The Devil's Cook (15 page)

“I know that.”

“You must realize that our records are limited in this office, Captain, especially with respect to the faculty. More detailed information would be available from the heads of the various departments.”

“That can come later, if necessary. I'm interested at the moment only in general background information.”

“Well, let's see what we have.”

Wister disappeared in the outside office, taking Bartholdi's list with him. He was back shortly with five manila folders. He placed them on the desk before Bartholdi.

“There is nothing on Fanny Moran,” the registrar said. “She is not a student in this institution.”

“I know. I just thought she once might have been.”

“There's no record of her. If you'll excuse me, there's something I must see to.”

Wister went out, and Bartholdi hunched over the desk. He culled the five folders one by one. When he was finished he had acquired, besides the knowledge that Ben Green was a brilliant student and Farley Moran no better than fair, some information that, in effect, enlarged his prospects. Otis Bowers had been a student, before coming to Handclasp, at the California Institute of Technology in Pasadena. Ardis Bowers had been at C.I.T. with him, not then a student but already his wife. Ben Green, although he had done all his college work at Handclasp, was a legal resident of Glendale. Farley Moran was a transfer student from U.C.L.A. (Fanny Moran, who had no record, could be assumed tentatively to have come, before or after or with Farley, from the same area.) In brief, there seemed to be a California colony in Handclasp. More significantly, perhaps, at The Cornish Arms.

Wister returned after a while to find Bartholdi leaning back in his chair with eyes closed. He appeared to be sleeping: he was, in fact, far from it. The manila folders were stacked neatly in alphabetical order and pushed back on the registrar's desk.

“Are you finished, Captain?” Wister asked.

“Yes, thank you.” Bartholdi opened his eyes and pushed his chair back.

“I'm sure you will respect the rights of these individuals—” Wister indicated the manila stack “—to all possible privacy.”

“Of course.”

Bartholdi took the registrar's dry hand, gave it up, and left. Outside he walked slowly along the curving concrete walk in the direction of the library, his topcoat flapping about his legs.

18

There is in American legend a kind of hero. The legend has variations, as has the hero. He is not so much an individual of heroic proportions as a prototype who effuses a certain character. He begins humbly; and he is compelled, by early environment and example, to take a predatory posture. He recognizes the necessity of being hard and the advantage of being merciless. He uses his wealth to acquire charm and polish, which he exploits to consolidate his position. Perhaps he climbs through precinct and ward to political power, often behind the scenes. Or he becomes mighty in business, or in organized labor. Sometimes he flouts the law directly, rather than obliquely, and rises in the rackets.

Condemned in public, he is often admired in private. His ultimate strength is not in what he has but in what he lacks, which is conscience. He is always dangerous.

Young Brian O'Hara could hardly be expected to have achieved the dimensions of such a legend. But he was on the way.

O'Hara's history did not quite conform to the specifications. His beginning was not humble; his middle-class father, although far from wealthy, was comfortably enough situated to provide his only son with a college education, for example. At college the younger O'Hara had played football and basketball. In football he was competent; in basketball he excelled; in both, by drive and luck, he prospered. For as a sophomore he began placing bets (progressively larger) on the contests in which he was engaged, never permitting a foolish loyalty to prevent his betting on his alma mater's opponents when it seemed judicious to do so. On the gridiron his successes were largely the result of chance, but on the court his skill furthered his cause. It is surprising what a good thing a clever operator can make of this sort of thing. By the time Brian O'Hara graduated, he had a secret bank account of $20,000.

Cast loose on the world, he saw no reason for spoiling a good thing. His instinct functioned, his luck held, and his interests spread. He now had valuable contacts of a certain kind across the country; and he became a post-graduate specialist in collegiate athletic competitions, digressing only now and then, for variety, into the realms of the pros. The bank accounts grew rapidly in spite of taxes, which he was smart enough to pay in full, and spilled over into investments that proved financially lucrative. Among these were two night spots in Handclasp where college tastes were pandered to. They were expensive, as such spots go; they made no attempt to attract patronage of those who could not afford them, and so were largely patronized by those who could. Collegians were not the only patrons. They merely set the tone; and many of them were sources of profitable information.

