The Devil's Cook (11 page)

Thank God, the weather has been cold
.

“Yes,” he said. “That's Terry.”

He spoke with a brittle brusqueness, as if impatient with the unpleasant task that fate had imposed upon him and wishing to be done with it. Bartholdi, watching him closely, recognized the last thin defense against hysteria. He took Jay by the arm and steered him away, jerking his head toward the door as his glance slid across the white mask of Farley's face beyond Jay's shoulder. In the hall, the three men stopped. A long sigh, like an escape valve, came from Jay.

“Are you all right, Professor Miles?” Captain Bartholdi asked.

“Where did you find her?”

“We'd better go back to my office.”

“Poor Terry. Poor Terry.”

“I'm sorry this was necessary.”

They took the elevator back to Bartholdi's office. Jay had a peculiar gassy sensation, as though he were in danger of violating the law of gravity with every step; he kept lifting his feet, one after the other, with exorbitant care. He felt a great relief at reaching the security of a chair. He suddenly became aware that in the chair beside him sat Farley. He had forgotten Farley. He had no such positive feeling about Bartholdi, across the desk. Although the captain seemed kind and sympathetic, he was an unpleasant factor, brimming with painful questions demanding answers.

“Would you like a glass of water?” Bartholdi asked.

“No, thanks.”

“A cigarette?”

Bartholdi passed them, and Jay and Farley accepted. The business of supplying lights accomplished, Bartholdi leaned back-behind a stratum of smoke. “Late this morning, shortly before noon, we received a call from a man who lives on the east edge of town, on Wildwood Road. This man has a son, a kid named Charles. It seems that Charles and a friend named Vernon decided on Sunday to investigate an empty old house in the neighborhood. Known as the Skully place. It seems this kid Charles was curious because he claims he saw a mysterious light moving in an upstairs window last Friday night. Or early Saturday morning, to be exact. The two boys got into the house through a basement window. Upstairs, in the same room where Charles claims to have seen the light, they found the body of your wife, Professor Miles. It. scared the daylights out of them, of course, and they ran home to spill everything to Charles's father, who called us in, as I said. A couple of patrolmen were sent out to investigate, and there was the body, just as the kids reported.”

Bartholdi's eyes had gone dreamy again. Again he seemed to be listening for something, hearing something, a distant accompaniment to his own voice.

“That's where I came in,” he went on after a moment. “I was out there within half an hour. Here, subject to revision, are the conclusions I've drawn: The victim was killed some time ago. In the light of what you've told me, I'd say it was probably Friday night, not too long after she disappeared. She had not been attacked, and so rape would appear to be out. She was, moreover, fully clothed. She was strangled either with a stout cord or a length of some kind of strong material, possibly a stocking or a necktie.”

“But why there?” Jay's voice had a harsh, breathless sound, as if he himself were being strangled by invisible hands. “What was she doing in an unoccupied house? Surely she didn't go to such a place to meet someone.”

“Not likely.” Bartholdi paused, looking beyond Jay at a point on the far wall. “She was taken there either before or after she was killed. I think it's possible this was a kidnapping that got fouled up.”

“Kidnapping!”

“It's still just a theory. Kidnapping victims must be rich to be profitable. Are you a wealthy man, Mr. Miles?”

Jay shook his head. “I live on my salary. But my wife's father left her a small fortune.”

“Oh?” Bartholdi leaned forward. “Did you get a ransom note?”

“No.”

“It might still come in …” Bartholdi mused. “Yes,” he said slowly, “this might be a kidnap case, at that. It's suggestive that the body was left in a place where, except for the nosiness of a couple of kids, it might have remained undiscovered for months. That would give a kidnapper plenty of time to negotiate for ransom.

“It might interest you to learn,” he went on, “that just on the chance I've taken certain precautions to keep a kidnapper, if there is one, from finding out that we know his victim is dead. I've threatened the two boys and their parents into silence, and I've given orders to every officer associated with the case. The news of this murder will be suppressed, if at all possible, for at least twenty-four hours. Not that I'm very hopeful. It's likely that a kidnapper would have had the Skully house under observation. If so, he knows we've found the body.”

