Macroy ducked his head in farewell, said nothing, and walked to the door. Halley jumped up and politely opened it for him.
“Halley.” Burns was mild but Halley turned quickly and let the door close itself behind the minister.
“Yes, sir.”
“This one is going to splash,” said Burns glumly. “So watch yourself.”
“Yes, sir. Did he do it, sir?” My Master will know, of course, Halley’s face said.
“Whether he did or not, we’re going to be able to say we went looking for every damn crumb of evidence there ain’t going to be.” This was, however crossly said, a palsywalsy kind of thing for Burns to be
saying.
“You saw the woman, sir?” The Captain stared sourly but Halley went on. It bubbled out of him. “I can’t help thinking—some honeymoon!
I mean—”
The Captain grunted. “Yah, and he’s a pretty good-looking Joe.” (Halley thought he concealed his astonishment.) “Well, kiss the cow,” said Burns with a warning glare. (Halley hadn’t fooled him.) “And keep your little old baby face shut.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Thing of it is,” said the Captain, less belligerently, “there was this opportunity. But if he did it, he don’t know why. And he can’t believe it, so he don’t really know it at all. Don’t think that can’t happen.”
Halley marveled respectfully.
“You get on over to the funeral parlor and when the daughter shows, bring her by.”
Burns turned to instruct the clerk. Damn vultures, he thought. The damn press was out there. Well, they didn’t have to go by the book; but they’d get precious little out of him.
Saul Zeigler, aged twenty-two, was standing with Carstairs in the hallway of the low building. Zeigler was a local, just out of college, working for peanuts, and green as grass. He deferred to the older man, who was semiretired these days, but still picked up occasional plums for the big L.A. paper. Carstairs, with his connections, had already been on the phone to Santa Carla. Zeigler was impressed.
When they saw a man come out of the Captain’s office alone, Carstairs moved in before Zeigler could get his own wits going. The hall was a barren length, with institutional green walls, a worn linoleum floor, and three naked light bulbs strung in a line overhead. The tall thin man looked ghastly.
“Reverend Macroy?” Carstairs was saying. “Excuse me. Terrible tragedy. Could we talk a minute?” Carstairs did not wait for permission. “Your bride was Sarah Bright? That’s right, isn’t it, sir?”
“Yes.”
“My name is Carstairs,” said Carstairs, forcing the manly handshake. “I’m that necessary evil, the newspapermen. But it’s always best to get the facts from the ones who were there. Better all around.”
Smooth, thought Zeigler, as Carstairs kept boring in.
“Sarah Bright was the widow of Herman Bright? Bright Electronics?”
“Yes.”
“A very successful enterprise, I understand.”
“Yes, I—Yes.”
“I understand you’d moved into her mansion on South Columbo?” Carstairs was chatty-sounding.
“Her house,” said Macroy wearily.
“About how long had you two been courting, Reverend?” Carstairs became the old buddy.
Zeigler thought the drawn face winced, but the man said quietly, “We met about six months ago.”
“She was an older woman?”
“Older than I,” said Macroy. “If you would excuse me, please, I am not feeling up to an interview. I would like to get over to the motel now and be alone.”
Carstairs brushed this off as if it had never been spoken. “Bright died four years ago, wasn’t it? And your first wife died when?”
The minister put out one hand and braced himself on the wall. “Nine years ago,” he said patiently.
“You and Sarah Bright got married Monday?”
“Yes. In the morning.”
“And took off for a honeymoon trip?” Carstairs had shouldered around to face Macroy, who seemed driven closer to the wall.
“Yes. Yes. May I please—” Macroy pleaded.
“I’m very sorry,” said Carstairs, “I know this is a very bad time.” But his feet in their battered alligator shoes didn’t move. “If you could just run over what happened, just briefly? I certainly want to get it absolutely straight, absolutely correct.”
“We left Carmel early this afternoon.” The minister put his free palm over one eye. “I took the scenic route because I thought she would enjoy—”
“Bum choice this time of year, wasn’t it?” said Carstairs in a genial way.
