“Still cold, huh?” he said, and drank from one of the holes Rick had punched. He continued to hold the gun in readiness but seemed confident that he would not need it and no longer pointed it.
Rick continued to eye him morosely. When he had seen the stocky man return his wallet without removing anything he knew they had told the truth when they said this was no stick-up. So what did they want?
Gorton’s manuscript? Could the writer have had time to find a pair such as this and try to recover the story? It was a possibility but so remote that Rick presently discarded it and glanced over at the other man.
The room was sparsely furnished now, with most of his good pieces in his new house. There was the desk and the sagging davenport and two upholstered chairs that were comfortable but threadbare, a table, some lamps, and two straight-backed chairs. One of the bedrooms which he had once used as a studio held nothing but odds and ends; the second had little more than two beds and a chest. Without the faintest idea as to what this was all about he said:
“Who’re you working for?”
The thin man grinned again to show he was kidding.
“The F.B.I.,” he said. “We got the word you were subversive. We want to see if you’ve got anything around in code.”
“Sure,” Rick said. “I’ve got a lot of code. Help yourself.”
He listened to the man’s chuckle and his irritation mounted. He found himself wishing the fellow had no gun. He had an idea he could take him before his companion could get back from the bedroom into which he had disappeared. For a moment he even considered the distance between him and the gun and wondered if he could make it in time. Then his common sense told him such an attempt would not only be risky but pointless. Unless he could make them talk, which was doubtful, why take chances?
He leaned back and stretched his long legs. For perhaps five minutes he studied the man through half-open lids, cataloguing the features so he could identify him again if he had to. Then the stocky fellow came back and muttered something about the place being clean. As he did so the telephone rang.
The thin man wheeled to stare at the instrument, then looked back at Rick, the dark glasses obscuring his eyes but his mouth tightening. At the second ring, he said: “Answer it. We’ll both listen.”
Rick moved to the telephone, feeling the gun in his side now as the man leaned close, letting him twist the earpiece so that he could hear what was being said. Then Nancy’s voice came over the wire, her account quick and breathless.
“I wasn’t going to tell you, Rick,” she said. “I didn’t want to worry you, and then I thought it might be important and I should tell you about the two men who were waiting in my apartment after I left you.”
“Two men?” Rick half turned as he felt a quick thrust of alarm. “What did they do?… Nancy! Are you all right? They didn’t—”
“They didn’t do anything but search the place. They didn’t take anything. I don’t even know what they wanted.”
Rick got a corner-of-the-eye glimpse of the thin man as he said: “What did they look like?”
“Both had dark glasses. One was thin, with a brown suit and hat. The other was stocky, with a gray suit, sort of sloppy looking.”
“Yeah,” Rick said. “They’re here now but they haven’t told me why—”
He heard her gasp. “But Rick! One of them has a gun. I’ll call the police and—”
Brown-suit wrenched the telephone from Rick and pushed him aside with the muzzle of the gun.
“Don’t bother, baby,” he said. “We’re just leaving.”
He hung up and stepped back, glancing at his companion. Then he grinned. “Come on, Sloppy,” he said. “Let’s drift.”
“Hunh?”
The thin man did not explain but spoke to Rick. “Thanks for the cooperation, Mac. And thanks for the beer.” He opened the door. “Just don’t stick your nose into the hall too soon and spoil it.”
Rick watched them go without comment; then picked up the telephone again and dialed Nancy. The three minutes of conversation that followed added nothing to the solution of the puzzle nor did it furnish any answers to their common problem, and when Rick was reassured that Nancy had not been molested and that the chain lock was now securely fastened on her door, he said good night and told her he would phone her in the morning.
For another moment after he had hung up he wondered if he should call Sam Crombie. A glance at his watch told him that to do so would probably get the detective out of bed and it seemed now that the things he had to say could just as well wait until morning. He was still of the same opinion as he turned off the lights, went into the bedroom, and started to undress.
Chapter 10
The lack of sleep caught up with Rick Sheridan that night and he overslept without meaning to. It was nine thirty when the ringing of the telephone exploded in his ear and he was still a little groggy when he answered it.
“Mr. Sheridan? This is County Detective Manning.”
“Who?” said Rick; then remembering the round, bespectacled Connecticut detective, he added quickly: “Oh, yes, sir.”
“The coroner wants to question you this morning.”
Rick groaned softly as the events of the past two days came flooding back into his mind with a clarity that was discouraging.
“Where?”
“In his office in Bridgeport,” said Manning and mentioned an address.
“All right. When?”
“Eleven thirty. Can you make it?… If necessary,” he added while Rick tried to make up his mind, “I can get help from the New York City police to make sure you make it.”
“Oh, no,” Rick said. “Sure, I’ll be there. Eleven thirty. Yes, sir.”
He cradled the telephone and swung his feet to the floor. He yawned loudly and scratched his tousled head and then, absently, the fine hairs on his chest. Still not thinking too clearly, he understood that he could get to Bridgeport in time but there were other things he wanted to do first and finally he padded over to his jacket and found the card Sam Crombie had given him. Luckily the detective was in his office when Rick’s call came through and he spoke first of the message from Manning.
