The Convivial Codfish (16 page)

Max made sure the folded five-dollar bill cleared the chicken wire and came safely to rest on the coins he’d already thrown in. “You, too. Thanks for your help.”

His quarry was long gone by now, of course. Getting him tangled up with the lassie and her kettle had been an effective delaying tactic. But how in hell had the guy managed so neatly to give him the elbow at precisely the right moment? Max could have sworn he hadn’t so much as glanced back to see that Max was after him.

He could have noticed Max before Max was aware of him, though. Cambridge Street rises in a fairly steep gradient from the river up to Cornhill. Max had used the elevated pedestrian walk to cross from the West End side to the Beacon Hill side before he’d started the climb. If the man had been looking back down while Max was descending the stairs, say, he could have spotted him quickly enough. Max knew himself to be easily recognizable, though he’d never been able to figure out why.

It would have taken fairly good eyesight, but elderly people are apt to be farsighted, and the sunglasses might have helped, if they had prescription lenses in them. Perhaps the man’s hearing was sharp, too, and he’d been listening for quick footsteps behind him. There’d been nothing wrong with his reflexes, either. That fast jab in the ribs was the sort of thing a man who could deliver a perfect karate chop in a moving train would be good at. Max wondered. Had he actually been tracking a killer up Cambridge Street, in broad daylight and in full view of the Salvation Army?

W
AS IT MERE COINCIDENCE
that the collision had occurred at the corner of Temple Street? Temple wasn’t much of a thoroughfare, but it did lead up to the State House and thence, by a couple of short turns or a detour through the State House, to other parts of the Hill, to Beacon Street, or down to Charles. Or, for that matter, to Joy Street.

Max had been on his way to Joy Street anyway. He couldn’t think where else to go at the moment. Furthermore, Joy Street was close to Tulip and the new apartment to which Sarah might by now have returned triumphant from her quest for the ultimate tea cozy. He turned up Temple.

That wasn’t the least risky thing Max could have done. Like all the other streets on the Hill, Temple was barely wide enough for one lane of traffic and half-choked with parked cars. It was on the unfashionable side, too, where people weren’t punctilious about taking in their trash cans. It also seemed to have a disproportionate number of unexpected alleys and dark cellars. Max was glad Sarah had made him wear his muffler.

The muffler was a handsome one Aunt Emma had knitted him for his birthday, of some featherweight but marvelously thick, bouncy yarn. It would make a useful cushion for his thorax if the man who was so good at commando tactics was around to try another whack. Max didn’t want to be killed. He wanted to be around to see his mother’s face when she unwrapped Sarah’s Christmas present.

He kept to the middle of the street and walked fast, even for him. When he got safely to the top and around behind the State House, he took a deep breath. When he pushed on to the intersection of Mount Vernon and Joy, he realized he needn’t have worried. The man who’d knocked him into the kettle hadn’t been lurking behind a trash can ready to pounce. He’d strolled on ahead and was just now entering a doorway a few houses down on Joy Street.

Pleasantly surprised to have done the right thing more or less by accident, Max took careful note of which house it was, then ducked back around the corner. Once the man was inside, he sauntered along to the house and up the stairs to the front door. His first impulse was to look for Ashbroom’s name on one of the doorbells. It wasn’t there, so he pushed a bell at random, hoping whoever heard the ring would be foolhardy enough to release the buzzer.

The person who belonged to the bell was either smart or absent, so he tried the first floor. This time he got no mere buzz but a smashing redhead in tight green pants, high-heeled red sandals, and a voluminous but loosely knit green sweater with nothing under it except herself. She was decked out to be somebody’s Christmas present, he realized. She must have thought it was the intended recipient who’d rung her bell or she wouldn’t have been so quick to answer in person.

Max expected to be given either the bum’s rush or a price list, but the redhead surprised him again.

“Hello. Eddie sent you, didn’t he? Come in, quick, and tell me what’s happening. All I can get out of that damned hospital is a recording that keeps saying no visitors except next of kin and the switchboard is not equipped to handle personal inquiries.”

“I don’t suppose it is,” said Max, following her into the apartment before she had a chance to change her mind. “It’s just as well you couldn’t get through. Ed Ashbroom’s in a sticky position just now, as you must have heard.”