The minister took his hand down and moved until his shoulders touched the wall. He was blinking, as if there was something going on that he could not understand. His silence was thunderous.
Zeigler found himself pushing in to say respectfully, “I understand, sir, that the whole coastline was closed in tight. Worst fog in years. Pretty bad, was it, sir?”
“Yes,” said Macroy, but he was looking at the older man and a hostility had sprung up, as invisible but as unmistakable as a gust of wind. The dazed look was beginning to lift from the dark eyes, like mist being blown away.
Carstairs said blandly, “Now, you stopped, sir? Why was that?”
Macroy didn’t answer.
“I’m trying to find out how this terrible thing could have happened,” said Carstairs, all innocent patience. “Why you stopped, for instance? What I mean, there couldn’t have been a whole lot of scenery to see, not in that fog and after dark.” Now his innocence was cruel, and he was defensively hostile. Zeigler could feel it on his own skin.
Macroy said, “No.” His voice had gone flat.
“Why did you get out of the car? Or, I should say, why did the lady get out? By herself, did she? Didn’t have a little lover’s spat, I’m sure. Then why did she get out?”
Carstairs was bullying now, and young Zeigler discovered that he couldn’t take it. So he tugged at the bigger man. “She hadda go, for gosh sake,” he said deep in his skinny young throat, “and you know it, so why badger the poor guy? Lay off!”
“So okay,” said Carstairs, in the same strangled manner, “but you tell me how in hell she could have fallen off that damn cliff?”
“Maybe you don’t understand women,” said Zeigler fiercely.
Carstairs laughed. Then Zeigler saw the minister’s face. He stood there, leaning against the wall, having made no move to escape. On his face there was such a look—of loathing and sorrow and bewilderment.
“People are always interested,” said Carstairs cheerily, turning back on his prey. “Do you happen to know what Mrs. Bright—excuse me, Mrs. Macroy—was worth?”
Macroy shook his head slightly. His lips were drawn back. He looked like a death’s-head. Abruptly he thrust himself from the wall. “Let me pass.”
“Why, certainly. Certainly.” Carstairs played surprise that his courtesy could possibly be questioned. “Thank you very much, sir,” he called after Macroy, who walked away from them. Then he said to Zeigler, “And how do you like them velvet tonsils? I’ll bet he knows. The merry widow was worth millions, kiddo. So maybe she hadda go. Right?”
Zeigler didn’t dare open his mouth.
Then, at the far end of the hall, the street doors burst open and a woman and two men entered. The woman came first, weeping violently, her head down, a handkerchief over her mouth.
Macroy saw her and said, “Eunice. I’m so sorry, my dear. So sorry.” The music was back in his voice.
But the woman dropped the handkerchief and lifted red-rimmed furious eyes. She was about thirty, already thickening at the middle, no beauty at best, and now ugly in hysteria. “I don’t want to talk to you,” she shrieked, recoiling. “I never want to see you again. Ever!”
A dapper man with dark-rimmed eyeglasses put his arm around her. “Come now, Eunice. Hush up, sweetheart.”
“All I know,” the woman screamed, “is that my darling mother
was just fine until she had to marry him, and now she’s all smashed up and dead and broken.” She wailed and hit out at the air.
Captain Burns was there as if he had flown in. He didn’t care for scenes. He and Halley took hold of the woman between them. But she cried out to her husband, “You tell him. He’s not going to live in my mother’s house and have all my mother’s lovely things.”
Burns said, “You’ll come with me, now, Mrs. Minter.” And she went.
But Geoffrey Minter lingered to say to Macroy in a high, cold, uninflected voice, “You’d better not try to talk to Eunice, not just now. She’s very upset.”
(The understatement of the year, thought Zeigler.)
Macroy said, “Geoffrey, believe me—”
But Geoffrey said, “By the way, Eunice wants me to take charge
of the funeral. And I certainly hope you aren’t going to raise any objections.”
“No,” said Macroy, staggering. “No. None at all.” He walked away, curving erratically to brace himself against the wall at every few strides.
