The Resurrection Man (16 page)

“What about Arbalest’s?”

“That’s another delicate question. I can only say that Mr. Arbalest, since he does most of the cooking, is in the kitchen far more than I; ergo, he has many more opportunities to observe our enigmatic neighbor. Katya’s there with him often as not, keeling pots, bashing spuds, or whatever she does. The culinary arts are quite beyond me. Anyway, I assume she’s noticed Mr. Arbalest watching the little brown man with distaste and sensed his air of revulsion. Katya does have that same primitive way dogs have of picking up people’s feelings. You might be able to get more out of her than you have out of me, though I doubt very much that you’ll be given another opportunity. Not to hurt your feelings, but I don’t think Mr. Arbalest wants to see you again.”

Goudge shot out his wrist and glanced at his remarkable watch. “Oh dear, I must get along, it’s almost time to take Mr. Queppin for his weekly outing. Shall I say au revoir, or must it be adieu?”

“Oh, let’s make it au revoir,” said Max. “You fascinate us, Goudge. Have a nice trip. The butler will see you out.”

The basement door had been left ajar, he raised his voice. “Hey, Charlie, put your pants back on, Mr. Goudge is leaving.”

“Yes, sir. At once, sir. This way please, Mr. Goudge.”

“Good thing one of us has some class,” Max remarked when the departing guest had been properly sped. “I hope you all enjoyed that little bedtime story. Too bad Davy had to miss it.”

“It does seem a pity, when Mr. Goudge tried so hard,” Sarah agreed. “Does he really underestimate his own powers of invention, or did Mr. Arbalest have second thoughts about needing our help and send him here to warn us off?”

“I expect we shall know when the time comes.” Theonia indicated the decanter with a stately nod. “Would anyone care for a spot more brandy?”

Nobody would. They sat watching the bats snapping up bugs under the gaslight in the alley until Sarah noticed Max trying to get more comfortable in his lawn chair and not succeeding. She picked up his cane for him. Brooks picked up the brandy snifters, Theonia picked up the decanter, they all picked up their heels and went in to bed.

“D
ISGUSTING!” SARAH WAS MUCH
too properly brought up to hurl the morning paper across the room, she folded it back together with a petulant swipe of her hand and handed it to Mariposa. “Here, use it to line the garbage pail. Why can’t those ghouls let up on poor old Anora? Has she phoned yet?”

“Nope, I’d tell you, wouldn’t I? Dave, you quit playin’ with that egg an’ get down to business, or I don’t give you no tortilla to take with you on the swan boat. No sense holdin’ out your cup, Señor Max, you already drunk up all the coffee an’ I ain’t makin’ any more.”

The alleged man of the house snorted. “Well, you’re in a gorgeous mood this morning. What’s the matter, Mariposa? Charles giving you a hard time?”

“He wouldn’t dare. Some fool kid climbed over the back fence an’ started poundin’ on the back door about two o’clock. Woke me up an’ I couldn’t get back to sleep. You know me if I don’t get my sleep.”

“What did the kid want?”

“You think I’m dumb enough to open the door an’ ask? I come up to kitchen an’ hollered out the window. I says what do you want? He just up an’ over the fence like a monkey, I never seen nobody move so fast. Might have been my cousin Tito, he’s goin’ to get an earful next time I see him.”

“You didn’t get a good look at his face?” said Sarah.

“Nope. All I saw was a skinny backside in red joggin’ pants whizzin’ up over the fence. Tito wears red joggin’ pants, that’s how come I thought of him.”

“But surely Tito wouldn’t have run away from you, Mariposa.”

“Hey, right on, now that you mention it. Tito’d have hung around and tried to hit me up for a loan. Sarah, I don’t like this.”

“Neither do I. Maybe Brooks had better string some barbed wire above that fence.”

Sarah didn’t feel like elaborating. Charles must have told Mariposa about the man in the alley behind Marlborough Street, but as far as Sarah knew, nobody had told either of them about the red-garbed runner George Protheroe had seen the day before he died, nor about Anne’s nudist with the rhubarb leaf. Could it possibly have been the same man each time?

Anyway, it was reasonable enough to surmise that Mariposa’s late-night visitor had been the man from Marlborough Street; or rather from Commonwealth Avenue if he lived on the opposite side of the alley. He must have followed Max and Brooks home yesterday after they’d visited the atelier. It would have been easy enough to do, now that Max had to walk so slowly. She ought to be grateful that Max was walking at all, she leaned over the table and gave him a rather ferocious kiss.

