by Amanda Cross
“Wait a minute, Reed, you’re confusing me. I’ll admit that Messenger, while helpful, isn’t exactly clarifying. But we now know who the young man in the picture is. Why didn’t we recognize him by the way?”
“I didn’t recognize him because I’ve never seen him. And you did, partly. You said the picture reminded you of someone, remember? A man changes a lot in those years between not-yet-thirty and over forty. Remember, Messenger hadn’t seen Barrister since, at least we don’t think he had. He saw the young man he had shared a room with. If I showed you a picture of a girl you’d known in high school you’d probably say: Oh, yes, that’s Sally Jones. She always wore tight sweaters, and lisped. But if I showed you a picture of Sally Jones today, you might very well tell me you didn’t know who she was.”
“All right, go on playing the devil’s advocate. The fact still remains that Dr. Michael Barrister had the office across the hall, was the one to pronounce the girl dead—at least to Nicola—and all the time his picture was in the purse of the murdered girl.”
“And was left there by the murderer.”
“Who overlooked it; it was folded inside her license.”
“Or who left it there purposely, to lead us to think exactly what you’re thinking.”
“Damn. Damn, damn, damn.”
“I couldn’t agree more. But something occurs to me. Sparks said the face looked familiar, if you reported correctly. Could Sparks have known who the picture was of, and left it there? He sounds a man who goes in for rather involved circumspection.”
“Perhaps we should show Messenger a picture of Sparks. It might turn out they had played baseball together in the dear, dead days of boyhood. I didn’t think to ask where Sparks had come from. Anyway, they might have gone to the same Boy Scout camp when Sparks was visiting a maiden aunt in Messenger’s hometown.”
“I don’t see why Messenger should recognize everyone in the case, but I agree it might not be a bad idea to show him photographs of all of them, supposing we can get them.”
“At least we are moving away from Emanuel, Reed. Although,” she added, remembering Reed’s first news that night, “we seem to be moving either toward me or toward complete chaos. Still, we are moving. What shall we do next? Of course, we’ve forgotten Horan; perhaps he killed her as part of some advertising campaign. And the connection between Barrister and Messenger is coincidence. After all, life is full of coincidence, as Hardy knew, though none of us like to admit it. Oh, dear, I am beginning to go round and round. Reed, one question, before I succumb to dizziness and sleep: Where was Barrister the morning of the murder? Did the police ever establish that exactly?”
“He was in his office, which was full of patients, some in the waiting room, some in examining rooms. His nurse, of course, was there too. I suppose now the whole thing will have to be gone into more carefully, though the police didn’t seem to consider that he had an alibi, that he was, that is, absolutely and unarguably elsewhere. I’m beginning to get a little dizzy myself.”
“Well, in the morning I’ll hear from Jerry about Horan. And the nurse. Perhaps Jerry …”
“Oh, yes, we must discuss Jerry. Kate, I want you to promise me …”
“It’s no good, Reed, I wouldn’t remember what I’d promised. And tomorrow is Daniel Deronda. Not to mention my other courses. I hope that letter isn’t going to get into the newspapers.”
“I think I can promise you that.”
“Who do you suppose sent it?” But Reed was already at the door. She waved to him sleepily, ignored the remains of their coffee, and dropped her clothes in a heap on the floor. She was certain she would never get to sleep, with Messenger, Barrister, Emanuel, Sparks, Horan whirling in her mind in that kaleidoscopic way, and was still certain of it when Jerry (for she had forgotten to set the alarm) woke her in the morning.
Thirteen
“IT’S a good thing you gave me a key,” Jerry said. “I might have gone on ringing, decided you were murdered, lost my head and called in the police. Are you merely hung over?”
“I am not hung over, at least not from drink. Get out of here so I can get up. Make some coffee. Do you know how?”
Jerry chortled happily at this question, and left the room. Too late, Kate remembered that he had been a cook in the Army, and that his coffee … “Never mind,” she called, “I’ll make it,” But Jerry, who was already running water, did not hear her.
