“Yes,” Heimrich said. “Did Mr. Jackson ask you to testify to that, Doctor? That the person running was a male? Testify in court as an expert?”
“Asked me if I would, yes. If it came to that, he said. Told him I’d answer a subpoena if I had to. And that it would probably be damned inconvenient. Something about identity in a murder trial, I gathered.”
“You will testify, Doctor? If it comes to that? And have no doubt about your opinion?”
“No room for doubt, Inspector. No possible room for doubt. Simply a fact. The running person was a male. Yes, I’ll testify if I have to. But I’m a busy man, Inspector. Not too many bone men around here. Qualified ones, I mean.”
“You may not have to, Doctor. Things are a little up in the air, with Sam Jackson dead. But somebody may be in touch with you.”
“I hope not, but all right. Anything else, Inspector? Because I’ve got a couple of feet to do. Man fell off a roof and landed on concrete. Right side up. Preparing him now, they are.”
“Nothing else, Doctor. And thanks.”
Dr. Theodore Dent said, “O.K.,” and hung up.
Merton Heimrich leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes again. No identification established, but one placed in doubt. Jonathan Peters wouldn’t be happy about that.
Had Sam got more? Enough to make his death necessary for someone? Or had he merely guessed? After all, his purpose was only to get a client off, not to get somebody else on. The last was a job for the police—the New York State Police and, specifically, Inspector M. L. Heimrich and Lieutenant Charles Forniss. And what was keeping Charlie? Was the iceman freezing up on him?
He opened his eyes and said, “Yes, Charlie?” and Forniss came into the room and pulled a chair up in front of Heimrich.
“This Crystal Clear Ice Corporation,” Forniss said. “Sizable company it turns out to be. Offices and plant in White Plains. Got its vending machines all over Westchester and Putnam counties. Even some over in Jersey. Yeah, they keep records. Took a while to look them up, but they’re not very busy now. Slack season, with the weather what it is.”
Heimlich said, “Naturally.” Even Susan would admit that, this time, the word fitted.
“Last Fourth of July, they were busy as hell. The way they work it—”
The way they worked it was that they rented space for the ice vending machines. In shopping centers they rented space, like any other merchant. At gas stations, it was often on a commission basis, the station owner getting a percentage of the take. Heimrich, of course, knew how the machines worked. There was a slot for coins—quarters, preferably, but nickels and dimes accepted. No pennies. The customer poked coins in the slot. Fifty cents a bag. “Twice what it was a few years back, as what isn’t?” Properly fed, the vending machine groaned and gurgled and, with a thump, laid an egg, its egg being a heavy, insulated bag of ice cubes.
The customer opened a compartment in the base of the machine, which the coins had unlocked, took out his bag, took it home, and iced his drinks.
The vending machines were numbered. The one at the Gulf station between the Lord place and Cold Harbor was G-1905. It had been filled from the truck at around eight o’clock on the morning of the Fourth of July. The money accumulated from the previous day’s sales had been removed.
Since the day was hot, and the Fourth of July, G-1905 had been checked again in the early afternoon. “Probably about one thirty, they think.” Twenty-five new bags had been added, and the deposited coins removed.
The Sunoco station farther down the road had also been checked twice. It had only needed twenty bags for a refill.
At the shopping center on the outskirts of Cold Harbor, the company had two machines. They had been checked three times each on the Fourth of July. More bags of ice had been added each time. “In other words, none of the machines was allowed to run out of ice,” Heimrich said.
“They’re firm about that, M. L. They regard it as a public service. ‘Does the power company run out of electricity?’ Way the guy I talked to put it.”
“And you told him, yes, every now and then, I suppose?”
“Didn’t think of it, M. L. Just thanked him and hung up. They were cooperative, I’II say that”
Heimrich agreed they had been. Probably had to go and nudge awake their computer; ice venders’ computers probably hibernate during winter months.
Heimrich stood up. He said, “Looks as if we’ll have to badger Mrs. Lord again, doesn’t it, Charlie? And her son, who’d rather be called Nolan.”
