The Crossword Murder (9 page)

“Really, JaneAlice; you have less sense than a garden slug! You could have argued that as a public journal we must preserve our First Amendment rights; you could have stalled for time; you could have done anything but help that … that … guinea-dago!”

JaneAlice quavered with each new attack. “Please don't shout at me like that, sir—”

“I'll shout at whomever I please! This is a newspaper, not a ladies' club! And speaking of social events,” Housemann sneered, “how is it that our reigning blueblood queen hired some wop?”

“He's Greek, sir.”

“Greek, guinea, dago, mick, whatever. He's a foreigner! A lowlife foreigner with entrée to those snooty paragons of virtue on Liberty Hill! He's just a crawling cretin, that's what he is!”

JaneAlice gnawed on her lip until the fuchsia lipstick vanished. For a moment she considered fighting back, and attacking Steven Housemann at his weakest spot: his less-than-faithful wife, Betsey, but in the end decided to save that trump card for another day. “What should I tell Mr. Polycrates when he returns tomorrow?”

“Tell him to see me. I'll put an end to this pseudo investigation!”

CHAPTER 11

P
ACING
BACK
AND
forth from her office to the kitchen, Belle was a bundle of kinetic energy. She simply could not sit still and concentrate on anything as mundane as work. “MAIL … HOSE … BLACK … TRAP …” she muttered to herself. “Why does he think my ideas are so brainless?” Catching sight of her reflected image in the toaster's chrome surface, she made a face of resigned dismay. “But Rosco's not the first male to judge me on appearance alone. Garet has him beat by a mile.”

She compulsively wolfed down half-a-dozen gooey licorice drops, followed by her last remaining deviled egg, then turned the corners of her mouth down in an even more sour expression. “Yuck! What a wretched combination … I've got to learn to cook something decent.” By now, she was beside her desk and telephone. She snagged up the receiver in the same impatient manner, rapidly punching in numbers, then banging the instrument back in place.

“He should be back by now … How long does it take to interview one skittish secretary?” But even as the words were out of her mouth, Belle realized how futile her complaints were. She was a crossword editor, not a private investigator. Thompson Briephs' alleged murder had nothing to do with her.

“So it's back to the boring paper and pencil,” she groused. But before seating herself, she made one last stab at calling Rosco. This time he picked up.

“Well, what did she say? Especially about those clues I found.”

“Didn't anyone ever tell you how to conduct a telephone call? I say hello, you announce your name.” Indulgent humor was evident in Rosco's tone.

“This is Belle Graham calling …”

“So I gathered.”

“I'm being serious, Rosco.”

“I know you are, but this isn't your case, Belle … I appreciate your advice, but as I told you, this is a criminal investigation—”

“What did JaneAlice say about Briephs' name being one of the clues?”

“How do you know I even talked to her?”

“You mean you didn't?”

“Well, yes … But that's not the point—”

“Well, what did she say? AFTERNOON DEATHS! And THOMPSON BRIEPHS spelled out … I mean, what could be more obvious?”

“To tell the truth, that theory never came up.”

“What! Why not?”

Rosco shifted tack, becoming all business. “Belle, I'm grateful for your enthusiasm, and I apologize if I sound patronizing, but this is a job for professionals.”

But Belle was made of tougher stuff than he realized. “Did JaneAlice admit that Thompson was the author of today's puzzle?”

“Look, Belle, you've been a big help, and I've enjoyed your input—”

“Did she?”

Rosco paused. Obviously, this lady wouldn't take no for an answer.

“Briephs was an ‘exemplary journalist,' according to his secretary. He always kept five puzzles ahead—a ‘progressive and interconnected' group, according to JaneAlice.”

Belle's glee was evident in the quick intake of breath that echoed through the receiver, but she resisted the temptation to add, I told you so. “That makes four remaining cryptics …” she muttered to herself. “What about those puzzles, Rosco? I'll bet you anything your murderer's name turns up in those puzzles. I'll bet his name even has fifteen letters. If you find someone with fifteen letters in his name, your case is solved! So, where is our tenacious Miss Miller hiding them?”

