Let Dead Enough Alone Page 11

  Sergeant Forniss said there was nothing that helped particularly. He and Captain Heimrich sat in front of the fire in the dining room. The fire there was smaller. Heimrich leaned forward and poked at it; he pulled one log down toward the front; so providing space for a new log.

  “They’ve found the break,” Forniss said. “One of them, anyway. Tree down on the wires. Got a crew on it.”

  “Any idea how long?”

  “Nope,” Forniss said. “Maybe tonight, if nothing else goes. Maybe some time tomorrow. One thing, it’s pretty local. Around here. Of course, it’s off in Lewisboro. Pretty much always it’s off in Lewisboro.”

  Heimrich’s pause changed the subject.

  “The girls are getting fidgety,” Forniss said. “Miss Latham. Miss Ross. Pacing the floor a bit, the blonde is. Goes in and out, too. And Miss Ross suddenly decided she needed to get a coat. It’s getting cold in there, but not as close to the fire as she was Kemper keeps the fire going. Brings up more wood. Uses a lot of kindling to hurry it along.”

  Heimrich closed his eyes.

  “The doctor—Dr. Perry, I mean—just sits and looks at the fire. Boyd came back after you talked to him and looked out the window. I figured you didn’t make him happy.”

  “No,” Heimrich said, “I’m afraid I didn’t, Charlie. There’s nothing very definite, but the boys think he cuts corner. Nothing they can get him on. But—Halley had invested a nice sum in one of his projects. I have a hunch it went sour, or is going sour. It may be Halley wanted his money back. Boyd denies that, of course. Admits the investment by Halley, though.”

  Heimrich opened his eyes and looked at the fire.

  “Boyd was surprised to be invited here,” Heimrich said. “At least, I think he was. Of course, he says he was at loose ends, with his wife in Florida, and that Mrs. Halley took pity. It’s interesting, Charlie. If Mrs. Halley knew about this deal. If there’s anything out of line about the deal. But then, it’s all interesting. Take Dr. Perry. He thinks—he’s been told, in fact—that Halley killed his wife.”

  He told Forniss about Halley. Forniss listened. He said, “How about the tall girl?”

  “The tall girl doesn’t seem in it, one way or another,” Heimrich said. “Except—she had a breakdown a couple of years ago. Mrs. Halley was her psychiatrist. Pulled her out of it. There might be something there, I suppose. Take another psychiatrist to drag it out though, wouldn’t you think?”

  They had psychiatrists, Forniss pointed out. They hardly needed more. They needed something simple. What had New York to report about Mr. Kemper?

  Not a great deal, Heimrich told him. It was a bad day to get a great deal. People tended to be inaccessible on New Year’s Day; if found, they tended to be grumpy. The best way to describe Kemper, apparently, was that he was an extra man; the sort of young man who was available when needed; who could always find the time for a summer weekend, a winter skiing party, when there was a risk that women would unduly predominate.

  “Young?” Forniss said, with doubt.

  It was a manner of speaking, Heimrich agreed. Young enough, at any rate, for women a little older; boyish and bright enough and charming; a man who would earn holidays by thoughtful little actions—if a tennis court needed marking, there was Tom Kemper, marker in hand, and a cheerful smile; if there was an errand to be done in a nearby village, there was Tom, more than ready to drive in and do it.

  “In somebody else’s car?” Forniss said.

  “Now Charlie,” Heimrich said. “Yes, I suppose so. A great help to hostesses.”

  Forniss thought that Kemper might be getting a little old for that. Did Kemper appear to have other occupation?

  Apparently, he did not—but, again, it was a bad day for enquiries. Apparently he had money from some source. Enough money for a small apartment and, probably, a good wardrobe. Enough, in the minor matters of tab picking-up, to get along.

  “At a guess,” Heimrich said, “a small income—and friends with better incomes. Women a little older than he, probably. Women who appreciate little attentions.”

  It did not, Forniss said, seem like a career with much future. It seemed like an occupation one might grow out of. “Like a tennis player,” Forniss said.

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “A little like a tennis player.”

  “Mrs. Halley?” Forniss said.

