Death of a Tall Man (22 page)

Then she woke. The light coming in the windows was pale and gray. She looked at her watch. But it was only half-past five, and not time for a day to end in April. She swung from the bed, her litheness unconscious, and went to the window. It was very dark; no, it was very lightless. There was a difference. This was an unreal darkness. Oh, yes, it was going to storm. And Dan was still out. Or was he?

Hurriedly, she dressed; she ran downstairs and into the living room. Eve and Lawrence Westcott were there, sitting on a sofa, not close together, drinking cocktails. She forced herself to speak quietly.

“Oh, hello,” she said. “Dan around?”

Eve smiled and said she hadn't seen him.

“We just came in, dear,” she said. She waved toward a cocktail shaker. “Daiquiris,” she said. “Help yourself.”

Debbie poured a drink into a small, flaring glass. She carried it with her and went to a window and looked out.

“It's dark,” she said.

“Wind shift,” Westcott told her. “A hard one and then it will clear.”

“Yes,” Debbie said, not thinking about it. She was restless. She went to another window.

“Sit down, Debbie,” Eve said. “Dan can take care of himself. Walking?”

“I suppose so,” Debbie said. “I know he can take care of himself.”

She stayed by the window, looking out.

“She's upset, Eve,” she heard Lawrence Westcott say, behind her.

“Of course,” Eve said. “Of course, Larry. Who isn't?”

Debbie went out of the room and across the hall and into the study. She sat by a window, looking out, and sipped her drink. The trees were bending in the wind. She did not turn on the lights, but, after sitting for a time, she reached out toward a table radio and clicked it on. “Fifteen minutes of the latest news,” the radio said, in cultivated tones, interrupted a little by distant static. “But first, a word from our sponsor.” The sponsor had a good many words. “And now Frederick Erkhart, with the latest news,” the announcer said. Frederick Erkhart said “good evening.”

Things were happening in Washington. And in London and in the Balkans. And even, it seemed, in New York.

“Now,” Mr. Erkhart said, “for the human interest story of the day. A tall ungainly figure, familiar to almost everyone living in certain blocks of New York's East Side—a figure so tall and emaciated, so almost grotesque—that no one could pass without a second glance—a figure of fun, perhaps, to the street-playing children—today played an inappropriate part in tragedy. Robert Oakes, six feet six inches tall, weighing under a hundred and thirty, killed himself some time this morning by inhaling gas in the small flat in which he lived alone. Several hours later the collected gas exploded, almost wrecking the building, seriously injuring an unidentified young woman who, it is thought, may have been on her way to interview Oakes. Why? Because Oakes, almost grotesque figure of fun, is now revealed as an important witness in the murder of Dr. Andrew Gordon, famous eye surgeon. Oakes, a patient of Gordon's, is believed to have been in the physician's office when Gordon was killed. Police are still seeking the person who, early yesterday afternoon, beat the doctor to death in his office. Now, the official forecast from the United States Weather Bureau. Tonight, showers or thundershowers and much cooler. Tomorrow—”

But Debbie Brooks did not hear the forecast. She was looking at nothing, and there was a puzzled line between her eyes.

“But that couldn't be,” she said, speaking aloud. “That couldn't be. It wasn't in the afternoon. I
know
it wasn't.”

She sat for a moment and then stood, suddenly. She went to the desk and took the telephone from its cradle. Then she hesitated, replaced it and stood for a moment thinking. Then she took up the telephone again. She dialed information. “I would like the number of Mr. Gerald North at—” she said.

Deputy Chief Inspector Artemus O'Malley was very enthusiastic about Robert Oakes. Oakes was God's gift to policemen; O'Malley was clearly annoyed that Weigand did not, freely, accept him as such.

“Why not?” Inspector O'Malley said, and leaned across his desk and brought a plump fist down on it. “Tell me that, huh?”

“Nothing to go on,” Bill Weigand said. “Could be. Needn't be.”

“You young cops,” Inspector O'Malley said. He leaned back and sighed, pantomiming hopeless resignation. “Doing everything the hard way.” He thought of something, and leaned forward again. “How did this Mrs. North get into it?” He was accusing, now. “I thought I told you—”

“Right,” Bill said. “You told me.” He felt he should say something else. But he could think of nothing else to say. Inspector O'Malley looked at him accusingly. Then, unexpectedly, he dismissed Mrs. North with a wave of his hand.

