Banking on Death

by Emma Lathen

  “They don’t have to be. Grandfather prepared against all eventualities,” replied Martin in more sober tones. Now that the first rapture of discomfiting Grace was over, he was prepared to join in the lamentation and wailing.

  Meanwhile Grace, forgetting her original grievance with Thatcher, ignored his existence completely and turned to Martin for solace.

  “Something has to be done. It’s all very well for you. No doubt Hilda is leaving a very substantial sum to you and you don’t have many expenses anyway—not justifiable ones at any rate,” she added tartly, throwing a bitter and rather envious glance about the room. Clearly she knew to the penny exactly how much had gone into the remodeling and decorating of Martin’s apartment. “But I have to keep up Rowland’s position. And it doesn’t help things to have him throwing away huge sums on those children of his. Why setting up Philip in his own office has cost us—”

  “How is Rowland, by the way?” interrupted Martin in a practiced maneuver to stem the tide of complaints about the cost of maintaining her step-children.

  “Fine,” said Grace, briskly dismissing her husband’s well-being. “But the point is that I have been absolutely depending on this money and something has to be done.”

  “You realize, Grace,” said Martin smoothly, “that my mother is still alive.”

  “We all realize,” replied Grace coldly, “that the end will be a merciful release for her. And there’s no point in your beating about the bush this way, Martin. You’ve been counting on the money just as much as we have.”

  “Yes,” acknowledged Martin, “it’s a blow.”

  “Well, there’s no doubt about what has to be done. Now is the time when Arthur will simply have to raise the dividends. It’s simply ridiculous the level to which he’s been holding me during the past five years. It’s all very well for him. He’s taking an immense salary out of the profits and can afford to take a high and mighty tone about retaining earnings in order to increase capital. You don’t see him cutting his salary in order to increase anything.”

  Martin, who had abandoned all signs of playfulness as soon as the conversation turned to money—indeed this seemed to be a characteristic of the Schneiders, who approached the subject with an almost devotional respect—was obviously in some sympathy with his cousin.

  “I know how you feel, Grace, but the fact is, unless things improve, there’s very little chance of Arthur doing anything except forcing us to take a cut in dividends.”

  “A cut?” Grace was outraged. “That’s out of the question. He can’t be allowed to get away with it. If he’s such a paragon of business efficiency, why has the firm gone steadily downhill since he took over. I won’t stand for it. I tell you, Martin, that if he has anything like that in mind, it’s time for a change.” She deliberated for a few moments. “You know, Martin, if you could get your hands on enough stock and we voted together—”

  Thatcher had been watching Martin play his fish with a good deal of appreciation. He realized that the bait must have been dropped some time ago, and that Martin’s patience—and it must have required a good deal of patience to deal with a subject as unfocusable as Grace—was finally paying off. But it seemed that he was not destined to be a spectator at the catch itself. Martin had clearly decided that the interview would proceed more smoothly in Thatcher’s absence.

  “Very true, Grace, but I’m afraid that all this must be quite boring for Mr. Thatcher and we’ve already allowed our affairs to take up too much of his time.” Martin directed a significant look at Thatcher, who realized that he had no option. “You mustn’t let me interrupt your discussion. I really must be going now, but it’s been extremely pleasant to have the opportunity to meet you and discuss the trust. I’m sure you’ll keep me informed of developments and we shall be seeing each other in the future.” He took a punctilious leave of Grace, who seemed surprised to find him still on the premises and allowed Martin to escort him to the door. His host was suavely charming, urged him to drop in for a drink whenever he was in the neighborhood, and saw him out to the doorstep with evident relief.

  But Martin returned to the living room to discover that the interlude had been sufficient for the changeable Grace to become immersed in a different problem. And her anxiety was sufficient to convince him that yet another opportunity had slipped by. She was far too worried about her immediate concerns to permit the intrusion of any alien subject matter.

  “Martin, I told the police that I was home alone all that night. What will happen?”

  “What do you mean? Was there someone else there?”

