The Dishonest Murderer Read online

  “Can’t go to the police,” the admiral said, when Curt made no use of the opportunity. “Man’s a senator. Get in the papers.” He spoke the word “papers” with a peculiar inflection, as if the word soiled his tongue. “No idea about security. No idea at all. Mix us all up in it.”

  “The pu-police wouldn’t—” Grainger began, but the admiral cut him short by saying, “Nonsense!”

  “Civilians,” he said. “Politicians.”

  It seemed to be stalemate.

  “We can’t just wait,” Mrs. Burnley told them, with indignation. “Just sit here.”

  The admiral looked at her without favor. He appeared to consider the look enough.

  “Darlings,” Breese Burnley said. Her tone seemed to reflect calm, almost amusement. “Darlings. Bruce is a couple of hours late and everybody’s in a dither. In a tail-spin. Beginning to talk of going to the police. Really, darlings. Can’t a man be a little late? Even the great man?” She looked at Howard Phipps. “Even the chief?” she said.

  There was nothing in her voice, nothing beyond inflections carefully cultivated, nothing but a careful avoidance of implication. But the admiral glared at her.

  “If—” he began.

  “No, Dad,” Freddie said. “It’s all right.”

  “Not all right,” the admiral told them all. “Party for him. Him and Freddie. No man’s going to report late, unless—”

  He stopped.

  “Unless what, Dad?” Freddie said. “I think you’re right. I’m afraid you’re—unless what?”

  “I don’t know,” the admiral said. “Something urgent. Perhaps he’s in some tight spot. See what I mean?”

  “No,” Howard Phipps said. He seemed indignant. “I don’t see what you mean, Admiral. The chief’s in no spot.”

  The admiral merely looked at Howard Phipps. His glance was measuring. But when he spoke, his voice was, for him, mild.

  “Just suggested it,” he said. “I don’t know anything, Phipps.”

  “Dad,” Freddie said. “You’re sure you don’t? Don’t—think you know something?”

  “Wumph,” the admiral said. He looked at her, looked away. “Said I didn’t,” he told her. The words had finality. But, Freddie thought, the words did not express truth; the words reiterated a lie. The admiral did think he knew something, did think that Bruce was not with them because he was in some “tight spot.”

  Now wasn’t the time; the admiral was not to be driven, even by his daughter. Not now, not with these others, could she bring up, demand explanation of, the telephone call she had overheard. Now she could do nothing. Now none of them could do anything, except wait. Even Curtis Grainger tacitly admitted that by silence. He held Celia close to him, his head bent over hers. She still was crying.

  Then the door buzzer sounded; sounded once, briefly.

  All of them turned toward the door leading to the foyer. Celia raised her head and looked toward the door; Phipps turned in his chair; Fay Burnley, whose back had been toward the door, twisted full around. Their faces, all their faces, for an instant were blank, fixed, held a kind of meaningless surprise and expectancy. It was as if they had been caught so, unready, by a photographer’s flash bulb.

  Then Freddie was on her feet, moving quickly, leaving the others. They focussed their eyes, then; they watched her, watched a slender young woman in a golden dress, walking with her shoulders high, her body erect.

  It will be Bruce, Freddie Haven thought. Bruce has come. After all, he’s come. It wasn’t anything. But even as she thought this, she felt anxiety mounting again, becoming fear.

  She was at the door, she reached for the knob. She made herself reach for the knob. She made herself turn the knob, pull the door toward her.

  It was not Bruce Kirkhill. She had, and now she realized this, known it would not be Bruce. He rang in a quick sequence—buzz—buzz—buzz. Not like this; not once, briefly.

  The man was tall, dark, in a dark gray overcoat. He took off a gray slouch hat. His face was thin and sensitive, now it was grave.

  “Is Miss Kirkhill here?” he said. “Miss Celia Kirkhill?”

  She did not say anything. She could not say anything.

  “I’m from the police,” the man said. He said it hesitantly, unhappily. “I’m a detective sergeant.” He looked at Freddie Haven. His eyes were dark and, now, troubled. “Detective Sergeant Blake,” he said. “You’re not Miss Kirkhill?”

  Wordless, Freddie shook her head. Then she managed to speak.

  “She’s here,” she said. Come in. It’s—it’s about—her father?”

