Heimrich opened his eyes, looked at Gates, closed his eyes.
“Now,” he said, “tell me about finding poor Miss Monroe.”
“I was walking along,” Gates said. “I saw her. There were flies. I covered her up and went to find somebody.”
“Naturally,” Heimrich said. “But let’s begin a little earlier. Let’s begin with last night, Mr. Gates. Where were you last night?”
“In some bars,” Gates said. “In New York. Then in Grand Central.” He stopped. He was told to go on. When he did not, after a moment, Heimrich opened his eyes.
“I’m listening, Mr. Gates,” he said. “You realize the account is—bare.”
“What good will it do?” Gates asked him.
“I don’t know, naturally,” Heimrich said. “How can I, Mr. Gates? But, go ahead.”
Gates considered. Then he went ahead. He stopped often, each time as if he had completed what he had to say. Each time he did, and after a moment, Captain Heimrich opened blue eyes, said, “Go on, Mr. Gates.”
There was not much to it, even so. He had been in New York a couple of days, staying at a hotel, which he named. He had got tired of being in New York, of being at the hotel. He had checked out.
“I’ve been batting around for a couple of weeks,” he said. “Doing what I wanted to do, or thought I wanted to do. With nobody to say, ‘This is what you do, Sergeant. This is when you get up. This is where you go to be killed, maybe.’” Then was one of the times he stopped, was asked to go on.
Well, he had checked out of the hotel. He had bought the clothes he had on, except for the slacks, which had been uniform. He had bought the duffle bag and put into it—
“Where?” Heimrich asked him. “The bag, I mean?”
“Abercrombie’s,” Gates said.
Heimrich opened his eyes briefly at that; closed them again.
Gates had checked two suitcases of “stuff” at Grand Central.
“What I wanted was to get out in the country,” Gates said. “Away from the noise, from a lot of people. I just realized yesterday afternoon that was what I wanted to do, so what the hell?” He looked at Heimrich, and waited for the very blue eyes to open. When they did, Gates said, “So I’m nuts. I asked you what good it would do.”
“I remember,” Heimrich said. “Go on, Mr. Gates.”
“I didn’t kill the girl,” Gates said. “Nuts or not.”
“Now Mr. Gates,” Heimrich said, and his voice sounded tired. “We’ll come to that, naturally.”
Gates waited a moment. Then he went on. He had clothed himself for the country, checked his suitcases, and only then realized that he had “fouled it up.” He did not know where he was going. That did not matter. But wherever it was, he stood now to arrive late in the evening—too late for anything, except to make a groping search for lodging. So, he had decided to have a few drinks, and dinner, and think it over.
He had, looking for places for which he was dressed, as he was dressed then, walked east. He had found a bar, and after that another. He had eaten some place. He had found another bar.
“Usually I don’t drink much,” he said. “Not that much, anyway.”
It had been after midnight when he had gone back to Grand Central. Probably, it had been a good deal past midnight.
“Did I tell you I threw my watch away?” he asked. “Sure I did.”
Heimrich nodded.
He had gone to sleep for a time, on a bench. Nobody had bothered him. At about six he had had some breakfast and felt better, and looked for a train. He had looked on the lower level. There were few trains leaving at that hour, and one of them was a Harlem Division train to Brewster. Gates had looked at the list of stations and one of them was Golden’s Bridge.
“I read it Golden Bridge,” Gates said. “It sounded—interesting.”
Heimrich nodded.
Gates had bought a ticket to “Golden Bridge.” (To the end of the rainbow? Heimrich wondered.) He had reached Golden’s Bridge, which is a station and a few stores, at a little after eight. He had walked south. He had—he could not say when—come to the lane and entered it, and walked through the morning, slowly, going nowhere. He had found the girl.
“I thought I’d got away from that sort of thing,” he said. “I’ve had my share of it.” He paused. “I hoped I had,” he added.
“Yes,” Heimrich said. “Naturally. You were a sergeant, Mr. Gates?”
The tall boy nodded.
“You came back on rotation?”
He nodded again.
“Having done your hitch?”
