“Also, with Burton Lord out of the way, his father and mother could remarry. And the three of them could be together, as he thought they ought to be.”
“His mother go along with that?” Peters asked. He picked the confession up. He did not unfold it.
“She says not. Says it was the wild idea of the poor, dear, foolish boy. Just something in his head, she says it was. Very upset, Mrs. Lord is.”
“You expect her not to be, Inspector?”
“No. And I expect she’s been carrying it around in her mind for months. You see, the ice he finally brought back had begun to drip. She admits she noticed that, and that it worried her a little. The bags they use keep the cubes frozen for quite a while.”
“What’s this about ice?”
Heimrich told him about the ice; about Alan Lord’s assertion he had had trouble finding ice, so explaining his prolonged absence from the party. “Plenty of ice five minutes away, Counselor. We’ve checked on that.”
Alan had used the time to stop by the Kemper house and get Loren Kemper’s rifle out of the hall closet—“he’d been in the house before, knew where the rifle was”—and killed his stepfather. “Left her rifle to be found and identified. Took off over the field at a dead run, apparently for the house. Actually, for his car. It’s all there, Mr. Peters. Right in front of you.”
“You say he killed Jackson too?”
“What he says. All in his confession. Says Jackson called him up—after Jackson had looked at the film, presumably—and told him he had a picture he thought Alan ought to see. The film shows it was a male running, not a female. Jackson had his suspicions. Probably nothing more. The face doesn’t show in the picture. Jackson, at a guess, merely wanted to give young Lord a jolt. Break him down.”
“Tampering with a witness, Jackson was doing, Inspector.”
“Witness to what, Counselor? If Mrs. Kemper had killed Lord, young Lord wasn’t there. Off getting ice. Would you have called him, Mr. Peters?”
“Possibly. Not about the actual shooting. So Jackson said he had this picture?”
“Way Alan tells it. And thought it was a picture of him shooting his stepfather. An identifiable picture. It isn’t Just a picture of someone with long hair rubbing something in the grass. And of a male running. Not the threat the boy thought it was. But he didn’t know that. He did know the picture wouldn’t be admissible without Jackson to identify it. Right on that, wasn’t he?”
“Probably. So he ran Jackson down with a stolen station wagon.”
“Borrowed, he calls it. Says he’d been down to Van Brunt that day to see a friend. Rode his bicycle because it looked as if it was going to be a nice day. It started out like that, you remember. And the forecast was for partly cloudy and turning colder. Didn’t work out quite that way, you’ll remember.”
“Sure as hell didn’t.”
The cold rain had set in as Alan had started to pedal home. It was raining hard when he reached Father Armstrong’s church, and saw the station wagon standing in front of it. He cycled up and found the ignition key was still in the lock. There didn’t, he says, seem to be anybody in the church, so he decided to borrow the wagon to get home. Put his bicycle in it and drove home. “Says it wasn’t until later that he decided to use the wagon to kill Jackson. Admits he telephoned Jackson’s office to find out whether Jackson was going to the inn for dinner. He’d been asking around about Jackson. Finding out what he could about Jackson’s habits.
“So—he parked at the inn and waited for Jackson to come out. Saw us go in with Michael and Michael’s girl. Saw the light go on in a window above the parking lot and somebody looking out of it. Figured, rightly, that it was the girl he’d seen with Michael, whom he knows slightly. Figured, wrongly, that she could identify the driver of the wagon. So the next morning he drove back to Van Brunt and parked where he could see Miss Collins drive out on 11F if she was going to. She did. Dropped my son off at the inn. He followed her. He forced her off the road at a convenient place. Didn’t kill her. Didn’t even damage her much. Had another try at it, from the field next my house. Used his rifle this time. Missed again. Oh, he ditched the station wagon off Jackson’s drive after he brushed the Volks. Not, he says, trying to implicate Jackson’s houseman, Friday. Says he’d never heard of Friday. Just seemed like a good place to hide the wagon. Still had his bicycle in the wagon, and rode home on it. So there it is, Counselor. All right there in front of you.”
Now, finally, District Attorney Jonathan Peters picked up the copy of Alan Lord’s confession and unfolded it and began to read; Heimrich waited. Peters read fast. After only a few minutes he looked up. He seemed surprised to find Inspector Heimrich still there. He said, “All you’ve got, Inspector?”
