Even the Butler Was Poor (19 page)

He took her hand, rubbing at it. He had no idea why he was doing that.

She moaned faintly.

Then from downhill came the hooting of a siren. A patrol car had turned into the Kathkart driveway. Close behind it came a civilian car.

"That's Detective Ryerson bringing up the rear I think," murmured Ben. "H.J., you've got to wake up."

"Oh boy," she said faintly, sucking in a breath of air.

"Anything broken?"

"Don't think so. Something whacked me on the side of the head as we were taking our leave of the shed. Knocked me out for a minute I guess."

Very gently, he helped her into a sitting position. "The police seem to have arrived. Those shotgun blasts must've annoyed the neighbors sufficiently to—"

"You shits! You god damn assholes." Kathkart, his Chumley costume in disarray, staggered into view from around the shattered shed with a .38 revolver waving in his fist. "Look at all the frigging trouble you've caused me."

"Toss away the gun." Ben had his borrowed .45 pointed straight at the charging actor.

"Like hell, like bloody hell, Spanner," he said advancing. "Everything was going fine . . . that blackmailing bastard Zepperman had been taken care of and everybody was believing the old fart had been mugged and not strangled by . . . then her snooping boyfriend pops up. . . and then we get rid of him okay . . . and she . . . she gets her hands on the pictures and it starts all over again . . . she tries to blackmail me . . . I'm going to fix both of you so—"

"Mr. Kathkart, sir." The tall, blond Detective Ryerson was climbing up across the brightly lit lawn. He had a .38 revolver in his hand. "If you'd drop that gun now—drop yours, too, Ben—then we can have a nice, calm talk and get everything sorted out."

Kathkart didn't comply. Instead he gave an angry growl and spun around to face the policeman.

"Put the gun down, sir."

Kathkart fired it instead.

Dodging, Ryerson fired back.

Kathkart missed, but the detective's slug took the actor square in the chest.

He roared once, both his arms went out wide. He let go his gun and it went bouncing away. He danced backward across the grass, flatfooted, for a half dozen steps. The tails of his black coat flapped and swirled. Then he stopped suddenly still, started teetering, lurched to his right, dropped to the ground, toppled over on his face and was dead.

H.J. squeezed Ben's arm. "Even the butler was poor," she said.

I
t was exactly midnight when they came into Fagin's diner. The proprietor was sitting at his own counter, smoking a cigarette and reading a newspaper that a customer had abandoned in one of the booths. "Been slapping her around again, huh, Spanner?" he inquired when he noticed the bandages on H.J.'s forehead and cheek.

"You're looking especially dapper tonight," returned Ben. "Are you shaving every three days now?"

"I love comedy." Fagin returned to the paper, after flicking ashes on the floor.

When they were seated in a remote booth, H.J. said, "I think I was a little groggy there at Kathkart's. Fill me in, Ben."

"Let's see. Joe Sankowitz got worried when he didn't hear from me by nine." He caught the attention of the blonde waitress and pantomimed an order of two cups of coffee. "Joe took his copies of the photos to—"

"I didn't know he kept any."

"Just two blowups. That's how he identified Zepperman."

"I'm still not clear how Zepperman—"

"Later. Anyway, Joe showed the photos to Ryerson and told him—cleaning up the details considerably—what was going on. Ryerson decided, without alerting the Westport police, to drop by Kathkart's and see why you and I were lingering there."

"But as he arrived, the Westport cops got there, too."

"Apparently even in liberal, fun-loving Westport you can't shoot off a shotgun without annoying at least some of your neighbors," said Ben. "In fact, I think I have an idea who it was who phoned the police to complain about the noise."

The waitress brought their coffee, whispering to Ben, "I'll try to sneak you free refills if I can."

"Don't risk your life for us, Evie."

H.J. stirred half a spoonful of sugar into her coffee. "Where do I stand in all this?"

"The Westport police want a statement from you sometime tomorrow, but apparently nobody's going to charge you with anything," he told her. "The version of reality that Joe sold Ryerson—and that I expanded on while the paramedic was patching you up—is that Rick Dell gave you the photographs to look after. When people started ransacking your house, you got frightened and came to me. I, of course, advised you to go to the police, but instead you decided to go away for a few days and hide."

"But Chico and the other one trailed me, kidnapped me and brought me to Kathkart's."

"Exactly, and I suspected as much and followed you there. You were never a blackmailer, you and I never practiced grave robbing on Long Island." He took a sip of his coffee. "God, this is awful."

"We could go to my place for coffee—or yours."

Ben looked directly at her. "I wanted to have this talk on neutral ground," he said. "Before we get together again I'd like a few days alone to brood."

"I can understand that," she said, trying the coffee and wincing. "What exactly are you going to be brooding about? Whether or not to ever let me cross your threshold again?"

