The Man Who Died Twice

by The Man Who Died Twice (retail) (epub)

  “You did his typing?”

  “Yes. He didn’t always sleep well and sometimes he would write in the book and then in the morning I’d transcribe it.”

  “Umm.” Gilette thought it over; then, as a new thought struck him, returned the notebook. “Could you tell me what’s on the last page?”

  Alma sat down. She studied the page, her dark hair falling about her face as she bent her head. She sat that way for what seemed like three minutes, though it was probably no more than five seconds. She closed the book and looked up, brushing her hair back with one hand.

  “It—it isn’t anything.” She hesitated, her glance averted and her voice uncertain. “About the will I mean. It’s a letter to a Mr. Reese in St. Vincent. About a mortage that will fall due next week.”

  Gilette studied her a moment and she looked back at him unflinchingly, her small face almost rigid in its paleness. Ward wondered about it because it seemed to him that she was frightened and trying not to show it, that she had summoned all her inner resources to maintain her composure in the face of the Major’s steady gaze.

  “That’s all?” he asked finally.

  She nodded stiffly, her mouth tight, and returned the book when he held out his hand. He examined the inner binding of the pages and Ward had an idea he was looking to see if anything had been torn out. There was nothing to indicate what he found, and now he closed it and slapped it against his open palm.

  “I think we’ll put this in the safe—incidentally I discovered it was unlocked when I came—and seal it for now. That is, if anyone knows the combination.… Miss Simmons?”

  “Yes, I know it.”

  “Good. Then in that case—”

  The telephone shrilled to cut him off and he turned to look at it. No one moved and presently Oliver shuffled out of the hall and answered it. He put the receiver down and turned to Gilette.

  “If you please, sir. It’s for you.”

  Gilette went over and spoke crisply. “Major Gilette here.… Yes, doctor.… Um-hum.” He was silent for a second or two. “You’re quite sure? … Yes … Quite … Yes, I will.”

  He hung up and stood a silent moment studying the receiver before he turned to look over the room. When he spoke it was with obvious regret.

  “I’m sorry to say that Mr. MacQuade died of suffocation.” He walked slowly back to his table. “There can be no question now that the pillow was used.”

  There was no audible reaction to the statement. It was as though the verdict just announced had been expected, and when Ward glanced round the only odd thing he noticed was that no one seemed to be looking at anyone else, but had picked out some object of his own either in or out of the room to contemplate. Now Oliver, who had been waiting at one side, went over to say something to Kate Royce.

  “Shortly,” she said and the sound of her voice apparently reminded Gilette of something else.

  “Miss Royce. You were here alone with him most of the evening. Did he tell you anything we should know? Did anything happen that perturbed him? Anything we haven’t touched on?”

  Kate Royce sat with her elbows on the chair arms, her hands clasping her wrists and held close to her body. She moistened her lips while she considered the question, then spoke bluntly.

  “There is no question that Johnny was murdered?”

  “None.”

  “In that case”—she hesitated—“there was one thing. I only saw him for a few minutes. We did not dine together. He remained in his study after he came back from his tour of the island. In his mail was a letter from England concerning Melvin.”

  Gilette glanced at Tenner, brows lifting. “Did he show it to you?”

  “No. As a matter of fact I didn’t even see it. I only know what he said.”

  “And what was that?”

  “He said, in effect, that he had some information that would open Alma’s eyes. You see, he did not entirely approve of Melvin.”

  Tenner had been sucking on a pipe that was out. Now he put it away and sat up.

  “Shall we be entirely frank about it?” he asked, his accented tone brittle. “Johnny disliked me intensely,” he said to Gilette, “as you may know. He disapproved of my activities and considered me a, shall we say, wastrel. Of a very low order. It was infuriating to him that Alma accepted my attentions and he told me once that he would do what he could to discredit me.”

  Gilette waited. When there was nothing more he said: “You wouldn’t care to elaborate on how he expected to do this?”

