Dead Run

by RICHARD LOCKRIDGE

  “There was a sort of clunk sound,” Michael said. “Why I thought it had hit a tree.”

  The big ash, which partly shaded the terrace from the summer sun, seemed probable as a stopping place for a bullet. It would have been in line with the knoll and the two standing on the terrace to watch the beginning of the sunset. Tomorrow, they could look at the tree for a place to start digging. It was too dark for that now; too dark and too cold. They went back into the house.

  From the Larkin land, Heimrich thought, warming himself in front of the fire. But not by a Larkin. For one thing, the Larkins—Oliver and Olive Larkin, and their twelve-year-old son, Oliver, Junior—were in Florida, where they always were this time of the year. For another, Larkin was a notably mild man, not one likely to take potshots at his neighbors. And Oliver, Junior, would be allowed only an air rifle, if that. Oliver, Senior, had strong views on gun control. He notoriously wanted all firearms, including hunting weapons, licensed, if they could not be banned. He was not popular with the local chapter of the Riflemen’s Association.

  Larkin, whom Heimrich knew only slightly, probably hired somebody to keep an eye on the house during the annual migration to warmth. Palm Beach, wasn’t it? Larkin was not a Miami Beach type. Fort Lauderdale? It didn’t matter. From mid-December until mid-March, not Van Brunt. And somebody to check the house, to see that the furnace hadn’t conked out and left the house to freeze; somebody to see that vandals didn’t break in. But not, probably, to live twenty-four hours a day in the house, and to guard it against possible trespassers. Anybody, probably, could walk up the drive to the Larkin house, and go around it to the knoll. Or drive up to the house and carry a rifle from the car.

  Or the caretaker could have had a shot at a woodchuck, always fair game for country people, and fired high. Except that woodchucks were sleeping in their burrows at this time of year, hibernating deep and warm, as sensible animals should in winter.

  Almost time for before-dinner drinks. Entirely time for a shower. If electricity had been on long enough to heat the water; if Susan and the kids hadn’t used up the hot water, outrunning the heater.

  Under the shower, which started out hot enough, Merton Heimrich continued to speculate. It couldn’t be more than speculation. There wasn’t much substantial to go on. Somebody with a rifle. Somebody who was a fairly good shot; somebody, fortunately, who allowed for lead time. But how had this somebody known that Joan Collins and Michael Faye would go out onto the terrace on so cold and blowy a day to look at the sun declining behind the highlands beyond the Hudson River? No answer to that one.

  The hot water suddenly turned cold. He’d got ahead of the heater. Or somebody had turned on the hot water somewhere else in the house.

  Merton Heimrich got out of the shower.

  Somebody had merely taken a chance; had just been hopeful. Somebody, then, who had felt a great need to kill. To silence. That was almost certainly it. Somebody who thought Joan Collins, looking out a window of the Old Stone Inn, had seen more than she had seen and had thought that no chance was too slim to take to see that she did not live to testify. And no exposure too arduous to be endured. The afternoon’s wind would have been as harshly cold on an aspiring murderer as on a victim.

  Somebody who knew the lay of the land and where to find a vantage point overlooking the terrace. Which meant almost any local. Or any past visitor at the Larkins’. Or anybody who had used the footpath along the ridge—the footpath which skirted the Larkin land and the Heimrich land, and, come to think of it, the Jackson land. The footpath which began where NY 109 ended, and ran north from there for three or four miles along the high land above the Hudson. A pleasant walk in the summer, with a chance of cooling breezes. On a day like this, with the wind high and the sunlight ebbing, a rather brutal walk; one to be taken only in an emergency.

  About four thirty, Michael thought it had happened. It had been a little after five when he and Forniss had found Bertram Friday sawing up a tree. Not more than a mile on the path. Plenty of time for a man in as good physical shape as Friday had seemed to be. And fifty thousand dollars is a pleasant amount of money. And the station wagon had been a convenient distance from Sam Jackson’s old house. It had not been too effectively hidden; he and Charlie Forniss had proved that. But if they had driven up the driveway from the pass half an hour later, sunlight would not have glinted from the wagon’s rear window. And the wagon could have been moved later to a less incriminating hiding place.

