Look over the list. Three females gone. One male. It is true that the females are easier. You have to really use an element of surprise with men, have an edge. Well, surprise figures in all of them but the females are a pushover. The kid, too. Didn't like that one. Thought it would be easy. Almost couldn't do it. Getting soft? Easy does it. Cool. Easy. Take it easy. Kiss the sky.
So kill the poison pen. Wordsmith. Scribbler, penman, ink- slinger, scrivener, word painter, hack. Do it. Do it soon. Do it now. And that's an order, son.
Yes, sir. Right, sir. Immediately, sir.
LOOKING BACK—25 YEARS AGO
The talk entitled "Civic Righteousness" at the Thursday noon luncheon meeting of the Seaville Rotary Club was a program in keeping with the world in which we live today. The speaker was Roger Adams, a retired Lutheran clergyman. In his opening remarks Mr. Adams stated that God had blessed America, whose cities had been spared during two World Wars. Now that we are living in an atomic age, America's hope for the future lies in its moral outlook and the moral strength of its citizens.
THIRTY-ONE
Colin got to the Gazette building at six-thirty Tuesday morning. Annie had set the alarm for five-thirty. They'd had a quick cup of coffee before he set out on foot. It was a gray day. Fog was coming in from the Sound, making everything damp, the sun just a memory.
The office was cool, almost clammy. He snapped the lock on the door and left the pulled green shade in place. His heels made a clacking sound on the hardwood floor.
In his office he flipped the light switch. He dialed information for the number of Wood's Motel. When a woman answered he asked for Room 131.
"You calling for Waldo Hallock?" the woman asked. "Yes."
"He ain't here."
"He checked out?"
"Didn't say that, did I? I said, he ain't here."
"Do you know when he'll be back?"
"Nope."
"Do you know where he is?"
"Nope."
"Did he come back from Florida yet?" "Nope."
"Then you do know where he is." Silence.
"Okay, never mind. Just tell him to call Colin Maguire when he gets in. The number's 777-2561." Silence.
"Are you there?"
"I'm here."
"Did you hear me?"
"I heard."
"Thank you."
She hung up.
He sat at his desk, wondering why Hallock hadn't gotten back yet. He'd probably tried to get him yesterday but couldn't get through. Maybe Hallock had found out something. Maybe he'd cracked the damn thing, found out who the killer was, found out it wasn't Mark.
He'd managed to put thoughts of the killings, Mark, Babe's story out of his mind while he was with Annie. But he couldn't hide from it any more. Things were closing in on him; he'd have to watch Mark carefully, see what he could pick up. But Babe's story might make it impossible for him to stay on at the Gazette. The reality was that he didn't have any idea what was going to happen next. He'd have to play it by ear.
God, a shitload of work had piled up on his desk. The first thing to do was the Looking Back column. He'd finished the bound volumes with last week's issue and needed to get the next volumes in the series.
He walked to the back staircase and snapped on the light. The steps creaked under his weight. He hated these stairs. They were wooden and open in the back, reminding him of the stairs to the basement in his childhood home. Brian had teased him mercilessly, telling him that monsters would bite his heels as he went down the steps. Often his mother asked him to go to the cellar to get her something. Too ashamed to tell her he was afraid, he went, terrified. Then he'd fallen, breaking an arm. After that his mother never sent him down again and Brian accused him of falling on purpose. Sometimes he wondered if his brother had been right.
In the basement he crossed the cement floor to where the books were kept. He pulled one for twenty-five, fifty, and seventy-five years ago. Each volume held papers for twelve weeks at a time. Colin laid them down on a bench, opened the one for twenty-five years ago, and flipped to the second issue.
He didn't know why he wanted to see the article about the fire Annie's father had been in. Maybe it was a way of being closer to her. After flipping through the pages, he realized he must be in the wrong issue and turned to the next one. There it was on the front page.
