They went out together—close together. It was Pam who knelt beside the nurse. She knelt briefly and then stood up.
“Her whole head—” she said, in a voice which shook a little. “Her whole head, Dorian.”
Dorian put an arm around Pam North, and Dorian did not look down at what lay by their feet. She drew Pam back into the bright kitchen, and Pam was shaking under her arm.
“I’m—” Pam North began, and then closed her mouth and did not finish. Her face was very white; lipstick was sharp against the pallor. She waited a moment, quiet; using all her strength, and not moving. “All right,” she said. “I’m not going to be. You—didn’t look?”
“Not—closely,” Dorian said. She was white, too. “Not after—after I saw from the door.”
“Somebody struck her with an iron something,” Pam said. “A rod. More—more than once. The rod is there, in the—by her head.”
“You’re making a picture of it,” Dorian said. “Don’t.”
“I know,” Pam said. “I know now. It’s a spit from a broiler. One of those charcoal broilers. It—Dorian, it bent a little!”
She put her hands up and covered her face. Dorian waited. Pam took her hands down.
“All right,” she said. “But I had to get the picture over with. We’ve got to find Jerry.”
They went, almost running and still close together, back through the pantry and the dining room. In the dining room Pam began to call. “Jerry!” she called. “Jerry!”
They were in the living room. Halfway up its length five people were standing—all facing them; one expression on their very different faces. Jerry and Bill, Mullins—Dan Gordon and Debbie. Then Jerry broke from the little group and came to meet Pam and Dorian. Pam ran into his arms and clung to him for a moment.
“Out there,” she said, gesturing behind her. “Oh—Jerry!”
Dorian Weigand was beside her husband; she clung to his left arm with both her hands. She was very white, too. Bill looked down at her.
“The nurse,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “Miss Spencer. She’s out there. She’s—somebody beat her skull in. Pam—Pam looked.”
Bill and Mullins moved fast, out through the french doors of the dining room. They did not stay long. Their faces were hard when they came back. They looked like policemen. They walked back, looking at Gordon and the girl. Then Weigand stood in front of them, and looked at them without saying anything for what seemed like a very long time.
“You say you were together?” he said. “All the time? In the—in whatever you call that room?”
His voice was without expression.
“Yes,” the girl said. “Oh—yes.”
But almost at the same time, Dan Gordon spoke.
“Not all the time,” he said. “No.”
He looked back at Weigand, and his eyes were steady. But perspiration stood out on his forehead.
“Sit down,” Weigand told them. “Both of you.”
There was a deep chair near and Debbie Brooks sat in it. She did not sit back in it; she sat on the edge and she held Dan Gordon’s left hand tight. With his free hand, Dan drew a lighter chair near enough and sat beside her. His free hand gripped the wooden arm of the chair.
Bill Weigand turned back toward a table behind the sofa which stood before the fireplace. He seemed to hesitate a moment. He picked up a book lying on the table and looked at it idly. Then, with no warning, quickly, he slapped the book down hard, flat, on the polished wood. It made a sharp crack, almost like an explosion. Everybody started, and then looked at Bill.
But you could not call Dan Gordon’s movement a mere start of surprise. It was convulsive. But it was a convulsion which shook his whole body. His head went back against the back of the chair, the neck twisted. His left hand broke from Deborah’s grasp, his right came away from the chair arm. Both hands went to his face and covered it. Both hands, his whole body, trembled.
They looked at him, then, in the instant before Deborah’s young arms went around him, holding him; before she turned toward Weigand defiantly, her eyes hot with anger. They all looked at Dan Gordon, tall and, in a lean fashion, powerful—and cowering like a frightened child.
After a moment, Dan Gordon recovered himself. Gently, he pushed the girl away. He looked at Weigand and his eyes told nothing.
“I’m sorry, Gordon,” Bill said, and for the first time he spoke to Gordon in a tone which was not his official tone. “I’m sorry. I wanted to know.”
“Well,” Gordon said, and his voice was controlled. “Now you know.”
“Yes,” Bill said. “Now I know.”