  “Definitely not.”

  Kate Royce stood up in the silence that followed. “I’ve been told,” she said, “that luncheon is served. You’ll join us, Freddie?”

  “Thanks, no. And don’t let me keep you.” He nodded to his sergeant, picked up his hat and stick. “When we’ve sealed the safe we’ll push off.”…

  Once lunch was finished, Duncan Ward could not get to the telephone office fast enough. Using Alma’s car he found his way into Bridgetown without difficulty and a policeman directed him to the central office. Here he explained what he wanted and was told it would take a few minutes. Three cigarettes later a girl behind the counter beckoned him.

  “We have the Westview Sanitarium for you, sir.”

  Ward stepped into the booth she indicated and closed the door. “Hello,” he said. “I want to speak to Jim MacQuade.”

  “Who’s calling, please?”

  He told her and she said: “Just a moment, please,” and he hung on impatiently until a voice that was familiar, but not Jim’s, answered.

  “Dune?” the voice said. “This is Doc Abbott. Where in hell are you? We’ve been trying for—”

  “Look!” Ward said curtly. “This is costing dough. I’m in Barbados. Put Jim on, will you?”

  “Barbados? Well, no wonder we couldn’t locate you.” There was a pause, a coughing sound, then: “I can’t put Jim on, Dunc. I hate like hell to have to tell you this because I know how it was with you two. But Jim’s dead. He died Monday night.”

  The impact of the doctor’s news penetrated slowly. Ward heard the words distinctly but the emotional reaction was tardy because he would not believe it.

  “He what?” he shouted. “You’re crazy! He couldn’t have. I was with him Monday afternoon until five.”

  And now his mind raced on and he knew this was only Thursday. He remembered it was Monday afternoon that he and Jim had agreed on the impersonation, and Jim had endorsed the check MacQuade had sent and he, Ward, had got it cashed later at the Waldorf where they knew him. He heard Abbott continuing but there was no reality to what he was saying.

  “——an embolism, Dune. Hit him around eight thirty. We tried everything and it wasn’t any good. We tried to get you at the apartment shortly after that and we couldn’t reach you. He was gone inside an hour.”

  The voice went on with details about the funeral but Ward was unable to assimilate them. He remembered how he had left his apartment at about eight thirty that night, how he had checked his bags at the city terminal and then gone on to a movie.

  That much was real, but this other was not, and so he stood there in the hot booth with the perspiration running off him and a coldness in his heart, not stopping to think then about John MacQuade or himself or the effect that Jim’s death might have on other things. He simply stood there numbly, saying words he never recalled. Not until he hung up and stumbled from the booth, was he able to accept the unalterable fact that his friend was gone.

  11

  BARBARA CONNANT awoke from her daily nap and stretched luxuriously under the thin sheet while she stared contentedly at the ceiling high overhead. She yawned and arched her chest, and then bent her arms to pillow her head in her hands, her elbows high. When she had glanced at the clock to check the time she threw the sheet back and stood up to expose her tanned nudity to the mirror and examine the results of her daily sun baths.

  Most people on the island considered her foolish to lie on the beach in the middle of the afternoon, especial
ly with her fair skin, but she had yet to be convinced that this was not the best time. What she saw was evidence that she was right, for, except for two milk-white bands across her body she was a golden brown. Across the back there was only one such stripe, an achievement realized because at this hour the beach was deserted.

  She went in the bathroom to wash her face and then, as she spread the lotion around her eyes and nose, her mind considered John MacQuade’s death and what effect it would have on her future. She was not yet aware of the fact of murder, though it is doubtful if this would have influenced her thinking; Len had only told her that MacQuade was dead and she saw that in time she would have to make her choice.

