by L. R. Wright
It was a small but rambling house, comfortably sprawled upon a large lot. The laurel which hedged the property on three sides was eight feet tall and about six feet thick. The yard and the house were sleek, well maintained.
“Yeah,” said Alberg. “Get on to Vancouver. But all we want is an ident man. If he moves his tail, he can make the four thirty ferry. Anything else?”
“The old fellow who found the body says the victim had a habit of leaving his doors open.” Sokolowski was sweating in the afternoon sun. “We oughta get him to take a look around, see if anything’s missing. Doesn’t look like it to me, but you never know.”
They heard a car pull up with a squeal of brakes. It’s going to look like the detachment parking lot out there, thought Alberg.
“Okay,” he said. “Sounds good. Get the reinforcements to work fast. We want the weapon, and we want something from the neighbors—an individual, a vehicle, sounds from the victim’s house—whatever we can get.”
Three constables and a corporal arrived through the gate in the hedge and stood nearby, waiting to be dispatched.
“I’ll talk to Wilcox,” Alberg went on. “Get Redding to call the district coroner’s office. Gainer, go tell those ambulance guys not to hold their breath out there. Get the place roped off and sealed,” he said to the sergeant. “And Sid, when the guys check the neighborhood, don’t let them forget the beach. Anybody wandering around out there, any boats close to shore.”
Sokolowski nodded. “There’s one thing,” he said. “A salmon in the kitchen sink. In a plastic bag. Looks like he bought it today, or somebody gave it to him, and he never got around to putting it in the fridge.”
“Did Wilcox bring it?”
“He says no.”
“Okay. Good.” Alberg grinned. “So we’ve got something specific to ask the civilians: Any salmon peddlers around today?”
Gainer returned from talking to thee ambulance attendants. “They say they’d just as soon hang around,” he said. “The hospital can get them on the radio, if they need them.”
Alberg sighed. “Better get the ropes up fast, Sid. This place is going to be the A Number One attraction around here. Come on, Freddie. Let’s take a look inside.”
The flower beds in front of the windows were undisturbed. The concrete steps were unmarked. The constable standing by the half-open door stood stiffly aside as Alberg approached. He looked a bit pale.
“This your first homicide, Constable?” Ken Coomer had joined the detachment in January, after a two-year posting in Prince Albert, Saskatchewan.
“It’s the first one I’ve actually been involved in, Staff. That is—I mean, the first one I’ve been on the scene of.” He looked to be about sixteen, which of course was impossible. “I’ve seen road-accident stuff that’s a lot worse than this. It’s just that it’s deliberate, you know what I mean, Staff?” His forehead crinkled as he tried to explain. “I mean, it’s just a lot different, that’s all, when it’s deliberate.”
Alberg nodded and went past him, into the hall, followed by Gainer.
The house smelled of flowers. That was the first thing he noticed.
At the end of the hall he stood looking at the body, which lay directly ahead, on a rug in front of a large window. Then he gazed around the room. It was remarkably serene. The sweet scent of blossoms was stronger; apparently it came from a vase of large pink flowers, lush and frilled, that stood on a coffee table in front of a chesterfield. Alberg could see nothing in the room that hinted of violence or even dissonance; nothing but the body. And two books on the floor nearby, one of them splayed open, face down.
Gainer was breathing heavily at his shoulder. Alberg, hands in his pockets, walked closer to what had been Carlyle Burke. He lay on his right side, almost graceful, a tall man, thin, legs arranged with peculiar elegance on the polished hardwood floor, head and upper torso resting on a brightly colored, homemade-looking rug. Very near him was a rocking chair, half on and half off the rug, one of its motionless rockers poised above his left hip.
“It’s neat, for a homicide,” said Gainer behind him. Alberg glanced over his shoulder at the constable. “Tidy, I mean,” said Gainer, almost cheerfully.
There were no rings on the dead man’s fingers. Carlyle Burke had been wearing a pair of white trousers and a pale blue shirt when someone shattered his skull. There wasn’t much blood on his clothes, but his head, which was almost bald, lay in a pool of it. Sokolowski was right; he hadn’t been dead for very long. His left eye looked hopelessly out across the floor. Alberg reached down, gently, and brushed the lid closed.
