Embarrassment of Corpses, An (16 page)

“Nothing in common,” Oliver repeated thoughtfully.

Then he started suddenly. The ferret looked up with a hurt expression on its face. “Then that's where we're going wrong!” Oliver exclaimed. “The computer is looking for things that the victims have in common. What we should be looking for is differences!”

He hastily dropped the animal back into its carrier and turned to Mallard with excitement.

“Uncle Tim, you're telling me that the victims have a sequential string of birth signs, right? But would your computer have even spotted that?”

“I don't…”

“No! Because it's looking for similarities. It would only have gone beep or ding or twang if they'd all had the
same
birth sign!”

“Go on,” said Mallard cautiously.

“If five of the six victims had all been brain surgeons, for example, your precious computer would have blown a gasket,” Oliver continued. “But if they'd been, respectively, a tinker, a tailor, a soldier, a sailor, and a rich man, the computer would have ignored it. Because there's no similarity between those professions. It takes a
human
mind to see the pattern!”

“So our victims may have nothing in common as a group, but they could still be part of a sequence?”

“Yes!” Oliver cried. “Individually, they may each epitomize some element in another pattern, in addition to their zodiac signs. If there is a hidden pattern, and we can find it, we may finally get ahead of the killer.”

“But as Effie keeps telling us, the odds against our finding any other connection are astronomical. Or astrological.”

“That's when we assumed the killer was trying to find a pattern that would match twelve victims he'd already chosen. It's easier the other way round—choosing victims to match a pattern. Even two patterns. You just need a tinker who's also a Pisces, a tailor who's an Aquarius, a Capricorn soldier, a Sagittarius sailor….”

“But what is there to suggest a hidden connection?”

“It's the way the killer thinks,” Oliver claimed earnestly. “It's all a game to him. He's gone out of his way to signal the zodiac—calling cards, birthdays, locations, methods of killing. That was for novices. Finding the elusive second thread, if it exists, is for experts at the game. What can we lose by trying it?”

It was the challenge Mallard needed. He sat up straight and ran his hands through his milky hair. “Then if we want to save the Virgo, we've got less than an hour to find this other pattern.
If
there is one.” He put his glasses on. “So get fish-face to bring me a coffee.”

Oliver beckoned the fish-waiter, who was floating near the door.

“Have some wine,” the waiter said as he approached, making an encouraging gesture toward the table between the two men.

“I don't see any wine,” Mallard muttered distractedly.

“There isn't any!” exclaimed the waiter, triumphantly completing the syllogism.

“A pot of coffee and a pot of tea, please,” said Oliver quickly, noticing the look on Mallard's face.

“There's cocoa at midnight, sir,” the waiter reminded him. “And tarts.”

“Coffee, tea, now.”

“Okay, what alternatives spring to mind,” asked Mallard after the waiter had drifted moodily away.

Oliver picked up his uncle's notebook and turned to a fresh page. Then he wrote the list of the victims and their professions.

Pisces: Harry Random, writer

Aquarius: Nettie Clapper, part-time home help

Capricorn: Mark Sandys-Penza, estate agent

Sagittarius: Gordon Paper, research chemist

Scorpio: Vanessa Parmenter, travel agent

Libra: Archibald Brock, retired railway guard

“Well, we don't actually have a tinker or a tailor,” Mallard commented. “Neither do we have a butcher, a baker, and a candlestick-maker.”

“Random, Clapper, Sandys-Penza. Paper, Parmenter, Brock,” Oliver intoned. “Doesn't make sense. Doesn't even scan. How about first names? Harry, Nettie, Mark, Gordon, Vanessa, Archie. Not biblical names. Are these the names of characters in a play or a novel?”

“Maybe there's an additional link between the names and the birth sign. Sir Harry Random was a Pisces—fish swim at random. Nettie Clapper, the Aquarian—a net can be associated with water bearers. No, it doesn't work, does it? I suppose it would help if we knew what Nettie was short for.”

“Henrietta, probably. Or Antoinette.”

“And Harry's short for Henry. Any connection with kings and queens?”

