The Dirty Duck (24 page)

He walked over the brow of a hill and saw row after row after row of gravestones. James Carlton didn't know there were that many dead in the world. Row after row. And down there, way off, was a little band of people.

Then he heard it. Someone was playing Taps. He thought it only happened in movies.

With the cat draped over one arm, James Carlton stood as straight as he could and saluted. It was the slowest, most mournful sound he'd ever heard in his life. And as if someone had run a bayonet straight through his heart, he knew for a certainty that his dad was dead.

His dad wasn't a baseball player, or anything like that: his dad died a hero. And then he thought: maybe that funny vision of Sissy running past dead people and blood and gunfire was some old memory swimming up from a dark place in his mind . . .

The gray cat gave a small growl of discomfort.

James Carlton turned and left the place and kept on toward the river.

He'd just have to accept it: his dad was dead, so there was only J. C. Farraday to take his place. Well, that wasn't
too
bad. But he'd jump into a flaming pit before he'd ever take that Amelia Blue.

Anyway, his real mom was in Hollywood, maybe.

Maybe she even still remembered he was missing.

 • • • 

By the time he reached the bridge over the river, it was full light. James Carlton turned up the first street he came to. He was still carrying the cat, afraid to put it down because of the cars.

He asked a man with gray hair, dressed in tight jeans and a ring in one ear, where the police station was. The man seemed to sway slightly, as if to some music in his head, and said he didn't know if there was one. The street was a commercial one—full of fancy-looking stores and delicatessens—all still shut up and some with grilles pulled across their fronts.

The next person James Carlton asked was an old man bent over a trashbin, who didn't seem to understand the question and asked him for money.

Finally, he got a response from a solid, matronly looking woman in white, who he thought must be a nurse and who said, yes, she knew, but why did
he
want to know, and was he in trouble? She towered over him, a white mountain, full of questions and nursey-niceness, which reminded him of his old housekeeper. He told her no, nothing was wrong. He told her that his father was the chief of police and, having confounded her with this bit of news, he embroidered upon it by saying that the cat had been hit by a car. The gray cat, as if conspiring with his benefactor in order to find sanctuary, gave a pathetic
mee-ow.

No stranger to accident, illness, and tragedy, the woman hurriedly pointed up the street, told him the various turnings, and wished him luck. She gave the cat a little pat before they parted and James Carlton walked on.

 • • • 

When James Carlton Farraday finally walked into the Georgetown branch of the Washington, D.C. Metropolitan Police Department, the handsome black officer on desk duty looked up and gave him a lavish smile.

James Carlton had always known that the police loved lost kids and animals, so he had no hesitation at all about launching into his story:

“My name's James Carlton Farraday and my daddy—I mean my
step
daddy—is James C. Farraday. He's in Stratford-upon-Avon. That's in England. I been kidnapped for five days.”

As he continued his saga, the smile on the handsome policeman's face turned first to disbelief, then to astonishment. He did, however, make careful notes. Finally, in a tone that grated on James Carlton's nerves, he
told him what a brave boy he'd been and what an exciting, romantic adventure he'd had.

“There ain't nothing
romantic
about it. You don't believe me, there's proof all written down on the back of a picture over in that house—” Here he pointed in a direction toward the Potomac River. “I been kidnapped five days and so's this here cat—” And he held it up to demonstrate what a kidnapped cat looked like.

Exasperated beyond belief and as close to tears as he'd ever been, James Carlton said in a voice louder than he needed to: “You got any Jell-O in this here jail?”

J
onathan Schoenberg opened his door at Brown's Hotel to Jury, Wiggins, and Melrose Plant, but failed to register any particular interest in another visit from the police, nor curiosity about their having brought along someone unofficial.

“A few more questions, Mr. Schoenberg,” said Jury, who remained standing while the other three sat down, Schoenberg in his same place on the sofa, Plant and Wiggins in wing chairs. Brown's did not stint on the furnishing of its sitting rooms.

“All of this bitterness between you and your brother—”

“The bitterness was on Harvey's side, Superintendent.”

