The Sixth Commandment (22 page)

“Take your time, Mr. Besant,” I said cheerily.

“Do not be insolent, Samuel,” he said sharply. “I am not as senile as you sometimes seem to think. I would say that prior to her marriage, Betty was an active social drinker. Her marriage appears to me now to have exacerbated her problem.”

“She became an alcoholic?”

The old man sighed. “Yes. She did.”

“And exactly how did she die?”

“It was summer. The family went to the Cape. She had the habit, Betty did, when she was, ah, in her cups, so to speak, to take midnight swims. Or in the early hours of the morning.”

“Cold sea at the Cape. Even during the day.”

“Oh yes,” the old man mourned. “Everyone warned her. Husband, daughter, son—everyone. But they couldn’t lock her up, could they? When possible, someone went with her. No matter what the hour. But she would sneak away, go off by herself.”

“Asking for it?”

“What?”

“Was she courting death, sir? Seeking it? Did she want to die?”

Silence again. Then a heavy sigh.

“Samuel,” he said, “you are a very
old
young man. The thought had never occurred to me. But perhaps you’re right, perhaps she was courting death. In any event, it came. One morning she wasn’t there when the household awoke. Her body was found in the surf.”

“Uh,” I said, “any signs of—you know?”

“Just minor bruises and scrapes. Things to be expected in such a death. No unusual wounds, no abnormalities. Salt water in the lungs.”

“Was she a good swimmer?”

“An excellent swimmer. When sober.”

“How about Thorndecker?” I asked. “A good swimmer?”

“Samuel, Samuel,” he groaned. “I have no idea.
Must
you be so suspicious?”

“Yes, sir,” I said, “I must. Any evidence of his having something on the side? You know—mistress? Girlfriend? Anything like that?”

He cleared his throat.

“No,” he said.

“You’re sure?”

“As a matter of fact,” he said, and I could almost see that tortoise head ducking defensively, “I made a few discreet inquiries of my own.”

“Oh-ho,” I said. “And he was pure?”

“Absolutely.”

“Where was he the night his wife died? Home in bed?”

“No,” he said. “At a medical conference in Boston. He had departed that evening. His presence in Boston that night was verified.”

“Oh,” I said, deflated. “I guess he
was
pure. Unless …”

“Unless what, Samuel?”

“Nothing, sir. You’re right; I
am
very suspicious. I was just imagining a way he could have jiggered it.”

The old man shocked me.

“I know,” he said. “A drug in her bottle. He had easy access to drugs.”

I sucked in my breath.

“You’re right again, sir,” I said. “I do tend to underestimate you, and I apologize for it. Were the contents of her bottle analyzed?”

“Oh yes,” he said. “Everything was done properly; I saw to that. The contents were just gin; no foreign substances. But, of course, by the time the body was found, the authorities called, and the investigation started, Thorndecker had been summoned back to the Cape from Boston.”

“What you’re saying is that he could have switched bottles, or replaced the contents?”

“There is that remote possibility, yes.”

“Do you think he did?”

The silence lasted a long time. It was finally ended by another deep sniff, then another: a two-nostril job.

“I would not care to venture an opinion,” Mr. Stacy Besant said gravely.

“All right,” I said. “It’s a moot point anyway. Barring a confession, we’ll never know, will we?”

“No,” he said, “we never will.”

“One final question, sir. I’m puzzled by the dates and ages involved. Particularly the ten-year difference between Mary and Edward, Thorndecker’s two children. A little unusual, isn’t it?”

“A simple explanation,” he said. “Betty was a widow when Thorndecker married her. Mary is her daughter by her first husband. Edward is the son of Betty and Telford Thorndecker. So Mary and Edward are really half-brother and half-sister.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said. “That explains a great deal.”

“Does it?” he said surprised.

“Mr. Besant,” I said, “I wonder if you’d be kind enough to switch me to Mrs. Cynthia, if she’s available.”

“Of course,” he said. “At once. Hang on.”

I’ll say this for the old boy: he wouldn’t dream of asking why I wanted to talk to the boss-lady of the Bingham Foundation. If she wanted him to know about her conversation with me, she’d tell him.

He had my call switched, and in a few seconds I was talking to Mrs. Cynthia. We exchanged news about the states of our health (good), and the weather (miserable), and then I said:

“Ma’am, just before I came up here, I met you in the corridor, and you mentioned you had known Dr. Thorndecker’s father.”

