The Dishonest Murderer (23 page)

“I'm going back to the hotel,” he said. “Back to bed. If Bee-Bee wants to talk to me, she can call me again. And wait until morning.” He looked at them. “God, I'm tired,” he said. “Aren't you, Freddie?”

She nodded.

“Then,” Blake said, and moved toward the door. They went out, closing the door. Blake turned the knob, made sure the door had locked itself. He said, halfway down the stairs, “Never mind” to Howard Phipps's suggestion that he would take Freddie home. “I'll take her home,” Blake said. “Drop you off, Mr. Phipps?”

Phipps shook his head. “Take you out of your way,” he said. “Anyway—” He broke off. He sighed. “God, I'm tired,” he said again.

Blake took Freddie to a parked sedan, indistinguishable from any other parked sedan, and Phipps said, “Well,” vaguely, and went off down the street. Freddie sat beside the detective in the front seat; Blake pressed the starter and the engine caught, hurried a moment and relapsed to a murmur. It was very cold and still in the street; even in the car, Freddie huddled in her coat. Blake did not put the car in gear immediately; he seemed deep in thought. Then he turned to Freddie as if about to speak, but instead he merely smiled and started the car.

He said little as he went through the transverse road which gashed Central Park, crossed Fifth and Madison and turned up Park. But Freddie did not feel alone; as it grew warmer in the car, she felt almost comforted. Then Sergeant Blake spoke.

“I imagine Miss Burnley'll be all—” he began, and then stopped. They had been driving north along Park, slowly. Now, as if of itself, the car gained speed. Freddie Haven felt a new tenseness in the man beside her. But he did not finish his sentence, or start another. He looked straight ahead; he seemed to have forgotten her.

“What is it?” she said.

He turned with something of a start. He turned enough to smile at her.

“Thought of something,” he said. “Want to get hold of the lieutenant.” He smiled again. “Nothing for you to worry about,” he said. He drove on.

In front of the apartment house, Blake stopped the car, got out on his side and came around to the right hand door and opened it. He held out an assisting hand, but did not actually touch Freddie Haven as she got out. He walked with her across the sidewalk, let her precede him to the building door and then said, “Go on in, do you mind? Wait for me a moment?”

She went into the warmth of the lobby, and she looked back. As Sergeant Blake stepped back onto the sidewalk, another man joined him. She could see them talking, but could hear nothing. The other man, after a time, nodded and shrugged. Then he turned away. Blake came on into the lobby.

“Everything's all right,” he said, and walked with her to the elevators.

Jerry North looked at his wrist watch. He made only formal efforts to conceal this action; he permitted his face to display faint astonishment at what the watch told him. “Well!” he said, as if inadvertently, as if he were very surprised.

That was one way. Usually it worked. But there was nothing to indicate that Bill Weigand noticed anything. Bill sat in the chair by the telephone table to which he had moved to take the call from Smitty. He seemed lost in thought.

“Well,” Jerry North said, in a voice artificially brisk. “How about another drink, Dorian?” Dorian opened her greenish eyes. She smiled, shook her head, looked at her husband. Bill Weigand regarded the carpet. “Bill?” Jerry said, very brisk now. “How about—” Bill Weigand shook his head, without looking at Jerry. “Pam?” Pam said, “No, dear.” She looked at Bill Weigand.

That almost always worked, Jerry thought. He waited. Sometimes the reaction was delayed. Sometimes you lighted a fuse and had to wait until it burned up to the designated mind and—Jerry North yawned. He covered the yawn belatedly. Nobody paid any attention to it.

“Well,” Jerry said again. He took the ashtray from the arm of the chair in which he was sitting and carried it to the fireplace. He emptied it into the fireplace. He looked at Dorian's ashtray, but it was already empty. He advanced toward the ashtray beside Pam.

“Darling,” Pam said. “Don't fidget.”

He looked at her gloomily, felt the faintest stirrings of animosity. A fine way for Pam to act, he thought. You'd think she never got sleepy; that she wanted—

“Make yourself a drink, Jerry,” Pam said. “Eeny, meeny, miney—”

“Oh,” Jerry said, quickly, “guess I've had plenty too.”

He remained standing. That never failed.

“Moe,” Pam said. “Sit down, Jerry.”

He looked at her quickly, shook his head quickly. He looked at Bill Weigand. Bill did not look up, but he spoke.

