Not a Creature Was Stirring(107)

He was already on his way up the stairs when he saw the Federal Express envelope lying on the hall table near the door. Just in case, he came down again and checked it out.

It was, surprisingly enough, addressed to him. It was return-addressed to a friend of his in Boston, who had left the Bureau and gone into business as a private detective. Gregor opened the envelope and found a single sheet of paper.

    Gregor—

    Called and called but could never get in touch. Didn’t know how fast you needed this.

    Keep in touch.

    Timmy



Underneath there was a name and address.

Gregor sighed. He’d give this to Donna Moradanyan and let her do what she wanted with it. At least somebody was going to get what they were after today.





2


He let himself into his apartment to find that not only were Tibor and Donna in his living room, not only was Lida in his kitchen, but old George Tekamanian was ensconced in one of the living room chairs, drinking rum he’d brought up from downstairs and looking very pleased with himself. It was a kind of party, staged entirely for his benefit, complete with food. He could smell the food. Lida was in there with his pots and pans—and probably some of her own pots and pans—cooking. He stuck his head into the kitchen and mumbled a few courtesies, just so he could tell himself he wasn’t being as rude as he felt like being. Maybe Lida was feeling ruder. She shooed him out without really looking at him and went on with her cups of flour and folds of dough.

Gregor hung his coat and jacket on the coatrack, loosened his tie, and rolled up his sleeves. Then he tucked the Federal Express envelope under his arm and went into the living room.

The television was on in there, blaring out the story of Bobby Hannaford’s arrest. Donna looked up as he came in and smiled.

“This is incredible,” she said. “This guy must have been nuts.”

“A corporate raider,” old George said solemnly. “I told you that, Krekor.”

Tibor unwound himself from his place on the couch. “Is this the answer to your case, Gregor? We have been talking, Donna and George and Lida and I. We think, perhaps, this young man has done dishonest things with his father’s company, his father is an evil and unforgiving man, so—pfft.”

“Pfft,” Gregor said. He looked at Bobby Hannaford’s face on the television. The news had reached Engine House before he and Jackman left, so he knew all about it—more, in fact, than the television reporters possibly could. The story had been so bizarre, he’d called Flanagan and checked on it. Now Bobby Hannaford looked mulish, silly, and thoroughly frightened, like a small boy used to getting in trouble, but not this much trouble.

“So,” Tibor said. “What do you think of our theory?”

“I think it’s wonderful,” Gregor said, “except for the candlestick.”

“Candlestick?” George said.

Gregor explained about the candlestick. Then he explained about the notes that had appeared and disappeared after Emma Hannaford died. Then he explained about pointers, the kind that went the wrong way.

“The money in the wastebasket,” he told them, “must have come from the briefcase Robert Hannaford showed Father Tibor. Hannaford told me he’d have it with him and I could count the money before I ate my dinner. It must have been in the study when he was killed. It must have been removed by his murderer. And when it became increasingly obvious that Jackman wasn’t going to buy suicide in Emma Hannaford’s death, some of the bills from it were planted in Bobby Hannaford’s wastebasket to point us at Hannaford Financial.”

“But where’s the rest of it?” Donna asked, confused. “Where’s the briefcase?”

“The briefcase is where I thought it would be,” Gregor said. “In the utility dump used for the lawn and garden garbage. That was luck, in a way. I’ve had the luck to be introduced to large, formal houses. They always have something of that kind. And that was the only place for it, really. Those dumps are always far from the house, much too far to be searched immediately. It could have been months before the police got around to it. If ever.”

“And the money?” George prompted.

“Oh, that,” Gregor said. “Well, our murderer is very practical. That’ll be stashed somewhere for use at a later time. When things die down.”

“Couldn’t you get one of those warrants and search the house?” Donna said. “Then, when you find the money, you’ll have the evidence.”

“Maybe,” Gregor conceded, “but I’d bet on one thing. That money isn’t the only stash of hundred-dollar bills in the house. Assuming the briefcase money is even in the house. The other stash—Bobby Hannaford’s payoff money from McAdam—now that, definitely, is there. And easily discoverable in a not-too-improbable place.”