by Frances
“Yes,” Bill said. “That was why. Where was your husband really sleeping, Mrs. Schaeffer?”
“What are you talking about?” she said. “I don’t—my head hurts. You wanted to take me to a doctor, Reg. Take me—take me now.”
She swayed, and put out a hand to the back of the chair nearest her.
“No,” Reginald Webb said, and seemed to speak from a great distance. “It’s no good now, Nan.” He paused. “You want it too many ways,” he said. “That’s the trouble with you, Nan.”
“Please,” Bill Weigand said. “One at a time. You say they kept you here last night, Mrs. Schaeffer? And today? Until—until when, would you say?”
“Until—oh, the middle of the afternoon,” she said. “What are you talking about? About Sam? About—” She shook her head, and held both hands to it. “I’m all mixed up. You keep—you keep jumping around so.”
“Yes,” Phoebe James said. “Oh yes. You’re mixed up.”
“One of the men had a small mouth—a tight mouth, you say? And the other was taller, and did most of the talking?”
“Yes,” she said. “I told you that. Anyway—”
“The man with a tight mouth is named Horse,” Weigand said. “They call him that. He took a midnight plane to Chicago. The other man probably was a man named Smithson. He went to Miami on an eight o’clock plane. This morning.”
“It couldn’t—” she said. “I’m not sure about the man’s mouth. I—”
“No,” Bill said. “I guess you’re not, Mrs. Schaeffer. And—”
“Bill,” Pam said. “You won’t listen. The coat hung up in the closet. So carefully. They wouldn’t have and the way she told it she didn’t have time. And not calling the police last night, but Jerry and me instead, because she thought the call could be traced and she probably was on her way to Staten Island. And today, although it’s easy to dial O instead of all those numbers, the police would have known the knots weren’t right and—” She paused. “Bill,” she said. “Why didn’t you look here?”
“Oh,” Bill said, “the precinct boys came here, of course. Got here about one this morning. The place was closed up tight, no lights on. They couldn’t raise anybody. As Mr. Webb can tell you, we don’t break in. Don’t break the law.”
“All right,” Webb said. “I tried to get her away. Because—” He stopped. “The hell with it,” he said.
“It wasn’t that,” Nan said. “Oh—it wasn’t that. He was afraid I’d—afraid of what I’d say. Because—all this about Sam—that isn’t it at all. Reg was mixed up in—” Then she stopped and looked around at all of them. And suddenly, because of what she saw in their faces, she dropped into a chair and covered her own face with her hands.
“The point was,” Bill Weigand said slowly, “that her husband was under doctor’s orders not to over-exert himself. Not to run for subway trains, as he wrote Ingraham. And not to climb stairs, of course. He must have slept—”
“In the library,” Pam North said. “There’s a sofa there that turns into a bed,”
“Probably,” Bill said. “How did you get him to climb the stairs, Mrs. Schaeffer? Call down that you’d hurt yourself, needed help? And then—just how did you do it, Mrs. Schaeffer?”
Nan Schaeffer did not answer, but only pressed her prettily manicured hands more tightly against her face. Reginald Webb looked at her for a moment and then walked to one of the tall windows and stood looking out at the snow. But Phoebe James did not take her eyes off Nan Schaeffer, and there was hatred in her eyes.
XII
Thursday, February 18, 12:20 P.M. to 12:55 P.M.
They had been playing tennis and were of pinkish hue—a hue which Pam North called “preliminary pink.” Jerry was also somewhat damp. Nevertheless, since it was a time of day at which dampness was to be expected, they stopped at the desk for mail. The mail was generally of an uninspiring sort, and included Monday’s New York Times, mysteriously forwarded. It included also a long envelope from the Police Department, City of New York, the initials “W.W.” appearing above the printed return address.
They carried mail to their room, which was not large, but had a very large window—a window level with the tops of coconut palms, a window from which the sea was visible The window was open and warm air came gently in.
