No Stone Unturned (40 page)

“I’m just trying to tie up the loose ends,” I said. “A witness said three men visited the room. You were the last one.”

“But not the one who killed her.”

Hakim pushed out of the booth and stood up. Fadge made no move to stop him this time. Hakim nodded curtly in lieu of a good-bye and then strode purposefully to the door. He grabbed the handle and gave it a yank. The door refused to open. He rattled it two more times, then turned sheepishly to Fadge, who was watching from a stool at the counter.

“Would you unlock the door, please?”

Fadge pushed off his stool, shuffled over to the door, and fished a key ring from his pocket. To Hakim, it must have seemed like five minutes for the big man to locate the correct key, though it was probably more like twenty seconds. When Fadge finally unlocked the door, Hakim slipped past him into the cold night. I followed him out, intent on having a look under his car. But a taxi was waiting, and he climbed in. Then he was gone.

Inside the envelope, I found four color snapshots of Jordan and Jerrold, taken somewhere in India almost a year and a half earlier. In two pictures, they were holding hands. From a distance, it appeared Jordan was wearing some dark lace gloves reaching halfway up her forearms. In the third and fourth, Jordan and Jerrold were wrapped in a tight embrace, nose to nose like lovers, standing in the courtyard of some kind of palace. The buildings were beautiful—with intricate, carved detail—deep red in color and nearly deserted. The last photograph was taken with a long zoom, a little bit grainy, but I could see the lace gloves were not gloves at all. They were actually magnificent henna tattoos.
Mehndi
.

The pictures had been taken from a distance of about fifty or sixty feet. They almost passed for simple tourist shots, but there was an unsettling feel of voyeurism about them, and I was sure they were stolen photographs, surreptitiously taken by someone who didn’t want to be seen. I thought back to Jordan’s letter to Ginny, the one gushing about the perfect night in Fatehpur Sikri with David Jerrold, and I wondered if perhaps the lovers hadn’t escaped the prying eyes of the world after all.

And there was more. Two letters at the bottom of the envelope, both written in Jordan’s hand, made most interesting reading. The first was dated September 1, 1960, addressed to Jeffrey Nichols. After some small talk about the boredom of New Holland, Jordan Shaw gave me what I wanted.

I’ve been thinking of the time we spent together in India and realize that David and I were perhaps indiscreet. I know that I can rely on your tact and friendship. As far as I’m concerned, it makes no difference. I don’t care if people gossip about me because I love David so much. His position is very delicate, though, at least until he gets his divorce and his tenure case is decided. I know people wouldn’t understand, but this is not a frivolous affair for us. We’re planning to marry as soon as possible . . .

I wasn’t so sure Jerrold ever intended to divorce for Jordan, but she seemed convinced.

The second letter was dated November 16, 1960, and was a stream of consciousness narrative of her heartbreak. She had just received the Dear Jordan letter and was pouring her heart out to her friend Jeffrey Nichols.

He led me on. He told me he loved me, and now he’s tossing me aside. I called him after I got his letter, and he said my mother had phoned his wife and told her everything. I suppose that’s my fault, but that liar had said he’d already told his wife! He promised me that he was leaving her, that we’d be together by Christmas, but he was just stringing me along. Ginny warned me about getting involved with a professor, but I fell in love with him anyway. And you were right about him, too: David Jerrold is a liar and a cheat. I want to forget him forever, but I know I can’t. I can’t because I’m still in love with him.

Less than two weeks later, Jordan welcomed the cheating liar back into her bed, this time for the last time, at the Mohawk Motel.

THURSDAY, DECEMBER 8, 1960

“Ellie, it’s Frank Olney,” came the voice over the line. “You better get over to my office right away. We picked up that Indian guy after midnight, but there’s a snag.”

“I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I said, rolling out of bed with great difficulty.

George Walsh was waiting outside Frank Olney’s office when I arrived. He glared at me, inspecting my fading bruises, and wrote something on his pad.

“This is my story, Stone. You can’t see the sheriff; I was here first.”

I smiled, then Pat Halvey entered from the sheriff’s office. “Is Frank in?” I asked.

“Sure, Ellie. Go right in, he’s expecting you.”

I turned to George Walsh and shrugged.

“That does it!” he said, rising to leave. “I’m calling Mr. Short.”

“Get me some coffee first, will you?” I said as he stormed out.

Frank Olney was lodged behind his steel desk, and the DA was staring out the window when I came in.

“We got trouble here,” said the sheriff.

“The guy claims he’s with the Indian consulate,” said Don. “Produced a diplomatic passport. He demanded his one phone call right away, and when we finally let him make it at about three a.m., he called New York. He spoke for a couple of minutes in Hindi or some such language, then handed the phone to Frank.”

“A man named P. V. Singh was on the line,” said Frank, reading from some notes. “Said he was the consul general of India, for God’s sake. He was hooting that we had no right to hold his son, and we’d better let him go immediately if we didn’t want an international incident right here in New Holland. He said his son was protected by a diplomatic passport, and he was calling the State Department!”

“So what did you tell him?”

“Don talked to him,” said the sheriff, motioning to the DA.

“I told him he could call the State Department if he wanted, but we were going to hold his son regardless. A diplomatic passport doesn’t mean we can’t detain him. We’ve got the right to process him and check his status, like anybody else we bring in. Then the Indians called back and hollered a little more, said they were sending a representative immediately to fish him out of jail.”