“Enough, I’d think. Oh, a piece of metal off a broken tire chain. Lab report on some paint scrapings. All yours when you’re ready, Counselor. You’ll get the indictment against Mrs. Kemper dismissed? And turn her loose?”
“Looks like I’ll have to,” Peters said. He was still grumpy about it. A man couldn’t believe the evidence of his own two eyes. Even eyes with twenty-twenty vision. And, of course, he’d have to admit it. Wouldn’t look so good next fall, when election time came around.
Merton Heimrich didn’t go to the barracks. If somebody else murdered somebody else, they would let him know. Meanwhile, he’d take the day off. Get a little time with his own stepson and the stepson’s girl. And, as went without thinking, with Susan.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Captain Heimrich Mysteries
1
It was a few minutes after six in the afternoon, and the afternoon was in mid-July. Across the Hudson, the sun was declining, but not hurrying about it. When they had come out of the house and onto the terrace, the temperature had been 94. Possibly it was, this half hour later, down to 92.
Inspector M. L. Heimrich, New York State Police, and Susan Heimrich would have been cooler in the house, with the air conditioning on. They were quite aware of this. They could have sat by the big west window and watched the sparkle of the declining sun on the wide river. Oh, not as well as here on the terrace, partly in the shade of the big ash tree. That shade would not last long. When the sun got a little lower, its rays would slant under the ash’s lowest branches. Eventually, it would dazzle into their eyes. Already it was reaching Mite. The big black cat, who had so absurdly outgrown his name, twitched his skin, to make the too-hot sun go away.
It didn’t work. Mite stretched, without getting up. Then he got up and stretched again. Then he moved a foot or two into deeper shade and lay down to rest. He did not curl. He lay stretched to his full length.
“He’s really a very long cat, isn’t he?” Susan Heimrich said and swished the gin and tonic in her glass so that the ice tinkled.
Merton Heimrich made the appropriate response, which was “Mmm.” He added to it. “Remember when Colonel—?” He did not finish, since there was no need to finish. It would have been foolish to finish, since of course they both remembered the day their Great Dane had come home from somewhere with a small, wet and indignant black kitten in his mouth and put it down on the terrace flagstones for their approval. And got his nose scratched for his trouble.
“Where is that damn dog?” Heimrich said, not as a question to be answered. Susan merely shook her head.
She looks cool, Heimrich thought. How does she manage it? Of course, that scant dress she’s wearing leaves a lot of her exposed to what stirring of air there is. A stirring, of course, from the southwest. Which meant that the weather forecast almost certainly was right. “Hot and humid through Sunday, with a chance of afternoon and evening thundershowers.” The same forecast as for this Saturday, although as yet no thundershowers, and no sign of any on the way. But here, miles above the city, in Van Brunt, Putnam County, New York, the temperature would edge down after sunset. Well, after ten o’clock, anyway. At least they weren’t in the city. And tonight they would leave the air conditioning on, for the first time this su
mmer.
“Possibly chasing rabbits,” Susan said. “Although not so much anymore. He’s getting along, Merton. Like—” She did not finish that, because of the way her husband looked at her. It was not the look of a man who thinks his wife is getting on, or looking it.
“They’re not a long-lived breed,” Heimrich said. “I read that somewhere, didn’t I?”
“Possibly, dear. The purebreds, anyway. The show types. They pretty much bred the insides out of them. To make them what the judges call ‘proper conformity.’ Which, with Danes, seems to mean thin in the middle. Yes, mutts tend to live longer. And Colonel must be getting on for—”
She did not finish. The big Great Dane named Colonel came through a gap in a stone fence a hundred yards or so from the terrace. It was a fence which Colonel had usually jumped; jumped, anyway, until a year or so before.
And, crossing the field toward the terrace, the big dog had bounded. Until a year or so ago, anyway. Now he walked slowly, as if it were a great effort to walk at all. The old boy is getting to be a very old boy, Heimrich thought. Of course, it’s a very hot afternoon. This kind of humid heat takes it out of everybody.
