With One Stone

by Frances Lockridge

  They could use the office they were in, he told them. He’d use Miss Winters’s. For what he had left to do.

  “Well?” Sergeant Forniss said.

  Heimrich said that it was all very interesting.

  “If true,” Forniss said.

  “In any case,” Heimrich said.

  “On the other hand,” Forniss said, “maybe he didn’t say, nope, he wasn’t having any. Maybe they were that way about each other, and had been all along. Maybe it wasn’t a divorce she had in mind—they had in mind. On account of, if the old man should happen to die she’d get a lot of nice money. And a newspaper. And maybe the old man knew more than they thought and this temper of his got the better of him when he found her in the guest house and she told him, You’re an old man and I love Mr. Curtis and we’ve just been here together and what are you going to do about it, grandpa?”

  “And—didn’t take it up with Curtis?”

  “Do we know he didn’t? Maybe got Curtis’s gun out of the car first? And then took it up with him. Only Curtis got the gun away from him and—”

  Forniss stopped.

  “Only,” he said, “the old man wouldn’t just have handed him the gun. And there wasn’t anything to show they fought over it.”

  “Now Charley,” Heimrich said. “It could be a tramp killed Mrs. Bedlow. And somebody else, for some other reason, killed him.”

  “Who,” Forniss said, “are you trying to kid, captain?”

  IX

  They were taking a long time with Norm—a terribly long time, a frighteningly long time. Because—of course, because—he had admitted it was his gun. They would jump at that; they would be satisfied with that. Perhaps—or were they hurting him to make him talk? Did the police do that? People said the police did that. In France, people had asked her about the way things were in the States, and whether there were as many lynchings as people said, and did the police beat confessions out of everybody they arrested?

  She had said that she didn’t think there were as many lynchings as there had been, and that she didn’t know anything about the police. And she had been told that everybody knew about the American police, and that they were as bad as the Gestapo had ever been, only it was covered up better and—

  Dinah found that her fingers were twisting together. As if she were being hurt, as Norm was being hurt. She realized that Mary and Russ were looking at her.

  People said a lot of things about Americans that weren’t true—weren’t true of all Americans, and no more of Americans than of any other people, anywhere. Nothing, Dinah thought, was true of all people everywhere. Remember that. Think—if you’ve got to think, and you’ve got to think—of that. Think of large, round, general things. Or—think that neither the sergeant nor this new man, this captain, looks like a violent man. Think that they look too strong, and not only physically, to need violence. Think that it is the weak who need violence, not the strong. Think—

  The door to the office wing opened and Sergeant Forniss came up the living room, unhurriedly. He did not look like a man who had been engaged in violence. To Dinah’s surprise, he came to her. He had a low, quiet voice. He said that the captain would like to ask her about a few things, if she didn’t mind.

  Russ Parsons said, “Sergeant. I—”

  “Presently, Mr. Parsons,” Forniss said. “The captain will want to talk to you. And Mrs. Parsons, of course. In a few minutes, probably.”

  It occurred to Dinah, walking down the living room toward the office door, with Forniss very tall behind her, that a subject had been closed before it was opened.

  The other tall man—they did not really resemble each other, except that each was large and noticeably solid-stood up when she went into Len Young’s office. (Len must be nearing Idlewild, by now, if he had got a plane seat.) Heimrich said that there were only a few things she might be able to help them get straight. He said that Mr. Curtis had been good enough to let them use this office. He said that if she would just sit there? He, himself, after she had sat there, sat down behind the desk.

  There wasn’t anything in the office to indicate that there had been violence there. I’m a ninny, Dinah thought. An imaginative ninny. Of course they wouldn’t—

  “I wonder,” the very blue-eyed man said, “if you’d think back to last Monday, Miss Bedlow?”

  “Monday?” she said. “You mean Monday? But on Monday there wasn’t anything—”

  He smiled. He said, “I know, Miss Bedlow. Just a minor point—Monday morning. Oh, say from around nine o’clock on. Your father and stepmother were here, of course. At least, I suppose—” Then he shook his head, as one might over having made a minor error. “Of course,” he said, “I don’t even know you were here, do I?”

