Dead Aim (The Lt. Hastings Mysteries)

by Collin Wilcox

  I introduced myself, showed him the shield and asked to be let inside.

  “Sure. Come on in. I haven’t decided on a decorator yet. But I can offer you a packing box. Literally.”

  “That’s fine.”

  He collapsed in an angular, loose-jointed posture on a mattress placed directly on the bare wooden floor. I sat, literally, on a box—a Haig and Haig box decorated with signs of the zodiac.

  “I won’t take much of your time, Mr. Kellaway,” I began. “I just want a little information.”

  “Time I have, Lieutenant. Besides, I’m interested. I’m forty-three pages into the great American novel. For all I know, you could be page forty-four.”

  “What’s your novel about?”

  “It’s about an intensely sensitive, intelligent young man who can’t quite make it, despite all the so-called advantages. He can’t make it in a succession of Ivy league colleges because he falls asleep in class. He can’t make it in business because he snickers during sales meetings. He can’t make it in hippieland because he can’t take himself that seriously, plus he can’t visualize himself growing turnips. And finally, he can’t make it with girls, because”—he paused, then finished in a lower, more pensive voice—“because he wears glasses, I guess. I haven’t figured that part out yet.”

  “Do you spend all your time writing?”

  “No. I only write during the time I’d otherwise squander on double features or sex-starved girls. For money, I work at the post office. I’m in Out of State.”

  Because it was a relaxation, I bantered with him for another five minutes. Then I asked him whether he knew anything of his neighbors’ movements during the previous night and early morning. He could only tell me that arriving home at one A.M., he saw their light on and “someone’s shadow reflected on the gleaming man-made needles of their Woolworth’s Yule tree.”

  “You say ‘someone’s shadow.’ Do you mean one person, or two?”

  “If I had to guess, Lieutenant, I’d say one. But it was just an impression. I was returning from the local all-night liquor store, where I’d just purchased a half gallon of cheap red wine, on which I planned to float effortlessly into page forty-four. My attention, naturally, was drawn to the glittering aluminum Christmas tree. And my recollection is that I saw a shadow—or shadows—inside. That’s all.” He spread his long arms. “Sorry.”

  “Are you acquainted with Mr. Rawlings and Miss Swanson?”

  I was surprised to see his airy expression break up into a shy, confused, almost boyish blush. His eyes fell. His lashes, I saw, were surprisingly long.

  “I know J—Miss Swanson,” he mumbled, still avoiding my eyes. “But I don’t know Rawlings very well.”

  I almost guffawed. She’d taken him to bed. She’d probably told him that she’d been overcome with girlish passion. I debated pursuing the point, deciding finally to let it go.

  “What kind of a life do they have together, do you think?” I asked after a moment.

  His good humor returned, along with his breezy poise. “Well, I’d say it isn’t the world’s most successful match, at least from Rawlings’ point of view.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean simply that the poor guy’s utterly, completely hung up on her, but she barely tolerates him. For which, I must say, I can’t blame her. I don’t understand how she could’ve got involved with him in the first place. He’s one of those beetle-browed super males whose horizon is limited entirely by a woman in bed, a football game on TV and a car he can’t afford in the garage.”

  “What kind of a car does he have?”

  He shrugged indifferently. “Some kind of a super V-8, hydro hyped up, low slung, high-speed fire-engine red—a Pontiac, I think. I should know. He spends most of his time polishing it.”

  “What about Jane? What’s she like?”

  He glanced up sharply at my familiar use of the name. But when I didn’t change expression, he frowned, thought about it, then said judiciously, “She’s had a hard life. Sometimes she—comes over here, and we, ah, have a glass of wine. She needs someone to talk to. And after all—” He grinned. “I’ve got to get to page fifty somehow. Not to mention three hundred fifty.”

  “Has she told you much about herself?”

  Again he frowned elaborately. “Over the months, quite a lot. It’s not much of a story, I’m afraid. She was a good-looking teenager from Middle America. Her father took off when she was three, and her mother might just as well’ve taken off. Jane got married at seventeen, to get away from home. A year later she got divorced, or deserted—I forget which. Whereupon she started selling cigarettes and checking hats and hoofing—ending, naturally, in Las Vegas, the end of the hoofer’s rainbow.”

