For a second or so there was nothing but silence. Then Manning cleared his throat. “Sure we found it. I told you we would, didn’t I?”
“Well, what did the driver say?”
“He said he saw a man lying by the side of the road.”
“Didn’t he see Ashley?”
“He said he saw a man lying by the side of the road.”
“Then why didn’t he stop?”
“He was eighteen years old and he had a girl with him that wasn’t supposed to be with him. He said he was afraid he’d get her in trouble.”
“So,” Rick said, feeling a sense of relief but no great elation. “That checks me out, doesn’t it?”
“You can still be figured. Let’s just say it helps. It looks a lot better than it did.”
“You’re a pretty stubborn guy.”
“In this business you have to be stubborn, if that’s the word for it.”
Rick started to hang up and then he thought of something else. “Do you know what kind of a gun was used?”
“Looks like a .25 calibre.”
“Did you find the shells?”
“Does mere have to be shells?”
“I never heard of a .25 calibre revolver, did you?”
He could hear Manning’s sigh over the telephone before the detective said: “Not yet.… You going to be out this way later?”
“Yes.”
“I may be seeing you,” Manning said. “Keep out of trouble.”
When he hung up Rick went into the kitchen and got a can of beer. He brought it to the chair by the window and began to think again. Before long he had a new focal point and slowly the idea that had been no more than a seed of thought began to send out shoots.
Bits of information, many of them half forgotten, seemed now to take on new significance. These led in turn to other facts, and presently he had a pattern that seemed to fit those facts and also to lend new perspective to the overall picture. He was still busy with his mental exercise and finding a quiet excitement in his progress when the telephone rang.
“Mr. Sheridan?” Sam Crombie said. “We got a line on that atomizer. It was bought three days before the date that was engraved on it at Asbury’s on Fifth.”
“Ahh,” said Crombie and chuckled. “That’s something else again Asbury’s is a pretty high-class shop and very, very discreet. Daddies go in there sometimes and buy platinum-and-diamond trinkets for dolls not always their wives. Asbury’s could lose a lot of trade if they gave out information like that.”
“Oh.” Rick swallowed his disappointment. “Then it doesn’t help much, does it?”
“With the police it would be different—and you’re going to have to turn this thing over to them pretty soon or you may be in worse trouble.”
“I know it,” Rick said.
“The police can get the facts from Asbury’s but the best I could do is this—and it wasn’t easy: The atomizer was bought for cash.”
“That figures for Farrell. If he gave it as a present he wouldn’t dare charge it because his wife’s business manager might mention it and she might ask some questions. All right, hang on to it.”
“Until tomorrow,” Crombie said. “I got a license to worry about. Tomorrow it’s all yours, Mr. Sheridan, and I’m not sure you should wait that long.”
“All right,” Rick said. “I think I might have a lead now. If it doesn’t work the police can have it.”
He hung up and went back to his beer. He was just finishing it when someone knocked and he opened the door to find Nancy Heath standing in the hall, a wistful, half-apologetic expression on her young face. She looked about sixteen and she spoke before he could voice his surprise, her voice small.
“Please don’t scold me.”
Seeing her mere so close to him nearly broke him up and he was defenseless against the look in those wide green eyes. It was a very wonderful feeling even though it shocked him a little to find her here.
“Nancy,” he said, mustering what disapproval he could. “You know you ought not to come here now.”
She hung her head a little and moved up so that he had to step aside. He turned and walked back to the center of the room, not knowing what to say and still disconcerted by her boldness. He heard her close the door before she said:
“I couldn’t work. And it’s so hot, and I had to find out about the atomizer and what you said to Austin Farrell.” She was silent a moment. “I guess I shouldn’t have come,” she said, sounding so forlorn that Rick was afraid to look at “her.
“No, you shouldn’t have.”
“You mean it’s not proper.”
“Well, it isn’t.”
More silence.
“Are you driving to the country later?”
“Yes.”
“May I go with you?”
“No.”
Rick picked up the beer can and found it empty. He put it down hard and walked over to the window, his back turned. He was weakening fast and he knew it. The following silence made it worse. Finally he heard her move and now he felt the touch of her hand on his arm.
“I want to be with you, Rick.”
Oh, Lord, he thought. And how I want to be with you, baby. But he clung to his remaining resistance as best he could.
“I’m sorry, Nancy,” he said. “Even if you did ride out you’d have to come back by train.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t mind,” she said, eagerly seizing this small opening. “Really.”
“No.”
“Even if I promise to do just what you say? All you have to do is drive by the station. Any station.…”
Rick was licked and he knew it. He had to look at her and then he had a hard time keeping his hands off her. His grin came grudgingly and once the spell was broken he could speak with mock severity.
“Well, maybe,” he said. “If you sit down and stay quiet.”
“Oh, I will.” She ventured a smile. “I will, Rick.”
Her submissiveness was so obviously part of the performance that he started to chuckle. “Do you want a beer? There isn’t anything soft around.”
