The Luck Runs Out (15 page)

“It will end with our getting Belinda back and Olafssen’s winning the Juniors’ cup and all of us getting stuffed to the eyeballs with herring at Birgit’s wedding,” said Shandy with a good deal more conviction than he felt. “Cheer up, Sieglinde. Helen came out of the kidnapping unharmed, and I don’t mind telling you I was a damn sight more worried about her than you are about Birgit. By this time next week, we’ll all be wondering what we were so het up about.”

“By this time next week, we shall also have buried Miss Flackley,” the President’s wife reminded him. “Do not try to play word games with me, Peter Shandy. Only please, please find out why my Birgit will not talk to me!”

A
S SHANDY WAS STANDING
there wondering if he should go away or try to comfort the woman, President Svenson himself came down the stairs. Sieglinde at once dried her eyes.

“Well, Thorkjeld?”

“She won’t talk to me, either,” he growled. “What the hell do you want, Shandy?”

“Loki and Tyr.”

It wasn’t what he’d meant to say, but at this juncture it would probably do as well as anything else. At least it jolted Svenson out of his despondency.

“Hah?”

“Harry Goulson wants to borrow Loki and Tyr to draw the hearse for Miss Flackley’s funeral,” Shandy explained. “He’s giving her an old-time send-off like her father before her.”

“What the hell for?”

“Because she deserves it.”

“Ungh.”

“Does that mean yes?”

“Oh, what the hell do I care? Take the whole damn team,” Svenson roared. “Shandy, what would you do if your daughter bawled all the time and wouldn’t tell you why?”

“To the best of my knowledge, I don’t have a daughter.”

“Well, Jesus, man, you have an imagination, haven’t you? Make believe you have a daughter.”

“It’s a bit difficult,” Shandy began cautiously, “but—and, mind you, this is only theory based on inexperience—I think I’d act as if nothing were the matter. Maybe Birgit’s just—er—going through a period of rebellion. Perfectly normal in young persons of that age.”

“She’s been rebelling since the day she was born. Came out head first yelling at the doctor and hasn’t shut up since.”

“Then perhaps the only way Birgit can rebel is to—er—not.”

“That the best you can do?”

It was certainly not the worst he could do, though he’d hardly dare say so to these unhappy parents. Birgit’s odd behavior could hardly be taken as proof that she’d had anything to do with those twenty-six sunflower seeds in Miss Flackley’s van, but if she weren’t sick or pregnant or on the outs with her boyfriend, what else could it mean?

“Er—I wonder if perhaps the best plan mightn’t be to wait a bit and see what develops?” he temporized. “How long has she been this way?”

“Since yesterday morning;” said Sieglinde.

Shandy groaned inwardly. Outwardly, he put on a show of relief.

“Oh, then that explains it, don’t you think?”

“No,” said Svenson.

“But it should be—er—obvious enough, shouldn’t it? Birgit has taken a militant stand against Professor Stott’s pig-breeding project. Now Stott’s in serious trouble and she is—er—overcome with remorse at her—er—hostile behavior.”

Sieglinde gave her eyes a final wipe and brightened a little. “Now, Peter, you begin to make sense. It is true that Birgit has been giving our dear Professor Stott a hard time. It is also true that she loves him since a baby, as who could not? I cannot think that Birgit herself would be a party to the kidnapping of Belinda. However, she may believe that her words have inspired others to commit this action and that she is thus guilty by association. If so, it is a terrible lesson but one she has to learn by herself. Peter says wait. I think we wait. Go now, Thorkjeld, and telephone Mr. Goulson about the horses.”

“What horses?”

“Loki and Tyr, whom you have promised, to lend so they can draw the hearse for Miss Flackley’s funeral.”

“The hell I have! Is he out of his mind, wanting our horses during the Competition?”

“I told him. he couldn’t have the funeral then, and he said he knew better than to think of it,” Shandy said. “He did mention that if it’s not convenient for the college to lend him a pair of Blacks, he could ask some of the boys from Hoddersville or Lumpkin Corners.”

“Never! What’s the number, Sieglinde? I’ll straighten that bird out in a hurry. Never mind, I’ll go down there in person. Hoddersville hacks! Urgh!”

Svenson went thundering off. His wife nodded with satisfaction to Shandy.

