An Owl Too Many (10 page)

“I don’t believe this. Don’t you two realize what’s happened to you?”

“Huh?”

“You’ve been hypnotized, damn it! Wake up! Abracadabra! Presto, change-o! Snap out of it, for God’s sake!”

“Huh?” said Budge Dorkin.

Fred Ottermole was a fraction less befuddled. He began trying to help Peter get the string off, thus creating a Gordian knot that had to be dealt with in Alexandrine fashion by Peter’s jackknife.

Peter had nursed a fleeting hope that cutting the knot might constitute some rite of exorcism, but it didn’t. Ottermole was still half-befuddled, Budge was completely out of it. Peter supposed the spell would wear off in time; maybe coffee would help.

The interior of the station percolator was stained a deep brown by the accumulations of years. Trying not to look, Peter filled it with water at the bathroom sink, which was also fairly well antiqued. He spooned in as much coffee as the basket would hold and set it on a hot plate that didn’t look as though it could possibly work but, for a wonder, did. When the brew had perked to the color and density of molasses, he filled two mugs and took them into the lockup.

“God, that’s awful stuff!” After a few sips, Otter-mole sounded almost like himself. “What’d you do, Professor, lace it with battery acid?”

“I made it extra strong in the hope of waking you up,” Peter told him. “Ottermole, can’t you remember anything about what happened?”

“Sure I remember. What’s eating you, anyway? You came in here and asked me about that guy Emmerick’s stuff that we’d brought over from the inn. I told you to go ahead and look it over, then Budge and I—we came in here and—” He stared down at the tangle of string in his lap as though he’d never seen it before. “What’s this string for? What the hell am I sitting on this cot for? We never sit in the lockup. It’s bad luck.”

“And well you may say so. Ottermole, pay attention to me. You know who I am and all that.”

“Hell, yes. You’re Lizzie Borden. What’s the matter with you today, Professor? You’re acting mighty strange, even, for you. What happened, you get kicked on the head by an owl last night or somethin’? Hey, did I tell you our group saw—”

“Ottermole, shut up and listen. Late this morning, while you were still at home, I brought in a prisoner from the field station. He’d gone there claiming to be Emmerick’s boss at Meadowsweet Construction Company and giving his name as Fanshaw. Do you remember anything about that?”

“I remember Emmerick. He’s the guy who got offed last night while we were owling. But this Fanshaw—you trying to kid me, Professor?”

“Ottermole, I am not trying to kid you. Ask your wife. Ask Cronkite Swope. He met us at your house and came here to the station with you. He took pictures of you stowing Fanshaw in the lockup.”

“He did? How’d I come out?”

“I don’t know, I haven’t seen the prints yet. The point is, Ottermole, that photographs were taken. They’ll prove beyond any shadow of doubt that you did in fact put Fanshaw, though that may not be his real name, right here in this very slammer. Fanshaw was still here about half an hour ago when his lawyer, or somebody representing himself as a lawyer, came to see him. The lawyer was already in here with Fanshaw when I arrived at the station. You told me so. You and Budge were sitting out in the office with Edmund, waiting for the lawyer to come out.”

“Edmund? Cripes, is Edmund okay?”

“He’s curled up in your file basket pounding his ear as usual. Never mind Edmund, Ottermole. Try to concentrate on what I’m saying. The lawyer came out and had some sharp words about his client’s accommodations. You put him in his place with a bit of snappy repartee.”

“I did? What’d I say?”

“Let me finish. You then told me to go ahead and search Emmerick’s luggage while you and Budge came in here to check on the prisoner. I became engrossed in my search; then I realized that you and Budge were taking a long time in here and being awfully quiet about it. So I looked in and found the two of you alone here on the cot trying to play cat’s cradle with that hunk of string. And making a damned poor fist of it, I may add. I asked what you were doing and you said you were playing checkers.

“So what? Maybe I was giving you some snappy repartee.”

“Ottermole, you were not engaging in snappy repartee, you were zonked out of your skull. That bastard hypnotized you and Budge and turned you into a couple of zombies. Temporarily, I hope. You seem to be coming out of it, more or less, but look at Budge. Budge, do you know who I am?”

“Huh?” said Budge.

“There, Ottermole, see what I mean? Drink your coffee, Budge. Maybe it will jolt you out of your trance. Here, take a sip.”

“Ugh!”

Could this be a glimmer of intelligence? Peter coaxed him to take another.

“Do I have to?” The words came slowly and mournfully, but at least they came.

“Yes,” barked Ottermole. “That’s an order, Dorkin.”

