Dead Run

by RICHARD LOCKRIDGE

  “They haven’t got hold of Lieutenant Forniss, Inspector,” Purvis said. “Still trying. Too damn bad about Mr. Jackson.”

  Heimrich agreed it was too bad about Mr. Jackson. He said, “Glad it was you on tonight, Asa. Could be it’s a lucky break.”

  Purvis said “Sir” with a suggestion of inquiry in the word.

  “Come along inside,” Heimrich said, and led the way into the lobby. Mary Cushing was behind the desk. She was sorting checks. There were two chairs in the small lobby, in addition to the now-empty sofa. There was a bloodstain at one end of the sofa. Heimrich sat in one of the chairs, and gestured Purvis toward the other.

  “We’re looking for a station wagon,” Heimrich said. “A big one, apparently. Probably dark-colored. The one that ran over Mr. Jackson. Can you think of a likely one, Asa?”

  “It’s pretty vague, Inspector. We don’t know the make?”

  They didn’t know the make.

  “Just generally,” Purvis said, “there could be twenty around here. You mean here in the village, sir?”

  “Anywhere around here, I’m afraid.”

  “Could be a hundred, counting in Cold Harbor,” Purvis said. “Could be twice that, sir. Damn near everybody around here’s got a wagon. Almost as many as’ve got a Volks. Dad must service about a dozen. Wagons, I mean.”

  Asa’s father owns PURVIS’S GARAGE, TWENTY-FOUR-HOUR WRECKING SERVICE. And also gas and oil and tire service. Tune-ups a specialty.

  “He’ll have a list of the owners,” Heimrich said. He said it as a statement, but Asa Purvis said, “Sure,” and then added, “Yes, Inspector, sir.”

  “Somebody may bring a wagon in for service tomorrow,” Heimrich said. “Banged-up rear end, could be. Maybe even tonight, but I doubt it. Probably early tomorrow, when the roads thaw off. If they do.”

  “Rain’s letting up,” Purvis said. “Get some sun tomorrow and the roads ought to be all right. Except where trees have fallen on them. Couple of big branches down on the road between here and Cold Harbor, but you can get around them. Won’t do anybody much good to go around tonight. Both the wreckers out. Saw that when I came through. Dad’s probably on one of them.”

  It was, of course, a night for wrecking trucks to be attending wrecks. And for Jeremiah Purvis to be on one of them, although Jeremiah was well into his sixties.

  “Yes, Asa, probably wait till morning. If a banged-up wagon shows, we’ll want to know where it was last night. And who was driving it, naturally.” He paused. Should he have Corporal Purvis stay at the inn overnight? On the second floor, outside the rooms occupied by Joan Collins and Michael Faye? Just in case? Maybe.

  “Tell you what, Corporal, suppose you scout around outside and see what you can find. A car starting up, or back, suddenly—a car with chains on it—would tear up the ice some. Got a camera in the cruiser?”

  “Yes, Inspector.”

  “Might get shots of anything you think would interest us. Scraped ice, before it freezes smooth again. Bloodstains and distances. Anything that might help a jury get the picture, O.K.? When you get that done, you might make a list of people around here who own big wagons. Go up to the garage, if you need to, and go through your dad’s records. Then come back here. Right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  They went out into the taproom. One couple was still there, with coffee and cognac glasses in front of them. They were both young; both, evidently, filled with the confidence of youth, the confidence that bad things, like sliding off roads into trees, only happen to other people. Particularly, of course, to older other people.

  Heimrich watched Asa Purvis go out of the taproom toward the parking lot. He got up and crossed to the inn’s desk. Mary Cushing was putting a rubber band around a packet of dinner checks. She finished that and looked up at Heimrich.

  “Michael and Miss Collins seem to be all right, M. L.,” Mary said. “She seemed about ready to go to sleep when I came down. And Michael was going into his own room. At least, he said he was. I mean——”

  “Yes, Mary, I know what you mean. Probably left the door open a little so he could hear her if she wanted anything.”

  “She seems like a nice girl,” Mary Cushing said. “Awful thing to happen to her, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, Mary. And Susan and I like her, too. Many people staying overnight here?”

