The Suspect (4 page)

On the steps, Constable Coomer stepped back to let them through.

George Wilcox leaned shakily against the doorjamb. "Give me a minute," he said.

Alberg stood waiting, polite and watchful; he was suddenly aware of his own excitement, which was almost predatory. George straightened, tried to smooth his white hair. "Okay. Let's go in."

"Just a minute," said Alberg. "Was the door open like this when you got here?"

"No. Closed. I banged on it, no answer, started back up the path. Then I decided I'd better check up on him. He's eighty-five, you know. Was."

"Was he in ill health?” said Gainer. Alberg's quizzical glance seemed to confuse him.

George Wilcox stared up at the constable. "Ill health? How the hell should I know? I just told you, the man was eighty-five." He jabbed a finger against Gainer's blue-jacketed chest. "The fact of the matter is, sonny, at eighty-five the whole shitteree is fast wearing out. Any minute, something essential could go on you." Again he tried to tame his hair, but the waves sprang back, undeterred. "How do we go about this, then?"

"You started back up the path,” said Alberg. "And then you decided you'd better check on him."

"Yes," said George Wilcox, nodding. "I came back to the door and banged on it harder, and hollered, but nothing happened. So I tried the door, and it opened. He never locked his doors."

"Okay,” said Alberg. "When you went outside, after you called us, did you close the door behind you?"

The old man shook his head. "Didn't think about closing it. Must have left it open."

"Now,” said Alberg. He motioned inside. "Go ahead. Show us."

George Wilcox stepped across the threshold into the hall.

"I came in here," he said, and immediately lowered his voice. "I came in here, and I called out to him. No answer. So I walked down the hall." He stopped and said over his shoulder, "I knew he wasn't in the kitchen. I'd looked in the kitchen window, waiting on the step." He began walking again. "So I came down the hall. 'Where are you, Carlyle? I said, or something like that, and I got to the living room." He emerged into the sunshine and stopped. "Had to blink my eyes a few times. The sun made me blurry for a minute. And I looked around, and I saw him lying there."

He started to point; then his hand began to shake. "His eyes were open," he said in a whisper, "I know they were." He turned to Alberg. "You'd better check," he said urgently. "Maybe he isn't dead after all. His eyes were open, I know they were.”

"We checked,” said Alberg gently. "He's dead. I closed his eyes.”

George Wilcox shut his own eyes for a moment. When they fluttered open, Alberg said, "He was a friend of yours, right?”

"I knew him,” said George.

"Do you know the house well? Did you come here often?”

"Sometimes. I used to come here sometimes. Not very often.”

"Okay. Look around. Take your time. Tell me if you see anything unusual, anything that's out of place, or anything that seems to be missing.”

"That,” said George, pointing at the body. "That's unusual.”

"Right,” said Alberg, soberly. "Anything else?”

With an effort, George Wilcox looked away from the body. For a few seconds he seemed to have difficulty actually seeing anything. His eyes skittered over chesterfield, china cabinet, flowers in the vase, bookshelves, without focusing. Then they concentrated on the rocking chair.

"That,” he said finally. "It's supposed to be facing the window more. He sat in it, watched the boats go by or some damn thing, I don't know."

He could have been sitting in the chair when he was struck, thought Alberg; or maybe he fell against it.

"Anything else?" he said.

The old man studied the room. He had regained most of his self-control. "Those books on the floor, there. Those are mine. Library books. I dropped them, when I—when I saw him lying there." He shivered. "Bloody cold in here, don't you think?"

"Just a few more minutes, Mr. Wilcox. Look carefully. Do you see anything else?”

"It all looks just like it ought to,” said George. "No, wait. He got himself a parrot lately. I don't see the parrot."

Gainer cleared his throat. "It's in the bedroom."

George looked at him sharply. "Is it dead, too?"

Gainer was nonplussed. "No, sir, " he said. "It's fine, I think."

"What are you going to do with it?" George demanded.

Alberg watched him, curious.

Gainer glanced at the staff sergeant. "Call the S.P.C.A., I guess. Unless he—Mr. Burke—maybe he's got a friend, or a relative—" '

"We'll take care of it,” said Alberg.

George turned away from them. "That's it," he said. "Can't tell you anything else.”

"Okay, then, Mr. Wilcox. We can get out of here now.”

"Fingerprints,” said George, on the front steps. "You'll want my fingerprints, I guess. For comparison."

