Even the Butler Was Poor Page 9

  Ben said, "Morning, Ryerson."

  "Well, Ben. I didn't recognize you from the back." Detective Ryerson smiled faintly. "But I guess this makes sense."

  "Our running into each other?"

  The policeman reached inside his coat, took out a fat canvas-covered notebook. "You used to be married to Helen Mavity," he said. "The fact is, I remembered seeing her picture the one time I was at your house. That's how I made a tentative identification."

  Ben suffered a sudden chill. "Tentative identification," he managed to say. "Has something happened to her?"

  "Not as far as I know." Ryerson flipped open the notebook. "Were you expecting otherwise?"

  "It sounded as though you'd found her in some condition that made positive identification impossible."

  "I haven't found the lady at all, though I'd like to. Is she at home?'

  "I'm not exactly certain. I was going to knock."

  "Do that," suggested the policeman.

  Ben knocked. 'What exactly are. . ."

  The door had swung inward when he hit it and was now standing half open.

  Ryerson stepped up onto the porch. "Miss Mavity, are you at home?" he inquired into the opening. There was no response from within the house. "You try calling her."

  "H.J., It's me."

  Continued silence.

  Detective Ryerson pushed the door all the way open and waited, listening for a few seconds. Then he crossed the threshold. "Anybody home?"

  Ben followed him in. "Again?" he murmured when he got a look at the living room.

  The books he'd helped his onetime wife put back on the shelves were on the floor again, furniture was knocked over, a lamp was broken.

  Ryerson scanned the disordered living room. "Why'd you say again?"

  Ben swallowed. "H.J. was never much of a housekeeper and at first I thought she'd left her place in a mess again," he ad-libbed. "But I can see now there's been some sort of break-in."

  "Are you and your wife getting back together?"

  "We happened to run into each other again recently. She suggested I drop over sometime."

  "And you picked this morning?"

  "Happened to be passing by."

  "That your car in the driveway?"

  "Mine, yes."

  "Engine's cold."

  "She borrowed it earlier, and I actually stopped by now to pick it up."

  "Where might she be at the moment?"

  "Well, probably out in her own car."

  "She's got a car, but she borrowed yours?"

  "Hers was in the shop. She got it back, though, earlier this morning."

  "How'd you get here?"

  "Cab."

  Ryerson nodded and took a sheet of folded paper from between the pages of his thick notebook. "This is Helen Mavity, isn't it?"

  Ben unfolded the sheet. It was a fuzzy copy of a photograph of H.J. She was wearing jeans and a pullover sweater, staring down at a thin man who was kneeling on the mosaic flooring of the Eastport Mall. Dell hadn't been an especially good looking man. "Vague resemblance to her I suppose, but it's tough to tell with a picture that's this blurred."

  The detective was starting into the hallway. "It's a copy made off the videotape from one of the mall security cameras. All the police departments in the county got copies of it and were asked if they could identify the woman," he explained. "I couldn't at first, but then I remembered seeing that picture of your wife."

  "Ex-wife." He started after the policeman.

  "That might change, though."

  "You can loan somebody your car and not necessarily be thinking of remarrying her."

  "Know the man in the picture?"

  "Which one, the guy who's all bloody?"

  "Yeah, that one."

  "Nope."

  "Him they identified. Name was Rick Dell."

  "A third-string comic. I've heard of him, but didn't know him personally."

  "So learning he's dead didn't move you to tears?"

  "Not especially, no."

  Ryerson went into H.J.'s bedroom. "When your wife—ex-wife— borrowed your car, Ben, she didn't happen to mention that a friend of hers had recently died in the Eastport mall?"

  "No, she didn't." The closet door was open and he could see that the large, sky-blue suitcase he'd seen there the other night was now gone.

  "The reason Rick Dell died was that somebody stuck a knife in him."

  "That's right, I read about it in the paper."

  Genuflecting, Ryerson checked under the bed. "You're right about her housekeeping. Flock of dustballs under here, along with some lingerie, Kleenex and a copy of . . . what is it? . . . Passion in Manhattan."