  Presumably it had been moved by now; was being driven, or possibly towed, to the barracks and the lab boys, to whom Christmas Eve was merely another evening and Christmas Day merely another Thursday. Heimrich dressed in indoor clothing and went out into the living room. The Christmas tree twinkled at him. Susan and the kids were sitting in front of the fire. Susan was wearing her newest, and favorite, pantsuit; Michael had on a white turteneck and a dark jacket. It almost looked as if he had dressed for dinner. And Joan was wearing a long skirt—a skirt, Heimrich noted, of many colors, all merging pleasantly to the eye. She wore a white jersey blouse above it Heimrich could see what Michael had in mind.

  None of them had glasses in front of them, although it was the time for glasses.

  “We waited for you, dear,” Susan said. “I’ll get them now. I was going to have the turkey tonight, only it’s still frozen hard as a rock. But I’m running cold water on the steaks to thaw them and they’ll be all right under the oven broiler. It’s too cold for charcoal.”

  She went to the kitchen, and ice began to tinkle.

  Heimrich sat down. Mite came and sat on him. Colonel, lying in front of the fire, turned a heavy head to look at him. He’s getting to be an old dog, Heimrich thought; for a Great Dane, a very old dog. With the wind in the northwest, the breezeway won’t be too bad. With power on, and the starter, it won’t take long to get the charcoal going. We’ll have to see Friday again in the morning.

  Probably I’ll have to drive over to Carmel in the morning. They’ll probably have visiting hours on Christmas Day. Not that that applies to me, of course. Peters won’t be at his office. He’ll be home with his family. On Christmas Day, nobody will be available.

  Susan brought the drinks—martinis in a shaker for herself and Merton; bourbon and water in glasses for Joan and Michael; Joan’s very pale. As ordered? Or was Susan being protective? It didn’t much matter; at the moment, relaxed by his shower, warmed by the fire, Merton Heimrich felt too eased for much of anything to matter. For the moment. But only for the moment. Sam Jackson was dead. Sam had been a friend. Heimrich’s concern was professional; it was more than professional. Sam had liked his martinis dry, very dry. He had made them so.

  Merton Heimrich sipped his own.

  “I’m afraid we’re giving you a bad time here in Van Brunt, Joan,” Heimrich said. “Letting you get chased off the road; getting you shot at. Van Brunt is usually more peaceful.”

  She was sure it was. “After all,” she said, “he didn’t hit me. There’s that. Or Michael.”

  She looked at Michael. She had a warm smile for Michael; an endearing smile. She reached a hand out and put it over one of Michael’s. She left it there. Kids aren’t self-conscious anymore, Heimrich thought, and felt a little like an intruder.

  “Anyway,” Joan said, “it’s a duty visit to my father. Stipulated by the court. He’ll climb walls because I don’t get there on time and, when I’m there, he’ll forget all about me. Oh, he’d have taken me to dinner. At a very good restaurant. But I wouldn’t really have been there, if you know what I mean. He would have been—just taking a daughter to dinner. His daughter, whose name is Joan. Not me.” She sipped from her glass. “I’m probably not making any sense,” she said. “Not any sense at all. Just making noises. Anyway, it’s nice here. Peaceful, really. When we’re not being shot at, that is.”

  There was a long pause. Then Michael and Joan started to speak at the same time. They both stopped and looked at each other. Michael said, “Sorry, baby.”

&
nbsp; “Nothing really,” Joan said. “I’m just trying to say that you and

  Susan are being very good to me, Inspector. And, I feel I’m—oh, horning in. Getting in the way. You were both surprised that I turned out to be a girl, weren’t you? Expected that the friend who was driving him down would be another boy. He didn’t tell you ahead, did he? Just sort of threw me at you. He’s like that, sometimes.”

  Susan didn’t really need telling what her son was like sometimes. She said, “If it was a surprise, it was a very pleasant one, dear. And you’re not horning in. There you were just making noises, Joan. You don’t have to, you know.”

  “All right,” Joan said. “It was a silly thing to say. I suppose I’m uptight a little. What with everything.”

