The Balloon Man (13 page)

Getting into Boston was, as usual, a gamble with fate, but Max knew all the tricks. He even found a parking place not more
than a healthful walk to the worn granite steps up which Jem had toiled so many times. He followed a tactful step behind,
just in case, as Egbert and Jem puffed up
the stairs and into the elevator that took them to the second floor.

The apartment was a shambles.

Worse than that, the apartment was occupied. Sprawled face-down across Jem's good sofa was a body. It was attired in a paisley
dressing gown and a pair of backless leather slippers that were too big for it. One of them had fallen off the dangling foot.

“Good heavens,” Egbert exclaimed. “He's dead!”

“Damned impertinence!” Jem growled. “He's wearing my dressing gown and slippers! I don't know what the worlds coming to, people
dying in one's clothes. What are we supposed to do now? Rent a wheelbarrow and dump him out on the Common?”

“That wont be necessary,” Max said, wrinkling his nose. The odor was unmistakable. “Why did you do it, Louie?”

The corpse sat up, Gorgonzola sandwich in hand.

“Do what?”

“Steal Mr. Kelling's car.”

“I didn't.”

“Then who did?”

“He did.”

“He who?”

“Him.”

“Can't you talk straight for a change?”

“No.”

Max shook his head. “Ask a stupid question and you get a stupid answer.”

“Maybe he's still in shock, Mr. Max.” Egbert was relieved to find they didn't have a dead body on their hands. “How did you
get in here, Louis? We left this place locked up tighter than a drum; I've told you that Mr. Jem does not want you here when
he's not around. We can't be changing the locks every twenty minutes.”

Max stared at Egbert. “You know this guy?”

Egbert looked embarrassed. “Not to say know, Mr. Max. You see, what happened was that the Comrades of the Convivial Codfish
decided the society ought to form its own musical group, so at Mr. Jem's insistence I advertised for people who could play
a musical saw, an old-fashioned policeman's rattle, and a penny whistle. Louis here showed up a couple of weeks ago with a
penny whistle—”

“Which he probably pinched from someone,” Max interrupted.

“He doesn't play it very well,” Jem remarked critically. “However, I remembered him from the old days, when he was a callow
youth who used to hang around Danny Rate's Pub, near the Old Howard, picking pockets and stealing tips off the tables. He
assured me he'd led a respectable life since, and he's quite well informed on English music hall ballads, especially the vulgar
variety written and sung sometime around the turn of the century. I refer to the century that's now just about kaput, as opposed
to the one that's waiting to clobber us with new horrors that I for one shall be happy to escape. Louie, do you know that
little gem whose chorus ends And the body's downstairs'?”

“Let me think a minute.”

“Damned if I will,” Max snarled. “Hey, Jem, where the hell are you going?”

“For a brief nap, I expect,” Egbert replied as his employer vanished into the bedroom and slammed the door. “He's developed
napping to a fine art, you know, just flops down on his bed and sleeps for an hour or so, then hell be fresh as a daisy for
the next couple of hours. I think having Louis around tires him.”

“He would tire me,” Max agreed.

“I know, Mr. Max. But you see, Mr. Jem's used to having a lot of people around, and his old friends are starting to die off,
and when he found out Louis knows more of those old music hall ballads than anybody else Mr. Jem has ever run into, he got
in the habit of inviting him over for a friendly little sing-along, as you might say. You know, how Mr. Jem loves to sing
about the Fall River line and the old overnight boats. I must admit that Louis's habit of slipping Mr. Jem's gold watch and
cuff links into his pocket can be annoying, but he always returns them when I ask.”

Max was halfway to the boiling point by this time. “I don't believe this! No, I take it back. Knowing Jem, I do believe it.
Did he give good old Louie permission to steal his car?”

“Did you do that, Louis?” Egbert looked disapprovingly at the stand-in, who had risen to his feet. “Shame on you!”

“I didn't steal, it, I just borrowed it. It's parked just around the corner. I even adjusted the meter so it stays on
two hours all the time, so you wouldn't get a ticket,” Louie added virtuously.

Max sighed. “Dial 911 for me, would you, Egbert, and hand me the phone when you get hold of whoever's in charge of impertinent
corpses and car thieves.”

“It was only a bit of fun, for goodness' sake. Some people are so picky. Can't even take a joke. I can't sit around here all
day twiddling my thumbs. I've got things to do.”

