A Child's Garden of Death (16 page)

He pulled the car to the curb at the entrance to the street. The road curved toward the water and ended in a cul-de-sac. The finger, dredged from the bottom of the Gulf, now contained three dozen neat homes with front lawns of very green grass and patios to the rear that abutted small docks along the retaining wall at water's edge. He drove slowly to the house he wanted on the cul-de-sac, close to the end of the road. He rang the bell and waited.

A stooped woman in her late fifties, her face heavily lined from constant exposure to the sun, hesitantly opened the door. “Is Mr. Coop home?” Lyon asked.

“No, he's not. If you're selling insurance or mutual funds, we don't really need any more.”

“No. I'm not a salesman. I have a matter I'd like to discuss with Mr. Coop.”

“He's out on the
Lorna.
That's his boat. I expect him a little after five.”

“Thank you, I'll come back after that.”

“Who shall I say called?” she yelled after him as he went back to the car.

“Just a friend,” Lyon said. “A friend from Connecticut.”

It was almost closing time by the time Lyon arrived at the county tax assessor's office, and it took a little cajoling on his part to get the clerk to pull the card on the house on Cyprus Circle. He quickly copied the information. Coop had purchased the house six years ago; it was appraised, after adjustment for percentage of value, at $70,000. Lyon wondered what sort of boat the
Lorna
was and doubted that it was an eight-foot dory or Old Towne canoe.

On the way back to Clearwater Beach he checked into a motor hotel. In his room he showered, changed, and ordered a sandwich from room service. On the room's small balcony he sat at the table, eating slowly, letting the cool Gulf breeze wash away the frustrations of the day.

The inchoate feeling that had sent him to Florida was now stronger than ever, and he had the feeling that the solution was not too distant. He was sleepy; the bed seen through the veranda doors looked very inviting. It was almost seven, time to go.

The door to the house on Cyprus Circle opened before the bell chimes finished its sequence. The man in the entryway was of medium stature. He wore thick glasses, and his thin face was deeply tanned and windblown from hours on the water.

He spoke almost inaudibly. “Yes?”

“Mr. Coop? Jonathan Coop?”

“Yes.”

“I'm Lyon Wentworth. From the Hartford area. I wonder if I might talk to you a moment?”

“If you're selling something …”

“No. My word on that. Not even magazine subscriptions. I need some information concerning the Houston Company, something that might have happened in 1943.”

“Come in, please. That's a long time ago.”

They walked through the house, and Lyon felt the furtive Mrs. Coop observing them through a slightly open kitchen door. They went out onto the patio overlooking the water. The cabin cruiser was tied to the small dock behind the house and was hardly a dory. At a glance Lyon estimated its length at something over thirty-three feet. They sat at a small glass-topped table.

“Exactly what can I do for you, Mr.…?”

“Wentworth. It's my understanding that in 1943 you were employed by the Houston Company.”

“No. I never worked for anyone like that. I was an employee of the U.S. Government for most of my working life. General Services Administration, Army Quartermaster Corps, and later on the Air Force. I retired on full pension seven years ago.”

“But you were at the Houston Company in 1943?”

Jonathan Coop walked to the edge of the patio to look over the quiet water. “Perhaps you'd like something to drink?” he said.

“No, thank you.”

When he spoke again it was in a low voice caught in the past. “You know, in the beginning of the depression there wasn't any welfare or relief. No, we didn't even have that honor. Occasionally the church used to send us food, then finally there were the relief trucks delivering boxes of flour and rice. They'd pull up in front of the house and you had to go down to get your food. My father was too ashamed to go and he'd send my brother and me down to get it.”

“Yes, I've heard of those things.”

“All day long in a half-darkened room my father would sit behind the curtains and listen to the radio. Are you sure you won't have something to drink … ice tea?”

“No, really, Mr. Coop. I was wondering about your stay at the Houston Company.”

“That's a long time ago; I don't think about it. You know, if you work at it long enough and hard enough, it is quite possible not to think of something.” He stopped—his eyes blank, without feeling. Lyon let the moment continue. “I don't suppose you're going away?”

