Jimmy and Fay (31 page)

As we walked toward it, I said to Arch, “We've been invited, I guess, but watch out for that dickweed Trodache. I banged him up a little the last time I saw him and he likes to suckerpunch.”

Arch unbuttoned his coat. His Luger was in a holster high on his right hip. He pulled it out and held it under his coat. I had the .38 in the pocket of my topcoat.

The first thing we saw inside the library was old Learned Wilcox sunk deep in the leather club chair. He was sucking happily on a scotch and didn't pay any attention to us. The guy in the brown suit was warming his butt at the fire. He had both hands in his coat pockets, probably holding onto his pistol too.

“Mr. Quinn,” he said, his voice level. “I'm glad you could join us, and Mr. . . .I'm sorry, I don't know your name, but I recognize you from Mr. Quinn's establishment.”

“Arch Malloy.”

“Mr. Malloy. Gentlemen, the bar is over there. Mix whatever you'd care to have. The rest of our party will be arriving soon.”

The bar was a carved wooden contraption next to the wounded globe. I didn't notice it before because it was closed then. We could see that it was loaded with decanters. No labels. Wanting a better look at the layout of the room, Arch walked over to it but didn't touch the booze. He said, “You have the advantage on us, sir.”

“I am Hobart,” the man said. “George Hobart. For the past several years I have been a driver for the Wilcox family. Before that, I drove for the Ashtons.”

Richard Ashton, Wilcox's partner at the bank. I put Hobart at about fifty years old, on the heavy side. The jowls were matched by bags under his eyes. His voice was calm and strong. I knew I hadn't heard him before, not in any of the telephone calls. And the way he looked and sounded standing there, you just knew he was absolutely certain about what he was doing.

“Why did you tell me to follow you?” I asked.

“To be a witness. I'm glad you brought Mr. Malloy. Assuming that anyone leaves here alive tonight, I want someone to know the story, even if he can't tell it, so it will be better if there are two of you.”

Arch and I looked at each other, neither knowing what to make of that.

Hobart stepped away from the fire. “I've always liked this room more than any other in the house. It's ostentatious”—I had to look that one up later—“and none of the Wilcox family ever really took advantage of it. Part of it is the fireplace. Even when the rest of the house is heated, only this room has any real feeling of warmth. That's why we decided to stage our presentation here.”

Old Wilcox drained his whisky, holding it with both hands. He croaked something that might have been “More” and held the tumbler out to Hobart.

Hobart said, “Of course, sir, here you are,” and took a pewter flask from his breast pocket. Wilcox's eyes brightened when he saw it. Hobart gave him a generous shot.

The old man croaked, “Where's my son? He's supposed to be here, and the woman, what about the woman?” Hobart ignored him.

I was getting more than a little honked off at all this talk I didn't understand and said, “Okay, you worked for the Ashtons and the Wilcoxes, and something else is going on tonight and you'll get to it by and by, but before that, tell me about the goat. I'd really like to get that straight before you do anything else.”

Hobart looked to be delighted by the question. “Yes, the goat, the sacrificial goat. That's actually why you're here, Mr. Quinn. The goat was Junior's idea.”

I heard a metallic ring above me. The goat killer was up there on the iron gallery that ran around the library on the second level of shelves. He'd taken off the death's-head mask and the plumed hat, but he still had the red silk cape wrapped around him. He looked down at me and said hello.

Hobart said, “The goat showed Peter Wilcox the enormity of his crime. The sheer theatricality of it appealed to us. We needed something to make him understand that his secret was no longer safe. We knew that the offices of the foundation would be empty on Friday afternoon, and, of course, we couldn't allow anyone else to be hurt. That was crucial to us from the moment we read the confession. If we brought harm to anyone except the guilty, then we would betray her memory. And we were successful. Miss Wray may have been inconvenienced and, perhaps, embarrassed, but none of this was her doing. She was merely a source of the money we needed to retain the services of Mr. Trodache and his nephew.”

I thought there was a good chance that Peter Wilcox didn't know anything about the goat, even assuming that anybody had found it. “But why a goat?”

