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Park became famous for its parties, nightlife, and the big, sleek yachts anchored off Brentwood Point. The town began to protect itself; restrictive covenants were drawn up and—”
“They excluded who?” Ruddy asked.
“Well, Jews, Negroes, and what they lumped together as the
‘undesirables,’” the professor mumbled.
“Have there been any cases of racial trouble about Negroes wanting to come in? Or Jews?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“No Jews or Negroes ever sought to live here,” the professor explained.
“Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“How can you be so sure?”
“I see your point,” the professor said. “You’re thinking that maybe some disgruntled Jew or Negro was on the loose, feeling a rankling from being rejected and was killing—”
“I’m not thinking,” Ruddy said testily. “I’m hunting around for disgruntled people who might have a grudge to kill you or your friends.”
“No. There are no cases of that.”
“Go on, Professor.”
“Now, I told you that Brentwood Park was originally twice the size it is now. In settling claims against him, Stanton gave up the whole forest area to a textile millionaire, Wilson, who took over the area and, later, made a gift of it to the town—stipulating in his will that it was to be left in its savage state.”
“That’s why there are no buildings or lights up there, eh?”
“Right,” the professor agreed. “Now, the hotels are beginning to fill up for the summer. Crowds are beginning to surge
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in from all over. That’ll bring Brentwood Park’s population to its peak.” He shifted his finger to another area. “Here, beyond the hotels, are the big houses. That’s the heart of Brentwood.”
“The winter population?”
“About one hundred thousand.”
“And the summer?”
“Between one hundred thousand and one hundred seventy thousand”
“Now, professor, does much crime come out of that area of big houses?” Ruddy asked. “You know as well as I do, rich people have a way of taking care of themselves. Much of what would go on the police blotters as being criminal never comes to the police station in places like this. Now, those big families—
the Thurstons, the Runleys, the Hines, the Cooks, the Beltons, the Vassers—they’d never send an erring boy to us. You know what I mean?”
“Certainly. Well, from what I could get by my fi eld-worker students, many of whom come from here—I’d say that abor-tions are fairly high. After all, they feel that they can afford it.
The doctor tipped us off to that. A great deal of juvenile de-linquency is handled strictly in private, between the heads of families. No one would think of calling in the police and subjecting a wayward boy to having a police record. Now, there are an unusual number of suicides—”
“For any outstanding reason?”
“Ill health among the fairly aged seems to account for eighty percent of it,” said the professor.
“They don’t like to suffer much,” Ruddy observed.
“No. They can’t take it.”
“Just curious. What ailments crop up mostly?”
“Cancer.”
“And what else causes suicide?”
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“Money troubles. But not too much of that now.”
“Now. Homicides . . .”
“We’ve had a few triangle killings,” the professor said. “The Tablet-Curry case, the—”
“Yeah. I’ve heard of ’em.”
“A lot of housebreaking in the winter,” the professor went on.
“Any old feuds here?”
“No. Not that I know of.”
“Now, what goes on in those smaller houses—off there to the left, where the poor people live?” Ruddy asked.
“Mostly Irish and Hungarian, second generation,” the professor answered without hesitation.
“And their incomes?”
“Personal services, public services. You see, many of your officers come from that group.” The professor smiled. “A few professionals.”
“From what I can tell,” Ruddy said, “they seem to be a pretty law-abiding group, both of ’em.”
“Yes. They have their problems, but they live in pretty stable family groups. Not too much disorganization among ’em.”
“Now, Professor, let’s keep the Irish and Hungarians in mind,” Ruddy began. “Without referring to your notes or charts, can you recall any unusual crimes that were newspaper-worthy among those groups during the past ten years?”
The professor pursed his lips and stared at the ceiling.
“The Hungarians produced a young gangster,” he said.
“The Hyjicks family. Funny thing. They were Roman Catholics.
Mother, father, and eight children. Jim Hyjicks was the oldest.
We never did find out what went wrong with ’im; none of the other children ever ran afoul of the law. Of course, young Hyjicks could not be classed as a gangster as we know them today.
He started out by being behind in his classes in school. (You
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see, we made a detailed study of him.) He was sent to psychologists but to no avail. He was arrested the first time with a gang of young toughs who had stolen property in their possession.
Hyjicks swore that he was innocent; nevertheless, he was sentenced to a reformatory. He came out bitter; six months later, he was caught in the act of burglarizing one of the summer houses that had been boarded up for winter. He went ‘up’—I don’t know why we call it going ‘up’ when we send ’em down to Joliet!—for two years. He came out this time real mad. He organized a gang and tried to muscle in on taking over truck driver’s unions. He shot a man, who recovered. He went ‘up’
for five years this time. When he came out, he shot a policeman while he was in the act of robbing a fi lling station—”
“Where is he now?”
“Joliet.”
“And his brothers and sisters are all straight? Nobody tried to avenge Jim Hyjick?”
“No. His family rejected ’im,” the professor said. “Did all they could for ’im, but there was no social or political sympathy. I’m sure none of the Hyjicks tried to get even in any way.”
“Any other cases stick in your mind?”
