Curtain for a Jester (15 page)

“Like blueprints of—devices—being sent to Germany?”

“Well,” Saul said, “things like that might come into it, mightn't they?”

“For God's sake, Saul,” Bill said. “Do you—”

The telephone on Sergeant Mullins's desk rang, distractingly. Mullins picked it up. He said, “The captain's on the other phone—oh, hello Mrs. North. Do you want—”

“Take it, Mullins,” Bill said. Then, to Saul Bessing, “Do you have to be this way?”

“Well, I'll tell you,” Saul said. “Let's put it like this. It would be convenient if your Mr. Wilmot got killed because somebody didn't like his taste in neckties. Or the kind of jokes he played. Something nice and clean and simple. Might happen to anybody who had bad taste in neckties. Nothing to disturb his business associates. They'd just say, ‘Too bad about poor old Byron. If we told him about those neckties once, we told him a hundred times.' And then, maybe, they'd just get on with their business. See what I mean?”

“Probably,” Bill said. “You're interested in this—‘business,' I gather? Don't want it interfered with?”

“Well,” Saul said, “we'd hate to have any rumors—any unsubstantiated rumors, you know—get around that would upset anybody.”

“We don't spread rumors,” Bill told him. “You know that damn well.”

“Sure,” Saul said. “Only—the more people the more rumors, don't you think? Anyway, that's what the big boys think. I'm just a voice, pal.”

“Security,” Bill said, and made it sound an epithet. He was told not to use profanity. “Cooperation,” Bill said.

“My dear captain,” Saul Bessing said, “what do you think we're giving you? Why do you think I called?”

“Right,” Bill said. “You've probably done what you could. I'll grant that.” He paused, momentarily. “It's rather odd about the print, isn't it?” he said. “You've got such a lot of them available.”

“Oh,” Bessing said, “we've missed one or two.”

“Yes,” Bill said. “By the way, did you ever hear of a man named Monteath—Arthur Monteath?”

“Seems as if I might have. State Department, isn't he? Seems as if I've heard the name.”

“That's all?”

“That's all, Bill.”

“A man named Sylvester Frank? A man named John Baker? A young woman named Martha Evitts? A man named Dew-snap?”

“You do meet a lot of interesting people in your work, don't you?” Saul Bessing said. “Well, been nice talking to you, pal.”

And then Saul Bessing hung up. Bill Weigand glared at the telephone. Then he shrugged. Probably Saul had done what he could. He usually did. Bill turned to Mullins.

“Mrs. North,” Mullins said. “Miss Evitts was there because she couldn't get in touch with Mr. Baker, and he was at the penthouse this morning, but just now he was at Mrs. North's and he isn't at all what he appears to be and she's afraid—that's Mrs. North's afraid—what it really amounts to is he's snatched Miss Evitts.” Mullins paused and blinked. “Maybe I could of got it mixed up a little,” he said. “Sometimes she goes pretty fast.”

“Yes,” Bill said. “Sometimes she—”

The telephone rang again. The precinct man who had relieved Bill in a drugstore across from the Novelty Emporium reported, sadly. The gray-haired man, whose hair might once have been red, had emerged from the Emporium after about half an hour. He had been followed to a subway, in the subway to Times Square, in Times Square he had been lost. “In one door and out another,” the detective said. “I'm sorry, captain. But you know how it is.”

Bill did; one man can always be shaken. He can be shaken even without intention.

“You think he spotted you?” Bill asked.

“Not unless he was expecting someone. If he did—sure.”

“Did he plan to shake you?”

“It's hard to tell, captain. But—yes, I'd guess he did. You want me to backtrack on him? At the store?”

“No,” Bill said. “We'll skip it for now.”

The detective was sorry about it. He was told he had done what he could.

“Mrs. North said to come around if you could,” Mullins said.

“Right,” Bill said.

He drummed on his desk with his fingers. There were a great many pieces; too many, it occurred to him, for a single jig-saw. It might be that he had pieces from two puzzles, scrambled together. That would be fine, Bill thought. That would be wonderful. And once more the telephone rang.

A Mr. Monteath was at the sergeant's desk downstairs. Did the captain want him sent up.

