Black Moonlight Part 20

Creighton shook his head and went back to his telephone conversation. "The nineteenth was the day of my brother's arrival. Sounds like whoever sent it was familiar with his itinerary."

"Hmm," Jameson remarked. "Since it was such an odd request, the telegraph agent remembered the person who ordered it: a woman with long, black hair. Exotic looking."

"Ca.s.sandra," Creighton thought aloud.

"Ca.s.sandra? Isn't that the name of the second person who was murdered?" Jameson asked.

"Yes, it was. That's why it's so surprising."

"Well, it gets even better. I checked out Ca.s.sandra, a.k.a. Rose, and there is absolutely no record of a spiritual whatchamacallit having ripped off some old woman in Rhode Island, not under the name Ca.s.sandra, Rose, or any other name. Either the person who told you that story got his places mixed up, or the story is completely fabricated."

"That is interesting," Creighton remarked, "because the teller of that tale was my deceased father and if there was something he always did, it was check his facts."

"Maybe," Jameson replied, "but his secretary is a bit of a mystery."

"You mean, Miller?"

"If that's what he wants to call himself, sure," Jameson allowed. "It seems to work insofar as his business references go, but I hit a wall when I checked into his college education."

"What do you mean?" Creighton asked for clarification.

"I mean that Herman Miller didn't graduate from Lafayette College in 1920, but Hermann Muller did. He majored in English literature and was a member of the Industrial Workers of the World, along with other Socialist organizations."

"Our Miller claimed to have been writing the Great American novel when he decided to become a secretary," Creighton explained to Jameson. "You think they're one and the same?"

"After what I unearthed about Muller and the war, I'm willing to bet on it," Jameson stated.

"The war? As a German living in America, I'm sure Muller faced persecution, but that should have lessened considerably by 1920. The war ended two years before."

"The war ended in 1918, yes," Jameson corrected. "But the Germans didn't sign the Treaty until 1919."

"So?"

"So, according to Muller's school records, in his junior year, he was suspended for organizing a rally to protest the Treaty of Versailles and the blockade imposed upon Germany until their acceptance of the Treaty's conditions." Jameson went on, "In his senior year, he started a pet.i.tion to end the war reparations being paid by Germany to the Allies-namely Great Britain and France-and submitted a political cartoon to the school newspaper depicting a woman, Germany, tied to a stake with ropes labeled as 'The Treaty.' Since neither deed violated any rules, the school took no action against Muller; however, they took note of the events because of their disruptive potential."

"Disruptive is putting it mildly. Considering that many of Muller's fellow students had probably lost friends and family during the war, I'm certain they weren't overly pleased at having a German nationalist running about campus," Creighton noted.

"I'm sure many of them were offended and possibly even outraged," Jameson agreed. "But I'm also sure that more than a few of them laughed at the irony of that particular German nationalist's name."

"Hermann Muller? What's so-? Ah, wait a minute. He was ..." the answer was in the forefront of Creighton's memory, but he couldn't quite articulate it. "He was ..."

"One of the German delegates who signed the Treaty," Jameson answered his own question.

"I would have come up with that answer eventually," Creighton said peevishly.

"Sorry. I wanted to cut to the chase."

Creighton grunted. "You're right, that explains the name change. But how does it fit with the case?"

"I don't know. Marjorie told me the names of the victims and then asked me to fill in the blanks she found particularly suspicious, that's all."

"Thanks, Jameson," Creighton said appreciatively. "You did an excellent job 'filling in the blanks.' Let us know how we can repay you for all your hard work."

"For starters, you can take care of this telephone bill," Jameson stated bluntly. "If the Chief gets wind that I called Bermuda from the station phone, he'll have my badge."

"I'll take care of it as soon as I'm back," Creighton promised.

"Thanks, and I'm sorry about the jail time crack," Jameson apologized. "That's an awful way to spend a honeymoon."

"It certainly is," Creighton agreed.

"Well, hurry back to that beautiful bride of yours, and next time you take a honeymoon, stay in the States," Jameson advised. "That way I can be a better help when you inevitably run into a dead body."

"Good night, Jameson," Creighton responded crabbily.

