John Verdon - Think of a Number

“We have two separate problems here, Mr. Wellstone. The Peony police will no doubt get back to you regarding the theft. That’s not why I’m here. I’m investigating a different matter, and I need to ask you some questions. A state police detective who came by the other day was told-by a Mr. Plumstone, I believe-that three nights ago you had a pair of bird-watchers as guests here-a man and his mother.”

“That’s the one!”

“What one?”

“The one who stole my ruby slippers!”

“The bird-watcher stole your slippers?”

“The bird-watcher, the burglar, the pilfering little bastard-yes, him!”

“And the reason this was not mentioned to the detective from the state police…?”

“It wasn’t mentioned because it wasn’t known. I told you I only discovered the theft this morning.”

“So you weren’t in the cottage since the man and his mother checked out?”

“‘Checked out’ is a rather too-formal way of saying it. They simply departed at some point during the day. They’d paid in advance, so there was no need, you see, for any ‘checking-out’ procedure. We strive for a certain civilized informality here, which of course makes the betrayal of our trust all the more galling.” Talking about it had brought Wellstone close to gagging on the gall.

“Was it normal to wait so long before…?”

“Before making up a room? Normal at this time of year. November is our slowest month. The next booking for Emerald Cottage is Christmas week.”

“The BCI man didn’t go through the cottage?”

“BCI man?”

“The detective who was here two days ago was from the Bureau of Criminal Investigation.”

“Ah. Well, he spoke to Mr. Plumstone, not to me.”

“Who exactly is Mr. Plumstone?”

“That’s an awfully good question. That’s a question I’ve been asking myself.” He said this with an arch bitterness, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, I mustn’t let extraneous emotional issues intrude into official police business. Paul Plumstone is my business partner. We are joint owners of The Laurels. At least we are partners as of this moment.”

“I see,” said Gurney. “Getting back to my question-did the BCI man go through the cottage?”

“Why would he? I mean, he was apparently here about that ghastly business up the mountain at the institute, wanting to know if we’d seen any suspicious characters lurking about. Paul-Mr. Plumstone-told him that we hadn’t, and the detective left.”

“He didn’t press you for any specific information on your guests?”

“The bird-watchers? No, of course not.”

“Of course not?”

“The mother was a semi-invalid, and the son, although he turned out to be a thief, was hardly a mayhem-and-carnage sort of person.”

“What sort of person would you say he was?”

“I would have said he was on the frail side. Definitely on the frail side. Shy.”

“Would you say he was gay?”

Wellstone looked thoughtful. “Interesting question. I’m almost always sure, one way or the other, but in this case I’m not. I got the impression that he wanted to give me the impression he was gay. But that doesn’t make much sense, does it?”

Not unless the whole persona was an act , thought Gurney. “Other than frail and shy, how else would you describe him?”

“Larcenous.”

“I mean from a physical point of view.”

Wellstone frowned. “A mustache. Tinted glasses.”

“Tinted?”

“Like sunglasses, dark enough so you couldn’t really see his eyes-I hate talking to someone when I can’t see their eyes, don’t you?-but light enough so he could wear them indoors.”

“Anything else?”

“Woolly hat-one of those Peruvian things pulled down around his face-scarf, bulky coat.”

“How did you get the impression he was frail?”

Wellstone’s frown tightened into a kind of consternation. “His voice? His manner? You know, I’m not really sure. All I remember seeing-actually seeing -was a big puffy coat and hat, sunglasses, and a mustache.” His eyes widened with sudden umbrage. “Do you think it was a disguise?”

Sunglasses and a mustache? To Gurney it sounded more like a parody of a disguise. But even that little extra twist could fit the weirdness of the pattern. Or was he over-thinking it? Either way, if it was a disguise, it was an effective one, leaving them with no useful physical description. “Can you recall anything else about him? Anything at all?”

“Obsessed with our little feathered friends. Had an enormous pair of binoculars-looked like those infrared things you see commandos in the movies creeping around with. Left his mother in the cottage and spent all his time in the woods, searching for grosbeaks-rose-breasted grosbeaks.”

“He told you that?”

“Oh, yes.”

“That’s surprising.”

“Why?”

“There aren’t any rose-breasted grosbeaks in the Catskills in the winter.”

“But he even said… That lying bastard!”

“He even said what?”

“The morning before he left, he came into the main house, and he couldn’t stop raving about the damn grosbeaks. He kept repeating over and over that he had seen four rose-breasted grosbeaks. Four rose-breasted grosbeaks, he kept saying, as though I were doubting him.”

“Maybe he wanted to be sure you’d remember,” said Gurney, half to himself.

“But you’re telling me he couldn’t have seen them, because there aren’t any to be seen. Why would he want me to remember something that didn’t happen?”

“Good question, sir. May I take a quick look at the cottage now?”

From the sitting room, Wellstone led him through an equally Victorian dining room, full of ornate oak chairs and mirrors, out a side door onto a pathway whose spotless cream-colored pavers, while not exactly the yellow brick road of Oz, did bring it to mind. The path ended at a storybook cottage covered with English ivy, bright green despite the season.

Wellstone unlocked the door, swung it open, and stood to the side. Instead of entering, Gurney looked in from the threshold. The front room was partly a living room and partly a shrine to the film-with its collection of posters, a witch hat, a magic wand, Cowardly Lion and Tin Man figurines, and a stuffed replica of Toto.

“Would you like to go in and see the display case the slippers were taken from?”

“I’d rather not,” said Gurney, stepping back onto the path. “If you’re the only person who’s been inside since your guests left, I’d like to keep it that way until we can get an evidence-processing team on site.”

“But you said you weren’t here for-Wait a minute, you said you were here for ‘a different matter’-isn’t that what you said?”

“Yes, sir, that’s correct.”

“What sort of ‘evidence processing’ are you talking about? I mean, what… Oh, no, surely you can’t think that my light-fingered bird-watcher is your Jack the Ripper?”

“Frankly, sir, I have no reason to think he is. But I have to cover every possibility, and it would be prudent for us to have the cottage examined more closely.”

“My, oh, my. I don’t know what to say. If it’s not one crime, it’s another. Well, I suppose I can’t impede police progress-outlandish as it seems. And there’s a silver lining. Even if all this has nothing to do with the horror on the hill, you may end up finding a clue to my missing slippers.”

“Always a possibility,” said Gurney with a polite smile. “You can expect an evidence team here sometime tomorrow. Meanwhile keep the door locked. Now, let me ask you once more-because this is very important-are you sure no one but yourself has been inside the cottage during the past two days, not even your partner?”