Something the Cat Dragged In (8 page)

“Drew. Tighter’n a bull’s crupper in fly time.”

“That’s interesting. Hodger’s also a member of the Balaclavian Society, which appears to have been the only—
er
—meaningful relationship Ungley ever formed around these parts. So it’s dollars to doughnuts Hodger also drew up Ungley’s will, if he ever got around to making one. I think we’d better go and call on him, President.”

“Now?”

Svenson began veering leftward, toward the tomblike edifice of red brick and gray Quincy granite in which Hodger had maintained both his office and his living quarters since the beginning of recorded time. Shandy managed to head him off.

“Not yet. There’s Melchett’s car pulling into Goulson’s driveway. No doubt he’s in a swivet to get back to his giblets and gallstones, so let’s not keep him waiting. Besides, I’m curious to see how he weasels out of his original willingness to pretend Ungley’s death was accidental.”

They were almost to the funeral home when Fred Ottermole clanked up in the village’s only police cruiser, practicing his tough-cop expression en route. Catching sight of President Svenson, he came to a rubber-burning halt. His features contorted into those of one who has just caught sight of some unnameable horror in a lonely graveyard at the final stroke of midnight.

But Ottermole was no poltroon. Drawing on hidden resources of valor, he managed to get his jaw under control and accompany them more or less unflinchingly into the handsome white clapboard house to which Harry Goulson’s grandfather had added the wing not long after the great influenza epidemic of 1919. Harry’s own son and heir, who’d been hastily summoned home from morticians’ school for this history-making event, greeted the party in hushed tones appropriate to his destined calling.

“I’m not sure if I should ask you to sign the book or not,” he confessed artlessly. “I’ve never before assisted at a—at this kind of viewing.”

“I’m not clear on the etiquette myself,” Shandy told him, “so why don’t we just—er—get on with it?”

Having given the boy his moment of glory, Goulson himself now appeared to take the party in tow. He was wearing his very best black coat now.

“This way, gentlemen, if you please. We’re honored to have you along, President Svenson. Of course, Professor Ungley was one of your own, so to speak.”

“Ur,” said Svenson.

Shandy decided they’d better get off that topic fast. “Ottermole, Melchett, good of you to come. I want you to understand that I have no quarrel with the—er—preliminary findings you made this morning,” he began diplomatically. “However, certain facts have since come to light that I thought you should be apprised of before you arrive at any—er—final decision.”

“Huh?” Ottermole was clearly under the impression they’d already made a final decision. Then he took a reflective look at the set of Thorkjeld Svenson’s jaw and appeared to remember they hadn’t.

“To begin with,” Shandy went on, “you were no doubt struck by the—er—disproportionately small amount of blood you found on the harrow peg, in contrast with the copious bleeding from the victim’s head wound.”

Dr. Melchett averred that he’d called it to Ottermole’s attention at the time of discovery. Ottermole said he had the fact down in his notebook for further study.

“Since then,” Shandy went on, “I’ve had additional testimony from Mrs. Elizabeth Lomax. She was, as you know, Ungley’s landlady.”

“How come she gave it to you instead of me?” Ottermole demanded.

“Perhaps because she’s been keeping house for me ever since I came to Balaclava. Mrs. Lomax is somewhat—er—feudal in her ways as you may have noticed.”

“I’ll say she is.” Ottermole wasn’t sure what feudal meant, but he knew Betsy Lomax. “Okay, so what did she tell you?”

“That Ungley’s flat had been searched. She took me in there and showed me various indications of disturbance that would have been imperceptible to the—er—untrained eye. Being myself so familiar with Mrs. Lomax’s housekeeping methods, I had no doubt she knew whereof she spoke. Furthermore, we found evidence that Professor Ungley’s filing cabinet had been cleaned out last night, presumably by the person or persons who burgled the flat.”

He explained about the missing plastic bags. “Lastly, President Svenson has some information, which I’ll let him give you himself.”

