Gascoyne Page 8

  Pretty soon I get to the Roughah gate and looking left as far as I can make out the red and white and blue are still in the garage. Lights are on up at Mt. Vernon so somebody must be there. I turn right and leave the Kaiser, which is strangely wheezing, on the street out of sight from the gate or house. I turn off the lights and motor and stash a fistful of crackers into my coat pocket and pop myself out of the car.

  Under the cover of darkness I slip through the main gate and turn right and tramp along the big iron fence to the trees and shrubbery which run parallel to the long gravel driveway up to the house. I scramble up through the bushes and it takes me about twenty minutes mainly because some asshole planted a cactus bed which I didn’t see until I was in it, causing me to stop ten minutes to pull out the spikes. Finally when I get to the near corner of the house I peek in the windows but there’s no sign of life and so I work around the outside and all the rooms on the ground floor are equally empty.

  However from somewhere upstairs I hear low-pitched pulsations and I spot the open window that they’re coming from on the second floor. I hotfoot it down to the tool shed out back that I’ve got a key to and unlock it and pull out a tall lightweight aluminium ladder which I tote back and lay against the house below the window. I take off my shoes and cram them into my coat pockets to keep the noise down and then I climb up the ladder to the window and what a sight!

  First there’s the Widow Roughah stretched out on the bed naked as all hell and second more or less on top of her is the hairy-chested fake giant tree sloth, and I think some people sure like to butter their bread funny. I always thought there was more than meets the eye in that woman and now I know what. But I really feel sorry for the poor bastard inside the sloth suit which must smell like twenty-nine jockstraps in a pressure cooker. But maybe he likes that, you never know.

  I watch the show for awhile and the tree sloth keeps wanting to take his claws off and she keeps wanting him to keep them on, but otherwise I don’t learn any new tricks from them and get pretty bored and the only thing that keeps me there as long as I stay is that I keep myself busy with a little amateur photography using my Minox.

  They finish up and now I figure is the time to go downstairs and make an appearance. I climb down the ladder and carry it back to where it belongs and go to the front door and pound on it and ring the doorbell at the same time. After about ten minutes the Widow Roughah opens the door in that slinky black gown of hers.

  “What do you want GASCOYNE?” she asks with not very much interest evident.

  “Are you alone?” I ask and nudge the door open wider and squeeze through.

  “Yes.”

  “You’re lying again Nadine.”

  We walk into the living room which is the scene of the crime.

  “Yes,” she says thoughtfully, “I am.”

  “Well?”

  “I have my reasons,” she says.

  “Name one.”

  “Sometimes I just like to lie, that’s all.”

  “All right. Let’s get down to brass tacks. Do you know anything about a number with eight digits in it?” I ask, fingering the little gold coin in my pants pocket.

  She counts on her fingers up to eight. “No, do you?”

  “It doesn’t ring a bell or anything like that?” I ask.

  “What’s the number?”

  “Well,” I say, “it really doesn’t matter what the number is if it doesn’t mean anything.”

  “Give me the number,” she says, “and I’ll see if it rings a bell.”

  “No I can’t do that Nadine.”

  “Well give me part of it then.”

  “What for?” I ask.

  “Curiosity.”

  “All right, one of the digits is nine.”

  “Nine?”

  “Yes, nine.”

  “Nine. Which digit?” she asks.

  “Well I just agreed to give a digit but I didn’t agree to tell you which digit.”

  “Oh don’t be silly GASCOYNE. If I had all the numbers except one digit I wouldn’t need to know where it went, would I?”

  “Somebody might have given you the digits in the wrong order,” I say.

  “Still, knowing where the nine goes wouldn’t help all that much.”

  “It might,” I say. “Supposing someone gave you the eight digits in the proper sequence but without telling you which digit began the number. Thus if I told you that nine was the third digit then all you would have to do to restore the proper number would be to count three to the left”

  “Is nine the third digit?” she asks.

