“Sit down and tell me what you know,” Marcus said.
“Well,” said Herbert Richards, sitting, “I was driving out there yesterday morning on the street just east of the Golf Club where this guy was killed, and my old clunker quit running all of a sudden. I’ve been working on a construction job, and I was on my way to meet some of the crew at a place in town. We were going on together in one of the trucks, you see. Anyhow, my clunker quit, and I had to hurry terribly to make it on time, walking, and so I cut across the corner of the golf course, walking in a kind of gully that runs diagonally across the corner, and all of a sudden I heard shots.”
“Wait a minute,” Marcus said. “Did you say shots?”
“Yes, sir. Two of them. I read about the murder in the paper last night, and it said this guy was only shot once, so I wondered if I could have been mistaken, but I’ve thought about it, and I’m sure I’m not. They came so close together that they did sound almost like one shot, but I’m sure there were two.”
“What did you do when you heard the shots?”
“Nothing. Just kept on going down the gully.”
“Didn’t it occur to you that something might be wrong?”
“Why should it? I’ve heard lots of shots in my life, or sounds like shots. This is the first time it ever turned out to be someone getting murdered.”
Marcus conceded the validity of the point. Honest folk going about their business just didn’t jump to the conclusion of murder at every unusual sight or sound, even the sound of shots.
“What time was this?” he said.
“That’s mostly what I wanted to tell you. It was just daylight. Just after dawn. I know it’s important to know the time something like this happens, and that’s why I came down here.”
“I’m glad you did.”
“You think it may help?”
“I think so. Thanks. If you don’t have anything else to tell me, you can go now.”
Herbert Richards left, visibly pleased, and Marcus closed his eyes and thought for a moment about the scene of Alexander Gray’s murder. Opening them again, he looked for Fuller, who was waiting.
“Fuller,” he said, “you remember that high bank we went down about twenty yards or so from where Gray was lying? You take a couple of men and go out there and dig around in it and see if you can find a bullet.”
Fuller, who resented the assignment, betrayed his feelings. Marcus, who marked the resentment, did not.
“Who cares if one bullet missed?” Fuller said. “We got the one in Gray, soon as the coroner digs it out this morning, and that’s all we need. Besides, from the position of his body, Gray was facing the bank; the killer wasn’t. Any bullet that missed him would have gone in the opposite direction.”
“Go dig around anyhow,” Marcus said. “It doesn’t do any harm to be thorough.”
Fuller gone, Marcus assumed his favorite position for thinking, chair rocked back, eyes closed, fingers laced above his belly. He thought this time about several things in a rather fantastic pattern. He thought about Alexander Gray and Rufus Fleming and Sandra Shore in an emotional triangle so crazy that it could certainly have been sustained only by a trio who were themselves a little crazy. He thought about Alexander Gray lying on a golf course. He thought about a brown worsted jacket lying on the grass about five paces from Gray’s body. He thought about Herbert Richards, a construction worker in the act of trespassing, hearing two shots fired so closely together that they were barely distinguishable from one. He thought about a matched pair of target pistols placed in accidental symbolism below a reproduction of Daumier’s Don Quixote. He thought about a cabinet above a lavatory in which there was only one razor and one toothbrush.
I don’t believe it, he thought. By God, I simply don’t believe it.
After a while, he went to ballistics and got a report, but still lacked the specific comparison he needed, which waited upon the coroner. In his car, he drove slowly, with an odd feeling of reluctance, to Sandra Shore’s apartment building. He rang her bell and waited and was about to ring it again when she opened the door. Her eyes widened a little in the faintest expression of surprise, recovering almost immediately their grave, characteristic composure.
“Good morning,” he said.
“Good morning,” she said. “Do you want to come in again?”
“If you don’t mind.”
“I do mind, rather, to tell the truth, but I suppose I must let you.”
“Thank you. I’ll try to be brief.”
