So he took the enclosure out of the envelope and unfolded it and read what was written on it.
One word, in a ballpoint pen, printed:
Chapter 8
Confess...
Beyond a doubt the message referred to the death of Mary Hazelwood. (Though there was also Mrs. Kelly’s tumble, for which he was seemingly responsible, too. But Mrs. Kelly had brayed her accusation at the top of her lungs; she was in no condition to write anonymous letters.)
Who could be sending him these Delphic messages? Only the devil who had stuffed Mary’s body into the trunk of the green convertible, and had then planted Mary’s purse and the bloody boot in his closet.
Mervyn dropped listlessly into his chair and sipped the lukewarm coffee for comfort. John Boce, John Thompson, John Viviano, John Pilgrim. For the umpteenth time he told his beads of reasoning.
First, there was Mary’s telephone conversation with “John” — the key fact. It had been reported by Harriet Brill. Harriet Brill knew every one of Mary’s friends. Harriet worked in proximity to John Thompson at the library and, until recently, to John Pilgrim. She knew John Viviano the photographer through his association with Mary, and she knew John Boce as a neighbor and sometime escort...
Mervyn made a decision. Avaunt, Hamlet!
He went stealthily to the window and peered out. Ah. Harriet Brill’s car was parked at the entrance, an old blue-and-white two-door Plymouth hardtop. So she was probably at home.
He let himself out of his apartment, crossed the court lithely, took the steps leading up to the balcony of the opposite unit two at a time. At the top he turned to look down at the concrete deck. This was where Mrs. Kelly had taken the header. Mervyn shivered. It was unbelievable that the old woman had survived. No wonder she had screeched at sight of the man she thought had pushed her. But what had made her think so?
Mervyn shook his head. He was beginning to develop a respect amounting to reverence for the detective profession.
All he could do was shrug and knock at the door of Apartment 10.
Harriet Brill peeped coyly from her window.
“Mervyn. What a surprise! Quel enchantement!”
She undid the guard chain and pulled the door wide.
“Entrez, entrez, mon cher savant!”
Mervyn entrezed, carefully. She was wearing a muumuu housecoat decorated with huge hand-painted bananas and pineapples and coconuts, and she looked like a sack of fruit stuffed by a drunk.
“I was just about to brew my matutinal pot of tea,” Harriet said. “Won’t you join me?”
“I’d like to,” Mervyn answered with a leer.
“Lovely! I’ll set out another cup.”
Mervyn stood bravely in the middle of the room, looking around. Colorful travel posters were framed on the wall of the dinette, and Klee and Picasso prints hung in the living room, with three ceramic harlequins on the mantelpiece. He walked over and picked one up.
“I just bought those,” Harriet called. “Aren’t they marvelous? They’re Fenner Fuller’s latest. I think he’s so sardonically inventive.” She brought in a teak tray. “Do sit down, Mervyn. Would you care for a tea biscuit?”
“Thanks,” said Mervyn. He lowered himself gingerly into a birch plywood chair with a purple-and-green cushion.
“I don’t believe you’ve ever been here before. How do you like my little den?”
“Very nice.” Mervyn tasted the tea. “How is Mrs. Kelly?”
Harriet blinked, looking uncertain. It was evident that Mrs. Kelly had broadcast her accusation of Mervyn beyond the hospital walls. “I haven’t seen her since yesterday,” she said nervously. “She wasn’t at all well. What a ghastly fall.”
“It’s a long way down.”
“Falls are serious with older persons. Their bones are so brittle. It could easily have killed her.” Harriet gave Mervyn a rather shifty smile. She was really not at her best. It encouraged him.
“I saw her yesterday,” Mervyn said. “She was nuts.”
Harriet nodded rapidly. “I thought so myself. Sort of out of her head.”
Marvyn nibbled and cast about for the likeliest approach. “You’re not working today?”
“Not this morning. I’m all caught up with my abstracts. I’ve some tests to prepare for my latest account — personnel-screening tests. I’m consulting psychologist for three different firms now,” she said modestly.
“Good for you. Do you work under John Thompson at the library? Is he your boss?”
“No, indeed. I merely have a desk in the staging room.”
“But I suppose you come in contact with him?”
“Once in a while. We don’t have much to say to each other.” She wrinkled her nose. “I think he’s leading a double life.”
“Oh?”
“Every weekend he disappears, regularly as clockwork. No one can find him. Not even Mr. Swinnick.”
Mr. Swinnick was general superintendent of the library. Mervyn thought back to his conversation with John Thompson. “Very odd,” he said. “I wonder what he’s so secretive about?”
Harriet laughed for no perceptible reason. “Apparently you’re still worrying about Mary.”
“I’m curious,” said Mervyn. Secretly, he congratulated himself.
Harriet’s thick lips flattened noticeably. “I wonder if there’d be this much fuss made if I went bucketing off with a man.”
Keep her on the track, Mervyn. “Apparently she hasn’t gone off with Thompson.”
Harriet sniffed. “Not unless he’s got a cabin at Santa Cruz or in the mountains.”
“What about John Pilgrim?”
Harriet seemed to smell something bad. “Unsavory type. I can’t imagine what... Well, I just can’t imagine... Or John Boce. It’s simply ridiculous to consider him. He sees through Mary completely.” Her nose twitched. “I mean Mary is, well, frivolous. And John knows it.”
“How about John Viviano?”
Harriet snorted this time. “That lecher? He’s capable of anything!”
Mervyn got to his feet. “Thanks for the tea.”
“Must you go? Another cup?”
“No, thanks. I just came to ask about Mrs. Kelly.”
Harriet was already at the window. “There’s John now, inspecting your convertible. I do wish he’d buy it. It’s ridiculous for a man to be without a car.”
“Bocey-boy is seldom without one,” said Mervyn. “Usually mine.”
“I’ve lent him old Scatterbolt on occasion.” She contrived to look both coy and disapproving. “John, of course, is value-conscious. I suppose it’s a good thing, nowadays. Everything is so overpriced. And he is an accountant.”
“I’d better run down and see what he’s up to. Au ’voir.”
“Au ’voir,” said Harriet Brill thoughtfully.
A passer-by, attracted by the for-sale sign on the convertible, had stopped Boce to ask if he was the owner. Mervyn hid behind one of the stucco urns at the court’s entrance, and listened.
“Not me.” Boce answered the man emphatically. “I wouldn’t own a convertible. This salt air dissolves the tops.”
“It doesn’t look bad.” The would-be purchaser was a serious-looking young man in a tight-trousered black suit. “Any idea what the owner is asking for it?”
Boce laughed pityingly. “He changes it while you look at him. A week ago he offered it to me for practically nothing. I turned it down. You see, brother, I’ve driven it.”
“A dog, eh?”
“Put it this way. If you’re a crackerjack mechanic and want some master’s work, offer him a hundred. Chances are he’ll kiss your hand.”