“That’s right,” Gates said. He hesitated. “I volunteered, by the way,” he said. Then, unexpectedly, he reddened. “A hell of a thing to boast about, isn’t it?” he said.
“No,” Heimrich said, “I don’t think it is, particularly. You weren’t in a hospital? Back here, I mean?”
“No,” Gates said. “I stopped one a year or so ago, and they patched me up. In Japan, that was. But—” He stopped abruptly. He spoke again, abruptly. “They didn’t find out I was nuts,” he said. “That’s what you mean, isn’t it?”
“Now Mr. Gates,” Heimrich said. “Now Mr. Gates.”
“When was she killed?” Gates asked. “Or do you sit on that?”
Heimrich’s eyes opened wide. He seemed surprised.
“Why should I?” he said. “I don’t often sit on things, Mr. Gates. Some time after midnight. Before—say three o’clock.”
“I don’t remember the bars,” Gates said. “Not by name.”
“No,” Heimrich said. “I don’t suppose you do, naturally.”
“So it’s no good,” Gates said. “I told you it wouldn’t be. So why don’t you get on with it, Captain?”
“Now Mr. Gates,” Heimrich said. “I’m not planning to arrest you. I suppose you mean that? Not now. Why should I?”
“Who else?” Gates asked him.
“I don’t know, naturally,” Heimrich said. “Not yet. How old are you, Mr. Gates?”
“What?” Gates said. Heimrich did not repeat. “Twenty-three,” Gates said.
Heimrich nodded, his eyes closed.
“And from Chicago, you say?” he asked. “Where in Chicago?”
“North side,” Gates said. He paused. “That’s close enough,” he said. “I haven’t been back since I got out.”
“Your parents?” Heimrich asked. “They live in Chicago?”
Gates hesitated again.
“My parents are dead,” he said. “Even if they’re—if they weren’t, I’m not going to—” He stopped. Heimrich waited. “They’re dead,” Gates said.
“All right,” Heimrich said. “They’re dead. Is Timothy Gates your full name? No middle name?”
“Timothy Gates is all.”
Captain Heimrich stood up.
“I’m not going to arrest you, Mr. Gates,” he said. “But, I’m going to ask you to stay around. For a day or so, probably. You’ll do that?”
“Have I a choice?”
“Now Mr. Gates,” Heimrich said. “There’s no need to go into that. There’s an inn here. A very pleasant little place, I’ve been told. As good a place as any for a few days since, as you say, you’re not going any place in particular. You have money, you say?”
“Enough,” Gates said. He stood up, too. “O. K., Captain,” he said. “Aye, aye, sir.” He half smiled for an instant.
“On Main Street,” Heimrich said. “We passed it coming in.”
“I’ll find it,” Gates said.
“Do that, Mr. Gates,” Heimrich said. Gates moved toward the door. “By the way, Mr. Gates,” Heimrich said. “Don’t be impetuous, will you?”
Gates turned.
“I didn’t go out the window, did I?” he said.
“I noticed that,” Heimrich said. “Naturally.”
He watched Gates go. After a few minutes, he went to the door and said, “Come in a minute, will you, Forniss?”
The tall man who had driven the car came into th
e office and closed the door after him.
“Marine Corps,” Heimrich said. “Recently discharged. It needs checking, Charlie. The place of enlistment, particularly. He says Chicago.”
“O. K.,” Sergeant Forniss said.
“I doubt it was,” Heimrich said.
“All right,” Forniss said. “I’ll get on it. He’s a jumpy sort of guy, isn’t he? Does he fit?”
“Now Charlie,” Heimrich said. “How can we tell? Yet? We don’t know anything yet.”
The room in which Captain Heimrich waited was large, but yet seemed to have little space available. Heimrich had moved into it with caution, he sat now in a fashion to diminish himself as much as he could manage. He held elbows to sides, sat erect in his chair and kept his knees together. He was nagged by the conviction that any considerable movement would almost inevitably result in disaster.