“You’d better call Neil Tyler, your lawyer,” Crombie said.
“Now?”
“Before you leave. Tell him where you’re going.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah. Because there’s a chance you won’t be coming back right away and you might want somebody to check.”
“You mean they’ll arrest me?”
“If they’ve got enough they will but if they haven’t there’s another way. They’ve got a funny law in Connecticut, a thing they call a Coroner’s Warrant. A coroner can use it in a case like this. If he wants to hold you, brother you’re held.”
“Without charges?”
“Sure.”
“Indefinitely?”
“No, but long enough for him and the police to complete their investigation. That’s why a lawyer might help.… But let me know as soon as you can. I’ve got a line on Stuart Gorton—”
“I saw him after you left the Eighth Street place,” Rick said, and went on to tell what had happened. He said he had no idea why Gorton had made all the fuss about the manuscript but that Nancy Heath was reading it now. “If there’s anything fishy about it she should find it.… Also, I had a couple of callers last night.”
Crombie listened without interruption to Rick’s account of the two men and their search of his apartment.
“That’s damn funny,” he said. “They didn’t take anything?”
“Nope.”
“You got any ideas?”
“None.”
“Describe them.”
Rick did the best he could and Crombie said he would think about it and see what he could turn up. “Call me when you can,” he said, and hung up.
Rick called Neil Tyler next and told him about the coroner and Sam Crombie.
“Crombie’s right about the Coroner’s Warrant,” T
yler said, “and I’ve already been in touch with a young lawyer in Bridgeport who can represent you there if you need him. He knows that courthouse crowd and he’s a pretty smart young fellow. Name’s Johnson. Bob Johnson,” he said, and gave an address and telephone number. “I’ll phone his office now and tell him you’re coming up.”
“What’s this coroner’s thing going to be like?”
“He’ll ask you a lot of questions and a stenographer’ll take down your answers. He’ll be questioning a lot of other witnesses, too, but if you didn’t kill Frieda—”
“You know damn well I didn’t,” Rick exploded.
“So the coroner and the police want to find out who did. It may be kind of rough on you but what can you expect? Just do the best you can and don’t blow your top. Okay?”
Rick called Nancy Heath’s office next and the word he got was disconcerting.
“She called about a half hour ago, Mr. Sheridan,” the operator said, “to say she wouldn’t be in this morning and maybe not for the rest of the day.”
“She didn’t say why?”
“No, sir.”
Rick tried Nancy’s apartment next and listened to the telephone ring eight times before he gave up. He was worried then, and trying not to be, and when he glanced at his watch he knew he had to get started.
He put some water on the stove while he shaved and showered. When he went naked into the kitchen the water was hot and he spilled a spoonful of instant coffee into a cup and burned his mouth with the first swallow. He took the coffee into the bedroom while he dressed and that one cup was all he had for breakfast.
He did not remember much of the drive to Bridgeport because he was still concerned about Nancy. As it was he was five minutes late when he found a parking lot a block from the address Manning had given him. This proved to be one of the taller office buildings and the number he sought was on the sixth floor. The two names on the door were NESBIT & BEALE; the other words said they were lawyers.
The only occupant of the anteroom was a round-bodied man in a conservative, lightweight suit. He had been looking out the window and when he turned to reveal the metal-rimmed glasses Rick saw it was Detective Manning. He made no move other than to glance up at the clock above a window which shielded a girl at the switchboard.
“I was beginning to worry about you,” he said.
“This is a tough town for traffic,” Rick said.
“Yeah.”
Rick took a nearby chair and waited to see if there would be anything more from Manning. After twenty seconds of silence he thought of something and said:
“Did you find my wife’s car?”
“This morning,” Manning said.
Again the silence and though pride made Rick want to wait out the detective, he wanted information more.
“Where?”
“Across from the South Norwalk station.”
“Which side?”
“Westbound.”
“That’s where anyone would park if he wanted to take the train to New York.”
“He wouldn’t have to. He could park there and take the subway under the tracks to the eastbound side.” Manning crossed his legs and fixed his eyes on Rick. After another few seconds he finally offered some information.
“A taxi driver saw someone park the car there about nine thirty last night, or a few minutes before. He saw a man get out and start in the direction of the station. He doesn’t know what he looked like, or if he went into the station, because he wasn’t interested.”
“Why else would anyone park there?”
“It’s as good a place as any. Who’s gonna pay any attention to him?” He pushed a finger at Rick. “Suppose it was you. You want to get rid of the car so it’ll look like the job was done by some guy who didn’t live in the neighborhood. You drive it down here because you want us to think the killer took a train.”
