Killing the Goose (15 page)

“Too damned negative,” Pam told herself, aloud, and opened the door of the wall cabinet abstractedly. Several things fell out with the celerity of things which have been waiting for a long time to fall out. Pam caught a container of tooth powder but a small bottle of iodine fell into the bathroom glass and an old toothbrush—kept long past its days of usefulness for reasons which, if they had ever existed, could no longer be remembered—fell to the floor and bounced disconsolately. It occurred to Pam that she might forget the murders for a time and devote herself to reorganizing the bathroom cabinet, which clearly needed it. Pam dismissed this thought as dull and, in a sense, escapist. She found the bottle she was looking for, sat down on the edge of the tub, and painted on stockings. She stood in front of the long mirror in the door and regarded herself and thought she looked very odd with painted stockings and nothing else and turned sideways and regarded herself from that angle. Possibly, she thought, I ought to give up potatoes for a few days. But it was a moot question. She considered herself further in reflection, thought of Jerry, blushed slightly and inexplicably and returned her mind to harsher things. She left the bathroom and for a moment the air in the hall and the bedroom seemed cold, but after a moment it was no longer cold. She was very careful not to rub her legs against anything and sat on the edge of the bed, holding them well out, and waved them up and down. But whatever she did, they would certainly rub off on whatever she wore.

Cleo Harper, she decided, was really the oddest of all of them. The others were strange and seemed to be doing strange things. Elliot was hiding himself, for example, and Martinelli was hiding something else. Where he had been when Ann was killed, probably. And if he had more than the most casual, oblique relationship with Ann he was hiding that, too. But Cleo Harper was, as the others were not, contradictory. The others might be, and that included even Mrs. Pennock, quite usual people in an unusual situation. Cleo would be odd even in the most usual situation.

And even as she formed it, Pam realized that that conviction was based on a feeling rather than on anything tangible. Being in the same room with Cleo Harper, you felt her as odd and contradictory; you felt that you knew, really, nothing about her. You did not approve or disapprove; you were merely perplexed and made uneasy. And you suspected that, if you were more alert, you would find out something which it was important to know.

So, Pam thought, I had better try to find out more about Cleo Harper. Pam waved her legs and touched one of them doubtfully. It did not come off and she touched the other. It did not come off either. So probably they were dry, or as dry as they were going to get. And how could you find out more about Cleo Harper? The answer to that seemed to be—see her and find out more. But you ought, in human decency—as a tribute to human circumlocution—to have an excuse. You could not merely go to Cleo Harper and say: “Listen, I want to find out more about you.”

That would be too simple and direct, and too sensible. And probably it would be unproductive. It would surprise Cleo and surprise would make her sullen and secretive and uneasy. There had to be some excuse. Pam pondered an excuse. She might, she supposed, merely call Cleo up and suggest they have lunch somewhere and a good talk, and plead a sudden fondness for Cleo to justify the obviously rather inexplicable advance. This would not, Pam realized, seem convincing to anyone; her own attitude, which was one of moderate distaste for Cleo, would inevitably show through. The excuse would have to be something specific.

Pam continued to contemplate as she continued to dress. Dressing was very simple; it consisted primarily of a girdle—which looked oddly disconsolate with no stockings to tie to—and a grayish-brown dress of light-weight wool. Her shoes were brown (and felt strange on merely painted feet) and the brown hat matched. Pam regarded the final product without disapproval and looked up the number of Breckley House in the telephone book.

Cleo Harper was not at Breckley House, an impersonal voice told her. Miss Harper was at her office. There was an implication in the voice that that was too obvious to need reporting; there was a further implication that, by this time, all the world should be at its office. It was not customary, the voice said, to give office addresses of residents of Breckley House to unidentified voices on the telephone.

“Why?” said Pam, with sincere interest.

“It is not at all customary,” the voice said, even more impersonally. “Not at all.”

“But I'm a very old friend,” Pam said, urgently. “And I'm only in town for a few hours and I simply must see Cleo.
Dear
Cleo,” she added, to clinch it.

“Well—” the voice said. “It is really not at all customary. However—in the event of a special case. I'll see if we have it.”