“I promised to fill in whatever gaps remain,” Bill Weigand wrote them. “The simplest way seems to be to send you this carbon. I don’t need to say that it’s confidential, hasn’t been published and probably won’t be until the trial. They’ll fight admission then, as usual; probably fail as usual. Meanwhile—destroy after reading or, at any rate, conceal. Right?
“She didn’t hold out as long as I expected.
“Now—unless there’s a hitch, as no doubt there will be—Dorian and I will fly down at the end of next week and may be able to spend three or four days. It’s snowing again here.
“Until then, with all envy,
“Bill”
“P.S. Incidentally, we’ve got the goons who broke into the office to thank for turning up Schaeffer’s letter, which, of course, put us on the track.”
“They’re coming,” Pam said, and handed the letter to Jerry, who had reduced his costume to shorts and was lying on one of the beds. “If nobody important gets killed west of Fifth Avenue.” She held up the several sheets to which the letter had been attached. “Shall I read and pass?” she said. “Or do you want to be a pig?”
“Read and pass,” Jerry told her. “I’ll lie and pant.”
“It doesn’t begin at the beginning,” Pam said, after she had looked. “And it’s Q and A.”
“All right,” Jerry said. “You read it and then I’ll read it. O.K.”
“Um-m-m,” Pam said. “It was an assistant D.A. A Mr. Phillips. Do we know Mr. Phillips?”
“Please, Pam,” Jerry said. “I don’t think so. If you’re going to read it aloud?”
Pam shook her head. She said, “For heaven’s sake!” She said, “Imagine doing that.” Jerry waited. Pam finished the sheet and held it out. Jerry read:
Q. (By Mr. Phillips) He hadn’t been sleeping upstairs for some weeks, then?
A. No. On the sofa downstairs.
Q. His heart was affected?
A. I guess so. He always babied himself. Pretended he didn’t want sympathy but—
Q. Yes. You told us that. But you did believe he hadn’t told anyone else of this?
A. That’s what he said. And then he wrote this letter to Forbes and …
Q. And you got him to come up that night by saying that something was wrong with the toilet? That it was overflowing and you couldn’t stop it? And met him at the head of the stairs and caught him off balance and pushed him down?
A. All right. But you make it sound …
Q. Mr. Ingraham showed you this letter? Said that it made him doubt—would make anyone doubt—that your husband had been climbing up and down those stairs. In view of—
A. He threatened me. He threatened to—
Q. Please let me finish, Mrs. Schaeffer. In view of the doctor’s advice, and the fact that Mr. Schaeffer was the kind of man to take that advice—as Mr. Ingraham knew. Expecting his clients to take his advice as a lawyer, Mr. Schaeffer made a point of—
A. You go over it and over it. Forbes threatened me. Said he would go to the district attorney and have the whole thing dragged up again. What could I do?
Q. This was on Monday? When Mr. Ingraham said he was going to the district attorney?
A. I told you that. On Monday.
Q. And the next day you used the key—the gold key—you hadn’t returned with the rest of your husband’s keys, and went through your husband’s office and into Mr. Ingraham’s. And shot him?
A. I told him I hadn’t killed Sam. I asked him please not to bring it up again.
Q. And when he said he was going to, you shot him? With a revolver you had brought with you, in your purse?
A. He threatened me.
Q. You shot him?
A. I—I tried to frighten him.
Q. You shot him? Killed him?
A. Yes.
Q. Before that, he had asked you for the key? You had got it out of your purse and put it on the desk in front of him? And it was while he was picking the key up and putting it in the top drawer of his desk that you shot him? While his attention was distracted?
A. Yes. I suppose so—yes.…
Q. Mrs. Burton called you up Tuesday evening? Said she remembered the key hadn’t been with the others?
A. She never got things straight and—
Q. But she had got that straight, hadn’t she? You hadn’t returned the key. Why hadn’t you, Mrs. Schaeffer? You didn’t, then, know you were going to use it to get to Mr. Ingraham? So you could kill him?
A. Of course not.
Q. Then—why?
A. I—it was a gold key. A special key. I’d had it made and paid for it myself and—
Q. Go on, Mrs. Schaeffer.
A. That’s all. It was mine. When a thing’s yours you—take care of it.
Q. The way you did your coat—hanging it up in the closet in the apartment? And the things in your hotel suite—when you were trying to make it appear that the rooms had been searched?