  “I hope not,” Sergeant Blake said. “I hope not, Miss—”

  “Haven,” Freddie said. “Mrs. Haven. Celia’s here, Sergeant.” Then, again, she said, “Come in, please.”

  Sergeant Blake came in. He dropped his hat on a chair. He did not remove his overcoat. It was damp, Freddie noticed. It was still snowing, then. The thought was meaningless, out of place.

  She went ahead of Sergeant Blake into the living room. Celia was already on her feet. Her hands were clenched; a handkerchief was clenched in one of them. Curtis Grainger was rising, to stand beside her. But he did not touch her. He let her stand alone, facing the tall, dark man in the damp overcoat, the man who looked at them with a troubled face.

  “Miss Kirkhill,” he said to Celia. “You are Miss Kirkhill? Senator Kirkhill’s daughter?”

  The girl nodded. She nodded quickly, so that he would go on quickly.

  “There’s been an—accident,” he said. “I’ve been sent to ask you—”

  “Father!” the girl said. “An accident to Father?”

  “We don’t know,” Sergeant Blake said. His voice was gentle. He was, Freddie thought—thought through a swirling of thoughts, in a kind of blackness through which thoughts swirled—trying to be reassuring. “That’s why I’ve been sent. We’ll have to ask you to—to look at—” He stopped.

  “He’s dead!” Celia said. “Dad’s dead!”

  Blake shook his head, quickly.

  “We hope not,” he said. “That is, a man’s dead. It may not be—not be your father, Miss Kirkhill. We hope—”

  Now it was blackness which was swirling; swirling, narrowing, hemming Freddie in.

  “Winifred,” a voice said, beyond the blackness. “Winifred!” It was her father’s voice. She reached out for it with her mind, reached for its solidity in this swirling blackness. With a terrible effort, she forced the blackness back. She could see them again, see her father, moving toward her; see Blake turning his head toward her. It had been only seconds, then; only seconds of fighting the blackness.

  “I’m all right, Father,” she heard her voice saying. “All right.”

  It was Celia who fainted. Curtis Grainger caught her, held her in his arms, found a sofa to lay her on.

  Blake looked at Freddie. There was concern in his expressive face. There was also puzzlement.

  “I am going to marry Senator Kirkhill, Sergeant,” she said. She made her voice steady. She was conscious, as she spoke, how carefully—with what desperate care—she had chosen the tense. “I am—” But it was not true.

  “Probably this man isn’t the senator,” Sergeant Blake said. “You understand that, Mrs. Haven? You must—”

  “Hope that,” Freddie said. “Yes, Sergeant.”

  Fay Burnley was bending over Celia, keeping the girl’s head down, rubbing her wrists, talking to her.

  “It isn’t your father, honey,” she said. “Of course it isn’t. Of course it isn’t Bruce.”

  “The girl can’t go, Sergeant,” the admiral said. He spoke with finality, with command. “You see that.”

  But Sergeant Blake shook his head.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “Sooner or later, I’m afraid, she’ll have to, you know. If it should be the senator—well, she’s next of kin.”

  “Not now,” the admiral said. “We all knew Kirkhill. We’d all—know. I’ll go myself.”

  Sergeant Blake hesitated. He
looked at the girl, motionless on the sofa. He reached a decision.

  “Very well,” he said. “The other can come later. If it’s necessary.” He looked at the admiral. “You would be sure?” he asked.

  “I’ll go,” Freddie said. Her father looked at her. “Yes, Dad,” she said. “I—I can’t just sit here. Just—wait. You and I, we’ll go.” She tried to smile. “Please, Dad.”

  The admiral looked at her a moment without speaking. Then, abruptly, he nodded.

  “You and I,” he said. He turned to the sergeant. “You have a car?” he asked.

  Sergeant Blake nodded.

  “Then,” Freddie said. “Now?”

  Sergeant Blake nodded again. He said, “Please.”

  It was going too quickly, Freddie thought. It was ending too quickly. It took too little time to get a coat, too little time down in the elevator, too little time in the car to the police mortuary. There was a wait, then, in an anteroom, and now, strangely, the waiting was too long, although in fact it was brief. Sergeant Blake had left them; then he returned. He held open a door.

  A man in white pulled back a sheet which had covered a face.

