“Nevertheless,” Shepard said, “you thought he was a fanatic.”
“Now Mr. Shepard,” Heimrich said. “I thought he was a very zealous man. A man with a great ability to believe.”
Shepard appeared to consider that. Then he nodded. He said that that put it well enough. Beyond that, however, was an ability to act on his beliefs.
“Whoever was hurt,” Shepard said. “One has to give him that. Of course, that made him dangerous to—to some people—I suppose.”
“Apparently,” Heimrich said, and opened his eyes. “You planned to employ him, you said. To broadcast a commentary, wasn’t it? Wouldn’t there have been some risk?”
Shepard repeated the word.
“Now Mr. Shepard,” Heimrich said. “Risk, naturally. He might have said things he thought true, but which he couldn’t actually prove. And—what he said wouldn’t have been privileged, of course. He’s not a senator. It’s libelous to, say, call a man a communist if you can’t prove it—at least it is in New York.”
“We planned to watch him, of course,” Shepard said. “He’d agreed to that. And, as a practical matter, people don’t get very far with suits like that nowadays, you know. It’s difficult to prove you’re not a communist if somebody like Wells says you are—difficult to convince a jury. Whatever the truth is, you end up worse off than you started, nine times out of ten.”
“So,” Heimrich said, “you figured you’d be reasonably safe—in a practical sense, naturally.”
There was no inflection in his voice. Nonetheless, Shepard looked at him sharply. Heimrich, after a moment, closed his eyes.
“That’s about it, I suppose,” Shepard said then. “We figured we could handle it. Go over his copy carefully. Warn him about ad-libbing. And, of course, put a clause in his contract binding him to hold us harmless of all claims growing out of anything he said we hadn’t approved. We figured we’d be safe.” He looked at Heimrich intently, but his gaze was wasted. Heimrich’s eyes remained closed. “We considered it a public service,” Shepard said. Heimrich did open his eyes at that.
“Oh,” he said, “I realize that, Mr. Shepard. I’m sure it would have been. Although there might have been private disservices, naturally.”
Shepard said the expected about the preparation of an omelet. He repeated that they had planned to be careful.
“And,” he said, “the good would outweigh the harm.”
“The end and the means,” Heimrich said. “All’s fair, and so forth. No doubt you’re right, Mr. Shepard.”
“You don’t think so?” Shepard said.
“Now Mr. Shepard,” Heimrich said. “Does it matter what I think? The innocent often suffer with the guilty. No one who has ever looked into a murder doubts that. Innocent lives are opened up, sometimes damaged. Something like that might have occurred in connection with the broadcasts, naturally. Particularly to the lives of people in—well, your line of work, for example.”
Shepard looked hard at him.
“Only for example,” Heimrich said, mildly. “You know what I. mean, Mr. Shepard. People in the motion picture industry—”
“Don’t think there aren’t plenty of commies there,” Shepard interrupted. “Wells had the goods on plenty.”
“Now Mr. Shepard,” Heimrich said. “I’ve no doubt there are, or were. Again, I merely use an example. People in radio. People in public life. They’re most susceptible of all, naturally. Actors. Writers. Suspicion, allegations which can’t be proved—they can be very hard on a good many people. Suppose, for example—only for example, Mr. Shepard—you had joined one or two of the wrong organizations when you were much younger, and now it came out. I’m sure you haven’t any communist leanings. Still—you’d—well, you’d lose your job, wouldn’t you?”
“I didn’t,” Shepard said. “So what are we talking about?”
He spoke with some violence, great emphasis.
“Oh,” Heimrich said, “the breaking of eggs, naturally.”
“You can’t coddle people,” Shepard said. “People have to look out for themselves. If they let themselves be pushed around it’s their own fault, isn’t it?”
“Now Mr. Shepard,” Heimrich said. “That depends on a number of things, doesn’t it? The characters of those involved.”
“So?” Shepard said.
Heimrich opened his eyes.
“You’re quite right, Mr. Shepard,” he said. “This is all beside the point. To get back to Mr. Wells. I understand you had a sponsor for his commentary?”
Shepard hesitated a moment.
“Well,” he said then, “nothing was actually signed.”