  “Just Michael and Miss Collins and a couple from the city. On their way to a party, they say, and decided to give it up. Name of Barkston, Mr. and Mrs. Clement Barkston. And maybe those kids out in the taproom, if they ever make up their minds. The boy came in and asked about a room, and said they’d let me know.” She looked at the watch on her wrist. “About time they did,” she said. “He did say him and his wife, M. L. But I don’t—” She let it trail off.

  “All you can know is what they tell you,” Heimrich said. “And I’m not vice squad, Mary. About the Barkstons. Happen to notice if they left the taproom at any point while I was at home? To get something they’d forgotten out of their car? That sort of thing?”

  “Not that I saw. But I wasn’t around all the time. Had to go out to the kitchen to tell Leon we looked like having a late night. He yelled at me, the way he always does. Cooks who call themselves chefs!”

  Heimrich made sounds he hoped were consoling.

  “And then I went up to Miss Collins, of course.”

  “Tough on the Barkstons,” Heimrich said. “All dressed up to go to a party, and no way—no safe way, anyhow—to get there. A dressup party, apparently.”

  “Amelia Lord’s, M. L. Asked me if I thought they could make it, and I had to tell them it would be bad going, the Lord house being on the top of a hill and all. Bad break for Mrs. Lord, too. First party she’s had since—”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “Since her husband was killed last summer.”

  “That’s right. Since that Kemper woman shot him. They used to give a lot of parties, way I get it. We catered one of them. Must have been fifty people at it Theater people, most of them. Anyway, they acted like it.”

  Heimrich did not ask how “theater people” acted. He knew Mary Cushing well enough to know she was as conventional as her overdone meat. But, also, the late Burton Lord had been a theatrical producer, and a very successful one. His parties might have been expected to attract people of the theater.

  “That couple out there,” Mary said. “They’d better make up their minds if they’re ever going to. I’m going to tell Joe to close the bar. And tell them if they want a room they’ll have to register and go take it. Don’t they know people have to sleep? Even people who run inns? What do they think we are?”

  Heimrich did not hazard an answer. “People who have elected to supply other people with food and lodging” might have been an answer. It was one there was no point in making. Heimrich said he wouldn’t know. His tone agreed that people are unreasonable. He said, “Like to use your telephone, Mary.”

  He used the telephone to call the barracks. He told the duty sergeant to give up on Lieutenant Forniss for the night; in the morning ask the Lieutenant to come down to Van Brunt, to the Old Stone Inn. “I’ll join him there. Tell him about nine will be all right.”

  Mary Clashing was going into the taproom when Heimrich turned from the telephone. Probably, he thought, to tell the young couple to make up their minds. And Joe Shepley to close the bar. He sat down again to wait for young Purvis, so vigilantly a corporal of the state police.

  The couple who had lingered in the taproom came out of it into the lobby, and Mrs. Cushing came with them. She went behind the desk and they stood in front of it and registered. She said, “Two-B. Just turn left at the top of the stairs. I’m afraid there isn’t anybody to help with your bag. We usually close earlier. The boy’s off now.”

  “Perfectly all right,” the young man said. “We realize this hasn’t been a usual evening. You do serve breakfast?”

  “From eight to nine thirty,” Mary said. “Here’s your key, Mr. Jones.” She put a just percep
tible emphasis on the word “Jones.” It was clear to Heimrich that Mary Cushing still had her doubts. But a good many people are named Jones. Some are named Doe, come to that.

  The couple went up the stairs, the man carrying a single light overnight case, the girl only a large handbag.

  Mary said, “Well?”

  “Nothing more tonight,” Heimrich said. “I’ll just wait for the Corporal. You better turn in, Mary. I’ll be back in the morning, probably. But nothing more tonight.”

  Mary said, “All right, Inspector,” making it formal, and went up the stairs.

  Young Purvis was taking his time about it, Heimrich thought. A very thorough boy, Purvis. Probably planned to end up as head of the New York State Police. Or of the FBI, possibly.

  Heimrich heard footfalls from the taproom. At last. Should he leave Purvis to keep an eye on things for the rest of the night? He still hadn’t made up his mind. Almost certainly there was no real need to. Send him back to the substation. The state police would need all the troopers they could lay hands on, a night like this.

