Let Dead Enough Alone Page 15

  He paused. He looked from one to the other.

  “I don’t get it,” Struthers Boyd said. “I don’t get what you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t you?” Heimrich said. “You, Mr. Kemper? One of you does, of course. One of you was in the basement. She heard you. Thought it was Mr. Halley and went part way down the stairs and called. And then turned on the light. One of you thought she saw too much. You, Mr. Kemper?”

  “In the basement?” Kemper said. “What the hell’s this about the basement? What’s down there except—”

  “Now Mr. Kemper,” Heimrich said. “The usual things. The furnace. A supply of wood—and kindling, of course. Old boxes to use as kindling. And—the light switches.”

  He waited. Kemper shook his head.

  “Dr. Perry?” Heimrich said. “You, Mrs. Halley? Miss Ross?”

  He waited a moment.

  “Oh,” he said, “one of you will tell me, in the end. It’s in the character of one of you. To improve on things.”

  “You give warning, captain,” Brian Perry said. “Is it wise to give warning?”

  (But it isn’t that, Lynn thought. He ought to know it isn’t that. It’s as if he—he were dangling something. Dangling it just out of reach. Watching to see who moves; tempting someone to move—to say the wrong thing. To do the wrong thing. He says, “Something needs improving on.” He says, “There’s a flaw somewhere—a weak spot in your story somewhere. Repair the flaw. Strengthen the weak spot.” If I were the one I would be afraid. I would be afraid to speak. But I would be more afraid not to speak. Afraid to move. Afraid to stay quiet. Does he see me yet? Can I run yet? Or will he see me only if I run? Have I missed—)

  “You mention the light switches,” Brian Perry said. “Was there a—a trick about the switches?”

  “Now doctor,” Heimrich said. “Don’t you know there was? Because—you spoke about the trick before, doctor.”

  “About a trick,” Perry said. “But—yes, I guessed there was a trick. Lynn and I guessed.”

  (But you guessed. You told me. It wasn’t I who guessed.)

  “Yes, doctor,” Heimrich said. “You guessed about a trick.”

  He waited. Tom Kemper spoke quickly.

  “Trick?” he said. “What do you mean by trick?”

  “Now Mr. Kemper,” Heimrich said. “You hadn’t guessed? Worked it out. As Dr. Perry did?”

  “I don’t,” Kemper said, “know what the hell you’re talking about.” He looked around at the others, his eyebrows raised in enquiry. “What’s he talking about?” he said.

  “Beyond me,” Struthers Boyd said. “Whole damn thing’s beyond me.”

  Margaret Halley did not respond. She looked into the fire. She sat, Lynn Ross thought, very tightly.

  Kemper looked at Lynn. She started to speak.

  “Tell them, doctor,” Heimrich said, to Brian Perry. “Tell the ones who don’t know.”

  “What I guessed?” Perry said.

  “Now doctor,” Heimrich said. “What you guessed, of course.”

  Perry told them. Heimrich nodded. He was, Lynn thought, now oddly like a teacher who approves a superior pupil. Or —like a cat who has seen the movement of a hidden bird?

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “It was done that way. Mr. Halley was tricked into going out. Followed. Killed.”

  Again there was a pause. It seemed to Lynn that silence was very loud in the room.

  “It is only theory,” Margaret Halley said. “You could never prove it, could you?”

  “Oh,” Heimrich said, “it’s proved itself now, hasn’t it? The murder of Miss Latham proves it, naturally.”

  She did not answer, except by a further stiffening of her body.

  “When you went down to see if your husband had gone to bed,” he said. “Decided that he had and went back up. As you say you did.”

  “I did,” she said.

  “Did you see anyone? Or—hear anyone?”

  “No.”

  “Did you go near the stairs to the basement?”

  “I told you what I did. All I did. I stepped into the living room. Found it was empty. Decided John had gone up to bed and went up myself.” She paused, briefly. “Carrying nothing,” she added.

  “And,” Heimrich said, “the rest of you were all in bed. You’ve all told me that.”

  “That’s right,” Kemper said. “So?”

  “Oh,” Heimrich said, “one of you is lying, of course. One of you was in the cellar. Replacing the main switch.”

  “Replacing?” Perry asked.

