“May I read it?” asked Nigel, playing for time.
“Sure.”
It was certainly the most impressive confession Nigel had ever read. According to her statement, Sukie had worked out the murder plan with great care. Having made arrangements for John to be interviewed by Josiah at 10:30, she went to visit Josiah herself a few minutes before 10:00. She was wearing trousers, a heavy coat and a man’s cap to conceal her hair: no one saw her, or at least no one recognized her, as she passed through the court. Josiah opened the door to her. She began to make an appeal to him on her brother’s behalf: She was getting nowhere—she became desperate. When the Food Man started his hullabaloo, she moved behind the desk and shot Josiah in the temple. She went out again when the Food Man had moved on to the next entry, forgetting to lock the door, which Josiah must have left on the catch when he let her in.
The general sequence of events Sukie could have constructed by making inquiries from John’s lawyer. But, rigorously questioned by Brady, she had given a precise description of the office, of Josiah’s position at the desk, of the wound, of the body as it lay dead on the floor, of her horror when she remembered leaving the door unlocked, so that in due course her brother would walk in and be confronted by the corpse.
Sukie was equally precise about her motive. Hatred of Josiah for the way he had treated John, fear of his making public the episode with Charles Reilly, which he had threatened to do, weighting his evidence against her, unless she broke it off with Mark.
“Hmph,” said Nigel, when he had perused the document this far. “Very pretty. But I suppose she ruined it all by saying she hid the gun in that café yard.”
“No. She claims she chucked it over the Grant Bridge a couple of days later. A fine place to do it. The water’s tidal there, and very deep, and the bottom’s muddy, so there’d be little chance of recovering the gun.”
“She goes up in my estimation every minute. Where does she say she got the gun, though?”
“A friend lent it to her when she was going on one of these peaceful pro-integration marches down South. She did not take it with her. And she refuses to give us the friend’s name.”
A plainclothes man came in and whispered to Brady. “You’d have won your bet, Mr. Strangeways. Result negative. That .25 did not fire the fatal shot.” Brady fiddled with a paper knife on his desk. “I ask myself two things. How did she come by all this information if she didn’t kill Ahlberg? Any ideas?”
“And the second thing?”
“Would any woman with a cute automatic pistol fire just the one bullet from it? Nah! She’d shut her eyes and spray the whole magazine into him. Or maybe not shut her eyes.”
“So what are you going to do about Sukie?” asked Nigel.
“Let her cool off for a day or so, maybe.”
“But you have no grounds for holding her.”
“She’s confessed, hasn’t she?”
“I’d like to talk to her.”
Brady gave Nigel an odd look. “But she refuses to talk to you. She particularly told me to block you off. She even put it in writing, in case you thought we’d been pressuring her.” He handed Nigel a sheet of paper. “She’s screwy. I told you.”
Nigel did not trouble even to glance at the paper. “Well, that’s fine. I’ll send her some cookies.”
It was Brady’s turn to be disconcerted. “What the heck? Aren’t you interested in what happens to her?”
“Extremely. For one thing, I want her to stay alive. She’ll be safe enough in a prison cell.”
“For God’s sake! Don’t tell me someone is gunning for her.”
“No. But I’m expecting another murder attempt before long. If Sukie and John are enjoying the state’s hospitality, at least they can’t be accused of—”
“Hey! Are you serious?”
“Yes. And the only way to bring the criminal out into the open is to inform the press that you are detaining John and Sukie.”
Lieutenant Brady lit another cigarette, with great deliberation. “Spell it out. I’m just a boneheaded cop.”
It took Nigel the best part of half an hour to spell it out. Brady moved from incredulity to an astonished acceptance. “It could be,” he said when Nigel had finished. “But can you handle your end?”
“I hope so. You’ll have to risk that. If you pulled him in before we’ve made the necessary investigations, you-know-who would come down on you like a hydrogen bomb. Your case must be watertight.”
“Don’t I know it!”
