? ? ?
For the umpteenth time, I sat in my car and went over my notes, using my little penlight for illumination. When at an impasse, my general policy is to start over from the beginning and hit all my sources a second time. I fanned out a handful of cards facedown and picked one at random. Bayard’s name had risen to the forefront and I headed for his house in Horton Ravine. It was, by then, nine fifteen and I wasn’t sure how advisable it was to call on folks at that hour. I didn’t think anyone would be in bed, but they might be in their jammies, engrossed in their favorite television show. The day was over. Not many welcome an intrusion of any kind, let alone one from me.
When I rang the bell, Ellis responded. He was barefoot, in sweatpants and another tight white T-shirt, this one without writing on it. I said, “I apologize for the hour, but something’s come up with regard to Fritz and I was hoping to speak to Bayard.”
“His masseuse is here, but he should be free in ten or fifteen minutes. I’ll tell him you’re waiting.”
“No hurry,” I said. “Mind if I use the bathroom?”
“Third door on the right,” he said, and then proceeded down the hallway into another wing of the house. I confess I took my time, pausing to open other doors along the corridor. Really, I couldn’t help myself. If Ellis didn’t want me peeking, he should have said so. Coat closet, bedroom, bedroom, linen closet.
I found the bathroom, which featured an Egyptian motif. The padded walls were covered in a fabric printed with mythological creatures and a profusion of stylized blossoms. There were lithographs of human figures rendered flat with their arms stiffly bent and their pointy feet turned sideways. A dressing table extended along one wall, the surface an elaborate inlay of wood veneers. The dressing table stool had a cane back and a brocade seat in tones of blue and gold. Lions’ heads and lotus leaves were carved into the uprights. It was all surprisingly tasteful. I picked up and sniffed at the collection of perfume bottles, but I didn’t dab any of them behind my ears. I was certain Ellis would have picked up evidence of the pilfered scent the minute we were in the same room.
I availed myself of the facilities just to keep up an honest pretense. Then, with a tiny bit of time on my hands, I had a look around. I noticed a door on my right, which I opened of course. I found myself in a guest room with matching blue everything: carpet, drapes, bedding, wallpaper. There were no knickknacks in sight and the two drawers I peeked into were empty, ready to accommodate weekend visitors. Of interest was the large wheeled split duffel and an expandable four-wheeled packing case closed and standing at the foot of the bed. Open on the bed was one soft-sided carry-on and a hard-sided case of a size that could probably be shoved into the overhead bin. The contents in one bag—shirts, sweaters, and two pairs of trousers—were neatly folded. The clothing in the other gave off a distinct air of carelessness and haste. I’d have been willing to bet that the first belonged to Ellis and the second to Bayard, who probably didn’t have the patience to do much better. I was surprised he hadn’t turned over the entire packing chore to Ellis. All of the luggage was new and still bore tags denoting their special capacities, exclusive features, and whopping prices. The black leather carry-on bore a tag that sported a monogram, BAM. Bayard Something Montgomery. Arthur. Allen. Axel. I admired the royal blue cashmere sweater he’d packed. He’d added his headset and his Sony Walkman, both of which I was sure would come in handy when he reached his destination.
I tiptoed back into the bathroom, where I washed my hands noisily and then stood for some moments trying to figure out what to dry them on. I don’t know why rich people do this. It’s so inconsiderate. The pristine white linen towels were the size of dinner napkins and if I used one, my paw print would have compelled the housekeeper to send them off to a special laundering service at god knows what cost. I chose my jeans, wiping my hands on the back sides where the damp spots would hardly show. I’d have to make a point of not sitting down.
When I returned to the living room, Ellis was back.
“Bayard says you can wait in the library where you’ll be more comfortable. Can I bring you something to drink?”
“No, thanks.”
He left me alone in the library, which was like a massive treasure trove of trouble to get into. I limited myself to the stack of unopened mail in Bayard’s inbox, a quick search of his address book, and a study of the note he’d made on the top sheet of the scratch pad, adorned with his monogram. The first line said AA with a circle around it and a question mark. Was he contemplating Alcoholics Anonymous? That would be a big step. Below that, he’d written 8760RAK. The combination of letters and digits suggested a California license plate. I found a clean sheet and duplicated the notes, removed the page, folded it, and slid it into my pocket, leaving the original where it was. I took a seat in a chair on the other side of his desk and was thus able to look entirely innocent when Bayard finally made his appearance in a white terry-cloth robe.
He must have come straight from his massage. I could smell the oil on his skin, which had also encouraged his hair to stand on end. “How’re you doing? Sorry to make you wait.”
“Not a problem,” I said. “I owe you an apology for showing up this late without calling first.”
“I’m a night owl. This is not late.”
He went around to the far side of his desk and took a seat. “If you’re here to tell me Austin’s back, I know. Fritz says he left a message on his parents’ answering machine.”
“Word travels fast.”
“Stringer called and told me the same thing. He’d heard it from Iris, though she didn’t mention where she saw him.”
“The Clockworks. This was last Tuesday night. She and Joey were playing pool and she was lining up a shot when she caught sight of him. Then she spotted him again Friday driving up State Street. She couldn’t say for sure that Fritz was in the car with him, but that was her impression.”
“Really. Friday’s the last time I saw Fritz, as a matter of fact.”
“Morning or afternoon?”
“He showed up Friday morning. I had a dentist’s appointment at ten thirty and I was annoyed with him for hanging around. He was so giddy and hyper, I thought he was on drugs.”
“What was he so excited about?”
“He wouldn’t come right out with it, but typical Fritz. Either he tells you everything before you ask or he stalls and hints and drops snippets until it’s the same as telling the whole story. That’s him keeping a secret.”
“What was it in this case?”
“He pulled some fiddle at the bank that put twenty-five grand in his pocket. He’d already told me how he meant to do it, but I didn’t think he’d have the nerve.”