  “Why yes,” she said. “I was here. And—” She hesitated a moment; could feel her eyes fill with tears.

  “I wish,” Heimrich said, “that I didn’t have to bother you with all this, Miss Bedlow.”

  “It’s all right,” she said. “I’m—I’m sorry. It’s just—that that was the first weekend here, captain. And—I suppose I was thinking of other weekends in the spring and—” She took a deep breath.

  “Father and Ann were here,” she said. “And Mary and Russ. And the servants, of course. And Norm—” She paused. “No,” she said. “Of course he wasn’t. He went back Sunday evening. Len Young was here—that is until—oh, about eleven. He’s—he was—my father’s secretary, you know. And I suppose Miss Winters came about nine. She always does.” She paused again. “Did,” she said. “Is that what you wanted to know, captain?”

  “Yes,” he said. “Mr. Young left about eleven, you say.”

  “To drive to Idlewild,” she said. “To get a plane to London.”

  “The others?”

  “You mean—were they here all day? No. Let me remember.

  “I was here,” she said. “I’ve been here all week. And Fa—and my father was in the office most of the day. That is—from around nine until almost six.” She paused again. “I think,” she said. “Perhaps I’m just remembering the way things usually—usually were. And so Miss Winters must have been there, of course. Until five, anyway.”

  She looked across the desk at Heimrich. He had closed his eyes. He nodded his head, without opening his eyes.

  “Ann left about ten, I think,” the dark girl said. “She had a hair appointment in town. I mean in New York, of course. There’s a ten-something train from Brewster. Russ left about the same time, I think. He drove in to town. And some time before noon, Mary went over to Silas’s to ride a horse. It’s a place that has horses.”

  “I know,” Heimrich said.

  “She was back for lunch,” Dinah said. “I was here all day.”

  Heimrich opened his eyes.

  “Why Monday?” Dinah said. The blue eyes are friendly, she thought. It’s all right to ask, “Why Monday?”

  “A minor point,” he said. “Let’s get to Thursday, Miss Bedlow. See if I’ve got it right. You were in the living room when Mrs. Bedlow came down, and went out for a walk. Your sister came down a bit later, and went out to the kitchen to get a sandwich—or something.”

  “Crackers and cheese, probably,” Dinah said. “She likes crackers and cheese.”

  It was much easier than she had thought it would be. It didn’t seem to be leading anywhere, but it was much easier.

  “Your father came out of the office wing a little before six. Is that right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then your sister came back from—getting cheese and crackers. Mr. Curtis drove up a few minutes later and then, a little after six, probably, your father went out to call Mrs. Bedlow. Mr. Parsons wasn’t here at all. You and your sister and Mr. Curtis heard your father calling his wife’s name, and then heard him shout and ran out and—saw him carrying her up.”

  She put her slim fingers up to her forehead, then; held them so that they covered her eyes. (As if the eyes still saw what they had seen.)

  “Is that the
way it was, Miss Bedlow?”

  “Yes.”

  (Get out of the mind the picture of a big man carrying a slender woman. Of blood dripping onto a red carpet. They want facts; only facts. They make a pile of facts, fit facts together. Think of it as if it were an examination of some sort—an examination in history. Remember facts; remember dates. That’s all they want. It’s easier than I had thought—)

  “Miss Bedlow,” the man with such very blue eyes said, “did you know that Mr. Curtis and Mrs. Bedlow were very friendly at one time? Before she married your father?”

  She felt, suddenly, a little chill. Not just facts? More than—

  “I know Father met her through Mr. Curtis,” she said. “Somebody told me—anybody might have told me. It was several years ago, captain. I was still at school. I didn’t know Ann until—until just before they got married. And Mr. Curtis—not much more than by sight.”

  Heimrich closed his eyes. Why did he do that, she wondered? Was there some sort of—some sort of warning in that?

  “Miss Bedlow,” Heimrich said, “this past winter you’ve been seeing quite a bit of Mr. Curtis, haven’t you? Since some time late in the fall, really? Since shortly after you came back from abroad?”

