“Fine, Mr. Duluth. Then let’s get started right away.”
We got into the police car and drove to Center Street. For a while Barnes said nothing at all. He leaned back against the upholstery, perfectly, it seemed, relaxed. I could feel the strength in him, almost as if it were a tangible object he was carrying like a brief-case. I wondered enviously how it would be if I were like that. But envy isn’t insight. He still remained for me completely enigmatic. I hadn’t a clue as to what he was thinking or feeling; there seemed nothing about him that touched life and its frailties.
Quite suddenly he turned to me, forcing my eyes to meet his and holding them with that same quiet, completely unhostile watchfulness.
“You still think your son is innocent, Mr. Duluth?”
Why couldn’t he leave it alone? Why had he to be hammering all the time? I withdrew from the bait of sympathy in his tone.
“Yes,” I said. “I do.”
“Perhaps”—he paused—“perhaps you could make your reasons a little plainer than you did last night?”
What could I say? That, in spite of Jean, in spite of Angie, in spite of the world, I knew Bill hadn’t killed Ronnie— because …? It was as if even Fate were against me, constantly battering me at my weakest spot. Why do you believe in Bill, when last night you turned him in, when for weeks you have written him off as a self-obsessed, impulsive, ruthless misfit? Why … why … why? I had no protection but anger and I embraced it. I said: “He told me he didn’t do it and I believe him. Can’t you leave it at that?”
As always, it was impossible to irritate Barnes. His gaze still on my face was curious, frank, eager only to understand.
“I’d rather not leave it at that, Mr. Duluth, because, after all, you’re the person who knows him best. I’m sure you haven’t been able to establish his alibi at the cinema. If you had, you’d have told me. Are you so sure—because you don’t really feel he had a motive?”
What sort of a policeman was this? I wondered dimly. He was dedicated to the destruction of Bill and yet all the time he seemed to be trying to help me save him. Suddenly, because he had given me the lead, my jumbled emotional conviction took on a certain coherence. I said, clutching at his straws:
“Yes. What sort of a motive is it? Jean loved him. She was ready to throw up everything and go with him. Bill was the one who had won. Why should he have killed Ronnie?”
“So you admit that. You admit that Mrs. Sheldon was in love with him?”
“Why not?”
“You wouldn’t admit it last night.”
Hadn’t I admitted it last night? Last night was a blur.
I said: “I admit it now.”
“So Mrs. Sheldon was going to leave her husband for your son?”
Had I done any damage? I couldn’t see that I had. When he interviewed Jean, Barnes would recognize her love for Bill as quickly as the color of her dress.
“Yes,” I said.
“Because she loved him?”
“Yes.”
“But your son took the gun there.”
“He explained that. He didn’t mean to use it.”
“So you don’t think he has a motive?”
“No.”
“No cold-blooded, material motive—the motive that is usually behind minder?”
“No.”
Lieutenant Barnes looked at me for a second longer, the curiosity and thoughtfulness still in his eyes. Then he looked away.
“I see,” he said.
For those few moments, I had almost been carried away. It had seemed to me that he was indeed my friend. But now it began to dawn on me that the supposed kindness had only been another duel—and a duel in which he, of course, had conquered. He had given me every chance in the world to state my case. He had even offered me my theme. And all I had been able to do was to babble ineffectually: He didn’t do it. He wouldn’t have done it. Not my son.
Depression flooded over me like a black wave. We arrived at Center Street. Barnes took me through rooms full of bright, impersonal activity which only emphasized the strength of the enemy. We were led, finally, to a small, dreary room with a desk and three chairs. We both sat down and, fairly soon, Bill was brought in by a policeman who took up his stand in front of the closed door.
