Death by Association

by Frances Lockridge

  “I didn’t mean that,” Mr. Tinsley said. “For God’s sake, man! I thought—” He hesitated. “Thought you might know,” he said. “Roughly, I mean. If you touched her to make sure.”

  “Make sure?” the boy repeated. “You saw her, sir. But—she’s cold, if that’s what you mean.”

  “That’s what I meant,” Mr. Tinsley said. “All I meant.”

  “Some time last night, at a guess,” the boy said. “Rigor’s started. You could see that.”

  Mr. Tinsley had not been able to see that. Nevertheless, he nodded.

  “They ought to be here before long,” he said then. “They’ll want to talk to you, you know. What’s your name, by the way?”

  “Gates,” the boy said. “Timothy.” He spoke quickly, almost automatically.

  “You’re not from around here,” Mr. Tinsley said. It occurred to him, instantly, that he did not know at all that Timothy Gates was not from around there. “Or are you?” he asked.

  “No,” Gates said. “I’m not.”

  Whether he was about to add something else did not appear, since at that moment he turned his head, as one does listening. After a second, Mr. Tinsley also heard the still distant sound of a siren. He knew, from the direction of the sound, that the car which was crying its approach was still on the East Belford-Golden’s Bridge road. But after a moment, he could tell that the police had turned into the lane. The siren continued to sound, presumably from force of habit. The sound, which carried uneasiness with it, even on a bright June morning, reverberated from the gentle hills of northern Westchester County. Mr. Tinsley stood up. He went back across the gully and stood in the lane. He felt, a little vaguely, that one owed so much to murder.

  Absently, as he waited, he looked at his hands. For an instant he was shocked, almost frightened, to see that his fingers were deeply stained. Then he remembered that, half an hour or so ago, he had been putting seed corn, black-brown with the coal tar of a crow repellent, into warm earth. He rubbed his hands absently on his gardening trousers as he waited. He did not have long to wait.

  A car brought two uniformed State troopers. A motorcycle brought a third. The siren of the car died as the car stopped, brakes going on hard. Troopers got out of it on either side; the third trooper remained astride his motorcycle. The two troopers from the car walked over to Virginia Monroe’s body. One squatted and pulled the yellow coat away. He said, “Jeeze!” in a sick voice and then, “Bad as a smash-up, isn’t it, Ted?” Ted, who was wetting his lips with his tongue, merely nodded. The first trooper replaced the coat. He stood up and faced Mr. Tinsley. He looked at Timothy Gates.

  “All right,” the trooper said, “let’s have it.”

  Mr. Tinsley looked at the tall boy, watched the muscle under the left eye twitch.

  “I found her,” Gates said. “I was walking along here and—saw her. I found the coat and put it over her. Then I went along to this gentleman’s house”—he indicated Mr. Tinsley—“and somebody there telephoned. This gentleman and I came back.” He paused a moment. “That’s all I know,” he said.

  “Just walking along,” the trooper said. “Just happened to see her. Never saw her before.”

  “That’s right,” Gates said. “That’s the way it was.”

  “O. K.,” the trooper said. He turned to Mr. Tinsley. “It was your house he came to?” he asked. “House back up the road?” He indicated with a thumb.

  “Yes,” Mr. Tinsley said. “One of the maids telephoned you.”

  “You name’s Tinsley, then,” the trooper told him, and Mr. Tinsley nodded.

  The trooper turned back to Gates.

  “Timothy Gates,” the tall boy said.

  “Sometime, maybe, they’ll learn to lock these people up,” the trooper said. “Keep them locked up.” He turned toward the third trooper, who still sat astride his motorcycle. “Want to call the sergeant?” he asked. “Use the phone at Mr. Tinsley’s house.” He looked at Tinsley and said, “O. K.?” Mr. Tinsley nodded.

  The trooper kicked at his motorcycle; it answered explosively. He half rode, half walked, it in a circle and went away violently, dust spurting behind.

  “I’ll have to ask you gentlemen to wait until the sergeant gets here,” the trooper said. “He’ll want to talk to you. Particularly to Mr. Gates, of course. Has to make reports, you know.”

  “I should think,” Mr. Tinsley said, mildly, “that we might as well wait at the house. Mr. Gates and I, that is.” He smiled. “Neither of us is going to run away, of course,” he said.

