Twilight at Mac's Place (9 page)

They ate in the kitchen of the large old three-story house on Thirty-fifth Street
Northwest. Haynes had a sandwich of thinly sliced cold roast pork on home-baked bread and a bowl of interesting navy bean soup that Lydia Mott said was her own improvement on the U.S. Senate’s recipe. Haynes drank beer with the meal—his first food since the lunch with Tinker Burns and Isabelle Gelinet nine and a half hours earlier.

Howard Mott drank a bloody mary as he finished off the last slice of a lemon meringue pie. Lydia Mott ate nothing and lingered only long enough to accept Haynes’s gracious and obviously sincere compliments on the soup and sandwich.

After she left, Mott swallowed the last bite of the pie, pushed his plate away and said, “You found Isabelle?”

“Tinker found her and showed her to me when I got there.”

“Could he have killed her?”

“Maybe, if he knows how to drown somebody in a bathtub without getting all wet. I suppose he could’ve done it naked, then put his clothes back on. Providing she really was drowned.”

“What do the cops think?”

“Nothing they’re willing to share with me.”

After Haynes finished his sandwich, Mott said, “If you’d like dessert, Lydia baked some cookies.”

“No, thanks.”

“Then let’s go upstairs.”

Insisting that Haynes take the deep armchair with the ottoman, Mott sat in an old oak swivel chair that matched his equally old rolltop desk whose pigeonholes and slots were stuffed with letters, handwritten reminders, business cards, newspaper clippings, invitations to past and future events and an impressive number of bills. Haynes suspected that Mott remembered where he could instantly locate each item.

“Who was Isabelle’s closest living relative?” Mott asked.

“Her mother. Madeleine Gelinet. She lives in Nice.”

“Then she’ll probably get Steady’s farm in Berryville—or the proceeds from its sale.”

“When?”

“After probate.”

“She could use the money now.”

“It’s possible, of course, that Isabelle made out a will.”

“Unmarried thirty-three-year-olds seldom make out wills,” Haynes said.

“True.”

“I was just wondering.”

“About what?”

“Whether it would be okay for me to go up to the farm and look around. Inside the house.”

Mott seemed to take the question under advisement for several seconds before he nodded gravely and said, “Steady’s will specifies that you’re to have your pick of his memorabilia—keepsakes, souvenirs, snapshots, family Bible and so forth, although I can’t recall his mentioning a Bible.”

“There isn’t one.”

Mott cocked his head to the left and gave Haynes an amused look. “I somehow get the feeling you’re really not much interested in Steady’s mementos.”

“You’re right. I’m not.”

“What you’re really hoping to find is a true copy of his memoirs tucked away someplace.”

“Or even in plain sight.”

“And I also suspect you think Isabelle’s death is an indication, if not evidence, that such a copy might actually exist.”

“That’s occurred to me.”

“Me, too,” Mott said, nodded again, this time more to himself than to Haynes, swiveled around to face the desk, studied the pigeonholes for a moment, reached into one of them and took out a key that was attached by wire to a cardboard tag.

He swiveled around to toss Haynes the key. “It unlocks the front door,” Mott said as he again turned back to his desk, picked up a ballpoint pen and began drawing something on a yellow legal pad. “I’ll draw you a map of how to find the place after you get to Berryville.”

Haynes looked at the tag that was wired to the key with a paper clip. Hand lettering on the tag read, “S. Haynes farm, front door.” He decided to give Howard Mott an A-plus for efficiency.

Mott rose, went over to Haynes and handed him the sheet of ruled yellow paper. “Berryville has two traffic lights,” he said. “When you get to the second one, turn south, go exactly one mile, turn west, go exactly another mile and you’re there.”

Haynes examined the map for a moment or two, looked up and said, “Maybe I’ll take along a guide.”

“You don’t like my map?”

“A guide could also be a witness.”

“To what?”

“To whatever might happen.”

“You have a guide in mind?”

“Erika McCorkle.”

“Ah.”

“What’s ‘ah’ mean?”

“It means you’ll be taking along someone who knew Steady rather well, which might prove useful, and who is also attractive enough to make a pleasant drive even more pleasant.” He paused. “That’s what ‘ah’ means.”

Haynes ignored the explanation and said, “I’d like to retain you as my attorney.”