“I know, Jerry,” Bill said. He sighed. “We all are,” he said.

“Well,” Jerry said, continuing to stand.

Bill looked up and grinned at him.

“Sleepy,” he said. “Let's go to bed, these people want to go home. I know. But they'll be calling back.”

“Oh,” Jerry said. “Well, how about a drink?”

“I didn't think it would be so long,” Bill said. “It oughtn't to be much longer. Then we will go.”

“I wasn't—” Jerry began, and stopped.

“Of course you were, darling,” Pam said. “Imagine you emptying ashtrays otherwise. Eeny, meeny, miney, moe.”

“All right, Pam,” Jerry said, and suddenly smiled at her. “I thought you'd already counted out your murderer. Eeny?”

“To be fair,” Pam said. “Impartial. Eeny, it had something to do with the attempt to bribe the senator, if there was any. I mean, whoever wrote the letter to the senator, whether it was Breese or someone else, had something. It was because of that something—because he was ready to sell out—that the senator was killed. By somebody who felt very strongly about the hydro-electric project, or the dignity of the Senate, or—or something. Or by Mr. Phipps, who thought the senator's death was better than his dishonor or—well, that's eeny. In brief.” She paused and looked around. Nobody said anything. “Meeny, it was the brother, who enticed the senator down there and killed him to get his money. Does he, by the way?”

“No,” Bill said, “his daughter does. With a sizable annuity to Mrs. Burnley, in consideration of her long and devoted friendship. Nothing to the brother. Ten thousand to Phipps.”

“Well,” Pam said, “the brother for some reason we don't know. Or, Mrs. Burnley, to get her annuity.”

Dorian opened her greenish eyes. She suggested that meeny was rather heavily loaded.

“Well,” Pam said, “miney obviously is Breese. I've explained that. I still like it best.”

“Moe?” Jerry said.

“Moe is a spare,” Pam said. “For contingencies, like it having been a coincidence. Or for anything else we think of. Which, Bill?”

Bill Weigand looked up at her. He smiled and shook his head.

“Possibly,” he said, “a combination.”

“Look,” Pam told him, “it's already complicated enough. And—”

The telephone rang. Weigand raised his eyebrows at Jerry North, got a nod in exchange, and lifted the receiver. He said, “Yes,” and then, “Go ahead, Sergeant.” Then he listened. He listened with a quickening interest. The others could hear the voice Bill was hearing, but not the words.

“Right,” Bill said. “Right, Blake. You're damned right it's funny.” He listened again. “I would have too,” he said. “Don't worry.” He listened again. “Well,” he said, “I'd rather you took over.” The other voice resumed briefly. “Right,” Bill said, and listened again. “No,” he said. “My hosts are sleepy. I'll be at—” He paused, and looked at Dorian. “The office,” he said. “In about half an hour. If I'm not, Mullins will know.” He hung up, then. The others looked at him. Dorian seemed to have come, instantly, wide awake.

“Blake found Mrs. Haven,” he said. “And Miss Kirkhill. They, and Mrs. Burnley, were at Breese Burnley's. Mrs. Haven is home, the girl's at the Chatham with Mrs. Burnley but—
Miss
Burnley's missing. And then a funny thing—”

He broke off, because the telephone rang again. He did not signal Jerry this time. He picked the telephone up and said, “Yes? Weigand.” He listened. He said he'd be damned. He said, “Right, Mullins. No, I'll go,” and replaced the telephone and, at once, stood up. His face was tense, interested.

“The brother's showed up,” he said. “Walked into the East Sixty-seventh Street station and said didn't we want to see him? Just like that. Said, ‘Not that I know a damned thing.'”

“But you think he does?” Pam asked, and Bill looked at her.

“You know,” he said, “it would be just as interesting if he didn't.” He nodded, in agreement with himself. “Even more,” he said. Then he looked at Dorian. “Can you get home by yourself?” he said. “Because—”

“Of course,” Dorian said. But Bill looked at her doubtfully. “Of
course
,” she repeated. “Just because once I—”

“I'll take her, Bill,” Jerry said.

“Of all the silly—” Dorian began, coming out of the chair, standing up, in one smooth, unbroken movement. “Just because I let a couple of—” She stopped. “For years before I met
you
, Lieutenant, I was perfectly capable of going home by myself. And—”

She looked at Bill, looked then at Jerry North. She looked at Pam.

