“She hadn’t been told of her granddaughter’s death?”
“I hadn’t told her, certainly,” Dr. Crowell said. “She was in no condition to withstand the shock. I’m sure Liz hadn’t. Mrs. Jackson assures me she hadn’t.”
“But you had hoped her condition would improve enough so that she could be told?”
Dr. Crowell spread expressive hands.
“Hoped,” he repeated. “The pressure was somewhat variable, as it often is. It might have been possible to bring it down sufficiently, to produce optimum conditions for withstanding the shock.”
Heimrich nodded.
“Mrs. Jackson said an odd thing,” he said. “She said Mrs. Saunders ‘stood up and died.’ Did she mean that literally, Doctor?”
“I wasn’t there,” Crowell said. “Apparently that was the way it happened. Mrs. Saunders decided to get up—perhaps to go to the bathroom. Mrs. Jackson was just coming into the room, she tells me. She thought she had heard Mrs. Saunders calling. She says Penina—” He stopped. “An old-fashioned name, isn’t it?” he said. “It fitted her, I always thought.”
“Yes,” Heimrich said. “Go on, Doctor.”
“Penina was just getting out of bed,” Crowell said. “Mrs. Jackson started to ask her to wait, to say she’d help. But by then the old girl was standing up.” He shook his head slowly. “She had a great spirit,” he said. “She stood up for a second or two by the bed. Then she fell. She was dead when her body reached the floor, I imagine.”
“You thought she might go that way?”
The doctor shrugged. That way or another; that way was best. If the cerebral accident had been less, she might have lived for hours, even for days. It was better this way, at one instant alive, the next not alive.
“Neither of us can ask better,” Dr. Crowell said. “No one can.”
“No,” Heimrich said. “She had been in the hospital during the winter, I understand? You treated her there?”
“Yes,” Crowell said. “Got the regimen set, where the observation could be constant. She was restless there, wanted to be at home. It didn’t matter, really. I looked in at least once a day. Mrs. Jackson is quite competent.”
“And of course,” Heimrich said, “her granddaughter was here. Virginia, I mean. She’d been a nurse, I understand.”
“Well,” Crowell said, and dragged the word. “She did train as a nurse. But she hadn’t practiced. I don’t think she ever did. And she was in and out, of course—in the city much of the time. I relied on Mrs. Jackson.” He looked up again. “I assure you Mrs. Saunders had excellent care,” he said. “She might have died sooner if she had stayed in the hospital. She was eighty-three. She died of natural causes.”
“Now Doctor,” Heimrich said. “Why do you mention that? Is there any question?”
“Not in my mind,” Crowell said.
“No,” Heimrich said. “Of course, it is a coincidence, isn’t it, Doctor?”
Dr. Crowell seemed puzzled for a moment; then he nodded, but doubtfully. He said he supposed one could think of it as a coincidence. It seemed to him a meaningless one.
“I’ve no doubt it is,” Heimrich said. “Or, very little doubt. But you see, Doctor, it would be the second coincidence. That bothers me, naturally.”
Crowell waited. Heimrich explained: the coincidence of Timothy Gates’s presence was the first, of his chance discovery of the body of a girl he had once met, briefly and by chance.
“That would bother me,” Crowell said. “Not Mrs. Saunders’s death, which had to be expected at any time.”
“Oh,” Heimrich said, “I agree, of course. But I don’t play a lone hand, naturally. There are the county authorities, you know. The District Attorney; the Medical Examiner. They have to be satisfied, you know. As a matter of form, if nothing else.”
“You want another opinion on Mrs. Saunders’s death?”
“Now Doctor,” Heimrich said, answering tone rather than words. “I have to be neat, you know. Try to be.”
“You want an autopsy?”
Heimrich nodded slowly, his eyes closed.
“I don’t like it,” the doctor said. “You don’t expect me to.”
There was, Heimrich assured him, no real reason why he shouldn’t like it.
“It’s needless,” Crowell said. “Unpleasant for everyone. Also, it questions my competence. But I can’t stop you, probably.”
“Now Doctor,” Heimrich said. “You can’t. No. Not if I report a suspicious death. But you can suggest an autopsy; Miss Monroe can consent. In that way, no question of suspicion arises. You observe the autopsy, if you like. I don’t at all doubt the results. It’s merely to keep things neat.”
