Dead Run

by RICHARD LOCKRIDGE

  He went to the three in front of the fire. Mary Cushing got up and motioned. Heimrich nodded his head and smiled at her and took the chair beside Joan Collins. After a moment, she lifted her head and looked at him. She wasn’t crying at the moment. She had been.

  “He’s dead, isn’t he? The man I saw. He’d have to be dead, wouldn’t he?” Her voice was almost steady.

  “Yes, Joan,” Heimrich said, “he’s dead. It was Sam Jackson—the man we introduced to you at dinner.”

  “I’m sorry,” the girl said. “I’m terribly sorry.”

  “We all are, Joan. Feel up to telling me what you saw? If you don’t—well, it can wait awhile, I suppose.”

  “I don’t think it will get any easier if I put it off,” the girl said. She turned in her chair to face the big man beside her. Michael let go her hands. He did so very slowly. The release was almost a caress.

  “It was this way,” Joan said. “I came up early. Right after you and Mrs. Heimrich left. I was tired and—relaxed, I guess you’d call it. From being in where it was warm. And dry, of course. After that awful rain. Is it still raining, Inspector?”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “It’s still raining. Not quite so hard, maybe. Michael didn’t come up here with you?”

  “I asked him not to,” she said. “I—I just wanted to go to sleep. And call Father first to tell him I wouldn’t get there tonight, and that I was all right. Before he started climbing walls. I told you he was like that, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, Joan. You said something about it. You called your father in New York and reassured him. Then?”

  “There was a fire burning. I sat in front of it—right here—for a few minutes. Then I went to bed. I went to sleep right away, I think. Then—”

  She had, she thought, slept only a short time. Not more than half an hour, probably. She wakened because she got too hot. “With the heavy blankets over me.” And there had not seemed to be any air in the room.

  She remembered, then, that she had forgotten to open a window before she went to bed. “I can’t ever sleep unless there’s air coming in.” She had parted the curtains at one of the windows, and pulled one sash up a little. She had thought cold, wet air would come rushing in. It did not. She raised the sash higher and, as she did so, looked out on the lighted parking lot.

  “A man came out. A tall man, wearing a heavy, short coat. He came out from the inn, I thought through the door from the barroom—the place where we all had dinner. He started to walk across the lot. Toward the street, I thought. He didn’t seem to be afraid to walk on the ice.”

  , Sam Jackson had been wearing heavy shoes, with ribbed soles such as Heimrich was now wearing, when he walked to his death. Walked confidently, it appeared. Heimrich waited. Joan had stopped speaking. She was no longer looking at Merton Heimrich. She was looking into the fire. When she spoke again, she seemed to be telling her story to the fire.

  “When he was about a third of the way across the lot, this car backed into him. Backed very suddenly. Its engine must have been running. It was as if—as if it had been waiting for him. Had known he was coming and been waiting. It hit him and knocked him down. I don’t think it ran over him. Not then. He seemed to be trying to get up.”

  The car—a big car—had backed around, and then gone forward. “It sort of jumped forward.” The big car had struck the tall man again. “This time it ran over him. Over—over his head, it looked like. And—just went on going. It had chains on, didn’t it? I heard them clanking.”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said, “the car had chains on. Could you tell what kind of car it was, Joan?”

  “It was a big car, I think. A big station wagon, it looked like. That’s what it was, I think. A big station wagon. And it didn’t have its lights on, Inspector. I think it turned them on just as it started to go out into the street. And then—well, then I began to knock on Michael’s door. Pounded on it, I guess. And to call to him. The door between my room and his, Inspector.”

  “I assumed Michael’s friend would be another boy,” Mary Cushing said, from a chair at the desk counter across the room. “You didn’t say, you know, when you called up about the rooms. If I’d known-—”

  “It’s all right, Mary,” Heimrich said. “No harm done. Made it easier for Miss Collins, actually. Michael had come up by then? Was in his room when you knocked on the door?”

  “I was there, Dad,” Michael said. “I’d just come up. Joanie was—well, in a sort of panic.”