Zeigler said, “He’s never going to make it across the damn road.”
“So be his guide,” said Carstairs. “You and your bleeding heart. But what you get you bring back to Papa. I’ll cover the loved ones.”
Young Zeigler went sailing after the minister. Carstairs was waylaying the son-in-law. Zeigler heard Minter’s high voice saying, “I don’t know the legal position. No new will has been drawn, not since the marriage. We’ll find out.” He, too, seemed furious, in his own tight way.
Zeigler took the Reverend Macroy’s arm and began to lead him.
The arm he held was tense and deeply trembling and it accepted his hand only by default; but Zeigler got them safely across the highway and into the motel office. Zeigler explained to the woman there—“tragic accident”—“no luggage”—“Sheriff’s Captain suggested.”
The woman was awed and a little frightened. It was Zeigler who took the key. He knew the place. He guided Macroy into the inner court, found the numbered door, unlocked it, switched on a light, glanced around at the lifeless luxury.
He didn’t know whether he was now alone with a heartbroken bridegroom—or with a murderer. It was his job to find out, if he could. He said, “Looks all right, sir. Now, how about I call up and have somebody bring some hot coffee? Maybe a sandwich? Probably you ought to eat.”
A funny thing was happening to Zeigler’s voice. It was getting musical. Damn it, whichever this man was, he was suffering, or Zeigler was a monkey’s uncle.
But the minister rejected music. “No, thank you. Nothing.” He remained motionless, outside the room. There were hooded lights close to the ground along the flowered borders of this courtyard, and they sent shadows upward to patch that stony face with black. Zeigler looked where the man was looking—at three high scraggly palm tops, grotesque against the clearing sky; between them and the stars some wispy remembrances of that deadly fog still scudded.
“Come in,” coaxed Zeigler. “I’ll be glad to stick around a little bit, if you’d like—”
“I’d rather be alone.”
It was the time for Zeigler to insist solicitously. But he heard himself saying, “Okay. I don’t blame you.” As he turned away, Zeigler said to himself in disgust, and almost audibly, “But I’m one hell of a newspaperman.”
Macroy said, “And I’m one hell of a clergyman.”
He didn’t seem to know that he had spoken. He was standing perfectly still, with his face turned up. His hands were clenched at his sides. Up there the palm fronds against that ambiguous sky were like a witch’s hands, bent at the knuckles, with too many taloned fingers dripping down.
The moment had an eerie importance, as if this were some kind of rite. To placate the evil mist, now departing? Or a rite of passage?
A goose walked over Zeigler’s grave.
Then the Reverend Macroy went into the room and closed the door.
Carstairs pounced. “What? What?”
“Nah. Not a word,” said Zeigler, lying instinctively. “Shocked stupid. Poor guy.”
“How stupid can you get, for more than a million bucks?” said Carstairs. “Especially if you’re untouchable.”
“What? What?” said Zeigler immediately.
“I just got off the phone with his Bishop.” Carstairs looked disgusted. “Whad’ya know? Your buddy is a Lamb of God or something and pure as the driven snow.”
“What did he ever do to you?” asked Zeigler curiously.
“What did I do to him, for God’s sake?” Carstairs’ eyes looked hot. “So I don’t live in the dark ages! I got to get back on the phone.”
Zeigler wondered who was guilty of what. He honestly didn’t know.
The Bishop, whose name was Roger Everard, came as soon as he could, which was at about ten o’clock the following morning. “I don’t think it’s wise, Hugh,” he said soothingly, as he pulled up his trouser legs to sit down and gaze compassionately at this unshaven face, so drawn with suffering. “I don’t think you should make any such decision, and certainly not so precipitously. It is not wise at this time.”
“But I cannot—” said Macroy.
“Surely you understand,” said Everard, who often had a brisk executive way of speaking, “that these people are only doing what is their obligation, according to law. Nobody seriously imagines, my dear fellow, that this was anything but an accident. And you must not feel abandoned, either. After all, you should realize that the members of your congregation can scarcely rally around when they don’t even know where you are. Now, now.” The Bishop didn’t pat him on the head, but he might as well have. “There are certain things that must be done and I am here to do them.”
