Good Year For Murder (15 page)

“Rye,” Tretheway said. “Canadian rye whiskey. The best in the world.”

All this time he watched Morgan intently. Once a flicker of interest seemed to appear in his eyes, a slight shifting of the hazy veil, but Tretheway couldn't be sure.

He handed the bottle reverently to Jake. “If you'd be so kind, Constable.”

As Jake clamped the bottle firmly into position on the lower platform, he had the impression that Tretheway was greatly enjoying himself.

“The experiment is about to begin,” Tretheway announced. “If you'd please hold your seats and your comments until it's over. Thank you.” He stepped to the side of The Machine and nodded at Jake. “Constable.”

Jake started the surprisingly quiet motor. The metal rod at the top of the tower twisted upward forty-five degrees, stopped at the horizontal, then twisted back ninety degrees through the vertical to horizontal again. It was obvious that this ninety-degree arc repeated and would go on repeating unless the motor stopped. The action was transmitted, jerkily at first, to the fine wire and then to the dangling metal ball. In a few short minutes, the action smoothed out so that the ball was swinging as rhythmically and predictably as a clock's pendulum. The startling whistling noise it made as it whirred through the air reached a crescendo each time it passed the lowest point—the point closest to the earth's centre.

Now Jake engaged a simple but ingenious set of gears behind The Machine that allowed gravity to pull the tower down the runway at a slow, inexorable rate of speed. Tretheway and Jake carefully backed away. The Machine was on its own.

For five minutes, everyone watched as the tower inched down the runway carrying the swinging missile closer and closer to the lower platform. Tretheway forced himself to watch Morgan instead of the hypnotic sphere. It became more and more obvious that, without interference, the whiskey bottle would soon meet destruction. At the eight-minute mark, when the tower was about
three quarters of the way down, Tretheway noticed a change in Morgan. The glaze disappeared from his eyes. His limbs twitched almost imperceptibly. Life seemed to rekindle within him as the chromium ball swished back and forth through its arc, a single, brilliant highlight burning on its mirrored surface.

With less than a minute to go, Morgan switched his gaze from the ball to the bottle. Then he looked at Tretheway with a pleading expression. His mouth began to work. He returned his gaze helplessly to the bottle of whiskey.

On what everybody thought was the last swing, the ball only grazed the bottle enough to slightly change its trajectory and the compensatory return swing directed the ball's full force to the middle of the decanter. The crash was unbelievably loud.

Glass and contents once again scattered farther than Tretheway had anticipated. The thick, heady smell of expensive Canadian rye whiskey filled the cellar. Addie and Mrs Valentini screamed in unison. Jake leaped backwards about a foot. Dr Nooner and Mac both jumped to their feet. But most important of all, Alderman Morgan said his first words in almost a month.

“Bastarddammithell!” He jumped up. “Good whiskey! Deball the bugger who!” Morgan's eyes, vacant and dull for the last few weeks, were suddenly filled with lively indignation. He took a giant step toward The Machine, pointing with both hands at the wet floor. His legs buckled under him.

Dr Nooner, expecting a reaction of some sort, was beside him in seconds. Gertrude Valentini remained frozen, hands still covering her mouth as though a second scream might follow the first. It was Addie, Jake noticed, who arrived first at Morgan's elbow. She and Dr Nooner helped him to a comfortable old Morris chair that Tretheway occupied on cold winter mornings while he waited for the fire to draw. They sat him down. Mrs Valentini finally pushed in and jammed smelling salts under Morgan's nose. He shook his head in protest.

“That's enough,” Dr Nooner instructed.

Morgan recovered quickly enough. He sat up by himself, smiled at those around him and seemed willing, if not eager, to talk. Tretheway watched him over Dr Nooner's shoulder. Morgan looked to him to be still in slight shock, still not quite sure what had happened and still, Tretheway thought, not aware of Alderman Taz's demise.

Wan Ho pushed in. “Dr Nooner, I wonder if …”

“Not yet, Sergeant,” Dr Nooner said. “No questions for a few minutes.”

“It's not that, Doc,” Wan Ho said. “Could you look at the Chief?”

“Eh?”

“The Chief. Chief Zulp.” Wan Ho went on. “He's still sitting there. He hasn't taken his eyes off that ball. Even after it hit the bottle.”

