Murder within Murder Page 18

  She stroked the little cat.

  “Only,” she said, “it didn’t stop Bill from thinking about men too. It was subconscious with me, Martini—that’s mostly why I gave up Mr. Hill, probably. But I wonder why it didn’t block Bill?”

  It was almost the first thing she asked him when they were having their one drink around at the Ritz. He smiled at her. He said because it was only one of the little touches. He said you found them in most cases. He said they would throw you off, if you let them.

  “You can be too subtle,” he said. “You can be taken in by subtle things. There are half a dozen ways of explaining the perfume in Miss Gipson’s room—ways that have nothing to do with Miss Gipson’s killing. There are one or two ways—you’ve hit on one with your theory of a man with an atomizer—that might be connected with the case. Or it might actually be a woman. But the point is—it isn’t important enough to stop over. Because perhaps we were supposed to stop over it. Perhaps we were supposed to think it was the significant clue. And we can’t risk doing what we’re supposed to do.”

  “But,” Jerry said, “it might be important. It might really be significant.”

  Bill nodded. He said it might very well be.

  “In which case,” he said, “it will fit in as we go along—when we get on the right road. But we’ll get on the right road because we find out the big things, not the little things. Because we find out who wanted to, who could have. In this case, there seem to be several people who had reason and opportunity.”

  “And—?” Pam said.

  “And,” Bill said, “we wait for a break. We do what cops always do—we put on the pressure, we wait for a break. And we keep our eyes open, so we’ll see the break when it comes. Of course—the break may in itself be one of the little things. Somebody talking out of turn; somebody telling a foolish lie. Somebody having made a silly mistake. But the main thing is the pressure. The main thing is to keep the pressure on. To keep somebody feeling we’re crowding him.”

  They finished their drinks.

  “What’s the new possibility?” Pam asked.

  Bill told them. He said it was only a possibility. Pam said it certainly was.

  “Anyway,” she said, “you seem to have come around to thinking Miss Gipson was killed because of something she found out when she was reading about the old cases. As I always said.”

  Bill Weigand shook his head. He said he hadn’t come around to thinking anything. He said he was still exploring.

  “The trouble is,” Pam said, “there are too many possibilities. And nothing to make any of them more than a possibility. You tell yourself a story about Mr. Spencer; I tell myself a story about Mrs. Burt. What do you tell yourselves stories about, Jerry? Sergeant Mullins?”

  Jerry was very grave.

  “I think Backley, the lawyer, is really Purdy, the wife killer,” he said. “I think he wasn’t killed in the plane crash at all and that Miss Gipson found it out and threatened to expose him, making it necessary for him to kill her.”

  “Really, Jerry!” Pam said. “Really.”

  Jerry said it seemed as good to him as any of the others. But one eyelid drooped momentarily for Bill Weigand’s benefit.

  “Sergeant?” Pam said.

  “The kids,” Sergeant Mullins said. “The nephew and the niece, one or the other. To get the money.” He contemplated. “I guess the nephew,” he said. He looked at Mrs. North. “Look, Mrs. North,” he said, “they can’t all be screwy.” He said it as if he were arguing with himself.

  13

  THURSDAY, 2 P.M. TO 4:35 P.M.

  The afternoon newspapers, keeping the story alive against increasing odds and bringing it up to date with the quiet desperation known only to afternoon rewrite men, had used the time and place of Amelia Gipson’s funeral as a lead. The results were middling; a steam shovel would have done better, but for a funeral this did well enough. As their cab drew up in front of the Stuart Funeral Home, Pam looked at the people on the sidewalk and said it looked like an opening night.

  “On the contrary,” Jerry told her, and paid the taxi driver. The crowd pressed up and looked at them.

  “That’s the niece,” a thin woman with startling black eyes said shrilly. “That’s the Frost girl.”

  “Naw,” the man with her said. “Come on, Stella. It ain’t nobody.”

  “Well!” Pam said, in a soft voice to Jerry. “Well! I hate to be such a disappointment.”

  There were a couple of reporters in the cleared center of the crowd, and they looked at the Norths and looked away again. Then the taxicab drew away and the police car came up to the curb. The reporters moved toward it and Bill Weigand shook his head at them.