The movement of his right hand, for example, could hardly fail to prove fatal to at least one of two lovely, but evidently fragile, vases which perched, all too ready for flight, on the smallish top of a fragile table. Any unconsidered gesticulation of his left hand would evidently demolish a china lamp which had paused, but surely could not intend to remain, on a piecrust table which teetered charmingly on tiny feet. If he crossed his legs, a glass peacock would surely lose its glittering tail. Captain Heimrich took shallow breaths, looked up and down the long room, and concluded that there was no safer place to sit. There were many places; the room did not lack chairs, nor small sofas, nor silk-clad ottomans. There was no dearth, either, of small tables, or of lamps, or delicately colored small boxes; there was a plenitude of candlesticks, from most of which glass ornaments dangled prettily. The walls were by no means bare of pictures.
The interesting thing, Heimrich thought, clasping his hands in his lap, was that all of these objects had beauty; there was nothing he could see, including the glass peacock, which was not in itself pleasing. Nor was there, among these objects—objets, Heimrich substituted—any lack of harmony. It was really a very beautiful room. It did not, however, seem planned for the accommodation of people. The maid who had showed him into the room fifteen minutes before had, he remembered, seemed to hold her breath as she opened the door; she had looked at his solid bulk uneasily.
Heimrich sat opposite a door in one of the long sides of the room, having, after one glance around, taken the chair nearest. He did not, now, quite understand how he had gone even so far without disaster. The door opened and he stood up, with slow caution.
The girl who had pushed the door open, stopped in the doorway, wore a dark suit. She was slender, high-shouldered, for a woman rather tall. She had a broad forehead and dark brown hair, cut short, softly curling. Her brown eyes were wide apart, rather deeply set, and her mouth was wide. Her face was quiet as she stood for several seconds, looking at Heimrich.
Then she said, “Captain Heimrich?” and, when he nodded, said, “I’m Liz Monroe. I’m afraid my grandmother isn’t well enough to see you.”
“I’m sorry,” Heimrich said.
“She’s very old,” the girl said. “In her eighties, you know. This is a bad day for her. I thought perhaps I—” She ended the sentence there, but without hesitation. She did not, Heimrich decided, believe in useless words.
“Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry, naturally, to have to bother anyone at such a time.”
“Of course,” the girl said. The girl looked around the room. “I think the library will be better,” she said. “This room is—difficult. So many generations of things.” She looked at Heimrich, who nodded. She turned and went out into the hall, walking erect, moving with grace, slim of hips. Heimrich followed her across the hall to another room. It was better. He breathed more deeply.
She walked to a table at one end of the room, turned to face him, leaning back on the table; putting both ringless hands on the table. Her hands were slender, too; long-fingered.
“How can we help?” she asked him. She held her head back, looking up. The line of chin and throat was very clear, very young. He was dealing with youth that day, Heimrich thought. The boy; now with this girl. The other girl had been young too—young yesterday, today old as all death.
“I don’t know, Miss Monroe,” he said. “Elizabeth Monroe?”
“Liz,” she said. “Just Liz. Why don’t you know?”
“Now Miss Monroe,” he said.
“Sit down,” she told him. He looked at her. “I’m all right here,” she said. He sat down, facing her.
“This man who found Virginia,” she said. “A tramp, was he? Didn’t he—” she hesitated for a moment—“isn’t he the one?”
“I don’t know,” Heimrich said. “Not yet, Miss Monroe.”
“It could have been anyone,” Liz Monroe said. “Isn’t that true? Any woman—any girl. A waitress from the Inn. Helen from the book shop. Any woman who was there, in the dark? It wasn’t Virginia because she was Virginia?”
“I don’t know yet,” Heimrich said. “That’s the way it looks, of course.”
“A sadist,” the girl said. “Someone—horrible. Paul told me. He—he saw her, you know.”
“Paul?” Heimrich repeated.
“Dr. Crowell,” she said.
“Oh yes,” Heimrich said. “Dr. Crowell did see her, I believe.”
“Then—” she said, and moved one hand abruptly, with a kind of impatience. She was, Heimrich thought, under great strain, which was natural; almost in shock, which was natural, too. She was trying to hide it from him, from herself. The young did that. She should not be undergoing this. Unfortunately, there was no alternative.
