Death by Association Read online

  There was a rather long silence, a rather hard silence.

  “I thought you said you weren’t in this,” Barclay MacDonald said then, and there was an odd detachment in his voice. “That it wasn’t your track.”

  “Did I?” Heimrich said. “Yes, I suppose I did. However—”

  “A busman’s holiday,” MacDonald said.

  “Now doctor,” Heimrich said. “Not a holiday. A holiday should be gay, shouldn’t it? About your brother?”

  “Apparently you know,” MacDonald said.

  “He blamed Wells?”

  “He may have.”

  “And you? You blamed Wells, naturally?”

  “I believed he lied about my brother,” Dr. Barclay MacDonald said, his voice level. “I believed he did it to further his own ends, aggrandize himself. In the end, through articles, books, lecture fees, to make money for himself. I think he was, as you say, a regrettable person. And, for a year or more, I hadn’t thought about him. I had never met him, and he had never met me. Until here, at the hotel. And that was accidental.”

  He paused.

  “And,” he said, “I’ve no more sympathy for communism than Wells had. I never worshipped God in the Kremlin. Wells did.”

  Mae came, prosaically, with shrimps. Heimrich nodded at them, or in response to what MacDonald said. He speared a shrimp, ate it, and nodded.

  “I do like the shrimps, doctor,” he said. He ate another.

  “It’s odd to see Miss Jones and Mr. Oslen together,” he said, and nodded down the room. MacDonald continued to watch Heimrich, obviously waiting. Mary looked down the room to the distant table at which the pianist and Rachel Jones were dining. She looked back at Heimrich.

  “Different types,” Heimrich said. “More different than you’d suppose, actually. There was a little disturbance up in my part of the country a while back. The Legion broke up a meeting, which was ill advised of it although, perhaps, understandable. Miss Jones and Mr. Oslen were both involved.” He paused and ate his last shrimp. “On opposite sides,” he added, mildly. “Mr. Oslen is active in the Legion.”

  “I gather,” MacDonald said, slowly, “that you have been checking up on us. I gather you don’t agree that it was this musician. What’s his name?”

  “García,” Heimrich said. “Mario García. It may very well have been García, naturally. The chief deputy seems to be efficient. It seems very likely that Mr. García had reason to hate Mr. Wells. Or thought he had. It seems likely that he saw Wells early this morning, although he denies it. A knife might be the weapon he would choose.”

  “And,” MacDonald said, “it isn’t your case. You say it isn’t.”

  “Now doctor,” Heimrich said. “I don’t like murder.”

  “So you check up on Oslen and Miss Jones,” MacDonald said. “Apparently on me. On who else?”

  Heimrich closed his eyes.

  “I’m a curious man, doctor,” Heimrich said. “It’s my occupation. As yours is internal medicine, research on gastro-intestinal processes. You want to make the diagnosis fit the symptoms, naturally. I want to make the character fit the crime.”

  “And García’s doesn’t fit?”

  “Now doctor,” Heimrich said. “I don’t say that.”

  “Do you mean,” Mary said, “that this Miss Jones was one of the—what were they? Rioters? That Mr. Oslen doesn’t know it?”

  “We took some pictures,” Heimrich said. “She was in one of them, with some people we already knew. It’s true, however, that her name doesn’t show up on any of the lists that we’ve—that have come into our hands. It would be understandable if Mr. Oslen didn’t know of her activities. It isn’t even at all certain that there are any activities to know of. The picture isn’t evidence, and as I say her name doesn’t—” He broke off, to greet the arrival of roast beef. He began to eat it, with his eyes open.

  Heimrich showed, even after he had eaten, no inclination to return to the subject of the murder. He concentrated on the menu; decided to experiment with lime pie. By then, Mary and MacDonald had finished the last of their coffee. MacDonald said, “Well?” to Mary and she nodded. Heimrich, avuncular, advised them to have a good time.

  “I’m restless,” MacDonald said as they stood in the lounge. “Would you at all like to walk?”

  She said, “In these?” and looked at her high-heeled slippers. He appeared saddened. “All right,” she said. “Give me time to change. It will only be a minute.”

