On the Other Hand, Death - Stevenson Richard - Страница 3

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I said, "On the phone you mentioned a case of vandalism. I guess that's a subject you'd know something about."

The anomalous blue eyes hardened for just an instant, but he caught himself—We Do What Works. "I think you'll find, Mr. Strachey, that in this instance Millpond is on the side of the angels. Your angels," he added brightly. Then, like a TV anchorperson shifting abruptly from a story on the White House Easter egg hunt to a subway station decapitation, Trefusis looked suddenly, and a little phonily, grave. He said, "Now I'm going to show you something that will make you angry, Mr. Strachey." He shoved a file folder across his Maserati of a desk. "Open it," he said darkly.

I opened it. Trefusis watched me while I leafed through a series of eight-by-ten color photographs. They showed, from various angles, a large well-kept white Victorian farmhouse. The place was surrounded by flowers and flowering shrubs and trees, and was abutted by a smaller white carriage house on which three slogans had been crudely spray-painted in large red letters. One said, dikes get out; another, lezies sucks; the third, leave or die! Additionally, a row of pink, white, and deep red hollyhocks along the side of the building had been slashed and mangled.

I closed the folder and slid it back toward him. I said, "Whose house?"

"The owner's name is Dorothy Fisher. Her friend's name is Edith Stout. The house is on Moon Road, off Central Avenue, in west Albany."

Now it was starting to come clear. "I met Dorothy Fisher once," I said. "But I didn't know where she lived."

"It's a vicious act," Trefusis said, shaking his head in disgust. "I hate this kind of intolerance."

"Right. Intolerance is no good. When did this happen?"

"Last night, late."

"You called it a case of vandalism. It's more than that. There's a death threat involved. 'Leave or die!'"

"I don't take that entirely seriously," he said, looking thoughtful. "My guess is, someone's just trying to frighten the . . . ladies. Wouldn't you say?"

"Could be. And you want me to find out who. Is that it?"

He nodded. "Yes. I do. I'll pay you five now and the other five after an arrest has been made. I'm sure your customary fee is a good deal less than that, but I want to be certain that this business is taken care of quickly, and I also want to demonstrate just how important the matter is to me."

Crane Trefusis, humanitarian. I said, "I guess you know that I know why this is so important to you, Mr. Trefusis."

A little snort of laughter. "No, I hadn't really supposed, Mr. Strachey, that you were just back from a month at the seashore." He looked mildly insulted. "No, I had no illusions about that. No, indeed."

I'd read about it in the Times Union. Millpond had received the necessary environmental and zoning approvals for its proposed west Albany mall and had put together its land package—with one critical exception. There was a lone holdout among the landowners. A Mrs. Dorothy Fisher, whose eight acres were smack in the center of the site, was refusing to sell. She loved her old family home, she said, and planned on living in it until she died. Mrs. Fisher was sixty-eight years old but came from a hearty strain and expected to be around for another twenty or twenty-five years. Millpond had offered her three times the market value of the property, then four times, then five. But money was not the point, Mrs. Fisher insisted. No deal. Millpond was reported to be deeply frustrated and becoming desperate as its delaying costs accelerated.

"So you want to earn Mrs. Fisher's goodwill," I said. "Smite the vicious homophobes and loosen the old dyke up a little so that she'll be more inclined to look favorably on your next offer."

He nodded, poker-faced.

"And by hiring a gay detective to do the job, you further encourage Mrs. Fisher and her friends to concede that Millpond is in the vanguard of enlightened social thought, and to wonder how could she possibly continue to be so stubborn and unreasonable. Why should she refuse to do business with such a nice right-thinking guy like you?"

He looked neither embarrassed nor smirky, nor did he cackle maniacally. He just shrugged. "I see it as a potential happy coincidence of interests," he said mildly. "And if Mrs. Fisher still refused to deal with us after we'd paid

you to clear up this unfortunate business for her, then that would in all probability be the end of it. She would in no way be legally obligated to us."

"That's correct."

"I'm prepared to take my chances," he said, smiling faintly. "I've been meeting the public for a good number of years, Mr. Strachey, and I think I know something about human nature. But if I'm wrong—and somehow Mrs. Fisher's gratitude did not extend to accepting our more than generous offer—well, we'd still have the satisfaction of knowing that, whatever the cost, whatever the outcome, Millpond just went ahead and did what was right."

I said, "What a crock."

A faint crooked smile. "You're such a skeptic, Mr. Strachey. I suppose that results from your constantly coming into contact with the seamier side of life. Your outlook, I'm afraid, had become just a little bit distorted, if I may say so."

His statement was not meant to be, so far as I could tell, ironical. I said, "You've got a forty-million-dollar project riding on this."

He threw up his hands in a what-choice-have-I-got gesture and made a face.

Irritated, with Trefusis and with myself, and knowing full well how this loony discussion was going to conclude, I said, "Why don't you just let the Albany cops handle it? They have detectives on their force who will look into the matter for a good bit less than 'ten,' and I happen to know there are several who will investigate a crime for no fee at all."

"Of course they've been notified already," he said, shaking his head doubtfully. "But I want Speedy Gonzales on this one, Mr. Strachey. Someone who can clear it up in a few days. And, as you pointed out, there is the additional advantage for me of your having entree with Mrs.

Fisher and her friends. I've gotten the impression that relations between Albany's finest and the gay community are not what you would call cordial."

"Not cordial, no."

"So there you are."

"Have you told Mrs. Fisher you were planning on hiring me to do this?"

"I . . . left a message."

"She refused to speak with you today, right?"

"When I phoned her about your possible involvement, yes. I'm afraid so."

"Do you know why?"

"Of course. Mrs. Fisher naturally assumes that Millpond is responsible for the vandalism."

"The vandalism and the threat. Are you responsible?"

"No," he said matter-of-factly.

I waited for a barrage of offended posturings, but the simple denial was all Trefusis had to offer on the subject. A blunt and honorable man of his word.

Timmy, who works for politicians and knows a rat's nest when he sees one, would have advised that I politely thank Trefusis for his confidence in me and then swiftly flee the premises. But once I'd seen those photos I knew I was going to become involved in the case in one way or another. And, of course, Trefusis was hardly going to miss the "ten"—which I could always split with Dot Fisher after encouraging her, if she needed encouragement, to refuse Trefusis's final offer. I could also urge Dot to suggest to Trefusis's that he take the money he would have paid for her property and donate it instead to the Gay Rights National Lobby, now that he was such an ardent and established benefactor of the cause.

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