It turned out that Jerry, who gloried in complete ignorance of drip, percolator, and filter, had simply dumped some coffee into a saucepan of boiling water; the results were surprisingly good, if one poured with care. Kate, somewhat renovated by her shower and three cups of the brew, cleaned up the shambles of the night before and tried to make up her mind what to do next. Jerry’s report of his previous day’s activities (considerably edited, and containing no reference to his pursuit of Emanuel) did not seem to make the future course of action any clearer. He ought certainly not to have gone to see Barrister’s nurse with that idiotic story; but Kate could not get as exercised over this as she probably should have. It was rapidly being borne in on her that this morning represented a new start. Reed undoubtedly would have insisted that the first step should be to thank Jerry properly and dismiss him. But Kate instinctively knew that when the nebulous plans which were forming in her brain took shape, Jerry would have to be a part of them. There was no one else.
It was eight days since the murder, and already the whole outrageous series of events seemed to be the natural components of Kate’s days. She sat down again across the table from Jerry, and thought that here she was, having morning coffee and evolving plots with a young man with whom, in the normal course of events, she would have had nothing whatever to do. Those people who were, two weeks ago, in the forefront of her life had moved somewhere into the background, out of focus. The various issues, literary and otherwise, which had been at the center of her consciousness, now floated vaguely at its periphery. What she sought, of course, was the return to the more orderly world of a fortnight past. Carlyle (to whom she had not given any attention since a week ago yesterday) was supposed to have said, upon hearing that a young lady had decided to accept the universe, “Egad! She’d better!” All Kate asked, she told herself, was to accept, to restore that universe. It had been shattered, but she could not rid herself of the conviction that, with sustained effort and a prayer, it could be put back together again.
“Any new ideas?” Jerry asked.
“I am not lacking ideas,” Kate said, “only the ability to make them meaningful. I am beginning to think that Alice was not in Wonderland at all; she was trying to solve a murder. Beautiful suspects keep disappearing, leaving only their grins behind them; others turn into pigs. We are handed a large ungainly bird and asked to play croquet. And running very fast, we are not staying in the same place: we are positively moving backward. A few days ago we had a number of lovely suspects; now all we have is the heir to the murdered girl, and he doesn’t have any connection with the case at all. Well, I’d better tell you about him.” She recounted the story of Janet Harrison’s will, and told him about Messenger’s recognition of the picture. (About the letter accusing herself, she said nothing.) Jerry, of course, was elated to hear that the picture was of Barrister, and Kate had wearily to guide him, as she had been the night before, to the realization that, exciting as the news was, it could not be made to lead anywhere.
“The answer must be Messenger. He’s probably a very sinister type, with a good front. After all,” Jerry continued, “we don’t know he wasn’t involved with Janet Harrison. We have only his word for it.”
“But he denied having heard of her even before he knew she was murdered.”
“After he murdered her, you mean.”
“Then why identify the picture, and entangle himself further?”
“He didn’t entangle himself; he entangled Barrister. Obviously, he never expected to be connected with the whole business at all. He didn’t know she’d made a will.”
“If he didn’t know she’d made a will, why murder her? The motive is supposed to be her money.”
“Perhaps it wasn’t her money; perhaps it was, but he hoped the will would never be found.”
“Jerry, you are getting weakening of the brain. If the will wasn’t found, he wouldn’t get the money. But, whatever his motive, he wasn’t away from Chicago. And don’t start suggesting that he hired someone—I simply could not stand discussing that again.”
“I don’t think this case is helping your disposition—you’re beginning to sound petulant. What you need is a vacation.”
“What I need is a solution. Keep quiet a minute, and let me think. While it’s not a process of which I expect spectacular results, it’s the only form of activity that occurs to me at the moment. By the way, if one can make such good coffee by just throwing the ground-up beans in a pot, why are there so many different expensive kinds of coffee makers on the market?”
