Portraits and Observations

  JAKE: Oh, I think he must have been enjoying it. He teased it along like a fisherman with a trout trapped in a bowl. The Bureau recalled the extra agents, and finally even Clem seemed to shrug it off. Six months went by. Amy called and invited me out to dinner. A warm summer night. The air was full of fireflies. Some of the children chased about catching them and putting them into jars.

  As I was leaving, Clem walked me out to my car. A narrow river ran along the path where it was parked, and Clem said: “About that connection business. The other day I suddenly thought of something. The river.” I said what river; and he said that river, the one flowing past us. “It’s kind of a complicated story. And probably silly. But I’ll tell you the next time I see you.”

  Of course I never saw him again. At least, not alive.

  TC: It’s almost as though he must have overheard you.

  JAKE: Who?

  TC: Santa Claus. I mean, isn’t it curious that after all those months Clem Anderson mentions the river, and the very next day, before he can tell you why he suddenly remembered the river, the murderer kept his promise?

  JAKE: How’s your stomach?

  TC: Okay.

  JAKE: I’ll show you some photographs. But better pour yourself a stiff one. You’ll need it.

  (The pictures, three of them, were glossy black-and-whites made at night with a flash camera. The first was of Clem Anderson’s homemade jeep on a narrow ranch road, where it had overturned and was lying on its side, headlights still shining. The second photograph was of a headless torso sprawled across the same road: a headless man wearing boots and Levis and a sheepskin jacket. The last picture was of the victim’s head. It could not have been more cleanly severed by a guillotine or a master surgeon. It lay alone among some leaves, as though a prankster had tossed it there. Clem Anderson’s eyes were open, but they did not look dead, merely serene, and except for a jagged gash along the forehead, his face seemed as calm, as unmarked by violence as his innocent, pale Norwegian eyes. As I examined the photographs, Jake leaned over my shoulder, looking at them with me.)

  JAKE: It was around dusk. Amy was expecting Clem home for supper. She sent one of their boys down to the main road to meet him. It was the boy who found him.

  First he saw the overturned car. Then, a hundred yards farther on, he found the body. He ran back home, and his mother called me. I cursed myself up one row and down the other. But when we drove out there, it was one of my agents who discovered the head. It was quite a distance from the body. In fact, it was still lying where the wire had hit him.

  TC: The wire, yes. I never have understood about the wire. It’s so—

  JAKE: Clever?

  TC: More than clever. Preposterous.

  JAKE: Nothing preposterous about it. Our friend had simply figured out a nice neat way to decapitate Clem Anderson. Kill him without any possibility of witnesses.

  TC: I suppose it’s the mathematical element. I’m always bewildered by anything involving mathematics.

  JAKE: Well, the gentleman responsible for this certainly has a mathematical mind. At least he had a lot of very accurate measuring to do.

  TC: He strung a wire between two trees?

  JAKE: A tree and a telephone pole. A strong steel wire sharpened thin as a razor. Virtually invisible, even in broad daylight. But at dusk, when Clem turned off the highway and was driving in that crazy little wagon along that narrow road, he couldn’t possibly have glimpsed it. It caught him exactly where it was supposed to: just under the chin. And, as you can see, sliced off his head as easily as a girl picking petals off a daisy.

  TC: So many things could have gone wrong.

  JAKE: What if they had? What’s one failure? He would have tried again. And continued till he succeeded.

  TC: That’s what’s so preposterous. He always does succeed.

  JAKE: Yes and no. But we’ll come back to that later.

  (Jake slipped the pictures in a manila envelope. He sucked on his pipe and combed his fingers through his cowlicked hair. I was silent, for I felt a sadness had overtaken him. Finally I asked if he was tired, would he rather I left him? He said no, it was only nine o’clock, he never went to bed before midnight.)

  TC: Are you here all alone now?

  JAKE: No, Christ, I’d go crazy. I take turns with two other agents. But I’m still the principal guy on the case. And I want it that way. I’ve got a real investment here. And I’m going to nail our chum if it’s the last thing I ever do. He’ll make a mistake. In fact, he’s already made some. Though I can’t say that the manner in which he disposed of Dr. Parsons was one of them.

  TC: The coroner?

  JAKE: The coroner. The skinny itsy-bitsy hunchbacked little coroner.

  TC: Let’s see, now. At first you thought that was a suicide?