Jay was shaking his head. “I'm not sure about this kidnapping thing. My wife wasn't in control of her money. She wouldn't have been for another year. She's been drawing a modest allowance from the interest on the estate.”

“Who administers the estate?”

“A lawyer in Los Angeles. His name is Maurice Feldman.”

“Wouldn't he have paid a ransom from the estate if it meant saving your wife's life?”

“Of course. There's no question about that. But the kidnapper would have had to be aware of the circumstances, which I find questionable. Terry and I never mentioned her inheritance. I'm sure that not a soul in Handclasp knew a thing about it.”

“How can you be so sure? Women are not very good at keeping secrets. Did you, for instance, Mr. Moran, ever hear Mrs. Miles mention her inheritance?”

“Never,” said Farley.

“You're positive?”

“Certainly. Jay told me about it yesterday, after Terry had gone. That's the first I heard of it.”

“By the way, Mr. Moran, I believe you were going to tell me about an appointment Mrs. Miles may have had.”

“There isn't much to tell, really. Terry dropped in to our apartment Friday afternoon, and while she was there she said she had an appointment at three o'clock. That's all.”

“She didn't mention a name? A destination?”

“No. As I recall, she made quite a point of
not
mentioning any.”

“So? That's interesting. You said ‘our' apartment, Mr. Moran?”

“Ben's and mine. Ben Green. He's working on a doctorate at the university. I'm in law school.”

“Why did Terry come to your apartment? Any particular reason?”

“She wanted to borrow three carrots.”

“Carrots?” Bartholdi's eyebrows shot up. “Did you say carrots?”

“That's right. For a ragout. She was going to put the ragout on to cook while she was out. That way, it would be ready when Jay got home in the evening.”

Bartholdi's eyes slanted toward Jay. “And was it ready, Mr. Miles?”

“Yes. It was simmering in the electric skillet.”

“A man must find it satisfying to come home to a hot meal. I'm a bachelor who doesn't, and I know.” After this irrelevant remark, Bartholdi returned his attention to Farley. “How long did Mrs. Miles stay in your apartment?”

“Not long. She left shortly after Ben did.”

“Where did Ben—Green, did you say?—go?”

“I wouldn't know. Old Ben was mysterious about it. Not the first time, either. I have a notion he goes off for a little extra-curricular fun, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I do. When did he get back?”

“He didn't. At least, he hadn't when Jay and I left to come here. He said he'd be back some time this evening.”

“Interesting.”

“Oh, if you think there was any connection between Ben and Terry, you're way off base. I'm sure there wasn't.”

“Chances are, of course, that you're right,” said Bartholdi easily. “A lively imagination is one of my worst faults. Just the same, we'll have to prevail upon Mr. Green to let us in on his activities this weekend.”

“It would be more helpful to know who placed the Personal.”

“Personal? What Personal?”

“There was one in Thursday evening's
Journal
. It was addressed to ‘T.M.' and was signed ‘O.' It arranged a meeting for three o'clock Friday afternoon. From certain terms used, we deduced that the place of meeting was the University library.”

If Bartholdi's imagination was at work again, there was no evidence of it in his eyes. They were more dream-filled than ever as he turned them slowly upon Jay.

“When did you first know about this Personal?” he asked Jay.

“Friday night,” Jay said. “Farley and I had just finished eating the ragout, as I recall, and Farley and Fanny were looking around to see if they could find a note of the appointment Terry had presumably gone to keep. It was you who actually found the Personal, wasn't it, Farley?”

“It was, come to think of it,” said Farley. “Fanny was looking through some magazines for a marginal note or something. I just happened to pick up the
Journal
, and there was the Personal.”

“Who,” said Bartholdi, still watching Jay, “is Fanny?”

“Fanny Moran,” Jay said. “Farley's half-sister.”

“She lives upstairs,” Farley said.

“And how did it happen, Mr. Moran, just for the record,” said Bartholdi, “that you were with Professor Miles in his apartment at the time?”

