Miller mounted the stairs onto the mansion’s front verandah. The reception hall was empty; he went halfway up the staircase to the second floor. “Sally,” he called, he went all the way up, stood in the second floor hall, “Sally.”
A door opened, Sally looked from it and then came toward him. “I’m going away for a bit.” He said. “I thought you might wonder where I was.”
She vaguely gestured with her hand, “What did you find out there?”
“Nothing important.” He said.
“Where are you going?”
“I’ll be back; it’s nothing important, really.”
She was hurt, not angry. It hurt her; he knew that she was outside his confidence. He had led her up to thinking that she was close to him and now he had closed her out.
He went back down to the kitchen through its window he saw a flashlight beam tracing irregular arcs in the zoo compound, then pulling open drawers of utensils, tableware and linen he finally found something that suited his purpose. He was not wholly satisfied with the ten cent store hammer and two screw drivers, but he took them, left the house and the estate and headed to Highway 10, and Millersburg cemetery.
Dawn light was growing stronger streets, trees and dwellings were emerging. He waited as a solitary car leaped down the cold highway. Then he crossed to the cemetery. The weight of his body titled forward as he climbed the slight incline toward the gate.
A heavy link chain looped about the gate’s inch square pickets and was fastened by a bad lock; the gatehouse was dark, locked. Miller took the hammer and the two screw drivers from his coat. He concealed the tools along the line of the low concrete wall in which the cemetery’s pickets were set and then covered his cache with loose rock. At the station he consulted the Westchester telephone directory. He ran his finger down the G’s George…Greg...Godley was at the bottom of the column.
Godley Benny District Attorney 417 Main 212-734-8173
Residence 57 Hudson Dr 212-762-3147
Miller walked to the Hudson Drive address. He rang the front door bell and heard the two toned chime ring within the house. Presently Benny Godley’s sleep lax face appeared at the door, his eyes widened to wakefulness.
“What’s this? What’s the trouble?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Godley but I have to talk to you.” Godley nodded blankly and opened the door; Miller stepped into the living room. Godley’s pajamas and bare ankles showed beneath the skirt of his robe. Somewhere in one of the other rooms, a baby was crying, Miller glimpsed a young women, also in a robe her hair up in curlers, going from one room and into another attending the crying child. “What’s on your mind?” Godley asked.
“Paul Allen,” Miller told him. “I have evidence that he may have been shot.”
“What do you mean evidence?”
“A bullet, a slug I picked up in his library.” Miller took the dark bit of lead out of his pocket, “what do you know about his death, Godley?”
Benny Godley looked into Miller’s palm, “what is this supposed to mean?” his eyes met Millers brown ones. “This is no evidence.”
“You mean it could have been in the library for a long time?”
“Of course.” Godley replied. The baby in the other room quieted, a women’s voice spoke tenderly. Miller said, “I’m going to ask for an autopsy.”
Godley laughed, “You have no right to ask for an autopsy. I won’t give permission for anyone, is this what you came to tell me? Watson would never make an autopsy without my order, besides what affair of yours is Paul Allen’s death?”
“I think Doctor Smith was murdered because he knew how Paul Allen died!”
“You wake me up before dawn to tell me that?”
“I’ve just come from the Allen place there was an intruder there awhile ago. If we don’t act and fast, Mr. Godley we may soon be going to another funeral.”
“Yes?” There was more than a tinge of sarcasm in his tone.
“It so happens,” miller continued, “that I don’t want to see anyone else murdered.” Godley walked to a table and found cigarettes; he offered Miller one and when it was refused, lighted one himself.
“Who would want to murder?” He asked. “Nobody has any reason.”
“You were close to Allen weren’t you? You took care of his affairs; through you’d given up the rest of your legal practice to be district attorney.”
Well, what do you know about his motives in giving his money to people who hated him, and whom he had every reason to hate.” Benny Godley expelled a slow breath; “listen,” he said, “there’s no use talking about this, there just aren’t going to be any murders.”
“Alvin Rodgers is here in town, and the testament will be read this morning. Ten minutes after that, everybody can go his own way; each will get a very definite sum, as I clearly explained to them. They’re not going to get larger shares by killing each other off, if that’s what you have in mind.”
“This Alvin Rodgers,” Miller pointed out. “He was in an auto wreck, he had a broken leg.”
“He has his own doctor looking after him, he’ll be all right.” Miller walked back toward the door. He turned as he reached it, “I’m sorry we don’t agree about the autopsy, I must say I don’t understand your objection.”
“I have a reason!” the darkly handsome lawyers face drew tight, his lips made a straight line. “Paul Allen’s memory is sacred to me, and I don’t want any cheap sensationalism or scandal about Allen.”
Miller replied, “Why are you fighting tooth and claw to suppress the truth about Allen’s death?” Anger grew in Godley’s face, “you’d better go.” He said. Miller moved down the walk to the street, he could see his program of strategy ordering itself.
Chapter Eleven
The diner on Highway 10 was open at six A.M. Miller went in and ordered pancakes, sausages and coffee. As he slowly sipped his coffee he thought of Julie. This was Monday morning; he should be back in New York. He should be at his Seventy-ninth Street apartment, just waking now. He should be getting up, put the coffee on the burner and get ready for the day of pill making.