Nothing appeared out of order in the rest of the house. In the bedroom, a single bed, a straight-backed chair, a small dresser with a mirror. On the dresser sat a large rectangular lump, covered with a red-and-white checked cloth. Alberg lifted a corner of the cloth. Beneath it was a cage containing a large green bird with a hooked beak. It let out a shriek. “Jesus,” said Gainer, whirling from the closet, which was full of clothes hanging from rods and stacked in drawers. Alberg dropped the cloth, and the bird was silent. In another room they found a great many bookshelves and a large ivory piano. In the bathroom, clean towels. In the kitchen, the salmon in the sink.
“Okay, Freddie,” said Alberg. “Let’s go see this Wilcox.”
“What’s your rank?” said George Wilcox. He was sitting on a bench in the middle of a small lawn behind the house.
Alberg noticed more flower beds, and a tall pine tree close to the beach, and under it, set upon wooden blocks, an overturned aluminum rowboat. He heard the sea washing upon the sand.
“I’m a staff sergeant,” he said. “The fellow with the curls here is a constable.”
The old man was probably in his late seventies, not very tall, maybe five feet seven or eight, 160 pounds or so, with longish white hair that curled out from the sides of his head in waves. He had bright brown eyes and looked strong and fit, despite his age. He was slightly pale but composed. He watched Constable Redding disappear around the front of the house. “Where’s he going?”
“The sergeant’s going to put him to work.”
“Going to be a hell of a hullabaloo around here, once people find out what’s going on,” said George Wilcox. “They must know something’s up already. Those fellows, they came up here with their lights flashing and all that, did they?”
“Probably,” said Alberg, thinking of Sanducci. The old man seemed relaxed as he sat there, hands on his knees, peering up at them. He was enjoying the fact that he’d sent for them, and they had come.
“And now you two. You’re the boss, right? That why you aren’t wearing a uniform?”
“Yeah,”‘ said Alberg. “I’m the boss.” He pushed his hands into his pockets and continued to study George Wilcox, content to let him chatter on. The man wasn’t disheveled. His gray sweater, white shirt, and gray trousers bore no stains, his face and hands were unmarked.
“They said you’d want to ask me some questions,” the old man said.
Alberg nodded. “First I’d like you to show me how you happened to find him. Can you do that?”
“Of course I can do it.” George pushed himself up from the bench. They walked around to the front of the house, single file, Gainer leading the way, George in the middle.
On the steps, Constable Coomer stepped back to let them through.
George Wilcox leaned shakily against the doorjamb. “Give me a minute,” he said.
Alberg stood waiting, polite and watchful; he was suddenly aware of his own excitement, which was almost predatory.
George straightened, tried to smooth his white hair. “Okay. Let’s go in.”
“Just a minute,” said Alberg. “Was the door open like this when you got here?”
“No. Closed. I banged on it, no answer, started back up the path. Then I decided I’d better check up on him. He’s eighty-five, you know. Was.”
“Was he in ill health?” said Gainer. Alberg’s quizzical glance seemed to confuse him.
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George Wilcox stared up at the constable. “Ill health? How the hell should I know? I just told you, the man was eighty-five.” He jabbed a finger against Gainer’s blue-jacketed chest. “The fact of the matter is, sonny, at eighty-five the whole shitteree is fast wearing out. Any minute, something essential could go on you.” Again he tried to tame his hair, but the waves sprang back, undeterred. “How do we go about this, then?”
“You started back up the path,” said Alberg. “And then you decided you’d better check on him.”
“Yes,” said George Wilcox, nodding. “I came back to the door and banged on it harder, and hollered, but nothing happened. So I tried the door, and it opened. He never locked his doors.”
“Okay,” said Alberg. “When you went outside, after you called us, did you close the door behind you?”
The old man shook his head. “Didn’t think about closing it. Must have left it open.”
“Now,” said Alberg. He motioned inside. “Go ahead. Show us.”