  “How would you describe her personality?” I smiled. “After all, you’re a forty-three-page novelist.”

  He ruefully returned the smile, almost shyly. Then, thinking about it, he said, “I suppose that Jane is just as one-dimensional as Rawlings. She’s vain, self-centered and totally concerned with surface rather than substance—the traditional female vices. Still, when she has confidence in someone, she’s not afraid to talk about herself, which takes a certain strength. She told me, for instance, about a man she met in Las Vegas. A European man, older than—” He broke off, eyes widening. Then: “Jesus Christ. That murder last night. She never told me his name, but—” He blinked, now tightly hugging his knees, staring incredulously at me. “Jesus. So that’s it.”

  I got my hat, rising stiffly from the zodiac-decorated whiskey box. “You’ve been very helpful, Mr. Kellaway. I hope I’ll see you again. Happy page forty-four.”

  13

  I FOUND WALTER MANLEY in the same small sitting room his wife had occupied earlier in the day. Wearing a cashmere sweater and soft white sports shirt, he seemed perfectly cast as the affluent executive relaxing before dinner.

  As the maid stepped aside, I saw Manley rise to his feet. His smile began as a suave, meaningless exercise in drawing-room etiquette, but ended a haunted, hollow-eyed failure. Gesturing me to a chair, he moved his arm in a short, uncertain arc, then slumped abruptly onto a brocaded love seat. On the elaborately carved side table I saw a half-finished highball, dark amber.

  “Drink, Lieutenant?”

  “No, thanks.”

  Frowning slightly, he nodded over my reply. His fingers twitched on the rich brocade; his gaze avoided mine.

  I decided to sit quietly, watching him, waiting. Reacting normally, he should have immediately begun to press me for news of our investigation. His silence, then, could be revealing.

  From a nearby room I heard a phone ring twice, followed by the hushed voice of the maid. Listening, Manley winced dully.

  “I’ve been home all afternoon, except for—” He blinked. “Except for an hour at the funeral home. And that phone hasn’t quit. Supposedly, they’re all well-wishers. Actually, they’re well-mannered ghouls, trying to participate vicariously in all this. It’s the closest most of them get to living.”

  “I know. In my business they’re occupational hazards. We call them the rubberneckers. They can’t stand the sight of blood. But they can’t stand not to look, either.”

  He toyed thoughtfully with his glass, then abruptly drained most of the remaining drink in one long gulp. With his chin uptilted, throat muscles sagging, he seemed suddenly vulnerable. I wondered how many highballs he’d had. His rigid, well-bred self-discipline, obviously second nature, made a sobriety assessment difficult. And shock could magnify liquor’s impact. Guilt, too.

  I drew a deep breath and leaned forward in my chair. It was time to go to work. “Mr. Manley,” I began, “I’m sure you’re familiar with our procedures. Contrary to popular opinion, we don’t usually come up with many inspired solutions to a murder. We just collect all the facts we can—all the tips, all the gossip, all the little bits of unrelated information. Everything. Then we try to fit it all together. We look for tie-ins, points of intersection. When we finally find our man
—the murderer—we discover, naturally, that ninety-five percent of our effort has been totally wasted. For instance—” I paused, assessing his reaction. He offered no response; his manner was aloof, indifferent, as if he were politely half-listening to a completely predictable profit-and-loss recitation. I watched him absently arranging his shirt collar. He was one of those men who wore clothes beautifully. Meaning that he constantly made almost imperceptible body-adjustments, subtly accommodating himself to the line of his clothing. But he was beyond conscious posing, beyond vanity. His self-confident presence and his iron-gray good looks were inherited, not acquired.

  “For instance,” I continued, “we’ve learned that your son Bruce was with Karen last evening. So, naturally, we’re checking on his movements. We don’t seriously think he could have committed the murder. Psychologically I’d say it’s almost impossible. Still”—I shrugged—“still, he had the opportunity, and he had a possible motive. So—”

  “Motive?” He was frowning. But he seemed merely puzzled—as if the profit-and-loss recital had taken a mildly distressing turn.

  “Yes, Mr. Manley. We’ve been checking with your lawyers, at your wife’s suggestion. And we’ve discovered that Bruce inherits Karen’s own inheritance.”