  “With plenty of reason,” Heimrich said. “Notice what color this station wagon was, Joan?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. Dark-colored, I think. But it—it all happened so fast. It was so—unbelievable. It was—well, sort of all over before I realized it was happening at all.”

  “Things do happen like that,” Heimrich told her. “And, of course, with its lights off, you had no chance to see the license number?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought to look anyway,” Joan said. “I can’t pretend I would have. I’m not a very good witness, am I?”

  “Good enough, Joan. Better than most, matter of fact. The car stopped, I suppose. Before it went into the highway. After it turned on its lights. Did you see which way it turned? I mean, up or down. That would be north or south.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t watch, Inspector. I—I was trying to get to Michael. To tell him what I’d seen happen.”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “Was there more than one person in this car, could you tell?”

  She couldn’t. It had been dark in the car.

  “But it was your impression, your feeling, that whoever was driving backed into Sam Jackson deliberately? And then deliberately ran over him?”

  “There’s a lot of light in the parking lot,” Joan said. “Even with all the rain, it was bright enough. I don’t see how anybody could have missed seeing him. He was so tall. So—visible.”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “Sam Jackson was a tall man. Can you show me where this wagon was parked?”

  Michael helped the girl up from the chair. She didn’t appear to need help. She was obviously not averse to a consoling touch. Michael went with them to the window.

  “About there, I think,” Joan said. She pointed to a place about halfway between the taproom door and the street. “It was nosed up to the logs.” Logs formed a barrier between lot and what, in summer, was a flower bed. “It was all by itself. The other cars were parked nearer the door.”

  “Nothing on either side of it,” Heimrich said. “And you think the motor was running?”

  “It must have been. It backed up so fast. And I didn’t hear the starter going. And—wait a minute. I remember now. Fumes were coming out of the exhaust pipe. I could see them.”

  “Yes,” said Heimrich. “A wet, cold night like this, the exhaust would show up. One exhaust pipe or two, did you notice?”

  “I’m not sure, Inspector. If I had to guess, it would be two. It—it all happened so fast.”

  “You saw a lot, Joan,” Heimrich said. “You’re a very good witness. I suppose you haven’t any sleeping pills with you?”

  “Sleeping pills?” She spoke as of something obviously alien, unheard of. “I never have any trouble going to sleep.”

  Heimrich looked at Michael, who shook his head. He looked at Mary Cushing.

  “No, M. L. But I can have some warm milk sent up. Warm milk and aspirin.”

  “That’ll be fine,” Heimrich said. “You get some sleep now, Joan. You too, son. I’ll pick you up in the morning. Though it probably will be later on before the roads are safe. Even if it stops raining and the sun comes out”

  “A train?”

  “There’s a seven forty-eight. But that’s pretty early. And with the power off, it may not be running. We’ll see in the morning. All right?”

  She nodded her head.

  “So,” Heimrich said, “drink the milk Mrs. Cushing will send up to you and take the aspirins. And Michael will be right next door. And I wouldn’t lock the door, son. S
o Joan can get you if she needs you. Not that she will, of course.”

  “We hadn’t planned to lock—” He broke off.

  Heimrich did not appear to hear him. He said, “Sleep well, both of you,” and went out of the room and down the stairs.

  The body of Sam Jackson still lay on the narrow, hard sofa in the lobby. Heimrich was not surprised. The Cold Harbor hospital has only two ambulances. On a night like this, with driving conditions what they were, the ambulances would have more pressing duties than the removal of corpses. The dead are dead; the living may yet be kept so.

  The brightness in the taproom reminded Heimrich of a question he had forgotten to ask, and should have asked. When she went to open her bedroom window, had she turned on the lights? Or found her way by the flickering light of the fire? He paused before he went on into the taproom. Should he go back up and ask?

  If I had been waiting in a car for a man to back into, to run over outside an inn, I’d have looked up for a lighted window, Heimrich thought. For somebody who might be watching; for the silhouette of that person. Such a check would be only prudent. Maybe I’d better go back and find out.

