The Four Johns (9 page)

And presently he fell asleep.

CHAPTER 5

Mervyn drove the convertible around to the front. He brought a hose out from the court, thoroughly soused the interior of the trunk, scrubbed it with a bristle brush and hosed it down again. Then he went over it inch by inch. He was satisfied at last that not even the most assiduous technician could find specks of sky-blue wool or blond hairs. Or blood.

John Boce came sauntering out of the court. Mervyn looked at him in surprise. “I thought you were a working man.”

The accountant teetered jauntily on his heels. “A man like me is paid for what he knows.” He strolled around the car critically. “Looks pretty nice, Mervyn. Considering what the old bucket's been through, the paint job has held up. Too bad the chrome's so pitted.”

“A shame.”

“Hey! Is that the radiator leaking?”

“We can tell better after I finish washing the hood.”

Boce looked into the driver's seat. “Not a bad old boat. You've had a lot of fun in this car, Mervyn.”

“Yes. It's like parting with an old mistress.”

“You even talk dirty in a literary way,” the fat man said. “You're going to sell her, eh?”

“Absolutely.”

“Suppose your mother wants the VW back?”

“She won't. She's afraid of cars.”

Boce kicked a tire. “I'll give you a tip. If you locate a live one, don't let on the car's been stolen. That knocks the value down a good forty per cent.”

“Maybe I'll ask only three hundred.”

Boce drew back in shock. “I thought you wanted to sell this bus!”

Mervyn stooped to scrub a wheel. “I'll let it go for two fifty.”

“I thought the price was one fifty.”

“I could sell two cars like this for one fifty.”

“Not even with solid-gold hubcaps.” Boce frowned. He glanced up the street and down. Head cocked, mouth pursed, eyes half closed, he turned back to Mervyn. “I get a funny feeling sometimes. That I'm missing about half of what's going on.”

“I get that feeling myself.” Mervyn rose. “Maybe we ought to fill each other in.”

“I'm all for it.” Boce spat on the sidewalk like a man preparing to meet a challenge. “How come you're on the outs with Susie?”

“I never was in.”

“Now, boy, don't try to con old Uncle John. I've watched her swoon over that classic profile, that nonchalance, that romantic pallor.…”

“Is it true she got a letter from Mary?” Mervyn asked abruptly.

“What letter from Mary?”

“That's what somebody was saying. Incidentally, don't mention this to Susie. It's confidential. Is Mary sore at you?”

“Mary sore—at
me
?”

“The way I hear it, she thinks you let her down. You were supposed to meet her and didn't show up.”

“What kind of fantasy is this?” blustered Boce.

“Then where were you last Friday night? I was trying to find you myself.”

“Never mind where I was Friday night. What about this letter?”

“I don't know much about it.”

“Who told you it came? Harriet? It must have been Harriet. She knows everything about everybody. And what she doesn't know she suspects.”

“Forget I mentioned it. And
don't
forget it's supposed to be confidential.”

“Go to hell, Mervyn. You and your car both.” The big man lumbered peevishly off to his apartment.

Mervyn coiled the hose and gave the car a critical inspection. Except for one or two dents and a nick here and there, the chassis looked pretty good. He made a final check of the trunk. Might be a good idea to spray some aluminum paint around.…

Mervyn tucked a for-sale sign behind the windshield wiper and returned to his apartment. He changed clothes, made a cup of instant coffee, then stood drinking it by the window. He brooded over his thesis. Long hours of research lay before him; he must betake himself to the gay court of Eleanor of Aquitaine, steep himself in the
langue d'oc
. And to do that he had to put this nightmare of Mary out of his mind. But it couldn't be done. It was like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Sooner or later Mary would be reported missing; sooner or later questions would be asked.…

Across the court, on the upper deck, Susie came out of Apartment 12. She was wearing tan shorts, a white polo shirt and sneakers. She tripped down the steps. Mervyn put down his cup and, on the pretext of looking into his mailbox—third in the line of twelve near the entrance—he went out into the court.

