Pick Up Sticks

by Deaver Brown

  Crashing thuds indicated that the Davidsons were making their usual progress through cover. A moment more, and they emerged from the trees to join the group. They seemed indifferent to Henry’s official companions. Sukey had eyes only for the vehicle which now blocked the logging trail.

  “A car!” she said rapturously. “How lovely!”

  The trooper, after a swift inspection of her attire, nodded to himself.

  “We’ll drive you back in a little while,” he offered. “If you’ll just be patient, I have a few questions to ask first.” He turned to Thatcher. “Would you mind telling us what you’re doing in these parts?”

  Thatcher restrained his impatience. Clearly the police were checking on Henry’s story. With a view to substantiating Henry’s alibi, Thatcher explained that they had left the Morland home yesterday morning after breakfast with Henry’s wife. They had done eighteen miles in easy stages, arriving to spend the night at the Upper Brook Shelter. After an early start, they had proceeded an additional twenty miles to their encounter with the Davidsons.

  “Anybody else at the shelter last night?” Captain Frewen asked.

  Yes, there had been two members of the Dartmouth Outing Club on their way north.

  Thatcher concluded with a careful account of the Davidsons’ tribulations, culminating in Henry’s decision to seek a telephone.

  “That checks out,” the captain said. “Now, Mr. Morland tells us he owns The Pepper Mill up in Pepperton. You from up there too?”

  Thatcher shook his head. “No, I’m from New York. I’m on vacation.”

  “Address?”

  Thatcher produced his business card. The captain inspected it and carefully inserted it in his notebook. He showed no surprise at finding a Wall Street banker on a three-week hiking trip. The Appalachian Trail, he knew, attracted all sorts.

  “Fine,” he said calmly. “Now, if you two don’t mind waiting here, there are a few questions I want to ask the young people. But we might as well get Mrs. Davidson sitting down in the car while we’re at it.”

  Either the Davidsons were a remarkably incurious young couple, Thatcher decided, or they had given up expecting to understand anything that happened to them in New Hampshire. Maybe they thought State Police and alibis were the natural consequence of becoming lost in the woods. Certainly they seemed to regard the activity of the police as less eccentric than that of others. As they trailed off to the car, Alan’s voice came floating back.

  “Thirty-eight miles, Sukey! They must be crazy.”

  Thatcher gave the entire party time to get out of earshot. Then he wheeled toward Henry.

  “Well,” he demanded. “What happened?”

  Henry sighed. “There isn’t that much to tell.” But obediently he unfolded his tale.

  After leaving the logging trail, Henry had set himself a smart pace through the woods. His only thought was to hang the albatross of the Davidsons around someone else’s neck as rapidly as possible. He had experienced no difficulty in locating the site of Fiord Haven.

  “Although I would have gotten there ten minutes earlier if that boy could tell the difference between north and north by northeast,” he grumbled.

  “He never pretended he was much of a navigator. Go on.”

  At the site, Henry had first located the telephone line coming into the clearing, then followed it to a builder’s hut. There he encountered his first problem. The hut had been windowless, its crude batten door firmly padlocked.

  “So you decided to break in,” Thatcher said sadly.

  Henry was inclined to cavil. “I don’t know that you could call it breaking in. I was just going to open it up, use the phone, and then close it again.”

  “Leaving everything tidy.”

  “Well, naturally,” said Henry, rather affronted.

  To accomplish this end, Henry had examined the obstacles. The door was powerful, the padlock was huge, but the hasp and staple were affixed to the building with ordinary nails. Like Archimedes, all he wanted was a lever. Henry set off to examine the site, confident that wherever there was construction there would be at least one tool someone had neglected to stow away. At first he had been unsuccessful. To the right of the hut, individual homes were being laid out. But the work consisted chiefly of bulldozing cellar holes and pouring foundations, neither activity encouraging the use of hand tools. Then he had retraced his steps and had been more fortunate. To the left of the hut, at some distance from the rest of the compound, there was a building clearly intended as a main lodge. It was large and, more to the point, the framework had been completed.

