The Man Who Died Twice

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

  “As for you, my dear,” she said to Alma. “I’m going to get you two of my pills. Wait right here and I’ll get them.… Please,” she said when Alma started to protest. “Two,” she said, “and I shall go up with you and see that you take them. You were up half of last night, and it’s nearly two now, and you are not only going to sleep soundly tonight, you will remain in bed until you are quite ready to get up.”

  The girl gave her a tired smile. “All right, Aunt Kate,” she said. “And will you take care of Freddie if I oversleep?”

  “I will indeed.”

  She hurried off and Alma said good night to Osborne. She smiled at Ward and when she saw how tired he was she was glad he could have what he wanted to drink before he went to bed.

  For a second more she hesitated, wanting to tell him how much it meant to her to have him with her throughout the trouble at Melvin Tenney’s, but feeling now a strange shyness which prevented her from saying so. She merely said she’d see him in the morning, and he said not too early, and she said, no, not too early.

  She started for the front of the room to wait for Kate and then, thinking she had seen something move on the veranda, she went out. There was nothing here but the furniture and the night, and then Kate came round the corner and took her by the arm.

  They went up the stairs together and Kate hovered about, helping her undress and get into her pajamas. When she had finished in the bathroom Kate poured water from the carafe and gave her the two small capsules she had brought, watching motherlike until they were swallowed.

  “There’s nothing there to hurt you,” she said. “I take them now and then when I can’t relax and they’ve never hurt me.… Get into bed now, child. I’ll fix the window.”

  Alma watched her adjust the casement and fuss with the curtains. She twisted her neck on the pillow so that the pressure was eased on the bump on her head and discovered that if she lay partly on her side there was nothing to remind her of what had happened but her thoughts and a dull aching that was widespread but no longer severe.

  For a brief interval she wondered if she should tell Kate about the notebook, but even as the thought occurred to her she knew that it was too late to make any difference. She had kept the secret this long—mistakenly she was sure—and it would do no good to argue about it tonight or to make an attempt to justify her impulse. Tomorrow would be time enough to tell the story and get ready for the criticism she knew would follow.

  She replied drowsily to Kate’s good night and watched the light go out. She stretched and got her legs comfortable, and as her breathing softened she thought again of what had happened. She thought of Melvin and found it curious that there was nothing inside her that responded properly to his death. There remained a lingering sense of shock and horror that such a thing could happen to one she had known so well, but somehow the impact was less painful than she could have imagined it might be.

  This morning, with Johnny, she had been crushed and desolate and unconsolable. But now there was an unreality about her reaction that made her wonder if her capacity for grief had been exhausted. She did grieve for Melvin but somehow her heart remained intact. Melvin was dead. Someone had shot him and she would never see him again, but—

  She turned her head to shut off her thoughts. It was too hard to think now because her mind was fuzzy and the things it brought forth did not make sense. She was here. Safe in bed.… And Jim had been with her … Jim. Cousin Jim. It was funny, wasn’t it … that when you found someone—you—liked very—much—he—would——have——to——be——a——cousin.

  The dream was quite different from the one she had had the night before. That one had been short and quickly shattered, and was not really a dream at all but only an impression that dissolved abruptly into a frightening reality.

  This one was different. This one had a nebulous reality that made it interesting and worth while, in that its progression was in a logical sequence and the parts were all related.

  The theme was travel, because there was this sense of movement, but she could not be sure at first whether she was on a ship or a train. All she knew was that she was tucked in a small berth in her pajamas, very comfortable at first, but increasingly aware that the air was getting close and that soon she would have to open a port or a window so that she could breathe more easily.

  She was not sure how she managed but presently there was more air. The trouble was that in her struggle to get it she had tangled herself somehow in the bedclothes, and when she twisted to free herself she succeeded only in tightening the fabric that had somehow wound itself round her ankles and wrists. She could feel the breeze now and what she wanted most was to find the buzzer that would summon the stewardess, and there was no bell, and now there was a frightening quality about her predicament as she tried to rouse herself from the depths of her slumber.

  When she tried to call out she found her mouth was sealed, and now there was a terror to her helplessness that became increasingly real with each turn of her body. Somehow she gave this final wrench and found herself awake, but even then the dream remained so vivid that it was a few seconds before she realized that the things she began to feel were real.

  Only when her eyes were wide open, when she could feel herself staring, did she make a conscious effort to move. Because she could see nothing but blackness, and this could not be, not absolute blackness, not even in her room. After that she felt the fabric over her face, not tight but covering her head completely.

  She tried to move her wrists but could not, nor her ankles, and now her terror was real because she knew why. In the dream it had been a blanket or sheet that held her prisoner; this time she knew she had been securely tied. She could not cry out because her mouth was taped, and when she moved her body her elbows and hips struck something hard and unyielding.

  The rest of the picture unfolded quickly under the pressure of her imagination. She knew why she had dreamed of travel and a boat. She was in a boat, a skiff. She could feel its contours. Somewhere close was the sound of breathing not her own, the faint rasping sound of oars, the driplets of water that came with each stroke.