  “No.”

  “Please GASCOYNE.”

  “No.”

  “Now look here,” she says, “I’m paying you to find out little bits of information like this.”

  “But I am the judge of which information is relevant to the case, Miss Corell, and don’t you ever forget that.”

  She glares at me.

  “Then,” I go on, “an eight-digit number with nine as one or more of the digits does ring a bell.”

  “No,” she says, “it doesn’t ring a goddamn thing.”

  “Pshaw,” I say.

  She goes and flings herself stomach down on a sofa not far from the bat-winged bloodstain.

  “Now Miss Corell it has come to my attention that there is probably in existence a life insurance policy purchased by your late husband which is estimated at about a million bucks with you presumably as the beneficiary,” I say as if I know it to be dead certain. “Is that right?”

  “Close enough.”

  “And who has a copy of the policy at the moment?”

  “Only I,” she says.

  “Might I be able to examine it someday?” I ask.

  “Not on your life.”

  “Very well. If that’s the way you feel.”

  “It is,” she says.

  “Now then. Is my assumption correct that you have hired me Miss Corell only in order to have the hypothesis of suicide put in serious doubt, if not disproven entirely, so as to permit you to benefit from the insurance benefits?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Then you don’t really give a damn about the character or exact identity of the murderer or hypothetical murderer.”

  “Murderer,” she corrects. “No, I don’t.”

  “Thus you would have no objections to a frame-up.”

  “None whatever.”

  “Is there anyone in particular you would like to see framed up?” I ask.

  “I can’t think of anyone at the moment but I’ll think about it and let you know.”

  “I’d sure appreciate that Miss Corell. Now the next thing—”

  Just then the doorbell rings loudly and there’s pounding on the door. Nadine though keeps laying there tummy down on the sofa looking wistfully at the bat-shaped bloodstain.

  “Well,” I say, “aren’t you going to answer it?”

  Finally she gets up and brushes back her long black hair and goes down the hall to answer the door and comes back chatting with a young fellow about twenty-five dressed in a dark suit, and he’d be one of those clean-cut guys except the trouble is he’s got what looks to me exactly like an octopus tentacle hanging out his left ear, about nine inches long I’d say and sort of waving around aimlessly. About then I think this Widow Roughah sure runs around with the funniest people I’ve ever seen and maybe old Rufus did pull the trigger after all, I don’t blame him one bit.

  “GASCOYNE I’d like you to meet Jeremy Armstrong, an old friend of mine,” says Nadine in a hostesslike way that reminds me of the good old days.

  Then as she’s showing us where to sit down she manages to get between us and looks at me and mouths in a whisper, “Just pretend like everything’s all right!”

  “Well Mr. Armstrong what do you do for a living?” I ask as we all sit down.

  “At the moment nothing. I’ve just come back from the wars.…”

  “What wars?”

  “Well I’m sorry I can’t
say sir,” he says.

  “Oh those wars. I understand.”

  “Cigarette?”

  “No,” I say, “I don’t smoke. I don’t drink either.”

  Though right now I sure could use something because that octopus tentacle waving around is a little more than I can take. But he doesn’t seem to mind it at all. Funny what you can get used to. Of course what I want to know is where the other seven tentacles are and what they’re doing.

  “Well Mr. Armstrong,” I ask just as soon as I can think up a question, “how do you intend to make your living now that you’re back from the wars?”

  “I hope sir to find a position.”

  The old tentacle is flying around so much now it’s making his head jerk back and forth.

  “What sort?” I ask.

  “An office position sir.”

  He looks at me strangely and then stiffens up and his eyes jerk to a straight ahead position.

  “Give it a peanut,” he says hoarsely and adding, “please.”

  The end of the tentacle is now curled around like an elephant’s trunk which must be its feeding position.

  “Give it a peanut!” Nadine whispers at me urgently.

  I rummage through my pockets.

  “I don’t have any peanuts. All I’ve got are Ritz crackers.”

