First Gravedigger (11 page)

“To put it in a nutshell, Mr. Sommers,” Valentine said, “we can't find a trace of Charles Bates. When someone drops out of sight, we usually begin our search by talking to his family and friends. But Mr. Bates has no family—even his ex-wives have all moved away. And you seem to be his only friend. We checked the police blotter, hospital admissions—”

“A man can't just vanish into thin air.”

“True. But he can leave town. If we'd had his picture we could have checked airport and bus terminals. But as it is, you can't expect a stewardess to recognize a man from just a verbal description, especially if he's someone she may have seen only once two months ago.”

“I told you I didn't have a picture.”

“I know. It's unfortunate, because Mr. Bates seems to be one of those people who go through life without ever leaving their mark on it. Whether this is intentional on Mr. Bates's part or not, I'm sure you're more qualified to say than I am. But the fact remains that he suddenly stopped appearing in the places he used to frequent. And nobody knows why. His landlady says he didn't move out, he just never came back. She still has his clothes and his personal belongings.”

“Did you look through them?” A useless question, but I asked it.

Valentine nodded. “Nothing there. And his neighbors barely remember him. I checked with the Motor Vehicles Bureau to see if they had a new address for his driver's license. No luck. His car has been towed away—the police say it was abandoned. Mr. Sommers, may I ask if you were close to Mr. Bates?”

“No, not really. We'd known each other a long time, that's all.”

“Well, then, I hope you won't be offended when I say Mr. Bates led a rather shabby life. And an empty one. Three failed marriages. Short-term odd jobs to tide him over between get-rich-quick schemes that never panned out. Always just one step ahead of his creditors. It's a familiar pattern. From what we learned about him, I'd say it was possible—even probable—that he just turned his back on the life he was leading and walked away from it. People are doing that now more than they used to. They just get fed up—and take a walk.”

Hadn't thought of that. “And you think that's what Charlie did?”

“It's a strong possibility. We can rule out accident and suicide. You can't die in this town without showing up on somebody's records. I'd say your next step is to go to the police and file a missing persons report. The police have access to sources of information all over the country. All I can tell you is that we are reasonably sure Charles Bates is no longer in Pittsburgh, unless …”

“Unless what?”

“Unless he's gone into hiding. A man can turn invisible if he really puts his mind to it. New name, new bona fides, new appearance. New life-style. Perhaps your friend simply doesn't want to be found.”

I pretended to accept this explanation and thanked Valentine for his help. Charlie Bates could no more change his way of living than I could rearrange the order of the universe.

When the detective had left, I worked at coming to terms with my mixed feelings. My best-laid plans for protecting myself against the threat posed by Charlie Bates's big mouth were all worthless if I couldn't find Charlie. Valentine seemed to think he wasn't going to be found without police help, and I wasn't about to go to the police. So long as Charlie stayed lost, maybe I'd be all right. I didn't see that I had much choice. I was just going to have to learn to live with not knowing what Charlie Bates was up to.

Once I'd made my mind up to that, I yielded to an enormous wave of relief. I wasn't going to have to kill him after all. I'd sent him to his death once and it didn't take. I'd do the same thing again if I had to. But that's different from firing the gun yourself.

That's messy.

Buzz, buzz. “Mr. Wightman to see you.”

“Tell him I'm in—”

Door open. “Ah, there you are, dear boy.” He sat down uninvited.

“Have a seat,” I said sarcastically.

“Thank you,” totally unperturbed. “I came to tell you, old chap, that after this week I will no longer be on your payroll.”

God damn him, he beat me to the punch. “Just like that?”

“Oh, dear me, no!
Not
‘just like that.' The whole time you were abroad tripping the light fantastic, I was busily establishing my new home away from home, if you catch my drift. I estimate that with diligence, fortitude, and a few hours of overtime I will have my present work load in tip-top condition by Friday, ready to hand over to my downwardly mobile successor, whoever the poor soul may be.”

“Surely I'm entitled to an explanation.”

