"There aren't many trees in this cemetery," Sanguineus remarked.
"Trees kill grass," said the senior superintendent. He had not stopped looking at the moon as it rose above the cliffs overlooking the sea.
"We can't touch the trees growing along the cliffs," he continued, "as these are protected by the park warden. Otherwise we would get rid of them. The cemetery is marked off by hedges, as you can see, which do not kill the grass. They don't make a mess, like trees do. They can be beautifully trimmed. Our foremen and their gangs do an excellent job, I rather think."
Sanguineus was not listening. He had taken a thick envelope from his inside jacket pocket and stood staring at the dull grey wall of the Arden mausoleum. Without looking at the superintendent he handed him the envelope. He kept his hand out, palm up, to receive the key in exchange for the envelope.
When the key was not promptly handed over Sanguineus looked down at the shorter man's moonlit face. "The key," he said. "I haven't much time. It is nearly midnight."
"Yes..." The superintendent took a large flat bronze key from his paisely vest and with painful reluctance put it in the palm of Sanguineus. "If it wasn't for the condition of my poor wife..."
"That will be all."
The superintendent cleared his throat, squared his shoulders, and with a sharp glance at the taller man said quietly, "If you are who you say you are, there is no irregularity."
Sanguineus smiled at the idea that he was ever who he said he was, and that the superintendent's wife just happened to become ill, in need of rehab funds at the Woodridge Center, a day before the bribe was offered. In his profession, nothing was to be left to chance except the weather. And no one was who he said he was.
"I'll go alone from here," he said. "You have been very kind. Thank you for your cooperation."
The superintendent nodded. Since taking the envelope he was hesitant in everything, as though his life had suddenly become full of holes, full of uncertainties that were perhaps not at all what they seemed. He couldn't trust the simplest things to be normal. He tried to formulate his feelings into words, but he was such a stark contrast to this cold fellow that he feared making a fool of himself.
The superintendent made a vague gesture of departure. He walked slowly off to the pathway that led past rows of ornate gravestones and along the pond with a fountain in the middle.
Sanguineus did not turn to watch. He was strolling across the lush grass that bisected the ranks of marble statuary. Ahead was the mausoleum. It was partially covered with ivy. The damp in-shore breeze coated the leaves with a bright sheen of moisture.
In the dark of the overhanging vines stood the recessed metal door. Sanguineus inserted the key in the hourglass-shaped lock, turned it, felt the click of tumblers, and with his other hand he pushed the door inward. It opened silently. He stepped into the utter darkness, feeling the wall for a light switch.
There was none. A sensor caused an overhead light to glow a hazy yellow.
To either side of a passage were crypts, three high, all down the length of the passage, each with a carved name. Sanguineus took out a pen flashlight and read the names on both sides of the passage: Arden Samantha... Arden Henry... Arden Mortimer... Arden Joyce... He read the dates beneath the names: 1953... 1964... 1977... 1981... At the far end, on the lefthand side, was a crypt between the one below and above, a crypt with the name and date he was looking for.
Arden Penelope. 2015.
He ran a hand over the cold stone of the crypt. It was at chest level. The carven letters and numbers were sharply delineated, unlike the older ones, and there was no taint of mildew.
He stepped back, put away the flashlight, and gazed at the mausoleum door which he had left open. He remembered the party at the Arden mansion in Seaside, two weeks earlier.
It was a Victorian house with broad verandas on the first and second stories, and a widow's walk on the third. It was painted a garish red and orange. From a distance, at the edge of the lawn that ended at a rock fence above the beach, the house looked like a festering wart amid the shaggy green elms and the clusters of flowering bushes.
Pavilion tents were erected along the primrose path that led from the pool and tennis courts to the house. Five tents in all. There was food enough to feed an army. Too, there were more servants than guests, or anyway that was the case outdoors. Inside there was an arrangement of couples in all the comfortable corners, with just two or three servants trying to look sedate as they walked as quickly as they could, carrying trays and small white towels.
Ross Arden, the patriarch of the family now that his father had died, invited Sanguineus upstairs, to the second floor study.
They were alone except for a very lovely young woman seated on a stool by a louvered shutter, the sunlight off the ocean reflected in her bluish silver eyes and on her waves of blondish short hair. At first glance Sanguineus thought she was naked. She was all legs and arms and neck, her torso covered in a light beige blouse and shorts. She was barefoot.
