That left, for major consideration, the Sibleys, Oslen and Paul Shepard.
“Not Mrs. Shepard?” Mary asked, and Heimrich looked surprised and then shook his head. He did not then explain.
He had, Heimrich said, ruled Oslen out—at any rate reduced him to an outsider—after he had heard Rachel Jones’s story.
Mary looked blank at that; MacDonald looked at her, then at Heimrich, and waited expectantly.
“But,” Mary said, “I thought you believed her?”
“I did,” Heimrich said. “Futhermore, I checked, in so far as I could. I do believe her. So, naturally, I decided Oslen probably wasn’t the man we wanted.”
Mary had only, “But—” to say. She said it.
To make Oslen a probable suspect, Heimrich said, it was necessary to assume him to be an active, and professional, communist—a disciplined member of the party; a participant in the party’s under-cover work. But when you made that assumption, as you did on believing Rachel Jones’s statements, you, paradoxically, more or less eliminated him as a suspect.
“But,” Mary said again, “they’ll do anything. We know that.”
Then Heimrich shook his head. He said she was confusing a lack of moral scruple, which he would willingly grant, with a lack of considered intention, which he would not. The very deviousness of Oslen’s activities proved, if proof were needed, a calculated program—and one not to be upset by any personal considerations. The last, he pointed out, was inherent in the philosophy. The individual had no importance.
But the threat Wells presented was a threat to an individual—to William Oslen. Revelation that the party employed agents provocateurs would hardly damage the Communist Party; that it did had been widely guessed at, and in one or two cases proved. Oslen would be damaged—his usefulness to the party, in that particular activity, would be eliminated. As a professional musician he would be hard hit. But it would be the individual who would suffer, not the “cause.”
But murder, by a provable communist, of a man like Wells, would badly damage the party’s program. Not primarily in the United States, perhaps. But the United States was not, for the moment at least, the major battlefield. It was in Western Europe, and in Asia, that the two sides fought for men’s minds. And to men and women in Western Europe and in Asia, the communist program was to present our side as the side of violence, of ruthlessness, of suppression of minorities; theirs as the side of patience and of peace.
“Oh,” Heimrich said, “they kill their opponents. We all know that.
But only where they themselves are strong, not where they are weak. They think the end justifies the means, but there is a corollary to that. The end must justify the means. And it must be the party’s end, not a party member’s. There is no area for individual—indignation.” He opened his eyes. “If you are a communist,” he said, “you don’t kill a man just because you’re mad at him, or because he threatens you. That would be, I imagine, some kind of deviation.”
“So,” Mary said, “you eliminated Oslen?”
Heimrich nodded.
“With,” he said, “very considerable reluctance, Miss Wister. With great reluctance.”
He had been left with the Sibleys and with Paul Shepard. The Sibleys had obvious motive. But— “Well,” Heimrich said, “Wells was a vigorous man—physically, as well as mentally. Neither the Judge nor Mrs. Sibley is—well, athletic. They’re rather old for violence. I doubted either to be capable of it.”
Then, under pressure, Shepard had lied. He had said he had completed arrangements for Wells to do a radio commentary, sponsored. He said this, Heimrich pointed out, only after Wells was dead. But—investigation had proved that he had no sponsor. It had been proved, subsequently, that no one else at United Broadcasting Alliance had heard of the proposed commentary. “Several of them,” Heimrich said, “were very much startled at the idea.”
An explanation had to be guessed at, but could be guessed at. Suppose that Wells had knowledge of some incident in Shepard’s past which would make Shepard subject to a species of blackmail? Perhaps Shepard had belonged, at some time, to a “wrong” organization, and that Wells could prove it. Shepard was in a very “sensitive” industry. “Which meant,” Heimrich said, “that Shepard would go out on his ear.” Heimrich seemed slightly surprised to hear himself say this. But then he nodded.
“So,” he said, “I supposed that the commentary was Mr. Wells’s idea, not Mr. Shepard’s. That Mr. Wells was using pressure. That Mr. Shepard was the kind of man who would not accept pressure, would not be pushed around—a man, in short, who made his own decisions—and could be ruthless.”
