Mr. X (34 page)

“I couldn’t have stayed anyhow, with Rachel scorching me with crucifixes and pelting me with garlic cloves whenever I walked in. Have you seen Town Square yet? It’s kind of nice, I think.”

Arm in arm, we crossed the street alongside Police Headquarters. The square and the fountain lay to our left. A bum with long red-gold hair lay wrapped in a ragged overcoat next to a guitar case on one of the benches. Half a dozen cops stood smoking and talking on the sidewalk. “I saw it this morning,” I said. “While I was coming down those steps.”

The cops stopped talking and stared at us in that way only cops can stare.

“You were in the police station?” Laurie asked. “Why?”

My description of having been arrested for murder made it sound like a grade-school excursion with Officer Friendly. Laurie said, “How long were you there?”

“A couple of hours.”

When we had come within a few yards of the policemen, Laurie took in their stony expressions. She glared back, and the cops shuffled apart and looked away. After we had covered another six feet of pavement, she muttered, “Assholes.”

“They don’t like seeing someone like you with someone like me.”

“Screw ’em. They don’t even know you.” She shook her head. “So the whole thing was a case of mistaken identity?”

“Exactly.”

“Do those other guys know that, or do they still want to find you?”

I said I would have no trouble avoiding Staggers and his friends, told her about moving from Nettie’s, and gave her my new address.

“Your life is shot full of adventure,” she said, dropped my arm, and glided up the stairs like a ballerina.

We went through the columns. Laurie pulled open an immense, iron-clad glass door and led me into a dim lobby with a marble floor the size of a skating rink. An empty reception desk
stood half of the way toward the center of the lobby. No lights burned behind the pebbled-glass windows labeled
COUNTY CLERK
and
BUILDING INSPECTOR.
At the lobby’s far end, two marble staircases curved upward. “I’m surprised the doors weren’t locked,” I said.

“On Saturdays, they leave the place open for a skeleton staff. The question is, Where do we find the helpful Mr. Coventry? Let’s go upstairs.”

My footsteps ticked as though I were wearing tap shoes. A sudden sense-memory of running through Hatchtown’s narrow lanes returned the phantom smell of lavender. We came to the end of a corridor on the second floor, and a single office door glowed yellow.

“Bingo!” Laurie said.

The light snapped off. The door bumped open. A tall, fair-haired man in a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves backed into the corridor holding an armful of manila folders.

“Work, work, work,” Laurie said.

He jumped, clamped one arm over the tilting pile, and gaped at Laurie. What happened to his face was almost embarrassing. He seemed about to levitate from sheer joy. “What are you
doing
here?”

“I was hoping you could help my friend dig up some information about his father. He’d like to see his mother’s marriage license and his birth certificate, things like that. Ned, this is the legendary Hugh Coventry. Hugh, my friend Ned Dunstan.”

Coventry was glowing like a fireplace. “Let me, uh …” He deposited the stack of folders on the floor and stepped forward to shake my hand. “Hugh Coventry. At your service. Sir.”

I said, “I hope we’re not interrupting you.”

He waved at the folders. “That stuff isn’t important. You’re a friend of Laurie’s?”

“Mrs. Hatch and I met a few days ago. She’s being nice to me.”

“Your name is Dunstan? You’re one of the Edgerton Dunstans?”

“Don’t hold it against me,” I said.

Coventry’s eyes lit up, and he reared back in a transport of scholarly pleasure. “Are you kidding? You’re from one of the most fascinating families in this city.”

I thought I could see the entire pattern of his life. Hugh Coventry was a decent guy who would always live alone in a
couple of upstairs rooms lined floor to ceiling with books. His emotions were generous without being personal.

“Your ancestors, two brothers named Omar and Sylvan Dunstan, founded the Edgerton Bank and Trust, now the Illinois State Provident. At one time, they owned most of downtown Edgerton. Howard Dunstan built Merchants Hotel. I wish I knew more of their story.”

“Me, too,” I said.

“You must be related to Annette Rutledge. Mrs. Rutledge sent over a wonderful collection of Dunstan family photographs. I hate to say this, but they seem to be misplaced for the time being. I’m sure we’ll find them in the next day or two.”

Mrs. Rutledge was my mother’s aunt, I said, she would be overjoyed to have her pictures on display, and I hoped he might be willing to help me.

“Of course.” He looked at the stack of files. “Would you, um …”

I picked up half of the folders and followed him into a darkened office. On a long desk, two computers sat opposite each other, like chess players. Laurie said, “You can find marriage licenses in here?”

“Birth certificates, too. It took me
months
to get this place into reasonable shape, and I’m still not done.” He flipped on the overhead lights. “Next is the county clerk’s office. That’s going to be a nightmare.”

“The county clerk’s office is going to be heaven, and you know it,” Laurie said. “Now, what about Ned?”

Coventry looked at me as though I had descended from a cloud. He had forgotten I was there. “You were interested in your mother’s marriage license? Is there some confusion?” His eyes flickered. “I don’t mean to pry, you understand.”

“Confusion is probably the right word,” I said. “My mother was Valerie Dunstan. She gave me her family name, although she was married. Before she died, she told me that my father was named Edward Rinehart. I’d be grateful for whatever you could tell me.”

Coventry went to the computer on the far side of the desk and punched a button on the tower case. He gazed at the monitor with the fascination of a small boy watching the progress of an electric train. Laurie positioned herself behind his shoulder
while he shifted the mouse and tapped keys. “Once you get here, you can access information from all these different areas.”

“No wonder everyone loves you.”

Flushing, Coventry looked across at me. “Do you know the year your mother was married?”

“Nineteen fifty-seven.”