  “No, no, you don’t understand.”

  “What in the world are you talking about, Grace?”

  “How did I know that anybody knew? It wasn’t until after I talked with the police that I found out that someone had called. That revolting Alice Parker dropped by at midnight to try to borrow some ice. Claims she saw a light, rang the doorbell, and didn’t get any answer.”

  “Who the hell is Alice Parker?”

  “She’s the woman who lives next door—a prying, interfering gossip. It seems they were having a party. Is it reasonable to expect people to drop by at midnight?”

  “Have the police talked to her?”

  “I don’t know, and it’s driving me mad. Are they likely to check with the neighbors?”

  “Depends on how seriously they’re considering you. You’ll just have to explain, that’s all.”

  “And have it get out? Never!”

  “I suppose it was—”

  “Yes,” said Grace slowly, “it was.”

  Chapter 10

  Long Term Liability

  Peter Self had become a Captain in the Buffalo Police Force and Acting Head of its Detective Division for a variety of complicated reasons, not unconnected with his wife’s uncle’s role as President of the Buffalo Polish-American Democratic Club. But twenty years on the force had left their mark; he had seen bodies with knives in their backs, bodies with ugly gashes in the throat; he had seen sixteen-year-old girls who had been fished out of Lake Erie; he had seen old women who had been beaten with hammers; he had watched stolidly while pathologists pointed to fragments spread on a table and identified missing wives and lost children; he had seen bodies like that of Robert Schneider, grotesquely protesting as they lay in crusted brownish spots more like leaks from an automobile engine than human blood.

  He remained what he had always been—unimaginative, competent and essentially unemotional, but he developed a strong dislike for malefactors, including murderers. Corrective treatment instead of prison for a seventeen-year-old thief hurt him like a blow; opponents of capital punishment he loathed.

  Twenty years of seeing victims does not encourage a man to take an enlightened view of the treatment of offenders, so it is fortunate that Peter Self was responsible only for the apprehension of criminals. In this, because he was a patient, careful man who wiped his feet before he entered his home, and emptied the pockets of his jackets before he hung them up, he became remarkably successful. His method was simple and uncomplicated: impervious to demands from City Hall or the Buffalo Courier he went over the ground again and again.

  So, after he finished talking to Jeannie Novak, he methodically drove onto the Thruway and when he pulled his sedan off it an hour later, he did not have to drive into downtown Batavia to inquire about 204 Sycamore Street. He drove the five miles to Sycamore Street and pulled up before a shabby white house, parked, opened the gate and walked up the path to the porch. But as he waited for someone to answer the bell he looked around him again; the Christmas wreath still hanging on the door did not suggest holiday cheer. It was a depressing house with peeling paint and sagging porch, in a depressing neighborhood. A sled stood leaning against the garage.

  Kathryn Schneider opened the door.

  “Come in, Captain Self,” she said. After he had inspected his shoes for snow, he followed her into the small living room. The Christmas tree still stood in the corner and under it a variety
of boxes. Pine needles had begun to litter the rug, Self noted, because the tree had been placed in the kind of holder that does not hold water.

  “Won’t you sit down,” Kathryn Schneider asked as she pointed to the couch, and herself sat in the straight-backed chair opposite. Sunlight still lit one corner of the room, and the bold colors of the furniture accentuated the woman’s pallor. She was painfully thin with unbecomingly short hair. She wore little makeup, and her somewhat shiny skin gave her the look that Self tended to associate with widows. But she was not wearing mourning for her husband. Her gray skirt and white blouse, neat and somewhat prim, were probably her “teaching clothes” a concession to his presence. She was, Self knew, thirty-four.

  “I suppose you think I was lying to you about the money,” she burst out as he sat down. “I suppose you can’t be expected to believe that I just heard about it today.” She pulled a letter from her pocket and handed it to him angrily.

  Self read: “Dear Mrs. Schneider, The Sloan Guaranty Trust ....” He glanced at John Thatcher’s signature, and then said, “Yes, I heard from Mr. Thatcher on Friday.” He returned to the letter, reading carefully. His lips moved slightly.

