She laughed. "That's your problem? Don't feel lonely, Abe, it happens to all kinds of people. Have some more gravy."
"Let me tell you," he said. "A little girl came in today, maybe ten years old, dressed nicely, polite, very intelligent. She wanted to report that her mother had killed her stepfather."
"A little girl?" She sounded shocked. She too believed that there were those who should be shielded from the more brutal aspects of life, but with her the shielded ones were children. "A little girl? A thing like that?"
"Wait," he said. "Let me tell you. I called the doctor and he said it was a heart attack. The stepfather— Mr. Walker — he'd had one attack already, and the second one on top of it killed him."
"But the little girl blames the mother?" Peg leaned forward. "Psychological, you think?"
"I don't know. I asked her how her mother had done the killing, and she said her mother made a loud noise at her father."
"A joke." She shook her head. "These children today, I don't know where they get their ideas. All this on the TV — "
"Maybe," he said. "I don't know. A man with a bad heart, bedridden, an invalid. A sudden shock, a loud noise, it might do it, bring on that second attack."
"What else did this little girl say?"
"That's all. Her stepfather was good, and her mother was bad, and she'd stopped off on her way home from school. She only had a minute, because she didn't want her mother to know what she was doing."
"You let her go? You didn't question her?"
Levine shrugged. "I didn't believe her," he said. "You know the imagination children have."
"But now?"
"Now, I don't know." He held up his hand, two fingers extended. "Now," he said, "there's two questions in my mind. First, is the little girl right or wrong? Did her mother actually make a loud noise that killed her stepfather or not? And if she did, then question number two: Did she do it on purpose, or was it an accident?" He waggled the two fingers and looked at his wife. "Do you see? Maybe the little girl is right, and her mother actually did cause the death, but not intentionally. If so, I don't want to make things worse for the mother by dragging it into the open. Maybe the little girl is wrong altogether, and if so it would be best to just let the whole thing slide. But maybe she's right, and it was murder, and then that child is in danger, because if I don't do anything, she'll try some other way, and the mother will find out."
Peg shook her head. "I don't like that, a little girl like that. Could she defend herself? A woman to kill her husband, a woman like that could kill her child just as easy. I don't like that at all, Abe."
"Neither do I." He reached for the coffee cup, drank. "The question is, what do I do?"
She shook her head again. "A child like that," she said. "A woman like that. And then again, maybe not." She looked at her husband. "For right now," she said, "you eat. We can think about it."
For the rest of dinner they discussed other things. After the meal, as usual, the craving for a cigarette suddenly intensified, and he was unable to concentrate on anything but his resolution. They watched television during the evening, and by bedtime he still hadn't made a decision. Getting ready for bed. Peg suddenly said, "The little girl. You've been thinking?"
"I'll sleep on it," he said. "Maybe in the morning. Peg, I am longing for a cigarette."
"Nails in your coffin," she said bluntly. He blinked, and went away silently to brush his teeth.
The lights turned out, they lay together in the double bed which now, with age, had a pronounced sag toward the middle, rolling them together. But it was a cold night out, a good night to lie close together and feel the warmth of life. Levine closed his eyes and drifted slowly toward sleep.
A sudden sound shook him awake. He blinked rapidly, staring up in the darkness at the ceiling, startled, disoriented, not knowing what it was. But then the sound came again, and he exhaled, releasing held breath. It was the baby from next door, crying.
Move over, world, and give us room, he thought, giving words to the baby's cries. Make vuayfor the new.
And they're right, he thought. We've got to take care of them, and guide them, and then make way for them. They're absolutely right.
I've got to do something for that little girl, he thought.
In the morning, Levine talked to Crawley. He sat in the client's chair, beside Crawley's desk. "About that little girl," he said.
"You, too? I got to thinking about it myself, last night."
"We ought to check it out," Levine told him.
"I know. I figure I ought to look up the death of the first father. Jason Thornbridge, wasn't it?"
