Naked Cruelty Read online

  “Well, dog my cats!” said Carmine feebly. “I guess staid old New England would be a shock after California, huh, Aggie? What was I doing, that I didn’t hear of it?”

  “The race riots after Martin Luther King Junior?”

  “Yeah, right.” He gave the chief conveyancer his most charming smile, and vanished as quickly as a pricked bubble.

  He just had time on his way to Busquash Mall. Fortunate.

  When the Fairlane pulled up outside 5 Curzon Close, Carmine tried to envision the lovely white clapboard house painted in black-and-white stripes. Why on earth would anyone want to do that? It stood in about half an acre of land, and bore evidence that at least one tenant of it was prepared to put in the hard work English-style flowerbeds demanded; they had been mulched for winter, and about next May would be a picture. No, real gardens didn’t fit with zebra striped houses. The only touch of color the house now sported was a red-lacquered front door. Not paint, lacquer. Carmine ended in concluding that Robert and Gordon Warburton had been pulling a few tetchy New England legs. Jokesters and pranksters, not Philistines.

  Out of the Fairlane, up the flagged path toward the red door; before he was halfway there the red door had opened to disgorge two men who shut it firmly behind them. Perhaps five paces apart, Carmine stopped and they stopped, each side examining the other.

  What Carmine saw were two absolutely identical men about thirty years of age. They had the kind of streaky brown hair that suggests tow-headed toddlers; it was well barbered, thick, and wavy. The face they shared had regular features and an enquiring expression, with greenish, grape-like eyes contributing most of the enquiry. As they stood side by side on the path, Carmine could not put one a fraction taller, heavier or wider than the other, and their physiques were exactly alike: narrow shoulders, slim waists, no hips, though the feet were splayed like a ballet dancer’s. They wore the same knitted shirts, casual trousers and loafer shoes, except that one twin was clad in black, and the other in white. Had they not worn different colors, it would have been impossible to tell them apart, and that was very strange in mature men: identicalness diminished with the years.

  He pulled out his gold badge and introduced himself.

  “I’m Robert Warburton,” said the black clad twin. “You’ll always know us apart by the colors we wear. Robbie dark, Gordie light. We thought it had better be black and white today in case you’ve come about our black and white house that was.”

  “So you already know I’m a policeman?”

  “You have been pointed out to us, Captain.”

  There was the faintest suggestion of femininity about them; Carmine found himself wondering if, had he not been known to be a cop, the slight suggestion might have been a downright scream.

  “Are you related to Miss Amanda Warburton?” he asked bluntly.

  They gave a stagey jump, perfectly synchronized. “Yes, we are,” said dark Robert, apparently the spokesman.

  “She never mentioned you last night, though I would have thought she’d stand in need of relatives.”

  “You saw her last night? Not a date, obviously. Actually she wouldn’t have mentioned us.” He giggled. “She doesn’t know we’re living in Carew.”

  “Any reason why, sir?”

  Robert and Gordie shrugged in unison. “Not really, just the way families are, Captain. Amanda’s our father’s generation—our only aunt—even if there aren’t many years between us. A pity, I feel. The three of us are the last of the Warburtons. One reason why we decided to have a house near Amanda.”

  “And then not tell her.”

  Both pairs of skinned gooseberry eyes opened wide, but neither twin answered.

  “I’d appreciate your letting Miss Warburton know,” Carmine said. “Your aunt is the victim of a weird kind of persecution, gentlemen. Her glass shop has been vandalized three times in a week, and Miss Warburton was injured last night during the third attack. A motive is hard to find, hence my visit to you.”

  “Ooo-aa!” Gordie squealed.

  “You mean we’re suspects?” Robbie asked sharply.

  “Yes. Have you been in Holloman all week?”

  “Well, yes,” dark Robert admitted.

  “Are you gainfully employed, sirs?”

  Both faces lit up identically. “Are we gainfully employed? Are the Marx Brothers a success? Are Olivia de Havilland and Joan Fontaine sisters? We are movie stars!” Gordie announced.

  “Glad to hear you can speak too, sir. May we go inside?”