  It was not Asa Purvis who came into the lobby from the taproom. It was Joe Shepley. He was carrying a tray with a bottle on it and two small brandy snifters.

  “Thought you’d closed for the night, Joe,” Heimrich said.

  “Have, Inspector. But the people who were going to a party decided they needed a nightcap and phoned down for it. Martell, he said, and to bring the bottle.”

  He started up the stairs.

  “As long as they’re still up,” Heimrich said, “I may as well have a word with them.”

  He followed the barman up the stairs.

  Barkston had loosened the collar of his soft dress shirt, a moderately pleated dress shirt. His wife was sitting by the fire in a softly green robe.

  Barkston opened the door. He said, “Right over there, if you will.” He indicated a table next to his wife’s chair. Then he looked at Heimrich and raised his eyebrows.

  “Inspector Heimrich, state police,” Heimrich told him. “Only keep you a minute or so. About what happened here tonight. As long as you’re both still up.”

  Clement Barkston was, at a guess, in his late fifties. He was somewhat stocky; his gray hair was rather long and had been styled with care. He merely nodded his head toward Heimrich. He watched Joe put the tray on the table. He said; “Thank you,” and signed the check Joe gave him. He put two dollar bills on the check and handed the money and the check to the barman. He said, “Sorry to bother you. You were probably just closing up.”

  Joe said, “Thank you, sir, no bother at all, sir,” and went out of the room.

  Barkston said, “Yes, Inspector? Care to join us? I can get a glass from the bathroom.”

  Heimrich said, “No, thanks, Mr. Barkston. Just one or two minor points. About Mr. Jackson’s death.”

  Barkston had supposed it would be that. The boy who’d brought their bags up had said something about it. But they didn’t know anything about it.

  “We were just going to a party,” Mrs. Barkston said. “But it got so bad we began to wonder. There didn’t seem to be lights on anywhere but here. So we stopped. We thought somebody might know how things were on up.”

  “And were told they were worse, if anything,” her husband said. “And decided to give the party up and stay overnight. Came up rather early. Missed the whole thing, actually.”

  “And glad to,” Mrs. Barkston said, and half turned to face Heimrich. “Beautiful” would be the word for her, Heimrich thought. Younger than her husband, but probably only by a few years. But still beautiful. And, somehow, a little familiar. Heimrich felt he might have seen her before. Or seen a picture of her. Then it seeped into his mind—Elaine Bentley. Several years before he had seen her acting at a theater on 45th Street. He and Susan had seen the play together. Her name had been in lights above the name of the play. “Elaine Bentley in—” He couldn’t remember in what. It hadn’t mattered much. Elaine Bentley had mattered a lot. They had both agreed on that

  When he is working, Merton Heimrich’s face is usually unrevealing. There is no comment visible on it to the answers he gets to questions; none when he asks the questions. Neutrality of expression is part of his job. But this time, a little to his surprise, his face had been revealing.

  “Yes, Inspector,” Elaine Barkston said, and smiled at him. There was great warmth in her smile. “I am. Used to be, anyway. And it’s pleasant to be remembered, Inspector. You get to feeling that everybody has forgotten. Wondering, really, if anybody ever knew.”

  “Yes, Miss Bentley,” Heimrich said. “People knew. And I’m sure thousands remember.”

  She said, “Thank you; You’re a darling, really.”

  Heimrich tried to adjust his mind to this new role as “darling.” He became conscious that he was smiling widely at the woman in front of the fire—smiling idiotically, no doubt.

  Barkston crossed the room—the large room; Mary Cushing had provided her best for them. Responding, Heimrich supposed, to a dinner jacket and an evening dress. Barkston joined his wife in front of the fire. He poured into the brandy snifters. He looked up at Heimrich and said, “Sure you won’t?” and, when Heimrich shook his head, “You wanted to ask us questions?”

  “Only a few. Mr. Jackson was hit by a car in the parking lot. Possibly by someone who had just gone out from the bar and was on his or her way home. Mr. Jackson was a tall, rather thin man. He was sitting at a table near the wall. By himself, far as we can learn. He had gray hair. Was wearing a dark business suit. Either of you happen to notice him?”