“Such as what, for instance?”

“Oh, I don't know. Whatever happens, happens. At least I'm fairly sure it does. It always has, so far. Well, so long, folks.
It's been great.”

“Cut it out, Louie,” said Max. “Your oblique conversational style may suffice to distract people like, uh, these kindly gentlemen,
but I've had about enough. You aren't leaving until the police show up. And put Mr. Killing's walking stick back in the umbrella
stand. I'm not stupid enough to fall for that trick again.”

“Dear me,” exclaimed the former corpse, examining the heavy gold-headed stick in pretended surprise. “Did I pick this up?
I do suffer from a harmless spot of kleptomania, you know; my analyst tells me my parents are to blame, or would be if they
were still around, which they aren't, Mum having flown the coop some years ago with a traveling plumber, and dear old Dad—”

“I said, that's enough.” Max took the phone from Egbert. “Who's this? … Oh, KilkaUen. This is Max Bittersohn. Remember me?”
The telephone squawked at him.
Max grinned. “Yes, I remember the incident fondly, too.… Yes, I know you don't do car thefts or breaking and entering. We
found a dead body at our place at Ireson's Landing yesterday.… Yes, I know that's not in your jurisdiction, but the suspect
is. He stole Jem Killing's car and fled to Jem's apartment in Boston, where I just found him. You know where it is. Send somebody
over to pick him up, will you?”

“Hey, wait a minute,” Louie exclaimed. “You can't pin that one on me. I never killed nobody in my life!”

Having received a profane acknowledgment of his request from Kilkallen, Max hung up the phone and studied his suspect with
satisfaction. He'd pegged Louis the Locksmith as nothing more vicious than a petty crook, an inveterate scrounger, and a grabber
up of anything potentially useful to Louie himself. The threat of a murder charge had sobered him.

“So you've decided to stop playing games, have you? We've got plenty to hold you on, Louie. Two counts of breaking and entering,
one count of assault, one of auto theft. And I'll bet I can think up a few more if I put my mind to it, including accessory
before, after, and maybe during a murder.”

“I didn't have nothing to do with that!”

“You're protesting too much, as my recent acquaintance Mr. Mortlake would say. If you didn't kill the guy, Louie, you know
who did. Don't you think it would be a good idea to come clean?”

“Oh, Mr. Bittersohn, you wound me! That would be a serious breach of etiquette. I may be a crook, but I'm never gauche. Surely
you wouldn't want me to rat on a friend.” He gave Max a calculating look. “However, I've no objection to spending a few days
in police custody. It's the least I can do, I suppose, to make up for my inadvertent social lapses. Do you want to put the
cuffs on me now?”

“Its beginning to look as though we might not make it back in time for lunch,” Egbert said. “Shall I give Mrs. Sarah a ring
and let her know we've been held up?”

The police had come and gone with their prisoner. Louie hadn't put up a fight or even an argument, but he hadn't admitted
anything, either. His final comment had been “Don't bother putting up bail for me, Mr. Kelling.”

“She wasn't expecting us for lunch,” Max said. “Lets get this show on the road. Got everything you need, Jem?”

“No, blast it, I still haven't been able to locate that ballad about the body downstairs. Egbert, are you planning to spend
the rest of the day folding my pajamas?”

“They're all folded and packed, Mr. Jem, along with your spare dentures and your nightcap. I was thinking that we might better
save the ballads until we take that trip to England you've been talking about for the past thirty years
or so. The Brits love that kind of stuff, or used to; they're bound to have scads of ballads over there.”

Max put an end to the conversation by picking up the largest and heaviest bags before Egbert could get at them. Egbert took
the smaller and lighter ones. Jem Kelling made heavy work of carrying a shaving kit that must have weighed almost a quarter
of a pound. Max stowed the luggage away in the boot, as Jem insisted on calling it, and stowed his passengers in the tonneau,
got in behind the wheel, glanced at his watch, swore, and switched on the engine.

“Excuse me, Mr. Max,” Egbert said politely, “but would you mind seeing if we can find where Louis parked Mr. Jem's car? I've
no doubt he can bollix a parking meter as efficiently as he can pick a lock, but I have been informed the police have other
methods of ascertaining whether a vehicle has been left too long in a specific location and we ought perhaps make arrangements
for moving it.”

