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Authors: Bill Pronzini

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I went across to the windows, drew the drapes aside on both. Barred. Sashes locked down tight.

“The drapes are always closed,” Pollexfen offered. “Sunlight fades dust jacket backstrips. Even natural light will cause fading to some colors.”

“I know. I have a similar arrangement in my home.”

“Ah, yes. Pulp magazine spines fade, too, of course.”

“I take it the door and windows are the only ways in and out of this room.”

“Certainly. Were you thinking of secret panels or hidden nooks?”

“No. Asking questions, covering all the bases.”

“Thorough man. I like that.”

I went to examine the door locks. They were the kind that could be keyed from both sides, so Pollexfen could seal himself inside when he didn’t want to be disturbed. No scratches or marks on them or anywhere on the door and jamb to indicate that they might have been forced.

As I started over to the desk, light reflecting off the barrels of the mounted shotgun caught my eye. Pollexfen took my upward glance as a sign of interest in the weapon. “A beauty, isn’t it?” he said. “Nineteen twenty-six Parker GHE, twelve-gauge. Twenty-eight-inch uncut barrels, dual triggers, pistol grip stock, loads two-and-a-half-inch shells.”

I didn’t say anything. I’m not big on guns, even though—or maybe because—I own one and have had occasion to use it more than once.

“Inherited from my father,” Pollexfen said. “We used to go hunting together—birds, mostly. Angelina and I did, too, when we were first married. She’s a very good shot for a woman.”

I had no comment on that, either.

“My only other hobby, hunting,” he said. “Until a few years ago. Too old and arthritic now to tramp around the countryside.”

Another pass. The hunter gene was left out of me; I like blood sports even less than guns. I gave my attention to the desk. Computer, telephone, a stack of what appeared to be auction catalogs, a pile of unused Mylar jacket protectors. The books stacked there, some with dust wrappers, some without, were apparently new acquisitions, awaiting shelving—not that there was much room left for them on any of the shelves.

“You do all the book buying yourself?” I asked.

“All the ordering, yes. Mainly from auction catalogs, a handful of antiquarian dealers, and through trades with other collectors. I used to haunt secondhand bookshops until the Internet put so many out of business.”

“You handle the payments as well?”

“No, Brenda does that, unless a large bank transfer is necessary.”

“So she has some knowledge of the collecting market.”

“Some. But as I told you, she is completely trustworthy.”

I did some more prowling, looking at the rows of
books. The shelves were all solid, the books on them loosely arranged so as to make for easy removal of any volume. I couldn’t help looking at authors and titles along the way. Many more were familiar, including several who had contributed to pulp magazines as well as written novels: Leigh Brackett. Fredric Brown. Agatha Christie. John Dickson Carr. George Harmon Coxe. Norbert Davis. Erle Stanley Gardner. Ross Macdonald. John D. MacDonald. Frederick Nebel. Ellery Queen. Dorothy Sayers. Mickey Spillane. Rex Stout. Cornell Woolrich. Complete or near complete runs, evidently, of the works of these writers and hundreds more.

I asked, “Has anyone in this household, or any visitor, ever been in the library when you weren’t here? For any reason?”

“No, never. I don’t allow it.”

“And you have the only key?”

“Yes. Which I keep in my possession at all times.”

“Even while you sleep?”

“I put the key ring on my nightstand. And I’m a light sleeper. No one could have slipped in or out of the bedroom with it.”

“While you shower or bathe, then.”

“I’m never in the shower for more than five minutes.”

“It doesn’t take long to make a wax impression of a key.”

“A possibility, I suppose,” he conceded. “But that would leave a wax residue on the key, wouldn’t it? I would have noticed.”

“Not necessarily. The house alarm—who knows the code besides you?”

“My wife, her brother, Brenda, and the housekeeper.”

“Written down anywhere?”

“No. I have it changed periodically, and I never forget anything as important as an alarm code.”

“The alarm has never been breached?”

“Never.”

“Then with all of that security and your precautions with the key, it doesn’t seem possible anyone could have gotten in here, does it?”

Pollexfen’s smile flickered back on, then off again. “The Holmesian dictum. If you eliminate the impossible, then whatever is left, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”

“So somebody must’ve found a way to use or duplicate your key.”

“Or some other devilishly clever method. And not somebody, Jeremy Cullrane.”

“There is one other explanation.”

