Monkey Puzzle Page 21

  ‘You want to tell me what happened?’

  Pinchman nodded and sighed. ‘I was so relieved on Saturday when you said “stabbed”, you know. I’d come down there in terror thinking I’d killed him through some terrible mischance. I never meant to kill him, you see. I admit I struck him in my rage, but he was only unconscious when I left him. I made certain he was alive because he looked so awful, lying there. I held my cigar case to his lips and it misted over quite completely.’

  ‘You hit him with your crutch.’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t know I was going to do it until it was done. They’re so much a part of me, you see. I raised my hand to him in anger – and the crutch was in it. He’d pushed me back against the desk, kept prodding me with his finger, saying he was going to tell them – and it happened. Very quick, it was. All in the rage of the moment. I have a devil of a temper when it lets go, always did, but I haven’t lost control in years . . .’ He paused. ‘Not for a very long time.’

  ‘Not since the last time you were arrested?’

  Pinchman stared at him, then closed his eyes and sagged against the pillows. ‘So he told, after all.’

  ‘No, he never had the chance. We routinely sent your fingerprints to the FBI and they said that they belonged to Edgar Pinchman, a con-man with a record as long as my arm. They were surprised at this, because as far as they knew, Edgar Pinchman was an expatriate, resident in Greece. Is that what Adamson had found out?’

  Pinchman nodded. ‘How efficient you are, Lieutenant. To have found all that out in a day.’

  ‘It’s been nearly a week, Professor Pinchman.’

  ‘A week?’

  ‘We’ll get to that in a minute. Can you tell me about Edgar – or Edward?’

  There was a long, pause, and then Pinchman spoke softly. ‘I was a pretty good con-man, you know,’ he said, with a smile.

  ‘You got caught.’

  ‘Not always.’ The smile was momentarily triumphant. ‘And never here in Ohio.’ He sighed, heavily. ‘Edward was a year older than myself, but people often took us for twins at first glance. Back home in Connorsville we were just called The Pinchman Boys. It was a kind of joke with us – and it sometimes came in handy, too. We looked alike, we talked alike, we walked alike. But under the skin we were about as similar as beans and bananas. Edward was a brilliant scholar, hard-working, dedicated. I was brilliant at getting out of all that, and into trouble. But Edward always stuck up for me, helped me out of scrapes, even lied for me. Lying was very difficult for him, automatic for me. We loved each other.’ He glanced at Stryker. ‘People used to, you know.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I remember.’

  Pinchman smiled wryly, nodded, went on with another sigh. ‘He always believed that each time I got in trouble would be the last. He never despaired or patronised me. We grew up and gradually went our different ways. He won scholarly acclaim – I won jail sentences.’ The flickering smile went out at last, and a kind of darkness replaced it.

  ‘Nineteen years ago his sabbatical coincided with my release from a five-year sentence. He suggested I accompany him to Greece. I was tired, and I was grateful. There wasn’t much money – but enough. We lived simply. It was very pleasant. I took an interest in his work and he said I had a gift for it. Said it was a shame I hadn’t stayed on at college and, bless him, he wasn’t referring to my criminal activities. I began to believe we weren’t so different, after all.’ He chuckled to himself. ‘The bean who became a banana – or vice versa. We used to walk in the afternoon. People don’t expect that in Greece. One afternoon a truck came around a corner too fast to find two middle-aged gentlemen strolling down the centre of the road. There was nothing he could do. I lost my legs – and Edward lost a great deal more.’

  ‘He’s alive. We checked.’

  ‘Oh, yes – physically alive. But his were mostly head injuries. He’s healthy and happy – but beyond reach. Rather like a sweet and speechless child. I spend every summer with him.’

  ‘As Edward Pinchman.’

  He shrugged. ‘It was a small country hospital. They were hardly likely to take fingerprints, were they? They simply tried to save our lives. They had two men named Pinchman, and it hardly mattered which one was which, unless one died, and it never came to that. It was weeks before I was well enough to realise they didn’t know whether I was Edgar or Edward. When I did realise, it was after I’d learned of Edward’s hopeless condition.’ Again, he glanced sideways at Stryker. ‘Dammit, man – I’d spent my life taking advantage of situations, hadn’t I? This was a gift – a chance to begin again. And I knew that Edward would have agreed if he’d known. God knows he’d lied for me often enough when we were kids. So, I accepted the role. The hopeless invalid was officially listed as Edgar Pinchman, and I returned to this country as Edward Pinchman.’