“But you had a sponsor lined up,” Heimrich said. “You said that, as I recall it.”
“All but the signing,” Shepard said.
“Do you mind telling me who?”
Shepard thought a moment..Then he said he did mind. For one thing, he said, he could not see what importance that had. For another, he felt that, without the approval of people higher up in UBA, he couldn’t take any chance of jeopardizing negotiations still being carried on.
“Now Mr. Shepard,” Heimrich said. “I’m a policeman.”
“Now captain,” Shepard said, “a policeman out of his jurisdiction, aren’t you? If you were a local man— But the local men haven’t asked, you know.”
Heimrich responded by opening his eyes. Shepard looked at him, smiled and shook his head.
“Very well,” Heimrich said. “Probably it doesn’t matter.” He closed his eyes again. When he spoke next it was as if he made conversation. “They’ve had to let García go again,” he said. “It seems a couple of his friends joined him a little after Wells left him that evening and stayed with him for some time. It seems they were rehearsing a number.”
A bellboy went through the lounge, carrying a yellow envelope on a tray, calling Dr. Barclay MacDonald in soft, affectionate tones. “Doctor MacDonald please. Doctor MacDonald please.” Heimrich opened his eyes to watch the boy.
“I’d think—” Shepard began, and Heimrich returned, apparently from a distance. He seemed a little surprised to see Paul Shepard still sitting beside him on the corner sofa.
“Oh,” Heimrich said. “Yes, Mr. Shepard?”
“I thought García denied seeing Wells except for a moment on the dance floor,” Shepard said. “That’s the way the local paper has it. The Miami Herald, too.”
“Apparently he changed his story,” Heimrich said. “After he’d—thought it over.”
“After these two friends came up with their story,” Shepard suggested. “Good friends, I imagine?”
“Now Mr. Shepard,” Heimrich said. “Now Mr. Shepard. The authorities have to use the evidence they have, naturally. The evidence they have appears to clear Mr. García. And, of course, he has a lawyer.”
“You believe this—” Shepard began, but Heimrich was shaking his head, saying “Now Mr. Shepard.”
“As you pointed out,” he said, “I’m out of my jurisdiction.”
Paul Shepard hesitated. He appeared to be puzzled. He said that, all along, he’d assumed it would turn out to be García. He hoped the local men weren’t being fooled. He said of García that “people like that” often seemed to have conveniently devoted friends.
“Now Mr. Shepard,” Heimrich said. “People like what? García is a musician; apparently a good one. Also, he was a former friend of your Mr. Wells.”
“Mine?” Shepard said. He added he had nothing against García; that what he had said was only a manner of speaking.
“Who then?” Shepard said. He nodded to himself. “Oslen, I suppose,” he said. “I suppose it holds together well enough. If the girl’s right, he’s got a motive. He would be sufficiently ruthless, I suppose. And commies don’t care much about other people’s lives.”
“No,” Heimrich said.
Paul Shepard’s eyes narrowed.
“You say this girl is missing?” he said. “This Rachel Jones? That she can’t be found?”
“She hasn’t been,” Heimrich agreed. “She’s apparently not in the hotel. They haven’t found her in town, and they can’t discover she’s left town—at any rate not by bus or plane or hired car. Of course—”
“You think she’s alive?” Shepard said.
“Now Mr. Shepard,” Heimrich said. “I hope so, naturally.”
“You’re an optimist, then,” Shepard told him. “From Oslen’s point of view, assuming she told the truth, she’s an informer. And—she’ll tell somebody else. If it comes to that, she can testify against Oslen. If she’s alive.”
“Now Mr. Shepard,” Heimrich said.
“You’re damned calm about it,” Shepard said. “You’re willing just to sit here. Talk about—for God’s sake, about who was going to sponsor Wells, who’s dead and can’t be sponsored by anyone.”