  The trooper hesitated only a moment. Then he nodded, then he said, “Sure.” Then he said, “Matter of fact, I may as well run you back. Ted can stay here.”

  He ran them back along the quiet lane, up the sunny whiteness of the graveled driveway. He watched them go into the house. He swung the car in the turnaround, then, and cut the motor. He waited there, the radio in the car talking to him. As his car stood, it blocked egress from the Tinsley drive.

  Mr. Tinsley noticed this through a window of the long, cool living room into which he had led Timothy Gates. He did not mention it when he turned back from the window, looked, for the first time thoughtfully, at the tall young man. Gates wore what Mr. Tinsley took to be army slacks, and a blue polo shirt, with a lightweight windbreak over it. He had dropped the duffle bag in the hall. He was, viewed thoughtfully, a powerful young man. His face no longer twitched, but his eyes were narrowed, again forming triangles. He stood quietly, and Mr. Tinsley thought he looked very ready.

  “I could use a drink,” Mr. Tinsley said. “You’ll have one?”

  “Go ahead,” Gates said. “I know how you feel. But I guess not, for me, sir.”

  Mr. Tinsley went to the portable bar, opened it, and made himself a bourbon and soda, with little of the latter. “You’re sure?” he asked, as a host should, turning toward the young man. Gates had gone to a window and was looking out. From there, Mr. Tinsley thought, he can see the police car. Gates turned as Mr. Tinsley spoke and said, “No thanks, sir.” He turned back into the room, then. Mr. Tinsley sat down; he motioned toward another chair. After a moment of hesitation, Timothy Gates sat in it.

  “Could be I’m in a jam,” Gates said. He seemed to speak as much to himself as to Mr. Tinsley.

  “I don’t see why you should be,” Mr. Tinsley said. “You did all you could.”

  “Don’t you?” Gates said. “O. K., sir. Maybe I’m not. But it looks to me like I am.”

  “She was dead when you found her,” Mr. Tinsley said. “Had been for hours. Hadn’t she?”

  “That’s right,” Timothy Gates said. After a moment he said again, “That’s right.” Then he said, “Whoever did it was a psychopath, wouldn’t you say? Some kind of a crazy sadist?”

  “I’m afraid there isn’t any doubt of that,” Mr. Tinsley said, unwillingly remembering the slender, outraged body. What he remembered showed in his face.

  “She was a nice kid,” Timothy Gates said. “I mean from the way she looked.”

  Mr. Tinsley wondered, for an instant, whether “nice” was precisely the adjective one would most quickly apply to Virginia Monroe. But then he said, “Oh yes.” It seemed inadequate.

  “Both families have been around here a good many years,” he said. “The Monroes. The Saunders. Her father was an ambassador, you know.”

  “No,” Gates said. “I never saw her before, sir. Never heard of her.” He spoke quickly, with emphasis. “I just liked the looks of the little road and decided to see where it went. You know how it is.”

  Mr. Tinsley didn’t. Nevertheless, he nodded over his drink.

  “I’d sort of forgotten there were little roads like that,” Gates said. “Nothing’s happened to the trees. A guy doesn’t have to—” He stopped. “Well,” he said, “there it is, sir.”

  He was relaxed in the chair, now. Long legs were extended. For a moment he looked even younger, not older, than Mr. Tinsley thought him to be.

  And then the boy spoke again.
/>   “You know, sir,” he said, “I wonder if I could have a glass of milk? I had sort of an early breakfast.”

  They had more than that, after Timothy Gates had had as much, and drunk it thirstily. They lunched on the terrace, in the shade; this time Gates accepted a cocktail. They did not talk again of what the boy had found in the lane, or of a “jam” or of the police car parked so as to block egress from the drive. They talked about growing vegetables, and about this young Gates seemed to know a good deal, although he expressed surprise that Mr. Tinsley was only now, in June, getting in his second planting of sweet corn. From this, Mr. Tinsley deduced that Timothy Gates had done his gardening farther south, and began to listen for traces of the South in Timothy Gates’s speech.

