Death Of A Hollow Man (34 page)

“Oh. Right. I might come along and audition anyway … if that’s okay?”

“Anyone,” replied Harold, magisterially breaking upstage right, “can audition.”

After he had left, the two young people smiled at each other, celebrating their meeting and mutual admiration.

“Will you go on Friday?” asked Cully.

“I think so. He might’ve calmed down by then.”

“Then I shall, too.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“Why not? I’m not due back till the end of January. And I’d give anything to play Yelena. We can always work our own way.”

“Gosh—that’d be fantastic.”

Cully parted her lovely lips and smiled again. “Wouldn’t it though?” she said.

Barnaby and Troy were in the office of Hartshorn, Weatherwax, and Tetzloff. Their Mr. Ounce, who handled Esslyn Carmichael’s affairs, was being affable if slightly condescending. Entertaining the police, his manner implied, was not what he was used to, but he hoped if it was thrust upon him, he could behave as well as the next man.

But if Barnaby had hoped to discover some sinister undertow to the murdered man’s life in his solicitor’s office, he was unlucky. Mr. Ounce could reveal little more than the arid contents in the desk at White Wings. Barnaby had been unlucky at the bank as well. No suspiciously large sums of money ever leaked in or out of the Carmichael account, all was depressingly well ordered, the balances no more and no less than one would have expected. The only thing remaining was the will, which he was about to hear read. (He had offered to apply in the proper manner and go to a magistrate, but Mr. Ounce had graciously waived the necessity, saying he was sure time was of the essence.)

The document was brief and to the point. His widow would get the house and a comfortable allowance for herself and the child as long as she carried out her maternal duties in a proper manner. Carmichael Junior would get the full dibs on reaching twenty-one, and in the event of the child’s demise everything, including White Wings, went to the brother in Ottawa. Mr. Ounce replaced the stiff ivory parchment folds in a metal deeds box and snapped the lock.

“Neatly tied up,” said Barnaby.

“I must confess my own fine Italian hand was somewhat to the fore there, Chief Inspector.” He rose from his old leather swivel chair. “We can’t let the ladies have it all their own way, can we?”

“Blimey,” said Troy, when they were back in the station and warming themselves up with some strong coffee. “I wouldn’t mind being a fly on the wall when Kitty hears that.”

Barnaby did not respond. He sat behind his desk tapping his nails against each other. A habit to which he was prone when deep in thought. It drove Troy mad. He was just wondering if he could sneak out for a quick drag when his chief gave voice.

“What I can’t get, Sergeant, is the timing. …” Troy sat up. “There are dozens of ways to kill a man. Why set it up in front of a hundred witnesses … taking risks backstage … tinkering with a razor … when all you have to do is wait and catch him on some dark night?”

“I feel that’s rather a strike against Kitty, myself, chief. Trying it at home, she’d be the first person we’d suspect.”

“A good point.”

“And now we’ve flushed the lover out,” Troy bounded on, encouraged, “
and
discovered that he was the one who supplied the razor in the first place. I bet he even suggested the tape—”

“I think not. I’ve asked a lot of people about that. The general consensus seems to be that it was Deidre.”

“Anyway, there he is with the perfect alibi, leaving Kitty to carry the can. That sort always do.”

“I don’t know. It’s a bit obvious.”

“But … excuse me, sir … the times you’ve said the obvious is so often the truth.”

Barnaby nodded. The observation was a fair one. As was Troy’s implication that the familiar unheavenly twins lust and greed were once again probably the motivating power behind a sudden death. So why did Barnaby feel this case was different? He didn’t welcome this perception, which seemed to him at the moment to lead absolutely nowhere, but it would not be denied. He saw now, too, that his previous knowledge of the suspects, which he had regarded from the first as an advantage, could also work against him. It was proving well nigh impossible to make his mind the objective mirror it should be if he was to appreciate what was really going on. His understanding of Kitty’s character, his liking for Tim and the Smys, his sympathy for Deidre, all were gradually forcing him into a corner. At this rate, he observed sourly to himself, I’ll hardly have a suspect left.