  She lost consciousness then, though she was not aware that this was so. She only knew that when she was able to consider her surroundings they were quite different. The air was close and there was no sound of rowing or the drip of water. Everything about her was still and her body was cramped. When she tried to stretch out there was no room. She could only turn a few inches either way, and beneath the fabric of her pajamas she thought she could feel sailcloth, and rope, and rusty iron that might have been an anchor. The smells, the closeness, were all there, not in any dream but paralyzingly real, and, remembering the two sleeping-capsules, she knew at last how this had happened and exactly where she was.

  19

  DEPUTY COMMISSIONER GILETTE telephoned from Central Police Station shortly after nine the next morning to say he was on the way out, and when he arrived with his Negro sergeant and Captain Jarvis the same group was on hand to greet him that had been there the preceding morning, with the exception of Alma, Melvin Tenney, and Talbot, the lawyer.

  The two officers, one red-haired and one dark, looked very smart in their uniform jackets, shorts, and caps. Gilette said hello all around and asked if Jarvis knew everyone. They put their caps aside and Gilette took two notebooks from his sergeant, and then Kate Royce carried the ball.

  “If we’re going to have another inquisition,” she said without rancor, “and there seems little doubt about it, then by all means let us have it on the veranda.”

  Gilette looked surprised, but he was agreeable, and when everyone was comfortably settled he said there were two or three matters he wished to discuss. He hesitated, glancing quickly about as though counting the roll, and then turned to Kate.

  “Miss Simmons isn’t here?”

  “No.”

  “I think she should be. As a matter of fact, one of the things I wish to discuss is that notebook and—”

 
“It’ll have to wait,” Kate interrupted.

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “She’s sleeping. She took two pills last night and I’m hoping she’ll sleep until noon.… You said you had other things to discuss,” she said when he seemed about to speak. “Why not take care of them first?”

  Ward, sitting between Judith Dunham and Len Osborne, saw the faint flush working on Gilette’s neck. He had himself nicely in hand, but it was evident that he did not like the interference, and though he remained polite at all times there was a stiffness in his manner that suggested an inner exasperation difficult to control.

  “Very well,” he said finally, and examined one of his notebooks. He turned a page or two, bunched his lips and said: “I’ve had a report on the autopsy. Tenney was shot at close range—a matter of inches—and with what turned out to be his own gun. The condition of the room indicates that there had been a struggle, which suggests that he was shot during, or right after, that struggle.”

  He said: “I mention this because the evidence might support the possibility of murder in self-defense.” He took a moment to count the roll again. “If any of you is responsible for Tenney’s death this would be the time to say so.”

  Kate made noises in her throat. “You’re not really suggesting that someone here shot him,” she said, as though the thought was quite beyond the realm of possibility.

  The look Gilette gave her was graphic. His flush deepened and his lips were flat. He examined her unhurriedly as if to prove that he was a patient man in spite of severe provocation; finally his glance moved on to Osborne and his mouth relaxed.

  “Your alibi isn’t quite as good as I thought it was, Len,” he said. “You told Miss Connant you arrived there at twenty after ten and it might well have been much later.”

  Osborne tipped one hand and answered amiably. “I’m quite aware of that. All I know is that I left here before you did—not knowing the exact time—and I know how long it ordinarily takes me to drive to Barbara’s. I parked and went in the back way and through the drawing-room and she was sitting out front in the darkness. She said I was late, and what time was it, and I said I thought about twenty after ten. Now that you tell me you left here at eight minutes or so after, I’d answer her same question by saying I got there about fourteen after.”

  Gilette nodded and turned to the Dunhams. “You left here before ten,” he said. “You walked home and Gordon asked you”—he was watching Judith now—“if you wanted to go to the Club Morgan for a while and you said no, you wanted to go to bed, so he went alone. You’re quite sure he left shortly after ten?”

  Ward watched her obliquely. She wore a thin blue dress, dark but not navy, and with no particular style or character. For all of this there was something individual about the erect, full-bosomed way she held herself, and it occurred to him that in something really smart, with a little more style to her Titian hair and more color in her longish face, she might make any man sit up and take notice. Now she answered Gilette in her reserved, emotionless way.

  “Quite sure.”

  “You don’t know when he came back?”

  “I sleep rather soundly most nights.”

  “And you do not share the same room so you could hardly be expected to know when he came back or if he went out again.” Gilette expected no answer and continued to Dunham.

  “You went to the Club Morgan, Gordon, but not directly.… Abe,” he said, referring to the head-waiter, “says you did not arrive until close to eleven.”

  “Abe’s right.” Dunham flicked ashes on the concrete floor. His pink, rounded face was unperturbed and his tone was indifferent. “As Judith says, I left home shortly after ten. I drove slowly because I had something on my mind. You know about how long it would take to drive to Morgan’s from my place? Well, you know then that we don’t go into town from here. We cut across Highway Four and Five and I was almost to Highway Six when I decided to come back.”

  “Here?”

  “No.”

  “Where?”