  It was a little after two in the afternoon when a sedan turned into the drive. The smaller police car backed to give it entrance. The trooper got out of his car and joined two men in civilian clothes and talked to them. This Timothy Gates and Mr. Tinsley could see from the terrace. Then the two men in civilian clothes—solid men with solid faces, one taller than the other—walked with the trooper across the lawn to the men on the terrace. As they approached, Timothy Gates stood up. He seemed to draw himself together.

  “Good afternoon,” the shorter of the two solid men said, as he stepped from the lawn to the flagged terrace. “I hope I haven’t kept you waiting.” He closed, momentarily, eyes which were intensely blue. He re-opened them. “This sort of thing takes a little time, naturally,” he said. “A very shocking thing.”

  He regarded the two.

  “You’d be Mr. Gates,” he told Timothy. “We’d like you to tell us what happened, naturally.” He nodded, briefly. “My name’s Heimrich,” he said. “State police officer.”

  “I don’t know what happened,” Timothy said. “I mean, it’s clear enough, isn’t it? All I know is—”

  “Now Mr. Gates,” Heimrich said. “Now Mr. Gates. You found Miss Monroe’s body. I understand that, naturally.”

  “I’ll tell you anything I know,” Timothy Gates said. “It isn’t much. Ask any questions—”

  “Of course,” Heimrich said. “Suppose we go along then.”

  “So,” Timothy Gates said, and his young voice was hard again. The muscle under his left eye jumped again. “So that’s the way it is.”

  “Now Mr. Gates,” Heimrich said. “Just into the village. We don’t want to impose on Mr. Tinsley indefinitely.” He closed his eyes and almost at once re-opened them. “It isn’t any way, particularly,” he said.

  “You’re welcome here,” Mr. Tinsley said, and began to realize that this dreadful, but still interesting, thing was fading away from him. “I mean, to talk to Mr. Gates here, if you’d like.”

  “Naturally,” Heimrich said. “I realize that, Mr. Tinsley. You’ve been very cooperative. However, it might be more convenient in the village.” He paused. “For everybody,” he said.

  Chapter

  II

  GREAT AND ANCIENT trees grew on either side of Main Street, East Belford. Behind the trees, set deep in smooth lawns, were big white houses. There was little traffic at first on Main Street, as they came in from the north, but the police car moved slowly, the taller of the two solid men driving it, the other—whose name was Heimrich—sitting in the rear beside Timothy Gates. The pace of the police sedan seemed to reflect the pace of the town, to conform to unhurried peace. The young man beside Heimrich looked out of the car. As they passed one of the big old houses, two small old ladies came down the walk from it, side by side. They wore such hats as one does not commonly see.

  “A nice little place,” Heimrich said. “You’ve seen it before, Mr. Gates?”

  Gates shook his head.

  “Like a little New England village, gone astray,” Heimrich said. “A little unreal, naturally. It’s off the main road, you see.” He paused. “The main road to anywhere,” he added. “You were coming here, Mr. Gates?”

  Gates looked at him, now. Heimrich’s eyes were closed. It was as if the quiet of the little town, which seemed to doze in the afternoon sun, had lulled this solid policeman near to sleep. But then Heimrich opened his eyes, and they were not sleepy.

  “Not particularly,” Timothy Gates said, “I’m just—” he paused. “Batting around,” he said. “Not going anywhere. I don’t suppose you believe that, Sergeant?”

  “Now Mr. Gates,” Heimrich said. “Why not? It’s captain, by the way. Not that that matters.” He closed his eyes. “Of course, it pays better, naturally,” he added, in a tone of abstraction.

  “Captain,” the tall young man said. “I suppose you’ll grab on to me. Makes it easy.”

  The young voice was hard. There was contempt in it; there was also a kind of resignation. The contempt seemed to be impartial; it might, Heimrich thought, include almost everything, past and future, of which Timothy Gates knew.

  “Now Mr. Gates,” Captain Heimrich said mildly, as the car moved slowly south on Main Street, between ancient trees and the white houses behind them. “There’s nothing to be gained by that, you know.”

  “By what, then?” Gates asked him, and asked as if he anticipated a reply.

  Captain Heimrich of the division of criminal identification, New York State Police, sighed audibly.

  “I’m from nowhere, going nowhere,” Timothy Gates said. “I’m a big guy. There’s a funny muscle in my face that keeps jumping, so there’s strain somewhere. Your pet psychiatrist’ll spot that. I come along with a story about finding this girl’s body. So, I’m up the creek.”

