Even the Butler Was Poor Read online

  "So?"

  She spread her hands wide. "I didn't understand him."

  "But you think I would?"

  "Rick was a comedian, not a very good one. He played small clubs— what are known technically as toilets—in Connecticut, New Jersey and, sometimes, in Manhattan. He was forever telling me old jokes, awful stories he claimed were classics. I never paid much attention to them, tuning him out whenever—"

  "Yep, I'm aware of the gift you have for not listening."

  "I'm afraid poor Rick thought I'd paid more attention to him than I did," she said. "The clue he passed on to me is, I'm near certain, part of one of those old jokes he used to tell me."

  "He couldn't have just said, 'I hid the dough in my old boots.' Life, the world, everything would be much simpler if people didn't try to get cute—"

  "He was dying after all, Ben, which probably affects your judgment. You have to allow people to be a little dippy when they're—"

  "Okay, what exactly did he say to you?"

  She rested her hands on her knees. "Ninety-nine clop clop."

  "Beg pardon?"

  "Well, his dying words were ninety-nine clop clop," she said, a bit forlornly. "I know that's right, because I asked him to repeat it."

  "Of course you did." He stood up. "Remind me to die alone in some remote spot."

  "Well?" She made a vague urging motion with her right hand. "Ninety-nine clop clop."

  "It rings a vague bell, H.J." He shook his head, frowning. "But I'm not getting anything definite. Maybe if I—"

  "Isn't it part of a joke, a punchline or—"

  "Probably it is an old joke," he agreed. "In fact, I'm pretty certain it is. Suppose I think this over and phone you after my dinner date is over and maybe—"

  "It'll be dawn by then. I don't want to wait all night while you frolic with some—"

  "Hey, when clients consult Sherlock Holmes or Charlie Chan, they have to put up with the detective's little eccentricities."

  "Charlie Chan never kept a client cooling her heels while he hopped in the sack with some bimbo."

  "Which is why he ended up a bitter, aphoristic old man. Now then, you scoot on home so I—"

  From outside came a combination of unnerving sounds.

  A rattling skid, a screech of brakes, a thumping smash. "That must be Candy." Ben ran for the front door.

  "Candy? That's her name? Candy?"

  "Everybody can't have initials. Did you leave your car in the driveway?"

  "As opposed to what—parking it atop your gazebo? Of course I . . . Oh, shit." She ran to the door after him, and looked out into the night.

  "Candy tends to hit things that are left in the driveway."

  "So I see."

  Chapter 2

  She was sitting, forlornly, in the least comfortable chair in the small parlor of her small cottage, staring vaguely in the direction of the television screen.

  A voice inside the set announced, "We'll be back to tonight's Multimillion Dollar Movie, Philo Vance's Secret, after these messages."

  A portly, jovial man of about fifty appeared on the screen. He was attired as a very correct butler and holding a fish up in one white-gloved hand. "Chumley here. For another bit of chitchat about My Man Chumley Fish & Chips, don't you know."

  The door chimes, a bit out of tune, sounded.

  H.J. stood up and used the remote control box that she realized she was holding in her left hand to kill the set. Stepping around an upended chair and over a scatter of paperbacks, she went out into the small narrow hallway.

  Not opening the door, she called out, "Identify yourself."

  "Hell, I've forgotten the password. It's been three years."

  "Oh, Ben." She unhooked the chain, unlocked the door, tugged it open. "I was hoping it was you. C'mon in, please."

  "Maybe I ought to wait until your cleaning lady shows up." He came into the hall, stooped and righted a toppled floor lamp.

  "It's worse in the parlor," she said, motioning him to follow. "Well, actually it's worst of all in my damn studio. They squirted about six tubes of paint all over the floor. When I saw that, I decided to postpone cleaning up for a spell."

  Ben paused on the threshold of the parlor, taking in the overturned furniture, the emptied bookshelves, the pulled out drawers, and scattered papers. "I wasn't expecting this much chaos from what you said over the phone I—"

  "What I was attempting to do was sound calm. But it's obvious somebody thoroughly searched my place while I was out at the mall and then visiting you."

