Accent on Murder Read online

  “Wait a minute,” Alan Kelley said. “Then—it wouldn’t have been the old man. Adams.

  “The first time,” Kelley said. “The time he said those things to Dorcas, he went away down toward the valley. Toward the brook. Away from the house. I’d think he’d come the same way, wouldn’t you? Not from the front of the house.”

  Heimrich looked at him.

  “I suppose it doesn’t follow,” Alan said. “No, I suppose you’re right. But—one gets the idea of the way something happened. Makes up a kind of picture of the way it must have happened. Mine was—well, the old man wandering around, on paths through the woods. Coming on Dorcas at ‘the place’ and—that setting him off. The same thing yesterday, in a way. Oh, coming back, half knowing what he was doing, to see if she was there again. To—what? Punish sin? But, to come to the front door.” He paused. He shrugged.

  “The trouble is,” Heimrich said, “we’re trying—you’re trying, lieutenant—to clear up, make logical, something that’s basically fuzzy. We don’t know what goes on in a mind like the old man’s, naturally. We can only guess.”

  “Tell me about your cousin, Miss Cameron,” Heimrich said and, in answer to the look in Dorcas’s face, “Everything you can think of. She and Commander Wilkins had been married for several years? You and she came here last fall?”

  “Oh,” Dorcas said. “That sort of thing. About three years. Yes. Her father is a vice admiral—my uncle, that is. She is—” The clear voice faltered momentarily. “Was,” Dorcas said, “about twenty-six. She was born in Missouri. A place called Odessa. Her mother—Aunt Helen; not my real aunt, of course—was born there and the admiral was in China or somewhere—my Uncle Jon—Jonathan, really. Does this matter?”

  “I don’t know,” Heimrich said. “Probably not, Miss Cameron. A great deal we find out has no bearing. But—”

  “Her mother died six or seven years ago,” Dorcas said. “She had a good deal of money. She left part of it—half, I think, to Caroline outright. The rest to Uncle Jon. Captain Heimrich—this can’t mean anything if—if it was Ash Adams.” She looked at him with her eyes suddenly alive. “You think it was—someone else?”

  There was, Heimrich thought, a kind of hope in her voice. Which was understandable. He said only that it was too early to be sure of anything. He said he supposed that, now, Mrs. Wilkins’s money would go to her husband.

  She has a very expressive face, Heimrich thought, watching the girl—watching her expression change, as if the room had darkened, or her mind darkened; saw rejection, almost outrage, mirrored in her face.

  “Not Brade!” she said. “How—what a horrible thought!”

  “Now Miss Cameron,” Heimrich said. “Try to—stand away from it. I know it’s hard. I don’t suggest anything against the commander. Tell me more about your cousin.”

  Caroline Bennett, before she became Caroline Wilkins, had lived in a good many places, as the children of Navy families do. When the Hitler war started the Bennetts had been in France; after Pearl Harbor, Helen Bennett and Caroline had gone back to Missouri and the admiral—a captain then—had gone to the Pacific; Caroline, after the war, had gone to Missouri University for, Dorcas thought, two years or so. “These are just things she told me,” Dorcas said. “Things I picked up. Her family and mine lived in different places. A different kind of life. All this can’t have anything to do with—with what happened.”

  “Probably not,” Heimrich said, and was patient. One could not tell what might have to do with anything until one had found out much that could not. It was, he thought, one of the things most difficult to explain to laymen; one of those most obvious to a policeman. He did not try now to explain it again.

  They heard somebody talking. Heimrich went out onto the terrace. Sergeant Forniss was coming up the slope, walking behind Ash Adams. The old man’s lips were moving; he seemed to be talking to himself. Forniss shrugged broad shoulders.

  “Drury,” Heimrich said, and a trooper came around the house. “Take Mr. Adams back to the sub-station, will you?” Heimrich said. “Then—come back here.”

  “Come along, Mr. Adams,” Drury said, and Ash Adams went along. He was mumbling to himself, the words not clear. Heimrich could see no expression in the old eyes.

  “He was there, all right,” Forniss said. “It’s very difficult to get anything out of him, of course. Anything that makes sense. But—he was there.”

  “Both times?”