Svenson could be articulate enough when he had to be. He imparted what he knew so forcefully that Ottermole was left insisting he’d known all along there was something fishy about Ungley’s death. Melchett was calling attention to the fact that he hadn’t yet signed the certificate; mainly because he hadn’t got around to it, but that was beside the point. And Goulson was feeling a parental glow, knowing he hadn’t hauled his son so abruptly out of Embalming II in vain. Here, not in some stuffy classroom with an articulated plastic figure stretched out on the table, was the real nitty-gritty of undertaking. He could see the heir apparent to the Goulson dynasty gazing at him with reverence, seeing Dad as a true mover and shaker, a veritable Batman among morticians. And the boy, he thought indulgently, would be picturing himself as a valiant young Robin, and not so far out at that.

“About that hole in the skull.” Dr. Melchett must have decided Shandy had been hogging the floor long enough. “Ottermole, you remember I said it was an unusual wound to have been made by a harrow peg.”

There was in fact no reason why Ottermole should remember since Melchett hadn’t actually said so; but he’d been on the verge of thinking so. He avoided the chief’s eyes and cleared his throat.

“I also remarked that the head of Ungley’s cane was surprisingly heavy and might be filled with lead. On reflection, I think we ought to get that cane tested for possible traces of human blood.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more, Doctor,” Shandy replied, since he was already having it done anyway. “Why don’t we have the tests run in the college’s Chemistry Department so that if the finding is negative there won’t be any—er—”

“Great idea,” Ottermole interrupted. “You go right ahead and do that, Professor. How soon can you get me a report?”

“Quite soon, I should think. It’s a simple enough test.”

“Good. We’ll handle this one ourselves. No calling in the state police, huh?”

Ottermole’s tone was jocular, but his glare was baleful. Shandy looked at Svenson. Svenson looked at Melchett. Melchett looked at his watch and said he must get back to his patients. Goulson asked if they’d be wanting any more photographs of the deceased.

“Why don’t you take one of Chief Ottermole with the corpse?” Shandy suggested to restore the atmosphere of bonhomie. “Covered, of course. I expect the
Fane and Pennon
will ask for it when he holds his press conference. Though that will have to wait on the results of our findings. There’s still plenty of time to catch next week’s edition,” he added when Ottermole’s face began to fall.

Goulson was only too happy to oblige. He took one of President Svenson and Shandy with the corpse, the chief, and the boy for good measure, because this was a day he wanted his son to remember. When the film was all used up, they thanked him profusely, granted permission for him and the boy to start their customary duties to the deceased, and left.

Once outside, Melchett immediately got into his car and sped officeward. Ottermole said briskly, “Well, I better get on with the investigation,” then sneaked a hopeful glance at Shandy, who nodded.

“Strike while the iron’s hot. President Svenson and I were saying on the way down here that somebody ought to pay a call on Henry Hodger the lawyer. He’d be most apt to have Ungle’s will, if there is one. That might give us a lead.”

“Worth trying,” Ottermole agreed. “I’ve been thinking about that, myself.”

Which was a lie, or he’d already have been over to hound the lawyer, but Shandy didn’t mind about that. What counted was having Ottermole along. The chief’s presence might make Hodger less unwilling to disgorge any information he might have. They went.

Hodger was in his office. In fact, he gave the impression of haying taken root to his desk chair. That wasn’t strange, considering how many years he must have spent sitting in it. He didn’t rise when they entered.

“Figured you’d be around sooner or later, Ottermole. I know about Ungley, if that’s what you’re here to tell me.”

He didn’t appear to notice either Shandy or the president, and overlooking Thorkjeld Svenson was quite a feat. Shandy became more interested in the lawyer than he’d expected to be, although Hodger was by no means an intriguing man to look at.

He had a strangely blank face for a man of his years, as though he’d trained himself so rigorously in the discretion required by his profession that he’d ended by shutting out expression entirely. Yet he wasn’t beyond feeling. He was being deliberately rude to Svenson and Shandy, unless he was either blind or close to it. Even Ottermole noticed the slight, and did his clumsy best to smooth it over.

“You know President Svenson from the college? And this is Professor Shandy.”

Hodger didn’t even turn his head in their direction. “What do you want out of me, Fred? A statement about last night?”

“Yeah, that’s right. About last night. You had a meeting of the Balaclavian Society?”

“We did.”

“And Professor Ungley gave you a talk about penknives?”

