The Manx Murders Page 5

  He spun on his heel and stormed out.

  It was only after the door had slammed behind him that it occurred to Ron to move. He walked to the box and lifted a flap. “Oh, Jesus,” he said, and closed it again.

  “What is inside?” Benedetti demanded.

  “A cat,” Ron said. “A kitten, actually.”

  “Dead?”

  “Oh, yeah. Very. Somebody crushed its skull.”

  Six

  RON COULD FEEL THEIR breath on him as the others crowded around the box. Flo Ackerman made a surprisingly feline whimper of her own, then turned away abruptly. Chip, his eyes wide, kept breathing, “Oh, geez, what a thing,” to the universe at large.

  Henry was silent. He stared into the box. He showed no expression, but every three seconds or so, a dark little tongue tip darted out and moistened his thin lips. He might have been doing anything from suppressing tears to gloating at the death of a potential bird killer.

  Benedetti, as usual, remained unflappable. “I think,” he said, “I’d like to have a few more words with Mr. Clyde Pembroke. Fetch him back, Ronald, if you would.”

  Ron was already moving by the time the Professor finished talking. He knew he’d have to move fast to catch the cat fancier, and he was glad of a chance to burn off some adrenaline.

  Ron Gentry did not consider himself a cat lover. As a matter of fact, his experience with felines had led him to consider them royal pains in the ass. He’d had a girlfriend (before he met Janet) who’d watch her cat torture a mouse to death and eat it, polish off a can of gourmet cat food, then knock over a garbage can to get some old chicken skin before she scooped him up and kissed him on the top of the head and called him poopsie-woopsie. The relationship hadn’t lasted too long.

  He knew that the cat was doing what came naturally, but that didn’t mean he had to like it. Or to put up with calling the author of such behavior poopsie-woopsie, either.

  But there was nothing natural about what had been done to the animal in the box. It was a deliberate act of cruelty committed by a creature (i.e., a human—no other animals crushed skulls and left whole bodies around) who was supposed to know better. It made Ron angry.

  He caught Clyde Pembroke just about to get into his black Lincoln Town Car.

  “Mr. Pembroke! Wait!”

  Pembroke slammed the car door without getting in and leaned against the Lincoln with his arms folded, tapping a foot in impatience. His eyes were narrow, and his lips were tight.

  “What is it, Gentry?” he demanded.

  “The Professor would like you to step back inside, please.”

  “I am never going back inside that house again. I made that promise before, and it took something like this to make me break it. If I go in there again, I won’t be responsible for what I do. I swear, I want to kill him!”

  “Don’t you want to help the Professor find out who did this?”

  “I know who did it!”

  “Right. Just like your brother knows who chased the birds away.”

  “That’s entirely different.”

  “Why? He blames you for something, says you did it out of perversity and peeve. Now you’re blaming him for something, and saying he did it for the same reasons.

  “Let me tell you something,” Ron continued bluntly. “The security on this estate stinks. I could bring a marching band through here at regular intervals, and neither you nor your brother would know a damned thing about it. Anybody in the world could be scaring birds and bashing cats, but you two would rather take it out on each other.”

  Ron leaned so close to Pembroke that the man’s breath fogged his glasses. “And as long as I’m at it, let me tell you something else. If you two crybabies weren’t standing between the rest of your fellow citizens and cleaner air, you could feud to your heart’s content.”

  Pembroke stared into Ron’s eyes for a tense moment. At last he demanded, “Are you done?”

  “For now. Coming inside?”

  “Well, hell, I’d better, hadn’t I?” Clyde started walking for the door. “I hope you find an opportunity to tell my brother off like that at some point. He’s not used to it, either.”

  Ron grinned. “I’ll make it a point. And don’t worry about not being responsible. If you start to get out of control, I’ll sit on your head.”

  “You wouldn’t have said that when I was your age.”

  “Probably not,” Ron said.

  “I don’t like people who abuse animals, Gentry. I just don’t.”