They sat as they had yesterday, in the same chairs, and he was silent for a while, looking down at the hat in his hands and wondering how to begin. Then he looked up at Sandra Shore, at the grave eyes in the serene heart, and let his own eyes slip away and fix themselves deliberately on the door closed upon her bedroom.
“May I go into your bedroom, Miss Shore?” he said.
“No. Certainly not.” She sat very still, watching him until his eyes returned to her, and then her small breasts rose and fell slowly on a drawn breath and a sigh. “Well,” she said, “I see you have been as clever as I was afraid you would be, but I’m glad, really, quite glad, because he seems to be getting worse instead of better, and I have been afraid he would die in spite of everything I could do. It was impossible to get a doctor, you see, and so I took out the bullet myself, but he seems to be getting worse, as I said, and I’ve been wondering what I should do.”
“Did you also return the pistols to the apartment and pick up a razor and toothbrush while you were there?”
“Yes. How very clever you are! Alex and Rufe simply decided between them what they must finally do, the way to settle matters for good and all, and so they walked out there to the golf course together, which was the handiest place where it could be done, and it might have turned out all right for Rufe, although not for Alex, except that he got hit, too, in the shoulder, and that made everything much more difficult. He had to go somewhere, of course, and so he came here, and I helped him. He had the pistols, and I thought the best thing to do was to clean them and oil them and take them back to the apartment, and that’s what I did.”
“It was a mistake. Surely you know we can match the bullet in Alexander Gray with one of those pistols.”
“That’s true, isn’t it? I suppose I didn’t think of it at the time because I was upset and not thinking clearly about anything. It’s odd, isn’t it? I wanted so much to help Rufe, and I tried, but I guess I only did him harm instead.”
“The fools! The crazy fools!” Marcus spoke with low-key intensity, slapping a knee. “Why the hell couldn’t they have drawn high card for you or something?”
“Oh, no!” She stared at him with scorn, as if he had betrayed himself as a sordid sort of fellow with no discernible sense of honor. “Alex and Rufe would never have treated me so cheaply.”
“Excuse me,” he said bitterly. “I concede that you’ve done your best for Rufe, whom you love, but what about dear Alex, whom you loved equally and who is unfortunately dead as a rather irrational consequence?”
“If it had turned out the other way around,” she said, “I’d have done as much for Alex.”
“I see.” He stood up, his bitterness a taste on his tongue that he wanted to spit out on the floor. “I’ll call an ambulance, and then you and I can go downtown together.”
* * *
He was at his desk, doing nothing, when Fuller came in that afternoon.
“We dug all over that bank,” Fuller said, “and there’s no bullet in it.”
“That’s all right,” Marcus said. “I know where it is. Or, at least, was.”
“The hell you do! Maybe you wouldn’t mind telling me.”
“Not at all. It was in the shoulder of a fellow named Rufus Fleming. He and Gray had a duel out there yesterday morning. That’s how Gray got killed.”
“A duel!” Fuller’s eyes bulged, and he was so certain that Marcus had gone off the deep end that he felt safe in saying so. “You’re always talking about
someone being nuts,” he said, “but in my opinion you’re the biggest nut of all.”
Marcus was not offended. He closed his eyes and smiled bleakly.
Well, he thought, it takes one to catch one.
IQ – 184
(Originally published in Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine, September 1962)
RENA HOLLY was in the living room with the policeman when Charles Holly went downstairs to join them. Rena was sitting in a high-backed chair of polished walnut upholstered in dark red velvet. She was sitting there quietly, very erect, her knees together and her feet flat upon the floor and her hands folded in her lap. Her face was pale and still, perfectly composed, and she was even now, even in the violation of her grief by police procedure, so incredibly lovely that Charles felt in his heart the familiar sweet anguish that was his normal response to her. Only her eyes moved ever so slightly in his direction when he entered the room.
* * *
“Charles,” she said, “this is Lieutenant Casey of the police. He is inquiring about Richard’s death.”