“It was on the news about his wife being dead, if that’s what you mean. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer person. If you’re a cop or a reporter, I didn’t say that. And before I say anything else, may I ask with whom I’m having the pleasure?”

“Jeremy Kelling’s nephew Max.” That had worked well enough last night. It seemed to be working now. “You know Jem, don’t you?”

“We haven’t met, but Eddie’s told me a lot about him. He sounds like a real blast.”

“Jem’s that and then some. And you’re Miss Moriston, of course.” At least that was the name on her bell. “I’m just back from visiting Jem at the hospital,” he added when she didn’t say she was not Miss Moriston.

“Did you see Eddie, too? How he’s doing?”

Max should perhaps have corrected Miss Moriston’s natural misapprehension as to which hospital he’d been visiting, but he didn’t. “As well as can be expected,” sounded like a safely ambiguous reply.

“Has anybody else been to see him?” she asked sharply.

The police, no doubt. Max dodged that one, too. “They really are being very strict about visitors.”

“What for? Nobody’s buying that garbage about Russian terrorists, are they?”

“Aren’t you?”

“You’ve got to be kidding,” she snorted, then looked as if she wished she hadn’t. “I don’t know. Should I?”

He shrugged. “I’m keeping an open mind. You know Ed Ashbroom a lot better than I do. Or so I’ve been given to understand.”

“I’ll bet you have.”

Miss Moriston cast a long, thoughtful glance from Max’s well-grouped features to the hand-tailored suit that showed beneath the no less handsome tweed overcoat he was unbuttoning. Then she rearranged her see-through sweater for greater ease of viewing and sauntered over to a bar some evil-minded interior decorator had caused to be made from what must once have been a perfectly respectable rosewood melodeon. Max wondered if it was the high-heeled sandals or whether she always walked like that.

“Care to join me in a spot of Christmas cheer?” she purred in a voice that matched her sweater.

“I don’t want to dampen your holiday spirit,” Max replied, “but it might be a little early to start celebrating.”

“What do you mean? Hey, Eddie’s not going to die, is he? He can’t! Not now. He hasn’t even signed the—what am I talking about? Don’t pay any attention to me. I’m all upset.”

Miss Moriston poured herself a cocktail glass of gin, added a careful two drops of vermouth, said perfunctorily, “You’re not going to join me?” and drank about half the glassful.

After a while, she got her breath back. “I’m crazy about Eddie. This has been a terrible experience for me. Be sure and tell him that when you see him again, won’t you? Tell him I’m all to pieces. When are you going back to the hospital?”

“That depends on a number of things,” Max told her. “Maybe I’ll have a small Scotch. No, you sit down and pull yourself together. I’ll fix it myself. Where’s the ice? Through here?”

“No!”

Before Max could open the door that might or might not lead to a kitchen, she was in front of him, blocking the way with her sweater heaving.

“Don’t go in there. It’s a mess. I’ve been too upset to bother about cleaning the place up. Look, I don’t want to seem inhospitable, but maybe you’d better take a rain check, huh? I feel terribly faint all of a sudden. I’ve got to lie down for a while. It’s the shock. You understand, don’t you?”

“Sure. I understand.”

Max could have sworn he understood perfectly, but then he heard the front door slam and saw Miss Moriston snap to attention.

“Was that somebody going out? I thought—oh.”

Her bay window looked out on the street. Max could see the front steps and a man going down them. His face was turned away, but part of a wraparound sunglass lens was visible between the pulled-down brim of his dark felt hat and the turned-up collar of his dark wool overcoat. Max recognized the overcoat. It was the one he’d chased all the way from Cambridge Street. Now he didn’t understand at all, so he bade Miss Moriston a fast good-bye and left.

His man went back up Joy to Mount Vernon, on to Walnut, then down again on Chestnut. If he knew he was being followed, he made no sign. He did put on a burst of speed going down Chestnut, but the steep grade makes it hard not to, so Max didn’t know whether to count that or not. In any event, the man kept going at a brisk but not hurried pace across Charles and on toward the river, until he reached a house Max recognized. This was where he’d collected Marcia Whet, her bustle, her boa, and her stuffed pheasant the night before.

Could the man be Gerry Whet, back from Nairobi? If so, what had Mr. Whet been up to, sneaking out Miss Moriston’s door? This was turning out to be quite an interesting promenade.

