The Dishonest Murderer (7 page)

“I told you—” she heard her father say, and heard the fat man interrupt him.

“Told Harry,” he said. “Not me. Harry ain't me, Admiral. Harry don't get things.” He paused. “Don't add things up,” he said.

“Come in here,” she heard her father say, as she went on up the stairs. “I don't know what you're after. I'll give you—”

“Take it easy, Admiral,” the man said. There was something like amusement in his fat voice. “Nobody said anything about giving.”

She had stopped on the stairs, listening. Her father was taking the fat man through the living room toward the library.

“The thing is,” the fat man said, “what do you want me to tell the cops? About this—”

Then they went into the library, and the door closed, and the voice was cut off.

She told the Norths how these things had happened, trying to make them as obscure, yet as significant, in the telling as they had seemed to her when they had happened.

But when she had finished, Jerry North looked at Pam, and shook his head.

“I don't,” he began. Then Freddie remembered what she had forgotten to tell, interrupted Jerry North, and told of the telephone conversation between her father and—someone. She repeated, as accurately as she could, the words she had overheard: Her father's “circumstances have changed”; the unknown man's, “begins to look like there's something to it” and “it's up to you. He's going to be your son—”

“He must have meant Bruce,” Freddie said. “Who else could he have meant?”

Jerry North nodded slowly. He looked at Pam, and saw a shadow on Pam's face.

“That,” Freddie said. “Then this—this awful man. He knew about Bruce—about Bruce's being—murdered.”

The word was a lonely and awful word, standing apart from other words. It carried terror in its syllables. “Murdered.”

“Your father seemed to know him?” Pam said, and Freddie Haven nodded, hating to have to nod.

“On the telephone,” Pam said. “Your father said that circumstances had changed. That was all?”

Freddie thought; then she spoke slowly.

“‘As of tonight,' he said,” she told them. “‘As of tonight, circumstances have changed.'” Then she looked at them, and waited. There was a kind of desperate hopefulness in her waiting.

“It doesn't have to mean anything,” Jerry told her, doing his best. But Pam North shook her head.

“Of course it means something,” she said. That's ridiculous, Jerry. Only—it doesn't have to mean the way it sounds. It could be—oh, anything.”

They looked at her.

“Well,” Pam said, after a moment. “Anything. Not that your father knew the senator had been—was dead. And that because he was dead—” The words trailed off, the sentence lost momentum.

“Dad didn't know,” Freddie said. Her voice was low, but there was desperate anxiety in it. She was telling herself that her father did not know; it had to be that he did not know. Because if he had known then all the evening he had been lying, by word, by implication, in his attitude toward her. “He couldn't have known,” she said. “But—what did he mean? Who are these men?”

The question was so easy to answer that answer was not needed. Men the admiral had hired for some purpose; men he had dismissed, their task done; men who, perhaps, did not plan to stay dismissed. It had been, Freddie had thought, like a Shakespearian cast. Now she thought again of Shakespeare; thought, “Enter two murderers.” She put her head down in her hands.

After a moment she raised her head and looked at the Norths. She looked first at Pam, then at Jerry.

“What can I do?” she said. Her voice was very low, very strained. “I've got to—to help Dad.”

“Go to him,” Pam said. “Ask him. Ask him what it's all about. Then—”

The door buzzer was loud in the apartment. The Norths looked at each other, surprise on their faces. “What the—” Jerry began, and Pam went to the door, pulled it open. Freddie turned her head, drew in her breath quickly.

It was a man Freddie had seen once before. He was thin, with a thin face, a soft hat canted a little to one side, partially shielding the face. He took the hat off, shook snow from it to the tiled floor of the outside corridor. He smiled at Pam and started to speak.

“Saw your lights,” he said. “Thought I'd—” Then he saw Freddie Haven and stopped speaking. He looked at Pam North and his thin face seemed momentarily puzzled.

“Good evening, Mrs. Haven,” he said, then. “I didn't expect—”

“Bill,” Pam said. There was a slight constraint in her voice. “We were just—just having a cup of coffee.” She looked at the coffee table. “With brandy,” she added, paying the bottle tribute. “You're—you're just in time.”

The man with the thin face looked at her, smiled fleetingly. He looked across at Jerry North and raised his eyebrows.

“By all means, Bill,” Jerry North said. “By all means.”

