon row of manila folders, all with names neatly labeled in the left-hand corner in red magic marker.

He went through them in alphabetical order. He found Danny Gilligan, John Paul Rampler, Allison Stevens. There was no folder for Mark Rolan. Maybe you needed a brain to have psychological problems. Nor were there any folders for Otis Redwing and Henry Hatcher. If Doctor Langston did any work with faculty, she kept the records somewhere else.

Allison Stevens’s file was the thickest and, out of curiosity, he opened it first as he lit a cigarette and sat at Doctor Langston’s desk.

The opening page was a brief biography of Allie. Name, age, address, parents’ names, schools attended, childhood illnesses. Under "previous psychological treatment" was marked "none."

The first entries after that were written on yellow legal pages in Jayne Langston’s pinched-tight handwriting. They dated from three-and-a-half years before. Each page represented a separate visit and there were fifteen of them over a two-month span. The gist of her notes, bless her for her neatness even if she wrote like an anal retentive, was that Allie was homesick. Big deal. Student had led a sheltered life, Doctor Langston had figured out, and did not really know how to cope with her first taste of freedom. A note in red said "Usual. Cures itself when student comes to realize all in same boat."

Another entry said "student is a virgin." Digger knew that was ancient history. "Very attractive, sensual, sexually explorative."

Doctor Langston had written, "That too will cure itself with help of man."

Digger started to flip through all the rest of the pages, and then saw something in the harsh light of the gooseneck lamp that sent a chill down his back and raised the hairs of his arms.

There was a stack of white papers, smaller than the yellow note sheets. Each contained a poem, neatly typewritten, and signed by A.S. They were dated last summer, and the first poem he saw was entitled "The Betrayer." It was the time that Allie had split with Henry Hatcher and was feeling guilty about possibly breaking up his marriage to Doctor Langston.

But that wasn’t what put chills on Digger’s arms. It wasn’t the message. It was the typing. The typing was neat and accurate, but every O was dropped below the rest of the line of typing.

Just like the typing in the chain letters.

Digger skimmed through the rest of the poems. They were all the same, all neat, all signed A.S., and all of them showing the same typewriter defect.

He pushed his chair back away from the desk and looked over the lamp into the dark of the office. There was no ashtray and he took out the wastebasket under the desk and flicked his ashes into it.

Allison Stevens was writing the death letters herself. The conclusion was inescapable. And that was why Jayne Langston had not seemed concerned about the notes Allie had received. She had recognized the typing and she knew Allie was sending herself the letters.

But why?

Why pure, sweet, lovable, always-smiling Allie? Why would she try to make it look as if someone were terrorizing her?

His mind nibbled around the edges because he knew he was afraid to face the real questions. And then it jumped into his mind with all the teeth of a full-grown idea that demanded attention.

If Allie had written the notes, had she also killed Redwing?

Why?

Why?

It make no sense. No sense at all.

Digger pulled the chair back in to the desk and using Doctor Langston’s private line, dialed the Copley Arms and asked for Room 309.

Allison’s voice answered. She sounded a lot brighter than she had that afternoon.

"Hello."

"This is Digger. How are you feeling?" He spoke softly in case a cleaning woman should be working nearby.

"Oh, like a million dollars now," she said.

"Allie, what kind of typewriter do you have?"

"An electric portable."

"When did you buy it?"

"I didn’t buy it. Daddy gave it to me for my twentieth birthday last year."

"What’d you use before then?"

"I had an old manual portable."

"What’d you do with it?"

"Oh, dear. What the heck did I do with it? Oh, that’s when I was spending a lot of time with Henry. One night, I just put it on top of the garbage alongside his house. It was old, and the keys stuck and everything, so I just junked it. It wasn’t worth selling."

"You never saw it again?" Digger asked.

"No. What’s this all about?"

"Nothing, honey, I was just wondering. Where’s Danny?"

"He just went down to the restaurant to bring us up some food."

"I thought the first thing you spoiled brats learned was how to call room service."

"You forget, Digger. My father started out selling insurance door to door. I don’t think he ever called room service in his life. He certainly didn’t get me in the habit of it."

"Okay, I’ll see you later. But you guys stay there, you hear?"

"Jawohl, capitan," she said.

"You really feeling okay?"

"Sure. Danny’s taking it worse than I am. It’s one of those things, Digger. I didn’t know how much he really wanted us to have a baby."

"I’m going to be over there later. I want you guys there."

"We will be."

Digger hung up the telephone and breathed a sigh of relief. It hadn’t made any sense for Allie to be writing those notes to herself.

But they had been written on her old typewriter. The one she junked when she was living with Hatcher.

Hatcher.