  “I didn’t spot it at first because it was so low,” he explained. “No gables or anything. Can you imagine a flat roof on a ski lodge?”

  “That’s modern architecture, Henry.” Thatcher dismissed esthetics firmly. “I suppose you went in?”

  Henry had. Once inside, he had been pleased to observe that even the interior framing had been erected. This raised the possibility of stray chisels and crowbars but, at the same time, made search more difficult.

  “It was getting dark in there, and I had to go slow. I didn’t want to miss anything on the floor. And that’s where it was. The fourth room I went into, I looked down at the floor and there, in the shadow, was a body. And, right by its side, was this hammer covered with blood.” Henry gulped. “I tell you I almost panicked.”

  “Was it very messy?” Thatcher asked delicately.

  “No, that’s what was so terrible.” Henry did not seem aware that his answer was surprising. “You see, I couldn’t tell whether he was dead or alive. Oh, there was blood all over his head, and I was pretty sure he had a fractured skull. The chances were nine out of ten that he was dead. But what if he wasn’t? I didn’t dare move him. Finally I decided the only thing to do was to get help as fast as possible.”

  “You were absolutely right.”

  “Then I thought I was going to have to use that hammer to get in to the phone. I didn’t want to touch it. I knew the police wouldn’t like me messing around with it, but what the hell! The important thing was to get an ambulance right away. But I was lucky. There was a big screwdriver in there, too. I pried off the staple and phoned the police. Waiting for them was pure, undiluted hell. I suppose they didn’t take as long as I thought. It’s not even nighttime yet.” Henry broke off to look at the twilight in mild surprise. “But they told me over the phone to make sure his nose was free, so I had to go back to the lodge. Then it didn’t seem right to leave him alone, so I just stayed there, wondering if there was anything I should be doing. But it was all right. I mean about my not doing anything. When the ambulance came, the doctor said he’d been dead for over an hour, maybe longer.”

  Thatcher was glad that Henry was absolved in his own mind of all responsibility, but he could see shoals looming ahead.

  “Tell me, Henry. You said you knew the police would be annoyed if you touched the hammer. There wasn’t any question, then, that it was murder?”

  Henry snorted. “He was lying on his stomach, he’d been hit on the back of the head, and the hammer was lying about ten feet from him.”

  “That seems conclusive. What did the police make of all this?”

  “They asked me what I was doing there, naturally. I told them my story. Then I said that the three of you ought to be gotten out of the woods before nightfall.” Henry gave a sudden weak grin. “I didn’t think you’d enjoy hefting two packs on top of shepherding those two flower children down to the road. As a matter of fact, I didn’t have to be very persuasive. The police sounded damned interested in the Davidsons.”

  Thatcher considered this and nodded. “I suppose that’s logical. They have a man killed over an hour ago. Then we tell them we met two people connected with that construction site running around in a frenzy about an hour and a half ago. There could be a connection.”

  “Oh, come on, John. If Alan tried to hit someone with a hammer, he’d brain himself.”

  “You may be right. In any event,
it really isn’t our business. We’ve got to decide what we’re going to do when the police are through with us. You don’t think they have any doubts about you?”

  Henry had recovered his composure. “Why should they? I don’t have anything to do with this site. And, while it may seem small potatoes to big bankers like you, The Pepper Mill is a well-known and respected local enterprise. They know I’m not the sort to run around bashing people just for the fun of it.”

  “Then, I repeat, what do we do next? It’s too dark to beat our way back to the Trail.”

  As usual, Henry showed that he had not studied his maps in vain. The surrounding countryside was now dark, but its main features were indelibly recorded for Henry to scan in his own mind.

  “Look, the Trail crosses Route 113 about one mile south of the shelter. If Frewen would give us a lift down to the junction, we could make our way back as soon as the moon rises. The sky is clear as a bell.”

  Accordingly, when Captain Frewen signaled that his interrogation of the Davidsons was complete, they put their plan to him. He was inclined to cooperate.

