The Headsman (23 page)

Jud opened another box, finding this one’s contents also a jumble. He did come across one curious item, however. It was a slim, cast-iron stand with an object shaped like a human foot on the raised end. He lifted it out of the box. “What’s this?”

“A shoemaker’s last,” Mulgrave said. “The foot comes off, and the shoemaker had a whole set of them he could replace it with, each of a different size. That was in the days when all footwear was made by hand, one shoe at a time. Machines weren’t in widespread use until the late nineteenth century.”

“Interesting.” Jud dropped the last back into the box. “How many other rooms like this are there?”

“About a dozen. Some of them with more things in them than others.”

Jud looked at the unopened boxes. All right, he thought. You win, for the time being. “Might be better to come back another day, at that.”

Mulgrave pursed his lips. “Very well, if you’d rather. If you’ll let me know when you want to come, I’ll see the heat’s on early, so that the place is a little more comfortable.”

“Fine, I’ll do that.” Jud shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket and followed Mulgrave as the curator turned off the light and left the room. They retraced their steps down the steep stairway to the first floor and headed for the front hall. As they passed a door Jud asked idly, “What’s in there?”

“It was the general’s study originally,” Mulgrave replied. “We’ve been working on restoring it.” He continued walking as he spoke.

Jud stopped before the door. “Mind if I look inside?”

Mulgrave glanced back. “Sure you want to do that now? I’m getting a bit chilly myself at this point.”

“Yeah,” Jud said. “It’ll just take a minute.”

The keys came out again, and more fumbling ensued until the door at last swung open. Mulgrave stepped back and Jud peered into the room. It was small, with little inside beyond a leather-topped desk and a leather wingchair beside the small corner fireplace. It was even darker in here than in the other rooms, with only one tiny window high in the outside wall. There was a brass lamp on the desk. Jud stepped over to it and turned it on.

Hanging on the wall over the desk was a painting showing a company of foot soldiers led by an officer on a handsome black horse. It occurred to Jud that things hadn’t changed all that much over the years. The uniforms were different and horses had been replaced by jeeps, but the dogfaces still marched while the brass traveled sitting down. Of course nowadays there was the mechanized infantry, but when the trucks stopped the soldiers still had to get out and make their way on foot.

He turned away and saw that there was a low bookcase beside the door. Hanging above the bookcase were more paintings. They were a matched set, and there were six of them. Jud realized they were arranged sequentially. He stepped over for a closer look.

The first showed a man down on his knees with arms extended, a soldier on either side holding him by the wrists. Facing the prisoner were several men dressed in fancy uniforms that suggested they were high-ranking officers.

When he looked at the second painting, Jud caught his breath. It showed soldiers dragging the prisoner onto a low wooden platform on which an executioner was standing. The executioner was a tall, burly man dressed from head to toe in tight-fitting black clothing. There were black boots on his feet and black gloves on his hands. His head was covered by a black hood with eyeholes cut on a slant. In his hands was a huge, double-bladed ax. Near his feet, on the floor of the platform, was a block and a basket.

It was eerie, seeing this. For all his scoffing at the legend, and as crazy as he knew his reaction was to the old painting, Jud somehow felt he was face to face with his quarry for the first time. He stared at the ominous figure for a minute or so, taking in details of the man’s clothing, his posture on the platform, and especially the ax.

It was apparent how well the weapon had been designed to serve its purpose. Its blades were curved much more than the blade of an ordinary wood-cutter’s tool, and together they made the axhead quite large. It would have to measure well over a foot from the edge of one blade to the edge of the other. And the man who wielded it would have to be very powerful. Looking at the ax, Jud wondered if the curve of those blades would match the cut in the floor of Marcy Dickens’ bedroom.

He studied the other four paintings in the set, one at a time. The next one showed the prisoner on his knees again, praying this time, as the soldiers and the headsman watched. A crowd of onlookers was visible in the background. In the next, the condemned man was lying on his back with his head on the block, and the executioner was raising the ax. Then came the moment when the blade sliced through its victim’s throat, and it was spell-binding to Jud to see the expressions on the faces in the audience—expressions not merely of horror, but also of perverse joy.