  In her room it did not take long to change to walking shoes. But then the dress was wrong; Sophie would not have approved. Mary changed to green linen, which was better; was better still with a short, white summer coat. All in all, it was more than a minute.

  There had been time enough, she found as she and MacDonald started out of the hotel, for Heimrich to have finished his experiment with lime pie. He was sitting on the little-used porch at the front of the hotel, and Paul Shepard was sitting with him. They were talking; more precisely, Heimrich was listening while Shepard talked. He appeared to have his eyes closed, but nevertheless he managed to see Mary and the tall doctor. He waved at them casually with his left hand, in which a cigarette glowed. He told them they must try lime pie the next time. Shepard started to stand, but subsided when Mary shook her head. As they went down the steps to the drive, Mary heard Shepard’s sharp, incisive voice resume behind them, “—we retain complete—” she heard him say, and the voice died out behind her.

  They walked along a wide street, in and out of the black shadows of palm trees, in the warm night. They walked in the deep shadow of a high brick wall, and the shadow of the house behind the wall stretched out beyond the wall’s shadow to the sidewalk across the street. They walked across Truman Avenue and down a narrower street, flanked by older houses, with here and there a new house uneasy among them. “What do they call them?” Mary asked, and indicated one. “Bungalows,” he told her. “The progenitor of the ranch type.” She said, “Really?” looking again, and he said he didn’t know, really.

  “Does he make you uneasy?” he asked, after another block. “Heimrich?”

  “Is that why you’re restless?” she asked. “Because of your brother?”

  He supposed so.

  “Don’t be,” she said. Then she added, “I like the captain.”

  “It seems to me,” MacDonald said, “that he is quite capable of absorbing my mind. Your mind. Anybody’s.” He looked down at her. “Absorb somebody else’s mind and use it to think with. Or—pervade it.”

  “You are restless,” she said. “He’s just an ordinary man. Perhaps he listens more than most. That’s all.”

  He realized that, he told her. It was merely that—But he stopped there and they walked another block in silence along a black and white street. Then MacDonald said, “I wouldn’t want him after me, all the same.”

  She said, “Nobody’s after you, Mac,” and then he put a hand, momentarily, on her shoulder. He removed it at once and said, “You’re a nice girl, Mary. Are you married or anything?”

  She hesitated. Or anything? She said, “No.”

  “Good,” he said. They walked half a block. This time a high brick wall was across the street from them, the moonlight flooding it. “That’s a pleasant coincidence.”

  There were lights ahead, then. They walked another block and now, to their left, there was an area of weeds; now MacDonald had to reach up and hold aside the fronds of palm trees so they could pass under them. But beyond, in the next block, trailers were parked with only breathing space between; with chairs huddled in narrow passages between the coaches. “It’s a mixed-up town,” Mary said.

  At the next corner they turned right, and were in Duval Street, which was not quite like any other street either had seen before. It had no unity, yet it had an odd kind of individuality. There were unpainted, one-story buildings on either side; then there was a minareted building of frame and stucco, announced as the Sociedad Cuba. It abutted on the Ideal Cleaners, which was bright with neon and b
eyond which Frigidaire was brighter still, with the greenish white of vapor tubes reflected by row after row of antiseptic white. But next to this, behind palm trees, was a square, two-story house, with porches at both levels and from each porch a species of wooden lace dripping. This house—although it offered rooms for rent—was aloof from the street and from neon; it receded in darkness and seemed to recede into the past. The “San Carlos Palace” was beyond it, as they walked down the slowly busying street, and it was evident that the San Carlos had been an opera house before it was either a “palace” or a cinema. But the cinema across the street, showing that evening the movie version of Sailor Beware was as modern as neon, and as popular.

  And from there, where sailors clustered thick, waiting in line—and protesting the waiting—Duval Street was another street altogether. It was a street in which bars spilled onto sidewalks; barber shops were, like stages, open to the world; from both sides of which music blared into the night. The Cabana Cocktail Lounge spread its jam session under the moon; behind a low wall, an outdoor restaurant—“Italian and Spanish specialities”—offered couples the deep shadows of the palms. (But a block or so farther along, the B.P.O.E. was impressively fraternal and the Key West Women’s Club offered culture. It also offered the Key West Players in Kind Lady.) La Concha, which was the downtown hotel, announced itself proudly to the sky; it had, and admitted having, the highest cocktail lounge in the southernmost city of the United States.

