Death of a Tall Man Page 9

  “Personally,” Pam North said, when the returns were in, “I vote for Mr. Smith. He’s the one I want it to be.”

  “Why?” Jerry said.

  “Because I like the others better, of course,” Pam said. “I vote against the son—Dan.”

  “Because the girl’s in love with him,” Jerry told her.

  “Well,” Dorian said, “she sounds like a nice girl.”

  Mullins looked at his old-fashioned, shook it, and tilted it for a drop he thought he saw. He looked a little disappointed. Then he looked over the glass at Weigand, who was shaking his head.

  It didn’t work that way, Weigand told them. It was too bad, but it didn’t. Nice girls had, before now, fallen in love with murderers. And would again.

  “And he ran,” Weigand pointed out. “It isn’t conclusive. But it needs explanation. Why did he run?”

  Pam shook her head at that. She wished he hadn’t.

  “As for your favorite,” Weigand said, “I’m afraid not, this time, Pam. If his secretary confirms his story.” He paused. “As she will,” he said. “Smith doesn’t seem to be a fool. If she got back not later than one fifteen, if he was there until three, he’s out. Obviously.”

  The others nodded. Pam said, “Yes,” with a little sigh.

  “It’s disappointing,” she said. “You could work it out so—so neatly. He’s lost Dan’s money, not the doctor. The doctor had found out and was going to—oh, do something. So Nickerson Smith killed him. It’s—convenient.”

  It would be convenient, Bill Weigand agreed. The chances were ten to one against. The—

  The waiter captain came and got Weigand, who was wanted on the telephone. Weigand was gone only a few minutes. He came back, sat down, finished his drink.

  “The chances are now a thousand to one against,” he said. “Unless a Miss Conover, of Brooklyn, is lying. The boys dropped around. She came back at one thirteen—she noticed the time because she was due back at one and was late, and wondered how late. She checked herself by a wall clock in the office, which is electrically controlled. And Smith was there. He was at his desk. As soon as he heard her come in, he buzzed for her and began dictating. He was there until he was telephoned for by the nurse. A couple of men, whose names she has, came in to see him. One of them at about one thirty, and stayed perhaps fifteen minutes. One of them a little after two, and stayed almost half an hour.”

  “You’ll ask them?” Pam said, not hopefully.

  They would ask them, Weigand agreed. “We ask everybody,” he told her. “Everything. As you know.” But they would tell the same story.

  “And the girl is telling the truth?” Dorian said.

  The boys thought she was, Bill told her. The boys were good judges. So many people tried to lie to policemen.

  “So,” Bill said, “you’d better pick somebody else, Pam.”

  Pam North agreed. She brightened.

  “Why not one of the patients?” she said. “One of the men he examined. Suppose—” She stopped, figuring. Bill waited, half smiling.

  “Suppose one of them didn’t really go out,” she said. “The nurse didn’t see four of them go. She just saw the rooms empty and decided they had gone. But suppose one of them—say the man in the first room, because that would be easiest—really went into the doctor’s private office and—and waited. And when the doctor came back, killed him. And then—sneaked out somehow?”

  “How?” Bill said. “The nurse was in the corridor. If we believe her.”

  Pam wanted to know if they had to. Bill shrugged. He said they didn’t have to believe anybody. Also, he said, all they had to go on was what people told them, so in the end they had to act as if they believed somebody. He granted that Nurse Spencer’s testimony was uncorroborated. Actually, her story of the doctor’s leaving might have been pure invention. But in that case, it was also desirable to assume that she had killed him herself or, less probably, was shielding somebody who had.

  “Which,” he said, “is something to bear in mind. Not necessarily something to accept. Personally, I think she was telling the truth, as she saw the truth. I think she has a good mind and is probably, therefore, a good reporter. I can be wrong. But—we have to start with the belief that at least part of what we are told is true—that the innocent people concerned are coming as near the truth as they can. Otherwise—well, otherwise we can’t start.”