“Oh?” Dr Nooner showed interest. He left Morgan with the two ladies and followed Wan Ho over to Zulp. Tretheway was close behind. Zulp was still sitting on the bench staring at the chromium-plated ball even though Jake had cut the motor immediately after the bottle disintegrated. Dr Nooner squatted down to Zulp's eye level. Zulp stared right through him.

“I'll be damned.” Dr Nooner snapped his fingers in front of Zulp's eyes and smacked him lightly on both cheeks. Zulp didn't flinch. “C'mon, Chief. Snap out of it.” Nooner smacked both cheeks again but much harder. “Wake up, Zulp!”

The Chief blinked several times and shook his head. His stare wandered for a moment aimlessly, focused on the Doctor, then over the Doctor's shoulder to Tretheway.

“Let's get on with it,” Zulp ordered.

“It's over, Chief,” Tretheway said.

“I still don't think it'll work,” Zulp said. “What's over?”

“The experiment,” Dr Nooner said.

“Morgan's talking again,” Tretheway said.

“He is?” Zulp said. “I don't remember that. Where was I?” His brow wrinkled. “Must've nodded off. Tired lately. Pressure. This damn case.”

“Anyway,” Dr Nooner said, “Morgan's found his voice.”

“Good. Good. Knew he would. Eventually. Bring him here for interrogation.” Zulp looked suspiciously around the room. “There haven't been any questions asked yet. Have there?”

“No, no,” Dr Nooner assured him. “But he needs a rest. As a matter of fact,” Nooner stood up, “I think we all need a break.” He caught Addie's eye.

“And some sandwiches,” Addie helped out.

“And beer,” Tretheway muttered, brightening.

For the next hour, the Tretheway household threw what for all
the world appeared to be a party. The sun room comfortably held all the guests, even with the addition of O. Pitts and several other inquisitive boarders. Unusually mild air wafted through the open windows, spreading the heady fragrance of late fall flowers. Everyone, including Morgan, enjoyed assorted drinks, sandwiches and cigarettes while the music of Paul Whiteman spun from Addie's victrola. The babble of conversation skirted the reasons for the gathering.

Shortly after nine, Tretheway approached Dr Nooner. “Pretty soon, Doc?”

Dr Nooner examined his drink. “Yes.” He put his glass down decisively. “Now. Morgan's been on vacation mentally for the last four weeks,” he went on to explain. “He just got back tonight. He hasn't had time to absorb what's happened. Michaelmas Day. Lucifer Taz. Jail. The murder. And when he does …” Dr Nooner held his palms upward and shrugged. “Now,” he repeated. “We'll question him now.”

“Good.” Tretheway started to leave.

“One more thing.” Nooner stopped him. “This has to be done carefully.”

Tretheway nodded.

“One person should ask all the questions.”

“Zulp?” Tretheway questioned.

Nooner shook his head. He pointed at Tretheway. “You.” He ticked off the points on his fingers. “One, he'll recognize you as a friend. Two, you're a police officer. And three, it's natural. This is your house. You're the host and he's comfortable here.”

“All right with me,” Tretheway said. “You'd better tell Zulp.”

“Right.” Dr Nooner made his way to Zulp's side and explained the situation. Zulp objected at first.

“Irregular. I should, really. Or even Wan Ho. However, expedient, I suppose. And I'll be right there,” he agreed finally.

So it was Zulp, Morgan, Tretheway, Dr Nooner and Wan Ho who paraded out of the sun room, down the hall and into the parlour for questioning. The ladies excused themselves and Zulp had drawn the line at four against one despite Mac's protest.

“Police business,” he said as he pulled the sliding parlour doors shut in front of Mac who had followed them down the hall. “Now let's get on with it.” Zulp crossed the room and lowered himself into Tretheway's special chair.

Morgan sat on the uncomfortable love seat beside the electric fire. He cradled his fifth scotch carefully in both hands. Tretheway thought about sitting in a delicate reproduction of a Queen Anne chair but changed his mind and remained standing. Wan Ho sat on the settee across from the fire with his notebook out and ready. Dr Nooner sat beside him.

“Morgan,” Tretheway began. “First of all, are you up to answering a few questions? How do you feel?”

“Top-hole. Tickety-boo,” Morgan answered, a trifle too heartily.

“Fine,” Tretheway said. “Let's go right back, then. To the beginning. Do you remember what you were doing a month ago? Twenty-eighth of September. Michaelmas Eve.”

