The Devil's Cook (10 page)

“Oh, all right. I can see there's no use trying to stop you. However, I see no advantage in going immediately. You might just as well wait until tomorrow.”

“I don't see why.”

“Because today's Sunday, that's why.”

“What does its being Sunday have to do with it?”

“Things are closed on Sunday. Everyone knows that.”

“Police headquarters? Don't be absurd, Fanny.”

“At least they'll be operating with a skeleton crew. It will probably be impossible—”

“Fanny,” said Farley, “you've gone too far. Even you have better sense than to believe that. You're up to something, and I want to know what it is.”

“What you want is of no consequence. I am the only one who has been attaching proper importance to all this, and I don't propose to be criticized now for a difference of opinion.” Fanny, having disposed of Farley, turned her attention to Jay. “Jay, are you actually determined to go?”

“Yes.”

“In that case, Farley will go with you.”

“Who says so?” Farley said.

“I say so. I can tell you right now that you'll gain nothing by hanging around here, for you aren't getting any of my dinner. Not a bite.”

“Come along with me, Farley,” Jay said. “I'd appreciate it if you would.”

“What for?”

“Call it moral support. We probably won't be there long. When we're through, I'll buy you dinner.”

“Since you put it that way,” Farley said, rising with a show of interest, “I'll come.”

He went out in Jay's wake; and Fanny, still hooked on the arm of the chair, began to consider the new development. She was not opposed in principle to bringing in the police, for she had been convinced for some time that it was the only sensible thing to do. But her uneasiness about Ben and his possible connection with Terry Miles's disappearance had increased with speculation; she was not, where Ben was concerned, nearly so sensible as in the case of others. It would be a great relief if only he would get back and explain things, damn him. In the meanwhile, time would pass more quickly if it were filled with events.

Fan went into the kitchen and looked into the oven. The tenderloin had acquired a nice crust and would soon be done. She mixed batter for potato pancakes, using a prepared mix and letting the batter stand for ten minutes, according to the directions on the box. This interval Fan utilized in stirring up a couple of martinis. One she drank in what was left of the ten minutes, the other she saved to drink just before eating.

Having eaten, she cleaned up and went back into the living room and turned on the table lamp. Night had come early, as nights did in November; it seemed much later than it probably was. It was actually six-thirty; and it was unlikely that Jay and Farley, who had left approximately two hours ago, had had time to go to police headquarters, stop somewhere for dinner, and return. It was even less likely, when they did return, that they would come up and report to her as, in all decency, they should. They would go to Jay's apartment, or to Farley's or each to his own; and she, Fanny, would be left in exasperating ignorance for the whole night. This was not to be borne, of course. She decided to wait in Farley's apartment, assuming that Farley had left the door unlocked. (She could hardly take the liberty of waiting in Jay's without his permission, but Farley's was something else.)

Taking cigarettes and matches with her, she went downstairs, tried Farley's door, and found it unlocked. Farley was notoriously careless about doors, one of his few habits that could sometimes be useful. His living room was dark, but the darkness was cut by a swath of light from the bedroom, Fanny crossed the room, peeped cautiously in—and there, lying on the bed, on his back, his shoes off and his arms folded under his head, was Ben Green.

Fan stepped into full view.

“Hello, Fan,” Ben Green said in his melodious baritone. “Come in and lie down.”

“Like hell,” Fanny said.

His grin expanded. “I naturally assumed that you had slipped in for a bit of sport.”

“Your error.”

“Which brings us to the point. What
are
you doing here?”

“More to the point, where have
you
been?”

“That's no secret. I've been away.”

“Where away?”

“Out of town.”

“With whom?”

“Do you think I'd tell you? However, I was lone-wolfing it.”

“Where's Terry?”

“Terry? Is she gone?”

“Yes. So have you been. Doesn't that seem a coincidence?”

“You're on the wrong track, honeyball. I'm saving myself for you.”

