The Devil's Cook

12

Trouble was keeping them.

Jay had had little or no experience with police stations, and he was not sure of the protocol in the present case. There was, however, a man in uniform on duty behind a high counter, and it was apparent that he was expected to appeal here if he hoped to proceed at all. He had an idea that there must be a Bureau of Missing Persons somewhere that specialized in finding folk who were lost, strayed, or stolen; the most that would be done at present, he suspected, was the recording of a few statistics, vital and otherwise, and the phony reassurance of some cynical bureaucrat who would assume at once that Terry, of the three alternatives, was a stray of the voluntary type.

“Good evening,” said the uniformed man across the high counter. “May I help you?”

This was certainly a favorable beginning, courteous if not deferential, and Jay was, sure enough, reassured.

“I want to report a missing person,” he said.

“Name?”

“Jay Miles. This is Farley Moran, a neighbor.”

“Where do you live?”

“I live at The Cornish Arms — I’m a professor at Handclasp University. You must have misunderstood me, though. I’m not missing. It’s my wife.”

The policeman permitted himself a slight smile. “And what is your wife’s name?”

“Terry. Miles, of course.”

“How long has she been missing?”

“About forty-eight hours. Since Friday afternoon.”

The policeman had been making notes on a pad. Now he threw the pencil aside and tore the top page from the pad. “Wait here a minute....”

He left the door open behind him, and Jay and Farley could see him retreating down a hall. A few minutes later he reappeared and beckoned.

“In here. Captain Bartholdi will talk to you.”

Jay was surprised; he had hardly expected, on the strength of a mere report, to draw the attention of a captain. He was no less surprised by the appearance of the man who had risen from behind the desk. Captain Bartholdi was slim, gray, handsome, urbane, and Gallic. He looked as if he would have been far more at home with an épée than a police positive.

“Sit down, gentlemen.” Captain Bartholdi indicated chairs. “Which one is Mr. Miles?”

“Jay Miles,” said Jay.

“Farley Moran,” said Farley.

Bartholdi nodded to Farley, but he directed his attention to Jay. That is, he looked at Jay, and spoke to him. But he seemed abstracted. His gray eyes had a distant expression, as if he were hearing a faint snatch of music or listening to a faraway voice.

“I understand your wife has disappeared, Professor Miles?”

“That’s right.”

“She has been gone for two days?”

“Yes. Since Friday afternoon.”

“Have you any reason to believe that the police should be interested?”

“I don’t know. That’s what I want the police to find out.”

“May I ask you why you’ve waited two days before coming to us?”

“This isn’t the first time my wife has gone off unexpectedly. I kept thinking that she would be back.”

Captain Bartholdi said, “I see,” as if he really did. “But now you’ve become anxious. Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any knowledge at all of where your wife might have gone? Did she leave home with a specific destination? Did she have an appointment with someone, for example?”

“She said something about an appointment, but I don’t believe she said whom it was with. Mr. Moran can tell you about that.”

Farley, thus cued, opened his mouth to speak. He was prevented by an arresting gesture from Bartholdi. The captain pushed his swivel chair back.

“Later, Mr. Moran. Right now, would you mind coming with me?”

“Where?” Jay, rising, had a paradoxical sensation of sinking. “Why?”

“Just follow me, please.”

He came around the desk and went out of the room. Following, followed in turn by Farley, Jay was aware of the grace of Bartholdi’s movements. (His feet, like his hands, were small and slender.) They went down the hall to the elevator. Captain Bartholdi punched a button with a delicate thumb, and the car descended. They came out in a basement corridor. It was chilly here; lights burned with a tinted pallor, as if the naked electric bulbs had been blued by the chill. Jay knew with dreadful certainty where they were bound, and what, when they got there, he would have to see. Bartholdi had paused in the corridor and was watching him.

“Professor Miles,” he began.

“It’s Terry, isn’t it? She’s dead, isn’t she?”

Jay’s voice was washed of life and luster. Bartholdi answered as if he were dictating mortuary statistics for the record.

“It’s a body. There was no identification on it. You can tell me if it’s your wife.”

They went into the morgue, and saw, and it was. It was Terry, or what was left of her. In spite of the anguish and terror of violent death, she seemed at peace in this bleak depository. Perhaps it was only that she was empty. Her throat was clawed by her own nails, where she had dug futilely at whatever had strangled her; it was a miracle that any loveliness had survived. She had clearly been dead for some time. Jay’s mind caught and clung to an ugly thought.

