by Frances
“What,” she said, when they were near enough so that she did not need to raise her voice, “brings you—oh, Father, of course.”
“Ann,” Captain Sullivan said, “these men are from New York. Homicide men. They’re investigating the—your father’s death.”
He introduced them, and the girl was quiet and serious.
“I supposed somebody would come,” she said. “To—to look us over. I hope you don’t think all this”—she waved at the pool and included herself in the term—“means any of us is taking Father’s death casually.”
“No,” Bill Weigand said. “I was just telling the captain here—.” He broke off. Ann Merle smiled at Captain Sullivan.
“Teddy doesn’t approve?” she said. “No, I suppose he doesn’t. Teddy has trouble with us, don’t you, Teddy.”
Captain Sullivan smiled, with no great enjoyment.
“She and her brother drive like hell, Lieutenant,” he said. “The boys are all the time picking them up for it. That’s what she means.” He spoke to the girl. “You’ll do what seems all right to you, Ann,” he said. “It’s not my business.”
“Anyway,” Ann said, “it isn’t what the lieutenant wants to know about. Unless he thinks I’m—callous. And hence a suspicious character. And I don’t think he does.”
She looked at Bill Weigand.
“I’m not callous, Lieutenant,” she said. “I’m not forgetting about Father.”
Her voice was sober.
“I want to help,” she said. “We all do.”
Bill Weigand was sure she did. He agreed when she said that they would want to go up to the house. He agreed further when she said that she would get her brother to talk to him. He assured her that the whole matter was routine; that he would like permission to go over her father’s desk; that, as a matter still of routine, he wanted to meet the family. Herself, her brother—. He paused.
“Aunt Mae,” she filled in. “That’s all the family there is, really. Jamie’s around, of course, but he’s—he’s just a—a guest. And then there’s Arnold Wickersham Potts, of course. Wicky.”
“Is there?” Weigand said. “Does Mr. Potts live here?”
“Oh, no,” Ann Merle said. “Not here. Not at the house. He rents the guest house. Down by the beach. But of course you’ve heard of Mr. Potts. A. Wickersham Potts? He doesn’t use the Arnold much.”
“No,” Weigand said. “I never heard of Mr. Potts.”
“No?” the girl said. “The organist? He’s really celebrated, you know. Among organists. He plays at St. Andrew’s on Park. Where we go—where we’ve always gone in winters. When we’re in town.”
“Does he?” Bill Weigand said. “I don’t know many organists.”
He did not suppose that he would intimately know Mr. Potts—a tall, dark man, he supposed, with rather lank hair and a long, sharp, delicate face. His tone dismissed Mr. Potts. He ran over in his mind the things that might matter—the things and people. Ann Merle and her brother Joshua, Jameson possibly, the aunt possibly, George Merle’s checkbook, details of the will from the lawyer in Elmcroft, possibly a servant or two to corroborate details of George Merle’s movements the day before. And then? Then back to town, probably, with background in his mind—with Merle fitted into a habitat so that he could be seen against it, with whatever oblique light on Merle’s character, the place he lived, the books on his library shelves, the pictures on the walls, might shed. And then, in town, back to slow digging—digging into Murdock’s past and Laurel Burke’s, digging into the real character and the unadvertised activities of the respected gentleman who had come to so awkward an end in the little Madison Avenue flat. It was going to take long digging, Weigand decided; longer than the inspector would approve. Unless unexpected things happened—things of which there was now no sign.
An hour and a half later his views as to the probable future of the case were unchanged. He sat at Mr. Merle’s desk and reviewed from his notes.
The checkbook had given him something. It was not certain what that something meant—what a check, made out not the day before but the day before that, for $10,000 and entered on the stub, not to Murdock but to cash, had to do with three bullets in Mr. Merle’s chest. You could suppose it was the same check, entered as cash in the checkbook and made out on its face to Murdock. That was an interesting supposition, because it meant that Merle had not wanted the record of the payment to show to anyone who might be tempted to look at the checkbook entries. A housemaid dusting the room in his absence, perhaps? An inquisitive member of the family? Because the book was in an unlocked drawer of the desk.