“I don't think there's ever been a King Gordon,” said Oliver. “And Harry Random's name was short for Hargreaves, not Henry.” He glanced at a framed picture above his uncle's head, an original sketch by Henry Holiday. “How about characters in
The Hunting of the Snark
?”

“Remind me.”

“The Bellman, the Boots, the Bonnet-maker, the Barrister, the Broker, the Billiard-marker, the Banker, the Beaver, the Baker, and the Butcher.”

“That's only ten. Does it fit?”

The fish-waiter arrived with the tray, but they ignored him. Mallard was alert now, revitalized by the chance to save another life from his adversary. Oliver found he could still enjoy the exercise as an intriguing abstraction, grappling with the mind and intentions of the killer. It was like doing crossword puzzles, which he'd often claimed were harder to solve than to set because the setter already knew the answers. But Mallard was in deeper, and could place no distance between his actions and the expected death, almost as if he were trying to save his own life by solving the conundrum. Oliver knew there was a perverse temptation to admire the killer, almost to will him to kill again for the entertainment value of the next death. But he knew that Mallard never fell into that trap, and would be overjoyed if the Murder Squad became superfluous to the nation's needs. The potential second thread had become a lifeline that he grasped joyfully, hauling himself back to full vigilance.

As they pitched ideas and patterns between them—is there a connection with the twelve apostles? the ten commandments? Wren's churches? Pooh's companions? Shakespeare's plays? the Labors of Hercules? the “Carry On” films?—Oliver prayed his idea would yet bear fruit, and that Mallard would not be tossed back into impotence, exhaustion, failure. But as midnight approached, the second thread stayed hidden.

“I still say the places they lived are our best leads,” Mallard snapped impatiently as another of Oliver's patterns failed to work—that each victim shared the same initials as successive stops on the Piccadilly Line. He drained his cup of the last cold splash of coffee. “Except for Gordon Paper we have five people who once—and not too long ago—lived no more than five miles from each other.”

“And except for Gordon Paper, we have a perfect match of birth sign to site of death,” Oliver reminded him.

“The phrase ‘except for Gordon Paper' seems to come up a lot,” Mallard commented. “Would this be easier if we left him out and tried to find a connection that works for the others?”

There was a sudden, breathy, one-note fanfare, which caused them both to jump.

“Dear God, what on earth is that?” Mallard exclaimed, looking in the direction of the noise. By the door to the lounge, the fish-waiter was tucking a long trumpet under his arm. Then he came to attention.

“The trial's beginning! The trial's beginning!” he called in a loud voice and disappeared.

“That means the cocoa and jam tarts are being served in the next room,” Oliver told him. “You know, it's a reference to the Knave of Hearts' trial in
Alice's Adventures in Wonderland
. The tarts were the evidence.”

“It also means it's midnight,” said Mallard resignedly, getting stiffly to his feet. He began to look fatigued again. “Virgo day has begun. I'll run you and your little friend home.”

Oliver leaned over the arm of his chair to see if the ferret had fallen asleep again. The creature wasn't visible, so he lifted the case onto his lap, opening the clear plastic lid. But the box was empty. He must have forgotten to secure the catches, and the inquisitive animal had pried its way out while the two men were preoccupied. Oliver leaped to his feet and searched frantically under the cushions on his chair.

“Need some loose change for the bus?” Mallard inquired languidly. “I said I'd drive you.”

“The ferret's escaped. What should I do?”

“I thought you were the expert on ferrets. Where would it have gone?”

Oliver tried to remember his research. “They like to burrow into cushions and upholstery.”

“So would I right now,” Mallard commented with a yawn. “I suggest we shut all the doors between here and the outside world, and then search each room very carefully until we find it. It can't have got far.”

Oliver led the way out of the members' lounge, scanning the floor nervously for a flash of light brown fur, and they closed the double doors behind them. The waiter was nowhere to be seen, and the club seemed to be deserted. Oliver was about to turn the catch on the front door, when it swung open abruptly into his face, and a tall man in disheveled evening dress pranced into the lobby. He was clutching a balloon.

