Time Out of Mind

by John R. Maxim

  “Is he dead?” Ella asked.

  ”I don't think so,” Burke told her. “Not yet, anyway.”

  “Well, what are we supposed to do with him?” Ballanchine asked with distaste.

  Tom Burke rubbed his hands. ”I figure we load him in his trunk. We leave him there until he's stiff. Then tonight we drive him down to Rye or some other hick Westchester town and we dump him one place and the car in another. Maybe we pour some vodka into him so the cops figure he got drunk and took a fall before he could remember where he parked.” Burke waited for Ella Beckwith’s approval, but she did not seem to be listening. Ballanchine had turned pale, appalled at the prospect of touching Lesko's body at least two more times and keeping him refrigerated in between. “Unless,” Tom Burke spoke the alternative, “you want to just give him another good rap on the head for insurance and then call the local cops. You tell him he came in here and threatened you; you can say he claimed he had something on your brother, maybe, then you show them how he shot up the place, and we say it's me or Mr. Ballanchine here who whacked him first chance we got.”

  “No.” Ella blinked. “No police.”

  “You're better off,’7 Burke agreed, it pleased him that she saw him and not Ballanchine to be in control of the situation. “You probably have some paint and plaster down in the basement. Me and Mr. Ballanchine can clean up this place before any of the help sees it.”

  “Paint and plaster?” Ella's head jerked.

  “There's usually some left over. The same color. I've done this before.”

  “Paint and plaster,” she repeated aloud. The absurdity of discussing cosmetic repairs while this possibly dying detective lay at their feet hastened her recovery from whatever had seized her thoughts. “Does either of you recall that my brother has left this house in a drunken state, carrying a rifle?”

  ”I was going to go look for him,” Tom Burke said lamely. In fact, like nearly everyone else, Burke had become accustomed to ignoring Tillie Beckwith.

  Ella's expression turned wistful as she looked down once more at the blood-caked head of Raymond Lesko, a part of her wishing that an accommodation might have been possible. You were so right, sir, she thought. The man is an ass.

  “Lawrence”—she closed her eyes—“tell Mr. Burke where my brother can be found.”

  “At Corbin's house,” Ballanchine replied.

  “Tell him why he went there, please.”

  “With the gun? He went to try to shoot a ghost.”

  “That being established, would you both kindly go and retrieve him? Do so at once, please.”

  Burke reached for his trench coat, which was on the floor where Lesko had dropped it.

  “Use this man's car,” she said, pointing to Lesko. “Be good enough to take him with you.”

  Burke caught Ballanchine's eye and indicated with a gesture that Lesko's feet would be his portion of the load. Ballanchine looked ill, but he hobbled forward.

  “Mr. Burke”—Ella raised a hand after they'd lifted Lesko—”I want this ended. If you fail to intercept my brother before he speaks to any of those people, I want it ended tonight. Do nothing, however, without Mr. Ballanchine' s expressed approval.''

  “Yes, ma'am.”

  “Lawrence?”

  “Yes, Ella.”

  “My brother has been a great source of worry and embarrassment all my life.”

  ”I know.”

  “End that as well, Lawrence.”

  Overlooking the Hudson River, twenty minutes from Greenwich “if the roads are decent,” there is a spectacular stretch of rolling hills which so reminded the early Dutch traders of the upper Rhine Valley that they began building great manor houses there as they prospered in the fur trade. Stone castles, many with keeps and turrets, rose on commanding sweeps of land that resembled Old World baronies. Jay Gould, it was said, chose this place to build what he hoped would become an ancestral home because Newport had been closed to him. But it was also argued that the choice was Gould's. The lonely grandeur of the place was much more suited to a solitary man who'd shown not the slightest interest in the lavish ritual entertainments and the stultifying dinner conversations that were a way of life in the colonies of the very rich. Lyndhurst—the patrician name he gave to the brooding Gothic castle he commissioned—had other advantages. It was private. Once the pine forest closed around Gould upon entering his estate, he could as well have been in Europe, yet he was always only an hour from New York by steam launch. Should the sudden need to cross a state line arise, he was an even shorter time away from the friendly protection of the New Jersey authorities.

  Corbin remembered how he'd known of Lyndhurst. Photographs of it as it looked when it was built and as it looked today, which were virtually the same, appeared in several of the picture books Gwen had found in Barnes & Noble's. Was that only yesterday? And did it explain how, as he drew nearer the Hudson River, he began to see the plan of Gould's landscape in his mind, and the interiors of certain rooms, and to hear the sounds of one of those ghostly brawls, the one with so much smashing of glass.

  Corbin began to curse himself for doing this. The roads were not decent. Fifteen minutes had passed and he hadn't even reached White Plains. It was stupid. Worse, it was dangerous. He was beginning to see things. If he allowed his attention to wander, if he did not concentrate fully on who and where he was and on keeping the Datsun under tight control, he would begin to imagine that he saw the rhythmic jouncing of a horse's head and rump just beyond his hood. Twice he blinked that image away and twice it returned. When it appeared the second time he also felt that the steering wheel he held was softening into a pair of leather reins.

