Mystery

Mrs. Kingsley came back with a tray of drinks and passed them out. She did not seem to expect thanks. Glendenning Upshaw took in a mouthful of cold gin and settled back in his chair, tucking in his chin so that his face turned into a landscape of bumps and hollows. He had begun to look less unhappy as soon as he had tasted his drink. Friedrich Hasselgard had just disappeared, Tom thought: he had climaxed his career of government service by taking a three hundred thousand dollar bribe and killing his sister, and then he went out on his boat, and Glendenning Upshaw took a little swallow of a martini, and Friedrich Hasselgard watched himself disappear.

“Anyhow, I suppose he killed himself, yes. What else could have happened?”

“I’m not too sure,” Tom said. “People don’t just disappear, do they?”

“Upon occasion they do.”

There was a silence, and Tom swallowed a mouthful of pale, slightly bitter Pforzheimer beer. “I’ve kind of been thinking about a neighbor of ours lately,” he said. “Lamont von Heilitz.”

Both his mother and his grandfather looked at him, Gloria in an unfocused way that made Tom wonder what kind of pills Dr. Milton gave her, his grandfather with a quick astounded irritation.

Gloria said, “Lamont? Did you say Lamont?”

His grandfather frowned and said, “Drop the subject.”

“Did he say Lamont?”

Glendenning Upshaw cleared his throat and turned to his daughter. “How have you been, Gloria? Getting out much?”

She fell back into her chair. “Victor and I went to the Langenheims’ last week.”

“That’s good. You enjoyed yourself?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I enjoyed myself.”

“Didn’t you think it was interesting that Hasselgard disappeared from his boat on the same day the police killed that man in Weasel Hollow?” Tom asked. “What did you think about that, Grand-Dad?”

His grandfather lowered his glass and turned heavily toward Tom. “Are you asking me what I thought, or are you asking if I thought it was interesting?”

“What you really thought.”

“I’m interested in what you thought, Tom. I wish you would tell me.”

“It’s pretty clear that he was stealing Treasury money, isn’t it?” When Upshaw did not respond, Tom said, “At least, all the news stories make it sound that way. When he worked for you he must have been honest, but after he came into power he began stealing with both hands. When his sister wanted a cut, he murdered her and thought he could get away with it.”

“That would be an odd assumption.”

“It was just talk I heard. Um, from other students around school.”

Upshaw was still staring at him. “What else did these students imagine?”

“That the police killed the Minister and framed that man.”

“So the police department is corrupt too.”

Tom did not answer.

“Which means that the government is corrupt too, I suppose.”

“That’s what it would mean,” Tom said.

“How did these friends of yours account for the letter Fulton Bishop received?”

“Oh,” Tom said.

“The letter from a private citizen that helped pinpoint this man Foxhall Edwardes as Miss Hasselgard’s killer. I’d say that this letter pretty well negates most of your theory at one go. Because it means that Hasselgard did not murder his sister. Therefore, she did not demand a cut of the take, and therefore, the police did not cover up her murder—so the corruption seems to stop at Hasselgard. Do you believe that Captain Bishop got that letter, or do you think he invented the whole thing in order to corroborate the official version?”

“I think he got a letter,” Tom said.

“Good. Paranoia has not completely destroyed your mind.” He drained the rest of his martini, and, as if on cue, Mrs. Kingsley appeared with her tray clamped under her elbow and an ice bucket in her hands. From the top of the bucket protruded the neck of an open wine bottle. “You’ll stick to beer?”

Tom nodded.

Mrs. Kingsley laboriously placed the heavy bucket beside Upshaw’s plate and removed two glasses from the shaved ice around the bottle. She unclamped the tray and set Upshaw’s martini glass on it, and then went around to place the second wineglass before Gloria. Gloria gripped her martini glass with both hands, like a child who fears the loss of a toy. Mrs. Kingsley faded back into the dining room. A minute later she returned with a larger tray containing three bowls of gazpacho, which she placed atop their plates.

She went back inside the house. Glendenning Upshaw sampled the cold soup and looked at Tom again. He was no longer angry. “In a way, I’m almost happy that you have spoken as you have this morning. It means that I’ve come to the right decision.”

Gloria froze with her spoon halfway to her mouth.

“I think your horizons need widening.”

“My father said something about your being willing to set me up in business after I get out of college. That’s very generous. I don’t quite know what to say, except thanks. So thank you.”

His grandfather waved this away. “You’re applying to Tulane?”

Tom nodded.