  He decided not to. His reappearance, his question, would further frighten an already tense young woman, a girl who already probably would be tormented by ugly dreams. Michael was a strong and remarkably quick young man. He would be in the next room and the door between the rooms would not be locked.

  Probably won’t even be closed, Heimrich thought, and went on into the taproom.

  Chapter 4

  When he went into the taproom, everybody in it looked at him. Expectantly? Heimrich thought so. At a glance, he thought that all who had been asked to wait had waited. No. The couple dressed for a party were no longer at their table. Joe Shepley, the barman, was still behind the bar. He stood up when Heimrich went over to the bar. He said, “Something, Inspector?” in the tone of a man who rather hoped there wouldn’t be.

  “The man in the dinner jacket,” Heimrich said. “And the woman with him. They—didn’t wait?”

  “They’re staying here,” Shepley said. “For the night, anyhow. Gave up on the party they were bound for, what with the ice and everything. Name of Barkston. What it looked like, anyway. Signed for their dinner and drinks. Room Two-A. That’s the big one on the corner. Went up to it—anyway I guess they did—right after you and your son went up. Said to tell you they’d be around if wanted.”

  “Yes. When did they get here, Joe?”

  “Somewheres around seven, give or take. Asked Mrs. Cushing about a room. Said they were going to ‘give up on it.’ Way he put it. And could they use the telephone. Mrs. Cushing said of course they could. He used the one on the bar.”

  “You hear what he said?”

  “Couldn’t help hearing. Lot of people here by then, all talking. About what a lousy night it was, and whether their plumbing would freeze, mostly. Mr. Barkston, if that’s what his name is, had to speak sorta loud.”

  “Yes, Joe. Happen to hear who he was speaking to?”

  “Somebody named Amelia, way I got it. Told her where they were and that they didn’t think they could make it. Said something like, ‘We’d need a tank, dear, and we haven’t even got chains.’ Something like that. And that they were sorry as hell to miss the party. Then he said, ‘Just candles, dear?’ and something about it’s being a lousy break for everybody. Then he hung up and wanted to know if I knew how to make stingers.”

  “And did you, Joe?”

  “Sure. Hate to have to drink them myself, but I can make them. Each of them had two rounds before dinner. Wanted something called duck à I’ orange, Lucy says. She told them we didn’t run to that and they settled for roast beef. Wanted crepes suzettes for desserts and settled for apple pie. People from the city, I guess.”

  Heimrich said he supposed so, and thought briefly of the canard rôti à I’ orange he and Susan had had the summer before at the Gritti Palace in Venice and of the Soave Bolla they drank with it. He brought his mind back, sternly.

  He said, “Mr. Jackson got killed tonight. I suppose you know about that?”

  “Yeah, lugged him in, Inspector. Me and the Purvis kid. Smashed up bad, he was. And one hell of a nice guy, old Mr. Jackson was.”

  “Yes, he was a nice guy, Joe. This evening when he came in and sat over there, by himself.” He indicated “over there” with a gesture. “He often came in here alone for dinner?”

  “Pretty often. Way I get it, he sleeps over in his office every now and then. Specially in bad weather. His house is hell and gone from here. And nobody to go home to since his wife died.”

  Heimrich knew where Sam Jackson’s house was—a long narrow stretch of gravel road off Van Brunt Pass—and that it was not a house anybody would elect to drive to on an icy night. He also knew that Jackson had been a widower for more than ten years; had been a widower before Heimrich had first met him.

  “Tonight, Joe. Happen to notice who went out just before Mr. Jackson did? Maybe a quarter of an hour before—maybe half an hour?”

  “No, can’t say I do, Inspector. Not to name anybody. Pretty busy tonight from, oh, about half-past six on. Started to come in when it began to ice up. Even before the electricity went off. Knew it was going to, like always. Goddamn power company must stick them up with old chewing gum. The wires, I mean.”

  “Yes, Joe. When, about, did Mr. Jackson go out, would you say?”

  “About half an hour, maybe, after you and Mrs. Heimrich left, I’d say. Didn’t notice specially. We were still pretty busy. Lucy took him over a couple of brandies, and more coffee, I guess.”

