Johnson Johnson 04 - Dolly and the Doctor Bird (17 page)

I began to fear for my air passages. Rimsky-Korsakov was molesting my eardrums. Basic intestinal disturbances began to threaten my vodka. My wig was going to come off.

I yelled “Stop it!” and kicked him viciously behind the left knee. He sat. The tape recorder, which was underneath him, went off. In the abrupt silence a patient tapping at my door made itself heard. The Begum’s calm English voice said, “Beltanno? Don’t be lazy, darling. The water polo has started, and it isn’t fair to leave Rodney one swimmer short.”

The sweat showered into my bathrobe. I took a temporary grip of my respiration and said, “Krishtof Bey would swim better.”

“I dare say,” said the Begum. “But there’s no response from his room.”

His necklace heaving, I was delighted to see, the Magnificent Animal rose to his feet and, the oblique gaze on me, was retreating slowly toward the door behind the pink curtain. “Try again,” I said. “I’m sure I heard him a moment ago.”

“Right,” said the Begum. Krishtof and I stared at each other. “I’ll try him. But get up, darling, won’t you? I want you to enjoy meeting people.”

He had got to the Chinese vase with the blossoms. Without looking down he broke one off, kissed it theatrically and cast it into the room mournfully, as from Armand to Marguerite. Then the door between our two rooms fastened softly behind him. In a moment I heard the Begum’s knock on the outer door to his room. I couldn’t hear what he answered.

I remained perspiring, my sympathetic nervous system all shot to hell. He was not only a murderer; he was an irresponsible murderer. To what he had just done to me, I would not subject the fittest man in my acquaintance.

I was not myself. I sat down on that bearskin and lamented.

In the end, I did go down to the pool, largely because I wasn’t going to stay too long in that room alone. It took me some time to get ready. On my way out I found and delivered a cavalry charge on Johnson’s modest oak door, but he didn’t answer. When I got out into the garden in my sunsuit, sandals, and wraparound glasses, I discovered the reason.

He had begun to paint Krishtof Bey. Since presumably one cannot swim in bifocals, he was fully dressed in an old crew-necked sweater and what looked like cook’s trousers. Krishtof, sitting behind the collapsible easel, was perched on the shady steps of the Begum’s thatched bar. He had changed into a thinner gold chain and a pair of pale tailored trousers. His stringy hands, clasping one knee, formed a pattern of light and shade against the spectacular torso, brown and lightly relaxed. His face was observant. Indeed, one could not disagree with anything about either his clothes or his posture. The taste was markedly Johnson’s.

Beside them Trotter, Brady, and an assortment of muscle-bound newcomers were splashing about playing water polo, watched by the Begum and my father on deep-buttoned reclining chairs in brilliant colors.

Krishtof Bey said, “Is it permitted to wave to a girl friend?”

“No,” said Johnson, continuing the motions of window cleaning with a long, pale-handled brush. “Waggle your ears. Hullo, Beltanno. Not swimming?”

Not with two potential murderers; not in that pool. “I may have pulled a muscle,” I said. “I thought your sitter was to play water polo?”

“He may have strained his knee,” Johnson said. The glasses bent over his palette. “You should take your muscle to Trotter. Trotter used to be the muscular therapy adviser to the London School of Oriental Studies. The whole of Zen Buddhism would have fallen down without Trotter.”

I assumed he was joking. The water polo was ending. As I watched, Sergeant Trotter himself nipped up the diving board and executed a swan and somersault. It was impressive. “Flaming hoops next,” I said. I was trying to exercise telepathy. Johnson’s hand continued to scrub at his canvas.

“Flaming hoops next,” said my father’s voice, and I looked around icily but he hadn’t even heard me. Then I saw they
had
flaming hoops, or at least a pile of bamboo circles wrapped in swathes of wet cotton. The pool boy, whose given name was Louis B. Mayer MacRannoch, lit one and spun it up through the air. Sergeant Trotter, reappearing at the top of the diving board, swan-dived efficiently through it.

I couldn’t believe it. “The Bamboo Conch Club,” I said.

“No, dear. The MacRannoch Gathering,” said the Begum’s cool voice. “Come and sit down. Hank, George, Missa, Louis, and Jake. That is Catherine. And that is Wallace Brady climbing up to dive through the hoop. Can he dive? He shall soon know. I beg you to watch him. He is risking his handicap solely for you.”