“I cost too much.”

“This would be strictly on an ‘in case’ basis.”

“In case you land in the shit.”

“Exactly.”

“That’d cost less but still too much. Go pillage some government agency for a few million, then give me a call.”

“What kind of shape is Steady’s ’seventy-six Cadillac convertible in?”

“You’re changing the subject again,” Mott said, his tone suddenly wary.

“Am I?”

“It’s in perfect shape,” Mott said. “Steady babied that car, even nurtured it.”

“Where is it?”

“I had a mechanic in Falls Church go pick it up. He’s the same one who’s serviced it for the past seven years.”

“What’s it worth?”

“It’s the last convertible Cadillac made—until they started making those fifty-thousand-dollar jobs in Italy nobody’ll buy. I guess Steady’s would bring at least ten or fifteen thousand. Maybe twenty.”

“You ever ride in it?”

“Twice, and salivated both times.”

“It’s your retainer.”

“You always strike at the most vulnerable spot?”

“Always.”

Mott sighed. “Okay. You have yourself a lawyer. Anything else?”

“What’s Mr. McCorkle’s home number?”

Mott reeled it off from memory.

“May I use your phone?”

Mott nodded at the phone on his desk, then asked, “Want me to leave?”

“What for?” Haynes said as he rose, went to the desk, picked up the phone and tapped out the number. It rang three times before it was answered with a woman’s hello.

“Erika?” Haynes said.

“Yes.”

“Granville Haynes. Do you know the way to Berryville?”

After the taxi stopped in front of Mac’s Place, Haynes paid off the driver, got out
and held the door open for a fiftyish U.S. senator from one of the western states—either Idaho or Montana, he thought—who was accompanied by a pretty woman in her late twenties.

The senator read, classified and dismissed Haynes with a practiced glance and a nod of thanks. But the woman noticed him the way many women did—with a slight start, as if struck by the notion that he must be somebody important, famous or at least rich. But a second glance, which she now gave him, produced the usual counterconviction that Haynes, despite his looks, was nobody at all. And as always, the reassessment caused more relief than disappointment.

Haynes held the taxi door for them until they were inside, closed it carefully and, after a faint smile from the woman, entered the restaurant to keep his midnight appointment with Michael Padillo. Although now 11:58
P.M
. in Washington and the rest of the eastern time zone, it was, as ever, twilight at Mac’s Place.

This lighting, or lack of it, had been chosen by McCorkle and Padillo long ago after a series of unscientific experiments had convinced them that midsummer twilight—at a certain moment not too long after sunset, but well before moonrise—was precisely what was needed to flatter the features of customers over thirty, yet enable them to read the menu without striking a match. Customers under thirty, McCorkle had argued, would regard the gloom as atmosphere, maybe even ambience.

Haynes counted four solitary males at the long bar, all of whom bore the stamp of practicing topers. At widely separated tables, two obviously married couples dawdled over coffee and dessert, as if dreading the prospect of home and bed. A pair of waiters, one old, the other young, stood talking quietly in their native tongue. Something the young waiter said made the old one yawn.

Herr Horst, his coat off, was making short work of a trout at the management table near the kitchen’s swinging doors. He looked up from his supper, saw Haynes and pointed, thumb over shoulder, to the office in the rear, then returned to the trout.

When he reached the office door, Haynes knocked, waited for the “Come in” and entered to find Padillo, in shirt sleeves and loosened tie, seated at what Haynes thought was his side of the partners desk, a pot of coffee and two cups at his elbow. Padillo indicated the brown leather couch. Haynes sat down.

“Why would anyone kill her?” Padillo asked.

Haynes said, “Where’d you first meet Steady?”

“Coffee?” Padillo said.

Haynes shook his head.

Padillo poured himself a cup, sipped it, put the cup down, leaned back in the chair, put his feet on the desk and crossed them at the ankles, revealing muted argyle socks but no shoes. “I met him in Africa,” Padillo said. “In the early sixties.”

“Where in Africa?”

“What’re we going to do—trade confidences?”

“It might be useful.”

After thinking about it, Padillo said, “Then I’ll go first and begin with Isabelle. Maybe I’ll get to Steady later. Maybe not.”

“Fine,” Haynes said.