They discussed ways and means. Nigel was certain he now knew the identities of the killer and his next victim: Brady was almost persuaded too. But how to frustrate X without putting him on his guard? It would take a little time to make the necessary investigations, and there was no certainty that their results would be positive enough to produce an open-and-shut case, and in this little time X would believe he had a free hand.
“I could put a police guard over him,” said Brady.
“That would defeat the object of the exercise.”
“Well, you have to get some sleep yourself—or don’t you?”
“He’d never make the attempt in a conventional way. Therefore, no daggers or bombs, and not a gun again. He’s extremely subtle.”
“Sounds like you might run into danger yourself.”
“Would you rather keep me safe and cozy in a cell here?” Nigel asked. “You could, you know.”
Brady gazed at him, only half puzzled. “We seem to be getting a lot of confessions just now.”
“Sukie was sheltering John. In her house. I found him there. I told him to give himself up. Forward with the handcuffs.”
“I suspected this all along.” Brady’s tone was deep-freeze. “You could have gotten yourself into serious trouble, Mr. Strangeways.”
“But you need your agent at Hawthorne.”
“You wasted my men’s time, sending them chasing around downtown. Just to keep the law off that crazy dame. At your age, I guess— Oh, well, let it ride.” The Lieutenant fastened his eyes upon some invisible object on the ceiling. “On the side table to your right, Mr. Strangeways, you may observe a box. It welcomes contributions from the grateful public to our police-benefit fund. The fund buys comforts for sick but deserving cops.”
“I never thought I’d find myself blackmailed in a police station.”
“We live and learn. If it would ease your mind,” said Brady, poker-faced still, “you could call it a fine.”
“A fifty-dollar fine would perhaps be appropriate?” Nigel stuffed some notes into the box.
“We are most grateful. Let me know what you find out at your end.” Brady grinned suddenly, like a sunburst. “And try to keep out of trouble.” . . .
“I tried to call you earlier,” said Mark. “Twice. But you seemed to be dug in on the telephone all afternoon.”
“It was a transatlantic call. To Clare. We had rather a lot to talk about.”
“Who’s Clare?”
“My girl. Clare Massinger. She’s a sculptor.”
It was 6:30 in the evening. The two were sitting over drinks in Mark’s room.
“Have a good day yesterday?” asked Mark.
“Very interesting.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t come with you. I’d a date with Sukie. The girl carries a torch for you—did you know that?”
“It’ll burn out. By the way, have you heard from her today?”
“No. Should I have?” Mark paused. “She’s not got into trouble, has she? Any more trouble, I mean?”
Nigel looked noncommittally at his companion. “She went to Brady this morning and made a statement. She said it was she who killed your brother.”
Mark Ahlberg went rigid in the chair. His eyes, staring at Nigel, seemed unable to focus: his body began trembling. “But that’s impossible, absurd.” He spoke at last, in a whisper, as if trying out his voice after a period of solitary confinement.
“I’m sorry, Mark, but is it? I read the statement. It was
plausible, to say the least. Her story was perfectly coherent and intelligible—Brady couldn’t shake it, and the police have a built-in skepticism about confessions, they get so many bogus ones from crackpots during a murder case.”
“Do you believe it?” asked Mark anxiously.
“The question is, whether Brady believes it. He’s holding her anyway, on suspicion. It’ll be in the papers tomorrow.”
“But why?” Mark almost bleated it.
“Why did she murder him, or why did she confess?”
Mark brought his fist down on the table with appalling violence, cracking the wood: “Confess, you bloody goddam fool! Why did she confess?”
“To shield her brother? She feared they were going to charge him with the crime. She’s a quixotic girl. Didn’t you find her very worried yesterday?”
“No, not more than usual these last days. She’s not been—well, very communicative.”
Nigel gave him a long, ruminative gaze. “Or, of course, there could be another reason.”
“What’s that?”
“She might have done it for your sake,” said Nigel.