  “Oh yes,” Heimrich said. “Mr. Halley was dead by then. Miss Latham turned the cellar light on. It went on. Your ‘trick’ was finished, doctor.”

  “Not my trick,” Perry said. “You—use words loosely, captain.”

  “Perhaps I do,” Heimrich said. “The trick you described. One of you was in the cellar. Assumed Miss Latham had seen you. Decided to play another trick—offer to take Miss Latham away. To Katonah, at least. To the station, probably. And, instead—”

  “Wait a minute,” Tom Kemper said. “Wait just a minute.” He leaned forward in his chair, leaned toward Struthers Boyd. “Struth,” he said. “You asked me about trains. Remember? Whether there was still a train to town? And, first, I said the last one was at ten something. Remember?”

  “I thought—” Boyd said. (He’s frightened. Should he move? Or is the danger in movement?) Boyd looked quickly at Heimrich, and then away again.

  “And,” Kemper said, “we looked it up to be sure, and found there was an extra train—an extra, late train on New Year’s Day. A train at twelve twenty-something. You remember that, Struth?”

  “Suppose I did?” Struthers Boyd said. “Suppose I—” But then he stopped. He looked at Heimrich. Boyd’s eyes were no longer sleepy. “Deputy of yours, captain?” he said. “Or, one of your stool pigeons?”

  “Now Mr. Boyd,” Heimrich said. “I gather you were interested in the train times?”

  “The girl wanted to get out of here,” Boyd said. “You know that—she tried to get Miss Ross to drive her. She wanted me to. Said we could take the station wagon. She said there were chains on it.” He paused for a moment. “I don’t deny I thought about doing it,” he said. “But I decided not to and told her I wouldn’t, and she’d be a fool if she tried it. I said, it would look like we were running away, and I didn’t have anything to run from and didn’t think she had. She said, ‘That’s what you think.’”

  That, Boyd said, was all she had said. He had asked her what she meant, and she had merely shaken her head. Then, she had asked if there was still a train to New York.

  “I didn’t know,” Boyd said. “She asked me to find out. Said if she asked, she’d give everything away, because already she’d tried Miss Ross and probably Miss Ross had—well, what she said was, ‘blabbed.’ She said—well, she said she wouldn’t forget any help I gave her.”

  “What did you—” Heimrich began. Then he said, “Never mind. Go on, Mr. Boyd.”

  “That’s all there was to it,” Boyd said. “I asked Kemper. My old pal, Kemper.”

  “Telling him it was Miss Latham who wanted to know?”

  “Well,” Boyd said. “No. I let him think whatever he wanted to. But—” His eyes narrowed slightly. “But come to think of it,” he said, “a couple of minutes later, I went out in the hall and Miss Latham came out after me, and I told her about the train. Kemper could have seen us, and put two and two together.”

  “So,” Kemper said, “could anyone. As a matter of fact, I didn’t notice it. So if you’re trying—”

  “I’m not trying anything,” Boyd said. “You brought it up.”

  They both had raised their voices somewhat; both seemed angry. Lynn looked from the two men, leaning toward each other in their chairs, to Heimrich. He was not watching them. His eyes were closed. Boyd turned to him and, before Boyd spoke, Heimrich opened his eyes.

  “All right,” Boyd said. “That’s all there was to it. I told h
er about the train, advised her to give the idea up and—well, I thought she had. That’s all I know about it.”

  “And,” Heimrich said, “you knew—or anyway could guess—that Miss Latham would be going downstairs about the time she did go.”

  “I told you,” Boyd said. “I thought she’d given it up. I—”

  “That,” Tom Kemper said, “is what you say now, isn’t it?”

  And that brought Boyd to his feet; brought him threateningly to his feet.

  “Sit down, Mr. Boyd,” Heimrich said, and Sergeant Forniss moved toward Boyd. Boyd hesitated, sat down.

  “Of course,” Heimrich said, “Mr. Kemper’s right. It is what you say now, Mr. Boyd. That you didn’t plan—or tell her you planned—to drive her to the station. Didn’t arrange to meet her in the garage. Didn’t—”

  “Didn’t kill her,” Boyd said. “That’s what I say now, too. And—” But he did not continue. His big body seemed to slump in his chair.

