Let Dead Enough Alone Read online

  Forniss threw his light around the boathouse but without hope.

  “Not a chance,” Boyd said. “He’d have taken it up to the house. They’re monkeys. Find anything he hid here. Bring it down with him when he needed to start the generator up. Snap it on again. Probably had it with him when—” He did not finish. He looked at Forniss. “Probably had it in his hand,” he said. “When he went into the lake. Dropped it as he went in. Maybe, flailing around to catch himself, threw it. See what I mean?”

  Forniss did. The picture was quite clear. It was, indeed, almost as if Struthers Boyd had seen it happen.

  On the way back to the house, through thickly falling snow, with darkness now heavy about them, Sergeant Forniss walked behind Boyd, throwing the light beam in front of them to guide the way.

  They had all come to the living room, as if the flickering candles drew them in the lightless house. Abner Speed had got a fire going in the living room fireplace; it made a great crackling. Flames from the kindling leaped joyfully around the larger logs—and little heat was given off. That would come later; the hottest fire is an old fire. A young fire is merely flirtatious. Speed had gone into the dining room and built another fire there and, with that done, he had gone down into the basement and could be heard moving things. Speed, Heimrich thought, appeared to have little confidence in the generator in the boathouse.

  Brian Perry and Lynn Ross had come into the living room together, presumably from the breakfast room. “Somebody started the generator?” Perry asked, and Heimrich said that he hoped so—that Mr. Boyd and the sergeant were trying. “Boyd?” Brian repeated, in apparent surprise, and then looked at Lynn. Heimrich could not, in the dimness, see enough to interpret the wordless exchange, if there was an exchange to interpret. Tom Kemper came down the stairs rapidly, and, in the living room, spoke rather loudly, as if heartiness would dispel gloom. He, also, enquired about the generator. “I hope so,” Heimrich said again, although he was beginning not to. Margaret Halley came down the stairs more slowly. She was a slender figure, in a dark woolen dress which had been planned for the accenting brightness of jewelry and was somber without it. Her beautifully articulated face showed strain as she bent toward a candle to light a cigarette. And she said nothing; her attitude was a comment. Audrey Latham came last, wearing slacks and sweater as before. She looked at Heimrich. She said, “Oh. I thought you’d gone.” She did not seem to expect an answer. She shivered. She said, “It’s cold in here.” But it was not yet really cold.

  Mrs. Speed returned, this time with several candles. She said, “Where do you want I should put them, Mrs. Halley?” and Margaret Halley, standing near one of the burning candles—still standing so that light from below accentuated the modelling of her face—said first, “What, Mrs. Speed?” as if her mind had been far away, and then, “Oh. Anywhere.” Mrs. Speed, shaking her head, began to light candles, let them drip into ash trays, secure them in the soft wax. The room became just perceptibly brighter.

  “Aren’t there some old lamps in the cellar?” Tom Kemper said. “I’m pretty sure I saw some once. Kerosene lamps?”

  “I don’t know, Tom,” Margaret Halley said, in a voice without expression. “There may be. I don’t know.”

  Heimrich moved to a window and looked out it. A light was coming up from the lake; he could make out the two men. He went out of the living room and to the door to meet them, and Forniss said, “No soap,” and told him why. He went back into the living room and said that something seemed to be wrong with the generator.

  They were scattered through the living room, as the flickering candles were scattered. Audrey Latham stood close to the fire; Margaret was sitting in a chair not far from it, and Tom Kemper stood near Audrey. The fire was smoking a little, and the air was becoming faintly acrid with the smoke. Brian Perry and Lynn Ross stood side by side at a window; he held the curtains back with one hand, and they were looking out at the snow. But outside there was only a gray blur to look at. Forniss and Struthers Boyd came into the room.

  Abner Speed came along the hall. He carried a lighted oil heater in either hand and the fumes from the heaters merged, unamiably, with the smoke from the fireplace. “Water pressure’s low,” Speed said. “Better not flush.”

  “Oh, my God,” Audrey said. “Oh, my God!”

  Speed looked in at her. He shook his head. He went up the stairs toward the second floor, carrying the oil burners.

