Death Under the Lilacs (13 page)

“Stuff it!” the graduate student said with malice.

Lyon sat at his desk and nodded toward the side chair. Bates glared a moment and then slammed into the chair. Lyon picked up the manuscript enclosed in a typing-paper box and turned a few pages. “You have the right to do an original piece of work or research instead of this.”

“I'm submitting my novel.”

The chanting voices from outside rose and fell as the crowd rocked back and forth between the military science and the main administration buildings. Lyon wondered if he should take the uncompleted manuscript of his Wobbly book home for safekeeping. “I'm giving you a final opportunity to withdraw this book.”

“What have you got against me, Wentworth? That's a damn fine piece of work.”

“Yes, it is.”

Bates sneered. “Those who can't, teach. That's it, isn't it? Your craven little heart is all tied up because I did something you can't do.”

“Take my word for it, withdraw it,” Lyon repeated.

“You said it was a fine piece of work.”

“Except that you didn't write it.”

The room was silent except for the sounds of chanting, milling students outside. “No! No! We won't go!”

“What in the hell are you talking about?”

“I've tried to give you every opportunity.”

“This is my work, damn it!” He thumped the box filled with the manuscript.

“The book you call
Master's Watch
was published in 1924 under the title
Night Stars
. It was written by a man named Richardson.”

“You're crazy. That was years before I was even born. I've never heard of a book called
Night Stars
.

“Neither have many other people.”

“Then where in hell do you get off making that accusation?”

“When I was very young, my father brought a summer place on Great Diamond Island. That's in Casco Bay, outside of Portland, Maine.”

“I don't need the travelogue, Wentworth.”

“Because it is an island, it's customary when you buy a place to get all the furnishings. There were several bookcases filled with old books circa 1900 to 1930. It rained a lot that summer. I read them all.”

“You were a kid.”

“I know, and I've read a lot of books since then. But your manuscript haunted me. It was something vaguely familiar that I couldn't quite place. It took me three weeks to come up with it, but would you like a line-by-line comparison?”

Bates blanched. “You do this to me and I lose my draft exemption.”

Lyon went back to the window and looked down at the crowd. Campus Security police were now joined by town and state troopers and were driving the students back from the quad. It would start again tomorrow, and both sides would go through the ritual again. He wondered if they heard it in Washington. “I'm sorry about that, Bates. I don't agree with this war any more than the kids down there.” He turned to face the graduate student. “But I can't allow a plagiarized work to be accepted.”

“I'll be drafted.”

“I'm sorry.”

The sneer returned. “All right, Wentworth. How much do you want?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“The Stockton fortune may be fading, but Grandma still has a few bucks up the family tree that I might be able to shake loose.”

“You're offering me money?”

“To keep your mouth shut, or to be absent when the committee meets. For not doing anything and keeping me out of the damn army.”

“I couldn't do that.”

“Don't hand me the sanctimonious bit. What's your price? You want a girl? I know a couple of juicy coeds that would be willing to put out for you if I asked them in the right way.”

“Get the hell out of my office, Stockton!”

“You're serious.”

“You can bet your family tree on it.”

“I'll get you, Wentworth. One day, I will ream your ass.”

From his study he could see her weeding the garden. She wore a wide floppy hat that mostly obscured her face, faded blue jeans, and one of his old white shirts tied at the midriff. She attacked the weeds ferociously while Jamie Martin stood on the parapet above her with a shotgun cradled in his arms. Martin looked bored.

Lyon turned from the window and continued his search through the stuffed file cabinet. He had once calculated that he was about ten years behind in his filing. Folders, news clippings, and manuscripts were shoved into every nook and cranny of two file cabinets and several boxes. The farther into the depths he progressed, the farther back the years. Finally he reached the area that included the material from his teaching career. He continued until he found a Polaroid of his graduate creative writing class during his last teaching year—the year that Bates Stockton had been in the class.

There were six of them seated around a table smiling into the camera—except for the one nearest the photographer, who was grinning sardonically. He knew instantly that the one in front was Bates.

When Lyon went out on the patio, he found the police shotgun leaning against the stone wall. Jamie Martin was in the garden on his hands and knees as he helped Bea weed.

“If we're attacked, you're going to protect her with a trowel?” Lyon asked.

Jamie flushed. “I almost forgot, Mr. Wentworth.” He scrambled back to the patio and snatched up the shotgun. “I like working with growing things.”

Lyon nodded and went down the stone steps into the garden. Bea looked up and pushed back her hat. “You've found something?”

“I want you to look at this photograph,” he said as he handed her the Polaroid of his seminar group. “Do you recognize anyone?”

Bea squinted at the picture. “The girl in back. I think she came to our house for dinner one night.”

“That's Pat Hale. She writes children's plays now.”

“Thought she looked familiar.”

“Anyone else?”

“I don't think so.”

“How about him?” Lyon's finger pointed to Bates.

“Unpleasant-looking young man.”

“Could he be the one who took you?”

“I don't know. He could be.”

“You're not positive?”

“No. Sorry. I keep telling everyone that I can't be sure. I wish I could be, I really do.” She bent forward to strangle a weed. “Want to help?”

“No, thanks.” He walked back into the house, flicking the photograph with his finger. It could be, he thought. But then again, so could almost any other male in that general-age category. Bates would have changed from the young man in the photo. He paused in the doorway and yelled back at Bea. “Did he ever speak to you in a normal voice? I mean without using the voicebox?”

“Yes.”

“Would you recognize his voice if you heard it again?”

“I don't know. Maybe.”

Rocco sat in the study with his feet on Lyon's desk and his hands clasped behind his head.

“So much for our security,” Lyon said. “I didn't hear you come in.”

“Neither did Jamie. I could have shot the three of you from this window.”