Alberg led him up the path toward the hedge and stopped halfway to the gate. He could see the police investigation ribbon strung across it. "First of all, Mr. Wilcox," he said, "why did you happen to call on Mr. Burke today? You say you don't come here often. Why today?"

George Wilcox shrugged. "Spur of the moment. It was one of those spur-of-the-moment things.”

"Did you bring him a salmon? On the spur of the moment?"

George looked astonished. "What would I be doing with a salmon?"

"Maybe you caught it. Do you fish, Mr. Wilcox?"

"I'm a gardener, Staff Sergeant, not a fisherman. I'm not fond of fish, myself."

"Okay," said Alberg equally. "Now, would you tell us, please, where you were today, and what you were doing, before you came here to see Mr. Burke."

Gainer pulled a notebook from his jacket and clicked open his ballpoint pen. George, hearing this, shot him an irritated glance.

"It would be a great help," said Alberg smoothly. "Start from when you got up and just go through your day for us."

George shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down at the gravel path. "I got up early. Around seven. Went out to turn the sprinkler on in my garden." He looked up. "Best time of the day to water, early morning. You wait until the sun's hot, the plants get burned.”

Alberg stored this information away. It might be useful, in the unlikely event that he should ever find it necessary to water his jungle.

"Let's see." George Wilcox looked up at the sky. "Then I had breakfast. A bun and some coffee and I think an orange. By this time the paper had come, so I had some more coffee and read it." He looked at Alberg. "You really want to hear all this?"

Alberg smiled. "Please.”

"He's not writing much of it down.” He glared at Freddie Gainer.

"I use a kind of shorthand,” said Gainer apologetically.

"What time was it when you finished your second cup of coffee?" said Alberg.

George thought about this. "Must have been about nine o'clock. Then I turned on the radio. I don't want to hear anybody talking to me until I've had two cups of coffee and read the paper. Then, it's okay, it's company. So I turned on the radio. And then what did I do." He considered. He turned quickly to Alberg. "I forgot to tell you. When I went out to get the paper, I turned off the sprinkler. That would be about eight o'clock. An hour's plenty of watering? He looked relaxed, almost mischievous, and Alberg felt a spurt of annoyance.

"Very good, Mr. Wilcox," he said calmly. "And how did you spend the rest of your morning?"

George turned away restlessly, as though suddenly tired of the game. "I worked out in my garden, that's what I did. I weeded and dead-headed, planted some more annuals. Used to grow my own annuals, when I had a greenhouse. Anyway, I planted some, mostly in the back, and—oh, I sprayed, too. Got some aphids on the goddamn roses, and the broccoli. Came inside at noontime, washed up, changed my clothes, got me some lunch—you want to know what I ate?" he said, aggressively.

Alberg, who didn't, said that he did.

"Vegetable soup, four soda crackers, three pieces of cheese, and a glass of milk," said George Wilcox, angry. "And I took my vitamins then, too, in case you're interested. Did my dishes. It'd be about one o'clock now, I guess. Then I lay down for an hour. I usually lie down for an hour, most afternoons." He looked at Freddie Gainer. "It'll happen to you too, one day, sonny. Then I got up," he said to Alberg, "and decided to go to the library. Thought to myself that I'd stop in on old Carlyle, seeing it's on the way. There,” he said defiantly. "You got it. An ordinary day in the ordinary life of an ordinary old person. Until I banged on his front door." He rubbed at his face. "Should have minded my own business. Should have kept right on going. Shouldn't ever have gone in there, not ever.”

Alberg nodded, sympathetically. "You live alone, do you, Mr. Wilcox?"

"I do."

"Did you notice anyone passing by while you were out in your garden or having your lunch? Somebody selling fish, for instance?"

George looked at him with interest. "That salmon in the sink. The one you thought I brought. Good lord, you've got yourselves a suspect already, and old Carlyle's not even stone cold yet. " He grinned and shook his head. "Nobody came by trying to sell me fish. I was in the back, mostly. The kitchen's in the back, too. Didn't see anybody. Nobody came banging l on my door, peddling fish.”
 
"Did anyone at all visit you during the day? Or phone? Did you see anyone, any of your neighbors maybe, while you were working in your garden?"

George looked at him, then at Gainer, then back at Alberg.