George Wilcox stepped across the threshold into the hall. “I came in here,” he said, and immediately lowered his voice. “I came in here, and I called out to him. No answer. So I walked down the hall.” He stopped and said over his shoulder, “I knew he wasn’t in the kitchen. I’d looked in the kitchen window, waiting on the step.” He began walking again. “So I came down the hall. ‘Where are you, Carlyle?’ I said, or something like that, and I got to the living room.” He emerged into the sunshine and stopped. “Had to blink my eyes a few times. The sun made me blurry for a minute. And I looked around, and I saw him lying there.”
He started to point; then his hand began to shake. “His eyes were open,” he said in a whisper, “I know they were.” He turned to Alberg. “You’d better check,” he said urgently. “Maybe he isn’t dead after all. His eyes were open, I know they were.”
“We checked,” said Alberg gently. “He’s dead. I closed his eyes.”
George Wilcox shut his own eyes for a moment. When they fluttered open, Alberg said, “He was a friend of yours, right?”
“I knew him,” said George.
“Do you know the house well? Did you come here often?”
“Sometimes. I used to come here sometimes. Not very often.”
“Okay. Look around. Take your time. Tell me if you see anything unusual, anything that’s out of place, or anything that seems to be missing.”
“That,” said George, pointing at the body. “That’s unusual.”
“Right,” said Alberg, soberly. “Anything else?”
With an effort, George Wilcox looked away from the body. For a few seconds he seemed to have difficulty actually seeing anything. His eyes skittered over chesterfield, china cabinet, flowers in the vase, bookshelves, without focusing. Then they concentrated on the rocking chair.
“That,” he said finally. “It’s supposed to be facing the window more. He sat in it, watched the boats go by or some damn thing, I don’t know.”
He could have been sitting in the chair when he was struck, thought Alberg; or maybe he fell against it.
“Anything else?” he said.
The old man studied the room. He had regained most of his self-control. “Those books on the floor, there. Those are mine. Library books. I dropped them, when I—when I saw him lying there.” He shivered. “Bloody cold in here, don’t you think?”
“Just a few more minutes, Mr. Wilcox. Look carefully. Do you see anything else?”
“It all looks just like it ought to,” said George. “No, wait. He got himself a parrot lately. I don’t see the parrot.”
Gainer cleared his throat. “It’s in the bedroom.”
George looked at him sharply. “Is it dead, too?”
Gainer was nonplussed. “No, sir,” he said. “It’s fine, I think.”
“What are you going to do with it?” George demanded. Alberg watched him, curious.
Gainer glanced at the staff sergeant. “Call the S.P.C.A., I guess. Unless he—Mr. Burke—maybe he’s got a friend, or a relative—”
“We’ll take care of it,” said Alberg.
George turned away from them. “That’s it,” he said. “Can’t tell you anything else.”
“Okay, then, Mr. Wilcox. We can get out of here now.”
“Fingerprints,” said George, on the front steps. “You’ll want my fingerprints, I guess. For comparison.”
Alberg led him up the path toward the hedge and stopped halfway to the gate. He could see the police investigation ribbon strung across it. “First of all, Mr. Wilcox,” he said, “why did you happen to call on Mr. Burke today? You say you don’t come here often. Why today?”
George Wilcox shrugged. “Spur of the moment. It was one of those spur-of-the-moment things.”
“Did you bring him a salmon? On the spur of the moment?”
George looked astonished. “What would I be doing with a salmon?”
“Maybe you caught it. Do you fish, Mr. Wilcox?”
“I’m a gardener, Staff Sergeant, not a fisherman. I’m not fond of fish, myself.”
“Okay,” said Alberg equably. “Now, would you tell us, please, where you were today, and what you were doing, before you came here to see Mr. Burke.”
Gainer pulled a notebook from his jacket and clicked open his ballpoint pen. George, hearing this, shot him an irritated glance.
“It would be a great help,” said Alberg smoothly. “Start from when you got up and just go through your day for us.”
George shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down at the gravel path. “I got up early. Around seven. Went out to turn the sprinkler on in my garden.” He looked up. “Best time of the day to water, early morning. You wait until the sun’s hot, the plants get burned.”