  “But—” Incredulous, he was getting his strikingly blue eyes into focus. “But that’s preposterous.” His voice had deepened, became more authoritative.

  “I agree. As I said. Still”—I spread my hands—“we have to check everything out. As a matter of fact—” I leaned back, pretending a casual detachment, pitching my voice to an offhand note as I said, “As a matter of fact, I’ve got to check you out—ask you to account for your movements last night.”

  “You’re joking.” His voice was flat, for the first time accented with the offhand, understated arrogance of the stereotyped upper class.

  “No,” I answered slowly, “I’m not joking. Unfortunately.”

  “Are you telling me,” he said, “that you think I had a motive for killing my own daughter?” As he spoke, his body tightened visibly, became wrathfully rigid.

  “I’m telling you that we have a statement from a qualified witness which states that you were involved with a woman known to”—I hesitated, choosing the words—“to travel in the same circle as Valenti and your daughter.”

  “Your ‘witness’ is a liar, Lieutenant. And you’re repeating a libelous story.” Banging his glass down hard on the exquisitely carved table, he rose to his feet and crossed to the doorway in three long, angry strides. Closing the door, turning, stepping a single pace toward me, he stood in the center of the small room. His fists were clenched at his sides; his eyes bulged with barely suppressed belligerence. His wide, handsomely molded mouth was tightly compressed. His voice was very low, very intimidating as he said, “If my wife should hear you, the consequences could be unpleasant.”

  I rose to face him. Dropping my voice to a flat, official monotone, locking my eyes with his, I replied, “I’ll give you the complete story as it was presented to me, Mr. Manley. When you’ve heard it, you can either confirm or deny it. That’s all I’m asking: just a confirmation or a denial. Fair?”

  His reply was a short, contemptuous snort. But his eyes were watchful.

  “My information is that you’ve often been seen with a girl named Candice Weiss. I also understand that your, ah, friendship with Miss Weiss was known to both your daughter and Valenti.” I paused. Then, pitching my voice to a slower, graver cadence, I said, “Now, is that a true statement or a false statement?”

  Drawing a deep breath, loudly exhaling, he stood squarely before me, regarding me with a kind of exasperated impatience, as if he’d regretfully decided to discipline me for some infraction of executive fiat.

  “I’ve only one thing to say to you, Lieutenant. And that’s this—” Again he drew a deep breath, making an elaborate effort to control himself. “It’s true, I know a girl named Candice Weiss. I keep two horses in Golden Gate Park. Mrs. Weiss—she’s divorced—keeps a horse at the same stable. She may have known Karen; I really couldn’t say. She may also have known Valenti. She probably did, in fact, if she knew Karen. Now—” He hesitated elaborately. “Now, that’s all I’m going to say on the subject. Furthermore, if you intend to pursue this—this ridiculous tactic any further, I’ll be compelled to call my lawyers and let them deal with you. And I should warn you that my lawyers are very well paid. Which means that they’re accustomed to getting results, no matter who gets hurt in the process.”

  For a long, quiet moment I studied him, hopeful that he’d drop his eyes. When he didn’t, I nodded slowly, attempting to project a resigned, reluctant regret. Drawing a plastic card from my pocket, I read him his rights in flat officialese.

  “Please contact your lawyer and be downtown within an hour, Mr. Manley,” I concluded, turning abruptly toward the door. I allowed my shoulders to slump, as if the necessity for dealing with Manley as a suspect distressed me.

  He let me reach the door, with my hand on the knob.

  “Lieutenant.”

  Turning, I saw him sink down on the brocaded sofa, suddenly round-shouldered, plainly dejected, once more hollow-eyed. He looked like a washed-up actor who couldn’t remember his lines—a caricature of success, no longer its urbane embodiment. His fingers were again fretfully picking at the sofa’s fabric.

  “If it weren’t for Denise—my wife—I wouldn’t give a damn,” he said dully. “But she just can’t take any more. Not now. The lawyers can protect me. But they can’t help Denise.”

  With an obvious effort, he raised his eyes, sighing raggedly. “My only recourse is to approach you as a—a gentleman.”