He handed Susan a lighted cigarette. He lighted one for himself. Her glass was still half full; his own was lower. But there was no hurry about it. On this mid-July Saturday there was no hurry about anything. There had not even been much hurry at the barracks of Troop K. In the city, violence flared in hot weather. Not so much here in the country. Except, of course, violence by motorcar, which was not—which usually was not—of immediate professional concern to Inspector M. L. Heimrich, Bureau of Criminal Investigation.
They watched Colonel coming toward them. He was making heavy going of it, certainly; heavy, panty going. And his big head was drooping, as if it were too heavy for his high, thin body. He did not look up to see that they were waiting for him.
The terrace was less than a foot above the lawn the big dog was trudging over. But when Colonel came to this curb, he stopped and looked at it as if he had never seen it before; as if it had not been for years something to take in stride, something not to be noticed. Finally, he lifted one forepaw and then the other. His hind legs dragged as he climbed to the terrace—staggered to the terrace.
They were both watching him by then. Mite rolled to his feet to watch his friend, who was moving so unlike the way his friend usually moved.
On the terrace, but still not in the shade of the ash, Colonel lay down. With a thump, pretty much as always. For the big dog, lying down had always been a form of collapse. But, down on belly, he had always lifted his head to gaze at whatever was in front of him with sad, discouraged eyes. Life had always seemed to discourage Colonel, if one could accept the expression of his eyes.
This time he did not lift his head. He supported it on outstretched paws.
“The heat?” Susan said.
“Perhaps. If he’s been running in the sun. Only—”
Susan, who was now sitting on the chaise she had been lying on, said, “Yes, I wonder too.” She said, “Colonel?” to the dog who had been hers before he became theirs. Ten years ago? Had it really been that long? He had been not much more than a puppy when he came to live with a well-loved woman and an unknown man in the house above the Hudson, which once had been a barn. So, Colonel was over ten. A considerable age for a Dane.
Mite got up from the flagstones. He walked toward the collapsed dog. He walked slowly, cautiously. It was almost as if he were stalking his lifetime friend. When he was two feet or so from the prostrate dog, Mite stopped. He appeared to sniff the dog. Then he made a low, mewing sound and turned away. He walked to Merton Heimrich and sat and looked up at Heimrich. It was almost, Heimrich thought, as if the big black cat were asking a question, seeking to have something explained to him.
“Yes, Mite, I’m afraid so,” Heimrich said and then, to Susan, who had left her chaise and was crouched beside her dog, “They always seem to know, don’t they? When another of them is sick?”
“He’s breathing,” Susan said. “Just managing to, it feels like.” She had a hand on the big dog’s side. “The vet, dear. Maybe there’ll be something he can do. Dr. Barton?”
There were two veterinarians within reasonable distance. Dr. Peabody was the nearer, but he was primarily a big animal man, a man for horses and cows. Cows are not too numerous in the vicinity of Van Brunt. There are more horses. A few miles south, just over the Westchester County line, there is even a hunt.
But the biggest dog does not constitute a “big animal” in veterinarian usage.
Adrian Barton, DVM, was another matter. He had a small animal hospital a few miles up NY 11F, a little their side of Cold Harbor. His patients were largely canine, although he accepted cats, of which some veterinarians are wary. Cats are inclined to die suddenly and unexpectedly. They are also almost certain to claw and, as opportunity offers, bite. No cat ever believes something unpleasant is being done for his own good. Dogs are more amenable. And their claws are not so sharp.
Also, Colonel had been to Dr. Barton’s hospital once when he had mistakenly thought a porcupine might want to play.
Colonel had always enjoyed riding in an automobile, had always bounded through an opened car door and taken over the back seat. Heimrich backed the Buick as close to the terrace as was possible and opened its nearside door. Colonel heard the sound and, just perceptibly, raised his heavy head. Then he put it down on his paws again.
Merton Heimrich carried the heavy dog to the car. Heimrich is a big man. Susan let Mite into the house. She promised him that he would, eventually, be given dinner. Mite didn’t believe a word of it and said so. It was time for Mite’s dinner. It must be almost time for theirs. Susan looked at her watch. Not for theirs, not at six thirty.