“Not until we've talked.”

“I can't imagine why you want to know anything from me. My job was always quite dull. If you're interested in finding out things about the company, there are many people who could tell you much more than I can.”

“I don't believe so.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Mr. Coop … recently … a few days ago … I had to kill a man, and I want to know why.”

“I don't understand.”

Lyon explained in detail the discovery of the bodies in the remote grave, the trace and eventual identification of the Meyerson family, the location of Bull Martin and the attempts on his and Rocco's lives. He ended simply. “So, I had to shoot him.”

“That's a difficult thing to do. You don't seem to be the type of person who would find that very easy.”

“I don't.”

Jonathan Coop took off his glasses. Even in the dimming light his eyes squinted, and Lyon had the impression of a pet mouse given him years ago as a child. A mouse who lived in a small cage and hid in the end of a tin can to peer at the world with small and furtive eyes.

“Perhaps you'd like to go out on the
Lorna
in the morning. We could leave early, go out into the Gulf and have our conversation there.”

“I'm not much of a sailor.”

“I'd prefer it that way, if you can spare the time.”

Lyon stood. “Yes, I have the time.”

“Good. Shall we say seven? I'll have coffee made in the galley.”

That night Lyon had difficulty in getting to sleep. The furtive man on the veranda, the invitation to the cruise … perhaps he should be more wary, after the experience with Bull. But Bull was dead, and it was difficult to imagine the half-frightened Coop providing any real threat. He could only conjecture from the man's nervous reticence that he wanted to be alone with Lyon, that he didn't want to talk in front of his wife. With that hope he fell asleep.

It was almost seven-thirty before Lyon arrived at the house on Cyprus Circle. The cabin cruiser's engines were idling as it bobbed at the small dock secured by two lines. As Lyon approached the dock Jonathan Coop came out of the cabin and yelled across to him:

“Throw off the lines and jump aboard. Coffee's brewed.”

As soon as Lyon stepped aboard the small stern area the boat began to move slowly down the channel. Coop, on the flying bridge, yelled down that coffee was on the stove.

Lyon's estimate of yesterday as to the boat's size was correct within a foot. The boat was thirty-four feet long, with a small stern area containing a table and two chairs and the entrance to the cabin. To the immediate right of the cabin a ladder led up to the top deck and two leatherette seats behind the bridge.

In the cabin the saloon was nearest the stern, then a galley with eating area, head, and to the far front the stateroom. Lyon gratefully poured coffee into a mug from the pot on the stove. He drank part and then climbed the short ladder to the bridge.

“Coffee all right?”

“Just fine. Nice boat you have here.”

“Thank you. I'd just as soon live on it all the time and not have a house, but my wife likes the house.” They had to shout over the roar of the diesels as Coop pushed the throttles forward and the boat leaped ahead.

After ten minutes Coop turned to him. “We're in clear water. Can you hold the wheel while I go below?”

“Sure.”

“Just keep it pointed straight and you'll be all right. I'll be right back.”

Lyon took the wheel as Coop disappeared down the ladder. There was a partially finished cup of coffee on the deck near the helm, and Lyon wondered why the man had gone below decks. It seemed unlikely that he would attempt to prepare breakfast while the cruiser ran at three-quarter speed. He took his hands off the wheel a moment and saw that the boat still steered relatively straight. Turning, he lay prone on the deck and pushed his head over the edge of the cabin roof. By inching forward he was able to see through the top of the cabin door.

Jonathan Coop sat on the small couch in the saloon, his sleeve rolled up and a hypodermic needle in his hand. As Lyon watched, he plunged the needle into his arm and closed his eyes.

Lyon returned to the wheel and corrected the direction of the boat to its original heading. In a few minutes Coop was back beside him. “I thought we'd go about ten miles out, anchor and have some breakfast.”

“Sounds fine.”

When they anchored, land was barely visible at the edge of the horizon. The boat swayed gently on its lines as Coop scrambled eggs in the galley. The breakfast was simple, but excellent. Bacon, eggs, toasted muffins with marmalade and more good coffee.