  "She painted the cover."

  "Did she?" The detective pulled out the paperback, stood up and studied the bright cover. "Woman in the nightgown here looks sort of like her."

  "She sometimes uses herself as a model."

  "Very nice painting, very attractive lady." He set the paperback book carefully atop the rumpled bedspread and stepped back into the hail.

  "Are the police looking for the woman in the photo?"

  "The Eastport police would like to talk to her."

  "Was Rick Dell killed at the mall?"

  "No, elsewhere. He only came to the mall to die." The detective stepped into the kitchen. "They went through this room, too."

  The cupboards had been searched again, cans and cartons were strewn about the floor.

  "Did she keep much jewelry or cash around the house?"

  "I don't think so. H.J. isn't much for jewels. Money she likes, but that would be in her bank."

  Nodding, the policeman moved along to the small, bright room that H.J. used as a studio. "Another self-portrait," he observed, crossing over to the study the unfinished painting on the easel.

  This room had been left pretty much alone, though someone had tossed a tube of vermillion paint on the floor and tromped on it. It had made an explosion of red across the straw rug.

  "Did she mention to you if she'd had any earlier problems with burglars?"

  "Not to me, no," answered Ben. "If she had had a problem, I'm sure she would have called the police."

  "Any idea when she's due back home?"

  "No, you never know with H.J."

  "Everybody calls her H.J.?"

  "Most of her friends."

  "Did Rick Dell owe her money?"

  "I'm not sure she even knew him."

  "Since he died at her feet, it's a safe assumption she did."

  Ben shrugged one shoulder and said nothing.

  "One of the witnesses mentioned that H.J.—if it's her in the picture—that she asked Dell about money. 'Where's my $50,000?' is how it was reported to me."

  "A tidy sum, even these days."

  "As I say, that's what my colleagues on the Eastport police passed along to me," Ryerson said. "You wouldn't know if Dell or anybody else owed her that amount?"

  "I'm not as convinced as you are that H.J. is the one in the picture. So it's just as likely that Dell owed money to an entirely different woman."

  Reaching out, Ryerson retrieved the picture. He folded it and returned it to his book. "If you see her—when do you expect to be seeing her?"

  "Later today probably."

  "Mention that I'd like to talk to her. This isn't my case, but I like to help my colleagues out."

  "I'll tell her."

  "Also tell her to call me if she wants to report this break-in—or whatever it was."

  Ben said, "I will."

  "We can go now. Or did you want to stay here?"

  "I'll go."

  "Nice running into you again. Only last week somebody was saying how funny your impersonations were at that show."

  "Thanks."

  On the porch, after setting the lock, the detective pulled the door shut. "Anything else you'd care to talk about, Ben?"

  "Nothing, not a thing."

  He held out a hand. "See you then."

  After shaking hands, Ben stood on t
he porch and watched Ryerson walk down the path. His car was parked just behind Ben's.

  "I should have told him the truth," he said to himself. "And then let the police help look for her."

  That might have led to their arresting H.J., though. "Then I'm going to have to find her by myself—and soon."

  Chapter 18

  Ben arrived at Fagin's Diner on the Post Road in Westport at a few minutes after one.

  Fagin himself, a grim unshaven man of fifty-five was lurking in the doorway of the kitchen. Both his lumpy hands were hidden beneath his spattered white apron. "Too late for the luncheon special, Spanner," he grumbled.

  "Darn, I wish now I hadn't run down that crippled newsboy in my haste to get here."

  The proprietor sneered, turning away to make an offensive remark to a thin waitress.

  Ben joined Sankowitz in a booth against the back wall. "What was the special?"

  "Meat loaf—or a near approximation."

  "That's almost always the special."

  "Has been for the six years that we've been enjoying the sunny Fagin ambiance. Any luck on locating her?"

  "No, none at all. I probably shouldn't even be taking time out to—"

  "Starving isn't going to help you track Helen down. What have you tried?"

