The Third Mystery

by James Holding

  “It is.”

  Nesbit nodded, glanced at his stenographer and pushed his chair back. “One more question. Is it your intention to marry Miss Heath?”

  “When I get clear of this thing and have the right to ask.” Rick rose, started to leave, and then turned back. “I don’t know whether this has any place in your investigation, but my wife had been running around with other men the last couple of years.”

  “Oh? Is this something you know or merely suspect?”

  “I think in a couple of cases it shouldn’t be too hard to prove.”

  “Are you willing to name names?” Nesbit glanced at his stenographer. “Please take this down, Miss Stevens, but not as part of the record.” He looked back at Rick. “I’ll see that Detective Manning and the state police are informed. Now then—”

  For another instant Rick felt like a schoolboy tattling on his friends and then he remembered that this was murder and forgot his compunctions.

  He spoke of Tom Ashley and Austin Farrell. He said that his wife had been having difficulty with Clyde Eastman, who might have had quite another motive for murder. He also spoke of Stuart Gorton but did not mention the incident of the previous night.

  When he finished Nesbit stood up and bowed. He said he appreciated the information and thanked Rick for coming in. He said that when he had completed the investigation Rick would be so informed.

  Chapter 11

  There was a heavy black sedan parked in front of Rick Sheridan’s house as he drove up with Nancy beside him, and even from a distance he recognized it.

  “Oh, Lord!” he groaned.

  “What is it?”

  “That car. It’s Brainard’s.”

  “Oh, dear,” Nancy said weakly. “I wouldn’t listen to you, would I? You wanted to stop for a bite on the way in, but no. We had to come here by ourselves so I could make an omelette—” She stopped abruptly. “Do you want me to drop you and drive around a while?”

  “No. That would Only make it worse. You’re with me and you’re my girl, and that’s that.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll let you in and I can talk to him outside. Unless he wants to come in. Let him think what he wants to.”

  He pulled past the sedan and stopped in the driveway. He helped Nancy out and walked her to the front door, conscious of Brainard’s inspection but aware that he had not moved from behind the wheel. When he had unlocked the door he told Nancy where she could find a can of Vichyssoise.

  “The eggs are in the refrigerator but maybe we should wait and have a drink first.” He turned back to the sedan and walked to the window opposite Brainard. “Would you like to come in a minute?”

  Brainard looked him over with cold, contemptuous eyes. His jaw was hard but he no longer had his ruddy, outdoor look. The broad face was paler now and drawn at the mouth and he seemed to speak with an effort.

  “No, thanks. I heard you were in Bridgeport to see the coroner and I thought you might stop here instead of going to town.” He hesitated and his mouth twisted. “Even today you’re still chasing after that girl, hunh?”

  Rick felt the new warmth in his cheeks but he made no reply. It would do no good to tell Brainard that he did not even know Nancy was to be in Bridgeport or that all he was doing was driving her back to the city. To Brainard this would be nothing but an excuse and a contrived one at that.

  “What did you want to see me about, Mr. Brainard?” he said, and it came to him again that from the time he had first met his father-in-law he had always used the term Mister.

  “I talked to the coroner,” Brainard said. “I’ve also been talking to the state’s attorney. I wanted to tell you that I’m putting on all the pressure I can to get you indicted for murder.”

  Somehow the statement and the obvious bitterness which caused it did not surprise Rick. Frederick J. Brainard was used to moving in a straight line once his mind was made up, just as he was accustomed to using his influence whenever he could. His daughter had been murdered. As yet no one had been arrested. Rick remained the logical suspect. It was as simple as that, and now Rick had no wish to argue the point. When he spoke his voice was low and controlled.

  “If the police thought I killed her I’d already be arrested.”

  “If you’re indicted, they’ll have to arrest you. And there’ll be no bail, no running around like an innocent man.”

  “I happen to be innocent,” Rick said and then, to change the subject: “Do you know about the funeral yet?”