“Mine?”
“She knew you were under grave suspicion too. Did she perhaps know more?”
Mark was picking his words deliberately now, as though he were walking through a minefield. “Know more? More about what? What are you trying to say?”
“More about your movements on the night of the crime.”
Mark gave a jangled laugh. “Oh, for Chrissake! Are you suggesting I confessed to her I’d killed my brother, and in a noble way she decided to cover up for me? You’ve been reading too many women’s magazines.”
“Women can be insanely heroic in real life too. I know of a woman who persisted in giving her son an alibi though he’d raped and strangled a girl of ten, and she knew it.”
“I don’t call that heroic. Anyway, I’m not Sukie’s son. If anyone is, it’s John. And she wouldn’t do anything so melodramatic for me.” Mark gave Nigel a rueful look. “Hell, I need another drink after that. Shall I fix one for you?” He busied himself with the bottles. “Will they let me see her?”
“Ask Brady. She refuses to see me.”
“Now why should that be?”
Nigel shrugged.
“You said it would be in tomorrow’s papers?”
“It’s probably in this evening’s. But I don’t think you take one.”
Mark frowned. “What will happen to her? It’s going to hold up her thesis, if it doesn’t wreck it altogether. That’s a damned shame—she’s very promising, you know.”
“She’s got bigger worries than a thesis. And there’s your own position to consider.”
“Meaning?” Mark had gone tense again.
“What will your father do when he reads she’s been arraigned for murder?”
“I see what you mean. It’ll certainly give the old man a handle.”
“His son engaged to a girl who’s accused herself of murder?”
“That’s all he needs. I guess he’ll alter his will if I don’t break it off with Sukie.”
“And will you?”
“The ten-thousand-dollar question. Before this happened, I might have,” said Mark slowly. “Sukie and I—well, it turned out we’re not exactly the two halves of one egg. Twin hemispheres. She’s beautiful, attractive, intelligent. I thought she was it—yet I’ve found I can’t feel as close to her as maybe I should to marry her. But now I’d be a heel to throw her over.” Mark gave Nigel a rather pathetic look, as if appealing for reassurance.
“It’s quite a problem,” Nigel agreed.
“What would you do?”
“Nothing at present. Wait to see what happens. It’s about time her father turned up, isn’t it?”
“I suppose,” replied Mark indifferently. “But what could he do? They haven’t been close for years, and he’s a broken reed, or so Sukie claims. She might even refuse to see him.”
There was a knock at the door. Mark rose and let in Chester, who carried a neatly folded evening newspaper. He looked indignant and pestered. “Have you seen this? It says Sukie has made a statement to the police. Is she mad?”
“Nigel’s been telling me about it.”
“Is this true?” Chester asked. “She’s confessed? It can’t be.”
“Perfectly true,” said Nigel.
“Nigel thinks—” began Mark.
“The statement was quite voluntary. No pressure. Brady has checked it very conscientiously, so far as he can,” Nigel interposed smoothly.
“But surely he has no evidence, outside this phony confession? He’s not going to charge her, is he?” Chester’s voice went up into an angry squeak.
“Hey, take it easy, Chester,” said Mark.
“He will need to get certain corroborative evidence first, I dare say.” Nigel explained. “There might be conspiracy between Sukie and her brother. I simply don’t know. But things don’t look too good for them at the moment. The trouble is, she showed far more knowledge about the circumstances of the murder than she should have. Where could she have got it from, if she’s innocent?”
“That certainly is peculiar,” said Mark, looking up from the newspaper. “All this detail. I don’t like it.” He shivered.
“You believe it?” asked Chester accusingly.
“Now, now, calm down, old son, and fix yourself a drink.”
“Me calm down! It passes my understanding how you can sit there and—”
“It won’t help any, going into hysterics about this,” said Mark coldly.
“Oh, crap! If you’re not concerned about Sukie, I am. You’re engaged to the girl—or maybe you’ve decided this is a nice out for you.”