“I was thinking of taking a run out to Anora’s and taking Davy with me, but now I’m not so sure. What do you think, dear?”

“I think you’d better wait to find out whether Anora wants either one of you. They’re not having visiting hours at the funeral home, are they?”

“Oh no. Anora wasn’t about to let herself in for a pack of sightseers, even if the police hadn’t advised against it. She wouldn’t even let the undertaker put an obituary notice in the paper, she just got her friends to phone around to people who might have reason to come. There’ll be a mob anyway, I suppose. The Protheroes knew everybody.”

“So she’ll still have a lot to do getting ready for the funeral.”

“That’s true. It’s ten o’clock tomorrow morning at the Church of the Redeemer, we ought to leave here about a quarter past nine. The service will be High Church, I suppose. Anora will want to talk with the vicar. Mrs. Harnett will pick her up, they’ll have lunch somewhere. It shouldn’t be too bad a day for Anora, considering. What about the office? Do you want me there today, or do I get to stay home with Davy?”

“You get to stay home with Davy. Brooks will be along in a while, and Theonia shouldn’t be too late, I hope.”

The older couple were both already out on company business. Brooks was with a professional photographer who had the facilities to make multiple prints of the sketch Sarah had made of the stolen primitive. Theonia, with Charles as chauffeur, had gone to call on an elderly gentleman who needed to be politely pried apart from a collection of Staffordshire figurines to which he had no legitimate claim.

Theonia had the advantage, though it hadn’t seemed one at the time, of having once been married to a fairly accomplished swindler. Knowing what to expect and how to beat the old rogue at his own game, she’d anticipated being able to wind up the matter over a cozy luncheon at the gentleman’s expense, return the figurines to their owner, collect her fee, and be home in time for tea. The family were betting on her to come back with both the figurines and a proposal of marriage.

Anora telephoned at half past nine. It was as Max had predicted: She had her day all organized for her, she didn’t need Sarah, she’d see them at the funeral tomorrow morning. They’d be coming back to the house, of course; could she borrow Charles and Mariposa to help with the serving? Phyllis and Cook were both feeling the strain, and naturally they both wanted to attend their long-time employer’s funeral.

“Of course,” Sarah assured the widow. “They’ll be delighted to help. We’ll drop them off at your house on our way to the church, if that’s all right.”

It would mean starting earlier than Sarah had planned and getting a baby-sitter for Davy, but what else could she have said? Anora said that would be fine and hung up because Mrs. Harnett and Mrs. Pratch had arrived to take her to the church. Sarah turned to her trusty henchwoman.

“Mariposa, Anora wonders if you and Charles would be willing to take over at the reception after the funeral? Cook and Phyllis will be too pooped to do anything by the time they get back from the funeral, but they’ll have organized the buffet in advance. It will be mostly a matter of bartending and passing things around.”

“No sweat,” said Mariposa. “How about if I bake a couple of my chocolate rum cakes to take with us, just in case?”

“That would be lovely. I’m afraid you’ll have to wear that black uniform you don’t like and take the orange ribbons off your cap. Anora has old-fashioned ideas about mourning.”

“Yeah, sure. Anything for a pal. What’ll we do about Davy?”

“I’m going to call Miriam and see if she’d mind coming in for the day.”

By marrying Max, Sarah had gained a sister. Miriam Bittersohn Rivkin had many irons of her own in the fire but was never too busy to lend her younger brother and his wife a helping hand. She didn’t like driving into Boston, as who in her right mind would, but she could park her car at the Prides Crossing station and come in by train if Sarah needed her; she was always willing to postpone her other engagements in the family’s interests. On the other hand, the toys and the crib she kept ready for her only nephew had been too long unused. Why didn’t Sarah bring Davy out today and let him sleep over?

Why not, indeed? Davy adored his aunt, his uncle, and particularly his grown-up Cousin Mike. He’d stayed with the Rivkins plenty of times, he wouldn’t get homesick, he’d have room to run in their big backyard, he’d probably enjoy the visit more than they would. Now that skinny little men in red jogging suits had started climbing over the back fence at Tulip Street, Davy might be better off in Ireson Town than in Boston.

Sarah thanked Miriam and went to pack her son’s blue canvas duffel bag with his toothbrush, a couple of changes of clothing, little boys’ habits being what they were, and his stuffed llama who was named for Cousin Dolph Kelling. She needn’t wait for Charles to get back with the big car, she could drive herself in the gas-saving compact that had been bought mostly for her and Brooks to use on short trips.

