Читать книгу The Black Squares Club - Joseph Cairo - Страница 4

Esther Rozan, Sam’s girlfriend, was a fascinating psychological study—the facets of her personality overtly incongruous. She was the only child of Amir Sharon, a Persian émigré who amassed a small fortune as an exporter in Iran and parlayed it by investing in commercial strips on the North Shore of Long Island. Her father indulged her every whim: whatever Esther wanted, Esther got. She was spoiled rotten. At 26, she was a child who had never grown up, her temper tantrums legendary; Sam was surprised both by their frequency and intensity but he found her other qualities endearing. She had a soft side, could melt a glacier with her pastel brown eyes and one smile was all it took for Sam to be putty in her hands. Her mind was extremely active, but the greater part of her mental energies was generated by her libido. She had been diagnosed by more than one shrink as an obsessive-compulsive with nymphomaniacal tendencies. She would spend an inordinate amount of time dreaming up ways of satisfying her sexual fantasies. And she had been remarkably successful—love triangles and adultery, mixed with international intrigue and murder.

Esther had all the necessary prerequisites to flourish within the context of her own sexual fantasy world: she was imaginative, intelligent, and of paramount importance, breathtakingly beautiful. Her face was perfectly proportioned. Her high cheekbones and magnificent pastel brown eyes blended in harmony to give her an exotic look—she could have played the part of Cleopatra, Queen of the Nile. She was, undoubtedly, the product of centuries of selection in a restricted gene pool, heralding an extraordinary aesthetic quality unique to Persian women. It was beauty in the classical sense; when Esther walked into a room, all eyes turned in her direction.

Despite her innate beauty, Esther was at war with herself. It was as if, the selection process, from which she derived her beauty, had left her wanting with respect to basic traits critical to a well-adjusted person. Esther could never find a middle ground. Her beauty and passion for conquest placed her in situations she had little or no ability to control. By the time she met Sam, she was already well down the path of self-destruction. He helped her reclaim her soul. And he thought, perhaps naively, that in time, he could harness her temperament.

Sam first met Esther nine months ago when she burst into his office demanding his help in what later was referred to in the press as the Code of Samuel murder case. She was gorgeous, mystifying, and sensuous. The chemistry between them was immediate—the irresistible object and the immovable force. Esther was a woman who could obtain everything and anything she wanted merely by expressing her desire to have it; Sam was a man who denied himself love as a consequence of his steadfast commitment to his work. He was every bit the masculine counterpart to Esther, just as Mark Antony was to Cleopatra. Sam stood six foot two inches tall, with a magnificent physique molded by hundreds of hours pumping iron. He had rugged good looks, deep brown eyes that matched his curly neck length dark brown hair. His eyes never looked away—no one could stare him down, and he had a charismatic personality that was hard to match. And like Esther, he had difficulty suppressing an abundance of sexual energy, which likewise propelled him into awkward relationships. But, in contrast to Esther, Sam had gained some control over his untoward inclinations. He stayed within the bounds of societal norms; Esther didn’t even know they existed. Sam was not generally inclined towards living a traditional life style, but he found himself in the peculiar position of having to set a good example for Esther. He had to be the perfect role model.

For Sam, it was love at first sight. From the day she first marched into his office everything that followed contributed to their fateful union, notwithstanding Sam’s surprising discovery that Esther had in fact murdered her own husband. She was exonerated on a plea of temporary insanity having been drugged and brainwashed by Mikhail Weijnstein, the former world chess champion. Weijnstein had been her husband’s business partner. It was only of late that Esther had come back to herself. Her improved mental health was the result of months of intensive therapy. She seemingly emerged as vibrant as ever; but Sam had been warned by her doctor—though Esther had been drugged and brainwashed, she was driven partly by her own demons. And he was also warned that despite her recovery, these demons might be lying dormant ready to return at any time. Her marriage to Daniel Rozan and her illicit affair with Weijnstein had served to hone her sexual prowess. She was an artist when it came to pleasing a man. But like an artist, she was continuously searching for inspiration. And although her doctor had given her a clean bill of health, Sam sometimes found her lapsing into distant worlds of her own machinations. It’s something that Sam struggled with, though not always successfully. He reasoned that keeping her busy might be the best therapy.