  He’s probably against man-eating sharks and the bombing of orphanages, too, Ron thought. Still, Clyde was getting his temper back, and he was under control, if not calm, when they went back inside.

  By now, the box was closed again. It had been placed on some open sheets of newspaper on a pale-green kidney-shaped table. Benedetti stood by the box. The green tinge on all the other faces matched the table.

  “Thank you for returning, Mr. Pembroke. I have persuaded your brother to agree to a truce if you will do the same,” the Professor said.

  “I do. I think I already have. Mr. Gentry can be very, ah, persuasive himself. I just want to say that if I have unjustly accused anybody, I apologize. If.”

  “Noted,” Benedetti said dryly. “Now, sir, we need to avail ourselves of your expertise in the matter of cats, and to ask you some general questions.”

  Clyde Pembroke nodded wearily. “May I sit?”

  Benedetti looked at Henry Pembroke, who nodded to Chip, who said, “Sure, Uncle Clyde.”

  “Now,” the Professor said, “where and when did you find this animal?”

  “Near the path, not far from the cattery. I decided to go out there a little while after you left, to see if everything was all right. And maybe just to visit the cats, you know. Then I saw ... this ... lying by the edge of the pathway. I saw it lying there, in the half-light. I went to it to see if I could do it any good. I took out my pocket flashlight and saw ... what’s in the box now.”

  “Is it one of your cats?” the Professor asked.

  “What? One of mine?”

  “Your cattery is the most abundant immediate source of cats, non è vero? It seems a natural question.”

  “No, no. It’s not one of mine. Look at it, it’s not even a Manx.”

  “Forgive me. I see it has a tail, but I have learned only today that that does not disqualify it as a member of the breed.”

  Clyde Pembroke popped up from his chair. “Here,” he said, “let me show you.”

  He walked over to the box and opened it. After a look inside, he turned to the Professor and said, “Goddamn whoever did this. I admit I was hasty.” He said it a little louder. “I admit I was hasty, but I just saw red. Thank the Lord this wasn’t one of my cats; I might have come over here with a gun.”

  Ron watched Henry while Clyde spoke. The bird-watcher took it deadpan, eyes a little narrowed, head tilted to one side.

  “You can see,” Clyde told Benedetti, “that the body from end to end makes a longer rectangle than a Manx does. Manx cats are very boxy. Also, a Manx’s hind legs are considerably longer than its forelegs. This cat’s are more or less the same.”

  Clyde let out a deep breath and closed the box. “Even if this had been a Manx, it almost certainly wouldn’t have been one of mine. I specialize in dark-orange cats, what we call red ones. This poor thing is a gray tabby. Color in any cat never breeds one hundred percent true, but a gray tabby Manx is very unlikely. Besides, I would have known about it.”

  “Where would you guess this cat has come from?”

  “Anywhere. Probably a stray. They wander into woods; always have. There was one Henry and I used to play with when we were boys.”

  Again, Ron looked at the brother. Henry didn’t appear overwhelmed with nostalgia.

  “Our father didn’t let us have any pets; we fed a stray cat that wandered onto the grounds. This was when we lived in the old house way on the other side of the estate. Burned down in 1973. Nothing left there but a few outbuil
dings. As Gentry pointed out, our security here—we’ve never really felt the need for it, to tell you the truth—wouldn’t keep a marching band out, let alone a kitten.”

  “Yeah,” Ron said. “I suggest we do something about that.”

  “What do you mean?” It was the first time Henry Pembroke had said a word since Ron had come back inside.

  “Assuming, for the sake of argument, that neither of you two gentlemen is tormenting the other, somebody is tormenting you both. Getting rid of the birds, however it was done, could be a nasty prank; smashing that cat’s head is the work of a psycho. I suggest that tomorrow we get somebody from the police department up here and all of us, meaning the police officer, me, and both of you, sit down and work something out.”