“I’m fine,” she said and folded her hands in her lap. “You just go ahead and do whatever it was you were doing.”
“All right, all right,” he said. “You can go. Stop looking so abused.… I’ve got a couple of calls to make,” he said and took out his wallet to get the number of Bob Johnson, the lawyer in Bridgeport.
When he had his man he asked if Johnson could get some information from the medical examiner. Johnson said he thought so and Rick told him he wanted to find out if the inside of his wife’s mouth had been cut. Then, because he already had a plan of action, he gave the lawyer a telephone number and told him when to call.
His second call was to a reporter he knew who worked on the Morning Bulletin. He asked if his friend could look up something for him in the paper’s morgue and when the man said yes Rick left his number and said he would wait.
He hung up and looked at Nancy, who seemed not to have moved. “Are you sure you don’t want a beer?”
“I’m fine, Rick.”
He took his empty can into the kitchen; then went to the bathroom to wash, and comb his hair. The face that looked back at him from the mirror seemed longer and bonier than ever. There was no humor in the steady eyes but there were shadows beneath them put there by strain and weariness. By the time he had pulled his tie to attention and buttoned down the collar points the phone rang. The information that came to him helped to fit one more piece into the puzzle which had begun to take shape in his mind.
Chapter 19
When Rick Sheridan turned off the parkway at Greenwich, Nancy stirred beside him and gave him a sidewise glance.
“Is this a new way home?”
“No,” Rick said. “I have a stop to make.” She did not question him until, ten minutes later, he slowed down on a macadam road close to the Sound. A high stone fence helped to shield the adjoining property from the curious who drove past, but the opening
for the driveway showed a broad expanse of carefully tended lawn, a brick Tudor-type house, and another acre of lawn in front that ended in a sea wall. Beyond was a jetty, a diving float and, still farther out, a sleek white sloop that tugged gently at its mooring.
“My,” said Nancy when Rick stopped the car beyond the driveway so it could not be seen from the house. “Who lives here?”
“My father-in-law.”
“Mr. Brainard? But can’t you just drive in and—”
“Not with you, honey. There’s no sense in giving him one more excuse to hate me.”
“Oh, of course.” She leaned back against the seat. “Will you be long?”
“I doubt it.”
Rick walked back to the opening in the wall and then he was moving along the curving driveway. The graveled surface was so immaculate it reminded him of a posh golf course where attendants stood by ready to rake the sand traps after they had been used, and when he saw his footprints he stepped to the grassy edge.
An elderly man in an alpaca jacket opened the heavy, arched door in response to his ring. He said good afternoon when he recognized Rick and admitted that Frederick Brainard had just returned from the factory. He said Brainard was on the front veranda and Rick said he could find his way and now he moved down the paneled hall, past the broad staircase, and out on the stone porch that fronted the house.
Brainard was seated in a cushioned canvas chair. He had his jacket off and a cigar in one hand. The small glass-topped table beside him held a tray with a bottle, glasses, a siphon of soda, a bowl of ice, and a plate of tiny sandwiches. He glanced round when he heard Rick but nothing changed in his ruddy face and beneath the bushy brows the dark eyes were bleak.
Rick said he was sorry to barge in like this but there were some things he wanted to get straight. This brought no response, and when Brainard neither asked him to sit down nor offered a drink he knew the going would be tough. He backed to the stone railing and slid one thigh on top.
“Do you still think I killed Frieda?”
“Is that what you came to talk about?”
“Indirectly, yes.”
“I’d rather not discuss it with you.”
“But I want to discuss it with you,” Rick said flatly. “I’ve found out some things the past couple of days. I’ve had the help of a good private detective and some of his men because, believe it or not, I’m just as anxious to find out who killed Frieda as you are, but not for the same reason. I’m not interested in revenge.”
“Oh,” said Brainard with heavy irony. “With you it’s just a matter of justice, is that it?”
“Not even that. My reasons are selfish. Unless this business is cleaned up there will always be some doubt. Some people will remember and ask themselves questions. For myself I could take it if I had to but it’s no good for the woman I intend to marry when I can; especially it’s no good for Ricky.
“I know what you think about me and I’ve survived your dislike for fourteen years. What you think of me is unimportant and what I think of you is even less important, but so long as you have this idea about my possible guilt in the back of that stubborn, unforgiving mind of yours I’m afraid you’ll start contaminating Ricky when you get the chance.”
Brainard leaned forward and his eyes flared. “Watch yourself,” he said with quiet fury. “I don’t have to take that kind of talk from you. I love Ricky just as much as you do.”
“I know you do,” Rick said. “You’d like nothing better than to have complete custody so you could bring him up the way you want to. And if there could ever be any friendliness or understanding between us I’d like him to visit you now and then, if only because you have so much more to offer in some ways”—he swept one arm to indicate the house and grounds and the private beach and the sloop—“than I have. A boy should love his grandfather and—”
He broke off suddenly because the thoughts of his son were making him emotional and he knew this was not the time to show how deeply he felt his own inadequacy.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to digress and I don’t want to get personal.… Did you hear what happened to Tom Ashley? Do you think I killed him, too?”
