Potboiler

Pfefferkorn stood at the mouth of the driveway to the de Vallée mansion. The gate was open. In all his visits he had never once seen it left that way. He leaned forward, his hands on his hips, and started to hike up. The driveway was steep. He began to pant and sweat. Why had he told the cabbie he would walk the rest of the way? Perhaps it was his mind’s way of slowing him down. Perhaps he already knew he did not want to know what awaited him. As he climbed higher, the thrum of the boulevard died away. All those trees and hedges and gates and heavy clay walls were there to maintain privacy and quiet. But they had another consequence. They ensured that nobody on the outside would hear you scream.

The second gate was also open.

He ran the last hundred yards, cresting the hill and sprinting for the open front door. He barged inside, calling Carlotta’s name. From a distant room came the dog’s crazed howls. Pfefferkorn ran, slipping on the polished floors. He made wrong turns. He backtracked. He stopped calling Carlotta’s name and called for the dog instead, hoping it would appear to lead him to the right place. The howling grew more urgent but no closer, and he ran from room to room, at last skidding to a halt in front of the ballroom. Frantic scrabbling, nails on wood. He threw open the double doors. The dog shot past, yelping. Pfefferkorn froze on the threshold, staring at the dance floor, at the glazy lake of blood and the human form heaped at its center.

THREE A NOVEL OF SUSPENSE

54.

“How did you know the victim?”

“He was Carlotta’s dance partner.”

“What kind of dance?”

“It matters?”

“We’ll decide what matters, Pfefferkorn.”

“Answer the question, Pfefferkorn.”

“Tango.”

“That’s a pretty sexy dance, huh, Pfefferkorn?”

“I suppose.”

“How long have you known Mrs. de Vallée?”

“We’re old friends.”

“‘Friends.’”

“Recently it’s become more than that.”

“Now there’s an image I didn’t need.”

“TMI, Pfefferkorn. TMI.”

“You asked.”

“What do you think of the victim?”

“What do you mean what do I think?”

“Were you close with him?”

“We didn’t fraternize.”

“That’s a big word, Pfefferkorn.”

“Don’t play games, Pfefferkorn.”

“I’m not playing games.”

“So you didn’t ‘fraternize.’”

“No.”

“Did you like him?”

“He was fine, I guess.”

“You guess.”

“What am I supposed to say? He worked for Carlotta.”

“Don’t lie to us, Pfefferkorn.”

“We’ll know if you do.”

“I’m not lying.”

“Someone’s doing sexy dances with my more-than-friend, I have an opinion.”

“Well I don’t.”

“You been drinking, Pfefferkorn?”

“I had a few drinks at the bar.”

“What kind of drinks?”

“Bourbon.”

“What kind of bourbon?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You like bourbon but not any specific brand.”

“I’m not a drinker. I asked for bourbon.”

“If you’re not a drinker how come you asked for bourbon?”

“I was in the mood for a drink.”

“Is that right?”

“Yes.”

“Something bothering you?”

“Something you’re nervous about?”

“Something you feel guilty about?”

“Something you want to tell us?”

“You can tell us, Pfefferkorn. We’re on your side.”

“We’re here to help you. You can trust us.”

Silence.

“So that’s how it’s going to be, huh?”

“I’m doing my best to answer your questions.”

“We haven’t asked a question.”

“Which is why I’m not answering.”

“You always this sassy, Pfefferkorn?”

“I’m sorry.”

“What for?”

“Being sassy.”

“Anything else you’re sorry for, Pfefferkorn?”

“Anything else on your mind?”

“On your conscience?”

“Anything else you’d like to share?”

“I’ll tell you whatever you’d like to know.”

“Let’s cut the baloney, Pfefferkorn. Where’s Carlotta de Vallée?”

“I told you. I don’t know. I came to look for her and I found . . . that.”

“You don’t want to tell us what you found?”

“. . . it was horrible.”

“You think so?”

“Of course I do.”

“You didn’t have anything to do with it?”

“What? No.”

“There’s no need to get touchy, Pfefferkorn. It’s just a question.”

“Do I look like the kind of person who could do that?”

“What kind of person do you think does that?”

“Someone obviously very disturbed.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You’re telling me you don’t find it disturbing?”

“Where’s Carlotta de Vallée?”

“I don’t know.”

“Why don’t you take a break and think about it.”

Alone in the interrogation room, Pfefferkorn shut his eyes tightly against the image of Jesús María de Lunchbox’s mutilated corpse. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to eat rigatoni again. Just as he was starting to feel better, the door swung open and the detectives reentered. Canola was a smiling black man with large, feminine sunglasses. Sockdolager was white and unshaven. His shirt wasn’t rumpled, but only because his paunch was straining it so hard.

“Okey-dokey,” Canola said. “Let’s try this again.”

Pfefferkorn surmised that the purpose of asking the same questions over and over was to trip him up. For a fifth time he narrated the events of the evening. He described his concern upon finding the gates open. He described the dog shrieking to be let out.

“You tell a good story,” Canola said. “No wonder you’re a writer.”

“It’s not a story,” Pfefferkorn said.

“He didn’t say it was untrue,” Sockdolager said.