“I don’t see the problem,” he said.
“You will when you get there,” the director said. “Auntie Jane has an idée fixe. She believes her nephew Robbie is still alive. Robbie was attached as liaison officer to a U.S. Army unit that went ashore on D-Day at Omaha Beach. He was killed — his grave is in some corner of a Normandy field that is forever Brighton. But the curious brain of Auntie Jane rejects this. She believes her Robbie is walking the earth and about to appear at any moment.”
Whitman began to feel a mixture of revulsion and anger, as if he had just stepped in something nasty.
“Jeremy can’t approach her,” Mikeljohn went on. “She gives him tea and asks him questions about the family. But you, Marko my dear, with your American face and voice, will be immune.”
“She may think he’s the C.O. of Robbie’s unit,” Jeremy suggested.
“It’s possible. If she does, tell her the story of Robbie’s heroic demise. Then perhaps we can get on with producing plays. No, seriously, just hand her this note if you will.” Mikeljohn passed over a sealed envelope. “It restates our request for the costume jewelry. Then accept the stuff with our thanks and come away.”
Following verbal directions, Whitman walked the short distance to the address in The Lane, a complex of narrow streets near the seafront converted now to a district of shops selling mostly antiques and souvenirs. He rang a bell, heard a buzzer, opened the door, and climbed a flight of stairs. The door at the top was already ajar, part of a worried face visible behind the aperture.
For a few moments they were silent. Whitman had the envelope in his hand and the eyes behind the door watched it as if the envelope would speak when it was ready. Finally he said, “Miss Reedie?”
“Are you from them?”
“Yes. I’m to give you this and I believe you have something for me.”
“You’d better come inside.”
He went in and she closed the door. All Whitman could tell about the apartment was that it was dark brown and smelled of bacon. As he stood there, a cat performed tight figure eights between and around his ankles.
Jane Reedie was short and made shorter by her stooping posture. Whitman could imagine her bowing to perpetual applause. She led him into a sitting room, her eyes close to the head of the knobby cane that supported her. Here she did a three-point turn and peered up at him through auburn bangs. Her hair was neat and attractive — surely a wig.
“Is he all right?” she asked.
“Ma’am?” Whitman handed her the envelope.
“Robbie. I’m worried about him. You don’t understand how I feel...”
There was never the faintest possibility that Whitman would do as Jeremy suggested and inflict on this woman the truth of her nephew’s death 35 years ago. “I understand exactly how you feel. I can promise you Robbie is just fine.”
“Can I believe that?”
“Of course.”
Her eyes softened as she looked closely at Whitman. “You’re very kind,” she said. “I can see you are a gentleman.”
“Thank you.” He was afraid he was about to be offered hospitality. “I think you’d better read that,” he said.
As she opened the envelope and began reading the typewritten page inside, Whitman had time to study her face. The parchment skin, heavily wrinkled, showed years of neglect. But it was never too late. He could do a great deal to get rid of many of the signs of age. She could change to a fuller wig and hide the scars at the ears. If something could be done about her posture, she might go around as someone in her sixties instead of as the perambulating mummy she had chosen to become.
“All right,” Auntie Jane said. Her hand was trembling, the page crumpled in her grasp. “All right!” She slammed the letter down on a table with surprising force. “Wait here.”
She left the room. Whitman stood beside the table with the letter in reach. As he picked it up and read it, he could hear drawers opening and closing in another room. “Miss Reedie,” the upper-case typescript read, “We have Robbie. He is safe now. But he will be killed unless you obey instructions. Do not call the police. If you do, Robbie will be shot. Give your emerald necklace, your diamond brooch, your diamond pendant, and all the rings to the bearer of this message. Do nothing else. When we have the jewels, we will release Robbie and all will be as before.”
There was no signature. Whitman put down the letter as the old woman came back into the room. She was carrying a plastic bag with the name of a greengrocer printed on it. Whitman took the bag from her; inside it he could see a number of velvet-covered boxes.
“It’s all there,” she said. She sounded alert, completely in touch with the situation. The only indication of her madness was the fact that she was ransoming a dead man. “You haven’t lied to me have you?” she pleaded. “Will Robbie be all right now? I don’t mind losing my things as long as I can keep him.”
“I promise you,” Whitman said, “you and Robbie have a lot of happy years ahead of you.” As he prepared to leave, he picked up the letter. “I’m taking this with me,” he said.
Instead of going back to The Lion, he walked to Brenda Belziel’s house overlooking the sea. Approaching, he heard his name called. “Mark! Hi!” He looked up and saw Brenda on an upstairs porch. She was at a table in the shade of an awning. He could see the gleam of a coffee maker. Giant’s head loomed above the railing.
As he climbed the steps to the house, Whitman experienced a feeling unique in his entire life. Munich, New York, Los Angeles — this was the first time he had felt that he was coming home. It was so simple, there was nothing to it, and yet this must be what everybody else worked for and what all the songs and poetry were about. A relaxing of the muscles, a lifting of the heart, walking into a place where somebody was waiting and you had things you were anxious to tell her...
Brenda opened the door to him, started to speak, then hesitated, troubled by the tears in his eyes. “Are you all right?”
“Better than you know,” he said. As he came in, he gave her a one-arm squeeze around the waist, partially lifting her off the floor.
She laughed. “I don’t exactly mind that,” she said.
“I smell coffee.”
“There’s lots. I was hoping you’d show up.” They held hands going up the stairs. “What happened at the audition?”
“Audition for idiot of the year. But thanks to you I was on the alert. Wait till I tell you what’s been going on.”
Drinking strong black coffee and eating a croissant with butter and jam, Whitman told Brenda about Mikeljohn’s phony assignment involving his visit to Miss Reedie’s place, his discovery of the ransom note. “I have the stuff here in this bag,” he concluded. “It must be worth a bundle.” They spent a few minutes examining the diamonds and emeralds, obviously genuine, clearly worth many thousands.
“One thing I’m not sure of,” Whitman said. “Did Robbie really die in the war or is that part of Mikeljohn’s lie?”
“That part is true,” Brenda said. “Everybody around here knows of Jane Reedie and her obsession.”
“Then our friends are not kidnapers. There is no Robbie to be kidnaped.”
“No, but they’re guilty of extortion.”
“So what’s our next move?”
“The police. You did well to keep the note. I’ll call them, they’ll be here in five minutes. We give them the note and the jewels, you tell the story exactly as it happened, then that crew will get what they deserve.”
Whitman considered this. “All right,” he said at last. “But give me one hour before you call.”
“Why?”
“I want to talk to somebody first.”
“It’s the blonde. You want to give Amanda Royston a chance to get off the hook.”