“Two years ago we had a lot of trouble with the daughter of a postal inspector,” the professor related. “Compulsive shoplifting. Some kind of psychological yen, it seemed. She was caught several times, got her name in the newspapers, and was let off. She’s married now and living in another state. She fl ed Brentwood Park—”
“Her name now?”
“Evelyn Sorkin.”
“And she’s living—?”
“Somewhere in St. Louis, the last I heard.”
“Any other memories?”
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“I recall one pathetic case,” the professor said. “A Miss Devin, a schoolteacher married a young fellow who was also a teacher, a chap by the name of Wintry—Robert Wintry. Wintry was ailing all the time but rarely complained about it. He was drafted into the army over the protests of his wife and physician. Three days after he was inducted, he died of heart failure.
The wife went wild, ran amok in the truest sense of the word.
She took Wintry’s hunting rifle and tried to knock off a few cops—”
“Wait! What year was that?”
“In 1944.”
“She didn’t kill anybody?”
“No. Her aim was bad.”
“And where is she now?”
“In Brentwood. She’s remarried. Has four children and is quite normal,” the professor stated.
“We’ll check, just to make sure,” Ruddy muttered. “Sorry to press you, Professor, but do you recall any others?”
“One rather unusual case comes to mind,” the professor resumed. “Owen Calan was chief teller in the Brentwood Park Bank and Trust Company from its opening. He had an ailing wife—cancer. Hopeless case. Well, it seems that Owen Calan took more than fifty thousand from the bank by juggling the figures; he used it to try to cure his wife. A bank examiner discovered it and Owen Calan quickly and honestly owned up to it. He had even saved every medical receipt. He pleaded guilty.
Was sent up for four years. He is out now—good behavior, you know. His wife died while he was in prison.”
Ruddy stared hard and unblinkingly at Professor Redfi eld.
Had that Owen Calan felt about his wife in some way that Tommy had felt about Marie? But Owen had stolen to help his doomed wife, while Tommy had fled his doomed girl.
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“Where’s this Owen Calan now?”
“Don’t know.”
“We’ll trace ’im and check,” Ruddy said. He rose. “You are very kind to submit to all this. We’re really searching for a needle in a haystack, and we mustn’t overlook anything, no matter how far-fetched. Maybe there’s nothing in all of this, but you never know. And many thanks for your masterful description of how this town grew up.”
“Not at all, Chief,” the Professor said, smiling. “Any time my department at the university or I can be of service to you, don’t hesitate to call on us.”
“Thanks, again. And good-bye.”
Ruddy was dead tired. But the image of that compassionate Owen Calan stuck in his mind. He ordered his car, drove home, and went straight to bed, taking a sleeping pill; he slept like a rock.
C H A P T E R 1 4
Ruddy slept unbrokenly for twelve solid hours, and when he did open his eyes, he stared unseeingly, lying stone still; this was his habit of awakening. It was as though he distrusted his very bed and wanted to play possum a bit and see what would happen, if any movement that had been in action while he slept would resume itself. He yawned softly and could tell, without looking at his watch, that it was early morning, for the noises that came to his ears were distant, muffl ed, and infrequent. He turned his head; Agnes breathed deeply in sleep at his elbow. She had long ago grown used to these marathon stints of duty that so often claimed him and she had known better than to awaken him when she went to bed.
Then, as he surged slowly toward full consciousness, his body began to tense. The world was something with which to grap-ple. There were malefactors about who had to be caught; there were invisible threats in the very air. He suppressed a threaten-ing yawn and wondered if Tommy was in his room. He must be asleep; I don’t hear that damned typewriter . . . Jesus! He gritted his teeth. Am I spying on the movements of my own family in my own house? A sense of self-disgust filled him. But his mind, now
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awakened, was well launched into its merciless logic. That bank teller, Owen Calan, had had a case that was psychologically parallel to that of Tommy’s! Calan had quietly and calmly, as though he knew deep in him that he had the right, disregarded the law made by men and had tried unsuccessfully to obey a higher one, felt in his own heart, in the effort to save his doomed wife. But in the end he had lost her in the worst way possible. She had died while he was serving his prison sentence for theft, and he had not even been allowed to attend her funeral! What had Owen Calan felt when he had been freed? Had it been something akin to what Tommy had felt when he had learned that his beloved Marie was tainted and was beyond his pale? Had he wanted to lash out at a world that mocked even his best efforts? Yeah, a guy like that could have come back here and tried to get even with this damn town. Yeah, he would send out an investigatory tracer on him first thing this morning.
But . . . if he had the right to suspect Calan, had he not the duty to suspect Tommy? Was it not unfair of him to set in motion an investigation about Owen Calan on the mere notion that the man had suffered a horrible shock, and not do the same for his own son? But Tommy hasn’t, I know, done anything! But how did he know? He didn’t. And what had he done to check on Tommy? Nothing. But just how did one go about checking on one’s own son? Ruddy suddenly frowned, blinking; he suddenly realized that he did not know much about his son. Strange, how one took one’s own for granted. What were Tommy’s habits? Tennis? Anybody could play tennis. And, for example, he never would have thought that anything as trau-matic as Tommy’s desertion of Marie could have taken place without Tommy’s having told him about it. Aw, I’ve nothing on that boy . . . and he was amazed that he had used the police terminology about his son. He had “nothing” on his son!