The first glimpse of my son, coming through the door, dwarfed by the policeman, was almost too much for me. The night before, when horror had been more imminent, there had been a sort of anesthesia. But now I was defenseless against my pity—and it was terrible. He was wearing the clothes into which he had clambered the night before. Although the button was still off the jacket, he was neat. His hair was carefully brushed, too. He looked like a little boy at camp who had been spruced up for a parental visit. But his face, the square, blunt face, bringing back so hauntingly my own youth, was dead. It seemed to have lost even the faculty for being wounded. He had been like that three years ago, pale, tight-lipped, dead, when I had come back from California and he had been there in the apartment with the policeman—by the window from which his mother had jumped.
Any fear I might have had of losing my faith in him was swallowed up in a rush of protective love.
In the first seconds, he didn’t realize I was there. I was sure of it. He looked at Barnes, not to see him but because he happened to be in the direct path of his gaze. Then, very slowly, his eyes moved to me and it seemed to me that there was in them a flicker of resigned understanding as if he were saying: So even you’re on their side now.
I wanted to say something to let him know that Lieutenant Barnes and I were worlds apart, but my throat was like dust, and I thought: It’s better to say nothing than to break down. If I broke down … he’d have no prop.
Barnes was watching him without any evident expression. He just sat there for what seemed like an eternity of silence. Then he said:
“There are a few things I would like to clear up, Bill.” I hated him for that “Bill.” What right had he to assume the trappings of friendliness and intimacy? “I’ve just been at Mr. Freedland’s office—talking to him.”
Arthur Freedland. I sat there, trying to take an intelligent interest. Arthur had come back into the picture. Why? For the will, of course—Ronnie’s intention of changing the will.
Bill didn’t say anything. Barnes went on. “Last night, around six-fifteen, Mr. Sheldon called Mr. Freedland. Mr. Freedland wasn’t home. Mr. Sheldon left word for him to come to 58th Street as soon as he got back. He said he wanted to change his will.” Barnes paused. “Of course, the change of will never took place because before Mr. Freedland returned to New York, Mr. Sheldon had been killed.”
The policeman by the door shifted his feet. He was bored. Barnes went on:
“When I heard about that, it occurred to me that the beneficiaries of the will which was going to be changed could well be suspects. I asked Mr. Freedland to let me see the will. It hadn’t been probated but he was ready to show it to me. I won’t bother you with all the details. It is quite complicated. But, in its main features, it is not complicated. Miss Sheldon, who has ample means of her own anyway, is left an annuity. Your father is left full rights to Sheldon and Duluth with a considerable working capital. But that still leaves the bulk of the estate uncommitted.”
There was an irony there which Barnes would be the first to appreciate. Champion of Ronnie as I had been, it must seem to Barnes that I was still a solvent publisher thanks only to Ronnie’s murderer. But that was a problem in ethics to be considered later, not now.
Barnes was looking down at his hands lying in front of him on the desk. Although I knew him so little, it was as if I knew him perfectly. In that sudden withdrawal of interest from Bill I detected both the intention to trap and the moment before the trap was sprung.
Without looking up, he went on: “Mr. Freedland explained to me that Mr. Sheldon had very strong views against the breaking up of large individual estates. He wanted his to remain as intact as possible. He had no direct heirs. And so he decided to leave
virtually all of his fortune to his only godson —to you.”
I should, of course, have anticipated that. I might have realized Barnes would never have brought up the will at all unless this was to be the outcome. But even so, it came to me like the final knock-out blow after a punishing succession of rounds. I had never thought about Ronnie’s will. Certainly I had never dreamed that he would leave everything to Bill, although it was reasonable enough, seeing that Ronnie had always been dogged in his affection for my son, stubbornly able to ignore his churlishness. But my surprise was swamped by my sense of despair. It was as if Ronnie, reaching back from the grave, by this typical act of generosity had engineered the final destruction of Bill. And I saw then the purpose behind Lieutenant Barnes’s little weasel talk in the car. It had been a trap. He had said: You think there should be a more cold-blooded, material motive. And I had said: Yes. Now he had planted squarely on my son’s shoulders the most coldblooded and material motive of them all. He had lured me into giving up what little I had. The cleverness—and the charm!