"My cousin, Penny," Ross said. "Penny, this is Ricklen Cruor, a golf course designer from Atlanta. He's here to do some preliminary sketches for a nine-hole course on the south lawn."
"I hate sand traps," Penny said and swivelled around to face Sanguineus. She was holding a drink and an unlit cigarette. "And doglegged fairways, too. Do keep everything straight, won't you, Mr Cruor? And we've plenty of sand on the beach. We don't need any on the lawn."
Ross, an athletic man in his early sixties, whose black polo shirt accentuated his white crewcut, shoved his hands in his Dockers and shook his head. "Now now, Penny, we don't want things too easy, do we?"
She was appraising Sanguineus, who wore a grey-striped dress shirt, courduroy coat, white denim jeans and brogues, and who swished the ice in his glass as he returned her open scrutiny. Her smile said she liked what she saw. But her eyes seemed a little puzzled by the hard scarred face with its cold intensity. It was not the face of a golfer, she thought.
Penny turned her head slowly and said to Ross, "It's Nellie who likes things easy. I just don't like getting sand in my shoes, or having to ease up on my wood, like I do at doglegs. I like the long straight shots."
"You'll have them," Sanguineus said. "The contours of the south lawn preclude doglegs, except in the area where the stunted pines grow."
"Ugh, all those pine needles. They kill the grass. Chop those trees down, Ross, and we won't have to have a dogleg fairway, not one."
"A water hazard and, like it or not, some sand bunkers," Ross said with feigned severity. He smiled at Sanguineus. "Bunkers add to the aesthetic quality of a golf course, as much so as water hazards. Tell us you'll spend the night here, Ricklen. There's no decent hotels in Seaside. And the motels are fleabags."
"I'd be delighted to spend the night, Mr Arden."
Ross Arden looked momentarily disappointed, then walked over to a bookshelf to straighten some volumes. It was an attempt to cover up his negative reaction to his guest's acceptance to spend the night at the mansion, and the guest was quite aware of it. Sanguineus filed it away at the back of his mind and held out his lighter for Penny.
She blew smoke out the window, blurring the view of the south lawn.
"I wanted to show you my club collection," Ross said. "Here, on the wall. I have the putter that was used to win the British Open in nineteen twenty-six."
Behind him Penny looked at Sanguineus and mouthed the word 'Fake,' flicking ash on the window sill.
The sun was going down. It gave her eyes a burnished silver look that went well with the puzzlement that still shone within them. Or was it suspicion? Sanguineus wondered, not without a twinge of anxiety. It would not do to have her suspicious of him.
In the downstairs parlor Nellie was playing the cello. She looked like her sister Penny, but fuller in the chest and with longer hair, perfectly straight. She was a year and a week older than Penny but apparently this advantage had no affect on her. The two sisters treated each other like casual acquaintances.
The party was a subdued affair. It slipped away like water from a cupped hand, and by eleven the house was deserted except for the servants and the golf course designer who made a call from his bedroom on the third floor. Ross and his two cousins were driving their lawyer home in the limo. It was strange how quiet and empty the house seemed.
Sanguineus spoke in code to Rolgo. He hung up the receiver while listening to the silence. He was almost certain that the lawyer's date, the redheaded woman with the big laughing voice, was the killer, but he was not sure at all if her victim was to be Penny or Nellie. It would be one or the other. He would just have to wait and see. If he was lucky, the hit would occur before his scheduled flight back to Atlanta.
He was not lucky in that regard. And now, two weeks later, he still did not know the identity of the victim. Penny or Nellie? He closed the door to the mausoleum and walked back down the passage to look again at the name on the crypt.
Penelope.
Penny? But maybe Nellie. No one was talking. No one acted as if anything was wrong with the fact that the two sisters were "away together." No one except the lawyer and his lethal redhead knew who was buried in the crypt marked 'Penelope.' No one cared. There had been no funeral, no report of a death in the family. The stone mason was paid to carve the name on the crypt and that was that.
The client who hired Red Rum wanted to know which of the sisters still lived. He had his reasons, presumably, though he had given none. Well, it was nearing midnight. The mystery would soon be solved.
Sanguineus sat on a step ladder and lit a Sultan. He was remembering, in careful detail, the events of three days ago...
No comments:
Post a Comment