The Four Johns (14 page)

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.

CHAPTER 10

Mervyn frowned over his TV dinner. On Friday evening last, John Thompson had or had not mowed the lawn and performed other domestic tasks way out in Enchanted Meadows; John Pilgrim had probably put in a full shift at the Claremont Hotel; John Viviano had occupied himself learning the basic elements of his profession; and John Boce had—at least claimed—a social engagement.

Mervyn considered each alibi carefully.

John Boce's refusal to disclose the name of his date carried the least conviction.

The pattern of John Thompson's secret domestic weekends was clear, but it remained to be seen whether or not he had followed the pattern the previous Friday.

The same could be said for John Pilgrim. The time card put him in the clear—
if
the other bellhop was telling the truth. Remembering Pilgrim's grip on his arm, Mervyn had to consider the possibility of collusion.

As for John Viviano, by Malinski's testimony he should by now be pursuing his darkroom studies.

Mervyn looked at his watch. Five minutes to eight. Almost exactly one week ago, Mary Hazelwood had left Apartment 12 to rendezvous with death. Mervyn shuddered.

He changed his shirt, put on a tie and a dark jacket and, switching off the lights, went to his door. Here he hesitated, slowly opening the door.

Nothing out of the ordinary. Mrs. Kelly's apartment across the court up there was dark, as it should be. Neither Susie nor Harriet Brill seemed to be at home; ditto John Boce.

Mervyn moved out into the shadow under the balcony, hesitated again, then plunged across the court, his back tingling with vulnerability.… He was almost surprised when he reached the street safely.

Half a block away he saw Harriet, evidently returning from a trip to the corner market. He quelled the impulse to jump into his car and leave.

Harriet waved gaily. “Good evening, good evening!”

“Hi, Harriet,” Mervyn said. “Any idea where John Boce has gone to?”

“No. Why, Mervyn?”

“He wanted to talk to me about the convertible.”

“You two and that car,” the psychologist said indulgently. “Just like a pair of quarreling children.”

“Say, Harriet, did John borrow your car Friday a week ago?”

Harriet's eyes slitted. “Did John say he did?”

“He's awfully mysterious about whom he was out with last Friday night.”

Harriet said cautiously, “John and I had a date that evening.”

“You used your car?”

“That must have been the night we saw
Alexander Nevsky
. One of the Eisenstein films. John and I both love Russian films. They're so—so
Russian
.”

Ah, the hell with it, Mervyn thought. “Well, I'll probably see John tomorrow. How's Mrs. Kelly today?”

“Better.” Harriet took a nervous step. “Excuse me, Mervyn, my ice cream is melting.” She made hastily for her apartment.

Mervyn crossed the Bay Bridge and located the San Francisco Recreation Center, a large public building devoted to arts, crafts and hobbies. The ground floor was given over to impressive facilities for the processing and printing of film.

Mervyn spotted Viviano at once. The photographer stood beside a print drier, impatiently watching the slow, endless belt. He was wearing black slacks and a loose offbeat poplin jacket with blue and red stripes. He looked up, saw Mervyn's eyes on him, and froze.

“What are you doing here, Viviano?” Mervyn called amiably. “Experimenting at the taxpayers' expense?”

“Exactly,” snapped Viviano.

Mervyn looked around the room. Near the entrance to the darkroom stood a print washer. On the other side of the room there were tables with paper cutters, a press for mounting finished prints, and other devices. “What sort of work are you doing down here?”

“General photography,” said Viviano shortly. “Anything and everything. I'm refreshing my techniques.”

Prints began to fall from the drier into a tray. Viviano scooped them up, examined them closely. They looked to Mervyn like very ordinary views of an ancient hotel in the process of being wrecked.

“You shot those pictures last week?”

“Yes,” grunted Viviano. “On Monday morning. The film is Plus X. I used a Nikon F with a one-thirty-five telephoto.”

“Interesting,” said Mervyn mendaciously. “Er—do you have any other prints on hand—say, those you made last Friday night?”