First Come, First Kill

by Frances Lockridge

  ‘Until this morning,’ Heimrich said.

  Again Thompson hesitated for some seconds. Then he said, ‘All right. Until this morning. She telephoned and—’

  ‘I know,’ Heimrich said. ‘And last night—some time around midnight—you used the telephone yourself, didn’t you? Called Mr Peters in London? Found out he wouldn’t go along?’

  Thompson did not hesitate this time. He said, ‘That’s right, captain.’

  ‘So,’ Heimrich said, ‘this sudden realization that you’d been a damn fool, that you’d better make a clean breast of it—you had reason, didn’t you? Not just a sudden attack of—honesty?’

  ‘You,’ Thompson said, ‘aren’t being fair. I—’

  ‘Decided you weren’t going to get away with it,’ Heimrich said. ‘Decided to get out from under, if you could. In a great hurry—hurry enough to rent a plane and—’

  ‘No,’ Thompson said. ‘I wanted to get to La Guardia, get a plane for Chicago. I decided—finally decided—to come here only after we’d taken off. To get it cleared up before I went on to see these Chicago customers. You make it sound—’

  ‘Now Mr Thompson,’ Heimrich said. ‘I don’t. If there’s something fishy—something fishier than impersonation, than lying to the police—it’s the way you make it sound, Mr Thompson. This sudden urgency—sudden need to get it off your chest—’ He stopped. Audibly, he sighed. He clicked tongue and teeth. ‘In short,’ Heimrich said, ‘what are you up to?’

  ‘You’re quite unfair,’ Thompson said. He sounded aggrieved.

  Heimrich sighed again, and leaned back again, and closed his eyes again.

  ‘Captain,’ Thompson said, ‘what was Enid Mitchell doing down here?’

  Heimrich did not open his eyes. He said, ‘Looking for her father.’

  ‘When did she come?’

  ‘Friday afternoon. By car.’

  ‘Captain,’ Thompson said. ‘Wednesday there was another letter to Enid. From her father, I’m quite sure. We forwarded it. She’d have got it Thursday.’

  Heimrich was tempted to open his eyes. He did not. He said, ‘And, Mr Thompson?’

  ‘After she telephoned this morning,’ Thompson said. ‘Made it very clear she would identify me as having been at the inn I—I got to wondering. That was natural, wasn’t it?’

  Heimrich did open his eyes. He nodded his head.

  ‘I called the garage she keeps her car in,’ Thompson said. ‘The Vine Street Garage. I know the man who runs it. She took her car out Thursday evening, captain. It hasn’t been back since. Not Friday, captain. Thursday evening.’

  ‘Now Mr Thompson,’ Heimrich said. ‘You’ve made it quite clear.’

  ‘Enid,’ Thompson said, ‘is a very good rifle shot. She’s won prizes. She’s better than most men.’

  ‘You’re helpful,’ Heimrich said. ‘Why would she kill her father?’

  ‘You said it. I didn’t say it.’

  ‘Mr Thompson, where did your wife go to divorce Justice Mitchell? Where were the two of you married?’

  ‘In—’

  ‘Don’t,’ Heimrich said, ‘say Nevada, Mr Thompson.’

  Thompson stood up abruptly. He said, ‘I don’t—’

  ‘Now Mr Thompson,’ Heimrich said, not standing up. ‘You do, naturally. You’ve spoken your piece, now. Where are you going, now? And—don’t say Chicago, Mr Thompson.’

  ‘You can’t—’

  ‘Yes,’ Heimrich said. ‘If necessary. I can think of something. Where will you be, Mr Thompson? In case I think of something? Near by would be best. In the state—I’d be quite sure to stay in the state, Mr Thompson.’

  Thompson continued to look affronted, but it occurred to Heimrich that Thompson had not been unprepared. Which was a little disappointing.

  ‘The Roger Smith. White Plains,’ Thompson said.

  It was, Heimrich told him, a pleasant hotel …

  Throwing the girl to the wolves, Thompson was trying to do, Heimrich thought. Well, wolves cannot be choosers, cannot select those who feed them. Forniss would be calling in before long. He could pay a visit to a garage in Tonaganda. Heimrich reached for the telephone, but it rang at him.

  The message from Corporal Raymond Crowley was relayed. Heimrich listened.

  ‘Tell him to stand by,’ Heimrich said. ‘Get the boys over. Tell Ray not to fall in the well.’

  A man who, at a crucial moment in his professional life, lets himself be knocked down, and out, by an impetuous dog must expect to have to live it down.