“In the first place, Belle, what makes you suspect she's hiding anything? And in the second—”

“I know, I know … It's none of my business.”

Rattled by their sudden intensity, both Belle and Rosco backed off.

“I don't mean to scrap your efforts, Belle, but this needs to be handled a certain way.”

She was quiet for a moment and eventually yielded, “You're right, this has nothing to do with me …”

“No, you've been very helpful … I mean it.”

“But it's dumb … Briephs planting information within his puzzles … like messages from the grave.”

They paused again, unwilling to relinquish their incipient mutual attraction. This time it was Rosco who took the lead. “You were correct about JaneAlice, Belle … scared of her own shadow … She insisted Briephs was a ‘genius.' I got the feeling she would have crawled over live coals if he'd asked her.”

“And that doesn't seem remotely kinky to you?” Belle wisecracked.

“Not coming from her,” Rosco retorted. “Thompson Briephs was a handsome man; JaneAlice may have been secretly in love with him, but I can't imagine it went further than that.”

“It takes all kinds. Some men feed on slavish devotion.”

Again, this struck them both as dangerous territory. “Not me, I'm happy to say,” Rosco answered after a moment's silence.

Now it was Belle's turn to offer up a small summation of the situation. “So, JaneAlice has four remaining puzzles,” she thought out loud. “Did you get copies?”

Rosco's response was a curt, “No” that he softened by adding, “JaneAlice and I discussed her boss, and his replacement, a Shannon McArthur, who, incidentally, JaneAlice despises. She doesn't think much of you, either … Called you a
blonde thing
, if I remember correctly.”

“Feminine jealousy.” Belle chuckled.

“I don't know …” Rosco hedged. “She made some fairly catty comments about how lovely you are to look at.'”

Ordinarily, a remark like that would have made Belle see red, but all at once she found herself hoping Rosco agreed.

“What did you say to that?”

Again, sensing shaky ground, Rosco sidestepped the question. “Look, Belle, you've got to understand I didn't go to Briephs' office as a private eye … Past experience has taught me there are better ways to collect information.”

Impressed by the sureness of his tone, Belle didn't speak for a moment. “So, what did you use as a cover story?”

“I said I was an assistant hired by Mrs. Briephs to help with the funeral arrangements … In order to differentiate between her son's friends and business acquaintances, the deceased's mother had suggested a conversation with Thompson's secretary. Naturally, the bereaved parent was incapable of making the call herself—”

“Wow,” Belle interrupted. “That's very sneaky.”

“That's what I'm paid for.” Recognizing the manipulative spin this put on his character, Rosco added a quick “Of course, I'm Honest Abe in real life.” Belle's pensive silence made him hurry ahead. “But before JaneAlice could supply me with a complete list of names, Steven Housemann appeared … He's an impressive guy. Very bright. And graciousness personified—”

“Steven Housemann! You've got to be joking! I've never met a more cantankerous cuss!”

“Perhaps that's because you work for a rival newspaper.”

“Perhaps it's because he insists on marrying women half his age, and can't keep up with them!”

Rosco didn't speak for a minute. “You mean Betsey?” he finally asked.

“Who else?A piece of fluff from Congress Street whose ‘retirement'—if you wish to call it that—appears hardly ended. Housemann becomes jealous as all hell if he thinks she's batting her eyelids at a former ‘client'… Don't tell me JaneAlice endowed her with some phony social pedigree!”

“I wouldn't exactly call it that,” Rosco answered evasively.

“That's precisely what JaneAlice did, isn't it? That woman must be positively loco … Under that sullen brow is a genuine lunatic … Did she accuse me of trying to get Briephs' job, perchance?”

“Belle, why don't we get together and talk this stuff over. It seems you have information that conflicts with JaneAlice's and Housemann's.”

“I'm home,” Belle answered, calming down.

“I'd thought maybe dinner …”

“Dinner out? At a restaurant?”

