The Devil's Cook (14 page)

It was evident that Chubitz preferred being present to getting a secondhand report from his reliable man later. Bartholdi shrugged, and Chubitz pressed a button that summoned a secretary, who was sent to summon Jenkins. Jenkins, arriving promptly, proved to be an evil-eyed young man with the deadly earnestness of one who lives by commissions.

“Jenkins,” said Chubitz, “this is Captain Bartholdi of the police. He wants to ask you some questions about the Skully property.”

“Right,” said Jenkins. “Right-
o
.”

“To begin with,” said Bartholdi, “when was the house rented?”

“On a Monday. Two weeks ago today, to be exact.”

The cherubic face of Mr. Chubitz beamed at this evidence of exactness on the part of his Mr. Jenkins. The beam contrived to remain anxious.

“It was rented, I understand,” Bartholdi said, “to a man who gave the name of Ivan Harper.”

“Right. Right-
o
.”

“Did you take him out to see the house before he rented it?”

“No. He said he'd been by earlier, and he was sure it was the place he wanted.” Jenkins grinned like a shark. “You meet all kinds of kooks in the realty game.”

“He paid a month's rent in advance?”

“Right you are.”

“Did he pay by check or by cash?”

“Cash.”

“Did he ask you to see to having the gas and electricity turned on?”

“I offered to do it as part of our agency service, but he said he would attend to it himself.”

“Are you aware that he didn't?”

“He didn't?”

“As a matter of fact, Harper hasn't occupied the house at all. It's still empty.”

“Well, now,” said Mr. Chubitz nervously. “Well, now.”

“Why would a man rent a house he doesn't intend to occupy?”

“A good question, Mr. Jenkins.”

“I thought at the time there was something queer about the guy. I'll bet Harper wasn't even his real name!”

“What made you think the transaction was queer?”

“A kind of feeling he gave me. The cash, for one thing. People usually pay by check—”

“Tell me what he looked like. As accurate and complete a description as possible.”

“Jenkins has a retentive memory,” Chubitz said unhappily. “I'm sure he'll be most helpful. You mustn't disappoint us, Jenkins.” There was steel in this last admonition.

Bartholdi, watching Jenkins quail, would have enjoyed planting a shoe on the generous Chubitz bottom. Nothing worse, under the circumstances, could have been said. It was unlikely after two weeks that Jenkins would ordinarily be able to supply more than a vague description. Now, with his employer's displeasure threatening, he would be worthlessly explicit, adding superfluous gewgaws to what might have been an authentic detail or two.

Bartholdi listened sourly. Tall. Shoulders slightly stooped. Age in the upper middle bracket. Hair graying, parted in the middle and slicked down. Horn-rimmed glasses. Teeth stained badly, as from incessant smoking or chewing tobacco. Going fat about the gut. Neatly dressed in brown suit showing signs of wear. Ditto brown topcoat and brown hat. Walked with a slight limp. And, oh, yes—hands were ingrained with grime that soap no longer removed—the hands, Jenkins had thought, of a mechanic or machinist, at any rate of someone who worked in oil and grease. Jenkins clearly felt that this was his prize item. Like an expectant dog, he waited for commendation.

Bartholdi didn't give it to him. Instead: could Jenkins identify Harper if he saw him again? Oh, positively! No question about it! Bartholdi secretly doubted it. Jenkins's description was far too detailed, and there was now no way to separate the truth from the figments of the Jenkins enthusiasm. One thing, at least, could be assumed. If Harper was a kidnapper and murderer, he had not nakedly exposed himself to Jenkins's observation, however unreliable that might be.

“All right.” Bartholdi shifted in his chair. “We'll call on you, Mr. Jenkins, if you're needed further.”

“Right. Right-
o
.” Jenkins turned to Chubitz. “I believe I'd better have the utility people turn on the gas at the Skully house and start the furnace. If the temperature drops any lower the pipes may freeze.”

“Good thinking, Jenkins. See to it right away.”

