Thirty-Nine
Less than three hours after Captain walked out of the front gate, six Pinkerton agents arrived in two vehicles. They parked under the portico roof and entered the Bram carrying valises and larger metal cases full of supplies and equipment. They were dressed in stylish dark suits, varied in size from medium height and weight to junior giants, but every one of them had the look of a PI in a movie and appeared capable of knocking the jujubes out of any thug who made the mistake of taking a swing at them or questioned the virtue of their mothers. Two met with Loretta and Franklin in his study to be briefed on everything Captain had said during his visit. The other four spread through the house to assess its vulnerability to invasion by psychopathic human oddities and the carnival pitchmen who buy them dirty magazines.
All the windows were of bronze with muntins that couldn’t be as easily broken as wood, and individual panes were far too small to admit an intruder if the glass was cut out. Most operative windows were the casement type with two tall halves that could be opened from the inside only with a hand crank. The handles were detachable so that no one could break a pane, reach inside, and laboriously crank the halves apart. The thumb-turn latches on the double-hung windowswere replaced with keyed locks. All the exterior doors had mortise locks on the stile above the knob. The agents drilled the butte stile to add a keyed deadbolt on that side as well.
After an hour and a half, the two agents who met with Loretta and Franklin left with numerous though fragile leads to follow in search of Captain. The other four men expected to be in-house, securing the perimeter, until nine o’clock that night. Chef Lattuada provided them with a selection of hearty sandwiches, thick slices of pecan-cherry pie, and plenty of coffee to wash it all down. The consensus among the Pinkerton guys was that they might require longer than expected to complete the job and might be there for breakfast. Of course they were gone at 8:40 that evening, leaving the Bram locked up tighter than ever. They would return in the morning, Wednesday, to install concealed trip wires and associated battery-powered alarms at several outdoor sites.
Beginning tomorrow night, four agents would be stationed in the gardens, and six would patrol the interior of the Bram, although no trouble was expected until twenty-four hours later. We hoped Captain and the boy would be located and detained for police before four o’clock Thursday, when he intended to phone with instructions as to where the hundred thousand dollars should be taken and whom he expected to deliver it. If his whereabouts remained unknown at that time, things could get dicey. When he learned that there had never been any intention of meeting his demand, that Franklin and Loretta had been buying time either to find or prepare for the cousin-murdering psychopath,thatwas the moment when I would be in real danger. The crisis would escalate through the days ahead until Pinkerton could bring an end to it. So this Tuesday night might be the last in which we would know peace and quiet for a few days or maybe weeks.
During the busy afternoon and evening, when my thoughts might be expected to remain focused almost entirely on metaphoric mantises and a boy who liked to bite the horse he rode, I nonetheless lost myselfin Gertie’s manuscripts as I reread them with a critical eye. Maybe my easy immersion was in part because I had spent so much of my life living inside fiction written by others that I’d come to feel more at home and safer in the worlds within those pages than in the real world with its plotless chaos and frightening momentum. But it also—and perhaps primarily—was a testament to Gertie’s talent.
Because of all the activity in the house earlier, dinner had been a grab-what-you-can affair. I had made a meal of only one of the sandwiches the Pinkerton crew enjoyed so much. By 10:45, I was in need of further fortification, including a slab of that pecan-cherry pie. I used the dimmer on the hallway and stair lights, so I didn’t have to go from the soft revelation of a reading lamp to a brightness that would sour the mood in which Gertie’s writing left me. Passing by the open doors and doorless archways of dark rooms, I felt as safe as if I were aboard a luxury liner miles out on a gently rolling sea, far from the shores where robbers robbed and rapists raped and armies clashed by night. When I pushed open the swinging door between the butler’s pantry and the kitchen, I was surprised to find Chef Lattuada wiping off the center island in bright light.
“Wow. You must have an amazing breakfast planned,” I said, “if you’re already starting to prepare it.”
“I cleaned up before nine o’clock, after I thought the last of the gumshoe guests had gone. Wasn’t much debris. I was impressed that Pinkerton agents were neater than the ladies of the Community Aid Society when they visited for tea. I went back to my apartment, but later, when I stepped out to smoke, I saw the kitchen lights were on.”
“Smoke?” I pretended to be appalled. “No one has permission to smoke on the estate.”
“As I’m well aware. Did I say it was a cigarette?”
“A cigar would be worse.”
“It wasn’t a cigarette, cigar, or pipe.”
“Well, you clearly weren’t on fire yourself.”
“It was a peach.”
“A peach?”
“Yes. A lovely ripe peach.”
“And you smoked it.”
“Essentially, yes.”
As there was not much I liked better than fencing with Chef in this fashion until one of us could no longer keep a straight face, I said, “I’m curious. When one wishes to smoke a ripe peach before bed, how does one light it and keep it burning, considering its juiciness?”
“I chose the wrong word. I should have said I stepped outside toflambéa peach before bed.”
“How inconvenient. You’d have to bring with you not just the doomed peach but also a flambéing pan, a bottle of brandy, a source of flame, and whatever other ingredients make your peach flambé as unique as I’m sure you’d want. Why not do it in your kitchen?”
“It’s no trouble outside. Anyhow, it’s a sacred tradition.”
“Flambéing a peach outside before bed is a family tradition?”
“Not just family. It’s a national tradition.”
“That would be Italy?”
“Yes. Precisely. We are a peach-loving people.”
“You’re telling me everyone in Italy steps outside before bed and flambés a peach?”
“Not everyone. Perhaps eighty percent of our people. There are always those who rebel against tradition. Communists and the like.”
“You’ll excuse me if I find this hard to believe.”