He pulled the mouse down the pad and double-clicked. “V-A-L-E-R-I-E?” I nodded. Laurie moved a step closer and rested her hand on his shoulder. Coventry clicked the mouse and bent forward.

Laurie frowned at the screen. “That can’t be right.”

Coventry looked at me. “Have you ever heard of a man named Donald Messmer?”

“Why?”

“According to this, Donald Messmer married Valerie Dunstan on the twenty-fifth of November, 1957. Peter Bontly, justice of the peace, performed the ceremony; witnesses, Lorelei Bontly and Kenneth Schermerhorn.”

“Something’s wrong,” Laurie said. “His father was named Edward Rinehart.”

Coventry did a lot of things with the mouse. “The birth certificate ought to tell us something. What was your date of birth?”

“June twenty-fifth,” I said, “1958.”

“Right around the corner.” He beamed at me. “Happy birthday, in case I don’t see you before that.”

I thanked him.

“Full name?”

“Ned Dunstan.”

Coventry blinked. “Isn’t Ned generally a nickname for Edward? You have no middle name?”

“Just Ned Dunstan,” I said.

“That’s so sensible,” he said. “However, if you feel deprived, take one of my middle names, will you? Your choices are Jellicoe, York, and St. George. I recommend Jellicoe. It has a nice nineteenth-century ring.”

Laurie took her hands from his shoulders. “Your actual name is Hugh Jellicoe York St. George Coventry?”

“It was the only way to stay on good terms with the relatives.”

“My father was like that,” she said. “His name went on and on, like a list, but he never called himself anything but Yves D’Lency.”

Hugh Jellicoe York St. George Coventry folded his hands over his belt buckle and smiled up.

“Weren’t you looking for Ned’s birth certificate?”

“Oh! Excuse me! I’m sorry, Ned.”

“I’ll take St. George,” I said. “It has a nice twelfth-century ring.”

He struck a key and leaned back again. “This shouldn’t take more than a couple of seconds.” We waited. “Here it comes.” Coventry shifted in his chair, bent forward, and propped his chin on his hand.

Laurie said, “I don’t get it.”

“Don’t keep me in suspense,” I said.

Coventry cleared his throat. “Name of infant, Ned Dunstan. Date of birth, June twenty-fifth, 1958. Time of birth, three-twenty
A.M.
Place of birth, St. Ann’s Community Hospital. Weight, seven pounds, twelve ounces. Length, ten inches. Mother’s name, Valerie Dunstan. Father’s name, Donald Messmer. Attending physician, none. Attending midwife, Hazel Jansky.” He looked back at me. “All through the fifties, midwives attended nearly half of the births at St. Ann’s Community. Hazel Jansky’s name turns up over and over.”

“Who fills out these certificates?” Laurie asked.

“People at the hospital, but they would have obtained the father’s name from your mother.”

His essential decency made him hesitate, and I said, “Whatever you’re thinking isn’t going to hurt my feelings, Hugh.”

“Marriage requires proof of identification. Even a justice of the peace wouldn’t marry a couple unless they showed him driver’s licenses and birth certificates. However, I don’t know what you’ll think of this idea, but it’s certainly possible for a pregnant woman to marry another man. After delivery, she’d have every reason to name the husband as the child’s father. Do you see what I mean?”

“Maybe you’re right,” I said.

“I feel uneasy suggesting something like that, but if she gave you your father’s name and another name turns up in the records …”

“It makes sense,” I said. “We have to go now, but could I see you again? I’d like to look up a few other things.”

“Want to come back tomorrow morning? The doors will be locked, but if you bang hard enough I’ll hear you.”

Laurie kissed the top of his head. “You’re wonderful.”

“Laurie?”

“Hugh?”

“Dinner tonight? Or a movie? How about dinner and a movie?”

“Not tonight,” she said. “But you’re a darling.”

45

“That’s ridiculous. Your father can’t be a man named Donald
Messmer
.”

“Hugh had a good idea,” I said. “She was pregnant when she got married. My mother was free-spirited when it came to official documents.”

“We have to get in touch with this Messmer.” She turned the key in the ignition and nudged the accelerator. “Posy Fairbrother, Cobbie’s nanny, has a CD-ROM with addresses and telephone numbers from a million different cities. Now, where are we going?”

I showed her the slip of paper. Toby’s slash-and-burn handwriting spelled out the name
Max Edison
and
V.A. Hospital, Mount Vernon
. “That’s a long way away, isn’t it?”

“It’s a hike, but the expressway goes right to it. We have plenty of time, if we don’t stay long. There’s a nice place to have lunch on the other side of Marion.”

We moved out into the traffic and headed toward the expressway.

“How did you get this name? Did Max Edison know your father?”

I said that I had heard about him from Toby Kraft, a pawnbroker on Lanyard Street who had been married to my grandmother, Queenie Dunstan. “After we left Le Madrigal, Toby’s the person I went to see.”

“Ah,” Laurie said.

“He wants to keep out of the picture. Toby only gave me this
much on the condition that we never had the conversation, and the name didn’t come from him.”

Laurie swung into the northbound on-ramp.

“Your father’s name was Yves D’Lency, and he drove across the African veldt to shoot lions?”

“Not really. It’s a long story. You don’t want to hear it.”

“Try me,” I said.

Yves D’Lency had been a glamorous daredevil born to an aristocratic family in possession of a Gascony estate and a noble art collection. At eighteen, he had escaped to immerse himself in the literary and artistic worlds of postwar Paris, where he supported himself by literary journalism and private art dealing. He learned to fly; he drove racing cars. At the end of the fifties, he moved to Los Angeles, where he already had several clients who trusted his taste in paintings. He married Laurie’s mother and bought a house in Beverly Hills. Laurie was born, and for seven years all went well. Then he died. Laurie still had two paintings from his private collection.