Murder Is Suggested (22 page)

“About two weeks,” she said. “You mean, when I was awake? You mean posthypnotic suggestion, don't you?”

“Yes.”

“Once,” she said, “I went and looked in an old suitcase. In the storeroom. It was—all at once I had to go look in the suitcase. I had to find something.”

“What?”

“I don't know. It was always—shadowy. I felt it was something I had put there, or seen somebody put there, when I was a child. But it never had any shape.”

“Did Jamey tell you to look there, do you think?”

“I don't know. I don't think so.”

“Did he have you remember things about your childhood?”

“Sometimes. Twice, I think.”

“And you remember—half remembered—that there was something in the suitcase? And he planted a posthypnotic suggestion that you go and look?”

“Carl, I don't know. I don't remember.”

Now there was evident strain in the girl's young voice; a kind of lost quality in her low-pitched voice.

“You don't need to remember, dear,” Carl Hunter said. “Don't be worried, Faith. You didn't find this—whatever it was?”

“No. There wasn't anything. Wait—there was a collar button. Papa used to wear stiff collars. It was probably one of his.”

“But not what you were looking for, was it?”

“No. Of course not.”

The strain had gone out of her voice. Again, it was difficult to believe that she was in a trance of any kind, was not as fully awake as Hunter obviously was.

“And that,” Hunter said, “was the only thing Jamey ever had you do—directed you to do—when you were awake? The only thing, I mean, that might have grown out of a posthypnotic suggestion?”

“Yes,” she said. Then, “I don't remember anything else.”

“Faith,” Hunter said, and spoke more slowly even than before, “you will remember everything. Everything Jamey told you. Told you you were to do. You cannot help remembering, Faith. When I tell you to remember everything, you must remember everything. You cannot help yourself. Do you understand, Faith?”

“Yes,” she said. “I must remember everything. I cannot help remembering.”

“And telling me what you remember.”

“And telling you what I remember.”

Was there, now, a different quality in her voice? As if now she were indeed asleep, and talking in her sleep?

“Did Jamey tell you that he was going to die slowly, and in pain? That the pain had already started?”

For some seconds, Faith did not say anything.

“You must remember,” Hunter said, his voice gentle, insistent.

“Perhaps he did,” she said, finally, as if the words came with difficulty. “I'm trying to remember, Carl. Perhaps he said something like that.”

“I'm not trying to put anything in your mind,” Hunter said. “Only to get you to remember. You know that, Faith.”

“I know that.”

“Did he say anything about euthanasia? That those hopelessly ill should be let die? Even helped die?”

“I don't remember that.”

“He believed that, Faith. He told me he believed that. He never told you?”

She stirred for the first time; stirred restlessly on the couch.

“You are deeply asleep,” Hunter said. “Deep, deep asleep. You will not waken until I tell you to. You are deep, deep asleep. You will not waken until I tell you to.”

He paused a moment.

“He never told you that, Faith?”

She was quiet now.

“I don't remember that,” she said.

“Or—asked you to help him?”

She moved her head a little from side to side. She said, “I don't understand what you mean.”

“Help him die,” Hunter said. “That it would be the act of a friend to help him. That there would be no guilt in helping him, but only a generous action. That he would see no harm came to you. Would arrange that you would not even remember what you did. Would see that nobody else ever knew what you had done.”

“Don't, Carl,” the girl said. “Don't, Carl.”

“You must remember everything,” Carl Hunter said.

“I can't,” she said. “I can't remember that, Carl. I can't remember anything like that.” She was quiet for a moment. “I couldn't hurt Uncle Jamey,” she said, “I couldn't have hurt Jamey.”

Again she moved restlessly on the couch.

“Faith,” Hunter said, “did your father ever have a gun? A revolver? When you were a little girl did you know your father had a revolver?”

“I don—” Faith Oldham said. “No—wait a minute. There was—something. Something shiny.”

“Think of it,” Hunter said. “Think of it and you will remember it, Faith. It is a long way back but you will remember it. What was the shiny thing, Faith?”

She was silent now for longer than she had been at any time before. Hunter waited, any Jerry and Pam and Hope Oldham waited. Hope was breathing more quickly; probably, Jerry thought, they all were. He turned enough to see Pam, standing on the other side of Hope Oldham and a little behind her. Pam's face was tense.

