The Second Fletcher Flora Mystery MEGAPACK™: 20 Classic Mystery & Crime Stories!
- Автор: Флора Флетчер
- Год: 2018
- Язык: английский
- Год: Wildside Press
- ISBN: 978-1479436668
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «The Second Fletcher Flora Mystery MEGAPACK™: 20 Classic Mystery & Crime Stories!». Краткое содержание книги:
“How long have Mr. and Mrs. Le Rambeau been residents here?”
“Approximately three years. They moved in, I understand, immediately after their marriage.”
“They must be well-heeled to afford this kind of setup.”
“They appear to be quite affluent. It’s my understanding, however, that Mrs. Le Rambeau has most of the money.”
“I see. Do you happen to know if they were married here in the city or elsewhere?”
“I’m not sure. Wherever they were married, it should be a matter of record.”
“Yes. So it should.”
“I hope I have been helpful, sir.”
“You have. You bet you have.”
“In that case, sir, if there is nothing else, I had better get on with my duties.”
“Sure, sure. You run along, son.”
The bellhop, who was at least as old as Gaspar, flicked the fin off the bed with practiced fingers and went out of the room. Gaspar, left alone, continued to sit on the edge of the bed with his fat body folded forward over the bulge of his belly. A toad of a man, ugly and scarred and poor in the world’s goods, he was nevertheless lifted by soaring dreams into the rarefied air of enlarged hopes.
Gaspar wasted no more time in spying personally on the astounding barber whom he still thought of, in order to avoid confusion, as Rudolph La Roche. After three stout highballs, he rolled into bed in his underwear and slept soundly for a few hours, rousing and rising early the next morning, which was Saturday. With the help of a clerk he spent the morning checking the file of photo-stated marriage licenses at the county courthouse, which turned out not to be such a tedious task as he had feared, inasmuch as he knew, thanks to the bellhop, the approximate time when La Roche had taken his bride. The only question was whether or not the marriage had been performed in the county and was there recorded. Happily, it had been and was.
Gaspar returned to the hotel, got his bag, paid his bill, claimed his car at the parking garage, and drove home. He was feeling so pleased with himself and the turn his affairs were taking that he had only the mildest pang of envy when he thought of Rudolph La Roche with his blonde bomb in their fifteenth-floor suite.
He spent Sunday with pleasant anticipations, and the following morning, with the resumption of workaday affairs, he investigated more records and satisfied himself on a critical point. Rudolph La Roche was married, all right. In fact, being married twice at once, he was excessively so. And if a philandering husband is a patsy, to make a riddle of it, what is a bigamist?
Gaspar drove by the two-chair barber shop, which was located in a small suburban shopping area, and there at the first chair, sure enough, spruce in a starched white tunic and plying his scissors to a head of hair, was the errant Mr. La Roche. Smiling wetly and humming softly, Gaspar drove slowly on. He parked in the alley behind the building in which his office was located, and heavily climbed back stairs, still smiling and humming between puffs. In his office, without delay, he dialed the number of Hershell Fitch, who was at home and came to the telephone at the summons of Mrs. Fitch, who had answered.
“Gaspar Vane speaking,” said Gaspar. “Can you talk?”
“Yes,” said Hershell. “There’s no one here but Gabriella. Don’t you think, however, I had better come to your office for your report?”
“You are welcome to come,” Gaspar said, “if you want to waste your time.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean there isn’t any report. None, that is, worth mentioning.”
“Where did he go?”
“He went to Kansas City.”
“What for?”
“He went to see a woman.”
“A woman! That sounds to me like something worth mentioning.”
“I guess it is if you see something wrong with seeing an eighty-year-old woman who happens also to be his mother.”
“He goes to Kansas City every weekend to see his mother?”
“That’s right. She’s in a nursing home there. Our friend is devoted to her, it seems. His visits are practically a ritual.”
“Excuse me a minute.”
There followed a brief period during which Hershell talked aside, apparently to the hovering Gabriella, and then his voice came through the receiver again, thin and a little petulant with disappointment.
“I guess you’re right, then. I guess there’s no use in my coming down.”
“None at all.”
“Since there wasn’t really anything to report, I hope the fee won’t be excessive.”
“I’ll send you a bill,” Gaspar said.
He hung up and leaned back in his chair. On the other hand, he thought, maybe I won’t. Truth is, he ought to send me a bill.
Mindful of the old adage that one should strike while the iron is hot, Gaspar consulted his directory and found the telephone number of the shop of Rudolph La Roche. He dialed the number and listened to distant rings. Then, the third ring being chopped off in the middle, he was listening to the voice of Rudolph himself. The voice, true to Gaspar’s imagination, was modulated and suave and unmistakably urbane.
“Rudolph La Roche speaking,” the voice said.
“I must have the wrong number,” Gaspar said. “I thought I was calling Roger Le Rambeau.”
There was a pause, almost imperceptible, and Rudolph’s voice, when he spoke again, was as impeccably suave as before.
“Who is this, please?”
“Never mind. We’ll get better acquainted in good time.”
“I’m sure I shall be delighted. Would you care to make an appointment?”
“What’s wrong with this evening?”
“Nothing whatever. Shall I name the place?”
“You name it. If I don’t like it, I’ll change it.”
“There’s a small tavern a few doors east of my shop. I sometimes stop in there for a beer or two before going home. If that’s acceptable, I shall be pleased to see you there.”
“That sounds all right. What time?”
“I close my shop at five-thirty.”
“See you then,” said Gaspar, and gently cradled the phone.
A cool customer, he thought. A real cool customer. But after all, any guy who could deliberately marry two women and practically keep them next door to each other was bound to be.
The tavern was a narrow building compressed between an appliance store on one side and a loan office on the other. It was clearly a place that exploited an atmosphere of decorum and respectability, making its appeal to the solid citizen whose thirst, while decently inhibited, could be counted on to recur with some regularity. Of the patrons present when Gaspar entered, the one who was the most respectable in appearance and the least so in fact was Rudolph La Roche.
He was sitting alone in a booth along the wall opposite the bar. A beaded glass of beer, untouched, was on the table before him. As Gaspar approached, he slid out of his seat, stood up and made an odd, old-fashioned bow from the hips.
“Rudolph La Roche,” he said. “I’m sorry that I don’t know your name.”
“It’s Vane,” Gaspar said. “Gaspar Vane.”
“How do you do, Mr. Vane. Will you join me in a beer? I’m afraid nothing stronger is sold here.”
“Beer’s fine.”
They sat opposite each other with an air of cordiality and waited in silence while Gaspar was served by a waitress. After she was gone, Rudolph lifted his glass in a small salute, to which Gaspar responded uneasily. It was strange that Gaspar, who held all the cards, was far the more uneasy of the two.
“May I ask,” said Rudolph, “how you became aware of Roger Le Rambeau?”
“You can ask,” said Gaspar, “which is not to say I’ll answer.”
“It would do me no good, I suppose, to deny anything?”
“Not a bit.”
“In that case, I’ll save myself the trouble. Which brings us, of course, directly to the point. What do you intend to do about it?”