“Bastards,” said Flynn. “You’ve all just been waiting….”
T
he fire was still going in the grate, but it seemed smaller, less bright, less important in the room. Grey daylight came through the small windows.
Cocky was still asleep in the chair. The coffee cup had been picked from his lap. Flynn’s teacup and saucer were gone from the little table beside him.
All the glasses and cups which had been around the room the night before were gone.
Flynn looked at his watch. A quarter past nine. In the morning. Monday morning. The Rod and Gun Club. Lauderdale.
Standing up rapidly caused nausea to leap from Flynn’s stomach to his head. He closed his eyes.
“Ach. It must have been a strong drug to put me to sleep, right in the middle of what I was saying!”
He took some deep breaths. Rubbed his temples with his finger tips. Waited a moment.
With heavy feet, muscles doing only a percentage of their job, he left the great hall, crossed the foyer, went down the corridor.
The door to the music room was open.
The daylight in the room, however gray and subdued, seemed unnatural to Flynn.
The room seemed natural enough. There was no corpse slumped over the piano. The piano bench was placed properly, invitingly empty. On the piano was Lauderdale’s little music box.
Through the glass door Flynn saw the stretch of cold, yellow lawn, the flat gray lake.
He could not remember if, the night before when they found Lauderdale, the music box had been on the piano.
Back in the great hall he pressed the small ivory button in the wall. The clubhouse was deathly still.
He shook Cocky’s left shoulder. Then, remembering, he shook Cocky’s right shoulder.
Cocky’s eyes opened, unfocused.
“Misery loves company,” Flynn said. “Wake up.”
Cocky looked around the room as if he’d never seen it before.
Flynn said, “They’ve absconded with what was Lauderdale.”
Cocky pulled himself up in the chair somewhat sideways. He blinked.
“We’ve been had, my man,” Flynn said. “Never mind. After you’re awake a few minutes, you’ll feel worse.”
Taylor stepped through the small service door.
“Good morning,” Flynn said.
“Good morning,” Taylor mumbled.
“Were you part of the conspiracy to drug us?”
Taylor looked at his strong, uncalloused hand. “If they say I was.”
“That’s the way of it, is it?” Flynn’s voice echoed inside his own head. His legs did not want to remain standing.
“Don’t know what you mean.”
“Where is everyone?”
“Gone hunting.”
“Hunting?”
“Deer hunting. Left almost an hour ago.”
Flynn’s mind’s eye saw the straggly line of well-dressed hunters, each carrying a rifle, walking into the woods together.
He shook his head. That hurt.
“They said they were going hunting this morning,” Taylor said. “They went.”
Leaning over in his chair, Cocky asked, “We were drugged?”
Flynn looked at the carpet. Its pattern was in sworls. Sickening sworls. “Where’s Lauderdale?”
“He’s been removed, sir.”
“I know he’s been removed! To where, damn it?” Flynn pressed his hand against his forehead. No answer was
forthcoming. “I know. You just work here. And a bloody good job you do, too. Body removals in the midnight!”
“Mister Rutledge said you’d have questions this morning, sir.”
“Bright man, that Rutledge.”
“He said I shouldn’t try to answer them. That if you knew anything, you’d just try to contact the local police—”
“Brilliant man, that Rutledge.”
“…and just confuse things.”
“Frank,” Cocky said from his chair. “I don’t feel well.”
“Just don’t think of pickles and creamed corn.”
“He said you should hold your questions until you see him or some other member.”
“Go get them,” said Flynn.
“Can’t. Don’t know where they are.”
“Bang the damned gong!”
“Wouldn’t do any good,” Taylor said. “It’s not time for a gong. They’d just know it’s you.”
The thought of hearing the gong go off just now had less appeal to Flynn than pickles and creamed corn.
“They’ll all be at Rumble de Dump at about twelve, shortly after.”
“Rumble de Dump! That’s a place?”
“It’s a cabin, one of the cabins, up in the mountains. I’m bringing a hot lunch up to them. I’ll be leaving in the Land Rover about eleven thirty. Why don’t you come with me?”
Flynn’s watch read nine-twenty-six. The last eleven minutes had passed like a full evening of Schonberg—interesting, but grating.
He had two hours to reglue his head and body for a ride doubtlessly over bumpy mountain roads in a Land Rover.
“Get us some breakfast,” Flynn said.
“Oh, Frank.”