  Dunham reached for an ashtray. “If you don’t mind awfully,” he said, intent on putting out his cigarette, “I’d rather not go into that now. I’ll be glad to tell you privately but—”

  “There’s no need to be embarrassed, Gordon,” Judith said. “Why not tell the Major you came back to see Barbara?”

  Dunham looked at her sharply. “How did you know?”

  “Why else would you drive nearly to Morgan’s and then turn round and come back?”

  Dunham took his time. He looked out over the trees lining the beach, and though he spoke calmly enough there was no great conviction in his words.

  “All right. I drove back and into Barbara’s. I didn’t notice the other car until I’d left my own. When I recognized the number—”

  “Len’s?” Gilette prompted.

  “—I got back into mine,” Dunham said, nodding, “and drove to Morgan’s as fast as I could. I had four or five drinks,” he said. “I left about midnight.”

  A creeping silence moved across the porch and Gilette referred to his notebook.

  “Mike Fabyan,” he said, “knows nothing about it, according to Mike. He was aboard the schooner from ten o’clock on but there is only one man who corroborates this and, knowing Mike, the corroboration is academic. Mike’s crew will say what he wants them to say, for as long as he wants them to say it.”

  He glanced up. “I don’t know how important any of this is because I’ve always been suspicious of alibis, particularly the so-called airtight variety. The innocent are often hard put to establish one because coincidence enters into such things, and because the innocent, having nothing to hide, are usually vague about details, particularly time. The only one who seems to have a sound alibi for last night is you,” he said, and looked at Ward.

  Ward met the other’s gaze with steady eyes and waited.

  “We located your driver,” Gilette said. “He knows nothing about time—it is probably the least important thing in the lives of most natives—but he does say that a gray Vauxhall was parked in front of Tenney’s when you got out of his car.”

  He put the notebook aside and picked up the other one. “Which brings us to something else.” He held the notebook up. “We found this in Tenney’s desk. It appears to be a diary of sorts and the last page has been torn out. The next to the last page has a notation which I will read. See what you make of it.”

  He glanced down and read: “‘Met MacQuade last night. Not the man I knew in London. Coincidence?’ and here,” Gilette said, “is a question mark, followed by: ‘Possibility the man is an impostor.’”

  Gilette closed the book. When his shrewd, probing eyes became busy Ward felt the blood draining from his cheeks and a vacuum was growing where his stomach had been. He felt his anger start to come, and his defiance rising, and because he wanted most of all to turn on Kate and give vent to some of that irascibility he looked straight at Gilette and heard him say:

  “Luckily we have the overseas telephone now as well as the cable. I’ve been in touch with New York—last night as well as this morning—and I learned some interesting things, the most important being that the Jim MacQuade who appears to have been related to John MacQuade died Monday evening, about three hours before you took a plane for San Juan.”

  Ward listened to the rest of it as if from a great distance. He was not conscious of what went on around him but he heard Gilette giving the cause of Jim’s death, the time and circumstances, the date and place of burial.

  “The New York authorities checked with the janitor of MacQuade’s apartment,” Gilette continued. “MacQuade shared that apartment with a man named Duncan Ward and I have his description.”

  And then the Major went to the attack in clipped, persistent phrases while Ward sat there and listened, a little amazed that the substance of his reasoning followed so closely the hypothesis that Kate Royce had presented the other morning. It was all there—the motive, opportunity, the knowledge—all of it leading t
o the conclusion that Ward had seized the opportunity to come here as an impostor with the hope of collecting an estate belonging to his friend.

  “Pursuing this line of reasoning a step further,” Gilette went on, “we can assume that John MacQuade somehow penetrated this impersonation the night he was killed. He grew suspicious for some reason, accused you, and then, either deliberately or in a frustrated rage brought on by the knowledge that you were about to lose what you had come for, you held the pillow over his face. You also knew that some of MacQuade’s thoughts were written in that notebook and—”

  Osborne jumped to his feet, his hard-jawed face threatening. “Yes, by God!” he said. “He has to be the one who attacked Alma. Someone went out her window and over the balcony when I came running down the hall. I was suspicious of him then when we couldn’t find him, but he had that story of chasing someone in the darkness and losing him and—”

  He ran out of breath and Gilette took over. “Just a minute, Len,” he cautioned, “if you don’t mind.” When he had quiet he gave his attention to Ward. “If you deny what I’ve said—”

  “I don’t deny the impersonation.”

  “Ahh—”

  “I deny the inferences.”

  “An innocent man would have confessed immediately John MacQuade was found. Why didn’t you?”

  “Because I wouldn’t let him.”

  Gilette blinked and stiffened his spine. He had to glance about to see who had spoken. When he realized it was Kate he leaned forward, squinting.

  “What did you say?”

  Kate got ready. She settled herself in her chair, propping her elbows on the arms and clasping her hands, as though to consolidate her position in the face of the attack she knew was to come. Her tone was direct and unequivocal.

  “I said I wouldn’t let him. I urged him not to. I knew he was an impostor the night he came. I accused him and he admitted it.”