  ‘Just like that?’

  ‘Well, nearly. It was damned hard work, at first. People made allowances because of my physical condition and so on, of course. I made a “thing” out of having had my “looks” destroyed, made it a joke, you know. That answered any curiosity about my face having changed. In fact, it hadn’t changed all that much. As for height and weight differences – well – the tin legs accounted for that all right. Edward had been teaching in California. As soon as it was possible to do so, I started scouting out a new post. It meant losing tenure, of course, but I wanted to get away before his friends and colleagues started noticing any other changes that wouldn’t be so easy to cover up. I knew a great deal about Edward’s life from his letters and from conversations we’d had before the accident, but small details are what can trip you up. All the “Say, do you remember’s” and so on. Shared jokes, intimacies, and so on. When I got the offer from Dan to come back to Ohio I leapt at it.’ He smiled. ‘As far as I was able to leap, that is. Edward and Dan had been at school together, so it seemed quite natural to give up sunny California for old friends and home. They thought I was mad, of course, especially when I asked for a year off before starting actual teaching, using my health as an excuse. The truth was I needed time to bone up on Edward’s subject and researches, so I wouldn’t come a cropper over that. Sometimes I wondered if I could manage it at all. But Dan was so patient and forgiving.’ Pinchman looked puzzled for a moment. ‘You know, there were times when I almost thought he guessed the truth, but he never actually said anything.’

  ‘Dr Stark is a very bright man.’

  ‘Yes. Well – that’s it. I worked hard and I took Edward’s place, and I don’t think I’ve done too badly at it. Until now.’

  Stryker looked at the tired old man and felt a surge of admiration. It must have been very tough, indeed. No wonder he’d been so sympathetic to Kate, who’d also had to ‘catch up’.

  The old man’s eyes blurred slightly. ‘I told Edward what I was going to do, before I left, and why. We spent a lot of time in the gardens of that small hospital, with the bees and the flowers and the sound of oxen beyond the wall. I do honestly believe he understood what I was doing, and why – although he couldn’t say so.’ He closed his eyes and there was a glitter of moisture along the lashes, but not enough to drop. ‘I like to think so, anyway, I’ve come to love his life. When I go back each summer I tell him what I’m doing, which students show promise and so on. I can’t continue his research, but I can teach. It’s a kind of con-game, in its way.’ His head came up. ‘Dammit, I’m a good teacher. Even Aiken never denied that.’

  ‘How did he find out?’

  ‘Chance. Pure chance. He was passing through the small town and saw Edward being taken out in his wheelchair. He saw the resemblance, asked who it was, heard the whole story.’ Pinchman sighed. ‘I didn’t mind for myself, I don’t have that many years left. But for Edward – ’ He raised a hand and let it fall. ‘It was his life. His career. I’ve never fulfilled his scholarly promise, of course. People assumed it was because of the accident – well, and so it was – but
I managed to maintain it respectably. When Aiken shot his first dart at the meeting, I knew what it heralded. Months, perhaps years of torment – and the possibility that when he’d tired of the game he’d tell Dan. He did have very high academic standards, you see – and I didn’t even have a proper degree, did I?’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘After the meeting I went to my office, supposedly to work, but really to try to sort things out in my mind. I thought perhaps early retirement on health grounds – ’ His voice faded and Stryker could see how much it would hurt him to leave the profession he’d come to love. ‘As a matter of simple fact, I worried over it so much I finally fell asleep in my chair. When I woke up it was cold and very late. I’d never turned my light on, you see. No-one knew I was there. But I could see a light in Aiken’s office, across the hall. He’d said something earlier about making a call to the coast. I could hear him in there, sort of humming to himself, in that wretched little way he had. I don’t know how long I sat there, getting more and more angry. Then it became too much. I got up and went across and told him I wouldn’t put up with his games. He laughed.’ Pinchman’s cheeks were flushed – anger had returned. ‘He laughed. He said I’d made a mockery of Edward’s career, but that probably Edward would have done the same. He said Edward’s early work was rubbish, anyway. That was when I hit him. I hit him hard.’ His eyes met Stryker’s squarely. ‘My God, it felt good. I could have gone on hitting him for hours. Days.’

