He cruised slowly past each of the houses he had visited that morning, hitting the button on the remote opposite each garage. Nothing happened. He parked opposite the Raysters’ and went up to the door. It was now nearly dark and lights showed in several windows.
Monica Rayster came to the door in a hot pink sweatsuit with a matching elastic band around her head. Somewhere in the house a tape player or VCR was pounding out an aerobic dance routine. “Oh, it’s the policeman again!”
“Just a few more questions, Mrs. Rayster. Maybe I should’ve phoned first.”
“No problem. Come in.” She ushered him into the room with the merry-go-rounds, went away to turn off the tape, and came back with a towel.
“This won’t take long,” said Auburn. “I wonder, did you or your husband have any transmission work done on your cars recently?”
She looked stunned. “Our cars? No. Why?”
“Did you have any work done on your garage door opener?”
Her surprise increased. “No. John would have fixed that himself. He installed it in the first place.”
“I imagine you’re probably into doing some electrical work yourself, aren’t you?” He glanced at the examples of “elektrokitsch” displayed in the room.
“Oh, not really. I know not to connect the black wire to the white wire, but John does all the repairs and restorations on the mechanisms. Why do you ask?”
“One more question. Are any of the pieces in your collection operated by remote control?”
She was now completely bewildered. “What do you mean by remote control?”
“Radio controlled. Like these little cars the kids have, with the—”
“Oh no. The only toys we collect are antiques, from before the days of radio. How does all this tie in with that man getting killed? Or does it?” She gave him a bemused smile, as if she thought he had just dreamed up some idiotic questions so as to have an excuse for coming back for a second interview.
“Apparently it doesn’t,” he said, matching her smile as he rose to leave.
Things hadn’t changed much at the Roetherls’. The fog of cigarette smoke was perhaps a few degrees denser and more acrid, and a tray with soiled dishes showed that Mrs. Roetherl had lately had her dinner. But the television still babbled unheeded, and Roetherl was still puttering over his hooked rug. Auburn asked him if he’d had any work done on his garage door recently.
“The garage door?” Roetherl inhaled smoke deeply and expelled it in billows from his nostrils. “You mean repairs?”
“Yes. In particular, on the electric door opener. If you have one.”
“I have one, and it works fine. I just greased the chain in August. What’s your point?”
“Do you do your own automotive repairs, too?”
“Some of them. We don’t use the car much now. Lambie gets carsick, and I don’t dare leave her alone.”
“What about transmission work?”
“I wouldn’t touch that. But I’ve never had any transmission trouble with this car.”
“Does Mrs. Roetherl — I mean — can she walk?”
Roetherl grimaced through another cloud of smoke. “The doctor says the muscles are okay but she just can’t get it together up here.” He pounded his temple with his forefinger, spilling ashes. “I carry her down those stairs every morning and carry her up every night. I asked the doctor about a chair lift, and he said wait a while. You know what that means.” He selected a length of colored yam and fitted it into his latchhook. “We had some good times, though, Lambie and I. Went around the world three times.”
“I understand you’ve been retired for quite a number of years.”
“More than twenty-five. I inherited my grandfather’s engineering business but unfortunately not his genius as an architect. I never knew a pilaster from an architrave. That’s why I sold out while I was ahead.”
“Earlier today you said you saw a car entering the garage next door sometime yesterday afternoon.”
“That’s right,” nodded Roetherl, clearly relieved that the spotlight was off his own affairs. “Around four. A red Alfa Romeo.”
“And you’d seen that same car there before?”
“Often.”
“Did you happen to notice whether the garage door went up automatically?”
“No. I can’t see the door from the kitchen window.”
“And you didn’t see it leave later?”
“For all I know, she’s still there.”
Auburn took his leave while Roetherl was shifting his wife into a more comfortable position.
Neldrick’s house was dark except for a dim glow in the entry hall. But the blind man answered Auburn’s ring at once and on hearing his voice released the chain and let him in. He wasn’t wearing his dark glasses this evening. Touching chairs and door frames lightly as he went and putting on one or two lights for Auburn’s benefit, he led the way into a large, comfortable living room.
“You’ll have to excuse any dust in here,” said Neldrick, sinking into an overstuffed chair. “When Beth isn’t around, the cleaning lady gets a little slack.”
“Does your cleaning lady come every day?”
“No, only Mondays and Fridays.” It was uncanny how the blind man’s eyes, guided by Auburn’s voice, seemed almost to be meeting his with their glassy stare. “She’s due again tomorrow.”
Auburn sat down opposite Neldrick and slowly and silently drew his revolver. “You said this morning that you hadn’t had any visitors yesterday. Do you still hold to that?”
“Certainly.”
“What if I told you somebody saw a small red sports car pull into your garage yesterday afternoon around four o’clock?” The revolver was now pointed straight between Neldrick’s idly roving eyes. Auburn’s heart was hammering in his throat; he could feel sweat trickling down his sides.
A shadow of annoyance passed over Neldrick’s face but nothing more. “A client did visit me yesterday afternoon, by appointment,” he conceded.
“You mean a patient?” Auburn’s voice sounded hollow and distant to his own ears.
“Psychologists don’t use that word, since we’re not physicians. The real doctors don’t like it. But, yes, it was a professional visit. The visitor’s identity, of course, is privileged information.”
Auburn wrapped his left hand around his right wrist to steady it and began slowly squeezing the trigger of the revolver.
“I’m not asking for a name,” he said, keeping his voice level with an effort. “I just wonder why you denied having had a visitor yesterday when I asked about it before.”
Neldrick was leaning back and indulging in a sour grin as the firing pin snapped forward. “Because,” he said, “the local zoning regulations prohibit me from seeing clients in my home. There’s a fighter on the shelf behind you.”
“I’m sorry?”
“I thought you were having trouble fighting a cigarette. You sound as if you needed one.”
Auburn’s empty revolver was back in its holster. “I’ll be okay. I’ve just got a touch of indigestion.” Which was true enough.
He paused in Neldrick’s dark driveway to reload his weapon before returning to the Roetherls’. On impulse he walked down their driveway to the garage and tried lifting the overhead door on the right. It rolled up easily on its tracks to reveal Karl Roetherl doing something inside with a flashlight and screwdriver.
“What’s the idea?” sputtered Roetherl with canine ferocity. “You just about knocked me off this step-ladder. You’re on private property.”
“Settle down, Mr. Roetherl,” said Auburn, staying at the open end of the garage. “Tell me about the garage door.”
“There’s nothing to tell.”
“I think there is. When did you have it worked on?”