“And,” Crowell said, “proves your thoroughness. That’s it, isn’t it?”
“That enters in, perhaps,” Heimrich said. He opened his eyes. “As a matter of fact,” he said, “I am thorough. Well?”
“I’ve no real objection,” Crowell said. “You want me to suggest it to Liz?”
“Yes,” Heimrich said. “I’d like you to. I’ll make the arrangements.”
Crowell shrugged. He said, “All right.” He stood up.
“By the way,” Heimrich said, “Mrs. Saunders had made a will, of course?”
Crowell sat down again. He leaned forward in a straight chair and looked hard at Captain Heimrich.
“Still being thorough?” Crowell asked and got, “Now Doctor.”
“I’ve no doubt she had,” Crowell said. “Aren’t you a little confused, Captain? I was her doctor, not her attorney. Talk to Kirkwood.”
“You knew her well,” Heimrich told him. “You were friends, as well as patient and doctor. She was an old woman. It would be natural if she mentioned what she planned.”
Crowell hesitated.
“She did, now and then,” he admitted. “She’d say, ‘I’m not forgetting all you’ve done for me. You’ll see.’ I didn’t pay much attention to that. She may have left me something—perhaps some memento. Perhaps money—a thousand or so. That happens, you know.”
“Naturally,” Heimrich said.
“Whatever she left that mattered will go to Liz and—” He stopped. “Will go to Liz,” he said. “There isn’t anybody else. She was very fond of both the girls.” He paused. “Actually, I’m guessing,” he said. “I don’t know the details. Kirkwood will.” His eyes narrowed. “I wouldn’t like your job,” he said.
“No,” Heimrich told him. “I don’t always myself, Doctor. But there it is.”
“She died naturally,” Crowell said. “After a long period of dangerously high blood pressure. She was eighty-three years old.”
“I know,” Heimrich said. “Well—thank you, Doctor. You will speak to Miss Monroe?”
Crowell said “yes.” He waited a moment. He got up. He looked down at Heimrich.
“You’re wasting time,” he said.
“I often do,” Heimrich said. “I often do, Doctor.”
He watched Dr. Crowell leave. He found rubber bands and made the papers into packages. He went out of the big house, seeing no one on his way, and walked in the sun, along Main Street. He remembered, this time, to turn left at the proper corner for the police substation.
Sergeant Forniss was waiting for him there. Forniss shook his head, which was a way of saying that examination of the little sports car had produced nothing helpful. Heimrich nodded, to indicate that he had expected nothing better. The clothes Virginia Monroe had worn the night she died had been sent to the laboratory. They would show traces of her blood. The autopsy report was completed and at hand.
It was technical; it could be translated. The knife might have come from a kitchen; the blade had been some six inches long, from three-eighth to half an inch in breadth. It had been sharp, but only as a kitchen knife is sharp.
The wound which killed her had not penetrated, but had barely missed, the heart. It seemed most probable (but there were other possibilities) that whoever had used the knife had stood behind Virginia Monroe,
perhaps held her still for the moment that was needed by the pressure of an arm across her body, plunged the knife in below her left breast, the course of the blade a little downward and toward the body’s medial line. Bleeding had been for the most part internal.
With such a wound she might have died almost instantly, from shock. She might have lived for some minutes, although she probably would have lost consciousness almost at once.
The other wounds on the body had, in the opinion of the Medical Examiner’s office, been inflicted while Virginia Monroe was still alive. They differed from the fatal wound in character, being cutting wounds, and comparatively superficial. There was some evidence that, probably during the period of infliction of these lesser cuts, the blood pressure had already fallen drastically, as part of the body’s futile attempt to compensate for its grievous hurt. Which would indicate—
Which would indicate what the dress indicated, Heimrich thought, what now the pattern, such as it was, appeared to indicate. He tossed the medical report into a basket.
“You heard about Mrs. Saunders?” he asked Forniss, and Forniss nodded and said, “Yep. I heard.” Forniss waited.
“From natural causes, the doctor says,” Heimrich told him. “Old age. High blood pressure.”
