The Convivial Codfish (13 page)

“Know them? Good gad, man, Wouter and I got expelled from Phillips Andover together. That sort of thing establishes a spiritual bond, you know. Comrades, Comrades, ever since we were mewling infants. I assume I must have mewled. I’m sure Wouter did. How is the old buzzard, by the way?”

“I gather you haven’t finished reading the paper,” said Max.

“What’s that supposed to mean? Wouter’s got a stomach lined with solid boiler plate. Damme, it would take more than a slug of gout medicine to fell Wouter.”

“It did. I’m sorry, Jem, but that’s how it is. Wouter got stopped in the engine cab with what looked to me like a karate chop across the windpipe. The police are calling it an accident, but you’ll notice they’re not trying to explain how the accident happened. Are there any ex-commandos among your Codfish crowd?”

“Commandos?” It took Jem a while to come back from the shock of hearing Wouter was dead. Then he sighed and shook his head as if to start his brain working again. “Oh, I get you. That hyoid bone thing. We all know about it. Ogham demonstrated the method at one of our meetings when he was feeling playful. Ogham was a commando himself, or likes to pretend he was.”

“If he didn’t do it himself, he must have given a damned effective demonstration. This was a fairly professional job, I’d say. Would anybody else in your crowd have had that kind of training?”

“I shouldn’t be surprised,” said Jem. “Most of us were in World War II. We’ve still got a few veterans of the previous encounter, if it comes to that. You say Wouter was at the controls when it happened?”

“He was, or had been. What happened was that we’d been going along at a nice, smooth pace. All of a sudden the train speeded up, then stopped short.”

“Sending everybody tip over teakettle, no doubt.”

“Right. There were some fairly bad falls and a lot of broken glass. Tom Tolbathy and I went forward to see what had happened and found Wouter dead on the floor of the cab.”

“My God, what a blow for Tom. He and Wouter—I simply can’t picture one without the other. It’s like vermouth without the gin. Damn it, Max, if I ever get my hands on the bastard who scragged old Wouter—”

“You might be able to help me find him.”

“How?”

“Jem, Wouter’s death wasn’t the first peculiar thing that happened on the train. To begin with, your silver chain showed up.”

“What? The Great Chain? Egad, where is it now?”

“I don’t know. The chain vanished again. So did the man wearing it.”

Max related the puzzling incident of the wine steward who did not exist. “So it looks to me,” he went on, “as if the man had to be one of your Comrades, or else the accomplice of one. Almost certainly, he was a bona fide guest at the party. That’s why I brought this photo along. I can see several men in the group who are about the right size and general appearance to have carried off the disguise this guy was wearing. What I want from you is any information you can give me about who they are and what they do. That may possibly give some kind of starting point for an investigation. Are you game to try?”

“Of course. Who’s your first suspect?”

“Wouter Tolbathy.”

“Are you out of your mind? Wouter couldn’t smash his own throat.”

“Who’s saying he could? He might have acted the part of the wine steward, though.”

Max explained why he thought so. Jem heard him out, for a wonder, without interrupting. Then he shook his head.

“I see what you’re driving at, but I can’t quite buy it. Mind you, I don’t say Wouter wouldn’t have impersonated a wine steward. What the hell, I’d have done it myself, if I’d happened to think of it and could see any fun in it, which I must say I can’t. Furthermore, what do you mean by saying this bird had taken the Codfish off the Great Chain and hung a corkscrew in its place? That Codfish was welded on for all eternity, dammit.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t,” said Max. “Most likely it was linked into the chain by a little silver ring. Otherwise it would have hung stiffly and looked like hell. I daresay anybody who had any skill at all with small tools could have made the substitution easily enough.”

Jeremy Kelling scowled. “Another illusion shot to hell. But what I actually started to say was, who’d be crazy enough to trust Wouter with a stunt like that?”

“You’re saying Wouter wasn’t reliable?”

“Oh, he was reliable enough, in his own way. That is to say, if Wouter said he’d do a thing, he’d do it. The problem was, you could never be sure how. Wouter marched to a different drummer. For instance, if you asked him to serve that caviar, he’d have been more apt than not to come waddling in with a live sturgeon flapping around in a goldfish bowl. I gather this bogus corksnatcher didn’t pull any fancy tricks?”