The smile flickered on and off again. “That I must have done it myself? Is that what you’re thinking?”

“I’m not thinking anything yet, Mr. Pollexfen.”

“I did not steal my own books,” he said. “Why would I? What conceivable reason could I have?”

“There’s the half million dollars’ insurance.”

“I don’t need half a million dollars. I have more money than I can ever spend. Check into my finances, you’ll find the absolute truth of that statement. I don’t indulge in stocks or real estate or any other kind of speculation, I don’t gamble, I don’t have any of the usual vices. I collect vintage detective fiction. That’s the one and only passion
in life I have left. I’m the
last
person on earth who would spirit away eight of my most prized possessions, the cornerstones of a collection it has taken me forty years and quite a lot of money to assemble.”

“So it would seem.”

“I don’t care about the insurance money,” Pollexfen said. “I want my first editions back on the shelves where they belong. I wouldn’t have filed the claim at all if the police had shown any real interest in finding them and my attorney hadn’t insisted.”

“What’s your attorney’s name?”

“Paul DiSantis. Wainright and Simmons.”

I’d heard of the firm. High-powered corporate lawyers and ultrarespectable. “I’ll want to talk to your wife, your brother-in-law, and your secretary.”

“Certainly, but I suggest again, strongly, that you focus on Jeremy.”

“Neither he nor your wife is here at the present, I take it.”

“No. Jeremy spends little time under this roof, I’m happy to say, and Angelina is out indulging in one or more of her favorite activities. She should be back soon. Shopping tires her out, poor baby, and she likes to rest before going out on her evening rounds.”

“Evening rounds?”

“Parties. She loves to party. I don’t.”

“Where can I find your brother-in-law?”

“Holding court at the Bayview Club downtown, or at his current lady friend’s apartment.” The emphasis he put on the word “lady” indicated he thought she was just the
opposite. “A singer named Nicole Coyne. Brenda can give you her address.”

“I’ll talk to Brenda first, then. Alone, if you don’t mind.”

“Go right ahead.” His mouth bent again at one corner. “You may have the dubious pleasure of meeting Angelina by the time you’re done.”

Dubious pleasure. Shopping always tires her out, poor baby. Out on her evening rounds. And he’d put the same emphasis on her name as he had on “lady,” as if he considered it a misnomer and Angelina anything but angelic. He didn’t seem to care for her any more than he did Jeremy Cullrane, had already removed her as beneficiary of his life insurance policy, and yet he continued to tolerate the marriage. The “we feed on our dislike for each other” statement must have included her, too.

Some household.

B
renda Koehler didn’t have much to tell me. If she knew or suspected anything, she was keeping it to herself out of loyalty or fear of losing her job. Probably the latter; the whole time we talked in her office she kept glancing at the closed door, as if she thought her employer might be lurking and listening outside. Mostly she answered my questions with monosyllables.

The only real animation she showed was when I said, “Mr. Pollexfen seems to think his brother-in-law is responsible for the thefts.” She sat up straighter in her chair and a little color came into her pale cheeks. Her tongue flicked over her thin upper lip before she responded.

“That’s not possible,” she said.

“What makes you so sure?”

“Jeremy … Mr. Cullrane is not that kind of man, not a thief.”

“Your employer believes he is.”

“They don’t get along,” she said stiffly. “Mr. Pollexfen … well, he’s always ready to believe the worst about Jeremy.”

“Why is that? Why don’t they get along?”

“I don’t know. It’s none of my business.”

“Do they argue often?”

“I … can’t say. Mr. Cullrane isn’t here very much during my working hours.”

“Money seems to be an issue between them,” I said. “A leech, Mr. Pollexfen called him.”

“That’s not true. He doesn’t take money from Mr. Pollexfen.”

“How do you know he doesn’t?”

“Part of my job is to pay the household expenses.”

“And you’ve never written any checks to Mr. Cullrane?”

“No. Never. He has a very good job. He doesn’t need to be supported.”

“Some kind of promoter, isn’t he?”

“Music. He books performers for small clubs and charity events.”

“Sounds like you know him fairly well.”

“Why do you say that?” Defensive now.

“So you don’t know him well.”

“No. I … no.”

More color in her cheeks, almost a flush. Maybe she didn’t know him well, but she’d like to.

“I understand he’s quite a ladies’ man,” I said.

“ … Did Mr. Pollexfen tell you that? It’s not true.”

“No?”