Sam made the ultimate compromise by taking her into the firm; it was a true testament to his love. Esther immediately became consumed by the detective business. But her involvement often spelled trouble. For one thing, her meddling frequently alienated the inveterate staffers of Sonn and Son Investigations. Esther viewed herself as second in command to Sam—ruffling feathers was her specialty. Worse, her presence cramped Sam’s freewheeling, two-fisted style. Like the Thin Man’s, Nick Charles, Sam always had to worry about his female counterpart.

Sam caught a glimpse of Esther as soon as he walked through the front door of the Water Club. She was sitting at their reserved table, on the balcony beneath the cathedral window. Mount Aetna prior to erupting could not have looked more ominous. Sam met her icy gaze briefly and smiled. He pointed with his forefinger indicating that he would be back shortly. Sam needed to use the men’s room. There was still some soot and tar on his hands and face as a result of the explosion. He washed thoroughly, combed his hair and splashed some cologne on his face. “That’s better,” he said inspecting himself in the mirror. He left a dollar bill in the tray for the attendant then marched confidently over to Esther’s table and kissed her gently on the neck. It settled her down just a bit.

“Where were you?” she asked. There were still daggers in her eyes.

“An unexpected delay,” Sam replied. It was then that she noticed the bruise on his cheek.

“What the hell happened to you?” Her expression softened.

“I was at police headquarters on business . . .”

“What business?” Esther interrupted somewhat incensed that he had undertaken a case without consulting her.

“Earlier this week I told you that I was negotiating a retainer for a big case. Well, the Moreau family hired us to assist the police in the investigation of her death. Eleanor Moreau was the last victim of the crossword puzzle murderer. The family isn’t pleased with the lack of progress that the police and FBI are making.”

“The crossword puzzle murderer! You didn’t tell me you were on the case.”

“I was going to tell you. Chief of Detectives, Patrick Morgan agreed to let me review the evidence the police had amassed. When I went by to pick it up, I was asked to help them solve the latest puzzle.”

“Sam, you know I’m an excellent crossword puzzle solver. I have a three star rating from the “Black Squares Club,” the leading crossword club in the country.

“I know, Esther, but between Lentz and myself, we succeeded in solving it.”

“Lew Lentz the crossword editor of the Herald Gazette?”

“The ex-editor of the Herald Gazette.”

“What do you mean, ex-editor, Sam?”

“After we completed the puzzle, Lentz and I walked out of the building together. We were both parked in the officers’ lot across the street from the station. Lentz went to his car and I got into the Volvo. The next thing I see is Lentz’s car ramming the import behind it. The gas tank of his Mercedes exploded, and the car was engulfed in flames. I ran over to him and shot out the window with my Colt 2000. I managed to get the door open and pull him out. Just then there was a secondary explosion. We were thrown halfway across the lot. Don’t worry. I’m okay. I only sustained some bruises. Lentz on the other hand . . . EMS couldn’t revive him.”

“He’s dead? What happened?”

“Heart attack. Happened as soon as he started his car. The shock caused his body to stiffen and his foot to lock on the accelerator.”

“Sam, you could have been killed.”

“And miss our trip to Monte Carlo, no way,” he joked. “Let’s order, I’m hungry.”

Esther picked up the menu and studied it carefully though she already knew what she wanted.

“What’s your pleasure, Esther?”

Esther continued to peruse the menu. “I’ve decided. Lobster salad,” she replied.

Sam motioned to the waiter who came over to take their orders.

“Two lobster salads and a bottle of Dom Perignon.”

The waiter scurried off to the kitchen.

“Are you packed?” Sam asked.

“Almost,” she replied. “I have an appointment at Beverly’s. Beverly herself called me this morning. They’ve come out with a new designer line. I must have something new for Monte Carlo. When do I have to be ready?”

“We’re flying out on Top Flight Jet . But I’m afraid I have some bad news. We’re going to have to share the plane with another couple. The limousine will pick you up around four.”

“Sam, another couple? I had plans for the plane.” She licked his finger lasciviously.

“Save it for tonight. I have a surprise for you anyway.”

“Surprise?” she queried.

“Never mind, a surprise is a surprise.” The champagne arrived. The waiter popped the cork and poured. “Here’s to the face that launched a thousand ships,” Sam said.

“Here’s to Monte Carlo,” Esther answered. They touched glasses and sipped some of the bubbly.

