The Dishonest Murderer (10 page)

Then she moved quickly, swinging long legs out of the bed, sitting on it only a moment while she put on slippers, standing almost at once. “Coffee,” she told Marta. “Just coffee. Perhaps orange juice.” She went across the room and stood for a moment looking out of one of the windows. The snow was still falling heavily. She took the robe Marta offered her, but did not put it on. The room was warm, she should have turned the fan higher. The soft night-gown clung to her body as she went from the window the length of the room to the bath. She certainly is a pretty thing, poor thing, Marta thought. It's an awful shame.

Marta was back with coffee and orange juice—and toast and a poached egg—when Freddie came out of the dressing room which adjoined her bath. While the maid set breakfast on a table by the window, Freddie dressed, quickly. She put on a dark woolen dress, a dress as deeply green as her hair was deeply red. She found she could eat breakfast, that she was almost hungry. Physically, she was all right again.

It was a little after eleven-thirty when she went into the living room and she went at once to Celia Kirkhill, from whose young face everything seemed to have washed away. Freddie put her arms around the girl and, as she did so, Celia began to cry. She cried soundlessly, her body shaking. Freddie held the girl; she felt, not tears, but a burning dryness in her own eyes. She looked over Celia's bent head to Curtis Grainger; said to him, with her eyes, “Be good to her.” Grainger nodded, but at the same time shrugged slightly. What was there to say to Celia? his movement asked. What was there to say to anyone?

Freddie Haven released Celia to Curt Grainger and looked around the room, and felt that the room, the people in it, had been waiting for her. She smiled, as well as she could smile, at her father, still somehow military in a gray suit; she carried the same smile to the others—to Fay Burnley, correct in black, vitality drained out of her face, leaving there nakedly the years she had lived, for anyone to see; to Howard Phipps, still immaculate but obviously very tired, who had been sitting with his knees spread a little, his elbows on them, his head supported in his hands, until she had entered, who had looked up, then, and who now, as if on some signal, stood up in front of his chair. He stood there a moment, and then came the few steps to Freddie Haven and held out his hand, and shook his head slowly to indicate that there were no words. Since he wanted it, apparently wanted to be kind and gentle, Freddie took his hand, felt it clasp her own. Then he released her hand and shook his head again, and turned away. He started back to his chair, seemed to change his mind and went to another. The chair he chose was near that of Breese Burnley, whose entirely perfect face was, still, entirely perfect. Freddie carried her pale smile to Breese, offered it and received in return an expression of gravity and a slight, sympathetic shaking of the head.

Then, and only then, Freddie Haven looked at the table which had been drawn forward from its place near the big windows which looked down on the street. There were three men there, around the table—one sitting at it, with a notebook open, the other two standing. The man sitting at the table was Sergeant Blake, and his eyes met hers. His lips said “Good morning,” without a sound. It seemed to her, oddly, that his face, the way he moved his lips in soundless greeting, were both familiar and, even more strangely, reassuring.

One of the other men was Lieutenant Weigand. The other was a larger man, heavier. He looked, more than either of the others, like a policeman, although he, too, was in civilian clothes.

Lieutenant Weigand's face was tired, as her father's was, as hers was; it was as if he had shared their strain, their anxiety. When Freddie looked at him, he nodded briefly, and said, “Good morning, Mrs. Haven.” Then, almost at once, he said, his voice raised a little, “Now that you're all here—”

He paused while attention focussed on him.

“I'm a lieutenant of detectives,” he said. “My name is Weigand. I've been assigned, with others, of course, to try to discover the circumstances of Senator Kirkhill's death. The exact circumstances.” He paused, and looked around. “I know this is difficult for some of you,” he said. “For Miss Kirkhill and Mrs. Haven, probably for all of you. I'm sorry about that, but it can't be avoided. I mean, I can't avoid asking you to help me, to tell me what you know.” He paused again. “You see,” he said, “the circumstances of the senator's death are very difficult to understand. To make any sort of sense of. I don't know whether you all know what the circumstances were. It was like this—”

He told them, in bare, flat words, of the finding of Bruce Kirkhill's body, of the way the body was dressed, of its identification.