  And sailors were everywhere. They walked in twos and in fours; they walked in summer whites, except where here and there a man, captured by summer in midwinter and a commanding officer addicted to the calendar, went hotly in blue. They walked with young faces, artfully hardened, and sought adventure where neon harshly flattened night. Sailors sat in bars, leaning on elbows, waiting without hope—yet, being young, not really without hope—for some sudden strangeness. Men of the shore police, hunting in pairs, looked warily and with suspicion into the open-faced bars they passed, and the sailors—guiltless of any infraction of any rule—nevertheless stiffened over their drinks and did not lift them until authority had gone by.

  “They’re so dreadfully young,” Mary said. “So—anxious.”

  She was agreed with. She was told she was a good girl.

  “All the same,” Mary Wister said, and MacDonald touched her shoulder lightly, and said he knew; of course he knew. A voice of metal spoke suddenly, over all other sounds; spoke so loudly that Mary jumped. “Twenty beautiful girls under twenty at The Club,” the voice said. “The most sensational entertainment in the southernmost city! Continuous from eight-thirty until four every night.” The metallic voice cleared itself. “Never a dull moment. Every night in the week!” it reported, with a kind of pleased surprise. “Don’t miss the twenty most—”

  The sound truck went on down Duval. A sailor looked hard at Mary, his eyes demanding response; his eyes saying that this, surely this, was the sudden strangeness of an unprecedented night. “O. K., mac,” Barclay MacDonald said, his voice easy, and the sailor saluted, burlesquing it only a little, and his eyes blanked, searched elsewhere. The sailor was reasonably drunk, but only reasonably. He turned into the next bar, which was the next door—which was, almost inevitably, the next door to any other door.

  They were abreast The Club, then. Neon told them that; music through the open door told them that. MacDonald looked down at her. They stopped, and were jostled. A young voice, fresh, from the Middle West, said, “Excuse me, miss,” and Mary said, “Of course.”

  “All right,” she said, then, and they crossed the street. A doorman made much of them.

  VI

  At first thegirl had worn a white dress—a chaste white dress, covering her fully, coming high at neck and long on arms, brushing the floor of the stage which was all apron, with room behind only for the thumping orchestra. The orchestra thumped in moderation at first and the girl, who was improbably blond, wriggled in moderation. She had, Dr. Barclay MacDonald said, admirable muscle tone. The abdominal musculature was particularly noteworthy.

  The room was low ceilinged, full of smoke, of tables, of sailors drinking beer. The sailors made sounds at the girl, encouraging, raucous, yet strangely (to Mary Wister) lacking in exuberance. They made sounds, said “take it off,” as if sounds and injunction were expected of them; as if they were bored by what was expected of them. Only the stage was bright; the room itself was dim. The mass voice of the Navy was hoarse, dull in tone. The girl in white wriggled. She put fingers on a zipper under her left arm. “Take it off,” the sailors told her, in a multiple voice of weariness. The girl pulled and the dress was off. She wore white silk pants under it and a white silk bra. The orchestra thumped more heavily; the girl’s wriggling became more emphatic.

  She could not dance; she did not try to sing. She wriggled, and the sailors made tired sounds at her. She turned as if to leave the stage and the sailors made further sounds. She turned back, as if surprised; she gestured toward the pants, indicating astonished disbelief. The music thumped; the audience told her to take it off.

  She had a g-string covered with red sequins under the pants. She wriggled, half danced, in a circle on the stage. She made again as if to leave, and the stage lights darkened to a spot, with the blond girl in the middle of it. Her back to the audience, she reached up toward the fastening of the bra. She withdrew her hand; she turned, her face all the burlesque of astonishment. “Oh,” a single voice said, “take it off, sister.” She shook her head, and the orchestra thumped more loudly, seemed to command. She turned away again, and again the hand teased at the fastening of the bra. Her fingers touched it, released the catch. But then she held the bra over her breasts with both hands, turning with it held so. “Take it off,” the sailors told her.