It was not, Heimrich again pointed out mildly, his jurisdiction. Mr. Shepard had said that. The people whose jurisdiction was involved were doing what they could. About everything, he assumed. For example, they had found out that Oslen could only say that, first when Wells was killed, again when Heimrich himself was attacked, he had been in his hotel room, and been in it alone. They had found out that the Sibleys were, on both occasions, in their hotel room together—or that both said they were. That Mary Wister was in her room, but alone. That Dr. MacDonald had been out when Heimrich was attacked but said he was in his room asleep—and also alone—at the time Wells was murdered. Having said so much, Heimrich looked at the wiry, neatly made man beside him.
“Mr. Shepard,” Heimrich said, “the evening before Mr. Wells was killed, in the lounge here, he said something to you. Do you remember?”
“He said several things,” Shepard said, and appeared to try to remember.
“He advised you to think about something again,” Heimrich told him. “Words to that effect. Do you mind telling me what he meant?”
Momentarily, Shepard’s face showed puzzlement. Then it cleared.
“Oh, that,” he said. “It was about the time of his broadcast. We’d fixed it for seven-thirty in the evening. He thought that was too early; wanted it around nine or nine-thirty for the East. I’d told him we couldn’t clear that time—actually, we didn’t want him then. He wanted me to think it over. That’s all there was to that.”
Heimrich nodded. He asked whether Wells’s commentary was to have been carried on radio or television; learned that, at any rate for the first thirteen weeks, the plan had been for a radio broadcast only, with television to depend on response to the radio version. Shepard couldn’t, he said, see what difference it made, under the circumstances. Heimrich half apologized; said that he was a curious man by nature, as well as by profession.
“For example,” he said, “I have an impression Mrs. Shepard sometimes uses sleeping pills. I’m curious about that.”
The effect on Shepard was marked. He leaned toward Heimrich with a sudden movement; he flushed.
“What the hell business is it of yours?” he demanded. He waited a moment. “I’ve had about enough of your damned interference,” he said. “Just about enough. Stay off my wife!”
“Now Mr. Shepard,” Heimrich said. “Now Mr. Shepard. A harmless thing. A good many people use preparations of one kind or another when they have difficulty sleeping—want a long, deep sleep.”
Shepard continued for a long moment to stare at Heimrich. Then, abruptly, he said, “I get it.”
“Do you, Mr. Shepard?” Heimrich said. “Then you know why I asked, naturally.”
“D’you know, captain,” Shepard said, and his voice was hard. “D’you know, I don’t like to be pushed around. You haven’t any authority here. Also, I don’t give a damn what crazy idea you think you have. I—”
“You’re very violent, Mr. Shepard,” Heimrich told him. “But don’t answer if you don’t want to.”
“I’ll tell you this,” Shepard said. “I didn’t kill Wells. I had no reason to. I’ll tell you that much. You haven’t got a prayer.”
“Now Mr. Shepard,” Heimrich said. “Everybody’s got a prayer, naturally. I didn’t say you killed Mr. Wells, did I?”
He was told he hadn’t needed to.
“Now Mr. Shepard,” Heimrich said. “I have quite an open mind.” He closed his eyes. “At the moment,” he added.
“You’ll be surprised,” Shepard said. I don’t give a damn.”
Heimrich merely nodded, his eyes closed.
“I didn’t kill Wells,” Shepard said. “I was in hed, asleep. My wife was in the other bed, also asleep. She’ll testify I couldn’t have left the room without wakening her. The same thing was true last night when you say somebody attacked you.”
“Oh,” Heimrich said, “somebody did, Mr. Shepard. The night Mr. Wells was killed you played bridge—you and Mrs. Shepard and Judge and Mrs. Sibley—until after two in the morning. You told the police that.”
“So?” Shepard said. He stood up. “I’m damned tired of this,” he said, and looked down at Heimrich. “Wells wasn’t killed at that time. I don’t argue he was.”
“No,” Heimrich said. “You can’t, can you? As things turned out. Neither you nor the Sibleys.”
Shepard looked at him. Then, withoug speaking, he turned away. He walked down the lounge. Heimrich sat and looked after him. Halfway down the lounge, Shepard met Mary Wister and the tall doctor. He stopped and for the moment the three talked. Then Shepard jerked a thumb toward Heimrich and said something further; then he went on. Mary, from whose right shoulder swayed a big straw purse, and MacDonald came up the lounge toward Heimrich who, as they reached him, stood up. (Standing, he saw Judge Sibley start to get up from a chair a little distance down the room and then, apparently changing his mind, relax into it.)