  JAKE: If you’d known Dr. Parsons, you’d have thought it was a suicide, too. There was a man who had every reason to kill himself. Or get himself killed. His wife’s a beautiful woman, and he had her hooked on morphine; that’s how he got her to marry him. He was a loan shark. An abortionist. At least a dozen dotty old women left him everything in their wills. A true-blue scoundrel, Dr. Parsons.

  TC: So you didn’t like him?

  JAKE: Nobody did. But what I said before was wrong. I said Parsons was a guy who had every reason to kill himself. Actually, he had no reason at all. God was in His heaven, and the sun was shining on Ed Parsons right around the clock. The only thing bothering him was he had ulcers. And a kind of permanent indigestion. He always carried around these big bottles of Maalox. Polished off a couple of those a day.

  TC: All the same, everyone was surprised when they heard Dr. Parsons had killed himself?

  JAKE: Well, no. Because nobody thought he had killed himself. Not at first.

  TC: Sorry, Jake. But I’m getting confused again.

  (Jake’s pipe had gone out; he dumped it in an ashtray and unwrapped a cigar, which he did not light; it was an object to chew on, not to smoke. A dog with a bone.)

  To begin with, how long was it between funerals? Between Clem

  Anderson’s funeral and Dr. Parsons?

  JAKE: Four months. Just about.

  TC: And did Santa send the doctor a gift?

  JAKE: Wait. Wait. You’re going too fast. The day Parsons died—well, we just thought he had died. Plain and simple. His nurse found him lying on the floor of his office. Alfred Skinner, another doctor here in town, said he’d probably had a heart attack; it would take an autopsy to find out for sure.

  That same night I got a call from Parsons’ nurse. She said Mrs. Parsons would like to talk to me, and I said fine, I’ll drive out there now.

  Mrs. Parsons received me in her bedroom, a room I gather she seldom leaves; confined there, I suppose, by the pleasures of morphine. Certainly she isn’t an invalid, not in any ordinary sense. She’s a lovely woman, and a quite healthy-looking one. Good color in her cheeks, though her skin is smooth and pale as pearls. But her eyes were too bright, the pupils dilated.

  She was lying in bed, propped up by a pile of lace-covered pillows. I noticed her fingernails—so long and carefully varnished; and her hands were very elegant, too. But what she was holding in her hands wasn’t very elegant.

  TC: A gift?

  JAKE: Exactly the same as the others.

  TC: What did she say?

  JAKE: She said “I think my husband was murdered.” But she was very calm; she didn’t seem upset, under any stress at all.

  TC: Morphine.

  JAKE: But it was more than that. She’s a woman who has already left life. She’s looking back through a door—without regret.

  TC: Did she realize the significance of the coffin?

  JAKE: Not really, no. And neither would her husband. Even though he was the county coroner, and in theory was part of our team, we never confided in him. He knew nothing about the coffins.

  TC: Then why did she think her husband had been murdered?

  JAKE (chewing his cigar, frowning): Because of
the coffin. She said her husband had shown it to her a few weeks ago. He hadn’t taken it seriously; he thought it was just a spiteful gesture, something sent to him by one of his enemies. But she said—she said the moment she saw the coffin and saw the picture of him inside it—she felt “a shadow” had fallen. Strange, but I think she loved him. That beautiful woman. That bristling little hunchback.

  When we said goodnight I took the coffin with me and impressed on her the importance of not mentioning it to anyone. After that, all we could do was wait for the autopsy report. Which was: Death by poisoning, probably self-administered.

  TC: But you knew it was a murder.

  JAKE: I knew. And Mrs. Parsons knew. But everybody else thought it was a suicide. Most of them still think so.

  TC: And what brand of poison did our friend choose?

  JAKE: Liquid nicotine. A very pure poison, fast and powerful, colorless, odorless. We don’t know exactly how it was administered, but I suspect it was mixed together with some of the doctor’s beloved Maalox. One good gulp, and down you go.

  TC: Liquid nicotine. I’ve never heard of it.

  JAKE: Well, it’s not exactly a name brand—like arsenic. Speaking of our friend, I came across something the other day, something by Mark Twain, that struck me as very appropriate. (After searching his bookshelves, and finding the volume he wanted, Jake paced the room, reading aloud in a voice unlike his own: a hoarse, angry voice) “Of all the creatures that were made, man is the most detestable. Of the entire brood he is the only one, the solitary one, that possesses malice. That is the basest of all instincts, passions, vices—the most hateful. He is the only creature that inflicts pain for sport, knowing it to be pain. Also in all the list, he is the only creature that has a nasty mind.” (Jake banged the book shut and threw it on the bed) Detestable. Malicious. A nasty mind. Yessir, that describes Mr. Quinn perfectly. Not the whole of him. Mr. Quinn is a man of varied talents.