Lieutenant Casey arose from the chair in which he had been sitting opposite Rena. He was a stocky man with broad shoulders and a deep chest and thin gray hair brushed neatly across his skull from a low side part. His face was deeply lined and weathered-looking, as if he spent much time in the wind and sun, and the hand he extended toward Charles had pads of callus on fingers and palm, although its touch was surprisingly gentle. He seemed awkward in his gray suit, which was actually of good cut and quality, and the impression he gave generally was one of regret, almost of apology, that he had been forced by his position to intrude.
“Good afternoon, Lieutenant,” Charles said. “We’ve been expecting you.”
“Sorry,” Casey said. “It’s a routine matter, of course. I regret that I’m compelled to disturb you at this time.”
“Not at all. We must tell you whatever is necessary.”
Charles sat down and placed his hands on his knees in an attitude of attention, while Casey resumed his place in the chair from which he had risen. “Please ask me anything you wish.”
“I think that Lieutenant Casey wishes you to tell him exactly how Richard died,” Rena said.
She spoke softly, with a kind of deficiency of inflection. Charles was aware of the terrible and almost terrifying quality of her composure, and he wondered if Casey was also aware of this. He doubted it. Her horror and grief were not apparent, although the latter could be assumed, and Casey was not familiar, as Charles was, with the wonderful complexity of her character.
“I’d be grateful if you would,” Casey said. “Just as it happened from the beginning, if you don’t mind.”
“Well.” Charles paused, seeming to gather his thoughts, but he knew, in fact, what he was going to say, and his mind was functioning, as it always did, with precision and clarity. “Richard was a guest in this house for the weekend. Perhaps Rena has told you that. In any event, he asked me this morning to take a walk with him. I did not wish to walk with him, and I told him so, but he asked me to humor him as a special favor. I did not really feel that I owed him a favor, special or otherwise, but he was so urgent that I agreed to go.”
“What was the reason for his urgency?”
“The answer to that would involve Rena. I’d rather that she answered, if she wants the question answered at all.”
“Oh?” Casey looked vaguely astonished and somewhat distressed that he had been led so quickly by his own question into an area of intimacy that he would have preferred to avoid. “Mrs. Holly?”
“Certainly, Lieutenant. As Charles has said, we must tell you whatever is necessary.” Rena’s hands moved, smoothing the skirt over her knees, and then sought and held each other again in her lap. “Richard was in love with me. And I with him. It was not an emotional attachment that either of us particularly wanted in the beginning, but it happened, and there was no help for it. We wanted to marry. I spoke with Charles about it and was, I thought, candid and reasonable. But it was an unfortunate effort on my part, I’m afraid. Charles was very angry. He refused even to discuss the matter. Then, of course, Richard wanted to approach him. I agreed rather reluctantly, and it was for that purpose specifically that I invited Richard here for the weekend. And that was why Richard urged Charles to take the walk with him.”
She stopped abruptly, resuming the perfect posture and expression of composure that speaking had barely disturbed, and Casey, after waiting a few seconds until it was clear that she was finished, turned back to Charles.
“That is true,” Charles said. “I suppose he felt that a brisk walk in the open air would be propitious to his purpose. The manly approach. Two gentlemen settling amicably between themselves a rather delicate matter. Richard was remarkably naive.” His voice took on the faintest color of irony, as if he were mildly amused in retrospect by something which had been irritating at the time. “I must confess, however, that I was not impressed. Richard’s effort to win me over was no more successful than Rena’s, although I listened courteously and gave him every chance. All this time, while he was talking, we were walking among the trees in the direction of the river, and we came out upon a high bluff just where the river bends. There is a wooden bench on the bluff there, for it’s a rather scenic spot, and we sat on the bench until he had quite finished what he wanted to say. Then I told him that my feelings were unchanged, and that I should never be reconciled to any kind of intimate relationship between him and Rena. It made me sick to think about it.”