The last of the set was equally striking. And perhaps more revealing of the emotions of the principals in this tableau than any of the others. In this one the soldiers were carrying the basket off the platform, the executed man’s head visible in it, while his decapitated body lay on the floor, the block drenched with blood from his severed neck. And now the arms of the audience were raised in a salute to the headsman, who was responding with a wave of his hand, as if in triumph.

Jud glanced at all of the paintings once more, feeling a surge of excitement. He suddenly realized Mulgrave was standing behind him. Jud turned to him.

“Sorry,” the curator said. “I’d really forgotten all about these. Matter of fact, they probably shouldn’t even be displayed.”

“Why is that?” Jud had his own ideas, but he was annoyed that Mulgrave had conveniently overlooked their existence. He was curious to know how Mulgrave would explain it.

“For one thing, they’re ghastly. They’re so—graphic. Quite a horrible portrayal. I certainly don’t think a public execution is suitable subject material to be included in a display of the town’s heritage. Especially in light of what’s happened here recently. I think it might stir up the worst kind of interest. We seem to have enough sensationalism at present.”

“I agree with that.” Jud gestured toward the pictures. “But how could you just forget about these?”

Mulgrave was standing with his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his trenchcoat. His nose appeared redder than ever, but the cold probably was also contributing to that. “I suppose because I never thought much about their content. They were just a matched set of paintings that made a nice grouping in here. And anyway, I didn’t choose them; one of the ladies who works on the restoration committee is in charge of that kind of thing. Also I must remind you that we have several thousand items here in the museum. I really can’t keep all of them at the top of my mind, you know.”

Jud looked at the pictures once more. It was true that they were of good quality; that was apparent at a glance. They appeared to have been done in a combination of ink and water colors. As if they’d first been meticulously drawn and then the color had been added later. The action depicted was like what you’d see in a newspaper or magazine if a photographer had covered the event.

He glanced at Mulgrave. “I’d like to borrow these, if that’s okay.”

The curator seemed startled. “Oh, I don’t think we can do anything like that. Even though their content is terrible, I’m sure they’re quite valuable. It would be a tragedy if anything ever happened to them.”

There’ll be a bigger tragedy, Jud thought, if you don’t stop dicking around. “What are you telling me, Paul—I can’t take them? You gonna force me to get a warrant?”

“Oh no, no—that won’t be necessary. I take it you think they could help with your investigation.”

“They might, yes.”

“Well, then. In that case I’ll agree to your taking them. I assume you’ll handle them with great care and keep them in a safe place. Also I’ll need a receipt.”

“Sure. No problem.”

“Let me get something to wrap them in. I’ll be right back.” He left the room.

Jud took out a ballpoint and his pocket notebook and scribbled out a receipt. When Mulgrave returned, carrying what looked like an old bedsheet, Jud carefully took each painting down and wrapped the set in the cloth. Carrying the bundle, he followed Mulgrave back to the front door.

The visit to this depressing old dump had been worth the effort after all.

7

The following day Jud was busy with routine departmental work, spending most of the morning catching up on it. He went through the papers on his desk, then talked at length with Joe Grady. The sergeant filled him in on what Inspector Pearson and Corporal Williger had been up to, which consisted mainly of questioning Marcy Dickens’ classmates. From what Grady told him, Jud gathered that so far the staties had zilch.

After that he went out for a hamburger, stopping in at the McDonald’s on South Main. He took a copy of the
Express
with him and read it as he ate. There was another of Sally’s bylined stories in the newspaper, and reading it gave him indigestion worse than anything a Big Mac could produce. The piece contained not one scrap of new information; it was all innuendo and quoted rumor, interspersed with allusions to the headsman legend. Jud stuffed the paper into the garbage receptacle along with the remains of his lunch and left the restaurant.

He’d driven one of the unmarked cars simply because it was handy, and as he was getting back into it he glanced out at the street and saw Loring Campbell drive by in a gray Buick station wagon, headed south.

