Wife or Death (10 page)

“Sergeant Harley,” a voice said.

“Jim Denton, Bob. Any word on George Guest?”

“Not yet, Mr. Denton. The chief just phoned, too. The patrol boys report they've checked everywhere and the car's not in town. Augie told me to put out the word to the sheriff's office to cover the whole county. I was just going to call it in.”

“Will you phone me as soon as you get anything? I'm at George Guest's house.”

Denton hung up and repeated what Sergeant Harley had told him.

All that Corinne said was, “I think I'll have another cup now.”

The clock hands dragged on and on. Corinne simply sat, wrapped in her elegant lounging outfit and occasionally shivering as if she were cold. Once, in an attempt to relieve the tension, Denton said, “That bastard! After giving us this scare, he'll probably march in here and want to know what in hell you're doing entertaining a man in your pajamas in the middle of the night.”

“George?” Corinne said, shaking her head. “Never. He's too sure of me. Jim, why don't you go home and get some sleep? You've got to work tomorrow.”

“For one thing tomorrow's Saturday. For another, shut up.”

“You're a love.” A little color began to relieve the dead pallor. “More coffee?”

“I'm floating now. But—yes, thanks.”

He excused himself, and while he was gone Corinne made another potful. At midnight Denton phoned again. Sergeant Harley said, “Nothing yet. The chief says if we don't turn Guest up in another hour I'm to alert the state police. An area alarm would coyer Cattaraugus County and as far south of the Pennsylvania border as Coudersport. You still with Mrs. Guest?”

“Yes. I'll be here until George gets home.”

“Then give me a ring at one A.M. Or the minute Guest walks in, if he does. I don't want to stir up the state boys if he's already home.”

“I understand.” Denton hung up.

There was something about the phrase “area alarm” that sounded like a last resort. That news could wait. The alarm might not have to go out at all. There was no point in adding to Corinne's anxiety.

So Denton merely said, “Nothing yet. Harley says to phone back at one if George isn't home by then.”

At one he phoned back. “Still nothing,” the sergeant said. “Well, I better call the state police, Mr. Denton. I go off duty now, but Neddie Bradshaw will be on the desk and I'll brief him. Ned'll call you if there's any news. You'll still be at Mrs. Guest's?”

“Yes,” Denton said. “And thanks.” He steeled himself to turn and face her frightened eyes. “I may as well tell you, Corinne. They're extending the alarm throughout Cattaraugus and down a way into Pennsylvania. So they're bound to find him soon.”

“Dead?”

“Nonsense.”

“Is it, Jim?” Corinne said quietly. “You know George wouldn't stay out till one A.M. without letting me know where he is. He phones if he's going to be ten minutes late for dinner. Something's happened to him.”

Denton did not reply. He agreed with her perfectly. Something had happened to George, all right. He sat down opposite her and stared at the coffee with sheer hatred.

At two o'clock and again at three Denton phoned Ned Bradshaw. There was no news.

At five minutes to four the phone rang.

Corinne let out a gasp and dropped the cigarette she was in the act of lighting. Denton nearly knocked over his chair in his haste to get to the phone.

Bradshaw's voice said in his ear, “Afraid I've got some bad news for you, Mr. Denton.”

Denton felt his heart begin to pound. “Yes?”

“The state police found Guest's car about a half hour ago in a ravine off Rock Hill Road. You know that hairpin turn about three miles west of town where they have reflectors on the guardrail?”

“I know it.” What am I going to tell her? he thought.
How
?

“He went off the road this side of the curve, before where the guardrail starts. There's an almost vertical drop of twenty-five feet at that point. The car is a total wreck, they tell me.”

Denton began to fight down the feeling he had had in the morgue. “And … George?”

“Dead.”

So that was that.

“They're bringing him into the county hospital morgue. Think Mrs. Guest will be up to an identification tonight?”

“I don't know.” I've got to think, Denton thought, think. “Can't I do that?”

“It's supposed to be done by somebody from the family. Anyway, it can wait till tomorrow.”