“What’s the bottom line?”

“We’re going to release him. I’ve been on the phone to Washington, Boston, the state police, and J. Edgar Hoover. His papers are in order.”

“How much longer can you hold him?”

“Not long. They’re due within the hour.”

“So, that’s it,” said Frank, standing up to circle his desk. “I don’t want to risk an international incident over this damn turbanhead. I want that guy out of my jail before George Walsh finds out he’s here. That’s all I need, the whole town knowing I had Jordan Shaw’s murderer locked up, then let him go. I promised Pat Halvey I’d rip his tongue out of his mouth if he breathed a word. So nobody knows but us: Don, Halvey, you, and me. And that’s the way it stays.”

“Can I talk to him?” I asked. “Maybe we can get some answers without an international incident.”

“Go ahead,” he said in disgust. “But that damn Indian is leaving when his paisans come to fetch him.”

Roy was not in a cell. The sheriff had locked him in a holding room used for prisoners awaiting arraignment. How ironic, I thought; Judge Shaw had passed sentence so many times on men who had waited in that room. Frank let me in alone.

“Miss Stone, yet again a pleasant surprise!” said the jolly prisoner, rising to greet me.

“Hello, Prakash,” I said, opting for his given name. “Or is it good-bye?”

“I’m afraid so.”

“Will you answer a couple of questions for me?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“Tell me about November 25th.”

“Don’t blame me, Miss Stone. It’s indeed unfortunate that any harm came to Jordan; I rather liked her, actually.”

“But you didn’t want to flunk out of Tufts, right? So you killed her regardless of your affection for her.”

“I did not kill her.”

“But you cut out a piece of her skin.”

Roy smiled again, but didn’t answer yes or no. “Dr. Jerrold put himself in great jeopardy with his indiscretion. He’s up for tenure and would be of little use to me if he were sent away. An affair with an undergraduate could be fatal to his career. And mine. After Monday, the question will be settled once and for all; the faculty are meeting to take their final decision. With no scandal, he’s a sure bet for tenure.”

“Jerrold says you killed her.”

“Not true,” he said. “He’s been imagining conspiracies ever since I ran into them in Delhi last August. He was horrified, of course; he assumed he was safe from scrutiny so far from home.”

“So you don’t want to leave Tufts?” I asked. “Is flunking out so bad? Worth blackmail?”

“I don’t believe there is any proof I have blackmailed Professor Jerrold. Has he lodged a complaint with the police?”

“You know he hasn’t,” I said, and Roy smiled.

“As for my studies, you don’t know my father. He would send me back to Delhi. I’ve grown accustomed to this country; I like it. What would I have in India? A government job, an arranged marriage to the daughter of some backwater
babu
, and the attentions of my overbearing mother. I like to smoke, enjoy a beer or whiskey in the evening. I can’t do that there. No, I want to stay here.”

“Even if it means exerting a little influence over a randy professor? A couple of innocent girls die, but so what? So long as Jerrold walks away unscathed and in your debt.”

“It is not as heartless as you make it sound. I told you I didn’t kill Jordan.”

“But you did remove all evidence of Jerrold’s presence in her room that night, tampered with evidence, and probably jeopardized the investigation.”

He smiled but said nothing.

“And maybe you palmed Jordan’s things, too. Her purse, for instance?”

“I’ve read the papers and know that the purse was discovered in her Boston flat. Perhaps she neglected to take it with her for the Thanksgiving break.”

“She took it with her, all right,” I corrected. “The police found a receipt from the Mohawk Motel inside, dated November 25th.”

Roy’s eyebrow inched up his forehead, but there was no other sign of concern. “I’m sure the Boston police tested the purse for fingerprints?”

“Wiped clean.”

“I see. Did you expect anything else?”

I confessed that I had not.

“Just a few more questions, then,” I said. “To satisfy my own curiosity, you understand.”

“As many as you like, Miss Stone. You’ve worked long and hard on this investigation; your curiosity is understandable.”

“Who do you think killed Ginny White?”

Roy frowned. “Why do you think I would know that?”

“Because I went through Jordan’s apartment before the police did,” I said. “I believe someone removed incriminating evidence against Jerrold. That leads me to think of you.”

“But I’ve admitted to nothing of the kind. You present interesting theories, but all are conjecture.”

“I think you removed all of Jerrold’s effects from the apartment: clothing, letters, photographs . . . You couldn’t risk having the police link him to the deceased, or the scandal would sink his tenure bid. But I’ll wager you’ve saved every last item you took. How better to hold a threat over Jerrold’s head? It was a thorough job, to be sure. But you missed something.”

“Obviously,” said Roy. “Otherwise, you would never have pursued Dr. Jerrold with such zeal. Tell me, Miss Stone, what did you find?”

“The brush-off letter he’d sent Jordan,” I said. “It was under her pillow.”

“And you’re sure it was from Jerrold? He actually signed the letter?” asked Roy.

“No, there was no signature,” I conceded.

“Then how can you be sure it was Jerrold and not someone else who wrote it?”

“He spelled
realize
the British way.”

Roy’s eyes sparkled, and he granted me my small victory with a smile. I couldn’t figure him; it was just a game, nothing personal at all, and he enjoyed the friendly contest.

“Your burglar clearly underestimated her romantic side. He should have checked the pillow.”

I was ready to turn up the heat. “What about the tattoo?” I asked.