  The twins worked their jaws and made faces as if they were chewing soap. Chip looked surprised, skeptical, and hopeful, all at once. Flo was so thrilled, she did everything short of clasping her hands in front of her bosom and squealing.

  Finally, Clyde got it swallowed and spoke up. “I guess I got the craziest. Tonight, that is. So I’ll say it first. I’ll go along, if you really think it’s necessary.”

  Ron turned to Henry. “How about you?”

  Henry worked on it a long time. Seemed like hours; it was probably forty-five seconds. However long it took, it was almost long enough for Clyde to lose his temper again. His face was getting dangerously pink.

  Finally, Henry said, “All right.”

  “Fine,” Ron said. “Find out when it’s convenient for the cop.” That eliminated one thing they might decide to fight about. Now there was just one left. Where were they going to do this? Ron figured the representative of the law would look askance at meeting in the middle of the lawn somewhere, and to suggest either of their houses was to invite trouble.

  Chip came to the rescue. “You can meet in my factory,” he said. “When I had the thing built, I put in a small conference room that’s never been used. I’ve got a slide projector in there and everything.”

  “Great,” Ron said heartily. “That’s settled. Miss Ackerman will know how to reach us.”

  “But—,” Clyde Pembroke began.

  The Professor cut him off. No sense Henry knowing before the meeting that he and Ron were moving in with Clyde. “That, I think, will be all for the night. Perhaps, Mr. Pembroke, you will oblige us with a lift back to Alpha House. Miss Ackerman’s car is there.”

  Seven

  “SORRY,” FLO ACKERMAN SAID as Ron’s head bounced off the ceiling. “That was a bad one.”

  “I don’t think they have any good ones.” Ron sounded about the same way he would if he were being mixed up in a cement truck. “Did you ever notice,” he said, complete with quaverings in his voice as they went over bumps and through potholes, “that the richer somebody is, the worse their driveway? Remember Benac’s château in France, Professor? You had to have an army tank to get in there.”

  “That, my friend,” the Professor said from the back seat, “is because the rich need not make it easy for people to come to them. Money has a magnetic power all its own.”

  “I just feel sorry for the people who work in Clyde’s cattery. Or in Chip’s ice-cream factory, for that matter.”

  Benedetti grunted. “It might be more appropriate for you to feel sorry for the American taxpayers who will have to replace this car.”

  “This is my own car,” Flo Ackerman said grimly.

  In the rearview mirror, Ron caught the hint of a grin on Benedetti’s face.

  “My apologies,” the old man said.

  “It’s all right. We’re almost at the paved road.”

  “Good,” Ron said. It came out “Goo-oo-ood,” as the car hit two deep potholes close together.

  They passed the vine-covered columns that marked the entrance to the Pembroke compound, and emerged onto the (relatively) smooth county road.

  “That’s better,” Flo Ackerman said. “Thanks.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” Ron said.

  “Are you kidding? You were great. That was the nicest those two have been to each other since I’ve heard of them. You’ve got them talking to each other.”

  “Excuse me, Miss Ackerman,” the Professor said from the back seat. “They didn’t talk to each other.”

  “No?” She thought it over. “No. I guess not. But they’re more or less promising to. This is the best things have looked in this situation in months, and you did it all in one afternoon.”

  “I just pointed out a couple of obvious facts, that’s all,” Ron said.

  “They agreed about something.”

  “Throughout history,” Benedetti said, “the evocation of the common enemy has been a powerful method for unifying warring factions. Perhaps the most powerful.”

  Ron was exasperated. “Maestro. I didn’t evoke anything, okay?”

  “Not purposefully, perhaps, Ronald. But Miss Ackerman is right; you did get them to entertain the possibility that their enemy is someone outside the bonds of blood. That must be a welcome possibility, especially for two beings who have grown from the same egg.”

  “Look at it this way,” Flo said. Even in the darkness, Ron could see her eyes gleam. “If Clyde and Henry can agree on a security plan, there’s no reason why they can’t agree to expand their factory and help the environment with the smoke scrubber. I get their signatures on a government contract, the problem is solved, and we can all go home.”