“Breakfast has been cleared away,” Taylor said. “When members miss breakfast—”
“We’re not members!” Flynn exclaimed in the quietest shout he could manage. “We don’t care spit for your rules! If the
kitchen staff are gone, you get us breakfast yourself. Scrambled eggs. Toast. Tea.”
“Oh, Frank.”
“Chicken soup.”
“Chicken soup?”
“Chicken soup. If you have to lasso the chicken and pluck the feathers yourself.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bring both breakfasts to my room in fifteen minutes.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Frank….”
“And bring me some walking boots. Size ten. A warm parka.”
“Yes, sir.”
Flynn swayed, just slightly. “And if you don’t, Taylor, I personally will see to it that
The Wedding March
is played everywhere you go for the rest of your life, night and day.”
A
fter Flynn shaved, showered, hot, cold, hot, and dressed in fresh clothes, he felt confident enough to move his Bishop to King Knight Five.
At ten minutes to ten, Taylor was laying out breakfast for two in Flynn’s room. There was a full serving bowl of chicken soup, as well as the eggs, toast and tea.
Cocky dragged through the open door. He, too, had shaved. His hair was wet. His eyes seemed somewhat brighter. His lips were still more slack than usual.
“At least,” Flynn said, “I see little reason to interview Governor Caxton Wheeler and Walter March at this point.” Shaking his head felt better this time. “Although I’m not even sure of that.”
Cocky looked at the chessboard.
“Ah.” Flynn rubbed his hands together. “What’s better than chicken soup for breakfast?”
“Having no need for it.”
Before closing the door, Taylor said, “I’ll come get you, Inspector Flynn, about eleven thirty.”
“You do that.” Flynn drew a chair up to his breakfast. “Don’t forget the coat and boots.”
Cocky approached his breakfast as a kitten does a damp spot.
“We’ve been managed, Cocky. We’ve been outmanaged. I guess the characteristic of the managerial class is… that they can manage. That they must manage. Just as the working class must work.”
Cocky watched Flynn ladle the chicken soup into Cocky’s bowl. “I don’t think I can stand a Jeep ride this morning, Frank. I had drinks with Hewitt last night, as well as whatever Rutledge slipped into my coffee.”
“You stay here, Cocky. Try and re-assemble your brain. I’ll go stalk the armed hunters in the woods.” Flynn filled his own
soup bowl. “I don’t see what else we can do. We can’t summon the State Police to see a corpse that isn’t. Eat your soup.”
Once Cocky brought himself to try the soup, he managed to consume a good quantity of it.
To encourage eating under these circumstances by distracting from it, Flynn kept up a chatter: “Taylor could be our man, you know. He’s not one of this jolly band of preppies. Judge Lauderdale once sentenced him to three years in prison for octopusial bigamy. Then got him this monkish job here, as further punishment for his transgressions. Taunted him with his music box, if you’d believe it. Who’d ever think of a music box as a weapon?”
“So it was Taylor who hid the Judge’s music box in the storage room?”
“Ach, your brain engine is turning over already. Eat some toast. I’d say that’s a fair certainty. And, the music box was neatly on the piano this morning. Do you remember if it was last night?”
“A memorial. A victor’s way of marking the spot of his victory.”
“Is that what a memorial is? You may be right. Anyway, Taylor had a clear route. Up the cellar stairs from the gymnasium in bare feet, onto the veranda, through the music room door, a short leap to stand behind Lauderdale, those strong hands and arms neatly cutting Lauderdale’s neck in half with a simple piece of clothesline, and quickly and quietly back to the gymnasium right under the music room. Both the bulkhead door and the door to the music room were open.”
Cocky watched Flynn dispose of his soup bowl and serve himself some eggs. “Why would Taylor want to kill Huttenbach?”
“Envy, my lad. Envy. Taylor tells me he’s been diagnosed by the prison psychiatrist, female, please note, as oversexed. Lieutenant Concannon, our lad Taylor had contracted himself to nine wives, if you believe it, nine, probably before he’d ever signed up for Social Security. That’s why he works here: to keep himself from repeating those words more fatal to himself than all the rest of us, ‘I do, I do.’ Now Huttenbach, also an attractive
young man, is known to be easy with the ladies, too. He attracts them easily, and conquers them easily. Wise enough to marry only once, though, although I’m not sure he displayed the greatest wisdom in marrying the hateful woman he did. If you were Taylor lying in your cold, celibate servant’s cot under some wet eaves of this rustic edifice, hearing the jolly tales of Huttenbach’s conquests while serving the boiled fish, wouldn’t you be tempted to go blow his head off, too?”