  “Probably,” Heimrich said. “Quite probably, Charlie.”

  “I did notice,” Forniss said, “that he’s a great man for keeping the fires burning. And offering people drinks. Knows where everything is. He didn’t want to come talk to you. I had to look at him.”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “I gathered that. Thinks the whole business is an imposition. On Mrs. Halley, chiefly. Thinks we ought to call it suicide like she does, and get out from under foot. Meanwhile, doesn’t know anything about anything. The young women are getting restless, you say?”

  “Yep,” Forniss said. “The blond one, especially.”

  “Good,” Heimrich said.

  “The blond girl wanted the tall girl to do something,” Forniss said. “Led her off and asked her. Got turned down, from the way they acted. I don’t know what. Of course, the tall girl—”

  “Miss Ross,” Heimrich said.

  “Miss Ross has got a car. The other one might have thought it was a good day for a ride. To the station, for example.”

  “Wouldn’t be, would it?” Heimrich said. “Very bad day. Is Miss Latham frightened, Charlie? Of—oh, the storm? The fact that the power’s off? Or—of anything else?”

  Forniss thought a moment.

  “Yep,” he said. “It could be that’s it. It could be of us, of course.”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “Mrs. Halley says Miss Latham lied to us, Charlie. Oh, not about what she saw. About her relationship with Mr. Halley. Or, perhaps didn’t lie. Perhaps merely misunderstood. Mrs. Halley likes to see all sides of things. Very proper, in her profession.”

  Forniss waited.

  Heimrich had, he told Forniss, asked Mrs. Halley first about the relationship of her dead husband and Miss Latham. He had told Margaret Halley what the girl said. And Mrs. Halley had said, “The poor thing,” and, then, that it was a little complicated. She and her husband, she said, had talked it over; they were both worried about it. The captain must try to understand.

  He must try to understand that John Halley was interested in young people of talent—had always been. “Because,” she said, “he was one himself, once. Not a big talent. Rather a—” She had paused. “A grace,” she said.

  It had come to little; it had left him sympathetic. He had helped many, including Miss Latham, who had a pleasant talent, from which she hoped much. “I’m afraid too much,” Margaret Halley said. “John had begun to think so.”

  At first, Mrs. Halley was sure, Miss Latham had understood Halley’s purpose. But later—well, it was kindest to think that she had misunderstood. “Perhaps,” Margaret Halley said, “she began to be a little discouraged about her work. Sought something else, and convinced herself that there was something else. And—John was always very attractive to women.”

  It became apparent that Miss Latham was attracted; thought her feelings returned. (This was the most probable explanation. It was also, obviously, possible that Miss Latham had been less ingenuous. It was better to think the best of people.) This had worried Halley; he had talked it over with his wife. They had agreed that he should disentangle himself; that it was not fair to the girl to let her misunderstand.

  “Very understanding herself, Mrs. Halley is,” Heimrich said. Forniss raised his eyebrows. “No,” Heimrich said, “I don’t, Charlie. There are all sorts of possibilities, obviously. Miss Latham may have told the truth, and Halley lied to his wife. His wife may have believed him. She may not have. She may be telling us what she thinks was true. And, she may not. Also, it may have been as she says, which wouldn’t be unusual, either.”

  “Halley may have been walking out on the girl,” Forniss said. He
imrich nodded. “Or on his wife.” Heimrich nodded again. “Things like that upset women sometimes,” Forniss said. Heimrich agreed that such things often upset women. “It wouldn’t take much strength to hit a man on the head with a rock,” Forniss said. “Particularly if he’d already begun to get the effects of the barbiturate.” Heimrich agreed it would not. “And,” Forniss said, “Miss Latham and Mrs. Halley were both up and around last night.”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “Mrs. Halley doesn’t deny that. Has a very simple explanation, though. Went down to see if her husband was still awake. Found he wasn’t there and went back upstairs and to bed. Never went near the basement. If Miss Latham says she saw her, she supposes Miss Latham did. But, she wasn’t carrying anything. If Miss Latham says she was, Miss Latham is mistaken. She’s afraid poor Miss Latham often doesn’t get things straight.”

