The Four Johns

Chapter 9

Mervyn took Telegraph Avenue to the campus. It was Friday, the day John Thompson performed his weekend disappearing act. As he walked through Sather Gate, Mervyn cased the library.

John Thompson could use any one of three or four exits on his way to his car. Unless Mervyn were parked nearby, the librarian could drive away without Mervyn’s being aware that he had left.

Deep in thought, Mervyn trudged out onto the mall in front of the Student Union. He almost bumped into Oleg Malinski, who greeted him cordially.

“You’re working too hard. You look dreadful, Mervyn. Is it the thesis?”

“No,” muttered Mervyn. “It’s personal. If I had any sense, Oleg, I’d leave town.”

“My philosophy precisely,” Malinski declared. “When annoyances press in upon you — flee! Depart! Evade! Escape! Why fight the city hall? Did King Canute find satisfaction in defying the tide?”

“You’re so right,” Mervyn said mournfully. “Oh, incidentally, I visited your friend Viviano yesterday.”

“Indeed? Surprising!” The little optical engineer’s bushy mustache quivered with interest.

“Why surprising?”

“I should never have expected you to become friendly with Viviano.”

“Right again,” Mervyn said. “I went to ask him where he spent last Friday night.”

Malinski laughed. “What did he tell you?”

“Nothing. He denied knowing anything about Mary.”

“Ah, now I understand. It is Mary who worries you.”

“The absence of Mary. She hasn’t even communicated with Susie.”

“Hm.” Malinski looked speculative, and Mervyn felt a sudden alarm. Eventually Mary’s disappearance would come to the attention of the police, and someone would be certain to remember his investigations. One thing at a time, he admonished himself. “Oleg, would you happen to know where Viviano spent Friday night?”

But Malinski had been distracted by the contours of a girl in tight pink shorts. She passed, her brown ponytail twitching in tempo with her nubile bottom; Malinski’s head swiveled like a compass needle. “Ah, youth,” the little man sighed. “When I walk through the campus among so many beautiful girls, a hopeless sensation overcomes me — all those precious commodities going to waste! Beauty evaporating by the instant!”

Malinski’s regret evaporated, too. He said briskly, “Ah, well. You were inquiring about John Viviano?”

“Yes.”

Malinski chewed thoughtfully at his mustache. “Let me ask you a question, Mervyn. When you visited the Viviano studio, how were relations between John and his brother Frank?”

“Well, Frank spoke of joining the Peace Corps.”

Oleg nodded. “And with Frank would go the Viviano photography business.”

Mervyn expressed surprise.

“John Viviano’s vanity is colossal,” said Malinski. “Or perhaps you were aware of it? John can never admit a deficiency, a lack of skill in himself. It’s almost pathological. I will tell you a secret which I believe he keeps even from Frank — I learned it purely by chance. Since it was not a confidence I feel free to repeat it to you. John poses as a photographer, but the fact is that he knows nothing of darkroom techniques. To remedy this he is quietly taking instruction.”

“No!”

“But yes. John is excellent with models. He has a fine eye for pose, lighting, composition. Any dolt can read exposure and snap a shutter. But the darkroom is as much a part of the creative process as the picture-taking itself, possibly more. And Frank is a darkroom genius. From a Brownie snapshot negative Frank can produce a salon print.

“John would like to become as proficient. So that someday, when Frank displays a beautiful print on which he has labored three hours, John can point out some trifling flaw and with the most negligent ease proceed to correct it. Frank will then either become hopelessly insane, or run out of the studio never to return.”

Mervyn swallowed a yawn. “That’s very interesting. But what does it have to do with where Viviano spent Friday night?”

“On Tuesday and Friday nights John pursues his darkroom studies at the San Francisco Recreation Center. His tutor is George Szano, one of my friends, from whom I derived this information.”

“Oh,” said Mervyn.

“Odd that you should be so interested,” Malinski said, inspecting Mervyn blandly. “Is not — how shall I put it? — is not your primary attention focused upon Susie?”

“Well, more or less.”

Malinski beamed. “That is as it should be. Mary is an unattainable ideal, Susie is flesh and blood. Living, breathing, aching, yearning.”

“That’s certainly a dramatic way of describing the Hazelwood sisters.”

“Is it possible you do not know that drama, excitement and sensation are all around us? We become so callous, so numb, that only the extraordinary arouses us from our torpor. Drama! One must live it!”

As Oleg Malinski spoke he went through a series of vehement gestures, raising a finger, pointing, extending his hand palm upward, hand clenched. His eyes suddenly focused over Mervyn’s shoulder and Mervyn, looking around, saw the girl in the tight pink shorts returning. To Mervyn’s horror, Oleg reached out as she passed and patted her straining, jiggling bottom. The girl whirled, staring. Oleg gave a cry of dismay. “Good heavens! A dreadful mistake. I thought you were someone else. Please, please accept my apologies?”