“He has a … steady relationship. He’s not interested in other women.”

Meaning she’d made her feelings known to him in one way or another and the attraction wasn’t mutual. I said, “Nicole Coyne.”

“What?”

“The woman he has the steady relationship with. Nicole Coyne.”

“Oh. Yes.”

“I understand you have her address. Why is that?”

“Mr. Cullrane gave it to me. In case someone calls for him.”

“Does he receive many calls?”

“Here? No.”

“The calls he does receive. From anyone in particular?”

“It’s not my place to give out that information. You’ll have to ask him.”

“I take it he spends a lot of his time with Ms. Coyne?”

“Yes.” Tight-lipped.

I asked for the address. She gave it to me, along with the singer’s phone number. I wasn’t going to get any more out of her about Jeremy Cullrane, so I moved on to a different subject.

“What can you tell me about Mrs. Pollexfen?”

She stiffened again. “Tell you? I don’t know what you mean.”

“Do you think it’s possible she had anything to do with the theft?”

“I … don’t know.”

“Eliminate Mr. Pollexfen and Mr. Cullrane, and yourself and the housekeeper, and Mrs. Pollexfen is the only one left.”

“Yes. That’s true.”

“So you do think she could be involved.”

“I didn’t say that. Please don’t put words in my mouth.”

“Are the two of you on friendly terms?”

“Friendly? I hardly know the woman.”

“That’s right, she’s not here much during the day, is she?”

“Not much, no.”

“Spends most of her time shopping.”

“Shopping,” Brenda Koehler said.

She didn’t put any emphasis on the word, but it came out through lips pinched even more tightly; I had the impression of disapproval and scorn. As if she knew or had her suspicions that Angelina Pollexfen spent her days doing something more than spending her husband’s money.

“Does she have other outside interests?” I asked.

“I’m sure I don’t know.”

“What about money? Her husband give her carte blanche or put limits on her spending?”

“She has credit cards. Several.”

“Uses them all regularly, does she?”

“I can’t tell you that without Mr. Pollexfen’s permission.”

“Run up any large debts?”

The thin lips pinched again. But all she said was, “Please don’t ask me any more questions about financial matters. I don’t have the authority to answer them.”

I’d run out of questions, period. Trying to extract specific information from Brenda Koehler in these surroundings was pretty much a wasted effort. The perfect discreet employee. But insecure nonetheless; she’d continued to glance at the closed door every third or fourth question the entire time we’d been talking.

I put an end to the interview, left her, and went out to the front parlor where Pollexfen had said he’d be waiting. He was sitting in an armchair reading one of his mystery books the way I read my pulps—carefully, with it open only about a third of the way so as not to strain the binding. When I came in, he bookmarked his place and hoisted himself, wincing, to his feet.

“Damn arthritis,” he said. “Hell to grow old, isn’t it?”

“Better than the alternative.”

“Trite but true. Did Brenda have anything illuminating to tell you?”

“Not really.”

“I didn’t think she would. My wife still isn’t home. You’re welcome to wait, if you like.”

“No, thanks. Another time.”

“Come back tomorrow morning. I’ll make sure she’s here.”

“Thanks, but I’d prefer to talk to her somewhere else. Your brother-in-law as well. You have no objections?”

“Of course not. Suppose I arrange for you to have lunch with Angelina?”

“Lunch isn’t necessary.”

“She’ll be downtown anyway. As usual. And one has to eat.”

“All right, then. If she’s agreeable.”

“She will be,” Pollexfen said. “As for Jeremy, you’ll have to make your own arrangements.” He added meaningly, “If you can catch him.”

I
t was four thirty when I drove away from Sea Cliff. Tamara would still be at the agency, but I didn’t feel like fighting crosstown traffic. Easier to phone her, then take the shorter route home through the park and on up to Diamond Heights.

When I reached the Palace of the Legion of Honor I pulled over into the main parking lot to make the call. The Henderson case first—I asked Tamara if Jake had checked in yet.

“Few minutes ago,” she said. “He thinks the stalker’s motive might have something to do with the father, Lloyd Henderson.”

“Because of the grave desecration?”

“Yep. Only problem with that is, the man’s been dead five years. Doesn’t seem likely somebody’d all of a sudden decide to go after his sons.”

“You look into the father’s background yet?”

“Doing that now. Another model citizen. Dentist. Retired four years before he died. What could a dentist’ve done that’d make some dude start slinging acid?”