“Don’t give me that, Chester!” said Mark formidably. “One Josiah was quite enough, preaching at me.”
Nigel gazed quizzically at the two adult brothers quarreling like the boys they had once been, their academic skins cast aside. Of course, if the tiff was staged, it would support his theory of collaboration between them; but the theory no longer held any attraction for him. Deciding to bring them back to the point, Nigel broke in on their wrangle. “Listen. You both believe John and Sukie to be innocent. Right?”
The brothers nodded.
“Good. Well, if they are, there’s a killer still stalking your academic grove. So be sure and lock your doors at night; and don’t find yourselves alone with anyone—repeat, anyone—except a pupil of course; always have a third person present.”
“You curdle my blood,” said Mark, but less lightly than he intended.
“But why should anyone—why should he try to—to do anything to us?” Chester was gobbling a bit, and looking even more tense than usual.
“Because he knows John and Sukie are innocent, therefore knows her ‘confession’ is bogus, and therefore assumes the police will prove it false sooner or later and then will turn their attention back on the original suspects.”
“Meaning me,” said Mark.
“You and Chester.”
“But they can’t. They—they’re s-satisfied with my alibi.” Mark was almost stammering.
“You two had the strongest motives. If X felt called upon to take action again, his obvious move would be to liquidate one of you, make it look like suicide, forge a suicide note. Suspect kills himself, leaving confession.”
“If this is the New Melodrama, you can have my ticket,” said Mark.
“You’re surely not serious?” asked Chester uneasily.
“Of course he’s not. It’s the British sense of humor. Very s-sick.”
“I’m just warning you both,” said Nigel equably. “If I’m the Cassandra of Hawthorne, it’s not my funeral.” . . .
May Edwardes, once again, put her finger on it. Nigel had gone later that night to tell the Master the recent developments. Neither of them could credit Sukie’s “confession.”
“I went to see John on Sunday,” said Zeke. “He was in a bad way, I thought. He hasn’t much stamina, poor fe
llow—and what he’s got, he’s wasting on self-pity. I’d guess it was his mental condition more than the finding of the gun that drove Sukie to make this quixotic gesture.”
“I wonder what he thinks of it,” said May. “Are they going to bring a charge against her?”
“All they could charge her with is being an accomplice after the fact. She sheltered her brother—this is not to go outside the room—after Josiah’s death.”
May’s protuberant eyes fixed on Nigel incredulously. “But that’s—I thought—”
“Yes, and it was you who put me onto where he was hiding. I told him he must give himself up.”
“Well, then, we must get her out,” said May briskly. “Zeke, you must go first thing tomorrow and bail her out. We can’t have the poor girl incarcerated among a lot of crooks, tarts and perverts.”
“Would they give permission?” asked Zeke uneasily.
“I should think so. With your surety. But I wouldn’t try to bail out John too. We need him where he is.”
“Need him?”
“Yes. I believe the murderer is nearer home, and Brady’s now inclined to believe it too. And if we’re right, the murderer’s going to try again.”
There was an appalled silence. Then May asked forthrightly, “Who?”
“Not one of—one of us here?” said the Master. “One of the Faculty?”
“I’m sorry. Yes.”
Zeke’s bony face looked agonized. “This will ruin Hawthorne,” he muttered.
“Now don’t be absurd, my dear,” said May, trying to be soothing. “It’s not your fault. Don’t worry. It will all be forgotten in time.”
“But how does this tie in with keeping John Tate in jail?” Zeke protested. “I don’t see the connection.”
Nigel’s pale-blue eyes regarded him levelly. “The murderer is afraid of the police charging John with his own crime.”
“But that’s perfectly ridiculous!” exclaimed May. “Surely a scapegoat is just what he’d want?”
“Not in this case. He wants someone else—one particular person—to be accused. If John were accused, it would wreck the murderer’s plans.”
“Well, it’s all beyond me.”
The Morning After Death Page 13