There were two pictures. The larger was of the building burned to the ground, with firemen standing around. The second picture showed a row of tarp-covered bodies on the ground in front of the
burned-out structure. Under the first picture it said: "Firemen Ed Lacy and Jarvis Grattan, part of the team who fought a losing battle for hours, view the remains of the new, popular nightclub in Seaville." The caption underneath the second read: "The bodies of the twelve people who died in the fire." The story was on page 2. As Colin turned the page he was stopped by Mark's voice.
"Morning, pal."
"Jesus, Mark, don't creep up on a guy."
Mark smiled. "Sorry."
"What are you doing here so early?"
"Hey, it's my paper, isn't it?"
Colin didn't like Mark's answer. It seemed odd, defensive. Suddenly he felt apprehensive and wanted to get out of the basement. He closed the book he'd been looking through. "I was just getting the new volumes for the Looking Back column."
"You're not going to need them," Mark said ominously.
"Why not?"
"Don't you know?" Mark's usual good looks, almost pretty in their perfection, seemed sharp, unyielding.
"No."
Mark stared at him, his brown eyes cold. "It's all over, Colin."
"What are you talking about?"
"I was an asshole to give you this job. Christ, you really jerked me around."
Colin took a step toward Mark.
He moved back. "Listen, pal, don't try anything with me. The police are onto you. They called me an hour ago, said you weren't at your house but your car was there. I figured you'd be here. I want you to surrender."
"Surrender?"
"Cut the shit, Colin."
"You think I committed these murders?" He almost laughed. "You've got to be kidding."
"You really had me fooled. I just couldn't believe you could kill Nancy and the kids. I guess nobody can ever believe a friend is guilty of something like that."
So this was what Mark was going to do—try to pin it all on him. "This isn't going to work, you know."
"Don't make it harder than it is, pal. They've already found her, okay?"
"Who's already found who?"
Mark smiled. "You're beautiful, you really are. Missed your calling, Colin. You should have been an actor."
Colin's mouth was dry. It clicked when he opened it. "Who did they find?" he asked. The only person he could think about was Annie. If Mark had killed her, he didn't know what he would do.
"You know who they found. Why ask me?"
"I don't know, Mark. Tell me."
"What I don't get are the symbols. What the hell do these swastikas mean?"
"Another one?"
"Look, Colin, you're very sick. You need help. I feel responsible bringing you here to the Fork, so the least I can do is stop you. And I will." He pulled a gun from his pocket and pointed it at Colin. "Let's go peacefully, okay?"
Colin didn't want to give Mark a reason to shoot him. Jesus, it would be so easy. If Mark killed him, he could blame all the killings on Colin and with his past, nobody would doubt it. On the other hand, if he went with Mark, let them arrest him, he might never get out. He didn't have alibis any more than Mark had. Except last night... unless... He couldn't even contemplate Annie's death, but he had to know. "Mark, tell me who was killed. Humor me."
Mark shrugged, the gun still pointing at Colin's chest. "They found her body in her car this morning, swastika carved in her chest."
"Who?" he shouted.
"Babe, of course. You killed her last night, didn't you?"
Colin wanted to weep with relief. Th
en suddenly he realized that from the moment he'd accepted Mark's offer of a job, he'd never had a chance. It had all been carefully planned, and Babe's murder was the final nail in the coffin. After what she'd written about him, no one would believe he hadn't done it. Any more than they'd believe Mark was the killer. If only he could find a motive. In jail he wouldn't find out anything. Annie was his alibi, but he couldn't bring her into this. Her career would be destroyed.
Colin made his decision. He doubled over and slammed his head into Mark's gut, knocking him backwards. The gun fell to the floor and skidded out of sight. Colin was going for it as Mark pulled him down by his ankle. They rolled over, and Mark shot a right to the side of Colin's head. Colin kneed him and Mark let go, grunting. Colin started to get up but Mark tackled him around his calves. They fell forward, Mark on top. He grabbed Colin by the hair, pulled hard. Colin shoved both elbows up into Mark's ribs. He let go of Colin's hair, and Colin snapped over on his back. Sitting partway up, he got Mark on the chin with a right cross, then used a left hook just to make sure. Mark fell back, eyes closed.
