The Glendower Legacy (12 page)

“Then he took a pliers and tried to pull my fingernails out …”

“And why didn’t he?”

“Well, I was pretty pissed off by then, and scared shitless, of course—”

“Of course. It hardly needs saying.”

“—and mad about George … then I felt the cold metal of the pliers on my fingers …” As he spoke he felt it again, the tug at his fingernails: “So I poured the hot coffee in his face and hit the little one with the George Washington pedestal and ran away—”

“Where? When?”

“Cambridge. My house.” He swallowed hard. “Just now, before I came here.”

“Who were they? Did you know them? What did they want? Were they burglars?”

“Burglars! Burglars don’t do that fingernail thing! Of course they weren’t burglars … What a reporter!”

“Now run through the part about it all being my fault, Professor. I want to get it all straight.” She stroked Ezzard who made cat sounds, presumably exhausted from his recent amours.

“Let me tell you, Miss Bishop, I was a completely innocent college professor as recently as last Wednesday—insulated from all of life’s nasty realities—sure, I was sorry about Bill Davis, but I wasn’t really involved, I didn’t
know
him—and then you arrive in my classroom and set upon me like the furies and with your white teeth flashing … an ambush! You were full of tricks and implications and armed with television cameras, all of which you used to connect me to Bill Davis’s murder … utterly spurious, of course. Lots of people saw that broadcast, including the killer.
What was so important about his seeing Professor Chandler?
Those, I believe, were your words … In a matter of a couple of minutes you’d transported me from the safety of Harvard Yard into the middle of a murder case.”

“You were the boy’s adviser.” Ezzard smiled with his eyes as she ran a finger under his collar. “He had come to see you just before he was killed—anyway, I’m not going to argue with you.” She bit her free thumbnail, stared pensively into the fire, shadows playing on her face. “I wonder what he did from the time he left your office until he died? Did he actually go to Underbill’s shop? His name was on Underbill’s notepad—Bill could have been there … but why?” She glanced up sharply: “Anyway, the point is, you were—are—part of the case.”

Chandler sighed: “My God, there’s no reasoning with you—”

“Just tell me what’s been happening to you, minus all the editorializing. Remember, you came here—”

“Because you earned me and my problems.”

“Go on,” she said patiently. Good-humored. Obviously she was more accustomed to violence and danger than he.

“All right, from the beginning. First I remembered something Bill Davis had said to me. He told me that he had something I wouldn’t believe but that I had to authenticate for him—but he didn’t tell me what the item was. A document? Some kind of artifact? There’s nothing else I’m qualified to authenticate. But that would explain why he might have gone to poor old Underhill.” He could hear his breath whistling through his blocked nasal passages: it was a nasty sound. His eyes burned from lack of sleep.

“Must be the revolutionary period,” she said. “If not, why you?”

“The same night I was watching you on television, interviewing me, Polly Bishop the old crimefighter—God, I’ve seen those ads, stoop to anything to snare the last bleary-eyed and undecided viewer—anyway, I’ve watched the blasted interview and I’m fuming to myself—”

“You’ll get an ulcer,” she interrupted, “worrying about things you cannot control. I did.”

“And I went out on my porch to breathe deeply and calm myself. It was raining and I saw these two guys across the street, standing around in the rain—my street, Acacia, is not exactly a thoroughfare, you know, but I didn’t attribute any malevolent motive to them. I just thought it was funny, seeing these two characters—one in his silly porkpie hat, the other a great hulking bozo in a little tan rain hat—seeing them twice in one day—”

“Twice?”

“Twice … they were in the Yard watching me when you did the TV interview, they were standing in the rain watching me, getting all wet. Those silly hats … And here they were again, back out in the rain outside my house—”

“My, but they’d spent an inclement day! And it didn’t strike you as ominous? I’d think anyone would find it strange—”

“Nonsense! I’ve got a normal life. I don’t suspect everything of being part of a plot, for God’s sake.”

She nodded grudgingly, frowning. Ezzard got up, stretched and yawned.

