A Penny for the Hangman (16 page)

Coffee was served in the living room. Karen, Anderman, and Don Price rose together from the table and made their way across the entrance hall to the big room dominated by the painting of Wulf Anderman as a teenager. Their host indicated that she and Don Price should sit on the long couch near the chess table, and he took the armchair across the coffee table from them. The silver service was already there, with three delicate china cups on saucers. Karen didn’t sit down right away. As Anderman poured coffee, she wandered over to the bookshelves and studied the titles.

It didn’t surprise her that two shelves were crammed with books about chess. Old leather-bound volumes and oversize modern paperbacks displayed a Who’s Who gallery, from Damiano to Allgaier to Alekhine, to recent books on strategy by various masters of the game. Karen knew little of chess, she could barely play it, but she recognized the names. She paused at one slim volume squeezed in among the others, reaching up and slowly drawing it out. It was an old pamphlet of a brief treatise on the game, but what interested her about it was the author’s name: Thomas H. Huxley. Of course, she thought.
T. H. Huxley,
the name on the flower basket at the hotel. She was vaguely familiar with Huxley from philosophy courses at NYU, but she hadn’t realized his chess connection. Wulf Anderman clearly admired him, which would explain his choice of the name to mask his true identity.

Karen smiled down at the book in her hands, then quickly replaced the volume and glanced over the remaining shelves. Philosophy and science texts, including the Durants’
The Story of Philosophy
and works on the ancient Greeks, Nietzsche, Freud, and Jung, along with titles by T. H. Huxley and his great friend Charles Darwin. Crime stories: Sherlock Holmes, a lot of Christie and Sayers and Chandler, and—incong
ruously, she thought—all the thrillers of a recent writer named Jonathan Brown, who was also a favorite of hers. Then there were several Dickens titles, Jane Austen,
Moby-Dick, The Great Gatsby, The Catcher in the Rye, The Diary of a Young Girl,
and—she smiled—a copy of
Brave New World
by T. H. Huxley’s famous grandson, Aldous. And, of course, the complete works of Shakespeare. Except for the new Jonathan Brown books, it was the standard collection of a well-educated 1950s schoolboy who seemed to be frozen in time without advancing to adulthood. Two words came to her:
arrested development
.

One final shelf surprised her. There, on the bottom in the corner, well beneath eye level, was a group of books on true crime, including what looked to be all the major works on the Harper/And
erman case. Other titles involved Jack the Ripper, Lizzie Borden, Leopold and Loeb, and more modern names: Bundy, Dahmer, Zodiac. A volume of
Famous British Murder Trials
stood beside a fat spine labeled
A History of Violence: The World’s Most Notorious Murderers
. She knew without looking that there would certainly be a chapter in that weighty tome on the events in St. Thomas in 1959….

“Your coffee’s getting cold, Karen,” Anderman called from the room behind her. She turned around, smiling, went over to sit beside Don Price on the couch, and looked into the eyes of one of the world’s most notorious murderers.

“I’m sorry,” she said, reaching for her cup on the table. “I was just admiring your library.”

Anderman glanced at the shelves and shrugged. “Yes, well, Mr. Price says that he must be back in St. Thomas for work tomorrow morning, so Gabby’s boat is on its way. You, on the other hand, must have many more questions for me, and there is much I wish to relate to you for your article. You must stay the night, and tomorrow we can proceed at our leisure. Gabby can come back for you at your convenience. It’s getting late, and I must say I’m rather tired. When you are my age, you’ll learn that long days of energetic activity are no longer an option, so gather ye rosebuds, as they say. We’ll finish our coffee, and then I’m afraid I must retire. Mrs. Graves will show you to the guest room and see to your comfort.”

Karen had been wondering about the interview, which seemed to be proceeding slowly, and she hadn’t wanted to arrange another visit. Staying over would solve the problem, and in the morning she and Anderman could get down to real business without the distraction of the photographer. She sensed that the older man would be more forthcoming if it was just the two of them, and that was fine with her.

“Thank you,” she said. “I’d like that. But I promised to call my partner in New York tonight, and my cell phone doesn’t work here. May I use your telephone?”

“Of course.”

She excused herself and went out into the main hall. The ancient rotary phone was on a table against a wall, under a gilt-framed mirror, with a chair beside it. She sat and raised the heavy receiver to her ear, reaching out to dial. She stopped, listening: nothing. No dial tone, no sound of any kind. She pressed the button several times. Still nothing. The line was dead. She lowered the instrument and stood, pausing a moment as another wave of dizziness suffused her. She returned to the living room.

“It doesn’t seem to be working,” she told Anderman.

“Oh dear,” he breathed. “It isn’t always reliable, especially at night. I apologize.”

“No matter,” she assured him. “I’ll call him tomorrow, when I get back to St. Thomas.” Now she turned to Don Price. “Thank you for everything. I’ll call you at the
Daily News
before I go back to New York.”

The photographer gave a sudden start when she spoke to him. He appeared to have been nearly dozing on the couch. He glanced over at their host, then back at her.

“Um, let me give you my cell number,” he said quickly. “It’ll be easier than going through the switchboard at the paper.”

Karen handed him her notepad, and he stared down at it a moment, blinking as though he was trying to rouse himself. With apparent effort, he scribbled the number and handed it back to her. At that moment, Mr. Graves arrived in the archway.

“The boat will be here in a few minutes,” he said.

Everyone rose, and Anderman shook hands with Don Price. “I look forward to seeing your pictures with the article.”