With his feet still on the desk, his hands and forearms relaxed on the arms of his chair, Padillo, staring at Haynes, began to speak in a voice so quiet and uninflected it was almost a monotone. Leaning forward a little to make certain he missed nothing, Haynes suspected Padillo must have used that same quiet voice to tell truths, half-truths and lies to other trained listeners, and found himself wondering who they were and what languages had been spoken.

“Nine years ago this month,” Padillo said, “a twenty-four-year-old French woman walked in here and introduced herself as Isabelle Gelinet of Agence France-Presse. She said she’d been sent over from Paris to write fluff features on the presidential campaign and election. But she didn’t want to write fluff and wondered whether I could help her with advice, tips, introductions, anything. Her sole personal reference was a letter from Tinker Burns to me.”

“Not the most impeccable reference,” Haynes said.

“But an interesting one.”

“Where’d you first meet Tinker?” Haynes asked.

“In France.”

“When?”

“March of ’forty-five.”

“Was that after he parachuted in with the fifty thousand in gold that fell into the Loire and never quite made it to the Resistance?”

“One of Steady’s taller tales, right?”

Haynes confirmed the guess with a nod and said, “They send you after Tinker?”

“Who?”

“The OSS.”

“I had better things to do,” Padillo said. “But in ’forty-six in Marseilles, I believe I did bump into Tinker again and mention that the Army’s CID was getting warm, thus earning his eternal gratitude. On Tinker time, of course, eternity is about two and a half weeks.”

“That must’ve been when he joined the Legion.”

“About then,” Padillo said. “But to get back to Isabelle. When she walked in here with nothing but Tinker’s letter, it hit me that she might be more than just another kid reporter looking for the big break.” He paused. “Although God knows this town’s always had a surplus of them.”

“L.A., too,” Haynes said.

“So I introduced her to Karl Triller.”

“Your bartender.”

“And minority stockholder.”

“The one who helped nurse Steady through his fourth divorce.”

“The same,” Padillo said. “For more than twenty years Karl has studied congressional antics. It’s been a very thorough, very German study, and notice I said antics, not actions.”

“I noticed.”

“What began as a hobby turned into an informal clearinghouse of information.”

“A gossip exchange.”

Ignoring Haynes’s clarification, Padillo said, “Karl gets quoted a lot by air and print reporters, although never by name. He’s always a veteran Congress watcher, a well-informed source, or that grand old standby, the seasoned Washington observer. It was Karl who tipped Isabelle off to a couple of stories that she beat AP on and impressed her editors so much that, after the nineteen eighty conventions, they assigned her to the Bush campaign and, in the final month, to Reagan’s.”

“A couple of nice hops,” Haynes said.

“So nice that soon after the election she began getting invitations. To dinners. Embassy receptions. Various balls. Intimate gatherings of twelve in Spring Valley. Things like that. Sometimes she needed an escort; sometimes she didn’t. When she did, she usually asked me, probably because I had a dinner jacket and knew how to tango.”

Haynes grinned, which again caused Padillo to realize how closely the son resembled the dead father. “Anyway,” Padillo said, “we lasted eighteen months, maybe twenty, and then came Steady.”

“What’d he have to offer other than limitless charm?”

“New directions.”

“Leading where?”

“To covert action fiascoes. Terrorism, theirs and ours. An assortment of foreign intrigue imbroglios. Homegrown money spies. Redefecting defectors. It was heady times and Isabelle began to wonder if it wasn’t mostly because old Bill Casey was back.”

“Back?”

“From his glory days in OSS.”

“You knew him then?”

“In a way.”

“And Isabelle?”

“Eventually, she did an unauthorized and very unflattering three-part profile on Casey,” Padillo said. “She had a lot of help from Steady and a mixed bag of Casey watchers he’d rounded up for her. A few even let her quote them by name. She later sent me a copy of the piece. I think I still have it somewhere—a hell of a story. But twenty minutes after AF-P moved it, they sent out a kill. Isabelle got mad and quit, did some free-lancing for a while, then moved in with Steady at his farm either to write or help him write his memoirs—or so I gathered from what she said at lunch today.”

After studying Padillo for almost fifteen seconds, Haynes said, “You haven’t always run a saloon, have you?”

“I’ve always wanted to.”