The sun was bright outside the barracks, and it was warming things up a little. The temperature was above zero—five above. The wind had died down a little. There was almost no ice left on the roads. As, driving south on NY 11F, they approached Hawthorne Drive, Forniss slowed down, and set the blinker for a right turn.
But Heimrich said, “No, Charlie. Let’s go on down to Cold Harbor first. Talk to a barber. Maybe a couple of barbers.”
Forniss switched off the direction indicator and continued down n-F. A car, running too close behind them, blared indignation at this change of mind, and passed still grumbling angrily. It shot ahead. “Ten over the limit,” Forniss said. “At least ten, maybe twenty.”
“At least twenty,” Heimrich said. “But we’re after bigger game, aren’t we?”
In Cold Harbor, 11F became Main Street. There were two barber shops on Main Street. Forniss pulled up at the first. They went in. There were four chairs in the shop, but only one barber. He was running clippers over the head of a plump man in his late sixties or early seventies. It was obvious that he had given up on hair; the barber was clipping him bald.
Reaction to the present trend, Heimrich supposed, not without sympathy. The three unattended chairs represented the trend.
The barber said, “Good morning. Be with you right away.”
There was a row of chairs along the wall of the shop. Nobody was sitting in any of them. Heimrich and Forniss sat and waited. The barber zipped the last of the stubble off the man’s plump head and whisked off the cloth covering him— He brushed the plump man carefully and took two dollar bills from him and said, “Thank you, sir.” The plump man went out of the shop and the barber said, “Every week he comes in. Before it gets a quarter of an inch long.” He smiled a welcome at Heimrich and Forniss but looked a little surprised when they both stood up.
“Just a couple of questions,” Heimrich said. “A young man named Lord one of your customers?”
“Mr. Alan Lord?”
“That’s the man, Mr. Barnes.”
“BOB BARNES BARBER SHOP” was what it said on the window.
“Not Barnes,” the barber said. “Been dead for years, old Bob has. I’m Nat Curtis. Yes, the Lord kid comes in every couple of weeks. When he’s around, that is. Way his father used to do. Burton Lord, his father was. He’s dead too. Some woman shot him at a picnic they were having. Used to produce plays, the old man did. What I hear, anyway. Had a good head of hair, Mr. Lord did. And sort of particular about the way it was cut. Remember one time—”
“Yes, Mr. Curtis,” Heimrich said. “About young Mr. Lord. He’s been coming in for some time?”
“Six months, maybe. Usually Mondays. Tuesdays sometimes, though. What’s all this about young Mr. Lord?”
“State police,” Heimrich said. “Inspector Heimrich. Just checking up on something.”
“Law now against getting your hair cut, Inspector? Damn if it don’t look like there is sometimes. One law the kids seem to obey, damn it to hell.” He scowled at the unattended chairs. “Few years ago there were three of us here, and not more than keeping up. Four on Saturdays. Now, hell, I twiddle my thumbs half the time. Morning, Mr. Isaacs. Be right with you.”
The last was to a tall man with a good deal of black hair who had just come into the shop. The man said, “Morning, Nat.” He sat down on one of the chairs and picked up a magazine. The magazine was Popular Mechanics.
“It’s still legal to get your hair cut,” Heim
rich said, looking at his own in the mirror. By his standards, it could stand cutting. By Susan’s, it was already too short. Susan’s view prevailed, within reason, of course. “Probably just a fad, this long-hair business, Mr. Curtis. Probably it’ll pass.”
“Hope it does before I do,” Nat Curtis said. “Used to be barbering was pretty solid. Like undertaking, almost. Sooner or later, know what I mean? Sooner or later, everybody—”
“Yes, Mr. Curtis, I know what you mean. To get back to Alan Lord. Been coming in about six months, you say. Starting, say, in July?”
“Somewheres around there. Hey, wait a minute. Last summer the Fourth came on a Thursday, way I remember. What I did, I closed the shop Tuesday, not open Wednesday, anyhow, and took myself a little vacation. Went fishing. Man I know’s got a little lake. Keeps it stocked with bass. You pay him by the pound you catch. Pretty good luck I had, too. One of them weighed close to four pounds. Gave me quite a fight, that one did. While there, thought I’d lost him.”
