Neal Rafferty New Orleans Mystery #1: The Killing Circle (A Neal Rafferty New Orleans Mystery) (7 page)

“Did you kill him, Rafferty?” she asked. He began to snore.

“Is that Louie?”

“That's him alright.”

I took her by the arm. “Well, I think he's going to be here for a while.” She resisted my effort to lead her away. “I checked, Mrs. Parry. All the bottles are empty.” We went down to her landing. “Look,” I told her, “that fellow's likely to be mad when he gets up. If he tries to give you any trouble, call the police.”

“You don't have to worry about me.” She was annoyed. “What I want to know, Rafferty, is why did you sneak back up here and break into that apartment?”

“I hate for you to put it quite like that, Mrs. Parry. Let's just say I suspected possible foul play up there.”

“You know, I'm not so sure you're on the level, Rafferty.”

I ran out of bribes when I gave her my last pack of cigarettes.

It was ten-thirty when I got to the car. By now Rankin would have shaken Catherine down and be hot on Fleming's trail. That meant Fleming would be calling my apartment and office looking for me. He would have to wait. I had one more stop to make to satisfy my curiosity.

8

Rafferty on Location

I stopped at an all-night drugstore on Canal Street to look up André’s address. The usual array of Latin pimps was standing on the corner or leaning up against the building with their knees bent at forty-five-degree angles.

There were two Robert Andrés listed, one at 3201 Coliseum, a Garden District address, the other in Gentilly. I put my money on the first, and took Magazine Street uptown. To quiet the persistent rumblings of my stomach, I turned into the Channel on Third Street and grabbed a beer at Parasol's. And while it was still on my mind, I got a fifth of Jim Beam to keep in the car in case I visited Mrs. Parry again.

The 3200 block of Coliseum was shrouded with massive oak trees. Where I expected 3201 to be, a high ligustrum hedge obscured the house. Cattails had taken over the iron gate, making it hard to find in the dark. It gave a squeal of stress as I pushed it back.

The yard would have been a great location for an episode of Ramar of the Jungle. Grass was fast obliterating the brick walkway to the house, a large raised cottage. Even in the darkness I could see dark paint peeling away from the banisters and railing around the portico. Long French windows at the sides of the front door were shuttered but I could see light trying to seep through on the right side. As I stepped up to the door a board groaned at the nuisance of my late visit. I pushed the yellowed ivory bell anyway.

I heard ice tinkling before he opened the door. He stood with a drink and cigarette in one hand, eyeing me with an amused expression. The deep purple smoking jacket he was wearing tinged his white hair the same color. He took the cigarette out of the hand holding the drink and caressed it on the way to his lips. I opened my mouth to speak but he beat me to it.

“My dear fellow,” he said through a cloud of smoke in an accent I could have hung Yorkshire pudding on, “there aren't many who would venture through my gardens at night. You must be anxious to see me.”

“Anxious and brave.” I showed him my ID. “Neal Rafferty, investigator. Private.”

“How very interesting. I can't imagine what you would want to see me about.” His eyes crinkled playfully. “Well, maybe I do have one small idea. Does that alert your curiosity,
M
r
.
Rafferty?”

“Not much. I figure you know why I'm here.”

“Come now, Mr. Rafferty, you're taking all the fun out of it. Why don't you come in? Perhaps I can convince you to take a more sporting attitude.” He turned and walked back into the wide hallway separating the two sides of the house.

The exterior had about as much in common with the interior as the Desire project has with the Garden District. Deep blue carpeting ran the length of the hall and the walls were stark white. There was no furniture, only paintings hung as if they were being shown in a gallery. Above each in the high ceiling was a single spotlight. The effect was quite impressive. The paintings were varied: Some were portraits of rather singular faces done in muted pastels; others were abstracts in vivid, running colors. There were a few still lifes. I examined the portrait closest to me. The face was in movement, its lines contorted and flowing into the background as if it were looking out from a pool of running water. The amused expression identified it as André. Scrawled in large black letters in the lower right corner was the signature Lise.

