The Four Johns

Chapter 6

The letter was incomprehensible. The motivation for stealing his car and stuffing Mary into the trunk had been dismally clear — to implicate him in the murder. But why this?

The hand-printing conveyed nothing. A graphologist might read meaning into the carefully squared E, the flourishing S, the quiver in the final leg of the R. But as far as Mervyn was concerned, there was no clue to the identity of the sender.

Mervyn was swept by a gust of rage; it was followed by a swift retreat to cover. The threatening note changed nothing, except for the worse. If only he knew with whom he was dealing! He could then take counter-measures of some kind. According to Harriet Brill — not the most reliable evidence, but it was at least something to go on — Mary had arranged to meet “John.” There had doubtless been other Johns in Mary’s life, but the four most immediate Johns were John Boce, John Thompson, John Pilgrim and John Viviano. He might go to each of these and ask the direct question: “Where were you last Friday night?” Three of them would be puzzled, perhaps irritated; one would be put on his guard. Still, he might be able to check out one or two alibis, and at least narrow the field.

True, John Boce had told him to go to hell in answer to the question, and the others might well do the same. But nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Fired by resolve, Mervyn jumped to his feet, paid the cashier, and returned to the apartment house.

Noting his mint-green Chevrolet convertible, he stopped short. Today he had planned to sell it. But another day would not matter, unless someone stole the car again and loaded it with a new corpse. Depressed by the thought, Mervyn raised the hood and removed the rotor from the distributor.

He drove off in the Volkswagen, his objective John Thompson, stack superintendent at the university library. He had chosen Thompson first for several reasons. The library was close at hand. John Thompson had a mild disposition. And he could probably supply information about John Pilgrim.

Climbing the steps of the library, his doubts returned. More than likely his question would elicit merely the nasty counter-question: “What business is it of yours where I spent Friday night?”

Then what? Unless... unless he could goad the guilty John into betraying himself!

Easily said. But how to induce his suspects either to incriminate themselves or demonstrate their innocence through provable alibis?

Mervyn stopped in the library foyer to ponder. At last he hit upon a modus operandi. He continued up the marble stairs and came out into a vast hall crammed with catalogue files. The usual flotsam of students, at high tide two weeks before, was gone; the room seemed almost clean.

To one side an oak door warned: LIBRARY PERSONNEL ONLY. Through this door he had occasionally seen Mary pass; now he opened it and walked along a short corridor to where an elderly woman sat at a desk beside a time clock. She looked up inquiringly, and when he asked to speak with John Thompson she looked at him severely over her glasses and pressed a button at the side of her desk. A tubby girl in a dusty pink canvas apron appeared and was instructed to convey the gentleman to Mr. Thompson.

The girl led Mervyn down a steel spiral staircase and along a corridor behind the stacks to a large windowless room, where women sat at desks piled high with books, pamphlets and periodicals. The girl in the pink apron pushed open another of the oak doors, beckoned to Mervyn, yawned and departed.

John Thompson’s office was a cheerless cubicle with battleship linoleum on the floor, brown burlap-covered walls, and a single window overlooking a forlorn scrap of lawn. The librarian, lolling in a swivel chair behind a desk, looked up with no surprise at Mervyn’s entrance. He wore a tan corduroy suit, in great need of pressing, and a foully tobacco-hued knit tie.

“Hi there, Gray. Have a chair.” Thompson surveyed Mervyn with only mild interest.

Mervyn found himself clearing his throat. Finally he said, “I’m here about Mary Hazelwood.”

“You are?” said Thompson politely.

It did not seem an auspicious beginning. “Yes,” said Mervyn. “You see, Susie hasn’t heard from her, and I’m frankly worried. Mary and I... But maybe I’d better not go into that.” Not a bad touch, that, Mervyn thought.

The librarian nodded like a man of the world. “Say no more.”

Mervyn was encouraged. “You were at Oleg Malinski’s party, Thompson, so you know she went off with a man named John.”

“So I gathered.”

Mervyn cleared his throat again. “Look here. I’m trying to find out whom Mary went off with, and why. I don’t think I need go into my reasons. Can you help me, Thompson?”

“If you mean was I the ‘John,’” the librarian said, rocking in his swivel chair dreamily, “no such luck.”

“So you said at Malinski’s, and of course I don’t doubt your word. But just to make it crystal clear... could you tell me where you were Friday night?”

“Friday night? Last Friday?” John Thompson clasped his hands behind his head. “Good heavens, let’s see. I think I was home all evening in my apartment. Yes. Working on my book. All librarians write books.”

“Excuse me if I seem to belabor the point, but was anyone with you? I’d like to be able to cross you definitely off the list.”

Thompson shook his sleek head; he seemed amused. “Sorry, then I guess I stay on the list. I can’t help you.”