"Good," said Levine. "I was thinking of going to her school, talking to the teacher. If she's the kind of child who makes up wild stories all the time, then that's that, you know what I mean?"
"Sure. You know what school she's in?"
"Lathmore Elementary, over on Third."
Crawley frowned, trying to remember. "She tell you that? I didn't hear it if she did."
"No, she didn't. But it's the only one it could be." Levine grinned sheepishly. "I'm pulling a Sherlock Holmes," he said. "She told us she'd stopped in on her way home from school. So she was walking home, and there's only three schools in the right direction —sO we'd be between them and Prospect Park —but they're close enough for her to walk." He checked them off on his fingers. "There's St. Aloysius, but she wasn't in a school uniform. There's PS 118, but with a Prospect Park West address and the clothing she was wearing and her good manners, she doesn't attend any public school. So that leaves Lathmore."
"Okay, Sherlock," said Crawley. "You go talk to the nice people at Lathmore. I'll dig into the Thornbridge thing."
"One of us," Levine told him, "ought to check this out with the Lieutenant first. Tell him what we want to do."
"Fine. Go ahead."
Levine scraped the fingers of his left hand together, embarrassment reminding him of his need for a cigarette. But this was day number four, and he was going to make it. "Jack," he said, "I think maybe you ought to be the one to talk to him."
''Why me? Why not you?"
"I think he has more respect for you."
Crawley snorted. "What the hell are you talking about?"
"No, I mean it, Jack." Levine grinned self-consciously. "If I told him about it, he might think I was just dramatizing it, getting emotional or something, and he'd say thumbs down. But you're the level headed type. If you tell him it's serious, he'll believe you."
"You're nuts," said Crawley.
"You are the level-headed type," Levine told him. "And I am too emotional."
"Flattery will get you everywhere. All right, go to school."
"Thanks, Jack."
Levine shrugged into his coat and plodded out of the squadroom, downstairs, and out to the sidewalk. Lathmore Elementary was three blocks away to the right, and he walked it. There was a smell of snow in the air, but the sky was still clear. Levine strolled along sniffing the snow-tang, his hands pushed deep into the pockets of his black overcoat. The desire for a smoke was less when he was outdoors, so he didn't hurry.
Lathmore Elementary, one of the myriad private schools which have sprung up to take the place of the enfeebled public school system long since emasculated by municipal politics, was housed in an old mansion on one of the neighborhood's better blocks. The building was mainly masonry, with curved buttresses and bay windows everywhere, looming three ivy-overgrown stories to a patchwork slate roof which dipped and angled and rose crazily around to no pattern at all. Gold letters on the wide glass pane over the double-doored entrance announced the building's new function, and just inside the doors an arrow on a wall was marked "OFFICE."
Levine didn't want to have to announce himself as a policeman, but the administrative receptionist was so officious and curious that he had no choice. It was the only way he could get to see Mrs. Pidgeon, the principal, without first explaining his mission in minute detail to the receptionist.
Mrs. Pidgeo
n was baffled, polite, terrified and defensive, but not very much of any of them. It was as though these four emotions were being held in readiness, for one of them to spring into action as soon as she found out exactly what it was a police officer could possibly want in Lathmore Elementary. Levine tried to explain as gently and vaguely as possible:
"I'd like to talk to one of your teachers," he said. "About a little girl, a student of yours."
"What about her?"
"She made a report to us yesterday," Levine told her. "It's difficult for us to check it out, and it might help if we knew a little more about her, what her attitudes are, things like that."
Defensiveness began to edge to the fore in Mrs. Pidgeon's attitude. "What sort of report?"
"I'm sorry," said Levine. "If there's nothing to it, it would be better not to spread it."
"Something about this school?"
"Oh, no," said Levine, managing not to smile. "Not at all."
"Very well." Defensiveness receded, and a sort of cold politeness became more prominent. "You want to talk to her teacher, then."
"Yes."