“It’s a coincidence, though,” Forniss said.
“I think so,” Heimrich agreed. “I don’t like them, naturally.”
“No,” Forniss said.
“Particularly,” Heimrich said, “when there’s probably money involved, Charlie. And another death, of course. Dr. Crowell is going to suggest an autopsy.”
“Now Captain,” Sergeant Forniss said.
Heimrich smiled slightly.
“Now Charlie,” Heimrich said. “He tells me he is. If Miss Monroe agrees, of course. Just to be on the safe side. Although he hasn’t any doubt of his own. Perfectly ready to sign a certificate.”
“He’s obliging,” Forniss said. “Very obliging.”
“Mrs. Saunders seems to have been very fond of Dr. Crowell,” Heimrich said. “He thinks she may have left him something. Some trinket. Perhaps, he says, a little money. As a token, naturally.”
“Well?” Forniss said.
“But most of the money probably goes to Miss Monroe,” Heimrich said. “Liz Monroe, since her sister’s dead. There may be quite a good deal of money, Charlie.”
Sergeant Forniss shook his head. He pointed out several difficulties. Virginia Monroe was dead too soon. Her grandmother was still alive, able to change a will if she wished. Her death before she did could not be counted on. Unless—
“Now Charlie,” Heimrich said. “That’s it, naturally. ‘Unless’ is the word, isn’t it?”
He took up a telephone. He got the Medical Examiner’s office. He said, after a time, “No, I don’t call it suspicious. I’m merely curious. The attending physician approves.” He listened. “Keeps things orderly, doesn’t it?” he said. “You’ll take care of it, then?” He listened a moment longer, nodded, replaced the receiver.
“You’ve got a theory,” Forniss told him. Heimrich closed his eyes.
“Now Charlie,” he said. “Part of a theory, let’s call it. I ran into a case a little like it once. Not my case, as it turned out. There was a visiting fireman—Weigand.” He paused. “Come to think of it,” he said, “I’m not even sure it was Weigand’s case. He was there, and I was there, and a couple of friends of his were there too. People named North. You ever meet the Norths, Charlie?”
Forniss shook his head.
“Pity,” Heimrich said. He opened his eyes. “What it came to,” he said, “was that someone got murdered ahead of time. Confused things, naturally.”
“A woman didn’t kill the girl,” Forniss said.
“Now Charlie,” Heimrich said, “why do you say that? It isn’t impossible, you know. But—did I say a woman had?”
“No,” Forniss said. “All right, Captain.”
“We don’t know enough,” Heimrich said. “That’s our job, Charlie.” He nodded toward the banded papers. “Yours,” he told Forniss. “From the girl’s desk, naturally. I’ll be around talking to people. Kirkwood, I hope. He was the old lady’s lawyer, I gather.”
“All right,” Forniss said. “What else?”
“I was surprised to see young Mr. Gates at the house, weren’t you?” Heimrich said. “What happened to him?”
“Left after the old girl died,” Forniss said. “Wandered around town a while. Went back to the Inn.”
“It must be dull for him,” Heimrich said. “Although he does seem to be making friends. One friend, at any rate.”
“You think he knew her before?” Forniss said. “The one who’s alive, I mean. Liz?”
“It would be interesting if he had, wouldn’t it?” Heimrich said. “However, he says he didn’t, you know. Didn’t really know either of them.”
Forniss said, “Well,” and reached for the papers. Heimrich used the telephone again. Then he went back out into the June sunlight, and walked again on Main Street. He walked past the motion picture theater and, a few doors beyond, turned up the walk toward another of East Belford’s big white houses. He followed directions he had received, and went to a side door. He rang the bell and waited for Howard Kirkwood to let him in.
Chapter VII
Howard Kirkwood’s plump face had changed, had lost firmness. Lines showed now. The night before, the skin had fitted as smoothly as an apple’s skin. There was puffiness around the eyes. For one reason or another, Kirkwood had had a bad night. Well, Heimrich thought, there was reason enough in the obvious—a girl he loved, had planned to marry, had been murdered most brutally.
