The Chill (28 page)

“It probably does.”

“One other fact came out, Lew. The Haggerty woman knew Bradshaw long before they met in Reno.”

“Where and how?”

“Foley says he doesn’t know, and I believe him. I offered to pay him for any information that checked out. It broke his heart when he couldn’t do business with me.”

I found Jerry Marks in the law library on the second floor of the courthouse. Several bound volumes of typescript were piled on the table in front of him. There was dust on his hands, and a smudge on the side of his nose.

“Have you turned up anything, Jerry?”

“I’ve come to one conclusion. The case against McGee was weak. It consisted of two things, mainly: prior abuse of his wife, and the little girl’s testimony, which some judges would have thrown out of court. I’ve been concentrating on her testimony, because I’m going to have a chance to question her under pentothal.”

“When?”

“Tonight at eight, at the nursing home. Dr. Godwin isn’t free till then.”

“I want to be there.”

“That suits me, if Godwin can be persuaded. It was all I could do to get myself invited, and I’m her lawyer.”

“I think Godwin is sitting on something. There’s a job that needs doing between now and eight. It’s properly my job but this is your town and you can do it faster. Find out if Roy Bradshaw’s alibi for Helen Haggerty’s murder is waterproof and dustproof and antimagnetic.”

Jerry sat up straight and used his forefinger to smudge his nose some more. “How should I go about it?”

“Bradshaw addressed an alumni banquet Friday evening. I want to know if he could have slipped out during one of the other speeches, or left in time to kill her. You have a right to any facts the sheriff’s men and the pathologist can provide about time of death.”

“I’ll do my best,” he said, pushing his chair back.

“One other thing, Jerry. Is there any word on the ballistics tests?”

“The rumor says they’re still going on. The rumor doesn’t say why. Do you suppose they’re trying to fake something?”

“No, I don’t. Ballistics experts don’t go in for fakery.”

I left him gathering up his transcripts and walked downtown to the Pacific Hotel. My bellhop had contacted Mrs. Deloney’s cab-driver, and told me in return for a second five that the two elderly ladies had checked in at the Surf House. I bought a drip-dry shirt and some underwear and socks and went back to my motel to shower and change. I needed that before I tackled Mrs. Deloney again.

Someone was knocking as I stepped out of the shower, tapping ever so gently as if the door was fragile.

“Who’s there?”

“Madge Gerhardi. Let me in.”

“As soon as I’m dressed.”

It took a little time. I had to pick the pins out of my new shirt, and my hands were jerking.

“Please
let me in,” the woman said at the door. “I don’t want to be seen.”

I pulled on my trousers and went to the door in my bare feet She pressed in past me as if there was a storm at her back. Her garish blonde hair was windblown. She took hold of my hands with both of her clammy ones.

“The police are watching my house. I don’t know if they followed me here or not. I came along the beach.”

“Sit down,” I said, and placed a chair for her. “I’m sure the police aren’t after you. They’re looking for your friend Begley-McGee.”

“Don’t call him that. It sounds as though you’re making fun of him.” It was an avowal of love.

“What do you want me to call him?”

“I still call him Chuck. A man has a right to change his name, after what they did to him, and what they’re doing. Anyway, he’s a writer, and writers use pen names.”

“Okay, I’ll call him Chuck. But you didn’t come here to argue about a name.”

She fingered her mouth, pushing her full lower lip from side to side. She wasn’t wearing lipstick or any other makeup. Without it she looked younger and more innocent.

“Have you heard from Chuck?” I said.

She nodded almost imperceptibly, as if too great a movement would endanger him.

“Where is he, Madge?”

“In a safe place. I’m not to tell you where unless you promise not to tell the police.”

“I promise.”

Her pale eyes brightened. “He wants to talk to you.”

“Did he say what about?”

“I didn’t talk to him personally. A friend of his down at the harbor telephoned the message.”

“I take it he’s somewhere around the harbor then.”

She gave me another of her barely visible nods.

“You’ve told me this much” I said. “You might as well tell me the rest. I’d give a lot for an interview with Chuck.”

“And you won’t lead the police to him?”

“Not if I can help it. Where is he, Madge?”