  Forniss waited. Heimrich added the details of Margaret Halley’s account.

  She had, as she had said previously, gone to bed and, lightly, to sleep. She and John Halley had occupied separate rooms. They usually did in the country, although not in town. She had awakened several times. Finally, since she had not heard him come up, she had put on a robe and gone down to the living room. She had found it empty. Relieved, she had gone back upstairs and gone to bed, and to sleep.

  “Noticed he hadn’t drunk his rum punch?”

  “Yes. She says so. Decided to leave it till morning. For Mrs. Speed.”

  “Didn’t have a look into his bedroom?”

  “No,” Heimrich said. “Because the door squeaks. Halley slept very lightly, and once he waked up it took him a long time to get back to sleep. Sometimes he didn’t get back to sleep at all. That’s what the sleeping pills were for.”

  “And,” Forniss said, “the man was full of barbiturate when he drowned. Ask her about that?”

  Heimrich shook his head.

  “Not yet,” he said.

  “She could have put the stuff in his rum punch,” Forniss said. “Only he didn’t drink the rum punch. Unless Mrs. Speed’s lying.”

  “No,” Heimrich said. “I don’t think she’s lying, Charlie.”

  “So,” Forniss said. “The rum punch’s out,”

  Apparently, Heimrich agreed, the rum punch was out. It was rather a pity, naturally. But there it was.

  “But,” Heimrich said, “he did drink whiskey—scotch and soda, as Kemper and Boyd remember it. After the toast to the New Year. Readily soluble in alchohol, Nembutal is. And—seems the others stuck to champagne, so there wouldn’t have been the risk of getting the stuff in the wrong drink. And—who do you suppose was tending bar, Charlie? Part of the evening, anyway?”

  Forniss considered, briefly. Then he said, “Kemper. Being helpful around the house?”

  “No,” Heimrich said. “Mr. Boyd. Thought his old school chum looked tired. Took over for him. Very thoughtful man, Mr. Boyd. But it could have been put in any time, naturally. Party like that, people walk around, leave their drinks, go back to them.”

  “And,” Forniss said, “still may have taken it himself. And, when he got down to the lake, decided not to wait for the stuff to work.”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “Killed himself twice. People do, you know. Take poison. Then jump out windows. Also—he may have been killed twice.” Heimrich sighed. He said that that happened too. Only it was, usually, a case of try, try again.

  “If at first you don’t succeed,” Heimrich said. “But here, there would have been success the first time.” He closed his eyes. “Of course,” he said, “there’s also the one about not letting the right hand know what the left hand’s doing, isn’t there?”

  There was a knock at the door, and the door was immediately opened. Mrs. Speed said there was food in the living room. “Such as it is,” she said.

  VIII

  Now there was a table at one end of the long room, and there was food on the table. Mrs. Speed had brought the food in from the kitchen, and, as she arranged it, the table had taken on an incongruously festive air. There was a turkey. There was a ham. There were bowls of salad and plates of cheese. This food was to have been eaten as it was needed, in a bright warm room, after eggnog, on the afternoon of New Year’s Day. But now the room was cold—increasingly cold. The sound of the wind was loud in the room, and the candles flickered in draft; the tiny flames of the candles leaned far out, as if seeking escape. The fire did more than the candles to light the room, but much of the room remained in shadow.

  Mrs. Speed put the food on the table, and looked at it for a moment and then said, “I guess that’s everything,” and looked at Margaret Halley.

  “Thank you,” Margaret said, in a voice without tone. “It looks very nice, Mrs. Speed.” But Margaret made no move toward the table. For some time, no one moved. It was as if they had not heard, did not see the food; as if they had grown too numb for effort.

  It was Tom Kemper, finally, who roused himself; who said, in a quite ordinary voice, which was, for that very reason, as incongruous as the gayety of the table, that they had better eat before everything got cold. “As cold as we are,” he said and then, to Audrey Latham, who was nearest him, “Come on. Let’s get something.” He walked over to the table and began to carve the turkey and, after a moment, Audrey got up and followed him and took a plate from the stack of plates and stood looking at it as if she could not decide its purpose. Then Brian Perry touched Lynn’s arm and she had nodded, and they both got up. They walked from the fireplace, which was near the mid-point of the inner wall of the long room, down the room to the table. As they walked, the others—Margaret Halley, Boyd, the two already at the table—watched them as if there were something strange, meaningful, in the progress of a tall man and a tall girl through a room toward a table of food.

