Die, Little Goose: A Bret Hardin Mystery. David Alexander

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СКАЧАТЬ a friend of his for thirty years and wants to help him if she can has to admit that she tried the door, that it wasn’t locked, that it opened easily. You think the D.A.’s office is going to let a Homicide lieutenant talk them out of taking Lennox in just because he’s a nice old man and has got a blood pressure condition?”

      “But damn it all, another man confessed he murdered Daphne Temple!”

      “Yeah,” said Romano. “And you’re the one who gave the other man a perfect alibi. He was standing alongside you in a Ninth Avenue bar when the murder was committed, you said. You think he killed her by remote control or something?”

      “I think it’s damned suspicious that Adrian Temple confessed he killed his wife and we found her murdered.”

      “He confessed he killed his wife last winter and she lived for about six months after that,” Romano answered. “Adrian Temple is a screwball with what they call an obsession. The only reason the medics at City didn’t bug him last time was that everybody is flipping his toupee these days and there’s a shortage of beds in the loony bins. They wrote him off as a harmless drunk and let him go after they’d hit his knee with a little hammer a time or two.”

      Hardin said, “I’m going downstairs and talk to Jim Lennox. Then I’m going out to get him a lawyer. I’m going to get him Marty Land.”

      “You’re getting him a good one,” Romano replied. “Marty Land’s just about the smartest cookie they ever baked in these parts.”

      As Hardin descended the stairs the policeman on guard at the front door walked into the hallway with a well-dressed, jaunty young man. He called to the precinct detective, “This guy claims he lives here.”

      Mrs. Mattingly walked into the hall to identify the newcomer. Hardin, who had visited often in the house, recognized the young man as Charlie Montgomery, the ventriloquist who conducted a kids’ show on television.

      Montgomery said, “What’s this all about? Why all the gendarmes? Nobody kidnapped my dummy, Woodenhead Willie, did they?”

      Mrs. Mattingly had regained some control of herself. Instinctively she had reverted to her role of actress as a defense mechanism in the emergency. When she spoke to Montgomery her voice was hollow-toned, like the portentous voice of Lady Macbeth on the night of Duncan’s murder. “Charles,” she said, “there’s terrible news. Daphne was murdered while we were at the theatre.”

      The young man stared at her with disbelief for a moment. Then he paled and said, “Oh, my God, no!” and collapsed into a black walnut armchair.

      Hardin walked into the Victorian parlor.

      Lennox still sat on the little sofa, his face as white as his long hair, his eyes staring with bewilderment. The fat, sweaty detective hovered over him. The old man looked up at Hardin. “Bart,” he said, “they’re going to arrest me, aren’t they? They’re going to put me in jail. I’ve gone through a lot of human experiences in my time, but this is a thing I simply can’t believe. Did you talk to our good friend Romano, Bart? Does he actually believe I would murder Daphne? I loved her, Bart. She was sweet and gentle and brave and I loved her very much.”

      Hardin’s voice was harsh and edgy, as it always was when he was deeply moved. He said, “It’s just routine. They have to take you in for questioning. I’m leaving now to get Marty Land to act as your attorney. Just don’t worry. It’ll be straightened out in no time.”

      “But Land is a very expensive lawyer, Bart. I can’t afford his fees. I think the courts will appoint an attorney to represent me without charge.”

      “Land is representing you,” Bart said curtly. “I won enough in the floater tonight to afford his retainer.”

      “You’re a good man, Bart,” Lennox said. “But I can’t let you do this. I can’t let you spend a lot of money for my defense. It isn’t worth it. My old life can’t be of much value now. There’s too little left of it.”

      Hardin turned his back to keep Lennox from seeing his face. He said, “Nuts. Just remember to keep your chin up, that’s all I ask of you. You told me once that Rostand’s Cyrano was your favorite play. Act the part of Cyrano and remember your unblemished plume.”

      Bart walked hurriedly from the big room. In the hallway he encountered Sandrean, the Mexican magician who was known professionally as El Diablo. The guard had just ushered him through the door. Sandrean was a dumpy, swarthy little man in his forties. He had none of the leanness and glib suavity that is usually associated with prestidigitators. To compensate for his unimpressive appearance and to justify his stage name, he had grown a Dali antenna of a mustache with waxed points and had supplemented it with arrowhead chin whiskers. Still he resembled a jolly, well-fed friar far more than he resembled Mephistopheles.

      Cora Mattingly was still playing the role of tragic heroine. Her tones were sepulchral as she related the story of the murder to her roomer. Sandrean’s reaction to the news was startling.

      A stricken look came into his face and he spoke softly, as if he were addressing some person in the shadows of the hallway. “I knew it would happen,” he said. “Something terrible was certain to occur. It is all my fault.”

      “What do you mean?” the white-haired detective asked quickly.

      “The Feathered Serpent,” the magician said. “It is because of the Feathered Serpent that she died.”

      The precinct man said, “What’s this about feathers?”

      “The Feathered Serpent Illusion,” El Diablo replied, as if he were still addressing some unseen presence. “I should have known there would be a horrible vengeance for my sacrilege. The old gods are mighty ones. They are not to be mocked. But I went ahead. The Music Hall was a great opportunity for me and I wanted to be impressive, you see, so I invented the new illusion, the Illusion of the Feathered Serpent. I did not wish to perform only the old tricks. I worked a long while to perfect the new illusion. Instead of merely causing rosebushes to grow in thin air, I produced the Feathered Serpent from a receptacle no larger than a matchbox. It was eight feet in length and thick as a fire hose and it was covered with rainbow feathers like a peacock. Even the great Blackstone never produced so ambitious a mechanical illusion. And now the poor, dear little Daphne has died because of me.”

      The detective looked annoyed. He said, “Just what the hell are you trying to tell us, mister?”

      “I come from the Mexican state of Yucatán,” Sandrean explained. “There is the blood of proud and ancient peoples in me. The Mayans and the Toltecs and the Aztecs. They had a mighty god, the Feathered Serpent. Some knew him as Quetzalcoatl and others called him Kukulcán. When I produced his effigy I made a caricature of it for the amusement of the audience. I gave it a face as foolish as the face of the wooden dummy that my friend Montgomery uses in his act. I made it writhe and wriggle obscenely like a fan dancer. I caused the audience to hoot with laughter at my people’s ancient god. And now death and murder have struck the house I live in.”

      Mrs. Mattingly dropped the role of Lady Macbeth and became the practical landlady again. “Oh, quit talking nonsense!” she said.

      The pallid dancer, Elsa Travers, had come into the hall. She said, “It is not nonsense. Sandrean is right. There are many ancient mysteries we do not understand.”

      “You and your astrology and tea leaves and dream books,” Mrs. Mattingly said disparagingly. “It’s as silly СКАЧАТЬ