“It appears,” he said, “that the senator was engaged in some—masquerade. That he dressed himself, outwardly, for a certain part, presumably that of a man out of work, sleeping in cheap rooming houses, cadging drinks. He was found in, or near, a part of the city in which men like that are—numerous. He had been given a heavy dose of chloral hydrate. Perhaps it would not have killed him except that he had a weak heart.”

He looked around at them.

“You all knew his heart wasn't good?” he asked. “Was that fact widely known?”

He paused, to give them a chance to answer. He looked from one to another, and one and then another shook his head. He raised his eyebrows at that, as if he were surprised. But the surprise, Freddie Haven thought, did not go deep; it was professional surprise, leaving the man himself untouched. His confidence was untouched, his assurance. He's very intelligent, Freddie thought and then, belatedly: Was there really something the matter with Bruce's heart?

Freddie looked at Celia, because Lieutenant Weigand's gaze had stopped at Celia. The girl with all but youth washed out of her face looked at Freddie and shook her head, her eyes wide, and then at Weigand and said, “No. I didn't know. He—Dad never—” Her head went down, then, her face in her hands.

“Mrs. Haven?” Weigand said, and Freddie shook her head, in turn, and said, “No, Lieutenant, I didn't know.”

And the others said they did not know. Fay Burnley, who had kept house for Bruce Kirkhill for years; her daughter, who perhaps once, briefly, had known him very well indeed; Howard Phipps, who had sometimes said that he lived in the chief's pocket; the admiral, who was to have been Bruce's father-in-law and Curt Grainger, who certainly had hoped to be his son-in-law—none of them knew Kirkhill's heart had been (what did they say?) “involved.” It must, Freddie thought, seem unlikely to Lieutenant Weigand. It must seem—

“Apparently he was very reticent,” Weigand said, his voice without inflection. “However.”

Of course, he told them then, Senator Kirkhill might, under circumstances as they were, have died in any case of exposure. But, if his death was intended, the person who intended it could not have been entirely sure of that. The weak heart might have provided the assurance.

He seemed content to leave it at that. He went on. He was succinct, unemotional; he seemed to apply no pressure. He is very sure, Freddie thought; he is very confident. The thought disturbed her; she looked at her father. To her, Admiral Satterbee's face showed nothing. Did it show more to this undisturbed, intelligent man who seemed so sure? Was her father's face, in its very absence of revelation, revealing?

As he understood it, Weigand said, Senator Kirkhill had been expected at the New Year's Eve party about ten o'clock, expected to check in at the Waldorf some two hours earlier. He had not come to the party. He had not checked in at the Waldorf. “Right?” Weigand said, and let silence confirm.

“Apparently,” Weigand said, “he came up from Washington on an earlier train. As he had planned?” The question was for Phipps. Phipps looked puzzled, but did not speak. “Where he went then, we don't know,” Weigand said. “He went somewhere and changed into this—into this masquerade. He went somewhere and had several drinks, one of them full of chloral hydrate. He walked a while, got sleepy, collapsed in a doorway, died, we think, rather quickly after that. That is all we know—now.”

He stopped, and looked at them, looked around at them.

“I hope one of you, perhaps several of you, know more,” he said. “Can help us fill in. Right?”

But nobody offered anything. Freddie looked around at the others, saw their faces blank. But then Phipps spoke.

“It wasn't as he planned,” Phipps said. “The time he came, I mean. He planned to take the Congressional. I suppose he found he could get away earlier.” He paused, shook his head. “Of course,” he said, “he must have planned to get here earlier. To give time for this—what you call this masquerade.”

“Whatever I call it,” Weigand said, “have you any ideas about it, Mr. Phipps? No hint? He didn't say anything that, now, has a new meaning?”

Phipps seemed to hesitate. Then he shook his head.

If Weigand noticed hesitation, he did not choose to put emphasis on it. He merely nodded, he looked around at the others; at Fay Burnley, at Breese, at Celia, who was looking up, now; who was looking in front of her, at nothing. Will there be something in my face? Freddie wondered. Will he—

“Mrs. Haven?” Weigand said.