“We always had goose on Michaelmas.”

“Eh?”

“When I was a boy. Goose for Michaelmas.”

“Then you're familiar with that particular holiday?”

“Certainly. Mind you, I haven't thought about it for years.” Morgan frowned as though trying to remember something. “Until now.”

“Michaelmas was on Sunday. Do you remember what you were doing the day before? Saturday?”

“Saturday,” Morgan repeated. “Yes. I do. A bond drive dinner at the armouries.” He pointed to Zulp. “You were there. Big piss-up afterwards.”

“That's right,” Zulp explained. “I was there. Just for the dinner.”

“Go on, Morgan,” Tretheway said.

“We stayed for the dance.”

“Who's we?” Tretheway asked.

“Oh, just about everybody. The Mayor. Pennylegion. Mac-Culla. O'Dell. Just about all the Council.

“Taz? Lucifer Taz?”

“Yes.” Morgan frowned again. “He was there.”

“When did you leave?”

“Not right away. We stayed pretty late. Lived it up. Spun the ladies around the floor. Had a fair amount to drink.”

Tretheway said nothing while Morgan ferreted out pictures filed away in his memory a month before.

“I remember now,” he said. “We … Lucifer and I drove to the University. In his car.”

“Why the University?” Tretheway asked.

“He wouldn't say. Said it was a secret. Secret meeting. We laughed a lot at this time. We were both pretty potted.”

“Did you go in the University?”

“Not at first. I sat in the car. Lucifer parked a good two furlongs from the building. He got out and told me to wait. Then he walked away. Toward the University.”

“And you never saw him again …” Tretheway bit his tongue.

“What?” Morgan glanced around the room as though looking for someone. “No. That's not right.”

“Look, Morgan,” Tretheway said. “Just sit back and finish your story. As much as you can remember. Take your time. I won't interrupt you anymore.”

“If that's what you want,” Morgan said.

Tretheway nodded.

“Well, I sat there for a while. I don't know how long. Then I followed Lucifer. Or tried.” His teeth made indentations on his lower lip as he struggled to piece events together. “I remember walking across the soccer field. The grass was wet. Raining. Over the cinder track. I scratched myself on some bushes. Then the main building. The rear of University Hall. A light. There was a flickering light. Like fire. Through the stained glass window. The one with the Devil. Lucifer. Isn't that odd? And there was organ music. Wagner. Walked around the front. Open. Went up the stairs.” Morgan gulped half his drink. Part of him now trying desperately not to remember. “I went into the chapel. Lucifer was there. I told you I saw him again. Alone. Sitting in a chair. Something was burning. And there were flowers. I went to him. He had this … this sword … Oh God …”

“Easy, Morgan,” Dr Nooner said quietly.

“I grabbed the handle.” Morgan's temples were glistening. His eyes were far too large. He dropped his glass in his lap. “I pulled it out of Lucifer. He's not here, is he? He fell down. Rolled over. His eyes were … he's gone, isn't he? He's …” Morgan stood up suddenly. His glass shattered on the hardwood floor.

“That's enough, Morgan.” Tretheway went to Morgan and steadied him gently. “Sit down. It's all over.”

For the next few minutes, the only sound in the parlour was Morgan's polite sobbing.

The party, or gathering, ended shortly after. At Dr Nooner's
insistence, Morgan was taken to the hospital instead of jail. At Zulp's insistence, he was still under heavy guard.

Tretheway tried to bring up Hallowe'en, but Zulp put him off until Monday.

“But Hallowe'en's Thursday,” Tretheway protested.

“I said Monday, dammit. In my office.”

On Monday morning, first thing, it was obvious that Zulp's original opinion about the Michaelmas murder had not only held firm, but hardened into concrete.

“Cock-and-bull story!” Zulp said.

Tretheway and Wan Ho were his captive audience. Jake waited in the hall outside Zulp's office.

“We're proceeding with the case,” Zulp said. “The charge stands.”

“Do you think Alderman Morgan was lying?” Tretheway asked.

“I don't think he knows. I mean, all that booze. Not talking for a month. Shock. He went funny. Never-never land.”

“What about the footprints behind the chapel?” Wan Ho asked.

“Students,” Zulp countered. “Proves nothing. Doesn't change the other facts. Does it?”