Colin looked around for the gun. He found it under a table and scooped it up, checked Mark to make sure he was breathing, then ran for the stairs, taking them two at a time. At the top he slammed the door, threw the bolt, and ran through the empty offices to the front. He lifted an edge of the green shade. Coming down the street was a white police car, its siren silent. The car pulled into the curb in front of the Gazette. Colin dropped the shade, ran back through the building, and into his office. Grabbing his windbreaker from his chair, he hastily put it on, shoved the gun in his belt, pushed up the window, and climbed through. Once outside he closed the window and, keeping low, ran to the back edge of the yard.
He pushed through the hedge into the next property. Laundry was drying on a line and a cool breeze lifted a sheet that slapped him across the face, twisted around his body. He disentangled himself, made his way across that yard and into the next. He had no idea where he was going or what he was going to do. All he knew was he had to find a place to hide, to plan.
Jesus, he was pissed off Hallock hadn't come back. And then he had it. If he could just get to Wood's Motel, he would try and talk Liz Wood into letting him stay in Hallock's room until he returned. If she didn't know who he was, he had a chance. He would say he was Hallock's cousin or old friend. But getting there was not going to be easy. The motel was off the main road just outside of Seaville proper, and he couldn't take the chance of being seen. He would have to stay in the yards, then cross the main drag at a point just before the turnoff to the motel. The best way to do that was at night. Now he had to find a place to hide until sundown. And then he saw the familiar doghouse and remembered the story he'd done three weeks ago. Elsbeth Kiske's German shepherd had been killed by poisoned meat. Colin had interviewed Mrs. Kiske, who'd taken him outside, shown him where she'd found Pencil, the dog, then shown him the big doghouse her late husband had made. He remembered admiring it, saying it was big enough for a person to live in, remembered getting a wan smile out of Mrs. Kiske. And now here he was and there it was, the perfect hiding place.
He ducked down behind a maple. There was no sound except that of birds and insect life, a breeze rustling the leaves. It was approximately six yards from the tree to the doghouse. Colin made a dash across the yard. Dropping down on all fours he crawled inside, hoping Mrs. Kiske hadn't gotten another dog.
----
"Shit," Hallock said, standing at the door of his room, suitcase in hand, looking at the phone as it rang. If he answered it he might be late for his plane. Glancing at his watch, he saw that he was already seven minutes behind schedule and he didn't know what he'd do if he had to spend another hour, let alone a night, in this burg. But the only person he could think of who might be calling him here was Fran. And after hanging up on him she wouldn't be calling unless something was wrong. He dropped the suitcase and crossed to the phone.
A thin, quaking voice said, "Is this the chief?"
"Yeah. Who's this?"
"Is this the chief from Seaville?"
Hallock wondered what other chief would be staying at the Breezeway Motel in Miami Beach in June. Then he recognized the voice. "Mister Conway?"
"Yessir, that's me. Ruth Cooper's daddy."
He pictured Elmer Conway, eighty-five, white-haired and stooped, his face and hands covered with age spots, and still he was Ruth Cooper's daddy. Hallock wondered if he would always be a daddy to his children. "What can I do for you, Mr. Conway?"
"Well sir, I did what you asked."
Hallock waited for Conway to go on, but there was nothing happening on the line but some static. "Mister Conway?"
"Yessir?"
"What is it you did?" He looked at his watch, swore silently. Now he was eight minutes behind schedule.
"Well sir, you remember when you were here?"
Hallock shifted from one foot to the other. "I remember."
"Was that yestiday?"
"That's right."
"Seems like longer ago than that, don't it?"
"Time flies," Hallock said and added to himself, when you're having fun!
"Yeah, that's the truth."
The line seemed dead.
Hallock said, "Mister Conway, are you there?"
"Yessir."
He took a deep breath, trying to control his temper. "Mister Conway, what is it I can do for you?"
"Well sir, after you left us yestiday, me and Mildred put on our thinking caps, so to speak. We did what you asked, Chief."