“Yes,” she said, “so I did.”

“You also said he was a sweet man—those are your words, ma’am—and then you added, ‘It was all so sad.’ What did you mean by that?”

“Samuel,” she said, “I wish I had your memory.”

“Mrs. Cynthia,” I said, “I wish I had your brains and beauty.”

She laughed.

“You scamp,” she said. “If I was only fifty years younger …”

“If I was only fifty years older,” I said.

“You will be, soon enough. Yes, I knew Dr. Thorndecker’s father. Gerald Thorndecker. Gerry. I knew him quite well.”

She didn’t add to that, and I didn’t pry any deeper. The statement just lay there, given and accepted.

“And what was so sad, Mrs. Cynthia?”

“The manner of his death,” she said. “Gerald Thorndecker was killed in a hunting accident. Shocking.”

“A hunting accident?” I repeated. “Where was this?”

“In Maine. Up near the border.”

“How old was his son at the time?”

“Telford? Thirteen perhaps. Fourteen. Around there.”

“Thank you,” I said, ready to say goodby.

“He was with him when it happened.”

It took me a second to comprehend that sentence.

“The son?” I asked. “Telford Thorndecker? He was there when his father was killed in a hunting accident?”

“That is correct,” she said crisply.

“Do you recall the details, Mrs. Cynthia?”

“Of course I recall the details,” she said sharply. “I’m not likely to forget them. They had flushed a buck, and—”

“They?” I said. “Gerald Thorndecker and his son?”

“Samuel,” she said, sighing, “either you let me tell this story in my own, old woman’s way, or I shall ring off this instant.”

“Sorry, ma’am,” I said humbly. “I promise not to interrupt again.”

“The hunting party consisted of Gerald Thorndecker, his young son Telford, and four friends and neighbors. Six in all. They flushed a buck, spread out on a line, and pressed forward. Later, at the coroner’s inquest, it was stated that Gerald Thorndecker walked faster than the rest of them. Trotting, moving out ahead of them. I believe it. He was that kind of man. Eager. In any event, the others were behind him. They heard a crashing in the brush, saw what they thought was the buck doubling back, and they fired. They killed Gerald. Now you may ask your questions.”

“Thank you,” I said, without irony. “How many of the hunters fired at Gerald?”

“Three, I believe.”

“Including the son, Telford?”

“Yes.”

“Were ballistics tests made?”

“Yes. He had been hit twice.”

“Including a bullet from his son’s rifle?”

“Yes. And another.”

I should have known. You think that in any investigation, criminal or otherwise, you get the facts, put them together, and the whole thing opens up like one of those crazy Chinese lumps you drop in water and a gorgeous blossom unfolds? Not so. Because you rarely deal with facts. You deal with half-facts, or quarter-, eighth-, or sixteenth-facts. Little bitty things that you can’t prove or disprove. Nothing is ever sure or complete.

“All right,” I said to Mrs. Cynthia, “Gerald Thorndecker was killed by two bullets, one fired by his son. What about the mother?”

“Her name was Grace. She died of breast cancer when Telford was just a child. I think he was three. Or four. His father raised him.”

“Money?”

“Not much,” she said regretfully. “Gerald was foolish that way. He squandered. He had a standard of living and was determined to maintain it. He inherited a good income, but it goes fast when nothing new is coming in.”

“What did he do? Did he have a job or profession?”

“Gerald Thorndecker,” she said severely, “was a poet.”

“A poet? Oh my God. I can understand why the money went. Was he published?”

“Privately. By himself.” Then she added softly, “I still have his books.”

“Was he any good?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “His genius was for living.”

“Telford was an only child.”

“How did you know?”

“He
looks
like an only child. He
acts
like an only child. Mrs. Cynthia, just let me recap a moment to see if I’ve got this straight. Dr. Thorndecker is an only child. His mother dies when he’s three or four. He’s brought up by his father, a failed poet rapidly squandering his inheritance. The father is killed accidently when the boy is thirteen.”

“Or fourteen,” she said.

“Or fourteen,” I agreed. “Around there. Now, what happened to the boy? Who took him in?”

“An aunt. His father’s sister.”

“She put him through medical school?”

“Oh no,” Mrs. Cynthia said. “She was poor as a church mouse. Telford never would have made it without his father’s insurance. That’s all he had. The insurance saw him through medical school and his post-graduate work.”