Still, they had better make sure Dr. Barton was still at his hospital; still available. She looked in the telephone directory. “Barton A DVM.” She dialed. She got the ringing signal; got it again and again. Probably Dr. Barton kept office hours; possibly, like some doctors who treated two-legged animals instead of those with four, veterinarians closed up shop on Saturdays. Some doctors of humans also took Wednesdays off. Like barbers, Susan thought, and let Barton’s telephone ring on. After all, animals in a hospital would not be left totally untended. Surely—
“Dr. Barton’s office. Can I help you?”
The voice was female. It was a young voice.
“Mrs. Heimrich,” Susan said. “Mrs. M. L. Heimrich.” The “M. L.” might help. It denoted a State Police inspector. “We have a sick dog we’d like Dr. Barton to look at. Is the doctor there?”
There was a pause, apparently for reflection.
“Well, yes. But the office hours end at five. Anyway, I think he’s operating. Of course, if it’s an emergency, Mrs. Heimrich?”
“Yes,” Susan said. “We’re afraid it is. Can I speak to the doctor?”
“I can’t interrupt him while he’s operating. But, if it’s really urgent, I suppose you can bring the dog along. Is it a big dog?”
“A Great Dane,” Susan said, and got a tentative “Oh” for an answer. A “well” was added to it.
A very young voice, Susan thought. Almost a child’s voice? A child timorous about the arrival of a Great Dane, who was not called “great” by accident?
“My husband can handle him,” Susan said. “My husband’s rather a big man, Miss—”
“Carol Arnold, Mrs. Heimrich. In—oh, about half an hour, I guess. Doctor ought to be finished by then. He’s spaying a cat.”
There seemed to be nothing to say to that except “In about half an hour, then.” So Susan said it. She sidestepped Mite, who was rubbing against her ankles. Mite again spoke about dinner. This time, he got it.
“He’s still alive,” Merton Heimrich told her when she was back at the car. “Just barely, I’m afraid. Susan, I’m afraid—”
“Yes,” Susan said. “So am I. I called the vet. He’ll be expecting us. In about half an hour. If he’s finished spay
ing a cat. I got his secretary. Or nurse, or something. She’s going to tell him.”
Heimrich drove the Buick down the steep drive, between the boulders; down the steep, winding blacktop called High Road to NY 11F, which there is still Van Brunt Avenue. When a car he is in starts to move, Colonel usually sticks his head out a window. This time he did not move; he lay stretched on the back seat. But they could hear him breathing as they turned north toward Cold Harbor. It was gaspy breathing.
Heimrich did not drive fast. Cold Harbor was only about twenty minutes away; Dr. Barton’s office was this side of Cold Harbor.
The sign said “Barton Lane,” and it was on the right as they drove north. The lane was narrow and blacktopped. Heimrich turned the Buick into it. After a couple of hundred yards, the lane twisted sharply to the left. Then they came up to a low, rectangular brick building. Beyond it, but close to it, was a white frame house; a rather large house. A sign in front of the brick building read, SMALL ANIMAL HOSPITAL. ADRIAN BARTON, DVM.
It was Susan who went to the door of the small animal hospital; Merton opened a car door and regarded Colonel, who, this time, raised his head a little and opened his eyes. They were always sad eyes. This time they were sadder than ever, and Heimrich imagined there was a question in them.
“I don’t know, old boy,” Heimrich told the dog. Colonel closed his eyes again. It was, Heimrich thought, as if the big dog accepted an answer. Anyway, he was still alive, and he was certainly big. It wouldn’t be easy to get him out of the car, unless the vet was inclined to give a hand, or to send somebody who could. Heimrich put a hand on the dog’s head. Colonel twitched an ear.
There was a sign by the hospital door. It read “Ring and Walk In.” Susan rang and tried the door. The sign was more encouraging than accurate. Susan rang again. This time she heard footfalls beyond the locked door. They were quick and light. And the door was opened.
It wasn’t a child who opened. It was a young woman, probably in her mid-twenties, or approaching them, and certainly very pretty. Her blond hair was softly smooth on her head and her blue eyes were noticeably large. She was wearing white slacks and a white tunic; she could have been a registered nurse in a hospital for humans. Her smile was almost as impersonal as an R.N.’s smile. She said, “I’m sorry. We keep it locked after five. Are you the one who called? About a sick Great Dane?”
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