“Nobody around?” he asked vaguely, with a broad, tipsy smile. Then he caught sight of Oliver behind the door, and his smile vanished. “Oh, it's you, Swithin. Is it some sort of family curse that causes you to haunt this lobby?”

“Good evening, Mr. Scroop,” said Oliver politely. “Celebrating something?”

“Sold another book, actually. Who's this?” Scroop attempted to focus his gaze on Mallard. Oliver knew his manners.

“Uncle Tim, this is one of our members, Mr. Scroop. He writes books about footballs that are really UFOs. Mr. Scroop, this is my uncle, Detective Superintendent Mallard of New Scotland Yard.”

“Pull the other one,” said Scroop, spinning away unsteadily from Mallard's proffered hand. “I know you, Swithin, you're as full of tricks as your benighted Finsbury. This gentleman is probably a cab driver. Well, I'm not falling for it,” he declared loudly, stumbling again. “I'm going to the members' lounge. Send the whisky in with a decanter of waiter.”

“I wouldn't do that,” called Oliver as Scroop lurched away.

“And why not?”

“Well, the truth is, I've lost my ferret in there.”

Scroop froze. He turned slowly, rocking from side to side on rigid legs, and faced Oliver.

“Nice try, Swithin,” he hissed. “But you don't catch me twice with that one.”

He started to fall backward, recovered, and let the momentum propel him toward the lounge doors. Oliver began to follow.

“Wait,” snapped Mallard abruptly.

“Oh, but I have to—”

“Wait!”

Mallard was motionless in the center of the lobby, his hands on his hips. He seemed to have grown taller.

“The trial's beginning!” he shouted triumphantly. “Oliver, what do we need at a trial?”

“Apart from jam tarts? Well, as Lewis Carroll said, ‘Such a trial, dear sir, with no jury or judge would be wasting our br—”

Oliver stopped. He knew what his uncle had just thought of. “A jury?” he offered cautiously.

Mallard nodded slowly. “A jury. Twelve people, drawn from the same geographic area, who have nothing in common with one another. Twelve people, upon whom somebody may want to take revenge.” He ran over to the porter's desk and lifted the telephone. “We must find the last time each of these people performed jury duty,” he continued breathlessly. “It's Sunday morning, so it'll be a while before we can get into the court records. But we can see if any of the surviving relatives can remember.”

“No need.”

Mallard looked up.

“
I
can remember,” Oliver told him, grinning broadly. “Sir Harry Random was on a jury a little more than two years ago. At the Old Bailey.”

“That's perfect!” Mallard exclaimed. “Two years ago, all of the victims, bar Paper, lived in the same catchment area. I'll get Moldwarp to rouse the Central Criminal Court record keepers and we'll get our hands on a list of jurors. Oh, Ollie, I'm praying there are some familiar names on that list. Why didn't this occur to us earlier?”

“Because we stopped thinking about geography when Yorkshireman Gordon Paper joined the list of victims,” Oliver reminded him. “And because a jury would take us back to choosing the pattern to match the victim. Twelve jurors, each with a different birth sign—Effie would tell us the odds are against it.”

“I know, but it's the best lead we have. And we already know that it fits Sir Harry.”

A sudden screech of terror echoed down the corridor from the members' lounge.

“Ah, Mr. Scroop's found my ferret,” said Oliver brightly, while his uncle waited impatiently for his call to be answered. “You know the last time I was here, I was in the lobby with Dworkin…”

He broke off, and a look of horror crossed his face.

“Dworkin,” he said, clutching Mallard's arm.

“What do you mean, ‘dworking'?” his uncle replied crossly. “I'm not dworking. I've never dworked. I wouldn't know how to dwork.”

“No, no, Dworkin's our day porter here at the club. He got his job through Harry. Well, that's how they met—they were on jury duty together.”

“Then for God's sake see if you can contact him!” Mallard urged, glancing at his wristwatch. “If Dworkin is a Virgo, his life's already in danger.”

Oliver scurried away to the club office to find Dworkin's telephone number.

“Although,” Mallard added reflectively, alone in the lobby, “I still can't fathom how anybody can be killed with a virgin.”