There was a pause and the small, elusive sounds which come through a telephone laid on a desk. There were tappings and distant voices and, dimly, someone saying, “Well, she'll have to, that's all.” Then feet tapped on the floor and there was the sound of the telephone being lifted and that curious moment when the other end of the telephone line became sentient. The voice at the other end of the line drew in a preparatory breath and said that this wasn't in the least customary.

“However,” the voice said. “Under the circumstances. Her card says Estates Incorporated.” The voice hesitated. Then, with the final barrier overcome by new resolution, it gave an address on Madison Avenue. Near the beginning of Madison Avenue. Pamela North thanked the voice and hung up.

One thing, Pam thought, was a little interesting about all of this. All of it centered within a relatively few blocks of which Madison Square was roughly the center. Ann had lived a little south and east; Cleo had worked and Frances had worked a little north; Frances had died only a few doors from where she worked and Cleo lived only four or five blocks north and west, between Madison and Fifth.

This was convenient but not, so far as Pam could see, illuminating. She put on a fur coat over the grayish-brown—or brownish-gray, as Jerry insisted?—dress and went out. It wasn't snowing today, but there was melting snow in Washington Square. The rest of the snow had almost vanished. Pamela got a cab with surprisingly little difficulty.

Estates Incorporated was evidently a large affair. When you stepped from the elevator, you stepped at once into it, facing a bare desk behind which was a crisp young woman who was anything but bare. She was expertly furbished. She looked at Mrs. North with polite enquiry. Mrs. North advanced to the desk and the young woman stood.

“I want to see Miss Cleo Harper,” Mrs. North said. The young woman sat down again. Her action was comment, and adverse. She said, “Oh,” making the comment more explicit.

“Have you a Miss Harper?” Pam said, when the conversation seemed to lag.

“Harper?” the young woman said. “Harper? Oh,
Harper.
” Her tone implied that Mrs. North was guilty of deliberate and confusing mispronunciation. “You mean Cleo Harper?”

Mrs. North was patient. She said she did.

“I believe there
is
a Miss
Cleo
Harper,” the young woman said, indicating at once disapproval of Miss Harper's name and annoyance that Mrs. North had begun by asking for—say—a Miss
Jane
Harper. “I believe she files, however.”

“However what?” Mrs. North said. “Why however?”

“What?” the young woman said, looking at Mrs. North without fondness.

“What I mean is,” Mrs. North said. “Why do you say ‘however'? She files, however. Do you mean that because she files I can't see her? Or what? And what is Estates Incorporated, anyway?”

Mrs. North added this because it had been bothering her and she wanted to know. The other looked at her and there was worry in the clear, business-like eyes.

“What do you mean what is Estates Incorporated?” the young woman said. Her voice was uneasy. “It's the company.”

“Of course,” Mrs. North said. “I know that. What is it?”

“Listen,” the girl at the desk said, leaning forward and putting her elbows on the desk. “What the hell do you want, miss?”

“Cleo Harper,” Mrs. North said. “Unless she's filed. Permanently, I mean. And to know what Estates Incorporated is, since you brought it up.”

“
I
brought it up?” the other said. “
I
brought it up?”

“Look,” Mrs. North said. “I came in here just like anybody else to see somebody. Cleo Harper who files, however. Is there any reason why I can't see Miss Harper?”

“What do you want, anyway,” the other said. “What are you trying to pull, miss?”

“I wish,” Mrs. North said, “you wouldn't call me miss. Or get so excited. I just came to see somebody who works here. Like you do. Is that so very—so very uncustomary?”

“She's just a file clerk,” the girl said. “Why don't you see her at home if you want to see her?”

“Because,” Mrs. North said, “she isn't at home. She's here.”

“Oh God,” the young woman said. “Oh God!”

She was no longer bright and impersonal. Her accent was no longer bright and impersonal. It puzzled Pamela North somewhat, but she waited.

“It manages estates,” the young woman said. “It just manages estates. For people who have estates.”

Pam North looked at her a moment.

“Did it manage Ann Lawrence's estate?” she said suddenly.

“Yes,” the receptionist said. “I mean, I don't know. You'll have to see Mr. Pierson.”