“He plays tennis that way,” Mary said.
“Yes,” Heimrich said. “He does indeed, Miss Wister.”
But there had been something else—something equally revealing.
“I asked him if his wife used sleeping pills,” Heimrich said. “He reacted with—well, with a great deal of violence. But Mrs. Shepard had, talking to Mrs. Sibley the other evening, said something which could only mean she did take them. It isn’t a sin to. take sleeping pills, it isn’t disgraceful. Then—why the denial, why the violence? The assumption was obvious, naturally—a person under the influence of, say, nembutal isn’t likely to wake up when another person goes in and out of a room. So, without his wife’s knowing it, Mr. Shepard could have gone and returned—and killed once while he was gone and stabbed once, not to kill. So—”
There was silence for a moment. Then Barclay MacDonald said there still seemed to be a good deal of guesswork in it. Heimrich, who had closed his eyes, opened them.
“Now doctor,” he said. “There is, naturally. There often is. That’s why it seemed best to have Mr. Shepard take action. Now, of course, we know where to look for the rest.” He paused. “That’s quite often the case,” he said then. “One relies on character. Evidence sometimes has to be arranged.”
He sat for a moment longer, his eyes closed. Then he said that he thought he might go down to the beach and sit in the sun.
“That’s what I came for, naturally,” he said. He shook his head as he stood. “Peace in the sun,” he said, and then that he would see them. Then he went away, out into the sun, a very solid man, looking like any solid man.
“It seems—” Mary began, turning toward Barclay MacDonald. But then a boy in a red jacket came onto the porch and spoke Dr. MacDonald’s name in soothing tones. He reported a long distance telephone call. “Damn,” said Barclay MacDonald and got up. He looked down at Mary.
“You wait here,” he told her. “Right here.”
“Yes,” Mary Wister said. “I’ll wait, doctor.” He looked at her. “Give my love to the mice,” Mary Wister said.
She settled herself to wait in the sun.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Captain Heimrich Mysteries
Chapter
I
The lane is little frequented, except by those who live along it in three big houses. Half a mile north of East Belford, the lane diverges from the main road to Golden’s Bridge, which is itself no more than a secondary black-top. The lane, which is best known as Plum Lane, although it is variously designated, heads at first toward the west. But beyond the drive leading up to the Tinsleys’ big house, it turns north, and thereafter it wanders absent-mindedly. The Belfords live on it, two miles or so beyond the Tinsleys; the Robinsons are a mile and a half farther on. Beyond the Robinsons, the lane turns rather decisively toward the east and, after a few more miles of rambling, rejoins the East Belford-Golden’s Bridge road.
On a Wednesday morning in mid-June one may walk the length of Plum Lane and encounter no one. The rural mail carrier does not get to the lane until after noon; in the summer, Mr. Tinsley drives it, on his way to Golden’s Bridge and the station, only on Tuesdays and Thursdays. But there is no reason to walk it, since it is by far the longest distance between two points, neither of which has any particular significance. Nevertheless, a man did walk it that Wednesday morning.
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He entered the lane at the intersection nearest Golden’s Bridge, and so was going the long way around toward East Belford. He said afterward that he had entered the lane because he liked the looks of it, which was generally felt to be no reason at all.
And afterward, he insisted he could only guess at the time he had entered the lane, and guessed that it might have been eight-thirty or thereabouts. He had no watch, and when asked why, said that he had thrown it away two weeks before because it did not make any difference what time it was—not any more. If he told the truth, and if his guess was accurate, he had walked in the lane for more than two hours when he ran out of it. He ran up the Tinsley driveway, at any rate, at a few minutes before eleven. He ran hard; the leather of his shoes crunched hard on the gravel.
Mrs. Tinsley had driven into East Belford some time earlier to join a Garden Club expedition; Mr. Tinsley was in the garden in the field beyond the house, helping the gardener get the second planting of corn in the ground. But even from the distance, Mr. Tinsley could hear the pounding on the front door. It was violent, peremptory and, although there was a maid to answer the door, Mr. Tinsley stood up, absently wiping his hands on his gardening trousers, and listened. When the hammering at the door continued he said, “Now what the hell?” to the gardener, and went to find out.