Chapter Eight

Across the street, the clock in St Mary's church tower chimed midnight. Dworkin had been in bed for two hours, but he still lay awake, counting the strikes, deliberately skipping from seven to nine. Ten…eleven…twelve…thirteen! It jarred pleasurably. He liked to create the unusual in his mind, such as losing count of the stairs in the dark for the thrill of sinking through that last invisible step. It made up for the too-predictable reality of his quotidian life.

Now the bell died away, and silence fell outside. But inside, in the darkness of his bedroom, Dworkin became aware again of his body's chorus: the tide of blood pumping in his ears, the liquid fauxbourdon from his lungs with every breath, the distant grumbling that refused to subside, although he had eaten the salmon paste sandwich three hours ago. There was a time—how long now?—when his digestion was silent, when he didn't wheeze, when he woke up in the morning and his chin and pillow were still dry. For years, he had deprecated the signs of his own aging that he would have found distasteful in others—a forgotten blob of shaving soap behind the ear, an occasional unzipped fly. Now, in these insomniac hours, Dworkin almost believed he could hear himself growing older, the crackle of brittle skin settling into wrinkles, the draining of pigment from his hair, and the steady pitter-patter of a day's loss of brain cells, cascading like invisible dandruff onto his shoulders.

What was that? His stomach again? No, the noise was outside himself. A cat, probably, nosing around the dustbins. He didn't want to be old. Those gossipy fools at the Sanders Club were wrong when they said he was too fond of children. He wanted to
be
a child, to relive the childhood he'd failed to appreciate the first time, because…

There again! No doubt this time. Somebody is downstairs, moving slowly, quietly. Call the police? The only telephone is downstairs. All right, a surprise attack.

Dworkin threw back the covers and noiselessly eased himself onto the floor, sliding his feet into the waiting leather slippers. He slept naked, but his thin silk kimono was within reach. Knotting the sash, he crept out of the bedroom and down the stairs, straining his ears. There was nobody in the hallway, but the door to his living room was open. He was sure he had closed it before going to bed. He reached the bottom of the stairs and felt in the umbrella stand for the shillelagh his brother had brought him during an unscheduled stopover at Shannon airport, couldn't find it, chose a tightly rolled umbrella instead, holding it ferrule-first, like a fencing foil. Then he slid into the living room, reaching for the light switch.

“Don't move,” he yelled as the room was suddenly bathed in a weak, yellowish light. He squinted and stared. Nothing was out of place in the room. Except for the little girl in the plain blue dress, sitting on the settee, who stared back at him with frightened, green eyes. She drew her knees up to her chin.

“Who are you?” he yelped.

The girl didn't speak. Dworkin lowered the umbrella, aware that she posed no threat and, more important, that he looked ridiculous.

His first impression, that she was about twelve or thirteen, had been wrong. Her figure had the slim lankiness of that age, but from her features, he could see now that she was in her late teens, if not early twenties. The sense of childishness was real, however: She wore no make-up on her pretty, freckled face and her long, auburn hair was parted simply in the middle of her head. She continued to watch him timidly.

“What are you doing here?” he demanded.

The girl lowered her legs primly and placed her hands in her lap.

“You don't know who I am, do you?” she asked meekly.

“No. I don't believe I've seen you before.”

“You have, you know,” the girl said, but not as an accusation. “I've lived around the corner for ten years. Since I was nine years old.”

“I'm sorry, I don't remember,” said Dworkin, suddenly conscious of his naked, blue-veined legs below the kimono. He dropped the umbrella onto a chair.

“Well, I don't go out much. My mother's very strict. If she knew I was here now, she'd kill me.”

She tugged her dress tightly along her thighs.

“Anyway, I've decided that I have to find my own way,” she continued, a new resolve in her voice. “But I know so very little about the world, and I'm afraid of being an easy target for men of low morals. I'm still a…. well, you know.”

“Yes, I see,” mumbled Dworkin, aware that his heart was pounding. The girl looked directly at him and mustered a tentative smile.

“You've always seemed a very kind man, sir. So I've plucked up all my courage and come here tonight to ask you a big favor.”