“Males,” Dorian said. “Oh, all right. I'll be protected.” She smiled at all of them, addressed herself to Bill. “Of course,” she said, “you've no idea when?”

He shook his head. He said, as soon as he could.

X

Sunday, 1:25 A.M. to 3:05 A.M.

Sergeant Blake had stood for a moment looking down at Freddie Haven. His sensitive face—it was rather a long face, she thought; he was not really a handsome man, as Jack, for example, had been handsome—was somewhat troubled. He looked at her speculatively, his faint smile serious. She waited, but when he did not speak, but merely continued to look at her, she put her key in the lock of her apartment door. Then he spoke.

“Mrs. Haven,” he said. “I—” He paused. She looked up at him and waited. “If anything else comes up,” he said, “will you—will you not try to handle it alone? Will you call—” he hesitated momentarily—“us?” he finished. “Not try to handle things yourself?”

She thought he was about to continue, as she thought he had been about to say “call me” and had changed it to “call us.” But he did not go on. He merely continued to look at her, his expression intent, as if he were trying to see into her mind.

“We only wanted to see Breese,” she said, and he shook his head quickly and started to speak and did not. Then, after that instant, he merely said, “All right, Mrs. Haven,” and his expression changed slightly, became less personal. He didn't mean about Breese, she thought. He meant—had he been thinking of the man Smiley she had found dead? But that was impossible; no one knew about that. No one could know.

“Anyway,” he said, and now his tone was light, “stay put, Mrs. Haven. Leave it to us. Will you do that?”

“Of course,” she said, and her tone was like his; her tone pretended that this was not of importance.

She said, “Good night, Mr. Blake,” then, and went into the apartment. As she closed the door, Blake had turned to face the elevator gate. He has, she thought inconsequentially, surprisingly square shoulders.

Watkins, looking very tired, met her in the foyer.

“The admiral has retired, Mrs. Haven,” he told her.

“Did he take something?” she asked, and Watkins nodded and said, “The usual, Mrs. Haven.” The usual meant one sleeping pill; the admiral believed, on what evidence Freddie had never been able to decide, that he suffered from insomnia. “Go to bed yourself, Watkins,” she said. “You must be tired.”

He thanked her, admitted he was tired, looked at her with a question in his expression.

“Have they—?” he said. “Do they know anything?”

“I don't know,” she said. “I don't know what they know, Watkins. It's all—mixed up.”

“Yes, Mrs. Haven,” Watkins said. “He's worrying. Upset.”

Freddie nodded. She said they all were. “We'll just have to wait, I guess,” she said.

“Yes, Mrs. Haven,” Watkins said. “He's not used to this sort of thing.”

“No,” Freddie said. “None of us is. Good night, Watkins.”

She went up the stairs to her room. Its warmth, its soft lights, made a refuge. Marta was sitting in a chair, asleep. She woke as Freddie came in, and for a moment seemed dazed. Then she got up, and said she was sorry. Freddie shook her head.

“You shouldn't have waited,” she said. “Go to bed, Marta.” Then she shook her head again. “There isn't anything new,” she said. “Nothing different.”

“It's a shame,” Marta said. “That's what it is, Miss Freddie. Their making out it has something to do with—with us.”

It has, Freddie thought. Oh, it has! But she merely nodded, agreeing. She let Marta help her, declined a “nice hot bath,” undressed and got into bed. Marta looked down at her, and Freddie smiled up. “Go to bed yourself,” Freddie said. “Everything's all right, Marta.”

Marta did not look as if she believed this; she hesitated, as if there were something she should do, as if she did not know what the something was. She looked around the room for it and, not finding it, sighed. “It's a shame,” she told Freddie again, and went.

It is a shame, Freddie thought, lying on her back, looking up at the ceiling. It is mixed up—oh God, she thought, what's happening to us? What's happening to Breese? What—

But her mind was too tired. She wanted to look at things calmly, with detachment; she wanted to try, again, to put it all together, to add it all up; to work out something, some frame, which would include all of it—include her father and the grinning dead Smiley, the scent on Howard Phipps's neat blue suit, the letter someone had written her father, the brother named George. But her mind was too tired, her eyes were too tired to see the smudged outlines of these things. She felt herself drifting, felt herself asleep.…