Bill Pronzini - Schemers

“Yes, it does. Bothers me, too, but-”

“Maybe he did it that way because he wanted to fool you, Dad.” Emily, from her cross-legged slouch on the carpet.

Kerry said, “Emily, you’re supposed to be reading, not eavesdropping on adult conversation.”

I said, “No, wait a minute. What did you mean, maybe he did it to fool me?”

“You and the police,” Emily said. “You said he collects mysteries and he’s a big fan. What if he worked out a puzzle he thought nobody could solve, like in Agatha Christie’s books? Only instead of writing it, he actually did it because he thinks he’s smarter than real-life detectives.”

Well, by God, I thought. My thirteen-year-old logical minded, casually brilliant daughter.

Out of the mouths of babes.

I couldn’t sleep. Cullrane’s murder, the elusive wrongness of the crime scene, the gimmick that I couldn’t quite figure out. And Emily’s insight into Pollexfen’s motives, which I should have realized on my own. Cullrane had as much as presented me with the same insight on Tuesday: He’s a schemer, you’re a private eye. If you’re smarter than he is, you’ll figure it out like Mickey Spillane.

Pollexfen, the mystery buff. Pollexfen, the sly manipulator. Completely in character for him to have devised what he considered a perfect crime and then to set it into motion, not only as revenge against two people he hated but as a match of his wits against those of trained investigators. It would explain the “stolen” first editions, the report to the police, the insurance claim-all part and parcel of a twisted and deadly game. Hell, he’d even thrown out little clues. His request to Barney Rivera that Great Western assign its best investigator to the case. Quoting the Sherlock Holmes dictum to me. A goddamn open challenge.

Yes, but what about the time element? Cullrane had been blackmailing him for a long time; he’d hated his wife for a long time. Waiting until he figured out the right gimmick? One factor, probably, but there had to be another-a trigger of some kind, the final push across the line between intellectual game and actual murder.

Something Cullrane had done, maybe an increased demand for money? Possibly. The poor state of Pollexfen’s health? More likely. His age, his heart condition, those increased insurance premiums. Say he’d been told or intuited that he didn’t have long to live. So why not go out in an egocentric blaze of glory, one suited to his intelligence, his passion for crime fiction, the nature of his victims, his penchant for manipulation. End his life basking in the glow of his cleverness and final triumph. Also perfectly in character.

Well, that wasn’t going to happen. Not if I could help it.

How to prove his guilt to the police? Everything I had so far was circumstantial or speculative. They wouldn’t listen unless I could offer some proof, or at least a plausible explanation of how the murder was committed.

What was it about the library, the crime scene, that had struck me as wrong? Concentrate. I visualized the room again, replayed in stop time the few minutes I’d spent in there.

The shotgun in relation to Cullrane’s body?

No.

The position of the body?

… Yes, but that wasn’t all of it.

Angelina Pollexfen’s position?

No.

What then? Something else, something else…

The books.

The stack on the couch. And the blood-spattered rows next to the fireplace.

Yes, dammit, the books!

TUCKER DEVRIES

He hated bowling alleys.

Too many people crowded into a confined space on these league nights. And the noise-too much noise. Hard rubber and plastic balls racketing on polyurethane lanes and metal returns. Pins crashing, crashing, crashing. Yells, loud voices, loud laughter. An unending din that set up a pounding in his head until he felt like screaming.

They were unclean places, too. This one had sticky tabletops, soiled booth cushions and banquette seats, stained carpets. Dirt everywhere. He had to get up and go into the men’s room every few minutes to scrub his hands and face. Not that it did much good. The filth had crept into his pores, making his skin crawl. The only way to completely cleanse himself was to stand under a hot shower, lather his body over and over with rough-textured soap, and it would be many hours before he could do that.

Tonight, though, the feeling of contamination was more tolerable than on the other Thursday nights he’d come here to Los Alegres Lanes. He felt too good otherwise. Excited, but in that tamped-down, controlled way. Ready for the first execution, with the second soon to come.

He watched Cliff Henderson step up to the ball return, heft a gaudy, marbled blue ball in his big hands, then hook it powerfully down the lane. Strike. Henderson’s teammates cheered, made raucous comments, slapped his back. Ninth frame of the third game and they were winning this one as they’d won the previous two.

Now.

Devries got up from the banquette seat, walked to the bathroom to rewash his hands and face. Straight outside then and around to the north side of the building. He’d parked the van there because it was a semideserted area, not as well lighted as the big lot out front, crowded with thick shadows created by a low bluff that flanked the property on that side.

He unlocked the rear doors first, not hurrying, he had plenty of time; keyed the driver’s door open and leaned inside. From the glove compartment he transferred the roll of duct tape to his left jacket pocket, then the gun he’d bought to the right one. A. 45 automatic, lightweight on an aluminum frame but bulky-it made a bulge in the pocket. That was why he’d kept it in the van until now. Careful.

He left the van unlocked, walked back into the lobby to the long front desk-keeping his right hand in his pocket, around the gun, to minimize the bulge. From there he could see that Henderson’s team was done bowling. Chattering among themselves now while they changed their shoes and bagged their balls. The first time he’d come here, before the cemetery burning, Henderson and his teammates had had drinks together in the bar. The other two times, aware that he was being stalked, Henderson had left immediately and gone home. That was what he’d do tonight. Creature of habit. Couldn’t give up his twiceweekly league bowling, the only recreation he indulged in regularly. He was cautious, wary, but that wouldn’t matter. Surprise, Cliff-surprise!

Henderson putting his jacket on was the signal to move. Devries turned away from the desk, walking casually, and went outside again and down the row in the front lot to where Henderson’s pickup was slotted. An SUV stood next to it. A man getting into his car two rows away was the only person in sight.

Devries moved around to the side of the SUV, to where he had a clear vantage point. Unzipped the jacket pocket, got a tight grip on the gun. All set.

He watched the entrance. Brightly lit, gradations of grainy black on both sides, pole lights throwing glints of light off metal and glass. Perfect composition for a night study. Too bad he didn’t have time to set up a shot with his Nikkormat or even the Kodak digital. But there’d be plenty of time to create other mementos, much better ones, later on.

After two minutes Henderson came out alone, lugging his bowling bag. Devries ducked down out of sight. Footsteps in the cold darkness, coming close. The sound of the heavy bag thumping into the back of the pickup. He was moving by then, soundlessly, the gun out and ready. Timed it perfectly. Henderson was unlocking the driver’s door, his back turned. Heard him coming but not soon enough to react.

Devries used his body to crowd Henderson against the door, jabbing the automatic hard into his rib cage, saying in a low voice close to his ear, “This is a gun. Move and I’ll shoot you dead. Promise.”