The Man Who Lived by Night (21 page)

“Are we playing, darling? At getting back together, I mean.”

“I’m not playing, Merilee.”

She looked over at me and sighed. “You’ll have to wear black all of the time.”

“I’ll even wear black pajamas to bed at night.”

“You will not.”

She stopped and grabbed me. We kissed. Then she said “Have you ever kissed anyone in a maze before?”

“I’ve never done anything in a maze before.”

“A night for firsts.”

I kissed her again. “And seconds.”

We got a little cold waiting for one of the guards to come fetch us after I fired the flare gun from the strongbox, but we found plenty to keep ourselves occupied.

We went back in the house by way of the kitchen, so Merilee could meet Pamela. Amazingly, Pamela seemed unperturbed by the army of chefs, carvers and dishwashers running around her in high gear. The phone call I’d been waiting for came while the three of us stood there chatting. Pamela and Merilee continued to converse gaily as I stretched the phone cord into the pantry and swung the door shut behind me.

“Evening, Hoagy,” Root said. “Sorry to disturb you in the midst of your seasonal celebrating.”

There was a hint of excitement in his voice. “Quite all right, Inspector,” I assured him.

“Actually, I’m—”

“What’s up?”

“It’s about that matter you suggested I look into. I’ve been able to learn the chief source of funding for the Church of Life. Traced it through the bank deposits. I take my hat off to you, sir. Some kind of hunch you had.”

“So who is it?”

“Came to the church to talk to the reverend about it personally. I’m still here. He’s dead, you see. Murdered. Another boning knife. This morning, by the looks of him. There wasn’t much here of value, but what there was is gone. Same story as Tulip’s. Place is quite thoroughly—”

“Who the hell is it?” I broke in. “Who financed him?” Root told me. Before he could ask me what it all added up to I quickly thanked him and hung up. Then I returned to the ballroom.

Violet was all over Jimmy Page now on the dance floor. This was not going unnoticed by Jack over by the punch bowl. I cut in. Delighted, she entwined her arms around my neck and we began to make our way around the dance floor, she gleefully rubbing her pelvis and her unencumbered breasts against me.

“You’re sort of nice to dance with, y’know?” she said. “Our parts fit together just
so.”

“You’re not so bad yourself.”

For this I got her playful pink tongue in one of my ears, followed by an urgently whispered catalog of the various things she really felt like doing to me.

Jack wasn’t missing any of this either.

“I think you’re making Jack jealous,” I said. She glanced over at him, then treated me to her tongue again. Other ear. “That all I’m doing?”

“You don’t give up easily. I like that in a woman.”

“Is that her?” she asked, indicating Merilee, who was deep in conversation across the room with Michael and Shakira Caine—and, fortunately, missing this.

“Yes, it is.”

“She’s very pretty”

“So are you.”

“You really think so?” she asked, pleased.

“However, you’re also a bad girl. You told Jack you slept with me that night you came to my room, didn’t you?”

“No,” she replied.

“Didn’t you?” I repeated.

She pouted. “He jumped to conclusions.”

“And you didn’t bother to correct him.”

“Why should I? He’s the one who’s crazy possessive. I mean, he’s just crazy.” She tossed her head petulantly. “So what if I let him think it? It’s for his own bloody good. I mean, he’s got to learn how to let up on a girl a little, y’know?”

“May I give you a little advice? It won’t hurt a bit.”

She shrugged. “Sure.”

“Blow him off. Find yourself another playmate.”

“Why should I?”

“I happen to know he’s not very good at games.

I left her standing there on the dance floor with a confused pout, and went for some punch. Jack ladled it out for me, his eyes avoiding mine. His hands shook with jealous rage. I took the glass from him and stood there next to him, sipping from it.

“It was you who took those shots at me, wasn’t it, Jack?”

His eyes stayed on the crowd. He said nothing.

“Don’t bother to deny it,” I said. “I know you did it.”

He looked at me now. “How do you know?”

“Because I know what really happened now. I know who did the killings, and why, and that it wasn’t you.”

“H-How do you—?”

“Do me a favor, Jack?”

“Sir?”

“I’m going upstairs for a moment. Then out to the service garage.”

“The garage?”

