When we said goodnight I took the coffin with me and impressed on her the importance of not mentioning it to anyone. After that, all we could do was wait for the autopsy report. Which was: Death by poisoning, probably self-administered.
TC: But you knew it was a murder.
JAKE: I knew. And Mrs. Parsons knew. But everybody else thought it was a suicide. Most of them still think so.
TC: And what brand of poison did our friend choose?
JAKE: Liquid nicotine. A very pure poison, fast and powerful, colorless, odorless. We don’t know exactly how it was administered, but I suspect it was mixed together with some of the doctor’s beloved Maalox. One good gulp, and down you go.
TC: Liquid nicotine. I’ve never heard of it.
JAKE: Well, it’s not exactly a name brand—like arsenic. Speaking of our friend, I came across something the other day, something by Mark Twain, that struck me as very appropriate. (After searching his bookshelves, and finding the volume he wanted, Jake paced the room, reading aloud in a voice unlike his own: a hoarse, angry voice) “Of all the creatures that were made, man is the most detestable. Of the entire brood he is the only one, the solitary one, that possesses malice. That is the basest of all instincts, passions, vices—the most hateful. He is the only creature that inflicts pain for sport, knowing it to be pain. Also in all the list, he is the only creature that has a nasty mind.” (Jake banged the book shut and threw it on the bed) Detestable. Malicious. A nasty mind. Yessir, that describes Mr. Quinn perfectly. Not the whole of him. Mr. Quinn is a man of varied talents.
TC: You never told me his name before.
JAKE: I’ve only known it myself the last six months. But that’s it. Quinn.
(Again and again Jake slammed a hard fist into a cupped hand, like an angry prisoner too long confined, frustrated. Well, he had now been imprisoned by this case for many years; great fury, like great whiskey, requires long fermentation.)
Robert Hawley Quinn, Esquire. A most esteemed gentleman.
TC: But a gentleman who makes mistakes. Otherwise, you wouldn’t know his name. Or rather, you wouldn’t know he was our friend.
JAKE: (Silence; he’s not listening)
TC: Was it the snakes? You said they came from a Texas snake farm. If you know that, then you must know who bought them.
JAKE (anger gone; yawning): What?
TC: Incidentally, why were the snakes injected with amphetamine?
JAKE: Why do you think? To stimulate them. Increase their ferocity. It was like throwing a lighted match into a gasoline tank.
TC: I wonder, though. I wonder how he managed to inject the snakes, and install them in that car, all without getting bitten himself.
JAKE: He was taught how to do it.
TC: By whom?
JAKE: By the woman who sold him the snakes.
TC: A woman?
JAKE: The snake farm in Nogales, it’s owned by a woman. You think that’s funny? My oldest boy married a girl who works for the Miami police department; she’s a professional deep-sea diver. The best car mechanic I know is a woman—
(The telephone interrupted; Jake glanced at his wristwatch and smiled, and his smile, so real and relaxed, told me not only that he knew who the caller was, but that it was someone whose voice he’d been happily expecting to hear.)
Hello, Addie. Yeah, he’s here. He says it’s spring in New York; I said he should’ve stayed there. Naw, nothin’. Just knocking off some drinks and discussing you-know-what. Is tomorrow Sunday? I thought it was Thursday. Maybe I’m losing my marbles. Sure, we’d love to come to dinner. Addie—don’t worry about it. He’ll like anything you cook. You’re the greatest cook either side of the Rockies, east or west. So don’t make a big deal out of it. Yeah, well, maybe that raisin pie with the apple crust. Lock your doors. Sleep tight. Yes, I do. You know I do. Buenas noches.
(After he’d hung up, his smile remained, broadened. At last he lit the cigar, puffed on it with pleasure. He pointed at the phone, chuckled.)
That was the mistake Mr. Quinn made. Adelaide Mason. She invited us to dinner tomorrow.
TC: And who is Mrs. Mason?
JAKE: Miss Mason. She’s a terrific cook.
TC: But other than that?
JAKE: Addie Mason was what I had been waiting for. My big break.
