Something in the Shadows (13 page)

• • •

Again he glanced at his wrist watch, calculating now whether or not it would be a good time to call Ingram. Today was Lou’s hospital day. When he left Trenton early this morning, he had planned to report at the hospital; planned to go home first for a change of clothes and something to eat, then drive back to New Hope by ten. It was important to him because of Ingram. The old man had put a lot of trust in Lou when no one else would; Lou knew the old man counted on him not to be let down. He would have made it all right, if it had not been for the accident in Washington Crossing. It was not too serious, no one else was involved, but it had curled the left front fender of the Benz, and thrown the horn wires out of whack so that the horn blew for close to twenty minutes before Lou figured out a way of stopping it. He had hit a tree, turning too sharply on a curve. He supposed he had probably been still slightly drunk; there was no other explanation. It was the first time he had ever done damage to the car; and it was the last thing left for him to damage.

He cleared his throat a few times and said “Hello” a few times, to get the huskiness out of his voice; and then he reached for the phone. Ingram would be home about this time. He dialled the number, deciding the best way was simply to say he had been unavoidably detained; no apologies, no explanations. Either Ingram had called very early that morning, or Janice had left for New York very late. There was the possibility Ingram was not calling Lou about his absence at all. But when Ingram answered and recognized Lou’s voice, his tone was unmistakably one of anger.

Lou started to say, “I was called to Trenton early this morning and it took me longer than — ”

But the old man cut him off in the middle of the sentence. “Louis, you know Mrs. Glover-Hadley, I think?”

“Yes, of course. She has something to do with the hospital’s board of directors.”

“Not
something
to do with them, no.
Everything
to do with them, Louis. You might say she
is
the board of directors. And you know her son, T. W.?”

“I don’t
know
him.”

“That isn’t important, Louis. He knows you. He was over in Danboro Friday night. He told his mother you were there, intoxicated, and involved in a fist fight of some sort. No, don’t say anything. Let me finish. She woke me up Saturday morning, calling me on the telephone. She said either you break your affiliation with the hospital or she’ll break hers.”

“I see.”

“I tried to call you Saturday
and
Sunday. Then I tried again this morning before I left the house. Apparently you didn’t go to the hospital this morning anyway.”

“No, sir.”

“I’m sorry about this, Louis. I think Mrs. Glover-Hadley is a meddler, she always was, and I think T. W. is a worse old woman than she is, but I also think you have a little soul-searching to do. Does that sound pontifical?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Your father was my closest friend, Louis. If you’d like to come and have a talk with me, I’d be glad to arrange some free time. Maybe talking with me would just embarrass you, I don’t know, but if you ever want to give it a try, Louis, I’m available.”

“Thank you, Dr. Ingram.”

“Good night, then. Take care of yourself, Louis.”

“Good night,” Lou said. He put the phone’s arm back in its cradle. Then he put his palms to his face and wept.

Outside it was beginning to snow. The dented Benz was parked in the back, beside the strange green station wagon. A patient’s car, Lou had guessed when he had arrived home that morning; it had probably broken down and had to be temporarily abandoned.

Monday, Amos Fenton had imagined that what took place between him and Maggie last Friday night would undoubtedly be resolved with some John O’Hara-type conversation.

He imagined that it would happen some time during the work day at A. & F.; that it would go something like this:

Maggie: I suppose you’re thinking the same thing I am?

Amos: If you mean that our timing was way off, yes.

Maggie: Yes, something like that. Only I wasn’t thinking it was our timing that was off. There’ll never be a time, will there, Amos?

Amos: Friday was probably as close as we’ll ever come to it.

Maggie: Are you sorry? I am. Amos: I am, too.

Maggie: Then we just as good as, in a way.

Amos: Yes, I guess we just as good as. End of story.

