All Heads Turn When the Hunt Goes By (27 page)

"A freak accident," Jackson suggested. "The door wasn't securely closed and it jolted open in transit."

"We can be thankful Champ didn't see her. What a gruesome coincidence, both of them on the same train coming home."

"Could it have been planned that way?"

Nhora stared at him, distressed and a shade less friendly than she'd been up to now. "Of course not! As soon as I knew Champ was coming, I had the private car thoroughly cleaned and refurbished and sent on the way. At the time I was still hoping to hear from Nancy, I just couldn't go myself."

"The car was handsomely stocked. Cold wine and a warm meal. But no one was waiting for us when we reached Bonefort. I found that somewhat odd."

"Tyrone volunteered to go along and see that Champ had everything he needed. But as soon as I heard about Nancy, I wired the Bonefort station. Tyrone hired a local Negro to cook and stand watch and came home right away. I suppose the other man got tired of waiting and left before you arrived."

"You felt that you needed Tyrone here?"

Nhora's eyes narrowed; she didn't answer right away. The insinuation became more obvious with each passing second. "I depend on Tyrone," she said. "He's my friend—and he was Nancy's friend, too."

"I see. Do you happen to know if Nancy's body was embalmed before it left Kezar County?"

Apparently she was still thinking about Tyrone; Nhora needed time to focus on his question. "I—she must have been. Isn't there a law?"

"There are always laws. And ways to avoid them, when one is anxious to please, as you say the sheriff was in Kezar County. Assuming Nancy was properly embalmed, it still isn't too late to discover the true cause of her death."

"What do you mean? The doctor said—"

"'Heart failure is too convenient a diagnosis, when someone of Nancy's age is involved."

"Well then—she—I don't understand. What do you think happened to—"

"Forgive me, it's almost a certainty Nancy Bradwin was murdered."

A car had turned off the road into the drive and Nhora's face was blanched by the powerful headlights. She made no move to shield her eyes, and something about the pained nakedness of her face in this glare caused his heart to pound unexpectedly. The car was stopped by a Dasharoons guard. Jackson heard a sleepy-sounding bass voice that carried well across the expanse of lawn.

Nhora winced, and began moving toward the lights and the voice as if she were lured. Then she stopped and swung around, rediscovering Jackson.

"Nancy?" Nhora said harshly. "Who would want to kill Nancy?"

"Someone as disturbed as she. Someone like Early Boy Hodges."

Nhora planted her fists on her lips as if to deny his intuition, but she quickly dropped the pose. "There just couldn't be any reason for him to—"

"His reasons may defy logical analysis. Judging from his actions, I agree with your conclusion that he isn't sane."

"All I have to do is think about him and I start shuddering."

"You didn't alert Champ in San Francisco when Nancy disappeared. Who else might have called with the news, the lawyer?"

"Evvy Wilkes? Not without asking me."

"Then it could have been Early Boy—but I think it was Nancy herself. This time she may have run away out of fear."

"Nhora! Tell your nigger to get away from my car before I run him over!" The voice was now sounding a little drunken.

Nhora glanced at the waiting car, a Cadillac. "Oh, God," she said, "why tonight? I guess I'd better go talk to him, but he's
not
coming in the house and upsetting everyone. Would you come with me, Dr. Holley?"

"Jackson, please."

"Jackson," Nhora set such a pace across the lawn that he had to concentrate to keep up. "You must enjoy reading detective stories," she said with a thin smile.

"
Nhora!
"

"All
right
, I'm coming!"

"I am a detective of sorts, all physicians are. When I was a boy I was fascinated by the exploits of Dr. Bell."

"Who?"

"Dr. Joseph Bell of Scotland, the model for Sherlock Holmes. Dr. Bell had an incomparable ability to observe and make deductions from the minutiae that are invisible to the untrained eye, sounds that the bored ear never hears. It isn't random curiosity when I propose that an autopsy be performed to determine just how Nancy died. It should be done without delay. When is the funeral?"