But today Allen’s will would be read, Alvin Rodgers Allen’s friend would be present and all reason for further delay would be gone. They’d get their money and leave. Meanwhile Miller thought he’d use the tools he’d left near the cemetery’s fence to satisfy himself that Allen was in his crypt and that he’d died an unnatural death. But what then? Lawyer Benny Godley has said Alvin Rodgers was under the care of a physician. The bearded coroner, N.E. Watson, was the only doctor in Millersburg now. Was he Rodger’s doctor, then that might suggest some tie to Godley? No, for Godley had said Rodgers was under the care of his own physician. Miller’s thoughts suddenly jumped with realization. That doctor caring for Rodgers must be none other than Younger, Thomas younger.
Albert had been aware of younger’s presence in town, that could have motivated his telephone call to J. Liebermann. Miller realized now, Albert could have wanted him to meet Younger, “a big fish waiting,” Albert had said.
Miller paid his check and left the diner. He walked toward the Millersburg station, halfway there he saw the cab. It braked to an eager stop and Moe the cabbie shoved over in the front seat so he could reach the back door and open it.
“Good morning, sir.” His droopy nosed lighted up, and he shoved the broken billed cap happily back off his forehead. “I’m just going to work and already on my way from the garage I meet you and got a fare.”
“I don’t know if you have a fare, you see I don’t know where I want to go.”
“It’s happened before.”
“Do you remember seeing anybody coming from the station that looked like this?” How could he describe Thomas Younger?
“A big fellow, very broad looks like a football player.”
“A football player? You’re not kidding? You mean maybe from the Jets?”
“Just looks like a football player, a little older perhaps a stranger to this town, I gu
ess not too well dressed, needs a haircut, bad. He might be carrying a little bag, a doctor’s bag. But he’s an unusually big fellow, very big.”
Moe scratched his ear, “You think he rode here in my cab?”
“I don’t know, I just hoped you’d seen him, perhaps you know about a fellow who was in an accident. I don’t know much about him except that he was an old fellow and he had his leg broken I believe.”
“Yes he had a broken leg, there was another one with him, a big feller like you say, and I remember now, you see, you asked me if I seen him coming in here by the station and I didn’t think from this one.”
“What happened? Where did they go?”
“I took them to the doctor, Doctor Smith the one that just died. The night before, I took them.”
“You mean last night, or the night before Doctor Smith died?”
“The night before he died;” the cabbie stared curiously, “and you know I could tell you something else, these men took a furnished apartment in those flats down by the station.”
“Where? Can you take me there?” They drove to a long, low stucco apartment building within sight of the Millersburg station; it was the sort of place that rented out apartments to commuters who wanted to live in the country with a minimum of inconvenience. Miller got out, and handed the grinning driver a bill. “You’re not a usual cabbie.”
“Of course not if I wasn’t crazy would I be living up here in the woods?” At the front entrance of the apartment building, Miller found a strip of bell buttons. There were twelve apartments in the building and eleven of them were tagged by names under their bells. Miller ran his finger along the names without finding either Rodgers or Younger.
He rang the untagged button and waited for an answering buzz. He punched it again, listening to the bell ring somewhere upstairs, but there was no answer. He walked around the apartment, the first floor windows were too high to see into. He crossed the street, the blinds were drawn on some of the windows, but through a few of them he could see occupants moving about, however, there was no sign of Rodgers and Younger.
He returned to the Allen mansion, perhaps further developments there, he decided might make unnecessary the taking of any drastic steps toward seeing Younger and Rodgers at their apartment, if that was where they were.
Back inside the Allen estate, he saw someone off near the zoo compound. Approaching, he found it to be Jose Mendez. Mendez dark almond eyes widened and his round face beamed.
“Hello there, Mr. Miller.”
“I just saw someone walking, back here,” Miller said. “And I wondered who it might be.”
“Just me,” said the South American brightly. “Just me,” and apparently feeling the need for further explanation. “While the others are getting ready for breakfast, I thought I would have a look around. Last night gave me a scare.
You see, having seen death often in my lifetime, I do not relish partaking of it.” He laughed again. “Particularly violent death?” Miller asked. “I have found that diligent precautions are the safest way to prevent trouble. I remember when I was in training in a military academy in Germany.” Mendez said.
“You went to school in Germany?”
“Why, of course,” said Mendez modestly. “It is nothing unusual, South American armies have been largely German trained, you know and why not? Like so many other things, Germans do it best.” Miller was silent.
“We had an epigram about generals.” Mendez continued, “The best generals the epigram went were those who provided in advance for what was going to happen. But the great generals, they were those who provided in advance also for what was not going to happen!” Mendez paused. “You are disturbed Mr. Miller, you are not listening ant more, I see that. You are disturbed perhaps over my educational background.”
“Not at all, learning isn’t a matter of nationality.” Miller replied.
“Right you are, one learns whomever one can learn best.” The South American’s eyes crinkled.