Debbie Brooks put her face down in her hands, and her hair flowed down, covering face and hands. Dan Gordon reached out toward her bent shoulders and then, hesitantly, withdrew his hand. His face flushed, and then he turned back toward Bill Weigand. Anger grew on his face, twisting his mouth. Then, with a kind of confused violence, he was on his feet and he began to talk. He talked too loudly. His anger was ugly in ugly words. Weigand listened only a moment.
“Stop it!” he said. His voice was harsh, breaking through the other’s words. “Stop it, Gordon!”
Gordon moved toward Weigand, hurling the ugly words. His face was contorted. He was taller than Weigand and his fists clenched. Bill stood, not moving, not seeming to tense his muscles, his arms hanging loosely at his sides and his hands open. Only his eyes seemed alert. Mullins moved in from a position near the fireplace, and he moved easily and without hurry.
“Stop it, Gordon,” Bill said. His voice was not so loud. It was almost matter of fact. Gordon did not seem to hear him. “Watch yourself, Gordon,” Weigand said. “Watch yourself.” His tone was almost quiet, now.
Debbie Brooks was looking up. She pushed back her hair with both hands.
“Dan!” she said. “Danny!”
Gordon was within arm’s length of Weigand and still coming toward him. And then he stopped. It was hard to say what had stopped him; hard to guess whether he had heard the girl’s low, pleading voice. For a moment after he had stopped, and fallen silent, he stood unmoving, looking at Weigand. Hatred began to fade out of his eyes, and purpose left them. He seemed puzzled, suddenly—bewildered. You would have thought he was surprised to find himself standing there, so close to Weigand and so threatening. Then he looked embarrassed.
“Sorry,” he said. “Don’t know what—” He broke off. “Sorry,” he said again. He went back to his chair and looked down at Debbie a moment and shook his head. Then he sat down beside her and took the hand she gave him. He held it tight.
“You mustn’t,” Debbie said, and looked at Weigand anxiously. “Please! Can’t you understand?”
Weigand nodded.
“I understand, Miss Brooks,” he said, and he spoke slowly. “Do you?”
She looked at him and shook her head. Her eyes were wide and, Bill thought, frightened.
“How long has it been, Gordon?” Weigand asked. His voice, again, was matter of fact. He looked at Dan Gordon, and saw perspiration standing out on his forehead. Gordon freed his hand from Debbie’s and took a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and wiped both his hands, carefully. Then he took the girl’s hand again.
“Several months,” he said. “It started after things were over. Delayed reaction, they say.”
He might have been talking about someone else.
“Better than it was?” Weigand said.
Gordon said he guessed so.
“Oh, yes,” Debbie said. “Much better, Danny.”
“All right,” Dan said, and smiled down at her. “Much better, Debbie.”
But he looked at Weigand almost immediately and his eyes held no confidence.
It was all there, Weigand thought. Extreme irritability, restlessness, excessive perspiration, convulsive reaction to sharp sounds—all of it you could see from outside was there. You didn’t need to be a psychiatrist to put a name to it—the name they were using this time. Combat fatigue. But you needed to be more
of a psychiatrist than Weigand was to know what it did inside, where you couldn’t see. Maybe it needed more of a psychiatrist than anybody was.
“Why did you leave the office?” Weigand asked. “You knew we wanted to talk to you.”
“What the hell,” Gordon said. “You made me wait. I’ve done enough waiting in the last few years. I was tired of being there.”
“Why did you think you could get away with it?” Weigand asked.
Gordon looked at Weigand, shook his head, and repeated “get away with it?”
There was, in theory, a patrolman who would have stopped him, Weigand said. Only in theory, but Gordon couldn’t have known.
“I don’t know,” Gordon said. “I didn’t think of it particularly. I just went.”
“And got your car and drove out here?” Weigand asked him.
“Yes,” Gordon said. “Sure.” He hesitated a moment. “I wasn’t hiding, or anything,” he said. “I wouldn’t have come here if I had been.”
“Right,” Bill said. “Not if you thought of it. But—was there something you had to do here, Gordon? Something that wanted doing before we came?”
“Such as?” Gordon said.
