The man in the diver’s wetsuit signaled agreement and angled cautiously down the slope in bare feet, carrying flippers and a face mask in one hand and a tank harness in the other. The sheriff’s deputy waved the last two cars of the convoy onward, and after they had passed, the driver of the heavy equipment towtruck maneuvered his vehicle into a position on the pavement that was perpendicular to the shoreline below. Beside the third of the parked vehicles stood two solemn, foreign-looking men in black business suits, one of them middle-aged and one of them considerably older. As the man in diving dress jumped into the water, the older man made an impatient gesture and began an awkward, zig-zag course down the slope toward the shore.
That was the last glimpse I had for an interval of what R. J. called the “fishing expedition” because in the next moment he and I in the company of the county sheriff were shown by a sullenly handsome younger man into the foyer of the Davis house and from there into a spacious front sitting room lined with books and display cases.
“You’ll have to join the party, Mr. Macmillan,” R. J. said to him. “At least for a while.”
As we entered the room, we could observe Byron L. Davis, our involuntary host, standing near a distant casement window with his arms folded, staring out over a terrace at the activity farther down the shore. He turned reluctantly as we approached and said, “Good morning. Only I sense that the morning is far from good.” He singled R. J. out with his look. “You appear to have decided that Václav made it nearly to our door. How terribly strange.”
“I think it might be even stranger than that, Mr. Davis,” R. J. said. “I’m sort of hoping you and Mr. Macmillan can help us decide how much of it is really strange and how much of it isn’t.” He put his hand on my arm and said, “This is my wife, by the way. Ginny Carr, who helps me out sometimes when I’m stumped, and I understand that you’ve already met Sheriff Bonner.”
“I’m pleased,” Davis said to me with an unpleased face and held out a limp hand, following the performance of which duty he invited us to sit in a nearby group of sofas and chairs. A short period of quiet ensued before he cleared his throat. “What... or rather, I’m at a loss, Sheriff Bonner, and Mr. Carr, as to what information you are seeking.”
All at once a metallic whining noise reached our ears through the row of open casements, and we turned as a group to look in that direction. I rose to my feet, saying, “I’m the least necessary person to this conversation, I’m sure, so I think perhaps...” Without finishing the sentence except with a nod I moved quickly across to the windows and looked out.
“Nothing yet,” I reported disingenuously to the group, since I could see quite clearly that a long, heavy cable was unwinding from the rear of the towtruck, then down the slope and into the lake, and that the two men in black suits were now standing together on what appeared to be the very verge of the shoreline, leaning out intently over the water.
“Good,” I heard R. J. say. “Because I’d rather get this settled ahead of any developments.”
Developments, however, appeared to be coming on rather quickly. As I stood at the window watching, the diver surfaced from the depths, removed his breathing apparatus, and gave a shout, whereupon, in an incident of disturbing irony, one of the two men along the verge, the older one, overbalanced and fell into the lake.
Behind me R. J.’s steady voice was saying, “...so let me put it to you this way, Mr. Davis and Mr. Macmillan: provided that the body of Václav Hucek is found down below, can you suggest any reason why his cause of death might be something other than drowning?”
As for drowning, the unlucky gentleman who had lost his footing seemed to be a capable swimmer in spite of his age, and he was quickly helped back onto the land in his dripping suitcoat and pants by his companion.
“I — can’t imagine anything,” said Byron Davis in answer to my husband’s question. “Can you, Clive?”
“Yes, I can,” the young man responded in a guarded tone.
In the meantime, after removing his tank harness, the diver boosted himself out of the water as I continued to watch, then stood and waved broadly with both his arms toward the rear of the towtruck. At the sound of a noisy meshing of gears the cable grew taut, and then came the further sound of the truck’s engine laboring heavily, too heavily for me to pretend to ignore.
“They’ve hooked onto something,” I said, peering behind me.
Byron Davis, I saw, was on his feet, rubbing his hands together and looking distressed. “Poor Václav,” he said. “Poor Václav. I’ve had such awful visions...” His eyes roamed from me to Clive Macmillan to the glass-enclosed violin near where R. J. sat.
“Clive,” he said in a tone meant to be commanding but that sounded merely willful and shrill, “Clive — be very, very careful in what you say.”
“I intend to, Byron. I do intend to.”
“The car is breaking the water,” I reported. “And... now it’s... coming up on the land.”
There was a rush to join me at the windows on the parts of the sheriff and Clive Macmillan, but Byron Davis held back, and for that reason, no doubt, so did R. J.
The drama by the lake, meanwhile, played itself out in a scene of stark inevitability. As the wind whipped in gusts and the threatening sky seemed to grow yet darker and more ominous, the small, mud-encrusted vehicle, shedding water from every seam, rose onto the shore, slewing sideways, and came to a precarious halt on the slope, held in position by the towline.
Men approached from several directions, and one of them, after trying the driver’s door without success, applied a heavy crowbar to it near the handle. The door sprang open as we watched, releasing a small flood of water, and we knew from the way he shied hack, that the remains of Václav Hucek must be strapped inside on the seat.
“Clive,” said Byron Davis’s voice from behind us. “Please allow me to explain.”
“...at eight o’clock I reported my fears for Václav’s safety to your office, sheriff, and then sat here in this room with Clive, waiting and wondering and — and trying to find solace.” A look bordering on defiance passed briefly across his face. “I regarded Václav Hucek as my friend. I was weeping. And Clive was... holding me as I wept.
“When suddenly... when suddenly we heard a loud banging at one of the casements. A face peered in at us — and it was Václav’s face! He’d taken all that time to drive forty-five miles and then had climbed up the icy steps — such a stubborn, stubborn man — and had come for some reason of his own to the windows on the terrace instead of the door.
“We rushed, of course, to bring him in, and it was apparent to us immediately that he was not merely exhausted but suffering from some affliction. His face had a horrible cast to it, and he seemed almost to lurch as he walked. But rather than...” Davis passed a hand over his forehead and then stared away, as if he were in a trance. “Rather than allowing us to help him, he pulled himself into this room and... stood there, near that table. I can see him now, standing there, his face almost blood red and yet pallid somehow, standing there screaming at us, berating us for our... our presumed behavior. He called me a name which I refuse to repeat and will not tolerate, and I... I stepped forward and slapped him across the face. Involuntarily. Not hard — was it, Clive? — not hard, but he, Václav... his eyes rolled up, and he let out a horrible cry. Then he fell against the table and slipped to the floor.