The Witchfinder (4 page)

“He’s staying at the Airport Marriott.” I gave him the suite number. “You can call him and ask.”

“I think I will.” He got on the intercom and asked Damaris in reception to dial the number. When Lund was on the telephone the pair talked for two minutes. Belder’s end of the conversation said the attorney had no surprises for him. He cradled the receiver.

“I’m satisfied. I think Stuart watches old Ray Milland movies to brush up on his accent. There’s a lot of espionage in this business, and that’s as close to an apology as you’ll hear from me.”

“It’s closer than you need. I gave up slapping people with gauntlets years ago.”

“In that case, please don’t insult me with this story about locating Jay’s heirs. Some of the younger members of the board of directors are trying to force me into retirement on grounds of senility. They won’t succeed.”

I smoked the rest of my cigarette. By the time I twisted it out in the ruby tray I’d made a decision. I took the photograph Lund had given me out of my inside breast pocket and laid it face up on the desk. He looked down at it without moving his head, let his eyes register a full stop, then looked back at me. “I’ve seen this before. Jay showed it to me the day it came.”

“What did you think?”

“I thought she had a beautiful body. I was eight years younger than I am now.” Something that would have been a tragic expression on any other face, but which on his passed for a smile, pulled at the corners of his mouth. “If you want me to say I was shocked, I’ll have to disappoint you. When a man who has passed his threescore and ten takes up with a girl in her twenties, he’s a fool to think he can satisfy all her needs.”

“It doesn’t sound like you thought much of her.”

“I didn’t think much
about
her. I met her only once, when Jay brought her to the office to show her the operation. She didn’t chew gum and she asked intelligent questions. Beyond that I couldn’t judge her. And wouldn’t if I could. I met my wife modeling nude for a life drawing course I attended in nineteen thirty-nine. When we went out she told me she’d appeared in a two-reeler ‘exposé’ set in a nudist camp; a silly little teaser, but it postponed my proposing to her for six months. Six months I never got back. She died five years ago and never once gave me cause for embarrassment. I wish she could have said the same about me. What are you getting at, Walker?”

“The picture’s phony. Furlong only found it out recently. Someone who didn’t want them to marry rigged it up.”

He sat back. “Poor Jay.”

“Poor Jay wants to know which one of his beneficiaries fitted the frame while he’s still capable of knowing anything. That’s the job. So now you know more than you’ve told me. Maybe I ought to ditch this line and look for something in advertising.”

“If he changes the will in his advanced condition the family will break it.”

“I don’t know what his plans are when he has the information. That much Lund didn’t confide in me. Do you know who the man is in the picture?”

“I recognized him then and I still know him. I saw him just two months ago at the Builders Trade Show in Novi. When this was taken he was only a junior partner in Imminent Visions. Now he’s CEO.”

“I guess women’s lib accomplished something after all,” I said. “You no longer have to be female to sleep your way to the top.”

“Ah, but he didn’t. Isn’t that your point?”

I picked up the picture and returned it to my pocket. “Perceptions change, even if people don’t. These days the appearance of impropriety is evidence enough to convict. Witchfinding is becoming more respectable all the time.”

“I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

“History. Phooey. If Lily Talbot had married Furlong and inherited the best part of his estate, where did that leave your partnership agreement?”

“There would be no change. As I said, the agreement was exclusive to the terms of his will. Is this the third degree?” He tried to appear wry. He only managed to look like a recently bereaved bassett.

“As the widow she’d have been in a strong position to overturn the agreement in court. Or she might have persuaded Furlong to do it himself while he was still alive.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

It was my turn to sit back. “I believe you. I was just trying to make you sore. Do you get sore?”

“Not over money. Never over that.” He refolded his hands. Hands like those—long, yellow, and webbed between the fingers—were made for folding. “Maybe I can help. I’ve met most of Jay’s friends, enemies, lovers, and family over the past fifty years. I think I’d enjoy playing detective.”

“Who do you like for it?”

“Just off the top of my head, Karen Furlong.”

“The first wife?”