"Good night, Creighton. Safe home." There was a loud click as Jameson disconnected.

Creighton replaced the receiver onto its cradle and turned to his brother. "So, tell me, Edward, what was Father working on when he was killed?"

Marjorie entered the Ashcrofts' darkened bedroom and rushed toward the bed. In the years since the crash, Marjorie had heard various accounts of people who, motivated by distrust and fear, placed their life savings under mattresses.

Could Ashcroft, also motivated by distrust and fear, have used the same device to guard the plans for the new airplane?

Frantically, Marjorie pulled back the bedspread and thrust her arm, as far as it would go, between the mattress and box-spring. Quickly, yet systematically, she moved around the edges of the bed, feeling the dark recess for any sign of paper. She found none.

Had Ashcroft taped the drawings to the underside of the mattress? Marjorie wondered.

No, she determined. Given their potential significance, Ashcroft would have checked the drawings regularly in order to ensure both their safety and validity. The process of undoing the bed, lifting the mattress, and removing the tape, would have been impractical. In addition, sharing a room with Griselda afforded him neither the time nor the privacy to engage in such a complicated process.

Perhaps he kept them in the bed, under the covers? Marjorie stood up, pulled back the covers and checked between the top sheet and blanket. Nothing.

She was not surprised; even if Ashcroft kept them on his side of the bed, Griselda would have noticed them through the thin summer blanket.

Maybe her theory about the bed was wrong, she thought. Ashcroft may simply have been particular about his bedding, although Marjorie thought it an unusual quirk for a man of his wealth and status. Where, precisely, would Ashcroft, a man who had spent his entire life surrounded by servants, have picked up such a habit? Although it wasn't impossible, it didn't fit with the man she had met.

She picked up the closest pillow and gave it and the starched white pillowcase enclosing it a close examination. Again, nothing. She threw it down and placed a palm onto the mattress to brace herself, leaning across the bed for the other pillow. It was then that she noticed that the section of the mattress upon which she was leaning was slightly firmer than the rest.

Marjorie stood up and felt the area; with her fingers, she could trace the outline of an object, flat and rectangular. However, it was not directly beneath the sheet, but farther down. Hastily, she untucked the bottom sheet and pulled back the mattress pad.

"Gris!" Marjorie called in a loud whisper. "Griselda!"

Marjorie's platinum blonde accomplice appeared in the doorway. "Did you find it?" she asked excitedly.

"Yes, it's here," Marjorie held the series of reduced-scale blueprints aloft for Griselda to see. Neither woman knew much about airplanes and even less about engineer's drawings, but they both understood that the inclusion of guns in the design meant that this aircraft was for military use, rather than civilian pa.s.senger conveyance.

"So that's it," Griselda noted sadly. "That's the reason Richie was killed. Because of some stupid pieces of paper."

"He won't be the last," Marjorie responded. "Especially if these plans become reality."

"Men," Griselda uttered in disgust. "Always trying to find new ways to kill each other. Didn't they get it out of their systems with the last war?"

"If history is any indication, no." Marjorie replaced the mattress pad and sheet, and smoothed them down. "Okay, shut the door and put on your nightgown," she instructed Griselda. "This way if Miller comes into the house, it looks like I've actually been putting you to bed. I'm going to fold up the drawings so that I can smuggle them out of here."

Griselda nodded and changed into a purple silk negligee. Meanwhile, Marjorie folded the drawings into as small a square as possible and anch.o.r.ed it inside the strap of her bra.s.siere.

"Ha!" Griselda laughed as she watched Marjorie hide the drawings. "My mother did the same thing, but her stash was money. Money she snuck away from Pop."

"Go to bed," Marjorie teased.

Griselda obediently slid between the covers and sighed. "I'm so glad that's over."

"I am, too. Well, that part of it at least."

"What do you mean, 'that part of it'?"

"Now that I have the drawings, I need to get them to the police."

"When are you planning to do that?" Griselda asked.

"As soon as I can get away from Miller," Marjorie explained. "If he's downstairs, waiting for me to join him for the fireworks, then I'll meet Constable Smith after Miller's gone to bed."