“Fillings gone bad, maybe.”

She laughed. “Hey, who says you don’t have a sense of humor. Every now and then you get off a funny line.”

“By accident, no doubt.” I went on to fill her in on the interview with Gregory Pollexfen.

She said, “Rich people,” in her scornful way. “So what’s your take? Man swipe his own books?”

“Possible, but it seems to be another case of no motive. Unless you’ve come up with facts I don’t know about yet.”

“Nope. Rivera was right—Pollexfen’s a financial rock. Got more money than you or I will ever see.”

“How about the others in the ménage?”

“Well, Jeremy Cullrane’s no angel. Been in trouble before.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“Assault case a few years ago—argument with the husband of a woman he was shagging that led to a brawl. Husband pressed charges but dropped them later. One other mark on Cullrane’s record: arrest five years ago for aggravated assault, charges dropped for lack of evidence.”

“A sweetheart.”

“Yeah. And a loser. Considers himself a player, but he doesn’t play real well. Reputed to’ve dropped a bundle in a deal that went sour five years ago, right before the assault arrest.”

“What kind of deal?”

“Details a little hazy, but I’ll find out.”

“His own money?”

“Not unless he’s been dealing drugs on the side.”

“Could be Pollexfen’s. Through his sister.”

“Well, the Cullranes grew up lower middle class in Fresno, so no financial resources there. With his business record, doesn’t seem too likely he’d have friends or connections for big-bucks loans.”

“Promoter, right? Booking agent for club acts?”

“Among other things,” Tamara said.

“Where’s his office?”

“Doesn’t have one. There’s a listing—Jeremy Cullrane Associates, on Geary. But it’s just a mail drop—I checked.”

“Any hint what he might be involved in now? Some kind of deal, say, that would require a large sum of cash?”

“Not so far.”

“He’s seeing a singer named Nicole Coyne, lives in North Beach.” I spelled the name and recited the address. “See what you can find out about her and her financial situation.”

“Will do.”

“Anything I ought to know about Mrs. Pollexfen?”

“Well, she’s a boozer. Two DUI arrests, lost her license for six months on the second. EMT call to their house three years ago—toxic reaction to prescription drugs and alcohol that put her in the hospital for three days.”

“What did she do before she hooked up with her husband?”

“Travel agent. She’s more than thirty years younger than him. True love at first sight, you think?”

“On his part, maybe,” I said. “I’d like to know if there was a prenup.”

“I’ll see if I can find out.”

“How faithful she’s been, too. Any whisper stuff, links with prominent men. Both Pollexfen and his secretary made sly little remarks about her daily ‘shopping trips.’ If she has been cheating, she couldn’t have been very discreet about it.”

“Oh boy,” Tamara said, “down and dirty.”

“One more thing. Any expensive habits or vices—her, and also her brother and husband.”

“Poor Tamara. Work, work, work.”

“You know you love it,” I said.

“Well, I’ve got the energy for it now. Sure is amazing what getting laid can do for a girl’s stamina.”

K
erry said, “I have news.” There was a time, less than a year ago, when she’d made that same announcement, and the news had been bad enough to knock my world off its axis. Breast cancer. But long, difficult weeks of radiation therapy had done its job; she’d been cancer-free for several months now, as of her most recent checkup two weeks ago. This news couldn’t be linked to the disease. She was smiling and her green eyes were aglow.

“Good news, right?”

“Very good. Get yourself a beer and me a glass of wine and I’ll tell you.” When I’d done that and we had drinks in hand, she said, “You are looking at Bates and Carpenter’s newest vice president.”

“Hey! A promotion!”

“Effective immediately. Bigger office, bigger perks, and a bigger paycheck every month. How about that?”

“Terrific.” We clinked glasses. “More hours, too, though, I’ll bet.”

“Probably. Do you mind?”

“Not if you’re up to it.”

“I’m up to it. Jim Carpenter thinks so, too, or he wouldn’t have offered the promotion.”

“The important thing is what your oncologist thinks. I don’t have to remind you what he said about too much stress … .”

“No, you don’t. I know my limitations, don’t worry.”

“It’s my nature to worry, especially where you’re concerned.”

She patted my cheek and leaned up to kiss me. “You’re sweet,” she said. Then she said, “You’re staring at me again.”

“Am I?”

“I catch you doing that a lot lately. I must really look different, huh?”