  Forniss didn’t know. He had taken the old man down to the cup of sunlight and said, “Remember, Mr. Adams?” The man had mumbled words that had little meaning. But then he had said, “Naked,” and then, much more loudly, “Naked and wanton.” But then, just as Forniss thought seeing the place had set him off again, Ash Adams had become quiet and shaken his head and said he didn’t remember. Then he had turned, suddenly, and started to walk away—down a path toward the brook at the bottom of the valley which here, between the ridges characteristic of the area, was almost a ravine.

  “Moves fast when he wants to,” Forniss said, and that he had had a little trouble catching the old man. The way back would, normally, have brought them through the sunny circle in the trees, but as they neared it, Old Adams had tried to break away—to wrench himself away. So Forniss had brought him back in a circle around the place.

  “Doesn’t help much,” Heimrich said. “He was there, of course. We know that from Miss Cameron. But—the second time?”

  “I don’t know,” Forniss said. “At a guess, yes, captain. He’s—afraid of the place. And—it’s hard to put a finger on. Going down, he wasn’t. Coming back-up the slope—he was. All of a sudden and—at just about the distance from it the gun was fired from.”

  “Let’s go down,” Heimrich said, and they went down, and Forniss showed Heimrich what he meant. At a certain point Adams had—“well, call it shied,” Forniss said.

  Heimrich stood at the spot. He crouched a little, making himself more nearly the old man’s height. A man would, he thought, have at that place—about that place—first seen a girl sun-bathing. From the same spot he might have fired both barrels of a shotgun into a slender, defenseless body.

  “Or,” he said, sharing the obvious with Sergeant Forniss, “seen the girl dead. A very ugly thing to see. Found anybody who heard the shots?”

  “Nope,” Forniss said. “The professor’s nearest. But he was in the village, he says. He and Harry Washington. And—you know how people are in the country. Hear shots and say, ‘Somebody shooting at woodchucks again.’ Or crows, or whatever. Or—hear and don’t realize they heard. The old man saw something. Or—did something. Got a shock.”

  Forniss was standing so that he faced toward the distant road. “Got visitors,” he said. Heimrich tinned. A black Volkswagen turned into the drive and began to trot up it. It trotted around the unmarked police car and settled down. A very tall young man got out of it, by stages. Standing beside the little car, looking over it, it seemed entirely improbable that he had ever been in it. He came across to the terrace and to Heimrich and Forniss, who waited. Even Sergeant Forniss had, by a few inches, to look up to the tall young man—tall and broad shouldered, with an unconcealing face and blond hair in a brush cut.

  “This Commander Wilkins’s place?” he said, in a pleasant, open voice.

  Heimrich said it was.

  “Man called from here,” the tall young man said. “Identified himself as a naval officer. Name of Kelley, he said. Tried to find out where he could get in touch with Commander Wilkins.”

  He was very crisp. He was also, Heimrich thought, very authoritative.

  “One of you?” the man said.

  “No,” Heimrich said. “And, who are you?”

  “Right you are,” the man said. “Don’t blame you.” He looked at the house, however, doubtfully. He looked, also with doubt, at Heimrich and Forniss. Although he was hatless, he gave, somehow, the impression of a man peering cautiously from under the pulled-down brim of a slouch hat.

  �
�We’re police officers,” Heimrich said. “Lieutenant Kelley did call from here, certainly. In an effort to find Commander Wilkins. In order to tell him that his wife has been murdered.” He made a guess. “You’re from the Navy?”

  “May as well,” the man said. He took a wallet from his pocket, held it out so that the I.D. card showed. He was, it appeared, Howard Nelson, Lieutenant, DV-S, USNR. He put the wallet back in his pocket.

  “Like to see yours, if I may,” Lieutenant Nelson said. “Matter of form.”

  Gravely, Heimrich showed his own identification. Lieutenant Nelson looked at it. He looked at Sergeant Forniss. He said, “If you don’t mind?” Forniss, expressionless—only Heimrich suspected that, if Forniss’s immobile face revealed anything, it would reveal amusement—proffered his own I.D. card. Lieutenant Nelson examined it with care. Then he leaned toward the two solid policemen. He spoke in a very low voice. He said, “Navy Intelligence.” Then he stood back and looked at them with an expression Heimrich did not immediately fathom. Then it came to him. Lieutenant Nelson was looking at them keenly.