“Right,” Bill Weigand said. He came in, removing his overcoat. He was wearing dinner clothes. He looked tired, Freddie Haven thought, irrelevantly. He looked very tired.

Pam North felt the silver coffee pot, shook her head over it.

“Cold,” she said. “I'll have to make us some more. If there's one thing that's terrible with cognac it's cold—”

“Pam,” Jerry said. “Pam. Sit down, Pam.”

“The coffee's cold,” Pam said. “Cold as ice. It couldn't be colder if—” She looked at her husband, looked at Bill Weigand. “Oh, all right,” she said. “Go ahead, Bill.”

“Ahead?” Bill Weigand said. He seemed surprised and puzzled. “Ahead, Pam? I was just going by, saw your lights, thought I'd drop in for a minute since you were still up.” He looked at Jerry North. “Right?” he said.

“Bill,” Pam said. “We love you. We love seeing you. It's four o'clock in the morning.” She paused. “We've danced the whole night through,” she said, and then, as if she had surprised herself, “For heaven's sake.”

“Anyway, it's three o'clock,” Jerry said. “In the song. Go ahead, Bill.”

Lieutenant William Weigand's glance at Freddie Haven, a glance for a purpose, was so quick that it was hardly a movement of the eyes. But Pam North said, “Oh!”

I'm in the way, Freddie Haven thought; he came for something, to ask them something. He can't, because I'm here. And again, her breath came in a quick gasp. Then she stood up.

“I'll go,” she said. “I—I was just going.” She fought for poise, momentarily gained it. “It was so good of you to let me come, Mrs. North,” she said. She was almost polite, almost casual. “Now I really must—”

“What are you afraid of, Mrs. Haven?” Weigand said. “What frightens you?”

Freddie looked at the thin man she had seen for the first time that night; had seen in the anteroom of the morgue at Bellevue.

“Frightened?” she said. “I'm—I'm not frightened, Lieutenant Weigand.” She wanted to stop there, found herself still talking. “I was upset,” she said. “Can't you understand? Terribly upset. Shocked. I—I couldn't sleep, couldn't stay at home. I had to talk to somebody. I thought Pam and Jerry wouldn't mind; that they—”

“No, Mrs. Haven,” Bill Weigand said. He shook his head. “I'm sorry,” he said. “You just met them tonight, you know. You see, they left your party to join my wife and me. They mentioned having met you.” He shook his head again. “Having just met you,” he said. “They were hardly acquaintances. Right?”

She merely looked at him, her eyes wide; her eyes a little blank, as her mind whirled, seeking an answer. She saw Weigand shake his head.

“You may as well tell me,” he said. “Because—they will, you know.” He nodded. “Oh yes,” he said. “They won't want to, but they will, Mrs. Haven. Because, you see, they're on my side, if there have to be sides. Because we've known one another a long time. You see how it is, Mrs. Haven? So—what are you afraid of? What brought you here? For advice, wasn't it? Somebody told you the Norths have been involved in things? Have experience?” He paused and still she did not speak. “
You
tell me, Mrs. Haven,” he said. “It's the best way.”

“I—” she said and found she could not go on. She looked at Pam, her eyes intent, her eyes seeking help.

“Why frightened?” Bill Weigand said, and her eyes went back to him. “Not for yourself. Or is it for yourself?”

She shook her head. “No,” she said. “No.”

Bill Weigand looked at her for a long moment. Then, she thought, he made up his mind about something, because his manner changed. The intensity, the pressure, went out of his manner; he shrugged slightly and seemed to dismiss something. She tried to guess what had caused the change; tried to understand how his mind was working because, she thought, it might become important to know how his mind worked. But there was too much turmoil in her own mind.

“Then don't be frightened,” he said, and his tone was casual. “Go home. Try to get some rest. Leave it to us.” He smiled, and the smile changed his thin face. There seemed, she thought, to be sympathy in his smile. “It's hard,” he said. “I know that, Mrs. Haven. We'll let it go until—until later. Right?”

She stood up; she forced quiet into her manner.

“It was really true,” she said. “I did come because—because I had to talk to someone. Someone who didn't know Bruce, someone outside. I know I only met the Norths tonight. I—I just tried to make it understandable. I felt I could talk to—to Mrs. North.”

