“We’re trying to get over there to have a look before the dicks can make it.”
Walker didn’t have much more to say.
“So far they haven’t found the rest of Chew,” I said. “Or I don’t think they have. So far as I know, he might still be walking along.”
Since he made no reply, I shrugged and looked out the window. Lake St. Clair glittered in the sun. There was a fair chop to the water, and only a few larger yachts were out. Maybe it was too early in the season for the boats. A freighter crept along out in the channel, moving down toward the Detroit River.
At the gatehouse, two security men came out, one on either side of the car. They were two-suiters, dressed up nicely for their duty but brought up the hard way, from the look of them. They might have been brothers; both had the flattened noses and battered brows of pugs and the genial nature of men who can handle themselves. They were not the same pair who had allowed me in to see the Old Man when I had strolled up on foot the first time. They knew us on sight—they were expecting us—but still they looked us over well before they let back the gate.
One said, “You’re Caudill.”
I nodded.
“All right,” he said.
“I’m Walker.”
“Go down the path over there to the circle of ash trees.” The pug looked out to the road. “They’ll be coming pretty soon,” he said.
Walker and I looked across the broad lawn and saw how the open space was broken by stands of trees and rock walls made to look older than they were. I pulled the Chrysler through the gate; the brick arch seemed like the entrance to a tunnel.
I said, “We’ll come around the circle and set up the car to go out in a hurry. We’ll walk down.”
We were outside Detroit, and so any call to the police would bring Grosse Pointe public safety men. They’d be a little softer toward the Lloyd family and would have an interest in keeping a lid on things. But it was an even bet that they’d have been talking to the Detroit boys, and they’d surely know me if they saw me.
Walker and I walked down the path across an open meadow and into a grove of trees. I thought I could see flashes of an odd whiteness inside the blooming greenery.
“Step right behind me,” I said. “Watch what you do. Don’t drop anything. Don’t pick anything up. Watch where you put your feet.”
I stepped a few yards closer to the ring of trees and looked closely at the ground. The dew had burned off the grass already, and I couldn’t see much in the way of tracks. The trees weren’t far from the water. The Lloyd property swung out at either end to form a calm little bay, and in the middle of it they had built a long pier jutting out. Because of the budding and blooming ground cover, the lake was mainly out of view, but I could smell it. We stepped into the circle carefully.
“What a place,” Walker said, looking out toward the main house.
As I drew closer, I could clearly see the whiteness of the girl’s dress against the darkness of her skin.
Another colored woman, I thought. How does Chew fit in to all this?
I took a few more steps and held out my arm to bar Walker from moving closer.
She was propped up against the bole of a big ash, her legs spread. Her dress had been pulled up, and from the bloody mess there, I could guess how it had gone. Though we never went closer than ten steps from her, I could see that someone had gone to the trouble of opening her eyes. Her lips were pulled back, showing the teeth like a sneer. On the side I could see, her elbow cocked stiffly upward a bit to show how her arm ended in a dainty stump. On the grass beside her I saw what I took to be her hand.
Walker said nothing. He stared over my shoulder, and I could smell the trace of coffee on his breath and the oil in his hair. When he saw that it was a colored woman, I swear I could feel how his heart skipped. He wanted to rush past me. He thinks it’s his sister, I thought. He feels so much for her still.
Maybe it wasn’t more than a few seconds, but I took in all the details before I finally recognized her. My gut sank when it hit me, and I had to grit down the white panic: She was not a stranger to me. It was too clear just how personal it had become. From the way the girl had been arranged—facing the big house, with her dress pulled up, fouled down below and bloodied everywhere—l knew that the killer or killers had a mean sense of humor. The whole scene was set up to match Jane Hardiman’s murder, and there was no mistaking it. I had seen it firsthand, and I had burned the crime scene photographs into my skull. This girl was set up to match that scene, point for point, except for the severed hand. I knew her.