Alberg stored this information away. It might be useful, in the unlikely event that he should ever find it necessary to water his jungle.
“Let’s see.” George Wilcox looked up at the sky. “Then I had breakfast. A bun and some coffee and I think an orange. By this time the paper had come, so I had some more coffee and read it.” He looked at Alberg. “You really want to hear all this?”
Alberg smiled. “Please.”
“He’s not writing much of it down.”‘ He glared at Freddie Gainer.
“I use a kind of shorthand,” said Gainer apologetically.
“What time was it when you finished your second cup of coffee?” said Alberg.
George thought about this. “Must have been about nine o’clock. Then I turned on the radio. I don’t want to hear anybody talking to me until I’ve had two cups of coffee and read the paper. Then, it’s okay, it’s company. So I turned on the radio. And then what did I do.” He considered. He turned quickly to Alberg. “I forgot to tell you. When I went out to get the paper, I turned off the sprinkler. That would be about eight o’clock. An hour’s plenty of watering.” He looked relaxed, almost mischievous, and Alberg felt a spurt of annoyance.
“Very good, Mr. Wilcox,” he said calmly. “And how did you spend the rest of your morning?”
George turned away restlessly, as though suddenly tired of the game. “I worked out in my garden, that’s what I did. I weeded and dead-headed, planted some more annuals. Used to grow my own annuals, when I had a greenhouse. Anyway, I planted some, mostly in the back, and—oh, I sprayed, too. Got some aphids on the goddamn roses, and the broccoli. Came inside at noontime, washed up, changed my clothes, got me some lunch—you want to know what I ate?” he said, aggressively.
Alberg, who didn’t, said that he did.
“Vegetable soup, four soda crackers, three pieces of cheese, and a glass of milk,” said George Wilcox, angry. “And I took my vitamins then, too, in case you’re interested. Did my dishes. It’d be about one o’clock now, I guess. Then I lay down for an hour. I usually lie down for an hour, most afternoons.” He looked at Freddie Gainer. “It’ll happen to you too, one day, sonny. Then I got up,” he said to Alberg, “and decided to go to the library. Thought to myself that I’
d stop in on old Carlyle, seeing it’s on the way. There,” he said defiantly. “You got it. An ordinary day in the ordinary life of an ordinary old person. Until I banged on his front door.” He rubbed at his face. “Should have minded my own business. Should have kept right on going. Shouldn’t ever have gone in there, not ever.”
Alberg nodded, sympathetically. “You live alone, do you, Mr. Wilcox?”
“I do.”
“Did you notice anyone passing by while you were out in your garden or having your lunch? Somebody selling fish, for instance?”
George looked at him with interest. “That salmon in the sink. The one you thought I brought. Good lord, you’ve got yourselves a suspect already, and old Carlyle’s not even stone cold yet.” He grinned and shook his head. “Nobody came by trying to sell me fish. I was in the back, mostly. The kitchen’s in the back, too. Didn’t see anybody. Nobody came banging on my door, peddling fish.”
“Did anyone at all visit you during the day? Or phone? Did you see anyone, any of your neighbors maybe, while you were working in your garden?”
George looked at him, then at Gainer, then back at Alberg.
“It’s just routine, Mr. Wilcox,” said Alberg. “We’ll be asking everyone who knew him. You just happen to be first, because you found him.”
George was expressionless. “Nobody visited me, and nobody phoned. I don’t remember seeing anybody while I was in my garden. My fences are high. What about my library books?”
“I’m afraid they’ll have to stay where they are for now,” said Alberg. “We’ll make sure you get them back as soon as possible. One more question, if you don’t mind. Do you know anyone who might have wanted Mr. Burke dead?”
George shifted his weight heavily from one foot to the other, and Alberg saw how weary he was. “I didn’t know him all that well.”
The staff sergeant considered him for a moment. “But what you knew, you didn’t like much, did you?” George looked up, and Alberg gave him his sweetest, most compassionate smile.
“No,” said George Wilcox quietly. “I didn’t.” He looked extremely worn. “But us old-timers, you know how it is. We usually don’t like to see each other get bashed on the head. “