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Yet, in a strictly moral sense, did he not have as much on Tommy as he had on that Owen Calan? I’m losing my grip, he chided himself at his inability to stop the relentless march of his policeman’s thoughts. Maybe I ought to have retired. No, police work was his work, his life, his law. His mind and feelings hit a blank wall. He sighed, glanced at Agnes’s sleeping face, and then at his watch. It was three-thirty. I’ll get up. He loved being up and thinking and working when all the rest of the world was asleep. He was the true policeman then; he was a real guardian when others slept and he kept watch. He eased from bed without disturbing Agnes and went into the bathroom. Half an hour later, he was dressed in his uniform and was seated at his desk in his office, furiously scribbling upon a pad an outline of projected action for the coming day. He wrote a note to Agnes, telling her that he would be in for lunch, and then went into the hallway. The door to Tommy’s room stood slightly ajar. That’s odd. Had the boy gone out? He went to the front window and peered out toward the garage: Tommy’s roadster was not in its accustomed place. Now was the time to get a quick look into the boy’s room! No! He bit his lips. Yes! Why not?
Had he not, after all, said that he wanted to get closer to that boy? Well, here was an opportunity to make a start and fi nd out something about his son. But what did snooping on one’s son have to do with establishing a fatherly relation with him? Hell, no matter what Tommy’s involved in, I’ve got a right to know. I must know! For my own peace of mind. He slipped a note under the door of the bedroom and then tiptoed to Tommy’s door. He froze. Suppose the boy was there and found him snooping?
“Tommy?” he called in a whisper, trying to establish an alibi if caught.
There was no answer. He pushed the door in, calling again in a louder whisper: “Tommy!”
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He could see plainly into the room now; the boy had not yet come in. A murky dawn blue light filled the room. He entered, feeling the skin on his body prickling. Never before in his life had he even associated his son with the thought of crime, and in his determination to spy into Tommy’s life, he felt a sense of guilt that was as deep as any he could ever possibly find in his son.
How orderly the room was! Not a book, not a chair, not a scrap of paper out of place. The pencils were neatly lined up at the top of the desk; the typewriter had its plaster cover neatly covering it. Last night’s newspaper was laid on the night table near the bed. Even the ashtrays were shining and clean. Almost too orderly. Ruddy stood over the desk and peered down at a book whose title read Studies in Hysteria by Joseph Breuer and Sigmund Freud. Humnnnn. Too deep for me . . . psychological stuff. He sure goes for that. Ruddy glanced at the pictures on the wall: a scene from Venice showing canals and gondolas in bright sunshine; the Tour Eiffel with a Paris background; the photograph of a vividly black African mask. . . . He turned to Tommy’s clothes closet and opened it, then felt gingerly for the bottom of trousers. Yeah, here they were; he felt tightly, squeezing the cuffs, feeling for dampness, seeing vividly in his mind the high dew-wet forest above Brentwood Park. Dry as a bone, he said to himself with a degree of satisfaction. He be
nt down and lifted a pair of tan shoes. They were dry too. He picked up another pair and found them dry. His tension was ebbing. He poked about in the pockets of the coats, finding a few coins and a half-smoked packet of cigarettes. Then, in the inside coat pocket of Tommy’s Harris tweed suit, he felt what seemed to be a letter. He drew it out, switched on the light. Yeah, a letter from Marie! He opened it, pulling forth the sheet of paper . . .
God, he oughtn’t do this. Yet his police mind was driving him on. He bent and read:
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Darling Tommy:
I hardly know how to write this. God, I feel so sorry for you.
What have I done to you? How did I do it? Darling, all I can say is that whatever has happened is not my fault; I think the doctor told you that. I keep walking the floor and asking myself what can I do to make things right again? I’ve been thinking of taking my own life, but, as stupid as it sounds, I just don’t know how to go about it. I don’t blame you for not coming to see me, or telephoning, or writing. I know how you feel. Though you did not know it, I saw you yesterday and I knew from the expression on your face that you were suffering
. . . Tell me, Tommy, what can I do? I’ll do anything you say, even to going and jumping into the lake. I’m feeling that I’m through living without having even started. Darling, I’m not asking that you come to see me; I know you don’t want to do that. But you can write. Can’t you? Won’t you? Just one word to let me know that all this tragedy is real and is not some nightmare that I dreamed up all by myself . . .
Your brokenhearted
Marie
Ruddy sighed. Goddamn . . . even that letter did not make him get in touch with her! Jesus, he must have been in some state. Ruddy glanced at the date; it was the twelfth of March last.
Humnnn . . . just a few days before that Hindricks-Landsdale murder. Aw, hell! Why do I keep thinking of that? He put the letter back, carefully, so as not to rumple the suit. He was about to shut the closet door to leave the room when he saw a pair of tennis shoes, dirty and water-stained, lying where they had been seemingly tossed against the rear wall of the closet. He lifted one and found it damp; his heart began pounding. He paused, thinking: yeah, he played tennis yesterday. But there’s been no rain
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