The Throat (40 page)

Mueller
told me an elaborate story about entering through a hat shop on Palmer
Street, going down into the basement, and taking service stairs up to
the fourth floor, where he could let himself into the Barnett copy room.

"Clever,"
I said. I had to say something. Mueller was the sort of person who had
to impose what delighted him on anyone who would listen. I tried to
picture his encounters with Walter Dragonette, Mueller bubbling away
about bond issues and Walter sitting across the desk in a daze,
wondering how that big schoolteacher head would look on a shelf in his
refrigerator.

"You
must miss April Ransom," I said.

He
settled back down again. "Oh, sure. She was very important to the
office. Sort of a star."

"What
was she like, personally? How would you describe her?"

He
pursed his lips and glanced at his boss. "April worked harder than
anyone on earth. She was smart, she had an amazing memory, and she put
in a lot of hours. Tremendous energy."

"Did
people like her?"

He
shrugged. "Ross, he certainly liked her."

"You
sound like you're not saying something."

"Well, I
don't know." Mueller looked at his boss again. "This is the kind of a
person who's always going ninety miles an hour. If you didn't travel at
her speed, too bad for you."

"Did you
ever hear that she was thinking of leaving the business to have a baby?"

"Would
Patton
quit? Would
Mike Ditka
quit? To have babies?"
Mueller clamped a
fat hand over his mouth and looked around to see if anyone had noticed
his giggle. He wore a pinky ring with a tiny diamond chip and a big
college ring with raised letters. Puffy circles of raised fat
surrounded both rings.

"You
could call her aggressive," he said. "It's not a criticism. We're
supposed to be aggressive." He tried to look aggressive as all get-out
for a second and succeeded in looking a little bit sneaky.

People
had been coming into the room in twos and threes while we talked,
filling about three-fourths of the seats. I recognized some of John's
neighbors from the local news. When Mueller stood up, I left my seat
and carried the heavy satchel to the back of the room, where Tom
Pasmore was drinking a cup of coffee.

"I
didn't think you'd come," I said.

"I don't
usually have the chance to get a look at my murderers," he said.

"You
think April's murderer is here?" I looked around at the roomful of
brokers and, teachers. Dick Mueller had sidled up to Ross Barnett, who
was angrily shaking his head, probably denying that he'd ever had any
intention of moving April anywhere at all. Because you never know what
you'll be able to use, I stepped sideways and took out my notebook to
write down a phrase about a broker so feeble that he used his college
ring to get business from other people who had gone to the same
college. A combination of letters and numbers was already written on
the last page, and it took me a moment to remember what they
represented. Tom Pasmore was smiling at me. I put the notebook back in
my pocket.

"I'd say
there's an excellent chance." He looked down at the case between my
legs. "The Blue Rose files wouldn't be in that thing, would they?"

"How did
you work that out?"

He bent
down and picked up the case to show me the dim, worn gold of the
initials stamped just below the clasp: WD.

Fontaine
had given me William Damrosch's own satchel— he had probably used it as
a suitcase when he went on trips, and as a briefcase in town.

"Would
you mind bringing this over to my place tonight, so I can make copies?"

"You
have a copy machine?" Like Lamont von Heilitz, Tom often gave the
impression of resisting technological progress.

"I even
have computers."

I
thought he was being playful: I wasn't even sure that he used an
electric typewriter.

"They're
upstairs. These days, most of my information comes through the modem."
The surprise on my face made him smile. He held up his right hand.
"Honest. I'm a hacker. I'm tapped in all over the place."

"Can you
find out someone's name through their license plate number?"

He
nodded. "Sometimes." He gave me a speculative look. "Not in every
state."

"I'm
thinking of an Illinois plate."

"Easy."