"It's just routine, Mr. Wilcox,” said Alberg. "We'll be asking everyone who knew him. You just happen to be first, because you found him."

George was expressionless. "Nobody visited me, and nobody phoned. I don't remember seeing anybody while I was in my garden. My fences are high. What about my library books?"

"I'm afraid they'll have to stay where they are for now," said Alberg. "We'll make sure you get them back as soon as possible. One more question, if you don't mind. Do you know anyone who might have wanted Mr. Burke dead?"

George shifted his weight heavily from one foot to the other, and Alberg saw how weary he was. "I didn't know him all that well.”

The staff sergeant considered him for a moment. "But what you knew, you didn't like much, did you?"

George looked up, and Alberg gave him his sweetest, most compassionate smile.

"No," said George Wilcox quietly. "I didn't." He looked extremely worn. "But us old-timers, you know! how it is. We usually don't like to see each other get bashed on the head."

"And that's another thing that bothers me," said Alberg.

"It bothers me too," said George, wiping at his forehead.

"Why were you so sure he'd been bashed on the head?"

George looked at him. "Well, he sure as hell didn't have a heart attack."

"It could have been an accident though, couldn't it?" Alberg was watching George curiously. "He could have stumbled, fallen, hit his head. Homicide," he said gently, "isn't usually the first thing that comes to mind, when someone's found dead."

George shook his head stubbornly. "There wasn't anything near enough for him to have landed on. There wasn't anything knocked over, as though he'd fallen on it. And there wasn't any blood, anywhere, except on him, and that rug." He was pale and agitated.

"You're very observant, Mr. Wilcox," said Alberg.

"A thing like that, finding a thing like that. . . it gets burned into your brain," said George to the gravel on the path. "I'd like to go home now.”

"Sure," said Alberg. "Thanks for your cooperation. Constable Gainer will give you a lift. We'll want to talk to you again, though.”

George squinted up at him. "I don't know any more than I already told you."

"We'll be asking you about Mr. Burke. Who his other friends were—things like that."

George looked at him for a moment, then turned without a. word and plodded up the path.

Gainer followed him, shoving his notebook and pen back in his pocket, freeing his hands so he could move the ribbon from across the gate and let the old man out.
 

CHAPTER 6

The following day, Cassandra Mitchell sat in her car outside the
Pacific Press
building in Vancouver. There was a bundle of letters in her lap. She dug her sunglasses out of her purse and put them on; then she picked up the topmost envelope. Box 294, THE VANCOUVER SUN, it said, in block letters written with a blue ballpoint pen. She couldn't tell much from that. She ripped it open and pulled out a small folded piece of notepaper, and as she did so, something else fell out of the envelope. She picked it up and saw that it was a photograph. She stared at it. It was a waist-up picture of a hairy, muscly man in his early thirties, apparently wearing nothing but his self-satisfied grin. Cassandra felt herself flush. She put down the photograph with care on the seat next to her, wondering if she really wanted to read the accompanying message. "Be brave, " she mumbled to herself.

Dear Box 294. I have never answered an add in the paper before, but I knew as soon as I read yours that your the one pr me. I'm younger than you said but not much and believe me it wont matter. Let me know your number and I'll phone you so we can meet and get together and get to know each other. You wont regret it and I know I wont either. Love, Brett.

"'Love, Brett,'" said Cassandra. She scrunched up the letter, tossed the rest of the pile on top of the photograph, and started up the car with a roar.

The Hornet churned across the Granville Street bridge, and the breeze from the open window blew Cassandra's dark hair around her head. A total of fifteen letters she'd had, counting today's four, from two advertisements. It had cost her a packet and she hadn't even wanted to meet most of the men who had written to her.

She inched her way through the rush-hour traffic wondering why on earth she had done such a thing: advertised in the paper, for God's sake, for a man.

Yet she had. She had delivered the advertisement to the newspaper in person, as was required. She had slunk in and out of the building, hidden behind her sunglasses and a guilty slouch. In due course she returned, to pick up the replies. While waiting for her turn at the counter she watched a man walk away with a pile of letters almost high enough to make him stagger. Eagerly she gave her box number to the woman behind the counter, who disappeared briefly and returned with six envelopes. Cassandra looked at them incredulously, then at the middle-aged woman with ferociously yellow hair who had given them to her. "I know, dearie," the woman had said, "it's the men get all the answers." The next time, there were only five letters; and this time, four.