  “A Californian’s home is his castle,” said Robert. “No, Captain, we stay out here.”

  “What’s inside? Dead bodies? Stuffed dodos?”

  They understood the reference to dodos, but ignored it. “Whatever it might be is our business until you produce a legal warrant,” Robert said, chin out. Gordie’s chin was out too. “I note that New Englanders are not a trusting bunch, so why did you think Californians would be?”

  “It’s Miss Warburton concerns me,” Carmine said, rather enjoying this interlude. “I hope you’re planning to tell her you’re here, like today or tomorrow?”

  “Don’t you want to hear about our career as movie stars?” Gordie asked, sounding injured.

  “I don’t go to the movies,” Carmine said solemnly. “There are three repertory companies in Holloman, and American Shakespeare is just down the road at Stratford.”

  “Yecch!” gagged Gordie. “Stage is phoney.”

  “Film is phoney,” said Carmine.

  “Twins! Identical twins!” cried pale Gordie.

  “Huh?”

  “And there you have it, Captain,” said dark Robert. “We are identical twins who can act. We fence. We’re expert riders. We can sing and dance. After we did Waltz of the Vampire Twins last spring, the offers have been rolling in. Right age, right sex, right look—we’ll never be Cary Grant, but we’ve found a way to live pretty well.”

  “And that’s just the tip of our iceberg !” shrilled Gordie.

  “Shut up, Gordie!” Robert snapped.

  “How can movie stars live in Connecticut?”

  “Paul Newman and Kirk Douglas do,” said Gordie.

  “We have two more houses, Captain,” said Robert; it was clear that he was used to cleaning up after Gordie’s indiscreet remarks. “One is in San Diego that we rent out, and one in the Hollywood Hills is our residence while we’re on the West Coast. Work in California, rest in Connecticut.”

  “Does either of you keep a diary?” Carmine asked.

  “It’s a joint effort,” they chorused.

  “Now why doesn’t that lay me flat on the ground in surprise? Bring yourselves and the joint effort diary to the County Services building, Police Department, tomorrow morning at nine. And make sure your diary goes back to the beginning of March.”

  “Why? What have we done?” Robbie asked.

  “Just helping with enquiries, sir. There’s a rapist loose in Carew.” He nodded to them and retreated down the path, the Warburton twins staring after him in horror.

  ***

  Hank Murray was waiting in his VIP’s office, rather than the one where he kept plans, records, mountainous files and his secretary.

  “A man your size could hardly move down there,” he said, seating Carmine in a green leather chair. “This one is for my clients and members of the Board. Cappuccino? Long black with cream? Ursula’s waiting for the order.”

  “Cappuccino,” said Carmine.

  “Danish?”

  “Would not go amiss, Mr. Murray.”

  Within five minutes Hank’s secretary appeared with a loaded tray, including his favorite, apple Danish.

  “Fill me in on the bank robbery,” said Carmine.

  “A definite inside job, Captain. Whoever stole the money had a set of keys. They came in the back door off the service corridor, and had keys to
the strong room.”

  “Do you have keys to the strong room, Mr. Murray?”

  Hank gasped. “Lord, no! I have keys to the service door, of course, but to nothing else in any Busquash Mall bank branch.”

  “Did Sergeant Jones ask you?”

  “Uh—no. I wasn’t with him when he went to the bank.”

  I hope it’s when, Carmine thought as he found the emergency stairs and went down a floor. Avoiding elevators was one of the ways he dealt with Desdemona’s cooking.

  Having declined Hank’s company, he walked around to the Mall proper and entered the bank through its front door.

  A nice little branch, floored and walled in a streaky marble of pink, white, green and grey. The tellers were behind a fine counter of the same marble, and probably each was equipped with an alarm button beside the right knee placed so it wouldn’t be knocked accidentally but was easy to reach. There were five teller slots, but only two working; several—customers?—clients?—patrons?—were inside, but no line had formed.

  His gold badge admitted him through an electric gate in the counter, and he was conducted to a large desk in the far left corner where Mr. Percy Lambert, the manager, sat looking gloomy.