“And that is?” Dworkin's mouth was dry.

She stood up. “Please, Mr. Dworkin, would you make me a real woman?”

“Oh, my goodness gracious,” he stammered, taking a step backward and dropping into an armchair. The girl stood in silence for a moment. Then she sighed.

“Would this help you decide?” she asked. She hoisted her dress from the waist until the blue material hung in folds around her shoulders, revealing slender legs. Slipping her arms out of the dress' sleeves, she pulled it over her head and discarded it. The long red hair floated down again.

Dworkin stared at the girl's thin, pallid body, noticing the small breasts and unblemished skin. “Are you sure you're nineteen?” he asked huskily.

“Nearly twenty,” she replied.

“I'm old enough to be your father,” he mused. Then he smiled. “But not your grandfather. Let's go upstairs.”

Later, as Dworkin lay on the bed, there were new sounds—his faster heartbeat, his shallow, rasping breathing, and the girl's steadier respiration. He reached for the alarm clock on his bedside locker. As he did, she stirred and looked at him with a predatory expression.

“That was wonderful,” she whispered, kissing the loose skin on his throat. “Let's do it again.” Her lips slid to his wrinkled chest, teeth pulling playfully at the few white hairs.

“No, my child,” he said with an indulgent smile and a comforting pat on her perfect bottom, “we should rest a while. A man needs to get his…breath back.”

She threw her body over his beneath the sheets as if he hadn't spoken, hugging him tightly and pressing her taut belly into the folds of damp flesh around his waist. Was the rhythmic thumping in his head getting louder?

“Look, I really can't right away,” he gasped, trying now to push her away, but his arms were drained of strength. “You see, I have a heart condition. I have to be careful.”

Still, she didn't hear. How could she over the screaming of blood. It was deafening him. And that ringing in the head.

“Come on, old man,” she snarled. “Now!”

She was suddenly heavy on his chest. Or was the weight some other pain? The ringing was louder, regular, insistent.

“I can't breathe,” he wheezed. “Please…” But it was too late. The girl's contorted, rapacious face began to fade from view, her cries dying away, until all that was left was the piercing ringing, ringing, in his ears.

The ringing…

Dworkin shook himself fully awake and gazed blearily at the alarm clock, but it wasn't guilty of the noise. Quarter past midnight! Whoever was telephoning at this hour had better have a good reason for interrupting his regular Sunday night fantasy about the girl who lived across the street. Now he'd have to start all over again, and he wasn't sure he could recreate the mood. He stumbled from his bed, put his woolen dressing gown on over his pajamas, searched unsuccessfully for his slippers, and staggered grumpily down the stairs. He really should get an upstairs extension.

“Yes?” he snapped into the telephone.

“Mr. Dworkin?”

“Yes. Who's this?”

“This is Oliver Swithin, from the Sanders…”

“Oh, Mr. Swithin.” Dworkin knew that deference was never off-duty in his job. “How nice of you to call. What can I do for you, sir?”

“I have to ask you a question, very urgently. It could be a matter of life and death.”

“Please go on.”

“What sign are you?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“What's sign of the zodiac were you born under?”

That was it. Swithin had lost his marbles. Dworkin always thought the young man was one dormouse short of a tea-party, and the behavior with the waste paper last week had only fueled this suspicion. But to wake people up in the middle of the night with some nonsensical question about signs of the zodiac! There could only be one solution: not being Californian (which might also have excused the time of the call), Swithin had to be insane. Dworkin knew exactly what to do: humor him, then telephone the authorities. Wasn't his uncle some kind of bigwig at Scotland Yard?

“I'm Taurus, sir, the sign of the bull. My old father used to say I was born under the Bull and the Bull was rather surprised about it. Thank you for asking.”

A sigh of relief came down the phone line.

“Then let me ask you something else. You were on a jury a couple of years ago, at the Old Bailey.”

Juries now. Swithin had really gone over the edge. Not healthy for a young man to think about ferrets all day long. “Yes, sir. That's where I first met your late friend, Sir Harry. It was through him that I got my job at the Sanders.”