  “Actually,” Pam said, “I think Miss Spencer was telling the truth. But couldn’t the man—this patient who’s hiding in the doctor’s office, and has just killed the doctor—couldn’t he get out without her seeing him?”

  Bill Weigand thought it over, and after a moment he nodded. But his nod was doubtful.

  “Starting a couple of minutes after the doctor himself went out,” he said, “for Miss Brooks was the only person in the office until Miss Spencer came back and Miss Brooks was at her desk—or, anyway, in that vicinity. Maybe at the files. I suppose somebody could have slipped out then, before the nurse came back. But that would mean Dr. Gordon went out, came back in less than half an hour and got killed. Which is possible, of course. After about two, and until she found the body, the nurse was in the examining-room area—or, anyway, wandering around the office. That would have made it harder. I suppose somebody could have got out then, but he would have been taking a chance. Playing his luck.”

  He paused, considering again.

  “However,” he said, “it is more possible than I thought at first.”

  “Then,” Pam said, but Weigand’s expression stopped her.

  “But,” Bill said, “the obvious first. We have a man who had opportunity, possible motive—and who ran away. Right? So we don’t make it hard unless we have to.”

  “Yeah, Loot,” Mullins said, suddenly. “Like the old boy says.” He looked around at the others. “The inspector,” he explained.

  “Right,” Bill said. “We—”

  He was interrupted by the arrival of food. They had almost finished eating, with a minimum of conversation, when Bill was called again to the telephone. When he came back he was walking rapidly and his arms seemed to be full of hats and coats. Mullins was on his feet by the time Bill Weigand reached the table. Weigand nodded.

  “We move,” he said. “The girl’s started. She’s got her car and is headed uptown. You can—”

  But the others were standing too, and Jerry was looking for the waiter. He came, as waiters come when customers, who have not got their checks, stand up. He supplied the check and Jerry put a bill on it.

  Weigand was already moving toward the door, with Mullins after him. He turned and said, “No” over his shoulder, and the others continued after him. His car was parked just ahead of the Norths’s, and Weigand looked at the two cars and then at Pamela North, and then he half smiled.

  “Be seeing you,” Bill said, and got behind the wheel of his car. Mullins got in after him.

  “Oh, yes,” Pam said. “Oh, yes, Bill.”

  The police car started, U-turned and went uptown.

  “It’s a lovely night for a drive,” Pam said. “Come on, Dorian. Jerry.”

  She was moving, quickly, toward the Norths’s Buick. Jerry hesitated only a moment. He looked at the trim, quick figure of his wife; he looked at Dorian. Dorian said, “Oh, well, Jerry.” They were all in the front seat of the Norths’s car when Jerry U-turned and started up Madison.

  “I’ve kept track of it,” Pam said. “It turned west in Fifty-ninth.”

  They turned west in Fifty-ninth. The police car should be somewhere ahead. They could not see it. Then, apparently at Fifth, they heard the harsh demand of its siren.

  They were lucky. The red light which the siren had protested was green when they reached Fifth. The way was clear through Fifty-ninth. The siren sounded again at Sixth. They went through on the tail of a green light. “Avenue of the Americas indeed,” Pam said, looking at it with disapproval. “Central Park South and the Avenue of the Americas!” Again, now obviously at Columbus Circle,
the siren sounded.

  Beside Pam North, between her and the window, Dorian laughed. It was a soft laugh, at once amused and gentle.

  “My Bill,” she said. “He doesn’t want us to get lost. After he’s told us officially not to follow.”

  They were going through Columbus Circle, not very fast, when the siren sounded again. It was downtown, now, and for a moment Jerry looked puzzled and hesitated. Then his face cleared and he turned down Eighth Avenue. Lights stopped him at Fifty-eighth.

  “Oh,” Pam said, annoyed. “Now what?”

  “Listen,” Dorian said. “He ought—”

  They heard the siren, very distant; its location confused by the buildings. But Jerry took his right hand from the wheel and waved it toward Pam.