“Which brings us to Thursday morning, Miss Bishop, and things get stranger still.” He took a deep breath, leaned forward, rubbed his hands in the glow of the fire. “Two third-rate comics called Fennerty and McGonigle show up at my office claiming to be from Boston Homicide, Brennan is with me in the office, I’ve got a solid witness to what I’m about to tell you … Fennerty and McGonigle question me, all the while doing this tiresome leprechaun routine, and I tell them about the business of the authentication, and they began to piss me off, see? So I told them I’d seen them the day before, in the Yard—yes,
these
guys had been standing in the doorway of Matthews Hall while you interviewed me—”

“Wait,” she said. “Let me get this straight, there were
two
sets of men watching you? Porkpie and Rain hat getting wet and the two leprechauns at Matthews Hall … Everybody watching you and me, then turning up later? Incredible …”

“Oh, we’re just getting started. My revelation cut no ice with the Irish Rovers, but they did tell me to watch the news on the tube in the evening, hinting clumsily that there’ll be something to interest me. So what the hell was that supposed to mean? I was ready to forget these two jerks when my pal Brennan goes to fill his pipe to get the taste of my coffee out of his mouth and inside George Washington’s head—”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’ve got a humidor made of Houdon’s bust of Washington—”

“Yes, and it got broken.”

“No, no, I’ve got another big one at
home—had,
I should say—”

“Of course.”

“So Brennan reaches into Washington’s head and finds something other than tobacco! A bug, a tiny microphone, put there when the vile McGonigle was loading his own tobacco pouch with my tobacco—”

“Good Lord,” she cried, half amused, “what an obvious place, you’d find it the first time you filled your pipe.”

“Listen, you didn’t see these guys, they were not the height of spy fiction sophistication … it was like a joke. If it wasn’t
my
tobacco they were fucking with I’m sure I’d find it awfully funny. But it was my tobacco—”

“I’m afraid your McGonigle is an idiot—”

“Well, anyway, we dug a hole in the dirt in my window box and buried the bug in there.”

Polly burst out laughing, covered her mouth.

“Yes, awfully amusing,” he said. “But once I’d thought about them I remembered a curious thing. Fennerty and McGonigle hadn’t been spying on me in the Yard. They’d been spying on Porkpie and Rain hat …”

The logs had burned low. It had begun raining hard again, drumming on the window, and thunder rumbled over Beacon Hill. Somewhere a car backfired and he felt himself flinch. Thank God the rain had held off until he’d gotten inside, safe. Polly got up and laid three more birch logs, the bark peeling away as the flame caught. She left the room and returned a few minutes later with a blanket and fresh coffee.

“You’re shivering,” she said. “I don’t want you to do a man-who-came-to-dinner on me.” She spread the blanket across him. “Come on, feet off the floor. Invisible drafts, as my mother used to say …” She stood back, smiling indulgently: “Comfy? That can be your bed tonight … Are you up to coffee? It’ll get you through the rest of the story—”

“Sure, fine, let’s get on with it—”

“Calm down, I’m just taking care of you.” She poured coffee and handed him the purple Heller cup. “I don’t think you know just what a wreck you are … You’re no spring chicken, not anymore.”

“Would you just shut up and sit down? It’s three-fifteen and I’m not done with this saga.”

“I’m waiting for the rapine and pillage,” she said.

“Enough whimsy.” He clutched the heavy blanket around his bare feet, sipped the coffee, focused his tired eyes on Polly Bishop’s face which was developing a tendency to blur. “Thursday evening I couldn’t resist, I watched your broadcast—”

“It’s the mongoose and the cobra all over again.”

“Apt, very apt. And there you were going on about Nat Underhill’s murder. Was that what they wanted me to watch? Well, it must have been … so I’m watching and a particularly awful thought occurs to me. McGonigle and Fennerty were in my office telling me to watch you
before
Nora Thompson got to work and found Underbill’s body—well, Christ! Now, Miss Bishop, I must say the look on your face is very rewarding.”

“But how could they—”

“Indeed. Well, you can imagine my surprise.” He worked up his last few drops of irony. “And, of course, I would cheerfully have taken a meat ax to you—you just wouldn’t let go of me, linking me with two guys who’d just been murdered … honest to God, like you’re setting the stage for my murder—”

Ignoring the tone of his remarks, she said: “And this was nine hours ago?”

“Seems like only yesterday,” he growled. By telling her everything he was lowering the barriers between them: he realized that, saw his anger with her ebbing. By talking to her, by watching her face, by accepting her blanket and hospitality, he was beginning to feel a vague closeness, a sense of shared purpose, whatever the hell that meant. His mind was wandering: he yanked it back. “I was still reeling from the news that McGonigle and Fennerty knew things they shouldn’t know when the telephone rings—it’s Nora Thompson—”

“Too much,” she marveled. “Why call you?”