“I didn’t even know Ashley. I’m not concerned about whether you did or didn’t.”
“All right,” Rick said, “but there’s one thing you should remember. When we find out who did kill Frieda there’s going to be a trial. The defense is going to bring up some things about Frieda that you may not know about.”
“Like what?”
“I’d rather not say. All I know is that there’ll be plenty of publicity. What Frieda has done will be common knowledge. You’re not going to like it but you can take it. But what about Ricky? What does a boy of twelve feel about his mother, even one who never gave him much time? What illusions does he have and what does it take to destroy them?”
Brainard was still leaning forward, a look of puzzlement in his dark gaze.
“What the devil are you trying to prove?”
The question brought Rick’s thoughts to a stop and he realized that he had digressed again because of his concern for his son.
“I don’t know,” he said frankly. “That’s not what I came to talk about. I came to tell you that I’ve got an idea who killed Frieda and I’m going to try to—”
“If you’ve got proof why don’t you go to the police?”
“Because I don’t have proof. That’s just the point. I hope to get it this evening if I’m lucky and if my hunch is right. I stopped to tell you, you can come with me if you want to.”
“Why should I?”
“That’s for you to decide. If I’m wrong it may be embarrassing. If I’m right it might be good to have a witness along. After that it will be up to the police. Do you know where the Austin Farrells live?”
“I know Elinor Farrell. I know about where they live.
I could find it.”
“Be there at a quarter of nine.”
Frederick Brainard was not used to taking orders. He blinked and bunched his lips and made noises in his throat. Rick slid off the railing and straightened his jacket.
“Not as any favor to me,” he said. But for your own satisfaction. If you’d rather stay here, that’s up to you.”
He made a small bow and, before Brainard could think of a reply, he walked somewhat stiffly to the door and disappeared inside.
When Rick Sheridan rolled his car into the parking plaza at the Stamford station he had to stop some distance away. The miniature timetable which all commuters carry told him there would not be a New York train for twenty-five minutes, so he asked Nancy to wait and went in search of a telephone booth.
Clyde Eastman’s home phone did not answer and Rick knew it was too late to catch him at the office, so he went back to sit beside Nancy. She had been very quiet during this last part of their ride and this was one of the reasons he loved her. His own mind was too busy for conversation; he had not wanted to explain his intentions; and he particularly did not want to be cross-examined. Now he said he was sorry he had been such poor company. He said he was grateful for her understanding but that all he could tell her now was that he had an idea who might have killed Frieda and Ashley, that he hoped to get enough evidence to prove it.
“Oh,” said Nancy. “You don’t think you should go to the police?”
“Not yet. And not because I like what I’m doing. I don’t know what the police have found out today or what they think. They had me figured as the boy who strangled Frieda and they’re not going to stop figuring just because I come up with a theory and some alternate possibilities.”
“Isn’t it a good theory?”
“I think it is but I’m not governed by the rule book. The police have to proceed by the book because if they don’t keep it legal the case is likely to blow up in their face when they get to court. What I’m looking for may not be there tomorrow. It may not even be there now but I have to be sure.”
“When will you know?”
“Well, do you think maybe I could—”
She gave the words a tentative inflection and something in her voice told Rick what was coming. He grinned at her and stopped her by touching his finger to her lips.
“No.”
She made a pout at him. “At least you could let me finish.”
“Okay. Finish. You don’t want to take this train, is that it?”
She had to smile at his perception and now she said: “I just thought you have to eat somewhere and why couldn’t we pick up some cold cuts and I could fix us supper at your place and then when you finish—”
“Nope,” he said. “And stop making it so tough for me.”
“But I could take a later train.”
“I don’t know when I’ll be through and I’d feel a lot better if I knew you were home in your own apartment.”
“Oh, all right,” she said with a sigh of resignation. “But you’ll phone me just as soon as you can?”
“Oh, course.” Rick glanced at his watch. “Maybe we ought to get out on the platform.”
He opened the door for her and went round to meet her. “You don’t have to come,” she said. “I’d rather you didn’t.… Tell me, do many of your friends use this station?”
“No,” he said, unable this time to forecast her thoughts.
“Well, that’s good because I’ve wanted to do this for quite awhile and now I’m going to do it.
She had stopped to face him and now as she finished she put her palms to the side of his face, bending his head slightly as she came up on her toes. She gave a quick but thoroughly impressive kiss and stepped back.
“There,” she said. “Good luck, darling, and do be careful.
Then she had turned away to leave him standing there tingling as she headed for the platform, her shoulders straight, the swing of her hips controlled and graceful.
Chapter 20
It was getting dark when Rick Sheridan pulled his car to a stop beyond the hedge which screened it from the house. He had given some thought to the element of time because he did not want to be poking about in complete darkness and it seemed now that the gathering dusk was sufficient to give him the protection he needed.
The Third Mystery Page 31