The Convivial Codfish (15 page)

“That’s what I’m here for,” Max reminded Jem with considerable forbearance. “What bothers me about Ogham is whether he could keep his fat mouth shut long enough to put on the act. The so-called wine steward didn’t speak a word, except to the caterers out in the caboose, who wouldn’t have recognized his voice.”

“How long was he onstage, so to speak?”

“Not more than five minutes, I shouldn’t think.”

“Five minutes isn’t much. I expect Ogham could restrain himself for that length of time in a disreputable enough cause. As for the acting, he could have managed that all right. Ogham’s a lawyer, or used to be. No doubt he’s been disbarred by now for some sordid reason or other, but I’m told he used to be noted for his courtroom histrionics.”

“That doesn’t surprise me. He’s the type. But how could he have got hold of the Great Chain? Since you and he have this running feud on, wouldn’t he have had a pretty hard time stealing it from you?”

“I still can’t figure out how anybody in the group could have stolen the chain. Since it did in fact happen, however, I’m forced to admit Ogham had as much of a chance as anybody else. He was atrociously miscast as the Ghost of Christmas Present. That meant he had occasion to approach the chair a good deal oftener than suited me, I can tell you.”

“Who miscast him?”

“Comrade Billingsgate headed our Miscasting Committee this year.”

“Seems to me I met some Billingsgates on the train. Which is he?”

“This one here, next to Wouter.”

Max groaned. “Jesus, another clone. What the hell do you do, pick out a sample and then order them by the dozen?”

“The resemblance doubtless has something to do with the fact that they’re all related, one way or another, I expect. Billingsgate’s a nephew of poor old John Wripp, who was connected somehow with Hester and Obed. Bill’s not a bad chap, except for an inclination toward good works. Around this time of year, he tends to break out in a rash of sweetness and light and hit us all up for donations to buy gifts for widows and orphans. I told him I’ve bought enough gifts for widows already. Did I ever tell you about Imogene?”

“Was she the one with the wreath of forget-me-nots tattooed around her hernia scar?”

“No, that was Isabelle. Ah, there was a woman!”

“Weren’t they all? Is Billingsgate married?”

“Naturally. Bill believes it’s better to marry than to burn, as Saint Paul so ungenerously put it. As a matter of fact, Bill’s wife is Edith Ashbroom’s second cousin. Or was, till now.”

“My God.”

“Nice woman. Abigail’s her name. She keeps bees.”

“In her bonnet?”

“No, in beehives. Drat it, Max, this is no time for facetiae. Abigail grows fields full of heather or daisies or some damn thing, then turns the bees loose among the flowers. They go buzzing around with pollen all over their backsides collecting the honey, then Abigail brews the honey into mead. Great stuff, mead. Ever try it? Blows the back of your head right off. She sells it to some outfit that runs mediaeval orgies.”

“Enterprising of Abigail. Is this bootleg mead, or does she have a meading license?”

“Oh, I expect Abigail meads on the up-and-up. Bill’s too high-minded to let his wife get involved in anything illegal. I wouldn’t have been averse to a spot of mead-running myself, when I was younger and fleeter of foot. I wouldn’t mind attending one of those orgies, either, only I don’t suppose there’s really anything orgiastic about them. Somebody hands you a chicken leg to chew on and lets you throw the bone on the floor is about what it amounts to, I expect. What fun is there in that?”

“It could depend on who’s behind you when you heave the bone. How come Billingsgate supports spurious orgies in the first place, if he’s so damned high-minded?”

“He calls them cultural experiences, no doubt. Furthermore, Bill doesn’t support them, they support him. Anyway, they support the bees. They use the mead money to pay the taxes on the clover fields.”

“I thought you said heather.”

“Maybe I did. I fail to see that the point is worth arguing. What the hell does a bee know about botany, anyway?”

“More than you do, I’ll bet. Getting back to Billingsgate, what does he do when he’s not peddling mead to the orgiasts? Run the still or talk to the bees?”

“As a matter of fact, Bill owns a string of overwhelmingly genteel radio stations. They broadcast poetry readings, organ music, improving lectures, that sort of thing. Bill goes on the air and pontificates now and then.”

“Fun for him, no doubt; but it doesn’t sound like a fast way to get rich.”