  “This is all I need.” He raised his voice. “All I need is to have to hit my brakes because I see a truck up ahead and all I get is you pulling on some goddamned straps that aren't there.”

  The bobbing horse faded. Corbin heard the word sorry. He grimaced on realizing that his own lips had formed it.

  A few minutes later, Corbin wasn't all that sure he was better off without the horse. At least it wasn't snowing so hard when the horse was there. It was hardly snowing at all. And the grass along the side of the road was green and tall, not matted and dead under a foot of wet snow, and there were apple trees hanging heavy with fruit. But the gentler season brought no gentler thoughts. There was only worry, and anger, and the determination to look into the eye of the man who was at its source, to finish with him, and then get back to Margaret and be able to tell her she was safe, that she had nothing more to fear, to be there waiting for her when she came home from the meeting she'd so dreaded attending and to take her in his arms ...

  “Cut that out,” Corbin snapped.

  Sorry. Yes. ·

  ”I also have to keep this car on the road. I can only do one thing at a time.”

  Yes.

  Corbin saw the sign for Tarrytown. Off here, go left on Route 9 to Irvington.

  “What meeting, by the way?”

  No answer came. Only a jumble of impressions and images. There was the Temperance Union. And Comstock with his dumb camera. That must have been it. Comstock's taking pictures of whole groups now. And there was Laura Hemmings saying something about smiling sweetly and looking righteous. And Tilden wondering what Margaret and her friend, whom he knew perfectly well was not always named Laura but he would go along with the game if that is what she wished, seemed to be whispering about all the time. And wishing Laura would leave so that he could sit Margaret down and tell her what a blockhead he'd been for not asking her with the greatest of pride to be his wife and to show her the papers he'd already drawn up, not just the letter acknowledging Jonathan as his son, and the free and clear deed to the Greenwich house, but see, an affidavit affirming that Jonathan is in fact my only son, and the names of witnesses who have sworn to hearing Ansel Carling boast that it was he who fathered Ella's child, and here, a statement of your account at the bank in Greenwich—you'll see that a handsome sum has been deposited so that you need neve
r feel bound to me. Do not answer now, dear Margaret, but later. Go to your meeting with your head held high while I do one errand that is required of me. We will talk later. We'll open one of your forbidden bottles and plan the day. Who should be my best man? Teddy, do you think, or should I ask John Flood? John Flood in stripes and swallowtail—wouldn't that be a sight? Or the wedding can be small if you prefer, small and private, though for myself I'd want the whole world watching. Oh, Margaret, Margaret, please be there.

  “Tilden?” Corbin saw the gates of Lyndhurst ahead of him. “Tilden, why are we doing this?” He felt a growing agony, which he knew was not his own.

  Gould.

  “He's not here. The man's dead. If you're worried about Margaret, why don't we just turn around and go back?” Corbin was aware of the logical inconsistency within that question, but it seemed to fit the situation.

  Your harlot mistress ... your hidden son . .. Corbin saw the words in his mind. Saw them. They were written in ink.

  “What's that? A letter?”

  ... that it might be in your interest, therefore, to accommodate me in this matter.

  “From Gould. He's trying to blackmail you? What for?” ... an interview at your earliest convenience ... I trust in the meantime that Mr. Comstock's activities are causing you no great distress.

  “Gould.” Corbin knew. He felt Tilden's growing rage. “Gould sent Comstock.” But even as he said those words, Corbin doubted them. He couldn't imagine why Jay Gould would bother. Or what he'd want from Tilden. Unless it was that old business about Cyrus Field. “Listen, why do you let him get to you like this? You decided to marry Margaret no matter what, so marry her.”

  Gwen is a slut. A whore.

  The words shocked Corbin. He could not believe they were coming from Tilden.

  To hurt Jonathan, hurt Gwen. He married a whore. His children will be whoresons.

  “Tilden”—the anger was now Corbin's own—“what are you trying to do?”

  Do as I wish. Now. Always. Or I will point and say slut, whore.

  ”I guess I get your point.” Corbin chewed his lip. “But fuck off, Tilden.”

  “Tilden?”

  Corbin turned into the long driveway. There was an immense greenhouse on his right. Ahead of him he could make out the gray silhouette of Lyndhurst. He peered through his windshield in search of a parking area. He saw no signs. There should have been signs.

  He heard a crunching sound under his wheels that sounded like gravel. Gravel. He shouldn't hear gravel. And now the horse was trying to form again and the snow on the ground was turning into a greenish smoke and the trees were thickening.

  “No you don't.” Corbin wiped the horse away. “I'm heading back right now.”

  He felt a brief moment of panic when he could not find the gearshift. But it was there. His hand found it. He'd just lost it for a moment in the dim light inside his car.

  “And I'll tell you something else.” Corbin groped for his clutch pedal with his foot. Where the hell was his clutch pedal? “If you think I'm going to walk through the whole rest of your life with you step by step, you're nuts. This is as far as I go.”

  Corbin looked up.