“Well, you can be as clever and secretive as you choose. But you had better think up a convincing lie if you don't care to tell the truth.”

Impressed by her gravity, Ben sat up on the edge of the bed, prepared as a tentative measure to take her seriously. Now that he had assumed a position less conducive to the free exercise of his libido, Fan ventured to come closer. She even sat down beside him. He helped himself to her near hand, examined it, patted it, and continued to hold it.

“Something's up,” he said. “Tell old Ben.”

“I told you. Terry's gone. No one knows where she is.”

“So what? Terry has always been given to a moderate amount of moonlighting. She'll be back after a while, breathing sighs and telling lies.”

“If she's coming back, she's taking her own sweet time about it. She disappeared shortly after you left on Friday afternoon.”

“So that's it. Old Ben wanders away, and Terry goes up in smoke. Natural conclusion: assignation. Sweet nitwit, it won't wash. I don't even come close to fitting Terry's prescription. Wrong ingredients entirely. I'm too poor, too runty, too ugly. And incidentally, if I may say so, too smart.”

“How about Otis? What kind of prescription did he fit?”

“Otis was a joke. Otis was a comedian. All he gave was laughs, and what he got was nothing. Everybody knew the score except Otis. That's the trouble with these scientific types. They leave their brains in the laboratory. They'd be better off if they were born without glands.”

“Well, you mustn't call yourself unpleasant names. I won't have it. No one can deny that you are poor, but you are not runty and ugly.”

“As another runt, you're prejudiced. Not that you're ugly, I hasten to add. On the contrary, you're lovely and sexy. Would you like to recline?”

“What I would like and what I would do are two different things. Behave yourself, Ben. In my opinion, you are just as brainy and glandular as Otis ever was.”

“True. My brains, however, are Machiavellian.”

“Damn it, Ben, you have a positive talent for leading me off the point. The point is, Terry's been gone since Friday, everyone's worried, and what are you going to do about it?”

“I?” His eyes widened, then narrowed. “Me? Nothing. Why should I? What could I?”

“You could explain where you've been, to start with. Besides, what do you mean by running off without a word to me about it? You know very well I've decided to marry you as soon as you get your doctorate and show signs of amounting to something. I won't have you running all over the place without restraint. Tell me at once where you have been.”

“I respectfully decline to answer on the grounds that anything I say you'll use to incriminate me.”

“You mean you won't tell me?”

“That's it.”

“Very well. It's plain that I can't help you if you won't let me. You can explain to the police.”

“The police!” His voice had sharpened, and his grip tightened on her hand. “What do the police have to do with it?”

“Jay and Farley have gone down to headquarters to report Terry missing, and some sort of investigation is bound to be made.”

“Why did they want to do such an idiotic thing? Well, I have nothing to say to the police. They can damn well let me alone.”

“They can, but it is doubtful that they will. We will all have to answer their questions.”

“Don't worry, Fan. I can take care of myself.”

They sat side by side on the bed. Ben's grip had relaxed, and her hand was comfortably, in his, at home. She felt alarmingly warm and susceptible, and she had a strong notion that it would be wiser and safer, if less interesting, to devise a distraction. After all, if she was beginning to think along certain lines, it was more than likely that he was already ahead of her.

“Have you had dinner?” she said. “I have some tenderloin left. Would you like some?”

“No, thanks. I'm not hungry.”

They continued to sit, undistracted.

Damn it, she thought, what has become of Jay and Farley? What could be keeping them?

12

Trouble was keeping them.

Jay had had little or no experience with police stations, and he was not sure of the protocol in the present case. There was, however, a man in uniform on duty behind a high counter, and it was apparent that he was expected to appeal here if he hoped to proceed at all. He had an idea that there must be a Bureau of Missing Persons somewhere that specialized in finding folk who were lost, strayed, or stolen; the most that would be done at present, he suspected, was the recording of a few statistics, vital and otherwise, and the phony reassurance of some cynical bureaucrat who would assume at once that Terry, of the three alternatives, was a stray of the voluntary type.