“Yes. I want you to tell someone that I’ve gone out there. I want you to tell that person I’m taking all of the notes and tapes I’ve made for Mr. Scarr’s book to Inspector Root in London right away. That I think I’ve come upon something vital to do with the murders. I’ll be taking the Peugeot, by the way.”

“But why are you telling—?”

“Then I want you to phone Root at the Church of Life and tell him to get over here at once. I’ll be in the garage, okay? Make sure you tell him that. Will you do this for me?”

“Yessir. Of course.” Jack swallowed. “I’m … I’m truly sorry about what happened, Hoagy. I wasn’t aiming at you, y’know.”

“I know you weren’t. If you had been you’d have hit me.”

“She told me that you and her … that you two … I just wanted to scare you off. Get you out of here. That’s all. I swear it. I followed you into London that day. Parked down the block from where you parked. Waited for you to come back. I-I’ve lost m’head. Plain lost it. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I gave him a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “Not totally your fault. She sort of drove you to it. I won’t hold it against you. But I should warn you that Lulu has been known to carry a grudge for years.”

I drained my punch, which was a little too sweet, and handed Jack my empty glass. Then I told him who I wanted him to give my message to.

(Tape #8 with Tristam Scarr recorded in front seat of Peugeot station wagon, parked in Gadpole service garage, Dec. 16.)

S
CARR: (VOICE INDISTINCT)
WHERE
are you off to, Hogarth? Party’s just getting exciting. Pagey’s got Vi’s vest off. She really has got a magnificent pair of—

Hoag:
Some business to take care of in town.

Scarr: (voice indistinct)
Right now?

Hoag:
Writers work twenty-four hours a day, Tristam. Even when we’re asleep our worst nightmares are supplying us with fresh material.

Scarr: (voice indistinct)
And here I’ve gone and opened a bottle of champers for us. What a waste.

Hoag:
Would that be Dom Perignon?

Scarr: (voice indistinct)
I’m afraid so.

Hoag:
Well … maybe you ought to hop in. It
is
awfully cold out there.

Scarr: (laughs)
Indeed.
(Sound of car door opening, slamming shut. Voice much clearer now)
Nothing quite like the bubbly, is there?

Hoag:
Nope.
(silence)
Ahh … It’s particularly good at killing the taste of that punch. Here you go …

Scarr:
I’d better hold off for a bit, actually. I’m afraid I’ll pass out on my guests if I have any more. You go ahead.

Hoag:
Don’t mind if I do.

Scarr:
Funny. I don’t believe I’ve ever been in this car before.

Hoag:
It’s quite slow. But it gets there.

Scarr:
And where is it going?

Hoag:
You covered your tracks well, my friend.

Scarr:
My tracks?

Hoag:
Of course, getting shot at did throw me off for a while. I made the mistake of thinking that it was part of the big picture. It wasn’t. It was just Violet messing with Jack’s head. Funny thing is it was also Violet who helped me figure it all out. Your little girl really fouled things up for you, Tristam. It was she who stole the one piece of evidence that could give you away—the photograph. Tulip didn’t have it. It wasn’t in her album. I have it now. And as soon as I get into London, the police will have it. All of it.
(pause)
You know, it was Derek who had the keenest insight into you. He told me you are, at heart, an actor. I didn’t realize just how gifted, how convincing an actor you are. Our entire collaboration has been one extended performance. All along, you’ve given me precisely what you thought I needed. I needed a bombshell, you gave me a bombshell—you told me someone had murdered Puppy. After I discussed it with the others I dismissed it as paranoid nonsense. But it wasn’t that at all, was it? It was a shrewd ploy to push any suspicion off of yourself. Who would ever think
you
killed Puppy, especially if you were the one who brought the whole thing up in the first place? I needed intimate personal revelations, you gave me intimate personal revelations. Our breakthrough about your troubled childhood—a performance.

Scarr:
You’d have quit that day if I hadn’t given you that. You’d been shot at.

Hoag:
Why didn’t you just let me quit? You should have.

Scarr:
I need a great book. You’re the person who can give me one.