  “Of course,” Pam said. “Through Fifty-seventh to the West Side. Then—” She paused, thinking. “Do you know the way to North Salem, Jerry?” she wanted to know. Jerry, starting the car with the change of light, took time to turn and grin at her. He turned west in Fifty-seventh. He said he thought he did. Farther ahead, now, the siren sounded faintly. Bill could give them a hint; he wouldn’t wait.

  “Such a nice balance,” Dorian said, thoughtfully. “So like Bill.”

  They turned up the West Side Highway. They rolled rapidly north—and listened. The siren was faint—hardly distinguishable—when it sounded again. But it was still ahead.

  “You could keep up,” Pam pointed out. “Only—”

  “Only I’d get pinched,” Jerry told her. “We’ll have to guess at it from now.”

  “But you agree, North Salem?” Pam said.

  Jerry swerved right to the center lane, swerved left after a dawdling taxicab was behind them, and went up to fifty-five. Then he said, “Yes, I agree” and sank lower in the seat. “Cigarette, baby?” he said. Pam lighted a cigarette, steadied her hand with fingers against his cheek, and put the cigarette between his lips.

  “It is a nice night for a drive,” she said, as if she were a little surprised. “I do hope Martini won’t mind.”

  5

  MONDAY, 10 P.M. TO TUESDAY, 12:20 A.M.

  “This,” Jerry said, grimly, “is what you call a nice night for a drive.”

  Pam peered ahead, said, “Watch out!” and then said, “No, it’s all right, I thought I saw something.” Then she said well, it had been a nice night for a drive. At first.

  It had been all right to Hawthorne Circle where, after a very brief consultation, they had turned right toward White Plains. It had been all right until, beyond White Plains, they had turned up Route 22, which began in such deceptive magnificence. Then, just when they had finished climbing the first curving hill, the fog got them. It was wispy at first, and unpredictable as always. They encountered it at high spots of the road, but not at all high spots. They would drive for minutes with the lights bright and then they would plunge, while Jerry swore and braked, into dripping dimness. The headlights would then throw white dazzle back into their eyes and Jerry would dip them and they would crawl, fearful of the ditch on their right, fearful of other cars groping toward them on the left. Approaching lights were dim, baffled; two cars would creep toward each other hesitantly, worriedly sounding horns. Dark objects would loom out of the fog ahead and then vanish mysteriously. Then they would run out of the fog for a moment, think it was over and pick up speed, suddenly find themselves again immersed.

  “The best way is to turn off on one twenty-one,” Pam said. “If we can find it.”

  “If,” Jerry said, “we can find anything.”

  Dorian was mostly silent. She looked out of the window on her side of the car.

  “The funny thing,” she said once, “is that it isn’t really thick. You can see houses and lights, only a little dimmed. Only washed over.”

  Jerry crept to a stop behind a car which seemed to be blocking the road. He discovered it was almost off the road, parked. He pulled out and went cautiously around it and said it was a hell of a place for anyone to park. He answered Dorian.

  “The lights,” he said. “Without lights you can see, but not enough. With them—” He swerved toward the center of the road, avoiding a culvert wall.

  “With them you can see too much fog and not anything else,” Pam said. “Watch it, Jerry!”

  Jerry swerved a little to the right, to avoid a car groping toward them in the center of the road. He yelled at the other car, with exasperation.

  “One twenty-one ought to be along pretty soon,” Pam said. “Maybe it will be better.”

  “Why should it?” Jerry had asked her. “Probably it will be worse. And probably we’ll miss it.”

  They had not missed it, although they had driven past the intersection and had to back, perilously, to make the turn. It was no better—no worse—no different.

  “Anyway,” Dorian said, “it will be as bad for everybody. For the girl—what’s her name?” Pam told her. “Debbie. For Bill.”

  Both the Norths shook their heads. Pam explained.

  “It may be,” she said. “But it needn’t. Sometimes ten minutes one way or the other make all the difference. Perhaps they came a different way—there are a lot of ways. That might make a difference. It might be perfectly clear.”

