Crimson Shore (Agent Pendergast, #15)(27)

“Getting back to your current family. Your brother, Joe, is a bartender here at the Inn, is he not?”

At this, the expression of pride that had been gathering on Dunwoody’s face as he spoke of his family history was replaced very briefly by a frown, before going deliberately blank. “He is.”

“Do you do any criminal law, Mr. Dunwoody?” Pendergast asked.

“Very little call for it in Exmouth.”

“Although the town does have its problems. The break-in at Percival Lake’s, for example. And I understand from one of the cooks here in the Inn that foodstuffs go missing from the kitchen pantry on a regular basis.”

“That hardly seems to constitute much of a crime.”

“Have you read The Hound of the Baskervilles, by any chance?” Pendergast asked.

Dunwoody hesitated a second, clearly surprised by the question. “I don’t see the relevance.”

“Humor me. Have you read it?”

“Yes.”

“Then you may recall a similar set of circumstances. Missing food, I mean. From Baskerville Hall.”

As Constance watched, Dunwoody’s face went even more blank. Studiously blank. He did not reply.

Pendergast slapped the notebook shut, laid it beside the typewriter. “I have no further questions. Thank you for your time.”

The lawyer stood, nodded at both of them in turn, then left, shutting the door behind him.

Constance turned toward Pendergast. “The Hound of the Baskervilles? I hope you’re not going fey on me, Aloysius.”

“On the contrary. Didn’t you notice his reaction—or lack of it? Most telling.”

“I can’t say I know what you were driving at. But he certainly seems like a guilty fellow to me.”

“Indeed, Constance. All lawyers are guilty. But this one, I think, is more guilty than most.” He looked at his watch. “Come on—I think we have just enough time for a cup of tea before our next guest arrives.”





15



They returned from tea to find a man standing outside the closed door, baseball cap in hand. Pendergast ushered him in and he looked around with rheumy eyes, clearly intimidated by the setup. Constance had not seen this man before. As he stepped past her she caught a faint whiff of bourbon and cigar smoke.

“Make yourself comfortable, Mr. LaRue,” Pendergast told him.

The man settled himself in a chair.

With precision and formality, Pendergast threaded a reel-to-reel tape onto the recorder, fussed with the controls, and then—making the final adjustments—he depressed the START button. The reels started turning. It was interesting, Constance thought, that he had not bothered taking these steps with the lawyer.

“Please speak clearly into the microphone,” he said.

A nod. “Yes, sir.”

“State your name and address for the record.”

Gordon LaRue lived in Dill Town, he said, had lived there all his life, and had a small business cutting grass for a living.

“And how long have you cut Mr. Lake’s grass?”

“Twelve years.”

“On the weekend Mr. Lake was gone, and his house was broken into, you cut the grass?”

“I did. He liked me to come when he wasn’t around, on account of the noise bothering him.”

“And what time did you come that weekend?”

“On Sat’day, about eleven.”

“Did you see anything out of the ordinary?”

“No. The grass didn’t need much cutting, seeing as how it’s getting into fall. Mr. Lake likes to keep a nice lawn, though, on account of the sculptures.”

“Any sign that someone other than Lake had been there?”

“Didn’t see anything. Didn’t look like anyone had broken in. No strange cars, nothing.”

“And you left at what time?”

“Twelve thirty.”

“That will be all, Mr. LaRue.”

As the man stood up to leave, Pendergast said casually, “Dill Town—the outlying town first settled by black whalers, correct?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting. Thank you.” Pendergast ushered LaRue out the door, closed it, and turned to Constance, giving her a brief smile.

“Fishing?” said Constance, wondering why they were so obviously wasting their time.

“Indeed. Let us put another fly on the water. Fetch the next fellow for me, if you will.”

Constance went out and found another interviewee seated in a chair in the hallway, face red, little white hairs on his neck standing out in irritation. He rose. “I hope this isn’t going to take up a lot of time,” he said, looking her up and down with faded but alert blue eyes. He was about seventy, in a lumberjack shirt, suspenders, and blue work pants. A faint odor of the marshes clung to him.

“This way,” she said.

He pushed through the door aggressively and refused to take the proffered chair. Pendergast once again fiddled with the equipment.

“Well?” the man asked impatiently. “I ain’t gonna answer any questions, if that’s what this is about.”

“Just a moment, so sorry, just trying to get the equipment in order. Mr. George Washington Boyle, is it?”

“That’s Benjamin Franklin Boyle,” the man said. “Nice start there, Mr. Detective.”