“What's he talking about?” old Wilcox rasped. “Who is he?”

Hobart went on. “We wanted an example, a statement of purely bestial carnality that would disturb Mr. Wilcox. Once we found the animal, getting him to the foundation was a simple matter. Junior went upstairs to make certain the offices were empty while the rest of us waited outside. Not long after he left, I saw you go into the building. It startled me. After all, how could
you
have been there? For a moment, I thought that somehow you were on to us but I knew that was impossible.”

“Okay,” I said, “wait a minute. I know it was you who brought the book to the Pierre.”

That stopped him like I'd smacked him with the knucks. “Then you waited outside the hotel and saw Miss Wray go to my place and you figured she talked to the RKO guys and they were going to use me as a go-between.”

He nodded.

“And you followed me that first night and decided to tighten the screws.”

He nodded and shrugged, admitting it was a mistake.

“When did you call Saxon Dunbar?”

He smiled. “As soon as we left you. Junior said that if Dunbar came sniffing around for his column, the lawyers would capitulate.”

“And you dropped by the speak to make sure he found me.”

“Yes, we thought everything was falling into place until Friday afternoon. What brought you to the Foundation for Wayward Girls?”

“I had an idea that was where they held auditions for the women in the stag pictures that Wilcox financed and I wanted to take a look at the place.”

When I mentioned the women, Wilcox sat up and said, “Where's the woman? The woman in the movie. I thought she was going to be here.”

Hobart reassured him, “Oh, she will be, very soon now. Just for you.”

He turned to me and said, “No matter, when I saw you walking away with that bemused look, I knew you wouldn't get in our way.”

“You knew I wouldn't go to the cops.”

“You? That was never a question. From the moment the actress went to Jimmy Quinn's, I knew the plan was sound, and I had been dubious about Junior's idea. I thought there had to be an easier way to raise the money in time. But once he saw the book, he said she would pay if she thought the pictures would be made public. It had something to do with her husband, but we also knew that the studio would have no trouble getting the cash quickly.”

“So you just wanted the six grand? Why?”

That's when the guy in the gallery chimed in as loud as he could with his scratchy voice. “To bring the guilty parties back to the scene of the crime where they will face their accusers and justice will take its course.”

Hobart laughed and said, “Christ, that's melodramatic. Let me just put it this way. They killed her, and they're going to answer for it.”

“That's right.” Junior was striding around on the gallery so he could look down and see every part of the floor. He had the Colt Woodsman in his right hand. It made me nervous as hell. Arch didn't like it either. As Junior moved, Arch did the same against the opposite wall, trying to keep him in sight.

Hobart refilled Learned Wilcox's glass and said, “We knew all about the film tonight. It was our only chance to get the two of them away from the estate together. By now, Mr. Trodache has delivered Junior's message to his father. They'll be here soon.”

I knew they had to be talking about Mary Wilcox, but that didn't clear things up. “So the money was to hire Trodache?”

Hobart nodded and topped off the old guy's tumbler. “He knew about the stag film and the operation behind it, but he didn't help us as much as he claimed he would. Still, he has his uses, the boy, too. They're . . .” He stopped and turned his head like he was listening for something. “Yes, that's the Rolls. They're here. Get set, Junior.”

“No,” he croaked, sounding scared up there. “I'm not ready.”

“Yes, you are. You know what to do. Steel yourself. Think about her.”

Above us, Junior took a couple of steps toward the circular stairs, then stopped and went the other way, making a hell of a racket on the metal gallery. The old guy looked up for the first time and got a wild-eyed look until Hobart came over and said something that settled him down.

Arch backed into the far corner of the room where he could cover the door and nobody could get behind him. The big wooden globe also gave him some cover. I took another corner with a clear line to the foot of the staircase. From there, I could see Junior, but I couldn't tell what he was doing.

Then we heard the front door swing open and a voice said, “Dad? Junior?”

Junior started to say something but hesitated and looked down at Hobart. Hobart made a sharp angry gesture and the kid yelled, “In here!”

