Death by Association

by Frances Lockridge

  “Close the door,” Heimrich said. His voice was low, as hers had been. “Hurry, Miss Wister.”

  She closed the door. She closed it too quickly. The sound of the closing was sharp in the room, in the corridor outside. Heimrich made a quick, one-handed, gesture, as if he were the conductor of an orchestra, signaling for pianissimo. The gesture seemed involuntary; it was obviously too late. Heimrich sighed.

  “You’re hurt!” she said. Now her voice was low enough.

  “Our friend with the knife,” Heimrich said. “I was—but never mind that now. It’s nothing serious, I think.” He moved, and winced as he moved. “It would be the same shoulder, naturally,” he said. “Now Miss Wister. What are you doing here?”

  “I want to tell you something,” she said. “But—you have to have a doctor. I’ll call Mac. I’ll—”

  “Wait,” he said. “I—” But then he stopped. “All right,” he said, “you may as well. No doubt you were seen, or heard. Unless—” He looked at her for a long moment. “No,” he said, “I doubt it very much. I was waiting for someone. However. See if you can get Doctor MacDonald, Miss Wister. He may as well have a look at this.” He indicated his right shoulder.

  The switchboard operator was slow to answer; there was more time taken to find MacDonald’s room number. But MacDonald answered when the telephone had rung only twice. He listened, and was quick. He came quickly; it was not two minutes after she had recradled the telephone that she heard hurrying steps in the corridor. During those minutes, Heimrich sat with his eyes closed. He opened them when Barclay MacDonald came in, with the bag of his profession. “Go in the closet or somewhere if you don’t like blood, Miss Wister,” Heimrich told her, pleasantly. But she stayed. She got hot water on a clean towel when MacDonald asked for it. MacDonald’s fingers were quick.

  “Well, doctor?” Heimrich asked.

  “You’ll be all right,” MacDonald said. “We’ll get you to a hospital, get some penicillin on it. But it’s nothing to worry about.”

  “I fell away from it, naturally,” Heimrich said. “We’ll see about the hospital tomorrow. I tried to get you a few minutes before Miss Wister came, doctor. You didn’t answer.”

  “I couldn’t sleep,” MacDonald said. “I was outside. I’d just come in when Mary called.”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “It’s a nice night. All moonlight and deep

  shadows. Were you down by the entrance, doctor? I mean, the entrance to the hotel drive?”

  “No,” MacDonald said. “I walked out on the pier.”

  “Somebody was down by the entrance,” Heimrich said. “I don’t know who. Waiting in a deep shadow until I walked past. However.” He started to shrug, and grimaced. “Very inept, whoever it was,” Heimrich said. “Assuming he meant to kill me, naturally. I thought he might come along here to see how he made out. But—Miss Wister came.”

  “You don’t think—” Mary began.

  “Now Miss Wister,” Heimrich said, and closed his eyes. “Now Miss Wister.” He opened his eyes. “I’ll admit I was surprised,” he said. “By all of it, naturally. Such a quick reaction—and more direct than I expected. However. What did you come to tell me, Miss Wister?”

  She hesitated for a moment; looked involuntarily at MacDonald.

  “I’ve finished,” MacDonald said. “He ought to get some rest.” He turned to Heimrich. “Take plenty of aspirin,” he said. “Or do you want codeine?”

  “Now doctor,” Heimrich said. “You may as well hear what Miss Wister has to say. Don’t you think so, Miss Wister?”

  “I’m breaking a promise anyway,” she said. “I don’t suppose it matters if I—break it twice. I’d like Mac to hear.”

  “Go ahead, Miss Wister,” Heimrich said.

  She went ahead. Heimrich listened with his eyes closed. MacDonald’s face was expressive. At the end, the expression was one of doubt.

  “An hysteric,” he said, when Mary finished. “She wants to get back at Oslen for something.” But then he paused. “Of course—” he said, and uncertainly left it open.

  “Now doctor,” Heimrich said, without opening his eyes. “Why does it seem so improbable to you?” He opened his eyes then and looked at MacDonald and, after a moment, MacDonald shook his head. That seemed to answer Heimrich, who nodded and closed his eyes again.