  ‘But you didn’t.’

  ‘No, of course I didn’t. When I’d recovered my wits, and made sure he was alive, I went back to my office and closed the door.’ He was remembering now, and Stryker hardly dared breathe lest he interrupt the pictures in the old man’s mind. Pinchman’s breathing slowed. Was he falling asleep?

  ‘Go on,’ Stryker said, very softly. Pinchman’s eyes flew open.

  ‘Where was I? Oh, yes, in my office, getting my coat. I didn’t want to be there when Aiken woke up, you see. But before I could leave, someone came down the hall.’

  The hairs rose on the back of Stryker’s neck, and he knew this was it. It was coming.

  Pinchman saw the look on his face and quickly put him out of his misery. ‘No, I didn’t see who it was. I’m sorry. I saw only a – shape – against the pebbled glass of my door. My lights were out, there were only the lights from Aiken’s office. The person – whoever it was – stood in the doorway of Aiken’s office for a moment, then went in and closed the door. I waited for some reaction – but there was none. Only silence at first. And then . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Laughter. Not very nice laughter. It frightened me,’ he said, simply. Stryker imagined him, distressed and panicky, hiding in the darkness of his own office after having assaulted someone, and hearing that sound. Pinchman was tough, he’d survived much, he had guts. Yet he’d been afraid. It must have been some laugh, that laugh.

  ‘Man or woman?’

  ‘I couldn’t say. It was sexless. Gleeful, like a mad child. It just – froze me. Then there were more noises, drawers opening, grunts . . . I don’t know. I just stood there, unable to move. Then the door opened and the figure emerged. It went down the hall, and I heard the lift go down. I knew I was alone with Aiken. I waited a few minutes, then managed to open my door and look through his. It was open a few inches, I could see his legs, and knew he was still unconscious. I decided the other person, whoever it was, had robbed him as he lay there. And I came away, as fast as I could.’

  ‘And you left him there.’

  ‘Yes. I’m sorry. I did.’

  Well, the blood wouldn’t have reached the door by then, Stryker conceded. The old man would have no way of knowing, of guessing, even, that murder had been done while he hid in the darkness. ‘Tell me about the shape against the pebbled glass. Tall or short?’

  ‘Medium.’

  ‘Colour of clothing?’

  ‘Brown, I think. Darkish-brown.’

  ‘Hat? Coat?’

  ‘I don’t know if it was a hat or – lightish. The colour was light because I couldn’t really distinguish it through the glass, you see. If it had been dark I would have.’

  ‘Man or woman?’

  ‘I told you – I don’t know.’

  ‘Could it have been Richard Wayland?’

  ‘Well, I suppose it could have been. The shape was never pressed against my door . . . it was in the middle of the hall, you see. I didn’t think it was as tall as Richard, but it could have been. Oh, but no – not Richard.’

  ‘He took you home on Monday?’

  ‘Richard? Yes he did.’

  ‘You spoke his name several times when you were unconscious.’

  ‘Why was I unconscious, by the way?’ Pinchman asked. ‘Nobody will tell me that. They just smile and nod and say I must rest. I remember Richard getting me home, but I must say, I remember very little after that. Did I collapse? I do, sometimes.’

  ‘I don’t know. You may have. When you spoke Wayland’s name you seemed very upset. You seemed to be warning him or warning people about him. You said things like “Stay away, Richard” and “Get away, Richard”. Did he attack you?’

  ‘Richard? Attack me?’ Pinchman was astounded. ‘Good Lord, don’t be preposterous, man. He was kindness itself. He saw how upset I was about the letter, and offered to take me home.’

  ‘Letter?’ Stryker stared at him. What was this?