  It was then that Lynn first realized how curiously wary they had all become. It was as if, to each of the six, the movements of each of the others were to be observed, considered, searched for some meaning under the surface of the movement, or of the words. (Had Kemper meant more than he said in saying that the food would grow as cold as they were? Did it mean something that he had made the first movement toward food, and had taken Audrey with him?) They watched, and listened, for the significant—for the inimical. That was it, Lynn thought, sitting with a plate on her lap, eating food she could not taste. Each felt threatened by the others; the most commonplace action might conceal danger.

  And it was, of course, absurd. Accept what Captain Heimrich asserted—that one of them was a murderer. That one was then alone endangered and alone needed to be cautious, and watchful. The rest had only to wait, with what resignation they could manage, until, in some way not now clear, Captain Heimrich made up his mind.

  He seemed in no hurry about it. He ate his dinner, sitting with Sergeant Forniss, at the end of the room nearest the front windows, quite close to the shrouded sofa. They sat at a small table and appeared to eat with pleasure. But it was, nevertheless, evident that they, too, watched. Probably it was the consciousness of Heimrich’s watchfulness which had so alerted the others. After they had all eaten, Heimrich would go back to his dogged questioning, and even that would be preferable to this—this suspension in cold fog.

  But, when they had finished, Forniss took his plate and Heimrich’s, both plates cleaned neatly, and put them on the end of the table reserved for used dishes, and then went back and sat down again. And when they had all finished, and merely sat waiting, Heimrich still did nothing—except watch. Lynn tried to see what he was seeing. Perhaps, she thought, that is what we are all doing.

  Margaret sat near the fire, its light giving color to her set face. She had accepted the plate of food Tom Kemper brought her, but she did not seem to have eaten any of it. After a few minutes, she got up and returned the plate to the table, and went back to her chair. As she moved through the room, she looked first at one of her guests and then at another.

  Brian Perry ate, slowly, not seeming conscious of what he did. He watched the others, too
. But where Audrey, and Kemper also, looked quickly and then away again (as if to watch were in itself a risk) Brian looked long and thoughtfully at each in turn, and finally at Lynn. Then, for the first time, he smiled. “We’re all very edgy,” he said, quietly. “I imagine that’s his idea.” The faintest motion of head indicated Captain Heimrich. “He’s rather like a cat,” Brian said. “A waiting cat.”

  Boyd was drinking again, with dinner finished, coffee served. He took the brandy Kemper offered and, when he had finished, took the small round glass back to the portable bar and again filled it. They all watched as he did this; followed him with their eyes from chair to bar, back to chair again. After a time, Audrey Latham began to move about the room, as she had moved earlier. They watched her.

  Forniss got up and went to one of the windows which looked out toward the road. He stood there for a moment, looking at something, and then they all heard, above the storm, the sound of a heavy truck motor. Outside, when Forniss stepped aside, but still held the curtain back, they could see a flashing red light.

  “Plow,” Forniss said, and let the curtain fall. But then Kemper and Brian Perry went to the window, and after a time Lynn joined them. A truck with red lights flashing rhythmically was moving slowly along the road. As it moved, it threw snow up, which the truck’s light brightened. The falling snow seemed less thick.

  “Must figure it’s about over,” Kemper said, and seemed to speak very loudly, although his voice was not really loud. Nobody replied. Audrey Latham, whose nervous wandering had taken her to the far end of the room, came its length to join them. She watched the moving truck. She said, “Oh. But we could get out now, couldn’t we?” She faced Heimrich. “Couldn’t we?” she repeated, her tone demanding answer.

  “The road’s passable,” Heimrich said. “Or will be. You’re very anxious to leave, Miss Latham?”

  “Who wouldn’t be?” she said. “Who wouldn’t be, captain? You mean—we have to stay here?”