  Heimrich waited; they all waited. Struthers Boyd sat heavily in his chair, which was near the fire. He looked down at the floor. It was Margaret Halley who spoke next; spoke, after the silence, rather abruptly, as if, having considered, she had finally made up her mind to speak. She said, “Captain Heimrich,” and, as he turned to her, went on.

  “It may mean nothing,” she said. “But—in view of this—Mr. Boyd had persuaded my husband to invest—to invest quite a good deal, I believe—in some project. John had come to the conclusion that the project was—” She hesitated, apparently choosing among words. “Unsound,” she said. She hesitated again, and her eyes moved to Struthers Boyd. “No,” she said. “More than that. Fraudulent. He planned to give Mr. Boyd a choice. To return the money or—if he did not, John was going to the district attorney.”

  Then Boyd turned his heavy body in the chair and looked at Margaret Halley. Slowly, he shook his head. But there seemed, to Lynn Ross, to be a kind of numbness in his movement. Heimrich waited a moment. Then he said, “Well, Mr. Boyd?”

  “What’s the use?” Boyd said. “She’s lying. But—what’s the use?”

  “Lying?” Heimrich said. “How, Mr. Boyd? You deny the investment? Or—what do you deny?”

  “He put up some money,” Boyd said. “There was no secret about that. I—I told somebody about it. This morning, I think. Told—” He seemed to lose the thread momentarily. But then he looked at Brian Perry. “Told you and somebody,” he said.

  “Yes,” Perry said. “You talked about it. To me and Miss Ross. Some device you’d got hold of. A ‘thing,’ you said.”

  “Going to revolutionize—” Boyd said. “But there is a secret about that. When she says fraudulent, that’s a lie.”

  “It’s what John said,” Mrs. Halley told them. “I don’t say he went into detail. He was going to give Mr. Boyd the choice, as I said.”

  “And,” Heimrich said, “invited him here for that purpose? It was your husband who invited Mr. Boyd?”

  “He suggested it,” Margaret Halley said. “As for the actual invitation—I wrote the note, of course.”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “And—you wrote to Dr. Perry, too?”

  “What?” she said. “What’s that to do with it? Actually, I used the telephone. Didn’t I, Brian?”

  “Although,” Heimrich said, “you had told him, earlier, I suppose, that your husband was responsible for the death of Dr. Perry’s wife?”

  “You told him about that, Brian?” she said, and now leaned a little forward in her chair. Her hands twisted together in her lap. Brian Perry nodded, the firelight on his glasses.

  “I—I stumbled into it,” she said, now to Heimrich. “In trying to explain about John. But—why are you asking these things? When what Tom tells you—” She stopped.

  And it was not clear, Lynn thought. Nothing was clear. A moment before, it had seemed that Struthers Boyd was at the center of a narrowing circle; that, slowly, carefully, he was being wrapped around in a net of words, of implications. But now—now?

  A siren sounded outside—sounded once, in a lonely moan.

  XI

  Heimrich and Sergeant Forniss went out of the room together, but Trooper Ray Crowley, at a nod from Heimrich, remained. Heimrich took the hatchet with him, still dangling from the string. There was now no insistence that those in the room refrain from talking, but none of them seemed inclined to talk. Instead, they listened—listened to the sounds made by several men coming into the house, going down the hall. Now and then, from the rear, they could hear voices. Then they heard another car come up the drive. For a moment, the lights of the second car showed against the curtains, pierced into the room. Then the lights went out. More men came into the house and went down the hall.

  Sergeant Forniss came back into the living room after a few minutes and they looked at him. “Medical examiner,” Forniss said. “Photographers. And the rest.” Then he stood and watched them. After another ten minutes or so, Heimrich came back, and sat down where he had been sitting. He said there were a few more points. He said, “Mr. Boyd,” and Boyd looked at him, dully.

  “Last night,” he said. “During the party—toward the end of the party—you were mixing drinks?”

  “What?” Boyd said. “Mixing drinks? I don’t—”

  “For Mr. Halley, at least,” Heimrich said. “He was drinking scotch, I understand? The rest of you kept on with champagne? After midnight, anyway?”

  “My God!” Boyd said. “Why would I remember that? Maybe I poured him a drink, if I happened to be at the bar. I don’t remember one way or the other.”

  “You did,” Tom Kemper said. “I remember seeing you.”

