Family Business (17 page)

Angelo tried to ignore the computer. But that was hard too, what with it flashing at him so insistently. He put his hand over the flashing box on the computer's screen, as if to make it go away. Only then did he remember having seen television reports about computers that would respond to touch. But this one didn't. At least Rosetta hadn't bought
that
. Yet.

Angelo noticed the computer's ‘mouse'. He pushed it and it clicked. Angelo looked at the screen. Nothing had happened. He pushed on the mouse again. It clicked again. Nothing happened again.

Then Angelo rolled the mouse easily around its pad. A flashing symbol, more like a spot than anything else, moved as the mouse moved. Angelo manoeuvred the flashing spot into the flashing box, thinking that maybe somehow they would cancel each other out and give him relief.

But the flashing continued. With nothing particular in mind, Angelo pushed on the mouse and made it click. The screen burst into life and it displayed a letter addressed to David.

Angelo felt distinctly pleased with himself. He must have ‘opened' the ‘mail box'. And although the ‘letter' was to David, Angelo read it. It wasn't as if it was a real letter.

Dear David, How astute of you to be able to receive this letter, but then you
would
be able to, because it's a machine. Give you anything
human
and you'd
kill
it, and don't say you wouldn't. I was there for that jar of woodlice when you were six, don't forget.
And
when you tried eating ants to see what they tasted like. But the main reason you'd
kill
anything is that you're a
man
. Not a real man. You'll probably never be a
real
man but you're male and that's bad enough.
EVERYTHING MALE IS SCUMMY
,
DUMMY
,
AND THAT INCLUDES YOU
! Your loving sister, Marie-the-Free-
Esprit
. Mega-death to all things
male
in the universe.

Salvatore couldn't find a bell, so he knocked using the letter box. He rapped several times and was about to give up when the door opened. ‘You?' Bonnie the Regular said.

‘Good morning.' Salvatore looked at his watch. ‘Good early afternoon.'

‘What's the matter? Your sister throw you out?'

‘I need a model,' Salvatore said.

‘Well, I don't need a private detective,' Bonnie said, and she slammed the door.

Having read the letter once, Angelo read it again and the net effect was to be pleased. Marie's displeasure with the male half of the species seemed more general than anything aimed solely at David. And that was good because Easy Money Terry was unquestionably male.

Then the telephone rang. Who? One of his ops? ‘Angelo Lunghi.'

‘Oh,' a man's voice said. ‘I were expecting a lady. What number's that?'

Angelo recited the telephone number.

‘Ay, that's it,' the man said. ‘This morning a young lady gave me this number because she lost her canary.'

‘Ah,' Angelo said.

‘Thing is, see, I may just have spotted her Jasper here in my back garden. I wondered if she wanted to come round and have a look.'

‘The young lady isn't here at the moment,' Angelo said. ‘But I'll give her the message as soon as I see her.'

‘Ay,' the man said with some disappointment, ‘you do that. I'll go back to me window and see if I can spot the little rascal again. It were only a glimpse I got. Wouldn't want to raise the young lady's hopes just to dash 'em again.'

When he had hung up, Angelo looked around the desk for the message pad. The pad wasn't where it was supposed to be. What Angelo found instead were David's cartoons, left from last night.

Angelo picked the top cartoon up. He hadn't realized that David could draw so well. He studied the cartoon and was impressed.

Of course Gina had talent that way, though it was not much in evidence since she'd dropped out of college. And maybe David had also benefited from some of the same genes that produced Salvatore's artistic talents. Angelo smiled. Papa wouldn't like that.

Then his smile faded. For a moment he considered just how much David's papa would like it.

But Angelo didn't get much time to think about his own feelings. Beneath the cartoon he noticed a message card, one which had already been filled in.

He picked it up and read that last night Muffin had rung, from a pay phone, uncertain whether she would get back to her hotel or not. She had wanted to speak to Gina.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

When Charlie got off the phone he said, ‘Varden was on his way to lunch, but he'll stop here first.'

‘Thanks,' Gina said. ‘Especially for the personal endorsement.'