Wallace Brady, a nicely built American figure in maroon striped bathing shorts, took off from the platform and plummeted successfully down through a hoop.

A respectful voice said, “Doctor MacRannoch? I hear you’ve muscular trouble.” It was Sergeant Trotter, a well-hewn example of Canadian redwood.

I said, “I thought you were practicing for the MacRannoch Gathering.”

“Oh, no. A little touch of afternoon entertainment,” said Sergeant Trotter. “And it gives the boy practice, you know. Where is it, then? Back? Turn over. I’m a trained masseur, no need to worry.” Fingers like heavy-grade forceps flipped me over and a red-hot poker struck me hard behind the left shoulder blade. I gasped.

“I knew it,” said Sergeant Trotter with quiet triumph, withdrawing his fingers. “Golfers, they always get tightened up there. Take up running, I tell them. Swimming. Loosen up. You ought to know that, you being a doctor,” he said to my suffering back.

My spine was rising and falling like dough on a rolling pin. As my face shifted up and down the deep-buttoned plastic I observed, “I am much obliged to you, although I feel it needs very little. I understand Mr. Krishtof has quite a painful left knee.”

“Yes?” said Sergeant Trotter, pausing with interest.

“Afterward,” said Johnson. He took a pound tube of flake white and leaned on it, while a low glistening hill formed on his palette. Krishtof Bey said feelingly, “Afterward may be too late.”

“Middle Eastern soft-bellied dropout,” said Johnson pleasantly.

“Pavement artist,” said Krishtof Bey.

There was an amiable silence, broken by the rasping of Trotter’s thumbs on my back. People splashed in the pool. I could hear James Ulric conversing in a creaking cackle with Missa or Catherine or Louis or Jake on his other side. My muscles began to warm up and spread out, like treacle. I allowed my eyelids to close against the dark glasses.

Sergeant Trotter said, “I reckon Mr. Johnson ought to burn them arsenic notes of yours, if he has them.”

In a trice my fibers had sprung into their natural bunches again like strong gutta-percha. “I beg your pardon?” I managed.

“Mr. Krishtof mentioned Mr. Johnson had those tests,” Sergeant Trotter explained. “Mr. Brady was of the opinion that they ought to be destroyed, and I must say I agree.”

“I think you’re probably right,” said Johnson. He stepped back, stuck a brush in his fist and pushed his glasses up his insignificant nose. The picture, pale and stylish with no third dimension as yet, was undoubtedly that of Krishtof Bey, tinted and drawn by a draftsman. He said, “I’ll put a match to them sometime. I can’t remember which book I put them in. Or were they in that grip they mislaid for me at Coral Harbour?”

I said, “You were lucky, you got yours back…” and stopped what I was saying. Of course. That was why my case had been taken. For the same reason as Johnson’s. “I lost mine, too, between Nassau and Great Harbour Cay. Someone wondered what we might have committed to writing,” I said. I added impatiently, “You must remember what you did with the papers.”

I have no patience with crassness. Willful crassness. Did he not realize he was endangering not only my life but his own? That between the covers of
Portnoy’s Complaint
lay the seeds of a premature death?

“Oh, it’ll turn up,” said Johnson. “They call it information retrieval among console computers.”

“It’s a pity we haven’t a console computer,” I said. “An integrated data-processing system could find some work to do here and there.”

The bifocals turned, elevated the lower lenses, and then reversed to gaze on the canvas. “I would have you know,” said Johnson comfortably, “that I am multiprogrammed with impeccable software. What about you?”

“I am a small, edge-punched component,” I said bitterly, “whom nobody wants.” And closing my eyes, I allowed Trotter to resume kneading my back.

No accidents befell me over the rest of that day, largely because I spent every waking minute taking precautions. I would have been suspicious of Arli, the Wonder Dog Who Types with His Nose. Now Krishtof, Brady, and Trotter all knew that I was a witness to the fact that there had been an attempted murder, and that I was a prosecution witness in potential. They also knew that there was evidence of this, and that it was in Johnson’s possession. That afternoon, I had regarded Krishtof Bey as a confessed murderer. By making Johnson’s share in this public, he had later strengthened my suspicions. If anything befell Johnson or my notes, neither Brady nor Trotter could claim total ignorance. They were bound to fall under suspicion as well.

On the other hand, Krishtof might have been speaking the truth.

If I believed he was speaking the truth, I had to believe that he had questioned me, snatched my gun, and hidden under my bed in order to prepare me for a major onslaught of passion.