  “Why won’t the generator work?” Brian Perry asked. His voice did not reveal strain.

  “A part’s missing,” Heimrich said. “Apparently Mr. Halley took it out.” He turned to Margaret Halley. “You didn’t know of this—arrangement?” he said. “To keep boys from starting it up?”

  She shook her head. “I left things like that to him,” she said, in the same expressionless voice, and then, “Captain.”

  Heimrich waited a moment. He said, “Yes?”

  “You can’t keep everyone here,” she said. “Not—with things like this. You must realize that. There’ll be no heat. No water.”

  “Now Mrs. Halley,” Heimrich said. “How would anyone get away? Until the roads are plowed again?”

  “That’s right, Margaret,” Kemper said. His voice seemed oddly cheerful. (The gravity has slipped off, Lynn thought—and found that she turned to Brian Perry, looked up at him. He seemed to know why; he nodded his head and smiled, faintly. But his eyes, behind the glasses, were unreadable. I’m all alone here, Lynn thought. I don’t belong here. This hasn’t anything to do with me.)

  “Have to make the best of things,” Boyd said. “No way out of that. That right, captain?”

  “Make the best of murder,” Audrey said, and her voice was shrill, just under control. “Keep stiff—”

  “Be quiet,” Margaret Halley said. “At least be quiet.” And then she said, “There was no murder. I tell you, there was no murder.”

  Silence greeted that. The fire crackled in the silence. But, Heimrich thought, it was a nervous silence. In it, the heavy footsteps of Abner Speed, coming downstairs again, echoed. Speed came to the door.

  “Got the gas stove going in the kitchen,” he said. “Shouldn’t wonder if we use up the gas, though. Not a lot of kerosene, either.” He paused. No one said anything. “Storm like this can last a couple of days,” he said. “Knew one lasted three days. Well, bring up some more wood, anyway.”

  He went.

  “There,” Tom Kemper said, “is our ray of sunshine. Margaret?”

  She said, “Yes, Tom.”

  “Suppose I make everybody a drink?”

  “If you want to,” she said. She seemed, with an effort, to rouse herself. “Of course,” she said. “It will be good for everyone. You, captain?”

  “Not now,” Heimrich said. “Dr. Perry?” Perry looked at him. “A couple of points,” Heimrich said. “If you don’t mind.”

  He was told to shoot.

  “In the other room,” Heimrich said. “There’s a fire in there, too.”

  He led the way. Perry looked after him a moment. He looked down at Lynn, and, just perceptibly, shrugged his shoulders. He followed Heimrich.

  In the dining room, the fire was smouldering. Heimrich put a foot against it and pushed. Flames licked up around the logs.

  “Usually works,” Heimrich said. “Doctor, why did you come here?”

  There were only two candles in the square dining room. The revived flames gave a flickering, reddish light. The light flickered on Brian Perry’s glasses.

  “That’s a very odd question, captain,” Perry said. “What do you mean?”

  Heimrich said nothing.

  “Obviously,” Perry said, “because I was invited. Had no other engagement. Thought it might be a pleasant—a different—way to spend a holiday weekend.” He looked at Heimrich from behind the glasses and in the uncertain light Heimrich could not see his eyes. Eyes are revealing—which was one reason Heimrich so often kept his closed. “Did you think there was something else?”

  �
��I didn’t know, doctor,” Heimrich said. “That was why I asked, naturally. Not professionally, then? As a psychiatrist?”

  “No.”

  “Although Mr. Halley had been in a—a condition which made his suicide likely?”

  “I don’t know that he had,” Perry said. “He wasn’t my patient, captain.” But then he hesitated; he took off his glasses. “I take it we’re both fencing,” he said.

  “Now doctor,” Heimrich said. “I’m merely trying to get the picture, as they say.”

  “Then,” Perry said, “you should ask Dr. Halley why she invited me. That’s more to the point, isn’t it?”

  “In time,” Heimrich said. “If it seems important. If you don’t know?”

  Perry turned and looked at the fire. He pushed a log with his foot. He said, “All right. I suppose professional reticence is a little out of place. You still think Halley was murdered? Tricked into going down to the lake?”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said.