"Day after tomorrow, at ten in the morning. Just the immediate family."

"Good, there's time. Who is the local coroner?"

"Coroner? I have no idea. Evvy will know."

"
Nhora! What's keepin' you, Nhora?
" His tone was bellicose, but there was a hint of rude playfulness, as if he enjoyed baiting her. Nhora was still smiling, without pleasure.

"But I don't think Evvy will be of much help to you tonight," she said as they reached the car. A chauffeur was behind the wheel. He smiled uneasily at Nhora, as if afraid she might blame him for his employer's excess of bile. The Negro men Jackson had seen so far were either too young for military service or defense plants, or, like the chauffeur, verging on the ancient. Leaving aside the question of their marksmanship and the stalking quality of their hounds, it wasn't much of a rear guard to defend against the likes of Early Boy Hodges, who obviously had the run of the place when he felt like it.

Jackson looked back at the house, vibrant in the dark surround, but he was unable to single out the third-story playroom where Champ lay virtually unattended, and unprotected. Something should be done about that, and soon.

He raked at a mosquito bite on one cheek as Nhora opened a rear door of the Cadillac.

"It's good to have you back, Evvy," she said dispassionately.

"Where's Champ? I want to
see
that ol' boy. Goddam, it's been two years since I set eyes on him!"

"May I introduce Dr. Jackson Holley? He's Champ's physician."

Everett John Wilkes leaned forward in the seat, squinting at Jackson. He was a heavy man in a seersucker suit, jowls on his chest, graying hair tumbling down into his eyes, a florid complexion to match his rummy disposition. There was a pair of crutches beside him.

"Doctor?" he said loudly, as if they were still on the other side of the lawn. "Where from?"

"I'm with the Red Cross," Jackson replied, now at ease with the convenient lie.

"
American
Red Cross? You sound British to me." Wilkes's accent and diphthongs were a puzzle to Jackson, but the rhythm of his speech was seductive.

"I am a British subject, but I've practiced in this country and in Canada for many years."

Wilkes continued to look him over. "How is Champ? I heard he was dying."

"He has pneumonia, but I'm still confident he'll recover."

Wilkes nodded, his eyes filling as if he were about to weep. Instead he smiled and bellowed, "Now that's some piece of good news, doctor! Yes, sir. Happy to hear it." He fumbled for a handkerchief and used it, then shifted his attention to Nhora, unable to conceal a gleam of malice. "Well, there's business I want to talk over with Champ; need to bring him up to date. No time like the present."

"Surely business matters could be postponed for a week or so," Jackson said, as Nhora hissed softly in exasperation. "Champ is quite weak, he's been on the road for days trying to get here. And emotionally he's in a precarious condition: the war, the death of his wife. He still hasn't fully accepted the fact of her death."

Nor had Wilkes, apparently; at the mention of Nancy Bradwin he winced in pain. Jackson had studied the lawyer closely as he spoke. Without doubt Everett John Wilkes was a heavy drinker, perhaps he was chronically drunk. In the available light it was as difficult to calculate his degree of sobriety as it was to fix his age. If he was an alcoholic, then he was one of the rare ones whose wit never failed them until the lights went out. Jackson decided to test this observation.

"But we have business that shouldn't wait," he said. "You and Nhora have to make a difficult decision tonight."

"Decision about what?" Wilkes said suspiciously. "Champ's back; Champ'll be runnin' things from now on."

"When he's fully competent. In the meantime an autopsy must be sanctioned."

"Autopsy? You talkin' about
Nancy
? What the hell for?"

Nhora drew a little closer to Jackson, touching him, whether to give support or reassurance he didn't know. "Dr. Holley thinks Nancy may have been murdered," she said.

Wilkes's eyes widened slightly; he sank back out of the light, exhaling, his body reacting in nods and jerks to the implications of the word "murder". He spoke for the first time, in a normal tone of voice, phrasing a question that was becoming too familiar to Jackson.