Who could know about this? I thought. What did I tell them?
“She isn’t on her way to church,” said Walker.
I turned angrily toward him.
“You should have some respect,” I said.
“Detective, you can’t tell me anything about respect.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know,” said Walker. “But we can’t help her now.”
I looked again at the scene. Death made her look younger than I knew she was. In the bright light of day I could see that her tattered dress was something a younger woman would wear—she might have kept it all through the hard years of the war.
She had been dragged up from the lake. Even if she had not been brought in from a boat along the pier, the Lloyd property had hundreds of feet of shoreline where a little boat might be brought up in the night. I could see clearly how the old leaves and dirt of the ash circle had been disturbed by her body dragging. Doubtless she had been wrapped in a tarpaulin or a carpet just as Jane Hardiman had. My chest was seizing up, and it might have been fitting if I had just dropped dead of a broken ticker right inside the circle of trees. I wanted to get rid of Walker somehow and grab the girl and make every trace of her disappear. Ideas went reeling through my head in a panic. We could drag her into the water, into one of the smaller boats that Lloyd kept along the shore for his rich paddling friends. The guards, the secretary, James, the household help, Old Man Lloyd—
“Step back out the way you came,” I said.
“Here they come, Detective,” Walker murmured.
“We’re covered,” I said hastily. “We’ve got badges, haven’t we? This qualifies as Lloyd security business, am I right?”
In fact, I was not certain that I had brought my own badge, and of course Walker had been forced to do without.
“Let’s go on up to the house. They can come and find us if they want us.”
It was a walk to the main entrance, and I supposed that the Lloyds would have a driver take them to the various areas of the property. It was uphill, too, set along rolling hills unusual for flat Michigan, and both Walker and I were panting when we stepped up to the entrance. There was a buzzer to the side, and a pair of ornamental knockers—brought over from Switzerland or England, I supposed—in the center of each great door. I picked up one heavy brass knocker and let it thud down a few times.
Whitcomb Lloyd swept back the door.
“Mr. Caudill, you’ve arrived too late!” He was smiling with dark humor, but I could see in his eyes that he knew what a mess it would be.
“I thought you were in California,” I said.
“I was, indeed, until yesterday. I arrived late last night. And now this.”
“I’m Walker. Jonas Walker.”
“Hello, sir. And Mr. Federle?”
“He couldn’t make it,” I said. “How was California?”
“Beautiful, as always. My wife sends her regards, Mr. Caudill.”
“She never met me.”
“Nevertheless, she’s certain she’ll be charmed to make your acquaintance. You’ve a reputation for a sort of impish charm for the ladies. Do you believe that?” He was still holding the doors open with his long arms. He let one go and swept an arm inward. “You must come in,” he said. “I expect there will be quite a crowd today.”
“You should put some men out there to keep the shutterbugs away,” I said.
&n
bsp; “I like the way you think, Mr. Caudill,” said Lloyd. “That’s a critical appraisal of the situation. You’d make a good businessman.”
The butler appeared and stepped neatly toward us. The strain of keeping his distress below the surface made his eyes red, his mouth sour. “Your hats, gentlemen?”
“We’ll keep ’em,” I said.
“Some refreshments? Coffee? Tea?”
“No,” I said. “We won’t be long.”
“I think I’d like a cup,” said Walker. “Just plain black, if it’s no trouble.”
“Why don’t you bring a pot,” said Lloyd. “We’ll be in the library.”
Like the rest of the house, the library was covered with paneling, carved along the edges and around the fireplace with old designs of flowers and knots, heads of ladies in profile, birds in flight, and even tiny reliefs of German cottages and farmhouses. The furniture was a mess of too-fancy chairs and sofas from different periods and heavy wooden tables, some inlaid with patterns of veneer or with mother-of-pearl. Strewn along the walls and atop flat places, precious art pieces made it hard for the servants to dust the place. There were a number of books as well, arranged carefully in the built-in shelves. They looked as if they might have been read, but I supposed that they, too, had been purchased from some formerly wealthy estate on the Continent.