He had found that the servants, and particularly the chauffeur who had driven George Merle to the train, agreed with Joshua Merle as to the time of the elder Merle’s departure for the city the day before. They also agreed with Joshua Merle’s account of his own movements. Merle himself was calmer than the night before and easier. And he had nothing to add. He had spent the day idly in town; he had dropped in at Charles for dinner and there someone, ostensibly a policeman, had telephoned him of his father’s death. He had met Jameson outside, told Jameson the news and asked Jameson to go around to the precinct house with him.
“By the way,” Weigand said, “this accident in training. You and Mr. Jameson were together at the time? I mean, you were both hurt in the same accident?”
Joshua Merle’s face showed unpleasant memories. He nodded.
“In the same plane,” he said. “A two-motored trainer with dual controls. Jamie and I were taking turns handling her. The next step, if we’d come through that all right, would have been the real thing.”
Weigand made a sound of sympathy.
“What happened?” he said.
“I cracked her up,” he said. “Coming in. I miscalculated and—cracked her up. And Jamie and I didn’t walk away. Neither of us walked anywhere so well afterward. His right knee got cracked to hell and I’ve only got part of a right foot. Not enough for the Navy.”
“You were piloting at the time?” Weigand said.
The dark young man nodded bitterly.
“It was my pigeon,” he said. “And did I foul it up.” He looked at Weigand darkly. “Snafu to a fare-you-well,” he said. “Not only myself but poor Jamie too.”
Weldon Jameson had not seemed nearly so bitter about it. It had been, he said, something that might happen to anyone. A lot of guys cracked up in training. They were lucky, in a way, to have got out as well as they had. There was nothing to indicate that he held any bitterness toward Joshua Merle. On the contrary.
“Poor Josh can’t forget it,” he said. “He keeps blaming himself—seems to feel that he owes me something. I keep telling him it’s just the fortunes of—well, of war. If I’d been flying her, likely as not I’d have cracked up too. There was quite a wind and probably we got a downdraft or something. He’s a sweet guy, old Josh.”
He paused at that point and looked at Weigand.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “that’s really why I’m more or less living here. Josh feels that he’s got to—well, repay me, I guess, for what happened. And I haven’t got any money and he has—so.” He shook his head. Weigand waited and let his waiting seem expectant.
“Hell,” Jameson said, “I’d actually rather be on my own. That is—I’ve got to start some time. But I hate to tell Josh that, because—well, he’s a funny sort of bloke. Sensitive. As long as he can feel that he’s doing something for me it maybe helps him get over it. You see what I mean?”
“Yes,” Weigand told him.
“Of course,” Jameson said, and he smiled suddenly, “I don’t pretend that this isn’t a very comfortable spot. It’s a break for me, all right.”
“Naturally,” Bill Weigand said. “Of course that enters into it.”
Jameson said he was damned right it did.
He had stood up and started to limp away, looking a very attractive young man.
“By the way,” Weigand said, “Mr. Merle was lucky he ran into
you just after he heard about his father. It was a good time to have a friend along.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Jameson said. “I don’t know that I helped much. But probably it was a lucky break for Josh—running into anybody just then would have been.”
He stood a moment and his face was graver.
“It’s bad for Josh,” he said. “He was fond of the old man. I’m glad I happened to be around when he needed somebody.”
He went on, after that.
Ann Merle had changed into a dark blue sports dress when she talked to Weigand the second time, but her long brown legs were still bare. She corroborated the time of her father’s departure for the city, and also the times her brother and Jameson had left. She herself had been around until midafternoon and then had driven to a tennis club near by. Later, after a couple of sets, she and a friend—sex and identity left vague—had driven into New York for cocktails and dinner. It was late when they drove back.
“By the way,” Weigand said, “did you know that your brother was going to be at Charles for dinner?”
The girl shook her head and said, “No.”
“Why?” she said.