And this is it, he thought as he turned from the telephone. Find the words, find the words … Corinne was devouring his face with her eyes. And then words were unnecessary after all.

“He's dead,” Corinne said, “George is dead,” in an unnaturally calm voice, while her eyes pleaded,
Tell me he isn't, Jim
,
tell me it's not true
.

“It was an accident,” Denton muttered. “The car ran off the road at a hairpin turn.”

“Where is he?”

“They're taking him to the … morgue.”

She shut her eyes. Almost immediately she opened them and put one hand on the back of her chair and pushed herself to her feet. “I'll have to get dressed.”

“It doesn't have to be tonight, Corinne. It can wait till tomorrow.”

“What can wait?”

He cursed inwardly at her helpless, lost look. “The identification.”

She swayed, but before he could jump forward she steadied herself. “I'll be ready in three minutes,” she said. At the door she paused just long enough to murmur with a sort of pride, “George always did hate weak females.”

And left Jim Denton raging at the shade of the departed. You
damn
fool. You goddam
sweet
fool. Why did you have to stick your big feet in?

12

In the hospital lobby a tall, red-haired state trooper was waiting.

“I'm Corporal Childs. I'm sorry about your husband, Mrs. Guest. We just brought him in so they won't be ready for a while yet. Why don't you sit down here while I see how long it will be?”

The trooper disappeared in the stairwell to the basement. Corinne took a seat and folded her hands in her lap. Her eyes remained wide open; otherwise, she might have been asleep. She's in partial shock, Denton thought. He remained standing. When he offered her a cigarette she did not even shake her head.

An interminable fifteen minutes later Corporal Childs reappeared. “Will you come with me now, please?”

Corinne rose at once. Denton took her elbow as they crossed the lobby and went down the marble stairs. Her movements were wooden, but she seemed not to need the support. Nevertheless, he held on to her.

They were met at the morgue door by a young intern.

“I'm Dr. Knott. Are you sure you're up to this, Mrs. Guest? It can wait, you know.”

Her voice was quite steady. “I want to see him now.”

The doctor took her other elbow and they led her to the sheet-covered figure on the squat table. The trooper remained in the doorway. A different attendant from the one on duty when Denton had viewed the body of Angel peeled the sheet back halfway.

Denton had braced himself, remembering. But this one was different. Not bad, he thought; not so bad. Or maybe you got used to death, even this kind of death. The chest was caved in and there were several ragged gashes on the nude torso from which the blood had been washed away. The head was undamaged except for a big lump on the left side with a sort of equatorial crack running across it, a dark crevasse. It was not George, but it was George. The essential George was gone, leaving a waxwork of him.

He felt Corinne tremble, or shudder. “It's my husband … yes.” This time her voice was not steady at all.

Denton and the intern led her back into the corridor. Her feet were dragging a little. “Are you sure you're all right, Mrs. Guest?”

“I'm just dandy,” Corinne said.

She was a weak female after all, Denton thought. He caught her before she could fall, swung her up into his arms.

“Just put her down there.” The intern pointed to a cart standing against the wall.

Gently Denton lowered her onto it. The young doctor put a stethoscope to her heart, took her pulse, peeled back an eyelid.

“Just a faint,” he said. He elevated her legs and depressed her head. “Is she all alone at home?” He began to work on her. “She ought to have someone around tonight.”

“I could get hold of a woman-friend,” Denton said. “Although at this hour of the night—”

“Why not check her in here till morning?”

“All right,” Denton said. He felt a great relief, and a great impatience.

When he had made all the arrangements and seen Corinne safely upstairs into a private room, Denton went back down to the lobby.

The trooper was still waiting, as he had requested. “What did you want to talk to me about, Mr. Denton?”

“The accident, Corporal. Can you give me any details?”

“About all we know is he went over a twenty-five-foot embankment. You know where it happened?”

“Approximately.”

“It's a perfectly straight piece of road there. Just beyond is a bad curve, but he went off a good fifty yards ahead of it. No skid marks, no smell of liquor, so it looks as if he fell asleep at the wheel. Of course it's still possible he had a load on. If he did, a blood analysis'll show it up.”