“Yes,” Don said, and then he turned to Karen and shook her hand. “Nice meeting you. We’ll—we’ll talk when you get back to St. Thomas, okay?”

“Sure,” she said, smiling.

Don Price followed Mr. Graves out across the hall to the front door, and they were gone. As if on cue, Mrs. Graves materialized. Anderman took Karen’s arm, and the two of them followed the older woman up the stairs. When they arrived at the top, he placed his hands on Karen’s arms and leaned forward, studying her face.

“Sleep well, Karen,” he said. “I’m so glad you’re here at last. I’ll see you in the morning.” Then he executed a small, formal bow and limped away to his bedroom.

“Good night,” she called after him before following the housekeeper to the other end of the gallery. Mrs. Graves led her into the guest room, switching on the overhead light and the lamp beside the bed.

“Here you are, miss,” she murmured in her soft Southern accent. “Will you be needing anything else tonight?”

“No, thanks. I’m going to bed. I’m exhausted—I wonder if it’s the sea air. This place is not like New York.”

“It could be the air. I’m still getting used to it myself, miss. It’s not like Charlotte, either. It’s very quiet here.”

“Yes, it is. Well, good night, Mrs. Graves.”

With a nod, the older woman left the room, shutting the door behind her. As soon as she was gone, Karen reached for her purse. She pulled out her cell phone and tried it, but all she got was the
no signal
message. She dropped it on the bedside table and went over to the window, pulled aside the curtain, and gazed out into the night. After a moment she began to make out shapes—palm trees and the edge of the hill—and the lighter dark of the water beyond. The moon was still concealed behind clouds. A storm was coming, that much was plain.

Then she saw movement in the shadows far below her, and a light. A flashlight. Mr. Graves was leading Don Price down the long flight of stone steps to the beach. She could just make out the two dark shapes. She looked out toward the horizon, peering through the gloom for signs of Gabby’s boat, but she could only see the black ocean.

She turned back to the room and removed her clothes. Her toothbrush was in her purse beside the useless cell phone. She was reaching for it when she focused on something she hadn’t noticed before. On the foot of the bed, neatly laid out, were a white cotton nightgown and a white terry robe. She picked up the gown and inspected it: It was exactly her size. Mrs. Graves had placed these articles here in anticipation that Karen would stay the night, even before Karen herself knew this. She smiled at her host’s apparently limitless efficiency.

She also wondered, briefly, whose gown and robe they were, but she was too exhausted to think clearly. This had been an eventful day, and tomorrow would be busy as well, and the room was all but spinning around her. She went into the bathroom and brushed her teeth, and when she came back she pulled on the cotton shift, switched off the lights, and fell across the bed. She barely had time to maneuver herself under the sheets and lay her head back against the pillows before she was asleep.

From the Testimony of Territorial District Coroner Clive Girard in
People V. Harper and Anderman,
St. Thomas Municipal Court, Wednesday, April 15, 1959 (continued)

D
R.
G
IRARD
: In my opinion, the five victims at Tamarind were disabled with the drug so that what came next would be easier to accomplish. It was all meticulously planned beforehand.

Sidney Singleton was following the light. He peered through the darkness at the long staircase that curved down before him, making out the edges of the steps in the sporadic glow from the flashlight Mr. Graves was holding. The mysterious weariness he was experiencing made the descent seem treacherous. The big man in the Hawaiian shirt was a few steps below him, moving carefully down in the dark. The sound of waves on the beach grew louder as they neared the base of the stairs.

There was no moonlight to speak of; it was concealed behind a blanket of clouds. The silver formations were backlit by the moon, glowing faintly above the ocean. Only the occasional glint on the waves as they approached the inlet below him proved that the moon was there at all. He was reminded once again of the isolation, just how far this tiny isle was from the rest of the world. Even the moon had trouble reaching it.

A sudden buzzing beside his ear made him raise his hand and wave it. Mosquitoes, the bane of these islands, the blot on all tropical splendor. As he descended, he also heard rustling as a hundred unseen creatures reacted to the glare of the flashlight. Sid imagined iguanas, mongooses, lizards, and who knew what else slithering away from the light, hiding in the shadows.

All he wanted to do right now was sleep.

As they came to the bottom of the stairs and stepped down onto the cool sand, he peered groggily out at the water. He could just see the breakers lapping at the shore, but nothing beyond them. He could hear no faint sound of a motor, only the chirring of tree frogs and the buzz of mosquitoes. In contrast to the house, it was cold here on the beach, downright chilly. He clasped his arms to his chest and shivered.

“Where’s Gabby?” he asked Mr. Graves.

The man in front of him stopped and turned around in the sand, lowering the flashlight beam to his feet. Sid couldn’t see the man’s bearded face.

“He’ll be along directly,” Mr. Graves said. “We agreed on ten o’clock, and it’s nearly that now. Just a few minutes.”

Sid nodded. He swatted at yet another dive-bombing bloodsucker, yawned, and reached into the pocket of his T-shirt for his cigarettes. Maybe the nicotine would make him feel more alert. The T-shirt suddenly seemed inadequate, and he wished he had a sweater. He braced himself for the return trip, reasoning that it would be even colder in Gabby’s boat, on the open water.

Oh well, he’d gotten his story—or part of it, anyway. And his camera was full of pictures, exclusive photos of the notorious Wulfgar Anderman. He’d return to Frenchman’s Reef, and he’d book himself on the earliest flight to New York tomorrow. With any luck, he’d be back in his apartment by this time tomorrow night.