  The blackness swirled in again, she fought it back, fought out of it. She heard her voice.

  “Yes,” Freddie Haven said. “Yes. It is Senator Kirkhill.”

  She felt her father’s arm around her shoulders. But the blackness was going away. She was not going to faint. It was merely a kind of numbness. It was as if this were happening, had to be happening, to somebody else.

  III

  Saturday, 3:25 A.M. to 5:05 A.M.

  There was really nothing difficult about inserting a key into a keyhole. You held the key very firmly, approached the keyhole slowly, deliberately, with confidence, and the key went in. That was all there was to it; you did it dozens of times a day. Well, you did it several times a day. It was, Jerry North decided, probably the basic operation of civilization. Civilization was distinguished from non-civilization by keyholes and keys to put into them; a man’s place in the world was assured, or at least not hopelessly precarious, so long as he had a ring of keys in his pocket and those keys, or a majority of them, fitted keyholes to which he had unchallenged access. If you were in a very assured position, you had a great many keys; probably if you were of the mighty, you had so many that a servant carried your keys for you. But the key to your own front door was the basic key, and all you had to do was hold it very firmly in your right hand, move it toward the keyhole with assurance, twist it to the right, so—

  “Jerry,” Pam said. She was leaning against the corridor wall, waiting. She had seemed to be fast asleep. “Jerry,” Pam said, “why don’t you open the door? I want to go to bed.”

  “What,” Jerry North said, with gravity, with precision, “do you think I am doing, Pamela?”

  “Chinking,” Pam said. “Clinking. Making funny noises. Why don’t you use the front door key?”

  “I—” Jerry began, haughtily. Then he looked. “Naturally I’m using the front door key,” he said. It was true now, at any rate. He had, perhaps, while thinking about civilization, momentarily tried to unlock the apartment door with the key to his office desk, but now he was using the proper key. Pam had no business—

  “You,” Jerry told Pamela, “are sound asleep.”

  “I certainly am,” Pam said. “I can go to sleep right here. Leaning against the wall, waiting for you—”

  Jerry put the key to the apartment door lock into the keyhole of the apartment door lock. The trouble with civilization, he thought, was that it gave you too many keys; it imposed the strain of remembering which key entered which keyhole. All over the world, he thought, as he turned the key (so, to the right) men are suffering nervous breakdowns because they have too many keys, too many keyholes, minds too limited to cope with variation so multiplied. He was, he realized, on the verge of a thought of profundity; just beyond the fingertips of his mind was, in all probability, Solution. He would have to tell Pam—

  He pushed the door and it opened. Three cats sat in a semicircle regarding the Norths. Pam North moved to Jerry and he put an arm around her.

  “Carry me over the threshold,” Pam said, sleepily. “Start the New Year—”

  Jerry lifted her in his arms. The cats looked at them in astonishment. Sherry, the blue-point, a creature of almost over-acute sensibility, bristled, cried in fright, and plunged under the sofa. Gin, sparked by Sherry’s excitement, growled questioningly, but stood her ground. Only Martini, their mother, wiser in the way of these troublesome charges of hers, sat unmoving, her enormous round eyes fixed, her whiskers slightly curled.

  Jerry kissed his wife, not casually, tightened his arms around her and then put her down.

  “You know,” he said, “standing out there—there’s something wrong with that lock, incidentally—I almost had something—” He nodded to her. “Almost had it,” he said. “Now it’s gone.”

  “Jerry,” Pam said. “Tomorrow? I want to go to bed.”

  “It was about civilization,” Jerry said. “And—I don’t know. Keys and keyholes. Like the rats, you know? The ones that jumped at little doors and finally got confused and—”

  “Listen, darling,” Pam said. “I’m terribly tired of those rats. All my life I’ve heard about those rats, jumping at doors.” She paused. “All my life,” she said, “I’ve wanted to go to bed. And you want to talk about rats.”

  Jerry North ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair. He said, “Oh.”

  “All your life,” he said, “you’ve wanted—what did you say?”