“The three that followed all signed prenuptial contracts limiting them to flat settlements in their respective divorces. Karen’s been bleeding Jay for alimony for thirty-five years, and as the mother of his only surviving son she’s not the type to stand by and watch any part of his inheritance go to a latecomer like Lily. Manufacturing an incriminating photo would not be beneath her.”

“I guess you two don’t exchange Christmas cards.”

“She’s the most morally repulsive person I’ve ever known. The great tragedy of that split—the only tragedy, to my mind—was that Jay lost his influence over his son. Under his mother’s thumb John has wasted his life trying to emulate his father’s success through a series of enterprises that were doomed to disaster because Karen can’t abide the thought of that boy—well,
man,
and a middle-aged one at that—making anything of himself outside her largesse. One way or another she’s seen to it that whatever he attempts turns to sawdust and splinters. No,” he said, rotating his head from side to side, “we don’t exchange Christmas cards.”

“But you stay in touch.”

“Jay’s association with Stuart Lund began many years after the divorce. It’s been my enviable task since the beginning to draw Karen’s checks on the Furlong and Belder account. Fortunately it’s John who comes to pick them up. He keeps me informed and never seems to realize just how much he’s telling me about his relationship with his mother.”

I doodled a dog wearing a hairbow on a page of my notebook. “What do you know about Furlong’s brother Larry?”

“Absolutely nothing. I never met him. I don’t think Jay’s seen him since the forties. He was a postmaster or something out in the country last I heard. I’m sure that’s over now. He must be close to eighty. Jay hardly ever mentioned him.”

“Vernon Whiting?”

“Dead.”

“That’s it?”

“It is where he’s concerned. Not for Jay. He didn’t lose his temper often, but the mere mention of Whiting’s name did it every time. What did Lund tell you about him?”

“Just that he accused Furlong of plagiarizing one of his designs.”

“Poppycock.”

“Poppycock?”

“It’s what people expect me to say when I mean bullshit. On his best day, Whiting never came up with a concept to compare with a Furlong castoff. He built Imminent Visions on that myth. I replaced him here, so I didn’t meet him until later, when we started attending shows. Whenever one of them entered a room the other would leave. If anyone had a grievance in that affair, it was Jay. I expect they’ll have it out in hell.”

“Why hell for Furlong?”

The wry bassett returned. “He wouldn’t last a week in paradise. St. Peter would send him down for trying to redesign the pearly gates.”

“Any other nominees?”

“None I like as much as Karen. Heavy irony on the word
like.
She’s pretty hard to see around.”

I put away the notebook and stood.

“Thanks, Mr. Belder. I don’t usually get this much candor all at once.”

He kept his seat. “Prejudice is a more appropriate term. When you get to be my age, a good many of the things they’d condemn you for any other time suddenly become virtues. It’s small enough compensation for prostate failure.”

“Live long enough and you become respectable.” I said it automatically.

His head jerked up like an old eagle’s. “Where did you hear that?”

“Lund. He attributed it to Furlong.”

“Oh.” He nodded his palsied nod. “That was Jay’s favorite maxim for years. For a moment I thought—but that would be impossible, wouldn’t it? Poor Jay. Well, good luck. I’d ask you to give my best to Karen out of simple good manners, but the best is lost on women like her.”

I grasped his weak old hand and got out of there before I spilled the name of my favorite teddy bear.

“F
URLONG RESIDENCE.”

Another female on the other end of another telephone. This one had a Middle Eastern accent. There are more of those in the metropolitan area than in all the remakes of
Beau Geste
put together.

“Mrs. Furlong, please.” I lit a cigarette and watched the smoke hang on the motionless air. I miss booths. The telephone had its own built-in shade, leaving me outside to face the heat and noxious gases on East Jefferson. A red 1965 Mustang convertible mumbled past, followed by a 1915 Ford depot hack, a 1950 Hudson Hornet, and a Tucker; on their way to a road rally to celebrate the centenary of the automobile. There was always some kind of motoring anniversary coming up, and Detroit never missed one. It was the only thing good that had happened to the city since Cadillac came ashore to dump the water out of his boots.

“Who is speaking?”