  Benedetti cleared his throat. “I am sorry to disappoint you, Miss Ackerman, but I was not engaged to get anyone’s signature on a government contract. Achieving that may mean the end of your job, but not of mine.”

  “But all we need—”

  “Forgive me, but I am indifferent to what you need, or to what the Environmental Protection Agency needs. I plan to fulfill my own needs.”

  “I ... I don’t know what you mean, Professor.”

  “I mean that for my self-esteem as a man, I need to do what I have said I will do. For my work as a philosopher, I need to study the evil that has been done in this place.”

  The Professor leaned back in his seat. “The birds are still gone, Miss Ackerman. I will not leave this town until I have learned why.”

  They drove on in silence.

  Things were cheery again by the time they pulled up at the inn. Flo parked the car and said, “Just let me freshen up, and I insist on buying dinner. The restaurant here is pretty darned good.”

  “Is it open?”

  “Of course it’s open. It’s only twenty after eight.”

  Ron looked at his watch. “My God, so it is. I feel as if I’ve been up forever.”

  “I am sorry, amico,” the Professor said, “you will be awake for some time yet.”

  Ron groaned. The old man turned to Flo. “I am sorry, Miss Ackerman, but we must decline your kind offer. My friend and I have much work to do, and we must get started before he falls asleep on me. Perhaps another time; maybe even tomorrow. If fortune is with us, we may be celebrating the successful completion of your assignment, if not of mine. Except I insist that we must pay.”

  We meaning me, Ron thought. Benedetti never paid for anything.

  “No, no,” Flo said. “I insist. Think of it as a chance to get some of your tax money back. The thanks of a grateful nation and all that.”

  Benedetti smiled warmly. “Well, since you put it that way, we accept.”

  On the way to their room, Ron kept wondering what sort of work they had to do. Benedetti was not a great one for sitting around discussing things. He was more likely to hide in a room by himself and paint. As the case went on, the paintings got more and more abstract. When you couldn’t, at first glance, decide what the hell they were, that meant the old man had figured the thing out.

  Flo had gotten them the best accommodations in the place: a three-room suite, two baths, very nice. The furniture looked like Real Furniture rather than Hotel Furniture, and the bed looked comfortable. In fact, if he hadn’t been so hungry (he should have reme
mbered about the candy bar back in Maine), it would have looked too comfortable to resist. As it was, Ron took off his jacket and tie and shoes, emptied his pockets, and went to join the Professor in the sitting room.

  The old man was on the phone to room service, enumerating items. As far as Ron could tell, he would have achieved the same result in less time just by telling the person on the other end of the phone to bring up two of everything.

  Ron said as much to the old man. “Which would be fine,” he continued, “except what are you going to eat?”

  “I shall content myself with a crumb here and a crust there, amico.”

  “What kind of work is it we have to do?” Ron asked.

  “It can wait.”

  “I can’t. It’s only starvation that’s keeping me awake. I’ll probably pass out in the food. Maybe I better go take a shower while we wait.”

  “Call your wife first.”

  Ron looked at him.

  “You didn’t have a chance to when you first arrived, and since then, we have been busy. Janet is probably sick with worry. Use the telephone for one of its nobler purposes. Put the woman’s mind at rest.”

  Ron couldn’t argue with the logic or the sentiment, but he wished he knew where the latter had come from. Benedetti had never been what you’d call the domestically oriented type.

  Ron picked up the phone, figured out what the hell he had to do to get hold of the phone company he wanted, dialed that number, dialed his home number, listened for the bong and the tape thanking him, dialed his credit card number, then waited for the ringing to start.

  “Be quicker to send a letter,” he muttered.

  Janet picked up on the second ring. He told her why it had taken him so long to call, and she immediately forgave him. She asked him how things were going.

  “Weird,” he told her. “We could really use some psychological insights. When are you getting down here?”