“I had been invited by Terry to come over at six and share the ragout. Fanny just got into it somehow. Fanny's always getting into things.”

“Well, the Personal is something to start with, anyhow.” Bartholdi sighed and rose. “This has been an ordeal for you, I know,” he said to Jay. “I wish I could send you home, but first I want to take you out where the body was found.”

“Why? So you can watch my reactions?”

“Sarcasm, Professor Miles? It's not necessary.”

Jay got to his feet with an effort, feeling all the while as if he could not possibly make another. “Isn't the husband always the prime suspect? I'm beginning to have the feeling that we'll be seeing a lot of each other, Captain. Why don't you start calling me Jay?”

13

The old house seemed to have withdrawn into depth and darkness to guard half a century of secrets. The long walk leading from the street was rough underfoot, the cracks between its broken bricks still sprouting the dead moss and grass left over from the summer. Captain Bartholdi, who had preceded Jay and Farley through the thin traffic from downtown, now preceded them from street to house. He went up across the high front porch and knocked on the front door, which seemed an absurdity to Jay until he realized that the place was now, of course, occupied by the police. The door swung open with a classic creak, and the three passed in, Bartholdi still in front.

“Well, Brady,” he said, “how's everything?”

“Cold,” said Brady, a bulky shadow barely discernible. “I'd give a leg for a quart of hot coffee.”

“You'll be relieved at midnight. No one's been around, I suppose?”

“Not a soul, dead or alive. I won't say I haven't thought about ghosts.”

“These gentlemen are. Professor Miles and Mr. Moran. We'll just have a quick look upstairs.”

“Right. Watch your step on the stairs. The carpet's worn through in a couple of places.”

Bartholdi switched on a flashlight. He held it pointed at the floor. Jay followed, Farley followed Jay, and the three men climbed single file to the second floor, where Bartholdi opened the first door on his right. Jay, beside him, could have sworn that a breath of colder air issued from the room but he knew this was only the trickery of an inflamed imagination in an exhausted mind.

“This is the room,” Bartholdi said, “where the kids found her.”

He played the light on floor and walls. On the floor lay nothing but a thin layer of dust, tracked now and disturbed in a far corner—where Bartholdi held the light steady for a minute—by a once-recumbent body. On the walls, only paper with a-design of faded roses, just slightly brighter in one small rectangular place where a picture had hung.

Bartholdi shut the door. The trio huddled in the hall, standing in the puddle of Bartholdi's light.

“You see, Jay?” Bartholdi assumed the familiarity, to which he had been invited, without effort. “No tricks. No psychology.”

“Can you tell me, then, what has been gained by bringing me here?”

“Have you ever seen this house before?”

“I have no recollection of it.”

“Had your wife?”

“I wouldn't know, but I should think it very unlikely.”

“She never mentioned any place that might seem, now that you are here, to have been a reference to this house?”

“No, not to me.”

They stood in silence, their feet unmoving in the bright puddle, a frail and tiny circumference established against the darkness. The cold numbed their flesh. Jay's voice, when he spoke at last, was intense and harsh, almost guttural.

“Who could have done it?
Who?”

“That remains to be seen. But we'll find out.”

“But why
kill
her? If she was kidnapped, wouldn't it have been better to let her live, at least until the ransom was collected?”

“It depends on the point of view. A dead victim can't identify anybody.”

“Whoever did it, you've got to find him!”

“We will. The Personal is something to go on. I have another lead, too, and I'm hoping both may get us to the same person. This house has been rented.”

“Who rented it?”

“It was rented two weeks ago by a man who gave the name of Ivan Harper. He paid a month's advance rent in cash. He hasn't, so far as I can learn, been seen since. Not by the people at the agency or any of the neighbors. The gas and electricity have not been turned on, no telephone has been installed. It's a safe bet that Harper, whatever his name really is, is our man. He rented this house solely for the purpose for which he used it. I haven't been able to see the agent who personally rented the house, but I'll get him in the morning at the agency.”