The girl’s mouth moved in an uncertain smile. “It’s all right.”

“Permit me to buy you a hot chocolate. Please? I must redeem my gaucherie in some way, Mad’moiselle...”

As Malinski nudged the girl off down Telegraph Avenue, chattering charmingly, Mervyn watched in wonder. If he had tried that, the girl would have screamed bloody murder.

Behind him the campanile chimed eleven times. Four hours to wait — four hours wasted. He became infuriated. Time gone forever which he should be giving to research, translation or, if nothing else, simply the atmosphere of Old Provence.

He looked for Oleg Malinski and the girl in pink shorts, but they were gone, lost among the people strolling in the street. Something in Mervyn’s mind shifted, refocused. Twelfth-century poetry as a way of life suddenly seemed ridiculous.

He walked slowly along, pondering the hows and whys of his existence. Was he a fugitive from reality? Not necessarily. After all, what could be less real than mesons; invisible galaxies that had outrun the speed of light, or, for that matter, the Antarctic? Yet these were foundations for respectable, even acclaimed careers. What were a mere eight centuries of past time in the infinite schedule of nature? And who knows? Mervyn thought. Maybe the troubadours are on the way back. All these guitar-twanging folk singers... And drama was more than taking care of itself in this Mary business...

But somehow these optimistic reflections did not lighten his spirits. He turned into a restaurant and ordered a sandwich, still gloomy and dissatisfied, still conscious of the tenderness in his stomach. Mervyn chewed, speculating on his invisible enemy. Suppose he properly identified “John”? What then? He stopped eating. What then indeed?

John Thompson lived in a tan stucco early-California-style apartment house on College Avenue, four blocks from the campus. At two o’clock Mervyn parked his Volkswagen across the street and settled down.

But a little, thought made him get out of the car. If Thompson secluded himself in his apartment for the weekend, well and good. But if he was headed somewhere, he would have to use his car, presumably parked nearby. Possibly around at the side of the apartment. It might be smart, then, to check.

Mervyn crossed the street. About where he had figured, a registration form on the steering wheel identified a scarlet MG roadster as the property of John Thompson. Reassured, Mervyn returned to his Volkswagen.

John Thompson appeared at a quarter to three, moving so self-effacingly that Mervyn almost missed him. The library stack superintendent shot one quick glance up and down the street and slipped into the apartment building.

Mervyn waited. It would be a long wait if Thompson spent weekends incommunicado in his own apartment. But no, twenty minutes later he suddenly reappeared, now wearing suntans and a long-sleeved green plaid shirt.

He looked more like a construction worker or a surveyor than a librarian. Again Thompson looked up and down the street; apparently reassured, he went quickly around the corner. A few moments later the MG slid out and turned into College Avenue.

Mervyn gave him a hundred-yard lead, then followed with what finesse he could contrive. John Thompson never turned his head. But Mervyn had the unpleasant feeling that he was being watched in the rear-view mirror. Nevertheless, he clung to the scarlet car’s tail.

Thompson bowled briskly south for a mile or so. Then, to Mervyn’s consternation, he swung the MG smartly into the parking lot of a supermarket.

Mervyn parked at the curb, fuming.

The librarian presently emerged carrying three large bags bulging with groceries. He loaded them into the MG, made a left turn on College Avenue and headed back the way he had come, his blunt profile as he passed perfectly placid.

Mervyn followed sheepishly. What if Thompson should stop and walk back to demand what Mervyn thought he was up to? He winced. Then he remembered his troubles, and he kept doggedly following.

He was soon glad he had persisted. For it developed that John Thompson was not going home after all. The MG turned right into Ashby Avenue, proceeded east, then swung onto the Contra Costa Freeway. Traffic was heavy and Mervyn edged closer; one of an army of Volkswagens, he was in little danger of being spotted.

Thompson suddenly accelerated, as if he could not wait to get where he was going. The MG began to gain, snapping from lane to lane, dodging around trucks and big cars. Mervyn barely managed to keep him in sight.

The suburban communities of Orinda, Lafayette, Walnut Creek, Pleasant Hill fell away. At Concord, Thompson turned right and drove two miles past a succession of housing tracts: RIVERVIEW ACRES, FAR HILLS, MOONRISE MANOR, ESQUIRE COUNTRY CLUB ESTATES. At the last one, ENCHANTED MEADOWS, he turned into Madrone Road, made a left into Willow Lane, then a right into Cottonwood Drive, and finally swung neatly into the driveway of 1315 Bramble Way.