  The phrase struck such an odd, archaic note that, caught by surprise, I almost guffawed. Plainly, he had little hope for his one-gentleman-to-another appeal.

  “Tell me about it, Mr. Manley,” I said quietly. “I’ll do the best I can for you.”

  Averting his eyes, speaking in a low, rapid monotone, he said, “There’s nothing especially unusual about my—friendship with Candice. My wife and I, like many of the people we know, lead very complex lives—very civilized lives—with no unpleasant surprises. Two or three days pass, and we don’t see each other for more than an hour or two. We eat breakfast separately, and we have separate bedrooms. When we have dinner together, it’s usually with someone else—an occasion of some sort. Everything is carefully planned. It’s an intricate game, played according to a rather elaborate set of rules. And the rules specify that nothing either of us does, ah, extracurricularly can interfere with our public life—our images, if you will. We haven’t missed an important party—a benefit, or a museum opening—in years. In public, we’re always seen together. We always smile. What’s more, in public, we enjoy each other’s company. Even in private, we never fight. At some point, probably a long while ago, we lost both the capacity to love and to hate. So we smile, politely, both for our friends and our servants. Beyond that—” He listlessly lifted both hands a few inches above the sofa, palms up, then allowed them to fall back. “Beyond that, there’s not much. We use the maid as a—a kind of message center. And the—the governess, too, when the children were smaller.” As he finished, he raised his eyes almost furtively, as if he’d committed a small social sin.

  “Did Valenti know of your affair with Mrs. Weiss?”

  “Yes.”

  “Was he trying to blackmail you?”

  “Not directly. He was too—too goddamn suave for that. It would have shocked his gigolo’s sensibilities to ask for money directly.”

  “Indirectly, then.”

  “Yes. Indirectly.”

  “How?”

  “He’d set up a so-called import-export business. And it seemed as if he was always in need of ‘venture capital,’ as he called it.”

  “How much ‘venture capital’ have you supplied in the past six months?”

  “About twelve thousand. Not an enormous sum.”

  “Substantial, though.”
<
br />   He shrugged. “It’s all relative, Lieutenant. I’m a wealthy man. And Valenti’s little scheme at least had the virtue of allowing me a tax write-off.”

  “According to the rules your wife and you live by, though—by your own statement—there isn’t much that Valenti could’ve done that would’ve really hurt you.”

  “Maybe.” It was an exhausted rejoinder.

  “You just implied, though,” I pressed him, “that you don’t stand in each other’s way, so far as extramarital affairs are concerned.”

  “True. But the agreement is entirely tacit. That’s the key word in these arrangements. The other party can suspect anything, and probably does. But he—or she—must never actually know. It gets back to face-saving—as so much really does, I’m discovering. Besides,” he said wryly, “there’s always the vultures who stalk the privileged classes, euphemistically called divorce lawyers. A wife with a solid case of proven adultery can find both freedom and financial security for life. Not to mention the lawyer; he’s always the winner. There’s also the temptation for a preemptive strike: if one party has a clear advantage, he’s wise to take it. The next year matters could be reversed. And besides all those very practical considerations, there’s the fact that I’ve lived thirty years with my wife. For a few of those years I loved her. I’m still fond of her. So for those reasons, I don’t want to see her humiliated. Not now. It—it’s morally unfair. It’s also impolite.” He paused, his eyes reflective, sad. “Unhappily,” he said softly, “a breach of etiquette seems more reprehensible than a violation of morality.”

  For a moment, watching him, I was silently, helplessly entrapped in the memories his cynical, dead-voiced recital had evoked. Pulling myself back, I asked him for an account of his movements on Monday night.

  He smiled ruefully. “My wife spent Sunday and Monday with friends in the Napa Valley, and didn’t return home until about eleven P.M. on Monday. She was ducking out on the pre-Christmas party rounds, which is currently a very chic thing to do. I had business—bona-fide business—in Los Angeles on Monday morning. I flew down to Los Angeles on Sunday night and returned Monday afternoon. I had a quiet dinner at Candice’s apartment. I gave her a Christmas present. I returned home about midnight. My wife was already in bed, and her light was out, signaling that I wasn’t to enter. So I got a drink and went to bed. I read for a half-hour, then went to sleep.”