There were elegant homes on this part of the Hill, and Whet’s was by no means the least of these. He, or whoever it was, eschewed the impressive front entrance and walked around under a portico, out of sight. For want of a better idea, Max went to the front and rang the bell. The same elderly maid who’d held Marcia’s cape the night before answered his ring.

“I’d like to see Mr. Whet,” he told her.

“Oh.” The maid devoted a fair space of time to examining Max up and down through the various levels of her trifocals, then conceded him a grim nod. “You’re Mr.—er—the gentleman who took Mrs. Whet to the party.”

“That’s right. Jem Kelling’s nephew Max.”

The man of a thousand in-laws. Again he’d said the magic words. The maid actually smiled.

“Oh, Mr. Jem. He’s a great friend of the family. How’s his hip?”

“Sore. I just came from seeing him at the hospital. You can imagine what he’s doing to the morale over there.”

“Keeps those nurses hopping, I’ll bet. Come in, Mr. Max. Here, let me take your coat. I’ll go see if Mr. Whet’s up yet. How did you know he was home? I didn’t, myself, till I went to draw the blinds this morning and found him asleep in his own bed. I didn’t have the heart to wake him. Isn’t it awful about Mrs. Whet? I’m glad it’s you and not me that’s got to tell him.”

“Tell him what?” Max felt something like panic rising. “I mean, what was your latest report from the hospital?”

“Just that she’s still on the critical list and they’re doing the best they can. I was hoping you’d heard something more encouraging.”

“I wish I had. How long ago was it that you looked in on Mr. Whet?”

“About half-past nine, if you want the truth. I was awfully late getting around to my chores this morning. I’d stayed up late to see if they’d broadcast anything more about Mrs. Whet and the rest of them on the news. Then I couldn’t get to sleep for thinking about it. They’re great friends, you know, my folks and the Tolbathys. We have them here a lot. And Mr. Jem, too, as I guess I don’t have to tell you. He’s a great one to liven up a dinner party. Him and his stories! Mr. Whet says Mr. Jem’s the only man he’ll trust Mrs. Whet with while he’s away because Mr. Jem could never stick with one woman long enough to be dangerous. Though I s’pose I shouldn’t have said that in front of you.”

“Why not? I’ve said worse to his face. Jem’s more talk than action anyway, if you want my personal opinion.”

Max glanced at his watch. Getting on for one o’clock. There’d been plenty of time for Whet to have dressed and slipped out of the house, done whatever the hell he was up to, come back just now, and slipped back into bed again.

The maid must have thought Max was giving her a hint. “Well, I’d better go see if he’s stirring yet. It’s high time, anyway. He’ll be cross with me for not getting him up sooner, with Mrs. Whet so sick and him not even knowing. You don’t mind, do you, Mr. Max?”

Inferring that she meant his being maneuvered into breaking the news about Mrs. Whet, which in fact gave him a decent excuse to be there, Max said no, he didn’t mind. She went off more amiably than she’d come, leaving him in sole possession of what must be the Whets’ customary sitting room. Through an open door, he could see a formal living room done up in pale yellows and looking chilly on this raw, overcast December day. The white poinsettias lined up on a white marble mantelpiece did nothing to cozy up the effect.

In here, though, the slipcovers were bright, the poinsettias red, the mantel trimmed with golden balls and red velvet ribbons. Lots of photographs stood around in silver frames: of Marcia young and ethereal behind a cloud of wedding tulle; of Marcia holding a baby with two toddlers leaning against her knees; of Marcia in a long dress and corsage beside a daughter wearing what was no doubt the same wedding veil, another daughter in a bridesmaid’s gown and floppy hat, the Gerry Whet of Jem’s picture in morning clothes, his son beside him, another Comrade in the making and the image of his father, and another young man looking correct, happy, terrified, and obviously the new son-in-law.

There were later photographs of Marcia Whet as Max had met her, matronly now but still charming, surrounded by an evergrowing brood of young adults, children, and yet more babies. Gerry Whet was with her in many of the pictures. A family man, one would have said, well pleased with himself, his wife, his children, his grandchildren, his lot in life. And with reason, one would have thought, looking at these happy captured memories in this agreeable room of this handsome house at this eminently acceptable address. No money worries here, one would deduce, knowing roughly what it must cost to maintain an establishment of this size in Boston nowadays.