“The entire performance looked like a fancy trick to me,” Max replied. “According to the caterers, however, it was Hester Tolbathy herself who laid on the epergne and the swan.”

“I’m sure she did. That’s standard procedure at the Tolbathys’. Hester inherited that epergne from her great-aunt and naturally she wants to get some good out of it. No sense in having a thing like that kicking around costing you a fortune in silver polish unless you make it earn its keep.”

“Sarah thinks that’s essentially why one of your Comrades took the Great Chain instead of buying one of his own.”

“Nonsense. The Great Chain’s paid for itself long ago. The Exalted Chowderhead wears it at every meeting, dammit.”

“Yes, but look at the other side of the coin. Sarah’s argument was that this bird didn’t want to go out and buy a new chain because he’d never get another chance to use it. She has a point there, you know. How often does a person disguise himself as a wine steward in order to bump off a trainload of people dressed up like Diamond Jim Brady and Lillian Russell?”

“I suppose it makes sense if you look at it from that angle,” Jem conceded. “However, I wish to go on record as stating that I find the procedure contrary to the true spirit of conviviality and correct parliamentary procedure. Furthermore, I intend to propose a pretty damned stiff vote of censure at the next meeting.”

“Against whom?”

“Against the scurvy rotter who put my goddamn sacred insignia of office to such an ignoble purpose, that’s whom. And you’d damn well better make him cough it up, Codfish and all, because I’m not pigsticking that goddamn disgusting pink valentine without it, by gad.”

“Then we’d better get on with the job here. Your contention is that we can wash out Wouter Tolbathy on the grounds that nobody in his right mind would have involved Wouter in a conspiracy to murder, it being a foregone conclusion that Wouter would have loused up the plot one way or another. Right?”

Jem tried shifting his position, felt the pain, and cursed. “On sober second thought, much as I deplore the adjective, perhaps Wouter did louse it up. Wouter suffered from occasional attacks of gout.”

“Good God,” said Max. “That’s one I hadn’t thought of. What you’re suggesting, I presume, is that Wouter managed either by intent or by accident to dump his gout medicine into the caviar and that whoever put him up to serving it gave him a chop across the windpipe out of pique because he’d spoiled the joke. Is that it?”

“Makes sense, doesn’t it?”

“Not a hell of a lot from where I’m standing. If in fact Wouter had poisoned his brother’s guests, the only sane course would have been to tell them so and serve out a round of ipecac.”

“Do you have to be disgusting? Blast it, I’m a sick man already.”

“You could be a damn sight sicker,” Max was unkind enough to remind him. “Jem, hasn’t it dawned on you yet that somebody tried to murder you, too?”

“What are you talking about?”

“That fall you took was no accident. Egbert and I found the proof. The reason you slipped on the stairs is that somebody had waxed the treads, shut off your electricity so that you wouldn’t try to use the elevator, and put through a fake phone call alleged to be from Fuzzleys’, knowing you’d go charging out of your flat like a wounded water buffalo and do precisely what you did.”

“But why?”

“Obviously, to keep you from attending the Tolbathys’ party.”

“W
ELL, I’LL BE SWITCHED.”

Oddly enough, Jeremy Kelling appeared not only interested but flattered by what Max told him. “Of course. What would you expect? Naturally no maniac in his right mind would dare start anything with me around.”

“So I was told.”

“You were?” Jem was looking downright perky by now. “By whom, for instance?”

“Your friend Marcia Whet, for one. She claims you have a fantastic ability to recognize anybody you’ve ever seen before, and that nobody could get away with any disguise if you were around.”

“As a matter of fact, Marcia’s perfectly right. I can spot ’em a mile away. It’s just a knack. You know, like Mozart dashing off
Così fan tutte
with one hand while he mixed a fresh batch of martinis with the other.”

“I’m not altogether sure Mozart drank martinis,” Max objected.

“And what if he didn’t? You can be damned sure he drank something. Ever know a genius who was a teetotaler?”

“My acquaintance among geniuses is limited,” Max confessed. “However, I understand your particular form of genius is common knowledge among that crowd you hang out with.”

“Oh yes, they’re always testing me one way and another. I’ve never missed so far.”