“What’d you do before you and McCorkle opened this one?”

“We ran one in Bonn.”

“What happened to it?”

“They blew it up.”

“Who’re they?”

“McCorkle’s always been convinced it was the CIA who supplied the bomb and the KGB who threw it.” He smiled slightly. “But then McCorkle has a rather jaundiced view of world events.”

Another silence was again ended by Haynes, talking at first to the floor, then to Padillo. “Isabelle was my oldest friend. We grew up almost next door in Nice. When Tinker came back from the Legion, Dien Bien Phu and all that, he rented a room in the house of a pregnant widow in Nice. Three months later, Isabelle was born. Tinker stayed on as Madeleine Gelinet’s paying guest, lover and surrogate father to Isabelle. In nineteen fifty-nine my mother died. I was three. Steady and I moved from Paris to Nice and rented a house three doors up from Madeleine Gelinet. That’s how Steady and I met Isabelle and Tinker.”

“I’ve wondered,” Padillo said.

“Not long after Steady married my stepmother number one, he and Tinker were off to the Congo—but on different sides. When Tinker came back, he started up his arms business and resumed his on-again, off-again affair with Isabelle’s mother.”

“Where’d he get the capital?” Padillo asked. “One day Tinker’s an out-of-work mercenary, the next day he’s a budding international arms dealer.”

“He stole it. He and Steady. Want the details?”

“I don’t think so,” Padillo said. “When’d you last see Isabelle—before today?”

“Almost twenty years ago. It was just before Steady had me fly here to enroll in St. Alban’s. By then, I was living in Italy with stepmother number two. As always, Steady sent cash. So I took a bus to Nice, saw Isabelle and caught a flight from Paris to Washington. But before I left Nice, Isabelle and I swore our undying love, which expired six or seven months later. But we always wrote each other long letters at Christmas—until she moved in with Steady.”

“Who stopped writing?”

“She did.”

“I would’ve guessed you.”

“Along with my old man’s goofy smile, I also inherited a lot of his goofy laissez-faire attitudes.”

Padillo took his feet down from the desk and slipped them into a pair of black loafers. As he bent down to tug the left shoe up over his heel, he said, “Is there really a book?”

“Steady’s lawyer and your landlord handed me a manuscript this afternoon.”

“You look at it?” Padillo said, once more leaning back in his chair.

Haynes nodded.

“A lot of people in this town would pray they’re not in it.”

“Think you’re in it?”

“I hope so. It might give our lunch business a boost.”

Haynes rose. “Like to see it?”

Padillo nodded. “Especially if it has an index.”

“It doesn’t, but McCorkle was kind enough to put it in your safe for me this afternoon.”

Padillo examined Haynes thoughtfully. “The Willard has a much better safe.”

“I’m sure it does.”

“But the Willard also gives receipts and keeps records.”

“Right again,” Haynes said.

Padillo rose, went over to the old safe, spun the combination and tugged open the heavy door. From the safe he took the folded-over grocery sack and handed it to Haynes, who placed it on the partners desk. “Have a look,” Haynes said.

Padillo studied him again, briefly this time, before turning to the desk and removing the brown-paper-wrapped package from the sack. He read the address label and asked, “Steady mailed it to himself?”

“He thought it would ensure the copyright’s validity.”

“Did it?”

“It was already valid.”

Padillo slowly removed the wrapping paper and lifted the top from the Keebord box. He read the title page without expression, then the four lines by Housman and the dedication to the dead author’s son. After reading the two sentences that composed Chapter One and also the entire book, Padillo quickly leafed through the rest of the blank pages, turned to Haynes and said, “Why’d you really want me to see this?”

“Because you were Isabelle’s friend.”

“Did this all begin as one of Steady’s diddles?”

“I don’t know.”

“Is there a book somewhere?”

“I’m not sure, but everything you just read is copyrighted—except the Housman quote.”

Padillo carefully put the top back on the box. “And what can you do with the copyright to a two-sentence book?”

“I can sell it.”

“As is?”

“Possibly.”

“Who to?”

“The highest bidder. Which is when I might need a little help.”

Padillo nodded, but it was a noncommittal nod. “And who do you think the highest bidder will be?”

“Whoever killed Isabelle,” Haynes said. “Or had her killed.”