“Can you remember anybody else on the jury?”

“Oh, sir, it was two years ago, and we didn't deliberate very long, as I recall. Let me see.” Dworkin subsided onto the stairs, trying to remember. “Most of the talking was done by Sir Harry and another man, who was some kind of estate agent.”

“If I say some of the names, will that help?”

“You could try.”

“Nettie Clapper.”

“Clapper? Doesn't ring a bell…”

“Some might say otherwise,” murmured Oliver. “Mark Sandys-Penza.”

“It sounds very familiar, but I couldn't be sure.”

“Gordon Paper.”

“No, I don't think so.”

“Vanessa Parmenter.”

“Yes!” Dworkin exclaimed. “Ah now, I definitely remember her. Young thing, isn't she? Probably in her twenties but looked younger. Blonde hair. Lived in Kingston.”

Bingo. Oliver was silent for a moment. “I think that's her,” he said quietly. “Any others?”

“I don't know. Oh wait, there was this old fellow who kept us in stitches. Worked on the railways. What was his name? Arnie something.”

“Archie?”

“That's it, Archie. Archie…Brock!”

“Any more?”

A pause. “No, sir, not that I can bring to mind right now.”

“Thank you, Mr. Dworkin, and please keep thinking. If you remember any other names, call me at the club. Don't go back to bed. The police will call on you shortly and ask you to go with them. There's nothing to worry about. Good night.”

Paranoid, thought Dworkin as he put the receiver down. Poor Mr. Swithin, thinks he's in some Kafka story. Ah well, time enough to call the funny farm in the morning. Vanessa Parmenter, eh? He'd forgotten about her. Now what if
she
were to turn up in his sitting room in the middle of the night…

***

Oliver ran from the club manager's office, where he had been using the telephone, and found his uncle in the lobby. Mallard was still speaking to Detective Sergeant Moldwarp at the Yard. The waiter, who had bound Scroop's bleeding finger, put him into a taxi, and scooped the ferret back into its box, was sitting on a bench, watching the activity with his mouth open a little and his eyes open a lot.

“That's it!” Oliver shouted. Mallard covered the mouthpiece.

“What?”

“Dworkin remembered two of the victims. It's definitely that jury.”

Mallard closed his eyes and seemed to say a short prayer.

“What sign was Dworkin?” he asked.

“He's Taurus.”

“Then he's safe for now. I'll get one of my lads to pick him up and take him somewhere safe. Did he give us any new names?”

“No.”

“Hell's teeth. So we still don't know who the Virgin is.” He returned to the telephone. “I don't care what time it is, Sergeant, I need those records. Even if we have to wake up the Lord Chancellor. We must find out who was on that jury. Yes, it's definite now. Good, call me back.”

Mallard hung up the phone. “Bloody red tape,” he muttered. “I may have to go over to the Yard and add my own weight to the proceedings. I wish Effie were there—she has ways of getting things done that even I can't fathom.”

“Shall I call her?” asked Oliver, hopefully. He was prepared to risk her sleepy irritation for the privilege of being the first voice she'd hear on waking. Maybe it wouldn't be the only time. He wanted to find out what had she thought of the inscription he had eventually written in the Finsbury book and mutely handed over when she returned from the hospital with Geoffrey: “To Effie, best wishes, Oliver (O.C. Blithely).” Could she read between the lines?

“No, let her sleep.” Mallard noticed the waiter, who had been attempting to follow the conversation without success. The Lord Chancellor was a virgin? “How about a couple of brandies?” Mallard asked genially.

“I shall sit here, on and off, for days and days,” the waiter intoned, and began whistling. Then he noticed Mallard's expression, and slipped away quickly.

“Brandy, uncle?” asked Oliver. “Not champagne?”

“No celebrations yet,” Mallard replied seriously. “We haven't saved the life of the Virgo, even assuming there is one, and we certainly haven't identified the murderer.”

“Given that the victims were on a jury,” Oliver mused, “it does rather suggest a motive—some connection with the case they were trying, a disgruntled convict, perhaps. The whole zodiac thing could have been a smoke screen to get us looking in the wrong direction.”