Death Through the Looking Glass (15 page)

“Motive.”

“And an alibi for the time of both killings.”

“Yes, but that could be phony.”

Captain Norbert tapped Rocco's badge. “You got as many years in this business as I do. You ought to know by this time that we can't stake out everyone with a motive. We'd need the Russian army for manpower.”

“I think you have an obligation, Norb.”

“Bullshit! The prosecutor thinks he has a case, the grand jury will return an indictment, and my job is help them hang Giles and Middleton.”

“Wait a minute.”

They were off again, Lyon thought, as he twirled his glass and looked out the dusty barroom window. In a field across the street, two boys were flying a kite. It was a large one, shaped in the form of a black falcon, and the day's quick breeze puffed it higher and higher. It bobbed and circled toward the radio station's transmission tower, and if the boys let out more string, it was doomed to fatal entanglement in the steel girders.

The kite bobbed between two girders, weaved out once, and then was hopelessly caught above the ground. The larger of the boys tugged on the string until it snapped. His shoulders slumped as they both stared disconsolately at their entangled toy.

A vague thought began to nibble at the rim of Lyon's consciousness. He reached for it, but it disappeared, leaving shadowy trails of a wispy but unformed conclusion. He would start at the beginning—He turned to see the two senior police officials shaking fingers at each other, while the two corporals fought to look impassive and choke back laughter. “I want to see the Esposito house again,” Lyon said.

Norbert turned to glare at him. “Will you keep out of my hair, Wentworth?”

“If he wants to see it, let him,” Rocco said. “Sometimes he comes up with things.”

“Wouldn't if I could. The special task force on organized crime has the house sealed. Forget it.”

“Where's the houseboy? What's his name?”

“Koyota,” Rocco said. “You want his home address?”

“Uh huh,” Lyon said.

Lyon braked the Datsun behind two mopeds at the red light on the edge of the Murphysville green. He impatiently clenched and unclenched his fingers on the steering wheel while awaiting the turn of the light, and then he saw them at the corner. They stood by the main entrance of the Connecticut National Bank. While her partner extended his bowl toward passersby in a hostile and belligerent manner, Robin smiled, and the long white robe failed to hide the full dimensions of her figure. As Lyon watched, two men hesitated, stopped, and fished for coins.

A horn behind him honked and he threw the car into gear. Dr. Blossom had found his most effective beggar. He realized that he missed her, and he thumped the steering wheel to dispel the unwelcome visions. He must think only of the Japanese houseman and what he might learn from him.

Koyota, wearing a silk gown and a neatly tied ascot, opened the door and peered myopically at Lyon. He blinked in recognition. “Mr. Wentworth.”

“I wonder if I might talk with you a moment.”

He bowed. “I am at your service, but, most regrettably, at this time I have certain acquaintances present.”

“It's most important.”

“I am at your service. Perhaps in”—he looked at a large chronometer strapped to his wrist—“an hour.”

“Hey, Snake, hurry up,” the deep feminine voice echoed from the rear of the apartment. Koyota threw up his hands in resignation and opened the door for Lyon.

The apartment was a large one-room efficiency with a Pullman kitchen. Two of the biggest women Lyon had ever seen reposed in the huge bed in the corner.

“We having a party, Snake?”

Houseman Koyota sank into a deep circular divan and crooked a finger over his shoulder. “Drink. Your preference, Mr. Wentworth?”

“A sherry if you have it.”

Koyota clicked his fingers, and immediately the women, dressed in panties and bras, slipped into peignoirs and began to mix drinks. They were amazons, and Lyon found it difficult to keep his eyes off the six-foot blondes. He began to speculate about the small man in the ascot and the large women, but abandoned these thoughts for the business at hand.

“What did you wish, Mr. Wentworth? My employment perhaps? As you know, I am available for the right person under the right circumstances.”

“Martini, Snake?” the second woman asked shyly.

“Dry, and don't bruise the gin.”

“No, not employment. I have some questions concerning the death of your former employer.”