As Captain Bartholdi had said, Brian O'Hara was not unknown to the police. His activities did not come under Bartholdi's surveillance, but the captain knew O'Hara's reputation for running a smooth operation. If he was a habitual violator of the law, he chose with care the laws he violated. He never strayed into transgressions where the chance of failure was multiplied by unnecessary risks, and the consequences were too high for the game. At least, Bartholdi reflected on his way to O'Hara's, he never had before. But then, in the precarious dodges O'Hara engaged in, there were always unpredictable forces at work. Such as the violent potential of love, or passion, or whatever it was that a particular woman generated to make the disciplined sanity of a lifetime go up in smoke.

That was the point as Bartholdi saw it. If O'Hara was involved in the death of Terry Miles, kidnapping was no factor. Passion and violence were conceivable but not, coldly calculated, the long odds against abduction and murder. And if not, what was the significance of all the folderol about the renting of an isolated house?

Well, thought Bartholdi, pushing the button beside O'Hara's door, that remained to be seen. In the meantime, one neglected no possibility and remained always open to the long chance.

Bartholdi's having rung at O'Hara's door, the door was opened by O'Hara himself. It was nearly three o'clock in the afternoon, and the fixer was shaved and brushed and impeccably dressed in a gray suit, white shirt and maroon tie, apparently open for business. If his reaction to the sight of Bartholdi was less than enthusiastic, it was at least congenial; and his time, within limits, was at Bartholdi's disposal.

“Hello, Captain,” he said. “Come on in. What brings you to the camp of the enemy?”

“Enemy?” Bartholdi stepped in and even allowed himself to be divested of his hat and topcoat. “I'm here to see if you might be willing to give me a little help.”

“You selling tickets? I'll take fifty.”

“No tickets. Just a little information off the record.”

“Sure. Anything for good relations with the fuzz. How about a drink?”

“No, thanks.” Bartholdi helped himself to a chair. “I'm looking for a stray. A woman by the name of Terry Miles. I believe you know her.”

“Wait a minute.” O'Hara's voice had suddenly withdrawn. It reached Bartholdi, clear and cold and no longer offering to buy tickets. “Since when do you concern yourself with tray wives?”

“Captains don't come so high. And this looks as if it might lead to something interesting.”

“You'll have to do better than that, Captain. If you want me to play, deal from the top of the deck.”

“All right, I'll play it straight. A man's wife is missing. She's been missing for about three days, since Friday afternoon. Apparently no one saw her leave, no one knows where she went or where she is. The husband asked for police help, and he's getting it; he's a college professor who could raise a stink through channels if he chose. We also have reason to suspect that this isn't simply a case of a woman on the prowl. That's all you're going to get. Are you playing?”

“A hand or two, at least till I see how the game's going. I know Terry well. I intend to know her better. She's hot stuff.”

“Would you care to amplify that?”

“Isn't it plain enough?”

“There would be complications, of course. She already has a husband. Or are you shooting for something less legal?”

“Her husband doesn't seem to bother her. Why should he bother me?”

“It's a good point, and I get the feeling it's particularly valid in this case. It's my impression that her husband is on the point of leaving her.”

“Really?” O'Hara's laugh was hard and flat. “Don't you think he's kind of late? It seems she's already left
him.”

“It may not be so simple. Or do you happen to know where she is?”

“I don't. I told Jay Miles that when he was here Saturday night. I've tried to find her since, without any luck. I'll tell you this, though. If anything has happened to her, somebody's going to pay for it. I'm no gutless husband. I know what Terry is, and she suits me just right. I have a notion that a woman like her quits looking when she has what she needs. And as far as Terry's concerned, I've got it. For your information, Captain,
she
was planning to get a divorce.”

