Burnt Offering Read online

  She was leaning toward Heimrich. She beat one slim hand on a brown knee.

  “Don’t think—” she said.

  “Well,” a voice said from the doorway. It was an easy voice, unexcited. “What’s going on here?”

  They looked at Sam Jackson, standing long and thin just inside the door from the terrace.

  “This man badgering you, Sue?” Jackson asked, and his voice still was easy. But it was not casual.

  “Oh!” Susan said, and then she stood up. Heimrich also stood. “Hello, Sam. No. He’s been very—thoughtful. It’s just that—” She broke off, and looked at Heimrich.

  “Mrs. Faye’s had a little excitement,” Heimrich said. “You may as well tell Mr. Jackson about it, Mrs. Faye.” She looked at him, and he thought in doubt. “Oh yes,” Heimrich said. “He might have some ideas about it.”

  Jackson looked from one to the other. His eyes narrowed, but he smiled. “Do what the man says, Sue,” he told her, and then, as she talked, he listened, his eyes still narrowed. When she had finished, and she told the story briefly, Sam Jackson looked at Heimrich.

  “We’ll see nothing happens to the boy,” Heimrich said.

  “How?” Jackson asked him. “Put a guard on the place?”

  “If necessary,” Heimrich said. “You’ve no idea what somebody might think Mr. Phipps had told Mrs. Faye?”

  “No,” Jackson said. “How could I have?”

  “Now Mr. Jackson,” Heimrich said. “You saw Mr. Phipps just before Mrs. Faye did. He didn’t say anything to you that might help?”

  “I told you all that.”

  “Yes. But in the light of this?”

  Jackson shook his head slowly. He said he had told Heimrich all that had happened.

  “He didn’t say where he was going after he left you?”

  “No. I assumed he was going home. It was late enough. He didn’t say and I didn’t ask. He said to think over what he’d said about working against him and I said, ‘Sure, Orville,’ and he got in the car and drove away.” He turned to Susan Faye. “You’re sure he didn’t say anything, Sue? Anything that—well, that has meaning now that it didn’t have then?”

  “I’m quite sure, Sam,” she said. “And—” She paused again, for what seemed rather a long time. “I was just telling the captain,” she said, “that if he had, I wouldn’t tell anybody. I—nothing’s as important as Michael. I don’t remember anything. I’m sure there wasn’t anything. But if I did remember—no.”

  She was very explicit, Heimrich thought; she made it all very clear to Samuel Jackson. One might even wonder if she did not think this statement of special interest to Jackson.

  But if it was, Jackson said and did nothing to show he thought it important. He said, his manner still casual, that anybody would understand how she felt. He looked at Heimrich, who said, that since Mrs. Faye insisted she remembered nothing, what she would do if she did remember was an academic point.

  “About Michael,” Jackson said. “Why don’t you both come over and stay at my place, Sue? I’ve got a new couple. The Burkes. We can take care of you. You’ll be better off than—well, you’re pretty isolated here.”

  “And the Colonel?” Sue asked.

  Jackson smiled at that. He said, sure, the Colonel too.

  Susan Faye hesitated a moment; then she shook her head.

  “The captain says we’ll be all right,” she said. “We’ll stay.” She looked at Heimrich, and he found he was pleased—although Jackson’s suggestion was reasonable enough, on the surface—and said he’d see they were all right. He did what he could, at once, by telephone. There would be a trooper on High Road. It would, nevertheless, be an idea to keep young Michael at home as much as she could, for the time being.

  “Orville seems to have left me money,” Susan said then, to Jackson. “Ten thousand dollars.” To that Jackson said, rather flatly, “Oh.” He did not, Heimrich thought, seem as pleased as he might have at Susan Faye’s luck.

  Heimrich said he would be getting along, and Jackson walked to the door with him; walked through the door and out onto the terrace.

  “Hope the money isn’t giving you ideas,” he said, then, and Heimrich said, “Now Mr. Jackson,” which was a way of saying nothing. A station wagon, which Jackson apparently had preferred to the MG, stood near Heimrich’s own car. The wagon was wood paneled; the wood was brown stained under varnish. The car was a Chevrolet. But small Michael knew Sam Jackson; Jackson was, beyond doubt, the “Uncle Sam” who never wore a hat.

