Mystery

“I guess it’s impossible to see it,” von Heilitz said, “even with excellent eyes. But it’s there.”

“What?”

“A mourning band,” von Heilitz said. “He told Bishop that those letters were about you.”

Tom looked back at the heavy white-headed man smoking a long cigar at the window overlooking the terrace, and even though he could not see it, he did: he saw it because he knew von Heilitz was right, it was there, a black band Mrs. Kingsley had cut from an old fabric and sewn on his sleeve.

His grandfather turned away from the window and picked up the yellow paper and the red envelope. He carried them to the wall behind the desk, swung out a section of paneling, and then reached in to unlatch some other, interior door. The note and the envelope disappeared into the wall, and Upshaw latched the interior door and swung the paneling shut. He took one tigerish glance through the window and left the study.

“Well, that’s what we came for,” von Heilitz said. “You don’t have any more doubts, do you?”

“No,” Tom said. He got to his knees. “I’m not sure what I do have.”

Von Heilitz helped him to his feet. The couple reading magazines on their terrace had fallen asleep. Tom followed the detective to the white concrete wall, and von Heilitz stooped and held out interlaced fingers for him. Tom put his right foot into von Heilitz’s hands, and felt himself being propelled upward. He landed on the other side of the wall with a thud that jarred his spine. Von Heilitz went over the wall like an acrobat. He dusted off his hands, and brushed rimes of sand from the front of his suit. “Let’s go back to the hotel and call Tim Truehart,” he said.

Tom trudged after the detective on legs that seemed to weigh a hundred pounds each. His shoulder still hurt, and his burned hand ached, and sand in his shoes abraded his toes. The old man’s suit hung on him like lead. Von Heilitz looked at him over his shoulder. Tom yanked at his lapels, trying to wrestle the suit into a more comfortable accommodation with his body.

When they got into the cane field, von Heilitz turned around. Tom stopped walking. “Are you all right?” von Heilitz asked.

“Sure,” Tom said.

“You don’t like me very much right now, do you?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Tom said, and that was true too: he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t say anything at all.

Von Heilitz nodded. “Well, let’s get back to town.” He started walking toward the row of willows, and Tom followed, unable to make himself shorten the distance between them.

The old man was waiting beside the battered red car when Tom came around the first of the trees, and as soon as he saw Tom he opened his door and got in. Tom got in the other door and sat squeezed against it, as if there were two other people in the back seat.

“Everything go all right, Lamont?” Andres asked.

“We saw what we had to see.”

Tom closed his eyes and slumped down in the seat. He saw his grandfather inhaling all the air in the study as he read a little yellow note; he saw him turn instinctively toward the window, like a lion that has felt the first arrow in his side.

Tom did not speak during the drive back to the middle of town, and when von Heilitz held open the door of Sinbad’s Cavern for him, he hurried past as if fearing that the old man would touch him.

They rode up in the elevator in black silence.

Von Heilitz opened the door to his room, and Tom walked around him to unlock his own door. A maid had straightened the bed and organized the things on the table. The papers and envelopes were stacked on a chair, and the cheese and sausage had been put back in their bags. He picked up the novel about the Blue Rose murders, and threw himself on the bed. From the adjoining room came the sounds of von Heilitz speaking into the telephone. Tom opened the book and began to read.

A few minutes later von Heilitz came into his room. Tom barely glanced up from his book. The old man spun a chair around and straddled it backwards. “Do you want to know what Truehart’s been doing?”

“Okay,” Tom said, reluctantly closing the book.

“He knows of a man that Jerry could have hired—a guy named Schilling who makes a shaky living brokering used rifles, old cars, even a few motorboats, whatever he can get his hands on. He did a two-year stretch in the Wisconsin state prison for receiving stolen goods a few years ago, and ever since he’s been living in a little place near a run-down tourist attraction outside Eagle Lake. Near that machine shop where they kept the stolen goods, too. Two people saw this Schilling talking with Jerry Hasek in a bar. The night of the fire, he disappeared.”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” Tom said.

“No, not exactly, but Tim went to the local bank. Schilling has a little account there, and after Tim had a long talk with the manager, he had a look at the account records. Every summer for the past four years, Schilling has been putting something between eight and ten thousand in his account.” Von Heilitz grinned at him.

Tom didn’t get it.