And then there was
Floyd on Fish
. He picked it out of his tray and fanned the pages yet again. The thing had been through the works at the lab. It was no more and no less than what it purported to be, and smothered with dozens of assorted prints. Now, why the hell should someone send Harold, who had not the slightest interest in cooking, a recipe book? Why was it given anonymously? Troy, asked for his ideas, had been worse than useless. Just given one of his excruciating winks and said, “Very fishy, chief.” Joyce said Harold had seemed to be genuinely puzzled by its arrival, assumed it to be a gift from an unknown admirer, and promptly given it away. Barnaby couldn’t see a single way in which it might be connected with the case, but it was certainly odd. A loose end. And he didn’t care for loose ends, although, as the case looked at the moment like a bundle of cooked spaghetti, he supposed another one more or less didn’t much signify.

Troy was clearing his throat, and Barnaby retrieved his wandering thoughts and raised his eyebrows. “If we’re leaving sex and cash out, chief, I suppose the other big one would be that he’d got something on somebody and they wanted to keep him quiet.” Barnaby nodded. “I know we didn’t find any surprises in his account, but it could still have been blackmail. He could’ve been stashing it abroad.”

“Mmm … it’s an appealing idea. The trouble is, it doesn’t fit the nature of the beast.”

‘‘Sorry, sir … I’m not quite with you on that one.” Troy was frowning; a little anxious about being found wanting, but determined to have each step quite clear before proceeding to the next. He never pretended that he understood what Barnaby was getting at when he didn’t, and the chief inspector, knowing how his sergeant longed to give the impression of keeping up or even leaping ahead, respected this veracity.

“I just don’t think Carmichael was the type. It’s not that he was a nice man—far from it—but he was completely self-absorbed. He had no interest in other people’s affairs, or the sheer energetic nastiness a successful blackmailer needs.”

‘‘Jealousy then, chief? Him being the leading light and all that. Maybe somebody else wanted a go?” Even as he voiced this suggestion, Troy thought it was probably a nonstarter. Although he had quite enjoyed
Amadeus
, he thought the actors a load of pimpish show-offs. Personally he wouldn’t have thought any of them had the guts to skin a rabbit, never mind putting somebody in the way of cutting their own throat. Still, he had been wrong before (Troy saw his willingness to admit to possessing this almost universal human weakness as a sign of real maturity) and might well be so again. ‘‘Perhaps they were all in it together, sir? Like that film on a train … where everybody had a stab at the victim. A conspiracy.”

Barnaby raised his head at this and looked interested. Interested but glum. Troy remembered a phrase from the early morning news and essayed one of his witticisms.

“A putsch-up job, sir?”

‘‘What?”

‘‘Put up—it’s a joke, chief. A sort of play on words. Putsch up—put up …”

Barnaby was silent for a minute, then spoke slowly. “My God, Troy. You might just be right.”

Gratified, the sergeant continued, “It was in one of these banana republics—”

“It’s so near …”

“That’s what I said. Put and—”

“No, no. I’m not talking about that. Perhaps … let me think. …”

Barnaby sat very still. A nebulous possibility, no more than a glimmer, flickered into his mind. Flickered and was gone. Came back, solidified a bit, was gently tested.

“I wonder,” continued Barnaby, “perhaps Esslyn gave us the reason for the murder. At least”—he groped toward the next words slowly—“he gave it to Kitty. She didn’t have the wit to see the implication behind what he said, but I should have. There’s no excuse for me.”

Troy, appreciating that he also hadn’t had the wit and that there was no excuse for him, either, regarded his boots sulkily. Barnaby got up and started to pace around, then sent his sergeant for some more coffee. Troy disappeared into the outer office and helped himself from the Cona.

When he returned to the inner sanctum, the DCI was gazing out the window. Troy put the mugs on the desk and returned to his seat. When Barnaby turned, he was struck by the paleness of the chief inspector’s countenance. Pale but lively. No sooner had one expression, hopeful elation, registered than it was chased away by disbelief, which in turn gave way to a jauntiness that was almost debonair, dissolving into puzzlement.

“You’ve … got something then, sir?” asked Troy.

“I don’t know. It’s all out of whack … but it must be. I just can’t see
how
.”

Fat lot of good that is then, opined Troy silently. The old sod always did this when he believed a case was shifting toward a conclusion. He would say that all the information so far obtained was as available to Troy as it was to him and that the sergeant should be perfectly capable of coming to his own assessment. The fact that this remark was a perfectly valid one in no way lessened the sergeant’s chagrin every time he heard it. Now, he noticed Barnaby was looking at him rather oddly. Then, to his alarm, the chief walked around the desk, came up to Troy’s chair, bent down, and brought his lips close to the younger man’s ear. Bloody hell, thought Troy, preparing to leap for the door. Who’d have thought it? Barnaby moved his mouth, breathed faintly, and returned to his seat. Troy produced a handkerchief and mopped his face.