Chapter Fourteen

"What do you want now?" Hatcher asked, looking at Digger who was still leaning on the front doorbell. The dean wore a scarlet brocade smoking jacket. His white shirt was open at the throat, which was covered by a silk ascot.

"Just a little conversation," Digger said.

"I’m sorry. Try me during office hours. I’ve got company for dinner. And get off that doorbell."

"Company?" Digger said. "What is this, teeny-bopper night?"

Hatcher growled and stepped back, then tried to slam the door shut. As it swung toward him, Digger kicked it with the heel of his shoe and the door rocked back against Hatcher and Digger was inside the house.

"I’m going to call the police," Hatcher said as Digger closed the door.

"I may beat you to it," Digger said. "But first you’re going to answer a question or three."

"Not a chance."

"I hope you’re having the college football team in for dinner," Digger said, "because you’re going to need them."

"Henry," called a young female voice from upstairs. A dark-haired woman stood at the top of the steps to the second floor. She wore jeans and a striped tank top.

"Sorry, Miss," Digger said. "Dean Hatcher and I have a little business to discuss. He’ll be right up. Start on the soup without him."

"Oh." The girl paused for a moment, then said, "All right." Digger waited until she had left, then grabbed a handful of Hatcher’s ascot and throat.

"Make it easy on yourself, Don Juan," he said. "Where do we talk?"

Hatcher tried to pull away from Digger but could not. "Back there," he said. "My office."

Digger released him and followed Hatcher down the hallway to the office. The dean tossed the light switch in the warm paneled room, then turned to Digger and said, "You know I’m going to call the police."

"To give yourself up?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Allison Stevens used to live with you," Digger said.

"There’s no law against liking pretty women," Hatcher said.

"No," Digger said. "Her being with you isn’t against the law. It just violates one’s sense of taste. She used to have a typewriter here."

"Sure. A typewriter, a douche bag, a diaphragm, all the paraphernalia of a young college student." He was smirking.

"The typewriter," Digger said again.

"Yeah, she had one. She’s a good student. She was always writing."

"Where’s the typewriter?" Digger asked.

"I don’t believe this. You come in here and assault me because you think I’ve still got her typewriter? Do I look like a typewriter thief to you?"

"To me, you look like dog-droppings," Digger said. "The typewriter."

"I guess she took it when she left. What the hell do you want anyway?"

"All right, I’ll make it simpler. Just before she finally wised up and dumped you, her father gave her a new typewriter. You remember that?"

Hatcher looked off into space for a moment, and he seemed amused by Digger’s persistent questioning. "Yes. Now I remember it."

"The old typewriter she had? What happened to it?"

"I don’t know," Hatcher said.

"She said she put it out in the garbage here one night," Digger said.

"Then I guess the garbage men took it. That’s usually what happens to the garbage." He curled his lip at his wit.

"That’s good," Digger said. "That’s very good. If they’re so good at picking up the garbage, what are you still doing here?"

"Listen," Hatcher said. "Is there anything else before I call the police?"

"You never saw the typewriter again?" Digger said.

"No."

"Where were you on the night Redwing got run over? You remember Redwing, the guy who was going to get the job you wanted?"

"You don’t…you don’t really think I had anything to do with Redwing’s death, do you?"

"Convince me otherwise," Digger said.

"There’s a young woman upstairs at my dining table. She was here the night poor Otis was run down. We had just finished fucking, if you will, and we turned on the radio and heard the news bulletin. I was in all night and she can prove it. And will do so gladly. Should I call her down?"

"No," Digger said. "That won’t be necessary."

"You believe me?" Hatcher said.

"For the time being," Digger said.

"Then you won’t mind if I call the police now?"

"What would you tell them?" Digger asked.

"How you barged in here and assaulted me."

"That’d make a good story," Digger said, "and I’ll give you the second-day lead. That I came here to punch you out because you seduced a young friend of mine, as is your custom. That you are a lecher in leather elbow patches. And from jail I will call some friends of mine who are connected with this college’s board of trustees and you’ll be out of a job so fast your head will spin. What do you think of that as a follow-up story?"

"Will you please leave?" Hatcher said. "We can forget this whole thing."

"I don’t want you to forget me, though," Digger said. "Try this to remember me on," he said as he punched the dean in the right side of the face. Hatcher went down as Digger walked from the office, angry because Hatcher had an alibi for the night Redwing was killed, and angrier because he believed that the dean didn’t know anything at all about Allie’s typewriter.

Digger was beginning to think of the telephone booth near the Waldo gate as an old friend. He called the Copley Arms and asked for Room 309.

But there was no answer. Where were Allie and Danny?

He called Buehler’s answering service in case they had left him a message.

"This is Julian Burroughs. I’m a house guest of Doctor Buehler’s. Are there any messages for me?"

"Yes, sir. A woman called. A Koko? She said she’d be home."

"When did she call?"