The Glendower Legacy (9 page)

He stopped and picked up shrimp chow mein and egg roll for dinner. The sun was too low for warmth and he shivered as he mounted the porch steps. He pitched the mail onto the rolltop desk, slipped into a heavy cardigan, and began heating water for the Chemex. He lit rolled-up newspapers under a stack of dry logs; slowly the library took on a warm glow. Attending to his various housekeeping chores, he chatted absentmindedly with the bust of George Washington. George was the perfect companion: he didn’t require feeding or long inconvenient constitutionals before bed, he didn’t have a box to be shoveled out and deodorized or a filthy newspaper in the bottom of a cage, he made no irritating noises, listened attentively, set a good and prudent example, and was indisputably the greatest figure—all in all—America had produced. What would George have thought of policemen who left bugs in your tobacco jar?

He munched his way through the chow mein, adding some soy sauce. It was time for the early news. There was no point in ignoring McGonigle’s suggestion. He popped the remainder of an egg roll into his mouth, got up, turned on the television. It wasn’t long before McGonigle’s insistence took on a particular, ghastly validity. “Murder,” the anchorman intoned, “in the news again tonight. Reporting from Beacon Hill, Channel Three’s Polly Bishop …”

Feeling a sudden queasiness, Chandler leaned forward in his chair, tension running like a current through his body. The camera panned down from the burnished dome of the State House with a clear, brilliant sky behind it, came to rest on Polly Bishop, tracked along with her as she walked slowly down one of the narrow streets running away from Park Street.

“This afternoon there came a tragic new twist to the murder of Harvard student Bill Davis some seventy-two hours ago.” Chandler realized they’d taped it earlier in the day but she was adjusting the time to approximately when it would be aired. Just when had McGonigle and Fennerty learned about it all? They’d visited his office in the morning … Her soft doe eyes looked directly into the camera, her voice firm, precise. Shadows lingered across her cheekbones, in the hollows of her pale, elegant face. A thick ribbon held her hair in place as the wind gusted in the twisty street. “The twist? A second brutal murder, this time an antiquarian, a dealer in rare books, seventy-nine-year-old Nat Underhill, a world-respected expert in his field. Mr. Underhill was found shot to death in the back office of his shop in Beacon Street where for thirty years an exclusive clientele has sought both rare books and documents as well as his unparalleled expertise.”

Chandler knew the name: if not a world class expert, Underhill had been a respected figure. Chandler had met him once or twice over the years, couldn’t have claimed to know him. But what had he to do with Bill Davis?
Authentication …
inevitably the word, the idea, dropped into place. Polly Bishop had stopped walking, now turned to face the viewers head-on, her trenchcoat collar turned up, the tight brown gloves wrapped around the microphone.

“Apparently during the night, or perhaps even this morning—we must wait on the coroner’s report to set the time more accurately—unknown assailants visited Mr. Underhill in his office and shot him twice, killing him instantly. Lieutenant Anthony Lascalle has informed us that the crime was discovered when Underbill’s secretary, Nora Thompson, arrived at noon to open the shop. At the time of his death Underhill was cataloging new acquisitions, Ms. Thompson explained. The shop normally opened at noon except by appointment, since casual walk-in trade played no part in Underbill’s business.”

Nora Thompson discovered the crime at noon!

Holy Jesus … McGonigle and Fennerty had known before it was discovered …

“Channel Three has learned—and this is what’s really crucial here—we’ve learned from a Boston Homicide source that the name of
Bill Davis,
that’s right, Bill Davis who was murdered in Brookline, was written in Underhill’s hand on a notepad found on his desk.” Pause for effect. “Now three names have been raised in this strange case—Bill Davis, his adviser at Harvard, Professor Colin Chandler, and now Nat Underhill. … What links them all together? Was the gun that killed Davis the same that killed Underhill?” She made eye contact with hundreds of thousands of viewers. “Those are the questions that the Boston police are asking themselves tonight … and as yet there has been no break in the case. This is Polly Bishop, Channel Three News, at the scene of the crime on Beacon Hill …”

The camera panned away from her face, slid on toward the discreet lettering on Underhill’s office window, lingered there until the cut was made to a commercial.