Heimrich waited for what he was pretty sure was coming.
“About this long, that one was,” Curtis said, holding his hands apart to demonstrate—holding them wide apart He could have been measuring a good-sized salmon.
“Quite a bass,” Heimrich said. “Alan Lord came in for the first time after you reopened the shop, Mr. Curtis?”
“That’s right. Monday the eighth of July that would have been. Probably wonder how I remember so good, don’t you?”
“How do you, Mr. Curtis?”
“On account, could have been the first haircut he ever had. From the looks of it, that is. Yellow hair, damn near down to his shoulders. First came in, I thought he was a girl. About to tell him I didn’t cut women’s hair. Then I saw him from in front, know what I mean?”
“Yes, Mr. Curtis, I get the point. Tell you why he’d decided to—to change his style?”
“Said it was too hot. Also fell over his eyes, as it sure as hell must have. Wanted it good and short. Ended up my giving him a brush cut, damn near. Nice-looking boy he turned out to be after we’d got rid of all that hair.”
“And he’s been coming in every two weeks since?”
“Pretty much. Oh, he missed a couple of times in late August. He and his mother went away some place before he went back to this college of his. But he’s kept on getting it cut up there, wherever it is.”
“Cornell, I think, Mr. Curtis. Up in Ithaca, that is.”
“Wherever you say, Inspector. In last Monday for a cut. Made it before we got all that ice. Can’t say much for the barber he’s been going to up at this Cornell place. Not much good around the ears. Anyway, I fixed him up for Christmas. Going into the city to see his father, he told me. Suppose they’ve got old Lord stuffed or something?”
“Burton Lord was his stepfather, Mr. Curtis. His real father’s named Nolan. He lives in New York.”
“Divorced from his mother, that would be? Hell of a lot of people getting divorces these days. Don’t know as I hold with it myself. Course, I’ve never been married. You married, Inspector?”
“Yes,” Heimrich said. “I’m married, Mr. Curtis. And thanks for sparing us your time.”
“Only,” Curtis said, “I still don’t know what it’s all about, do I?”
“No, Mr. Curtis, you don’t, do you? Thanks again.”
As he and Forniss went out of the shop, Nat Curtis was tucking Mr. Isaacs in around the neck. Curtis was talking; Isaacs appeared to be looking abstractedly into the distance.
In the car, Forniss raised his eyebrows.
“Yes, Charlie,” Heimrich said, “I guess it’s time to go badger people.”
“Peters is going to be sore as hell,” Forniss said, as he U-turned in Main Street.
“Yes, Charlie,” Heimrich said, “I’m afraid the District Attorney’s not going to like us much.”
Chapter 14
The three-car garage was twenty yards or so down the driveway from the Lord house. A somewhat battered small car, well along in years, stood in front of the garage. Forniss pulled the police car up beside it and cut the motor.
The garage faced south. All three doors were open, and sunlight poured into the garage. There were two cars in the garage, the sports model Mercedes Alan Lord had been driving the night before and a Cadillac. The third space was empty except for a bicycle against the forewall. A big man was sweeping the garage with a push broom. The man wore a heavy coat, fleece-lined, and a cap with earflaps. The flaps were down over his ears and, when they first saw him, he was half behind the Cadillac, using his broom. He came out and faced them and began, slowly, to sweep toward them. He had scattered sawdust on the floor and swept a pile of it toward the front of the garage.
Heimrich said, “Morning.” There was no evidence that the sweeper heard him or indeed, that he saw them. Heimrich repeated himself, more loudly. The man pushed the earflap up from his right ear and said, “Huh?”
“I just said good morning,” Heimrich told him. The man—a very big man, probably somewhere around sixty—said, “O.K.,” and reached toward the earflap, evidently to pull it down again, conversation finished.
“And a damned cold one,” Heimrich said.
Instead of covering his right ear, the man uncovered his left. He told Heimrich he could say that again.
“Damned cold for garage sweeping,” Heimrich said.