  And when he did, he had only a quickly fading memory of the words he'd just spoken. A puzzled memory. He had no idea now what they meant, nor what it was that he was searching for on the floorboards of his carriage. He dismissed it from his mind. His attention was fixed upon the massive oak door in front of him and the consumptive little weasel who would be waiting behind it.

  Tilden had withdrawn a card from his case and out of habit began to bend up its right end to indicate that he was there in person and wished to be received. He crumpled it in his fist and gave a violent pull of the door chime. This was not a day for social niceties. He would push past the butler if he must, but he would damn well be received.

  There was no butler. The door opened upon a large, hard-eyed man who wore a jacket that could not close across his chest. Tilden hesitated, measuring him, then took a step forward. The man only smiled and beckoned him inside.

  “Good afternoon to you, Mr. Beckwith.” He attempted an unpracticed bow. “Himself will be down in just a minute when he gets some clothes on. He seen you comin' up the road.”

  “We've met before.” Tilden paused at the threshold. “The last time, you were holding a Winchester across your chest.”

  “You got a good eye, sir.” The man's smile seemed good-natured. “And you was holdin' old Mr. Hacker out a top-floor window down to the Western Union Building. There was them who was sorta hopin' you'd get the dropsy, Mr. Gould among 'em the way it turned out.”

  The big man moved to close the door, but Tilden put a hand on it. No butler. No downstairs maid polishing and dusting. No kitchen smells. He began to wish he'd thought to bring John Flood to stand at his back. “Why don't I see any household staff?” Tilden asked. His left hand curled into a fist.

  The big man, his name was Charley Murtree, understood. “The boss,`^ he told us you might get spooked. He said I should tell you right off we ain't startin' nothin' if you don't. You got my word on that, but to tell you true, I'd sorta like to try you. I mean that friendly, now.”

  Tilden forced a smile. “I'd pay to see that myself.” There were two Winchesters that day, he recalled, and this one had just said the boss told us. He braced himself to throw a short left hook. If he was in trouble, the time to cut the odds was now. But the bigger man, his smile faded and his gray eyes flat, held up a hand.

  .“I said you got my word, Hoss.”

  Murtree stomped a heel twice against the floor and another man, the second Winchester, stepped from a room off the entrance halL “I'm Murtree, this fella's name is Calicoon.” The good humor crept back. “Me, I'm Mr. Gould's bodyguard and old Calicoon here, he's mine. That quick left hand of yours would have got you a knot on the head and there wouldn't have been no call for it.”

  Tilden nodded to the one called Calicoon, who winked back at him. But Tilden stayed within the arc of the open door.

  “Mr. Gould asked me to tell you some things”—Murtree began rolling a smoke—''to sort of pack them out of the way before you and him talk. Now this first thing, I'm to tell you I don't know what it means but you will. He says that what Ansel Carling set out to do for Mr. Gould was one thing, how he went about it was something else. I think that means whatever else Carling did along the way, Mr. Gould didn't know until Carling bragged on it and Mr. Gould didn't like it one bit because it wudn't his style.”

  Tilden drew a contemptuous breath.

  “Ask me,” Murtree said, “he's tellin' it true. Anyway, you won't see Ansel Carling no more. Some Texas Comanch' hung him upside down from a fence and cooked his brains. Old Mr. Hacker, he got off with just drawin' his pay.”

  Tilden blinked. “Cooked his brains?”

  “Fella like that”—Murtree shrugged—“it's only a question of time till he gets shot, cut, or hung. He's a slip-pin’ and slidin' sort of fella. Must of had a real careless upbringin'. I don't know why Mr. Gould didn't fire him outright instead of packin' him off down to the Texas Pacific line. I figure Carling had a hold-out ace or two, but that Mr. Gould, he's real smart about givin' people enough rope to do themselves. One day he's out ridin' track, shootin' antelope to pass the time, and he comes on this water tower with two Comanch' boys playin' in it. He shot 'em both. Next day the Comanch' send word there ain't no trains movin' till they get the man what done it and any man or Chinee who goes out from camp is goin' to lose his hair. The track boss, he's Calicoon here's daddy, he gives Carling a gun with one load in it and throws him off a track layer. Damn fool should have used that load. Feller died hard.”

  Tilden felt sickened in spite of himself. He also found himself wondering how Jay Gould could have orchestrated a minor Indian uprising or whether the Comanche episode was a chance occurrence that saved him the trouble of executing some other plan. He had the feeling that Calicoon’ s “daddy” would have terminated the Gould-
Carling relationship one way or the other.

  “Mr. Murtree''—Tilden cleared his throat—“do you by chance know why I've been called here?”

  Murtree shook his head and spit a shred of tobacco through the open door. “He's got somethin' in his craw, for sure. I don't think it's against you, though. I got so I could tell when he respects a man and when he don't. Likely he means to tell you soon enough.”

  “And when will that be, sir?”

  Murtree gestured toward a bell cord. “Soon as I pull that there rope which tells him you gave your word you and him can have a talk without me and Calicoon havin' to tag along. Mr. Gould ain't no coward but he ain't no fool. He knows about that left hand.”

  “You think I'd strike that sick little man?”