  Heimrich felt that more was expected of him than he had available. He thought of saying, “Ah,” in a certain way or even, possibly, “Ah-ha.” He decided he was inadequate to either. The conspiratorial note would simply not be there. He did, however, refrain from saying, as he was somewhat tempted to say, “Think of that, now.”

  “I see, lieutenant,” Captain Heimrich said. “I suppose—checking on the call? I can assure you it was quite what it purported to be.”

  “Um-m,” Lieutenant Nelson said. “This naval officer. Kelley? What’s his rank, by the way?”

  “Same as yours,” Heimrich said.

  “Senior grade?”

  “I believe so,” Heimrich said. He watched the tall representative of Naval Intelligence make a mental note.

  “He’s around?” Nelson asked, the note made.

  “Inside,” Heimrich said and again was tempted and this time succumbed. “Regular Navy,” Heimrich said. “Annapolis. Class ring.”

  Nelson said, “Oh.” Then he said, “Of course.” He turned toward the french doors.

  “Wait,” Heimrich said. “You are checking up? Or—have you come to tell us where we can get in touch with Commander Wilkins?”

  Nelson turned back. He looked doubtful.

  “Lieutenant,” Heimrich said, and there was no longer any amusement in his voice, or in his mind. “Mrs. Wilkins has been very brutally murdered. We haven’t yet been able to inform her husband. Do you know where he is?”

  “The issue,” Nelson said, “is security, captain.”

  “The issue,” Heimrich said, “is a man’s wife dead and a man not told. Do you know where he is?”

  “Well,” Nelson said. “Personally, I don’t. But—”

  He stopped. Again he looked at Captain Heimrich and again looked keenly, as if from under a lowered hat brim.

  “A man calls up to enquire about an officer,” he said. “An officer whose whereabouts aren’t supposed to be a matter of common knowledge. This man who calls says he’s a naval officer. Says he’s a friend of this other officer.”

  “Kelley called,” Heimrich said. “To ask how to get in touch with Wilkins. Let’s keep it simple. Your point, naturally, how did they know the man who called was Lieutenant Kelley? Did it ever occur to them to look up Commander Wilkins’s telephone number and call back?”

  “All right,” Nelson said. “We do that. A man answers. Says he is Lieutenant Kelley. All we know is, he’s at Commander Wilkins’s house. What does that prove?”

  “You know,” Forniss said, “he’s got something there, captain. Yep. He’s got something there.”

  He had, of course. Heimrich tries to be a fair man. He nodded his head.

  “All right,” he said. “You satisfy yourself that Lieutenant Kelley is Lieutenant Kelley. That there is reason to get in touch with the commander. Then what? You drive back to New York, identify yourself, whisper to somebody that Kelley is Kelley?”

  Nelson looked, Heimrich thought, a little hurt. I am, Heimrich thought, being unfair to the serious boy. He thought, in fact, that Nelson flushed just perceptibly.

  “Telephone,” he said. “And—identify myself by a code number. All right with you, captain?”

  “Quite all right,” Heimrich said. “Lieutenant Kelley’s inside someplace. Satisfy yourself and make your call.”

  The tall man went in. Through the open doors they heard him say, “Lieutenant Kelley?” After a time, they heard him use the telephone. He said, “Nelson here” and then something in so low a tone that they could not hear it. (He had, Heimrich deduced, to repeat it in a tone not quite so secure.) He said, “Seems to be Lieutenant Kelley. And—the commander’s wife’s been killed.” Then he listened. After some little time, he came out again to the terrace.

  “They’ll get in touch with him,” Lieutenant Nelson said. “He’ll be here in an hour or so. ’Copter to Danbury.”

  “Oh,” Heimrich said. “I gather he’s not far away, then.”

  “Not far,” Nelson admitted.

  “Good,” Heimrich said. “I thought he might be in a rocket to the moon.”

  “Did you?” Nelson said. “No, captain. And, by the way, I’m instructed to stay on for a while. Lend a hand.”

  “Oh,” Captain M. L. Heimrich said.