“I suppose so,” Bill said, weariness in his voice. He pulled himself out of it. “Right,” he said. “Send him up, sergeant.” He waited, briefly. The office door opened, a voice said, “Right in here,” and then, “Mr. Monteath to see you, captain.”

Bill looked at Monteath. Then, unconsciously, he straightened his own tie, which had probably—from the feel had certainly—worked to one side. He became conscious of this and smiled faintly, wondered briefly whether Mr. Arthur Monteath so affected all the men he met, convicting them in their own minds of lamentable sloppiness.

It was not that Monteath, standing easily in the doorway, coming easily to a chair when bidden, appeared to have gone to any particular trouble about dressing himself. Anyone—anyone, at least, who could find Mr. Monteath's tailor and pay the tailor's charge—might wear such a gray suit, with the faintest of chalk stripes. Anyone might find—or have made—a shirt with a collar so smoothly fitting and cuffs so just enough showing below jacket sleeves. No doubt gray and maroon ties of similar subtlety were widely available. There was nothing to indicate that Mr. Monteath had thought long about these matters, or gone to any particular trouble. One was left, rather, with the feeling that Mr. Monteath's clothes had merely happened to him because this had turned out to be his lucky day. Bill Weigand nevertheless straightened his necktie.

“Mrs. North said you probably would want to see me,” Monteath said. “I'd been planning to get in touch with you.” Bill nodded. “But I'm afraid there won't be much I can tell you.”

“Anything you can,” Bill told him. “We go around picking up pieces. Looking for them, anyway. Anything about Wilmot.”

Monteath knew nothing about Wilmot, he was certain, that the police didn't already know. He had seen Wilmot only once in years, that once being the night before. “Unfortunately,” he added. “Bad for my—business.” He smiled faintly. “The Caesar's wife sort of thing, if you know what I mean.”

“Right,” Bill said. “We appreciate that. We'll try to make it as painless as we can. You knew Wilmot rather well at one time?”

Not even that, Monteath said. He had gone to college with Wilmot; seen him off and on for a few years, not seen him for a dozen. “I've been abroad most of the time,” Monteath said. Then he looked puzzled. “Come to think of it,” he said, “I don't really know how Wilmot found out I was back, and where I was stopping. To invite me to this shindig of his, I mean. I got a note—renew old acquaintance, that sort of thing. Few people in he thought I might enjoy meeting. Hadn't anything else on, you know, so—well, there you are. Rather, there I was.”

“Right,” Bill said. “Heard you were in town from some mutual friend, you suppose?”

“I don't know who,” Monteath said. “As a matter of fact, I didn't know we had any. But it must have been something like that.”

“Probably,” Bill said. “And it was quite a—shindig, I gather.”

“Phew!” Monteath said. “I've been to some parties, pretty much all over. But—phew!”

He was invited to tell about the party. He did, summarizing, organizing adeptly what he had to tell, now—at home, obviously, in the
précis—
letting the details he furnished speak for themselves. The party came clearer to Weigand in outline, although the colors, so vivid in Pam North's narrative, faded somewhat. But little new was added.

“—thought this man was shooting at us,” Monteath said. “Wilmot had told me he'd loaded up with blanks, so I fired to scare the man. Well—you can guess how I felt when he toppled over. Very—lifelike the whole thing was.” He paused. “Deathlike would be a better word.”

“An odd sort of joke for anyone to play,” Bill said.

“Very. Shocking sort of—joke. Shocking taste, of course.”

“This mannequin,” Bill said. “I gather that Wilmot had gone to some trouble to make it—well, distinctive. As if he'd copied the face, from life. Did you feel that?”

“I didn't particularly then. Too much going on and I was—well, call it upset. Thrown off base, you know. But, as I think about it, I suppose one could say that.”

“But it didn't remind you of anybody
you'd
known? Met before anywhere?”

Monteath appeared to be surprised. He shook his head. Then he stopped shaking it and looked at Bill Weigand with intentness.

“You've got something in mind, haven't you?” he asked.

“Not necessarily,” Bill said. “It's an obvious question, Mr. Monteath.”

Monteath continued to look at him. Then he appeared to make up his mind.

“Rather beating about the bush, aren't you?” he asked. “Why not come out with it?”

