The Dishonest Murderer (9 page)

“It's a bad night,” she said. She had not thought she was about to speak. She realized that the meaningless words were, must sound like, an appeal. “Speak to me,” she was saying. “I am lonely, afraid. Speak to me. I am confused.”

“Yes,” the man said. He did not turn, and he started the car.

“You're Sergeant Blake,” she said. “The one who came to tell us.”

“Yes,” Blake said. It was odd, she thought, how seldom anyone said, fully, the word “yes.” There was a sound for “yes,” a sound varied by the speakers, sometimes “yeah” or “yeh” or something like “yuh.” But almost never “yes.”

Blake did not continue, but his word did not, as it might have done, break the tenuous communication. It left him alive in the car, sharing the car with her, sharing with her the mood of this momentary seclusion from the world, from the storm.

“Mr. Weigand,” she said. “Lieutenant Weigand?”

“Yes,” Blake said again. “Lieutenant. Acting captain, actually. We all seem to forget, most of the time.”

“Captain Weigand,” she said. “He's—in charge of the investigation? Of—of Bruce's death.”

Blake hesitated. He stopped the car for a light, and this time turned. She could hardly see his face, could see it only dimly in the light from a street lamp.

“Technically,” he said, “Inspector O'Malley's in charge. Or the commissioner, actually. But the lieutenant will handle most of it.”

“With you?” she said.

He smiled. She could see that in the half light. His sensitive face was attractive when he smiled.

“People like me,” he said. “A sergeant named Mullins. A sergeant named Stein. A lot of people.”

“You'll find out?” she said.

“I expect so,” he said. “Sooner or later. One time or another.” His smile faded. “Don't worry so, Mrs. Haven,” he said. “Don't—” He paused, gave up that line. “I suppose there's nothing to say,” he told her. “I know there isn't. It's—it's a shocking thing to face. But, try not to worry so.”

He chose a strange word, she thought, and then thought that the word was right. It was not, as it seemed, a substitute for “grieve,” for the formality of “grieve.” He meant that she was not to worry; the word was chosen precisely. It must be in her manner, then—worry, rather than grief. Worry or—fright. “Don't be frightened,” Lieutenant Weigand had said, or, “You're frightened.” Now this man with a sensitive face, this other policeman, said almost the same thing.

She was silent for a time, and Blake turned back, started the car again. They were in Park Avenue, now; now they were circling the Grand Central Station. Am I worried, frightened, instead of—grieving? she wondered. Is that the way I feel? Is it the strangeness, first, the strangeness of people still alive, of Dad, and Bruce's death only after that? But then—but then it would have been wrong. Oh Bruce, she thought, would it have been wrong? Forgive me, Bruce.

“I was going to marry him,” she said, to the back of Sergeant Blake's head. “I was going to marry him. Now he's been—killed. You say, don't worry. Why do you say that?”

He shook his head, not turning, watching the snow swirl in the beam of the headlights.

“It was the wrong word,” he said. “I know there's nothing to say. I was trying to say I was sorry. But there's nothing to say.”

She did not answer for long minutes. They were far up Park, nearing the apartment.

“I'm not worried,” she said, finally. “Not—frightened. Just unhappy.”

“Of course,” he said. “I used the wrong word. I'm sorry, Mrs. Haven.” He turned the car in toward the curb. He stopped and got out and came around the car. But by then she had opened the door, stood on the sidewalk. The snow began to whiten the fur of her coat.

“Anyway,” she said to him. “Thank you.”

He misunderstood, or pretended to misunderstand. His answer assumed she was thanking him for driving her home.

“'S all right,” he said. “Would you like me to go up with you?”

“No,” she said. “Oh no.”

He went with her across the sidewalk, stopped at the entrance to the apartment house. She said “Good night” and went in, not waiting to hear if he replied.

The elevator was standing at the floor, the door open, but there was nobody near it. She pressed the signal button, and there was a loud buzzing from within the car. After a few minutes, Ben came up, apparently from the basement. He was chewing something. She smiled and said she was sorry and he told her, a little thickly, that it was all right. “Grabbing a sandwich,” he said. He took her up.