I began
to tell him about the license number on the piece of paper I thought I
had given to Paul Fontaine. At the front of the room, the young man who
had come into the room behind Tom turned away from April Ransom's
coffin and made a wide circle around John, who turned his back on him,
either by chance or intentionally. The music became much louder. Mr.
Trott appeared through a white door I had not noticed earlier and
closed the coffin. At the same time, everybody in the room turned
around as the big doors at the back of the chapel admitted two men in
their early sixties. One of them, a man about as broad as an ox cart,
wore a row of medals on the chest of his police uniform, like a Russian
general. The other man had a black armband on the sleeve of his dark
gray suit. His hair, as silvery as Ralph Ransom's, was thicker, almost
shaggy. I assumed that he must have been the minister.

Isobel
Archer and her crew pushed themselves into the room, followed by a
dozen other reporters. Isobel waved her staff to a point six feet from
Tom Pasmore and me, and the other reporters lined up along the sides of
the room, already scribbling in notebooks and talking into their tape
recorders. The big silver-haired man marched up to Ross Barnett and
whispered something.

"Who's
that?" I asked Tom.

"You
don't know Merlin Waterford? Our mayor?"

The
uniformed man who had come in with him pumped John's hand and pulled
him toward the first row. Bright lights flashed on and washed color
from the room. The music ended. The pale young man in the black jacket
bumped against a row of knees as he fought his way toward a seat.
Isobel Archer held up a microphone to her face and began speaking into
the camera and the floodlights. John leaned forward and covered his
face with his hands.

"Ladies
and gentlemen, fellow mourners for April Ransom." The mayor had moved
behind the podium. The white light made his hair gleam. His teeth
shone. His skin was the color of a Caribbean beach. "Some few weeks
ago, I had the pleasure of attending the dinner at which a brilliant
young woman received the financial community's Association Award. I
witnessed the respect she had earned from her peers and shared her
well-earned pride in that wonderful honor. April Ransom's profound
grasp of business essentials, her integrity, her humanity, and her deep
commitment to the greater good of our community inspired us all that
night. She stood before us, her friends and colleagues, as a shining
example of everything I have tried to encourage and represent during
the three terms in which I have been privileged to serve as the mayor
of this fine city."

If you
cared for that sort of thing, the mayor was a great speaker. He would
pledge, in fact he would go so far as to promise, that the memory of
April Ransom's character and achievements would never leave him as he
worked night and day to bring good government to every citizen of
Millhaven. He would dedicate whatever time was left to him to—

This
went on for about fifteen minutes, after which the chief of police,
Arden Vass, stumped up to the microphone, frowned, and pulled three
sheets of folded paper from an inside jacket pocket. The papers
crackled as he flattened them onto the podium with his fist. He was not
actually frowning, I saw. That was just his normal expression. He
tugged a pair of steel-rimmed glasses from a pocket below the rows of
medals and rammed them onto his face.

"I can't
pontificate like my friend, the mayor," he said. His hoarse,
bludgeoning voice slammed each of his short sentences to the ground
before picking up the next. We had a great police department. Each
man—and woman—in that department was a trained professional. That was
why our crime rate was one of the lowest in the nation. Our officers
had recently apprehended one of the worst criminals in history. That
man was currently safe in custody, awaiting a full statement of charges
and eventual trial. The woman whose life we were celebrating today
would understand the importance of cooperation between the community
and the brave men who risked their lives to protect it. That was the
Millhaven represented by April Ransom. I have nothing more to say.
Thank you.

Vass
pushed himself away from the podium and lumbered toward the first row
of seats. For a second everybody sat frozen with uncertainty, staring
at the empty podium and the bleached flowers. Then the lights snapped
off.

April's
colleagues were moving in a compact group toward the parking lot. The
pale young man in the black jacket had disappeared. Below the crest of
the front lawn, Isobel and her crew were pulling away from the curb,
and the Boughmobile was already moving toward the stop sign at the end
of the street. John's neighbors stood near a long line of cars parked
across the street, wistfully watching Isobel and the officials drive
away.