It was a ranch-style bungalow with redwood board-and-batten front and side walls of pale-green stucco.

John Thompson stopped the MG alongside a planter built of used brick, with a quadrangle of bright-green lawn just beyond. The front door burst open and two little girls plunged out, shrieking with joy, followed more sedately by a strapping woman of about thirty-five with a pleasant face and a rather untidy abundance of sand-colored hair.

Mervyn, who had halted almost a block away, watched the librarian salute the woman with a hearty smack. He handed her one of the bags of groceries, took up the remaining two, and the entire group went into the house, the little girls pulling at Thompson’s trousers.

Mervyn sat in wonder. Ten minutes passed. How should he do it? He could hardly go up to the door and ring the bell.

Suddenly Thompson came out of the house in wrinkled blue jeans. He went into the garage, rolled out a lawn mower and began to mow the lawn. Mervyn made a U turn and drove back down Bramble Way to the intersection of Cottonwood Drive. Here he made another U turn and headed down the middle of the road, driving slowly. Thompson was pushing the mower toward the house.

Mervyn leaned out. “John Thompson! Is that you?”

The librarian stopped, turned slowly. Mervyn jumped out of the car. “What on earth are you doing out here?”

“I’m mowing the lawn,” said Thompson.

The two little girls ran out of the house and squatted on the steps. They looked intently at Mervyn.

“And what, may I ask, brings you this way?” asked Thompson in oily tones, rich with irony.

“I’m looking for Willow Lane,” Mervyn said. “I can’t find it.”

“Go back to the corner, turn right on Cottonwood. It’s three streets down.”

“Thanks. What a surprise to find you out here!”

“So I would imagine,” Thompson said.

Mervyn looked at the little girls. “Are these your children?”

“Yes.”

“Aren’t they darlings,” Mervyn said warmly.

From the house came the sandy-haired woman. Thompson watched her approach with a nichevo expression. “My dear, this is Mr. Gray, an instructor — I believe an instructor — at the university. Mr. Gray, Mrs. Thompson.”

“I’m simply delighted to meet you,” Mervyn said. Thompson muttered something like, “I’ll bet!”

“How do you do,” Mrs. Thompson answered. “Are you one of our new neighbors?” She sounded as if she came from the Midwest.

“No. I just happened to be passing by and spotted John.”

Mrs. Thompson vented a virile laugh. “John does enjoy his chores. He’d rather mow lawns than eat.”

“Arrrghmmm,” said Thompson.

“It’s lucky he does. There’s so much for him to do he never seems to catch up. After all, he only has weekends at home, with that awful job of his. Being called in and out at all hours! I wish he’d get something where he could come home every night.”

Thompson lifted his hand in a defenseless gesture, dropped it wearily.

“John has a very demanding job,” Mervyn said.

Thompson looked startled.

“What was your name again?” asked Mrs. Thompson. “I never seem to catch a person’s name when I’m introduced.”

“Mervyn Gray.”

Mrs. Thompson grinned. “I’ve heard John mention you. I’ve asked him time and again to bring his friends out, but he never seems to get around to it.”

Mervyn said, “This looks like a wonderful place to live.”

“Oh, it is!” said Mrs. Thompson. “It’s fine for the children, and we get very good reception — all but Channel Two. Of course — selfishly speaking! — it’s not like living in town, but John insists we’re better off here. Even if he can only manage to come home weekends.”

Thompson had been standing a little to one side, rolling the mower back and forth suggestively. Whereupon Mervyn remarked to him that the lawn seemed to be doing well and Thompson mumbled something about its being at least as good as his neighbors’ lawns.

Mervyn asked in an innocent tone, “Do you mow it every week?”

“Yes,” said Thompson sullenly.

“Not last week, Papa!” called one of the little girls.

Her father glared at her, then at Mervyn. The glare at Mervyn was murderous.

Mervyn said hastily, “Well, I’d better be getting on. Very nice to have met you, Mrs. Thompson.”

“A pleasure, I’m sure. I do hope you’ll drop by again. Next time bring your wife.”

Mervyn drove slowly back toward Berkeley. Of course, the fact that Thompson had failed to mow his lawn the previous weekend did not necessarily mean that he had failed to spend that Friday evening at his unadvertised home in Enchanted Meadows. On the other hand, it might mean exactly that. In other words, Mervyn reflected bitterly, his investigation of John Thompson’s possible involvement in the death of Mary Hazelwood had produced the usual indecisive nothing.