  “Van Brunt’s around,” Jackson said, and was very casual indeed. “Cornelia’s son. Ran into him at the hospital. He was asking about the Purvis kid. Wanted to get in to see him. They wouldn’t let him.”

  “No,” Heimrich said. “The boy’s not having visitors, Mr. Jackson. Or, so I understand.”

  “I imagine you’d know,” Jackson said, and smiled, with knowledge. “Did you know that young Van Brunt used to work in the bank?”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said.

  “He left very suddenly,” Jackson said. “At least, so it seemed to me.”

  They had been walking together toward the cars. Heimrich stopped, and looked at Jackson—and waited; very evidently waited.

  “That’s all,” Jackson said. “An idle remark, captain. Something I happened to remember.”

  Heimrich said he saw. He said, “How did you happen to be at the hospital, Mr. Jackson?” and Jackson said, as casually as ever, that he had a client there. “Poor chap wanted to change his will,” Jackson said. “Felt it couldn’t wait. He’s right, I’m afraid.”

  Heimrich nodded, and opened the door of his car. “We’ll be seeing you, probably,” Jackson said, and to that Heimrich said, “Oh, I’d think so, naturally,” and got in the car. Jackson was walking back to Susan Faye’s house—her house and Michael’s and the big dog’s—when Heimrich drove away.

  Heimrich went down the perilous—and officially unapproved—driveway and, very slowly, between the boulders which so effectively concealed any car leaving it from any driver using High Road. He turned right, which did not take him back the way he had come, but away from Van Brunt Avenue. He went the way that, on his last drive—except as cargo—Orville Phipps must have gone.

  Mr. Jackson was being helpful. Mr. Jackson was offering him Henry Van Brunt III, which was very nice of Mr. Jackson. Heimrich is always pleased when help is offered, when those concerned seek to improve a situation. There are few things more annoying to a policeman than a situation which remains static, with nobody on the move.

  It was eight-tenths of a mile to the fork in the road. It was uphill and down, and a trudge for a boy of seven on a hot afternoon. While a boy walked it a man in a car—in a brown-paneled station wagon—would have ample time to find a telephone and make a call. It was unfortunate that he had made it from a dial telephone, there being no other kind in the area. Modern technological advance was no doubt an admirable thing, but it did not always advance policemen. Rural operators often remembered calls; if machinery did, it stored its memories.

  Heimrich took the road to the right, which was Oak Road. He knew where he was, now. The left fork would take him to the Aldens’ compact house. After a mile and a half, at another fork, he turned onto Sugar Creek Lane, wondering when a creek had flowed with sugar. Another mile brought him to a stop sign. Heimrich waited until he could, and turned left, so that he was driving north on N. Y. 11-F, which was also Van Brunt Avenue for this portion of its considerable length. After two miles, he reached, but did not turn into, the narrower road which, deviously, led to the former home of Orville Phipps. After another mile he came to a narrow road which branched to the right, which was, a neat sign assured him, “Van Brunt Lane.” (There were, certainly, too many Van Brunt thises and Van Brunt thats.)

  Heimrich turned the car into the lane, which was black topped but very narrow. After about a quarter of a mile, he came to a big, gray house—a great, sprawling house. It was close to the lane and on Heimrich’s left as
he drove past slowly. A lawn, freshly mowed but showing signs of drought damage, sloped down from the house to a retaining wall which rose a few feet above the roadway level. A driveway pierced the wall, and rose gradually to the house level; it was graveled, weedless, neatly swept. A station wagon stood where the drive passed through a porte-cochère. A tall flagpole rose from the (faintly) browning lawn and a gilt eagle rode its tip. A cut-out iron sign at the start of the drive said “Van Brunt,” discreetly. Van Brunt Lane lost its black surface beyond the Van Brunt drive. Heimrich nevertheless continued on it for another half mile. Here the driveway of a much newer house offered opportunity. He backed into the driveway, and rolled out of it again. So that was where the Paul Stidworthys lived. He would have thought the town might have paved the road to them. There was something almost contemptuous in the deterioration of Van Brunt Lane once it had reached the Van Brunt house. Mr. Stidworthy was soundly snubbed.