  She was glad now that she had taken the house as part of the settlement from her husband, for where else could one live so well so reasonably? As for the alimony, that would be halved when she married and this was cause for concern. Gordon had said he would divorce Judith and she was sure that this could be managed. True, Gordon was not particularly exciting; he was in fact—she faced the issue squarely—rather stuffy, complacent, and dull. But he was reasonably attractive, well-mannered and, with the proper handling, he would, she knew, continue to be attentive. In addition he was not really an Englishman and therefore had none of those archaic ideas of conduct that most Englishmen prescribed for their wives. Now that he was to inherit more than enough to make up for what she might lose by marriage, Gordon became potentially attractive.

  As for Len—

  She examined her handiwork, wiped her hands and went back to the bedroom to tie on the two wisps that made up her blue print suit. Len, she knew, would be harder to handle, but it might be worth it. There was a strength and virility in Len that Gordon would never have, and then too, Len was much the better looking. A ripple of excitement passed through her and left her skin pleasantly tingling when she thought of Len’s dark attractiveness, the solid jaw, the mischievous, taunting eyes.

  She sighed unconsciously as she adjusted her bra. If Len had money it would be simple and yet, as she very well knew, money was by no means everything. Enough, yes. And Len had told her he would get five thousand pounds, but even that would not make up for the alimony she would lose. Of course he might use the money to get into a paying business, and there was that oil lease he had such high hope for. If a well should happen to come in that might solve everything; she would have to ask him about that when he came tonight.

  Her robe was on the back of a chair and she put it over her arm, picked up her wide-brimmed native straw hat and then took time out to check her beach bag: lipstick, tissues, cigarettes, lighter, eye pads, dark glasses, gum.

  Satisfied at last, she went downstairs and through the wide main hall and out across the paved court. A graveled walk led flatly to the beach itself and as she reached it she turned to look at the graceful lines of the white-painted house.

  “Where?” she asked half aloud, “could you walk out of your own house twelve months out of the year and swim from your own beach?” Well maybe not directly in front because of the sea eggs, but within fifty feet of the front.

  The tide was ebbing, so she went down to the high-water mark and spread her robe. Deciding to toast her back first, she wiggled on her stomach until she was comfortable, lit a cigarette, took off her glasses and then, squinting against the smoke, reached back with both hands to untie the bra. She tipped her hat so it would shield the back of her neck and then, as she put her head down, she saw the man in trunks coming up the beach.

  “Hell!”

  She spoke aloud, resentful of this invasion of her privacy. She was about to close her eyes and pretend she was asleep when she recognized the newcomer. That good looking Jim MacQuade, she said to herself; then, aloud:

  “Hi! Come and talk to me.”

  Duncan Ward sat down beside her and was thankful for the invitation. For right now it was what he wanted most; to talk to someone, anyone.

  He had driven to Highpoint as fast as he could and with but one thought in mind: to find Kate, to tell her what had happened and ask her advice. And Kate, Oliver told him, had gone to town. There was, in fact, no one at all in the house and so, in his distress and loneliness, he had donned the trunks and come to the beach.

  Now Barbara was watching him curiously, comparing the whiteness of his skin to her own rich color as she assessed the somberness of his eyes and the lean, darkly scowling face as he stared out across the water.

  “I’m sorry about your uncle,” she said when he did not speak.

  He mumbled some appropriate reply without thinking and now he looked down at her smooth brown back, the long shapely legs. His gaze moved on to examine the way her blond hair curled about her face, the upward arch of her brows, the rounded line of cheek. The hair, he knew, was naturally blond and at any other time her presence here beside him like this would have given him much pleasure. He took the cigarette she offered, the lighter. He thanked her, knowing he had to say something, no matter what.

  “That’s a nice house you have. It’s new, isn’t it?”

  “Three years,” Barbara said. “Yes, it is nice.”

  “Mr. Connant built it?”

  She nodded. She said it was a thing a lot of Englishmen with money were doing. With world conditions as they were in ’48, with the Labor government and the uncertainty of taxes and of the pound, and the restrictions on taking money out of the country, it seemed like a good idea.

