Huckleberry Fiend (23 page)

She looked puzzled.

“But I’m really not.”

“So you think it would be okay to ask me a few questions concerning Rebecca, because you’re not really in competition with us for the story.”

“Uh-huh. Besides the piece I may sell, which your guys couldn’t get anyway, because I already got it exclusively, I won’t do anything else on this. Honest.”

“If I can help you, do you think it might lead to solving Rebecca’s murder?”

“I most certainly hope so.”

“Oh, what the hell— what do you want?”

“A look at her Rolodex.”

“The police probably took that.”

“Maybe someone copied it first or something— you could make an argument that it’s the station’s property.”

“I’ll be right back.”

She came back smiling, bearing the thing itself. “Her boss hid it.”

“My God— didn’t he want the case solved?”

“Oh, he eventually gave the cops a list of the names in it. I don’t think it helped, though. You’ll notice they didn’t solve it.”

“Haven’t yet.” And I started going through it, starting with “A” for Alexander. But Beverly was no more there than Isami, Herb Wolf, Russell Kittrell, or Linda McCormick. Rick Debay was, though, and so was Pamela Temby.

Rebecca had probably interviewed Temby, but I didn’t want to risk asking. And, much as I liked Susanna, I certainly wasn’t going to give her any ideas about Rick Debay. The Tom Sawyer story— with its mention of the manuscript— would probably already be coming over the wire.

It was after five now, and I didn’t know how to get Rick Debay at home. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t have known what to ask him. But I had to move fast. Once the story broke, I wouldn’t be investigating alone. There was still one suspect I hadn’t met— the best one we had— and I’d thought of a way to approach him. I dialed Russ Kittrell.

The voice that answered was so cultured I figured it must be Kittrell’s butler.

“Mr. Kittrell, please.”

“This is he.”

“This is a Mark Twain fan. I’m sorry you lost your manuscript.”

“Who are you?”

“I think I might be able to get it back for you.”

“Are you the chap who was here the other night, by any chance?”

“Let’s just say I heard about it through the grapevine. Would you like to talk about it?”

“As a matter of fact, I rather think I would. Where are you?”

“Your neighborhood.”

“Very well. Tosca. How shall I recognize you?”

“I’ll be the large bearded one in the corduroy sportcoat.”

“I see.” He sounded as if that was exactly how he thought a thug would look. “Very well, then. Ten minutes?”

“Splendid.”

I don’t normally say things like “splendid,” not aloud, anyway, but somehow it seemed appropriate. Tosca did not. First of all, I was disappointed not to be asked up to the manor house, and second, I thought he could at least have suggested the lobby of the Clift, even though it was downtown. Tosca was an old North Beach hangout with opera on the jukebox— dark and red and comfortable, rather Italian even, but not really elegant. I guess I just didn’t measure up.

Twelve minutes later, I strolled through. The man who hailed me so perfectly matched the telephone voice it was preposterous. He was in his late fifties, I thought, aristocratically thin with iron-gray hair. He could have posed for a brandy ad. Up close, though, the mouth had impatient little lines around it; the eyes looked narrow and snakelike.

I extended my hand. “I’m Joe Harper; the man who called.”

“Very cute; like Sarah Williams.”

“Oh, yes. Miss Williams. I believe you did business with her?”

“I did. Are you a friend of hers?”

“Not at all.”

He looked exasperated. “Then who are you, Mr. Harper?”

“I can’t tell you that exactly, but I will tell you I’m afraid I lied on the phone. I don’t know where the manuscript is, and wouldn’t be inclined to sell it back to you if I did. First of all, it isn’t mine and it wasn’t Miss Williams’s. I represent the real owner. However, in order to get it back for him, I need information.”

“And why should I give you any?”

“Because I might be able to help you. I can’t get the manuscript for you, but I might be able to get your money back.”

“Really? You’d do that for mere information?”

“Yes.”

A waitress came and we each ordered an Irish coffee. Odd drink for the time of day, but the setting was right for it.

“The only thing,” I said, “is, first I have to know who you gave it to.”

He laughed. Laughed long and hard and damned nastily, I thought.

“It’s kind of embarrassing,” I said, “but I don’t get it.”

“Tell me more, Mr. Harper. You amuse me.”

“Maybe I could just juggle for you or something.”