Rosco's impulse was to backtrack.
Mrs
., he kept remembering JaneAlice snapping. “… If you'd rather not, I certainly understand. Newcastle's a small town in many ways. I don't want to put you in a difficult position … We could meet at your office … This is business, after all.”

But Belle had leapt ahead of him. “Dinner out …” she murmured in a dreamy voice. “I haven't done that in ages … soft music and candlelight …”

“Do you like Greek food?”

“I love anything I don't have to cook myself.”

CHAPTER 12

J
ANE
A
LICE HAD JUST
doused the office lights when the telephone rang. It was six-fifteen and well past quitting time. She was tempted to let it ring, and have the call shunted to voice mail, but she resisted, groaning aloud as she picked up the receiver. Her throat and head still ached after her dressing-down from Steven Housemann; she felt she'd never cease crying as long as she lived. “Newcastle
Herald
—crossword editor's office,” she managed to croak.

“Thompson C. Briephs, please.”

The voice was muffled and otherworldly, almost as though it had been computer-generated. JaneAlice had difficulty determining whether the caller was a soft-spoken male or a gravelly voiced female. The request was repeated.

“Thompson C. Briephs, please.”

JaneAlice forced a teary “Mr. Briephs is no longer with us.”

“Ah, yes. Well, we all know that, don't we? Perhaps I better than anyone.”

“Who is this?”

“Just call me an ancient admirer, JaneAlice. This is JaneAlice Miller, isn't it?”

“Yes …”

“Good. One question, JaneAlice; today's
Herald
crossword puzzle? Where did it come from?”

“Who is this? You're frightening me. What do you want?”

“I don't mean to frighten you. Unless of course that's absolutely necessary. Today's puzzle, it was one of Briephs', wasn't it?”

JaneAlice remained speechless.

“All right, no need to answer. Obviously, it was. Tommy-Boy told me he'd left a few cryptics behind … But I was foolish. I didn't believe him. Tell me, JaneAlice, how many were there in all?”

“F-F-Five,” JaneAlice stuttered, fearing the voice was capable of discerning the truth through the telephone lines.

“Five? Well, that's an intriguing number. And, where might the other four be?”

“Who is this?” she whispered again.

“I want those puzzles, JaneAlice.”

“I … I …”

“Let me explain the situation, my dear. Whatever you may have heard, Thompson C. Briephs did not die of natural causes. I'm sure you know the
gentleman
had a number of enemies. He won't be missed by too many people. And I'm also sure I performed a great service in putting him to rest … Now, where are the other puzzles?”

“They're … They're gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?” The voice became slightly louder and more insistent. “JaneAlice …? Are you still there?”

JaneAlice's mind was racing. A second puzzle had already been sent down to the pressroom. It would appear in the early edition and be on the newsstands by six
A.M.
The other three cryptics sat in a file folder in her top left-hand desk drawer—where she'd squirreled them away for safekeeping on the very day of Mr. Briephs' unfortunate demise.

“JaneAlice?” the voice demanded sharply.

“Yes …?”

“Where are those puzzles?”

“They're gone,” she lied again. “They're being typeset. I don't have them. I—”

“You must retrieve them, JaneAlice. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

“They're gone. Besides, there are no answers. What can I do?”

The voice on the other end became enraged, “Answers! How long do you think it takes the average person to figure out those puzzles? Now, you listen to me; I know my way around that building as well as you do, JaneAlice. Those office doors are never locked. You must locate those puzzles. Now!”

“I … I … can try.”

“Don't try. Do it. Then I want you to put all four puzzles into an envelope and take it to the Peter Pan bus terminal. Do you know where that is?”

“Yes.”

“Good. This isn't so hard, is it? Now, when you get to the terminal, go directly to the lockers on the lower level. Find locker number 139 and place the envelope in it. Remove the key and take it to the trash receptacle that's located to the right of the flower shop—it's also on the lower level. It will be to your right as you face the bank of lockers. Behind that receptacle you'll find a small magnetized metal box—the kind people use to hide their car keys. Place the locker key into the box and return it to the back of the trash can. Do you understand all of this …? JaneAlice? We cannot waste any more time.”