“Somebody did,” Weigand told her. “I’m curious to know who. You didn’t know. Mr. Jameson ran into him there entirely by accident, I gather. The police didn’t know, although they were supposed to have telephoned him there. And somebody did telephone him there.”
“I didn’t know,” she said. “I should think obviously it was Mr. Murdock. The man who killed Father.”
“Probably,” Weigand agreed. “Unfortunately I can’t ask him.”
“Which,” the girl said, “brings up a point. If Mr. Murdock killed Father and then himself, why isn’t the case closed? Why are you here at all?”
“Odds and ends,” Bill told her, evenly. “We try to leave things tidy. And, of course, Murdock didn’t leave any confession. It’s merely an assumption that he killed your father. A reasonable assumption, of course—probably a valid assumption. But we still like to have a last look around.”
“A last look around,” the girl repeated. “You are very thorough, Lieutenant Weigand.”
Bill Weigand said they always tried to be thorough. He asked her if he might see her aunt for a moment. He saw Aunt Mae for a moment—Aunt Mae dressed in black, with evidence of past tears, very dignified and grave and, in a grave and dignified manner, very vindictive toward Oscar Murdock. She was inclined to think that the laxity of the police in allowing him to escape punishment was difficult to excuse. Weigand forebore to point out that the police could hardly have done more to Murdock than was already done; he thanked Mrs. Mae Burnwood, widowed sister of the late George Merle, and let her go. He found Mullins, who had finished with the servants and added nothing to what they knew, sitting at the pool in comfort; he found Captain Sullivan, talking with Ann Merle. He indicated that he had finished.
“But of course,” Ann said, “you’re staying to lunch. You and Teddy and—Mr. Mullins.”
Bill Weigand started to refuse and Captain Sullivan looked at him with fixed hope in his eyes. After all, Weigand decided, they had to eat somewhere. He thanked Ann Merle and accepted. Captain Sullivan looked pleased and grateful.
10
WEDNESDAY, 1:15 P.M. TO 4:10 P.M.
The sun was warm and bright on the lawn stretching from house to swimming pool, but the shadow began to creep out from the house toward the pool. At first it was only an edge of shadow, reaching no farther than the serving table set between the French doors which led into the long, cool living room. They sat in the sun, not at one table but as they chose, at several small tables. And they did not hurry; almost at once Bill Weigand decided that he had made a mistake in staying. Because this was going on—nobody could guess how long it was going on.
First the table against the house was a bar—first and last it was a bar. The Negro butler in a white coat—the butler named Meggs—brought out trays of bottles and glasses and two maids assisted with ice and cocktail shakers.
“Sit here,” Ann Merle suggested; and Bill Weigand sat with her at a little table for four on the flagstoned terrace. Captain Sullivan of the State Police sat in a third chair rather eagerly, and Mullins looked doubtful. “Here you are, Sergeant,” Weldon Jameson told him, and Mullins sat at another table a little way off with Jameson and Joshua Merle. But almost at once Jameson got up and moved across to take the fourth chair at the table where Weigand and Sullivan sat with Ann Merle. Then Mrs. Burnwood came out through one of the French doors, a little to Weigand’s surprise, and the men stood up briefly. She sat with her nephew and Mullins. Meggs began to shake daiquiris expertly, and a round, pink man in slacks and a pale blue shirt came around the house from the direction of the beach. He blinked a little in the sun, pleasantly.
“Hi,” Ann Merle called. “Just in time. Sit down somewhere. Oh—come here first.”
The round little man came gently across the flagstones, smiling at everybody. He came to stand near Ann. He said, “Good morning, my dear,” in a gentle voice and “Hello, Theodore” to Sullivan. He looked at Bill Weigand with an air of pleased expectancy.
“Pottsy,” Ann said, “this is Lieutenant Weigand. Lieutenant, this is Mr. Potts—Wickersham Potts. The organist.”
Weigand blinked and took the hand Mr. Potts held out. It was a firm hand, solid and confident.
“Good morning, Lieutenant,” Mr. Potts said, as if he really believed it was a good morning, and was pleased for his own sake and the lieutenant’s sake. “I’m very glad, sir.” He meant that he was glad to meet Weigand, evidently; he sounded as if he were glad.