“Compliments to the chef,” Lyon said. “Or maybe it's that the Gulf air gives me the appetite.”

“Funny how I like to cook and do mundane things at sea, and never want to do them at home.”

They finished the meal and, with coffee mugs in hand, sat in the chairs at the stern. Coop stared across the empty waters toward a distant tanker on the horizon.

“Aren't you a little old for addiction, Mr. Coop?”

“Not necessarily, Mr. Wentworth. I've been addicted for some weeks now, but quite legitimately, I assure you.”

“I don't understand.”

“I'm supposed to receive the injections at my doctor's office, but that would mean that I couldn't be out in the boat. I was able to obtain the drugs and needle from unorthodox sources.”

“Morphine?” The other man nodded. “How much time do you have?”

“It's hard to know exactly. Weeks, perhaps months. The malignancy grows worse each day … I don't suppose the addiction matters, does it?”

“No. I wouldn't think so.”

“That's one of the reasons why I wanted to talk out here, Mr. Wentworth. My wife doesn't know about my health problem, nor some of my activities of years ago. As far as she's concerned I made quite a killing in the stock market in the early sixties. You know better, don't you, Mr. Wentworth?”

“I suspected. That's why I'm here. Your life style convinced me completely.”

“It's a terrible thing to be poor, and the security of a civil service job was very appealing. Then I discovered that it's a terrible thing to live on the salary of a civil servant. Things are so relative.”

“No remorse?”

“None. But of course I had nothing to do with the killing of Meyerson.”

“Not directly, Mr. Coop. Was it B-29s or B-24s?”

“B-24s. It doesn't really matter, but you understand that the statute of limitations has run out on this sort of thing.”

“Not on murder, Mr. Coop.”

“I had nothing to do with that.”

“Tell me what happened.”

Lines of pain crossed the man's face and he leaned back in the chair. Perspiration beaded his forehead and he wiped it with the back of his hand. “It was a long time ago. I was the inspector assigned to the Houston Company in 1943. They had their problems; lots of factories did. The spurt of growth, lack of trained personnel, shoddy raw materials.… It was a constant battle to produce and keep producing within the tolerances allowed by the specifications. On one particular lot, the largest the plant had produced at that time, I ran the usual tests and discovered a metal fatigue factor in the material.”

“That meant government rejection of the whole shipment.”

“Yes. After a hundred hours of running time, the material stood a substantial chance of developing metal fatigue: first hairline cracks in the block, then later possible disintegration of key parts.”

“Who knew about this?”

“Meyerson. That man you killed, Bull Martin. A young man who was often assigned to work with me … it's been so long … Graves. Yes, Graves, and of course Mr. Houston.”

“And you never reported it to the Army Air Corps?”

“No. Houston convinced me that it would be futile, that the B-24 was being phased out of production with the conversion to the B-29 as our heavy bomber. Rejection of the shipment, at that time, would have closed the factory.”

“And money.”

“Yes. Money also. I had qualms then. Later on, at other factories, I developed a remarkable skill. Often, even if the specifications were met, I'd threaten rejection or at least reinspection. Rather than hold up the shipment … they gave me gifts. Remarkable how much money I was able to extract from so-called honest businessmen. If I do say so, I was able to perfect the routine to a fine science.”

“Meyerson knew and objected to the cover-up of the defective parts. He and Bull had the fight.…”

“Yes. Then they told me that Meyerson quit in disgust and moved to California.”

“He didn't move, Mr. Coop. At least he didn't move far.”

“That became apparent to me after you left last night. Quite apparent.”

“Bull Martin must have known and been bought off too.”

“Yes.”

“Then that's how he bought his lounge and restaurant.”

“I would think so. At least that's what I told Mr. Houston when I called him last night.”

“My God! You called him.”

“It isn't easy to give up old bad habits. Not that the money would do me any good, but …” He grimaced in pain. “A little extra for my estate might ease things for my wife. Funny, there's never enough, is there?”