Thank God, the weather has been cold.

“Yes,” he said. “That’s Terry.”

He spoke with a brittle brusqueness, as if impatient with the unpleasant task that fate had imposed upon him and wishing to be done with it. Bartholdi, watching him closely, recognized the last thin defense against hysteria. He took Jay by the arm and steered him away, jerking his head toward the door as his glance slid across the white mask of Farley’s face beyond Jay’s shoulder. In the hall, the three men stopped. A long sigh, like an escape valve, came from Jay.

“Are you all right, Professor Miles?” Captain Bartholdi asked.

“Where did you find her?”

“We’d better go back to my office.”

“Poor Terry. Poor Terry.”

“I’m sorry this was necessary.”

They took the elevator back to Bartholdi’s office. Jay had a peculiar gassy sensation, as though he were in danger of violating the law of gravity with every step; he kept lifting his feet, one after the other, with exorbitant care. He felt a great relief at reaching the security of a chair. He suddenly became aware that in the chair beside him sat Farley. He had forgotten Farley. He had no such positive feeling about Bartholdi, across the desk. Although the captain seemed kind and sympathetic, he was an unpleasant factor, brimming with painful questions demanding answers.

“Would you like a glass of water?” Bartholdi asked.

“No, thanks.”

“A cigarette?”

Bartholdi passed them, and Jay and Farley accepted. The business of supplying lights accomplished, Bartholdi leaned back-behind a stratum of smoke. “Late this morning, shortly before noon, we received a call from a man who lives on the east edge of town, on Wildwood Road. This man has a son, a kid named Charles. It seems that Charles and a friend named Vernon decided on Sunday to investigate an empty old house in the neighborhood. Known as the Skully place. It seems this kid Charles was curious because he claims he saw a mysterious light moving in an upstairs window last Friday night. Or early Saturday morning, to be exact. The two boys got into the house through a basement window. Upstairs, in the same room where Charles claims to have seen the light, they found the body of your wife, Professor Miles. It. scared the daylights out of them, of course, and they ran home to spill everything to Charles’s father, who called us in, as I said. A couple of patrolmen were sent out to investigate, and there was the body, just as the kids reported.”

Bartholdi’s eyes had gone dreamy again. Again he seemed to be listening for something, hearing something, a distant accompaniment to his own voice.

“That’s where I came in,” he went on after a moment. “I was out there within half an hour. Here, subject to revision, are the conclusions I’ve drawn: The victim was killed some time ago. In the light of what you’ve told me, I’d say it was probably Friday night, not too long after she disappeared. She had not been attacked, and so rape would appear to be out. She was, moreover, fully clothed. She was strangled either with a stout cord or a length of some kind of strong material, possibly a stocking or a necktie.”

“But why there?” Jay’s voice had a harsh, breathless sound, as if he himself were being strangled by invisible hands. “What was she doing in an unoccupied house? Surely she didn’t go to such a place to meet someone.”

“Not likely.” Bartholdi paused, looking beyond Jay at a point on the far wall. “She was taken there either before or after she was killed. I think it’s possible this was a kidnapping that got fouled up.”

“Kidnapping!”

“It’s still just a theory. Kidnapping victims must be rich to be profitable. Are you a wealthy man, Mr. Miles?”

Jay shook his head. “I live on my salary. But my wife’s father left her a small fortune.”

“Oh?” Bartholdi leaned forward. “Did you get a ransom note?”

“No.”

“It might still come in...” Bartholdi mused. “Yes,” he said slowly, “this might be a kidnap case, at that. It’s suggestive that the body was left in a place where, except for the nosiness of a couple of kids, it might have remained undiscovered for months. That would give a kidnapper plenty of time to negotiate for ransom.

“It might interest you to learn,” he went on, “that just on the chance I’ve taken certain precautions to keep a kidnapper, if there is one, from finding out that we know his victim is dead. I’ve threatened the two boys and their parents into silence, and I’ve given orders to every officer associated with the case. The news of this murder will be suppressed, if at all possible, for at least twenty-four hours. Not that I’m very hopeful. It’s likely that a kidnapper would have had the Skully house under observation. If so, he knows we’ve found the body.”

Jay was shaking his head. “I’m not sure about this kidnapping thing. My wife wasn’t in control of her money. She wouldn’t have been for another year. She’s been drawing a modest allowance from the interest on the estate.”

“Who administers the estate?”

“A lawyer in Los Angeles. His name is Maurice Feldman.”