“A tribute by a talented young woman, wouldn't you say? Please make yourself comfortable in my study. I'll be with you momentarily.” He gestured at a half-opened door and took off to the rear of the house.

In the middle of the study a Tensor lamp lit up an overstuffed leather chair. The rest of the room was darkened by towering brown bookshelves. My eyes were adjusting to the change when I got the feeling I was being observed. I locked my eyes with a giant frog sitting on top of a writing table under a shuttered window. His ruby eyes bulged in their sockets at me. All over the book-lined room, from every vantage point, on top of the shelves, the books, peering out from a potted palm, scattered on the floor, frogs glistened and winked. There must have been a hundred of them, all peering straight at me as if my entrance had alerted their danger signals. A little one perched on an ottoman even had his head dipped in my direction to get a better view. Under this scrutiny, I eased back in a Morris chair, also in the middle of the room, and turned on the floor lamp next to it. André had been reading. The book lay open on a side table next to the leather chair. There was a ring of water where his glass had been. I leaned over to see the title of the book. It was called
States of Consciousness.

André came in carrying a bottle of Hennessey and two snifters. “I hope my friends have kept you amused.”

“Don't you know it's rude to stare at people that way?”

He chuckled. “I don't suppose anyone's ever bothered to tell them.” He poured the cognac and handed me one.

“Since you seem to know why I'm here, André, why don't you tell me about it.”

He asked seriously, “About what?” but his amusement returned before he finished the question.

“About Garber.”

“I know he's dead, but, then, I imagine you know that, too.”

“Then maybe you know that your name was plastered all over his memo sheet. Have any idea why?” He lit a cigarette, looking at me over the flame. “Let me guess, André. These deductions are hard, but I think I've got it. You must be the mysterious ‘prospective buyer;’ the one interested in the Blake books.”

“How clever of you.”

“Yeah, I'm real ingenious. Why those particular books, André?”

“I'm a great admirer of William Blake's. I like books in general.” He gazed fondly around the room. “I like owning them for the sake of owning them. That's actually a rather common obsession. You see, Rafferty, I'm not unsympathetic to your plight. I'm trying to help you with the more difficult deductions.”

“Gee, thanks, André. That's real chipper of you. Why the Blake books? I ask again at the risk of being accused of senile repetition.”

“Honestly, Rafferty, I'm not trying to be crafty. I repeat, at the same risk, I admire Blake. I admire all of the English poets of that period. My shelves contain collections of Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, Keats, Landor. But they sadly lack any good collection of Blake. Do I make myself clear?”

“Did your collections of Wordsworth, Byron, Shelley, Keats, and whoever all cost ninety thousand dollars?”

He smiled and stuck his cigarette into the corner of it.

“Were you trying to ruffle Fleming with the offer?”

“No, no, Rafferty. You're off the track now. The offer was made without Fleming's knowledge of who was making it. The offer was made directly to Garber and with explicit instructions that he should not tell Fleming who was making it.”

“Why the mystery?”

“Why not? I enjoy a good mystery. Anyway, if Fleming had been interested in selling, why should he care who was doing the buying as long as the price was right?”

“What made you think Fleming was interested in selling?”

“I didn't think he was.”

“You're making more sense all the time, André. How did you know he had bought the books to begin with?”

“I'm not as provincial as I may appear to be, Rafferty. I read newspapers as well as books.”

“Okay, André. Your point.” I sighed. “Let's go back again. Why the offer if you didn't think Fleming was interested in selling?”

“Let's just say that ninety thousand dollars is a lot of money. Maybe I didn't want to part with it, so I felt safe offering to buy the books.”

“Okay, I get it. We'll just skip that one.”

We sat back smoking cigarettes, drinking brandy, eyeing each other. My head felt like someone had pumped a pound of helium into it.

I asked quietly, “Where are the books, André?”

His eyebrows moved toward his nose. “But, my dear fellow, don't tell me they're missing!”

“Don't act like you don't know, André. You seem to know about everything else.”

“Mine is the knowledge of the general public, Rafferty. That interesting tidbit was not mentioned in the newscast. I suppose Fleming made sure it wasn't. A display of his inability to control everything would embarrass him.”