  "Looking for what? The money your boyfriend was trying to tell you about?"

  "Must be something like that, yes. That seems logical to me anyway."

  He eyed her. "H.J., thus far we have a possible murder—By the way, on the drive over I tried all the local stations and didn't catch any news about Rick Dell's death. Fact, mostly I got enthusiastic rock music," he said. "Okay, back to the point. Murder, loan sharks, organized crime. On top of that we now have your cottage being tossed. Instead of an ex-husband, what you need is the police."

  "You don't have to get further involved in this. I only phoned you because I was upset and we'd been talking about the—"

  "Hey, I'm not trying to abandon you while you're in distress," Ben assured her. "Besides, I've got nothing better to do. Candy decided to go home right after you called."

  "I'm sorry. I don't really think, though, that my phoning you had much to do with it. She seemed pretty unsettled after crashing headlong into my innocent parked car."

  "That contributed to her depression, yes," he said. "It also turns out she's allergic to chicken."

  "With a beak like hers you'd think she . . . ah, but I shouldn't let myself get sidetracked. Really, Ben, I would like to discuss my problem with you."

  Crouching, he started gathering up the paperbacks that had been dumped on the parlor floor. "Ali, here's my Nietsche." He slipped that one into his hip pocket. "Your problem, H.J., can't be solved by civilians. I was part of a show for the Friends of the Brimstone Police a year or so ago. I know a few—"

  "No." She shook her head, bending to put a chair upright. "I want my $5,000 first. The police, if they start nosing around, are surely going to confiscate any cash they come across. Tag it 'Exhibit A' and lock it away." She retrieved a fallen Tiffany lamp, replaced it on a reading table. "Besides, Ben, so far nobody in the law and order profession connects me with Rick Dell. If I contact your cop cronies—"

  "They're not cronies. Just a couple of detectives I met, but they seem—"

  "After we figure out the dying message and find my money, then I'll talk to your buddies in blue."

  "Hum?"

  "Brimstone police uniforms are tan." He carried an armload of books over to a shelf. "I see you still haven't mastered alphabetical order." He deposited the books, arranged them haphazardly. "Do you have someplace else you can stay, at least tonight?"

  "I'm staying right here," she told him. "They've gone through the whole damn cottage, so there doesn't seem to be any reason to come back again."

  "They might want to grab you."

  "They could've done that when I came home an hour ago." She ran one hand through her long auburn hair. "Nope, the breaking and entering phase is over."

  After replacing another load of books, Ben said, "Something small."

  "What they're hunting for, you mean?"

  "Right, it has to be small enough to fit in a book, a drawer—or even inside a tube of paint."

  H.J. said, "I think squirting the paint was just for spite. I've got nearly a hundred other tubes and they only squished a half-dozen. But it probably is something not too large they're after."

  He sat on the arm of a rocker. "This doesn't sound like thousands of dollars in cash."

  "Could be a check, though, or bonds."

  Getting up, he walked over to her. "Are you sure the guy wasn't into some kind of drug dealing?"

  "Yes, Ben. This isn't 'Brimstone Vice.'"

  "Even s
o, going to the cops will—"

  "Listen, let's concentrate on the dying message first. Have you solved that yet?"

  "No, but I was going over it while I was driving over here and . . . and . . ."

  "And what?"

  Frowning, he answered, "Nothing actually. Well, more than nothing, but not exactly something yet. For an instant just now I had an impression I was about to remember where I heard that phrase before. Ninety-nine clop clop."

  She watched him anxiously, reached out to squeeze his arm encouragingly. "Don't give up, you're getting warm."

  He contemplated for a silent moment or two. "Nope. Nothing." He shook his head. "Have you had dinner?"

  "Not exactly."

  "Are you up to it?"

  "I suppose. But I'm not in the mood for chicken."

  "I never got around to fixing that anyway."

  "I hear Orlando's is still in business."

  "That place in Westport we used to go to years ago, near the Sound?"

  "That Orlando's, yes."

  "They weren't too expensive as I recall."

  "You're affluent now, so it won't matter if they are expensive."