  “Nothing yet,” he said. “Sorry, boys.”

  “There’s a rumor—” one of the boys, a tired-looking man in his fifties, began, and Bill shook his head a second time.

  “No rumors,” he said. “Talk to the inspector, Harry.”

  “Why?” said Harry, with simplicity.

  “All right, Harry,” Mullins said. “Break it up.”

  There was a man looking out the door of the Stuart Funeral Home. The door had discreet curtains not quite covering it and the man drew one of them aside. He looked worried and unhappy, and neither worry nor unhappiness sat comfortably on his face. He was not cadaverous or solemn; he was rotund and ruddy and when he opened the door he had the dignified cordiality of an automobile salesman. He raised his eyebrows at the Norths, with expectant politeness.

  “North,” Jerry said. “Miss Gipson’s employer … her late employer.”

  “The late Miss Gipson’s former employer,” Mrs. North said.

  The rotund man looked at her and achieved a kind of enforced gravity.

  “Very sad,” he said, “Very sad indeed. Chapel A, if you please.”

  He looked past the Norths at Weigand and for a moment he was doubtful. He saw Mullins, and doubt vanished.

  “Is it necessary?” he said, in a hurt voice. “Is it really necessary, Inspector?”

  “What?” Weigand said.

  “This crowd,” the man said, waving at it. “This—notoriety. The police.” He sighed. “Everything,” he said.

  “I’m afraid so,” Weigand told him. “It won’t last, you know.”

  “Sad,” the man said. “Very sad. Chapel A.”

  The reception-room was very restrained and somewhat dark. There was a dignified hush about it and a faint smell of flowers. There was organ music faintly in the air, as if an organ were being played in the next block. The chairs in the room were austere, as if they meant to discourage relaxation and provide comfort grudgingly, but they were upholstered in heavy, dark brocades. The Stuart Funeral Home did not discourage thought of the dead by pampering the living. But it did not forget that the living paid the bills, and wanted something for their money.

  There were three doors leading from the reception-room and there were dimly illuminated signs over them. Like exit signs in theaters, only a sort of purple, Mrs. North thought. One sign said “Chapel A” and another “Chapel B.” The third said “Office.” Pam North looked through the door marked “Office”—the other two doors were closed by hangings—and saw a corridor leading away from the street. Off one side of the corner there was a wide arch, leading to another room. She could not see what was in the other room. The Norths, with Weigand and Mullins following them, went to the door marked “Chapel A.” Jerry reached around Pam and drew back the curtain for her.

  The room was much dimmer than the reception-room, and was constructed like a small church. There were pews, facing a wall heavily draped with velvet. The velvet seemed to glow dimly with purple light. The sound of the organ music was more perceptible; the organ might now be as close as the next building. There was nobody in the room but, as they entered, the organ music increased perceptibly in volume.

  It was a room to whisper in, and Pam whispered.

  “Somebody looks through the curtains,” she said. As she spoke the room slow
ly became lighter, although there was no obvious identification of the source of light. It was still a kind of purplish light; a light which was a more revealing kind of darkness. The increased light seemed to focus, in a mood of almost overpowering reverence, on a coffin placed on a draped pedestal in front of the curtains at the end of the chapel. There were flowers around it, and over it.

  “The poor thing,” Pam said. “Would she have liked this, Jerry?”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I shouldn’t think so. But I suppose it’s inevitable.”

  “We’re early,” Pam said. She still whispered. “What time is it, Jerry?”

  “Ten of three,” he told her.

  “I wish it weren’t so dark,” Pam said. She thought a moment. “I wish it weren’t so—real,” she said. “And—so unreal, at the same time.”

  Jerry said he knew. He touched her arm and they went to the rear pew on the right. Weigand and Mullins, who seemed to have been delayed in the reception-room, came in and Bill sat down on the opposite side of the aisle. Mullins stood against the rear wall, and the wall seemed to swallow him. The organ music swelled a little and Mr. and Mrs. Burt came in. Mrs. Burt was crying a little and Mr. Burt’s hand was protectingly on her arm. When she saw the casket, Mrs. Burt made a sound like a tiny sob.

