Lakewood turned out to be an older suburb, with big trees and prewar houses. Here and there you'd see a lot that the builders had originally passed up, with a little ranch house perched on it looking like the new kid on the block. We parked across the street from one of these and Jason killed the engine.
'You can't see where the fire was,' he said. 'When I drove off he was going at it with a broom. I guess he did a pretty good job of cleaning up.'
'He could have hired that same kid to scrub it for him.'
'That would be something, wouldn't it? I don't know if he's home.
With the garage door shut you can't tell if his car's there or not.'
'I don't think I'll have to set any fires to find out,' I said. 'I'll just ring his doorbell.'
'Do you want me to come with you?'
I considered it. 'No,' I said. 'I don't think so.'
'Then I'll wait here.'
'I'd appreciate that,' I said. 'I don't know how long I'll be. It may be a while.'
'No problem,' he said. 'I've still got that jar.'
* * *
I only had to ring the bell once. The eight-note chimes were still echoing when I heard his footsteps approaching. Then he opened the door a crack and saw me, and then he opened it the rest of the way.
The photos were a good likeness. He was a small and slender man, with some age showing in his pink face and some gray lightening his neatly combed hair. Close up, I could see his watery blue eyes behind his bifocal lenses.
He was wearing dark gabardine slacks and a plaid sportshirt. There were several pens in the breast pocket of the shirt. His shoes were brown oxfords, recently polished.
There was no fire raging on his stoop this time, just another middle-aged guy. But Havemeyer still sported his beleaguered expression, as if the world was just a little bit more than he could cope with. I knew the feeling.
I said, 'Mr. Havemeyer?'
'Yes?'
'May I come in? I'd like to talk with you.'
'Are you a policeman?'
It's often a temptation to say yes to that question, or to leave it artfully unanswered. This time, though, I didn't feel the need.
'No,' I said. 'My name is Scudder, Mr. Havemeyer. I'm a private investigator from New York.'
'From New York.'
'Yes.'
'How did you get here?'
'How did I…'
'Did you fly?'
'Yes.'
'Well,' he said, and his shoulders drooped. 'I guess you'd better come in, hadn't you?'
22
You'd have thought it was a social call. He led me to the front parlor, recommended a chair, and announced that he could do with a cup of tea. Would I have one? I said I would, and not just to be sociable. It sounded like a good idea.
I stayed there while he fussed in the kitchen, and it struck me that he might return brandishing a butcher knife, or holding the same gun he'd used to kill Byron Leopold. If he did, I wouldn't stand a chance. I wasn't wearing body armor, and the closest thing I had to a weapon was the nail clipper on my key ring.
Somehow, though, I knew I wasn't in any danger. There was a greater risk that he'd seize the opportunity to turn the knife or gun on himself, and I figured he had the right. But he didn't strike me as suicidal, either.
He came out carrying a silver-handled walnut tray bearing a china teapot flanked by a sugar bowl and a little milk pitcher. There were spoons and cups and saucers as well, and he set everything out on the coffee table. I drank my tea black, while he added milk and sugar to his.
The tea was Lapsang souchong.
I can't ordinarily tell one kind of tea from another, but I recognized its smoky bouquet before I'd even taken a sip.
'There's nothing like a cup of tea,' he said.
I'd brought a pocket tape recorder along, and I took it out and set it on the table. 'I'd like to record this,' I said. 'If it's all right with you.'
'I suppose it's all right,' he said. 'Really, what difference does it make?'
I switched on the recorder. 'This is a conversation between Matthew Scudder and William Havemeyer,'
I stated, and mentioned the date and time. Then I sat back and gave him a chance to say something.