Having watched her go into the apartment house, Sergeant Blake turned back to the car. He opened the front door on the right, found a man sitting behind the wheel and did not appear to be surprised. He said, “Hello, Smitty.” He slid into the car beside the man.

“It's a hell of a night,” Smitty said. “You've got it nice, Sergeant. Driving dames around in a warm car.”

It was without rancor.

“Yes,” Blake said. “Very cushy. Spill it, Smitty.”

“You know Smiley?” Smitty said. “Private op.? Fat face? They were after his license a while back?”

“Yes,” Sergeant Blake said.

“Well, he was around,” Smitty said. “First everybody goes away. Anyway, a couple goes away, then a short guy goes away, then a tall guy. You want descriptions?”

“Not now,” Blake said. “Give it to the lieutenant.”

“O.K.,” Smitty said. “Then Smiley comes, looks at the street number like he's not been here before and goes in.”

“Into the building,” Blake said. “Or did you check?”

“To the apartment,” Smitty said. “Sure I checked. Then the girl comes out—the girl you just brought back.”

“Mrs. Haven,” Blake told him. “Go ahead.”

“Half an hour or so, Smiley comes out,” Smitty said. “Looks around for a cab and then starts walking downtown. At the corner, he crossed over and walks on the other side. About half a block down, he gets a cab, going downtown.”

“All right,” Blake said. “I'll pass it along. Anything else?”

“It's cold as hell,” Smitty said. “You've got it soft.”

“Yes,” Blake said.

Smitty sighed. He opened the door on his left, got out into the snow. Almost at once he seemed to disappear. Blake slid under the wheel, started the car, drove north for a block and circled and went back downtown. He thought it was funny about Smiley; that it had been a good idea to stake Smitty where he was staked.

Freddie stood before the door of her own apartment and, with the key in her hand, hesitated. She was oddly unwilling to unlock the door, open the door, walk into the apartment. But after only a moment, she did go in. She shook her coat in the foyer and hung it in the foyer closet. There was a light on only there, and she thought everyone was asleep. She started up the stairs and the door of the library opened. From the open door a shaft of light, spreading, fell obliquely across the living room. Then her father stood in the door of the library and said, “Freddie?”

She said, “Yes, Dad?”

“Thought you were in bed,” the admiral said.

She was surprised, for a moment. Then she realized that, unless he had gone to her room and found it empty, her father would not need to have known that she had gone out. When last he had seen her, she had been going up the stairs, on the way to her room. She was conscious of a feeling of relief. It would have been hard to explain; since Lieutenant Weigand had found her at the Norths', since now, in effect, she had told the police about her father's visitor, it would have been impossible to explain. In the end, presumably, the impossible would have to be faced, since Weigand would question her father about the visitor. But now she had a little time.

“I couldn't sleep,” she said, and walked toward him.

The admiral nodded. He said he knew. As she came up to him, he touched her consolingly, touched her red hair, her cheek. “You're cold,” he said. “Cold, child.”

She stood beside him for a moment and then stepped back so she could look up at him.

“Who was he, Dad?” she said. “That man who was here? What did he want?”

“That man?” her father said, and then appeared suddenly to remember. “Oh—another policeman, Freddie. A detective.”

She looked at him for a long moment. Then, slowly, she shook her head.

“I overheard a little,” she said. “I—I couldn't help it. He wasn't a policeman.”

“A detective,” her father said. He hesitated momentarily. “All right,” he said. “Not a city detective. A man I hired. He—he came for his money.”

Oh, Dad! Freddie thought. That isn't good, darling. That isn't nearly good enough. But she did not say anything. She merely waited.

“Nothing of importance,” her father said. “I had him checking up on some things. In connection with the book.”

It did not even sound like her father, Freddie thought. If it were true, he would not say it so, not explain it so. She waited, giving him a chance to go on yet knowing, from the way in which he had spoken, from the finality of his tone, that he would not go on. He set up a barrier between them; with his words, with the tone he used, he drew a line she was not to cross.