“Wow,” I said.

“Wow?” she said.

“He wanted to be a doctor all along?” I asked.

“Oh yes. For as long as I can remember. Since he was just a little boy.”

“Mrs. Cynthia, I thank you,” I said. “Sorry to take up so much of your time.”

“That’s quite all right, Samuel,” she said. “I hope what I’ve told you may be of some help in your inquiry. If you see Dr. Thorndecker, please give him my love. He may remember me.”

“How could he forget you?” I said gallantly.

She made a humphing sound, but I knew she was pleased. She really was a grand old dame, and I loved her and didn’t want to hurt her. Which is why I didn’t make a snide comment about the extraordinary coincidence of two violent deaths in the life of Dr. Telford Thorndecker, both of which he might possibly have caused, and from both of which he had profited handsomely. But maybe it wasn’t an extraordinary coincidence; maybe it was just a plain coincidence, and I was seeing contrivance where only accident existed.

I walked slowly back to the Inn. One good thing about Coburn: you didn’t have to look about fearfully for traffic when you crossed the street.

Stacy Besant and Mrs. Cynthia had given me a lot to think about. Now I knew much more; my plate was full. A full plate, hell; my platter was overflowing. The investigation was slowly becoming two: the history, character, personality, and ambitions of Dr. Telford Gordon Thorndecker; and the strange events that had taken place in and around Crittenden during the past month. That the two would eventually come together, merge, and make some kind of goofy sense, I had no doubt. But meanwhile I didn’t know what the hell to do next.

What I did was to go back across Main Street to Sandy’s Liquors and Fine Wines. I bought a fifth of a twelve-year-old Scotch. It came all gussied up in a flashy box. Carrying that in a brown paper sack, I returned to the Coburn Inn. I looked around for Sam Livingston, but he was nowhere to be seen. The lobby was enjoying its early afternoon siesta. Even Millie Goodfellow was somnolent, filing slowly at her talons behind the cigar counter.

I walked down the stairway into the basement, pushed through a fire door, and wandered along a cement corridor lined with steam and water pipes. I found a door with a neat sign that read:
SAMUEL LIVINGSTON. PLEASE KNOCK BEFORE ENTERING
. I knocked, but I didn’t enter; I waited.

He came to the door wearing his usual shiny, black alpaca jacket and little skullcap. He also had on half-glasses and was carrying a closed paperback novel, a forefinger marking his place. I took the bottle of Scotch from the sack and thrust it at him.

“Greeks bearing gifts,” I said. “Beware.”

His basalt face warmed in a slow smile.

“For me?” he said. “Now I take that kindly of you. Come in, get comfy, and we’ll sample a taste of this fine sippin’ whiskey.”

He had a snug little place down there. One low-ceilinged room with kitchenette, and a small bathroom. Everything neat as a pin. A sleeping sofa, two overstuffed armchairs, a table with ice cream parlor chairs. A chest of drawers. No TV set, but a big bookcase of paperbacks. I took a quick look. Barbara Cartland. Frank Yerby. Daphne du Maurier. Elsie Lee. Like that. Romantic novels. Gothics. Edwardians. Regencies. Women with long, glittering, low-cut gowns. Men with mustaches, wearing open, ruffled shirts and carrying swords. Castles in dark mountains with one light burning in a high window. Well … what the hell; I read H. Rider Haggard.

He had me sit in one of the soft armchairs, and he brought us each a small glass of the Scotch.

“We don’t want to hurt this with water,” he said.

“Straight is fine,” I agreed.

He lowered himself slowly into the other armchair, lifted his glass to me, then took a small sip. His eyes closed.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Oh my yes.” He opened his eyes, passed the glass back and forth under his nose, inhaling with pleasure. “How you finding Coburn, Sam? Slow and quiet enough for you?”

“You’d think so,” I said, “judging from the surface. But I’m getting the feeling that underneath, things might be faster and noisier.”

“Could be,” he said noncommittally. “I hear you been doing some digging?”

“Just talking to people,” I said. “I figured you might be able to help me.”

“How might I do that?”

“Well, you’ve lived here a long time, haven’t you?”

“Thirty years,” he said. “And I figure to live out the rest of it right here. So you, being a smart man, won’t expect me to bad-mouth any of the people I got to live with.”