“This guy Oakes,” he said. “He killed Gordon. He saw the police were about to get him. He suicided. What's wrong with that?”

“Well,” Weigand said, “we weren't about to get him. That's one thing wrong with it.” He spoke mildly.

O'Malley dismissed that with a wave of his other hand.

“Sure we were,” he said. “The boys had been trying to find him.”

“Merely to make a routine check,” Weigand said. He would have gone on, but O'Malley interrupted.

“O.K.,” O'Malley said, heavily. “So he knew it was just a routine check, I suppose? Here he is, jittering on account he's bumped a guy off. And here's a cop, wanting to see him. How's he going to figure it's a routine check?”

Weigand would give the inspector that. He did.

“Also,” he said, “Oakes was going to die of cancer before very long—very painfully. Maybe he merely figured gas would be easier.”

O'Malley leaned back across the desk. He was very earnest.

“Let me tell you something, Bill,” he said. “You'll never get anywhere if you make things hard for yourself. Not in this business. You're wandering all over the lot. Sure—maybe that's the reason he did it. Maybe a girl turned him down. Maybe he lost a fortune. My God—maybe anything. Why don't you take what's in front of you?”

“Because—” Bill Weigand said, before he was interrupted again.

“Let me tell you something, Bill,” O'Malley said. “You've got a setup. Here's a guy wanted in a kill. He bumps himself off. So what? So he did the kill. So we've got a nice clean job, all wrapped up and put away. So we forget it. What's wrong with that?”

“Only,” Bill said, speaking rapidly, “that we've no real evidence that he did the kill.”

O'Malley leaned back in his chair, regarded the ceiling, mutely abandoned Bill Weigand as moronically perverse. He sighed deeply and closed his eyes. He opened his eyes.

“Sometimes you're a great trial to me, Bill,” he said. “With this we could make the A.M.'s. I suppose you hadn't figured that.” He looked at Bill. “Damn near everything I have to think of myself,” he said. “Damn near everything.”

“Give me time,” Bill said. “Don't spring it yet, Inspector.”

“The last decent kill we gave the afternoons a break,” he said. “O.K. So this time we give it to the mornings. You ought to see that, Bill.”

“Right,” Bill said. “I see that. But make it the mornings, day after tomorrow—or whenever we get it. Friday. Next week.” He leaned forward in turn. “Look,” he said. “We can't make this one stick.”

O'Malley looked at him pityingly. He pointed out that they would not need to make it stick. Oakes was dead.

Bill Weigand stood up. When he spoke his voice was detached, without emphasis.

“Obviously,” he said, “the decision is yours, sir.”

O'Malley looked at him—and then he grinned suddenly.

“The hell with that,” he said. “The hell with that, Bill. We'll hold it. Until day after tomorrow, anyhow.” He continued to grin. “Only just don't make it too fancy, Bill,” he said.

Bill Weigand said he'd try not to. He went back to his own office. Mullins got hastily out of Weigand's chair. Weigand sat in it. Mullins looked at him.

“Been seeing the inspector, Loot?” he said. He examined Weigand. “You look like it,” he said. “Wants to pin it on this guy who bumped himself off, I suppose. This long stringy guy.”

“Right,” Bill said.

Mullins nodded.

“O.K., Loot,” he said. “Why not?”

Weigand sighed, reminded himself of O'Malley, broke the sigh off.

“Why?” he said.

Mullins gave it thought.

“Well,” he said, “it fits. Sort of.”

Sort of wasn't good enough, Bill told him.

“Look,” he said, “I want to find out what happened. As long as you're working with me, you want to find out what happened. Right?”

“O.K., Loot,” Mullins said. He was equable.

“Look at it,” Weigand directed him. “Maybe Oakes killed himself. But maybe somebody killed him. Maybe he killed himself because he'd found out what was the matter with him. Maybe he killed himself because he killed Gordon and thought we were after him. Maybe he was killed because he saw something—or didn't see something he was expected to see. Maybe when he was there he saw somebody do something suspicious. Maybe he heard something. Maybe—” He broke off. “Actually,” he said, “we don't know anything at all, Mullins.”

Mullins shook his head. He said they knew something.

“We know he was there,” Mullins said.