Chandler’s knees were shaking and he felt on the verge of a spasm of hyperventilation. How in the name of God could those two clowns have known about the murder of Underhill and gotten to Harvard to bug his tobacco
before
the body was discovered? One answer leaped to mind and Chandler couldn’t ignore it: McGonigle and Fennerty had been the unknown assailants, they had killed him …

But there had to be a different, better explanation. Didn’t there? The operator had confirmed the existence of McGonigle and Fennerty. Maybe for some reason the police wanted Nora whatever-her-name-was to be the official discoverer of the corpse. But why? And could McGonigle have been referring to something other than the murder when he urged Chandler to watch the television news? Good Lord, that seemed unlikely enough—but still, if you subtracted everything that seemed unlikely, Bill Davis and Nat Underhill would be alive, nobody would have brought up the subject of authentication, Polly Bishop would still be an impersonal adjunct to his television set, and nobody would have put a bug in George Washington’s head.

The news was still rattling on but he wasn’t hearing it. The question of McGonigle and Fennerty aside, for at least the moment, he was angry and frightened at the continuing use of his name by Polly Bishop. His name included in a threesome with two murder victims—it was unspeakable! Christ, the implications of it … And the woman—she couldn’t resist dragging his name into it,
could not resist!
No wonder she had an ulcer. It was guilt, sheer guilt. “George,” he croaked, forcing himself to his feet, “what the hell are we going to do with this woman? Don’t just sit there, George, say something …”

He went upstairs and put on his pajamas and robe. He was cinching the belt when the phone rang. Sliding his feet into slippers he hurried downstairs.

The voice on the other end of the line was strained, strung tight, unaccustomed to the tricky position in which it found itself.

“Professor Chandler, my name is Nora Thompson. You don’t know me but—”

“I just heard your name, Miss Thompson,” he said. “On television. What can I do for you?” He was afraid he heard a giveaway tremor in his voice.

“I have to see you, Professor. I can’t talk on the telephone. I’m afraid—all you hear about these days is people listening in on your private conversations. I don’t know, anybody could be listening in.”

“I see. Anybody special in mind?”

“Somebody killed Mr. Underhill,” she said, rushing, hurrying past his question. “I’ve been with Mr. Underhill for twenty-five years, he was a lovely old man, kind and blameless, and they killed him. They killed the Davis boy. You or I could be next …”

“It may be a coincidence, Miss Thompson. You can’t go by what you hear on television—”

“Mark my words,” she whispered, “it’s no coincidence. I
know.
The same killers, believe me. It’s all tied together and I’ve got to see you. As soon as possible. I live in Lexington. Can you come out here? Tomorrow?”

“I suppose I can.” He was reacting to the urgency in her voice and the prickling he felt on his own neck. “Give me your address.”

“No, no, they’re watching my house—”

“Who?”

“How should I know?” she cried impatiently. “The killers … the police. I don’t know, I feel it … It’s you I have to see. Meet me at Kennedy’s Drugstore. You can’t miss it, center of town. I’ll get out of the house and meet you, eleven o’clock. Don’t be late, Professor. Please.”

The line was dead before he could reply. He replaced the telephone, picked up the cold coffee and sipped. What could she have to tell him? Or, God forbid,
give
him … Not the whatever-it-was that everyone seemed to want. The item in need of authentication … He had to keep the appointment: the woman was terrified. Obviously paranoid. Obviously? What the hell was he saying? People bugging your tobacco and you call Nora Thompson paranoid! Damn, he knew what was happening but he couldn’t do anything about it: he was being drawn deeper and deeper into the mire. But how did you step back now? How?

The telephone rang again. It was Brennan.

“I’ve been thinking, Colin,” he said. “Do you think maybe you should tell Prosser about this? He’s got some clout around here, chairman of the history department—he’s got connections, you know that. He could really raise hell about this bugging thing. The more I think about it, the less I like it. It’s not just a bad joke—and I should know.” He chuckled nervously.

“Maybe,” Chandler said. “But Prosser’s so damned far removed from reality. He doesn’t live in our world—he’s probably in Washington telling Kissinger how to shape up his act.”

Brennan said: “Well, keep it in mind. You want to hear a joke?”

“Yes, actually, I do—”

“You’re serious?”

“Yes, tell me a joke.”