  “So I did,” Boyd said. “So what?”

  “Now Mr. Boyd,” Heimrich said. “Mrs. Speed.”

  Mrs. Speed made a small gulping sound.

  “This morning,” Heimrich said. “When you were straightening up the room. You did do that?”

  “What was wrong with that?” Lucinda Speed said. “Far as I knew it was like any other—”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “There was nothing wrong with it, naturally. You found a full glass of rum punch? On a table?”

  She nodded.

  “Where?” Heimrich asked her, and she pointed to a table.

  “Spoiled it was,” she said. “Sitting there all night by the fire.”

  “You emptied it out? Washed the glass and put the glass away?”

  “What would you expect?”

  “Oh,” Heimrich said, “just that, naturally. Anybody would expect that. Mrs. Halley?”

  She said, “Yes?” She said it quickly, as if she had had the word waiting.

  “When you came down last night,” Heimrich said. “To see whether your husband had gone to bed. Did you notice the glass of rum punch?”

  “I told you that,” she said. “You go over and over things. What are you looking for?”

  “Now Mrs. Halley,” Heimrich said. “A picture. A method. A character that fits the crime. You left the rum punch there?”

  “Of course,” she said. “Mrs. Speed told you that. She found it there in the morning. What can it possibly matter?”

  “Now Mrs—” Heimrich began, and there was a knock at the closed double doors into the hall. Heimrich went to the doors, and out into the hall, closing them behind him. He came back after a few minutes and now, again, he was dangling the old hatchet—the hatchet with blood on its dull blade, a piece of twine looped around its rough, worn handle. He put the hatchet on the table and sat down again. He reached into his pocket and took out a small bottle, and put it on the table by the hatchet.

  “Nembutal,” he said. “The bottle you had somebody pick up yesterday, Mrs. Halley. Or—picked up yourself?”

  “How—” she said. “Oh, it’s dated, isn’t it?”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “It’s dated.”

  “Mr. Speed picked the capsules up,” she said. “And—there was never any secret about it. I told you my husband had difficulty sleeping and—” />
  And then she stopped, suddenly, and looked at the little bottle. She got up, moving quickly, and walked to the table and reached out toward the bottle. She checked herself, and did not touch it, but bent to look at it.

  “Yes,” Heimrich said, “a good many of them used, Mrs. Halley. Enough used to kill a man, wouldn’t you say? If he wasn’t treated quickly?”

  She looked at him, said nothing for a moment. Then she said, “But—surely you see now? Since the autopsy must have—”

  He waited. She did not finish.

  “I told you all earlier,” Heimrich said. “Indirectly, I’ll admit. Mr. Halley was dying when he was killed—dying of barbiturate poisoning. Mrs. Halley is right. The autopsy showed unabsorbed barbiturate in the stomach—a great deal of it. Quite enough to have caused death.” He paused. “In time,” he said. “Time that wasn’t allowed.”

  He turned, suddenly, to Brian Perry.

  “You examined Mr. Halley’s body first, doctor,” he said. “You noticed nothing—nothing except the head injury, the indications of death by drowning?”

  “No,” Perry said. “I—lacked facilities for an autopsy, captain. Did you expect—”

  “Now doctor,” Heimrich said. “Did you look at the eyes?”

  “Not particularly. You mean, for contracted pupils? But, they don’t always contract. Sometimes they dilate instead.”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “And, if the barbiturate hadn’t had time to work, there’d be nothing to show, naturally. How long would it take to work, doctor?”

  Dr. Perry assumed Heimrich meant from the time of ingestion? Heimrich nodded. Then various elements were involved—the kind of barbiturate taken, the quantity taken, the sensitivity of the taker. Nembutal, probably, Heimrich said; a very considerable quantity. As to sensitivity? He turned to Margaret Halley.

  “Oh,” she said, “no particular sensitivity. But don’t you see—”

  “In a moment,” Heimrich said. “So, Dr. Perry?”

  “Twenty minutes,” Perry said. “Or, up to an hour. There’s no way I know of to be more exact. Of course, I’m not—”

  “Captain Heimrich!” Margaret Halley said. “Listen! It was as I told you. My husband wanted to die. He took an overdose. But before it took effect the lights went out and he—” She stopped. Heimrich looked at her and waited.