“No swan-boat ride today, Davy. You and I are going out to see Aunt Mimi and Uncle Ira, and you get to stay overnight. See, here’s your bag, all packed. Let’s phone daddy and tell him we’re coming to kiss him good-bye, then we can walk back to the Common Garage and pick up the car.”

Once he’d been assured that he could take Dolph along for company, Davy thought that was a great idea. So did Max.

“I’ll meet you halfway if I can. At the moment, I’ve got a guy from Acapulco on the line.”

“That’s all right,” Sarah assured him. “We’re starting right now, before Davy has a chance to get dirty. We’ll come past the frog pond and take the path that leads to the corner. If we don’t find you along the way, we get to ride the elevator up to your office. All right, Davy, time to go.”

Sarah buckled her son into his harness, knowing full well that she was going to get a few glances and quite possibly a scolding from some presumably well-meaning person who didn’t think children should be treated like animals. Sarah didn’t see why a small and particularly precious human being who hadn’t yet learned to avoid hurtful and possibly life-threatening situations shouldn’t be given as much protection as she’d have given a pedigreed pup. It would have been unthinkable to let Davy run loose in the city, and uncomfortable for his arm to have been kept upstretched for a parent’s grasp, for his short legs to be always having to accommodate themselves to a grown-up’s longer stride.

The easy-fitting red-webbing harness, with its silvery bells and its six-foot leash, enabled Davy to move freely within a safe radius, to set his own pace, to have both hands free for coaxing a squirrel or waving to a passing pigeon, to enjoy as many small adventures as a very little boy could comfortably handle without being a nuisance to other people or giving his mother heart attacks. Juggling her handbag and his duffel as well as the leash, Sarah couldn’t help feeling a tad envious of her happily unencumbered child. When she caught the expected dirty looks, she smiled sweetly back and let Davy go on enjoying his walk while other parents screamed or tugged at their fleeing or whining offspring.

They paused for a minute or two at the frog pond to watch other children playing under the great spray of water, something Sarah hadn’t been allowed to do as a little girl and wasn’t about to let Davy try at so tender an age. They’d barely turned back to the path when Davy shouted, “Daddy!” and started to run. Fortunately his run was no faster than his mother’s trot, so the rendezvous was accomplished without skinned knees.

“Hi, Dave.” Max scooped up his son and settled him on the paternal shoulders, holding him by one leg and not seeming to mind being gripped around the neck.

Sarah took hold of Davy’s other leg, telling herself that it wasn’t far to the garage, that Davy wasn’t going to fall, that Max wasn’t about to die of strangulation or trip over his cane. They were almost to the garage entrance when a jogger brushed past them, smelling strongly of sweat; as well he might since today was even hotter than yesterday and the man was swathed from neck to ankles in a thick red jogging suit.

“There he goes,” said Max. “My God, doesn’t that guy ever sleep?”

“Are you sure it’s the same one?” Sarah asked.

“Your guess is as good as mine, kid. Maybe the whole Tamil track team’s over here training for next year’s BAA Marathon. Look, would you like me to ride out to Miriam’s with you?”

“Max, you don’t really think that man’s going to leap on a bicycle and follow us all the way to Ireson Town?”

“More likely I’m the one he’s been following. He wouldn’t have known what you look like. Only now he does, damn it.”

“Not necessarily, unless he’s peeking at me from behind a litter basket. Which he isn’t, because there he goes. See, up by the Shaw Memorial. He’s making very good time, he can’t have stopped to look back.”

“Maybe he’s got a trusty see-back-o-scope, like Charles.”

“Well, pooh to him, I’m not scared. Come if you’d like but don’t feel you have to. Haven’t you rather a full agenda for today?”

“First things first. Brooks will be back pretty soon, he can hold the fort for a couple of hours. I’ll phone him from the car.”

Now that car telephones were generally available, it would have been unthinkable for so dedicated a phoner as Max Bittersohn not to have one installed even in the little puddle-jumper. He spent a good part of the hour-long ride to the north shore first calling up the office to let Brooks know where he was and why, then checking around with various of his informants in unlikely places. Max’s success in his odd profession was due not only to his doctorate in art history, his phenomenal memory, his expert’s eye, and his flair for detection; but also to his knack for maintaining an almost worldwide network of useful informants and for never wincing at the size of his telephone bills.