  “You’ve got a right to be,” Michael said. “You’ve sure as hell got a right to be. This sniper, Dad. He was aiming at Joan, not at me, wasn’t he?”

  “I’m afraid so,” Heimrich said. “Unless you—” The telephone

  interrupted. Heimrich went across the room to answer it. He spoke his name; he said, “Yes, Charlie?” and listened. He said, “Flat out?” and, after a moment, said “Mmm.” Then he said, “Call it a night, Charlie,” and then, after a moment, “Yes, I know it does. Good night,” and replaced the receiver and came back to the fire and his drink.

  “Charlie and I came across a station wagon at Sam’s house,” he said. “It may be the one that forced you off the road, Joan. They’re taking it up to the barracks to look it over. It was more or less hidden when we found it. And Charlie says it was out of gas. Flat out. You know anything about this man Friday, Susan? Who worked for Sam?”

  “Only that he worked for Sam, and that his name is Friday. ‘My man Friday’ Sam used to say. Oh, and that he’s black. And that when Sam spoke of him it sounded as if he were fond of him.”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “Seemed to be fond of him. He left him money in his will. Quite a good deal of money.”

  Susan said, “Oh.”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “It’s a possibility. You run across him, Michael?”

  “If he’s the man who helps get the club courts set up in the spring, I have, sort of,” Michael said. “Just to know his name. Seemed like a nice enough guy. If it’s the right guy, that is. Unless I what, Dad?”

  Heimrich said, “Huh?”

  “You started to ask me something,” Michael said, “when you were saying it was Joan who was shot at. Unless I—and then the phone rang.”

  “Nothing,” Heimrich said. “Oh, unless you know something you haven’t told me about.”

  “No,” Michael said. “What would I know? I didn’t see this station wagon back into Mr. Jackson.”

  “No,” Heimrich said. “I’m afraid Joan was the target. Unless it was some goon shooting at random. At a rat, or something.”

  “It would have to have been a pretty tall rat,” Michael said. “Maybe aiming at something in a tree, I suppose. But you don’t think so, do you?”

  “No,” Heimrich said, “I’m afraid it was you two. Miss Collins, I’m afraid it was.”

  He finished his drink. He was, he realized, drinking faster than the others. There was no reason he should be. He wasn’t going any place, except, after a while, out to the breezeway to get the charcoal going. It would be cold in the breezeway; outdoor cooking was for summer; for terraces and patios and picnics. But steaks should be cooked over charcoal; his wife was about to be overruled.

  Susan had seen his empty glass. She emptied her own. She went to the kitchen and, again, ice cubes raided in glass. She brought the shaker back, and two freshly frozen glasses. Heimrich twisted lemon peel and rubbed the edges of the two cold glasses; he poured into them. She had, as always, made precisely two. He twisted the peel over the drinks, and tiny droplets of oil appeared on the surface of the liquid—appeared and disappeared. Merton and Susan Heimrich clicked their glasses together.

  “Picnic.” The word, which had entered his mind for some reason—of course, steaks broiled at picnics—remained in his mind.

  “Unless,” Heimrich said to Michael, “you were at this picnic of the Lords’ last summer. Saw something there.”

  “I wasn’t,” Michael said. “On the Fourth, I was playing tennis at the club. Finals of the men’s tournament. First round of eight this year. Heat waves discourage people sometimes. Lord did say something about my dropping around. Said he knew his father would be glad to have me. Something like that.”

  Michael had remained in Putnam County the summer before, while his parents were in Europe. He had got a summer job on the Cold Harbor Advocate, a weekly which, in the main, advocated right-wing Republicanism. Michael had been what amounted to a copyboy. He had not been, Heimrich gathered, particularly enamored of journalism as a possible vocation. He was still thinking of being a tennis pro, which would be more fun and would, he gathered, pay better.

  “If I had gone to this picnic,” Michael said, “what would I have been supposed to see? That would make somebody shoot at me?”

  “Nothing, I guess,” Heimrich told him. “Lord was killed at his picnic. Sam probably was there. Now Sam’s been killed. Two dead men. That’s the only connection. Not much of one, naturally. You know young Lord, then? Burton Lord’s son?”

