Thirteen

Kane Towers had an embattled look today. Macbeth could easily have been holed up inside waiting for the fuzz to finger him for the Banquo and Duncan jobs. Never cheerful at the best of times, today it positively loured.

I half expected the chimes to play “Nearer My God To Thee” but it was still Wagner, though in less ebullient mood, I felt.

Today’s butler, though, was pure Jeeves. Presumably whoever did the hiring considered a stiffish upper lip was now called for. A solid presence, his face would have graced a coin and his prow a stately man o’war.

“And who shall I say is calling, sir?”

And when I’d told him— “I’m afraid Mr. Kane is not receiving callers today, sir, but Miss Kane did lead me to believe that we might expect a visit from you.” Did she, indeed? “If you will follow me, sir …”

I did as requested and found myself in what was presumably the Library. I say ‘presumably’ because, although it was filled with books from floor to ceiling, I would have bet Mike’s bottom dog biscuit that none of them had had its spine cracked. They were even arranged in blocks of colored bindings.

Nana Kane was sitting in a wingback chair with her back to the door pretending to read. The butler must have pressed some sort of buzzer, because she knew I was en route and had had time to art direct herself to receive me. Just one small detail wrong. She was either reading an Australian book—or she was holding it upside down.

In a properly-organized world she’d have rung a small hand bell and said—

“I was just about to have tea and cucumber sandwiches. Won’t you join me?”

Instead of which, she said—

“I knew you’d turn up like a bad penny sooner or later.” She threw the book on a side table. Also Sprach Zarathustra. Somehow I hadn’t figured her as a reader of Nietzsche. Genetic influence, presumably. “What do you want?”

If she thought her manner would have me running for the hills, she was sadly mistaken. I wasn’t turning my back on anybody or anything until this whole thing was signed, sealed and delivered to—whoever it was signed, sealed and delivered to.

“I just called to return something.”

“What can you possibly have of mine?”

“Who said it was yours? Actually, it belongs to your sister.”

“Sister? I don’t have a sister.”

“Maybe you should tell her that. She certainly thinks she has one—you.”

And I pulled the blonde wig out of my pocket and tossed it on to the table. Nietzsche Meets Blondie … Could sell a million, properly marketed.

From the way Nana Kane recoiled, you’d think she was Cleopatra having a sudden change of heart about the desirability of an asp.

“Take that horrible thing away. I hate the sight of it.”

“As you wish. Might as well have it complete, though, before we bin it, don’t you think?”—

And I reached over and delicately picked a single blonde hair from her sleeve, where it was competing with dark brown silk and ivory lace.

From the corner of my eye I could see Holmes perched in the window embrasure. He applauded silently. “My first glance is always at a woman’s sleeve.” Lesson learned, Holmes. Thank you.

She pulled her arm away as though my touch had scalded her and stood with her back to me. What she apparently didn’t notice, though, was that she was now facing a large mirror in which I could see her reflection.

And what I saw almost unnerved me, for it was as though I were looking at the magic mirror in Snow White, where the Queen turns into the wicked witch. Except this time it was the other way around.

Nana turned into Anna before my eyes. The gray eyes lost their somber depths and seemed to positively sparkle by comparison. The chin came up. She even held her body differently, as she turned back to face me.

“Mr. Watson, please forgive my rudeness but I have been under a lot of strain lately, what with my father’s health and …” She didn’t complete the sentence but I could guess what else. Splitting logs is marginally easier than splitting personalities.

“I know you’re only here to help us. And as for my ‘sister’, as you call her, I only wish I had a sister sometimes to share the burden. I can only assume there is someone out there who bears a passing resemblance to me. If I run across her, I will most certainly give her this …” and she picked up the wig, as if it were a joke between us, and held it up against her face. “After all, it’s hardly me, is it?”

“Oh, I don’t know, dear. Some people might say it was quite an improvement. Stepmother’s little joke, darling. We can take a joke, can’t we?”

Standing in the open doorway—and using the frame more for support than decoration—was Linda Grace. She was nursing a highball glass that seemed to have been receiving a lot of recent attention, to judge from the blood red lipstick smears around its rim.

“Well, hello there, Mr. Whatever-Your-Name-Is Private Eye. Missed you at the movies the other day—yesterday, was it?”

This lady wasn’t nearly as drunk as she’d like us to believe but the impression was great protective coloring. It may just possibly have been her best part. And it wasn’t scripted.

“Didn’t miss much. Oh, except the final scene when I fired that fucking fag director …”

“Oh,” Nana/Anna chimed in sweetly, “is this the film where three old ladies in the twilight home fight it out with zimmer frames?”

“Now, listen, sweetie …”

But then she controlled herself and smiled at me from under her lashes, as if to say that we were the only two grown-ups here and I’d understand grown-up talk.

“Listen to her—the original good time that was had by all.”

It was a good line, even if I had heard it before.

But Nana was playing her scene now. She looked at me. They were competing for the attention of an audience of one.

“You’ll find that my stepmother has a movie speech to suit every occasion and, believe me, I’ve heard them all. They’re usually culled from the works of the late, great Bette Davis. It’s about now that she says—‘Fasten your seat belts. It’s going to be a bumpy night.’ All About Eve. Twentieth Century-Fox. Nineteen-fifty.”

“Fuck you, sweetie!”

“Now, that one I can’t quite place.”

“At least Bette never played boring little—spinsters!”

Mistake. Big mistake. Even I knew that.

“What about Now, Voyager? Warner Brothers. Nineteen—”

Check.

“Yeah, but she turned into a glamorous woman.”

Mate.

“Will you two overgrown children stop this stupid game at once. It has long outlived its amusement value. Mr. Watson will think we are running an institution for the mentally retarded.”

Mr. Watson knew they were running at least one called Sunnyvale.

Osgood Kane’s silent-running wheelchair now filled the doorway behind them.

It was fascinating to see how Kane’s two women reacted.

Nana shook a curtain of dark hair across her face. Linda took a defiant slug of whatever-it-was she was drinking. Both of them shut up.

“And now, Mr. Watson, I presume you are here with news of your assignment? What have you to report?”

“The Bird will be in the hands of its rightful owner by this time tomorrow,” I replied. Pretty subtle, huh?

“As of now I am no longer working for you, on account of the fact that I have no stomach for horror comics. And you needn’t worry—your check will not be presented. Save it for the Clone Adolf Hitler Fund. Ladies—and I use the word loosely … you may go to Hell in your own way. Frankly, my dears, I don’t give a damn.” I’d always wanted to say that line.

And with that, I pushed past them—my exit being only slightly marred by the arrival of the Jeeves lookalike, who took up most of the available door space.

I was pleased to see that several feet in front of his leading waistcoat button he was bearing a silver salver on which reposed three familiar-looking envelopes.

I would have given a great deal to have been a fly on the wall to see their various reactions when they opened them but, unless you’re a real home-cured ham, when you’ve made your exit … you’ve made your exit. No “Take Two” in the Theatre, laddie.

Well, they won’t have Richard Nixon—or even Jack Watson—to push around any more, I thought. Come to think of it, that’s not such a great analogy. I’m glad I only thought it.

“Masterly, Watson,” said Holmes as he drifted by my side on the long trek to the front door and freedom. “That should give them something to think about until we meet at Philippi.”

“Cormorant Cove, surely, Holmes?”

“One and the same, old fellow. One and the same.”