“I’ll drink to that,” shouted a voice from over Sam’s shoulder. It was Frank Thorpe, Sam’s close friend and business associate. “You’re the luckiest man in town, Sam.” Frank was a top Wall Street lawyer who had used the services of Sonn and Son on many occasions. Over the years their business relationship had grown into a close personal friendship. But the two men lived in different worlds. Sam was a New Yorker of Jewish descent and although not at all religious he had a strong ethnic identity. Frank was a Sutton Place WASP— part of the good old boy network that extended back for generations. Sam could not even play a round of golf with him at Frank’s elitist country club but he understood.

Frank had taken the Ivy League route, graduating from Princeton and then Harvard Law. Like Sam, he inherited his father’s firm, and took it to new heights. But unlike Sam, Frank had successfully ensconced himself into the fabric of the upper crust of New York society. Sam admired Frank both for his intelligence and his business acumen. And he knew that in a pinch Frank could always be depended upon.

“That perfume . . . ” Frank sniffed, “it’s intoxicating.”

“Not to mention sinfully expensive,” Sam said.

“You can afford it old chum,” Frank quipped. “I’ll call you later with regard to some business. Oh, by the way, I want you to know that I’m lunching with, of all people, Tynan Wesley.”

“Tynan Wesley,” Sam said in amazement. “I’d very much like to meet him.”

“It’s funny you should say that, Sam, because he asked to meet you as well. Your name came up with respect to the crossword murders. Wesley heard your name on the radio in connection with the case; Sam Sonn, Super Sleuth was how the media referred to you.”

“Yes, Frank, the Moreau family retained me. I’m on the case. I understand that Wesley was one of the intended victims.”

“Yes, I’m afraid his secretary bought it in his place. He was all broken up about that. He’s hoping you can catch the killer. He’s willing to help you in any way he can.”

“I would welcome his input, Frank.”

“Great! When you’re done with lunch, you’ll join us. Walk out onto the pier and down the boat slips until you come to the Constitution.”

“The Constitution?” Sam repeated the name sarcastically.

“You know Wesley, Sam. Oh, and I’d best warn you. There are other guests on board.”

“What others?”

“You know, Wesley’s usual boatload of cronies. He has security posted at the entrance to his slip. Tell them you were invited. I’ll keep an eye out for you.” Frank kissed Esther on the cheek before bidding them adieu.

“Tynan Wesley,” Esther repeated the name with disdain. “Why do you want to meet that conceited old dinosaur?”

“Well for one thing, he’s not a dinosaur. He’s one of the brightest political pundits of our time and one of the most eloquent speakers that I’ve ever heard. And I’m told he’s quite charming.”

“If you say so, Sam.” Esther had no interest in meeting any man who was over the age of forty. Besides, she didn’t relish the prospect of having to tax her brain to comprehend the multi-syllabic words for which Wesley was famous. “I’m on a tight schedule,” she said.

“You mean you’re giving me permission to meet Wesley alone?” Sam asked. His expression said it all.

“You can fill me in on the plane,” she said. “But what did you find out about the crossword murders at police headquarters? I’m dying to know.”

“Morgan is at a loss. It’s bad enough that the puzzles themselves are next to impossible; but, even when they are solved, the clues as to the identity of the victim and the time and place of the murder are well camouflaged. The references are oblique. They could only be known by the victim himself. It’s as if the killer knew his victims intimately. Also, even though there seems to be a message or rationale for each crime, there isn’t a common thread that we can identify.”

“What kind of message, Sam?” Esther asked.

“Well, initially the police hypothesized that the killer was an environmentalist who sought revenge for environmental crimes. That m.o. fit some of the cases, but Moreau was an environmentalist herself.”

“Maybe in the Moreau case the motive was personal. She could have known the killer—maybe there was a romantic link,” Esther speculated.

“It’s possible, Esther. The puzzle associated with Moreau contained many personal references and attacks on her character. The theme clues were all famous prostitutes. I’m sure it was a way of insulting her, perhaps a sardonic epitaph.”

The lobster salads arrived. In the Water Club a lobster salad consisted of a two-pound lobster shelled and ready to eat. The meat was diced and placed in the center of a salad consisting of romaine lettuce, New Jersey beefsteak tomatoes, avocados, cucumbers, carrots, chickpeas and mushrooms, basted in a yogurt dill dressing. Sam was a controlled eater who rarely finished his portion, and a deliberate one. He never rushed down his food. His table manners were a reflection of his sophistication. Esther, on the other hand, ate virtually nothing—a controlled anorexic—controlled, meaning she took vitamins. She was well versed in the art of deceptive eating. She endlessly pushed the food around with her fork, occasionally making time-consuming efforts to cut her food with the knife. Now and then, she would consume the tiniest morsel, chewing on it incessantly to maintain the illusion that she was eating.