  Kathryn Schneider watched him in an agony of barely controlled tension; she pulled off her horn-rimmed glasses, rubbed her eyes despairingly, then, finding the silence intolerable, said, “I’ve sent the boys to my sister in Utica. I suppose that’s all right, isn’t it? I couldn’t bear to have them around here—with the police and reporters coming and going.”

  Self handed her the letter. “We may have to talk to them again, but we can let that go for a while. At least that,” he pointed to the letter she was putting in her pocket, “that makes things a little better. For the future I mean.”

  The woman shrugged. “I suppose so, she said hopelessly. “I’m just about out of my mind. Yesterday I would have been so happy to know about the money. I spent the day worrying about the School Board. I haven’t heard from them ...”

  In the hallway a phone shrilled, interrupting them, and Kathryn Schneider got hurriedly to her feet. “Excuse me." Captain Self made no pretense of not listening to the call. “Yes ... oh, yes Mrs. Poulos .... No, fine thank you.... Yes. Well, I appreciate that but I sent the boys to Ellen. Yes, Fred came down last night. I thought it would be better. Well, not right now, I’m afraid. Thank you for calling.”

  Self stood as she reentered the room.

  “One of my neighbors,” she explained wearily. “They mean to be kind but they’re curious.” She looked at him for a moment, and then said, “And now I’ve got another motive, haven’t I. You won’t believe that I didn’t know about the money . . .”

  Self listened without emotion as she broke off again, then said, “Now Mrs. Schneider, you’re an educated woman. You know I have to ask questions and go over a lot of stories. Including the story about the money. It doesn’t mean that I think you had more of a motive than anybody else, or that I suspect you. And if you didn’t kill your husband,” he stilled a protest and continued, “if you didn’t kill your husband, nothing is going to make us think you did.” He studied her. “And the sooner we do find out who did kill him, the better things will be for you.”

  Kathryn Schneider bowed her head as if in silent prayer for a moment, and then looked up at him with the ghost of a smile. “I’m sorry, Captain. I’m overwrought, I guess. I’ll try to control myself.”

  “Good,” said Self.

  “Let me get us some coffee,” she said. Self assented, and she busied herself in the kitchen for a few moments, and then returned with two cups. Sitting down again, she said, “All right, fire away.” Self stirred his coffee thoughtfully; for the first time, he had seen a reasonably attractive woman in Kathryn Schneider behind the fatigue and fright.

  “Well, let’s start with the money,” he said. “You say you didn’t know that your husband was due to inherit $100,000. That fits in with what they told me about trying to find him. It’s possible that he didn’t know about it. Now, what did you know about his family back in Massachusetts?”

  “Nothing,” she replied. “I’ve already told you that I married Bob in California when he was just out of the army. He didn’t say much about his family—just that his mother and father were dead and that he had lived with an Aunt. Aunt Marie, I think. He didn’t mention any other family—I always assumed that he didn’t have any.”

  Self nodded; he had heard this before. “Now when you came back from California. That was just after you were married, was it?”

  “Yes. In 1948.”

  “Now, was there any special reason for coming back?”

  “Well, Bob wasn’t satisfied with his work with Berndorf Aircraft. He came back to take a job in Rochester, with Eastman Kodak.”

  “Your family is from New York, isn’t it?” Self said. He knew that Kathryn Schneider was from Utica, and that a large family still lived there.

  “Look,” she said persuasively, “can’t I make you understand? It wouldn’t matter where I came from. Bob just came home one night and announced that we were moving; I was happy to be coming back so that I could see my folks once in awhile but that wouldn’t make any difference to Bob. We could just as easily have gone to Africa. I think he had forgotten about my family.” There was an edge to her voice.

  “And he never mentioned his hopes—about coming into money?”