“He did.”

“Was he okay during the talk?”

“That would depend on what you mean by okay. If you refer to his physical condition, I suppose I’d have to say that to the best of my knowledge, not being a registered physician and not having examined Ungley more closely than one member of a fraternal organization might reasonably be expected to observe another during the course of a meeting, he appeared to be neither better nor worse than usual. If you’re asking whether he presented an interesting topic in an organized and informative manner, I prefer to reserve any statement on the grounds of
de mortuis nil nisi bonum.”

“Huh?”

“No doubt your learned companions can translate for you. What else do you want to ask me?”

“Well, uh, did Professor Ungley leave with you, or did he stay behind?”

“It is my impression that we all left more or less in a group. I recall that I held open the door for Mrs. Pommell, then said good night and came directly across the street to my own quarters here. Ungley would have stayed on the museum side of the street, which is to say the opposite side from this to make myself perfectly clear. Assuming he meant to go back to his own dwelling place, he would then have walked right as far as the corner, then turned left.”

“You didn’t turn around to watch him?”

“No. Why should I have? It was late, and I wanted to get to bed.”

“Can you think of any reason why Professor Ungley might have gone around behind the museum?”

“I’m not in the habit of thinking up reasons, Ottermole. The law concerns itself with facts.”

“Yeah, well, uh—”

“I believe,” Shandy prompted, “you meant to ask Mr. Hodger about Professor Ungley’s will.”

Ottermole brightened. “That’s right. I was just going to mention it. We figured you’d be the one to know.”

“To know what?” asked that infuriating old man.

“Whether Ungley made a will, like Professor Shandy just said. Did he?”

“He did.”

“Then how about giving us a gander at it?”

“Whom do you mean by us?”

“He means himself, President Svenson, and me,” said Shandy, who’d decided Hodger had been allowed to play cute long enough. “We’re assisting Ottermole in his investigation of Ungley’s death. Unless you have some reason to continue being obstructive, we assume you’ll wish to do the same.”

“Is that supposed to be a threat?”

“I don’t see how it can be construed as one, unless you know of some reason why you ought to feel threatened.”

The lawyer’s face was, after all, capable of expression. Hodger performed a superb dramatic rendering of malignancy before he reached into his top desk drawer and fished out a document covered in faded blue paper.

“Ungley’s will is a very simple one and will be filed for probate as soon as the necessary formalities are completed. Since it will then become available to the public, I see no reason why I cannot with propriety give you a summary of its contents now. Myself and Henry Pommell, president of the First Balaclava County Guaranteed National Trust, Savings and Loan, are the executors. One-third of whatever assets Ungley possessed at the time of his death is left to the college, to be used in setting up a department of Local History, a subject Ungley considered to have been grossly neglected during recent years. One-third goes to the Balaclavian Society, of which he was a past president and perpetual curator. The remaining third is left to his sole surviving relative, one Alonzo Bulfinch who is, if I am not mistaken, currently in the employ of Balaclava Agricultural College.”

Hodger refolded the sheaf of papers and put it back in the drawer. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get over to the county courthouse.”

He began struggling out of his chair. Shandy hadn’t realized until then how badly the lawyer was crippled with arthritis. Seeing Hodger’s cane hooked over the edge of the desk, he reached to hand it over. Then he noticed its handle was of carved silver in the shape of a running fox and as disproportionately heavy as Ungley’s.

“Would you happen to have another cane, Mr. Hodger?” he asked.

“What business is it of yours?” the lawyer barked.

“Well, you see, I think Chief Ottermole is about to impound this one as possible evidence, and I’m sure he wouldn’t want to leave you with—er—no visible means of support.”

O
DDLY ENOUGH, HODGER DIDN’T
make any great fuss over the cane. He did have another one, and got Ottermole to fetch it for him out of the umbrella stand beside the door. He then demanded a receipt and asked, not unreasonably, how soon his property might be returned to him.

“That depends on what we find when we analyze the handle,” Shandy took it upon himself to answer.

“Analyze the handle? For what, if I’m not out of order in asking?”

“Not at all. We’re looking for bloodstains, bone slivers, fragments of brain matter, that sort of thing.”