"Not exactly." He sipped his coffee. "I'm going to have a doughnut. Want one?"

"I suppose I ought to eat something. I don't recall eating since early this morning."

He pantomimed two doughnuts. "During the past few days my life has been somewhat more action packed than usual. Also been more fun, though. That's all due to you, but I'm not yet sure I can handle it all the time."

"I'm not likely to get us involved with murder again soon," she pointed out. "Furthermore, swear to God, I'm not ever going to try blackmail. It's too painful and too risky."

"Have you thought about the possibility of our getting together again?" he asked. "I know the other night, when you were trying to con me so you could swipe the pictures, you implied that—"

"I wasn't conning you," she insisted. "Well, not about that anyway. I truly have missed you. Compared to men like Rick Dell, you're a shining—"

"Compared to Rick Dell the Boston Strangler would look like a good deal."

Reaching across the table, smiling, she took his hand. "I haven't made any wise choices in men lately," she admitted. "But I still think that when I agreed to marry you way back when, that was a smart move. So, if you come around to deciding you'd like to try again—marriage, living together or whatever, let me know."

"Okay, that's fine. I will." He paused as the waitress delivered their doughnuts. "What's that atop mine, Evie?"

"Coconut."

"It's green."

"Fagin thought it would be festive if he dyed the coconut." H.J. took a bite of her doughnut. Chewing, she said, "While you're brooding, I'll be moping around my studio finishing up my latest lousy romance cover."

"You're going to have to get rid of the notion that your paintings aren't any good."

"Let's not," she suggested, "end the evening with an argument."

T
he phone call came the following Monday. Ben had slept, still alone, until almost ten. The day was grey and a thin misty rain was falling.

He rose out of bed, somewhat reluctantly, and found his way into the bathroom. "Let's see who I am this morning," he said, risking a look in the mirror. "A puffy Ben Spanner. That's not as bad as it might be."

He hadn't talked to H.J. since they'd sat around in Fagin's the night of the kidnapping. He thought about her a lot and he was about ready to come to a decision.

As he felt around on the counter for his electric razor, the phone rang.

He ran back into the bedroom, grabbed up the bedside receiver. "Hello?"

"It's Elsie," announced his agent.

"You shouldn't have tipped me off, that's the very name I was going to guess. What's happening?"

"This is somewhat odd, Ben."

"Odder than the usual job offers I get?"

"Let me know how this strikes you, okay? The Forman & McCay agency is getting ready a major pitch for a new account. You may not want to touch this, but considering all the publicity you and Helen have been getting these past few days it might be terrific for you."

"Whoa now, Elsie. Are you telling me Forman & McCay's going after the My Man Chumley account?"

"Yes, they are. Several agencies are trying for it, after what happened with LM&L. Arthur Moon and Les Beaujack indicted for murder and all," his agent said. "Anyhow, the word I get is that Forman & McCay have the best chance of landing it."

"And they want me for what part?"

She coughed. "My Man Chumley."

He laughed. "As an actor on camera?"

"No, they're going to go with animation. Sounds like a good approach to me, what with all the negative publicity Kathkart and his image have been getting since the whole story broke," she said. "A cute appealing animated version of Chumley could diffuse a lot of the negative feelings."

"So they want me to do the voice of this new, sanitized Chumley?"

"That's right, Ben. This is, when you stop to think about it, a nice touch. The man who exposed the earlier Chumley as a multiple murderer taking over the part."

"How would Walden Foods feel about me? If I'd kept quiet, none of this would have hit the fan."

"Apparently they're a very fundamentalist and upright group. The idea of your taking over as Chumley appeals to them."

"Forman & McCay has already hinted at the idea to the client?"

"So they tell me. Well?"

"If I get the job, it won't be an exclusive thing, will it? I want to be able to keep doing other voice work."

"You can work for any other account that'll have you. You just can't play rival butlers."

"What do they need for the pitch?"

"You'll have to do a demo tape, reading the copy for three proposed animated spots. They'll play those and show storyboards. The fee they're mentioning is extremely handsome."

"I'll never have to do any personal appearances at My Man Chumley restaurants—or actually eat any fish or chips?"

"Nobody will ever see you at all. It's the cartoon Chumley who'll be getting all the attention."

"When do they want to tape them?"

"On Wednesday in Manhattan. At the agency—can you make that?"

"Sure, what time?"

"Eleven. And they want to take you to lunch afterwards, that's Forman and McCay themselves."

"Sounds like I've arrived."

"As far as the agency's concerned, you definitely have. All in all, Benjamin, this seems to me like a fine career move for you."

"That it does."

"I'll phone you later on today if I have any further news. They'll be Fed-Exing you the scripts."

"Righto, love."

He put the phone down. Sitting on the bed, he started to laugh.

After a moment he took up the phone again. "H.J. has got to hear about his," he said and dialed her number.