“Yes,” Weigand agreed. He spoke abstractedly. Then he stiffened suddenly and looked at Mullins. “What?” he said.

“We know he was there,” Mullins repeated. “On account of the card. We—” Mullins looked at Weigand and stopped speaking for a moment. “Listen, Loot,” he said then, anxiously, “we
do
know he was there, don't we?”

Slowly, his eyebrows drawn together so that a line was sharp between them, Weigand shook his head.

“Come to think of it,” he said, and he spoke softly. “We just know a name was there. Just a name, Mullins.”

“But—” Mullins said.

“Just a name,” Weigand repeated again. “A name on a referral card. Remember what he looked like, Mullins. So tall—so thin—everybody noticed him. Not just average size—average weight—average face. A freak, pretty near.”

“Sure,” Mullins said. “But—”

“Did anybody—it would be the receptionist or the nurse—did either of them say anything about Oakes? Except as a name? Did either of them say—oh—‘one of the patients was a funny-looking man, about seven feet tall.' Did they?”

Mullins went back into his memory. He shook his head.

“Not that I remember,” he said. “But—”

“And this guy Oakes was a—a sensation,” Weigand said. “Everybody who ever saw him remembered him. All around where he lived, people remembered him—‘that funny-looking guy.' And neither Miss Brooks nor the nurse mentioned him.”

Mullins shook his head.

“Why would they?” he said. “Why would they figure it had anything to do with—anything?”

Weigand shook his head while Mullins was still speaking.

“I don't know why,” he said. “I know people do. Suppose—suppose one of the patients had been a dwarf. A guy about two feet tall. You mean to say that Miss Brooks, say, wouldn't have told us there were six compensation cases yesterday afternoon and then added—whether she thought it meant anything or not—‘one of them was a dwarf a couple of feet high'? You mean to say anybody—you—me—O'Malley—anybody—would see a freak where he didn't expect to see one and never say anything about it?”

Mullins thought. His face showed thought. Then he began slowly, reluctantly, to nod.

“O.K., Loot,” he said. “You make it sound—I guess I'd mention it. I guess anybody would.”

“And,” Bill told him, “nobody did. Nobody did, Mullins.”

“Well,” Mullins said, “where does it get us?”

For that, Weigand had no answer. He seemed to have forgotten Mullins, and he sat staring at the opposite wall, tapping his fingers on his desk. He sat so, for what seemed, to Mullins, like a long time and Mullins could tell that Weigand was working something out. This was always very interesting to Mullins, and very obscure. When Weigand reached for the telephone, Mullins was interested, because whatever Weigand did from now on would, he realized, be a surprise.

Weigand put in a call for the home of Dr. Andrew Gordon, in North Salem, New York—a person to person call, to Miss Deborah Brooks. He replaced the telephone and went back to looking at the wall, and tapping out a kind of tune with his fingers on his desk. Then the telephone rang. Weigand picked it up, said, “yes,” listened and put it back. Now the line was between his brows again.

“Temporarily out of order,” he said. “There's a storm up there, apparently. I suppose—” He broke off and sat for a moment more, looking at the wall. Then, abruptly, he stood up.

“Get the car, Sergeant,” he said. “We're going places.”

When you live with a cat, certain conventions are adhered to by all parties. Certain places belong to the cat; other, and less desirable places, may be contended for on a basis of relative equality. Thus Martini had proscriptive rights to a position on Gerald North's shoulders when he was shaving with an electric razor, because Martini was interested in electric razors and found the sound they made soothing. Mr. North had the right to argue about the chair he and Martini both liked and, as a last resort, to pretend that he did not know she was there and to prepare to sit on her. Martini owned all emptied cigarette packages, and either of the Norths had a right to throw them for her, in which case she would bring them back if that were her mood. The question whether Mr. North's cigarette case was to be considered an emptied cigarette package was moot, Martini being in the affirmative. Martini also owned Mr. North's right hand, which she chose to regard as an animal—distinct from the larger animal which was Mr. North—and subject to periodic destruction. But it was understood on both sides that Martini did not use claws or, at any rate, did not use them fully extended. Whether Martini also owned the cream which was left in the pitcher after breakfast was not yet decided. The subject was opened afresh each morning, on Martini's part with an air of innocence; each morning, Martini found the cream pitcher anew, with a pretty pretense of surprise and pleasure.