He got back to Berkeley a few minutes before five. On impulse, he took Milton Street, slowing down in front of 1909½-A. Craning, he saw the motorcycle parked before the cottage; John Pilgrim had not yet left for his night job.

Mervyn drew up across the street. He had not long to wait. At five-twenty the clatter of the Lambretta’s engine announced Pilgrim’s departure. And here he came, trundling down the concrete walk.

On the pillion rode the girl with the bangs, wearing a dark dress and a white trench coat. Almost dress-up clothes, thought Mervyn. An evening out? But no, the poet wore his brown corduroys and a duffel coat. His rugged face was stern; he apparently took the business of driving the motorcycle with the seriousness of a jet pilot.

Pilgrim turned up Milton Street and Mervyn followed. At College Avenue the motorcycle turned right and proceeded in the same direction Thompson had taken earlier in the day. At Ashby Avenue, again like Thompson, Pilgrim veered east. Mervyn wondered if he owned a house in one of the valley subdivisions, too.

But the poet’s destination was closer at hand. Mervyn almost lost the scent at Claremont Avenue, where heavy traffic and a stop light halted him. But he managed to catch up with the Lambretta on Ashby Avenue, and he was virtually on its taillight when it swung into the grounds of the Claremont Hotel — a lordly old pile, its Tudor half-timbering happily wedded to California Mission bell towers. For sixty years the Claremont had been fashionable Berkeley’s favorite social center.

Mervyn pulled into the parking area, looking around for the Lambretta. John Pilgrim taking his girl friend to the Claremont for dinner? Mervyn was dubious. It didn’t seem the poet’s style and certainly the corduroy trousers and the duffel coat were hardly acceptable at the Claremont.

He finally found the vehicle at the far edge of the parking area. In defiance of all logic, Pilgrim and his girl consort had gone into the Claremont. Another mystery!

Mervyn entered the hotel through heavy glass doors standing open to the warm summer afternoon. To his left, the popular ice-cream parlor, decorated in the style of the 1920s, was half-filled with fraternity boys and their dates. But no John Pilgrim and lady. Mervyn went on and looked into the bar. Businessmen in dark suits, women in smart afternoon dresses. No Pilgrim, no female guitar player.

Mervyn entered the lobby. And there sat the girl, alone, in a chair off to the side. She had taken off her trench coat; it was on her lap, and she seemed to be waiting. Mervyn looked around. No sign of Pilgrim. He sat down on the other side of the lobby.

Ten minutes, twenty minutes, went by. Men and women arrived, met friends, passed back and forth between bar and restaurant. A bellhop in maroon uniform paged a Mr. Bill Jones. Another bellhop came out of the bar, carrying a Tom Collins on a tray. He brought it to Pilgrim’s girl. The girl smiled up at him. Mervyn started. The bellhop was Pilgrim. Of course! That story about when he had acted as spotter for the private detective...

Pilgrim went off with his tray. The girl sipped the Collins; occasionally she glanced at her watch. A few minutes later Pilgrim came past again, saying something to her. She quickly finished the drink, jumped up and followed him to the dining room. Pilgrim whispered to the head-waiter, who nodded and escorted the girl to a remote table at the side of the room. He seated her with a flourish, handed her a menu. The poet-bellhop returned to the lobby. Mervyn grinned in spite of himself. Leave it to Pilgrim to take his girl to dinner in an original way!

If this John bellhopped on Friday nights, too, he could not have been involved in the death of Mary Hazelwood, or in the theft of the green convertible. But did he work on Friday nights? Had he worked the previous Friday?

Another bellhop was scudding by. Mervyn stopped him. “Were you on duty last Friday night?”

“No, sir. Last week I worked the day shift.”

“What about John Pilgrim? Was he on the day shift last week, too?”

“No, he’s permanently on nights.”

“Do you happen to know if Pilgrim worked his full shift last Friday night?”

The bellhop looked at Mervyn shrewdly. “Is this some kind of investigation?”

“Yes,” said Mervyn. “Completely confidential. But nothing to Mr. Pilgrim’s discredit.”

“Oh.” The bellhop seemed disappointed. “Well, I don’t know about last Friday. I could find out by looking at his time card.”

Mervyn produced a dollar bill. It vanished, and the bellhop departed. Five minutes later he was back. “His card is punched for last Friday night. He put in a full shift, from six to two a.m.”

“Thanks.”

So much for John Pilgrim.

Mervyn got to his feet and crossed the lobby, where he paused to consider a fresh possibility. No. Hardly reasonable.

He went on, and collided with a hurrying figure in a maroon uniform, who gripped his biceps so powerfully that Mervyn almost cried out.

In a suave voice John Pilgrim said, “Excuse me, sir,” and stepped around Mervyn and went on.