She made up her mind.

“I may have seen him,” she said, and was surprised that her low voice was steady. She felt the eyes of all the others looking at her, but she looked only at Lieutenant Weigand. “I—I thought it couldn't be. But perhaps it was.”

She told of the man she had seen, walking with the wind behind him, on some street far downtown; of the man who had reminded her of Bruce Kirkhill, might have been Bruce Kirkhill. “I don't know,” she said. “I knew it couldn't be Bruce but now—now—”

“Right,” Weigand said. “It might have been. Probably we'll never know. About what time?”

“I was home a little after six,” she said. “It might have been about six.”

She could not remember where the car had been when she had seen the man who reminded her of Bruce Kirkhill. She shook her head while Weigand waited. Perhaps on Lafayette Street, she thought; probably on Lafayette Street. But where, where more precisely, she could not remember.

Weigand nodded. He did not seem surprised.

“You got here a little after six,” he said. “Here in the apartment. You stayed here after that, Mrs. Haven? Had dinner here?”

The question seemed, somehow, to grow out of what had gone before. But it doesn't, Freddie thought. Not really. Where were you when Senator Kirkhill was fed chloral hydrate? Where were you, Freddie Haven—Mrs. John Haven—when the man you were going to marry was killed?

“I didn't go out again,” she said. “Until—” She broke off. There was no use telling this quiet, confident man what he already knew. “I had dinner here, saw that everything was ready, dressed for—for the party.”

Weigand nodded. He said, “Right.”

“Dinner alone?” he said. “With your father?” The question was to both of them. Admiral Satterbee answered it.

“I dined out,” he said. “At my club. Keeping out of the way, y'know? Got here at nine-five. Changed. Talked to my daughter a few minutes. Came down here.” He indicated the living room.

“What is your club, Admiral?” Weigand asked. Admiral Satterbee looked surprised, almost indignant. Weigand merely waited. The admiral told him.

“Mean you'll check?” the admiral asked Weigand.

“We check everything we can,” Weigand said, equably, ignoring the admiral's tone. “Mr. Phipps?”

“Where was I?” Phipps said.

If he didn't mind, Weigand told him.

“When?” Phipps said.

“In the evening,” Weigand said.

“As a matter of fact,” Phipps said, “I was one place most of the day. The public library.”

Weigand looked at him, waiting.

“I came up from Washington Thursday night,” Phipps said. “On the midnight train. I went to the Waldorf, checked up on the reservations, checked in myself. I had breakfast and went over to the library. Got there a little after ten, probably. I was there most of the rest of the day. Working. Getting together material for a speech the chief's going—was going to make next week. I left the library around nine in the evening, went to the hotel and changed and came here.”

“A long day,” Weigand said.

“I'm used to it,” Phipps told him.

“You went out for food?”

Obviously, Phipps said. For lunch, to an Automat on Sixth Avenue, behind the library. For dinner, to some place on Fifth, just above Forty-second. A big place.

“None of this you can check,” he said. “Unless the library slips? Would they show times?”

“Oh yes,” Weigand said. He smiled faintly. “At any rate, we'd know where the books were,” he said.

“Fine,” Phipps told him. “Wonderful.”

Weigand smiled again and went on. “Mrs. Burnley?” he asked.

Mrs. Burnley had been, she said, with her daughter, in her daughter's apartment.

“We had a little dinner,” she said. “And talked until it was time to come here. I see Breese
so
seldom, Lieutenant.”

Weigand nodded.

“There was a maid?” he said.

Mrs. Burnley shook her head, and earrings swayed.

“Just
us
,” she said. “I fixed us a little dinner.” She paused. “Lamb chops,” she said.

“You were there all afternoon?”

“Oh,
yes
,” she said, and then Breese spoke.

“Fay was,” she said. “I was working. Modelling bathing suits. Doesn't the very
idea
make you shiver?”

Weigand looked at her and waited.

“I got home about six,” she said. “Such an
awful
day. Then we had dinner.”

Weigand looked at Curtis Grainger. “Mr. Grainger?” he said.

“Wh-why?” Grainger said. “Not that I give a damn, but why?”