Standing in the door he had opened, Kirkwood seemed at first not to recognize Heimrich. But then he said, “Oh—well, come in,” and moved back into the shadows of a hall. Heimrich went in. He followed Kirkwood up a flight of stairs and into a sunny living room. Kirkwood blinked in the light, as if it hurt his eyes. He turned to face Heimrich. He said, “Well, what is it? I don’t know anything I haven’t told you.” He looked, having by a few inches to look up, into Heimrich’s solid face. There was anxiety in the way he looked at Heimrich. That was natural too.
“Now Mr. Kirkwood,” Heimrich said. “I’m not going back over that, now. You’ve heard about Mrs. Saunders?”
Kirkwood nodded.
“Liz told me,” he said. He seemed to search for something more to say. “They’d been expecting it,” he said. “She hadn’t been well for a long time.” He looked at Heimrich, still in the same questioning fashion. Then he said, “Oh, sit down, won’t you?” and indicated a chair. He sat as Heimrich did, facing the square, solid man.
“You were her lawyer?” Heimrich said.
“Yes,” Kirkwood said. “Yes, I was her lawyer.”
“Drew up her will?” Heimrich said.
“Yes.”
“I’d like to know about it,” Heimrich told him. He spoke patiently, feeling patience called for.
“It isn’t filed yet,” Kirkwood said. “Not a matter of public—” He stopped. His eyes grew sharper, became legal eyes. “Why do you want to know about the will?”
Heimrich closed his eyes.
“A matter of routine, Mr. Kirkwood,” he said. “Mrs. Saunders died suddenly in the midst of—all this. Probably there’s no connection, naturally. Dr. Crowell is certain there’s none. However.”
“There’s a man somewhere,” Kirkwood said. “A crazy man.” His voice sounded tired. “You poke around in—in irrelevancies. A poor old lady dies because she’s old. You try to drag that in.” But, compared to the night before, he protested half-heartedly. “There’s this Gates,” he said. “He goes on wandering around.” He looked at Heimrich, but Heimrich’s eyes were closed. Heimrich shook his head.
“It’s no good, Mr. Kirkwood,” Heimrich said. “I know how you want it to be, naturally. There’s too much against that. Tell me about the will. Or let me see it.”
“The will’s in New York,” Kirkwood
said. “In my safe.”
“Then tell me, Mr. Kirkwood,” Heimrich said. “Just tell me. There’s a good deal of money?”
“Between three and four million dollars,” Kirkwood said.
Heimrich opened his eyes, in salute to so much money.
“Yes,” Kirkwood said. “It’s a lot. There’s a lot of money in little towns like these, Captain. Didn’t you know? A good many men made a lot when you could keep what you made. Left it to their widows, to their maiden sisters. They live in big white houses all through this part of the country and—” He shrugged.
Heimrich did know. Ancient ladies held much in small, white-gloved hands. It was, nevertheless, always a little surprising to discover how much.
“The will?” Heimrich said.
Kirkwood hesitated a moment longer. Then he shrugged again.
“Liz gets most of it,” he said. “Now that Vee’s—dead. They were to have divided it. The residue, that is. There were a few specific bequests. Coming to—oh, a couple of hundred thousand.” He had lowered his eyes as he talked. Now he raised them, and his eyes met Heimrich’s bright blue eyes. “There was plenty left for both the girls,” he said. “You see that?”
“Now Mr. Kirkwood,” Heimrich said. “It’s obvious, naturally.”
“Liz gains by Vee’s death,” Kirkwood said. “She’d have had a million and a half or so in any case. Less taxes, of course.”
Heimrich closed his eyes on this careful, this somewhat gingerly, explanation of the obvious.
“It’s true she’d have had to wait,” Kirkwood said. “You’ll find out about that sooner or later.”
Heimrich opened his eyes. He said, “To wait?”
“Until she was thirty,” Kirkwood said. “Her grandmother wanted it that way. I don’t know why.” He stopped, then. Heimrich waited. After a long enough time he said, “Go on, Mr. Kirkwood. You can’t stop there, naturally.”
It seemed that Kirkwood did not want to go on. Nevertheless, he did.
It was true that the residue of the estate had been divided equally between the sisters. In a will made some years ago, the clause providing that disposition had been brief, without involvement. But some two years previously, Mrs. Saunders had changed her will.
Stand Up and Die Page 8