“Right-
o!
”

Back at headquarters, Captain Bartholdi had the switchboard operator give him an outside line. He dialed a number he had been given by Jay Miles, and after a preliminary skirmish with a secretary was talking with Maurice Feldman in Los Angeles. Feldman's voice sounded husky and hurried, as if he had to rush words through a diseased larynx before the organ wore out.

“I'm calling in reference to a woman named Terry Miles,” Bartholdi said. “I understand you're the executor of an estate left to her by her father.”

“That's correct. She was formerly Terry Kinkaid. What kind of scrape is Terry in now?”

“I'm afraid I have bad news, Mr. Feldman. She's dead.”

There was a long silence. Then the husky, hurried voice came back with a note of genuine regret.

“Poor Terry. I was always afraid she'd come to a bad end. Was it an accident of some kind?”

“It's murder. It may also have been kidnapping.”

“Murder!” The husk in the attorney's voice was harsher. “Murder? Are you sure?”

“She was strangled to death.”

“When did it happen, for God's sake?”

“By the most reliable calculation, some time late last Friday or early Saturday. Her body was not found, however, until yesterday.”

“Why hasn't there been any news of it?”

“We've been sitting on it for the time being. I told you kidnapping is suspected.”

“This means that you don't know who the murderer is.”

“We're working on it.”

“How's Jay bearing up? Terry's husband.”

“As well as can be expected. Mr. Feldman, I'd like to consult you about a number of things. Can you fly here?”

“I'm tied up in a court action. I can't possibly leave right how.”

“When can you get away?”

“Possibly in two days. Three, more likely.”

“That'll have to do. In the meantime, I'd appreciate it if you would keep your mouth shut about this.”

“You have my word on it. Poor Terry. Poor Jay. I'll be there just as soon as I can make it.”

“Let me know your flight, and I'll meet you at the airport.”

“I'll do that.”

Feldman hung up. Bartholdi put on his hat and coat again and went out.

17

The building was constructed of old gray stone, held in the intricate embrace of vines turned brown in the November cold. Inside, at the end of a long hall, was a large central room, with four smaller rooms adjoining. These were accessible, a pair on each of opposite sides, by means of high and narrow doors. A desk stood near the door to each of the four smaller rooms, each desk littered with books and papers. Above each door, fastened with thumb tacks to the jamb, was a small sign identifying the occupant of the room. One of the signs, with a contempt for academic rank, read M
R
. M
ILES
. The desk outside this door was occupied by a young woman who wore a pair of harlequin glasses. She was diligently attacking a stack of papers with a blue pencil. There was no one else in the room, and Bartholdi was forced to clear his throat in order to attract her attention.

“I beg your pardon,” he said, “but is Professor Miles in his office?”

As Bartholdi had anticipated, she shook her head. She had dark brown hair severely arranged, but Bartholdi's Gallic perception, in spite of the hairdo and the glasses, gave her due credit for hidden goodies.

“I'm sorry,” she said. “Professor Miles called to say that he won't be in today. I'm Freda Page, his student assistant. Can I help you?”

Bartholdi considered. He said suddenly, “Maybe you can, Miss Page. My name is Captain Bartholdi. I'm a police officer.”

Was there, for an instant, a flicker behind the lenses?

“Yes?” she said.

“I'm going to be frank with you, Miss Page. I've got to rely on your discretion—”

“I don't carry tales, if that's what you mean.”

“Good. Professor Miles's wife is missing. She's been gone since Friday afternoon.”

“I know.” Freda Page studied her blue pencil for a moment, then laid it carefully between the stacks of marked and unmarked papers. “He told me when he phoned this morning.”

“Oh? What else did he tell you?”

“Nothing. Just that Terry left home Friday and hasn't been seen since.”

“Did he say that he'd been to the police?”

“He did.”

“Then you must have been expecting a police officer.”

“Not necessarily. I can't see what you hope to learn by coming here.”

“I noticed that you called Mrs. Miles Terry. Do you know her well?”

“Well enough.”