“Probably it was as you think,” he told her. “This might have happened, as you say, to anyone who was there. But, we have to try to be certain, Miss Monroe. You see that, naturally.”
“I suppose it’s your job,” she said. Her voice was deep. Strain edged it.
“Yes,” he said. “My job. Tell me about your sister, Miss Monroe.”
“She was twenty-six,” Liz Monroe said. “She was beautiful. She was—” Liz hesitated. “She was on top of the world,” Liz Monroe said. “She was always on top of the world.”
She looked at Heimrich intensely. Her face was pale under tan. Her hands, holding the edge of the table against which she leaned, had tightened on the wood, so that the knuckles showed white.
“She would have fought to stay alive,” Liz Monroe said. “I suppose she did?”
“We can’t tell about that,” Heimrich said. “Not yet. Perhaps we’ll never know, naturally. Tell me more about her, Miss Monroe.”
Virginia had been the older of the sisters by almost four years. She had always been the beautiful one, the favored one, the one on top of the world. Liz did not phrase it so. The implication was there, in tone, in the expressions of a mobile face.
Their mother had died when Liz was two; their father two years later. It had been between the wars; they had been living in Europe, then. “My father was Herbert Monroe,” Liz said. “An ambassador. You know?”
Heimrich nodded. That he had known.
“We grew up here,” Liz said. “With grandmother. Mother’s mother, of course.”
Their father had left very little. That had not greatly mattered, since Mrs. Saunders had much, would have much to leave. The girls had gone first to the district school, later to boarding school. When she was eighteen, Virginia had started training as a nurse.
“Why?” Heimrich asked. He looked around the big room. His look said, “With all this?”
“She wanted to be on her own,” Liz said. “Take hold of her own life. She always did. Perhaps she wanted to do some—service. I’m afraid I don’t know, Captain.”
He waited.
“We were not particularly close,” she said. “Not as I suppose sisters usually are. We’ve never been much alike. She was always—always ahead of me.” She paused for a moment. Now she seemed to be looking beyond Captain Heimrich. “In everything, I suppose,” she said. Then for several moments sh
e said nothing more. Heimrich merely waited. She said, then, “I’m sorry. Where was I?”
But she remembered without help where she had been, and went on. Virginia Monroe had completed her training, been graduated as a nurse. She had not, however, practiced as a nurse. “Oh,” Liz said, “she may have had a case. Perhaps two.”
She had found something she liked better. Through a friend, Liz thought; through someone she had met. She had become a photographer’s model, and then she had gone to live in New York. That had been, Liz thought, about five years before.
“Grandmother considered it scandalous,” Liz Monroe said, and she smiled faintly. “Not ladylike. And what would people think? I don’t know that they thought anything, particularly. Perhaps grandmother’s friends, but no one else. Grandmother’s friends are very old ladies.”
When photographers went on holiday in the summers, when advertising agencies enjoyed modified siestas during New York’s heat, Virginia Monroe had spent much time in East Belford, in the big white house behind maple trees on Main Street. Penina Saunders’ disapproval of her granddaughter’s profession had not changed that. “It’s our home, of course,” Liz said. “And grandmother is very sweet.”
She paused after that. She said, “Do you want all this?” and, when Heimrich nodded, “Why?”
Heimrich closed his eyes.
“I don’t know, naturally,” he said. “Not a precise reason, that is. People are killed because of who they are, what they are. We have to find out a great deal.” He opened his eyes. “We waste a good deal of time, of course,” he said. “We have to expect that.”
“But my sister wasn’t,” Liz Monroe said. “Killed because of who she was, I mean. We agreed on that.”
Heimrich closed his eyes again.
“Now Miss Monroe,” he said. “Did we? That it could have been that way, naturally. But that it was? We don’t know that, yet, do we? Go on, anyway, please.”
She didn’t, she said, know what more he wanted. This year, Virginia had come up late in May. She had not, of course, spent all her time in East Belford. She had been in and out of New York; she had gone to Long Island with friends for a week end. She had kept her New York apartment—she always kept that. But the white house in East Belford had been her center.
Death by Association Page 23