The maid had reached the door before Mr. Tinsley, coming around the house from the field, got to a point from which he could see the man who had been pounding on the door. The maid was looking up at the tall man in front of her and before he heard anything, Mr. Tinsley saw her lift both hands to her head, pushing at her hair. She was so clearly upset, even frightened, that Mr. Tinsley began to run, although it had been years since he had run. The man heard Mr. Tinsley’s feet on the gravel and turned.
He was a tall, dark man, broad-shouldered, deeply browned. A canvas duffle bag hung by its straps from his left shoulder. His black hair was a hard brush on his head. At first, Mr. Tinsley thought he was in his middle thirties, but as he got nearer he realized that he was wrong by, probably, ten years. The man, for all the maturity of his body, in spite even of a kind of experienced readiness in his face—the man, seen closely, was almost certainly in his early twenties.
“Well?” Mr. Tinsley said, and went on toward the young man. “Why all the racket?”
The tall young man looked at Mr. Tinsley as if he were making up his mind about him. What came of this, his expression did not reveal. But then Mr. Tinsley saw that under one of the boy’s narrowed eyes a muscle was jumping so that the eye seemed, incongruously, to be winking.
“Well?” Mr. Tinsley said again. He raised his voice somewhat.
“There’s a body up there,” the man said, and jerked a thumb toward the lane. The voice was tight, hard; it occurred to Mr. Tinsley that the boy was doing his utmost to keep expression out of it. He was really very young, Mr. Tinsley thought, at the same time he listened, heard the hard young voice continue.
“In a ditch,” the boy said, moving down the two steps from the door to the drive, standing in front of Mr. Tinsley, looking down at him. “A girl. She’s been—” He stopped, and Mr. Tinsley could see him swallow. “She’s all cut up,” the boy said. “You’d think somebody’d used—” He stopped again. Again, Mr. Tinsley could see the movement in the hard young throat as the boy swallowed. There was something in the young eyes which met his, even while the disturbing winking went on, that sickened Mr. Tinsley. He found that he, too, was swallowing, needlessly; that for a moment his voice seemed to stick in his throat.
The maid made, then, a low, moaning sound and she was, Mr. Tinsley thought, about to scream. He turned to her; he made himself speak with reasonable calm.
“I’ll take care of this,” he said. “See what it’s all about.” The maid took her hands down; she had had them over her eyes. She looked at him. “You call the police,” Mr. Tinsley said. “The State police. It’s in the phone book. Tell them—” He stopped; he turned to the young man who was still looking down at him. “Where?” he asked.
The young man gestured again. He said, “About a thousand yards.”
“Up the lane,” Mr. Tinsley told the maid. “About—oh, about half a mile beyond our drive. Tell them that.”
The maid started to speak. She managed to nod.
“Tell them somebody’s been hurt,” he said.
She nodded again.
“All right,” Mr. Tinsley said to the boy. “Let’s see what this is all about.”
He started down the drive toward the lane, and the boy came with him. After the first few strides, Mr. Tinsley found it difficult to keep up. By the time they reached the road, he had to tell the boy to take it easy. The boy said, “Sorry, sir,” and slowed his pace a little. It was still a fast pace for a man of Mr. Tinsley’s years; for a man who, during the last twenty-odd of those years, had not been often required to hurry.
It had been hot walking down the drive; their feet had brought dust up from the gravel. It was cooler after they were in the lane, where the big ash trees grew on either side. There the road’s surface was only flecked with sunlight, and the flecks of light moved gently as the leaves moved. It was hushed in the lane, except for the birds talking in the trees. They were alien in the lane, Mr. Tinsley thought, hurrying to keep up. They were moving too rapidly; they were too insistent for the soft summer air, the dappling shadows. The tall youth still walked with long strides. As he walked, he looked about him with a kind of wariness; he looked from one side of the lane to the other, and seemed to walk tensely, although the actual physical movements were enviably relaxed.