Stony
with rage, John Ransom stood with his parents at the top of the steps.
Fontaine and Hogan stood a few yards from Tom Pasmore and me, taking
everything in, like cops. I was sure I could detect in Hogan's face an
extra, ironic layer of impassivity, suggesting that he had thought his
superiors' speeches ridiculously self-serving. He spoke a few words
without seeming to move his lips, like a schoolboy uttering a scathing
remark about his teacher, and then I knew I was right. Hogan noticed me
looking at him, and amusement and recognition briefly flared in his
eyes. He knew what I had seen, and he knew that I agreed with him.
Fontaine left him and moved briskly across the dry lawn toward the
Ransoms.

"Are you
going with us to the crematorium?" I asked Tom.

He shook
his head. In the sunlight, his face had that only partially
smoothed-out parchment look again, and I wondered if he had ever been
to bed. "What is that detective asking John?" he asked me.

"He
probably wants him to see if he can identify the victim from Livermore
Avenue."

I could
almost see his mind working. "Tell me more."

I told
Tom about Grant Hoffman, and a little color came into his face.

"Will
you go along?"

"I think
Alan Brookner might come, too;" I looked around, realizing that I had
not yet seen Alan.

"Come
over any time you can get away. I want to hear what happens at the
morgue."

The
front door opened and closed behind us. Leaning on Joyce Brophy's arm,
Alan Brookner moved slowly into the sunlight. Joyce signaled to me.
"Professor Underhill, maybe you'll see Professor Brookner down to the
car, so we can start our procession. There's deadlines here too, just
like everywhere else, and we're scheduled in at two-thirty. Maybe you
can get Professor Ransom and his folks all set?"

Alan
hooked an arm through mine. I asked him how he was doing.

"I'm
still on my feet, sonny boy."

We moved
toward the Ransoms.

Paul
Fontaine came up to us and said, "Four-thirty?"

"Sure,"
I said. "You want Alan there, too?"

"If he
can make it."

"I can
make anything you can set up," Alan said, not looking at the detective.
"This at the morgue?"

"Yes.
It's a block from Armory Place, on—"

"I can
find the morgue," Alan said.

The
hearse swung around the corner and parked in front of the Pontiac. Two
cars filled with people from Ely Place completed the procession.

"I
thought the mayor gave a wonderful tribute," Marjorie said.

"Impressive
man," Ralph said.

We got
to the bottom of the stairs, and Alan wrenched his arm out of mine.
"Thirty-five years ago, Merlin was one of my students." Marjorie gave
him a grateful smile. "The man was a dolt."

"Oh!"
Marjorie squeaked. Ralph grimly opened the back door, and his wife
scooted along the seat.

John and
I went up to the front of the car. "They turned my wife's funeral into
a sound bite," he snarled. "As far as I'm concerned, fifty percent of
their goddamned bill is paid for in publicity." I let myself into the
silent car and followed the hearse to the crematorium.

"Why do
we have to go to the morgue? I don't see the point."

"I don't
either, Dad."

"The
whole idea is ridiculous," said Marjorie.

"The
cops at the service must have overheard something," John said.

"Overheard
what
?"

"About
that missing student."

"They
didn't overhear it," I said. "I mentioned the student to Paul Fontaine."

After a
second of silence, John said, "Well, that's okay."

"But
what was the
point
?" Ralph
asked.

"There's
an unidentified man in the morgue. It might have something to do with
April's case."

Marjorie
and Ralph sat in shocked silence.

"The
missing student might be the person in the morgue."

"Oh,
God," Ralph said.

"Of
course he isn't," Marjorie said. "The boy just dropped out, that's all."

"Grant
wouldn't do that," Alan said.

"I might
as well go to the morgue, if that's what the cops want," John said.

"I'll do
it myself," Alan said. "John doesn't have to go."

"Fontaine
wants me there. You don't have to come along, Alan."

"Yes, I
do," Alan said.

There
was no more conversation until I pulled up in front of John's house.
The Ransoms got out of the backseat. When Alan remained in the
passenger seat, John bent to his window. "Aren't you coming in, Alan?"