You know, my wife’s dad was a Methodist minister. She was very serious about the whole family going to church. I used to get out of it as much as I could, and after she died I never went at all. But about six months ago the Bureau was ready to close shop on this case. We’d spent a lot of time and a lot of money. And we had nothing to show for it; no case at all. Eight murders, and not a single clue that would link the victims together to produce some semblance of a motive. Nothing. Except those three little handcarved coffins.
I said to myself: No! No, it can’t be! There’s a mind behind all this, a reason. I started going to church. There’s nothing to do here on Sunday anyway. Not even a golf course. And I prayed: Please, God, don’t let this sonofabitch get away with it!
Over on Main Street there’s a place called the Okay Café. Everybody knows you can find me there just about any morning between eight and ten. I have my breakfast in the corner booth, and then just hang around reading the papers and talking to the different guys, local businessmen, that stop by for a cup of coffee.
Last Thanksgiving Day, I was having breakfast there as usual. I had the place pretty much to myself, it being a holiday and all; and I was in low spirits anyway—the Bureau was putting the final pressure on me to close this case and clear out. Christ, it wasn’t that I didn’t want to dust off this damn town! I sure as hell did. But the idea of quitting, of leaving that devil to dance on all those graves, made me sick to my guts. One time, thinking about it, I did vomit. I actually did.
Well, suddenly Adelaide Mason walked into the café. She came straight to my table. I’d met her many times, but I’d never really talked to her. She’s a schoolteacher, teaches first grade. She lives here with her sister, Marylee, a widow. Addie Mason said: “Mr. Pepper, surely you’re not going to spend Thanksgiving in the Okay Café?
If you haven’t other plans, why don’t you take dinner at our house? It’s just my sister and myself.” Addie isn’t a nervous woman, but despite her smiles and cordiality, she seemed, hmm, distracted. I thought: Maybe she considers it not quite proper for an unmarried lady to invite an unmarried man, a mere acquaintance, to her home. But before I could say yes or no, she said: “To be truthful, Mr. Pepper, I have a problem. Something I need to discuss with you. This will give us the chance. Shall we say noon?”
I’ve never eaten better food—and instead of turkey they served squabs with wild rice and a good champagne. All during the meal Addie kept the conversation moving in a very amusing manner. She didn’t appear nervous at all, but her sister did.
After dinner we sat down in the living room with coffee and brandy. Addie excused herself from the room, and when she came back she was carrying—
TC: Two guesses?
JAKE: She handed it to me, and said: “This is what I wanted to discuss with you.”
(Jake’s thin lips manufactured a smoke ring, then another. Until he sighed, the only sound in the room was the meowing wind clawing at the window.)
You’ve had a long trip. Maybe we ought to call it a night.
TC: You mean you’re going to leave me hanging out here?
JAKE (seriously, but with one of his mischievously ambiguous grins): Just until tomorrow. I think you should hear Addie’s story from Addie herself. Come along; I’ll walk you to your room.
(Oddly, sleep struck me as though I’d been hit by a thief’s blackjack; it had been a long journey, my sinus was troubling me, I was tired. But within minutes I was awake; or, rather, I entered some sphere between sleep and wakefulness, my mind like a crystal lozenge, a suspended instrument that caught the reflections of spiraling images: a man’s head among leaves, the windows of a car streaked with venom, the eyes of serpents sliding through heat-mist, fire flowing from the earth, scorched fists pounding at a cellar door, taut wire gleaming in the twilight, a torso on a roadway, a head among leaves, fire, fire, fire flowing like a river, river, river. Then a telephone rings.)
MAN’S VOICE: How about it? Are you going to sleep all day?
TC (the curtains are drawn, the room is dark, I don’t know where I am, who I am): Hello?
MAN’S VOICE: Jake Pepper speaking. Remember him? Mean guy? With mean blue eyes?
TC: Jake! What time is it?
JAKE: A little after eleven. Addie Mason’s expecting us in about an hour. So jump under the shower. And wear something warm. It’s snowing outside.
(It was a heavy snow, thick flakes too heavy to float; it fell to the ground and covered it. As we drove away from the motel in Jake’s car, he turned on his windshield wipers. Main Street was gray and white and empty, lifeless except for a solitary traffic light winking its colors. Everything was closed,