But Monday produced neither that kind of talk, nor Maggie, and neither did Tuesday. Wednesday when Maggie missed work again Fenton began worrying. Maybe he had misjudged both Maggie
and
Joseph, and let himself in for something he was not in any mood to handle. He was already in up to his neck with the Waverly Soap people, a client that really did relate cleanliness to Godliness. Their latest gripe was over one of the girls who sang “The Waverly Wonderful” commercial. It seemed she had abandoned her illegitimate child when she was 19, and now was fighting in the courts for its return, with much “yellow newspaper” publicity. The newspapers were on her side, but the Waverly Soap people said her presence in the commercial would automatically associate the Waverly Soap baby with bastards — and somehow Amos Fenton was just as responsible as the man who had run out on the girl. Thursday Amos spent the day with the client convincing him he was God-fearing, his children were all legitimate, and by the time “Waverly Wonderful” was heard in the sticks, no one would remember that the girl third from the left had once forgotten herself. At nine o’clock that night, back in Greenwich, immersed in domesticity (a game of “Scrabble for Juniors” with his boys) the radio broadcast the news. The name Billy Duncan rang no bells, but Old Ferry Road did; so did the name Dr. Louis Hart. Friday morning just as Fenton was on the verge of suggesting Maggie have lunch with him, Maggie herself called for the same reason.

“Do you mind if we eat in? It’s more private.”

Amos Fenton understood perfectly.

“I tried to get hold of you yesterday,” said Maggie when he shut the door behind him, shortly after noon.

“I was with old man Tuckerman from Waverly.”

“Have you read the newspapers on this?”

“I only saw the
Times
this morning, but I heard something last night. Look, is it serious?”

“Read this, first,” Maggie said. She handed him one of the morning sheets, the same one which was involved with a mercy plea for the girl in “Waverly Wonderful.” There was a picture of a private in an Army uniform, carrying a gun with a bayonet fixed to it, and wearing a combat helmet. Beside that was a smaller, less focused snapshot of a man holding a fedora in his hand, an older version of the soldier. The older version was wearing a well-pressed suit, standing beside a station wagon, carrying a girl, about four, in his right arm. Fenton read the story.

“The disappearance of World War II hero William (Billy) Duncan, of Lambertville, New Jersey, is taking on a mysterious air, with Dr. Louis Hart’s insistence that he and Duncan never met.

“Duncan, 42, has been missing since Monday morning. His wife, Muriel, told police her husband left for a hunting expedition in Bucks County, Pennsylvania, at seven-thirty that morning.

“Duncan’s green station wagon was found parked behind the home of Dr. Louis Hart, on Old Ferry Road, in the rural district of New Hope.

“Hart’s story is that he noticed the car when he arrived home from a visit to Trenton, New Jersey, close to noon on Monday. Believing that it was a patient’s car which might have broken down, he ignored the green station wagon until the following day. He then telephoned police to report that it was there, claiming that he knew no one named William Duncan.

“Reporters subsequently learned that Hart and a man answering Duncan’s description were seen together at a Danboro bar last Friday evening. Dr. Hart was asked to leave the bar after a fight with the man.

“Something of a ‘character’ in rural New Hope, Dr. Louis Hart was cleared of a charge of ‘negligence’ some five years ago, when he failed to appear at the scene of a fatal accident, for which his professional services had been requested. The victim of the accident, involving an electric saw, died while Dr. Hart slept in his car, allegedly en route, until he pulled over to the side of the road for a nap.

“Hart has not been able to explain his whereabouts from Friday until late Monday morning to the satisfaction of the investigating police.

“Meanwhile, where is Billy Duncan? A battle-tried veteran of World War II, hero in the invasion of Sicily with the 47th Regiment, Duncan is a sturdy, crack-shot sportsman. The father of six children, he is a salesman for the Merriweather Mayonnaise Corporation, of Merriweather, Pennsylvania.

“His wife told reporters she is sure her husband does not know Dr. Louis Hart. She cannot explain how her husband’s car came to be parked behind the Hart house, unless he had been involved in an accident of some sort, and gone there for medical aid.

