“Yes,” said Gurney, recalling the disguised voice and Mellery thinking of the number nineteen, then finding that number in the letter the killer had left in his mailbox.
“Sergeant Wigg’s report says that the sound-wave analysis shows that the background traffic noises on the tape were prerecorded.”
“Say that again?”
“According to Wigg, the tape contains two generations of sounds. The caller’s voice and the background sound of a motor, which she says was definitely an automobile engine, were first generation. That is, they were live sounds at the time of the call transmission. But the other background sounds, primarily of passing traffic, were second generation. That is, they were being played on a tape machine during the live call. Are you there, Detective?”
“Yes, yes, I was just… trying to make some sense out of that.”
“Would you like me to repeat it?”
“No, I heard you. It’s… very interesting.”
“District Attorney Kline thought you might think so. He’d like you to give him a call when you figure out what it means.”
“I’ll be sure to do that.”
He turned up Filchers Brook Road and a mile later spotted a sign on his left proclaiming the manicured property behind it to be the laurels. The sign was a graceful oval plaque, with the lettering in a delicate calligraphy. A little past the sign, there was an arched trellis set in a row of high mountain laurels. A narrow driveway passed through the trellis. Although the blossoms had been gone for months, as Gurney drove through the opening, some trick of the mind conjured up a flowery scent, and a further leap brought to mind King Duncan’s comment on Macbeth’s estate, where that night he would be murdered: “This castle hath a pleasant seat…”
Beyond the trellis there was a small parking area of gravel raked as cleanly as a Zen garden. A path of the same pristine gravel led from the parking area to the front door of a spotless, cedar-shingled Cape. In place of a doorbell, there was an antique iron knocker. As Gurney reached for it, the door opened to reveal a small man with alert, assessing eyes. Everything about him looked freshly laundered, from his lime polo shirt to his pink skin to the hair a shade too blond for his middle-aged face.
“Ahh!” he said with the edgy satisfaction of a man whose pizza order, twenty minutes late, has finally arrived.
“Mr. Plumstone?”
“No, I’m not Mr. Plumstone,” said the small man. “I’m Bruce Wellstone. The apparent harmony between the names is purely coincidental.”
“I see,” said Gurney, baffled.
“And you, I assume, are the policeman?”
“Special Investigator Gurney, district attorney’s office. Who told you I was coming?”
“The policeman on the phone. I have absolutely no memory for names. But why are we standing in the doorway? Do come in.”
Gurney followed him through a short hallway into a sitting room furnished with fussy Victoriana. Wondering who the policeman on the phone might have been put a quizzical look in his eyes.
“I’m sorry,” said Wellstone, evidently misinterpreting Gurney’s expression. “I’m not familiar with the procedure in cases like this. Would you prefer to go directly to Emerald Cottage?”
“Excuse me?”
“Emerald Cottage.”
“What emerald cottage?”
“The scene of the crime.”
“What crime?”
“Didn’t they tell you anything?”
“About what?”
“About why you’re here.”
“Mr. Wellstone, I don’t mean to be rude, but perhaps you should start at the beginning and tell me what you’re talking about.”
“This is exasperating! I told everything to the sergeant on the phone. In fact, I told him everything twice, since he didn’t seem to grasp what I was saying.”
“I see your frustration, sir, but perhaps you could tell me what you told him?”
“That my ruby slippers were stolen. Do you have any idea what they’re worth?”
“Your ruby slippers?”
“My God, they didn’t tell you a blessed thing, did they?” Wellstone began taking deep breaths as though he might be trying to ward off some kind of fit. Then he closed his eyes. When he reopened them, he seemed reconciled to the ineptitude of the police and spoke to Gurney in the voice of an elementary-school teacher.
“My ruby slippers, which are worth a great deal of money, were stolen from Emerald Cottage. Although I have no proof, I have no doubt they were stolen by the last guest who occupied it.”
“This Emerald Cottage is part of this establishment?”
“Of course it is. The entire property is called ‘The Laurels,’ for obvious reasons. There are three buildings-the main house in which we stand, plus two cottages: Emerald Cottage and Honeybee Cottage. The decor of Emerald Cottage is based on The Wizard of Oz-the greatest film ever made.” A glint in his eyes seemed to dare Gurney to disagree. “The focal point of the decor was a remarkable reproduction pair of Dorothy’s magic slippers. I discovered this morning that they were missing.”
“And you reported this to…?”
“To you people, obviously, because here you are.”
“You called the Peony police department?”
“Well, I certainly didn’t call the Chicago police department.”
“We have two separate problems here, Mr. Wellstone. The Peony police will no doubt get back to you regarding the theft. That’s not why I’m here. I’m investigating a different matter, and I need to ask you some questions. A state police detective who came by the other day was told-by a Mr. Plumstone, I believe-that three nights ago you had a pair of bird-watchers as guests here-a man and his mother.”
“That’s the one!”
“What one?”
“The one who stole my ruby slippers!”
“The bird-watcher stole your slippers?”
“The bird-watcher, the burglar, the pilfering little bastard-yes, him!”
“And the reason this was not mentioned to the detective from the state police…?”
“It wasn’t mentioned because it wasn’t known. I told you I only discovered the theft this morning.”
“So you weren’t in the cottage since the man and his mother checked out?”
“‘Checked out’ is a rather too-formal way of saying it. They simply departed at some point during the day. They’d paid in advance, so there was no need, you see, for any ‘checking-out’ procedure. We strive for a certain civilized informality here, which of course makes the betrayal of our trust all the more galling.” Talking about it had brought Wellstone close to gagging on the gall.
“Was it normal to wait so long before…?”
“Before making up a room? Normal at this time of year. November is our slowest month. The next booking for Emerald Cottage is Christmas week.”
“The BCI man didn’t go through the cottage?”
“BCI man?”
“The detective who was here two days ago was from the Bureau of Criminal Investigation.”
“Ah. Well, he spoke to Mr. Plumstone, not to me.”
“Who exactly is Mr. Plumstone?”
“That’s an awfully good question. That’s a question I’ve been asking myself.” He said this with an arch bitterness, then shook his head. “I’m sorry, I mustn’t let extraneous emotional issues intrude into official police business. Paul Plumstone is my business partner. We are joint owners of The Laurels. At least we are partners as of this moment.”
“I see,” said Gurney. “Getting back to my question-did the BCI man go through the cottage?”
“Why would he? I mean, he was apparently here about that ghastly business up the mountain at the institute, wanting to know if we’d seen any suspicious characters lurking about. Paul-Mr. Plumstone-told him that we hadn’t, and the detective left.”
“He didn’t press you for any specific information on your guests?”