  “Why—” she said, and hesitated—and knew she shouldn’t hesitate. Because what did it—“You can call it that, I guess,” she said. “The theater and dinner and to dance. And—yes, you can call it that. Did Norm—?”

  “No. Mr. Curtis didn’t mention it. We’ve been—asking around.” He opened his eyes. “We have to ask around, you know,” he said, and it was as if he confided in her, offered her a chance to share, sympathize with, his problems. “Did you,” he said, “know that at one time Mr. Curtis and Mrs. Bedlow—Miss Lynch she was then, of course—planned to get married?”

  “It—” she said, and hesitated. “It was a long time ago.”

  “Several years,” Heimrich said. “Yes.” He paused. He did not close his eyes; he looked at her intently. As if, she thought, he’s trying to see into me. Not just facts to be added up. Not just—not as easy as she had thought it was going—

  “Miss Bedlow,” he said, “there are some times we have to ask things which aren’t—wouldn’t otherwise be, at least—any of our business. Are you in love with Mr. Curtis?”

  “It really isn’t—”

  “I know,” he said. “I can’t make you answer—answer at all.”

  “It’s a strange question,” she said.

  He merely nodded his head, as if he agreed with her.

  “We’re just friends,” she said. “It’s fun to be with him and—and talk to him. It’s—we’re just friends.”

  “I see,” Heimrich said. “Then I can ask you another question. I suspect you’re a perceptive person. A—sensitive person. You’ve seen Mr. Curtis and Mrs. Bedlow together and—”

  “Not really very much,” she said. And knew she spoke too quickly; spoke almost anxiously.

  “Perhaps not,” he said. “But, from what you have seen—would you say there was anything between them? Still between them?”

  “Why,” she said, “she was Father’s wife. And he—”

  She stopped.

  “Now Miss Bedlow,” Heimrich said, and had closed his eyes again. And spoke with patience.

  She felt herself flush. I still do that, she thought. Like a child. And—he’s right. I spoke as a child might.

  “No,” she said. “It—whatever it was—it was over a long time ago.”

  “Did he tell you that?”

  She felt indignation begin to grow, and fought against it. Perhaps it, in her, was what he wanted. What did he want?

  “Of course not. We never talked about it. But he’s not the sort of man who would—she was Father’s wife. And—there are men to whom that makes a difference, Captain Heimrich.”

  The indignation showed through, all the same.

  “Many,” Heimrich said. “Most, probably. And she, Miss Bedlow?”

  “She?”

  “Was she, do you think, equally—scrupulous?”

  It’s as if, she thought, he’s in my mind. Turning the pages of my mind. And he’s just—just a big, solid—

  “She’s dead,” she said. “Doesn’t that make any difference?”

  “Murdered,” he said. “That’s what makes the difference, Miss Bedlow.”

  “She liked to be admired,” Dinah said. “Most women do. She—I suspect she always was. Always had been. I’m trying to answer. I don’t know why you’re asking things like this but—I’m trying to answer.”

  He said, “Naturally.”

  “Some women,” she said, “women as attractive as she was, do seem to expect that—that men will respond. Can’t help responding. Even when they—I mean the women—don’t—don’t want anything to happen. A kind of potential ownership of all males. As if she had some sort of option on—” She stopped.

  I’ve given myself away, she thought. Said “she” when I shouldn’t have said it. Phrased too exactly. So that he’ll know this isn’t the first time I’ve phrased it so, in my mind.

  “Possessive,” Heimrich said. “That might be the word. And—some men might find it irksome, mightn’t they?”

  She said, “No”—too soon, too hurriedly. “I don’t know what you’re getting at,” she said. Too late, too slowly.

  And it’s all wrong, she thought. He’s getting it all wrong. What is he getting at? Norm wasn’t—possessed. He wouldn’t have to try to—to free himself. Is that what he’s getting at? Because— The thought sequence stopped; was intruded upon. She made her face still; hoped she made it expressionless. And a telephone bell rang.

  Heimrich reached for the red telephone.

  “The other one,” she said. “It’s on the direct office—”

  He had picked the black telephone up, and nodded—nodded thanks, she supposed—and said, “Heimrich.” He listened. He said, “Good. Nice of him. Tell him Forniss will be in—oh, in a little over an hour.” He listened again. “Thanks,” he said. “We appreciate it.”