“Thanks for the information. You haven't seen her since Friday? Haven't heard from her?”

“No.”

“You say you've been looking for her. Where have you looked?”

“Various places. She wasn't there, so it doesn't matter.”

“You have no idea where she may have gone?”

“If I had an idea where, I'd look there. She had a date with me for cocktails Friday afternoon. She didn't show. I assumed that something had come up, and I didn't try to find out the reason.”

“Why not?”

“Climb off it, Captain. We didn't give a damn about her husband, but why rub it in his face?”

Bartholdi smiled. “I get the impression you don't like Jay Miles.”

“I don't feel anything about him, one way or another. At least, I didn't. Now, I don't know. There was something phony about his coming here.”

“It seems to me, since he knows or suspects about your affair with his wife, that it was logical.”

“It could have been a cover.”

Bartholdi extended his legs. His eyes seemed cloudy. “Oh? How do you mean?”

“What would you do if you'd knocked off your wife, for instance, and wanted to hide it?”

“Are you making an accusation?” Bartholdi said, blinking. He was almost yawning.

“I'm making nothing. I'm speculating.”

“Speculate some more.”

“It's simple enough. You'd run crying to the police, and you'd try to throw suspicion wherever it might stick.”

“It would be a dangerous game.”

“Murder is a dangerous game, they tell me:” O'Hara's voice was mocking.

“Why would Miles kill his wife?”

“Because she was the kind of wife that a certain kind of husband might think needed killing. I'll bet it's never occurred to our professor friend that his problems with Terry are his own fault. He's deficient. He hasn't got what it takes to keep her home. Compared to Terry he's a damn dull tool. I told you I'm under no illusions about Terry. To me, she's an exciting challenge I can handle. Our professor can't and never could. She's given him one hell of a bad time. A weak man who's been made a monkey of often goes off the deep end.”

“You're quite a psychologist.” Bartholdi tacked suddenly. “Do you know that Terry Miles is heiress to a small fortune?”

O'Hara's expression of surprise was, Bartholdi thought, genuine.

“No kidding. She never mentioned it to me.”

“She'll get it next year.”

O'Hara shrugged. He said shortly, “It makes no difference to me. I'm pretty well fixed.”

“The estate was left by Terry's father, a minor movie executive, I understand. It's administered by a lawyer in Los Angeles.”

“I know that Terry comes from there. I go there myself two, three times a year. She's mentioned it. But nothing about coming into a bundle.”

“Maybe you know the lawyer. His name is Feldman.”

O'Hara shook his head. “I don't know him.”

“Well, I won't keep you any longer.” Bartholdi rose and picked up his hat and coat. “I appreciate your giving me the time.”

“Think nothing of it.”

Bartholdi looked at his watch. “I've got to check in at headquarters, then I'm going home and make my dinner.”

O'Hara was astonished. “You
cook?”

“I'm a bug on home cooking. Matter of fact, got a new recipe I'm eager to try. It's a ragout—Student's Ragout, it's called. Ever heard of it?”

“I wouldn't know a ragout from a soufflé.”

Captain Bartholdi shook his head in almost genuine dismay at O'Hara's culinary ignorance. Then he put his hat and coat on and went out.

19

Fanny got back to The Cornish Arms between five and six. Outside the entrance, she met Ben Green coming from the opposite direction. Ben was cradling a brown paper sack like a baby in his right arm.

“Hello, Ben,” Fanny said. “What have you got in the sack?”

“Groceries,” said Ben.

“Have you been to the market?”

“No, I bought them from my banker. Where in hell would you expect me to buy groceries?”

“Well, you needn't be so nasty about it. I was only asking to be agreeable. What kind of groceries have you bought?”

“Carrots and potatoes and onions. If you must know, I'm going to make a ragout like the one Terry told me about.”

“Are you sure you still remember how to do it?”