“You know,” she said after imbibing nearly half a glass of champagne in one gulp, “it’s possible that Lentz was murdered by the crossword killer.”

“No, Esther, that’s not possible. I told you that Lentz died of a heart attack.”

“The killer could have used a poison.”

“I was with Lentz the entire time,” Sam affirmed. “There was no way anyone could have poisoned him.”

“Are you certain, Sam? It doesn’t take long to poison someone. Remember, Weijnstein was drugging me with tiny pricks of his pinky ring. Did anyone have casual contact with Lentz during the time you were with him?”

“Wait a minute,” Sam said. “When we left the police station, Lentz purchased a flower from an old oriental woman who was selling dry goods from a push cart.”

“He could have been poisoned then,” Esther said.

“But even if he was poisoned, where were the references to Lentz in the puzzle?”

“What puzzle?” Esther asked.

“The one that Lentz and I had just solved. The one that the murderer had mailed in to identify his next victim.”

“You said yourself that the references to the victim are obscure.”

“Yes, they are obscure, to an outsider, or to the police. But once the puzzle was solved, Lentz certainly would have recognized the references identifying himself as the victim.”

“Maybe he did and maybe he didn’t. You said that you and Lentz solved the puzzle. But I have done Sunday crosswords with you on many occasions. You solve the entire puzzle and say that we did it together. Did you solve the majority of the puzzle?”

“Well, yes, but....”

“But maybe Mr. Lentz was not as astute as you think. Maybe the references to him that were within the puzzle required more time to interpret.” Esther was really getting into her theory. She had Sam on the defensive and she was playing it for all it was worth.

“No, I disagree. If Lentz was the victim named in the puzzle, I’m convinced he would have known. But it is possible that he did know and felt that he could successfully thwart the attempt on his life.”

“Maybe Lentz knew his would be killer,” Esther said.

“It isn’t that far-fetched an idea. The community of crossword puzzle composers is a small one.”

“Sam, maybe the crossword killer was afraid that Lentz was getting close to figuring out his identity and that’s why he killed him.”

“I don’t know, Esther. If Lentz had any idea who the killer was wouldn’t he have told Morgan? The first thing I have to do is to review this puzzle.” Sam took the solution to the Principia Mathematica puzzle out of his jacket pocket. “I’ll have to cross reference the clues against a background summary of Lentz. There should be no difficulty finding his bio on the Internet. But even the bio might not tell us what we need to know. I’ll have to get in touch with someone who knew Lentz well.”

“But, who?” Esther asked.

“It shouldn’t be too difficult to track someone down who knew him well. Before Lentz came to work at the Herald Gazette, he was Op-Ed editor of the Chicago Sun.”

“I wonder how he stood on environmental issues?” Esther mused.

“Let’s not get carried away, Miss P.I.”

“Well, if someday I’m to be Mrs. Samuel Sonn, P.I. I’d better start thinking like one. Together we’d make an unbeatable team.” Esther rose from her seat. She walked around the table and ran her fingers through Sam’s hair. She kissed him gently on the mouth. She was hoping Sam’s surprise was at least 4 carets. “Sam,” she said softly, “what’s the surprise?”

“I’m not telling,” he insisted.

“Can’t we have the plane to ourselves?” she asked.

“I tried to reserve the plane but the other party was a big account. They were forced to accommodate him.”

“Give my regards to Tynan Wesley. Just do me a favor?”

“What’s that?”

“Don’t die of boredom. And don’t get blown up in any car bombs.”

“I’ll try not to.”

Esther left the room with the usual fanfare. A wake of male heads turned in her direction. Sam looked over at Esther’s plate. If she had eaten an ounce of lobster it was a lot. Sam finished his meal and had a cup of brewed coffee before heading out the back entrance to the boat slips.