  “Met him, once or twice. He’s Lord’s stepson, actually. His father was named Nolan. George Nolan, I think it is. Mrs. Lord’s first husband, way I get it. Former husband, anyway. Lord adopted Alan—”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “Mrs. Lord told me. You don’t know Alan Lord well, I gather? About your age? Is that right?”

  “I guess so, Dad. Junior at Cornell, I think he is. I’ve just—oh, met him around. Not often. I did go up to his place once. Some time last June, I think it was. They’ve got a tennis court. Like a lot of people with private courts, they have to fish for players. Good court, and Lord had a gardener or something to keep it up. Only it’s got tape markers, and you hit the line, any line, you get pretty weird bounces.”

  “You went just that once?”

  “Yeah. Way Alan put it, they ask guys once. If they turn out to be good, that’s the end of it. If the guy’s too bad, same thing. Four other guys around the day I was there. All bunnies.”

  A “bunny” to Michael is somebody who plays tennis badly.

  “So you weren’t asked back?”

  “No. Better competition at the club. Not that it’s all that hot. Oh, Ted Holcomb’s good enough, or almost. Anyway, we always seem to meet in the finals. Carried me to three sets on the Fourth. His serve conked out in the third, though. Broke him in the second game and after that he just—well, sort of wobbled. Third game

  I—”

  Tennis players are a little like golfers. They, too, tend to replay games vocally, particularly, of course, those they have won.

  “I take it,” Heimrich said, “that Alan Lord isn’t much of a player?”

  “In a word, lousy. No backhand at all, and you can murder his first serve. Nice enough guy otherwise, far as I know. Bit of a weirdo, from what I hear. Longhair type. But that’s all right. Some of the guys at Dartmouth let it grow long.”

  “Long enough to braid, some of them,” Joan Collins said. “And beards. You never saw such beards, Inspector. Dad says that, with all that hair, you can’t see their faces well enough to tell whether they’re still awake. He thinks that, most of the time, they’re not.”

  Collins, Heimrich noted, was always, formally, “Father.” Her stepfather was “Dad.”

  The conversation was wandering far from the subject, if there had ever been a subject. He put on a heavy coat and went out to the breezeway. Shivering only slightly, he poured charcoal briquettes into the bowl of the broiler and put the electric starter on the charcoal and poured more briquettes on top of it and plugged it in. He went, thankfully, back to the fire and his diminished drink. It was, certainly, cold out for outdoor cooking. But Susan had found a butcher who still had, at intervals, prime beef, and only charcoal could do justic
e to his steaks.

  Heimrich lingered over his second drink, giving the charcoal time. He got up once and propped the steak board in the fireplace to heat. When he finished the drink, he went to the kitchen door which opened on the terrace and looked out through its glass panel. The charcoal glowed red. Electric starters are admirable. When, of course, you have electricity. Much superior to lighter fluid, which often burns off, igniting only itself. Heimrich put his heavy coat on again, switched on the breezeway light and got the steaks. They were thick strip steaks, and not yet at room temperature, as recommended. Whatever “room temperature” is supposed to be.

  He went out to the breezeway and smoothed the glowing charcoal level. He lowered the grill so that it was only three inches or so above the coals. He put the steaks on and they sizzled. He stood to the lee of the broiler so that the heat would blow toward him—not that, now, the wind was more than a breeze on this side of the house.

  Fat dripped from the steaks and flared into flame on the charcoal and enveloped the steaks. Which, contrary to legend, would do the steaks no harm. When he decided it was time, he flipped the two thick steaks over. He went back into the living room and got the steak board, which ought to be warm enough by now.

  Outside again, he raised the grill until it was almost a foot above the fire. He took one of the fire-crusted steaks off the grill and laid it on the board. He and Susan liked their steaks rare. The kids had specified medium. Nice kids, for all that. He went back to the third drink, which he knew Susan would have ready.

  She had waited to pour them into refrozen glasses. Somebody, probably Michael, had resupplied the bourbon drinkers. “Must be cold out there,” Susan said. “I could have done them in the oven. I do them quite well in the oven, dear.”