“Good evening,” said the uniformed man across the high counter. “May I help you?”

This was certainly a favorable beginning, courteous if not deferential, and Jay was, sure enough, reassured.

“I want to report a missing person,” he said.

“Name?”

“Jay Miles. This is Farley Moran, a neighbor.”

“Where do you live?”

“I live at The Cornish Arms—I'm a professor at Handclasp University. You must have misunderstood me, though.
I'm
not missing. It's my wife.”

The policeman permitted himself a slight smile. “And what is your wife's name?”

“Terry. Miles, of course.”

“How long has she been missing?”

“About forty-eight hours. Since Friday afternoon.”

The policeman had been making notes on a pad. Now he threw the pencil aside and tore the top page from the pad. “Wait here a minute.…”

He left the door open behind him, and Jay and Farley could see him retreating down a hall. A few minutes later he reappeared and beckoned.

“In here. Captain Bartholdi will talk to you.”

Jay was surprised; he had hardly expected, on the strength of a mere report, to draw the attention of a captain. He was no less surprised by the appearance of the man who had risen from behind the desk. Captain Bartholdi was slim, gray, handsome, urbane, and Gallic. He looked as if he would have been far more at home with an épée than a police positive.

“Sit down, gentlemen.” Captain Bartholdi indicated chairs. “Which one is Mr. Miles?”

“Jay Miles,” said Jay.

“Farley Moran,” said Farley.

Bartholdi nodded to Farley, but he directed his attention to Jay. That is, he looked at Jay, and spoke to him. But he seemed abstracted. His gray eyes had a distant expression, as if he were hearing a faint snatch of music or listening to a faraway voice.

“I understand your wife has disappeared, Professor Miles?”

“That's right.”

“She has been gone for two days?”

“Yes. Since Friday afternoon.”

“Have you any reason to believe that the police should be interested?”

“I don't know. That's what I want the police to find out.”

“May I ask you why you've waited two days before coming to us?”

“This isn't the first time my wife has gone off unexpectedly. I kept thinking that she would be back.”

Captain Bartholdi said, “I see,” as if he really did. “But now you've become anxious. Is that it?”

“Yes.”

“Do you have any knowledge at all of where your wife might have gone? Did she leave home with a specific destination? Did she have an appointment with someone, for example?”

“She said something about an appointment, but I don't believe she said whom it was with. Mr. Moran can tell you about that.”

Farley, thus cued, opened his mouth to speak. He was prevented by an arresting gesture from Bartholdi. The captain pushed his swivel chair back.

“Later, Mr. Moran. Right now, would you mind coming with me?”

“Where?” Jay, rising, had a paradoxical sensation of sinking. “Why?”

“Just follow me, please.”

He came around the desk and went out of the room. Following, followed in turn by Farley, Jay was aware of the grace of Bartholdi's movements. (His feet, like his hands, were small and slender.) They went down the hall to the elevator. Captain Bartholdi punched a button with a delicate thumb, and the car descended. They came out in a basement corridor. It was chilly here; lights burned with a tinted pallor, as if the naked electric bulbs had been blued by the chill. Jay knew with dreadful certainty where they were bound, and what, when they got there, he would have to see. Bartholdi had paused in the corridor and was watching him.

“Professor Miles,” he began.

“It's Terry, isn't it? She's dead, isn't she?”

Jay's voice was washed of life and luster. Bartholdi answered as if he were dictating mortuary statistics for the record.

“It's a body. There was no identification on it. You can tell me if it's your wife.”

They went into the morgue, and saw, and it was. It was Terry, or what was left of her. In spite of the anguish and terror of violent death, she seemed at peace in this bleak depository. Perhaps it was only that she was empty. Her throat was clawed by her own nails, where she had dug futilely at whatever had strangled her; it was a miracle that any loveliness had survived. She had clearly been dead for some time. Jay's mind caught and clung to an ugly thought.