“Heard the bell,” von Heilitz said.
Kingsley entered the study a moment later, and Bishop and the other man came in after him. Kingsley left, closing the door behind him. Glendenning Upshaw spoke a few words, and Fulton Bishop turned to the other man and gestured toward the door. The second policeman walked out of the room.
“Bishop is Glen’s man,” von Heilitz said. “He wouldn’t have a career at all if Glen hadn’t smoothed his way, and without Glen’s protection, I don’t think he could keep his hold on things. But Glen can’t possibly trust him enough to tell him the truth about Jeanine Thielman. He has to tell him a story. I wish we could hear it.”
Tom’s grandfather sat behind his desk, and Fulton Bishop stayed on his feet. Upshaw talked, raised his hands, gestured; the other man remained motionless. Upshaw pointed at the upper part of his right arm.
“Now what is that about?” von Heilitz said. “I bet …”
Tom’s grandfather opened his desk drawer and took out the four letters and their envelopes. Fulton Bishop crossed to the desk and leaned over the notes. He asked a question, and Upshaw answered. Bishop picked up the envelopes to examine the postmarks and the handwriting. He set them back down and stepped to the window, as if he, too, feared being overheard. Bishop turned around to speak to Upshaw, and Upshaw shook his head.
“He wants to take the letters with him. Glen doesn’t want to give them up, but he will.”
The mailman came walking back to his van through the parking lot.
Bishop looked through all four of the notes and said something that made Upshaw nod his head. Bishop passed one note and the red envelope back to Tom’s grandfather, unbuttoned his uniform pocket, folded the notes together, and put the remaining notes and envelopes into the pocket. Glendenning Upshaw came close enough to Bishop to grip his arm. Bishop pulled away from him. Upshaw jabbed his finger into the policeman’s chest. It looked like a loud conversation. Finally he walked Bishop to the door and let him out of the study.
“Bishop’s got his marching orders, and he won’t be very happy about it,” von Heilitz said. “If Glen comes back to the window, look at his right sleeve and see if you can see anything there.”
Tom’s grandfather moved heavily back to his desk and took out another cigar. He bit, spat, and sat down to light it. After a few minutes, Fulton Bishop and the other policeman appeared in the parking lot. They opened the doors of their car and got in without speaking. Glendenning Upshaw turned his desk chair to the window and blew out smoke. Tom could not see anything distinctive about his right sleeve. Upshaw put the cigar in his mouth, turned back to the desk, leaned over to open a drawer on the right side, and took out a pistol. He laid the pistol on the top of the desk beside the note and the red envelope and looked at it for a moment, then picked it up and checked to see that it was loaded. He put it in the top drawer, and slowly closed the drawer with both hands. Then he shoved back the chair and stood up. He took a step toward the window and stood there, smoking. Kingsley opened the study door and said something, and Upshaw waved him away without turning around.
Tom leaned forward and peered at his right arm. He saw nothing except the black sleeve.
“I guess it’s impossible to see it,” von Heilitz said, “even with excellent eyes. But it’s there.”
“What?”
“A mourning band,” von Heilitz said. “He told Bishop that those letters were about you.”
Tom looked back at the heavy white-headed man smoking a long cigar at the window overlooking the terrace, and even though he could not see it, he did: he saw it because he knew von Heilitz was right, it was there, a black band Mrs. Kingsley had cut from an old fabric and sewn on his sleeve.
His grandfather turned away from the window and picked up the yellow paper and the red envelope. He carried them to the wall behind the desk, swung out a section of paneling, and then reached in to unlatch some other, interior door. The note and the envelope disappeared into the wall, and Upshaw latched the interior door and swung the paneling shut. He took one tigerish glance through the window and left the study.
“Well, that’s what we came for,” von Heilitz said. “You don’t have any more doubts, do you?”
“No,” Tom said. He got to his knees. “I’m not sure what I do have.”
Von Heilitz helped him to his feet. The couple reading magazines on their terrace had fallen asleep. Tom followed the detective to the white concrete wall, and von Heilitz stooped and held out interlaced fingers for him. Tom put his right foot into von Heilitz’s hands, and felt himself being propelled upward. He landed on the other side of the wall with a thud that jarred his spine. Von Heilitz went over the wall like an acrobat. He dusted off his hands, and brushed rimes of sand from the front of his suit. “Let’s go back to the hotel and call Tim Truehart,” he said.
Tom trudged after the detective on legs that seemed to weigh a hundred pounds each. His shoulder still hurt, and his burned hand ached, and sand in his shoes abraded his toes. The old man’s suit hung on him like lead. Von Heilitz looked at him over his shoulder. Tom yanked at his lapels, trying to wrestle the suit into a more comfortable accommodation with his body.
When they got into the cane field, von Heilitz turned around. Tom stopped walking. “Are you all right?” von Heilitz asked.
“Sure,” Tom said.
“You don’t like me very much right now, do you?”
“I wouldn’t say that,” Tom said, and that was true too: he wouldn’t. He wouldn’t say anything at all.
Von Heilitz nodded. “Well, let’s get back to town.” He started walking toward the row of willows, and Tom followed, unable to make himself shorten the distance between them.
The old man was waiting beside the battered red car when Tom came around the first of the trees, and as soon as he saw Tom he opened his door and got in. Tom got in the other door and sat squeezed against it, as if there were two other people in the back seat.
“Everything go all right, Lamont?” Andres asked.
“We saw what we had to see.”
Tom closed his eyes and slumped down in the seat. He saw his grandfather inhaling all the air in the study as he read a little yellow note; he saw him turn instinctively toward the window, like a lion that has felt the first arrow in his side.
Tom did not speak during the drive back to the middle of town, and when von Heilitz held open the door of Sinbad’s Cavern for him, he hurried past as if fearing that the old man would touch him.
They rode up in the elevator in black silence.
Von Heilitz opened the door to his room, and Tom walked around him to unlock his own door. A maid had straightened the bed and organized the things on the table. The papers and envelopes were stacked on a chair, and the cheese and sausage had been put back in their bags. He picked up the novel about the Blue Rose murders, and threw himself on the bed. From the adjoining room came the sounds of von Heilitz speaking into the telephone. Tom opened the book and began to read.
A few minutes later von Heilitz came into his room. Tom barely glanced up from his book. The old man spun a chair around and straddled it backwards. “Do you want to know what Truehart’s been doing?”
“Okay,” Tom said, reluctantly closing the book.
“He knows of a man that Jerry could have hired—a guy named Schilling who makes a shaky living brokering used rifles, old cars, even a few motorboats, whatever he can get his hands on. He did a two-year stretch in the Wisconsin state prison for receiving stolen goods a few years ago, and ever since he’s been living in a little place near a run-down tourist attraction outside Eagle Lake. Near that machine shop where they kept the stolen goods, too. Two people saw this Schilling talking with Jerry Hasek in a bar. The night of the fire, he disappeared.”
“That doesn’t prove anything,” Tom said.
“No, not exactly, but Tim went to the local bank. Schilling has a little account there, and after Tim had a long talk with the manager, he had a look at the account records. Every summer for the past four years, Schilling has been putting something between eight and ten thousand in his account.” Von Heilitz grinned at him.
Tom didn’t get it.
“Schilling was Jerry’s fence. He went back to his old business when Jerry and his friends started breaking into lodges.”
“What does that have to do with the fire? Or with someone shooting at me?”
“The day before you arrived in Eagle Lake, our hero deposited five thousand dollars in his account.”