“Alfred White, bartender at the Danboro Bar, identified Duncan from photographs. He claims Duncan and the doctor met at the bar, and had a fight about the doctor’s drinking. This was Friday night. Duncan returned to Lambertville and spent Saturday and Sunday with his family.

“Where was Hart during that time?

“Where is Duncan now?”

Fenton put the newspaper back on Maggie’s desk.

“I suppose
we’re
going to be involved?”

“Not if we can help it, and not just to save our own necks either, Amos.”

“Well, that’s what
I’m
interested in, frankly. Saving
our
necks. This could get out of hand, Maggie. You know damn well! We saw Hart
after
he left Danboro. There was a fight! What was the fight about? Hell, you know yourself — ”

“Wait, just
wait!
I spent all day Wednesday with Janice Hart. Lou doesn’t remember anything, naturally. We filled him in on what we could. By the way, he sent his apologies.”

“Thanks.”

“He’s really not a bad guy, Amos. I feel damn sorry for him.” “Okay.”

“We all agree there is absolutely no point in mentioning his visit with us. He went from Danboro to Trenton, checked in at some motel, and stayed there. He can prove that. He’s done it before too, so it’s nothing suspicious. He’s just going to have to say he drinks, and when he drinks, he does that.”

“Okay. But what’s the truth?”

“That’s the truth! He was at some motel the whole weekend. Jan called me about it Saturday and again Sunday. That’s the way he is, that’s all.”

“What about this guy Duncan?”

“Well, he probably did have a fight with him. He claims he doesn’t remember, but the next day he had some bruises.”

“Hell, that could have been my fist’s work! I don’t get it! Couldn’t he explain it better if he just said
we
had a fight? I’m not suggesting that, of course, God knows! I don’t want any connection with this thing. But I don’t get
his
reasoning.”

Maggie lit a cigarette. “Listen carefully, Amos. Lou Hart claims that if Alfred White says Lou was fighting with someone in his bar, Alfred White is telling the truth. Lou says the fellow doesn’t lie. All right. So suppose he met this Duncan and fought with him, and there are witnesses apparently. No, never mind the apparently. There
are
witnesses. Okay, then he left Danboro and came to our house. Why? Don’t you see? We’d just make it all worse for him. And for ourselves! The police would want to know why he didn’t go home afterwards and what he did while he was there, and there’s just no point in making him look any more unstable than he already looks to everyone.”

“I’m for that, all right. I don’t want to have anything to do with it.”

“That’s exactly what Lou says. He doesn’t want us involved either.”

“How does
he
explain Duncan’s car being at his place?”

“He can’t explain it. He’s a mess!”

“How do you explain it, Maggie? You look like you’re holding out on me.”

“I think the same thing his wife thinks, that he had an accident or something and saw the doctor’s sign. Believe me, Janice and I left for New York together about eight. There was no green station wagon at the place then. Why couldn’t he have had an accident in the woods nearby and then driven to the Harts'?”

“He could have. It’s logical. But where is he now?”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

“What do you know about this fellow Hart, I mean,
really?”

“Not a lot, Amos. Not anything.”

“What about this case of negligence?”

“He’s a drinker. He was soused when he got the call, and passed out before he could get there. Oh, he doesn’t deserve any medals of any kind, but — ”

“But what?”

“I just don’t think he murdered this Duncan fellow.”

“Who said he did?”

“Well, you know damn well that’s what the newspapers are implying!”

“Anything else, Maggie? I can tell there’s more.”

“Yes, there’s more. While he stayed at the motel in Trenton he registered under the name Duncan Tondley.”

Amos Fenton whistled.
“Duncan
Tondley! Nice! Where’d he get the
Duncan
from? How’s he going to explain that? How do you explain it, for that matter?”

“I think he did meet this Duncan fellow, and they did have a fight. He was blotto, you know that yourself; he was looped, Amos! Well, he remembered the Duncan in his unconscious mind. That explains the Duncan. There’s a small matter of the Tondley, though, which I can’t explain, not unless you give me a lot of time, and a martini.”