  Perry pulled a chair close to the fire. He sat in it.

  “Very well,” he said. “It wasn’t explicit. But Margaret wanted me to look John over. If he was willing, of course. Get a second opinion. As she told you, she thought he was in a psychosis. Felt, properly, that she was too close to him—too involved—to function altogether as a physician.”

  “Did you look him over?”

  “No. I planned to talk to him today. If he wanted to talk.”

  “Last night. Did you pay particular attention to him? Reach some sort of tentative conclusion?”

  Perry hesitated a moment. He took time to take a package of cigarettes from his pocket; to extract one and hold it ready for lighting. Then he said, “No, captain. It isn’t that simple.” Then he lighted the cigarette. “Dr. Halley is competent,” he said. “It isn’t likely she would be wrong.” Then he held the cigarette package out to Heimrich. Heimrich took a cigarette. “Doctor,” Heimrich said, “how long had Mr. Halley been—ill? I’m supposing his wife was right.”

  “About eighteen months,” Perry said. “Since summer before last. Since he—” Perry stopped abruptly. He threw his freshly lighted cigarette into the fire. “Well,” he said. “I suppose you know. And that that’s what this is really about.”

  “The summer your wife died,” Heimrich said. “Yes. I was coming to that, doctor. She was water skiing. Mr. Halley was pulling her in a motorboat. She ran into something, lost her balance and—”

  “And Halley killed her,” Brian Perry said, and his voice suddenly was harsh. “Her name was Carla. She would have been twenty-six that September. She was wearing a white bathing suit and she was very brown from being in the sun. And Halley killed her.” Abruptly, he took a fresh cigarette from the pack. The flare of the lighter showed his face. The lines of his face were bitter.

  “Killed her?” Heimrich said. “Why do you put it that way, doctor? She lost her balance, in falling struck her head on a rock. You mean—he shouldn’t have been in that part of the lake? Or—what do you mean, doctor?”

  “It’s very simple,” Perry said. “I thought I had been clear. He killed her. Oh—it festered in his mind afterward. I don’t doubt that. He was left with a feeling of guilt. And Carla—Carla was left dead—” He stopped, abruptly and rubbed the palm of one hand hard across his forehead. “All right,” he said. “There you have it. And—he died in somewhat the same way, didn’t he? Hit on the head. Drowned. Well?”

  “No,” Heimrich said, “you haven’t been clear. It’s not really clear what you’re talking about, doctor.”

  Brian Perry did not answer immediately. He took his glasses off and held them in his hand. He took a breath so deep that his shoulders moved with it. When he spoke, his voice was again quite normal. He said he supposed he had not been clear. He said he would be as explicit as he could. He said he had not been at the lake when the accident happened. He had been at a medical meeting in the White Mountains. He had returned to help in the search for his wife’s body, to be there when her body was found. His voice as he spoke was very level.

  He had heard, from Halley himself—from those who from other boats, from the club beach, had seen what happened—that Carla had collided with something, presumably a floating piece of wood, and been thrown into the water. It was the sort of thing that happened often. She had let go the towline as she fell, and Halley had circled the fast little boat to pick her up. As he circled, he had seen her sink under the water. And, when he reached the place, he had seen blood in the water—seen it only for an instant, before it disappeared. He had dived for her—and dived again. And men from other boats had dived.

  There was an outcropping of rock there, just under the surface of the water. What had happened seemed obvious. It was a tragic, meaningless accident in the sparkling water of Lake Carabec on a pretty summer afternoon. Halley had blamed himself; they had told him he was not to blame. Brian Perry had told him he must not blame himself.

  Perry threw his cigarette into the fire. The fire was burning well, now. It flickered on both their faces. Perry’s was without expression. It remained so as he went on.

  “Until about two weeks ago,” Perry said, and spoke very slowly, very carefully, “that was what I thought it was—a tragic accident. Then—Margaret told me the truth. She stumbled into it. I don’t suppose she would have told me, otherwise. She was trying to give me the picture about John. She said something about ‘since that awful thing he did to your—’ and then stopped. But then she had to go on, of course.”