“I am not—” said Macroy in triple gasps, “good enough—for the job.”
“You have had a terrible shock,” said the Bishop didactically, “a grievous loss, and a very bad night. I beg you to be guided by me. Will you be guided by me?”
The Bishop had already tried praying aloud, but when he had seen from a corner of his eye that the praying was only increasing Macroy’s distress, he had cut it short.
“You know,” he continued, leaving God temporarily unmentioned, “that I am perfectly sure of your complete innocence, that I entirely understand, that I mourn your dear wife with you, and that I want only to be helpful and do what is best? You know that, do you not?”
“I know,” groaned Macroy.
“Well, now. Here is what I advise. First, you must make yourself presentable. I believe that your suitcase is now available. Then, since you are not to be in charge—and after all, Hugh, Sarah isn’t here—you must come home.”
“Where is home?” Macroy said. “I gave up the apartment. And I cannot go to Sarah’s house.”
“Home with me, of course,” said the Bishop triumphantly. “Now,
I have brought along young Price. His father used to do my legal work and the son has more or less inherited. Freddy may not be the churchman his father was, but he is trained and intelligent and surely he can be helpful in this unfamiliar thicket. There must be an inquest, you see. I want you to talk to him, and then you must talk to the Sheriff’s man, but I should imagine only briefly. And, Hugh, I want you to brace yourself to your tasks. I shall drive you by your church and you will go to your office long enough to cancel or rearrange your appointments and delegate your responsibilities. You must be strong and you must not be afraid, for remember—” and the Bishop went into scripture.
When he had finished, the face was looking somewhat less strained; so the Bishop did pat Macroy, although only on a shoulder, and then he trotted back across the road to see whether there was any other way in which he could be helpful. A very busy man himself, the Bishop had had to cancel several appointments; but he did not begrudge his time and effort in this emergency. Obviously, poor Macroy was devastated, and the Bishop must and would take over.
Frederick Price, a busy young man in his middle thirties, ready and willin
g to be useful, came swinging into the court of the motel, carrying the Reverend Macroy’s suitcase, which had been taken from Macroy’s car. The car was now parked behind the Sheriff’s office, still subject to examinations of some technical kind.
Price knocked on the proper door and went in, introduced himself, and offered the minister his own possessions. He saw the strain and the fatigue, of course, and was not surprised. He didn’t believe this man was guilty of any crime. He guessed him to be a sensitive type and thought the whole thing, especially the damned red tape, was a rotten shame under the circumstances. But Price was well acquainted with red tape.
As Macroy opened the suitcase and took out his shaving kit and a clean shirt, Price said, “I’ve been talking to Burns and the others. The inquest is set for Friday morning. I don’t think we’ll have any trouble at all, sir. I’ll be with you. You’ll be all right, sir, so don’t worry. It’s only a formality. As a matter of fact, there is no evidence of any kind.”
“Evidence?” said Macroy vaguely. He went into the bathroom to shave, leaving the door open.
“Oh, by the way,” sang out Price, loudly enough to be heard over the buzz of the little electric machine, “they found that motorist. The one who came by?” Price was practising lay psychology. He’d better not pour it on too thick or too soon—not all that he had found out. Chat a little. Engage the mind. Distract the sorrow. Un-numb the man, if he could.
“Captain Burns was pretty clever,” he continued. “As soon as that call came in last night, he guessed from where. So right away he calls a man—Robbins is his name—the man who runs the first all-night gas station you hit once you’re off the cliffs. He asked this Robbins to take a look and see if anyone had just been using the phone booth, and if possible to get the license number on his car. But the gas-station man did even better, because the fellow had used his credit card.”
Price got up and ambled toward the bathroom, not sure he was being heard. Macroy seemed to be avoiding the sight of himself in the mirror while he shaved.
“Name was Mitchell Simmons.”
“I beg your pardon?”
Night Call and Other Stories of Suspense Page 25