“It was a revolver,” Faith said. “I remember it. The barrel was what was shiny.”

“You saw it? Your father had it?”

“Yes. Yes. That was it.”

“Faith. Did Jamey ask you about a revolver? Your father's revolver?”

“No. I'm sure he didn't.”

“He told you—instructed you—to go the storeroom and look for something in a suitcase? Under posthypnotic suggestion?”

“Yes. It must have been that.”

“And—bring him what you found there?”

“I don't remember that. But there wasn't anything in the suitcase—”

She stopped. Again she stirred restlessly.

“But he put it there,” she said. “I remember seeing him put it there.”

“Who, Faith? Jamey? Put what? Was it in the suit—”

“Not Uncle Jamey,” the girl said. “I told you that. My father had the revolver. He put it in the suitcase. It was a long time ago when I was a little girl and I wasn't supposed to see him, but I did. I was wearing a pink dress and I'd gone to show papa the dress and he was—was putting the shiny thing in a suitcase.”

“Yes, Faith. And you're sure—you're very sure—that when you went to look in the suitcase—when was that, Faith?”

“Monday,” she said. “I think it was Monday.”

“And there was nothing in the suitcase? Except a collar button?”

“Nothing. I know there was nothing.”

“There wasn't a gun there? You didn't take the gun out of the suitcase and—”

And Hope Oldham wrenched free from Jerry's restraining hand. She moved very quickly, snatched at the sliding door, grabbed it open. Wood cracked against wood as the jamb stopped it. Jerry reached for her. His fingers touched the smooth leather of the handbag under her arm, slipped from it. Hope Oldham went, half running, into the darkened room and went toward Hunter and the girl, and called her daughter's name.

“
Faith!
” she called, her voice high, shrill. “
Faith!
Wake up! Wake
up!
”

Hunter turned and began to get up from the chair as the door slammed open. He got halfway up and his injured leg gave under him and he lost balance. He was on his sound knee, clutching the chair, trying to rise.

“Faith!” Hope Oldham said again, and now her voice was almost a scream. “Wake up.
Wake up!
”

The girl lay motionless on the couch, her eyes closed. It was as if she lay, untouchable, in a sheath of glass.

Hope Oldham turned on Hunter, then, and Hunter quit trying to get up and stayed, awkwardly, as he was.

“Wake her up,” Mrs. Oldham said, her voice still shrill. “Wake her up. I know what you're trying to do.
Wake her!
”

There was threat in the voice.

The Norths were in the room; in the room, standing side by side.

“Jerry,” Pam said. “Her
purse! It's too heavy!
”

Jerry started toward Hope Oldham. Her back was to him; she looked down at Hunter, who looked up at her, an odd expression on his face.

“Wake her up,” Hope said again, and this time her voice was quieter. But at the same time, almost the same time, as if Pam's voice had only just reached her, she turned toward the Norths. And then, very quickly, she had the big black handbag open.

She plunged her right hand into the open bag. The hand came out with something shiny in it; with a revolver in it. She stepped back, then, so that she could face both the Norths and Hunter.

Faith Oldham did not move on the couch.

“Don't interfere,” Hope Oldham said. And then, to Hunter, “I told you to wake her up. You've done all you're going to do to her.”

“Have I?‘' Hunter said, and his voice was curiously calm. For an instant, Pam North thought that he looked beyond Hope Oldham, standing above him—beyond her and the revolver with a shiny barrel. But there was nothing beyond her, at the angle from which he looked. “What have I done, Mrs. Oldham?”

“We all heard,” she said. “I tell you to wake her up.”

The gun leveled on the half-kneeling man.

“What?” he said. “What have I been trying to do, Mrs. Oldham?”

“We heard,” she said. “I tell you—we heard. And—it's all there, isn't it?” For an instant the gun pointed at the tape recorder. Jerry felt his body twitch forward. The gun swung a little. Jerry stopped.

“If you heard—” Hunter began, but Hope Oldham did not wait.

“Making her believe she killed him,” Hope Oldham said. “We heard you—twisting her mind. Making her say—what you wanted her to say. Take the blame for what you did.”