He paused again, ordering details precisely and accurately in his mind, and Casey waited in silence for him to continue. Rena did not seem to have heard him at all, or even to be aware at the moment that he or Casey was in the room. She had been staring at her folded hands, but now she raised her eyes to a focus beyond the walls and perhaps beyond the time. If she had listened to anything, or was now waiting for anything, it was a private sound and a private expectation.
Now, Charles was thinking, / have come upon dangerous ground. Up to this point I have adhered strictly to the truth, because the truth served, but now it is time for the essential deviation, the necessary lie.
“Please go on,” Casey prompted.
“Richard was very angry with me,” Charles said. “As for me, I wanted only to leave him, to terminate an unpleasant episode as quickly as possible, and I stood up and walked away to the edge of the bluff. Richard followed me, still very angry, and began to shake me by the arm. I do not like to be touched, even without violence, and I tried to jerk away, but he held on to my arm firmly. I struggled, finally breaking free, and the action caused him to lose his balance. We were standing right at the edge of the bluff, much nearer than either of us, I think, quite realized in our emotional state, and, to put it simply and briefly, he fell over the edge. The bluff, as you know, is high and almost perpendicular at that place. At the foot, the bank of the river at the bend is wide and littered with great rocks. Richard fell among the rocks, where you found him, and was, I believe, killed instantly. He was certainly dead when I reached him, after finding a way down the bluff farther along. When I saw that he was falling, I tried to catch hold of him, but he was gone too quickly.”
And there it is done, and done well, he thought. The essential deviation. The necessary lie. So slight a deviation and so small a lie. The difference between holding and pushing. Between life and death. Between innocence and guilt. Casey believes me, certainly, but Rena doesn’t. Rena, lovely Rena, sits and says nothing and knows everything. She knows how Richard died, and why, but that is unimportant. What is important is that she submits to a deeper commitment than any she could have felt to Richard or feels now to justice. She is mine so long as she lives. She will never belong to anyone else.
“I see.” Casey slapped his knees suddenly with both hands, the sound startling in the still room. It even startled Casey, who had made it, and he clenched one of the hands and stared reproachfully at the big knuckles under taut and whitened skin. “You were wise
to leave the body where it fell until we had seen it. You have been very helpful altogether, I must say. Thank you very much.”
“There is so little that one can do, really.” Charles stood up. “Now if I may be excused, I’d like to return to my room.”
“Of course. You’ve had a bad experience, I know. I appreciate your cooperation in such trying circumstances.”
Having been excused by Casey, Charles turned toward Rena. She seemed unaware of this, still abstracted, but after a few seconds she turned her head and stared at him with her dark expressive eyes which were now so carefully empty of all expression. She nodded without speaking, the merest motion of her head, and he turned and went out of the room into the hall. He stopped there, out of sight but not of sound, his head half-turned and tilted, as he stood and listened.
“There’s a clever young fellow,” Casey said in the room behind him.
“Yes,” Rena said.
“I must say, however, that I’d find him a bit disturbing after a while. He’d make me feel inferior. Besides, I confess that I’m always a bit shocked to hear a child call his mother by her Christian name. I suppose I’m hopelessly old-fashioned.”
“Charles is not really a child, Lieutenant, although he’s only twelve. He’s exceptional. His intelligence quotient, I am told, is one hundred eighty-four.”
It would have been natural if her voice had assumed a lilt of pride, but it did not. It still retained its odd deficiency of inflection. To Charles, who began moving silently away, it was a voice that had no choice of expression between a monotone and a scream.
THE SEASONS COME, THE SEASONS GO
(Originally published in Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine, August 1966)
IT’S APRIL AGAIN. The frail fine blossoms of the crab apple tree shower to earth in the slightest stirring of the languid air, to lie like pastel snow among the clustered headstones of the Canning dead. Already the fruit is forming where the blossoms hung, and in a little while, after the swift passing of spring, toward the end of summer’s indolent amble, the small red apples will fall in turn, to lie where the blossoms lie. The seasons come, and the seasons go…
Short stories collection Page 10