  "True."

  "Want to try it?"

  "We'll at least get this room cleaned up first, then drive over. Okay?"

  H.J. smiled at him, a bit tentatively. "Okay."

  Chapter 3

  The view had been modified. Now instead of just a stretch of gritty beach and the night waters of the Sound, you saw part of the neon outline of the new Tudor-style My Man Chumley Fish & Chips restaurant that had been built just down the road from Orlando's.

  "Well, we've changed some, too," observed H.J., lifting her glass of red wine to click against his glass of white.

  "Same tablecloths," Ben said. "I recognize this patch among the checks."

  The main dining room was large and less than a third filled. Their waiter, a frail old man in an oversized tuxedo, was standing over by a waterside window staring out into the night.

  "Butlers," said Ben, glancing in the direction of the fish & chips place. "My favorite old joke about butlers is the one where the little girl in Beverly Hills is asked to write a composition about poverty. When the teacher calls on her, she reads it aloud. 'This is about a very poor family. The father was poor, the mother was poor, the children were poor. Even the butler was poor.'"

  "Uh huh," responded H.J. "You told me that several times during our years together."

  "Not all jokes are funny."

  "I've noticed."

  "Some go beyond funny to profound. You could switch this one, make the kid from right here in Westport."

  Picking up a breadstick, she took a small crunching bite. "Ninety-nine clop clop," she reminded him.

  "That's an old joke, too." He sat up in his chair.

  "We're already pretty certain it—"

  "Hush," he requested. "Sure, it's an ancient joke and it runs like this—Who goes ninety-nine clop clop?"

  She waited a few seconds. "And the answer is?"

  "A centipede with a wooden leg."

  Her mouth turned down in disappointment. "That's it?"

  After making a gratified chuckling sound, he said, "I don't have as many gags stored in my mind as, say, Henny Youngman, but I can still dredge up—"

  "Yes, you've done admirably," she conceded. "Thing is, what the hell does it mean?"

  He allowed himself to slump a bit. "Well, the dying message was for you not me," he said. "It should mean something to you. Centipede with a wooden leg?"

  "Are you absolutely certain, Ben, this is the right joke?"

  "How many other payoffs to ninety-nine clop clop can there be?"

  "It isn't even funny."

  "Maybe it'll turn out to be another profound one." He sipped his wine.

  She took a deep breath, held it for a few seconds before exhaling. "Okay, people are gathered around us at the damn mall. Rick is anxious to tell me where the money is hidden but he doesn't want any innocent bystanders to know the location. He decides to—"

  "I've been thinking, H.J., that maybe he wasn't telling you where to dig up your 5,000 bucks."

  "What do you mean?"

  "From what you told me about that conversation, it could be he was really trying to tell you where to find something that could lead to money." He rested both elbows on the checkered tablecloth. "Meaning that even if we solve this particular riddle, you may not end up with cash in hand right away."

  "Whatever I find, it's got to be worth at least what he owed me."

  "But it could be drugs or—"

  "Rick wasn't in the drug business, trust me. He did some sleazy things but drugs wasn't one of his sidelines."

  "Have all your lovers since the divorce been on the sleazy side?"

  "Only a few. I do, though, tend to fall for one now and then." She toasted him with her glass. "As witnessed by our marriage."

  "Here I am helping you to find—"

  "Actually Rick had a nice side. At first anyway," she said. "When I started dating him, he took me across to Long Island a couple of times—on the ferry."

  "Say, that is nice. Only a prince of good fellows would—"

  "We visited some old show business friends of his, at a place called the Coldport Actors' Retirement Home."

  "Whoa now. Did any of them happen to have a wooden leg?"

  H.J. thought about that. "Nary a one, no," she answered with a shake of her head.

  "Had any of them played one-legged parts?"

  "How so?"

  "You know, Long John Silver or—"

  "If any of them had, they didn't mention it." She started to reach again for her wine glass, then stopped. "Wooden legs. I know who has wooden legs."

  "Who?"

  "It has to be—"

  "Have the lady and gentleman made up their minds?" The waiter had come shuffling up to their table.