“Most regrettable. A man of discerning taste. It was a pleasure to work for him. I informed the authorities of all that I know, which was very little.” He stuck his hand in the air, and the martini was immediately placed in the palm.

“You spent the day working on the house, prepared dinner at six, and then left for the evening.”

“To get ashes hauled.”

“Ah, yes,” Lyon said and could not help glancing at the women, now perched on bar stools. “And you found the body. Tell me about that.”

“Why? I have been over this before.”

“There might be something that would help. Please, once again.”

“I arrived at the house a little before eight, entered, and began to prepare breakfast. When I attempted to serve Mr. E., I found his room undisturbed. A few minutes later, after going through the house, I found his body. In the pool. I called the police. That's all.”

“Yes,” Lyon mused. “I saw the body when we arrived. Fully dressed, with shoes on. You also said that the night before, you prepared a meal of
gohan, suimono, sashimi
and
chawan mushi
.”

“
Tsukemono
and
tempura
also.”

“Does it take long to prepare such a meal?”

“Minutes if the custard has been made earlier, as mine was.”

There's nothing there, Lyon said to himself; no clue of any sort. A routine he went through as on any other day. He cleaned the house and pool, served dinner, and returned the next day to find his employer dead. The errant thought solidified: “Mr. Koyota, you told us that you spent several hours working on the pool.”

“Yes. Mr. Esposito was most particular about the pool. He allowed no chemicals of any sort, and he insisted that it be thoroughly cleaned once a week.”

“How do you clean a pool?”

“Really quite simply, Mr. Wentworth. You drain it, climb in with a brush, and scrub.”

“But Esposito drowned in the pool that night.”

“After I finished my cleaning, I closed the drains and let it fill.”

“Which would be about what time?”

“Just before I began to prepare dinner.”

Lyon grabbed Koyota's arm. “Do you have a key to the house?”

“An extra one in my bureau.”

“Then come on, Snake, let's get over there!”

The unhappy Japanese remembered to have Lyon remove his shoes as they entered the foyer. He turned to stare wistfully at Lyon's car parked at the curb. “Last time I left those two alone, they got into the vodka and solicited the doorman.”

“I'll hurry,” Lyon said and walked quickly toward the pool room, leaving Koyota struggling to replace the police seal on the door.

The pool seemed to echo as he stood on the tiled edge and looked down into the empty basin. A dim, clouded light came through the glazed ceiling. He sat and let his feet dangle over the edge.

Minutes later he heard the slither of the panel to his rear. “Are you finished, Mr. Wentworth?”

“No. Would you fill the pool, please?” Lyon pushed off the tile and fell lightly to the floor of the deep portion of the pool. “Can you remember exactly where you first saw the body?”

“About halfway toward the steps.”

“Please start the water.”

As Koyota left the room, Lyon walked the length of the pool and back. By the time he had reached the deeper part, water had begun to rush through a two-inch pipe recessed into the wall in the eight-foot-deep section. He watched the water a moment as it began to trickle around his bare feet.

“Anything else, Mr. Wentworth?”

“Yes. Adjust the water to full pressure.”

The Japanese shook his head and again disappeared. Shortly, the water flow increased. Lyon watched it a moment and then retreated halfway toward the steps. He lay on his back on the dry tiles.

“You'll get wet, Mr. Wentworth, and we should go.”

“Uh huh,” Lyon replied and looked upward toward the indistinct day beyond the skylight.

“Mr. Wentworth …”

“Yes? Why don't you take my car and go back to your friends? Please return in exactly five hours to pick me up.” He reached into his pocket, fished for the car keys, and tossed them to the waiting man.

“Five hours?”

“To the minute, please.”

As he heard the front door close, he crossed his arms under his head and tried to make himself comfortable on the hard surface. The sound of rushing water was not unpleasant. He closed his eyes.
The Parrot at the Pool
—yes. It might make a story. A sylvan glen, deep in the forest, with a clear pool of cold spring water. The animals, of all sorts, would follow the shaded paths to the pool, where the parrot reigned. He would have to think about that.