“Oh well, there’s the advertising for the mediaeval orgies and whatnot. I expect they pick up the odd dollar that way. On the whole, Bill does fairly well for himself. He mentioned at the meeting that he’d bought Abigail another Rolls-Royce as a Christmas present.”

“To chase the bees in?”

“No, I expect she’ll just stick it in the carriage house with the rest of them.”

“What rest of them? How many Rolls-Royces do they own, for God’s sake?”

“Six or eight. Old ones, naturally. Bill wouldn’t be so vulgar as to own a
new
Rolls. They drive them in auto shows. Bill maintains antique cars are a sound investment.”

“He’s right, if you can afford to tie up your money that way. Does Billingsgate know how to drive trains as well as Rolls-Royces?”

“I’m sure he knows how to operate Tom Tolbathy’s, if that’s what you’re getting at. He also fools around with model trains. Can’t see it myself. When I fool around, I prefer to have the object of my foolery do a little fooling back.”

Jem was tottering on the brink of another reminiscence. Max took stern measures.

“Jem, I’m not interested in your lubricious past. Keep your mind on the calamitous present, can’t you? What about this man at the end of the row?”

“Oh, him. That’s Gerry Whet. You can wash him out. He’s still in Nairobi.”

“You’re sure of that, are you? What’s he doing there?”

“Buying something or other. Diamonds, manganese, tiger skins. Who knows?

“If it’s tiger skins, the game warden knows and he’s most likely in jail by now.”

“Wait a minute,” cried Jem, “I remember. It’s pyrethrum. Stuff they put in bug juice. Comes from some revolting pink daisy. Marcia had a corsage of the damned things at the farewell party she threw for Gerry before he left. She claimed he’d bought it for her to wear while he’s gone because her chastity belt’s worn out. Awful stink to the flowers. I’ll bet she wasn’t wearing them on the train.”

“She was wearing a lot of other stuff, but I don’t recall any pink daisies. What does Whet do with the pyrethrum after he’s bought it?”

“I told you, kills bugs. Gerry manufactures farm and garden sprays. You know, stuff they put on the cabbages to keep the butterflies from chomping on the leaves. Gerry’s been getting concerned about polluting the environment, so he experiments with natural plant poisons. Pyrethrum’s one of the old standbys, I believe, but he also messes around the greenhouse with pots of monkshood and ratsbane, muttering incantations to the gibbous moon, according to Marcia. Gerry gets a kick out of that stuff. Can’t say I feel any urge to try it, myself.”

“Considering the present circumstances, it’s as well you don’t go in for hatching exotic poisons. Damn lucky for Whet he’s still in Nairobi, if in fact he is. When’s he due back?”

“After he’s finished picking the daisies, I presume. Before Christmas, I’m sure. Gerry and Marcia always make a great to-do over the holidays. Grandkiddies gamboling around the Christmas tree, stockings all hung by the chimney with care, the usual nonsense. I suppose you and Sarah will—or won’t you?”

“We’re doing a triple-header. Sarah’s cooking up something with my sister Miriam for Chanukah, something else with Brooks and Theonia for Christmas, and God knows what with Mary and Dolph for New Year’s. As I understand it, Dolph’s borrowing Cousin Frederick’s 1933 Marmon and we’re all supposed to pile into it and drive over to Anora Protheroe’s and listen to George’s bear story.”

“Good God! Break a hip, my boy. It’s the only way.”

“Don’t kid yourself. The latest addition to the festivities is a homecoming bash for you, so save your strength while you can. Don’t tell me they’re serving lunch already?” Max added as food odors wafted into the room and dishes began clanking in the corridor.

“Speaking of poisonous substances,” Jem began gloomily, but Max cut him short.

“I’ve got to get this show on the road. Give me a few addresses, will you?”

He scribbled quickly in the little black notebook he always carried, then dashed out, leaving Jem to face creamed chipped beef on toast and no martini to wash it down.

M
AX WASN’T SURE THE
addresses were going to help him any. The people he wanted to see were probably still in the hospital or possibly on their way to the morgue. As for calling to find out, he might as well quit before he started. The hospital switchboard would either be swamped with calls or shut down. There’d be police at the doors to keep anybody but their next of kin from reaching the patients in so sensational a mass poisoning. Rather than chase wild geese all the way to Bexhill, he might as well go after the ones nearer to hand first.