“Right,” Bill Weigand said. He stood up also. His voice seemed to accept what she said. “Mrs. North affects people that way,” he added. “Sometimes,” he said, and suddenly turned toward Pam North, his expression amused. His smile faded. His tone became more official. “There's a car down stairs, Mrs. Haven,” he said. “I'll have you driven home. Get some sleep. I'll have to see you tomorrow—you, your father, the senator's daughter.”

Weigand picked up his overcoat, shrugged into it. He waited.

“Thank you,” Freddie Haven said to the Norths. “Thank you for letting me—barge in. I—I don't know why I did.”

“It's all right,” Pam said. She hesitated. “Try not to worry.” She paused again. “We're both terribly sorry,” she said.

Freddie Haven tried to smile, and made little of it. She went through the door Weigand held open for her, stood with him, without speaking, while he brought up the elevator, stood with him in it while the car took them down. Just before it stopped, Weigand spoke.

“Eventually,” he said, “you will have to tell me what you think you know. You realize that, Mrs. Haven.” He looked at her, and she made herself meet his eyes. “We have to know,” he said. He said nothing more, took her out of the apartment house to a car parked in front of it. He spoke to the man behind the wheel.

“Take Mrs. Haven home, Blake,” he said. “Then come back.”

“Right,” Blake said. Weigand opened the rear door and Freddie Haven got into the car. “Good night,” Bill Weigand said. He watched the car start up, for a moment regarded it. Then he went back into the apartment house. His thin face was thoughtful.

He knocked briefly on the door of the Norths' apartment and then pushed it open. Pam and Jerry were much as he had left them. “Well,” Pam said, “the coffee's hot, now.”

Bill Weigand took off his coat and, abstractedly, said, “Good.” He took a cup of coffee, poured a little cognac into it. He sipped and said, “Good,” again, in a different tone, and then sat down.

“You're not in a spot,” he said, then. “I'm not going to ask you anything.”

The Norths looked at him.

“Yeah?” Jerry said.

“Officially,” Bill Weigand said, “I didn't stop in. Why should I? Officially, I have no idea that Mrs. Haven came here to—get you to help her? Get your advice?” He shook his head when Pam started to speak. “Advise her. Help her.” He looked at them; tired as he appeared to be, he also appeared to be amused.

“Bill!” Pam said. “You—Bill!”

He merely smiled at her.

“Not on a spot!” Pam said. “What would you call a spot? Run with the hare, hunt with the hounds!”

“Is she the hare?” Bill wanted to know.

“And,” Pam said, with some bitterness, “I made you fresh coffee! No, I don't think she is.”

“Then there's no harm done,” Bill told her. “If she's not the—hare—she's not being hunted. What you find out may help. It won't hurt.”

“It is a spot,” Jerry North said. He was sober. “We didn't ask for confidences but—we got them.” He looked at Bill. “Well?” he said.

Bill said he appreciated that. His tone, now, was serious. He realized he could get them to tell; that he would only have to ask. He also realized that they would not be happy, telling. That, he told them, was part of it.

“Also,” he said, “you're in it again. Both of you. Officially, you're not, of course. But—officially I'm not here, not here to tell you that, or anything. If you can help her, help her. If, along the way, you find the man who killed Kirkhill, you'll let me know.” He paused. “Where's the spot?” he said.

“The whole thing's a spot,” Pam North told him. “You're throwing us into it; tying us up and throwing us in. Aren't you?” She looked at him. “Suppose I squeal to O'Malley? Tell the great man you invited us in? Threw us in?”

Bill Weigand laughed. Then he became serious.

“Forget it all if you'd rather,” he said. “If—if you really think Mrs. Haven's involved, skip it. Forget she was here; forget I was here.”

“You think she could have been?” Jerry asked.

Weigand shook his head.

“Directly, no,” he said, “At least, I don't think so. At a guess, a man killed Kirkhill. I don't even know Mrs. Haven or any of the rest—I mean Kirkhill's daughter, his secretary, the people he would have met at the party tonight—had anything to do with it. I'd be inclined to think they didn't, on the whole. Actually, I stopped by to see whether you'd noticed anything at the party that might help. Any—strain? Uneasiness? Somebody not worried at Kirkhill's failure to show when you'd expect them to be? Somebody too worried? That sort of thing.”