Barnes brought out a cigarette case and lit a cigarette. It was the first time I had seen him smoke. The gesture seemed almost ritualistic—as if it symbolized his moment of total triumph.
“Now, Bill, what I want you to tell me is this. You knew, didn’t you?, that Mr. Sheldon was leaving you all his money.”
That was hitting below the belt. I cried: “For God’s sake, of course he didn’t know. Even I didn’t know.”
Barnes ignored me. He was looking at Bill. “Mr. Freedland told me that, after Mr. Sheldon drew up this will, about two and a half years ago, he asked you to come to Mr. Freedland’s office with the deliberate purpose of letting you know that you were his heir. Is that true?”
I looked at Bill, clinging desperately to the shreds of hope. He had been listening, but one would hardly have realized it from the dead, blank face. He lifted his eyes from the ground and licked his lips.
He said: “I didn’t want any of his money.”
“But you knew ? ”
Barnes’s voice was like a dart. I said:
“Bill …”
He paid no attention. He was watching Barnes as if he were hypnotized. “I told him I didn’t want it. I told him he was crazy. I told him I’d never touch a cent of his stinking money. That’s what I told him.”
“But you knew.”
“Of course I knew.”
I said: “Bill, why didn’t you tell me?”
He looked at me, dully, without the slightest contact. “Why should I tell you? It was just a thing that happened. He told me he was leaving me his money and I said I didn’t want it. I didn’t think he’d go through with it.”
“But he did,” said Lieutenant Barnes.
He was still smoking the cigarette. Suddenly he got up. The interview was over. He had made his point so devastatingly that there was no purpose in continuing the examination.
He started towards the door and the policeman came alive. Before he reached the door, however, Barnes turned back to Bill.
“Perhaps you’d like a moment alone with your father.” He said that almost clumsily, as if a sudden impulse of sympathy had got the better of him. And the hypocrisy of it infuriated me. So even now he had to make the magnanimous gesture! Why? To emphasize once and for all my utter insignificance as a menace. Let him to talk to his poor old father; it’ll cheer them both up and what harm can it do?
I looked at Bill and it seemed to me that I was looking down a long sterile corridor at the conflict-ridden, hopelessly mismanaged years of our life together since Felicia’s death. I felt an overwhelming shyness, but, at the same time, a great hope that Bill wouldn’t this time reject me, that he would accept Barnes’s offer, that he would show at least he would rather have me than nothing.
My son stood a moment, carefully keeping his eyes from me, looking down at his feet. Weren’t old convicts always supposed to look down at their feet? Had it come to him already then— the prison habit? That was the final undermining. I longed to shout: Yes, Bill, yes. But I kept myself in control because that he should choose this of his own free will seemed somehow the most important thing that could happen for me.
Very slowly he turned to Barnes. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks.”
Now that it had come, I didn’t feel that I had gained anything. There was only the crippling shyness, the feeling of inadequacy.
Barnes sent the policeman out of the room and then turned to me. As if I was as plain to him as a children’s book, he said: “You don’t have to be suspicious of me, Mr. Duluth. This isn’t a trap. There are no dictaphones, no ears.”
He left then. Bill and I were alone. I felt as if I wanted to throw up.
I said: “I’ve nothing to do with Barnes, Bill. I only came because he invited me. It was a chance to see you.”
He didn’t say anything.
I said: “I know you’re innocent. I haven’t changed. I don’t give a damn what he brings up about wills and things. I know you didn’t do it.”
He did look at me then. “Pop,” he said.
“I’m not going to give up. I’m not going to stop until I’ve proved you innocent.”
He gave a little shrug. His face was as weary and worn as an old man’s—an old convict’s. “What’s the use, Pop? They’ve got it all fixed.”
“No,” I said. “It’s not going to be that way.”
His tongue came out again, moistening his lips. “That lawyer. He was here. He was asking me all kinds of questions about me—about Mother … about. …” He came to me and put his hand on my arm. “Pop, what’s he ask all those questions for? What does he think? Does he think I’m guilty, too?”