A. (No verbal answer. The witness nodded her head.)
Q. You tried to persuade Mrs. Burton you had really returned the key? But you weren’t sure you had and decided that she—how did you put it?—threatened you? As Mr. Ingraham had?
A. Yes, I suppose so.
Q. You don’t deny that you went to Staten Island in your car? Wearing slacks and an old hat of your husband’s? And a loose coat—a top coat? You don’t deny that you got Mrs. Burton to let you in, or that you shot her?
A. All right. Can’t you leave me alone now?
Q. Very soon, Mrs. Schaeffer. You admit you killed Mrs. Burton?
A. Yes. Yes. She was a muddle-headed old fool and I couldn’t be sure that …
Q. You got the idea of this kidnapping pretense after Mr. Webb told you of the men who stopped him? Figuring it would provide you with an alibi for the killing of Mrs. Burton? And, of course, since her death and Mr. Ingraham’s obviously were linked, eliminate you from that, too? In case you were, eventually, suspected?
A. Forbes threatened me, I tell you. What could I do? He …
Q. The reason you called the Norths from—it was from a booth at the ferry house, wasn’t it?
A. Yes. I told you that.
Q. Was because you thought a call to the police could be traced?
A. Yes. Yes. Yes. Yes.
Q. There are only a few more questions, Mrs. Schaeffer. Wednesday afternoon—when you decided it was safe to be found—you called Mrs. James, and not the police. You didn’t call the police at all, did you?
A. No.
Q. Called Mrs. James because you thought the police wouldn’t be fooled by the way you were tied up? Would know that it was something you had done yourself? Tried to do. Whereas Mrs. James would untie you—or cut the cords—without noticing anything?
A. You’re very clever. You’re all very clever. That North woman! That little …
Q. And hit your head against the iron railing of the stairway? That must have been hard to do, Mrs. Schaeffer.
A. You can do things you have to do …
Q. Why did you kill your husband, Mrs. Schaeffer?
A. (No answer)
Q. Come, Mrs. Schaeffer. You’ve been cooperative up to now. By the way—we haven’t offered you any inducement to tell the truth, have we? You’ve made this statement of your own free will? Without being promised special consideration?
A. God. Oh God! Of my own free will!
Q. Well, wasn’t it? Were you promised anything? Forced in any way?
A. You’ve been at me for hours. Over and over and over.
Q. Did we promise anything? Use any form of compulsion?
A. You have to have that, don’t you? All right. You didn’t promise anything. Of my own free will, I, Nan Schaeffer, do …
Q. (By Acting Captain William Weigand) Why did you kill your husband? For the insurance money?
A. (No answer)
Q. Because Mr. Webb wouldn’t have an affair with his friend’s wife? With the wife of a man who was his partner, whom he respected, who had—
A. Conceited, yellow, priggish little …
Q. It was because of Mr. Webb, then?
A. You think he was the only man around? The only man …
Q. Why did you kill your husband, Mrs. Schaeffer? If not for money, not because of Mr. Webb—
A. Did you ever see him? Any of you? The old flabby fat man—the—you want to know why I killed him—he made me sick to look at him and when—
(The witness became hysterical at this point and it was necessary to give her a sedative. A formal statement embodying the foregoing, was prepared and signed the following day.)
At the foot of the last page, Bill Weigand had written: “The Halpern angle, as you see, had nothing to do with it—just one of those things that crop up to make a policeman’s life an unhappy one. Webb does tell me he’s keeping Halpern on as a client. Quite a man to do the right thing, Mr. Webb is.”
Jerry North put down the last sheet and whistled softly. “Of all the reasons,” he said.
From Pam who was stretched on the other bed, he received no immediate response. He turned to look at her, and found that he was himself being regarded—with, Jerry thought, rather special attention.
“Oh,” Pam said. “You’ve finished?”
“Yes,” Jerry said. “Why were you looking—?”
“Who showers first?” Pam said. “Shall I go ahead and—?”