  “He was alone at the table all the time?”

  “Pretty much, I guess. Just sitting there by himself. But, like I say, we were still sorta busy. I don’t remember anybody stopping by his table, but somebody could of, I guess. You see, Inspector, I didn’t know he was going to get himself killed. So there was no reason to keep watching him, was there?”

  “No, Joe. Nobody knew he was going to get himself killed.”

  Except for the driver, sex uncertain, of a big station wagon, make unknown, waiting in a parking lot.

  Heimrich turned with his back to the bar, facing those still sitting in the barroom, still waiting out the storm. Heimrich knew most of them; most of them were, to some degree, neighbors. Heimrich could assume all of them—about a dozen now, mostly in pairs—knew what had happened. He told them, anyway. Sam Jackson had been knocked down and killed while he was crossing the parking lot, presumably on his way back to his office on the other side of Van Brunt Avenue.

  “Apparently,” he said, “somebody backed out without looking. Backed into Mr. Jackson. Didn’t report what had happened. Maybe didn’t even know he’d hit anybody.” (It was a version. There was no point in making it hard for people; in asking them to, possibly, betray a friend.) “Chances are it was somebody who’d been here and decided he could make it home. The point is, did any of you notice who went out before Sam did? Ten minutes before? Maybe longer than that before? Could be he had trouble getting his engine running. Had it going just when Sam went out.”

  They all looked at him, and there was nothing Heimrich could see in any of the faces turned toward him. Most of them shook their heads. For a minute or so, nobody said anything. Then Bill Aldridge, first vice-president of the Van Brunt First National Bank and Trust Company, said, “Damn shame. Great old guy, Sam was. We counted a lot on old Sam. He was the lawyer for the bank, y’know, M. L. Had been for years. Back to the time old Orville ran things there.”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said, “Sam was a swell guy.” Orville, for which read Orville Phipps, hadn’t been. He had got himself killed, more or less because he wasn’t.

  “A loss to the community,” Roy Perkins said. “An irreparable loss.” He had a just perceptible difficulty with “irreparable.” He might, Heimrich thought, have even more difficulty driving on the ice outside.

  With it started, half a dozen more paid tribute to the memory of that swe
ll guy, Samuel Jackson. But nobody could put a name to anyone who had left the taproom a few minutes before Jackson had gone out. Somebody thought maybe the Kramers had. But somebody else was pretty sure Robert and Alice Kramer had left much earlier. A few minutes after eight, the somebody thought. Kramer had said to his wife that things weren’t going to get any better and that they might as well have a crack at it.

  “Anybody know what kind of car hit him?” Aldridge wanted to know. “Anybody see it happen?”

  “Seems to have been a station wagon,” Heimrich said, and let it lie there.

  “Not the Kramers, then,” Aldridge said. “They’ve got a little Chevy.” He didn’t add that he knew because the bank was financing the little Chevy. He didn’t particularly need to.

  “All right,” Heimrich said, when tributes had all been paid, or agreed with by nodding heads. “No reason to keep you people here any longer. If any of you remember anything that might help, let me know.”

  Heads nodded again, but nobody showed any immediate intention of venturing out onto the ice. It was a night to postpone.

  Suddenly, there was the sound of a siren outside. It was hitting the interrupted notes of an ambulance siren. Then there were sounds from the lobby, and a dozen heads turned in the direction of the sounds. Somebody in the lobby said, “Got it?” and some other man said, “Yeah,” and then, “Sure mashed him up, didn’t it?” Nobody answered that, and they could hear the outside lobby door close.

  One couple stood up and the man got heavy coats off a rack and they put the coats on. The show was over. Exit victim; exit audience. Others got coats.

  Before any of them reached the door to the parking lot, the door opened and a trooper in uniform came in. Just inside the door he stopped and, more or less, came to attention.

  Before he spoke, Heimrich said, “Evening, Purvis.”

  Corporal Asa Purvis, New York State Police, said, “Inspector, sir.” Purvis was a stickler for formality. He somewhat spoiled it by adding, “Sure is a lousy one, isn’t it?” Nobody quarreled with that.