When Graveyards Yawn by G. Wells Taylor (popular books to read txt) 📖

doubt…” He waved a hand. “You are trying to avenge the murder of your detective friend, Mr. Grey. I read the Maltese Falcon.”

“As a matter of fact, I didn’t know Mr. Grey; but his name did come up during my investigation. He disappeared about two years ago. I don’t know if he’s dead and needs avenging.” I lit a new cigarette. “I would like to know what happened to your sister.”

“That would be difficult. Oh, I’ll tell you what I know, but you have to understand, I was traveling at the time of the disappearance—in the old country—so I wasn’t around when the actual events transpired. Frankly, I thought Julie had eloped with that fellow she was seeing, Victor Davis, and he was, well, not quite New Garden material let alone of Arcadian stock—so far as my parents were concerned. I assumed they ran off together, and I didn’t take the whole affair very seriously. I did speak to my father concerning the steps he was taking, though. He said he had hired a detective, a Mr. Owen Grey, to find her. It seems Father felt Mr. Grey maintained a low profile, and so would not attract unpleasant attention to my family.”

“So you never met Grey.” I was watching another blind alley forming.

“No, in fact, I didn’t. I only returned after the tragic event of my parents’ death. It was quite unexpected. But, I was told that they were traveling to meet Mr. Grey when the mishap occurred. All attempts I made to reach him after the fact failed.”

“I assume Authority investigated. Who was in charge?” I leaned forward slightly, expectant.

“An Inspector Borden handled the case. He said he was one of the first on the scene.”

I again imagined a hundred Inspector Bordens. “And he told you that they died in the crash and were consumed in the flames.” Again, no evidence. Everything was burning up.

“Yes, and do you know that little bastard didn’t even seem the least upset when he told me. Seriously, I know you fellows who deal in death all the time get accustomed and somewhat hardened to it, but that Borden—stood right here and said they had died without even having the decency to take that ridiculous metal toothpick out of his mouth.”

“Then you saw Inspector Borden?” My mind reeled. “He chewed a brass toothpick and he had glasses, right. He was short, about five foot two, and had a face like a pig, and a head like a toad, sort of.”

Hawksbridge laughed long and loud. He smoothed his tie with a flat hand, then dabbed his eyes with a knuckle. “Yes, Mr. Wildclown. That is the man exactly. That’s him. A pig! Head like a frog! Ha, ha, ha. Oh I wish I had thought of that.”

“It’s yours, Mr. Hawksbridge.” I put my cigarette out. Adrenaline rushed along my nerves. “What else did he say?”

“He just told me that the car lost control on the elevated highway, and jumped the wall. It fell forty feet and burst into flames. There was no escape for them. The chauffeur died too, I might add. Borden told me there was not enough left for identification, other than through dental records.” He looked downcast, rubbed the arm of his chair with a trembling hand.

“Did you ask him about your sister? Did he say anything about her?”

Hawksbridge frowned. “He seemed quite anxious, as a matter-of-fact, when I told him. He said he had only heard rumor about it, but, since my parents didn’t officially request an investigation by Authority there had been none.”

“Did you tell him about her being pregnant?” I was beginning to want his answer as much as I wanted a drink.

“Funny that, of course I mentioned her condition, and when I did, it peaked his interest. I told him that the family had put an ad in the paper concerning her disappearance, and I believe they had made a few queries about her there. It seems Mother and Father shared my suspicion that she was only angry, and hurt. So they printed a nice apology in the Gazette pleading with her to come home. They had quarreled before…” Hawksbridge paused and picked a pen up from the leather blotter in front of him. “Borden said that he could remember something in the paper about her disappearance. But he didn’t know that she was supposed to be pregnant. Funny…” Hawksbridge studied the pen in his hand, tapped the index finger of his left with it. “He laughed it off then, but there was something so fake—so strange—that I was a little disturbed. After all, it was the first emotion he showed here, and his laughter was forced—I’m sure of it. He told me that in all probability she had eloped with her boyfriend, and that she would probably show up when her parents could not interfere with the nuptials. But he asked me to give him a call if she returned.”