  “They can be quite as devious as Miss Jones says,” Heimrich told them. “It’s quite true that this riot was staged—was asked for. The Legion was baited into it. It was planned to happen. It’s also true that Oslen was very active in—instigating to violence. It could have been for the reasons Miss Jones thinks.”

  “I gather you investigated this riot?” MacDonald asked.

  “No,” Heimrich said. “I looked over some of the reports. I got a few more details this afternoon, naturally.”

  “You’re checking up on all of us, aren’t you?” Mary asked.

  “Now Miss Wister,” Heimrich said. “The sheriff’s office wants what information it can get, naturally. I try to be co-operative.”

  “I thought,” MacDonald said, “that Jefferson was willing to settle for this man García. Didn’t you tell us that? All of us?”

  “Now doctor,” Heimrich said. “Perhaps I did. Perhaps he is.”

  “Listen,” Mary said. “Did what you heard this afternoon—does it bear out Rachel Jones’s story?”

  “Only to the extent I said,” Heimrich told her. He seemed about to continue, but in the end did not. Instead, he said that he might, possibly, take a few grains of codeine.

  “Captain,” Mary said, “what are you going to do?”

  He opened his eyes.

  “Now Miss Wister,” he said. “Nothing tonight.” He smiled faintly. “I’ve done enough tonight,” he said. He moved, and the movement obviously was painful. “Conceivably too much,” he said. He smiled again. “So your promise isn’t really broken, Miss Wister,” he said. “At any rate, the result is the same.”

  “Aren’t you taking a chance?” MacDonald asked him, and to this Heimrich nodded.

  “Sometimes one has to,” he said. “We have to give a little rope, naturally.”

  “You did earlier tonight, didn’t you?” Mary asked, but got only “Now Miss Wister, now Miss Wister.” It appeared Heimrich did not, after all, tell everything.

  VII

  Paul Shepard’s firstservice was just over the line. Ted Silvermann, receiving, looked at it, made a face at it and at himself and said, “Good as gold.” It wasn’t, and Mary shook her head. “Too long,” she said, and turned to Shepard, behind her at the baseline. He frowned for a moment, but then he nodded and told her it was whatever she said. “Long,” she repeated. She looked at Betty Silvermann. “It looked long to me,” the slim, blond girl on the other side of the net said. “Looked all right to me,” her husband insisted. “Take two, Mr. Shepard.”

  “If you say so,” Shepard said, which was not what Mary Wister, playing net in a mixed doubles round-robin in which—and now she could not easily understand how—she had involved herself, had expected him to say. Shepard served again, and this time caught the corner. Silvermann’s backhand blooped high; Shepard, coming in, took it overhead and smashed at Betty Silvermann, who dodged and said, “Wow!” “Thirty-love,” Shepard said, with satisfaction. Shepard certainly played to win, Mary thought. There had been a hole between the Silvermanns. Shepard was good enough overhead to—

  “Other side, partner,” Shepard said behind her. There was not quite impatience in his tone. Mary crossed to stand guard duty on their left-hand alley. That, so far as she could tell, was what she was on court for. What I am, she thought, is a girl who can’t say “no.” Betty Silvermann played deep; she shook her head at Mary, and laughed. “All I want to do is save my life,” she said. The Silvermanns, as had now been evident for two games, played for fun. Shepard’s first service was in the alley. His second was to Betty’s backhand corner; it bounced high and away. She got wood of her racket on it, and netted. “Forty-love,”
Shepard told them.

  Just a girl who can’t say “no,” Mary Wister thought, going back to the other side, brief white skirt swirling around slender legs which were beginning to turn reddish brown.

  But there had been no particular reason to say “no” when Paul Shepard came seeking a partner. She had worked all morning, and worked satisfyingly, which was unexpected. She had thought her mind would go off on its own, so that concentration would be impossible. But it had been surprisingly easy to work; to forget everything but line and color, shadow and light. That was, presumably, because everybody else seemed to have forgotten murder, forgotten tall tales of improbable conspiracy. At any rate, nobody seemed to be doing anything about either. Heimrich was not to be seen—presumably he had gone to a hospital to have his shoulder taken care of. Mac was not to be seen—perhaps he had gone with Heimrich. Mary had not seen Rachel Jones and when she had, briefly, seen William Oslen he was reading the New York Times on the porch and lifted a carefree hand in greeting. All this made work easy, made it inevitable. All this also left things uncomfortably hanging. She had, she realized as she worked, expected that she and Mac would meet, perhaps at breakfast, and try together to work out some meaning for what was happening. She had, and this she realized with some surprise and a little reluctance, looked forward to it.