“Yes,” Cocky answered readily enough.
Flynn tried not to react to how readily Cocky answered that question.
“What about Clifford?” Cocky asked. “He’s an attractive young guy, too. Why wouldn’t Taylor envy him just as much?”
“Clifford’s been away the last six months, in the Middle East. Taylor’s only been here nine months. But the reasoning leads us to warn Clifford, doesn’t it? Aren’t you going to try the eggs?”
“Not sure I dare.”
“Do.” Flynn reached over and removed Cocky’s soup bowl and spooned him out some eggs. “Think what some hens gave up for you: their posterity.”
“It’s my immediate future I’m worried about,” Cocky said.
“Speaking of Clifford: Among the women the married Huttenbach shared the warmth of his loins with was Clifford’s unmarried sister, Jenny. Insists it doesn’t bother him, but there are brothers, and there are brothers.”
“What would Clifford have against Lauderdale?”
“Don’t know. He was a friend of Ashley, I presume, and a probable investor in Ashley-Comfort. By the way, I suspect that somehow Clifford has earned the displeasure of Buckingham. I saw a little incident through a window. Governor Buckingham is Clifford’s uncle.”
“Phew. This place is like a nest of worms.” Having said that, Cocky averted his gaze from his eggs.
“Worms have nothing to do with eggs, Cocky. Dispel the thought of worms entirely from your mind. Eat your eggs. Don’t give worms another thought.”
Cocky lifted himself from his chair and limped over to the chessboard.
“Ashley seems our most likely candidate,” Flynn continued. “Clifford says Huttenbach, without warning, dumped Ashley-Comfort stock at the worst possible moment for Ashley: reason for murder. In the reorganization of Ashley-Comfort being worked out in the back rooms of this den of equity, Lauderdale was trying, successfully, I suspect, to do Ashley out of the new company altogether: reason for murder.”
“Wahler isn’t one of them,” Cocky said. “Not a member of the club.”
“Who knows a great deal about everything, I suspect, the ins and outs of every relationship. He’s one of the executors of Rutledge’s considerable estate—a business empire, I gather. Who knows what game he could be playing?”
Cocky had moved something on the chessboard.
Coming back to face his breakfast again, he said, “D’Esopo isn’t one of them, either. Not a member.”
“Wouldn’t that be something,” Flynn said, having drained his first cup of tea. “Discover the Boston Police Commissioner a multiple murderer. Arrange Lauderdale’s death in cahoots with Taylor, let’s say. Another outsider. That would get you back on full pay quick enough, I don’t think! Reminds me. Must see if Grover has checked into the kennel yet.”
“Good morning, Grover. Glad to catch you in on a Monday morning.”
Before putting through the phone call, Flynn had seen Cocky had moved his Queen to King.
Grover’s response was a whirring noise.
“How goes the
affaire
Hiram Goldberg?”
“Took me hours.”
“Sorry.”
“Never got to bowl.”
“Sorry.”
“Well, it means I won’t get my league shirt.”
“Don’t you have a shirt?”
“Not a league shirt, Inspector.”
“Oh, I see.”
“You know how the Commissioner is.”
“Last seen sweaty and trembly.”
“What?”
“Tell me how the Commissioner is.”
“I mean, Commissioner D’Esopo.”
“Oh, that Commissioner.”
“I know you don’t know him very well, Frank.”
“Not well enough apparently.”
“He avoids you the way every other real cop does. Professional police officer. He thinks you’re as crazy as everyone else does. He’s said so. He said so at that Labor Day picnic.”
“I didn’t attend.”
“Course you didn’t. We probably didn’t even let you know there was a Labor Day picnic.”
“Probably not.”
“You’re not one of us, Frank.”
“Thank the Powers That Be.”
“No one ever understands what you’re saying. No one evem hears you, you talk so soft. When we do hear you, we don’t understand you. Always making some kind of private jokes.”
“Grover—”
“See what I mean? Always calling me Grover. My name is Richard Thomas Whelan. My friends call me Dick.”
“That’s rich.”
“You didn’t come up through the ranks, like the rest of us. The Commissioner wouldn’t have anything to do with you.”