“I can offer you a pipe, gentlemen, or a cigar,” Lloyd said. “My old father has no vices, but I could spin tales about the men who have gathered in this room. Charlie Chaplin once sat in that chair, Mr. Walker.”
“Fatty Arbuckle gave me an apple one time,” said Walker. “He had a bushel of apples, and he was tossing them from his open car out front of the Opera House.”
“That’s a tragic story,” said Lloyd. “A man done in by his appetites.”
“Listen,” I broke in, “what’s the story here? You have any idea who might be doing this?”
Lloyd seemed to relish the attention, the chance to put on a show of how smart he could make his words. He began, “Mr. Caudill, I know you have an idea what comes inevitably with the sort of vast fortune the Lloyd family has accumulated. Any man excepting the Buddha himself wants to nibble or tear away a chunk of it. There might be, in Detroit alone, a million men who’d like to live in such fashion as we do here. You might include yourself and Mr. Walker in that tally.”
“I wouldn’t live this way,” I said. “All this moldy old stuff.”
“Too many ghosts, Mr. Caudill? You’re a sensitive man.”
Walker said, “I couldn’t ever rest easy in a place like this.”
“How many of those million or so men you talk about are homicidal maniacs?” I asked.
Lloyd turned sour. He paced around us. “You’ve killed, haven’t you, Mr. Caudill? What about Mr. Federle? I except you, Mr. Walker, as we’ve only just met. For all I know with any certainty, my own butler might slice my throat as I lie sleeping.”
“I couldn’t ever rest,” Walker said very quietly.
“Your friend Chew will be delirious when he gets a whiff of this.” Lloyd eyed me pointedly, hoping to draw anger or some sharp response. His nerves made him thrust out all his words like jabs.
“He will,” I said.
“It’s a disaster in the making. From my point of view, it’s positively biblical in scale—a plague of locusts, a flood. Rivers flowing with blood! Fire raining down from the sky! But we are not yet lost. Did you ever learn anything about the principle of supply and demand in school, Mr. Walker?”
“I believe I’ve forgotten any of that, sir. I apologize.”
“Let me ask, when was the last time you purchased a new automobile?”
“Never, sir.”
“Well,” Lloyd said, “when was the last time anyone purchased a new car?”
“Before the war,” I said.
“Exactly right! I should lower my voice. Do you know what all the pent-up demand for automobiles will cause when this war is won?”
“More money for you,” I said. “If you’re not sunk by then.”
Lloyd seemed glad that I was speaking sharply, as it gave him the excuse to make his own speech more extravagant. “This war is like a long winter. Everywhere”—he was swinging his long arms broadly—“open commerce lies dormant beneath the snow. When peace comes at last, you’ll see a great flowering—mark me now. What a century it’s been so far! But the past is nothing to compare with what will follow. If you’ve money to invest, you could make yourself a wealthy man. Anyone could.”
“The problem you ought to consider,” I said, “is that the dicks will be hot for you in this case. And the papers, once they get hold of it, will be crawling up your ass in a flash.”
“The police act in the public interest,” said Lloyd coolly. “I trust they’ll behave appropriately.”
They’ll want to talk to me, too, I thought. Dilley and Foulard don’t seem to move too fast, but—
“Something troubles you, Mr. Caudill?”
“Can you tell me again about your little trip to California?”
“I arrived in the area by plane at perhaps half past ten in the evening, and then I drove myself here. This is all easily verified. May I ask, Mr. Caudill, why you’re so worried that the police will suspect me? Does the guilt from all your past missteps plague you with worry? For myself, I trust that these dedicated men will see the truth plainly from the evidence. I’ve nothing to hide.”
“You don’t consider all the maniacs who might be after your money,” I said. “You don’t worry about a frame-up?”