  “I want to go to bed,” Pam said, and then stopped and looked at Martini, who had rolled over on her back, with her feet in the air, and was looking at them between her forelegs. “Wants to have her belly rubbed,” Pam said. She sat down on the floor and began to caress Martini. “Is the major cat,” Pam said. “Is the cat major. Is—”

  Then the telephone rang. It rang with horrible loudness, with a kind of anger. Martini swirled from under Pam’s hand, rolled to her feet, dashed into the hall, from whence the ringing came, and looked up at the box which held the doorbell.

  “Confused,” Pam said. “It’s the telephone, Martini. It’s—Jerry, it’s the telephone!”

  Jerry had the telephone in his hand. He said “Yes?” to it.

  But the telephone continued to ring.

  “Jerry,” Pam said. “The other telephone. The house telephone. Who on earth?”

  Pam North was on her feet. She was almost as quick as Martini had been. She was in the hall, at the house telephone on the wall. She said, “Yes?”

  “Mrs. North?” a woman said. Her voice was young, now it was hurried, strained.

  “Yes,” Pam said.

  “This is Winifred Haven,” the woman in the lobby downstairs said, the words hurried. “May I come up?”

  “Why,” Pam said. “Of—of course, Mrs. Haven.” But it was hard to take the request as a matter of course; hard to keep surprise out of her voice.

  “I know,” Freddie Haven said, answering the tone. “It’s—it’s impossible. But—” She seemed about to go on, to change her mind. “I’ll come up, then,” she said.

  Pam turned back to the living room. Jerry was still holding, still looking at the wrong telephone. His look was reproachful.

  “Simplification,” he said, in a grave, distant voice. He returned the wrong telephone to its receiver. “Too many everything. Keys. Telephones—”

  “Jerry!” Pam said. “Mrs. Haven’s coming up. Your admiral’s daughter.”

  Gerald North came wide awake at once. He looked at his watch. He said, “What the hell?”

  “I don’t know,” Pam said. “She’s excited. Something’s happened.”

  “At twenty-five minutes to four,” Jerry North said. “In the morning.”

  They heard the elevator stop at their floor. The sound of its doors reverberated down the corridor. They heard heels tapping down the corridor. Pam went to the door and
opened it and Freddie Haven, coming toward her, said, “This is awful. Unforgiveable.”

  The strain was in Freddie Haven’s eyes, as in her voice, as in her face. Her face was almost colorless; it was marked with weariness, with shock.

  “It’s all right,” Pam North said. “Of course it’s all right.” She held the door open.

  Jerry was on his feet. He did not look sleepy any longer. His face grew intent as he saw Freddie Haven’s face.

  “It’s all right,” he said, reinforcing what Pam had said. “What is it, Mrs. Haven? The admiral—?”

  She stood, holding her fur coat around her, as if even in this warm apartment she still was cold, her face drained of color save for the brightness of her lips. The red of her hair was so deep that it was almost some different color, some new color. She shook her head, without speaking.

  “Sit down,” Pam said. “Sit down.”

  The young woman shook her head again, but it was not a response. She sank into a deep chair, leaned back a moment with her eyes closed. Then she sat up, quickly, nervously.

  “Bruce is dead,” she said. She looked at them. “Senator Kirkhill,” she said. “He’s—he’s been killed. It’s—horrible.”

  “Oh!” Pam said. “I’m—I’m—”

  “Somebody killed him,” Freddie Haven said. “The police say somebody killed him.” She looked at them, shock living in her eyes. “Meant to kill him,” she said.

  Pam North made coffee, then; Jerry North brought brandy. While they waited for the coffee, Freddie started to speak, but Pam had shaken her head, said, “Wait!” They drank coffee, brandy in it. Some color came back into Freddie Haven’s face.

  “Now,” Pam said.

  They waited a moment while Freddie Haven, shock slowly leaving her brain, her body, arranged her thoughts. Then she tried to smile. The smile was unreal, tormented.

  “I want you to help me,” she said, finally, her words chosen. “Mrs. Burnley—somebody—said you were—that you—” She paused, the words lost.

  “That we were detectives?” Pam said. “Investigators? Something like that?” She shook her head. “We’re not,” she said. She looked at Jerry North.

  “We know a police lieutenant,” Jerry said. “A man named Weigand. We’ve been—involved. But your friend is wrong. We’re not detectives. I’m a publisher. Pam’s—” He paused and looked at his wife. Pam was what? Housewife? True, legal—ridiculous as description. “Pam’s not a detective,” he said.