  "Give us another five minutes," requested Ben.

  Tugging a large gold pocket watch out of his waistcoat, the waiter laughed. "Romance. Slows everybody down."

  "This is more commerce than romance," said Ben as the waiter took his leave. "Go on, H.J."

  "A dummy, of course."

  "A store dummy or . . . No, you mean a ventriloquist dummy."

  She nodded. "There was a man there, old, about eighty at least. Probably you've heard of him, since he was supposedly big on radio about fifty years ago. McAuliffe. Bert McAuliffe."

  Ben straightened up. "Sure, that's it. McAuliffe's dummy. Don't you remember its name?"

  "I should, because he introduced me to the darn thing. Keeps it in a trunk at the foot of his bed. But I don't recall, no."

  "Buggsy. Buggsy is the dummy's name. Sure, McAuliffe and Buggsy. Used to have their own show back in the early 1940s."

  "Buggsy. . . bugs. And a centipede is a bug sort of, right?"

  "Got to be. That's what Rick Dell was attempting to get across to you," said Ben with certainty. "Would have been simpler if he'd just said, 'I stashed something important in the wooden leg of McAuliffe's dummy,' But then—"

  "He didn't want to do that, because somebody in the crowd might've heard and understood."

  Ben tapped his fingers on the table. "All right, H.J., we seem to have cracked the message. This would be an excellent time to contact the police."

  "No, not yet."

  "Dell was murdered, your cottage was—"

  "I don't want to drag poor ailing Mr. McAuliffe into this mess. He's in even worse shape than our waiter," she said. "No, I'll go over to Long Island tomorrow, find out exactly what is hidden in—"

  "I'd better go along."

  "Don't feel you have to look after me."

  "We're not exactly friends any longer, but I'm still interested in your welfare. I'd hate to see you get murdered on a ferry boat or in an old folks home."

  "Won't tagging along with me screw up your work?"

  "I have to tape some radio spots for a new dog food the Forman & McCay Agency is introd
ucing. That's not until next Tuesday morning. Until then I'm free."

  "What are you playing?"

  "On the commercials?"

  "Yes."

  He glanced away. "A bowl of gravy."

  "I suppose Dustin Hoffman turned them down, so—"

  "Although you've never accepted the fact, Helen Joanne, I can do a better bowl of dog food gravy than Hoffman, or the late Olivier for that matter. The dialogue between me and the starving St. Bernard brought tears to the eyes of the jaded account executives during rehearsal the other day."

  "Well, I guess I've no right to criticize you. After all, I sold out, too. Painting halfwit covers for trashy—"

  "I haven't sold out. I always wanted to be a voice man," he said. "Mel Blanc, rest his soul, was my boyhood idol. So I happen to be doing exactly what I—"

  "Pretty soon now the kitchen is going to close up tight," the waiter returned to announce. "If you can stop the romance talk long enough to give me your orders, I'll appreciate it."

  H.J. smiled up at him. "I know exactly what I want," she said.

  "Interesting," murmured Ben as he guided the car around another curve in the dark, quirky lane.

  H.J. was sitting with her arms folded, staring out at the thin, fragile mist that was drifting down the roadway toward them. "What is?"

  "I'm starting to get lower back pains."

  "Oh, you always get those when you drive."

  "But I haven't had a single pain lately. Not, come to think of it, in three years."

  "Meaning that I'm the true cause of yet another of your multitude of problems?"

  "Hey, I'm not blaming anyone. Merely commenting on a fascinating fact."

  "If you think information about your backside is fascinating, I can see why you've been relegated to dating bimbos like Candy. What's her . . . wrong turn."

  "Beg pardon?"

  "You just turned onto the wrong road."

  "No, I didn't. Fiddler's Lane leads right to your road."

  "I'm off Old Fiddler's Lane."

  "Ah," he remarked. He slowed the car, scanning the road for a place to turn around.

  "Of course, we could park right around here and then trudge down through the brush, brambles, and trees. That'd take us to the rear of my cottage," said H.J. "That would probably, though, put too much of a strain on your ailing back."