“Can’t? Or won’t?”

The librarian opened his eyes wide. “Does it make any difference? The result is the same.” He laughed. “I didn’t figure you for the jealous-suitor type, Gray. Any more than I am. The world’s full of girls. Although admittedly Mary is something special.”

Mervyn rose. “I see I’m wasting your time and mine.”

Thompson said, “Oh, sit down. Your best bet is John Pilgrim, who used to work here. It was an interesting thing to watch. I mean, Pilgrim trying to ignore Mary, Mary teasing him, using all her tricks. I enjoyed every minute of it.”

“What happened?” Mervyn sat down, eagerly.

“Oh, Pilgrim finally gave in. He and Mary began to eat lunch together out of paper sacks. Bread, salami, red wine in paper cups. The wine officially verboten, of course, but it would have been a pity to interfere.”

“And then what?”

“I fired him.”

“How come?”

“Pilgrim was hopeless. Not a bad fellow personally — really a rather refreshing sort — but his mind simply wasn’t on his work.”

“Do you have his address?”

“Yes.” The librarian swiveled to consult a file. “1909 ½-A Milton. That’s south of campus.”

Mervyn made a note. Then he said in a manly way, “It would simplify matters so much, Thompson, if you could tell me... I mean eliminate yourself...” Thompson shook his head. “Gray, I work here five days a week. From three o’clock Friday afternoon to nine o’clock Monday morning I’m a different man. I like to keep my two worlds separate. And I fully intend to. You’ll just have to take my word for it that I had nothing to do with Mary Hazelwood’s going away.”

Mervyn rose for the second time. “Thanks for your help.”

Thompson said graciously, “Sorry I didn’t prove more satisfactory.”

Mervyn returned to his car, not altogether displeased. In a sense the interview had not been a total loss; Thompson had seemed relaxed and assured. Or had it been an act? Mervyn gnawed his lower Up, worried again.

He swung south of campus, turned into Milton Street and located 1909½-A. It was a ramshackle cottage in the yard behind a ramshackle house. The district was something less than middle class, not far from the used-car lots along Shattuck Avenue.

Mervyn took a cracked concrete path that skirted a neglected lawn from which sprouted a circular aluminum clothes-drying contraption. John Pilgrim’s cottage was not much more than a garage. The roof was of cheap red composition shingle; the siding had once been painted gray. Mervyn climbed two steps to the unsteady porch and knocked on the door.

There was no response. Mervyn went over to a nearby window and peered into a front room. A reed mat covered the floor. On the far wall were William Blake water-colors and a bookcase constructed of orange crates, holding two or three dozen paperbacks. Along the other wall stood a studio couch covered with dark-green monk’s cloth, a cane-bottomed rocking chair and a card table.

He knocked once more, and then he gave up.

Returning to his apartment, he made a pot of coffee and some sandwiches, which he ate without appetite. Susie came into the court, ran up the steps quickly to the balcony and went into her apartment. Mervyn checked the time. One-thirty. Susie, he recalled, was planning to visit Mrs. Kelly between two and three.

Ten minutes later she emerged; she had changed from shorts into a fetching blue print dress. On impulse Mervyn went to the door.

“Hey, Susie!”

She turned and waited for him.

“Going to the hospital?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“I had no idea you were fond of Mrs. Kelly.”

“She seems a decent old thing.”

“She is,” Susie said shortly. Mrs. Kelly, Mervyn remembered, had mothered her and Mary, or tried to. It was probably the only mothering they had ever had. Reaching the sidewalk, Susie turned left. Mervyn halted in astonishment.

“You’re going to walk it?”

“What’s wrong with walking? It’s only a few blocks.”

“Why, it’s at least a mile! Come on, we’ll take my car.”

“Someday,” said Susie, following him, “people’s legs will begin to drop off.”

So they rode to the hospital, Susie sitting straight as a drum majorette.

A woman at the lobby desk directed them to Room 406. The elevator deposited them in an antiseptic corridor. Susie pushed open the door marked “406” softly and looked in. “Mrs. Kelly? You awake?”

“Oh, Susie,” a weak voice said. “Come in.”

Susie hurried into the room; Mervyn followed bashfully. He was afraid of hospitals.

“Sit down,” croaked Mrs. Kelly. She was lying flat on her back; one leg was in traction. “I’m so glad to see you, dear. Who is that with you? Mary?”

Mervyn stepped forward. “It’s me, Mrs. Kelly. Mervyn Gray.”

Mrs. Kelly’s eyes rolled and seemed to bulge. Her body swelled. And her mouth gaped and let loose a scream of terror.

“You!”

“Me?” Mervyn said, prickling all over. “What did I do, Mrs. Kelly?”

“You... pushed me down the steps!” Mrs. Kelly shrieked.