  She was calling it a morning, at a little after noon, putting pad and sketches in their folder, when Paul Shepard came across the lawn toward her. He was dressed in tennis slacks and shirt, and had a sweater over his shoulders. He was neat still; his hair was smoothly in place. He was still by no means a large man, nor physically impressive. But he had been put together very precisely, according to plan. He somehow made her feel that the plan had been his.

  “You play tennis,” he had said. It was more statement than question.

  “A little,” she said.

  “I thought so,” he told her. “You look like it. I’m looking for a partner. This afternoon. There’s a mixed doubles round-robin set up. Give us some exercise.” He paused. “Take our minds off things,” he added.

  Then she should have said “no.” Instead, she had said, hesitantly, “Well-”

  “My wife’s no good at it,” he said. “No good at it and knows it. What do you say, Miss Wister? You’ve got the clothes and things?”

  She had the clothes. She had no racket. That he brushed aside. The pro had rackets; she needn’t worry about that.

  “Be good for you,” he said, and she said, again, “Well,” and this time capitulated. Perhaps it would be fun.

  It was not really being, she thought again as she waited, guarding their right-hand alley, the score forty-love, two games to love, against the engaging Silvermanns, who played gayly, willing to win—or otherwise there was no point at all to it—but not caring much. (Not caring nearly enough, as things were working out.) The Silvermanns were weighted down by no—what was it? No feeling of responsibility. They were driven by no compulsion. They merely wanted to hit some tennis balls, if possible back across the net. When Betty Silvermann had said, “Wow!” and dodged Paul Shepard’s smash, she had ended laughing and her husband had laughed with her, had said, “That’s showing them, baby!”

  “Watch your alley,” Paul Shepard said behind her. “Watch your alley, partner.”

  He served, and this time his first service was good—down the center, a foot short of the service line. Silvermann took it on his forehand, hitting a little ahead of the ball, so that he hooked toward Mary’s alley. The ball went high, but was within reach. He had, she knew—while she jumped for the ball—planned a cross-court at the feet of Paul Shepard, who would be charging in. As it was, Shepard was not charging in. She heard him running behind her. “I’ll take,” she heard him say, just as her racket met the ball. Her racket met the ball squarely; the ball went back, cross court, between the Silvermanns. Betty lunged for it, got only wood on it, and sent it out of court.

  “Three love,” Shepard said. “We change.”

  “Better let me get those,” Shepard told her, as they went around the end of the net. “I was right behind you.”

  It was, so far as she could remember, the first ball she had hit since her own service.

  “Well,” she said, “you wanted me to watch the alley. And we made the point.”

  “Oh,” he said, “it was nice going, as it turned out.” He smiled quickly. “We’re too good for them,” he said, with satisfaction. “Look out for the twist. I’ve been watching him.”

  There were half a dozen couples in the tournament; they played around, until all teams had met; they played four games a match and in the end counted games won. It was midafternoon and Shepard and Mary had played two previous matches, in each winning three of the four games, losing only against the service of the opposing man. When they were not playing Shepard had, it was evident, been watching carefully.

  Now he walked back to the baseline with her. He said, “I’d stand about here,” and showed her. He watched her stand about there. “It kicks high,” he said. “Better take it on the drop. I’d move back a couple of feet and a little more this way.”

  She had played tennis, on and off, since she was twelve. Not so much lately, to be sure—but still. But it didn’t matter; she moved to stand where he told her.

  “Remember,” he said, “I’ll go in. You stay back.”

  And so, Mary Wister thought, we win the Davis Cup. But she nodded understanding.

  Ted Silvermann served. The ball landed almost on the center line, but just in her court; it bounced high and to her backhand. She drove, but, because of the angle, almost down the middle. Betty Silvermann met the ball and volleyed it to the feet of Paul Shepard, who was coming in. Shepard tried a half volley and netted. He walked back, shaking his head. “Right to her,” he told Mary, who said she was sorry. “I told you about the bounce,” Shepard said. “Come on. Let’s take him!” The last was a command.

