The Crossword Murder (3 page)

The visitor seemed to mull over this information. “What do you mean?”

“I've got my own form of life insurance right here.” Briephs calmly patted the attaché case. “Your name is revealed in my newest collection of puzzles. It's a little game I've been playing with myself—trying to surmise your identity …”

“That's a lie!”

“Another lie! You really do seem to be suffering from a persecution complex—”

“I want that money …”

“You're not getting it, dear friend. Now, I suggest you vacate the premises. You may not be the most enlightened of souls, but I do believe we can attain a modicum of civilized behavior. Besides, this little frisson should add some spice to our relationship, don't you think …?”

In answer, the intruder lunged for the attaché case and yanked out the loose-leaf notebook. The covers flew open, revealing several pages of quarter-inch draftsman's graph paper and nothing more. Briephs gasped while the blackmailer flung the notebook onto the floor, where it slid beneath the divan.

“You lying twit!”

“The puzzles were there this morning. I swear they were.” Briephs looked as horrified as his unwanted guest. “I'd never let them out of my sight … Oh my God, JaneAlice must have …”

“Ante up, Tom-Boy!”

Finally pushed to the limit, Briephs stood. “Absolutely not!” His guise of bemused indifference had evaporated, supplanted by the indignant wrath of his forebears. “I insist you leave Windword Islands immediately. This entire charade is an outrage.”

“What if I don't want to leave? I can be a dangerous person when I'm angry, Tommy-Boy.”

“Really! This discussion has degenerated into something unbelievably common and unpleasant. Now, I suggest we repair to the kitchen, decant the wine and ponder our joint future. I'd say we both have some … ah …
interesting
secrets.”

“You're not running out on me, Tommy-Boy.”

“I decry that ridiculous soubriquet.”

“I can give you a lot more to cry about.”

Briephs considered explaining the linguistic differences between the two verbs, but instead marched into the kitchen, where he attempted to revive his jesting attitude. “You're not going to tie me up? Or get rough? Isn't that what usually happens in these circumstances?”

“Can the chitchat, Thompson.”

“‘The lady doth protest too much, methinks' … or words to that effect … You really should try reading Shakespeare some time, dear friend … His style and use of metaphor does wonders for elevating one's personal lexicon … That particular reference is from
Hamlet
… apt, don't you think, given the young Dane's oedipal leanings and your proclivities …?”

“Dare I say that's all Greek to me?”

Thompson chuckled serenely. “Now, you're catching on. Very good.” He turned his back on the interloper and began pouring himself a second glass of wine. “Now, my suggestion is that you climb into whatever vessel you've got docked out there and leave … We'll pretend this shabby little scene never occurred …
Plus
, I want you to promise to desist from sending those threatening missives.”

“I'm afraid that isn't possible, Thompson.”

“Of course it is. Or haven't you heard of gentlemen's honor? Morality? Probity? Rectitude? You're familiar with those ideals, are you not? Besides, you can't need money that badly. No one I know does. But, alas, this isn't about money, is it, pumpkin?”

Briephs felt two hands touch his shoulders. “Really! This psychodrama is unnecessary. Unless, of course, you enjoy it. In which case, you must permit me to join the party.”

The hands were withdrawn, but Briephs' body trembled. His heart raced while a severe tightness assaulted his throat. At first he imagined it was a reaction to the wine—perhaps a bad bottle or one with too many sulfites. His throat burned and his eyes bulged. He lifted his head, but the movement increased his agony. He reached toward the source of the pain, clutching at his neck and encountering what seemed to be a woman's stocking twisting around his throat, cutting off his air supply.

“Have you gone mad …?” he squeezed out in a raspy cough. He tried to work his thumbs under the nylon tourniquet as it tightened around his throat.

He made another attempt to speak, but no sound came. He clawed at the strangulating nylon and then at the oaken countertop. As the peril of the situation finally hit home, he grasped the kitchen faucet, trying frantically to dislodge it. But the fixture was solid bronze; it held fast. In a frenzy of despair and rage, Briephs' arms flailed across the counter, knocking his wineglass and a hidden microwave oven crashing to the floor. Finally, he dropped to his knees, gurgled a long and liquid rattle and collapsed in a lifeless heap.