‘I hope it was embarrassing to listen to,' Charlie said.

‘What's this Varden like?'

‘Ambitious,' Charlie said.

Moments later a tall, craggy-faced man in his early thirties entered the room after a perfunctory knock. ‘Ah, Roger,' Charlie said. ‘This is Gina Lunghi.'

‘My pleasure, Mrs Lunghi,' Varden said as he and Gina shook hands. ‘Charlie tells me you're a private detective and that you have an interest in the Adamson murder.' Varden's voice was rich, low and Scottish.

‘And Charlie tells me that you were involved in the investigation,' Gina said.

‘I still am, should there be developments.' Varden raised thin eyebrows.

‘Shall I confess now?'

‘Oh no,' Varden said. ‘Take more time about it. I like my wee fish to wriggle on the hook.'

‘In that case I'm only here to get background,' Gina said.

‘That's better,' Varden said. ‘Now, Lunghi is an Italian name, is it not?'

‘Yes,' Gina said.

‘Grand. I love Italian food. And I'm very hungry.'

When Gina did not appear in the office by one, Angelo went across to the house and made himself a sandwich. But it didn't look nearly as good as the roll he'd bought for Salvatore. For a moment Angelo considered going out to buy a roll for himself. It would be an excuse to look in on David and Marie again. But the impulse passed. Angelo ate his sandwich and stayed put.

His only lunchtime contact with the outside world came by telephone. ‘David Lunghi reporting at 13.28, Dad,' David said. ‘The Shaylers are still in their house.'

‘Everything's straightforward?'

‘People keep stopping to talk to Marie.'

‘Strangers?'

‘No. Kids from school. She doesn't pay half the attention to the job that she should.'

Angelo didn't know how best to respond to David's high moral tone. Fire Marie? And leave her free to pursue alternative activities? Hardly. Yet there was David's sense of grievance to account for.

However David read his father's hesitation and said, ‘Still, I suppose if there's a group of kids around, we don't stand out so much.'

‘I think you're right,' Angelo said.

But later, after he returned to the office, Angelo suddenly felt that he should have told David that he was doing well as a detective.

Suppose David did decide to take up a different career, artistic or otherwise. The truth of the matter was that the possibility had never seriously crossed Angelo's mind before. David was always so keen, so eager to take part in business. The problem was to contain his enthusiasm, to keep him from neglecting his studies. But what can you ever count on, in this world, in this day and age?

‘Huh!' Angelo said. And for once he was aware of the similarity between his position and that of his father.

But Angelo's musings were interrupted. He heard the street door open. He heard steps on the stairs. Not Kit Bridges again, surely. He had a thing or two to say to that young woman, now that he had reflected on how she had manipulated him to get herself some publicity.

But the steps were slow, hesitant. Mrs Shayler? But would Mrs Shayler be hesitant now? Wouldn't her steps be light because she was floating on air, such a satisfied customer? Angelo sat up at his desk and ran a hand through his hair.

There was a knock on the door.

‘Come in.'

The visitor was Muffin. Her clothes were creased and she looked tired.

On his way back to the stakeout David resolved to bend the truth. A detective was allowed, right? When the situation required it. Like when Dad and Uncle Sal had stopped Mr Shayler on his way home from work.

As it happened Marie was alone when David arrived. She was riffling through a rack of leather jackets that stood on the pavement outside a shop across from the Shaylers. ‘I thought you got stuck in the phone box and forgot how to get out again,' she said as her brother arrived.

‘Very humorous,' David said. He checked his watch and recorded the time of his return in his notebook. Then he said, ‘Dad went on and on, about how it's essential to pay close attention all the time when you're doing surveillance work. And he said he's probably going to check that we're doing it right. If we're not, he won't pay us.'

Marie took a jacket from the rack and held it up for a better look. She knew she was being got at. And it sounded much more like David talking than her father. So she said, ‘Well, you better pull your socks up, then.' She tossed her hair.

‘Our assessment,' Roger Varden said after ordering, ‘is that Adamson was killed by a burglar. We think the burglar was surprised in the act and hit out. Adamson died from a single blow to the head with a blunt object that was not found with the body.'

