The Four Johns (15 page)

John Viviano slapped the prints down on a table and swung about. “You're still on that kick, aren't you?”

“Yes,” Mervyn admitted. How
did
those fiction detectives do it?

“Why? What difference is it to you where I was last Friday night?”

Mervyn could only answer miserably, “I told you. I want to find Mary Hazelwood.”

Viviano gesticulated fiercely. “Very
well
. Anything to end this persecution. I was
here
last Friday night. Look!”

He strode to a nearby table, opened a brief case, took out an 11×14 print. “See this? I worked three hours that night to prepare this print. It was a very difficult negative, and I was trying to produce the best possible result.”

Mervyn examined the photograph, a foreshortened view of a busy Chinatown street—Grant Avenue, by the street sign. Sunlight slanting down intersecting streets produced an effect of luminous overlapping washes of haze. The sidewalks were clogged with pedestrians, the street with cars.

It was, Mervyn was forced to admit, an excellent photograph. Still, what did it prove? Viviano might have printed the picture on some other occasion.

“You printed this last Friday?”

“Yes.”

“Was someone helping you? Or watching? In short, is there anyone who can substantiate the date?”

Viviano said with enormous dignity, “I don't know. I refuse to discuss this any further, Gray. Excuse me.”

“Wait.” Mervyn felt ridiculous. “I'm merely trying to eliminate you, Viviano, so you won't be involved.”

“We aren't in a court of law,” the photographer snarled. “Besides, I'm not in the least interested.” He extracted new prints from the drier and pointedly turned his back.

Mervyn went over to the registration desk. A sharp-featured woman in a blue smock looked up with disapproval. “Yes?”

“Do you keep records of who works in the darkroom?”

The woman shook her head.

“Are you acquainted with Mr. John Viviano?”

“Certainly, he's over there by the drier.”

“Was he here last Friday night?”

“I don't remember, I'm sure.”

“Would anyone here know?”

“Why not ask Mr. Viviano?”

“I did. He's not sure whether he was here Thursday or Friday.”

“Well, I can't help you if he can't.”

Mervyn went reluctantly back to the drier. Viviano, ignoring him, strode into the darkroom. Mervyn re-examined the photograph of Grant Avenue. A sidewalk clock showed the time, 3:17. If only there were some way to date the picture, thought Mervyn—a newspaper headline, for instance (he had once seen a movie like that). But no newspaper stands were visible.

Only one aspect of the picture seemed to suggest a possibility. Mervyn glanced around guiltily, then went through John Viviano's brief case. There was no other copy of the print. In desperation, he rolled up the original, stuffed it in his pocket and hastily left. As he passed the registration desk, he met the eye of the woman in the blue smock. That glittering orb seemed to contain all the accusatory fires of the law. Half expecting to hear “Stop, thief!” he hurried out of the building. But there was no pursuit, and Mervyn decided that it had just been her natural expression.

The next morning, drinking coffee by his window, waiting for the mailman, who was late, Mervyn reconsidered his data in the light of late developments.

For the fateful Friday night, he now had corroboration from Harriet Brill that it was she John Boce had spent the evening with, at a movie. No wonder Boce hadn't come clean! But he was out.

The John Thompson situation remained in the
status quo ante
. No corroboration yet; there was even reason to believe he lied.

Corroboration for John Viviano's alibi that he had spent the evening in the Recreation Center's darkroom: unsatisfactory. The photograph of the Chinatown street might have been developed at any time. There was only Viviano's word.

John Pilgrim bellhopping at the Claremont Hotel on his regular shift, as attested by his time card: A good alibi—unless the other bellhop had been covering up for him at Pilgrim's request.

Mervyn sighed. This was hard work.

He went to the phone, dialed Information and asked for the number of John Thompson, 1315 Bramble Way, Enchanted Meadows, Concord.

To Mervyn's relief it was Thompson's wife who answered; had it been the librarian, he would have hung up.