"Her name?"
"Amy Walker. Amy Thornbridge Walker."
"Oh, yes!" Mrs. Pidgeon's face suddenly lit with pleasure, not at Levine but at his reminding her of that particular child. Then the pleasure gave way just as suddenly to renewed bafflement. "It's about Amy? She came to you yesterday?"
"That's right."
"Well." She looked helplessly around the room, aching to find out more but unable to find a question that would get around Levine's reticence. Finally, she gave up, and asked him to wait while she went for Miss Haskell, the fifth grade teacher. Levine stood as she left the room, then sank back into the maroon leather chair, feeling bulky and awkward in this hushed heavy-draped office.
He waited five minutes before Mrs. Pidgeon returned, this time with Miss Haskell in tow. Miss Haskell, unexpectedly, was a comfortable fortyish woman in a sensible suit and flat shoes, not the thin tall bird he'd expected. He acknowledged Mrs. Pidgeon's introduction, hastily rising again, and Mrs. Pidgeon pointedly said, "Try not to be too long, Mr. Levine. You may use my office."
"Thank you."
She left, and Levine and Miss Haskell stood facing each other in the middle of the room. He motioned at a chair. "Would you sit down, please?"
"Thank you. Mrs. Pidgeon said you wanted to ask me about Amy Walker."
"Yes, I want to know what kind of child she is, anything you can tell me about her."
Miss Haskell smiled. "I can tell you she's a brilliant and well-brought-up child," she said. "That she's the one I picked to be student in charge while I came down to tsilk to you. That she's always at least a month ahead of the rest of the class in reading the assignments, and that she's the most practical child I've ever met."
Levine reached to his cigarette pocket, cut the motion short, awkwardly returned his hand to his side. "Her father died two weeks ago, didn't he?"
"That's right."
"How did they get along, do you know? Amy and her father."
"She worshipped him. He was her stepfather actually, having married her mother only about a year ago, I believe. Amy doesn't remember her real father. Mr. Walker was the only father she knew, and having been without one for so long " Miss Haskell spread her hands. "He was important to her," she finished.
"She took his death hard?"
"She was out of school for a week, inconsolable. She spent the time at her grandmother's, I understand. The grandmother caters to her, of course. I believe her mother had a doctor in twice."
"Yes, her mother." Levine didn't know what to do with his hands. He clasped them in front of him. "How do Amy and her mother get along?"
"Normally, so far as I know. There's never been any sign of discord between them that I've seen." She smiled again. "But my contact with Amy is limited to school hours, of course."
"You think there is discord?"
"No, not at ail. I didn't mean to imply that. Just that I couldn't give you an expert answer to the question."
Levine nodded. "You're right. Is Amy a very imaginative child?"
"She's very self-sufficient in play, if that's what you mean."
"I was thinking about story-telling."
"Oh, a liar." She shook her head. "No, Amy isn't the tall tale type. A very practical little girl, really. Very dependable judgment. As I say, she's the one I left in charge of the class."
"She wouldn't be likely to come to us with a wild story she'd made up all by herself."
"Not at all. If Amy told you about something, it's almost certainly the truth."
Levine sighed. "Thank you," he said. "Thank you very much."
Miss Haskell rose to her feet. "Could you tell me what this wild story was? I might be able to help."
"I'd rather not," he said. "Not until we're sure, one way or the other."
If I can be of any assistance "
"Thank you," he said again. "You've gdready helped."
Back at the station, Levine entered the squadroom and hung up his coat. Crawley looked over from his desk and said, "You have all the luck, Abe. You missed the whirlwind."
"Whirlwind?"
"Amy's mama was here. Dr. Sheffield called her about you checking up on her husband's death, and just before she came over here she got a call from somebody at Lathmore Elementary, saying there was a cop there asking questions about her daughter. She didn't like us casting 2isi>ersions on her family."
"Aspersions?"
"That's what she said." Crawley grinned. "You're litde Sir Echo this morning, aren't you?"