"Be careful," Griselda warned. "And come back later, will ya? Just to let me know you're okay. Please?"

"I will," Marjorie replied and took off down the hallway, just as a loud boom resonated though the limestone dwelling, shaking the windows and rattling the doors. The fireworks had begun.

Marjorie hastened down the cedar staircase, pausing to catch her breath in front of the heavily carved front door. Outside, Miller waited. You can do this, she told herself. You've made it this far. Stay calm just a little while longer.

She swung open the door and made her way down the front steps, all the while keeping an eye on the s.h.i.+mmering pyrotechnics going off high in the sky above Hamilton Harbor.

As she headed down the gravel path just a few yards from the table, a fountain of blue and gold sparks illuminated the heavens. "Ohhhh," Marjorie commented loudly. "That was pretty!"

She needn't have bothered. Although the table, benches and gla.s.ses of wine were exactly as she had left them, Miller was nowhere to be seen.

After a quick scan of the lawn and the neighboring woods, Marjorie hastened down the path toward the cove where Constable Smith was standing guard. She knew she had to hand the drawings off to the police and present her story as compellingly as possible; then, and only then, would she be safe.

She had just reached the top of the stairs when she encountered the black cat meowing and crying and pacing back and forth.

"It's okay, puss," Marjorie said soothingly. "The fireworks will be over before long, but right now, I have work to do." She leaned down and tried to scratch the feline behind the ears, but the cat would have none of it. With a swat and a loud hiss, he took off into the darkness.

Marjorie stood up and rubbed at the claw marks on the back of her hand. She should have known better than to try to pet an agitated cat. Still, his reaction had taken her by surprise. She shook her head, removed her shoes, and descended the cliff wall stairs.

In the flickering light of the fireworks, she could pick out the figure of Constable Smith, seated on the pier, his back resting against one of the tall wooden pilings.

"Constable Smith," she called.

The policeman didn't move.

"Constable Smith," she said, in a louder voice this time. "I need your help."

Again, the policeman did not respond.

Marjorie placed a hand on his shoulder and gave him a gentle shake. "Constable Smith?"

The movement sent Constable Smith's hat tumbling onto the sand, thus revealing a small, round bullet hole in the center of his forehead.

Marjorie backed away in horror. Not only had Smith been killed, but dangling from the piling against which he rested, was the missing whistle.

She opened her mouth to scream, but before she could make a sound, a searing pain shot from the base of her skull to the top of head.

The world around her grew dark ...

Sergeant Jackson stormed through the doors of the Hamilton Police Station. "This had better be good," he threatened. "Mrs. Jackson made a leg of lamb and spotted d.i.c.k for supper."

"Sounds a right treat," Creighton remarked, hungrily. "Anniversary?"

"It was awful," Jackson responded. "If I didn't know better, I'd think she was trying to kill me. But she tries so hard."

"To kill you?" Creighton teased.

"To cook something I'll like," Jackson said angrily. "Now then, which one of you monkeys had the bright idea to telephone me?"

Edward and Creighton both turned to look at the young constable.

"It-it was me, sir," the youth raised his hand. "The Ashcrofts here were trying to get back to Black Island."

"So, let them," Jackson replied breezily. "They won't get far on a night like tonight."

"You're right," Edward confessed. "We didn't. We can't cross the harbor without a police escort."

"Which is why we came back here," Creighton added. "And why we had the Constable call you. We need to get across, now. Tonight."

"You're a prisoner," Jackson scoffed. "You're not going anywhere, except back to your cell."

"I have the bail money," Edward stated.

"Well, isn't that lovely? You can bring it by the courthouse tomorrow morning."

"It can't wait until tomorrow morning," Creighton argued. "My wife may be in danger."

"From what? Boredom?"

"Herman Miller," Creighton stated. "We have reason to believe he's a German agent."

"What? Oh, Mr. Ashcroft," Jackson laughed. "Surely, you can come up with something better than that."

"Wait, Sergeant," the constable pleaded. "Just hear them out."

"They've got you, too, have they, Constable?" Jackson chuckled as he pulled over a chair from a nearby desk and sat in it. "All right, go ahead. Convince me."