The visitor withdrew the nylon stocking, and, staring at the prone body, murmured, “‘Good night, sweet prince'—or words to that effect.
Hamlet
, by the way … Act V,” then proceeded to clean up the mess.

CHAPTER 4

S
ARA
C
RANE
B
RIEPHS'
maid opened the door for Rosco Polycrates. As she permitted him entry into White Caps' marble-tiled foyer, she looked him over, her stiff black dress, organza apron and lacy cap rustling and creaking with an air of distinct disapproval. Rosco guessed the illustrious residence had never required the services of a private detective before.

“Wait here, Mr. Polycrates. I'll see if madam is ready to receive you.”

Her uniformed figure stalked stiffly away, disappearing into a hushed realm of antique mahogany furniture, silver bowls and picture frames, Oriental Export vases and burnished, paneled walls. Even the crystal chandelier remained aloof and unlit, and the densely curtained windows regally somber while the heat wave, as if denied access for social reasons, clung to the door frame, leaving the foyer surprisingly chill and dank. Rosco shifted from foot to foot and silently cursed himself. “I should have worn socks,” he thought. “At least today.”

Rosco Polycrates was third generation Greek-American; he'd been in the private investigation business for a little over six years. Before that, he'd spent eight years as a detective with the Newcastle P.D. Cited five times for bravery, and once more for simply being a good cop, he'd finally decided he was too much of a free spirit for the bureaucracy of law enforcement. He didn't like filling out paperwork. He didn't like jouncing around in the department's unmarked cars; he preferred his rusting Jeep. He hated carrying a gun,
and
he refused to wear socks. He was now thirty-eight; the business was doing reasonably well; he was trim and healthy, and by most accounts a pretty good-looking guy—albeit a trifle unkempt.

“Mrs. Briephs will see you now.”

The maid led the way through the foyer, turning right into an even darker corridor, and finally opening a door to a sitting room so large it contained several distinct groupings of couches and chairs. The place reminded Rosco of photographs he'd seen of swanky hotels—or maybe the White House.

“Mr. Polycrates, ma'am,” the maid announced. “Will you be requiring anything further?”

“Thank you, no, Emma.”

Whatever grief-stricken, maternal hysteria Rosco had expected, when he'd been telephoned at eight that morning, wasn't to be found in Thompson Briephs' mother. Erect and snowy-haired with a patrician angularity and penetrating, violet eyes, Sara Crane Briephs was ensconced in a high, straight-backed chair whose sole concession to human comfort was a thin cushion of crimson velvet. To her right and slightly behind her—as befitting a dowager empress—stood a middle-aged man in a perfectly cut charcoal suit. He had a powerful chest and jutting jaw. Rosco had the impression he'd seen him before.

“Thank you for arriving promptly, Mr. Polycrates. I despise tardiness. If we're to work together, I must insist that you conform to my wishes.”

Rosco wasn't asked to sit; so he stood, aware that the lady was scrutinizing him from head to toe. The maid's examination paled in comparison to that of her mistress.

“Do you have something against haberdashery, Mr. Polycrates?”

“Pardon?” Rosco added a hurried, somewhat tentative, “Ma'am?”

“You have no hosiery, Mr. Polycrates … No stockings … Did you forget them?”

“No … ma'am. I-I don't really like them.”

“Ah … youth … youth …” Sara graced Rosco with a brief but glowing smile. “Never permit yourself to grow old and dreary, Mr. Polycrates. Age is merely a state of mind.”

“I was sorry to hear about your son, Mrs. Briephs.”

“So was I.” This was the first hint of sorrow Rosco had heard in her voice. Clearly, Sara Crane Briephs wasn't a person who believed in wallowing in emotion. “That's why I telephoned you … Please take a seat, Mr. Polycrates.”

Rosco did as he was told, finding himself rigidly upright in a chair as stiff and formal as Sara's. This one resembled the carved wood thrones that wealthy churches reserved for visiting bishops. He wasn't certain if he should feel honored or switch to another seat.

“The newspapers stated that your son died of heart failure, Mrs. Briephs. As I said on the telephone, there's not much I can investigate … It sounded to me as if the M.E.—the medical examiner—had already made his ruling.”