Bill declined to be drawn. He said he had no suggestions. “At the moment,” he said.
“And in the library,” he went on. “When the lights went out. Why did you run again?” He watched Gordon’s face. “Hold onto yourself,” he said. “It won’t get you anything to blow up.” He waited, interested to see what would happen. Gordon got hold of himself.
“I didn’t run,” Gordon said. “When the lights went out I—I went to find Debbie.”
“You were afraid something would happen to her?” Weigand asked.
“I guess so,” Gordon said.
Weigand turned to the girl.
“Miss Brooks, did you throw the light switches?” he asked, his words coming quick.
She looked at him. Then she looked at Gordon.
“Why would I?” she said. “Dan hasn’t anything to hide.”
She looked back at the tall young man beside her when she said that. Her eyes questioned him. Again, Weigand thought, there was fear in them.
“I think you did,” Weigand said, and his voice was almost gentle. “I think you don’t know whether he has anything to hide or not, Miss Brooks. I think you’re afraid he has.”
The girl looked quickly at Weigand and then back at Dan Gordon. She was looking at Dan as she spoke; she was speaking to him.
“No,” she said. “Oh, no! I’m not afraid. I know he didn’t—” She stopped. “I know,” she repeated, but her voice wavered.
“And,” Weigand said, “you will do anything to help him, won’t you, Miss Brooks? The thing you think of first—even futile little things, like turning off the lights. Is that it?”
“He doesn’t need help,” Debbie said. She looked at the detective now. “Why should he?”
Weigand nodded. He said perhaps Dan Gordon didn’t need help.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Do you need help, Gordon?”
Gordon said he didn’t know what Weigand was talking about.
“Yes,” Weigand said. “Oh, yes. You know. I’m talking about your stepfather’s murder, Gordon. Did you know most of your money was lost?”
“Some of it,” Gordon said. “So what?”
“You knew your stepfather had lost it?”
Gordon shook his head.
“I don’t know what happened to it,” he said. “I don’t know anybody lost it.”
“Really?” Weigand said. “Really, Mr. Gordon?”
Gordon did not say anything.
“Suppose I think you did,” Weigand said. “Suppose I think that you heard something—perhaps your stepfather warned you that there wouldn’t be as much money as you had expected. That a major part of it had been lost—somehow. Perhaps as a result of his bad judgment. Suppose I think you got to brooding about it, and wanted to know more—and arranged to meet him yesterday to find out more. Suppose I think you waited in the lobby downstairs until he came down and that you went up to him—and by that time you were very irritated. As you were here, a few minutes ago. Suppose I think he persuaded you to go back to the office, because he didn’t want you making a show of it in the lobby, and that you went—and started in again when you were there, in his private office—which is more or less soundproof. So Miss Brooks wouldn’t hear you.”
He stopped and looked at the girl, consideringly.
“Or perhaps she did hear you,” he said. “In spite of the soundproofing. And went in—and found that you’d grabbed up a paperweight and gone after him. The way you started to go at me a few minutes ago. And stood by you—and tried to help you. And making the kind of mistake—doing the kind of wrong, useless thing—she did tonight when she turned off the lights. Because she’s young and—frightened—and will do anything to help you.”
“No,” the girl said. “No—nothing like that—”
“No?” Weigand said. “Suppose I still think it was, Miss Brooks? It wouldn’t be murder, maybe—if you had called the police, and Gordon hadn’t run from questioning—so he would have time to make up a good story, perhaps? Or work out an alibi?—it wouldn’t have been murder. Manslaughter, at worst. An accident—one of those unhappy things we can blame on the war. You see, Miss Brooks?”
“It didn’t happen,” the girl said. “Tell him, Danny. Tell him.”
“What’s the use?” Gordon said. “Let him guess. That’s what he’s for.”
“Oh,” Weigand said, “perhaps you didn’t hear anything, Miss Brooks. Perhaps you don’t know anything. Perhaps you’re just—afraid it was that way.”
The girl shook her head, her hair swaying.
“Why don’t you leave her alone?” Gordon said. “Why don’t you stick to this—this story about me? The one you’re making up.”
