TWENTY-FOUR
What I knew about diamonds could be written on the knee of a gnat. But I knew this much: a tidy way to make two point six million dollars disappear into a fairly compact space would be to convert them into cut, unmounted diamonds. I’d read somewhere about the diamond trade in New York, about how big deals were still settled with a handshake. If Larry Geller intended leaving town, diamonds would have made ideal travelling companions. Diamonds travel well because they are what they are and anyone with a jeweller’s loupe can see whether they’re real or not. No papers or signatures are required. You don’t even need one of those Swiss bank accounts with the numbers. My diamond in the pocket of Mr. X is Mr. X’s diamond if he says it’s his. Larry Geller had prepared to leave town with a bag full of goodies. Somebody knew he had them. Goodbye Larry. Diamonds and secrets can be equally deadly.
I went back to my hotel for clean socks and an argument with my landlord about the weekly rent I was behind in paying. The fact that I hadn’t been in the room for a few days, and that he had seven other unrented rooms was noted with some interest in an academic way, but it cut no ice. When I told him the cheque was in the mail he looked at me like I thought I was a comedian. I gave him twenty dollars on account. That left forty dollars between me and a heart-to-heart with the bank manager.
I managed to get both into the room and out without running into Glenn Bagot or three of his merry men. I felt silly coming down the stairs into the din of the Ladies and Escorts Beverage Room. If there was no threat, why was I holed up at Martha’s? If I was in real danger of running into Bagot asking about his proposition, what was I doing looking for trouble around here? The country and western band didn’t help my thinking. The lead singer was dressed in leather and silver from head to foot. I couldn’t tell whether his outfit came from a couturier or a saddler. He was holding the microphone close to his mouth and distorting the sound at the beginning of every phrase.
… and those shoes come walking back to me …
* * *
Luc Bolduc was sitting in the living room watching TV when I knocked at the screen door of the house on Nelson Street. I’d driven up half an hour before, and watched until I saw Alex and his wife leave the house, take the car and drive off in some direction that held no interest for me. It was the old man I wanted to see.
“Oh, it’s you,” he said through the screen, seeing less than a sight for sore eyes. “Alex’s not here. You want come back tomorrow.”
“I want to talk to you, Mr. Bolduc.”
“Talk?” he said, “I got not’in’ to say to you, mister. Better you come back, talk to Alex. Hokay?”
“Not hokay, Mr. Bolduc, because we have to talk about things you don’t want Alex to know about. Right?”
“I got not’in’ to say,” and he started to close the front door in my face. I opened the screen door and put my hand firmly on the handle of the door.
“He’s worried about you drinking again, Mr. Bolduc. And you’re worried about Alex getting mixed up with Tony Pritchett. Right?”
“Tony Pritchett got not’in’ to do with my Alex.”
“That’s your story and you’re stuck with it. What I know is that you’re right: Tony doesn’t even know about Alex. Alex isn’t doing any of Pritchett’s dirty work.”
“That’s true. That’s what I say.”
“You say it, but you don’t believe it. You told me last night. You think Pritchett called Alex on the phone. You heard him call him Tony.”
“He not call Alex,” he lied, looking me in the eye.
“You think he called last Saturday morning, and they had a hush-hush conversation. I’m telling you it wasn’t Pritchett. It was Pia Morley. Sid Geller’s girl. You remember she used to be Antonioni, used to be Alex’s girl, right?”
“You say that Alex and Pia Morley …?”
“I’m not saying anything more than that they talked on the phone. You must remember when he played hockey, he used to call her Toni, from Antonioni?”
“Toni? Yes, that’s right. He liked her when he was young. Called her Toni. That’s right. So, it was not Tony Pritchett talk to my boy. That’s good.” He began to let a smile steal over his wrinkled features. Suddenly, he was holding the door open wider and motioning me into the living-room. The old man was plainly delighted by the news. Now I was hating myself for what I had in mind for him to do to pay for my good deed. I followed the hospitable gesture to the inside and snapped off the TV when I had my back to it and Luc was clearing newspapers off the sofa. I sat where I’d sat when I talked to Alex, the last time I was under the Bolduc roof. The old man sat in an overstuffed occasional chair. “You’ll drink a glass of wine, mister? I made it last year.” I agreed to the wine because I knew he would be more relaxed if I was holding a glass.
He was gone for less than a minute. I guessed that the wine came from the family stock and not from a covert supply of his own. He poured me a glass with a tired grin and waved away the suggestion that he should join me when I tried him out on his teetotal resolve. “Mr. Bolduc, tell me about Larry Geller. We both know that you know his body is in that footing on the building site.”
“Look, mister I don’ want to get involve’. I forget what I don’ know.”
“The cops are digging the body out of that footing tonight, Mr. Bolduc. If you don’t tell me, you’ll soon have to talk to one of them.”
“Better to wait. I sure don’ have to talk to you.” He shifted in his deep chair as I moved my drink from one hand to the other.
“Suit yourself. There’s quite a bit I know already. And the rest I can guess. You knew Sid and his brothers, didn’t you? Sid ran the yard and did the business, but his younger brothers were in the background. I’ll bet Larry made a deal with you to let him get into the shed at the fire-hall site. He paid you to let him put some things there. Am I right?”
“You’re doing the talkin’. I’ll just listen, me.”
“You made a deal with Larry, gave him a duplicate key. If you cut the key in Grantham, we’ll have no trouble finding the guy who cut it for you. How many hardware stores are there? It won’t take long to run a check.” That rattled Luc. He stuck his thumbs in his belt like the cops were after him already.
“So what, eh? I cut lotsa keys, mister. Dat don’ prove buttons.”
“Look, Mr. Bolduc, nobody’s trying to hang Larry’s death on you. But he didn’t get into the cement by himself. That makes it murder. And murder is a word, Mr. Bolduc, that the cops get excited over. They’ll put in a lot of men and they’ll pick up a lot of overtime.”
“Why should I tell you dis t’ing?”
“It’ll show that you’ve got a cooperative character, that you were willing to help without having three lawyers standing around collecting fat fees. Alex would see you had the best.”
“Alex got nothin’ to do wit’ dis. I tol’ you.”
“And I believe you. I’m on your side. I want to know who killed Larry Geller. I don’t think you did it, but when you throw up a smoke-screen, I don’t know what to think.”