She screwed up her face and made the plunge: “He’s on Mr. Stevens’s yacht, the
Revenant.”

“How did he get aboard her?”

“I’m not sure. He knew that Mr. Stevens was racing her at Balboa over the weekend. I think he went there and surrendered to Mr. Stevens.”

I left Madge in my room. She didn’t want to go out again by herself, or ride along with me. I took the waterfront boulevard to the harbor. While a few tugboats and tuna-fishers used its outer reaches, most of the boats moored at the slips or anchored within the long arm of the jetty were the private yachts and cruisers of weekend sailors.

On a Monday, not many of them were at sea, but I noticed a few white sails on the horizon. They were headed shoreward, like homing dreams.

A man in the harbormaster’s glass-enclosed lookout pointed out Stevens’s yacht to me. Though she rode at the far end of the outer slip, she was easy to spot because of her towering mast. I walked out along the floating dock to her.

Revenant
was long and sleek, with a low streamlined cabin and a racing cockpit. Her varnish was smooth and clear, her brass was bright. She rocked ever so slightly on the enclosed water, like an animal trembling to run.

I stepped aboard and knocked on the hatch. No answer, but it opened when I pushed. I climbed down the short ladder and made my way past some short-wave radio equipment, and a tiny galley smelling of burned coffee, into the sleeping quarters. An oval of sunlight from one of the ports, moving reciprocally with the motion of the yacht, fluttered against the bulkhead like a bright and living soul. I said to it:

“McGee?”

Something stirred in an upper bunk. A face appeared at eye level. It was a suitable face for the crew of a boat named
Revenant
. McGee had shaved off his beard, and the lower part of his face had a beard-shaped pallor. He looked older and thinner and much less sure of himself.

“Did you come here by yourself?” he whispered.

“Naturally I did.”

“That means you don’t think I’m guilty, either.” He was reduced to such small momentary hopefulnesses.

“Who else doesn’t think you’re guilty?”

“Mr. Stevens.”

“Was this his idea?” I said, with a gesture that included McGee and myself.

“He didn’t say I
shouldn’t
talk to you.”

“Okay, McGee, what’s on your mind?”

He lay still watching me. His mouth was twitching, and his eyes held a kind of beseeching brightness. “I don’t know where to start. I’ve been living in my thoughts for ten years—so long it hardly seems real. I know what happened to me but I don’t know why. Ten years in the pen, with no chance of parole because I wouldn’t admit that I was guilty. How could I? I was bum-rapped. And now they’re getting ready to do it again.”

He gripped the polished mahogany edge of the bunk. “I can’t go back to ‘Q’, brother. I did ten years and it was
hard
time. There’s no time as hard as the time you do for somebody else’s mistake. God, but the days crawled. There weren’t enough jobs to go round and half the time I had nothing to do but sit and think.

“I’ll kill myself,” he said, “before I let them send me back again.”

He meant it, and I meant what I said in reply: “It won’t happen, McGee. That’s a promise.”

“I only wish I could believe you. You get out of the habit of believing people. They don’t believe you, you don’t believe them.”

“Who killed your wife?”

“I don’t know.”

“Who do you think killed her?”

“I’m not saying.”

“You’ve gone to a lot of trouble, and taken quite a risk, to get me out here and tell me you’re not saying. Let’s go back to where it started, McGee. Why did your wife leave you?”

“I left her. We had been separated for months when she was killed. I wasn’t even in Indian Springs that night, I was here in the Point.”

“Why did you leave her?”

“Because she asked me to. We weren’t getting along. We never did get along after I came back from the service. Constance and the kid spent the war years living with her sister, and she couldn’t adjust to me after that. I admit I was a wild man for a while then. But her sister Alice promoted the trouble between us.”

“Why?”

“She thought the marriage was a mistake. I guess she wanted Constance all to herself. I just got in the way.”

“Did anybody else get in the way?”

“Not if Alice could help it.”

I phrased my question more explicitly: “Was there another man in Constance’s life?”

“Yeah. There was.” He seemed ashamed, as if the infidelity had been his. “I’ve given it a lot of thought over the years, and I don’t see much point in opening it up now. The guy had nothing to do with her death, I’m sure of that. He was crazy about her. He wouldn’t hurt her.”