“Then wouldn’t that be a logical motive to keep you away from the party? Whoever waxed those stairs apparently didn’t give a damn whether you broke your hip or your skull, but was determined to disable you either temporarily or permanently. If his object was to keep you from recognizing the Great Chain—which, by the way, nobody noticed but myself, as far as I can make out—his method strikes me as being pretty damn drastic. Therefore, I’m operating on the premise that the chain was incidental, and that his impersonation was no joke but part of a premeditated mass murder plot. Do you follow me?”

“I’m a long way ahead of you. Count me in on the action, my boy. Bearing in mind, needless to say, that it may be a while before I can take a step without that goddamn birdcage around me,” Jem scowled at the aluminum walker parked in the corner beside his bed, “and some nattering female at my elbow, no doubt. Try to describe this alleged wine steward, will you?”

“He was between five feet nine and five feet eleven inches tall, allowing for possible lifts in his shoes. Medium build, lightish complexion which was probably natural because I doubt if he’d have had time to fool around with makeup. Age anywhere between fifty-five and sixty-five, maybe even older but not stooped or badly wrinkled. Pale blue eyes, no glasses. Light grayish-blond hair that was almost certainly a wig. Long matching sideburns which were also fake, no doubt. No mustache, mouth probably distorted by false teeth that didn’t fit right. So we can assume he’s cleanshaven, at least partially bald, wears dentures—”

“Bah. Call that a description? What about his clothes?”

“Ordinary black dinner jacket and pants, fairly well-worn, with satin lapels and satin stripe down the trouser legs. Ordinary mother-of-pearl studs and cufflinks. He was wearing gloves.”

“What the hell for? What kind of gloves?”

“White ones, like Sarah’s butler. So that nobody could get a look at his hands, which may have had some distinctive feature about them. So he wouldn’t leave fingerprints. Because that’s how he visualized himself in the role. Take your pick.”

“Canny devil. Could have been Dork. He always has a hangnail on his left index finger. I’d know Dork’s hangnail anywhere.”

“Does he know you would?”

“I don’t suppose so. It’s not the done thing to comment on another person’s hangnail, you know. I learned that at Fessenden. Before they kicked me out, needless to say. What about the hairs in his nostrils? Did they curl up or stick out straight?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t notice,” Max admitted. “The light on the train was pretty dim.”

“H’m, this is going to be harder than I expected. Dash it, man, have you no eyes in that head of yours?”

“Jem, how many links are there in the Great Chain?”

“Links? What’s that supposed to mean? How the hell should I know?”

“Can you tell me what’s engraved on them?”

“Honi soit qui mal y pense?”

“The chain has twenty-two links, each formed from a solid silver plate approximately two inches deep by one and three-eighths inches wide, folded around oblate silver rings having an aperture of one-half inch, engraved with a deeply incised design of what looks to me like stylized rockweed and nicely gadrooned on the edges. The chain is a handsome piece of craftsmanship wasted on a pack of Yahoos, so don’t give me hairs in the nostrils.”

“You don’t have to be offensive, dammit.
Chacun à son gout,
that’s all.” Jem pronounced “gout” as in colchicine, and appeared to be pleased with himself for having done so. “Didn’t you notice anything whatsoever about this foul miscreant except the color of his eyes? Dash it, you’ve described about half the Comrades so far.”

“I told you that was my problem before we started. Look, could we just run down the list? You tell me whatever you can about each of the possibles and I’ll take it from there. What about Dork, since you’ve already mentioned him? Why’s his hangnail on the left index finger instead of the right, for instance? Is he lefthanded?”

“Good guess, my boy. You’re wrong, of course. Dork’s hangnail is on the left instead of the right because he’s a gardener. He has a greenhouse roughly the size of Harvard Stadium in which he pots. What he does is to poke a hole in the potting soil with that left index finger and bung in a seedling with his right hand. Dashed monotonous performance to watch, I can tell you from sad experience. If you’re planning to investigate Dork, you’d damn well better be on the
qui vive.
First thing you know, he’ll have you backed into a corner and start telling you about his compost heap.”

“That’s one of the hazards of my profession. What does Dork grow in this greenhouse of his?”

“Plants, I suppose. What else is a greenhouse good for?”

Max decided to skip that one. “Does Dork do anything other than pot seedlings?”