  She let the bra fall, and pretended to shield her face with modest hands. She had red rhinestone nipples. She stood, her face still covered, and, with the rest of her body almost motionless, rotated her rhinestone-pointed breasts.

  “Now that,” MacDonald said, “is quite unusual muscular control. Not one woman in a hundred can do that.” He turned to Mary Wister. “This is really quite interesting,” he said. “I’ll wager—”

  “No,” Mary Wister said. “I wouldn’t.”

  “I’m afraid,” MacDonald said, “that this doesn’t amuse you terribly.”

  “Well,” Mary said, “I’m not a man.”

  He nodded; he said that that he had noticed. He looked around the dim room, at sailors drinking beer, watching the improbably blond girl perform her unlikely feat. The girl stopped abruptly, a drum banged; she turned and walked from the stage, her neat, small buttocks keeping time. The audience applauded. A few whistles followed her. A dark girl, wearing a red dress which was not chaste, came through the curtains, prancing heavily. She aroused enthusiasm in the drum.

  “What happens to these girls?” Mary asked. “Where do they go from here? Anywhere?”

  “I don’t suppose so,” MacDonald said. “Not onward and upward. They just—lose muscle tone.”

  “Which is their talent,” she said. “Even as it is—” She indicated the sailors. “Do they like it?”

  “They’d like to,” he said. “They’re all kinds, Mary. Some of them would rather hear a symphony. All of them would rather—” He shrugged. “They’re kids from everywhere,” he said. “All kinds of kids. They haven’t much choice here, you know.” Again he lifted his shoulders. “I was in the Navy for awhile,” he said. “At a hospital on Long Island—St. Albans.” He paused again. “They get the diseases the rest of us get,” he said. “In addition to everything else.” He paused and looked at her. “I’m sure,” he said, “I must be giving you a wonderful time. Do you want to get out of here? It’s dreary, isn’t it?”

  She nodded. But when he moved as if to get up from the table, she shook her head; said to finish his drink, and then they’d go. There was a gritty fascination in the place. The dark girl was down to g-string and bra; she was being urged to take it of
f. She was heavier than the other girl. “This one has less talent,” Mary said. “By—by how many years, Mac?”

  He looked at the dark girl.

  “Ten,” he said. “Perhaps more. The girls worry you.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I suppose so.”

  He waited for her to continue, but she watched the dark girl, who was bumping.

  “You want to think everybody’s going somewhere,” he said. “Onward and upward. We all like to think that. It’s a comforting thought.” He smiled at her. “You’ve had a bad day,” he said. “Violent death to—this dreary frolic.”

  “When this one finishes,” she said. She sipped from her almost filled glass. “It’s just that I’m tired. And—the first girl was young, wasn’t she? Almost pretty.”

  The dark girl finally took it off. Her breasts were unsheathed. The sailors whistled with a semblance of approval.

  “All right,” Mary said, “let’s—” But then she stopped. The blond girl, wearing the white dress again, came from behind the stage and down the side of the room. A solid man who had been sitting alone at a table against the wall stood up, and pink-stained light fell on his face from above. The girl sat down across from Captain Heimrich of the New York State police, and Heimrich, turning, sought a waiter. He looked at them and nodded across the room. Then a waiter intervened between them.

  “Well,” MacDonald said, and his eyebrows went up slightly.

  “A new aspect of the captain,” Mary said.

  MacDonald seemed about to nod agreement, but he checked the motion.

  “You know,” he said, “I wonder if it is?”

  They started to leave, then. It took a little time to get their check; a little more to get their change. Heimrich and the blond girl were talking, by then. The girl was doing most of it. Heimrich moved his head occasionally, showing that he heard. Mary wondered whether, under these circumstances, he was managing to keep his eyes open.

  When they finally started out, their departure was again delayed, this time briefly. Just coming into the night club were the Sibleys and Penny and Paul Shepard.