  “You see, he could spend pounds here and by building a house or buying property—a great many did the same thing—why then he’d have something no matter what happened.”

  “Except for you.”

  “Except for me,” she said, and grinned. She glanced admiringly at her house. “It was nice of him, wasn’t it?”

  “Where is he now?”

  “In England.”

  “But you’re not English.”

  “I’m as American as you are. Pennsylvania,” she said. “I was with a U.S.O. troup in England in ’45. That’s when I met Herbert.… I was a dancer,” she said as an afterthought.

  Without realizing it he grinned at her, his own troubles momentarily forgotten. The lines in his brow erased themselves and his mouth relaxed as he considered his companion.

  “You did all right for a little Pennsylvania girl.”

  “Didn’t I, though?” She started to turn, then remembered and flopped back. She giggled. “Look,” she said. “Tie me up, will you?” She flipped a hand to indicate the loose ends of her brassiere.

  Ward leaned over her. He pulled the ends up, feeling the fabric give, and tied a knot. “Another?” he asked.

  “A little tighter first, and then another.”

  She sat up when he finished and brushed the sand from the fronts of her legs. She adjusted her hat and reached for another cigarette. When she had a light she smiled at him and he knew without thinking any more about it that she was a very attractive woman. That she knew her way around he had already accepted as a fact.

  “It didn’t work out—with Mr. Connant?”

  “Unfortunately, no. I had four years of it before I decided that, as we used to say in Pennsylvania, the whole thing was a bust. Mr. Connant was forty-eight when we were married and I was just a country girl—”

  “How old?”

  “Twenty-four, and it’s none of your business.” She tasted her lipstick and rearranged her mouth. “And Mr. Connant was very elegant and I was overwhelmed, literally. We had a flat, and a country house, and no one seemed to care much that I’d been a showgirl.”

  She gestured with her cigarette. “The trouble was, I was bored after a year or two. And maybe I never got adjusted to the English idea of what a wife should be. Maybe, if you didn’t have a dime, you could be expected to wait on the bread-earner but to accept as a matter of course that you were to get the master’s beer and clean out his pipes and settle down as a sort of servant-mistress—well, it was hardly my dish.”

  She continued to amuse him and he said: “I’ll bet they wouldn�
�t know you back in Pennsylvania.”

  “In Allentown? Well, hardly.” She glanced again at her house. “Coming here just postponed things,” she said, reverting to her original subject. “I liked it at once. Mr. Connant didn’t, particularly. Two months in the winter was his limit. So”—she shrugged—“we got divorced. I like it here,” she said with conviction. “I’d just as soon stay here indefinitely if I could get back to New York every two or three years. It’s like Frank Morgan up at the club says—and I think he got it from Ed Sullivan or someone like that—‘I don’t want to be a millionaire; I just want to live like one.’”

  She paused, continued frankly. “I get two hundred pounds a month. That’s around eight hundred Barbados dollars. I can do very well on that.”

  “And what if you marry again?”

  “Half that.”

  “You could manage.”

  “I could”—she tipped her head to look at him—“but I’d just as soon not try.”

  She pushed the end of her cigarette in the sand and the silence came, not long, but long enough for Ward to remember all the things he had been trying to forget. In another second he was on his feet.

  “I’ll leave you to your sun bathing,” he said. “I’m going to take a quick one.”

  The sand was hard as he came down the slope and he took three long running steps before the water tripped him into a dive. He took ten hard strokes, jack-knifed, and took ten more back before he came to his feet. Then, as he wiped the water from his face, he turned his head and looked at the spindly jetty off to the right and the schooner tied up at the end.

  His reaction was instantaneous even though the thought processes which brought it about were not clear. For in that moment there came to him the memory of the night before when he had stared across the blackened surface of the water because he thought he had seen something move. Now he knew that there was no rock between him and the jetty except those close inshore. But at the stern of the schooner, there rode a dinghy.