  “The medical examiner hasn’t released the”—he hesitated at the word, his voice breaking—“body.”

  For another moment his lip continued to tremble and then he stilled it.

  “But I can tell you this. The funeral will be private and the burial in the family plot. You will not be welcome and there will be company police to see that you are not admitted to the grave.”

  “I have a right to be there, Mr. Brainard,” Rick said in the same even tones. “I want to be there. But not if there’s going to be a battle with your company men.”

  “Ricky can come. I want him to come.”

  “That’ll be up to him,” Rick said. “I’ve talked to him on the telephone. I told him I’d let him know when the arrangements were made.”

  “But you—”

  “Ricky’ll make up his own mind, Mr. Brainard.”

  Brainard’s bronzed hands were hard-knuckled and ridged as he gripped the steering wheel. He was staring straight ahead, and beneath the bushy brows the dark eyes were wet, and the lids were blinking fast.

  But not because of what had just been said. Rick sensed that with those tears Brainard was mourning his daughter. It did not matter that there had been so little understanding between them. Since Frieda was eighteen and Rick first knew her he had never witnessed a scene between father and daughter that seemed ever to express any real love or tenderness.

  She had visited him frequently, had come back to live with him briefly from time to time, but never with subservience. For she was, in her way, as opinionated and prejudiced as her father; she respected him but offered very little warmth or affection. To Rick it had seemed a cruelly matter-of-fact relationship, but for all of this Brainard’s grief was nonetheless real. His sense of loss and subsequent emotional breakup could hardly have been more complete if she had been an adoring daughter and he a doting and affectionate father.

  Understanding this now, Rick tried to find some words of comfort as he backed away. Before he could, phrase them Brainard was back in character and the glint in his eyes gave them an almost fanatical look.

  “All right,” he said. “But I meant what I said about the indictment. If that fails, if I get the idea beyond a reasonable doubt that you killed Frieda, I’ll take the law in my own hands.”

  Rick stared back at him, shocked not so much by the words as by the compulsion behind them.

  “Yes,” he said. “I believe you would. Even if you burned for it.”

  “I won’t burn. I’m not above hiring someone to do the job.” He stepped on the starter and let the motor roar. “With me it’s an eye for an eye, and someone is going to pay.”

  He backed the car rapidly but Rick did not watch it. He walked slowly to the door. He felt no sense of personal alarm at the threat but he understood that it was real because in his present mood Brainard had built within himself a fixation that was not open to reason. Now, feeling as if he were a hundred and ten years old, he opened the door and saw Nancy standing there, her eyes anxious and concerned and her smile tentative.

  She did not question him and for that he was grateful. Instead she held out one of the two glasses she had in her hands. “Gin-and-tonic,” she said. “I thought you might want one.”

  He thanked her and there were so many more things he wanted to say that he said nothing at all. He watched her sip her drink, but she was avoiding his eyes now and her tone continued light, her nervousness showing only in the haste with which she spoke.

  “I opened the V
ichyssoise and I found some tired lettuce and a bottle of prepared French dressing. I don’t want to put the omelette on until you’re ready.”

  Rick took her hand and led her to the divan. He wanted to kiss her but he didn’t. He waited until she sat down and then took the chair that faced her. He put his legs out and slid down until he was supported by shoulder blades and buttocks. He uttered a quiet sigh that sounded strangely contented and pulled at his drink. Finally a faint smile showed under the warped brows and his morose and brooding look was gone.

  Nancy could do this for him. Just being with her was enough to restore a reasonable good humor under almost any circumstances. Because he loved her so he forgot for the moment his own troubles and refused to contemplate the immediate future.

  “In a minute or so I’m going to be hungry,” he said.

  “You’d better plan to give me more than a minute.…”

  The shrill of the telephone in the little hall cut her off and was echoed by the extension in the studio. Rick pulled himself erect and took his drink with him.

  “Rick?” the voice said. “This is Elinor Farrell.”