“Yes. But I was just wondering—could we add to that, women?”

Jonathan seemed a bit surprised. “ ‘Women'?”

“One particular woman—”

Schoenberg laughed. “Look, oughtn't you to be asking questions more germane to Harvey's murder?”

“I think this is. You've never been married.”

“What on earth—?” He shrugged. “No. Why commit oneself to one woman for life? You don't have to marry a woman to have one.” He slumped back against the couch, pulled the knot of his tie down even farther, as if it reminded him too much of the marital yoke. “I've never met the woman who was worth it.”

Jury looked past him, toward the darkening window, the shadows muting the outlines of chairs and tables. “And did Harvey feel the same way?”

“Harvey? How should
I
know?”

“There's the larger question. The murders of the other three.”

“Then you've got a homicidal maniac on your hands, Superintendent.” Schoenberg lit a fresh cigarette from the butt of the old one.

“I don't think so.” He nodded toward Melrose. “You've met Mr. Plant, here. He's got an interesting theory—”

“I'd rather see a little
action
out of Scotland Yard than sitting around listening to all this theorizing.”

“The death of Christopher Marlowe—” began Melrose. He didn't get very far before Schoenberg laughed again.

“Harvey's got you doing it too?”

“In a way. Bear with me.”

Grandly, Schoenberg waved his hand. “Fire away. I thought I'd heard every detail of the death of Marlowe.”

Plant smiled slightly. “Given motive and opportunity, you knew enough to make your brother's murder look very much like Marlowe's.”

Schoenberg's smile was thin as a blade. “But there wasn't motive, and unless you think someone else killed the others—I was in the United States. A dozen people can testify to that.”

“I'm sure they can,” said Jury.

Schoenberg looked at him.

“You know,” said Melrose Plant, “that whole Nashe business is interesting.”

“I don't find it so, but I daresay you'll tell me what you mean.”

“Yes. But first, there is a rather intriguing notion about his death. One your brother didn't mention—oddly enough.” Melrose held up the pages of the computer printout. “It's all in here.”

“Well, well. And what have you got there? The name of the killer?”

Wiggins took a paper from his pocket. “You might say so, sir.” Wiggins's voice rasped, not from a sore throat for a change.

Plant continued:
“Originally,
it was reported that Marlowe died in 1593 of what they called the ‘grand disease'—the bubonic plague. Interesting that during the next fifteen years, it was only Marlowe's
enemies
who apparently circulated that story of his being killed in the tavern in Deptford. His friends didn't take this account seriously at all. The name of one Christopher Morley was written into the coroner's report. Now, Morley was quite a common name. And in those times the variants of the spelling of a name made it frightfully confusing when one was trying to identify documents. Shakespeare spelled his name several different ways—”

Impatiently, Schoenberg shifted on the sofa and said, “For God's sake, I know there were different spellings; I've been teaching the stuff for years.”

“Marlowe occasionally signed himself ‘Morley'—but only up to a certain
time, and not after. Then he used ‘Marley' or some other variation on the spelling of ‘Marlowe.' There was, however,
another
‘Christopher Morley,' and one who just happened to be a confidential agent running between England and the Netherlands. Now, as to the others: Robert Poley, one of the three involved, was supposed to have been in The Hague on the day of Marlowe's death. That means he must have come to Deptford secretly. There were also
two
Nicholas Skeres—at least two—and written into the coroner's report was the name,
‘Francis
Frazir.' Not ‘Ingram'—”

Schoenberg at last registered anger. “What in the
hell
has this to do with Harvey?”

“If I could just finish?” Melrose lit one of his thin cigars. “It's perfectly possible that the person his enemies claimed was Christopher Marlowe was not the person killed in that tavern in Deptford Strand. And that Marlowe did, indeed, die of something else.”

“There were sixteen jurors who identified the body,” said Jonathan.

Melrose smiled. “You learned a lot from your brother. But that would have been a difficult identification, in view of the victim's having been stabbed in the face.”