He identified himself and suffered Mrs. Thompson's pleasantries until he found a place to cut in. “Mrs. Thompson,” he said in a confidential tone, “I'm going to ask you what may seem like a strange question, but believe me it has a perfectly simple explanation that really has nothing to do with John.” And that, he thought desperately, is as stupid a line as I've ever heard of! “Did your husband spend last weekend with you?”

“Last weekend? With me?” Mrs. Thompson was silent, and Mervyn thought she was going to blast. But she was only thinking. “Why, no.”

Mervyn sighed in spite of his exultancy. Mrs. Thompson was so transparently naïve. What nastinesses detective work took one into!

“Then John wasn't home last weekend?”

“Oh, but he
was
,” Mrs. Thompson said. “
I'm
the one who wasn't home. Poor John had to batch, but then he's used to that.”

Mervyn gritted his teeth, holding on to himself by main strength of character. It was just too damn, damn difficult! “When did you leave, Mrs. Thompson?”

“Friday, as soon as John got home. I took the children up to Sacramento to see my sister Eunice. I hated to miss the weekend with John, but Eunice was leaving for Oklahoma and it was the last chance I'd have to see her for a long time. But, Mr. Gray, why do you ask?”

After all, she
was
a woman.

“Sort of private joke,” Mervyn said, trying to chuckle. “It's really a kind of game we play here at the university—it's much too involved to explain over the phone.” (Or anywhere else, he thought.)

“Would you like to talk to John? He's setting out redwood stakes for grapevines. He says we're going to make our own wine. Imagine!”

“Oh, no, don't bother him,” Mervyn said quickly. “In fact, part of the game is that he's not even supposed to know I called. By the way, I don't suppose you phoned home Friday night from Sacramento?”

“No.…” Mrs. Thompson's tone suddenly turned thoughtful. “Mr. Gray, this game or whatever it is you're playing—”

That's done it, Mervyn thought despairingly. “Excuse me, Mrs. Thompson, somebody's at my door. I really must hang up. 'Bye!”

“Bye,” Mrs. Thompson answered in the same thoughtful way.

Mervyn returned to his post at the window. All right, he had done it clumsily. But he
had
found out something, and wasn't that the proof of whatever-it-was?—pudding? The fact was, John Thompson had been home
alone
from early Friday evening the previous weekend. (He took time off to wonder why Thompson's little girl had said her father had not mown the grass that weekend. Of course! When she and her sister and mother got back from Sacramento she
saw
that the grass was uncut! That was getting somewhere!) John Thompson, you dog, Mervyn thought,
your
alibi stinks.

And there came the mailman, hurrying along like the White Rabbit.

Mervyn went out to meet him, and he came back with a batch of letters and circulars. But he was interested only in the cheap white envelope.

He sat down at the kitchen table, fascinated. His name, his address.… He slit the end of the envelope slowly, slowly withdrew the folded sheet of paper, quickly unfolded it.

CONFESS

OR YOU
'
LL DIE
.

Mervyn sat looking at the fourth word for five minutes, his heart trying to climb out of his throat. Damn “John”! And all his works! What in God's good name have I ever done, Mervyn thought, to deserve this calculated campaign to turn me into a gibbering ape?

He considered again going to the police, telling everything. “Confess!” Mervyn's stomach flopped like a frantic salmon. It was unthinkable.

Pack up and leave? But sooner or later the police would begin an investigation of Mary's disappearance, and anyone who had lit out would automatically become their-prize suspect.

No, there was nothing to do but continue his one-man John-hunt. He reread the letter, and this time it infuriated him.

He snatched the telephone and called the home of Richard Takahashi. Mrs. Takahashi told him that her husband was at work. So Mervyn phoned the university observatory. After a short delay, he heard Dick Takahashi's calm voice.

“Dick, this is Mervyn Gray.”

“Hi, Merv. How's tricks?”

“Tricky. Say, Dick, I've got a problem that's up your alley. Do you have a few minutes?”

“Sure. What is it?”

“I've got to show it to you. What room are you working in?”

“Room one twelve.”

“I'll be there in twenty minutes.”

Mervyn set out on foot. He felt in the mood for a good fast walk.