“Mr. Federle suspects the Hardiman brothers,” Walker said. “If it’s all right to say so.”
“Their mother, too, is a magnificent piece of work,” Lloyd said, showing an undertaker’s smile. “Aunt Estelle, I used to call her. Do you believe that?”
“No,” I said.
“You’re too keen, Mr. Caudill. You don’t believe in anything.”
“That doesn’t get me anywhere,” I said. “These boys— Can you tell me anything about Elliot?”
Walker started to say something, but he seemed just then to realize that he had been talking too much.
“You’ll find the young Hardiman men haunting the big plant tirelessly,” said Lloyd. “Even on a Sunday, the formal day of rest, I’d say they’ll both be nursing some plot, scheming together in that Machiavellian way they seem to have been born to. If you find them there, they won’t be friendly.”
“Do you think this place is as safe as you might want it?” I asked him.
“The house itself is secure. The grounds … well, you can see how expansive the estate is. Would you like to come and stay here to coordinate all the security matters? Would it make you happy to follow in Frank Carter’s footsteps? After all, it’s my father’s fondest wish.”
“You make me want to pop you in the nose,” I said.
Lloyd laughed with such gusto that a fleck of spittle flew in a long arc from his mouth and landed on the shoulder of a terra-cotta statue of Hercules. Walker started to chuckle.
“Mr. Carter never spoke to me that way!” he said.
“You ought to be more serious,” I said.
“Mr. Caudill, I’m fully aware of the gravity of our situation. In the past week I’ve spoken to representatives of perhaps a dozen foreign countries, scores of suppliers, competitors, accountants, lawyers, foremen, security men, engineers, architects—imagine it! In the past week! Try to conceive of it—a young woman is murdered—or two or three—with everything going on in the world, Mr. Caudill, how much attention shall I give to these women? How important can it be, really, compared to the welfare of our fighting forces all across the wide world? Make no mistake; the Lloyd Motor Company is critically important to the war effort. I trust that the police will do their duty as far as these murders are concerned.”
“If it’s clear that the murders in these different states are connected, and especially if it seems they’re making a target of Lloyd Motors in particular, then they’re goi
ng to bring in the FBI. That doesn’t bother you?”
All his nervous energy drained away as we watched him. He took on the same drooping posture I had witnessed at the big plant, and his eyelids and jowls began to sag as if the life had been let out of them.
“You’d perhaps ask my father about the FBI,” he said.
“Where is he?”
“I’ve had him taken to his place behind the plant. It’s along the river.”
“Could any of this wreck the company?” I asked.
“If we could make a study of the relationship between reputation and economic activity—”
“I’m just asking a simple question.”
“Things do get wrecked, Mr. Caudill. Empires crumble.”
“I don’t see how it could happen,” Walker said.
“If we could see the future,” said Lloyd, “it would be easy to stave off ruin.”
“You just said we’d all get richer after the war,” I said.
“If the war can be won, and I think it must be, then I believe it’s inevitable that there will be a flourishing of enterprise. And so you see I’m always torn between optimism and pessimism. If I focus on the trouble at hand … it’s necessary to press forward as if one believed in the future.”
“He still hasn’t brought the coffee,” said Walker. “I feel like I’ve troubled him.”
“Perhaps the butler really is our culprit,” said Lloyd. He had turned to look out the bay window toward the grove of trees. “If that’s the case, maybe all this will be wrapped up by suppertime.”
I stood up and looked down the gentle hill. Probably at least half the safety officers from the Pointes had swarmed to the property. All the way down to the water, the cops were strolling and pointing. A few portly suited inspectors were now making their way toward the house.
I tapped Walker on the shoulder and he rose as well. We stepped quickly out of the library and I led him down the long dark hall, past the servants’ quarters and out the little door at the west end of the big house.
“All of this comes down to me,” Walker muttered. “I should not have intruded on you like I did.”
“You can step out if you want to,” I said.
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