In my experience, there was no precedent for this.

I spent a number of cogitant hours in the undemanding and, it must be said, amusing company of Missa, Catherine, Louis, and Jake, as well as the Begum and my father; and at bedtime followed Johnson upstairs like an empty chair on a ski lift. At his closed door, he turned and confronted me. “Beltanno.”

“Yes?” I said, stepping backward.

He sighed. “All right,” he said. “Come in and tell me about it.”

The door, I noticed, following him in, was not even locked.

The lights were blazing as well.

And every drawer, shelf, and cupboard in the room had been swept as clean as a whistle, and all their contents dumped in the middle of the floor.

Johnson, his arms dangling, stood beside me and surveyed it. “Dear, dear,” he said.

“Are you surprised?” I said bitterly.

He thought about it awhile. “No,” he said. “I wonder if your notes have gone. Actually, I did remember where I put them. In this drawer.” The drawer was empty. “They’ve gone,” said Johnson.

I was silent in my disillusionment.

“Someone else had the random-access device. Who, I wonder? It could have been anyone. But they might,” said Johnson, “have folded the stuff and put it back in the drawers.” A large moth rose groggily from a larval pile of old socks: Johnson smacked his hands on it and stooping, gathered an incohesive clot of his possessions to his bosom. The lights went out.

“Oh,” said Johnson.

I didn’t say anything. I was no longer relying on the leading luminary of Britain’s Intelligence services abroad. I got the gun out of my bag and pointed it into the darkness. Now the killer had made off with the evidence, he was half safe. All he had to do to be wholly safe was to get rid of us. I said, “Johnson?”

“Beltanno,” said Johnson. His voice came out of the darkness on the other side of the room; I could hear the sound of socks dropping. He said, “Can you clap your hands?”

“I’ve got a gun,” I said, speaking slowly and clearly. “Johnson, who has the room on the right?”

“Your right or my right?” said Johnson. There was the sound of more socks dropping. He said, “Listen. Clap your hands.”

“My right,” I said. “Remember this is a copy of the castle at home? There’s a concealed hatch to the right of the fireplace. It leads straight into the bedroom next door.”

“Clever,” said Johnson. “Who has the bedroom next door?”

I said, “That’s what I’m asking you.” To the right of me somewhere, something was creaking. I was sure of it. I took a fresh grip of the gun and turned slightly, facing the sound.

“All right,” said Johnson obligingly. There was a pause, during which I heard the creaking again clearly. Johnson said, “Two senior members of Frei Korper Kultur from Sylt?”

I said “What? I’m going to fire. Stand still, or I’m going to fire.”

“I
am
standing still,” said Johnson’s voice from the same place, touched with anxiety. “But who
was
in the next bedroom then?”

I was listening. I then said as lucidly as my engorged vascular system would allow: “Here. Who has the next bedroom here?”

“I
wish
you would clap your hands,” Johnson said with some wistfulness. “I don’t know. Wallace Brady, I think?”

“Yes,” said a third voice, a soft voice out of the darkness on my right. “Wallace Brady it is.”

I fired.

The lights came on. In front of the hatch by the fireplace stood Wallace Brady, his pale irises surrounded by an even paler rim of shocked scleral tissue, his shoulders straightening after a duck. Behind him on the plaster was a wide splintered hole. “You shot at me!” he said.

“Marvelous!” Johnson said. He dropped the rest of the woolies, and moving forward, laid a hand on Brady’s limp arm. “I must say,” he said, “I didn’t expect it. I told her to clap.”

“I wish she had,” said Wallace Brady. “I didn’t expect it either.”

The glasses turned to where I stood transfixed, the smoking gun in my nerveless right hand. “Go on, Beltanno,” said Johnson. “Do it again.”

“Hit him?” I said, unexpectedly in the top third of my register. My knees were trembling. I could have sworn he was sober.

“You can’t hit a civil engineer,” Johnson said. “They never stay still long enough. Try the ceiling. Or clap.”

I was alone with a drunk and a murderer. I went along with it, playing for time. “I can’t clap with a gun in my hand.”

“Give me the gun,” said Johnson impatiently. He took it and stood twirling it between us and waiting. “Now go on. Clap.”

Foolishly, I applauded. The lights went off, came on, went off, came on, and went off.

There was a short silence. “Again,” said Johnson’s voice impatiently. I clapped. The lights came on.