  Brian Perry took another deep breath.

  “Carla didn’t strike her head when she fell,” he said. “She was all right—swimming and waiting to be picked up. Probably she was laughing. She laughed a good deal. Halley ran her down. With the boat—going very fast. She was swimming toward him and he ran her down. Nobody saw the boat strike her. Nobody was close enough to see. He ran into her and—hurt her. And then she drowned.”

  He stared into the fire. He seemed to be reliving a sunny summer day.

  “Halley told his wife this? She told you?”

  Perry nodded.

  “The urge to confess,” he said. “To—share guilt. I suppose it was, subconsciously, the same need which led her to tell me.

  “Doctor,” Heimrich said, “are you saying that Halley did this intentionally? With murder in his mind?”

  There was a long pause. Then Perry spoke very slowly.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Margaret says he still insisted it was an accident—that he miscalculated. He may have lied to her. She may have lied to me. As I say, she stumbled into telling me. She may have wanted to—to make it as easy for me as she could. Leave it still an accident. I—well, captain, I came here to find out.”

  Heimrich waited.

  “No,” Perry said, “I didn’t find out. I wouldn’t have killed him. I suppose you think I might have. Whichever way it was, I wouldn’t have killed him. But—I had to know. Or, I thought I did. It doesn’t seem so important now, for some reason. I suppose because he’s dead.”

  Captain Heimrich closed his eyes.

  “Would Halley have had any reason to kill your wife, doctor?” he asked.

  Again, Brian Perry, leaning forward in his chair, lighted a cigarette before he answered.

  “You go to the heart of the matter, don’t you?” he said. “No, captain. None that I know of. But—it was that I felt, yesterday—and when I told Margaret I’d come—it was that I felt I had to know.” And then he said, “John was very attractive to women. He always had been. Getting older didn’t seem to change that.”

  For some time neither said anything. Then Heimrich said, “Women like Miss Latham?”

  “All kinds,” Perry said. “At least, many kinds, apparently.” He looked at Heimrich for a moment, steadily. “He was not a particularly faithful husband,” Brian Perry said. “You’ve apparently found that out.”

  “And his wife?”

  “How did she take it? I imagine, with philosophy. Perhaps—with pity.�
�

  Heimrich waited. He made his waiting evident.

  “If you meant something else about her,” Perry said. “I’m afraid I can’t help you, captain.”

  VII

  The scene should, Lynn thought, be one of beauty—the gentle, yet gay, light of candles in the long room; the firelight adding its warmer color; here and there the slow pulsation of a cigarette’s glow. Tom Kemper had drawn the curtains, shutting out the storm. (But the storm was not defeated; the wind could find a way in around old windows, between the boards of the old floor.) The candle flames moved in air currents; it was as if, scattered through the room, the candles danced. One had only to close the mind to find the scene charming; had only to achieve a detachment from storm outside and—and from this strained misery within. Lynn’s mind would not close; detachment could not be achieved.

  Yet, she did feel herself detached, as if she looked on this through the eyes of a stranger. To a degree, this was true in the literal sense. Except for Margaret Halley, with whom her relation was a special one, not primarily of friendship, these people still remained strangers to her. Struthers Boyd, who had seemed so soggily to have had too much to drink, and had then, as if by an act of will, become sober and competent—what did she know of Boyd? Or of Tom Kemper, who was, she thought, somewhat older than he had first appeared to be, who seemed the least perturbed of any of them—and who had, after Brian Perry had gone out with Heimrich, moved closer to Audrey Latham and smiled down at her, encouragingly. What did she know of Tom Kemper—except that, standing so, attentive, he had unquestionable charm?

  She knew no more of Audrey Latham—who was pretty and blond (and, Lynn still thought, although now no longer with much envy, the height a woman ought to be) and who, although the sweater she wore looked heavy enough, stayed close to the fire. Pretty and blond and young enough—and frightened. Fear showed in her face. Well, that was understandable. One of those with her in the house was a murderer. But the girl managed, fleetingly, to return Tom Kemper’s smile.