The Devil's Cook

16

Bartholdi was abroad early. Presenting himself at the Chubitz Real Estate Agency, he asked to see the top man. It got him into a paneled office with framed photographs of houses on the walls and a pink and white man behind a desk. The desk was an unconvincing imitation of polished walnut, and the man who rose from behind it might have done so, Bartholdi thought, behind a similar desk in a similar office forty years ago in mythical Zenith. The pink and white man with the peculiarly ancient look of an infant was Chubitz himself, with whom Bartholdi had spoken by telephone at his suburban home.

“Good morning, Captain Bartholdi,” Chubitz said. “Sit down, sit down! How can I help you?”

His voice had the rather desperate heartiness of a man who had just been refreshed by two days of frantic leisure. Bartholdi eased himself into a chair and hung his hat on his knee.

“As I told you yesterday,” he said, “I’m interested in one of your properties. It’s known as the old Skully Place.”

“It’s rented,” said the real estate man.

“It’s the renter I’m interested in. You promised to check on the agent involved and have him available this morning. I’d like to talk with him.”

“It appears that the house was rented by Mr. Jenkins, one of our most reliable men. The house was rented to a—” Chubitz consulted a note — “a Mr. Harper. Ivan Harper.”

“You told me all that. Is Jenkins in the office?”

“Yes,” said Chubitz anxiously. “Is anything wrong?”

“We’re interested in this man Harper. Where can I find Jenkins?”

“You’re welcome to see him here in my office. Shall I call him in, Captain?”

It was evident that Chubitz preferred being present to getting a secondhand report from his reliable man later. Bartholdi shrugged, and Chubitz pressed a button that summoned a secretary, who was sent to summon Jenkins. Jenkins, arriving promptly, proved to be an evil-eyed young man with the deadly earnestness of one who lives by commissions.

“Jenkins,” said Chubitz, “this is Captain Bartholdi of the police. He wants to ask you some questions about the Skully property.”

“Right,” said Jenkins. “Right-o.”

“To begin with,” said Bartholdi, “when was the house rented?”

“On a Monday. Two weeks ago today, to be exact.”

The cherubic face of Mr. Chubitz beamed at this evidence of exactness on the part of his Mr. Jenkins. The beam contrived to remain anxious.

“It was rented, I understand,” Bartholdi said, “to a man who gave the name of Ivan Harper.”

“Right. Right-o.”

“Did you take him out to see the house before he rented it?”

“No. He said he’d been by earlier, and he was sure it was the place he wanted.” Jenkins grinned like a shark. “You meet all kinds of kooks in the realty game.”

“He paid a month’s rent in advance?”

“Right you are.”

“Did he pay by check or by cash?”

“Cash.”

“Did he ask you to see to having the gas and electricity turned on?”

“I offered to do it as part of our agency service, but he said he would attend to it himself.”

“Are you aware that he didn’t?”

“He didn’t?”

“As a matter of fact, Harper hasn’t occupied the house at all. It’s still empty.”

“Well, now,” said Mr. Chubitz nervously. “Well, now.”

“Why would a man rent a house he doesn’t intend to occupy?”

“A good question, Mr. Jenkins.”

“I thought at the time there was something queer about the guy. I’ll bet Harper wasn’t even his real name!”

“What made you think the transaction was queer?”

“A kind of feeling he gave me. The cash, for one thing. People usually pay by check—”

“Tell me what he looked like. As accurate and complete a description as possible.”

“Jenkins has a retentive memory,” Chubitz said unhappily. “I’m sure he’ll be most helpful. You mustn’t disappoint us, Jenkins.” There was steel in this last admonition.

Bartholdi, watching Jenkins quail, would have enjoyed planting a shoe on the generous Chubitz bottom. Nothing worse, under the circumstances, could have been said. It was unlikely after two weeks that Jenkins would ordinarily be able to supply more than a vague description. Now, with his employer’s displeasure threatening, he would be worthlessly explicit, adding superfluous gewgaws to what might have been an authentic detail or two.

Bartholdi listened sourly. Tall. Shoulders slightly stooped. Age in the upper middle bracket. Hair graying, parted in the middle and slicked down. Horn-rimmed glasses. Teeth stained badly, as from incessant smoking or chewing tobacco. Going fat about the gut. Neatly dressed in brown suit showing signs of wear. Ditto brown topcoat and brown hat. Walked with a slight limp. And, oh, yes — hands were ingrained with grime that soap no longer removed — the hands, Jenkins had thought, of a mechanic or machinist, at any rate of someone who worked in oil and grease. Jenkins clearly felt that this was his prize item. Like an expectant dog, he waited for commendation.

Bartholdi didn’t give it to him. Instead: could Jenkins identify Harper if he saw him again? Oh, positively! No question about it! Bartholdi secretly doubted it. Jenkins’s description was far too detailed, and there was now no way to separate the truth from the figments of the Jenkins enthusiasm. One thing, at least, could be assumed. If Harper was a kidnapper and murderer, he had not nakedly exposed himself to Jenkins’s observation, however unreliable that might be.

“All right.” Bartholdi shifted in his chair. “We’ll call on you, Mr. Jenkins, if you’re needed further.”

“Right. Right-o.” Jenkins turned to Chubitz. “I believe I’d better have the utility people turn on the gas at the Skully house and start the furnace. If the temperature drops any lower the pipes may freeze.”

“Good thinking, Jenkins. See to it right away.”

“Right-o!”

Back at headquarters, Captain Bartholdi had the switchboard operator give him an outside line. He dialed a number he had been given by Jay Miles, and after a preliminary skirmish with a secretary was talking with Maurice Feldman in Los Angeles. Feldman’s voice sounded husky and hurried, as if he had to rush words through a diseased larynx before the organ wore out.

“I’m calling in reference to a woman named Terry Miles,” Bartholdi said. “I understand you’re the executor of an estate left to her by her father.”

“That’s correct. She was formerly Terry Kinkaid. What kind of scrape is Terry in now?”

“I’m afraid I have bad news, Mr. Feldman. She’s dead.”

There was a long silence. Then the husky, hurried voice came back with a note of genuine regret.

“Poor Terry. I was always afraid she’d come to a bad end. Was it an accident of some kind?”

“It’s murder. It may also have been kidnapping.”

“Murder!” The husk in the attorney’s voice was harsher. “Murder? Are you sure?”

“She was strangled to death.”

“When did it happen, for God’s sake?”

“By the most reliable calculation, some time late last Friday or early Saturday. Her body was not found, however, until yesterday.”

“Why hasn’t there been any news of it?”

“We’ve been sitting on it for the time being. I told you kidnapping is suspected.”

“This means that you don’t know who the murderer is.”

“We’re working on it.”

“How’s Jay bearing up? Terry’s husband.”

“As well as can be expected. Mr. Feldman, I’d like to consult you about a number of things. Can you fly here?”

“I’m tied up in a court action. I can’t possibly leave right how.”

“When can you get away?”

“Possibly in two days. Three, more likely.”

“That’ll have to do. In the meantime, I’d appreciate it if you would keep your mouth shut about this.”

“You have my word on it. Poor Terry. Poor Jay. I’ll be there just as soon as I can make it.”

“Let me know your flight, and I’ll meet you at the airport.”

“I’ll do that.”

Feldman hung up. Bartholdi put on his hat and coat again and went out.