“Well, sergeant,” Barnaby said, in a blessedly masculine and unseductive manner. “What did I say?”

“Bungled, sir.”

“Aaahhh …” It was a long, slow hiss of satisfaction. “Nearly, Troy. A good guess. Nearly … but not quite.”

Bangles? thought the sergeant. Burgled? Boggled? Buggered? (Back to Doris and Daphne.) Or how about bonbons? Hey … how
about
bonbons? The bloke was eating sweets all through the play. Or there was borrowed. That fitted. The razor was borrowed. All the dead man’s clothes were hired. Wasn’t much like bungled, though.
Fumbled
. Something had been fumbled. That was more like it. Meant practically the same thing, after all. As no revelation appeared to be forthcoming from the horse’s mouth, Troy decided to settle for “fumbled.” He looked across at Barnaby, who seemed to have gone into a trance. He was staring over Troy’s left shoulder, the light of intelligence quite absent from his eyes.

But his mind was whirring. Like a chess player, he moved his figures around. On the black squares (the wings, the stage, the dressing rooms) and on the white (the lighting box, the clubroom, the auditorium). He forged likely and unlikely alliances and guessed at possible repercussions. He imagined mirrored reflections of his suspects, hoping that way to surprise a familiar face in secret revelatory relaxation. And gradually, by way of improbable juxtaposition, glancing insights, and hard-won recall of certain conversations, he arrived at an eminently workable hypothesis. It fitted very well. It made perfect sense and was psychologically sound. It explained (almost) everything. There was only one slight snag. The way things stood at the moment, what it hypothesized (who had murdered Esslyn Carmichael and why) could not possibly be anywhere near the truth. He muttered that fact aloud.

Near what truth? wondered Troy, still smarting over his inability to figure out Barnaby’s earlier insights. Now, the chief was rumbling again. Rumble, rumble. Mutter, mutter.

“There
had
to be an audience, Troy. We’ve been looking at things from quite the wrong angle. It wasn’t a hazard—it was an essential. So that everyone could see what he was doing.”

“What, Carmichael?”

“No, of course not. Use your nous.” Barnaby picked up a ball-point and started scribbling. “And don’t look so affronted,” he continued, not looking up. “Think, man!”

While Troy thought, Barnaby reflected minutely on the times and the names and positions he had jotted down. If everyone was where they said they were at the times they said they were, doing what they said they were doing, then he was up a creek. So someone was lying. Fair enough. You expected murderers to lie. But when you had a theater full of people prepared to stand by what was, after all, the evidence of their own eyes and back him up then you were in a real bind. Especially when two of the eyes were your own.

But he knew he was right. He knew in his blood and in his bones. Over the years he had come to this point in a case too many times to be mistaken. Details might be unclear, practicalities elusive, methodology right up the Swanee, but he knew. The backs of his hands prickled, his neck in the stuffy, overheated office crawled with cold. He knew and could do nothing.

“Oh, fuck it, Troy!” The sergeant jumped as Barnaby’s fist hit the desk. “I’m bloody hemmed in. Nobody can be in two places at once … can they?”

“No, sir,” replied Troy, feeling for once on pretty safe ground. He was not displeased to see Barnaby foxed. You could put up with just so much swaggering about. Now, there were two of them without a bloody clue. He watched his chief’s fierce frown and tightly clamped jaw. Any minute now, the little brown bottle would appear. And here it was. The chief inspector shook out two indigestion tablets and chased them down with cold coffee. Then he sat and stared at his piece of paper for so long that the neat black letters became meaningless.

“This is where,” he said to Troy, “if I were a religious man, I should start praying for a miracle.”

And—such is the wickedly unfair tilt of things in a world where a monk can spend his life on his knees and never get a nibble—for Tom Barnaby, sometimes profane, moderately decent, frequent faller by the wayside, the miracle occurred. Buzz, buzz. He picked up the phone. It was David Smy. Barnaby listened for a moment, responded “You’re quite sure?” and replaced the receiver.