  “There, my dear,” Mr. Burt said. “There.”

  They sat down in front of the Norths. Mr. Burt saw Mrs. North in the gloom and bowed with dignity and restraint, as befitted the surroundings. The Burts sat decorously. Three women came in whom Mrs. North had, as well as she could tell in the light provided, never seen before. They looked at the flower-covered coffin and one of them dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief and they sat down. Pam looked across at Bill Weigand and he shook his head. He shook it again when another middle-aged couple entered. These were newcomers, Pam thought; Amelia Gipson had had more friends than they had found. Then the manager of the Holborn Annex came in, looking very sad and grave, and after him a tiny, fluttery woman who was probably, Pam thought, the hostess of that tea-room at which Miss Gipson had so often eaten. She looked, at any rate, like the hostess of a tea shop. Then a man came in by himself and looked around and sat down next to Jerry. Even through the heavy fragrance of the flowers, Mrs. North detected a fragrance which was, she decided, gin. If Mr. Spencer had really come, this should be Mr. Spencer. She looked across at Bill and formed the name “Spencer” with her lips. Bill looked puzzled a moment. Then he nodded. The music came up then and the curtains at the end of the chapel were held aside by a white hand, and Nora Frost came into the room, with her brother behind her. She was in black. John Gipson wore a black armband. They both wore grave, detached expressions. Major Frost came in after his brother-in-law and he looked as if he wished he were somewhere else. The music swelled and, behind Major Frost, a man who could only be a clergyman came into the room. The white hand let the curtains fall back, then.

  The music continued as the Frosts and John Gipson sat down in one of the front pews. It continued as the clergyman moved around the coffin and stood in front of it. He stood there, gravely, unhurried, and the music faded and died away.

  “Let us pray,” the clergyman said.

  Detective Sergeant Angelo Farrichi finished his coffee, sighed comfortably and looked at his watch. It was almost two o’clock. Reluctantly, he pushed his chair back and, contentedly tasting coffee, red wine and, under them, veal parmigiana, he went toward the street. Passing, he slapped the proprietor on the back; outside he paused and lighted a cigarette. He strolled toward headquarters. But as he entered the building he ceased to stroll; he became the alert detective returning with the spoils. He went to the photolab.

  “And what are you made up as?” the lab technician asked him, looking at him with amusement. Farrichi’s sense of peace was not disturbed. He waved at the technician and went into a darkroom. He got to work, not hurrying. He found he had something; he made a contact print. It was pretty good for that kind of job. He put the print in the dryer and went to a telephone. He asked for Lieutenant Weigand and got Weigand’s office. He got Stein.

  “Well,” Farrichi said, “I got the Burts. How many prints does the Loot want?”

  “Where the hell have you been, Farrichi?” Stein wanted to know.

  “Listen,” Farrichi said, his sense of peace diminishing. “It took time to get them. The way the Loot wanted it done. How many prints does he want?”

  Farrichi had better ask him, Stein said. If he were Farrichi he would go and ask him, taking the print he had. He told Farrichi that Weigand was at the funeral.

  “Listen,” Farrichi said, “is he in a hurry, Bennie?”

  “I don’t know,” Stein said. “But if I were you, I’d be in a hurry. He might like it. He won’t not like it. See?”

  Farrichi saw. He wangled a car on the plea of emergency. It took him almost half an hour, all told, to get the car and get, in it, to the Stuart Funeral Home. It was 3:20 when he got there. The crowd was still outside; it looked at him with mild interest. The rotund man at the door looked at him with mild interest and it was not noticeably enhanced when Farrichi asked for Lieutenant Weigand.

  “Inside,” the rotund man said. “The service is almost over. It would be better if you waited here.”