“
I
did?”

Hunter's voice still was calm.

“Killed him,” Hope Oldham said. “Because you knew he was leaving her money and—you thought you could get it. And—”

She broke off.

“It's all there,” she said, and again meant the recorder, but this time the revolver did not point. “And—we heard you. Mr. and Mrs. North and I—we heard you. So you can't—”

Pam North sensed, as much as saw, that Hunter's muscles were tightening, that he shifted his weight slowly, just perceptibly, so that his body balanced on his sound leg. His hands tightened on the chair he clutched. Pam moved, and the revolver swung toward her. There was a kind of frenzy in Hope Oldham's face.

“
I said not to interfere
,” Mrs. Oldham said. “What do you want to interfere for? Wake her up, Mr. Hunter. You've done everything you could. And—
failed.
So wake her up.
Wake her up!
”

Then Hunter started to come up from his crouch and, at that instant, more light went on—the room seemed to glare with light from an overheard fixture.

“Don't try it, Hunter,” Bill Weigand said from the laboratory door, and they turned to look at him—at Weigand and, behind him, Sergeant Mullins. Bill had his gun out.

“Don't try it,” he repeated. “Put the gun away, Mrs. Oldham. You won't need—”

She seemed, for the moment, dazed. She did not lower the gun. She backed away, instead—backed toward the wall. It was as if she had not heard Bill Weigand. The gun was leveled still.

She doesn't understand, Pam thought. He didn't tell her.

“Mrs. Oldham,” Pam said. “It's all right, now. They're the police.
It's all right.
They'll—”

She was looking at Hope Oldham, began to move toward her. But then, from the side—not quite seen; seen as shadow—there was movement. In what seemed the same instant, Jerry was past her; Jerry's hand came down, a fist, on the shining barrel of the revolver.

The revolver went out of Hope Oldham's hand. It made a soft plunking sound on the carpet.

“Why—” Pam North said, but at the same time Bill Weigand said, “Nice going,” and Mullins, moving from behind him—moving faster than so big a man had a right to move—was behind Hope Oldham, his hands closed on her arms.

She began to writhe against the hands. She seemed to be trying to reach down, reach to the gun.

“It's no use, Mrs. Oldham,” Bill Weigand said, and Hunter got awkwardly to his feet and stood looking at them.

It was as if Weigand had thrown cold water in Hope Oldham's face. She stopped struggling.

“No use?” she repeated. “What do you mean? He was trying to—”

“I heard,” Bill Weigand said. “It's no use.”

“I don't—” Hope began, but then seemed to crumple in Mullins's hands.

“Right,” Bill said. “You do. You're under arrest, Mrs. Oldham. It was a pretty good try. But—” He shrugged. “Homicide,” he said. “Also assault with a deadly weapon. But—murder will do.”

She did not say anything. She slumped, and Mullins held her up. Weigand moved his head and Mullins said, “O.K., Loot,” and took Mrs. Hope Oldham out through the door he and Bill had come in by—come through after some time of waiting, of listening.

“Saw us, didn't you?” Bill said, and stooped down and picked up the revolver—a .32 calibre from which, it undoubtedly would be found, at least two shots had been fired. “Didn't you, Mr. Hunter?”

“Toward the end,” Carl Hunter said. “Welcome sight.”

He turned away then and looked at Faith Oldham, who still had not moved; who still seemed sheathed in glass. He turned back, momentarily, toward Bill Weigand.

“I would,” Bill said. “She'll have to know sometime.”

Carl Hunter leaned down over the sleeping girl; he leaned clumsily, but touched her shoulders lightly, with tenderness, it seemed with tenderness.

“You can wake up now, Faith,” Carl Hunter said. “You can wake up, dear. And—you'll remember. You'll have to remember, Faith.”

13

Hope Oldham had, Bill Weigand said, turned out to be the confessing type, which was always a convenience. She would probably, of course, turn out also to be the disavowing type. As time went on, he supposed, there would be much talk of enforced sleeplessness, of glaring lights, of food and drink denied, of the mind beaten down until what lips said—and hands signed—was meaningless, must be ignored. She might even bring in the use of rubber hose and other torments. She would certainly allege promises made by the police, deals arranged with the district attorney.