  TC: You never told me his name before.

  JAKE: I’ve only known it myself the last six months. But that’s it. Quinn.

  (Again and again Jake slammed a hard fist into a cupped hand, like an angry prisoner too long confined, frustrated. Well, he had now been imprisoned by this case for many years; great fury, like great whiskey, requires long fermentation.)

  Robert Hawley Quinn, Esquire. A most esteemed gentleman.

  TC: But a gentleman who makes mistakes. Otherwise, you wouldn’t know his name. Or rather, you wouldn’t know he was our friend.

  JAKE: (Silence; he’s not listening)

  TC: Was it the snakes? You said they came from a Texas snake farm. If you know that, then you must know who bought them.

  JAKE (anger gone; yawning): What?

  TC: Incidentally, why were the snakes injected with amphetamine?

  JAKE: Why do you think? To stimulate them. Increase their ferocity. It was like throwing a lighted match into a gasoline tank.

  TC: I wonder, though. I wonder how he managed to inject the snakes, and install them in that car, all without getting bitten himself.

  JAKE: He was taught how to do it.

  TC: By whom?

  JAKE: By the woman who sold him the snakes.

  TC: A woman?

  JAKE: The snake farm in Nogales, it’s owned by a woman. You think that’s funny? My oldest boy married a girl who works for the Miami police department; she’s a professional deep-sea diver. The best car mechanic I know is a woman—

  (The telephone interrupted; Jake glanced at his wristwatch and smiled, and his smile, so real and relaxed, told me not only that he knew who the caller was, but that it was someone whose voice he’d been happily expecting to hear.)

  Hello, Addie. Yeah, he’s here. He says it’s spring in New York; I said he should’ve stayed there. Naw, nothin’. Just knocking off some drinks and discussing you-know-what. Is tomorrow Sunday? I thought it was Thursday. Maybe I’m losing my marbles. Sure, we’d love to come to dinner. Addie—don’t worry about it. He’ll like anything you cook. You’re the greatest cook either side of the Rockies, east or west. So don’t make a big deal out of it. Yeah, well, maybe that raisin pie with the apple crust. Lock your doors. Sleep tight. Yes, I do. You know I do. Buenas noches.

  (After he’d hung up, his smile remained, broadened. At last he lit the cigar, puffed on it with pleasure. He pointed at the phone, chuckled.)

  That was the mistake Mr. Quinn made. Adelaide Mason. She invited us to dinner tomorrow.

  TC: And who is Mrs. Mason?

  JAKE: Miss Mason. She’s a terrific cook.

  TC: But other than that?

  JAKE: Addie Mason was what I had been waiting for. My big break.

  You know, my wife’s dad was a Methodist minister. She was very serious about the whole family going to church. I used to get out of it as much as I could, and after she died I never went at all. But about six months ago the Bureau was ready to close shop on this case. We’d spent a lot of time and a lot of money. And we had nothing to show for it; no case at all. Eight murders, and not a single clue that would link the victims together to produce some semblance of a motive. Nothing. Except those three little handcarved coffins.

  I said to myself: No! No, it can’t be! There’s a mind behind all this, a reason. I started going to church. There’s nothing to do here on Sunday anyway. Not even a golf course. And I prayed: Please, God, don’t let this sonofabitch get away with it!

  Over on Main Street there’s a place called the Okay Café. Everybody knows you can find me there just about any morning between eight and ten. I have my breakfast in the corner booth, and then just hang around reading the papers and talking to the different guys, local businessmen, that stop by for a cup of coffee.

  Last Thanksgiving Day, I was having breakfast there as usual. I had the place pretty much to myself, it being a holiday and all; and I was in low spirits anyway—the Bureau was putting the final pressure on me to close this case and clear out. Christ, it wasn’t that I didn’t want to dust off this damn town! I sure as hell did. But the idea of quitting, of leaving that devil to dance on all those graves, made me sick to my guts. One time, thinking about it, I did vomit. I actually did.