“Okay, there are these two titled Englishmen, they meet at Boodles, reading room full of old duffers dozing behind
The Times
and
The Economist,
trays of sherry, smoke of good cigars. ‘I say, Binkie,’ says one to the other, ‘have you heard the latest about Favisham?’” Brennan laid on a terribly British dialect: it reassured Chandler that the world had not gone entirely to hell. “‘Favisham?’ says he. ‘By Jove, I can’t say as I have.’ ‘Seems he’s gone off to Equatorial Africa—left his wife, he has.’ ‘You don’t say? Silly old blighter, Favisham!’ ‘Ah, Binkie, that’s not the half of it … he’s living in a tree with a gorilla!’ ‘Favisham? In a tree? With a gorilla?’ ‘S’truth, old Favisham in a tree with a gorilla in Equatorial Africa!’ ‘Well, tell me—this gorilla, is it male or female?’ ‘Oh, female, of course. Nothing
odd
about Favisham …’”

Chandler sought total ordinariness for the remainder of the evening. He did his Chemex routine in the kitchen, brought it to the library, set it on the heating ring, along with cream and sugar, beside his comfy chair. He put
The Magic Flute
on the Mcintosh, settled in. He was deep in the music, eyes closed, when the doorbell rang. Pulling his robe tight, he stood stock still for a moment: McGonigle and Fennerty? Would they have realized he’d know their secret by now? Would they come back to finish him off? God, it was all nonsense … He went to the door feeling put upon.

The first thing he saw was the checked porkpie hat, then the heavy glasses resting on the prominent nose, then the shape of the big man standing just beyond the light from the hallway. Just for a moment he thought he was going to lose his chow mein: but he thanked God it wasn’t the Irish mafia, swallowed hard, clenching his jaw reflexively.

“Professor Chandler?” The short man had a high, nasal voice with a touch of a whine to it.

“Yes,” he nodded. He was shivering under the robe: he couldn’t stop.

“We’re from the district attorney’s office, Professor, special investigators assigned to this Bill Davis business.” He smelled of a mint breath deodorizer. Behind him the big man breathed adenoidally, through his mouth, a raspy sound.

“The district attorney’s office,” Chandler said.

“May we come in, Professor? This won’t take long but it is important, terribly important.”

“You might say time is of the essence.” The big man leaned into the light, smiled distantly, an official smile. His mouth jerked in a nervous tic. “We’ve got a full night ahead of us, Professor—we need just a moment of your time.” A gold tooth caught the light, flickered like the last ray of hope.

“Sure,” Chandler said tiredly, full of fear, ashamed of himself. “I’ve noticed you guys, yesterday, last night. Come in, come in.” The last thing in the world he wanted was having these two in his house but he was worn down. What could he do?

“Aren’t you the observant one,” the large one said softly, sucking air. They followed him into the library. “Sit down, Professor,” indicating the deep chair.

“Would you like some coffee?” Chandler felt a great hand on his shoulder, pushing him down into the chair, gently. He looked up about to complain but the face, mouth open, staring, stopped him. The large man’s pale eyes were uninviting.

“The D.A. is very upset with you, Professor,” the small one whined. “He says you’re obstructing the investigation. Now there are two stiffs and he figures at least the old man is your fault—”

“How? What does he mean?”

“No point being cute with us—the kid talked before he died.”

The other voice came from behind his chair: “That’s right—he said, ‘Chandler’s got it’ and kicked the bucket.
‘Chandler’s got it.’
That means you, Professor.” The man was moving behind him, crossing, coming into his peripheral vision on the left.

“I don’t believe he said that.” Chandler felt a constricting in his forehead, his throat. He had no faith in his ability to end this interview. “In any case, I have nothing—he gave me nothing.”
The Magic Flute,
which may well have been the noblest accomplishment of the humanistic spirit, was doing no good, the bad guys weren’t listening. George Washington was mute, blind, had nothing to offer, no advice.

“Cut the shit,” the large man growled. Chandler heard his breathing, almost a groan. Everything was changing. Civility had just died. “We’ve been plenty patient. Now where the hell is it? Two men have died, why run the risk of being the third … We can’t protect you if you don’t cooperate with us. Goddamn it, the D.A. wants action! Now!” He glared down at Chandler who felt the fear giving way to anger.

“Tell the D.A. to shove it!” he flared back. “You and the TV reporters and the Boston cops—you can all go straight to hell! Tell me what it is I’m supposed to have … I don’t know.
I don’t know.
Check with your colleagues in homicide—I told them the authentication angle—” He started to get out of the chair but this time the big man, who was by now in front of him, leaned across the table and slammed him backwards, like a child being kept in his high chair. No effort. The face impassive, mouth open for breathing.