“My son was fifty-one years old, Mr. Polycrates. He was in excellent health—as am I. We are an indefatigable family. My father hunted tigers in Siberia when he was well into his eighties; I am now eighty myself, yet I continue to play tennis regularly, and each winter I revel in cross-country skiing at my cabin in the Berkshires. Last year, I trekked the Himalayas. My son came from very solid New England stock; he was an excellent athlete, and he had no history of coronary disease.”

Rosco remained silent following this blistering speech, but the man beside Sara's chair murmured a quiet, but emphatic: “You have to trust the doctors, Sara.”

“I don't
have
to do anything,
Mr
. Roth.” If Sara's gaze had been capable of hurling flame, Roth would have turned to ash. “You are in my brother's employ, not mine. Familiarity may suit him and his rabble-rousing colleagues down in Washington; it does not wash with me … Now, when did you tell me he was planning to return?”

“In seven days, Mrs. Briephs.”

Sara sighed dramatically. “And you can't convince him to curtail his journey earlier than that?”

“The Senator's in Southeast Asia … on a mission to explore financial incentives and renewed political ties …”

“Typical!” Sara snorted. “The usual liberal mishmash! Of course, he was dead-set against the region when there was a war on. Fickle alliances, faulty judgment … My brother has always been drawn to inappropriate causes—and ties.” Then, resuming her level tone she said, “We will delay Thompson's funeral until Hal's return, but my decision is not based on your request, Mr. Roth. It is founded on my belief in family solidarity. Now, leave us, please.”

“I think I should stay, Sara … Mrs. Briephs.” Roth's modulated tone had become a low but definite growl. “Your brother would wish it. Besides, I still see no need—”

“Hal is not here, Mr. Roth—as you have so meticulously noted. Do I need to ask a second time, or will you leave pleasantly?”

When Roth had reluctantly closed the sitting-room door behind him, Sara gave Rosco a conspiratorial smile. “Is there any wonder that man is nicknamed Bulldog?” Then she resumed her businesslike mode, changing demeanors with a speed and agility Rosco found disconcerting.

“I didn't ask how much you charge, Mr. Polycrates. As you may have surmised, our family has never before required services such as yours.”

“Three hundred a day, plus expenses … But look, Mrs. Briephs … ma'am … You may want to listen to what Mr. Roth is saying and trust the doctor's examination. It's not often they'll go back on their initial findings.”

“I will never accede to that man's demands. He is an uncouth and evil creature, and I fail to understood why my brother insists on maintaining him as an associate. Roth is an
arriviste
, besides being an immoral, money-grubbing politico. I've always believed him to be a bad influence, and I've known him for many, many years, and it's only a matter of time before my brother arrives at that same conclusion … Three hundred a day, you said?”

But Rosco felt he couldn't permit the conversation to continue. Sara Briephs had obviously idolized her son; it was typical of a woman of her generation and breeding to refuse to face the fact that he might have been less physically robust than she. “Mrs. Briephs, sometimes these fatalities can be attributed to other causes … interruptions in electrical impulses from the brain for instance … Have you asked the police to conduct an autopsy?”

“I will not have my son cut up like a piece of calf's liver,” was the stormy response. “Thompson swam back and forth to his island on a regular basis. He played tennis with me weekly and worked out at a private gymnasium. He did not die of a heart attack … or some bogus electrical impulse. He wasn't a machine, Mr. Polycrates … Now, will you take the case or not, because if your response is negative, I must bid you good day.”

“Why me, Mrs. Briephs?”

Sara's keen glance regarded him. “You don't miss much, do you, young man?”

“That's my job.”

“I like quick-witted men. I always have … To answer your question, Roth disapproved of you. In fact, he went out of his way to disparage you … insisting you only worked on cases involving infidelity or insurance ‘scams'—whatever they are …”

Rosco winced, but Sara either didn't notice or graciously overlooked his reaction.

“But the main reason,” she continued, “was your surname. It would have pleased Thompson's quixotic sense of humor to see the name of a sixth-century Greek tyrant in the Newcastle phone book … It's a family appellation, I take it?”