"I need a cigarette. What did the Lieutenant say?"
"She didn't talk to him. She talked to me."
"No, when you told him about the litde girl's report."
"Oh. He said to take two days on it, and then let him know how it looked."
"Fine. How about Thornbridge?"
"Accidental death. Inquest said so. No question in anybody's mind. He went swimming too soon after lunch, got a stomach cramp, and drowned. What's the word on the litde girl?"
"Her teacher says she's reliable. Practical and realistic. If she tells us something, it's so."
Crawley grimaced. "That isn't what I wanted to hear, Abe."
"It didn't overjoy me, either." Levine sat down at his desk. "What did the mother have to say?"
"I had to spill it, Abe. About what her daughter reported."
"That's all right," he said. "Now we've got no choice. We've got to follow though. What was her reaction?"
"She didn't believe it."
Levine shrugged. "She had to, after she thought about it."
"Sure," said Crawley. "Then she was baffled. She didn't know why Amy would say such a thing."
"Was she home when her husband died?"
"She says no." Crawley flipped open a memo pad. "Somebody had to be with him all the time, but he didn't want a professional nurse. So when Amy came home from school that afternoon, the mother went to the supermarket. Her husband was alive when she left, and dead when she got back. Or so she says."
"She says Amy was the one who found him dead?"
"No. Amy was watching television. When the mother came home, she found him, and called the doctor."
"What about noises?"
"She didn't hear any, and doesn't have any idea what Amy means."
Levine sighed. "All right," he said. "We've got one timetable discrepancy. Amy says her mother was home and made a loud noise. The mother says she was out to the supermarket." His fingers strayed to his cigarette pocket, then went on to scratch his shoulder instead. "What do you think of the mother. Jack?"
"She's tough. She was mad, and she's used to having things her own way. I can't see her playing nursemaid. But she sure seemed baffled about why the kid would make such an accusation."
"I'll have to talk to Amy again," said Levine. "Once we've got both stories, we can see which one breaks down."
Crawley said, "I wonder if she'll try to shu
t the kid's mouth?"
"Let's not think about that yet. We've still got aW day." He reached for the phone book and looked up the number of Lathmore Elementary.
Levine talked to the girl in Mrs. Pidgeon's office at eleven o'clock. At his request, they were left alone.
Amy was dressed as neatly as she had been yesterday, and seemed just as composed. Levine explained to her what had been done so far on the investigation, and that her mother had been told why the investigation was taking place. "I'm sorry, Amy," he said, "but we didn't have any choice. Your mother had to know."
Amy considered, solemn gmd formal. "I think it will be all right," she said. "She wouldn't dare try to hurt me now, with you investigating. It would be too obvious. My mother is very subtle, Mr. Levine."
Levine smiled, in spite of himself. "You have quite a vocabulary," he told her.
"I'm a very heavy reader," she explained. "Though it's difficult for me to get interesting books from the library. Fm too young, so I have to take books from the children's section." She smiled thinly. "I'll tell you a secret," she said. "I steal the ones I W2uit to read, and then bring them back when I'm finished with them."
In a hurry, he thought, smiling, and remembered the baby next door. "I want to talk to you," he said, "about the day when your father died. Your mother said she went out to the store, and when she came back he was dead. What do you say?"
"Nonsense," she said, promptly. "I was the one who went out to the store. The minute I came home from school, she sent mc out to the supermarket. But I came back too soon for her."
"Why?"
"Just as I was coming down the hall from the elevator, I heard a great clang sound from our apartment. Then it came | again as I was opening the door. I went through the living room and saw my mother coming out of my stepfather's room. She was smiling. But then she saw me and suddenly looked terribly upset and told me something awful had happened, and she ran to the telephone to call Dr. Sheffield. She acted terribly agitated, and carried on just as though she really meant it. She fooled Dr. Sheffield completely."
Westlake, Donald E - Novel 41 Page 11