  Ben slumped in his seat, resting an elbow on the table. "Been phoning people, including H.J.'s sister over in Westchester. All of them claim to have no idea where she is."

  "Is the sister being truthful?"

  "Hard to judge." Absently he picked up the one page menu. "Betsy has always ranked me three or four notches below Typhoid Mary on her list of favorite people."

  "Who else did you call?"

  "Couple of old friends of hers, and her art rep in New York." He shrugged. "Nobody's heard from her today."

  "You'd expect she'd check in with the guy who's selling her work, since it involves money."

  "I again made the mistake of approaching him as myself. H.J. must've told him at some time or other that our marriage was the inspiration for the Texas Chainsaw Massacre movies."

  "What you have to do is bring in the police. You can tell them she's a probable missing person and—"

  "Not yet."

  "When you encountered your friend Ryerson this morning, Ben, that would have been a good time to—"

  "I know, but I couldn't."

  "Why?"

  Ben shook his head slowly. "I had visions of their locking her up."

  "Being locked up is better than being stretched out on a slab."

  "Even if I did talk to Ryerson about this mess," Ben said, "I don't have any proof now. She made off with the photos and the negatives."

  Clearing his throat, Sankowitz told him, "We have a couple of photos actually."

  He sat up. "How'd that happen?"

  "I made blowups of two of the shots of their lugging the old fellow to his penultimate resting place," the cartoonist confessed. "I told you I thought I recognized him, and I wanted to keep a picture to jog my memory."

  "Have you succeeded in jogging it?"

  "Not as yet, but I'm going to spend this afternoon over in the library going through the back issues of the New York Times for the past week or so," he said. "The thing is, you now have at least two pictures to show the police."

  "If I don't track her down by nightfall," promised Ben, "then I'll do that."

  "The people she's planning to hustle are dangerous."

  "There are still some things I'm not sure about. For instance, Ryerson says it may be $50,000 that Dell owed her and not $5,000."

  "How does he know that?"

  "Somebody overheard her and Dell talking about the money at the mall."

  "Be realistic, Ben. Helen wouldn't—probably couldn't—loan anyone a sum like that. It's more likely the witness heard wrong."

  "There could be that kind of money involved if Dell was dealing drugs."

  "No, Helen wouldn't fool around with anybody who—"

  "This isn't a London coffee house set aside solely for conversation," called Fagin from across the diner. "Order something if you're planning to squat all day in one of my booths."

  Ben told the unkempt owner, "I had my heart set on meat loaf."

  "You can still have that, dummy, except that now it'll cost you $1.25 more."

  "Done," said Ben.

  "I'll have the same," said Sankowitz. "The meat loaf isn't as dismal as the stew."

  "There's less alien life swimming around in it." Ben sat back. "Christ, maybe I am handling this all wrong. One of my real problems is I don't think I exactly trust her. I'm afraid she's more involved in whatever is going on than she admitted. If I get the police involved, H.J. could end up in jail."

  "You have to decide whether you can afford to gamble that they won't kill her before you make up your mind—"

  "She may phone me, too. That's another possibility. If she does, I can persuade her to drop the whole nitwit idea of blackmailing them."

  "But she hasn't phoned you thus far, has she?"

  "No, not according to my answering machine as of a half hour ago."

  "Okay, try it your way. But keep in mind that I have the pictures on hand when you need them."

  "Gravy?" hollered Fagin.

  "No gravy," responded Ben.

  "Gravy," requested Sankowitz.

  "Fifty cents extra," reminded Fagin.

  "No gravy," amended Sankowitz, picking up a folded copy of the Westport Daily from his seat. "Kathkart apparently isn't letting his conscience make a coward of him. At least he ain't hiding from the public eye."

  Ben took the newspaper, turning to the story his friend had circled in red. "He's going to be making a personal appearance over in Westchester tonight."

  "As the lovable Chumley."

  "The new attractive My Man Chumley restaurant in Wolvertown, New York, is the 1,500th in the highly successful nationwide chain and there will be a gala celebration in connection with its opening," he read. "Imagine 1,500 of those places blighting the nation."