“Wouldn’t he have paid a ransom from the estate if it meant saving your wife’s life?”

“Of course. There’s no question about that. But the kidnapper would have had to be aware of the circumstances, which I find questionable. Terry and I never mentioned her inheritance. I’m sure that not a soul in Handclasp knew a thing about it.”

“How can you be so sure? Women are not very good at keeping secrets. Did you, for instance, Mr. Moran, ever hear Mrs. Miles mention her inheritance?”

“Never,” said Farley.

“You’re positive?”

“Certainly. Jay told me about it yesterday, after Terry had gone. That’s the first I heard of it.”

“By the way, Mr. Moran, I believe you were going to tell me about an appointment Mrs. Miles may have had.”

“There isn’t much to tell, really. Terry dropped in to our apartment Friday afternoon, and while she was there she said she had an appointment at three o’clock. That’s all.”

“She didn’t mention a name? A destination?”

“No. As I recall, she made quite a point of not mentioning any.”

“So? That’s interesting. You said ‘our’ apartment, Mr. Moran?”

“Ben’s and mine. Ben Green. He’s working on a doctorate at the university. I’m in law school.”

“Why did Terry come to your apartment? Any particular reason?”

“She wanted to borrow three carrots.”

“Carrots?” Bartholdi’s eyebrows shot up. “Did you say carrots?”

“That’s right. For a ragout. She was going to put the ragout on to cook while she was out. That way, it would be ready when Jay got home in the evening.”

Bartholdi’s eyes slanted toward Jay. “And was it ready, Mr. Miles?”

“Yes. It was simmering in the electric skillet.”

“A man must find it satisfying to come home to a hot meal. I’m a bachelor who doesn’t, and I know.” After this irrelevant remark, Bartholdi returned his attention to Farley. “How long did Mrs. Miles stay in your apartment?”

“Not long. She left shortly after Ben did.”

“Where did Ben — Green, did you say? — go?”

“I wouldn’t know. Old Ben was mysterious about it. Not the first time, either. I have a notion he goes off for a little extra-curricular fun, if you know what I mean.”

“I think I do. When did he get back?”

“He didn’t. At least, he hadn’t when Jay and I left to come here. He said he’d be back some time this evening.”

“Interesting.”

“Oh, if you think there was any connection between Ben and Terry, you’re way off base. I’m sure there wasn’t.”

“Chances are, of course, that you’re right,” said Bartholdi easily. “A lively imagination is one of my worst faults. Just the same, we’ll have to prevail upon Mr. Green to let us in on his activities this weekend.”

“It would be more helpful to know who placed the Personal.”

“Personal? What Personal?”

“There was one in Thursday evening’s Journal. It was addressed to ‘T.M.’ and was signed ‘O.’ It arranged a meeting for three o’clock Friday afternoon. From certain terms used, we deduced that the place of meeting was the University library.”

If Bartholdi’s imagination was at work again, there was no evidence of it in his eyes. They were more dream-filled than ever as he turned them slowly upon Jay.

“When did you first know about this Personal?” he asked Jay.

“Friday night,” Jay said. “Farley and I had just finished eating the ragout, as I recall, and Farley and Fanny were looking around to see if they could find a note of the appointment Terry had presumably gone to keep. It was you who actually found the Personal, wasn’t it, Farley?”

“It was, come to think of it,” said Farley. “Fanny was looking through some magazines for a marginal note or something. I just happened to pick up the Journal, and there was the Personal.”

“Who,” said Bartholdi, still watching Jay, “is Fanny?”

“Fanny Moran,” Jay said. “Farley’s half-sister.”

“She lives upstairs,” Farley said.

“And how did it happen, Mr. Moran, just for the record,” said Bartholdi, “that you were with Professor Miles in his apartment at the time?”

“I had been invited by Terry to come over at six and share the ragout. Fanny just got into it somehow. Fanny’s always getting into things.”

“Well, the Personal is something to start with, anyhow.” Bartholdi sighed and rose. “This has been an ordeal for you, I know,” he said to Jay. “I wish I could send you home, but first I want to take you out where the body was found.”

“Why? So you can watch my reactions?”

“Sarcasm, Professor Miles? It’s not necessary.”

Jay got to his feet with an effort, feeling all the while as if he could not possibly make another. “Isn’t the husband always the prime suspect? I’m beginning to have the feeling that we’ll be seeing a lot of each other, Captain. Why don’t you start calling me Jay?”