“That you are, dear boy, that you are. Quite simply put, my reason for leaving is this.” He paused dramatically. “I don't think you've got what it takes to run this business. In my fully considered judgment, within two years the once eminent Speer Galleries will be going to the dogs. And frankly, old chap, I don't care for dogs all that much. You're going to fail, and I don't wish to fail with you. There. Could anything be plainer?”

I wanted to hit him. “Something about rats and desertion comes to mind.”

“Ah, but to call me a rat you must first call yourself a sinking ship—and that's something you won't do until the very last minute. Until too late, as a matter of fact. And rather than wait around for the inevitable eleventh-hour hysterics, I prefer to make my exit upstage center and make it now. You never fully appreciated the Speer, old boy, and you never had the percipience to learn from him. He was a grasping old pirate, but he knew how to run a gallery. You don't.”

I didn't even try to keep the anger out of my voice. “I know it'll be hard, but we'll try to struggle along without your services. Even though we both know I can replace you in five minutes. In fact, why wait until Friday? Why not get out right now?”

“There, you see!” Wightman neighed. “The Speer would never, never,
never
have said that! But because I got you angry—which, I might add, I have always been able to do with an absolute minimum of effort—because I got you angry, your only thought was to strike out, hit back, get even. Shall I tell you a secret? Amos Speer didn't like me. Hard to believe, but it's true. But whatever he thought of me personally, he was fully appreciative of my contribution to the business—a distinction you will never be able to make, dear boy.”

“Wightman, I'm curious,” I said. “How did you get a new position without a recommendation from Speer's? What lies did you tell?”

He threw back his head and whinnied. “My new employer didn't require a recommendation. He's quite capable of recognizing value when he sees it.”

“And who is this sterling judge of character?”

“Me. I hired myself. Say hello to your newest competitor—I'm going into business for myself. Since I was unable to convince you there's still gold in them thar California hills, I decided to mine it myself. Don't look for such high profits from your San Francisco branch hereafter. I fully intend to take your west coast business away from you.”

The sonofabitch. “You can't do that!” I blurted out, stupidly. “You can't tell me you quit and you're going to take my profits away from me and then just calmly get up and walk out—”

His eyes gleamed. “Watch.”

And he calmly got up and walked out.

CHAPTER 7

I spent the rest of that day contacting porcelain experts I knew and ended up scoring zero. It wasn't going to be as easy to replace Wightman as I'd thought.

So I wasn't in the best of moods when I got home to find Nedda in a prickly tête-à-tête with Lieutenant D'Elia. Why was that cop talking to my wife behind my back? Not that Nedda would give anything away. She didn't know anything.

“Martini?” Nedda asked me. I tried to read the expression on her face. “Lieutenant D'Elia says he just dropped in for a little chat.” The stress on
says
was ever so slight.

“A martini would be nice,” I nodded. “Is there something I can do for you, Lieutenant?”

D'Elia smiled easily. “Just dropped by to offer my congratulations. Belatedly, I'm afraid.”

Sure you did. “Thank you.”

“Congratulations seem in order on two accounts. Your marriage and your directorship.”

“Yes.” No help from me.

“Here you are.” Nedda handed me a glass.

I took a sip of the martini; too dry. “Did you offer the Lieutenant a drink?”

Nedda smiled sweetly. “No, I didn't.”

“That's all right, Mr. Sommers, I don't care for anything.”

I used Amos Speer's trick of letting an awkward silence develop.

D'Elia cleared his throat. “I was just talking to your wife about France. I haven't been there since right after the war, but it sounds as if a lot has changed. According to what Mrs. Speer says.”

“Mrs. Sommers,” Nedda corrected.

“Oh, I'm sorry. Mrs. Sommers, of course. In my mind I still associate you with Amos Speer. I'll have to stop doing that.”

“Yes, you will,” Nedda said without inflection.

I finished the martini and put down the glass. Fidgety.

