Читать книгу Murder Doesn't Figure - Fred Yorg - Страница 13

CHAPTER SEVEN

As soon as I left Pamela’s office I routinely checked my watch. It was a little after high noon, and I still had plenty of time to make the one o’clock meeting with Von Klamer. As I approached my car, I took, a quick look around for Pam’s cat Trouble. I found her, sunning herself on a chaise lounge in the backyard. Being a sucker for all animals, I just couldn’t resist walking over and petting her. She looked up with a contented gaze and purred. Why Pamela had ever named the cat, Trouble, was beyond me. Over the years I had observed that most pet owners named their pets after a common characteristic or personality trait. This cat was anything but trouble, she was the exact opposite, as sweet an animal as you could find.

Trouble would have been a far more appropriate name choice for my cat, Tuxedo. My wife was actually the one responsible for naming Tuxedo, she chose the name because of his physical appearance, it seemed a logical choice at the time. Tux had four white paws, a white nose, and a patch of white under his chin.

He was a dashingly good-looking cat, some might say even handsome. Who, would have ever thought that he would turn out to be such a fiend. Of course renaming the cats at this time was totally out of the question. It was too late; Tux was Tux and Trouble was Trouble.

I slid behind the wheel of the Triumph, it was time to get back on the road and stop day dreaming about cats. I turned the key and again the car purred. I pulled out of the parking lot, made the right hand turn and continued east on River Road. Von Klamer’s place was only fifteen minutes away.

Since I still had some extra time, I thought I’d shoot over to Briody’s for a quick bite.

The ride over to the restaurant was rather enjoyable, especially on a day like this. Rumson, for my money, is the most picturesque town in all of Monmouth County, for that matter probably in the entire state of New Jersey. As I drove down the road, it was one distinctive estate after another. The majestic houses on my left, with there well manicured rolling front lawns, couldn’t have been any more grand. I was just passing the old Borden carriage house, one of my favorites. It was built in the late 1880’s and was designed by a major New York architect named Thomas Hastings. Rumson was full of magnificent estates and manors designed by many of the great architects of their day. Architects like Brunner and Tyron, Bruce Price, E. Harris James, and the renowned Stanford White. Yet, this unique old house with it’s Shingle Style architecture with Richardson Romanesque elements had always been my favorite.

I was pulling into Briody’s, time to get a quick burger and a drink. One should never go to a business meeting with an old Nazi on an empty stomach.

After inhaling my hamburger and finishing my bourbon, I raced to the car. Lunch had taken a little longer than I had anticipated. At this point there was no sense getting upset, if I was late I’d just make up some excuse. I turned on the tape player in the car. It was a Stevie Ray Vaughan tape and it had been a while since I had listened to it. I wasn’t sure, but if my mind served me correctly, the tape was titled Double Trouble. If ever there was an omen, this was it. How many times are you going to see a black cat named Trouble and then randomly play a tape called Double Trouble. Of course I never believed in omens, I was much too smart for that.

I continued my joyride over the Oceanic Bridge, listening to the tape with the guitar licks of Stevie Ray Vaughn serenading me as I entered into the Locust section of Middletown. I took a right hand turn over the Locust bridge and then onto Navesink Avenue, past the old stone church. At the end of the road, I made the hard right that led up to Monmouth Hills. The main road was quite aptly named Serpentine Drive. But the snake like road presented no problem to me. I raced up the hill and the Triumph hugged every corner. About half way up the hill, I suffered a minor set back. An old gray pick-up truck was blocking my path. There was no way I could safely pass him, so I was forced to lay back.

As I approached the summit, I was feverishly looking for the house numbers, the last one I saw was number 425. Pam said the number was 1889, I hoped in her state of confusion she gave me the right number. The gray truck mercifully pulled off the road into one of the estates, kicking up dust and stones in the process. I couldn’t see a damn thing. Pam did say Von Klamer’s place was the last one on the point, but the house numbers just didn’t jive. In fact that damn truck had pulled into the last house on the point. No reason to panic, I’d just circle around till I found number 1889. Unfortunately the highest number that I spotted was 1327. I raced around and made my way back up the hill. Somehow I must have missed it.

There it was, number 1889, just were Pam said it would be. Had the name Von Klamer, right on the big iron gates. Damn truck, I’d have been here earlier if it wasn’t kicking up so much dust. I pulled the Triumph into the driveway and backed into a spot over on the right side. Von Klamer had enough parking spaces to accommodate at least twenty cars.

I turned off the car and sized up the house. The house was huge and in pretty good repair. I thought to myself that the architect who designed this house had to be deranged. I guess you would have to categorize the style of the house as Gothic. I really wasn’t sure how to describe it, the mansard roof was a complete contradiction to rest of the house. It certainly wasn’t Victorian, but if Von Klamer liked it, that was all that counted. Maybe in his own mind, he thought of it as a medieval German castle. Hell for all I cared, he could put a damn moat around it.