Susie bade him a cool but courteous good morning and proceeded to her own mailbox. Mervyn glanced at his mail, tucked it into his pocket. “Where are you going?” he asked. “Do you have time for coffee and doughnuts? I haven't had breakfast yet.”

Susie paused, looking over her shoulder. “I've got to sign up for summer session.”

“You have all day.”

“Not quite. I'm visiting Mrs. Kelly at the hospital between two and three.”

“Is she able to see people?”

“Harriet was there last night.”

Mervyn glanced at the steps to the balcony. “The old girl took quite a tumble.”

“It's a miracle she's alive.”

They walked out to the street, the question of coffee and doughnuts not quite resolved. Mervyn looked at Susie out of the corner of his eye. As always, she seemed subtly different from the last time he had seen her. Today she contrived to seem both casual and somber. Her mouth was a grim line. A sweet mouth, thought Mervyn—normally.

Susie's side glance was swift. “You're not teaching during summer session?”

“I've got a thesis staring reproachfully at me.”

“I can't imagine you teaching, Mervyn. I mean,
really
teaching.”

“I can't either. Oh, well, it's a means to an end. I'd much rather do other things.”

“Such as?”

“I don't know. Search Europe for old manuscripts, perhaps. What about you, Susie?”

“Life is fluid. And so far I'm floating.”

“Drifting?” suggested Mervyn.

“Floating,” Susie said firmly.

“I'd better look through my mail,” said Mervyn. “Pardon?”

They turned into Telegraph Avenue; the Parnassus Coffee Shop was three blocks away. Mervyn, shuffling through his mail, found a telephone bill; what looked like a letter from his mother; a notice from the university library about some overdue books; and a notification to English Department teaching assistants regarding changed schedules. On closer scrutiny he decided that the letter from his mother—being addressed in typescript on a plain white envelope and postmarked Berkeley on June eighteenth, which was yesterday—could not be from his mother after all. Mervyn tore it open and unfolded the sheet of paper.

The letter consisted of two words printed with a ballpoint pen.

Mervyn frowned.

Then he refolded the letter and tucked it away. He was rather relieved that Susie, marching along by his side, had not been looking at his face when he read the two words.

When they reached the Parnassus Coffee Shop, Mervyn glanced questioningly at her. Susie hesitated, scowled, squinted at the sun. “Well, all right,” she said grudgingly. “But I only have a minute.”

They took a table by the front window; a waitress came for their orders. Susie sat stiffly, looking everywhere but at Mervyn.

He played a conversational gambit. “How come you're not going home for the summer?”

“I don't like my mother's new husband.”

“Oh. You have a brother, don't you?”

“A half-brother. Ten years old. By my mother's third. The current consort is her fourth, a large pain in the neck. Real-estate operator, loaded with charm, money, and stepfatherly love. With gestures. Mary's had more trouble with him than I have. But she didn't want to shock Mother.”

In spite of his own difficulties, Mervyn was fascinated. “What about you?”

“Mother is shockproof. She dangled us in front of Gordon until she hooked him, and now it's suddenly a good idea that we get away on our own.” Susie laughed bitterly. “Our grandmother lives in Butte. For a while there was talk about the University of Montana.”

Mervyn asked cautiously, “Why would Mary want to go home, then?”

Susie broke a doughnut into sections. “Who says she went home?”

“Didn't she?”

Susie shrugged.

“You haven't heard from her since she left?”

She squinted at him through her thick lashes. “No.”

“Strange,” mused Mervyn.

“Not so very.”

“Well—perhaps not,” Mervyn said. “Under the circumstances.”

“Whatever they are.”

“She never gave you any hint of whom she might be going off with?”

Susie toyed with her spoon. “Mary isn't much for confidences. Not that she's secretive; things just aren't important to her. And then there's been a little coolness between us recently. You might even say we had a fight.”

Mervyn was startled. The idea of Mary having a fight with anyone seemed absurd. “What on earth about?”

“You.”

“Me?” Mervyn laughed. “I never thought you cared. Much less Mary.”