  “Captain, I’m so glad to see you,” said Lambert, a tall, thin man with scant hair and the facial lines of one who suffered chronic indigestion.

  Carmine sat in the client’s chair and looked competent. “I gather the money that was taken was your cash reserve for the next day?” he asked. “Answer me as if I know nothing, it’s my usual technique. Sometimes repetition jogs the memory,” he explained smoothly.

  “Yes, it was the next day’s cash reserve. Under ordinary circumstances it’s sufficient to get us through, but if we have a heavy run on cash, I call head office in Cromwell Street and get more,” said Mr. Lambert.

  “Does that happen often?”

  “No, as I usually cater for known periods of high demand, like holiday weekends. Weekends I have to keep additional funds in house, as all our other branches are closed. The Busquash Mall is special. The Fourth National has a branch here too, and we alternate weekends. Holiday weekends, we’re both open.”

  “I see. Was there anything special about the money, sir? Was it sequentially numbered? New or used?”

  “Used bills, non-sequential.” The long face grew longer. “Ideal for a robber. It wasn’t marked in any way.”

  “Show me where and how.”

  The back right-hand corner of the big premises had been cut off from the general area by an extremely pretty cage of gold bars adorned with curlicues and simple lacework. The area inside it was ten by ten feet, its rear wall taken up by a series of safes with heavy, branched handles and numbered dials. A console sat against the front row of bars, and the entrance door was to the only free side, the left.

  “We changed the lock immediately,” Lambert said as he turned a key several times back and forth, “but it’s being converted to a proper combination lock whose numbers will be changed daily.”

  “You’re insured, of course.”

  “Oh, yes.”

  They walked in, a squeeze for Carmine, who vowed to check his weight at the police gym that very day.

  “We have no safety deposit boxes or facilities for really big sums of money,” Lambert said. “I guess if I expected any kind of robbery, it was a holdup.”

  “And none ever happened?”

  “No, none, even aborted.”

  “Has Detective Sergeant Jones been back to see you?”

  “No,” Lambert said, sounding unconcerned. “I told him at the time that I didn’t think he’d solve it. I’ve racked my brains, Captain, and can’t ever remember the keys to the strong room out of my hands, let alone gone missing.”

  “Do you carry them on your person?”

  “No, I can’t. They’re heavy—the tellers’ drawers are on the same ring, and several keys to those safes back there.”

  “So they’re in your desk? Known to be?”

  “Not quite. They’re in that safe in my far corner—under the imitation fern. And I’m the only one with its combination.”

  “Then your security is good, Mr. Lambert. Just keep your eyes peeled for anyone who reveals knowledge about the bank’s locks, and particularly your safe combination.” His voice remained dry. “Were you satisfied with Sergeant Jones’s conduct, sir?”

  “Have you any reason to think I might not be, Captain?”

  “No, it’s a routine question. But I would like a frank answer,” Carmine said.

  “Well, he was pleasant enough, and he knew how bank robberies usually go down. If I have any complaint, it was the smell of liquor on his breath. But he apologized for that, said his wife had just left him and he’d gone on a bender.”

  “Thank you for your understanding, Mr. Lambert. I’ll keep in touch,” said Carmine, and departed.

  So Hank Murray was ruled out, and who else was left? No one. Murray had seemed a shoo-in for a while, listening to him on the subject of parsimonious mall owners and their reluctance to hire proper security; had it stopped with Amanda Warburton, Hank was a good bet, as the vandalisms had brought him into closer contact with a very attractive lady he clearly doted on. It would have enabled him to kill two birds with the same stone: get to know Amanda better, and bring Shortland Security on board. But to Carmine, the same man committed both crimes. In fact, the Vandal, whoever he was, had probably never intended more than that first, most bizarre invasion of the glass shop—garbage, yet! The two that followed were less imaginative, even if it had taken him some hours to pile up all the glass on the second invasion. The Warburton twins, perhaps? No. They were poseurs, and the idea of vandalism would most likely horrify them. Who, who, who?

  ***

  A glance at his watch said that perhaps his forensics team were still at the Glass Teddy Bear; since he was on the premises, he may as well see what, if anything, had been discovered.