“Mr. Shepard doesn’t like you, captain,” MacDonald said. “He doesn’t like you at all. He warned us against you.”
“No,” Heimrich said. “I’m afraid he doesn’t. He finds me—interfering.”
“At least,” MacDonald said, and watched Mary sit on the sofa beside Heimrich. “He doesn’t like interference, does he.” He smiled, faintly. “Mary found that out,” he said. “He’s—” MacDonald paused. “His own man,” he finished. “But, is it more than that, captain?”
“Now doctor,” Heimrich said. “It could be. On the other hand, he may merely resent being pushed around. As he told me he did. People like that can be difficult. Sometimes merely being asked questions irritates them. Which is a complication, naturally.”
MacDonald lowered himself carefully to the sofa beside Mary Wister, so that she sat between him and Heimrich. MacDonald said, then, that he had got an answer. He produced the yellow sheet of a telegram, and held it out.
“Not that I’ve heard,” the telegram read. “Probably would have but will check tomorrow. Give Mary love.” It was signed, “Isaac Bernstein.”
“As you thought,” MacDonald said, when Heimrich had finished reading, held the telegram back toward him. “Of course, it’s not conclusive. Except at the end, of course.” He took the telegram and reread it. “I do,” he said. “I do indeed.” He held the telegram out to Mary, who read it, shook her head; read it again and looked suddenly at Dr. MacDonald.
“What do you?” she asked.
“Now Mary,” MacDonald said. “What your friend Mr. Bernstein says to do, of course. However—” He took the telegram from her. “I asked Mr. Bernstein whether he had heard that Bronson Wells was to do a sponsored commentary on the news,” MacDonald said. “I took the liberty of identifying myself as a friend of yours.”
Mary Wister said, “Oh.” She said, “But then—” She paused. “Bernie would be likely to know,” she said. “Only—what does it prove?”
She asked the question of both of them. MacDonald smiled and shrugged; Heimrich said, “Now Miss Wister.” He closed his eyes.
“Nothing, actually,” Heimrich said. “As the doctor says, it’s not conclusive.” He sighed faintly. “It does raise another question, naturally,” he said.
>
They waited, but he did not add to this. Then Mary opened the straw purse she had put on the sofa beside her. She reached into it with confidence and then reached again, her confidence ebbing. Of all the times, she thought, to play the woman-rummaging-purse game. She opened the purse with anger, and began to remove things from it, while the two men, united in male superiority, watched with contented approval. It was impossible that the envelope she sought, which she had put in last on top of all other things, could, in a journey down from the floor above, have hidden itself under—! It had; she came up with it. She was slightly red. With a certain indignation of manner, she handed it to Heimrich. She handled it with care, by the edges; Heimrich followed her example, although he smiled faintly. When the sheet of paper was out of its envelope, Heimrich read aloud:
“‘Miss Wister Miss Jones says not to wory tell you shes alright. Dont try to fine her.’ ”
He read the note again to himself; he turned the sheet over and looked on the back of it, finding blankness.
“On the table in my room when I went up this afternoon,” Mary told him. She waited.
“Apparently,” Heimrich said, “this is thoughtful of Miss Jones.”
“Do you believe that?” Mary asked him. “Really believe it?”
“Now Miss Wister,” Heimrich said, “why not? She thought you might feel—some responsibility for her. She wanted to tell you she’s all right. She sent a message by—” he looked again at the penciled scrawl—“someone who spells as she pronounces.”
“She?” Mary said.
Heimrich said he thought so.
“Don’t you see,” Mary asked, and she pushed the question at the square, solid man, “don’t you see, it may not come from her at all? That it may be a—a fake? That she may be dead? Or may be a prisoner?”
“Now Miss Wister,” Heimrich said. “Now Miss Wister. What would be the point, do you think?”
“To stop people from looking for her,” Mary said.
But to that Heimrich closed his eyes, and shook his head. She underestimated people. If she meant that anyone would hope the police would be diverted so easily, she was confusing bad spelling with stupidity, which would be a mistake. Naturally.
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