He Huffed and He Puffed (12 page)

I just stared at him; Richard Bruce, as well as I could tell, didn't react at all. Jack McKinstry, however, gave a loud, sarcastic laugh. “Envelopes in our rooms! Well, well—isn't that a
fascinating
development? So mysterious! Now whatever could they be? Clues in a scavenger hunt? Autographed pictures of our conveniently delayed host? Is this Strode's idea of fun and games? Envelopes in our rooms! Tacky, Castleberry, tacky.”

Without a word Richard Bruce left the room; I wasn't far behind. Upstairs I saw him go into a room down at the end of the hall from mine. I closed my door behind me; a large manila envelope with my name written on it was lying on the bed where I couldn't miss it. I was just opening it when I heard the door directly across the hall close—Jack, no doubt.

The envelope held several papers. The top one was a photocopy of Ozzie Rogers's affidavit, in which he stated unequivocally that I had tried to hire him to kill my father and my mother. That made me both sick and angry. I never once mentioned my parents to Ozzie; he got that from Strode, or Castleberry. And I never “tried to hire” him. Ozzie was attempting to make it look as if he were the one who'd said no, when in fact it was I who withdrew. It galled me no end to think that my entire future was at risk because of a lout like Ozzie Rogers.

Underneath the affidavit was a copy of a report signed by a private investigator named William Pierce. Pierce had found out exactly how much money I inherited. He'd found out I was in Boston when both my parents died. He'd found out an autopsy was not performed in either case. Attached to the report were copies of my parents' death certificates.

The last sheet of paper in the envelope contained only one typed sentence:
Now that you've seen the papers, look in the bottom drawer of the end table on the left side of the bed
.

Scavenger hunt indeed. The drawer was empty except for a microcassette player. I turned it on and heard A. J. Strode's voice: “So, Jo, have you read all the papers? They're what you want, right? Well, I'm going to keep my word. You'll get the originals if it's your shares I buy. But there's a hitch—two hitches, as a matter of fact. I'm sure you've met both of them by now.

“You and Bruce and McKinstry each own a block of House of Glass shares that I need. But I don't need all of them, so I'm going to buy from only one of you. Incidentally, the amount I'll pay has just gone down—you should have accepted one of my earlier offers. But that's neither here nor there. The question is, which one of you do I buy from? That's a meaty little problem, that is. So meaty, in fact, that I have to admit the solution is beyond me. I don't know which of you I'll buy from—I have no idea. So you're going to have to tell me, you and your two peers in crime. Oh yes, I'd better warn you—Bruce and McKinstry have every bit as strong a motive for wanting to deal as you do. But you three are going to decide who sells.

“And in case you haven't guessed the rest of it, I'll spell it out for you. If I end up buying from one of the men, Jo, the originals of those papers in your envelope go straight to the Boston police. Copies of Ozzie Rogers's affidavit will go to the newspapers. I can promise you my own paper will make it a front-page story for at least a week and maybe even longer. And television—don't forget television! You'll get
lots
of coverage. So you're going to have to be persuasive, Jo. You're going to have to find a way to convince Bruce and McKinstry
they
should go to prison instead of you. And you'll have to do it before nine o'clock Sunday night. That's your deadline. If you haven't settled it by then, I'm turning all three of you in.

“When you've decided on the winner, call this number—555-4109. You'll reach Castleberry—you won't be talking to or seeing me at all. And save yourselves the trouble of trying to find out where I am. Castleberry will be gone by the time you hear this, and the house staff doesn't know. Don't bother the servants or the security guards. They're in the dark as far as this weekend is concerned. All they know is that they are to feed and pick up after and protect three guests while I'm away.

“That number again is 555-4109. You have tonight and two more days to reach a decision.”

“Have fun.”

Nothing more came from the microcassette; I pressed the off button. Then I went into the bathroom and threw up.

I could hear someone running noisily down the stairs, but I didn't even go out to look. I slumped down on the window seat and stared out at the night. I still felt nauseated in spite of having just emptied my stomach. My skin was cold and clammy and I couldn't get my thoughts in order; everything kept blurring together. I needed help; I needed something orderly and positive, something clean and uncluttered.