  Captain Heimrich stopped his car abruptly, and of necessity. A Buick convertible, looking very large on the narrow road, loomed in front of him. Paul Stidworthy, behind the wheel, was also large; his wife, beside him, was not small. Stidworthy, having stopped the Buick, scowled through its windshield. He recognized Heimrich, after a moment, and laid the scowl away. Stidworthy put his head out his window and Heimrich, sliding across the seat of his car, reciprocated.

  “One of us,” Stidworthy said, “is going to have to back up a bit. Damned inadequate road. Shows you how the town’s run.”

  Heimrich backed. A hundred yards or so took him beyond the Stidworthy drive, to a point where the road was hardly more than a trickle. Stidworthy followed in the Buick, half turned into his driveway, stopped and got out. He walked over to Heimrich. He said, “Looking for me, captain? Sorry I wasn’t here. Been having a round.”

  That was evident; he was dressed for it.

  “No,” Heimrich said. “Finding a place to turn in.”

  “This is a town road,” Stidworthy said, pointing at it. “Wouldn’t think it, would you? Trail to nowhere. One reason I don’t live here in the winter.” He kicked a loose stone on the trail to nowhere. “Well,” he said, “maybe we’ll get a change, now. Come in and have a drink? Or, haven’t you time?”

  Heimrich looked at his watch, and found that it was five o’clock. He decided he had the time. He followed the Buick up the drive. The Buick went on into a garage, joining a small station wagon there. The station wagon would have wooden panels, stained brown. Heimrich looked, as he turned his own car. The station wagon had. But young Michael would almost certainly know Mr. Stidworthy. Stidworthy emerged from the garage, alone, wearing no hat.

  “Stella says she’s got to change,” he said. “Went on in. Accept her apologies, she says.”

  They stood on a terrace beside the house.

  He had climbed more, coming up Van Brunt Lane from the highway, than Heimrich had realized. The land to the south swept away from them, and down; it was divided into fields by old stone fences, most of them built long ago and now not much more than a scattering of stones along a line. Where the fences marked off their rectangles, trees grew tall, and most of them were ashes, although in the second field there were three black locusts, intricately fretted against the sky. It was a pleasant view of varied greens; it did not catch the breath, as did Susan Faye’s view of the Hudson and the heights beyond. It was a gentle view. Heimrich said it was very nice.

  “Nice enough now,” Stidworthy said. “Thank God it belongs to the duchess—at least down to there.” He pointed. “See that big maple?” he said. “Down to there. It’s about a mile. It’s beyond that they want—”

  He stopped. He told a uniformed maid to put it there, and she put a tray, which was rather too large for her, on a table. There was business then of the selection of drinks, and of their making. Heimrich sipped his second gin and tonic of the afternoon. He continued to look toward the distant maple.

  “Beyond that they want this development,” Stidworthy said, standing beside him with a scotch on rocks. “The district they want to rezone comes closer—to the start of the second field, actually. But that’s safe enough—you won’t find the duchess selling. But beyond that, if this goes through—maybe it won’t with Phipps out of it—but if it goes through, beyond that anything will go. There’ll be another Flats. And—we’ll look down their chimneys. The duchess will too, and that she won’t like.”

  “It wouldn’t have to be like The Flats,” Heimrich said.

  “Wouldn’t have to be,” Stidworthy said. “Would be, though. What can you do on an acre? However, as I say, it was Phipps’s baby. And Phipps is dead. Makes you believe in Providence, rather.”

  “Only,” Heimrich said, “it wasn’t Providence, was it? Not unaided. Are you sure, incidentally, that it was Mr. Phipps’s baby?”

  “I couldn’t prove it,” Stidworthy said. “Not until they began to record deeds. But, Phipps’s crowd was back of it. So you can bet Phipps had a finger in it. Had both hands in it, probably. For all he’d look down on it himself.”

  “Down on it?” Heimrich repeated. “Oh, you mean from his house.” He sounded puzzled, since he was puzzled.

  “He’s down the road,” Stidworthy said. “On the other side. On the hill. Here—get down a little.” Heimrich obediently bent his knees. “See?” Stidworthy said, and pointed. “You can make out a corner of his house. No—look under that branch. There. See it now?”