“You should be in bed,” he said, making the barrier more complete, scoring heavily the line she was not to cross. “Do you know what time it is?”

The question had no meaning. She merely shook her head.

“Five o'clock,” he said. “After five. Try to get some rest, Winifred.” His tone was tender, suddenly. “Child,” he said. “I'm sorry, child.”

“I know,” she said. She looked up at him. “It's hard to believe,” she said. “Hard to take in.”

“Have to face it,” he said. “Your job, Freddie.” He looked at her intently. “All of your job,” he said.

It was an order; gently spoken, but still an order. He was the admiral, she was a junior officer. She stood a moment longer, looking up at her tall father, not speaking because it was no use to speak when his face was so, set so, the order given, but with her whole mind crying out to speak. Because he is the child, she thought; he is really the child, not I. For all his certainty, his inflexibility, his sureness in command, he is the child; because of all these things, he is a child in this world which has nothing to do with ships, with patterns established and secure, men and women homogeneous in purpose and behavior. He is a child living behind a protecting wall, an older and hence more decisive child, his place won by seniority and secure, not to be challenged. He can look over the wall, see the other children playing strange games, behaving irregularly, believing inacceptable things—contesting, in a sense, for authority such as he holds by right of early selection, rigid training and, in the end, a ring of a certain design on a finger. His has been a way of life and, she thought, a fine way of life. But it is not the common way, and it does not fit you to understand the common way, or the people who follow it. The trouble with the service, she thought, is that in the end it turns you out, retires you, into a world you have never known. The more dedicated you have been, the more perfectly you have fitted yourself into the service, the harder this is, the more confused you are and the less able to admit confusion.

He's innocent, she thought, looking at her father. He's got mixed up with something he doesn't understand, but he is sure he understands it. In that moment she felt much older than her father and felt responsible for him. This fat man, this devious man from outside the wall, he would have ways and purposes which her father could never understand.

But she said none of this, because it was useless. She was baffled and confused herself, and she was unutterably tired and drained. She had done a wrong thing tonight in going to the Norths'; perhaps, although she could more clearly see the problems, she was no more than her father equipped to solve them.

“I'll try to sleep,” she said, instead of all the things she might have said. She turned away from her father and walked, slowly, without resilience, toward the stairs. A kind of numbness now had succeeded anxiety, unhappiness, even fear. The numbness was merciful; she moved in it carefully, as if she were carrying an overfull glass which she must not jiggle. By so moving in her mind, by keeping numbness level, unspilled, in the glass, she undressed almost without knowing it and lay down on her bed—the curtains drawn, the electric ventilator humming its soft night-song—and after a not very long time she slept. She must have been, she thought afterward, too tired, too drained, to dream.…

“I'm sorry, miss,” Marta said. “It's a shame, it's an awful shame. But the admiral says—”

“All right, Marta,” Freddie Haven said, for the moment not moving. “What time is it?”

“Eleven, miss,” Marta said. “It's an awful shame, you up so late and—everything.” She turned toward Freddie and her eyes filled. “I'm awful sorry, miss,” she said. “We all are. Cook and everybody.”

“I know,” Freddie said. “What did the admiral say, Marta?”

“Everybody's here again,” Marta said, and drew the curtains from one of the windows. She looked out. “It's still snowing, too,” she said. She turned off the ventilating fan. “Miss Celia and that young man of hers and Mr. Phipps and everybody. Even that Miss Burnley and her mother.” She drew back the curtains at the other window. “And policemen,” she said. “It's awful.”

But she was excited, Freddie realized. It was awful, but it was exciting.

“Some of the policemen aren't wearing uniforms,” Marta said. “You wouldn't know, hardly. Should I get your breakfast now?”

Freddie Haven lay a moment longer, looking up at nothing. She felt weighted down; felt that she did not want to get up, to face this day. The numbness was gone. Now, as she lay there, the fear, the anxiety, began to come back.