Sam had always wanted to meet Tynan Wesley. When Sam was growing up, Wesley’s weekend program on PBS was like an oasis in a vast wasteland of sitcoms and game shows. Sam would often lie in bed at night dreaming of matching wits with the eloquent orator. But from the outset, Sam knew that Wesley was a man who no one could emulate. The man was an elitist, a patrician, and despite the most vocal arguments to the contrary, a monarchist at heart. Sam knew his tactics only too well. Wesley would feign graciousness and cordiality, but before he was finished, the Super Sleuth would be well scrutinized and categorized.

When Sam reached the mooring of the Constitution, he was met by two security guards. The sailboat was nearly sixty feet long with a tall intricate rigging. Strangely, Van Morrison was blasting from a loud speaker. “I’m Samuel Sonn,” Sam introduced himself to one of the security men. “I’ve been invited on board by Mr. Wesley.”

“Please wait here, Mr. Sonn,” the older security guard said politely. The younger guard walked along the dock to the back of the boat where a number of people were seated, spoke to someone and returned in a blink.

“Welcome aboard, Mr. Sonn. Mr. Wesley is expecting you.”

Sam followed the younger security guard to the gangplank. The guard motioned to Sam to continue on without him. At the end of the plank, waiting on the boat to greet Sam was a young man, twentiesh, smiling warmly.

“Mr. Sonn, come aboard. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Joshua Wesley.”

“Mr. Wesley’s son?” Sam said.

“One of three. You’re about to meet my big brothers.” The young man was extremely cordial. Sam was impressed by his demeanor and striking appearance. His long dark brown hair was parted in the middle, and his deep brown eyes and delicate nose were very expressive. His complexion was olive toned and unmistakably Mediterranean. These features were obviously derived from his mother, since Tynan Wesley was a fair-skinned Anglo Saxon type. But the thing that struck Sam the most was young Wesley’s bearing, characteristic of young intellects burnished by an Ivy League education. It was unmistakable. Beyond that, the young man possessed a charismatic quality that expressed itself in a courteous concern for others.

“Just one question, Joshua,” Sam said.

“What’s that?”

“Harvard or Yale?” Sam asked.

“It’s that obvious, Mr. Sonn?”

“Obvious enough. And please call me Sam.”

“Okay, Sam. Well, we Elis don’t like to be associated with that Hah-vad bunch—too many scientists,” he said putting on a Boston accent. “I can see why they call you the Super Sleuth. In any case, let me prepare you for the firing squad. My brothers and my father are known for involving their guests in political debate. Forewarned is forearmed. But if you’re inclined to engage in polemic dialogue beware of my brother Madison. He always takes my father’s side. My brother Jeff likes to play the devil’s advocate. To add to the merriment, Henreich Kessler, is aboard.”

“The Heinreich Kessler?” Heinreich Kessler was the world famous political strategist and advisor to several presidents. His life story was remarkable. He had immigrated to the United States from Germany as a teenager to escape the Nazi persecution. During the war he served in Army Intelligence, and after the war he was the prime force behind jailing many of the Nazi war criminals. He later became a Professor of European Studies at NYU where he became famous for his cold war strategies. He was a staunch supporter of Israel and his influence helped save the Jewish state from destruction on more than one occasion. Nonetheless, Sam disliked him for two reasons. His cold war strategies were so brashly analytical that the death of millions from nuclear war was an acceptable variable in his overall equation. It was the Machiavellian philosophy of the ends justifying the means. But Sam disliked Kessler for another reason. Although a Jew, Kessler was first and foremost a German who took pride in his German heritage, despite the atrocities of the holocaust. To Sam’s way of thinking, Kessler’s German pride and his pursuit of Nazi war criminals were paradoxical. Sam found it irritating.

“I’m afraid so. Also, your friend, Mr. Thorpe always feeds my father’s frenzy.”

“I’m only too aware of Frank’s politics,” Sam said.

“Here, this might help.” Joshua handed Sam a jigger of scotch. Sam gulped it down. “Are you ready, Mr. Sonn?”

“Ready,” Sam assured him.

They walked along the quarterdeck.

“The one and only Samuel Sonn,” Joshua announced to all.

“Sam,” Frank echoed boisterously.

“Allow me to introduce you to everyone,” Tynan Wesley said. “I’ll start with my son Madison, senior at Yale; next is my son Jeff, freshman at Yale; no doubt you recognize Heinreich Kessler, and I see that you have already met Joshua. And of course you and Frank are close friends, I’m told.”

“It’s a pleasure to finally meet you. I’ve long been a fan of your television program and your magazine. But I must compliment you on something completely unrelated.”