  VII

  WALTER BRINKLEY was deeply disturbed, which was to be expected—a woman (who should have had life before her) had been shot to death half a mile, if that, from the desk he sat at; another girl agonizingly thought herself to blame and, in fact, if blame there were it was as much his as hers. (More—infinitely more.) The innocence of a place, a community, he loved had been most brutally mutilated; the tranquility shattered. He felt both outrage and persisting shock. And, strive as he would, he could not keep his mind from imagining the girl dead, and the details of the shattering wound. (Since he was a man unfamiliar with violence, his imagined picture was by no means adequate. It was quite bad enough.)

  But, since a scholar must learn to toughen his mind against even the sharper facets of the outside world, and since Brinkley was a scholar, this deep disquiet, sadness, might not have stopped his work. It was, nevertheless, stopped. He had been discussing the persistence in American English of certain verbal forms abandoned in England—“gotten,” for example. From this theme, in itself fascinating, his mind insisted on slipping away.

  Brinkley took his hands from the typewriter keys at around eleven o’clock that Wednesday morning and lighted a cigarette. He leaned back in his desk chair and looked out the window he faced. He could look along the ridge and make out the Adams house and part of the driveway. There were several cars on the driveway now. He supposed that one of them belonged to his friend Heimrich. (He had begun to think of Heimrich as a friend.)

  What made it impossible for him to concentrate was, Walter Brinkley decided, not, basically, the murder itself, deeply as that affected him. It was some aspect, some detail, that distracted him, pricked exasperatingly at his mind. An aspect of the whole—the quite dreadful whole. But, Walter Brinkley thought, some aspect which concerns me—me especially. It was, he thought, like a speck on the lens of an eyeglass, irritatingly present, yet subconsciously rather than consciously apprehended. (Until finally one removed glasses, polished lenses.)

  Brinkley removed his own, abstractedly, and polished them, but it was not, of course, anything so simple as that. As nearly as he could decide, what it was was something he had either forgotten, or improperly understood. It had to do with the murder of Caroline Wilkins. He was sure of that. But, with somebody else too, and who the somebody else was he could not for the life of him remember. Then the Misses Monroe came into his mind. It was as if the Misses Monroe were part of it. Nothing could be more absurd, obviously.

  Of course, he had encountered the Misses Monroe, and their aged chauffeur, the day before at the A. & P. in the village. Miss Elvina—or perhaps it was Miss Martha—was pin
ching heads of lettuce. Brinkley himself had stopped in to get a loaf of french bread. Afterward, he had stood briefly on the sidewalk in front of the A. & P. and chatted with the Misses Monroe while the chauffeur, aided by a clerk, had carried their purchases out to the Rolls. He remembered Miss Martha—or perhaps Miss Elvina—had said that they tried to buy for as much of a week as possible and the other sister—Miss Elvina almost surely—had said that they had never been able to bring themselves just to call up Gristedes, although they knew many people did, because they wanted to see things.

  It could hardly have been that which now was a burr in his mind. Had something else, something pertinent, been said? He could think of nothing.

  Yet vaguely—most vaguely—Walter Brinkley felt that the burr had been set then, the pricking started then or, actually, a little later. Wait—it must have been at about the time he talked on the sunny sidewalk with the Misses Monroe that Caroline Wilkins was killed. Could it be as simple as that?

  He considered. He tried to think that it was as simple as that. He failed. There was something else, and he could not go on with his work until he had got—he did not himself employ the form “gotten”—to the bottom of it. It was not, of course, certain, or even entirely probable, that when he got to the bottom he would find the Misses Monroe there. Looked at soberly, it seemed most improbable. Tentatively, he rejected the Misses Monroe, and waited for something else to appear on the mind’s radar. Nothing did. All that appeared was, again, the two little old ladies and a sunny stretch of sidewalk in front of the A. & P. Miss Elvina had, sometime in the course of their chat, mentioned how convenient their Deepfreeze had turned out to be, although they had hesitated so long to invest in it. Not that, certainly.

  In such, or similar, circumstances, the police tried to recreate past events. At least, he had heard they did, or read they did. But he could hardly ask the Misses Monroe to meet him, again, on the sidewalk in front of the A. & P. and talk, briefly, about food purchases and the advantages of food freezers. The Misses Monroe, although not especially censorious, might well think that a little odd of him. Poor old Walter, they might think, how eccentric he’s becoming. How like a professor.