He grunted softly and said: “You don’t get a cab there at the station because the driver might remember something. But you walk two blocks and you can get all the cabs you want. You take a ride, not to your house, or even on your road. But you know that territory and how to get across lots. You give somebody else’s address and you have the driver stop out front and you pay him off. He figures that’s where you want to go but the minute he rolls, you take off for your place.… We’re checking on those hacks in South Norwalk now. All of ’em.”
He uncrossed his legs but before Rick could think of anything to say a door to the inner offices opened and Nancy came out.
“Rick!” she cried, her brows lifting and a sudden warm glow in her green eyes.
She had stopped so short that the gray-haired man who was escorting her nearly bumped into her. As Rick felt the sudden surge of relief and happiness at the sight of her he came out of his chair and Manning moved with him.
“I called your office,” Rick said. “They didn’t know where you were.”
“Mr. Manning”—she glanced at the detective—“asked me if I could come out by train.”
“And I can take you to the station now, Miss Heath,” Manning said. “This’s our coroner, Mr. Sheridan,” he added. “Mr. Nesbit.”
Nesbit nodded as he gave Rick a quick appraisal and Nancy said: “Do I have to take the train?”
“Will you wait for me?” Rick asked.
“I want to.”
Rick said that would be wonderful and told her where his car was parked and now Manning touched her arm, as though he was afraid to have them exchanging any information at this point.
“Will you come in, please, Mr. Sheridan?” Nesbit said.
By that time Nancy was moving with Manning but she glanced over her shoulder and smiled before she reached the door.
The coroner’s air-conditioned office overlooked the harbor, and a middle-aged woman with a stenographer’s notebook on her lap was examining the view when Rick came in and was asked to take a chair by Nesbit. When he had settled himself behind his desk the man leaned back to make his preliminary comments about the purpose of the investigation and explained Rick’s rights. His manner was businesslike but not unpleasant and when he was ready he began to question Rick about his movements the night of the murder.
For a while then most of the replies were automatic since Rick had told his story four or five times and, as before, he omitted only the fact that he had slapped Frieda and knocked her off balance. This was a conscious effort on his part because he did not want to make any slips. Even so he was badly jarred by an unexpected remark the coroner made while referring to the medical examiner’s report. Rick heard this question just as clearly as the others but because he was afraid to answer until he had had a moment to think, he pretended he had not followed it.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said. “I didn’t get that.”
Nesbit eyed him directly before glancing back at the report.
“It says here that traces of blood were found in your wife’s mouth. I asked if you knew how they might have got there.”
“You mean, there was a cut inside her mouth?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Rick was further disconcerted by the unremitting steadiness of Nesbit’s gaze. He was reminded that this was not just a routine investigation. This man was playing for keeps and Rick hoped the faint shrug he gave made him seem unconcerned.
“I know you didn’t. But I thought if there was a cut or—”
“There is no mention of a cut,” Nesbit said crisply.
“When I said traces of blood were found in her mouth I was quoting. Now I ask again if you have any idea how this could happen?”
Rick could visualize that slap without difficulty because he was still ashamed of it. He could almost see his wife’s face as his palm caught her high on the jaw, almost feel the sting in his fingers. It was possible the inside of her mouth might have been cut, but he doubted it.
“No, sir.”
Nesbit considered the reply for three seconds and put the report aside. “You were aware, of course, o
f your wife’s inheritance?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And the terms of the trust?”
“Yes.”
“That additional income until your son is twenty-one will be helpful.”
“Certainly.” Rick could feel himself flush but he continued evenly. “But I’ve been getting along fairly well without it.”
“How much will your income be—from your own work—this year?”
“Not as much as it should be,”
“I beg your pardon.”
“I built a house this spring. I spent too much time helping the workmen. I didn’t get as much of my own work done as I should have.” He paused. “Maybe twelve to fourteen thousand. Next year it should be twenty.”
Nesbit glanced at his stenographer to see how she was doing. While he shuffled some papers on his desk, Rick glanced out the window, his eyes moving from the tall stacks of a public utility plant where a collier was unloading at the harbor’s edge to the point farther out with its tall radio towers and the skeleton of a roller coaster silhouetted against the Sound and distant shore. For a few seconds there was no sound but the busy hum of the air conditioner and he thought again about the slap he had given Frieda. When Nesbit continued, he went back to that same moment.
“Then on the night of the fifth,” he said, “you had an argument with your wife, but there was no violence.”
“That’s right.”
“The subject of contention was a divorce.”
“Yes.”
“Because you wanted to marry Miss Heath.”
“Yes,” Rick said and then, because the line of questioning goaded him into an elaboration, he added: “If I had wanted to kill my wife to get my freedom I probably wouldn’t have waited until the other night. She told me a week or so ago she wouldn’t give me one without a fight.”
Nesbit’s brows came up and he glanced down at his papers. “But according to Mr. Frederick Brainard, his daughter had decided to give you a divorce but insisted on custody of your son.” He hesitated and when Rick made no reply, he said: “Is that correct?”
“That’s correct.”
“She asked for custody. You refused to give it. This precipitated the argument. Is that also correct?”
The Third Mystery Page 24