“Why?” Mrs. North said. “Why instead of Miss Harper?”

“If you want to talk about estates you'll have to see Mr. Pierson,” the receptionist said. She said it as if it were a final truth to cling to. “Everybody does.”

“All right,” Pam said, quite unexpectedly to herself. “Let me see Mr. Pierson.”

It was as if she had touched a button. It was a button which made everything regular again. She could see the young woman become, instantly, competent and alert and assured. Things were regularized; somebody was asked for who might, within the rules laid down, suitably be asked for.

“I am afraid Mr. Pierson is engaged,” the receptionist said, and now even her accent was assured and untroubled. “Whom shall I say is calling?”

It ought, Mrs. North thought, to be “who.” But she wasn't quite sure and she decided to ignore it.

“Mrs. Gerald North,” she said. “Although I don't suppose the name will mean anything to him.”

“Mrs. Gerald North,” the receptionist repeated, writing it down on a pad, in a space set apart for names so submitted. Now everything was beautifully regular.

“In regard to—?” the receptionist said, and paused.

“In regard to seeing Miss Cleo Harper,” Mrs. North said.

The poised pencil trembled slightly.

“Please,” the receptionist said. “Please, Mrs. North.”

It was entreaty.

“All right,” Mrs. North said. “In regard to whether you handle—handled—Miss Ann Lawrence's estate.”

The pencil started to write. Then it paused. The eyes—they were blue eyes—above the pencil looked at Mrs. North.

“She was killed,” the receptionist said. “Is it something about that? Because there's a man with Mr. Pierson now about that. A—a Mr. Mullins. A sergeant, but he isn't dressed like a sergeant. Not like the sergeants I know.”

“He's a detective sergeant,” Mrs. North explained. “He's just dressed like anybody.” She paused, visualizing Sergeant Mullins. “Or almost,” she added, in the interest of strict accuracy. “Look. I'd like to see Mr. Mullins, as long as he's here. Will you tell him, please?”

The receptionist looked at Mrs. North sadly.

“First,” she said, “you wanted to see Miss Harper. Then you wanted to see Mr. Pierson. Now you want to see this Mr.—this Sergeant Mullins. Whom do you want to see?”

“Any of them,” Pam said. “All of them. Let's start with Mr. Mullins.”

The girl looked at Mrs. North again and shook her head. But she picked up a telephone and pressed a button and then she said, softly, “A Mrs. North would like to speak to Mr. Mullins.” She waited. “No,” she said, “she's right here.” She looked up at Mrs. North. “Right here,” she repeated, with rather odd emphasis. She waited and said “thank you” and then, to Mrs. North, she said: “They say to come in, Mrs. North.”

She pointed the way and, after Mrs. North had started down a corridor, she looked after Mrs. North with a strange, awed expression. Then she sat and stared at the elevator door, but she stared at it with eyes which held foreboding.

Alfred Pierson had been the third name on Sergeant Mullins' list of those who had been at Ann Lawrence's house the evening before she was killed. But the first name was that of a man who had left on an overnight sleeper for Washington and the second that of a woman who had left, at a remarkably early hour that morning, for a shopping tour which, Mullins gathered from her maid, promised to be extensive. So Mullins had come to Estates Incorporated and Mr. Pierson at a few minutes before ten o'clock.

Mullins had been obscurely surprised to see Mr. Pierson, because he had visualized him as quite different from what he was. Mullins, for no good reason, unless names have a character of their own, which is doubtful, had anticipated meeting a grayish man in middle life. He met a blackish man in, evidently, his early thirties.

Alfred Pierson had black hair with a wave in it, and black eyes; he was slender and graceful; his dark suit managed not to look like a dark suit a man would wear to an office and his face, lightly tanned, looked as if a barber had only just finished with it. He looked very well taken care of and, Mullins admitted a shade reluctantly, as if he could very well take care of things. Particularly, Mullins added to himself, of women.

He was quick when he met Mullins, but he was at the same time unhurried. He offered cigarettes quickly, with a deft movement; he waited quietly while Mullins lighted the cigarette and until Mullins spoke. He nodded when Mullins spoke and there was a suitable expression of gravity on his face, nothing more.