Bach.

So I sat there in the window seat and played in my head the
Presto
movement of his
Sonata No. 1
. I concentrated on the tricky fingering and on keeping the volume constant. I worked on lifting my bowing wrist more quickly and on making the arpeggios crisp and clean. By the time I'd finished, I was out of my shock; I was breathing normally and my skin felt like regular skin again.

Strode had set us all up, just for the pleasure of pulling the rug out from under two of us. He didn't have to do this; he already had what he wanted. Jack was right; this whole weekend was Strode's idea of fun, and we were the entertainment. But where was the audience?

There was a knock at the door; I opened it to find Richard Bruce on the other side, not looking the least bit ruffled by what
his
microcassette must have said. It struck me incongruously that he was one of those men who got better-looking as they grew older; this was a hell of a time to be thinking of that. “We better have a meeting,” he said.

I stepped out into the hall. “Where's Jack?”

“Downstairs, trying to bully the security guard. He doesn't know anything.”

Which he
? I wondered. We started down the stairs. “That telephone number Strode gave on the tape …”

“I called it. A recording.”

“Castleberry?”

“Yes. He won't pick up until we've had enough time to reach a decision.”

“He's already left, then.”

“The minute we finished dinner, the guard says.”

We found Jack McKinstry and the security guard glaring at each other in the small room with all the television monitors. “This fellow here,” Jack said with exaggerated disbelief, “this fellow who is charged with protecting the entire contents of A. J. Strode's house—he claims he doesn't know where his employer is! Isn't that something? Yes indeedy. The question is, do we believe him?”

“I'm not his secretary, Mr. McKinstry,” the guard said with controlled anger. “All Mr. Strode said to me was there'd be three guests staying here while he was gone. He told me your names and what rooms you'd be in. That's all I know.”

“That has to be the truth, Jack,” I said. “Strode isn't going to spread it around where he is. Not now.”

“He may not have even told Castleberry,” Richard Bruce added.

“Yeah, I suppose you're right,” Jack sighed. He turned back to the guard. “Hey, I'm sorry, man. I got a little overexcited there and took it out on you. No hard feelings, okay?”

“Okay, Mr. McKinstry,” the guard said stiffly.

How odd; at a time like this Jack was trying to make the guard like him. “These cameras that are all over the place,” I asked the guard, “are they sound cameras?”

“No, ma'am, but there's a microphone in the conference room. Mr. Strode sometimes likes to keep a recording of his business meetings.”

“So all we have to do is avoid the conference room,” Jack muttered and grabbed my elbow. “Come on, Richard.”

He led us to the television room where I'd first met him. We all stared at the small camera mounted above the doorway watching our every move. Without a word Richard Bruce took off his suit jacket and tossed it over the camera. His shirt, I now saw, was silk … and it looked good on him. He raised an eyebrow when he noticed the walls covered with shelves of videocassettes.

Jack went over to the phone and punched the kitchen button. “Alcohol,” he said into the receiver. “Lots of it, and a lot of different kinds. And ice. And glasses. And soon.”

We waited until the maid arrived pushing a cart loaded with liquid sustenance and then left. When we were all fortified, I said, “I might as well tell you both I have no ideas at all. Consider me open to suggestion.”

Jack said, “The first thing we've got to do is agree among the three of us not to go along with this little scenario Strode's set up for us. Simply refuse to play. There's no way we can decide one of us goes free while the other two go to prison. It's got to be us against him.
Strode
is my enemy, not you two. What do you say?”

“Agreed,” Richard Bruce said shortly. I nodded.

“All right, then. Richard, I know Strode has something on both Jo and me.… I gotta think he's got something on you as well.”

“Yes, he does. And there's the problem. Strode has some so-called evidence that could hang me, and if it's the same with you none of us can just walk out of here. He'll use what he's got if we do.”