We heard footsteps getting louder on the marble floor, and two men came into the library. The first was Peter Wilcox, still in his tuxedo with the domino mask pushed up on his head. He saw his father in the chair and went straight for him. The second man scanned the room like a bodyguard. He was a big guy in a dark suit, and as soon as he saw Arch and me in the corners, he opened his coat and reached for a pistol.

Trodache appeared behind him and slugged him behind the ear with a sap. It made a sickening crunch and the big guy toppled. I thumbed back the hammer on the .38 and aimed it at the middle of Trodache's chest. Everybody in the room was looking at the fallen man. He shook like he was having a seizure, and blood was running out of his nose and spit foamed on his lips. His coat was rucked up over a pistol, an automatic, half out of its holster. Trodache was going for the gun but stopped when he saw me.

Peter Wilcox said, “My God, what is the meaning of this? What have you done to Summers?” He was talking about the guy on the floor and I knew the man was in trouble, bad trouble. You nail a guy that hard with a sap, you don't just knock him out, you cave in his skull. It looked to me like Summers might die if a doctor didn't look after him soon, and even if it wasn't my job to take care of him, hell, somebody had to and that made me pissed off and impatient.

Hobart said, “We have business to attend to and Summers would have interfered. I never liked him anyway.”

“Hobart? What are
you
doing here?” I guess it was taking the brilliant banker a while to figure out what was happening. It was his house. I guess he still thought he was in charge. That didn't last.

Hobart said, “I'm going to explain something, something important. It involves you and your father and your son and your wife.”

This was the first time I saw Peter Wilcox in person. Medium build. The square jaw, short mustache, and glasses reminded you of Teddy Roosevelt, but, hell, he was a banker not a Rough Rider.

He said, “I was told that Father was here. We were . . . attending a function and—”

“We know everything about the ‘function,' but, don't worry, that is the least of our concerns. Your indulgences are your own—”

“Dammit, Hobart”—Wilcox was getting red in the face—“I will not be lectured to by you or anyone—”

“STOP IT!” Hobart stepped right up in Wilcox's face and yelled at him. “This is important.”

Wilcox looked around wildly. He noticed Arch and me with a .38 trained on a scroungy-looking guy. He saw his man still flat on the ground, and he understood he was in trouble.

Then Junior said from above, “That's right. You've got to listen to us now.”

Wilcox staggered back a step and collapsed into the other club chair.

Hobart stood in front of him. “I swore to myself that if we succeeded at this, I would tell the truth. I'm not going to keep silent any longer. I will speak the truth as I know it. It's too late for anything else.”

And I've got to say that from everybody else I've talked to and everything I've learned since, that's exactly what he did. If the man lied or exaggerated, you can't prove it by me.

Hobart stood in front of Peter Wilcox's chair and said everything to him. He never looked away. All the while, Junior walked back and forth on the gallery. Arch was watching him and had his Luger ready. I heard everything Hobart and Wilcox said, and I could watch them well enough, but I didn't look away from Trodache. He didn't try to hide how much he wanted to get me, and he didn't move away from the man on the floor. If I gave him half a second, he'd go for the pistol and shoot me.

Hobart said, “There should be some way to couch this in more official or legal terms, but I don't know them, so I'll state it plainly, Mr. Wilcox. Some time in June of 1917, your father assaulted your wife. The first time he did it was in this library. There were others. You were in England at the time. Nine months later Peter Wilcox Jr. was born.”

Wilcox shook his head and tried to sound sad. “All these years later, even after her death, these lies live on.”

“No, they're not lies. She told you the truth when you came home. You refused to believe her.”

“I admit that perhaps she was not ready for the marriage. She was too young and immature, and that's what caused her to make up the fantastic stories.”

When Wilcox said that, I remembered Polly's story about Kitty and her mother. How everything for Kitty started when her mother kicked her out of their Chicago house for “seducing” her stepfather, and how Kitty and her mother wound up working at Polly's. Looking at that old man slugging back his scotch, I knew Hobart was telling an ugly evil truth.