“Tondley? Didn’t he use that name Friday night at your place too?”

“Freddy Tondley was the name of the electric-saw victim in the negligence case! Yes, he was yelling it around Friday night.”

“For God’s sake! Maggie, are you going to sit there and say that two and two makes accident? Tondley was the guy he let die! Duncan Tondley! You said something about time and a martini explaining everything. I suppose he’s a Jekyll-Hyde. You going to tell me that? Duncan Tondley! Maggie, is it sinking in on you at all? This sounds like one hell of a goddam juicy scandal. Murder, and no kidding!”

“I know how it
sounds!
But I can explain the ‘Tondley.’ We have to begin way back, Amos, with Joseph’s Siamese and a certain cat-hater who’s a mechanic at the New Hope garage. Are you ready to adjourn to a dark, private corner, say,
upstairs
in that French place across the street? I’m out of the mood for ordering up.”

“Lord knows, I could use a drink.”

“You should see Joseph,” Maggie said, pulling her pocketbook out of her desk drawer. “You wouldn’t know him any more.”

“I never did.”

“Well, even so. You’d see the difference in him. You’ll understand better when I tell you the whole story.”

“You mean Joseph’s mixed up in it?”

“Let’s say, he
thinks
he is. Well, he’s right too, in a way. But he’s not responsible for whatever happened to this Duncan. That’s what he can’t get through his head. So — he’s drinking.”

“Good for him! That’s what I’d do.”

“It’s not the drinking, Amos. Not just the drinking! It’s the change that comes over him when he drinks!”

“What is he, violent or something? Abusive?”

“Dear old Amos,” Maggie said crossing the room, straightening Fenton’s tie, “dear old Maggie, for that matter! We’re logical folk, that’s our trouble. If someone like Joseph were to drink, someone like Joseph would become violent and abusive, that’s the way we think. Well, the Josephs in the world are a little more complicated than that! Do you want to stop upstairs for your topcoat?”

“No.” He opened the door of her office for her. “Well, what about Joseph when he drinks?”

“He’s happy,” Maggie said, “he’s happy as a lark!”

Friday morning only one patient showed up at Lou Hart’s, an old woman suffering with giardiasis. Lou wrote out a prescription for Atabrine dihydrochloride and gave it to her, and she said she was sorry about all the trouble he was in.

“That Duncan fellow’s probably out in the woods with a bullet in his head,” she said. “Some hunter probably mistook him for an animal, Doctor, now that’s what I think.”

“You take these three times daily, five or six days,” Lou told her, “and if you have any upset, you take some sodium bicarbonate. I’ll give you some samples I have here.”

She smiled and said, of course that did
not
explain how Duncan’s car got in his drive, “but he could have just parked it there now, couldn’t he, Doctor Hart? Just figured you were a doctor and one car more or less in your drive wouldn’t go noticed, now that’s what I think.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Sussman,” said Lou. “I hope you feel better.”

“Is poor Mrs. Hart all upset, Doctor?”

“No,” Lou lied. “Now, you let me know how you feel.”

“And Tony? How’s little Tony?”

“He’ll be home for the holidays,” said Lou.

“All the way from Paris, France?”

“Yes,” Lou said. “For Christmas.”

“Coming all the way across the ocean, hmmm? Looks bad, don’t it?”

“He was coming home for the holidays, anyway,” Lou lied again.

“Well, don’t you worry, Doctor. Plenty of us around here think the world and all of you, no matter what.”

This time Lou was able to get her coat on her, and propel her towards the door. She would pray for him, she said.

As he held open the door for her, he saw Captain Plant from the State Police Barracks, waiting down the hall in the reception room. Mrs. Sussman’s eyes followed Lou’s, and she sucked in her breath with a little s-s-s-s noise and crept down the hall as though she were in danger of being arrested herself.