  Heimrich started to replace the receiver. He remembered something. A man’s voice slurs as a man is dying. The last syllable of a name may sound like something else. Nevertheless—

  ‘Have them get hold of a pump,’ Heimrich said. ‘Pump the well out.’ He listened. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I know it’s Sunday.’

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Sundays are bad days not only for laying hands on men with pumps. They are bad days for laying hands on private detectives.

  It did not, to be sure, take long to get a cheerful, feminine, ‘Inquiries Incorporated good afternoon.’ Cheerful, feminine and entirely impersonal. Three rings, and one got an answering service. Mr Bernard Wayman would be at his office in the morning. If it was urgent, of course—

  It was, Heimrich told the answering service. It was urgent; it was police. ‘I’m not sure I can reach—’

  ‘Try,’ Heimrich said. ‘Try as hard as you can, miss. Mr Wayman will appreciate it.’

  It still took almost half an hour. Wayman said he was sorry, but he had taken the kids on a picnic. He said he had had to be sent for. He wanted to know how tricks were.

  Bernard Wayman had a rather high-pitched voice. Heimrich could almost see Bernie Wayman, at the other end of the telephone line—see him as well, on the whole, as one could ever see Bernie Wayman, from any distance. One had to look twice at Bernie Wayman to see him once, which Bernie counted on; which was one of the things which had led him to the selection of his trade.

  ‘Funny thing,’ Wayman said. ‘I was thinking about calling you, captain. Should I? Shouldn’t I?’

  ‘All right, Bernie,’ Heimrich said. ‘Consider you’ve called me.’

  ‘On the shouldn’t-I side,’ Bernie said, ‘there’s the old everything-confidential business.’

  ‘Assuming,’ Heimrich said, ‘that we’re talking about the same thing—on the should side, there’s murder. There’s also your license, Bernie. A man named Thompson?’

  ‘I don’t like that reference to the license, captain,’ Bernie Wayman said. ‘It hurts me. Here.’ It was not clear where ‘here’ was. ‘On the other hand—yes. A man named Thompson. He’s told you? That would clear up the shouldn’t I.’

  ‘He told me.’

  ‘Leaves me free,’ Bernie told Heimrich, or told himself. ‘O.K., captain. This guy—’

  This guy Wade Thompson had showed up at the office Friday morning. When? About eleven. Wanted a search made for T. Lyman Mitchell, supposed to be in the vicinity of Van Brunt. Close enough to it, anyway, to use it as a post office. Wayman had pointed out that it was a hell of a long time ago, now. He had been told that it wasn’t, now; that it was only a few days ago, now. Wayman had said—Heimrich assumed hopefully—that it might run into money. Thompson had said, anything in reason.

  ‘So,’ Wayman told Heimrich, ‘I took it on. And it turns out the poor old guy was dead. Dead already.’

  ‘Tough,’ Heimrich said. ‘You got a retainer?’

  ‘Now,’ Bernie said, ‘there is that, isn’t there? Wants it back?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Heimrich said. ‘I would, Bernie. In his place. Wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Could be,’ Bernie said. ‘On the other hand, I sent a man over. Started things moving.’

  ‘Bernie,’ Heimrich said, ‘I don’t give a damn, one way or the other. Settle it with Thompson. It was about eleven, you say?’

  ‘About that. Dead a couple of hours by then, wasn’t he? Did I know he was?
Nope. Did our friend Thompson act as if he knew? Not that I noticed. And—I’ve been turning it over in my mind, captain. Not a bad gag—hire somebody to look for a man you know is dead, on account of, you killed him. Not a very good gag, maybe, but not a bad gag. What it comes to, I don’t know, captain. On the other hand, I don’t read minds. You think Thompson’s your client?’

  ‘Now Bernie. I don’t know.’

  ‘I can’t help,’ Wayman said. ‘D. A. says, “Mr Wayman, when Mr Thompson came to you didn’t he look like a man who had just shot an old codger?” and the defense counsel jumps up like a jack-in-the-box, but I say, “Can’t say he did, sir,” before—’

  ‘All right, Bernie,’ Heimrich said. ‘When did you find out Mitchell had been killed?’

  ‘Twelve-o’clock news,’ Wayman said. ‘Radio. The voice of Westchester.’

  ‘All right, Bernie,’ Heimrich said. ‘Get back to your picnic. Sorry to have—’

  ‘Captain,’ Wayman said, ‘could be I’ve scratched your back, as the saying goes? Like I said, I was going to give you a ring and—’

  ‘All right,’ Heimrich said. ‘Where does yours itch, Bernie?’