“You know what interests me, André? How you knew to contact Garber about the books. That
he
had them the general public did not know.” For an instance the mirth left his face, but just for an instant. If I'd blinked, I'd have missed it like you miss a postage-stamp town. I knew it was childish, but I was immensely pleased with myself.

“A friend gave me the information.” I indicated my disbelief. “It's quite true,” he said. “The same friend contacted Garber for me.”

I paused for ominous effect and to think a second. I decided to give it a go. “Your long-haired friend was seen leaving Garber's shop with the books, André.” It was a shot in the dark and I didn't think it had worked; not a hair on his head budged.

“Ah, my dear Mr. Rafferty, I have tried to be hospitable to you, and I have enjoyed your company until now. I don't mind your not believing me—most people are liars anyway—but now you are implying that my friend is a thief. Really, my frogs have better manners. At the expense of ending my favorite self-indulgences, drinking and talking, I feel I owe it to my friend to ask you to leave.” He continued to smile at me, but his eyes had gotten stony. The gambit had hit a nerve just as surely as the long ash of the forgotten cigarette between his fingers was going to hit the carpet.

“I'm not known for having much tact when I don't get answers, André.” I got up to leave, but on a whim went over to the writing table and patted the big frog on the head. It seemed to like the attention.

When we got to the door André said, “You're an intelligent young man, Rafferty. You'll get your answers without any help from me. It will be better that way.” There was no trace of amusement, none of the witty cynicism.

I thanked him for the brandy and left.

9

Family Connections

I was driving to Carter Fleming's Audubon Place address feeling foolish and not so smart. I had just played verbal chess with André and made the wrong moves—I felt sure he knew the location of the Blake books but my strategy had convinced him that I should find them without his help. Yet I liked him anyway.

I was stopped at a red light on St. Charles Avenue when the idea hit. If I was right some loose ends were suddenly going to start flying together I laughed out loud. The light turned and the driver behind me blew his horn as if the two were on the same circuit. I passed Audubon Place and headed to an open pay phone at the intersection of Broadway and St. Charles.

I called Maurice.

“Hello.” Alert. At three in the morning Maurice would sound alert. I'm not sure he ever sleeps.

“Hope I didn't interrupt an exciting dream—or anything like that . . .”

Maurice never gets my little jokes. “I heard the news about Garber,” he said. “Were you in on that?”

Garber's dead face, the glasses over his mouth, his buttoned coat, loomed up in front of me. “Yeah. I found him.”

“You weren't mentioned. I thought you were Fleming calling again. He's frantically looking for you and mad as hell.”

“That must mean Uncle Roddy was there breathing all over him.”

“Rankin pulled this one? My condolences, Neal.”

“I may need more than that. He's mad as hell, too, and he'd love to relieve me of my license.”

“What does he expect you to do for a living? Has he made any job offers lately?”

“Not exactly, but the old man wants me reinstated.”

“Oh, boy. You better play this one close to the cuff.”

“I'm too perverse. It gave me a thrill thinking about Fleming humbling the Lieutenant.”

Maurice laughed. “It would have thrilled Fleming, too, except that he's so put out over the whole deal. He needs to be convinced you didn't betray his confidence. Were the books at the store?”

“No. There's some funny business going on about these books, but I may have come up with something. Do you know Robert André?”

“I know of him. He's supposed to be a little strange.”

“Does he have a son?”

“Not that I know of. I've only heard of a daughter, an artist.”

“Does Fleming have a son?”

“Yes, but Fleming doesn't like to talk about him. It's a real sore subject. You've heard the situation before: Father wants son to go to college and then come into the family business but son has other ideas and takes off. What's André got to do with this?”

“He made an offer for the books. Where's Fleming's son now?”

“He did some traveling for a while at Fleming's expense. Fleming told him to go on and get it out of his system and when the money ran out to come back home and he'd send him to school. But it didn't work out that way. Carter the Third never made it back, but I don't know where he ended up. The money got spent and Fleming refuses to give out any more until number three conforms.”