  He did not speak rapidly, or loudly. But there was violence in his voice. There was also bitterness in it.

  “All right,” Heimrich said. “Did you kill the girl, Mr. Gates?”

  “No,” Gates said. “She was dead when I found her. Whenever that was. I haven’t got a watch.”

  “No?” Heimrich said.

  “I threw it away,” Gates said. “It was an all right watch, but I threw it away. It didn’t make any difference what the time was.”

  “That was an impetuous thing to do,” Captain Heimrich said, and his voice expressed no surprise. “You could have pawned it. Or sold it.”

  “I’ve got some money,” Timothy Gates said. “Won it in a crap game just before—” He stopped. “Before I went on the bum,” he said. “Said, ‘The hell with it’ and started going nowhere.” He looked hard at Heimrich, whose blue eyes regarded him. “What else do you want?” Timothy Gates demanded. “Don’t say I’m not making it easy for you.”

  “Now Mr. Gates,” Heimrich said. “Are you, do you think?”

  The car stopped at a red light; at East Belford’s only red light. The block beyond was a block of stores, all white, all restrained, looking rather like East Belford than like themselves—A. & P. and First National, Rexall and Grand Union, at one with East Belford Hardware and Handy’s Men’s Shop in reticent façade, withdrawn dignity.

  But on the sidewalks here there were little groups of men and women—young women in slacks, clutching small children; business men in ties and jackets, grocery clerks in white aprons, neat and elderly ladies, for the most part in twos. A man in gardening clothes got out of a Cadillac and a man in a business suit called to him, “Hey! D’ ja hear about—” East Belford was hearing about it; East Belford was vibrating with it.

  The light changed. The car went through the block, between cars parked diagonally. At the next corner, the car turned left. It went down a hill.

  Timothy Gates had only shrugged an answer. He had looked out of the window, fixedly, at the groups on the sidewalk in East Belford’s shopping block. The shrug had been curt. After the car had turned, he continued to look away from Captain Heimrich, although now there was less to see. There was the two-story brick building of the East Belford Advance; there was the East Belford Builders’ Supply. At the bottom of the hill there was the Italian-American Grocery. The car crossed a railroad track, the steel rails bright where the wheels of cars polished them at the intersection, elsewhe
re filmed with rust. There was not much to see; Timothy Gates kept his eyes intent on what there was. Captain Heimrich regarded Gates.

  The car went part way up the hill beyond the tracks, turned right for half a block, went up a driveway to a white house. There was a neatly lettered sign hanging from the porch roof: “New York State Police, Substation, Troop K.”

  “Well,” Heimrich said, “here we are, Mr. Gates.”

  They walked, three big men, Heimrich leading, across the porch and through an open door. The room inside was divided by a rail. A uniformed man who had been sitting behind the rail, at a desk, stood up and said, “Good afternoon, sir,” to Heimrich. To the other policeman he said, “Hi-ya, Sergeant.” He merely looked at Timothy Gates.

  “This gentleman found the body,” Heimrich said. “You got an office free, Townsend?”

  Townsend had. He showed it to them. It was small, held a desk, two wooden chairs, a bench.

  “With you in a minute, Mr. Gates,” Heimrich said. Gates went into the office and Heimrich closed the door and left him alone. Gates sat on the bench, by the window, which was open, which was only a few feet above the ground outside.

  Heimrich was more than a minute. He was a quarter of an hour. Then he came in, alone, and sat at the desk.

  “Where do you come from, Mr. Gates?” Heimrich asked.

  Gates hesitated. Then he said, “Chicago.” Heimrich closed his eyes and waited a second or two. Then he repeated, “Chicago.” Then he said, “Have you some form of identification, Mr. Gates?”

  Gates put a hand in his trouser pocket. He brought it out and opened it above the desk. Metal tinkled on the desk top. Heimrich picked up, examined, a Marine Corps identification disc. It bore the name Timothy Gates, a serial number, the letter “O,” the letter “T” followed by a date. Heimrich put it down on the desk and closed his eyes again.

  “I’ve sweated it out,” Gates said. “I’m a civilian since a few weeks ago.”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “Where were you, Mr. Gates?”

  “Where you’d think,” Gates said. “Korea, Captain.”