He ignored the sarcasm. “Please. Tell me.”

“Very well. At one point it came into my hands— I’m not going to say how, but it did. It was stolen from me and, I believe, sold to you. It’s since been stolen from you. In the meantime I’ve been hired by the original owner to get it back.”

“What were you doing with it in the first place— when it so mysteriously ‘came into your hands’?”

“I was asked to find out whether it was genuine.”

“You’re a Clemens scholar, then?”

“Not really. Are you?”

“As a matter of fact I am. I daresay I have one of the largest collections in the world. And I have lots of other things. Things, as a matter of fact, are more or less my life. Things, and music, and literature, and travel. And occasionally women, but to tell you the truth, I prefer things. I have no work, Mr. Harper. Do you?”

“Of course. Until now, I would have said everyone does.”

“I’ve tried work, you see, but it never appealed to me. I prefer to experience beauty. And certain other things.”

“Seamy sex, maybe?” The king-of-culture act was pissing me off.

He gave me an acknowledging eyebrow lift. “Sometimes. In my younger days. But it’s laughter I meant. Some would say my life, full as it is, is austere as well. You think that yourself, don’t you?”

“I don’t know enough about it.”

“You think I’m spiritually dead— a desiccated husk of a human being with no heart and probably no soul.”

“Aren’t you being a little paranoid?”

“Not really. Everyone thinks that. My ex-wives; my children; all the nice ladies who ask me to parties to amuse their guests with my ready, if biting, wit.”

“Actually, I don’t know about your soul, but I haven’t seen the wit yet.”

“As a matter of fact you won’t. For the moment, you are the wedding guest and I am the ancient mariner. I don’t talk seriously to many people— I rarely want to— but you’re a perfect stranger and not, unless I’m one, a fool. I’m feeling melancholy tonight— and so I shall talk to you.”

“Why melancholy?”

“Because that manuscript brought me the first real happiness I’ve had in twenty years. Since I bought a certain painting.”

I was pretty sure I knew the one he meant.

“I loved it so much I kept it on my library table, to read whenever I took a notion. It made me
happy
, Mr. Harper; it made me laugh.”

“So would a $16.95 edition of it.”

“If only I had had the sense to put it in the safe.”

“Why didn’t you? I mean, I know you’re a collector, but if you wanted to read Huck, why did it have to be the original? I’d think a serious collector would be careful to touch the pages as little as possible.”

“Most would, and ordinarily so would I. But I picked up the first page of that thing and something strange happened. I realized that, touching the pages he touched, I felt close to the author— with whom I identify quite strongly. He, too, was a pathetic and bitter old fool in the end.”

“You’re not quite that.”

“It’s what I’m becoming. Don’t you agree?”

I merely raised an eyebrow. I agreed so heartily I was starting to feel sorry for the pompous ass.

“But he wasn’t merely that. He left something for us.”

“Oh, no. Don’t tell me you’re a frustrated writer.”

He seemed taken aback. “What made you say that?”

“Just a thought.”

“The manuscript inspired me, you see. I could feel something happening within myself —”

“How long have you been writing?”

“I’ve been wanting to all my life, I guess.” He shrugged. “There just hasn’t been time for it. But it was about to happen. I could feel it.”

“And then you lost the manuscript. No wonder you laughed when I said I could get your money back. That’s not the point, is it?”

“It’s not, but that isn’t why I laughed. I laughed because you’d be hard put to get it back.”

“Why is that?”

“I didn’t pay a penny for the thing.”

“No?”

“Shall I tell you the whole story? I’d like to, I think.”

“By all means.”

“Splendid. Shall we have another drink?”

“By all means.”

Somehow I had a feeling the story Kittrell was about to tell wouldn’t be the whole one— he’d at least leave out Beverly’s murder if he’d done it. But I didn’t doubt it would be interesting, and probably inventive.

“As you surmised,” he said, “I was offered the manuscript by the woman who called herself Sarah Williams. She phoned and asked me to bid. I did, naturally. She eventually got back to me and asked if I wanted to raise my bid, saying my offer had been topped. I said I thought it was time to see the manuscript. And so she brought me some pages from it.”

“You met her?”

“Of course.”

“What was she like?”