I had to say: “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him yet.”
“All those questions. Almost as if I was crazy or something. All those questions …”
His hand was still on my arm. It was a gesture of acceptance. It brought me a feeling of warmth and gratitude—and almost a feeling of hope.
“Bill, isn’t there anything you know?”
“Know?”
“Can’t you even remember the picture house?”
“It was some Western. I don’t know.”
“On Third Avenue?”
“Yes, I guess. Around there.”
“But, Bill, you’ve got to remember. You …”
He cut in: “They don’t believe me. If they don’t believe me—what’s the use? What …?” His voice faded off. His eyes, puzzled now, frightened and imploring, were on my face. “You’re the only one that believes me.”
“I believe you.”
“I never thought it. I never dreamed it would be you.”
“It’s because I’ve been a lousy father.”
“No, Pop. No. You tried. It was me. I couldn’t understand. I …” He broke off again. “You’ve seen Jean?”
“Yes.”
“She—she told you?”
“Told me—what?”
I waited at extreme tension. Was he then going to admit that he had gone back? He gave me a long, gaunt look. Finally he said:
“Told you the way she feels. She doesn’t think I’m guilty, does she?”
He was suddenly hopeful, as if at least this was one thing on which he could depend. What could I say? I said: “She loves you. Whatever happens, nothing’s going to change that.”
“She shouldn’t.” He spoke with bitter vehemence. “Why the hell should she? What did I ever do…?”
He broke off. Once again Angie Sheldon seemed to be at my side. Why are you always blaming yourself, Jake? And, with a stab of love that was almost pain, I saw what I had never really seen before, that my son was just like me; for all his bluster and seeming aggressiveness, he was just as insecure, just as vulnerable. And, in that moment, it was as if the net were around me and not around Bill, and I knew more clearly than I had ever known before that I must save him or die.
The new clarity of purpose brought with it a new clarity of strategy. I thought of
Jean’s key whose whereabouts only Bill knew and which I might still be able to dispose of before Barnes discovered it and its potentiality to damn. Barnes’s words came back to me. This isn’t a trap. And, somehow, I believed him. There weren’t any dictaphones. I was sure of that. Deadly antagonist though he was, that wasn’t Barnes’s sort of behavior. Quietly I said:
“Jean told me about her key. If Barnes finds out about it … You understand. Tell me. Where is it? I’ll get rid of it.”
He looked at me blankly. “The key?”
“You can trust me now. Surely you can trust me. Is it somewhere where Barnes can find it?”
He stood for a long moment without saying anything. Then he said: “I don’t know what key you mean.”
“It was in her handbag, the handbag she left at Fire Island, the one you took back to her.”
He shook his head. “I don’t know anything about a key.”
“It was in the handbag.”
“I took her handbag back to her.”
“And you didn’t take the key out?”
“I didn’t know a key was there.”
“Bill, you swear you don’t know anything about the key?”
“Yes, Pop. I swear. I wouldn’t lie to you—not anymore.” His mouth was suddenly out of control. He took a quick awkward step towards me and threw himself against me. He said: “Pop, don’t let them kill me.”
I forgot about the key then. I forgot everything except the fact that he was clinging to me and his head was against my shoulder.
“It’ll be all right,” I said.
“Pop, if I could have understood, I shouldn’t have been that way. I shouldn’t have hated you. I didn’t want to hate you. It was just that with Mother and …”
I put my arm round him. I felt a constriction in my throat, but I seemed completely outside the prison of my body. Miraculously, the barriers had been swept away. For the first time in years it seemed as if there was something to live for, and, with the happiness, came an almost superhuman feeling of power. I could save him. I could do anything—because he was mine.
I said: “It’s okay, Bill. It’s…”
Barnes came in then. He stood in the doorway. “I’m afraid it’s time for you to go, Mr. Duluth.”
My Son, the Murderer Page 15