Snowball in Hell - lanyon Josh (читать книги без TXT) 📗

She wiped her eyes. «When you didn't come yesterday I thought maybe … maybe something had happened to you.»

«Like what?» He felt vaguely alarmed at the way she wasn't meeting his eyes.

But she brushed that quickly aside, insisting that he stay long enough to eat a sandwich and drink a glass of milk. «We had real turkey at the parish Christmas dinner,» she told him proudly.

«Good,» he said, swallowing a lump of dry bread and dry turkey. She had never been much of a cook-or even much of a sandwich maker, but then neither of those things was required to get into heaven.

He thought of the turkey and stuffing and mashed potatoes at Little Fawn Lodge. It all seemed like a dream now. His eyes fell on the nativity meticulously arranged on the long table behind the sofa. The only time she'd ever slapped him was when she once found him once playing with the nativity-he'd had a couple of those handsome hand-carved archangels holding some earnest discussion with a couple of the tin reindeer requisitioned from the Christmas tree.

She chattered on about midnight mass and Father Brennan's sermon, and then she jumped up and brought him a small gift from beneath the fake miniature Christmas tree perched on the dining room table and decorated with tattered ornaments he'd made through his school years.

He put the sandwich aside and took the parcel. She stroked his back as he opened it, and he felt another flare of nervousness. He couldn't remember her ever being so demonstrative since he had been a very small boy.

The present was a pen, a very nice, expensive pen. One of those Parker Blue Diamonds.

«For the novels you're going to write one day,» she told him, and she swallowed hard as though she were ready to start weeping again. And, as he stared at her red-rimmed eyes, he realized she had been afraid that he had killed himself.

«Thanks, Ma,» Nathan managed. He stared at the pen, and then he hurried through the rest of his sandwich, telling her that he had to get over to the paper right away.

They were still celebrating at the Tribune-Herald. There were several bottles of homemade hooch-mulled wine and that sort of thing-circulating with a couple of trays of Christmas goodies-everything a little less sweet than it had used to be because of sugar rationing.

Nathan had a couple of drinks-fortifying himself after the visit to his mother-and spent the next few hours doing a little research and dodging his editor.

«Sid Szabo,» he asked at large, remembering that overnight bag Szabo had toted away from Pearl's rooming house. «He any relation to the Szabo Alligator Farm out in Lincoln Heights?»

There was a bit of debate on this point-a few people holding out for the theory that Sid was more likely to be related to a snake farm if there was one available-and in the end Nathan took his coat and hat and left them still debating.

Supposedly the Szabo Alligator Farm had only been around since the early 1900s, but it could have been from the Stone Age. Nathan parked beneath low hanging trees in the empty parking lot, and entered the park through a long white stucco building with a slim, two-story columned portico. The gift shop-offering baby alligators for sale-and ticket booth were closed, but he climbed over the turnstile and walked along the shaded path, crossing a small wooden bridge over a large dank pond filled with sleeping alligators.

According to the sign out front there was supposed to be over one thousand alligators and crocodiles, some more than two hundred years old, inhabiting over twenty miniature lakes.

He wondered if the alligators ever climbed out of their swimming holes, and if they were able to scale the slopes leading to the deeply shaded pathways. Stepping on one of those three hundred pound babies would be an unpleasant surprise for everyone involved. Glancing over the side of the bridge at the slithering tangle of reptiles, he decided they looked pretty tired; it was probably a little cold for them this time of year. Cold for him too. He missed the warmth of North Africa.

Over the murky smells of wet earth and slimy water, he could smell wood smoke. And through the dense foliage of weeping willows, he saw the twinkle of lights: a farmhouse in the back of the park. He picked up his pace, footsteps sounding dully on yet another little wooden bridge.

It was a creepy place, no doubt about it and it was hard to picture Pearl Jarvis in her high heels and faux furs trotting along these rustic bridges and uneven dirt trails. But she was hiding somewhere, and, Nathan had to admit, this was a pretty good hideout. Especially off-season.

He came out of the woods, and there was an old house behind a new and sturdy-looking chain link fence-probably to keep the alligators and crocodiles from paying a social call. Several yards behind the house was a large empty field. Two men stood beside a pick-up truck, and they appeared to be digging a deep hole.

Nathan watched them for a moment, then he reached over the substantial-looking gate, lifted the bar, and let himself in. He closed the gate firmly behind him.

He went up the paved path to the house and knocked.

Nothing happened.

He knocked again. After a moment or two, the door swung open and Pearl Jarvis, in dungarees and a man's sweater, stared back at him. She was holding an old Webley revolver, and it was pointed at his chest.

* * * *

«You can't hold me,» Claire Arlen was protesting for the nth time. «I'm an Arlen. I'm Philip Arlen's wife!»

«Well, you were,» Matt replied. «Now you're his widow. We're trying to figure out if that was by accident or design.»

The door opened and Carl Winters was ushered in-none too happily-by Jonesy. Jonesy raised his eyebrows at Matt, and Matt said, «Sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Winters-«

«This is harassment,» Winters interrupted furiously. «How many times am I to be subjected to police interrogation? I've answered all your questions. Again and again! I didn't kill my brother-in-law, and the fact that you would drag my sister– his widow-out, when she's ill-«

«It's all right, Carl,» Claire said, although she'd been saying pretty much the same thing herself since she had arrived.

«I didn't realize you were ill, Mrs. Arlen,» Matt said. She didn't look particularly well, but there could be a number of reasons for that-including guilt.

She said coldly, «I'm expecting a baby. And when Benedict Arlen hears the way you've treated me, and endangered the life of his grandson-«

There was what might be appropriately called a pregnant pause.

Matt fixed his gaze on Claire Arlen with the sensation of having been sucker-punched. He could feel Jonesy's eyes, but he didn't dare look at him. This was a bad oversight on their part. He knew how Jonesy felt, but that couldn't be helped now.

«Congratulations,» he said. «Did Phil know about the baby?»

«Of course he knew!»

There was something odd about the way she said that. Matt couldn't put his finger on it. Had Phil known and not been happy about the pregnancy?

But a baby would have improved things with old man Arlen, of that Matt was sure. The first grandkid? The first child of his favorite son? Yeah, that would have softened old Benedict up, probably convinced him to reinstate the black sheep's allowance-or maybe even increase it.

«I guess the family was pretty happy about the news?» he tried.

«I suppose so,» she said stiffly.

Huh.

«Why are we here?» Winters demanded. «I can't believe that I and my sister are your only suspects! What about organized crime? The mob? What about that reporter, Doyle? He was there that night. Perhaps he's your kidnapper. Reporters have all kinds of unsavory underworld contacts.»

«What would his motive be, Mr. Winters?»

«Phil must have been-well, how should I know? I'm sure Doyle needs money. He's been around asking all kinds of strange questions. Why aren't you questioning him?»