Even the Butler Was Poor (15 page)

"You're still at home, aren't you?"

"Yeah."

"Then we certainly have the number, Mr. Kathkart."

"Okay, thanks for nothing, bimbo." He hung up, giving a satisfied nod.

He needed a voice to use on Kathkart and now he had one. He needed to know where Kathkart was and now he did. After drumming the fingers of his left hand on the edge of the telephone stand, he phoned the actor's home in Westport. A woman with a sharp nasal voice answered, "Kathkart residence."

"My dear, this is Arthur Moon," Ben said in his Moon voice. "I understand Barry's been trying to get in touch with—"

"You bet your wrinkled up old ass I have, Artie," said Kathkart, coming loudly onto the line. "I think, by the way, you ought to fire that bitch you have answering the—"

"Barry, Barry, calm down, please. Do you have any news about the Mavity girl?"

"I have the Mavity girl, which is what I've been trying to get through to you about."

Ben's grip tightened on the receiver. "She's at your place now, my boy?"

"She will be any minute. Leo and Chico are bringing her here."

"Where was she hiding—"

"I'll give you all the details later, Artie. That little tracking bug they planted in her car paid off," Kathkart said, chuckling. "How soon can you get out here?"

"I'm afraid I won't be able to leave the new client for several more hours, Barry."

"Shit, then we won't be able to question her until I get back from that half-assed personal appearance you and Les talked me into."

"That will be satisfactory, my boy," Ben said, sounding exactly like the advertising executive. "And, please, see to it that she isn't harmed in anyway."

"That bitch has given us a lot of trouble. She should be taught—"

"Nevertheless, Barry, I want no further violence."

"Okay, nobody'll hurt her, Artie. Not until we start asking our questions, trust me." Kathkart hung up with a slam of the phone.

Ben next called the Lenzer, Moon & Lombard office once more. "Hi, bimbo. This is your favorite television personality," he told the switchboard, using the Kathkart voice.

"Mr. Kathkart, I've already told you that—"

"Zip your lip, hon, and pay attention. Something has just now come up," he said. "So tell the old fart I won't be home or available on the phone until after my half-assed personal appearance tonight. He can forget bout returning my call until then."

"Very well, Mr. Kathkart. I'll convey that message."

"Love the way you say my name. It'd freeze the balls off a whole tribe of Eskimos. Bye, sweetie."

Hanging up, Ben leaned back again and sighed, then rose and very quietly slipped out of the room.

"I
t's too risky."

"I'm going to try anyway."

"Call the police, try your friend Ryerson."

"If I can get her out of Kathkart's on my own the police won't even have to know she was involved in this mess."

"Ben, these guys have kidnapped her. That happens to be a serious crime."

"So is murder Joe. And once H.J. is safe we can tip the police off—anonymously—that Kathkart and his cronies have a couple of murders to their credit."

"Maybe the score will be three before you can do anything about it."

T
he two men were in Sankowitz's big, white-walled studio. It was nearly 5:30.

Ben, pacing slowly in front of the row of black filing cabinets, said, "From that fragment of phone message, I'd guess that H.J. was planning to drop the whole damn blackmail idea," he told his friend. "So if I can keep her clear of the law then—"

"For Christ's sake, every cop in this part of the state has a picture of her bending over a corpse," reminded Sankowitz, who was sitting with his back to his drawing board. "So even if you succeeded, possibly with divine intervention, in springing her from those bastards, she'd still—"

"What the police have is a muddy picture of a blurry woman who could be just about anybody."

"Not just anybody, but someone who knew Rick Dell. And by this time they're probably aware that Helen dated the guy."

"So did Trinity Winters, among several others," Ben said. "Now tell me who the victim was."

"What time do you intend to attempt this ill advised Rambo operation?"

"Soon as Kathkart and company leave for his personal appearance. He's due over in Westchester in 8:00, isn't he?"

"According to the newspaper yarn."

"Then he'll be leaving Westport between 6:30 and 7:00. I have to be stationed someplace where I can keep an eye on his mansion not later than 6:15."

"Foolhardy," said the cartoonist. "I'll tell you something. Most of the time you were married to her—at least during the years when I knew the both of you—you were always doing stupid things like this."

"Nope, wrong. I never once rescued H.J. from kidnappers."

"Yeah, but you were forever bailing her out of trouble. If she got a flat tire out in the boondocks, you'd drop everything to rush over there and change it for her rather than letting her phone the damn Triple A. When she was overdrawn on her checking account, you were always the one who—"

"That's love, Joe."

"Bullshit."

"Look, we're chums and all, but I didn't drop by for marriage counseling. Especially since I'm not even married at the moment. Just, c'mon, please, fill me in on what you found out about the old gentleman they carted off in Beaujack's Mercedes."

After a few seconds Sankowitz picked a manila envelope off the taboret beside his board. He took out two sheets of photocopy paper. "His name was Myron Zepperman, aged seventy-three," he said. "The reason I recognized him is that about five years ago he got a small write up in People."

"Who was he?"

"Zepperman, who does look quite a lot like my Uncle Herschel except not so sour, had an unusual occupation. He was chief researcher for
Odd, Isn't it?
"

"That newspaper cartoon panel full of unbelievable facts?"

"Yes, and one of my favorites in my youth. I was especially fond of people who grew potatoes that bore an uncanny resemblance to Richard Nixon. Zepperman, who never got a credit on the panel, supplied most of the oddities for the past forty years."