“Blonde. Pretty. Early thirties. Not dumb. She was very well turned out, and very plausible— reminded me of the sort of woman who works for Sotheby Parke Bernet. At any rate, it wasn’t she but the pages that caught my eye. I could say I satisfied myself that they were genuine, but that would be oddly understating the case. In fact, I was convinced of it before I even began my comparisons. As I told you, I’m a very sophisticated collector. The people at the Bancroft Library have pestered me for years to see my collection, which, truth to tell, is rather famous in some circles. For reasons of my own, I declined.”

I didn’t ask what reasons— the man was not only rich and elitist, it was obvious he considered himself the sole member of his particular elite.

“This will undoubtedly mean nothing to you— you may even take me for a superstitious fool— but the minute I touched those pages I knew they were genuine.”

I shrugged. “Some kinds of magic really exist.”

“I beg your pardon; I’m not talking about magic. Trust me, Mr. Harper, when I tell you I know quite a lot about Mark Twain documents.”

“I trust you.”

“I knew that I had to have that manuscript. But it wouldn’t have been good business to say so. I told her I’d think it over. I asked about the provenance, of course, but she declined to tell me. I used her hesitation to pretend my own hesitation, if you follow.”

“I do.”

“She refused to give me a phone number, but I knew I’d be hearing from her again. And of course I did. At that time I raised my bid.”

“May I ask what it was?”

“As a matter of fact, I don’t see why not. It was $950,000. I’d have gone to a million if I’d thought it really necessary, but I never pay more than I have to. My offer seemed quite fair, frankly. I’m not sure the thing is really worth more than half a million, but you see, I had to have it.”

“In the end, I guess that’s how the value of anything is determined.”

“Indeed. But after making my offer I didn’t hear from her for quite a few days. And when I did, it was by letter. Or note, actually— a note in my mailbox. It asked for $100,000 in cash and the rest in bearer bonds. It gave me two days to get the money together and set a date and time to be at a certain bank. There, it said, I would find the manuscript in a safe-deposit box. I would be free to examine it to my satisfaction, and I would leave the money there. The key to the box was included in the envelope with the note.”

“It seems an odd way of making the transfer.”

“I thought so at the time, and to tell the truth I didn’t much care for it. I didn’t know the woman and didn’t know where to find her if something went wrong. But I wanted the manuscript, Mr. Harper. If I were going to get it, I’d have to play by her rules. Therefore, I arrived at the bank in good faith, money in hand. But the manuscript wasn’t there.”

“Really!”

“Only half of it was. And there was another key and another note. The note said to leave half the money— half the cash and half the bearer bonds— and to go to a second bank where I would find the other half of the manuscript and leave the rest of the money. Need I tell you, Mr. Harper, how furious I was?” It was a good thing he had, because the thing seemed reasonable enough to me. The rich, I remembered, simply aren’t like the rest of us.

“I can imagine,” I said.

“Really! Men don’t play games like that— certainly not businessmen. But I was dealing with a woman and apparently one who didn’t know the first thing about integrity. She had brought my good faith into question. I saw what she intended, of course— to make sure the money was there before she put the rest of the manuscript in the second box. Really!” he said again. “Why not simply meet with me and make the exchange?”

I thought I had an idea, but I kept my mouth shut; I didn’t want him to lose the thread.

“As a matter of fact, I determined to make her do that. I took the half-manuscript, kept the money, and left a note suggesting she meet me at the second bank if she still wanted to make the deal.”

“Wasn’t that risky?”

“Not at all. I had half the manuscript and all the money.”

“I see your point.” I could also see what a manipulative bastard he was; I’d known people like him before, and I hadn’t much cared for them either. However, they always seemed to do well in business. A shame he hadn’t opted for a career as a robber baron— but I guessed he didn’t need the money enough to make it worth the effort.

“I drove to the second bank and opened the second box, just in case I’d misjudged her and it was actually there. It wasn’t, of course. However, there was one little surprise— two, actually. Another key and another note, directing me to a third bank. And then I understood what she was really doing. The manuscript was already there. If she hadn’t found the money in the first box, she’d have time to remove it from the third one while I was on a wild-goose chase to the second. But she’d made a very big mistake in her choice of banks. It wouldn’t be entirely inaccurate to say I more or less own the third one. In a manner of speaking. It took only a simple phone call to have the manuscript removed.”