Tracking down Edward Ashbroom’s
pied-à-terre
seemed to be as good an exercise in futility as any. It wasn’t listed in the phone book, but Max hadn’t expected it to be. Jem had thought the place was on Joy Street somewhere. He hadn’t known the number, but Joy wasn’t a long street. Max didn’t suppose Ashbroom himself would be there, but he hoped the girl friend might. He smiled a little to himself, recalling those daughters of joy who’d given the street its name back in the wicked old days before dating bars. Ashbroom must be a traditionalist.

How many stiff-collared legislators had slipped out the back doors of the State House for a spot of innocent merriment between vetoing bills for civic betterment and voting themselves pay raises in years gone by? Of course nothing of that sort happened nowadays, with a governor who preferred the subway to a state limousine and whose idea of a bacchanalian revel was to send out for a corned beef sandwich with free pickle on the side. All honor to his name, Max thought, and might his constituency never grow less, sending his silent orison in the general direction of the gilded Bulfinch dome that once dominated Boston’s skyline and now looks so puny against all that glass and concrete.

He was walking up Cambridge Street musing on the horrendous events of the previous evening, trying to sort out the calls he had to make to certain of his connections in various places on sundry continents, and wishing he’d stayed in bed an hour or so longer, when something caught his eye. It was, actually, a speck of dust from the sidewalk kicked up by the foot of a man walking briskly ahead of him. Max took out his handkerchief, pulled at his eyelashes the way they’d taught him in Boy Scouts to free the eyelid, and blinked to dislodge the offending particle.

By the time he’d got his eyeball rid of its encumbrance, the man was well ahead of him, just another dark overcoat in the offing. It did seem, however, that there was something familiar about the way he walked. Recalling Jem’s lecture about hairs in the nostrils, Max stepped up his own pace.

He was a fast walker at any time. When he put on a spurt, he could outpace most joggers. It wasn’t long before he overhauled the other man.

“I beg your—”

That was as far as he got. A Salvation Army lassie and her collecting pot had been beside him on the sidewalk. Somehow, all of a sudden, Max was entangled with her, her cauldron, and her tambourine. Be it said to the credit of that dedicated band that as they were sorting themselves out, the lassie was almost as solicitous for Max’s well-being as she was for her scattered quarters and dimes.

“Bless you, sir. Are you hurt?”

“Bless you, too,” Max answered politely as they helped each other to their respective feet and set the tripod upright. “No, I’m not hurt. Are you?”

“Not enough to count toward martyrdom,” she answered cheerfully, pulling her navy blue cape with its red trimming straight over her many layers of winter clothing. This was in truth no lassie but a middle-aged woman, her face reddened by exposure on many street corners at many Christmastides, her smile grown tolerant as such people’s smiles must do lest they fade altogether. Max smiled back as he gallantly retrieved her tambourine for her.

“Did you happen to get a good look at that man who shoved me into your kettle?” he asked her.

“Is that what happened?” She gave the tambourine an experimental rattle to make sure it still worked. “I wondered how you came to stumble, because you have such a sure way of walking. No, I’m afraid I didn’t notice him particularly. I was more interested in you, wondering why you were chasing him.”

“Was it that obvious?”

“It wouldn’t have been to most people, I don’t suppose, but I guess I’m what you’d call a trained observer. Out here on the streets, you know, we have to be on the lookout for any strayed soul who starts acting funny. Much as we want to believe the best of everybody, we have to deal with them the way they are, not the way we’d like them to be. That’s why we put wire over the tops of the kettles,” she added, poking down a dollar bill that was trying to get away.

Max took the hint and fished in his pocket for change. “I was chasing him because I thought I recognized an acquaintance.”

“If you say so, brother. It’s none of my business.”

“If he’s who I think he is, I met him out in Bexhill last night, on a train. Would that jog your memory a little?”

“You’re police, eh? I’m not surprised. I figured that story about the Russians was a lot of baloney.”

She thought a moment, then shook her bonnet and raised her heavily padded shoulders in an attempt at a shrug. “I wish I could help you, but he was just a man. Maybe about my age or a little older, clean-shaven, light-complected, dressed nice but not flashy, respectable looking. I was hoping he’d put in a dollar, but he let on he didn’t even notice me. Maybe he didn’t. Judge not, that ye be not judged. Oh, and he was wearing dark glasses, those goggle kind like the hippies used to wear. Sort of unusual, I thought, a man like him on a day like this. It’s not glary out or anything. Oh, thank you. Merry Christmas.”