  “He never mentioned anything,” Kathryn Schneider snapped. She rose and went over to the window; without turning, she continued, “Captain Self, there’s no way to make a normal human being understand about my husband. He was crazy. Not just selfish in the normal sense. He didn’t think of anything but himself and his work.” She whirled and put her hands out before her, as if trying to make a recalcitrant student understand something. “Look,” she said heatedly, “do you have any children?”

  “Two,” Self said, wondering what was coming next.

  “Then think about this. After Allen was born, Bob would come home—this is when we were living in Rochester—eat dinner without a word, then go into the living room and work on some papers. He never went to see his son.” She frowned at him, in an effort to make him understand. “He didn’t even ask about him. His son.”

  Against his will Self was reminded of the first six months after young Peter came. It was fifteen years ago, but he would not soon forget.... Kathryn Schneider had the trick of the good teacher, of making the experience reasonable to the student, he thought wryly. She had gone on quickly, saying: “He didn’t notice. He wasn’t home. He didn’t care. About his wife, about his son, about anything.” Her voice rose, and she stopped to get control of herself, then continued carefully, “I knew that my marriage was a terrible mistake very early on, but I thought that when Allen came...” She cut herself off and shrugged her shoulders. Sitting down again she faced him and said earnestly, “I couldn’t go on. When I knew that I was going to have another baby, I just walked out. Bob never saw Donny. Never once. He never even asked about either of his sons.” Self glanced at her tightly grasped hands.

  “Why didn’t you get a divorce?”

  “I am a Catholic, Captain,” she replied.

  “How did he take it?” Self asked.

  Kathryn Schneider leaned back with a weary sigh. “How would I know? I went home to my sister and had my baby. My brother-in-law got a lawyer and we got an agreement that Bob was to contribute to the boys’ support. I was feeling pretty terrible.”

  Self asked, “How did you find out that he moved to Buffalo?”

  Again the phone interrupted them. Kathryn Schneider answered it. “Hello. Oh yes Ellen. Yes. Fine. I’m talking to Captain Self now. Hello, Allen, are you being a good boy with Aunt Ellen?” Captain Self listened to Kathryn Schneider. What reserves of strength she must have in order to summon that bright gay voice for her sons. It was the first time he had ever heard her laugh, he thought, as he looked around the little room; it was a small house for two growing boys, but it showed signs of care; he picked
up the two coffee cups and went into the kitchen. Mrs. Schneider was still talking to her sons. Her voice had just the right tone of affectionate amusement; he put the cups in the sink, and looked around. The linoleum was worn and old, but the kitchen had been painted a bright yellow, and blue-and-white curtains hung jauntily at the windows. He returned to the living room just as Mrs. Schneider, a little flushed, came in. The smile she had used for her children was still on her face.

  “The boys,” she explained. “They wanted to tell me that they are going to go to the farm to see their grandmother.” Self made a mental note to find out more about the boys, and about Kathryn Schneider’s family, but he said only, “Well there won’t be too much more to go over. I was just wondering how you found out about your husband’s coming to Buffalo.” The question acted on Kathryn Schneider like a cloud obscuring the sun; her smile faded, and the tight worn expression reappeared.

  “It was money,” she said. “I got a job here in Batavia as soon as I was able. I borrowed money from Fred and Ellen and stayed here with the children for six months, but then I had to take a job. It wasn’t easy.”

  “Yes,” Self said in a prompting voice.

  “Well, one way and another, I made do. But Bob was very irregular with his payments and Fred—my brother-in-law—kept trying to get him to be more regular. Finally, about two years after I left, Fred found out that he had moved to Buffalo. He called me, to tell me, and I thought that I would go in to talk to him about it.”

  “When was that?” Self asked.

  “It must have been about five years ago,” Kathryn Schneider answered. She continued without further prompting, “I should have known better; he just said ‘Hello, Kathryn’ as if I had never been anything more than a casual acquaintance. I think he had forgotten me. And his two children.”

  “Did you get him to promise anything?” Self asked.

  “Nobody could,” she retorted. “I think I must have seen him—perhaps five or six times since then. We always had a fight; I just couldn’t stand it—the way he didn’t care.”