“That is good. It will relieve him to yell at somebody, and Mr. Goulson will not care because he will get the horses. Thank you, Peter. Now please go and find out why Birgit is crying.”

“Do you mean you want me to go up and talk to her?”

“Of course not. She would not even let you in. Find out who has killed Miss Flackley and stolen our Belinda, then she will at least know if she has something to cry about. It is entirely possible, indeed I think more than probable, that she does not. However, it has never yet occurred to Birgit that she might be wrong about something, so you will need to bring proof.”

“What sort of proof?”

“You will know when you find it. Go, Peter. I ask you as a friend and as a mother.”

Shandy went. Reason told him that he was probably leaving the solution behind him as he turned his back on Valhalla, but it was some comfort that Sieglinde has been so emphatic about Birgit’s not being personally involved in Belinda’s disappearance and its terrible corollary. She might be a doting mother, but she was also a sensible, intuitive woman. By now she must know a remarkable lot about young people in general and daughters in particular.

But she didn’t know about those twenty-six sunflower seeds in the van. Shandy heaved a mighty sigh, wondering where to start on this distasteful quest. He supposed he might as well go hunt up young Olafssen, for whatever that might be worth, though finding him could be a problem in itself. Olafssen being who he was, the odds were about equal that the senior student was either performing some doughty feat of heroism on the topmost peak of Old Bareface or falling into the soggiest mudhole in some swamp or other.

Stott might be able to help. Recalling what Helen had mentioned about squadrons and geodetic survey maps, Shandy perked up a trifle. If anybody could predict the whereabouts of that human lightning bolt, it should be Stott. Now the problem was to find Stott, and the answer to that one might very well lie in his own kitchen. He brightened one more degree and turned his steps briskly homeward.

He didn’t get as far as the kitchen. A police cruiser was standing out in the Crescent and a young officer was right behind Helen when she came to the door.

“Oh, Peter, I’m so glad you’re back. I just called the Svensons’, hoping to catch you there. Sergeant Lubbock, here, wants us to go with him.”

“What for?” Shandy demanded. “Not another—”

“No, Professor, nothing like that,” the young man assured him. “The thing is, we’ve located a van we think might have been used in that robbery out at the Carlovingian Crafters. We’re hoping you might be able to identify it.”

“I already did. While I was waiting for my wife to turn up, I gave your people a complete description of the infernal thing, down to the smallest wrinkle in the blasted carpet. I saw enough of the dratted vehicle while I was cramming it full of bullion.”

“Yes, sir, but, you see, the van’s been torched.”

“If you mean set fire to, why don’t you say so?” said Shandy testily. “All right, I suppose we’ll have to go take a look. Got your coat, Helen? How long is this going to take, Sergeant? We happen to be rather busy around here just now.”

“I know, sir. As a matter of fact, it was a member of one of your search parties who found the van. It’s approximately twelve miles from here, in a wooded area not far from the main highway that leads to the Crafters. Your student was equipped with a walkie-talkie—I mean a portable radio transmitting device—and used it to summon police assistance. I happened to be cruising in the area and responded to the call.” A pleasantly reminiscent expression crept over the young trooper’s attractive face. “Miss Gables led me down into the ravine where she’d discovered the wrecked vehicle. Cutest little bottom—er—that is, the van was at the bottom of the ravine. After having examined the evidence, I returned to my cruiser and made radio contact with headquarters. I was then instructed to request your aid in attempting an identification. Miss Gables promised to remain on guard, and I’d sure like to—that is, it is my official duty to relieve her as quickly as possible. Er—you don’t happen to know her first name, do you? For my report, that is.”

“It’s Matilda,” Helen told him as she pulled on her gloves and picked up her handbag. “Matilda, eh?”

The sergeant rolled the syllables around his tongue, enjoying their flavor. “That’s sort of nice. Different, you might say. I bet her boyfriend calls her Tilly.”

Helen caught the wistful note of inquiry in his voice and replied kindly, “I don’t believe she has one at the moment. Our nice farm boys aren’t quite her style. Ready, Peter? We mustn’t leave Miss Gables there alone too long.”

“Gee, no,” said Sergeant Lubbock.

“I suppose there’s always the chance of her being attacked by hostile chipmunks,” said Shandy rather nastily. “Come on, then, let’s get this over with.”