Ben took the two pages from his friend. They were copies of newspaper obituaries. "Says here he was found dead a couple miles from his home in New Rochelle, New York, eight days ago. The police speculate that he went out for a late night walk and was mugged. His wallet was missing, his watch and so on."

"The alleged mugger beat him so severely that he died of internal injuries. The body was dumped in the alley where it was found."

"That's one of the things we figured they might've done." Ben studied the photo that accompanied the larger obit. "This is sure enough the guy in Rick Dell's pictures."

"Impress on your pea-sized brain the part about his being severely beaten," advised Sankowitz. "You could well be the next in line for internal injuries."

"Nope, it was most likely Kathkart who did the beating." He handed the copies back. "Kathkart will be long gone before I hit his place. I wonder why he killed the old man."

"From what you've told me about the Kathkart temperament, it wouldn't take much to incite him to slug somebody."

"Yeah, but what was somebody like Zepperman doing at Kathkart's mansion in the first place?"

"No way of telling for sure," said Sankowitz. "Although one or two possibilities did occur to me."

"Such as?"

"Zepperman was, by profession, somebody who devoted his days to digging up odd and obscure facts. Possibly, as a sideline, he dug up odd and obscure facts that people paid him to keep quiet about."

"Meaning that Rick Dell was blackmailing them about the murder of a blackmailer?"

"And got murdered for his troubles."

"A mite farfetched maybe, huh? Of course, we have no way of knowing if Zepperman really was a blackmailer."

"No, it isn't something they would have mentioned in that
People
profile."

"Still, it could be an angle that—"

"Why are you two sitting here in the dark?"

"It's not dark, Rhonda my love. Darkness doesn't officially begin in these parts until the sun sets."

A plump blonde woman, decked out in white tennis shorts and a white cardigan, had appeared in the doorway of the studio. "Tell him, Ben, that he'll go blind if he sits around in the dark."

"That is a proven fact, Joe."

"Welcome home, darling," Sankowitz said in the direction of his wife. "Go away."

She reached over and clicked on the light switch. "How are you, Ben? You don't look especially worried for someone who's facing a long term in prison."

"Prison?" He looked from her to her husband.

"From what Joe's been telling me about your escapades over the past few days, I'd guess five to ten in the slammer," said Rhonda amiably. "Would you like some organic grapes and a cup of herbal tea?"

"Maybe I ought to have bread and water instead, to get in training for prison life."

She said, "As I recall, H.J. was perpetually leading you astray during your turbulent marriage."

"So all the gossip columns proclaimed."

Sankowitz told her, "Loved one, this isn't England and nobody wishes afternoon tea. Scram."

"Ben looks as though he hasn't eaten for a week."

"Actually he looks like an overstuffed sofa," countered her husband. "Begone, dear, and allow us to finish our important and private conversation."

Rhonda said, "I think it's very Christian of you to have anything at all to do with H.J., considering all the grief she caused you."

"Well, it's a well-known fact that I'm in line for sainthood."

"Rhonda, really now, take your leave."

"He never likes me to drop in on him in his studio here," she told Ben. "Most normal people, thank you very much, find me most comforting. Over at the Brimstone Hospice, where I do volunteer work twice each week, they think of my visits as—"

"We're not dying is the trouble," her husband pointed out. "Were we bound for immediate glory, I'm sure we'd both delight in having you hang around."

"I guess I'll change and shower. Would you like a plate of oat bran and carob chip cookies, Ben?"

"Not really, no."

"Well, good luck with the tremendous botch you've made of your life." Smiling, she took her leave.

"Do you have a gun I can borrow?" Ben asked the cartoonist.

"You'd need silver bullets for Rhonda."

"No, I mean a gun I can take along with me to—"

"This isn't the local chapter of the NRA."

"What's that over there on the bookcase?"

Sankowitz turned to look in the direction he was pointing. "Merely a prop, a Colt Six Shooter. Barrel's plugged."

"Can I borrow it?"

"I guess so, sure. But I think guys who stick knives in comics and beat up gents in their seventies aren't going to be much intimidated by a prop cowboy gun."

Ben went over, picked up the gun, thrust it in his waistband and pulled his sport coat over to conceal the protruding butt of the weapon. "Might come in handy."

"Be careful when you sit down now. It's quite easy to drive the barrel right down into your groin."

"Helpful Hints On Gunhandling by Joseph Sankowitz."

He checked his wristwatch. "I'd better be going."

"What time do you intend to burst in?"

"At the latest it'll be a little after seven."

"Forget it," advised Sankowitz. "Stay right here and call the law."

"No, I have to give it a try."

"Maybe you ought to stop long enough for those cookies and some tea. Could be your last meal."

"I'll see you." Ben, adjusting the six-shooter, headed for the doorway.

A
very uninteresting shade of brown, roughly the color of peanut butter after it's been exposed to the air for several days. She awoke to find herself surrounded by it.

H.J. contemplated her possible location for a moment and then decided she might get more information if she opened her eyes further.

That proved to be an extremely unpleasant experience. Too much light came rushing in and a very jittery display of dancing specks started up. Even shutting her eyes didn't stop the light show. It reminded her of something second rate Canadian animators might have turned out.

She tried opening her eyes again, though more slowly and carefully this time. The godawful shade of brown was emanating from the rough woolen blanket she found she was sprawled on face down. The blanket, she determined by prodding it with the hand she wasn't lying on top of, seemed to be part of a bed.

But sure as hell not the bed in . . . In where?