She stood up and began to remove her tennis dress.
“It’s almost lunch time,” Pam said. “If we’re going to get a drink before lunch, and it’s the buffet in the patio and that always takes a long time. Such a big lunch.”
Jerry regarded his slender wife, ready now for her shower. He watched her as she went into the bathroom, heard the water begin to run. Jerry North reached for the telephone by the bed. He got the tennis professional on the telephone. He arranged for an hour’s practice at three. It would be a good, stiff workout. Well, his backhand could certainly stand it.
Gerald North leaned back against the pillow and lighted a cigarette. Absently, he patted the abdomen which, he could not doubt, had been the object of Pam’s particular regard. Poor Schaeffer, Jerry thought—probably hadn’t had a lick of exercise in years. Enough to make any man lose balance at the top of a flight of stairs.
Turn the page to continue reading from the Mr. and Mrs. North Mysteries
1
Thursday, June 16, 10:27 P.M.
to Friday, June 17, 1:15 A.M.
Naomi Shaw wore white—a white dinner dress which clung to her. She stood with her back to french doors, and her hands, held behind her, touched the doors, as if about to push them open. Her lovely chin was up a little and there was the look on her heart-shaped face, in her dark eyes, of one surprised by a great delight. Behind her, beyond the doors, a garden lay in moonlight. And then Naomi Shaw spoke, in that voice so widely considered beyond description.
“I’ve got—” she said, and there was the check there—the indescribable check. “I’ve got to remember Pudgy.”
The thousand-odd people who sat (or stood) in front of her became breathless with laughter. They turned red with laughter; they clutched the area of their diaphragms. They held on to their knees; they leaned back in their seats. They wiped their eyes. The curtain came down on the second act of Around the Corner, and the thousand-odd laughed on, and clapped their hands together and made small, strange sounds of utter happiness. House lights came up, a little slowly, as if reluctant to intrude. People looked at one another and said, “Oh. Oh!” Pamela North, one in from the aisle, sixth row center, looked at Gerald North, on the aisle, and saw him blurriedly through the tears of laughter. “Oh,” Pamela North said. “Oh! Jerry!”
“I know,” Pam said. “Of all things! And even when you know it’s coming—” Words failed Pamela at this point. They returned to her. “Somehow,” she said, “it’s better each time, isn’t it? Shall we go have a cigarette?”
They went, more slowly with each step, up an aisle which clogged with men and women, most of whom continued to laugh, to say, “Pudgy!” to one another and, on that magic word, to laugh again. They reached the head of the aisle, and a man who stood there, clutching the rail with both hands, looked at them and shook his head. He had a long, sad face. It did not appear that he had heard, or seen, anything to laugh at. He spoke to the Norths.
“They think it’s funny,” he said. “Why? That’s all I want to know. What’s so damned funny about it?”
He looked anxiously at Pam, as anxiously at Jerry.
“It’s the way she says it,” he told them. “It’s got to be that, hasn’t it? Hasn’t it? Because what else is so damned funny?”
“Everything,” Pam said. “Just everything, Sammy. The way—the way it keeps coming up. I mean everything keeps coming up.”
“The running gag,” Samuel Wyatt said. He shook his sad head. “You tell me, Jerry.”
But he did not look, now, at Gerald North. He looked at the flushed faces of those coming up the aisles. He seemed to look in wonderment.
“Come on,” Jerry said. “Let’s get out of this. Out on the sidewalk.”
He put a hand on the shoulder of Samuel Wyatt, playwright, and Wyatt permitted himself to be led away. He seemed to move in a daze, to grope his way through the crowded lobby, into the warm June night of Forty-third Street. He took the cigarette Jerry North offered him and stared at it, as if its use were beyond conception.
“In your mouth,” Pam explained, slowly and carefully. “One end. You light the other. See?”
She demonstrated.
“You knew it was funny when you wrote it,” Gerald North told Wyatt.
“Did I write it?” Wyatt said. “Pinch me.”
“All right,” Pam said, and did. Wyatt said, “Ouch!” but his heart was not in it.