  Wayman laughed, in appreciation. It was hardly an itch. Just—

  ‘Client of mine,’ Wayman said. ‘All at once, into thin air. Given up the post office box I was reporting to. No forwarding. My bill comes back with the report, if you get me. Per diem and expenses. The point is, neighbor of yours. Next-door neighbor.’

  ‘Perrin?’

  ‘The missis, captain.’

  Heimrich considered, briefly. He saw no reason why not.

  ‘Not thin air,’ Heimrich said. ‘Gone abroad.’

  ‘Happen to know?’

  Heimrich again considered, briefly. The State Police are not in the business of collecting bills for private investigators.

  ‘Sorry, Bernie,’ Heimrich said. ‘I don’t. But her husband’s still there. He’d—’

  ‘Captain,’ Bernard Wayman said, ‘be your age. Why do you think she hired me—’ He stopped, abruptly. In his fashion, Bernard Wayman was an honest man. In that fashion, the enquiries of Inquiries, Inc., were confidential.

  ‘Wayman,’ Heimrich said, ‘do I have to make it official?’

  ‘I don’t know what—’

  ‘Come off it, Bernie.’

  ‘All right,’ Wayman said. ‘I can’t stop you from guessing, can I? Married woman hires a private op, what would you guess, captain?’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘Official?’

  He could call it that.

  Wayman hesitated.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘Let’s keep it a guess, captain. I’ve got to draw the line somewhere. A court order, could be. Send—oh, say a cute little redhead—around with a court order and—’ He stopped again. ‘My, my,’ Bernard Wayman said, ‘what am I saying, captain?’

  Heimrich thanked Bernard Wayman again, told him again to get back to his picnic.

  ‘By now,’ Wayman said, ‘the kids will have eaten it.’

  Drop a line in water, with a proper hook at the end of it, and there is no telling what you may come up with. Have luck, and you catch a fish; have none and you tug out an old shoe. Fish for bass and you come up with—with what? An eel? Or, conceivably, a red herring. A cute little red herring. And suppose Oliver Perrin had been playing around? Regrettable, of course. Indicative of low moral tone, no doubt. Unwise of Oliver Perrin, since the money was Marian Perrin’s. And nothing to do with me; nothing to do with the murder of a man on my driveway, in view of my wife. Nothing to do with the New York State Police.

  Forniss called in from the Tonaganda Airport. The plane which had flown Wade Thompson from it had returned to it, without Thompson. Landed at the Westchester County—

  ‘I know,’ Heimrich said. ‘He’s been here. Full of innocence and suggestions. Why did the pilot file a flight plan for La Guardia?’

  ‘Original idea, he says,’ Forniss said. ‘Customer changed mind. Pilot got clearance for Westchester instead. What suggestions?’

  Heimrich told him.

  ‘Vine Street Garage,’ Forniss said, with the pacing of a man making notes. ‘Is Enid really that good with a rifle? Does Mrs Thompson remember this second letter?’

  Heimrich considered for a moment. He said, ‘I think we can go that far, Charlie.’

  ‘How’s Thompson himself with a rifle?’ Forniss said, a man writing himself a check list. ‘How’s Enid’s boy friend? This may take a bit of time, you know.’

  Heimrich knew. Any further sign of the trailing Volkswagen?

  ‘No, damn it,’ Forniss said. ‘I’m afraid I don’t interest Mr Silvo any more. You come up with anything?’

  ‘Not I,’ Heimrich said. ‘Crowley. A tumbled-down shed. An abandoned well. A footprint, probably Mitchell’s.’ He summarized, briefly.

  ‘Young Robinson Crusoe,’ Forniss said. ‘Tell him not to fall in the well.’

  ‘I did,’ Heimrich said. ‘Oh—did the present Mrs Thompson, who probably isn’t, have money before she married Mitchell? Is the Mitchell estate tangled up, and her money with it? Had either Thompson or his wife taken soundings on the possibility of having Mitchell presumed—’

  ‘I know,’ Forniss said.

  ‘Sorry, Charlie,’ Heimrich said, and was. Forniss did not need to be told his business. ‘Call me at home when you get anything. O.K.?’

  ‘Yep,’ Charles Forniss said.

  Heimrich put the receiver back and looked at a blank wall. The wall provided no inspiration. He might, Heimrich thought, as well go home. From the terrace he could look at the Hudson River. Better than a blank wall, if perhaps no more inspiring. He could also look at Susan, who would be, considerably.