Shuddering, the young cop obeyed. His eyes glazed over, then snapped to awareness. “Police brutality! My mother keeps telling me I ought to apply for a job at the box factory. The hours are better and so’s the pay. What are we sitting in the lockup for, Chief? And what happened to Mr. Fanshaw? Did the lawyer bail him out?”

“Fanshaw?” Ottermole looked blank again, then made a brave attempt to cover up. “Tell him, Professor.”

Peter told. Budge was awed.

“Wow! A real master criminal. Hey, I remember now. Fanshaw took this shiny thing out of his pocket and started waving it back and forth. You couldn’t help looking at it, it was so shiny and—I know! It was a gold coin, a great big gold coin with an eagle on it. It was on a gold chain with a little ring to hang it by. And it kept going back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and—”

“Budge! Wake up!”

“Huh? Oh. Gosh, Professor, for a second there I felt as if I could still see that—back and forth, back and forth, back—”

Peter leaned forward and gave Dorkin a fairly determined slap on the cheek. “Budge, you are not going back to sleep. You are awake, do you hear me? Awake, drat it!”

“Ouch. Okay, Professor, if you say so. See, I’m awake. Which way did Fanshaw go? We’ve got to get him back. Back and forth—”

“Budge!”

“Finish your coffee,” growled Ottermole. “God, I can’t remember a damned thing. How long were we in here before Fanshaw started with the back and forth, back and—”

“Cut it out, Ottermole, you’ll put Budge to sleep again,” said Peter. “Budge, can you answer the question?”

“I think it must have been right after we went in. I sort of remember he had the—the you-know-what, I better not even say it—in his hand. He opened his hand and it hung down and started to swing and—and I want to get out of here.”

“Good idea.”

Peter took Dorkin and Ottermole by an arm apiece and pulled them up off the cot to which they’d been rooted. Fanshaw’s orders must still have had some power, he thought, but getting them out into the office seemed to break the spell. Ottermole checked his daily report and found it filled in with the details concerning a man calling himself Francis Fanshaw, who’d been brought in under arrest by Acting Deputy P. Shandy and detained in the lockup pending further investigation in the death of Emory Emmerick.

“Okay, Professor, this report’s in my own handwriting, so I guess I’ve got to believe it. We might as well put in the rest of the story. How may
P
s in ‘hypnotized’?”

“I know, Chief.” Budge Dorkin had recently came across a cache of old Charlie Chan and Dr. Fu Manchu paperbacks in his grandmother’s attic. He was reading them to improve his policing skills and had become surprisingly erudite as a result. “Let me write up the report this time. Shall I put in about Mrs. Ottermole bringing the beans and hot dogs?”

“Sure, why not? Let the public know we treated that bastard right even if he did turn out to be a lousy ingrate,” the chief replied bitterly. “Anyways, I bet we’re the only cops in Balaclava County who’ve ever been hypnotized by a master criminal.”

“Think of it as another anecdote for your memoirs, Ottermole,” said Peter. “Let’s see, it’s now—good Lord, it’s half-past five. Where has the day gone? My wife must be home from the library by now.”

“Oh gosh,” cried Budge, “and my Aunt Maude’s coming to supper with her new boyfriend. Mind if I take off now, Chief? My mother’ll kill me if I don’t show up.”

“I thought you were all gung-ho to catch the master criminal.”

“Well, yeah, but my mother—”

“Fanshaw’s over the hills and far away by now, I expect,” Peter interposed. “Like as not, that lawyer was waiting on the corner with a getaway car while I was horsing around with Emmerick’s haberdashery. Speaking of cars, Ottermole, Fanshaw left one at the field station when I ran him in, and Emmerick must have had another parked here somewhere. He drove Miss Binks in from the field station yesterday afternoon, as I recall, but they met me at Charlie Ross’s garage and we all drove out to our territory together. I was damned annoyed about his coming, I may add. I hadn’t expected Emmerick to invite himself along on the owl count. Aside from his being a total loss as a counter, it meant we three had to squeeze together in the front seat. Dan Stott and the president took the whole back, needless to say. Didn’t Mrs. Freedom mention anything to you about Emmerick’s car?”

“Come to think of it, not a yip,” the chief replied. “Go ahead home, Budge. Frank Lomax ought to be along any minute now. I’d better give Mrs. Freedom a buzz and see what she has to say about the car.

What Mrs. Freedom had to say was short and shrill. She didn’t know anything about Mr. Emmerick’s car, nor did she want to. She had guests to feed. She’d thank Fred Ottermole to run his own business and leave her to do likewise.