“And the pregnancies.” My mind was rushing around tying threads together. “Grey wrote in his journal that your parents told him of a number of miscarriages.”

Hawksbridge paled and the circles under his eyes became dark rings. “Yes, I was here on two occasions when she had these phantom ‘pregnancies’ or whatever. I can’t tell you if it was ever proven that she had actually been pregnant. The whole affair quite disturbed me. We hushed it up, again, or my parents did. They were always concerned with the image, you know.”

“I know.” My gaze fell, and I studied my boots. “Tell me, your family physician, the man who made the diagnosis, he is missing, or dead?”

“Why yes,” Hawksbridge’s mouth dropped open in amazement. “He died, one of those accidents in the tub, or something. He fell off a ladder, I believe. Then, well, it is a little unnerving having a dead physician examine you, so I sought another. My parents were gone, after all, and he really was their doctor.” He rolled his eyes up to scan his memory. “Dr. Avery Forrester. I believe I could get you his address.”

“Thank you.” I felt around for another cigarette. “Has the Inspector ever called again? I’ll bet he calls regularly.”

“Well, he does, in fact. He said he has sort of taken it on as a personal crusade—Julie’s disappearance. Calls once or twice a month with updates. I don’t take the calls myself anymore. I let Johnson, my butler, handle it. Seems to me he, Johnson, mentioned a recent increase in frequency.”

“Victor Davis,” I said abstractly, cigarette dangling unlit from my mouth. “Did you know him?”

“Oh, he was someone Julie met while I was away. Never did meet him. He worked for, what was it, a pharmaceutical operation of some kind. I think he delivered prescriptions.”

“Can you remember the name of his employer?”

“What was it?” Hawksbridge rubbed his chin. “Something ridiculous. Sprint Prescriptions, or Speedy Prescriptions, something like that. I can only remember that there was something fast-foody about the name.”

“And you’ve never heard of him again?”

“No.” Hawksbridge leaned forward on his elbows. “He never turned up?”

“Grey couldn’t find him. I don’t know what happened to him.” I lit my cigarette. “Among Julie’s things, did you ever find a picture of him or anything? A clue to go by.”

“No, I assumed Mr. Grey would have looked at anything of interest. Father said he went through her belongings…Borden took a look as well.” He paused. “I don’t suppose it would do any harm if you looked through her things. Her room is exactly as I found it.”

“Thank you, again, Mr. Hawksbridge. If I could have your permission to call again, if I have a question, I would be grateful.” I stood up.

“Oh certainly, and I’ll get you Dr. Forrester’s address. But please, you must forgive my manners. I have been quite ungracious. Would you let me offer you a drink now, unless matters are pressing.” He seemed genuinely embarrassed.

“Nothing’s that pressing.” I envisioned an expensive imported Scotch whisky. Hawksbridge summoned Johnson and in moments we were both sipping a fine single malt, neat. Hawksbridge talked a great deal about his late Uncle Henry after I asked him about the stuffed animals. “Hank loved hunting, he had the real blood in the family.” I accepted another drink and then another before I frisked Julie’s room. She was certainly a clean freak. A shoebox full of birthday cards had titillated me at first, but left me cold—just aunts and uncles, and a granny in Wales. It was obvious that Julie Hawksbridge had wanted to keep her affair with Davis a secret. Not a Valentine, or a birthday card, nothing. Of course, Grey may have taken anything pertinent, I know I would have. I shared another drink with Hawksbridge before I left. I found it a pleasant diversion to hear about someone bagging a lion on the Serengeti, or spearing a hippopotamus on the Nile. I believe Uncle Hank and I had something in common. We were both hunters.

In Hank’s case, his prey had been dangerous and difficult to find, but he knew what he was looking for when he set out. In my case the prey had chameleon qualities. It could coalesce out of nothing, or leap out of a friendly face. I might accidentally offer it my throat. No, you had to be careful who you trusted when hunting murderers. Any dark alley you pass could swallow you up forever.