“How do you do?” Bill said. In spite of himself, his voice had a note of surprise. The note, Bill Weigand was instantly conscious, did not escape Mr. Potts. Mr. Potts did not look like a man from whom much would escape in inflection, in nuance. But Mr. Potts made nothing of it. If Weigand had expected a different sort of Mr. Potts, and was surprised by what he got, that was interesting but unabashing to Mr. Potts. He smiled at Weigand as if already he liked him.
“On leave, Lieutenant?” he inquired gently, his eyes just noticing Weigand’s gray suit.
“Oh,” Ann said. “Not an army lieutenant. A police lieutenant.” She sobered. “About Father, you know, Pottsy.”
“Of course,” Mr. Potts said. “Naturally. It was a very tragic thing—a very cruel and tragic thing. It is strange what people will do to one another.”
“Yes,” Weigand said.
“The human mind,” Mr. Potts said. “A strange and alarming thing, don’t you think so, Lieutenant? Do sit down.”
Bill Weigand sat down and Sullivan sat down.
“Good morning, Mr. Potts,” Weldon Jameson said, and there was a note in his voice which seemed to challenge the organist. Mr. Potts turned a little and regarded Jameson.
“Oh,” he said. “Good morning, Mr. Jameson.”
He turned back to Ann, with no impoliteness but as if he and Jameson had finished a long and interesting conversation and it was time to turn his attention elsewhere.
“In the cottage,” he said, “there are two cans of beans, a can of noodle soup, and some bread which I fear is rather stale. So, if I may?”
“Pottsy!” Ann said. “You know we were expecting you.”
“You are very kind, my dear,” Mr. Potts said. “You are all very kind. I hoped you were. Ah—your aunt.”
He nodded and smiled to Bill Weigand, indicating by both his renewed pleasure in their meeting, and went across to Mrs. Burnwood. After a moment, he sat with her and her nephew and Mullins.
“He’s a dear,” Ann told Bill Weigand. She did not care whether Mr. Potts heard or not, and the tables were close enough so that conversations tangled in the quiet air.
Mr. Potts turned from his conversation with Sergeant Mullins and raised his eyebrows at her and smiled. He turned back to Mullins.
“Yours must be an interesting profession, Sergeant,” he said. “But sad—essentially sad.”
/> “Yeah,” Mullins said. “I know what you mean.”
“Does he?” Ann said to Bill Weigand.
“Yes,” Bill told her. “Probably.”
The butler in the white coat offered a tray. Pale martinis were on it, with the barely perceptible dullness of the oil from lemon peel on their surfaces. There were no olives. It was an opportunity not to be missed, and Bill did not miss it. There were daiquiris with no frosting of sugar on the rims of the glasses. Ann said, faithfully, Captain Sullivan took daiquiris.
“Scotch, sir?” Meggs suggested to Weldon Jameson. He turned the tray and Jameson lifted scotch from it. Meggs turned away and a dark girl in a green uniform offered canapés. It had somehow the earmarks of a cocktail party—a cocktail party at one thirty in the afternoon. But apparently it was only luncheon at the Merles’. Jameson’s first contact with his scotch brought the level halfway down the glass. Bill Weigand drank his martini slowly at first. Meggs was an artist. He drank more rapidly. His glass and that of Ann Merle went down together, both empty. Captain Sullivan was slower. Meggs gravitated back and removed the glasses and Weigand watched him go with regret. Meggs returned with fresh glasses. Weigand, sipping, discovered that the new drink was freshly made. Meggs was quite a man.
But he should not be sitting here in the sun, a lotus drinker. He should be in Elmcroft, seeing a lawyer, he should be in New York, finding a murderer.
“You have a very delightful place here, Miss Merle,” he said. “A very beautiful place.”
It was nice, Ann Merle agreed.
“We all like it,” she said. “Don’t we, Jamie?”
“Very much,” Jameson said. “Very much, darling.”
It was a casual “darling.”