  "Imagine 1,500 Fagins."

  "That would be worse, yeah. 'Also making a much-anticipated appearance will be glamorous high fashion model Trinity Winters.' Oy."

  "All they need is Beaujack and Moon to have a full set of scoundrels."

  "Les will probably be over there in the background someplace." Ben set the paper aside. "Possibly even Moon."

  The thin waitress appeared with their lunch plates. "Act nonchalant," she advised in a whisper.

  "We've been doing that," Sankowitz told her.

  "I smuggled you some gravy, but don't let Fagin catch on."

  "It'll be our secret," Sankowitz assured her.

  The tiny red light on his answering machine was blinking when he arrived home at a few minutes past two. Sprinting across his den, he poked the play button.

  The machine cleared its throat.

  "This is Elsie. Wepman & Corkis wants you to audition for a Skinny Minny commercial. You can do a Swedish meatball, can't you?"

  "Yumping yimminy," he muttered impatiently, awaiting the next message.

  "We have an important call for you but all our operators are busy right now. Please stay on the phone."

  "I don't owe any creditors anything. Next."

  A sultry aggrieved voice said, "This is Candy. Are you mad at me?"

  "I'm indifferent."

  There were no further messages.

  "Shit," he observed when he realized that. "Why the hell don't you phone, H.J.?"

  He sat on the edge of his desk, eyeing the phone. He twined his fingers together, untwined them, twined them again. Then, picking up one of the slips of paper from his desk, he punched out a number. After three rings a polite-sounding young woman answered, "Lester Salaman."

  "I say," said Ben in a suave voice that blended the best elements of George Sanders and James Mason, "I do so hope you'll be able to help me, my dear."

  "Possibly. What might I do for you, sir?"

  "This is Edmund Yates he
re. Only going to be in your New York City for one more day, dash it all," he informed her. "I happen to be the Chief Art Director with Muse Books of London and I'm most eager to contact one of the gifted artists your Mr. Salaman represents."

  "He's still out to lunch, but perhaps I might—"

  "Jolly well hope so, my dear. We have in mind hiring this particular artist to paint the six initial covers for our forthcoming romance series," continued Ben. "Since this is an important new venture for Muse we intend to pay, as you clever Americans so delightfully put it, top dollar."

  "Which of our artists are you interested in, Mr. Yates?"

  "Deucedly talented young woman named Helen Joanne Mavity. Signs her work HJM."

  There was no response.

  "Are you there?" inquired Ben.

  "Mr. Salaman ought to be back in the office no later than four. You can—"

  "Typical American lunch hour, eh what?" He chuckled, throwing in a touch of Nigel Bruce. "The rub there is, my dear, that at four, don't you know, I'll be boarding a bally plane for my return to England."

  "Oh, I thought you said—"

  "Stated I was leaving today. Of course, it well may be the fee we have in mind to pay Ms. Mavity isn't that impressive to you affluent Yankees on this side of the Big Pond," he said. "Just a moment—I'm converting this from pounds in the old bean. Yes, I do believe I've got it right now. We can offer $15,000."

  "For the entire six—"

  "Dash it all, no. I mean $15,000 per paperback cover. That would be $90,000 for the entire bloody batch. If you'll excuse my rough language, my dear."

  "Oh, certainly. The problem is, Mr. Yates, I don't think there's any way I can reach Mr. Salaman, since he wasn't sure which restaurant he and—"

  "Actually, don't you know, it's the Mavity wench herself I'm beastly eager to have a bit of a chinwag with," he put in. "There are one or two very small points that must be cleared up with her personally. If she and I can reach an agreement on those, why then I'll be able to dash off the suitable contracts to your Mr. Salaman within hours of my return to Merrie England. It's our usual policy to include a draft for half the agreed upon amount—$45,000 in this case—when we post the contracts."

  "Perhaps I could ask Miss Mavity your questions and get back to you. You see, she left instructions that she wasn't to—"