That was odd. One of the things the industrialist was known for was the flashy cars he owned. His red Porsche was the envy of every kid in Braddock, as well as many adults. The station wagon was probably one of Empex Corporation’s company cars. Why was Campbell driving it, and where was he going in the middle of the day? The Empex offices were in the opposite direction, and if he’d wanted to go to the through way he would have been going east.

All of which probably could have been explained easily, and would have made perfect sense, if Jud had had the answers. Moreover, where Campbell went and what he drove was none of Jud’s business.

But Jud was a cop. And he was curious.

He wheeled the Plymouth out onto the street and turned in the direction Campbell had gone.

The Buick was some distance ahead now, moving at a good clip as the street became Old South Road. There wasn’t too much traffic to contend with, and Jud had no trouble keeping Campbell in sight. There was one car between him and the station wagon, which made for good tailing. Even if Campbell were to check whether he was being followed, it was extremely unlikely he’d spot Jud. As a further precaution, Jud took off his cap and laid it on the seat beside him.

At the intersection of Route 23 Campbell turned right, which took him in a southwesterly direction. The other car turned the opposite way, leaving no vehicle between the police car and the Buick. After that Jud hung back, letting Campbell run a few hundred yards ahead.

Route 23 was the road leading to Claremont, which was the first town past the county line. As they entered the outskirts the highway became busier, and after a mile or so there were several vehicles between Jud and the station wagon. Along this stretch the roadside was dotted with gas stations, used-car lots and fast-food joints.

It had become more difficult to keep an eye on the Buick, but as he approached the town Jud saw the car turn off the road and pull into a motel. He slowed down as he drove by the place. It was a one-story layout, dingy in its weathered coat of yellow paint. A sign out front said THE MAYFLOWER. He went on by, then made a U-turn and came back.

When he turned into the drive he saw the Buick parked in front of the motel’s office. Campbell wasn’t in sight; he must have gone inside. Jud pulled into an open slot in front of one of the rooms and shut off his engine. He slumped down in his seat and watched the door of the office.

Minutes passed, and then Campbell emerged and got back into the station wagon. He wheeled it down to one of the rooms at the far end of the motel, parked the car and went into the room.

Jud made himself as comfortable as he could, keeping his eye on the door Campbell had entered. He knew he’d have a while to wait, but he had a hunch it wouldn’t be too long.

A half hour later Jean Harper drove into the entrance. Jud would have recognized her by the car alone; Jaguar sedans were far from common in this part of the world. Moreover, hers was a distinctive metallic green. He watched as the car stopped, giving its driver time to get her bearings. Then the Jaguar turned and moved slowly down to a place close to where the Buick station wagon was parked.

She got out of the car and quickly made her way to the door Campbell had entered. She had on a slouch hat and her coat collar was turned up, but there was no mistaking the swing of the hips and those long, beautifully turned legs. Keeping her head down, she knocked on the door. When it opened she slipped into the room.

Jud sat still for several minutes, mulling over what he’d seen. One thing was apparent: Mrs. Harper’s reputation was founded on more than mere gossip. Another was that despite his precautions, Loring Campbell had hung his ass out by a mile. Jud had no way of knowing whether this information would ever turn out to be useful, but instinct told him there was a good chance that it might.

One of the things an experienced cop was never supposed to be was surprised. Yet Jud constantly found himself amazed by the things he stumbled across. And each time something like today’s little discovery came to light, he wondered just how much more was going on that he didn’t know about. He shook his head. As if Jean Harper and her family didn’t have enough trouble.

He’d wait until Campbell and Harper left before he headed back to Braddock. There was one other thing he needed to do.

Seven

AN EXECUTION

1

T
HE
V-8
WAS
running rough, and it seemed to be burning oil. It couldn’t need rings, Buddy thought—he’d put in new ones only about four thousand miles back. And he’d ground the valves at that time as well. But there was a noticeable drop in power, and instead of showing its usual hard charge the engine just sort of farted along. What the hell could be the problem? It was exasperating.