  “Goodhue’s home early,” he said to Forniss. “Be perfectly willing to cooperate in so far as his obligations, and so forth.”

  “Good,” Forniss said. “Come back here?”

  “Let’s make it the inn,” Heimrich said. “Seven or around then.”

  Forniss said, “Yep,” and went.

  Goodhue? Dinah thought. Of, of course—Father’s lawyer. Of course they would go to him. They would want to ask—

  Heimrich stood up. He said, “Thank you, Miss Bedlow. I don’t think of anything else at the moment. You’ve been very—patient.”

  It is pleasant to come on a familiar face in unexpected surroundings. More faces are familiar to Sergeant Charles Forniss than to most men, but this could be noted down as sheer luck. Forniss leaned against a bar in the western area of Greenwich Village and the bartender looked at him with rather exaggerated astonishment.

  “Whatja know?” the bartender said. “Charley, as I live and breathe. Slumming?”

  “Hiya, Ned,” Forniss said. “Thought you were working uptown.”

  “This dump,” the bartender said, “I own. It’s a dump, but so, I own a dump. Beer?”

  Beer was a fine thought. It was a little before five on Sunday afternoon. Forniss had been doing a bit of listening, which often makes him thirsty.

  “Not slumming,” Forniss said, served with beer. “Looking. Know a man named Lynch, Ned? Robert Lynch?”

  “Do I know him,” Ned Dolan said. “What’s he done?”

  “Nothing, far’s I know,” Forniss said. “Somebody said he comes here every now and then. Makes it sort of a hangout.”

  “When in funds,” Ned said. “He’s like an artist. Y’know? Commercial artist, they call it. Only, for my money, he’s not such a hot artist and he ain’t so damn commercial, either.”

  Forniss had gathered that—gathered it from a landlady on Bank Street, who had expelled Robert Lynch ten days before for non-payme
nt of rent and didn’t know, and cared less, where he had moved to. Probably in some saloon or other, if he’d come by any money. Which he did, sometimes, but not to pay rent with. What saloon? Place called the Shamrock or something. A dump, from what she heard.

  “A lot of them come in here,” Ned Dolan said. “When in funds. Lynch is pretty regular. Seems he’s got a sister or something who’s rolling in it and now and then some splashes over, know what I mean?”

  “Yep,” Forniss said. “Only, it’s had a sister, Ned. Half sister, anyway. A Mrs. James Bedlow, she was.”

  Ned Dolan used the name of his Lord in vain, but not without reverence.

  “Yep,” Forniss said. “That’s his sister. Was. Matter of fact, Lynch ought to be able to buy quite a lot of beers from here on in.”

  “Slugs,” Ned said. “Comes to the same thing, but it’s slugs. Bourbon, mostly. Remember when it used to be rye, Charley? Now it’s bourbon. Or just a shot, of course. Mostly, places like this, just a shot.”

  “Sure,” Forniss said. “I guess another beer, Ned. Pretty regular, you say?”

  “When in funds. Set the clock by him. Five o’clock in. Maybe seven out. Maybe earlier out, on account I don’t give credit.”

  “Including Sundays?”

  Dolan said “Yeah” and looked at his watch. “Not today, looks like,” he said. “Or’s running late. On account—” He broke off, looking at the door of Dolan’s Shamrock Bar and Grill. Dolan began to massage the bar with a cloth. He nodded his head toward the door.

  The man who had just come in was a small man—a narrow-shouldered man. He had a small face immersed in an extremely virile beard. He looked at Sergeant Forniss with no interest; he pointed a finger at Ned Dolan as if he aimed a pistol. “Coming up, Mr. Lynch,” Ned Dolan said, going heavy on the name in case Charles Forniss hadn’t been paying attention. He filled a shot glass with whisky and a taller glass with ice water and put them on a tray. He walked around the bar and picked up the tray and took it to the whiskered man, who had gone into a booth. Dolan waited to be paid and was paid. Forniss finished his beer and went over to the booth. He said, “Mr. Lynch?”