“And what might that be?” Wesley asked somewhat defensively.

“Your son Josh. I’m most impressed with this young man.”

“In that case I shall afford you the opportunity to get to know my other sons.”

“Now father,” Joshua said despairingly, “please do not engage Mr. Sonn in political rhetoric.”

“I’m sure Mr. Sonn relishes the prospect of a friendly discussion with the likes of your brothers. Are you a conservative or are you the enemy?”

“I guess I would best categorize myself as a liberal democrat,” Sam said. “But I’m afraid I’m not knowledgeable enough to put forth bona fide arguments to support my position with respect to any of the hot issues. And I’m not much of a debater.”

“Nonsense, Sam,” Madison said. “We’re interested in your opinions, and we relish the opportunity to enlighten you on the superiority of the Neo-Conservative Republican platform.”

“Do you espouse the Tea party philosophy?”

“We frown upon it. Do you agree or disagree with Edmond Randolph’s view that the people who own the country ought to govern it?” young Madison Wesley asked.

“It was John Jay who said that,” Sam said politely.

“Perhaps, but Edmond Randolph certainly would have agreed. According to Randolph, the evils of colonial America stemmed from ‘the follies and turbulence of democracy.’”

“Sam is wise to your tricks, Madison. You’ve found yourself a worthy adversary,” Tynan said to his son.

“No father, please allow Mr. Sonn to respond.”

“The Constitution was ahead of its time,” Sam asserted, “but it is still an eighteenth century document, predicated on the doctrine that man’s intrinsic nature is evil and that the common man is incapable and lacks the intelligence required of self rule in a truly democratic society.”

“And how would you describe man’s intrinsic nature, Sam?” Madison asked.

“Now we’re talking philosophy not politics, a subject I am better versed in. A man is defined by many things, not the least of which is his ability to think. Man is the manifestation of a higher being and as Descartes said, ‘"I am a substance the whole nature or essence of which is to think, and which for its existence does not need any place nor depend on any material thing."

“I am indeed impressed by your knowledge of philosophy, but let’s get back to politics, shall we? How do you explain the longevity of the Constitution, Sam?” Madison queried.

“It paved the way for the future. But the world has grown too large for a privileged class. Our society demands egalitarianism. You see the founding fathers made one critical error . . ..”

“And what was that, Sonn?” Wesley asked.

“They thought they could protect their wealth and privilege in society by enacting strict rules for the right to vote.”

“And how would you protect the privileged, Sam?” Jeff asked.

“I wouldn’t. I would look to enhance the opportunities for everyone in our society.”

“So you are strongly in favor of social programs, Sam?” Madison asked.

“I’m not a socialist, but I’m in favor of programs that open doors to the poor and middle class.”

“Mr. Sonn,” Heinreich Kessler began, “politics is the science of influence. It can even be considered an art. During hard times, it is the poor who absorb the shock. Eliminating the lower rungs of society would only undermine the very institutions that protect us. It would inevitably lead to chaos.”

“The lower classes will always act as a buffer!” Joshua said with a smile.

“We must view society as the arrangement of status,” Kessler continued. Some societies better camouflage this class strata, but the basic structure is always the same. You may know a few quotations, Mr. Sonn, but you are gravely lacking in your knowledge of the Constitution.”

“I don’t disagree with you, Herr Kessler, I make no pretense to be a Constitutional scholar.,but right now I need to ask Mr. Wesley some questions concerning the crossword puzzle murders. What can you tell me regarding the crossword killer, Mr. Wesley? Do you think that the killer picked you at random?” Sam asked.

“I haven’t the foggiest idea,” Wesley said. “I can’t draw any parallels between the other victims and myself.”

“Do you buy into the anti-environmentalist theme?” Sam asked.

“The answer is most definitely no,” Wesley said, “and I’ll tell you why. If the killer had an agenda he would have been more vocal in expressing what it was. People with political agendas are unremittingly verbose and vituperative. It’s a rule of thumb I use in debating. Those who believe too strongly in the side they’re arguing always trip themselves up in one way or another.”

“Did you know any of the victims personally?” Sam asked.

“I knew them all, to one degree or another. The Village Celeb is small. Everyone knows each other.”

“Did you ever try your hand at any of the puzzles?” Sam asked.

“I tried them all, Mr. Sonn, but the operative word is try. I never get the theme clues, even in the Sunday Herald Gazette. What’s your take on these murders?”