Miller walked with him to the entrance of the compound. “I am a nobody,” Mendez went on, “But I prize my little soul, and wish it only the best care. Those flying foxes were deliberately freed last night, other cages had been tampered with to what end?” He shrugged.
Miller nodded and escaped from the little generals disturbing endless speech. Walking back toward the house, he heard the clatter of pots through an open window. He went in the service entry and through the butler’s pantry into the kitchen.
Jimmy Marks in his tight fitting crew shirt was whipping up a batter in a green glass bowl. He would have looked more appropriate on a running track or doing a pole vault.
“Breakfast?” Miller asked.
“Not for an hour yet, suh.” Mark’s smile showed strong white teeth. He hadn’t seen much of Marks. He wanted to know more about him. “I guess now with Mr. Allen gone, you’ll be closing this place soon?”
“That’s right, suh but I’ve been here a year, it’s served its purpose.” He wanted to keep conversation going, “with your room and board paid, I guess you can save practically all your salary.”
“Salary?” Marks looked up, laughed, “I just wanted a quiet place to study and this was it. I have saved some though I planned to start a fox farm. Get a little place and raise foxes, there’ll be a living in it for Susan and me. She’s my girl in New York, and I’ll have time for myself.” He seemed eager to talk. “I’m interested in genetics; do you know anything about fruit fly work?”
“I thought that Paul fellow in California had exhausted that.”
“Those little bugs won’t be exhausted for a thousand years.”
“A small inheritance would come in handy?” He didn’t like interrogating Marks; he wasn’t doing it for Marks good.
Points of light sparkled in Miller’s speckled tawny eyes. “I could use it, but Allen didn’t leave me anything, he didn’t like me especially.”
“Wasn’t he satisfied with your work?”
“He was satisfied with my work all right. He kept me on because I did the work and he could pay me less than he would have to pay someone else, I felt it.” He looked down at the batter in the green bowl.
“You know how things like that are you can feel antagonism, but you don’t know how or why there should be anything against you. I think I noticed it from the day he first came in my room and saw my typewriter and a diploma from Cornell.”
Miller returned to the front verandah. This Marks was a curious one, he thought again then he looked for a sign of Sally. He sat down on the verandah’s stone balustrade. He couldn’t see that his talk with Marks or Mendez had added anything that would obviate the necessity of finding Younger or that clarified the puzzle in his mind.
He stood up paced across the verandah; the sun now fully raised was bright. A mild clean November day, his thoughts wandered the stucco apartment house near the station; the cabbie taking him there Alvin Rodgers, the one heir he had not yet met. The one other survivor of the trip to South America that had brought a rubber fortune to Paul Allen, Mendez the dwarfish Peruvian Indian who in his place, might plan every move with the finesse of chessboard strategy. Jimmy Marks, alert educated rattling pots in a kitchen. Miller walked down the steps. He went out the high gate, away from the estate. He walked the half dozen blocks to the stucco apartment house near the station. Again he rang the one bell that had no name, again there was no answer.
He crossed the street and looked up at the buildings windows. He’d seen people at some of them before, now at one other second floor window, he saw someone move. It was only a vague, bulky shape but who it was, was unmistakable. Miller crossed tensely to the building’s entrance and punched the bell marked superintendent. When the door clicked, he pushed it open and went up the flight to the second floor. He stopped in front of the door corresponding to the room he had spotted from the street, inside there was complete silence.
Knocking on the panel, he waited he knocked again, the flimsy door of the cheap built apartment buildin
g under his fist. He walked down the hall, at the end of the hall a vertical iron ladder led upward to a square opening in the ceiling.
He climbed the ladder and unfastened the hooks battening a cover on the ceiling opening. He threw off the cover and climbed out onto the apartment house roof, leading from the roof were two fire escapes. Miller chose one, and stepped carefully down it, descending to the window he’d spotted from the street. He crouched to look inside.
Chapter Twelve
A thin bald headed man lay on the bed, his right leg encased in a plaster cast it was rigged aloft by an arrangement of pulleys. A large man stooped over him, a razor in hand on a table beside the bed was a shaving bowl and brush. Miller rapped on the window pane, instantly both men turned. It took the big man a moment to recover sufficiently from his surprise to stand up. Then he switched off the bedside lamp and came to the window. He was badly in need of a haircut and the collar of his shirt was soiled.
Miller put his hands flat against the pane, as if to raise it himself. “Open the window,” He ordered. In his surprise, the big man looked to the man in the bed and then back at Miller. “John Miller! What in hell are you doing here?”
“Why don’t you answer your bell when somebody rings it?” Miller asked. “I had to ring the super’s bell to get in.” The man once more looked back to the occupant of the bed.
“Will you open this?” Miller insisted the man opened the window. Miller stooped down and stepped inside. He stood before the bushy haired man. “Hello, Younger,” he said, checking the breathlessness of his voice. “There are some questions I’ve got to ask you.” Younger’s eyes did not leave Millers face. His head was powerful, bull-broad and black hair shot from his scalp. Falling in random spikes despite an attempt and parting it. It was no different from the way it had been at Allendale.
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