“Are you asking for my favorite speech on advertising and the distortion of values in America? I do it very well, and have even been known to talk my future in-laws out of the purchase of an ice-crusher, which some clever ad had actually convinced them that they wanted. Perhaps if I were to begin my speech, it would stimulate your thought processes. Ready? Years ago, the objects of a man’s desire were clearly divided into two groups: those things he wanted and needed, and those things he wanted simply because they had caught his fancy. It never occurred to this man to confuse the two, or to convince himself that he needed what he merely fancied. The Puritan …”
“Can the police possibly know that he did not leave Chicago?”
“I’ve been wondering the same thing,” Jerry said. “His colleagues say, Yes, of course Danny boy was working in his laboratory all day; we heard him talking, or rattling test tubes, or using the typewriter, but of course there are records and tapes. Did you see the movie Laura? Speaking of records, don’t they keep a record of everyone who flies to New York from Chicago?”
“I rather imagine that they do. They have a passenger list for every plane.”
“Then he could give a false name, or take the train. I think our next step is to interview Dr. Daniel Messenger. Even if he turns out to be pure as the driven snow, he may tell us something about Barrister, or life, or genes. What can we lose, except the plane fare to Chicago and several days’ time?”
“I haven’t got several days’ time.”
“I know; and I haven’t got the plane fare to Chicago. I suggest we combine my time and your money, and send me off. I promise not to pull any fancy ones this time; let me get an impression of him.”
The idea had already occurred to Kate. She would have dearly loved to talk to Daniel Messenger herself. But if one thing was unarguable, it was that she had to continue in her wonted ways—to be accused of murder is one thing; to abandon one’s obligations another. Jerry had more confidence in the value of his impressions than Kate did. This was not precisely personal: as young men went, Jerry had as much sense as could reasonably be expected. The fact was that youngsters cannot judge: she had seen too many half-baked professors popular with students, too many brilliant scholars, a bit on the dull side, scorned. For the student in college there might be a certain rightness in this judgment; but, in this particular instance, Kate was not willing to risk all on the opinion of a twenty-one-year-old who made up in brashness what he lacked in wisdom. Suppose Jerry returned with a definite impression, one way or the other? Would it be worth anything?
Perhaps not. But where was the alternative? Kate vividly remembered arguing once with Emanuel about psychoanalysis as a cure. She had pointed to the length of time it took, its great cost, the lack of control anyone—patient or analyst—had over the process of free association, etcetera, and Emanuel had denied none of it. “It’s a very clumsy tool,” he had said. “But it’s the best we have.” Jerry might not be flattered by the analogy, but Kate made it to herself, all the same. A clumsy tool Jerry certainly was, but he was all she had. In any case, apart from Jerry’s time and her money, she didn’t see what they had to lose—indeed, Jerry, with his frank, youthful masculinity, might well antagonize Messenger less than she.
“The approach, I think,” Kate said, “would be to talk to him about Barrister, not about himself. If you’re obviously trying to trick him into some dangerous admission, you’ll put him off. I know I would be put off. But if you tell him frankly we are in trouble and need his help, you may learn something of value. If he is the murderer, what you learn will not necessarily be worth anything, but then neither would it be if you had a match of wits. Jerry, what I’m saying, bluntly, is that if he’s clever enough to have done this, and to have convinced the police of his innocence, you’re not going to catch him. On the other hand, if he’s as nice as everyone seems to think, he may help us in some way we can’t even guess at. Now, I’m not going to let you go out there as Hawkshaw, the great detective, nor do I expect you to pretend to take my advice and then do just what you want.” She threw him a piercing glance that made Jerry think of Emanuel and the park. Could she possibly know? In fact, Kate was merely drawing a bow at a venture: she had her suspicions. “Jerry, if you pull any shenanigans this time, that’s it. You’re back to driving a truck, and no bonus.”
“What do I tell Messenger? Who do I say I am?”
“Perhaps we ought to try the truth. Not that I claim any inherent value for it, God forbid; but it has, among our various techniques, the appeal of novelty. Do you need to go home for a suitcase?”