  “Yes,” Jerry said. “And it might be twice as bad. Air currents. Lakes. Differences of temperature. They may have sailed through.”

  “We aren’t,” Pam said. They weren’t.

  Two hours should have done it, even with cautious driving—an hour and three quarters would have done it as Jerry had been going before the fog. Now it had been at least that long since they had started and there was, actually, no telling where they were. They were on a twisting road which ambled through Westchester on its way to half a dozen places; a road which branched into other roads, intersected absent-mindedly and lost itself in intersection. It was easy enough in daylight, if you knew it; it was not difficult on a clear night. But it was full of traps in fog or rain.

  It was difficult afterward to determine where they fell into a trap. Their lights picked up a road marker, held it momentarily through the fog. It was not NY 121. It was NY Something Else. They could not make out what. Jerry swore again. He said that did it.

  “Are we lost?” Dorian said. She was not alarmed; she was interested. “Actually,” she said, “the fog is beautiful. Out of the side window.”

  They were lost, Jerry said. As nearly as you could be lost, where they were. It would be temporary.

  “All the roads around here go to pretty much the same places,” Pam said. “Only in different directions.”

  It sounded odd, Jerry told Dorian, staring ahead through the windshield. It sounded odd, but it was about the truth. It was impossible really to get lost. You merely got delayed. This road, whatever it was, would come into another road which would, in the end, take them to most of the places Route 121 would have taken them. By different turnings, through other places. By this Bedford and that Bedford.

  “Or,” Pam said, “back to twenty-two. Most of them do that, given long enough.”

  That was true, Jerry said, and stopped the car because his lights had picked up a stop sign. Beyond it was a road sign.

  “Speaking of twenty-two,” Jerry said, and turned right. “Now we’re not lost. We’re merely wandering.” They drove a mile through heavy fog. Then, with no warning, the lights shone brightly on the road and far up ahead little lights in houses became sharply clear. Jerry went up to fifty, and asked what time it was. Pam looked at the car clock, computed, and said it was about a quarter of eleven. Jerry went up to fifty-five and stayed at it.

  It was clear in Brewster, where the traffic light stopped them. It was clear beyond where they turned right on US 6 and, after a few miles, right off it. Even as they skirted Peach Lake there was no fog.

  “It’s funny,” Dorian said. “Water—and no fog.”

  “It’s always funny,” Pam told her.

  It was ten minutes after eleven when they stopped at the crossroads in North Salem and a
sked directions at the tavern. It was ten minutes later when, following the directions, they turned in between stone pillars at what they hoped was the Gordon place. There was no house at once; there was a graveled drive between trees. It was quiet and clear and they rolled along the drive silently, so that they could hear the tires crunching on the gravel. They passed through what had been an old barway in a dry stone wall and came out in a more open field, with a big, white house ahead, among trees. The house was near the center of what had once been a great rectangular field, bounded all around by stone walls and rows of trees. There were no lights in the house. It was white and dead in moonlight.

  Then a light flashed at them, went out, went on again, went out a second time. Jerry stopped. The car was just beyond the old barway, on the white gravel drive which led straight toward the house.

  A State trooper came toward them. The lights picked him up. Jerry switched off the headlights and the little parking lights came up on the front fenders. The moon made it seem almost as bright, after a moment, as it had been with the headlights on. The trooper came to Jerry’s side of the car, stood looking at Jerry and said, “Well?” Then he turned his flashlight on Jerry and shifted its beam to Pam and then to Dorian.

  “Well?” he repeated. “Aren’t you a little off the road, bub?”

  “Is Weigand here?” Jerry said.

  The trooper put one elbow on the car door and looked at Jerry.

  “What do you know about Weigand?” he said. He looked at the other two. “Homicide?” he said, obviously doubting it.

  “This is Mrs. Weigand,” Jerry said, indicating. “We’re—friends. He’s probably expecting us to show up.”

  “Is he?” the trooper said. “Why would he be expecting you?”

  “Because he sirened at us,” Pam said. “So of course he knew we were coming. Only we got lost because of the fog.”