“By God, I think the silly bastard is trying to drown himself!” Captain Norbert's voice reverberated through the tiled room as Lyon's eyes slowly opened. He felt chilled, and as he turned to face the offending voice his nose and mouth filled with water. He gasped, choked, and sat up.

“Get out of there, Lyon,” Rocco said from the pool's edge.

“I was worried, Mr. Wentworth,” Koyota said from behind Captain Norbert. “And so when I was ready to come back, I called Chief Herbert.”

“How long have I been in here?”

Koyota looked at his oversize wristwatch. “Four hours and fifty minutes.”

“Get the hell out of there, Wentworth, or do I have to come in and drag you out? This building is police-sealed.”

“In a few more minutes.” Lyon turned to face the deep end of the pool. It was now completely filled. Sitting in the water, he noticed that it had risen to lap around his thighs. “What happens when the pool is filled?”

“The water never cuts off. When it reaches the drains, part of it is automatically let out and recycled so that there's a constant interchange of water.”

“Are you coming out of there?”

“I want to double-check my estimates.”

“You have broken a seal. You can get a bust for that, Wentworth.”

“O.K.”

“Damn it all, Rocco, he's your friend. Get the crazy out of the water.”

“You had better come out, Lyon.”

“Few more minutes.”

“Bust the bastard,” Norbert said to the ever-present corporals.

From the corner of his eye Lyon saw the two police corporals jump off the side of the pool, grimace as the water seeped through their pants, and advance toward him. One pulled a blackjack from his back pocket, the other a pair of handcuffs.

“Wait a God damn minute!” Rocco yelled and jumped into the pool. His huge bulk caused a large gush of water to splatter Captain Norbert. “You lay a hand on him and you'll deal with me!”

“Are you interfering with my orders?” the enraged Norbert bellowed.

“That's right.” Rocco reached down, grabbed Lyon by the shirt front, and jerked him erect.

“Cut it out, Rocco. I'm not finished.”

“Yes, you are.” He threw Lyon's weight over his shoulders, splashed to the end of the pool and let Lyon fall on the tiles. “Now, what in hell were you doing?”

“What time did Esposito die?”

“You know damn well when. The medical examiner is positive that he was killed at midnight … give or take a few minutes either way.”

“No, not killed. That's when he died.”

“I don't understand your semantics.”

“Esposito had dinner served exactly at six. He had probably finished at seven. He was called outside, where he was coshed.”

“Coshed?” Norbert asked.

“The victim was rendered unconscious,” Rocco translated.

“He was placed unconscious in the shallow end of the pool,” Lyon continued. “And was drowned some five hours later.”

“How in hell do you know that?”

“I just timed it.”

Rocco looked at Lyon silently for a moment and then extended his hand and helped him to his feet. “Damon Snow.”

“It's possible.”

“He could have been knocked out and thrown into the pool at midnight,” Norbert said. “It could have happened either way.”

“I know,” Lyon said. “But you have to admit it is interesting.”

At the Thursday 10:00
A.M.
tour of the toy factory, Lyon felt out of place. He wasn't quite sure whether the unsettling feeling arose because the young tour guide reminded him of Robin, or because of the twenty-three chubby children who surrounded him as the tour formed. He had noticed the school bus when he parked the car. A sign along its body announced: “Camp Tonowanta—Slim down with a summer of fun.”

As the kids gathered around him at the entrance to the factory, he noticed that several of them, behind the counselor's back, were surreptitiously passing candy bars back and forth.

The tour guide, who had “Wendy” emblazoned across her red sports jacket, smiled and held up a hand. The group fell silent except for the crunching of a nut bar, which caused the counselor to turn and glare.

“The first department we will visit is where the famous Wobbly dolls are made. Has everyone heard of the Wobblies?”

There were murmurs of assent as Wendy looked directly at Lyon. “For you older folks, the Wobblies are famous monsters who are characters in a children's book series.”

“Sounds vaguely familiar,” Lyon replied, and wondered when he would ever be able to get to the next Wobbly story.

“All right, keep together now.”