  “I did,” Elaine Barkston said. “He looked sort of—lonely, I thought. But a good many people seemed to know him. And he did stop at your table, didn’t he? It looked, oh, like a family group. Then a very pretty child with long hair came in. Your daughter, Inspector?”

  “No. A friend of my son’s. You thought Jackson looked lonely, Mrs. Barkston?”

  “If I wanted to look lonely, waiting for somebody who didn’t come, I’d have looked the way he did. Tried to, anyway. But perhaps he always looked that way.”

  Sam Jackson hadn’t, but it was nothing that needed going into.

  “Did either of you notice somebody going out just before he did?”

  “Can’t help you there, I’m afraid,” Barkston said. “He was still sitting there when Elly and I came up. Wasn’t he, dear?”

  “Yes, I’m sure he was. Sitting there and drinking coffee and looking disconsolate. But maybe I’m just imagining that, Inspector. Not that he was still there. But the way he looked. I do imagine things, I’m afraid. Make up scenes to go with expressions. Facial expressions, I mean.”

  “Yes, dear,” Barkston said. “Look, Inspector, from the way you go about this, I take it this wasn’t just a traffic accident? You seem to be implying that somebody went out of the bar and got into a car and waited for this man Jackson to come out so he could be run over. Is that what you think happened?”

  “We think it’s a possibility,” Heimrich said. “We try to look into all possibilities. After you came up here, to your room, you didn’t have occasion to go down again? To get something you’d forgotten out of your car, maybe? My wife and I often have to do that.”

  “No, we came up here and stayed here. Didn’t go down to the car and run anybody over. Just sat here and talked about poor Amelia’s party, which probably was a washout. Iceout, really. And decided to have cognac sent up. And you came with it, didn’t you?”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “What kind of car is yours, by the way?”

  “Mercedes, Inspector. And it’s right down there, getting ice all over it. You can always look at it and see if it’s got dents in it from hitting a man. Somebody see a man get hit by a Mercedes?”

  “No, Mr. Barkston. Seems like the car that killed Mr. Jackson was a station wagon. Have your drinks. The ice probably will have melted off the roads by tomorrow.”

  “You mean we can go back to town? That you won’t want to ask us more questio
ns?”

  “I shouldn’t think so, Mr. Barkston. Not in what people call the foreseeable future.” He started for the door and stopped and turned back. “You’re not acting anymore, Mrs. Barkston? The theater must miss you.”

  “No,” she said. “I’m retired for good. The theater will make do, I suspect. And you’re really a sweet man, Inspector.”

  Heimrich went then. Corporal Purvis was waiting in the lobby. He had got pictures. “You were right about the car having torn up the ice, Inspector. Looks as if the car—well, just jumped backward. Chains really ripped the ice up.”

  The taproom was dim, all lights off except one over the bar. Joe Shepley was washing glasses.

  Yes, Samuel Jackson often came to the inn in the evenings. Two or three times a week, actually. Sometimes just for a drink; sometimes for dinner. You could, Joe guessed, pretty much call him a regular customer. Particularly in the winter when the weather was bad. “He lives to hell and gone, Inspector.”

  So did Heimrich. He told Purvis to check with his father about big, dark-colored station wagons and to get a list together of people who owned them and come to the inn with it in the morning.

  Heimrich went out to the Buick. The rain had stopped, finally. The wind was as strong as before. But now it was coming from the northwest. You could see the sky, now. There seemed even to be a few holes in the clouds.

  Chapter 5

  The sun came up late, which was in accord with the calendar; it came up bright, in accord with the forecast of the U.S. Weather Service. The Heimrichs got the forecast, dimly, on a battery radio. The New York Times, that Tuesday morning, the day before Christmas, did not come up at all. The boy who delivered it to the house above the Hudson, must have been iced in like everybody else.

  It had not been a restful night for Susan and Merton Heimrich. Sleeping with clothes on on a mattress in front of a log fire which needs frequent replenishment is not a comfortable way to sleep. Heimrich had slept in snatches, between putting more logs on. Once he had had to go out into the breezeway to wrench logs from the frozen pile. It was no longer a galeway, with the shift of the wind to the northwest; it was no longer wet. It was, however, even more slippery underfoot. The iced logs sizzled disconsolately before, finally, they caught. But, by then, only scattered clouds hurried across the sky.