Mirelle Feldster was, of course, goggling from behind her living room curtains as they got into the police car. Shandy had a mad impulse to ask Lubbock to handcuff them, but thought better of it. Mirelle could supply enough dramatic touches without visual aids.

Lorene McSpee was out scrubbing her employer’s front doorsteps, but hardly bothered to look up at what was happening across the way. She only waved her scrub brush in a sort of backhand salute, then went back with her unlikely task.

“That woman must be nutty as a fruitcake,” Shandy remarked. “Doesn’t she know by now that in about ten minutes Tim will come back from taking soil samples somewhere, caked to the eyebrows with mud?”

“She makes him go around to the back and take off his boots before he enters the house,” said Helen. “Mary Enderble told me.”

“Good God! Is there no end to her perfidy? We’d better phone Jemmy and tell her to shoot along another batch of baby pictures, quick.”

“Peter dear, I do wish you wouldn’t pin your hopes too high. It’s my unfortunate duty to inform you that Frank Flackley happened to drop in again this morning, on his way to Hoddersville.”

“But Hoddersville’s in the opposite direction.”

“Exactly,” said his wife. “Please don’t glare at me like that. It’s not my fault. It’s not Iduna’s, either. She simply draws them, like moths to a flame.”

“Would you happen to be talking about that pretty blonde lady who offered me a doughnut?” asked Sergeant Lubbock.

Shandy groaned. “Not you, too?”

“Not me, Professor. On my salary I couldn’t even feed a woman that size. I thought I’d find a cute little one and work up gradually.”

“Work up to what?”

“To getting married, I guess. I don’t go much for this no-strings jazz. I see too much of what happens when people try to duck responsibility.”

Shandy nodded. “Well spoken, young man. You’d have done well at Balaclava. Ever thought of becoming a farmer?”

“No, sir, I never wanted to be anything but a cop. Even when I got the scholarship—”

“What scholarship was this?” Helen prodded gently.

The sergeant blushed. “To Dartmouth.”

“I was still too young for the police academy, so I figured I might as well take it. By the time I got my bachelor of science degree, I was almost twenty, so I pestered the police academy for a while, and finally they let me in on account of my making Phi Beta Kappa and whatnot.”

“And now you’re driving a state police cruiser.”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Sergeant Lubbock, grinning from ear to ear. “I made the grade at last. And now I’m afraid we’re about as close to the van as we can get with the cruiser. Think you folks can manage a little climb?”

H
ELEN HAD SENSIBLY PUT
on boots and heavy slacks; Peter was already dressed for scrambling down wooded slopes. They were able to show Sergeant Lubbock, at least to their own satisfaction, that he didn’t have a pair of doddering ancients on his hands.

They did have a bit of trouble convincing themselves that the mass of blackened, twisted metal at the bottom of the ravine had in fact been a van. Matilda Gables had been true to her trust. She was standing guard over the wreckage, looking peaked and woebegone, as if she’d been overtaxing her strength. However, she did manage a wan smile when she saw them coming toward her.

“What’s the matter? Think we weren’t coming back?”

Sergeant Lubbock’s smile was dazzling in its warmth. He really was a decorative note on the landscape, with his somehow still spic-and-span uniform, and not even a dollop of mud on his boots.

“Here, Miss Gables,” he said, taking the tiny scholar by the arm and escorting her tenderly to a moss-covered rock, “you’d better sit down and rest a minute. Let me hold that walkie-talkie for you. Miss Gables has been doing a great job here, Professor Shandy. I guess you people all know each other.”

“Oh yes.” Helen went over and took Matilda’s small, cold hand. “Matilda’s one of my favorite borrowers at the college library. She never licks her fingers before she turns the pages.”

“Bad habit, licking your fingers,” said the state policeman affably. “That’s how you leave clear fingerprints.”

Helen was surprised to feel the young woman’s hand jerk convulsively under her grasp.

“Matilda,” she said, “I think this searching business has been too strenuous for you. You’d better ride back with us and get some rest. But first I suppose we might as well try to do what we came for. Heavens, this thing is a mess, isn’t it? Peter, do you see anything that looks even vaguely like the van we were involved with?”

“Beyond the fact that it would probably be about the right size if we could straighten it out and that it seems to have been a Chevy, as the other was, I don’t find much to go on,” said her husband. “Is any trace of the paintwork visible?”