  Well, suddenly Adelaide Mason walked into the café. She came straight to my table. I’d met her many times, but I’d never really talked to her. She’s a schoolteacher, teaches first grade. She lives here with her sister, Marylee, a widow. Addie Mason said: “Mr. Pepper, surely you’re not going to spend Thanksgiving in the Okay Café? If you haven’t other plans, why don’t you take dinner at our house? It’s just my sister and myself.” Addie isn’t a nervous woman, but despite her smiles and cordiality, she seemed, hmm, distracted. I thought: Maybe she considers it not quite proper for an unmarried lady to invite an unmarried man, a mere acquaintance, to her home. But before I could say yes or no, she said: “To be truthful, Mr. Pepper, I have a problem. Something I need to discuss with you. This will give us the chance. Shall we say noon?”

  I’ve never eaten better food—and instead of turkey they served squabs with wild rice and a good champagne. All during the meal Addie kept the conversation moving in a very amusing manner. She didn’t appear nervous at all, but her sister did.

  After dinner we sat down in the living room with coffee and brandy. Addie excused herself from the room, and when she came back she was carrying—

  TC: Two guesses?

  JAKE: She handed it to me, and said: “This is what I wanted to discuss with you.”

  (Jake’s thin lips manufactured a smoke ring, then another. Until he sighed, the only sound in the room was the meowing wind clawing at the window.)

  You’ve had a long trip. Maybe we ought to call it a night.

  TC: You mean you’re going to leave me hanging out here?

  JAKE (seriously, but with one of his mischievously ambiguous grins): Just until tomorrow. I think you should hear Addie’s story from Addie herself. Come along; I’ll walk you to your room.

  (Oddly, sleep struck me as though I’d been h
it by a thief’s blackjack; it had been a long journey, my sinus was troubling me, I was tired. But within minutes I was awake; or, rather, I entered some sphere between sleep and wakefulness, my mind like a crystal lozenge, a suspended instrument that caught the reflections of spiraling images: a man’s head among leaves, the windows of a car streaked with venom, the eyes of serpents sliding through heat-mist, fire flowing from the earth, scorched fists pounding at a cellar door, taut wire gleaming in the twilight, a torso on a roadway, a head among leaves, fire, fire, fire flowing like a river, river, river. Then a telephone rings.)

  MAN’S VOICE: How about it? Are you going to sleep all day?

  TC (the curtains are drawn, the room is dark, I don’t know where I am, who I am): Hello?

  MAN’S VOICE: Jake Pepper speaking. Remember him? Mean guy? With mean blue eyes?

  TC: Jake! What time is it?

  JAKE: A little after eleven. Addie Mason’s expecting us in about an hour. So jump under the shower. And wear something warm. It’s snowing outside.

  (It was a heavy snow, thick flakes too heavy to float; it fell to the ground and covered it. As we drove away from the motel in Jake’s car, he turned on his windshield wipers. Main Street was gray and white and empty, lifeless except for a solitary traffic light winking its colors. Everything was closed, even the Okay Café. The somberness, the gloomy snow-silence, infected us; neither of us spoke. But I sensed that Jake was in a good mood, as though he were anticipating pleasant events. His healthy face was shiny, and he smelled, a bit too sharply, of after-shave lotion. Though his hair was rumpled as ever, he was carefully dressed—but not as though he was headed for church. The red tie he wore was appropriate for a more festive occasion. A suitor en route to a rendezvous? The possibility had occurred to me last night when I’d heard him talking to Miss Mason; there was a tone, a timbre, an intimacy.

  But the instant I met Adelaide Mason, I crossed the thought right out of my mind. It didn’t matter how bored and lonely Jake might be, the woman was simply too plain. That, at least, was my initial impression. She was somewhat younger than her sister, Marylee Connor, who was a woman in her late forties; her face was a nice face, amiable, but too strong, masculine—cosmetics would only have underlined this quality, and very wisely she wore none. Cleanliness was her most attractive physical feature—her brown bobbed hair, her fingernails, her skin: it was as though she bathed in some special spring rain. She and her sister were fourth-generation natives of the town, and she had been teaching school there since she left college; one wondered why—with her intelligence, her character and general sophistication, it was surprising that she hadn’t sought a vaster auditorium for her abilities than a schoolroom full of six-year-olds. “No,” she told me, “I’m very happy. I’m doing what I enjoy. Teaching first grade. To be there at the beginning, that’s what I like. And with first-graders, you see, I get to teach all subjects. That includes manners. Manners are very important. So few of my children ever learn any at home.”