Hoag:
Besides, you’d gotten away with all of this for so many years you figured you’d never get caught, didn’t you? …
Rock of Ages
was the album that meant the most to
you.
It was the most you. And it was your first failure. You couldn’t accept that. You couldn’t accept that the critics hated it, that your fans hated it. Your swollen, drugged-out ego couldn’t allow for that. So you blamed Puppy. It was
his
fault. It was because of
him
you couldn’t tour-support it in America. That ate away at you.
Puppy
ate away at you. He got the attention, the acclaim, the stardom. Him, not you. Who the hell was he, anyway? Some black drummer. It drove you mad. “More for Me”—that’s your personal anthem. More for me, me, me. That’s been your anthem all along, hasn’t it?
(silence)
Hasn’t it?

Scarr:
Go ahead and tell it.

Hoag:
It was you who turned Puppy on to the supercharged speed at Rory’s house that day. You couldn’t risk buying it through Jack, so you got it from a scuzzy London drug dealer you knew, named Bob. Known lately as Father Bob. No one could find the pills at the time because you pocketed them. What did Puppy think, that you were taking some, too?

Scarr:
Pup didn’t care one way or the other. He’d have swallowed drain cleaner if he thought it would give him a rush.

Hoag:
Things went along just great for you after that. With Puppy gone, you and Rory just got bigger and bigger. Became superstars. Millionaires. Idols. But there was always that one nagging problem between you, wasn’t there?
Tulip.
Rory kept taking her away from you. Your oldest and best mate kept taking your woman away from you. She told me that no woman could mean as much to you two as you did to each other. She was wrong. Sharing her made you
crazy.
That’s what was tormenting you when you lived out in Los Angeles. That’s why you shot smack. Why you drank so much. You loved her. She was the only woman you ever loved. You couldn’t stand having to share her with him. Having to share
everything
with him. The stage. The spotlight. The money. It was always the
two
of you. Rory and T. S. Double Trouble.
Us,
instead of
me.
But you couldn’t kill
him.
Not like Puppy. So you split up. Only that wasn’t so hot either. His solo album did great. You couldn’t even finish one. You needed him. That was really hard for you to swallow. It put you in the hospital. But you did swallow it. You reunited, complete with hugs and kisses. Toured as Johnny Thunder and the Lightnings—mates, like the old days. No hoopla. No drugs. You could hold your feelings in check. Besides, you and Tulip were together again. Things were going good between you. Until she had the baby, and made you choose between her and your career. Poor Tulip. No way she could win that one. And then you and Rory went on your big ’76 tour, and it all started coming back to the surface again, didn’t it? The hate. The resentment. Especially when his coking got so heavy you had to start canceling shows. You freaked. Called up an L.A. acquaintance of yours from back in ’68, when you hung out for a while there with Dennis Wilson. You reacted a little strangely when I referred to him one day while we were working. You went out of your way to insist you and Wilson had never been friends, it seemed odd to me at the time. But you had a very good reason. Because Dennis Wilson of the Beach Boys had a houseguest off and on in ’68, a struggling musician named Charles Manson. Manson and his family stayed with Wilson. One of those family members was Larry Lloyd Little. The two of you got to know each other at Wilson’s in October of ’68. That’s the date on the back of the picture Tulip took of you and Larry having a merry chat together. That’s the photo you were looking for.

Scarr:
You’ve got it back there with the other things, have you?

Hoag:
Of course.

Scarr:
May I?
(rustling sounds)
Oh, yes. That’s it, all right. You didn’t make a copy, did you?

Hoag:
No.

Scarr:
You wouldn’t be lying?

Hoag:
You’re not thinking clearly, Tristam. If I was going to lie I’d say I
did make
a copy so you wouldn’t be able to kill me yet. You’d have to track it down first.
(pause)
You are going to kill me, aren’t you?

Scarr:
Yes, I am. And your point is well taken. Do go on with the story. I’m fascinated.

Hoag:
When the Manson family came to trial, Larry Lloyd Little became a witness for the prosecution. He got out in a few years. He was out in ’76, when you decided Rory had to die. You convinced him to do it for you, and in a most dramatic fashion. How did you manage that? Did you tell him Rory was some kind of force of evil?

Scarr: (laughs)
Nothing quite so complicated, Hogarth. Larry was a pimp. I paid him five thousand dollars.