Susie leaned back in her chair, surveying Mervyn dispassionately. “One of your most appealing features, Mervyn, is your complete lack of vanity. You're handsome enough to stop a clock, don't you know that?”

Mervyn was embarrassed. “It's never got me anything. In teaching it's a positive handicap. Still, a battle between two love-crazed females—”

“Who said anything like that? With me it was a matter of principle. And Mary isn't always aware of what she's up to. Since she's not a child any more, I thought it was time she learned.”

“I see. Well, what vanity I had is now shattered.”

Susie made a scornful noise. “I made a mistake. Your vanity is so absolutely colossal that it disappears. It's a good gimmick. I'll try it. And with Mary not around, I think I'll try her techniques, too, maybe even improve on them.”

“Have mercy,” Mervyn said. “I've got worries enough.”

Susie rose with the faintest suggestion of a smile. “I must be going.”

Mervyn answered in a vague voice, “I've got things to do, too.”

Susie, still smiling, departed.

Mervyn sat in deep thought. Presently he signaled for another cup of coffee. And took out the envelope.

He turned it over. No return address. Gingerly he withdrew the enclosed letter, his fingertips tingling as if it were warm with life.

The hand-printing was square, neat, impersonal. The two words were:

YOU
'
LL SUFFER
.

Mervyn's stomach contracted in a spasm of nausea.

Who could hate him so much?

And why?

CHAPTER 6

The letter was incomprehensible. The motivation for stealing his car and stuffing Mary into the trunk had been dismally clear—to implicate him in the murder. But why this?

The hand-printing conveyed nothing. A graphologist might read meaning into the carefully squared
E
, the flourishing
S
, the quiver in the final leg of the
R
. But as far as Mervyn was concerned, there was no clue to the identity of the sender.

Mervyn was swept by a gust of rage; it was followed by a swift retreat to cover. The threatening note changed nothing, except for the worse. If only he knew with whom he was dealing! He could then take counter-measures of some kind. According to Harriet Brill—not the most reliable evidence, but it was at least something to go on—Mary had arranged to meet “John.” There had doubtless been other Johns in Mary's life, but the four most immediate Johns were John Boce, John Thompson, John Pilgrim and John Viviano. He might go to each of these and ask the direct question: “Where were you last Friday night?” Three of them would be puzzled, perhaps irritated; one would be put on his guard. Still, he might be able to check out one or two alibis, and at least narrow the field.

True, John Boce had told him to go to hell in answer to the question, and the others might well do the same. But nothing ventured, nothing gained.

Fired by resolve, Mervyn jumped to his feet, paid the cashier, and returned to the apartment house.

Noting his mint-green Chevrolet convertible, he stopped short. Today he had planned to sell it. But another day would not matter, unless someone stole the car again and loaded it with a new corpse. Depressed by the thought, Mervyn raised the hood and removed the rotor from the distributor.

He drove off in the Volkswagen, his objective John Thompson, stack superintendent at the university library. He had chosen Thompson first for several reasons. The library was close at hand. John Thompson had a mild disposition. And he could probably supply information about John Pilgrim.

Climbing the steps of the library, his doubts returned. More than likely his question would elicit merely the nasty counter-question: “What business is it of yours where I spent Friday night?”

Then what? Unless … unless he could goad the guilty John into betraying himself!

Easily said. But how to induce his suspects either to incriminate themselves or demonstrate their innocence through provable alibis?

Mervyn stopped in the library foyer to ponder. At last he hit upon a
modus operandi
. He continued up the marble stairs and came out into a vast hall crammed with catalogue files. The usual flotsam of students, at high tide two weeks before, was gone; the room seemed almost clean.

To one side an oak door warned:
LIBRARY PERSONNEL ONLY.
Through this door he had occasionally seen Mary pass; now he opened it and walked along a short corridor to where an elderly woman sat at a desk beside a time clock. She looked up inquiringly, and when he asked to speak with John Thompson she looked at him severely over her glasses and pressed a button at the side of her desk. A tubby girl in a dusty pink canvas apron appeared and was instructed to convey the gentleman to Mr. Thompson.