  Shepard returned service deep to Ted Silvermann’s backhand and went in. When Silvermann answered down the line, Shepard leaped for the ball, cutting it off—and leaving his side of the court uncovered. He gestured frantically behind his back to Mary, who dutifully crossed. But for the return, from Betty Silvermann, Shepard was back again to the center line, cutting off again. He continued on across, and Mary crossed again behind him. Again it was her duty, but it seemed a little silly. If Shepard could manage it, he would get them all. Her participation was technical; in mixed doubles, four people must be on court. Nothing in the rules requires further participation, except the serving of one game in four, and reception of service at specified intervals.

  Shepard won the point, his point, on the next volley, and it was fifteen-all. Waiting to receive, Mary remembered a tennis story she had heard sometime, or read somewhere—the story of a girl situated as she was in a mixed doubles match, partnered as she was, waiting to receive service, as she was. As the service came to her, the girl had called out, in a voice which rang through a stadium (Forest Hills, was it?), “Mine!” Mary resisted temptation, and was rewarded. Silvermann double faulted. But then Shepard overdrove and it was thirty-all. Shepard accepted the call against him with a moment’s hesitation, followed by slightly overemphatic agreement. The ball, Mary thought, had been long by a foot.

  She lost her next point, netting, and Shepard shook his head at her. He made his, taking a service which failed to break, and driving it, with all his wiry strength, at Betty Silvermann, playing net. She said, “Wow!” again, and managed to deflect the ball from her face. Silvermann, Mary noticed, did not smile this time. He looked for a moment at Shepard, who was walking back to the baseline. He moved to serve to Mary, and grinned at her. She answered service with a lob over Betty’s head and Silvermann took it in the air, with a furious backhand smash at Shepard, who was coming in. Shepard dodged and the ball went out. Silvermann’s pleasant face had, momentarily, an expression of disappointment.

  “One more to go,” Shepard told Mary, and prepared to make it. It was lo
nger than the other points had been; once in the exchange, Mary was allowed—had to be, since Shepard had got himself hopelessly out of position—to keep the ball in play. Shepard crowded the net on the last return, playing so close he almost brushed it. Betty Silvermann’s drive came to him, and he flicked it away, almost parallel to the net, for a placement. That was game. It was also, Mary thought, at least possibly a case of reaching illegally over the net. So, she thought, did Ted Silvermann. He waited for a moment where he had stopped as the ball angled away for the point. He looked at Paul Shepard. Shepard, who alone could have something to say, said nothing.

  “Well,” Silvermann said, “they sure ruined us, baby,” and patted his wife on the back. “Nice going,” he told Shepard, who said, “Oh, we got the breaks,” in a tone notable for its lack of conviction. The four of them walked off court together, clustered together around the table where they had piled sweaters and jackets, where the women had left their purses. They were pleasantly warm; it was Shepard who said, “Drinks on the winner.” Silvermann seemed to hesitate a moment; he looked quickly at his wife, who nodded. “Sure,” Silvermann said, and they cleared the table and sat around it. A boy came through the sun, across the lawn. The Silvermanns ordered tom Collinses; Shepard said a Coke would do him. “You’d better stick to that too, partner,” he said to Mary.

  “I think,” Mary Wister said, “that I’ll have a collins.” She smiled, disarmingly, at Shepard. “It’ll be enough if you stay in shape, Mr. Shepard,” she told him. Shepard frowned, momentarily; Silvermann looked at him, and then at Mary. For her, briefly, he grinned.

  Half an hour later, Mary and Shepard played again, winning three of the four, which gave them thirteen won to three lost, with one more match to go. Mary’s collins did not seem to have affected her, although her timing was seldom put to the test. Paul Shepard was everywhere, his will to win flying like a pennant. During the last game of that match, Heimrich and Barclay MacDonald appeared in the tennis enclosure, found a table, and sat there, drinks in front of them, watching. MacDonald caught Mary’s eye, and smiled and nodded to her. Heimrich did not catch her eye; he concentrated on the play. His right arm was in a sling.