He passed her a dour glance: “She insists she’s gotta meet me in Lexington in …” He looked at his watch. “A little over seven hours … She has something she has to tell me. It won’t wait. Don’t ask, I don’t know what it is but I’m betting it’s not her recipe for Apple Brown Betty.”

She lit a cigarette: “There can’t be much more … You’re almost up to knocking on my door—”

“All that’s left is Porkpie and Rain hat visiting me, passing themselves off as D.A.’s special investigators. The little one smelled like a mint breath deodorizer, the big guy had adenoids and a deep, deep voice … and a gold tooth. They told me the D.A. was angry with me, I’m obstructing his investigation and two guys are dead—
because of me!
They said Bill Davis said some damn thing, ‘Chandler’s got it,’ before he died … Now they think this thing I’ve got is a framed picture—I ask you, how the hell do you authenticate a picture? Then they—he, the big bastard, broke George! Just—smashed him on the floor. And then the little one told the big one to hit me which he did with passionate efficiency … then he started with the pliers and I went off the deep end and threw the Chemex at the one, hit the other with the pedestal, the television set blew up, and I got the hell out …”’

“And came here.” She was watching him from beneath lowered lids. He nodded, shrugged. “Well, I’m glad you did … Can you imagine trying to explain it to anybody else?” She smiled gently. “Whatever you think of me, Professor—and I suppose you think you have your reasons for hating me—I must tell you, you did very well tonight. If we weren’t enemies, I’d be very proud of you—”

“Look, I’m sure you’re a very nice person—”

“Person. See, you’re getting the hang of it. But I’m not … a very nice person. Single-minded, egomaniac, selfish, headstrong—my husband used to say that. I learned them, like the Boy Scout thing … trustworthy, loyal, helpful, friendly, courteous, kind, obedient, cheerful, thrifty, brave, clean, and reverent.”

“Amazing!”

“My brother was a Scout. I helped him learn the list. I never forget anything. Want to know the starting lineup of the 1919 Chicago White Sox, known to history as the Black Sox because they threw the World Series? Or how about Academy Award winners?”

“I’m having an awfully hard time believing this.” He yawned.

“Poor thing. You do need some sleep.” She stood up and began to pace. At the window, she peeled back the curtain and stared out into the rain. Ezzard leaped onto the sill and stuck his head out the opening. The clock ticked. Chandler leaned back, stretched full length on the couch, fitting himself in among the cushions. He had just closed his eyes when she began speaking. He edged an eye open. She was standing over him. Thunder cracked.

“Professor, I think you’d better realize something. You’re a marked man, I don’t mean to be melodramatic, but I’ve a little more experience in the real world than you do.”

He closed his eyes.

“You’re going to have to stay out of sight, away from your home and Harvard—”

“But I’ve got to go see Nora in the morning.”

“That’s all right—”

“But I don’t have any clothes—”

“We’ll take care of that in the morning. But the thing that bothers me is these four guys, let’s call them the Buggers and the Goons … I can check on Fennerty and McGonigle with Homicide, I’ll call Tony Lascalle … and I can call the D.A.’s office about the other two, but they’re obviously not special investigators. Somebody killed Bill and Underhill, and Porkpie and Pliers are pretty high on the probable list. Wake up, Professor.”

“I am awake. And call me Colin, will you? And I’m only resting my eyes.”

“You’re about to pass out.”

“Well, I’m no spring chicken.”

“Go to sleep. We’ll figure out the details in the morning.”

“Thanks for putting me up, Miss Bishop.”

“Polly.”

Alone, after she’d gone to bed, Chandler lay on the couch listening to the rain and the crackling logs, feeling the soft breeze from the window, trying to remember the list of Boy Scout things. He’d been a Boy Scout once, but he couldn’t remember them. He couldn’t even come close …

At first the old man thought it was a thunderclap that had wakened him. He came to with a spasm of pain in his left side, shook it off with a grim frown, and turned on the bedside lamp. He heard the thunder exploding above him and the rain pounding on the slate roof but it was the telephone, not the storm, which had dragged him from his customary light, restless sleep. He hated to be wakened in the middle of the night: the three or four hours of rest each night were the most his poor heart ever gave him and he guarded them jealously. Unfortunately, in his line of work calls in the night came with relative frequency. He had so many men working for him, off and on. At any given moment a goodly number seemed to face crises in the wee hours and there wasn’t much he could do about it.