“Am I?” Weigand said. “I don’t know. You had motive. So far as I know you had the opportunity. You have the—temperament. If it happened the way I’ve described.”
“And I suppose I had another—disturbed period—and killed the nurse,” Gordon said. “Or had you forgotten about her?”
Bill Weigand said he hadn’t forgotten.
“That wasn’t the same thing,” he said. “That was murder. That was murder of someone who knew too much—and had come out here to talk it over with somebody. I should think with you, Gordon. Did she see you, after you killed your stepfather? Was that what she was going to give you a chance to explain? When you killed her?”
“What’s the use?” Gordon said. “I didn’t kill anybody. And I’m not crazy.”
Weigand agreed with that. He said he didn’t think Dan Gordon was crazy.
There were lights and voices outside, then, and the sound of men moving. Mullins went to one of the french doors and looked out.
“Troopers,” Mullins said. Weigand nodded. It hadn’t taken them long—now that they had a murder of their own. The doorbell rang.
The man who came in first was a short powerful man in civilian clothes. There were two younger men in civilian clothes with him. They were cops, all right, Pamela North thought. Then she thought something else.
“Why—” Mrs. North said.
“Well,” the short man said, in a strong, heavy voice. “Well. Old Home Week.” He looked around. He nodded to Bill Weigand. “Hello, Weigand,” he said. He made a joke. “Having another vacation, Lieutenant?” he said.
“Hello, Heimrich,” Weigand said. “Not a vacation, this one. Our murders cross. I’ve got one. You’ve got one. Division of labor.”
“O.K.,” Heimrich said. “They tie in?”
“Right, Lieutenant,” Weigand said. “They tie in.” He looked at Gordon and the girl beside Gordon. “Tight,” he said.
Lieutenant Heimrich, Bureau of Criminal Identification, New York State Police, looked at Gordon and the girl. He snapped his fingers.
“Sure,” he said. He spoke to Gordon. “You kill your dad, son?�
� he asked, in an interested tone. He waited for Gordon to speak. Gordon merely looked at him.
“O.K.,” Heimrich said. “Not my headache anyway. You kill anybody around here, son? That’d be my business, you know.”
He looked at Weigand. Weigand shook his head. Heimrich joined him and they walked down the room, out of earshot. They conferred for a moment. They walked back.
“I’ll talk to you two later,” Heimrich said. “Meanwhile—I’m going to have you wait in your rooms.” He looked at the girl. “You’re Miss Brooks,” he told her. “You got a room here?” The girl nodded. “O.K.,” Heimrich said. He spoke to the two detectives who had come in with him. “Take them up,” he said. “See that they stay put. Get a couple of the boys on their doors. Get it?”
The detectives got it. They took Gordon and Debbie Brooks out. She was holding to his hand. Lieutenant Heimrich looked at those who remained.
“There are a lot of us,” he said. He looked at them. “You’re Mrs. North,” he told Mrs. North. “I remember you, from last time.” He looked at Jerry North. “You I’ve seen somewhere,” Heimrich said.
“With me,” Mrs. North said. “My husband.”
Lieutenant Heimrich thought this over a moment. He looked at Jerry North again.
“O.K.,” Heimrich said. “If that’s the way you want it. Who are you?”
This was to Dorian Weigand. Bill smiled at her. He told Heimrich he ought to remember her.
“Dorian Hunt,” Bill said. “At the same time you met the Norths. And Mullins and me. Now she’s Dorian Weigand.”
“Well,” Heimrich said. He looked at all of them. “That was quite a vacation you had,” he told them.
“Oh yes,” Pam North said. “It was one of our most interesting—”*
The doorbell interrupted her. Mullins went to the door.
“Get along in, you,” a voice said, and the door closed. Mullins came back, but there was a heavy-set man of medium height in front of him.
“Why, hello, Mr. Smith,” Pam said. She looked at him with a pleased smile. “I’ve been wondering about you,” she said.
* The Norths first met Lieutenant Heimrich in Murder Out of Turn, J. B. Lippincott Co., 1941.
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