“Then why didn't Marlowe come forth and deny it?” In spite of himself, Schoenberg seemed fascinated.

“Simple. Political intrigue. He was told to lie low—”

“And then return from the dead?”

“Christopher Marlowe could have committed suicide.” Melrose smoked his cigar. “He had plenty of reason. Newgate prison. Tom Watson's death. Betrayal by his best friend, Walsingham. Christopher Marlowe must have been a young man in terrible despair. Suicide would not have been at all unlikely.”

Schoenberg threw up his hands. “Wonderful. Now you've solved the death of Christopher Marlowe. Would you kindly tell me what his relationship is to Harvey? Are you telling me my brother killed himself?”

Melrose raised a quizzical eyebrow. “Didn't you get the point, then, old chap? It was the misidentification of the body.”

 • • • 

There was a long silence until Jury broke it by saying, “Absence of motive is always the most difficult thing in any case. Until we knew what the motive was, there just wasn't any connection between all of these murders. Nell Altman was the connection. But I don't think, really, it was Farraday who betrayed her. It was your brother. Correct?”

For several moments, Schoenberg seemed to be studying the pattern in the carpet. When he finally spoke, his voice had a totally different tone and
timbre.
“Farraday
tossed her out, didn't he? Let her die in that goddamned hospital—”

“ ‘But that was in another country, / And besides, the wench is dead,' ” quoted Melrose Plant, sadly.

“It was a class act, Harvey,” said Jury. “You ought to be on the stage. The only problem was the eyes, wasn't it? Nearly the same height, same coloring, add a bit of a stoop to the posture, easy enough to put on a mustache, and to use the same razor for both the surgery and taking off Jonathan's. Pretty macabre, but it wouldn't have taken more than a minute. And it was easy enough to change gray eyes to brown with lenses. But you could hardly change the color of your brother's eyes. All of this material collected on the death of Marlowe—it was done so you could simulate his murder and drag that red herring across our path. You could even allow us to suspect Jonathan, who'd heard ‘every detail,' as you said. You must have studied your brother awfully intensely to get his movements, his voice down so well. Did you make tapes?”

Harvey Schoenberg said nothing. He pulled at the knitted tie again, as if he were strangling.

“You don't like ties, do you?” said Melrose Plant. “You were always fooling with those bow-ties you wore, too. I must say, it showed a hell of a lot of nerve, Harvey, to invite
me
along to meet your brother. But then you had to make sure you were seen together by someone who knew you. To get back to Thomas Nashe, Harvey. You tripped up there. Better to have admitted you knew that poem, because Thomas Nashe was one of Marlowe's friends, one of his greatest admirers. He said he ‘knew no diviner muse' than Christopher Marlowe. He
collaborated
on
Dido
with Marlowe. Obviously, anyone who knew the minutiae of Marlowe's life would have known that, and would have known that famous poem.”

Wiggins took from his pocket a photostated document, cleared his throat, and read. “James Carlton Altman, born June 1974 in St. Mary's, Virginia. Father's name given as Jonathan Altman.” Wiggins regarded Harvey Schoenberg as coldly as he might have a new virus under a microscope. “Probably, she didn't want to give a different last name for the child. Embarrassing for her, and for him, of course.”

“Where's Jimmy Farraday, Harvey?” asked Jury.

Harvey's head came up sharply.
“Altman,
you mean. Jimmy Altman—” He stopped, his gaze once again on the pattern in the carpet.

The silence went on long enough for Melrose and Wiggins to look up at Jury, who finally said, “I know Jimmy's in the Washington, D.C. area. Concorde only takes four hours. You could have got him over there and
got back in one day, no one the wiser. Jimmy was always ‘going off'; and no one kept tabs on the comings and goings of the rest of you. The Stratford police have already circulated your picture and Jimmy's. That flight leaves London at eleven forty-five
A.M
. and gets into D.C. at eleven
A.M.
Two hours later another Concorde flight leaves Dulles in Washington. At least two crew members on this side recall a sleeping boy and his father. We've already gotten in touch with the Washington police and the police in Virginia.”