“That means the car is not in her parking lot,” Ottermole interpreted. “If it was, she’d still be bending my ear about getting it out. I’ll try Charlie Ross.”

Charlie was home eating his supper, according to a minion who’d been left to run the gas pumps. Several cars were in the lot. Most of them belonged to Peter’s neighbors because parking was restricted on the Crescent; there wasn’t one whose owner the minion couldn’t name.

“I don’t s’pose you’d care to cruise around town and see if Emmerick’s car is parked on the road anywhere?” Ottermole asked Peter. “Or I could go myself after Frank comes in. The cruiser’s makin’ those awful noises again and I was kind of hopin’ to eat supper with Edna Mae and the boys, but…”

Peter suppressed a sigh. “I get the picture, Ottermole. All right, I don’t mind going.” Like hell he didn’t. “Just let me make one more call first.”

The call was to the field station. Knapweed Calthrop answered and was, if not happy to be of service, at least willing. Yes, Mr. Fanshaw’s car was still in the lot. Yes, it was a 1989 gray Chevy. Yes, the license plates corresponded with the numbers Professor Shandy had read off to him. What did the professor want him to do about the car?

“Nothing, thanks. I’ll see that it’s taken care of.”

Peter turned to Ottermole. “Here’s an interesting development. According to this invoice I found in Emmerick’s luggage, the car Fanshaw drove out to the station this morning is the same one Emmerick rented last week from the Happy Wayfarer in Clavaton.”

“Yeah? So, why not? They were both workin’ for the same company, weren’t they?”

“Er—not according to Meadowsweet, but I expect it’s fairly safe to assume they were working together one way or another. I was thinking about the transportation logistics. As you know, there’s no direct train or bus service into Balaclava Junction. Taxis from Clavaton are damned expensive and scarce as hens’ teeth, but it looks as if Fanshaw must have taken one unless there’s another accomplice in the woodwork. You’d better ask the Clavaton police to find out whether any of the local drivers brought a fare over here any time yesterday or this morning.”

“Couldn’t Emmerick have picked up Fanshaw sometime yesterday?”

“He’d have had to do it early in the morning. He spent the whole day making a pest of himself at the field station, Miss Binks told me, then drove her here and invited himself along on the owl watch. If he did collect Fanshaw, then Fanshaw would have had to hole up somewhere overnight, which is another point that must be checked out.”

“Maybe he stayed at the inn and that’s how come Emmerick’s car wasn’t in the lot when I went over.”

“He could have stayed at the inn, but that can’t be where he got the car. Emmerick drove straight to Charley Ross’s, dropped Miss Binks off, then parked a little way up on the street and got into my car. So how would Fanshaw know where to find the rental car? Furthermore, how did he get hold of the keys? Emmerick surely didn’t know he was going to be killed, he was cavorting around like a blasted monkey last night. Either he’d made a prior arrangement with Fanshaw to leave the car and the keys on the road, as he did, or else the keys were taken from his pocket while he was up in the tree getting himself murdered.”

“Unless the Wayfarer gave him a spare key,” Ottermole suggested.

“M’yes, a point to consider, though rental agencies aren’t usually all that accommodating. Emmerick could have had one made, I suppose. Did you get the rest of his effects from the state police, by the way?”

“Not yet, but they gave me a list over the phone. Raise up a little, Edmund. There you are, Professor. Sorry about the pawprints.”

“Quite all right, I’m used to Jane’s. Let’s see: wallet containing credit cards and a New York driver’s license made out in the name of Emory Emmerick, cash in the amount of—well, well! Why do you suppose he was carrying two thousand dollars around when he had all those credit cards? Pocket comb and mirror, egad. Two rolls of root beer Life Savers, one full, one not. Pocket compass, waterproof match safe, collapsible hunting knife, battery-operated hand warmer, fish scaler, folding telescope, desalinizing pills—where in tunket did he think he was going? No keys, car or otherwise. I think we’d better call Mrs. Freedom again.”

“You call her,” said Ottermole. “She’s already mad at me.”

Peter called. He was not well received. Certainly Mrs. Freedom had seen Mr. Emmerick’s car in her parking lot yesterday morning. She kept careful tabs on her parking lot, she wanted him to know. No, she hadn’t seen the car this morning. Why should she have? Mr. Emmerick hadn’t been there, had he? He wasn’t ever coming back, was he? Her waitress hadn’t shown up, either, but a fat lot anybody cared about Ellie June Freedom’s problems. She didn’t bother to say good-bye, and Peter couldn’t say he blamed her much. A new thought had struck him.