“My name is Amos Walker. I’m an investigator hired by Mr. Furlong’s attorney to—”

“Is he dead?”

This was a new voice, a contralto without age or nationality and precious little gender.

“Mrs. Furlong?” Araby was confused.

“I’ve got it, Khalida. You can hang up.” After the click: “This is Karen Furlong. Are you calling to report Jay’s death?”

“No, he’s still alive,” I said.

Air blew out through a pair of nostrils. “The son of a bitch was always on his way somewhere else all the time we were married. Why did he have to pick now to hang around? What did you say your name was?”

I said it again. “Stuart Lund has hired me to interview the beneficiaries of Mr. Furlong’s will. It’s a routine investigation connected with the reading. Are you free anytime today?”

“I suppose so, if it will speed up the process. Four o’clock.”

“Will John Bell Furlong also be available at that time?”

“Yes, yes. My son’s always available. Don’t be late. I have the decorator coming at five.”

I hung up on the dial tone and walked the block and a half to where I’d left the car. By the time I got there I was squelching inside my clothes. At Rivard a big cop was directing traffic around a stalled Bonneville with steam rolling out from under its hood. The cop had sweated through his light blue uniform shirt and his face had the look of pavement buckled in the heat. I didn’t ask him if he was intending to celebrate the invention of the automobile.

I had thirty minutes to kill and the office was nearby, so I parked in the abandoned service station across the street from my building, gave the derelict who lived in the empty bay a dollar not to slash my tires, and went up. The stairwell smelled of kippers. There hadn’t been any food in the building since the stove manufacturer who built it converted it from apartments in 1911, but on stagnant days the ghosts of old meals prowled the hallways.

The only things waiting in my waiting room were the voting-age
Field & Streams
on the coffee table. I’d left the table fan, a refugee from the Eisenhower administration, oscillating on the window sill in the think pit; a homey odor of burning bearings greeted me when I opened the door. A pigeon feather jigged around in the current when I closed it, paused on top of the telephone, then fluttered off again when the fan swung back that direction. I wondered where it got its energy.

In the little water closet, installed as an afterthought by an exasperated contractor when the fad for indoor plumbing didn’t pass, I stripped to the waist, splashed my face and chest and under my arms, used the thin towel, and applied a generous layer of talcum. I broke a fresh shirt out of the black iron safe and sat down behind the desk without fastening the buttons. I contemplated the picture on the wall of Custer having it out with the Sioux. He looked hot. I decided to shop for one of Peary at the Pole.

The feather came back and landed on the telephone a second time. I took the hint and called Barry Stackpole.

I’d met Barry in a shell crater in the jungle. Since then he’d lost a leg and two fingers, acquired a silver plate in his skull—all this stateside—written a couple of books, and established his reputation as the Detroit
News’s
expert on organized crime. Now he had shucked off the dead cocoon of print journalism and joined the enemy. He’d been nominated for a couple of Emmys as the producer of a weekly crime watch segment at one of the cable stations in town, losing both times to a Cajun cooking show out of Louisiana.

A future TV anchorwoman with a thirty-seven-word vocabulary put me through to Barry’s office.

“How are things in the Magic Kingdom?” I asked him when we’d run out of insults.

“It beats thinking. I had lunch with the station owner yesterday. I found myself using words like
skew
and
demographics
without feeling like a complete horse’s ass. Which means, of course, I am one.”

“Breeding shows.”

“Funny guy. We may go syndicated this fall, if Channel Fifty doesn’t move
The Brady Bunch
into our time slot and knock us out of the book. How about you? I hear AIDS is working wonders for the keyhole business. All those husbands and wives and significant whatevers wondering what the better half may be bringing home from the office besides the bacon.”

“My job’s secure until they get that humanity thing worked out,” I said. “What do you know these days about pictures that don’t move?”

“An old girlfriend comes to mind.”

“Now you’re getting corny. I’m looking for someone who can trace a faked photo to the artist.”

“Blackmail case?”

“Nothing a big-time muckraker like you would be interested in. For the record, it’s a honey of a job. The Rembrandt who did it must have a reputation.”