  “The cleaning firm put paid to any chance I had of collecting evidence right up to this moment,” Paul said, packing up his gear in the back room. “It reeks of commercial fluids under an air freshener, and the carpet was shampooed within an inch of its life. The Vandal must have ruined the place. So to get it back to normal took real work. I asked Mr. Murray if it was Whistle-Clean, and it was.”

  Since this firm contracted for the worst messes human beings could make, Carmine simply grimaced. “Never mind, Paul. The poor lady needed to be cheered up. How did Miss MacIntosh the sex kitten do?”

  Paul’s fresh, round face lit up in amusement. “I wish I’d seen her! She turned up in a gaberdine pantsuit that wouldn’t have looked out of place on a nun. She did very well, Carmine. Went the rounds with her notebook and pencil, charmed the men and made the women like her. I guess the rocket you tied to her tail did the trick.”

  In she came, notebook, closed, in her right hand; when she saw Carmine she gulped, almost saluted, then contented herself by standing to attention.

  “At ease,” Carmine said solemnly. “What did you find out, Miss MacIntosh?”

  “Nothing worth a thousand words of notes, sir, but there is one very interesting thing I’d like to show you,” she said, and moved toward the shop.

  Carmine followed, waving goodbye at Paul.

  Down to the front window, where the glass teddy bear sat in all his glory; Helen pointed at his face. “Did you ever see such eyes?” she asked. “Stars in them. And such a gorgeously rich blue, like the Pacific at its deepest.”

  He inspected the glass teddy bear’s blue orbs intently. “Uh—they’re lovely,” he said lamely. “Is that it?”

  “Yes, sir, that’s it.” Her face became serious, awed. “Sir, this glass animal is a wonder of the world. If you look closely at the little round tail—teddy bears don’t usually have tails—you’ll see the artist’s signature—Lorenzo della Fiori. He wa
s the acknowledged master, the best in anyone’s memory. Based in Venice, but on Burano, not on Murano. Ten years ago he was murdered—thirty-four years old! God knows what treasures the world lost when he died untimely.”

  Carmine was staring at her, stupefied. “How do you know this, Miss MacIntosh?”

  Her lashes lowered, she assumed the demure look he supposed was a part of her customary repertoire when talking to men. “Art history and art appreciation at Miss Procter’s School for Girls, Captain. They may not have taught us much science, but they stuffed us full of art, literature and music. Miss Procter’s theory of education is that a Miss Procter’s girl will marry so well that one day she’ll be a patron of art, literature and/or music. After all, there’s only so much of a schoolgirl’s day that can be devoted to etiquette and the Blue Book.”

  His lips twitched, but he maintained his calm. “You’re saying this thing is worth a fortune?”

  “Several fortunes, actually. Look at its eyes again. Each is as big as an over-sized marble, and its color is a rich, slightly opaque, cornflower blue. You can’t call the glass cloudy, because that implies wispiness, whereas this is uniform. It really is an eerie opalescence, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he said, fascinated. Where was she going?

  “What really makes each eye so mesmerising is the six-pointed star in its depths. I mean, the star isn’t anywhere near the surface, yet if you could turn the big marble over, it would give you the same impression. The star kind of floats in space. Fabulous!” she cried.

  “It must have been very hard to get the stars in its eyes.”

  “That’s just it—he didn’t!” Helen said excitedly. “No human hand made those eyes, Captain. They’re star sapphires.”

  “Jesus!” He stepped back involuntarily. “What are we looking at in pedestrian terms like dollars?”

  “First, sir, you have to understand that this matched pair of gems is unique,” said that remarkable young woman. “Star sapphires are a dismal blue-grey color that detracts hugely from their value. The perfect color for a sapphire is cornflower blue, and star sapphires don’t come in cornflower blue. They just don’t. Except for this teddy bear’s eyes. Their value is inestimable, but if I had to put a price on a wonder of the world complete with two huge, matched, cornflower-blue star sapphires for eyes, I would go into the double millions. High double millions. Put it on display for two years, and you’d earn your money back. This is a true museum piece, but the only way you or anyone else would find out what it’s worth is to send it for auction.”