“Can you give us more men?”

“Keeping one man here around the clock is a strain on the force. You could help if you did such things as keeping your front door locked.”

“It's an old habit. Bea wants to go back to work. I don't know how much longer I can keep her cooped up here.”

“She ought to stay low until we catch the bastard.”

“That could be next year.”

“Methinks I hear a twinge of bitterness.”

“I haven't told her about the house yet.”

“Oh God. You had better.”

“I wanted her to have a few days to recuperate. Is there any news at all?”

“I got the background on the guy who works for Traxis.” Rocco pulled a sheet of folded paper from his pocket. “Irwin Reuven …”

“Irwin?”

“AKA Chloroform Charlie.”

Lyon couldn't keep the excitement from his voice. “Then you do have something?”

Rocco nodded and began to recite the information. “Reuven, Irwin, date of birth May 8, 1952. Born in Hartford and attended Weaver High School. Failed to graduate and joined the army. Did not finish his term of enlistment and was let out on a general discharge. Picked up for assault January 1973; suspected burglary November 1973; car theft 1974. All charges dropped until his arrest in 1975 for assault. He got five to seven for that one.”

“Where does Chloroform Charlie come in?”

“Getting to it. Paroled in 1979. Last known address is the Wessex home of Traxis.”

“Rocco!”

“Okay. There were a rash of apartment-house burglaries in Hartford before Reuven was picked up. The MO was always the same. A lone woman on an apartment-house elevator. A man in a ski mask with a chloroform-soaked cloth. He knocked the women out and took their bracelets, money, even earrings.”

“How did they get him?”

“He was unlucky, or the Hartford police were lucky. An off-duty cop was standing by the elevator door when it opened to reveal Reuven and his latest handiwork. They nabbed him on the spot, complete with ski mask and chloroform.”

“And now he works for a man who collects stamps and periodically goes to London.”

“And who hates Bea. Reuven's prior is awfully similar to what happened to Bea. The ski mask, the cloth, and the drug. I don't believe in coincidences, Lyon.”

“You sound as if you've made up your mind?”

“I nearly have. I'd like to have Bea meet him.”

“She says she can't identify him, although hearing his voice might help.”

“You know, Lyon, we might be able to turn that around.”

“How's that?”

“Bea says she can't make a positive ID, but our friend obviously doesn't know that. I think we should arrange a meeting and play it.” Rocco scribbled rapid notes on a pad. “I'll set it up. Two other things: I have some items for you in the trunk of my car, and I want you to come downtown with me to talk to someone who has some very interesting facts.”

Lyon followed the large police chief out to the drive and peered into the car trunk when Rocco swung it open. “I don't want those!”

He took two backward steps, as if recoiling from what he had seen in the trunk.

“Be logical. I want one in the bedroom, one in the study, and another in the kitchen.” Rocco bent into the trunk and gathered in his arms two shotguns and a magnum pistol. Without waiting for Lyon, he returned to the house and placed the weapons on the study desk. “They are all loaded with the safety on. Most people get hurt with so-called unloaded guns. These are always loaded. Remember that, and you won't get hurt.”

“I haven't fired a weapon in years.”

“Then it's time you relearned. Do you want to go to the range with me?”

Lyon picked up the magnum pistol. It had a heavy, firm weight. He supported his wrist with his left hand and braced his legs as he aimed the weapon. “Even in the service I could never hit anything with a handgun.”

“That's why I brought the shotguns along. Point them in the general direction of the target and you'll get him. As long as he's not too far away. Try not to shoot any of my men, please. I need them all.”

“I'll make a valiant attempt.”

“Stash them away within easy reach in the rooms I mentioned. That way, as long as you're in the house, you'll only be a few steps away from a weapon.”

“I really don't care for them in the house.”

“They're tools, nothing more.”

“They are designed to kill people.”

“If you'd come quail hunting with me someday you'd learn different.” Rocco hefted a .12 gauge shotgun and raised it to his shoulder. He tracked a nonexistent flock of birds through the window. “A sharp November day. A bird flushed in front of you climbs into the sky, a quick shot. It's not only exhilarating, they're damn good eating.”

Lyon snapped open the chamber of the magnum and twirled it once before snapping it closed. “Ever try and hit a flying bird with this?”

“Impossible.”

“A deer, maybe?”

“A miracle shot by the most expert of marksmen.”

“What's its use?”

“Right now, it's security for your wife and home.”

“Built into a compact killing machine that can be carried on one's person.”

“I'd hate to have to carry an M-15 around with me all day.”

“You're a cop.”

“And we carry weapons. At least in this country we do. Do you know that in London the bobbies still aren't armed? The guys with me had weapons on the stakeout, but they had to sign them out.”

Lyon hefted the magnum again. “How many like this are there in this town?”

“Handguns? A thousand, maybe a few more or less. I have permits out for a hundred, but most people don't have permits.”

“How many burglars did they shoot in the last few years?”

“None. Before you ask, the local statistics are one husband, one wife, and one lover. Burglars, nothing.”

“Bea tries. Every session she introduces a revised handgun bill, and every year she goes down in glorious defeat.”

“Okay, all ready. I'll tell Jamie we're going downtown for a few minutes. There's someone I want you to talk to.”

Raymond Brohl ran his office like a kingdom. His desk was highly polished, clear of all objects except for the time-stamp machine, and he brooked no nonsense in the Murphysville town clerk's office. He had been town clerk for over thirty years, and although it was an elective office, he was seldom opposed.

Unlike most states, Connecticut has virtually no county government and files its land records by individual towns. The large walk-in vault located a few feet from Brohl's desk contained the history of a town; not only its land records, but probate proceedings, vital statistics, and other records. They were all known to Raymond Brohl. He frowned when Rocco and Lyon entered the office.