  “Sure. Stick your packs in the trunk, and we’ll crowd in. We’ll have to figure out some way to keep in touch. I suppose you realize that you’ll probably have to come back here?”

  They agreed that they would hold themselves at his service. Before they entered the car, Frewen told them that the news of the murder had been broken to Alan and Sukey. Under the circumstances, Thatcher was not surprised to find his companions less vocal during the bouncing ride down the logging trail back to the county road.

  Here another police car was parked at the side of the road, its roof blinker slowly revolving.

  “They’ll have the latest news for me,” Frewen said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

  They could see his bulky figure leaning into the other car and heard snatches of conversation.

  “They’ve got an ID for you, Cap.”

  “All right. Let me get at the radio.”

  Muffled voices continued for several minutes. When the captain returned, he was carrying his open notebook. He took his place by the driver before speaking. As if by accident, he had left his door open so that the ceiling dome light shone down on the faces of his passengers. His voice was almost casual as he turned to examine the Davidsons.

  “We’ve got an identification on the dead man,” he said baldly.

  “Oh?” Alan muttered when the silence threatened to become oppressive.

  “Yes. I wonder if it means anything to you. His name was Stephen J. Lester.”

  But Frewen was looking in the wrong direction. Before the Davidsons, their faces white and strained, could evince any reaction, there was an astonished gasp from Henry Morland.

  “Lester!” he exclaimed. “Do you mean to say that was Steve Lester back there?”

  Everybody stared at Henry. Thatcher, who was sharing the front seat with the police, could feel Frewen go rigid. He himself stiffened, first in surprise, then in dismay.

  “They found a driver’s license on the body,” the captain reported. “It said Stephen J. Lester of Weston, Massachusetts. Friend of yours, Mr. Morland?”

  Henry had time for second thoughts. “Well, I wouldn’t say that.”

  “An enemy, maybe?” Frewen persisted.

  “No, no!”

  At last, the Davidsons spoke up.

  “He was at the motel,” Alan said.

  “Mr. Lester was thinking of buying a lot at Fiord Haven,” Sukey explained more precisely.

  Frewen didn’t even look at them. “I thought you said you didn’t have anything to do with Fiord Haven, Mr. Morland?”

  “I didn’t. I don’t. I never even heard the name.” Henry was all too clearly wishing he could say the same for the corpse.

  “But you knew Mr. Lester?”

  “Look, you’d better let me explain. I belong to the Appalachian Mountain Club. That’s down in Boston.”

  “I know all about the club.” Frewen’s voice was now a controlled growl.

  “Well, Lester belonged to the club too. We were both on a committee together. I’ve never seen him except in Boston.”

  “How long have the two of you been on this committee?”

  “About a year or so, I’d say.”

  “And you stood by his body for half an hour and didn’t recognize him?” Frewen did not attempt to disguise his incredulity.

  “That’s right.” Henry’s natural pugnacity was asserting itself. Thatcher could not believe that this was the ideal time for it to surface. “Our committee meets every three months. Sometimes I don’t get down to Boston for a meeting. I’ve seen Lester maybe three or four times, that’s face to face. I’ve seen his name on papers twenty or thirty times. Today I spent half an hour with a body lying on its stomach, its head covered with blood. It never occurred to me it was Steve Lester. Make what you want out of that.”

  What Frewen made out of it became speedily apparent. “All right, Mr. Morland, that’s your story and you’re sticking with it. But I’d give up this idea of yours about going back to the Trail tonight. I want you where I can keep an eye on you.”

  Chapter 4

  ROOM AND BOARD

  AND WHERE Captain Frewen could most conveniently keep an eye on Henry was at the White Mountains Motel, the locale for Fiord Haven’s ill-omened weekend.

  First to feel the chill was the owner of the motel. He disliked having the police in his office. Even more, he disliked being asked to house their suspects.

  Frewen, having sent the Davidsons to their room with strict injunctions to keep their mouths shut, looked at the motel manager.

  “You’ve got some empty units.” It was not a question.

