78

At 11:30, Earl Bateman was waiting for Chief Brower and Detective Haggerty on the porch of his funeral museum.

“The casket was here yesterday afternoon,” Bateman said heatedly. “I know, because I gave a tour of the place, and I remember pointing it out. I can’t believe anyone would have the insolence to desecrate an important collection like this just as a prank. Every single object in my museum was purchased only after meticulous research.

“Halloween is coming,” he continued, as he nervously thumped his right hand on his left palm. “I’m positive a bunch of kids pulled this stunt. And I can tell you right now that if that’s what happened, I will press charges. No ‘boyish prank’ excuses, do you understand?”

“Professor Bateman, why don’t we go inside and talk about it?” Brower said.

“Of course. Actually I may have a picture of the casket in my office. It’s an item of particular interest, and, in fact, I’ve been planning to make it the focal point of a new exhibit when I expand the museum. Come this way.”

The two policemen followed him through the foyer, past the life-sized figure dressed in black, to what obviously had been the kitchen. A sink, refrigerator, and stove still lined the far wall. Legal-size files were under the back windows. An immense old-fashioned desk stood in the center of the room, its surface covered with blueprints and sketches.

“I’m planning an outdoor exhibit,” Bateman told them. “I have some property nearby that will make a wonderful site. Go ahead, sit down. I’ll try to find that picture.”

He’s awfully worked up, Jim Haggerty thought. I wonder if he was this agitated when they threw him out of Latham Manor that time? Maybe he isn’t the harmless weirdo I pegged him for.

“Why don’t we just ask you a few questions before you look for the picture,” Brower suggested.

“Oh, all right.” Bateman yanked out the desk chair and sat down.

Haggerty took out his notebook.

“Was anything else taken, Professor Bateman?” Brower asked.

“No. Nothing else seems to have been disturbed. Thank God the place wasn’t vandalized. You should realize that this could have been done by someone working alone, because the catafalque is missing too, and it would have been no trouble to wheel the casket out.”

“Where was the casket located?”

“On the second floor, but I have an elevator for moving heavy objects up and down.” The telephone rang. “Oh, excuse me. That will probably be my cousin Liam. He was in a meeting when I called to tell him what happened. I thought he’d be interested.”

Bateman picked up the receiver. “Hello,” he said, then listened, nodding to indicate that it was the call he had been expecting.

Brower and Haggerty listened to the one-sided conversation as Bateman informed his cousin of the theft.

“A very valuable antique,” he said excitedly. “A Victorian coffin. I paid ten thousand dollars for it, and that was a bargain. This one has the original breathing tube with it and was-”

He stopped suddenly, as though interrupted. Then in a shocked voice, he cried, “What do you mean Maggie Holloway is missing? That’s impossible!”

When he hung up, he seemed dazed. “This is terrible! How could something happen to Maggie? Oh, I just knew it, I knew she wasn’t safe. I had a premonition. Liam is very upset. They are very close, you know. He called from his car phone. He said he just heard about Maggie on the news, and he’s on his way down from Boston.” Then Bateman frowned. “You knew Maggie was missing?” he asked Brower accusingly.

“Yes,” Brower said shortly. “And we also know she was here with you yesterday afternoon.”

“Well, yes. I’d brought her a picture of Nuala Moore taken at a recent family reunion, and she was very appreciative. Because she’s such a successful photographer, I asked her to help me by suggesting visuals for the television series I’m going to do about funeral customs. That’s why she came to see the exhibits,” he explained earnestly.

“She looked over just about everything,” he went on. “I was disappointed that she hadn’t brought her camera, so when she left I told her to come back on her own at any time. I showed her where I hide the key.”

“That was yesterday afternoon,” Brower said. “Did she come back here last night?”

“I don’t think so. Why would she come here at night? Most women wouldn’t.” He looked upset. “I hope nothing bad has happened to Maggie. She’s a nice woman, and very attractive. I’ve been quite drawn to her, in fact.”

He shook his head, then added, “No, I think it’s a safe bet that she didn’t steal the casket. Why, when I showed her the place yesterday, she wouldn’t even set foot in the coffin room.”

Is that supposed to be a joke? Haggerty wondered. This guy had that explanation right on tap, he noted. Ten to one he’d already heard about Maggie Holloway’s disappearance.

Bateman got up. “I’ll go look for the picture.”

“Not yet,” Brower said. “First I’d like to talk to you about a little problem you had when you gave a lecture at Latham Manor. I heard something about Victorian cemetery bells and your being asked to leave.”

Bateman angrily slammed his fist on the desk. “I don’t want to talk about that! What’s the matter with all of you? Only yesterday I had to tell Maggie Holloway the same thing. Those bells are locked in my storeroom, and there they’ll stay. I won’t talk about it. Got it?” His face was white with anger.

79

The weather was changing, becoming sharply cooler. The morning sun had given way to clouds, and by eleven the sky was bleak and gray.

Neil and his father sat on the two upright wooden chairs that, along with a secretary’s desk and chair, were the sole furnishings in the reception area of Douglas Hansen’s office.

The one employee was a laconic young woman of about twenty who disinterestedly informed them that Mr. Hansen had been out of the office since Thursday afternoon, and that all she knew was that he had said he would be in by about ten today.

The door leading to the inside office was open, and they could see that that room appeared to be as sparsely furnished as the reception area. A desk, chair, filing cabinet, and small computer were all they could see in it.

“Doesn’t exactly look like a thriving brokerage firm,” Robert Stephens said. “In fact, I’d say it looks like more of a setting for a floating crap game-set up so you can get out of town fast if someone blows the whistle.”

Neil found it agonizing to have to simply sit there, doing nothing. Where is Maggie? he kept asking himself.

She’s alive, she’s alive, he repeated with determination. And I’m going to find her. He tried to concentrate on what his father was saying, then replied, “I doubt he shows this place to his potential clients.”

“He doesn’t,” Robert Stephens answered. “He takes them to fancy lunches and dinners. From what Cora Gebhart and Laura Arlington told me, he can put on the charm, although they both said he sounded very knowledgeable about investments.”

“Then he’s taken a crash course somewhere. Our security guy who ran the check on him told me that Hansen’s been fired from two brokerage houses for just plain ineptitude.”

Both men spun their heads sharply as the outer door opened. They were just in time to catch the startled expression on Douglas Hansen’s face when he saw them.

He thinks we’re cops, Neil realized. He must already have heard about his uncle’s suicide.

They stood up. Robert Stephens spoke first. “I represent Mrs. Cora Gebhart and Mrs. Laura Arlington,” he said formally. “As their accountant, I’m here to discuss the recent investments you purport to have made for them.”

“And I’m here to represent Maggie Holloway,” Neil said angrily. “Where were you last night, and what do you know about her disappearance?”