  “Give it a peanut,” croaks Jeremy Armstrong.

  “We’ve got to give it a peanut!” says Nadine.

  “What’ll happen if we don’t?”

  “I don’t know but it’s pretty awful.”

  I begin to get the picture. Armstrong’s still stuck in his trancelike state but the octopus arm is getting a little impatient and waving around with a hell of a lot of gusto.

  “Get the butler,” I whisper to Nadine.

  She reaches over the sofa and pulls the bell cord. About then Armstrong falls off his chair and doubles up on the rug with the tentacle making like it’s smoothing his hair.

  “Damn!” says Nadine.

  “What?”

  “I forgot. The butler’s dead.”

  “There must be other servants,” I say.

  “Yes!”

  She pushed a little button at the base of a table lamp, revealing a round illuminated dial reading from left to right Butler, Upstairs Maid, Downstairs Maid, Chauffeur, Gardener, Gamekeeper, Chef, Lawyer.

  “Who would have peanuts?” she asks.

  “Give it a peanut,” Armstrong moans.

  “Try the chef,” I say.

  She turns the gadget to Chef and pushes a button.

  Now the tentacle starts taking nasty jerks at Armstrong’s hair which makes him shudder.

  The chef walks in the door sleepy-eyed and holding up his pajama bottoms with one hand.

  “Man, get me a bag of salted peanuts this very instant!” Nadine shrieks in a state of near collapse.

  The chef runs out the door and I get up to make sure he does in fact go after the peanuts but in a second he comes back in and I grab the box of peanuts away from him and Nadine snatches it from me. About this point the octopus tentacle starts picking Armstrong’s nose which is pretty disgusting. Nadine rips off the cellophane and the box top and pulls out a peanut and smashes the shell and picks out a solitary nut which she splits in half and offers to the tentacle. The tentacle sniffs at it a moment and then gingerly takes it and thrusts it into Armstrong’s ear-hole. Finally the tentacle curls up in Armstrong’s ear as best the space allows anyway and appears to go to sleep, which is what the rest of Armstrong is now doing with very loud snores.

  “Well what do you know about that?” I say.

  “GASCOYNE you’ve got to do something to help the poor boy.”

  “Who is he?”

  “We were lovers before I married Roughah for his money. I haven’t seen Jeremy since the day of my marriage, I mean he came to see me as soon as he heard of Roughah’s death. He was here this afternoon, again with that horrible thing sticking out of his ear.”

  “Where did he ever pick it up?” I ask.

  “I don’t know. He obviously got it during the wars but of course he can’t say anything about the wars, you know how they are. But there’s something very strange back of all this GASCOYNE.”

  “I’ll say. Uncanny. Weird. Unearthly.”

  “Awful. Can you do something GASCOYNE? I mean the poor boy can’t go on like this. And what if it spreads?”

  “Grows larger you mean?”

  “No. What if it’s contagious?”

  “Mmm. That would be serious,” I say.

  “For my sake GASCOYNE do something.”

  “Love him do you?”

  “Yes,” she says.

  “I’ll see what I can do. It’ll cost you a little extra you know.”

  “I’ll pay anything GASCOYNE to have him freed from that thing.”

  “You know we could just cut it off,” I suggest.

  She shudders. “I couldn’t think of it.”

  “Look. I’ll take care of your boyfriend here and get the insurance money all for the bargain price of a hundred and twenty-five thou.”

  “Anything GASCOYNE anything!”

  “All right. Now I’ve got an in with a man who knows about these things and it’ll take me a couple of hours to get out and back to see him. In the meantime I want you to put Jeremy here in a well-heated room with lots of salted peanuts. And don’t let anybody in or out of that room, understand?”

  “Yes GASCOYNE. And thanks.”

  “Don’t mention it.”