Approaching the university, he passed an art-film theater. Sure enough, there on the marquee were the words
EISENSTEIN'S ALEXANDER NEVSKY
. Further verification of John Boce's alibi. Mervyn walked on. But then he stopped, frowning. That was an awfully long run for a revival. Even for culture-conscious Berkeley. Over a week. Was it possible that …? He crossed the street to the box office. It was closed, but the schedule of the month's attractions was on display.

Alexander Nevsky: June 17 to June 22
.

Today was therefore the last day. The first showing had been on the seventeenth—
last Monday
. John Boce and Harriet Brill had not seen
Alexander Nevsky
the previous Friday night, after all. Harriet had given Boce a false alibi!

Mervyn hurried on to the observatory, a comfortable, shabby old frame building smelling of floor oil and varnish. In Room 112 he found Richard Takahashi, a compact young man with an uncompromising butch haircut and black horn rims.

“You sounded all hopped up,” Takahashi said. “What gives?”

Mervin took out the photograph he had filched from John Viviano and laid it down on the desk. “Look at this photograph, Dick. What do you make of it?”

Takahashi squinted. “Good shot. Man knew what he was doing. Used a telephoto, of course. What's the problem?”

“What day was the picture taken?”

Takahashi looked up with surprise, bent over the photograph. After a moment he said, rather more slowly than before, “You're thinking about the sunlight?”

“Yes. Notice the clock outside the jewelry store. Assuming that it's accurate, and since the sunlight slants down at an angle that can be measured, and the orientation of Grant Avenue is a fixed value, can't you calculate from that what day the picture was taken?”

Takahashi rubbed his chin. “It might be last year. Or the year before.”

“It's this year. Look at the license plates on the cars.”

“Of course!” Takahashi jumped to his feet, went to a cupboard and returned with a large-scale map of San Francisco. “Let's see what can be done here.…”

Ten minutes passed, twenty. Richard Takahashi measured angles, made sketches on scratch paper, worked his slide rule, consulted the
Nautical Almanac
. Finally he leaned back in his chair. “The photograph was probably taken Tuesday, June fourth, although it could have been June third or June fifth. That's the range of possibility, Merv.”

“You can't pin it down to a single day?”

“No.”

Mervyn thanked Richard Takahashi and left. What the devil was the use?

In a fog of gloom and anxiety, he trudged south on Telegraph Avenue. He turned into an espresso coffee shop, sipped a brew whose bitterness he hardly tasted. At a table in the corner a young woman sat, nose in a book. Long dark hair fell forward, almost obscuring her vision. It was John Pilgrim's girl friend, the lady of the guitar.

Mervyn got to his feet, took his coffee over to her table and sat down. She looked up with a filmed-over expression and smiled vaguely.

Mervyn said, “John Pilgrim never introduced us. My name is Mervyn Gray.”

“I'm Varella.”

“Varella? Varella what?”

“Just Varella.”

“Well,” said Mervyn, “why not? How does your driver's license read?”

“Just Varella.”

“Didn't the clerk protest?”

“Why should he? It's my name.”

“I see.” He glanced at her book. “You like poetry?”

“Yes.” She spoke with absolute finality.

“Does John Pilgrim write good poetry?”

“Yes.” She gave the word an equally positive sound. You're a lousy critic, sweetheart, Mervyn thought.

“You're his fiancée?”

Varella guffawed. “Oh,
no
! Nothing so foul. When things get formal they go all skibiyah. I see a great deal of him, though. I'm waiting for him now.”

“How long has he worked at the Claremont?”

“Sh! You must never mention that. John pretends it's for kicks. Secretly he's very depressed about it.”

“Does he work every night?”

“Naturally not. He has Tuesdays and Wednesdays off.”

“Never Friday night?”

“I don't think so. Although sometimes he trades shifts with another bellboy.”

“Oh,” Mervyn said. “Which bellboy is that?”

“Al Pennington. Al is crazy about painting birds. The most
meticulous
work. Imaginary birds sometimes.”

“Today is the twenty-second.”

“Of course.” Varella laughed, as if at some esoteric joke.

“Yesterday was the twenty-first.”

“How true.”

“A week ago was the fourteenth. Do you remember it?”