Al looked at me, a little miffed. "Oh?" he said. "And what's the easy way, sherlock?"
"Give your rookie a twenty-minute crash course on word processors. Tell him to get a business card from a legitimate company. Send him to call on Frank Gloriana at their office on Clematis Street. The rookie is wearing civvies. He tries to sell Frank a Smith Corona PWP 10 °C. I'm betting Frank will say, 'Sorry, we've already got one.' "
The sergeant burst out laughing and slapped his thigh. "What a scamster you are!" he said. "Thank God you're on our side or you'd end up owning Florida. Yeah, that's a great swindle, and we'll try it before the rookie starts pounding the pavement. You really think the letters are coming out of the Glorianas' office?"
"A good bet," I said. "There are some doors up there leading to closed-off rooms I didn't see. It's worth a go."
"It sure is," Rogoff said. "Thanks for the suggestion."
"You're quite welcome," I said. "Al, are you serious about reenacting the murder?"
"Sure I'm serious. Look, we picked up some odds and ends of physical evidence. None of them are heavy by themselves, but taken together they add up to a possible homicide planned to look like a suicide. I'll explain as we go along. Now I want you to go back to the kitchen. I'll go outside and pretend I'm the perp. You try to act like you think Gillsworth did in the few minutes before his death."
I went to the kitchen, which still showed blackened scars from the grease fire. In a moment I heard the front doorbell ring. I paused a moment and then returned to the entrance. I peered through the judas window. The sergeant was standing there. I opened the door.
"All right," Rogoff said, "the victim probably does the same thing: glances through the window, sees someone he knows, and lets him in."
"Him?" I said. "Not a woman? Or maybe two people?"
"Possible," he said. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him. "Now the perp is inside but doesn't know Gillsworth has left a pan of oil heating on the range. And before the victim can tell him, the killer does this …"
He leveled a forefinger at me thumb up, other fingers clenched.
"Why the gun?" I asked him.
"Because the killer wants to get Gillsworth into the bathtub so he can fake a suicide. A polite invitation just isn't going to do it. Now put your hands in the air and turn around."
I followed orders. In a few seconds I felt a light slap on the back of my skull.
"What was that?" I asked.
"The guy-or lady if you insist-slugs Gillsworth on the back of the noggin. The docs found it: a forcible blow caused by the famous blunt instrument. Could have been a gun butt. Heavy enough to render the victim unconscious. Now fall backward. Don't worry; I'll catch you."
Somewhat nervously I toppled. Al caught me under the arms.
"My God," he said, "what do you weigh?"
"One-seventy."
"Bullshit."
"Well, maybe a little more."
"Yeah, twenty pounds more," he said. "Gillsworth weighed about one-fifty."
"That figures," I said. "He was a scrawny bird."
"And a lot easier to drag than you," Al said, moving backward down the corridor toward the bathroom, pulling me along with him.
"We know it was done like this," the sergeant said, "because the victim's heels made furrows in the carpet. Photographed and the fibers analyzed. And guess what we found in the parallel tracks."
"What?"
"Cat hairs."
"Oh-oh. The motel."
"You got it. So we wept upstairs and vacuumed Gillsworth's other clothes and shoes. More cat hair. He must have spent a lot of time in Cabin Four. The hair was silver-gray."
"Peaches," I said. "Definitely."
He made no comment, trying not to huff and puff as he dragged me past the poet's den and through the door of the bathroom.
"Okay," he said, "you can stand up now. I'm not going to put you in the tub; it hasn't been washed out yet." He assisted me to my feet and glanced at his watch. "Less than three minutes from front door to bathroom. Then I figure the killer tugged Gillsworth over the edge of the tub and let him fall. That's when the victim cracked his head on the rim. He had two separate and distinct wounds on the back of his skulclass="underline" one from the gun butt, the other made when he was dumped in the tub and smashed his head. You can still see the mark on the rim."
I stood erect and gazed down into the tub. Blood had dried and caked on the bottom and inner surfaces of the walls.
"Was the drain closed?" I asked.
"No," Rogoff said. "But Gillsworth was wearing a crazy jacket. The tail blocked the drain enough so the blood didn't run out freely. Now the victim is lying in the tub, face up, unconscious. The killer takes a single-fedge razor blade and slashes both his wrists."
"In the wrong direction?"
"Correct. And drops the blade on the bath mat to make it look like Gillsworth had let it fall there."
"Any prints on the blade?"
"Nothing usable."
"Where did it come from? Did Gillsworth shave with single-edge blades?"
"Ah-ha," Rogoff said. "The beauty part. I wanted to make sure this wasn't a burglary-homicide, so I called Marita to come over and check out the house. She said nothing was missing. She also said they had no single-edge blades; Gillsworth used an electric shaver. We found it in the upstairs bathroom. So the killer brought the blade with him. Which means the fake suicide was planned. It would make a nice headline: 'Heartbroken Poet Takes Own Life After Tragic Death of Beloved Wife.' "
"Uh-huh," I said. "And your mention of Marita reminds me of something. The last time you and I met in this house-that was right after Lydia Gillsworth was killed-I saw Marita drive up. What was she doing here?"
Al gave me a look. "You don't miss much, do you? Well, after his wife was murdered, I asked Roderick to check out the house and see if anything was missing. He did and said nothing was gone as far as he could tell. But I called in Marita to double-check, figuring a housekeeper would know better whether or not anything was missing."
"And was it?"
"Yeah," Al said, staring at me. "A pair of latex gloves. Marita kept them under the sink to use when she scoured pots."
"Latex gloves," I repeated. "Lovely. The final prints on the walking stick that killed Lydia were made with latex gloves, weren't they?"
"That's right."
I took a deep breath. "How do you compute it, Al?"
"I don't," he said, almost angrily. "It makes absolutely no sense that a stranger breaks into the house and goes looking for latex gloves before he kills. I've got that mystery on hold. But meanwhile, what do you think of my scenario on Gillsworth's murder and the faked suicide?"
"Plausible," I said. "There's only one thing wrong with it."
"What's that?"
"You've provided a believable exegesis on how it happened, but you haven't said a word about why."
"Why?" he said disgustedly. "Why does a chicken cross the road?"
"For the same reason a fireman wears red suspenders," I said. "Let's get the hell out of here, Al. A bloody bathtub is not the most fitting dessert for a herring breakfast."
But he said he wanted to stay, and mumbled something about taking additional measurements. I didn't believe that. Al Rogoff, despite his cop's practicality, is something of a romantic. I reckoned that he wanted to wander through that doomed house for a while, reflect on the two sanguinary murders that had happened within its walls, try to absorb the aura of the place, listen for ghosts, and perhaps conceive a reason for the seemingly senseless killings.
All I wanted was blue sky, hot sunshine, and un-contaminated air to breathe. Evil has a scent all its own, not only sickening but frightening.
I drove directly to the Pelican Club. I was a bit early for my date with Connie Garcia, but having spent the morning impersonating a corpse, I was badly in need of a transfusion. I was certain a frozen daiquiri would bring roses back to the McNally cheeks.