“Speer, Sommers. Names are interesting,” D'Elia was saying. “Take your first name, Mrs. Sommers. I don't believe I've ever met anyone named Nedda before. Was your father's name Edward?”

“My father's name was Philip,” Nedda said. “Both my parents were opera freaks. I was named after the heroine of
Pagliacci
.”

The look of sudden pleasure on D'Elia's face surprised me; I'd momentarily forgotten he was Italian. “Oh,
that
Nedda!” he said with a grin. “That's great—an operatic name.”

“Not so great,” Nedda said dryly. “You know the opera?
That
Nedda is faithless, she's cruel, and she's not very bright.” She gave the Lieutenant her cold smile. “I don't like being named after someone who's not very bright.”

For the first time since I'd met him, D'Elia looked at a loss. But he made a fast recovery. “Names are an important part of first impressions,” he said, “and first impressions go a long way. For instance, when Mr. Sommers walked through that door just now, I had to remind myself he's no longer an employee of Speer Galleries but its director. I actually had to remind myself.”

“Imagine that,” Nedda said with an edge of sarcasm.

“Funny how an idea gets planted in your head and you can't get it out.”

Enough cat and mouse. “Lieutenant,” I said, “is there something you want here?”

“Officially, no. Personally, I'm interested in what happens to Speer Galleries. How do you like your new position, Mr. Sommers?”

“I like it. Why?”

“Oh, I just thought one of the branch managers would end up as permanent director. Someone with administrative experience, you see. But of course the board had its reasons—I'm sure you're the best man for the job. Do you know what they were?”

I stared at him. “Do I know what
what
were?”

“What the board's reasons for selecting you were.”

“I was informed only that I was the new director. The board didn't explain its reasoning processes to me.”

“But surely you must have some idea?”

It was Lieutenant D'Elia who was saying it, but it was a Lieutenant Columbo trick, pure and simple. And Columbo's suspects all tripped themselves up by talking too much, by offering too much detail. “I don't know,” I said.

“Now, Mr. Sommers, you're being modest—”

“I can tell you,” Nedda interrupted. “The branch managers in London and Rome and Munich all hold their positions because of their knowledge of the European market. They're most valuable right where they are. The only branch manager we even considered was the man running the San Francisco gallery. But we decided he'd be Peter Principled beyond his capabilities if we put him in charge. Earl was the only logical choice.”

“Process of elimination, I see,” D'Elia nodded, meaning
So they worked their way down to you
. The board had appointed me director because Nedda had instructed them to. I got the feeling D'Elia knew that and wanted me to know he knew it. Then he fired a real bullet: “Did the board offer you the position before or after you and Mrs. Speer decided to marry?”

Mrs. Sommers, damn you
. “I don't see that that's any of your business.”

“As long as we have an unsolved murder on our books, Mr. Sommers, I can make it my business if I want to.”

Nedda made a sound of contempt. “Meaning you can get away with murder, Lieutenant?”

“Well, I won't press the point—I can see it's a sore spot.” My refusal to answer had been answer enough. “Tell me, Mr. Sommers, do you anticipate any special problems in running the galleries?”

“No. Why should I?”

“I was just wondering if it would be difficult to replace Mr. Wightman.”

Nedda's head jerked up. “What's that? Replace Wightman?”

“No, it won't be any trouble at all,” I said. “How did you know about that? It happened only this morning.”

Nedda: “
What
happened only this morning?”

D'Elia answered her. “Mr. Wightman resigned.”

She looked at me. “Earl?”

“That's right, he resigned. How did you find out so quickly, Lieutenant?”

D'Elia spread his hands. “Well now, Mr. Sommers, you can't expect me to disclose all my little secrets. Our sources of information are good only so long as we protect them. But Wightman's departure will leave a big hole, won't it?”

“Not for long. Quite a few porcelain experts are available.”

“Glad to hear it. I hope you find a good one. Well, I've taken up enough of your time. Goodbye, Mrs. Sommers, and again, best wishes.”