“Any chance he might have been dead before he crashed?”

“You mean from a heart attack?”

“I mean could he have been murdered, then pushed over the bank?”

The trooper seemed startled. “You have any reason to think he might have been?”

“Yes,” said Denton wearily.

The trooper's entire bearing changed. “Then you'd better ride back to the barracks with me, Mr. Denton, and make a statement.”

“Not tonight, please. Anyway, Chief Spile of Ridgemore knows the reasons as well as I do. Get
his
statement. As far as I'm concerned, there's no question about it. All I want to know is—is there any way of proving it?”

Corporal Childs gave him a queer look. “An autopsy ought to be able to tell. Anyway, from what you say, you can bet they'll be asked to do a thorough one. Offhand, I'd say you're going to be disappointed.”

Denton barked a laugh. “I admire your choice of words, Corporal. Why?”

“Because the inside of his car looked like a slaughterhouse. I don't think there'd have been that much blood if he was already dead.”

“He could have been unconscious and was sent over the embankment to be killed by the fall.”

“You're in the wrong business, Mr. Denton. You should have been a cop.”

I should have been a lot of things, Denton thought. “When do you suppose they'll do the autopsy?”

“They'll probably start it in the morning. Ought to have a full report by Monday.”

“Then I'll have to wait it out,” Denton said. “Good night, Corporal.”

“Good night, sir.” The trooper stared after him doubtfully. Then he made for one of the public phones.

Denton reached home at 5:20 A.M., exhausted and wide-awake. So he opened a fresh fifth of bourbon and sat down in his living room with it. He drank a quarter of the bottle's contents before he began to relax. At a little past six he fell into bed. He blacked out instantly.

When he opened his eyes it was almost eleven. For a moment he thought wildly, the
Clarion
! But then he remembered. The paper stayed closed on Saturdays …
Corinne
!

He dashed to the phone.

When he was told that Mrs. Guest was still resting under sedation, he felt less guilty. He left a message saying that he would call for her later in the day.

Forty-five minutes later he walked into Chief Spile's office.

“Am I still your number-one suspect, Augie?”

“You're a lot lower on the list,” the chief said glumly. “Poor old George … Course, it could be just what it looked like.”

“An accident?” Denton laughed. “You really believe that?”

“It would be a pretty strong coincidence,” admitted August Spile. “Wonder where George was headed when he went over that bank. It couldn't have been to call on Angel's killer if the killer was one of the guests at the Wyatts' party. They all live in town, and the car left the road around three miles out, going
from
town. Norm Wyatt's hunting lodge is out of town, but in the opposite direction.”

“That's one reason I'm so sure George didn't die in an accident,” Denton said. “I think he was dead or unconscious, and the car was deliberately taken to that spot and pushed over with George in it, Augie, for the very reason you just mentioned.”

“That's kind of deep, Jim,” the chief said, shaking his head.

“It's a kind of deep case,” Denton retorted. “Any word yet as to the time of George's death?”

“I talked to Doc Olsen about an hour ago. Right now he can only guess, but he estimates between nine last night and one A.M. We know he was alive at nine, and it would have taken him at least fifteen minutes to drive through town and three miles beyond, so we can narrow it down to, say, nine-fifteen to one.”

“Did the pathologist say George might have been dead before the accident?”

“He thinks not, but he'll keep it in mind when he does the autopsy. He promised me the results on both autopsies by Monday. You can arrange for the funeral any time after that.”

Denton was startled and chagrined. Not once since learning of Angel's death had he had the conscious thought: You'll have to bury her. He had not even notified Angel's parents, though by now they must have heard the news on TV or seen it in the papers.

He wondered if they would come to Ridgemore. He had never met them; and Angel herself had not seen them for years, although Titusville was a mere hundred miles or so away. She had written her mother once or twice a year, sometimes—not always—getting an answering note. If the Koblowskis did come, it would be strange meeting his in-laws for the first time at his wife's funeral.