“Good point,” Max admitted. “I should have told Kilkallen about Louie's ingenuous admission, but there was so much else going
on that I forgot. Louie didn't happen to mention which corner he'd parked it around, did he?”

“I don't believe he did. Perhaps we could cast about, so to speak.”

“The trouble is, I've got an appointment out in Sturbridge at two o'clock. I had planned to leave you two at a likely watering
hole nearby and maybe even join you in a bite, but this business with Louie has taken longer than I
expected. I'll have to drop you off and come back for you, and I don't have time to fight my way through this unholy maze
of one-way streets. Suppose you telephone Kilkallen from the restaurant and let the cops look for the car? Ten to one its
been towed by now anyhow.”

“What's this appointment?” Jem demanded.

Egbert coughed genteelly. “‘With whom is this appointment’ would be better, grammar, sir”

“Tracy's father.”

“Aha!” Jem crowed. “Good thinking, Max. But you don't really believe that self-centered old satyr sprung for a gift of that
value, do you? Not that the necklace isn't vulgar enough to appeal to him, but he'd be far more likely to bestow it on one
of his floozies. I remember a diamond bracelet with which I won the lavish favors of the luscious Lucy Lazonga—”

“Tell me about it another time,” Max interrupted. He didn't believe for a moment that any Kelling, even a self-proclaimed
satyr like Jem, would have shelled out for diamonds. Paste or glass, possibly, if the Kelling in question were desperately
enamored, but never genuine stones.

“I unquestionably will,” Jem said. “And I can give the narrative the panache it deserves once I've got a couple of martinis
under my belt. You're not leaving me and Egbert, though. I insist on being present to assist in the third degree.”

“But you just said the old boy probably doesn't know
anything about the necklace,” Max objected, sliding neatly past a taxi that had stopped to let off a fare.

“We won't know for certain until we've subjected him to intensive questioning,” Jem said with relish. “Egbert, did you pack
the rubber hose?”

Max had had about much cockamamie Kelling conversation as he could stand for one morning, so he concentrated on getting through
the grisly city traffic as expeditiously as possible without jarring his elderly passengers. In fact, he mused, it might not
be a bad idea to take Jem with him. Maybe they could play bad cop, good cop. Jem would love that, and he'd be good at it,
too. Nobody could be ruder than a Kelling.

He wondered whether Egbert had packed a rubber hose. And of course the penny whistle.

“What about lunch?” he asked. “I doubt we'll have time to stop anywhere, and you must already be peckish, as Egbert would
say.”

“Oh, that's quite all right, sir.” Egbert's genteel tones were accompanied by a rattle of paper. “I took the liberty of packing
us a little picnic. One never knows what will eventuate, and it is best to be prepared for the worst. Would you care for chicken
salad or pastrami?”

“Need you ask?” Max stretched an arm back and accepted a neatly wrapped sandwich and a cylindrical object encased even more
securely in foil. “I might have known you wouldn't forget the pickle, Egbert. This wouldn't happen to be one of Warty's best,
would it?”

“It certainly would not, Mr. Max. Only desperation would force me to add a product of Warty Pickles to our larder.”

“That bad? Come to think of it, I've never seen a jar of Warty's on the pantry shelf at my mother's or Miriam's.”

“Nor would you, sir. They are ladies of taste and discernment. Would you care for another chicken salad sandwich, Mr. Jem?”

“Pastrami,” Jem said through the last mouthful of his first sandwich. “And a martini to go with it. Max, there's a place half
a mile up the road on the right— McGillicuddy's. You'll spot it by the neon sign.” Jem cleared his throat, hemmed a time or
two, and burst, or rather slid, into song. “The shamrock, thistle, rose entwine the maple leaf forever.”

And they did. Though the sign was not lighted by day, it was large enough to dominate the landscape for some distance. Max
was too fascinated by this touching display of loyalty to a vanished past to object when Jem directed him to pull off the
highway. McGillicuddy must be a displaced and homesick Canadian, he decided as Egbert got out of the car and went into the
bar. Jem regaled his chauffeur with the first two verses of the ditty in question—“In days of yore, from Britain's shore,
Wolfe the gallant hero came”—until Egbert emerged with a large plastic cup.

It was the first time Max had come across martinis to go. He had no objection. Drinking them kept Jem from
singing. There were, he suspected, quite a number of verses to “The Maple Leaf Forever.”