  Oh, God, Rick thought. The portrait.

  “Yes, Elinor,” he said.

  “I’ve tried several times to get you.… Of course I know what happened. I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind, really, and I can’t tell you how sorry I am for you. I know you and your wife were no longer very close but—well, just what can one say that does any good at a time like this?”

  “It’s all right, Elinor. And thank you.”

  “I know I’m being frightfully selfish to bother you now but I’ve been wondering about the portrait. I’d so much like to have it by Friday and I thought that since you said it was practically finished perhaps I could have it now so I could have time to frame it.… Is there still so much to do on it?”

  “No,” Rick said and, considering his last impression of the portrait, knew this was true. “As a matter of fact it might be a good idea to let you have it. Austin will probably find some little changes he wants and you may, too, and that way I can do the fixing all at once. As for the frame, I have one that will fit.”

  “Oh, wonderful.”

  “It’ll do temporarily, until you decide what you want.”

  “You don’t know how relieved I am, Rick. You’re sweet to bother with me.”

  “It’s no bother. I can bring it over”—he glanced at his watch—“around two if that’ll be all right.”

  “Perfect. Austin’s reading manuscript at home today but I’ll keep him up in his study.”

  Rick had been watching Nancy and now he said: “Is it all right if I bring a friend in for a minute?”

  “Of course.… See you at two, then.”

  When he hung up Nancy made a face at him and he said: “Now—now. It’s only about ten minutes from here and we can go by the house on our way.”

  “All right,” Nancy said, and stood up to finish her drink. “I can wait in the car.”

  “No. I really think you’ll like Elinor. She’s had a rough deal since the accident but she’s still quite a gal.… Now what about the omelette?”

  “Yes, sir.” Nancy made a small curtsy. “Right away, sir.”

  Chapter 12

  The Farrell home was a two-storied frame-and-stucco house which stood on a slope overlooking a considerable expanse of landscaped lawn and, in the distance, Long Island Sound. A two-car garage, both stalls of which were occupied, stood adjacent to the left side, its driveway sunken slightly to give it less slope than the lawn. The right wing had been remodeled to give Elinor a ground-floor suite, and one window overlooked the porch so she could see who was at the door.

  Because she refused to live the life of a cripple, she ran the establishment with a minimum of help—a gardener-chauffeur and a cook-maid, both of whom worked by the day, the maid leaving after dinner. When the maid was out or otherwise occupied the front door could be unlocked from the suite by means of an electric release.

  This release clicked now in response to Rick’s ring and he pushed the door open to let Nancy precede him before following with the framed portrait. Once inside he led the way, cutting in front of the stairway that mounted straight ahead to enter the large living room on me right. Elinor Farrell was sitting in a wing chair by the front windows and she greeted them with her friendly smile until Rick placed the portrait with its face against the wall.

  “Oh, but I want to see it,” she said.

  “You will,” Rick said, “when I decide where to put it.” He touched Nancy’s arm and led her proudly up to the chair. “Elinor, this is Nancy Heath.” The woman’s smile came back as she inspected the girl. She was wearing a loose-fitting print dress with a white background that looked cool and comfortable, and her graying, dark-brown hair was attractively waved. There was a square of scarf in her lap and on the end table a book she had been reading lay open and face down.

  “Come here, my dear,” she said and gave Nancy her left hand to turn her so she faced the light from the windows. “Let me have a good look at you.” She glanced up at Rick. “So this is the one.”

  “This is the one.”

  Nancy smiled back at him, blushing a little before she ducked her head and sat on the edge of the chair that Elinor had indicated when she asked her to sit down.

  Because he was a little embarrassed at such frank and open approval, Rick turned to inspect the room to look for a suitable place to show the portrait. He asked if Elinor was ready for the unveiling and she said she was, and now he swung a straight-backed chair with the seat away from the windows. He wanted to put the picture close enough to catch the light but not too close to his viewers. When he was satisfied he got the portrait, propped it upright against the chair and, a little self-conscious now, stepped back to await the reaction.