“Right,” Bill said. “This trick rather—well, it was a little a case of history repeating itself, wasn't it? I'm talking about this incident in Maine, of course.”

“I supposed you were,” Monteath said. “You're thorough, aren't you? Go back a long ways? And—far afield?”

“Probably,” Bill said. “We've no way of knowing what's important, you know. About Maine?”

It had been, Monteath said, a ghastly business. He'd hoped to forget it; most of the time, he had forgotten it. He would admit that Wilmot's trick had—brought it back.

“Intentionally, you think?”

Monteath shrugged. He said, then, that he supposed so.

“At least,” he said, “perhaps not the whole—er, prank. But my part in it. If that's true, it was a peculiarly—malicious thing to do.” He paused. He had been looking away; he looked now at Bill Weigand. “Not a thing anyone would kill about,” he said. “You're not getting that idea?”

“I shouldn't think it would be,” Bill said. “Do you want to tell me more about this Maine incident, Mr. Monteath?”

“No,” Monteath said. “I obviously don't. But I'm obviously going to, aren't I? Well—”

Monteath told briefly, almost dispassionately, as if it had happened to someone else, of the events long ago in Maine. He added nothing by his story to what Weigand had heard already. He described Joseph Parks.

“Obviously,” Bill said, “he didn't resemble this mannequin of last night. Wilmot didn't try to carry it that far.”

“Obviously,” Monteath agreed. “The mannequin didn't resemble anybody I'd seen before. I said that.”

“Yes,” Weigand said. “I remember. So—after the party last night, you stopped by the Norths' apartment. Then?”

“Went downstairs, found a cab, went back to the Waldorf, went to bed. It was about two-fifteen when I took my watch off, put it on the night table. But if you're asking me to prove this—” He made a gesture. “How can I?” he said. “I had my room key with me. Even if I hadn't had—” He shrugged.

“No,” Bill said. “But then, I haven't asked you to, Mr. Monteath. Of course, if you happened to be able to identify the cab you took.”

“Really, captain,” Monteath said. “You don't expect that?”

“No,” Bill said.

“I know nothing of Wilmot's death. I had no reason—no real reason—to kill him. But I'd say that in any case, of course.”

“Of course,” Bill agreed. “However—” He stood up. Monteath stood, too.

“I'm planning to take an afternoon train for Washington tomorrow,” Monteath said. “That'll be all right?”

“Why yes,” Bill said. “I don't see anything to prevent that, Mr. Monteath.” He moved with Monteath toward the door. He said it was good of him to have come in. At the door, Bill said, “Oh, one more thing—” and Monteath stopped, waited.

“Had you met Baker before last night?” Bill asked. Monteath looked puzzled. He repeated the name.

“The man who was dressed as a child,” Bill said. “In rompers, or something of the kind.”

“Oh,” Monteath said. “That was Baker? No, I don't remember ever meeting him. Damned embarrassing for him, the poor devil.”

“Yes,” Bill agreed. “It probably was. Annoying, probably. Embarrassing for the girl, too.” He thanked Monteath again, closed the door after him. He stood for a moment, looking at the closed door.

“By the way, sergeant,” he said, “see if they've got anything on the cab Mrs. Wilmot was supposed to take to Forest Hills, will you?”

Mullins used the telephone. There was nothing on the cab.

“Supposed to take?” Mullins said.

“Everything is supposition,” Bill told him. “I suppose and you suppose and he and she suppose. Let's go see the Norths, sergeant.”

“O.K., Loot,” Mullins said. “I can sure use a drink.”

Bill said he was surprised at Sergeant Mullins, but he did not sound particularly surprised.

VIII

Thursday, 6:10 P.M. to 7:20 P.M.

“You can always go by cats,” Pamela North said. “Particularly Teeney. You should have seen them.”

“Hissing?” Jerry said.

“Well, no. Not hissing, exactly. But they just took one look. Then they skedaddled. Teeney first. They simply hated him. And cats know.”

She was asked to be reasonable; was told that cats—and particularly cats like Martini—are unpredictable; that the next time they met John Baker they might be all over him.

“Well,” Pam said, “you just weren't here, that's all. They knew there was something about him, particularly Teeney. And she ran and of course the others ran too.”