  I slip out the front door and hike down the gravel driveway and get about halfway down when I remember I forgot to give her the third degree on the sloth suit upstairs, I’m getting absentminded in my old age but then I can’t say that things going on at the moment are exactly simple and easy to keep track of, lucky I’ve got what memory I’ve got.

  I get back to the Kaiser and climb in and get her rolling though she doesn’t want to much and then give Chester a ring.

  “Chester what the hell do you think you’re trying to do by running out of the office at a time like this to eat?”

  “It wasn’t only that boss, I had to get some pills.”

  “Pills?”

  “Yeah, I got some shooting pains in my chest.”

  “Hell I told you you shouldn’t smoke.”

  “It isn’t that part of my chest.”

  “Well all right all I want you to do next time you want to go out is just let me know, even if it’s just to go piss in the toilet next door. I don’t mind shooting pains Chester but a job’s a job.”

  “Sure boss,” he says.

  “All right what’s the latest dope?”

  “First the Porsche you asked about was sold out-of-state and licensed here only this month under the name of Fritz Schmidt, whose address turns out to be a vacant lot.”

  “Strange,” I say.

  “That’s all we know. Now we still haven’t found out what happened to Gifford who was trailing O’Mallollolly but what’s-his-name trailing Dmitri saw O’Mallollolly go into Dmitri’s place with Nancy and Nadine Roughah earlier this evening.”

  “That must have been about the time I was busy with the Porsche crowd. Well Chester get Willy or somebody back on O’Mallollolly’s tail. At this hour he’s either at Police Tower or home, and I want reports every half hour if possible, got it? The sooner I know what he’s up to the happier I’ll be.”

  “Right boss.”

  “What else is there?”

  “Not much good,” he says. “No word on the jeeps yet. And we’re still waiting to hear from Mark. Something’s bad in the wind on the housing-tract-freeway deal but what it is he’s not giving yet.”

  “Hell, Mark ought to know better than to try to hold out on me, what’s got into him?”

  “Don’t know boss. Louis is now overdue on the TJ package.”

  “What’s it worth?” I ask.

  “About two and a half million.”

  “Hmm,” I say.

  “Yeah it’l
l be pretty hot if he gets nabbed.”

  “I’ll say. Well what’s the latest on Roughah’s body?”

  “Afraid we’ve been anticipated there boss. O’Mallollolly’s got it set up that nobody can touch it with a ten-foot pole and MacGanymede’s pretty glum about switching bodies.”

  “See what you can do Chester.”

  “Sure boss,” he says with a voice that sounds a little funny.

  “You all right?”

  “Just a little tired boss, like I said.”

  “A cup of fresh coffee can do wonders Chester.”

  “I’ll try it boss.”

  I hang up about the time Mangoldia Avenue runs into the Quadrastate High Rise Skyway on-ramp. I turn left with the green arrow and snap on the supercharger going up the ramp and get her up to seventy as I merge into the Skyway and then whip over to the fast lane and shoot her up to eighty, but I can’t stay there because the front wheel begins shimmying like death so I push her up to eighty-five which is a big improvement though probably not too good for the hamster mill up front. So with a little peace and quiet at last I decide it’s time for some thinking. There’s one thing I really want to know and that’s why O’Mallollolly’s trying to cover up the murder and why he’s doing it so energetically instead of just sitting on the body back in Police Tower. He might well be having trouble buying the Widow Roughah off because he’s got to top the insurance thing, a cool million. Well, one idea comes up in my mind and makes a little sense but not much, and that’s that O’Mallollolly bumped Roughah off for one of twenty reasons and is now covering it up because he wants to win the next election in a couple of months all by himself and without any help. But he ought to know that not even George Washington himself can get himself elected to a public office in this town unless he’s got the right man behind him, and if he doesn’t know that now he’s going to have to learn it the hard way sooner than he thinks, starting any day of the week from now on. But I just don’t think O’Mallollolly could be quite that dumb. He got elected himself back in ’59 because poor old MacWigo tried to go it alone, it can’t be done.