  It came first in murmurs from Elinor and then Nancy. He backed up to get a better perspective, his gaze intent now as he heard Elinor say:

  “Oh, Rick. I like it.”

  “It is good, Rick,” Nancy said.

  “Do you really think so?” Elinor said. “Oh, I know it flatters me but I like that, too.”

  She laughed softly and said other things but at the moment Rick did not hear them. He was looking at his work with critical intent and he saw a stately, handsome woman with direct dark-blue eyes and a dignified and kindly look.

  Much of what he saw was right—the brushwork on the simply styled pastel-green gown, the arms and shoulders, the shape of the head. The highlights on the graying hair were good. But the mouth bothered him a little; so did the eyes. He had never intended an exact likeness, for he had seen the pain and the suffering and the courage in that face and he had wanted to tone these things down a bit. Now, glancing back at his subject, he wondered if he had overdone it; if he had made the mouth too gentle and the face a shade too full.

  Without knowing why, he felt a twinge of disappointment, some small sense of the failure of his work, but he was too practical-minded to say so. In portraiture you did the best you could, but in the end it was the client who had to be satisfied or the result remained a failure. Now, aware that Elinor was addressing him, he remembered to smile before he looked at her.

  “And you, Rick,” she was saying. “Do you like it, too?”

  “Yes, I think it came out pretty well.… Maybe a touch more work at the corners of the mouth but—let’s wait until Austin sees it. Only remember.” He shook his finger at her. “We don’t make any changes for him unless you agree. Don’t let him talk you into anything.”

  “Oh, I won’t.” She tipped her head as her fingers absently wound the scarf around one hand. “I really do like it,” she said, and then her head cocked still more. “Oh—oh!” I think I hear Austin on the stairs. Quick, Rick. Take it in the bedroom, will you?”

  Rick could hear someone on the stairs now and her consternation was so genuine he laughed aloud as he stepped up to lift the frame.

  “I’ve kept him from seeing so fa
r,” she added, amused at her own concern, “and he’ll just have to wait. Put it under the bed, will you?” she called after him.

  Rick was through the doorway before Austin Farrell entered the room, and when he had put the portrait out of sight he came back to find Elinor making introductions and Farrell shaking Nancy’s hand.

  “Hi, Rick,” he said. “I wasn’t snooping, really. I didn’t know you were bringing it today.”.

  “You’re supposed to be reading stories,” Elinor said.

  “I have been.” Farrell leaned one thigh over the arm of his wife’s chair and took her hand in his. “Not that I’ve found much worth reading. What’s the verdict on the portrait?”

  “We like it,” Elinor said.

  “Then I’m sure I will, too.”

  “When you’re sure,” Rick said, “you can have it framed the way you want it.”

  Farrell gave a hitch to his yellow-linen trousers and reached across his wife for a silver cigarette box. With his long wavy hair, perfect teeth, and persuasive resonant voice he could easily have been taken for an actor which, in a sense, he was, since he had a part to play both at home and in the city and seemed to enjoy playing it. Now, taking a cigarette, he remembered his manners, released his wife’s hand and offered the box to Rick and Nancy. Nancy refused, but Rick took one and accepted a light. When Farrell had inhaled he said:

  “What’s going to happen about Frieda, Rick? Or would you rather not talk about it?”

  Rick said he did not mind talking but he did not really know. He said that both he and Nancy had been questioned by the coroner, who was still conducting his investigation.

  “If the police have any ideas they’re keeping them to themselves,” he added.

  “They were here, you know,” Elinor said.

  “Who?”

  “The police.”

  Rick peered at her, brows puckering and not understanding how this could be.

  “The police came here? Why, Elinor?”

  “They said it was just a routine investigation but they wanted to talk to me because I’d been at your place that afternoon.”

  “How would they know that?”