They went along so for about ten minutes, not speaking. The young man seemed to have no desire for speech; Mr. Tinsley, who had grown plump in his fifties, had no breath for it. Then, just as they reached a bend in the road, the tall man slowed his pace.
“Around here, it ought to be,” he said. He looked down at Mr. Tinsley. “It’s a pretty nasty thing,” he said. “Maybe you—” But then he thought better of whatever he had been going to say, and walked on. Around the bend, he looked ahead, and to the right of the road, and then pointed and said, “There.” Then they went on, now down hill.
The rains had been heavy that spring, and on this slope they had washed gullies on either side of the lane. The body lay in one of the gullies. A yellow coat was over it, covering the face, reaching to mid-thighs. It was such a soft coat as women wear in the cool of summer evenings. It was streaked, now, with dirt.
“I did that,” the tall boy said. “You cover them when you can, you know.”
Mr. Tinsley had stopped a few feet from the body; he looked down at it. The boy waited for a moment. Then, when the older man did not move, he went to the body and crouched beside it. He waited a moment and then drew the coat away. He did this slowly, almost with tenderness.
The wounds in the naked body were hideous. But the face was unmarked. Mr. Tinsley saw the face, after a moment. He started to speak, but bitterness was in his throat, and he managed to move a few steps from the body before he vomited. The boy was not surprised; he nodded slowly, when Mr. Tinsley could look at him again. He drew the coat back over the mutilated body, but left the face uncovered.
“I know her, you see,” Mr. Tinsley said, and thought the words meaningless.
“Yeah,” the boy said. “It makes it worse, a little. To know them, that is.” He pulled the coat further up, so that the face was covered again.
“Her name’s Virginia,” Mr. Tinsley said. “Virginia Monroe.”
“Yeah,” the boy said. He stood up, then. He seemed, to Mr. Tinsley, to have changed suddenly. He had led, before. Now he waited to be led. There was a curious impersonality in this attitude; it was not, Mr. Tinsley felt, that the boy waited for Mr. Tinsley, a somewhat plumpish gentleman in his middle fifties, to assume leadership. It was rather that he waited for leadership, as an abstraction, to be assumed.
“We’ll just have to wait,” Mr. Tinsley said. “They’ll send somebody along.”
/> In spite of himself, he looked at the streaked yellow coat which was over the body, at the long brown legs the coat did not cover, the gay yellow shoes on the slim feet.
“The coat was over there in the weeds,” the boy said. “Wadded up. I didn’t see anything else. Any other clothes, I mean.”
“You were just walking along and—saw her?” Mr. Tinsley said.
“Yes sir,” the boy said. “Just walking along.” He seemed to wait for another question.
“Going to Belford,” Mr. Tinsley said. “East Belford, that is.”
“Not anywhere particularly,” the boy said. “Just walking. I came to this little road and liked the looks of it. That’s all. I wasn’t looking for—anything.”
“She’s been living in East Belford,” Mr. Tinsley said. “With her grandmother. She’s been coming for several summers to stay with Mrs. Saunders. And her sister.”
“Yes sir,” the boy said. He waited again.
“It’s a fiendish thing,” Mr. Tinsley said, and was surprised at the word he used. It represented, he realized almost at once, an obvious association of ideas; it reflected a cliché, from which horror had long vanished. Yet what had been done to Virginia Monroe was altogether fiendish. Mr. Tinsley shut his eyes, closing them against what the coat hid.
“It’s hard to take,” the tall young man said. “Gets you, the first time. Why don’t you sit down, sir?”
Mr. Tinsley was glad to turn his back, to walk across the lane, to go carefully across the eroded ditch on the far side, finally to sit on the bank beyond.
“When did it happen?” he asked, after a moment.
He realized that the flickering muscle under the boy’s left eye had been quiet for some time. Now it jumped again; now there was, again, the strange winking. At the same time the boy narrowed both his eyes, so that they became almost triangular.
“How would I know?” the boy said. His voice was harshly demanding. He moved a step toward Mr. Tinsley.
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