Page 118 of The Furies

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” I said, with feeling. “And try to keep your voice from shaking.”

We followed Wadlin down the hall, the old runner muffling our footsteps. A wrinkled DO NOT DISTURB sign had been placed on the handle outside room 29. Neil Diamond stopped playing, followed by a jingle for Pure Oldies 105.5 and the first bars of Sam Cooke’s “You Send Me.” Louis and Angel took up position to the left of the door, far enough away to stay out of the limited range of the peephole. I went to the right, where the recessed entrance to a storage closet provided some concealment. When we were ready, I nodded to Wadlin. He steeled himself, and knocked.

“Mr. Pantuff?” he said. “It’s Mr. Wadlin, the hotel manager.”

We waited, but nobody answered. I signaled to Wadlin to try again. He knocked harder this time.

“Mr. Pantuff? I’m sorry to bother you, but it’s important.”

Still nothing. I moved forward, took the key from Wadlin, and motioned him to stand back. As Angel and Louis advanced, I used the wall for cover while inserting the key into the lock as quietly as I could with my left hand, then turned the handle. The door opened easily. No bolt or chain was in place. I nodded at Wadlin.

“Mr. Pantuff,” he said, “are you okay?”

But I already knew that he wasn’t. A certain smell comes with violent death: blood, and worse. I was aware of it now. I entered the room but didn’t let my guard down. Just because there’s a dead body doesn’t mean that the person responsible isn’t keeping the corpse company. I checked and cleared the bathroom before risking a glance into the bedroom itself. The remains of a man lay on the nearer of the two beds. He was wearing a T-shirt, underwear, and socks with a hole in one heel. His throat had been cut, probably while he was facing the wall, judging by the spatter. On the floor between the beds sat a Sunshine Toy Cookie tin with its lid removed. From what I could see, the contents were still in place: a collection of remembrances of the short life of a child.

Louis appeared beside me.

“Pantuff?”

“That would be my guess.”

“Looks like the partnership has been dissolved,” said Louis.

“Tell Wadlin to call the police,” I said, “but keep him out of here. Have Angel escort him downstairs. Just get a description of Pantuff from him first, just to be sure.”

Louis left me. I could hear Wadlin objecting to being hustled away, but I didn’t want him to see what was in the room: not so much the body, but the cookie tin and what it contained. I pulled a pair of plastic gloves from my pocket. I’d promised Pirato I’d do my utmost to keep the Office’s name out of this, and it would be in my best interests to hold to my word, but I was also worried about Sarah Abelli. If the tin was taken as evidence, she’d have to come forward to claim it. Questions would be asked, and someone in the Portland PD would connect her to her late husband. Her name would find its way to the media, and her life in Maine would be over. I was about to interfere with a crime scene, but it wasn’t going to make much difference to the outcome.

Louis returned.

“It’s Pantuff all right,” he said.

If Veale had killed his partner, I wondered why he hadn’t taken the cookie tin with him. Conceivably he felt he couldn’t proceed with the plan alone, but it wouldn’t have been beyond him to recruit some help if required, even at short notice. Then again, he had just slit a man’s throat, so it might have been wise to put some distance between himself and the body, but that still didn’t explain why he had to leave the tin as well. The mother was willing to pay to have her daughter’s relics returned, and that situation wasn’t likely to change, so why not see how events played out?

I put the lid on the tin and handed it to Louis.

“What if they catch Veale, and he mentions it?” he said.

“Mentions what?”

“You know, I think I’ve already started to forget.”

“Make it disappear, please.”

And he did.

CHAPTER XLVIII

I called Sarah Abelli from the hallway while I waited for the police to arrive.

“I have your possessions,” I said.

It took her a few seconds to reply.

“Thank you. And the men who took them?”

“One of them, Lyle Pantuff, is dead. His partner, Gilman Veale, is in the wind. There was a falling-out between thieves. I’m going to have to insist that Tony and his brother stay close by you for the time being, until Veale is located.”

“Will I have to talk to the police?”

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