“How do you know?”

“I talked to him about her, not long before she was killed. The kid told me what was going on between him and her.”

“You mean your daughter Dolly?”

“That’s right. Constance used to meet the guy every Saturday, when she brought Dolly in to see the doctor. On one of
my visiting days with the kid—the last one we ever had together, in fact—she told me about those meetings. She was only eleven or twelve and she didn’t grasp the full significance, but she knew something fishy was going on.

“Every Saturday afternoon Constance and the guy used to park her in a double-feature movie and go off by themselves someplace, probably some motel. Constance asked the kid to cover for her, and she did. The guy even gave her money to tell Alice that Constance went to those movies with her. I thought that was a lousy trick.” McGee tried to warm over his old anger but he had suffered too much, and thought too much, to be able to. His face hung like a cold moon over the edge of the bunk.

“We might as well use his name,” I said. “Was it Godwin?”

“Hell no. It was Roy Bradshaw. He used to be a professor at the college.” He added with a kind of mournful pride: “Now he’s the Dean out there.”

He wouldn’t be for long, I thought; his sky was black with chickens coming home to roost.

“Bradshaw was one of Dr. Godwin’s patients,” McGee was saying. “That’s where he and Connie met, in Godwin’s waiting room. I think the doctor kind of encouraged the thing between them.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Bradshaw told me himself the doctor said it was good for them, for their emotional health. It’s a funny thing, I went to Bradshaw’s house to get him to lay off Connie, even if I had to beat him up. But by the time he was finished talking he had me half-convinced that he and Connie were right, and I was wrong. I still don’t know who was right and who was wrong. I know I never gave her any real happiness, after the first year. Maybe Bradshaw did.”

“Is that why you didn’t inject him into your trial?”

“That was one reason. Anyway, what was the use of fouling it up? It would only make me look worse.” He paused. A
deeper tone rose from a deeper level of his nature: “Besides, I loved her. I loved Connie. It was the one way I had to prove I loved her.”

“Did you know that Bradshaw was married to another woman?”

“When?”

“For the last twenty years. He divorced her a few weeks ago.”

McGee looked shocked. He’d been living on illusions for a long time, and I was threatening his sustenance. He pulled himself back into the bunk, almost out of sight.

“Her name was Letitia Macready—Letitia Macready Bradshaw. Have you ever heard of her?”

“No. How could he be married? He was living at home with his mother.”

“There are all kinds of marriages,” I said. “He may not have seen his wife in years, and then again he may have. He may have had her living here in town, unknown to his mother or any of his friends. I suspect that was the case, judging from the lengths he went to to cover up his divorce.”

McGee said in a confused and shaken voice: “I don’t see what it has to do with me.”

“It may have a very great deal. If the Macready woman was in town ten years ago, she had a motive for killing your wife—a motive as strong as your own.”

He didn’t want to think about the woman. He was too used to thinking about himself. “I
had
no motive. I wouldn’t hurt a hair of her head.”

“You did, though, once or twice.”

He was silent. All I could see of him was his wavy gray hair, like a dusty wig, and his large dishonest eyes trying to be honest:

“I hit her a couple of times, I admit it. I suffered the tortures of the damned afterward. You’ve got to understand, I used to get mean when I got plastered. That’s why Connie sent
me away, I don’t blame her. I don’t blame her for anything. I blame myself.” He drew in a long breath and let it out slowly.

I offered him a cigarette, which he refused. I lit one for myself. The bright trembling patch of sunlight was climbing the bulkhead. It would soon be evening.

“So Bradshaw had a wife,” McGee said. He had had time to absorb the information. “And he told me he intended to marry Connie.”

“Maybe he did intend to. It would strengthen the woman’s motive.”

“You honestly think she did it?”

“She’s a prime suspect. Bradshaw is another. He must have been a suspect to your daughter, too. She enrolled in his college and took a job in his household to check on him. Was that your idea, McGee?”

He shook his head.

“I don’t understand her part in all this. She hasn’t been much help in explaining it, either.”

“I know,” he said. “Dolly’s done a lot of lying, starting away back when. But when a little kid lies you don’t put the same construction on it as you would an adult.”