  He was getting into his car in the barracks parking area when a uniformed trooper came out, on the double, and yelled. Heimrich went back into the barracks, back to his desk; once more he picked a telephone up.

  Policewoman Elizabeth Grumley, in civilian clothes, properly accompanied by male detective, had observed Mrs Marian Perrin—not accompanied at all—having a pre-dinner drink at the Savoy. Wearing a blue dress; looking very smart. Fitted the description as given. Dark hair, height about five-five or six. Policewoman Grumley would have guessed her weight at nearer eight stone than nine, but Mrs Perrin was sitting at a table, and it is more difficult to guess when subject is sitting. Looked younger than age given, but light in lounge soft and flattering. No opportunity to take photograph without observation; would have had to use flash because of light conditions. If still wanted, would try to catch outside, next morning, in daylight.

  ‘If it’s not too much trouble, inspector,’ Heimrich said. ‘But, there’s no rush about it. If you get it, send it airmail.’

  ‘Right,’ Chief Inspector Drake said, from his London suburb. ‘You don’t sound happy, captain. Cooling off on you?’

  ‘Looks like it,’ Heimrich said. Not that it had ever been hot, or even warm. Mrs Marian Perrin looked like Mrs Marian Perrin, which was to be expected. No right-minded woman of forty-odd, with money in her purse, looks like a woman of forty-odd.

  ‘She was drinking what looked like a gin and tonic,’ Drake said. ‘Thoroughness is our goal.’

  ‘A gin and tonic,’ Heimrich said, ‘sounds like a fine idea at the moment. Thanks again, inspector.’

  Heimrich went back to his car. This time nobody stopped him. In Van Brunt Center he turned into the entrance to the Old Stone Inn. The parking lot was only moderately filled; New Yorkers seldom loiter as they roll home—roll on what seems a treadmill—late on Sunday afternoon.

  It was dim and cool in the taproom, the ‘Stone Lounge.’ Enid Mitchell and Brian Fields were in a dimmer corner, with long drinks. It was a pity to disturb them. Many things a policeman has to do are intrusive. Fields looked up, and did not look pleased, and said, ‘Oh—you.’

  ‘A point or two,’ Heimrich said, and pulled a chair up. ‘Do join us,’ Fields said, elaborately, and Heimrich said, ‘Now Mr
Fields.’ ‘Don’t, Brian,’ the girl said. Her eyes were very large. Heimrich could see only attention in them; only waiting. ‘What points, captain?’ the girl said.

  ‘You drove down Friday,’ Heimrich said. ‘Got to the barracks late in the day.’

  ‘I didn’t know where to go,’ she said. ‘I had to ask. I told you that.’

  ‘Left Friday morning?’

  She had left about ten, she said. She had not hurried. It was a long drive. She had stopped for almost an hour for lunch.

  ‘Miss Mitchell,’ Heimrich said, ‘We understand you keep your car in a public garage—the Vine Street Garage. Is that right?’

  That was right. Her eyes now, he thought, were a little puzzled.

  ‘We’ve been told,’ Heimrich said, ‘that you took your car out of the garage Thursday evening.’

  He looked at the girl, and Brian Fields turned and looked at her.

  ‘Why yes,’ she said. ‘What diff—Oh. You think I—’

  Heimrich merely waited.

  ‘I did,’ she said. ‘I drove it home. Parked in front of the apartment. Lots of people do that—leave cars at the curb all night. I suppose it’s against the law but—’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The garage is—oh, blocks from where I live. I came by it on my way home. Why? So I wouldn’t have to carry my bags blocks in the morning, or walk blocks and get the car and bring it back.’

  Brian Fields nodded at her. ‘Good girl,’ the nod said. Good, rational girl. He looked to Heimrich, obviously for concurrence. Heimrich also nodded his head, the nod noncommittal. Not that what she said didn’t make sense. Don’t lug a bag if you don’t have to lug a bag.

  ‘Miss Mitchell,’ Heimrich said, ‘you’ve told me you got only the one letter from your father. You still say that?’

  ‘Now listen, captain,’ Fields said. Heimrich looked at him. ‘Of course she still says that,’ Fields said. Heimrich looked at the girl. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I still say that. Does somebody—somebody say something different?’

  ‘Yes,’ Heimrich said. ‘Your stepfather.’ Fields started to say something. ‘Now Mr Fields,’ Heimrich said, ‘there’s no point to make, is there? Mr Thompson. Wade Thompson. He says, Miss Mitchell, that he—or your mother—forwarded a letter which came to their place on Wednesday. They thought the handwriting on the envelope was your father’s.’