“I think there could be a link to a political agenda. All of the victims, with the exception of Eleanor Moreau were right wing conservatives and all of them had either polluted the environment or expressed strong opinions against environmentalists.” Sam wasn’t sure what he really believed; he was merely dangling some bait, equally unsure as to what he might catch.

“Moreau could never be described as an anti-environmentalist. Saving the whales was one of her big causes,” Wesley responded.

“Did you know Lewis Lentz, Mr. Wesley?”

“I know Lewis Lentz quite well. He’s written many a piece for the American Standard.”

“I’m afraid knew is more appropriate. I was with him when he died, only hours ago.”

“Lentz, dead? I can’t believe it,” Wesley said.

“It appeared to be a heart attack, but I have my doubts.”

“What do you mean, Sonn?” Kessler asked.

“I suspect that Lentz may have been the latest victim of the crossword killer. Perhaps you can help me on that account, Mr. Wesley. Since you knew Lentz, perhaps you can spot references to him in the latest crossword puzzle sent in by the murderer. I have it right here.” Sam handed the puzzle over to Wesley.

Wesley looked at the puzzle, Principia Mathematica. His expression became ashen. “Lentz published under the pseudonym of Sirous Torre. The word Siri that crosses Torre is an abbreviated form of his first name. But the most obvious connection is the theme of the puzzle. Lentz was a pretty fair mathematician. He studied mathematics a bit. I believe he considered majoring in Math but found Journalism more compelling. He was so intrigued with Mathematics and the history of math, he took it upon himself to read excerpts from Principia Mathematica, the famous mathematical treatise written by Whitehead and Russell.”

“That’s very odd. He didn’t appear to know any advanced level mathematics when we trying to solve the puzzle together. Now I’m really confused. So you’re of the opinion that if Lentz saw the solution to this puzzle, he would easily have identified himself as the victim?” Sam asked.

“Without any doubt, Mr. Sonn,” Wesley asserted.

“I think we can safely assume then that Lentz was the latest victim of the crossword murderer. Do you see any references in the puzzle to the time and place of the murder, or the modus operandi, Mr. Wesley?”

“Wesley again perused the puzzle. “Wait one minute,” Wesley said. “What’s today? It is today. It all fits together.”

“What are you talking about, Mr. Wesley?” Sam asked.

“If I remember my history correctly, the Pulers were blown up on May 11, 1982. Yes, the Pulers. It’s right here, 56 across. The Pulers were a group that protested the building of nuclear power plants in populated areas of Illinois. All of the members of the group were blown up in what was later determined to be an accident, ten years ago, on the eleventh of May.”

Wesley paused to refresh his strawberry daiquiri. But before he settled back in his seat, he took the time to put more ice, liquor and fruit into the blender and mixed another batch. “I think it’s certainly more than a coincidence,” Wesley continued. “Lentz wrote a series of articles in favor of building the plants.”

“But what I don’t understand,” Sam replied, “is why Lentz didn’t try to stop his own murder. He was with me when he solved the puzzle, and in police headquarters to boot. If he had just informed us, we might have been able to capture the killer right there and then.”

“I don’t know, Mr. Sonn. But I can tell you one thing,” Wesley said. “If Lentz saw this puzzle, he had to know that he was the intended victim. Perhaps he misconstrued the exact time and place of the murder.”

“This is an interesting case. Tonight I’ll be looking over some of the other victims e-mail. I wonder if I could ask you some questions about them should the need arise? Can we communicate by e-mail?”

“Of course, Mr. Sonn. My email address is FyodorD@aol.com”

“My father thinks that he’s the reincarnation of Fyodor Dostoyevsky,” Jefferson Wesley said, smiling broadly.

“C’mon. I’ll drive you back to your office, Sam,” Frank volunteered.

“It’s been a pleasure,” Sam said. He shook everyone’s hand before leaving with Frank.

“Mr. Sonn is quite a clever fellow, father,” Jefferson said.

“Yes, I agree,” Madison added, “very clever. I predict he’ll get to the bottom of these murders.”

“I think that you may be overestimating him,” the elder Wesley said.

“I for one don’t think Mr. Sonn is deserving of his reputation,” Kessler stated.

“We shall see, Heinreich, we shall see,” Wesley said. “In any event we’ll all feel relieved when this case is resolved.”