  Farrichi sat down. The rotund man went back to the door. It was a hell of a dismal place, Farrichi thought; the darkroom was cheerful by comparison. He’d just as soon give the print to Weigand and get along. He got up and walked over to Chapel A, from which reverent sounds were coming. He started in and bumped into Mullins, standing just inside the door. He pushed an envelope containing the print into Mullins’s hand, said, “For the Loot, ask him how many prints he wants,” and backed out. Mullins came out after him, opening the envelope. He peered at the photograph in the half-light, holding it this way and that. Then he looked around, saw the door marked Office, and went through it, beckoning Farrichi to follow him.

  “… an exemplary life,” the clergyman was saying, “devoted to that most sacred duty—instruction of the young—the opening to them of the doors of light. In her life, Amelia Gibson” … the “B” was very clear in his excellent diction, but Amelia Gipson could not hear it; could not correct it … “gave to all of us an example of consecration, of devotion. She.…”

  It was hard to listen to. It was sincere, it was worthy. Some of it was true. It was not Amelia Gipson as she had been; it was Amelia Gipson as an abstraction. But some of it was true. She had taught. Perhaps she had opened to some of those she taught a door that led to light. If there was a doubt, she deserved the benefit of it. But it was hard to listen to.

  Pam North stopped listening. She watched the backs of heads, wondering what went on inside the heads. She looked at the back of Helen Burt’s head, and wondered if she were thinking—now—that she had caused all this; if now she were thinking that she would give anything she might ever have to have this thing undone. She looked at the back of Willard Burt’s head, and wondered who he reminded her of when he spoke; she looked at Bill Weigand’s profile, dim on the other side of the aisle, and wondered if he really knew, or had guessed—or had a hunch. She looked at the back of a dignified male head two rows in front of Weigand and wondered if he were Mr. Backley, the lawyer, because he looked as a lawyer named Backley ought to look, and then she looked at Jerry and smiled faintly as she thought of the theory to which Jerry had pretended. Mr. Backley, indeed. Mr. Purdy, indeed.

  Because Mr. Purdy was—

  The man beyond Jerry stood up. He stood up and swayed a little, and he spoke in a voice which was neither hushed nor reverent. He spoke in a harsh, strained voice, and very rapidly.

  “This is an outrage,” he said. “This is unbearable. Sir, you are insulting every teacher who ever tried to bring a glimmer of intelligence into the head of some forsaken brat. Amelia Gipson was—”

  Everything stopped. The clergyman stopped; there was in the room a kind of startled stillness; it was as if the room gasped.

 
“She was a liar,” the man said. He almost shouted it. “She hurt everybody she could reach. She was a vicious—a vicious, poisonous hag. She.…”

  Bill Weigand was standing up. Men moved toward the speaking man from the shadows, men Pam North had not seen in the shadows. Bill Weigand spoke and his voice was level and hard.

  “Sit down, Spencer,” he said. “Sit down.”

  Philip Spencer did not sit down. He turned toward Weigand.

  “The policeman,” he said. “The ever-present policeman. The upholder of propriety; the seeker out of the evil doer. Lieutenant whatever your name is, you make me sick.” He looked around. “You all make me sick,” he said. “A bunch of sniveling—”

  One of the men who had come out of the shadows reached Philip Spencer. He took hold of him roughly, and pulled him out into the aisle.

  “Sniveling fools, whining over a lying—” Spencer said, and the detective who had him clapped a hard hand over Spencer’s mouth. And Philip Spencer went out of Chapel A very abruptly, as if he had suddenly flown into the air. The clergyman stood with his mouth open, looking at the backs of heads. Then the heads turned and all the eyes focused on the clergyman, as if he now would do something to justify this affront. He kept his mouth open for a moment. Then he spoke.

  “I deeply regret this unseemly …” he said.

  Pam North didn’t doubt his regret; Philip Spencer had been unseemly enough. She whispered to Jerry.

  “He was drunk, wasn’t he?” she said. “Or crazy?”

  “Drunk,” Jerry whispered. “Very. Maybe crazy, too.”

  The clergyman was obviously unsettled. He looked at his audience with what seemed to be reproach; he moved just perceptibly away from the coffin, as if he held its quiet occupant in some way responsible for this flouting of decency and interruption of remarks. He looked at some notes, and apparently had difficulty reading them. He abandoned eulogy, and turned to the prayer book.