“Yeah,” the man said. “Sure is, mister. Way they want it. The kid, anyway. The young squirt, between us, mister. Wants I should call him Mr. Alan. Says that’s what people who work here always call him. Well, I work here. Sort of, anyway.”
He returned to pushing his broom, adding to the ripple of sawdust. He did not, however, re-cover his ears.
“Sort of?”
“Couple of days a week. In the winter, that is. What they call a yardman. Odds and ends mostly, except when it snows. Then I plow the drive. Summers they’ve got what they call a gardener. Comes on in the early spring he does. Mows the lawn and weeds the flower beds. What they tell me, anyhow.”
He pulled the left earflap down and reached toward the right. He changed his mind in midreach.
“Fritz Krippendorf, they calls him,” he said. “Foreigner of some sort, sounds like. Drives the car sometimes for Mrs. Lord. Used to live up there.”
He pointed toward the roof of the garage. Heimrich had seen the outside staircase in the garage wall which led, obviously, to an apartment above it.
“Where Mr. Alan stays now,” the man said, and pulled the right flap. He put fairly derisive quotation marks around “Mr. Alan.”
He began to sweep again, more vigorously than before.
His broom hit something on the cement floor. What he had hit came out of the sawdust and skittered across the cement. It made a metallic sound as it skidded on the cement. It came out of the garage onto the gravel Heimrich and Forniss stood on and stopped near Formiss’s feet. A small tool, possibly, Heimrich thought, and watched Fomiss stoop to pick it up.
Forniss looked at the metal object and handed it to Heimrich. It was not a forgotten tool. It was a thin piece of worn metal—worn, evidently, much thinner than it had once been. Anonymous metal, at first sight.
But maybe not. Maybe part of the broken crosspiece of a tire chain; a piece worn almost through by pounding on road surfaces which were not snow-covered. Heimrich looked at Forniss, who nodded his head. Heimrich put the sliver of metal in his pocket.
They left the burly man sweeping and walked toward the house.
“A good many cars drip oil, don’t they?” Forniss said. “Old cars especially. Leak where they’ve been standing.”
Heimrich agreed that old cars sometimes leaked oil where they had been standing. He pressed the bell at the front door of the big house of the late Burton Lord and, of course, of the present Amelia Lord and, part time at any rate, of her son Alan. Who, when he was not away at school, occupied the apartment above the garage, where a foreigner named Fritz Krippendorf once had spent his off-duty hours. What it
sounded like, anyway.
Didn’t need to mean anything, of course. The young like to get away from family, have a place of their own. Convenient, of course, to a food supply. A place to entertain friends, away from parental supervision. And, come to that, a place to be away from parents. Or from one parent? Perhaps an adoptive parent?
The small old man in the neat dark suit opened the door for them. (Heimrich couldn’t at the moment remember his name. Getting old and memory fading.)
Mrs. Lord was in her rooms. She seldom came down much before noon. Mr. Alan was, he thought, in the library reading. Well, it was a bad hour. But he could ask, if the Inspector insisted.
Heimrich was sorry that the time was inconvenient, but he would still like to see Mrs. Lord and her son. He would try not to take up too much of their time. The man in the dark suit said he would see, and if the Inspector and the other gentleman would care to wait in the drawing room?
Carson. That was the butler’s name. He showed them into the big living room. In the fireplace, flames were licking at heavy logs. The logs were symmetrical, and all much of a size. They looked, somehow, like part of a stage set, but they were real. They were really giving off heat. The big room was warm. Very comfortingly warm to men just in from the frigid out-of-doors. Probably get too warm if they had to stay in it long.
Yes, Carson could take their coats. He helped them off with their coats, although he was a small man to help men so big. He carried the coats away.
“Sawdust doesn’t really get rid of oil stains,” Forniss said. “Just smears them up.”
Heimrich said, “That’s true, Charlie,” and they both sat down, not too far from the fire. They sat for almost five minutes and then Carson came back. He said that Mrs. Lord would see them and was coming down. He said he would go and tell Mr. Alan that the Inspector would like to see him.
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