"You mean you thought of something that might be helpful in solving Ruth's murder?"
Elmer Conway sucked in his breath as if this were the first time he'd heard of his daughter being murdered. Hallock could have kicked himself for being so insensitive.
"Mister Conway?"
"Yessir?"
"Why don't you tell me about it?" he urged gently.
"Yessir. Well, me and Mildred spent all of yestiday and all of last night—that is, all of last night when we was up—thinking about what you said. And we come up with just one thing. You see, Ruthie was a ordinary person, just like Mildred and me. What I mean by that is she didn't go in for fancy living and business like that. She was a plain person. A good person."
Hallock heard the old man's voice break on the last word and knew he couldn't rush him. He sat down on the bed and waited.
Finally Conway pulled himself together. "What I'm trying to say, Chief, is that she didn't go out a whole lot, her and Russ. But once in awhile they give themselves a treat. Maybe go to a movie, or go down-island to the Mall, do a little shopping. Sometimes they went out to dinner, maybe five, six times a year."
Hallock wondered why the old man was so intent on making his daughter's life seem so drab. He looked at his watch again, realized he wasn't going to make his plane, kicked off his shoes, and leaned back against the pillows.
Conway went on. "But there was this one time when her and Russ decided to really celebrate. Russ had got a promotion. He worked for Volinski Insurance Company. Still does. Anyways, Russ got this promotion, and he and Ruthie decided to go all-out on a celebration. So first they go to Simpson's for some steamers and a lobster and—you remember Simpson's?"
"I do."
"You're pretty young to be remembering Simpson's. I'm talking twenty-five years ago."
"I'm not as young as you think, Mister Conway."
"Oh. Anyways, they go to Simpson's for a good meal 'cause of Russ's promotion. And then they decide to go to this nightclub over to Seaville. Now you understand they ain't the jet set or anything."
"I understand."
"Well sir, the nightclub's real crowded and somehow it caught on fire."
Hallock sat straight up.
Conway continued. "Don't think they ever found out what started that fire. Anyways, Ruthie and Russ was in there with about a hundred other people. But they got out okay. Twelve people died though. You remember that fire, Chief?"
"I
remember. Look, Mister Conway, you've been real helpful. I have to hang up now and get this information to Seaville."
Conway went on as if Hallock hadn't spoken. "See, that was the only thing out of the ordinary me and Mildred could think of. It's not like a person's in a fire every other day, if you see what I mean, Chief."
"I do, and I agree with you. You've been real helpful," he said again. "I have to go now, Mister Conway."
"Should we keep on thinking, Chief?"
Hallock recognized the man's reluctance to let him go, as though keeping the connection open somehow negated his daughter's death. "Yes, sure, Mister Conway. And you call me in Seaville if anything occurs to you. That's the second number I gave you."
"Yessir. I called that one but the lady said you wasn't back yet. So then I called this-here number."
"Well, I'm leaving today. Good-bye, Mister Conway, and thank you." Hallock hung up before Conway could say anything else. Then he punched out Maguire's number. Still busy. He thought a moment, then called the Gazette. It rang three times before a man answered. The voice sounded familiar, but Hallock couldn't place it. He asked for Maguire.
"He's not in today," the man said. "Who's calling?"
"Who's this?" Hallock asked.
"Special Agent Schufeldt," he said. "Who's this?"
Hallock withdrew his ear from the phone as if it had been burned, then slowly replaced the receiver in the cradle. He sat on the edge of the bed wondering why Schufeldt was at the paper, answering the phone. Had something happened to Maguire? Had there been another murder? And what about Griffing? Was Schufeldt at the paper to arrest him? Had someone there remembered that fire twenty-five years ago? By some miracle had Schufeldt put it all together? He had to get back.
Quickly he stuffed his feet into his shoes and made for the door. If he missed the next plane out, he'd catch the one after that, and if he couldn't get on that one, the one after that would have to do. Because police chief or not, nothing was going to stop him from being there at the end of this one. Nothing.
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