This terse remark, Bartholdi thought, although uttered without emphasis, was susceptible to analysis. Did it imply that even a little of Terry was enough? And was the color a little higher in Freda Page's cheeks? It was an interesting speculation. Loyalty was not always a virtue. Nor was love, for that matter, at least in a police investigation.

“Can you suggest any reason why she left home?” he asked.

“None whatever. No, that isn't so. I
could
suggest one, but it would be slanderous if not true, and I can't prove that it is.”

“I asked for a suggestion, not proof. Do you mean that she's probably off with some man?”

“I mean that she's wanton and faithless.” Freda Page's cheeks were now hot.

“How do you know? Hearsay?”

“More directly than that. Professor Miles seems to respect my judgment and discretion. He sometimes confides in me.”

“Why don't you call him Jay? That's what you call him privately, isn't it?”

If he had hoped for confusion, he was disappointed. She smiled defiantly, adjusting her glasses on her nose.

“Very well, then. Jay.”

“That's better. More comfortable for both of us. I take it you think a lot of Professor Miles.”

“I do. Personally and professionally. He deserves a better wife.”

Like Freda Page? Bartholdi wondered. Or was theirs the kind of student-teacher relationship that breeds on every campus, not to be taken seriously? Freda Page, however, must surely be a graduate student of some standing. She was not, at any rate, a child.

“Does he think so?”

“I wouldn't presume to say. Why don't you ask him?”

“Mrs. Miles apparently had an appointment Friday afternoon. Did you know that?”

“Of course not. Why should I?”

“I thought she might have come here.”

“To the office? I don't think so. Not to my knowledge, anyhow.”

“Not here necessarily. To the university. Did you see her on campus?”

“I didn't see her at all, on campus or anywhere else.”

“Was Professor Miles in the office here that afternoon?”

“Yes, for a few minutes after lunch. He also came back for fifteen or twenty minutes after his last class of the day.”

“What time was that?”

“Two-thirty.”

“Does the class meet in this building?”

“Yes, on the second floor.”

“Then he must have left the office before three.”

“I suppose he did. Why? I don't see how Jay's time schedule will help you find his wife.”

“One more question, Miss Page. Did he say where he was going when he left here?”

“No.”

“He says he didn't get home until about six.”

“He may have worked in the library. He often does that. I'm sorry I can't be of more help.”

Bartholdi wondered if she was. He had a notion that Freda Page considered the disappearance of Terry Miles to be, at the worst, good riddance. He thanked the girl, and as he turned away she was already picking up the blue pencil to resume her work on the pile of unmarked papers.

Two hundred yards further along a curving concrete walk, swarming at the moment with between-class students, he found the administration building. At the foot of the wide shallow steps leading up to the entrance, he paused and looked back along the way he had come. The swarm of hurrying students was thinning rapidly in the final moments of intermission. He wondered if there was a perpetual competition among undergraduates nowadays to see which could devise the sloppiest costume. But then his student days were thirty-odd years in the past, and his recollections were probably distorted by nostalgia.

Inside, he sought out the registrar's office. He identified himself to a female clerk behind a high counter and asked if he might see the registrar. He was invited behind the counter and into a private office, where he was greeted by a dehydrated little gray man who reminded him, for some reason, of a hungry sparrow. The registrar's name was Wister, and he offered a dry gray hand.

“Sit down, Captain Bartholdi,” he said. “How can I serve you?”

“It's a routine matter,” Bartholdi said, holding on to his hat and keeping his topcoat on, “which I would prefer not to explain just now.”

Registrar Wister made a tent of his fingers. “If you will just tell me what you wish to know …”

Bartholdi extended a page, torn from his notebook, on which he had written a list of names. “I'd appreciate it if I could see the records of these people.”

Wister read the names, listed one to a line in a vertical column:

Jay Miles
.

Otis Bowers
.

Ardis Bowers
.

Farley Moran
.

Benjamin Green
.

Fanny Moran
.

“Doctor Miles and “Doctor Bowers are, of course, members of our faculty,” Wister said. “So is Mrs. Bowers, in a lesser capacity. She is, I believe, a graduate instructor.”