Mystery

He remembered taking them out, unfolding them, and putting them on top of the pile of clippings. He saw his hands holding the damning notes, the creamy yellow of the paper. The words leapt up at him. SIN.

Tom crossed a capital T with the curve in the neck of a tenor saxophone. SIN, with an angular, slanting S.

By the time Lamont von Heilitz came back Tom had written out four versions of each note on separate pieces of paper. The old man walked around the table to look down at what he had done. He laid a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “You think you’ve done it?”

“They’re as close as I can come.”

“Then let’s get the envelopes ready,” von Heilitz said. He moved to the other chair, put the boxes of envelopes on the table, and took out eight envelopes in different colors. He dipped back into the bag for two ballpoint pens. “You address half, and I’ll do the others. Print your grandfather’s name and address on each, but vary the printing each time. We want him to open all these letters.”

He took two versions of each note, and said, “The one about paying for his sin—it was sin, by the way, and not sins?”

“I’m sure it was.”

“Good. I think that was the second one he got, don’t you? We don’t want to get them mixed up. He should get four of the first note today, and the other four tomorrow.”

Tom addressed four envelopes to Mr. Glendenning Upshaw, Bobby Jones Trail, Founders Club, Mill Walk in varying styles of printing, inserted the notes, sealed them, and put them in separate piles. Von Heilitz added two envelopes to each pile, and looked at his watch. “Two minutes,” he said.

“What happens in two minutes?”

“Our mailman arrives.” Von Heilitz put his hands behind his head, stretched out his legs, and closed his eyes. Down on the street, a middle-aged man in sunglasses and a white short-sleeved shirt walked past the pawnshop and leaned against the façade of The Home Plate. He slapped a cigarette from a pack and dipped his head toward the flame of a lilghter. He breathed out a cloud of smoke the color of milk and raised his head. Tom backed away from the window.

“See anything?” The old man’s eyes were still closed.

“Just a guy looking at the front of the hotel.”

Von Heilitz nodded. An Ostend’s Market truck crept down Calle Drosselmayer behind half a dozen girls on bicycles. The back of the truck gradually moved past the shop window and The Home Plate. The woman in the yellow dress came out of the bar, dragging behind her a man in a plaid shirt. The man in the sunglasses was gone.

Von Heilitz said, “Enter Andres,” and a soft double knock came from the door.

Tom laughed.

“You doubt?” Von Heilitz drew in his legs, and stood up and went to the door. A second later, he ushered the driver into Tom’s room.

Andres tossed him a roll of stamps in a cellophane wrapper. “So—want me to mail some letters for you?” He wandered over to the table, where the old man was removing the stamps from their container and sticking them on the letters.

Von Heilitz gave him a stack containing a red, a grey, and two white envelopes. “Here’s what I need, Andres—these letters all have to be mailed today before ten, from different points around the island. Drop one in the Elm Cove post office, another one downtown here, one at the substation in Turtle Bay, and the last one out at Mill Key.” Andres sketched a map in the air with his forefinger, nodded, and put the letters in the right-hand pocket of his ripped coat. Von Heilitz gave him the second batch of envelopes, and said, “Mail these in the same places after ten o’clock tonight. Is that all right?”

“Isn’t everything always all right?” Andres said. He put the second batch of envelopes in his left pocket. Then he slapped his right pocket, and said, “These you want to arrive this afternoon.” He slapped the left pocket. “These you want to arrive tomorrow. From all over the island. Easy.”

He leaned over and peered into the shopping bags. “You want me to call you when I’m done? It doesn’t look like you’re going anywhere.”

“Call me around one,” von Heilitz said. “We’ll want to take a little trip in the afternoon.” He stood up and walked Andres back to the door. His hand went into his pocket, and a folded bill passed into the driver’s hand. Andres slapped his forehead, mumbled something to the old man, and took a paperback from his left pocket and passed it to von Heilitz, who thrust it into a jacket pocket. He came back into the room, bent over the shopping bags, reached down, and pulled out a shiny gold and blue bag.

“What do we do now?” Tom asked.

Von Heilitz tore open the bag along its seam, pointed the open end at him, and said, “Have a potato chip.”

Tom took a chip out of the bag. The old man set the bag on the table and walked around to the window.

“Was the man you saw looking at the front of the hotel an ordinary-looking fellow in his fifties with thinning black hair, a little portly around the middle, and wearing black boots, tan slacks, a white shirt, and sunglasses?”