“Well, as a matter of fact …” Kate followed Jerry’s glance to the foyer; a suitcase stood modestly behind the table.
“Very well, I had better call to see when there is a plane to Chicago.” Kate lifted the receiver.
“Eleven-twenty-something. I’ll just make it to the airport.”
Kate hung up the phone with resignation, and went to get money for Jerry. He was almost out the door before she realized that she had only just told him about Daniel Messenger. How on earth? … She got up to ask him.
“The trouble with you,” Jerry said, “is that you don’t read the newspapers. The police have to give the reporters something, and the contents of the murdered girl’s will were just about right. I didn’t, of course,” he added with becoming modesty, “know about the picture. See you in a few days.” He disappeared, closing the door gently behind him, leaving Kate to feel, not for the first time, rather sorry for her niece.
Kate, in her turn, prepared to depart for the university. Reed would undoubtedly have a fit when he learned where Jerry had gone; but the preservation of people’s feelings was one of the goods which had vanished with the new state of affairs. Disaster brought ruthlessness in its wake—war had always done so. It was apparently inevitable. She remembered wryly with what difficulty, in the beginning, she had brought herself to use Reed at all. But each ruthless act makes the next one not only possible but inevitable. Perhaps this was how one ended in committing murder.
But what possible series of events, then, had led to this murder? Janet Harrison had had a picture of the young Michael Barrister in her purse, carefully concealed. This seemed certainly to indicate—if one ignored for the moment the possibility of the picture’s having been placed there by the murderer—that there was some connection between Barrister and Janet Harrison. Barrister, of course, had denied it. If he had murdered her, carefully concealing the connection between them (perhaps he had searched her room to determine that no evidence of the relationship existed), what was his motive?
Kate left the apartment and went down to wait for a bus. Suppose he had known Janet Harrison when he was a young man, or suppose he had simply known her, and the only picture of him, which, in her infatuation, she could acquire, had been one of him as a young man. In any case, she had got in his hair and he had killed her. Perhaps she wanted to marry him and he didn’t care for her. But surely this was a not uncommon situation; and there are methods of getting rid of importunate young wome
n without killing them, however appealing that solution might appear. Kate had known young women, her own contemporaries, who had become infatuated, had followed the man of their dreams about, spent hours staring up at his bedroom window, telephoned him at outrageous hours of the night. They had appeared desperate enough, yet they were all now married to somebody else, and presumably contented. And if Barrister was the man Janet Harrison had adored, why had she left her money to Messenger, whom she had apparently never seen, whom she certainly had not adored? Or, if it did turn out that she had adored him, why had she carried a picture of Barrister? Jerry suggested that Messenger had put it in her purse, but what would have been the point of that? No picture would have been even more confusing than the wrong picture.
Kate arrived at the university in the state of dizziness to which she was becoming fairly accustomed. She sat for a moment in her office, opening her mail in an idle way, and staring at nothing. Her glance fell, inevitably, on the chair where Janet Harrison had sat. Professor Fansler, could you recommend a good psychiatrist? Now, why in the world had the girl asked her that question? Was she, Kate, the only older person worthy of respect to whom Janet Harrison had access? It was barely possible. Yet Kate could not help reflecting that the anonymous letter accusing her of the murder had not been as wildly improbable as in her first distress she had thought. Kate stood, somehow, at the center of the enigma. It was she who had sent Janet Harrison to Emanuel; it was there Janet Harrison had been murdered. Had Janet Harrison asked her question of some other professor, for example, she would have ended up, presumably, on some other psychiatrist’s couch. Would she have been murdered there? Well, not—Kate forced herself to face this—if Emanuel or Nicola had been the murderer. Otherwise? Well, Barrister had the office across from Emanuel’s, and his picture had been recognized by Messenger. Messenger had inherited the money. The farmer takes a wife, the wife takes a child, the child takes a nurse … and the cheese stands alone. Who was the cheese?