  “Fiord Haven has taken the whole motel for the weekend,” said the owner. “They’re building only four or five miles up the road.”

  “Then get the Fiord Haven people in here,” Frewen ordered.

  Glowering, the manager reached for the phone. “Mr. Valenti? I wonder if you and Mr. Quinlan could step into my office?”

  During the interval, Henry smouldered in Frewen’s direction. Frewen tapped stubby fingers on the counter, and the motel manager projected outrage. Thatcher wondered where the bar was.

  Finally, two men entered to break the trance. They were, it developed, the Fiord Haven people.

  Bluntly, Captain Frewen told them what had happened to Stephen Lester.

  “My God!” said Ralph Valenti, a big man who somehow looked soft. “My God!” He sounded distraught.

  His partner, Eddie Quinlan, had the politician’s fluent, automatic response: “What a terrible tragedy!”

  “Now,” said Frewen, “I want Mr. Morland and Mr. Thatcher here for the night. Then I’m going to have some questions for you people—”

  Henry started to mount another protest but Quinlan was too quick for him. “Sure, sure,” he agreed instantly. “Anything we can do.”

  “Okay,” said Frewen. “I think Mr. Morland and Mr. Thatcher can leave now.”

  He had reckoned without the motel owner.

  “If you don’t mind,” he said, thrusting registration forms toward his unwanted guests.

  As he was filling in the form, Thatcher was given a preview of what lay in store.

  “My God,” Valenti said again. “And Lester’s wife! Who’s going to tell her?”

  Frewen refused to be excited. Almost heavily, he said: “Don’t worry about that. I’ll tell Mrs. Lester what happened. I’m going to want to talk to her, anyway.”

  Quinlan, who had jammed his hands in his pockets, roused himself. “Listen, captain,” he said huskily. “Do we have to break this news to everybody we got up here for the weekend? We have an evening planned. If we could . . .”

  At this point, the motel manager opened the door, and prepared to usher Thatcher and Morland to their rooms.

  “You’ll find,” he said, trying to do his duty, “a program of the evening’s activities on the bureau.”

  Accordingly,
ten minutes later, Thatcher and Henry were attending a cocktail party. For the time being, at least, Fiord Haven’s Fun Weekend was continuing.

  Thatcher looked around. A pianist was playing soft, intricate variations on familiar themes. The bar dispensed cheer with prudent open-handedness. The crowd of perhaps thirty, gathered in the Pine Cone Lounge of the White Mountains Motel, was elegantly clad; the ladies wore colorful cocktail dresses, the gentlemen sported those antic ensembles advertised as stylish informality.

  This was, the schedule had informed Thatcher, an hour of sociability before dinner. It was to be followed by a luxurious buffet with roast beef, lobster and other delicacies. This in turn would give place to a talk by Mr. Quinlan on the second home as an investment in the future. Mr. Quinlan would be succeeded by James Joel Finley, IA, the world-famous architect who will discuss the elements of design at Fiord Haven.

  But all of this, Thatcher knew, was not destined to be. And although no more selfish than the next man, he was relieved. Things were bad enough, without the elements of design.

  Even the hour of sociability was not, to the disinterested eye, a great triumph. Conspicuously absent was the rising buzz-buzz that is the hallmark of the successful cocktail party.

  “. . . on top of that, you can cover almost all the costs of your second home by renting when you’re not using it yourself. Fiord Haven will have a rental agency taking full-page ads in the Boston and New York papers to promote ski weekends as well as summer holidays . . .”

  Thatcher sighed and sipped his Scotch and water. This torrent of words, earnestly uttered by a bearded young man—“Call me Burt”—was not directed at him but at a silent couple whom Burt had cornered.

  “. . . and so you see, Oscar—you don’t mind if I call you Oscar, do you?—Fiord Haven is going to be a friendly community, as well as a real great place to get away from the rat race . . .”

  Thatcher edged away, leaving Oscar to his fate. He looked very much as if the fight had been knocked out of him. Mrs. Oscar was dazed. Burt was reaching for a contract form and suggestively brandishing a pen.