"Jesus," he said. "Just who the hell
are
you?"

T
he clinic in Chisca Ridge, a three-story brick house without distinction, was two blocks south of the one-street business district of the small town. It occupied an overgrown acre at the intersection of Des Arc and West Pine streets; similar houses, separated by victory-garden plots, filled the neighborhood. There was a deep front porch, a porte cochere and too many shade trees, which would serve to keep the interior dark even on the brightest days. The lower windows were shaded, the upper windows vacant. A child had left a broken roller skate on the front walk. A cat studied them from beneath a drooping branch of a giant mimosa tree. As they walked up the steps to the front door, Nhora morosely jangled the ring of keys she had received from Flax the undertaker.

"Henry was unaccountably brilliant, considering his background," she said. "He came from one of those impoverished mining towns where children rarely go to school past the sixth grade. Henry was spindly from birth, and if that wasn't enough of a handicap, when he was ten, a coal truck ran over him. That accident put him in the hospital for two and a half years. His father was a minor union official, so fortunately there were medical benefits. He needed seventeen operations in all, and still some of his bones wouldn't knit properly. To take his mind off the pain he educated himself, reading nearly every book in the local library, taking college-level correspondence courses. Somehow he put himself through medical school, but he never made up the cost emotionally.

"His record was sensational—I saw the transcripts—but the prestige appointments he wanted didn't come his way. Henry had no social graces, and he was totally at a loss on any level of give-and-take with other people. Also he had the sharp, antagonistic manner of the man who knows his superior mentality isn't going to pay off for him. Henry had a minor breakdown from overwork; nothing serious, but his psychiatrist recommended an undemanding practice in a town like this one. He wasn't experienced, but we needed a doctor badly."

Jackson struck a match while Nhora searched for the right key to unlock the clinic. There was a tarnished brass nameplate beside the bellpull.
Henry F. Talmadge, M.D.
A breeze pushed its way through the heavy mimosa, and shadows came to life the length of the porch.

"The practice turned out to be more demanding than he anticipated. Because of Nancy?"

"Yes." Nhora put a key in the lock. "His interest was—far too personal. I think he fell in love with Nancy. He should have looked for help, he could have taken her to Memphis or New Orleans. But after a while he became obsessed, he had to find the cure all by himself."

The door opened and they went in. Nhora paused to turn on the dim overhead light in the foyer. On the left a mahogany staircase went up to the second floor. Nhora turned and looked at the top of the stairs with visible apprehension.

"What's the matter?" Jackson asked.

Nhora pointed. "That's where he did it. He tied his rope to a baluster, then jumped or threw himself over the railing."

"When did it happen, Nhora?"

"The end of March; March twenty-sixth, I think."

"No one knows why?"

"He was under a strain, spending so much time with Nancy other patients were neglected. There were complaints."

"That isn't enough to drive a man to suicide. Is it?"

"I don't know; I told you he was obsessed. He had no tolerance for frustration, for failure." She led Jackson down the linoleum hall. "This is the white reception room, the colored is in the back. There's a colored doctor in town, Old Lamb, who has his own office. When Dr. Gilgo was alive Old Lamb saw patients here three days a week, and he could use the facilities now if he wanted to. But I don't think anyone's been in this house for months."

Nhora massaged the base of her throat. "I can't breathe in here," she complained.

"I'll find what I need."

"You won't be long?" she said hopefully. "I'll wait outside on the porch."

The clinic had been well designed and was more modem than Jackson had anticipated. One room was fully equipped for emergency surgery. Shelves of pharmaceuticals were still usable. The previous tenants had purchased the best instruments and machines available. Jackson found a chest of unexposed X-ray plates purchased within the year. The laboratory was adequate for routine tests—blood counts, pregnancy—and the medical library was up to date, thanks to Dr. Henry Talmadge, whose nameplate was in two-thirds of the volumes.