‘A burglar,' Gina repeated. ‘Does that mean things were stolen from the house?'

‘At least eight old firearms, antiques,' Varden said. ‘Half of them pistols. You know, do you, that Adamson had a business repairing antique weapons?'

‘I understood he was a printer,' Gina said, ‘with the antique weapons more a sideline.'

‘He was a printer originally,' Varden said, ‘and for most of his working life. But he was made redundant six years ago. With his pay-off he turned a hobby interest in old guns into a business. It was through that connection that he met Cyril Younger.'

‘Who is Cyril Younger?'

Varden studied Gina, trying to assess what she did and didn't know, what her agenda was. ‘He owns Block Letter.'

‘Ah,' Gina said. ‘I knew there was an owner. I didn't know his name.'

Varden said, ‘Younger's primary business is called Qualico. It imports clothes and trinkets and the like, mostly from Africa. He started it about four years ago. I don't know what his secret is but Qualico is one of those exceptional companies you read about, the ones that grow quickly despite recession.'

‘What is Cyril Younger like?'

‘He's very smooth—the operator type. And two and a half years ago it seems his Qualico had grown to the point where it paid him to have his own printing set-up.'

‘And Cyril Younger is interested in old guns?'

‘He bought and sold general antiques as a business before he started Qualico, including antique firearms. There's an antique weapon society in Bath and Younger was active in it. It was through the club that he met Adamson.'

‘From whose house eight weapons were stolen. So what was Younger doing on the night of …'

‘If only police work were so easy, Gina,' Varden said with a laugh. ‘Ach, here is my
tortelloni al burro e fromaggio
. Oh yes. That looks wonderful. Perfect.'

‘I was wondering,' Muffin began, ‘whether maybe Gina was around.'

‘I'm sorry,' Angelo said. ‘She went out on a job. I don't know when she'll be back.'

Muffin smiled weakly. ‘Aren't you guys ever off duty?'

‘Nine to five would be a holiday,' Angelo said. ‘A vacation, I mean.'

‘I thought,' Muffin said, ‘I hoped maybe Gina might come out for a walk with me. It's such a nice day.'

‘Yes, it is,' Angelo said.

‘I could wait,' Muffin said. ‘But you don't know when she'll be back?'

‘No.'

‘Oh.'

‘Muffin?' Angelo said.

‘Uh huh?'

‘You have something on your mind, don't you?'

‘I guess I do.'

Angelo said, ‘Tell you what. Let's you and me go for a walk. If you feel like talking, fine. If not, then the worst that can happen is that you'll have seen the church Jane Austen's parents were married in. OK?'

‘I'm going out,' the Old Man said.

‘Oh yes? Where to?'

‘A walk.'

‘It's a good thing, to move old bones,' Mama said.

‘You're coming? Or not?'

‘My bones move plenty, thanks. I run around after you, don't I?'

‘You don't want to? Don't. I'll run around after myself. Huh!'

‘So,' Varden said, ‘it's not Cyril Younger you're interested in?'

‘No,' Gina said. ‘It's the other employee at Block Letter. Howard. I don't know his surname.'

‘Well, well,' Varden said. ‘Whatever could there be in the life of a nonentity like Howard Urcott that would be of interest to a private detective?'

‘If I just told you I wouldn't be wriggling,' Gina said.

Varden savoured a forkful of tortelloni. He wiped his lips with a smile. ‘All right,' he said, ‘Howard Urcott … I found him quiet, shy almost to the point of muteness. He lives with his mother, next door to the murder victim.'

‘Is that how he got the job at Block Letter?'

‘It is. Mother Urcott—who is probably not mute even when asleep—told me that Adamson was diagnosed with angina about a year ago. He was told to work less so Mother Urcott convinced him to try Howard as a sort of apprentice. Apparently the arrangement worked well enough. Howard began there seven months before Adamson was murdered.'

‘Did Howard have a printing background?'

‘Howard had no background,' Varden said. ‘He'd never had a job before. Can you imagine it, Gina? Twenty-eight years old and never worked.'