“You better believe it. So we've got to get hold of the original evidence, that's priority number one. Anybody got any ideas about how we do that little thing?”

“The evidence wouldn't be here,” I said, “not in his home, and not with
us
here. And I rather doubt that he'd leave it conveniently lying out in the open in his office. Richard, where would you hide something like that?”

“I'd lock it in my office vault. Or put it in a safety deposit box in a bank.”

“I assume none of us is an experienced safecracker?” Jack asked. “Shit.”

We sat staring gloomily at the floor. I got up and filled my glass with ice and water. I was getting muzzy-headed.

“If we just knew where he was,” Jack said.

“Then what? Force him to turn over the evidence?” I asked. “Beat him, torture him?”

Jack smiled. “Wouldn't that be fun.”

“If I had one wish in the world,” I smiled back, “it would be to do to A. J. Strode what he's doing to us now.
That
would be fun.”

“I wouldn't mind that myself,” Richard said softly, “if we ever get out of this thing. I'd like to get that sonuvabitch.”

“Yeah, me too,” Jack said. “Maybe we should kill the bastard.”

I exchanged a quick glance with Richard. “That wouldn't solve anything,” I said. “There'd still be the evidence.”

“Hey, I was just talking,” Jack said carelessly.

Richard leaned forward in his chair. “What would happen to the evidence if Strode died? Who would have access to it?”

“Castleberry,” Jack and I said together.

“And Castleberry is a man who can be bought. Maybe there's a way out of this after all.”

“How do you know Castleberry can be bought?” I asked, curious.

“All the Castleberrys of the world can be bought. Men who spend their entire lives bowing and scraping to stronger men … what does a Castleberry do when his strongman dies? He doesn't suddenly sprout into a strongman himself. No, he looks around for a new strongman to attach himself to.”

“Such as yourself?” Jack asked archly.

“Such as myself. Or you. Or maybe even Jo, although at first glance she doesn't fit the usual image of a strongman.”

“Thank you,” I said dryly.

“You're welcome. Our host is not infallible. You can generally tell the measure of a man by the kinds of assistants he surrounds himself with. But once Strode is gone, whenever that is, Castleberry is going to be looking out for himself. He knows what all that evidence is worth. Probably the first thing he'd do would be try to sell it to us. And if all he wants is money, well … then there's no problem. But if he wants a job like the one he has with Strode now, I could give him that.”

“What kind of business are you in, Richard?” I asked.

“Ocean freight. Bruce Shipping Lines.”

“Let me see if I've got this straight,” Jack said sarcastically. “Somehow we magically discover Strode's whereabouts, go there, and proceed to bump him off. Then all we have to do is offer Castleberry some spending money and a little job security, and we all live happily ever after? Did I get that right, Richard?”

“Save your sarcasm, Wonder Boy,” Richard said sharply. “We need each other on this one. It's an
idea
. A starting place. I'm simply suggesting it would be easier to deal with Castleberry than with Strode.”

Jack didn't like being called Wonder Boy. “It's a
dumb
idea. The whole thing's based on the preposterous assumption that we'd be able to get to Strode in the first place. Look around you, man! Cameras, guards, Castleberry skipping out—everything's timed,
controlled
. We're not going to find Strode when he doesn't want to be found.”

“Somebody has to know where he is,” I said.

“Why? What's to prevent his taking off by himself, registering in a hotel someplace under a false name? Jo, don't tell me you like this nutty idea? Kill Strode … and then take our chances with Castleberry?”

“Of course I don't like it. But it is the only specific suggestion that's been made.”

Jack looked from me to Richard and back to me again. “Are you people crazy? You're sitting here calmly discussing
murder
, for the love of heaven! Is that what Strode has on you? Are you murderers?”

“I'm a violinist,” I snapped.

Richard looked surprised. “Violinist?”

Jack threw his arms up in disgust. “Oh, for Christ's sake, Bruce! Castleberry told you she was Joanna Gillespie. You didn't recognize the name? She's only the most famous violinist in the world. The world's best! Jesus.”