  ‘Yes. It was in my pigeonhole at the office. It just said “I saw you kill the old man and I want money or I’ll tell the cops”. Crude, but effective. Good simple structure, full marks for clarity.’ His voice was wry.

  ‘Did Wayland see the letter?’

  ‘No. Only that it upset me. Well, it would have upset you, too, wouldn’t it? Saturday morning I thought I was a goner, then you said Aiken was stabbed, and I thought I was off the hook, so to speak. Then out of the blue there came this letter and I was in the soup again. It was ghastly – as if Aiken had lived to torment me, after all.’

  ‘So Wayland took you home. Then what?’

  ‘Well, he settled me in my chair, and then made me some coffee. I hate coffee, but I drank a little, to please him. He said he’d come back later, after classes, to see if I needed anything. I believe I fell asleep. Did he come back?’

  ‘I came, first,’ Stryker said. ‘Did you finish the coffee Wayland made for you, before you fell asleep?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Pinchman said, dubiously. ‘As I say, I don’t much like coffee, only keep it for guests. And whatever Richard’s undoubted talents for relating to students, he has absolutely none for making coffee. It tasted dreadful.’

  TWENTY-FIVE

  Liz Olson came up the back stairs, cautiously, opened the door to Kate’s flat and stuck her head around. ‘Kate?’ she called. There was no response, but from the front of the flat she could hear music playing, and went towards it. As she neared the archway leading from the dining-room to the living-room, she suddenly saw a bare foot lying very still, and her stomach contracted with fear. She ran the last few steps, saw Kate lying full-length in the centre of the room, and screamed at the top of her voice.

  Kate screamed, too, scrambling to her feet in terror. They stared at one another for a moment, wild-eyed, and then Liz sank down on to the nearest heap of cushions.

  ‘Oh, Jesus Christ, I thought you were dead.’ She’d gone as white as the snow outside, and panted as if she had just run a one-minute mile in gumboots. ‘Oh, God, I thought you’d been murdered.’

  ‘I thought I was about to be,’ Kate gasped from where she’d slumped back on to the carpet. ‘Why aren’t you at school?’

  ‘It’s after four.’

  ‘It is?’ Kate looked dazedly at the clock on the wall. ‘I must have fallen asleep.’

  ‘Drink.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Get this broken woma
n a drink,’ Liz pleaded.

  ‘I’ll get both of us one. That’s a really rotten way to wake someone up, you know?’ Kate groused, rising and going into the dining-room. ‘You’ve got a voice like the five o’clock whistle at General Motors.’

  ‘My mother always said I should be an opera singer.’

  ‘Or a hog-caller.’ Kate returned and thrust a gin and tonic into her friend’s hand. ‘There. Revive yourself.’

  There was a companionable silence for a few minutes. Then Liz scowled. ‘I wish you wouldn’t do that.’

  ‘Do what?’

  ‘Sit there as if you were waiting for the wall to fall in on you.’

  ‘I think it is.’ Her eyes filled with tears, suddenly. ‘Oh, Liz – I’m beginning to believe it was Richard, after all. How can I? I must believe in him, I must trust him.’

  ‘Why?’ Liz wailed. ‘What is it with Richard Wayland that causes sane women to behave like idiots? In the old days it was the same – half the girls who worked for the “cause” were there because of him. And didn’t he know it?’

  ‘Just because he never made a pass at you . . .’

  ‘Ah, but he did,’ Liz said, calmly. ‘He made a pass at me and every other female that crossed his path. It was an automatic reaction, like salivating when you see someone suck a lemon. And he’s a lemon, all right.’

  ‘I – didn’t know he made a pass at you. You never said.’

  Liz raised an eyebrow. ‘Don’t tell me it still hurts?’

  ‘No, of course not. I was just – startled.’

  ‘My God, you’re all the same over there in that department – you, Dan Stark, Jane Coulter – you refuse to believe anyone you like can be bad.’

  ‘Jane called a little while ago, to see if I’d heard from Richard.’ Kate stared at the floor. ‘She asked me to let her know the minute he got in touch.’ She looked up at her friend. ‘I think she did see him running away the other night, you know. I think Jody saw him, too.’