  Heimrich saw the corner of a house. He considered. To reach Phipps’s house he had turned left off Route 11-F some distance below Van Brunt Lane. He had climbed, turned right on another road, and climbed again; gone on Phipps’s private road and climbed still more. He did not doubt Stidworthy. He straightened the geography out in his own mind. It came straight.

  “See his lights at night,” he said. “The duchess can too. We’re all about the same height. This new development would be pretty much across the road from Phipps’s place. By the way, I hear it’s going to be a park, now.”

  News travels in the country. Heimrich had long since quit being surprised at the velocity of rural news. He agreed that the Phipps land would be a park.

  “Funny thing,” Stidworthy said. “Never tell what a man will do, can you? He really had it in for Sue, didn’t he?”

  Not all the news had traveled, apparently. Heimrich did not spread more. He said that apparently Mr. Phipps had had it in for his cousin once removed.

  “Never figure it out,” Stidworthy said. “Nice girl. Maybe that was the reason.” He laughed shortly. “Don’t argue I had any love for Orville,” he said. “Somebody really kill him?”

  “Oh yes,” Heimrich said. “Somebody killed him.”

  “Enterprising character, whoever he was,” Stidworthy said. “Ought to put up a statue to him in this new park. Monument to the Unknown Murderer.”

  “Now Mr. Stidworthy,” Heimrich said. “He won’t be, I hope.”

  “Always get your man, eh?” Stidworthy said.

  “Not always,” Heimrich said. “Usually.”

  “But, I gather you haven’t yet. No character to fit the crime?”

  Heimrich raised his eyebrows at that.

  “Oh,” Stidworthy said, “I’ve been asking around. Heard stories about you. What’s the other thing you’re always looking for? The something agent?”

  “Catalytic,” Heimrich said. “Not looking for, precisely. Something like that often turns up. The element precipitating action, not itself acted on. Why have you been asking around about me, Mr. Stidworthy?”

  Stidworthy said it was curiosity, natural curiosity. Heimrich agreed it was very natural.

  “You’ve been playing golf most of the day, Mr. Stidworthy?” he asked, and Stidworthy looked at him, a little blankly, apparently not a little surprised. “Natural curiosity,” Heimrich told him, blandly.

  Stidworthy said he had. In the morning as part of a foursome. Eighteen holes. Lunch at the club. In the afternoon, he and his wife had gone around, taking it easy, doing only
nine. They had gone back to the clubhouse, had a drink, driven home.

  “Why?” Stidworthy asked. “Did something happen this afternoon?”

  “Mrs. Faye’s son got lost for a while,” Heimrich said. “Oh, he turned up again. Had a story about a strange man who’d given him a ride.”

  Stidworthy regarded Heimrich, and appeared to wait. Heimrich finished his drink. “Another?” Stidworthy said, and spoke absently, and continued to look at Heimrich. “I guess not,” Heimrich said. “You know young Michael, probably?”

  “Sure,” Stidworthy said. “And—he knows me. Ought to, anyway. What kind of a man was this?”

  “He wore a hat,” Heimrich said. “He wore sun glasses—green sun glasses. He drove a small station wagon. Brown, Michael said. Brown paneling, I suppose.”

  Stidworthy looked at the open garage, at the two cars in the garage.

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “Rather like yours, I’d gather.”

  “Like dozens around, then,” Stidworthy said, and Heimrich said, “Oh, naturally, Mr. Stidworthy.”

  “I don’t wear hats in the country,” Stidworthy said. “Was that why you came here?”

  “Now Mr. Stidworthy,” Heimrich said. “I didn’t come for anything. I needed a place to turn around. However, when people want to talk, I always listen.”

  “I didn’t—” Stidworthy said, and shrugged, and said Heimrich would have it his own way. He said, “Sure you won’t have another?” and, refused, made another for himself. Heimrich thanked him for the drink, and for the view. He moved toward his car. He stopped.

  “By the way,” he said. “If you can see lights in the Phipps house from here, I suppose Mrs. Van Brunt can, too?”

  “Oh yes,” Stidworthy said. “I’m quite sure anyone at the Van Brunt house could, captain. Anyone with decent eyes.” He looked into his drink, and raised it to his lips. “The duchess has quite good eyes,” he said.

  Heimrich opened the door of his car. He turned again, and again said, “By the way—” Stidworthy lowered his drink and waited.