by Deaver Brown
After a brief tribute to the depth of Eunice’s feelings, Henry ventured: “He had you in a bind, didn’t he?”
Eunice’s eyes flamed at emotions recalled. “Not the way he thought he did. I didn’t work and sweat to raise Tommy to lose him to that Neanderthal. One thing was perfectly clear to me from the start. I wasn’t giving Tommy up, no matter what. I decided something else too. I’d already let Steve Lester ruin too many years of my life. I wasn’t giving up my marriage to Peter either.” She looked at them challengingly. “The police will find all this out. They’ll say that this murder was how I managed to keep Tommy. They’re wrong. I don’t know who killed Steve or why. But I know one thing.”
“Now there’s no reason to think they’ll say that,” Henry began half-heartedly.
Eunice rode right over him. “Dead or alive, Steve isn’t standing in my way any more. I’m going to have Tommy and Peter both. And nothing is stopping me!”
Her voice rang out clearly through the still air. But even before its throbbing became an echo, Thatcher heard something beyond defiance.
He heard fear.
Chapter 7
TIMBERLINE
THE TORTURED complexities of the human spirit are, as we all know, extremely interesting. People will talk endlessly about themselves. With very little encouragement, they will talk just as much about their friends. They will even pay good money to plumb the depths of the human condition in total strangers—as witness, the Living Theater, the cinéma vérité, and the nonfiction novel. Such explorations are variously regarded as: palliative, recreational, liberating, or compulsory. Whatever the rationale, many people relish the process of peeling layer after layer to come to essence.
Human essence being what it is, John Putnam Thatcher was not among their number.
Normally he thoroughly enjoyed his vacations from Wall Street, but this one was proving the exception. Fiord Haven’s sales mill he could take in stride, for short periods at least. But he could not enjoy witnessing Eunice Lester’s unhappiness. And worse was sure to come.
Never had the Sloan Guaranty Trust looked so inviting.
Not that the trust department was unnaturally harmonious. There was, for example, the unceasing guerrilla warfare between Everett Gabler and Charlie Trinkam. Thatcher would have been mildly cheered to learn that, from the rugged north, he had been instrumental in effecting an armed truce between these ancient adversaries.
“What did they want to know?” Everett Gabler sputtered.
An ad hoc committee was in session around Miss Corsa’s desk, composed of Charlie Trinkam, Walter Bowman from Research, and Everett, himself.
Miss Corsa was on the firing line.
“They only wanted to know how long Mr. Thatcher has worked for the bank, and when he left for his vacation,” she replied. “And when he is expected back.”
“Good God!” said Walter.
“But Rose,” Charlie expostulated, “didn’t you even ask why they wanted to know?”
He broke off, defeated by her look. If, that look said, Miss Corsa were going to go around asking questions, she could start closer to home.
It was all very unfortunate. Through some sort of administrative lapse, the New York Police Department, cooperating with the New Hampshire State Police’s routine inquiries, had dispatched two uniformed officers to the Sloan and to Thatcher’s secretary. The officers had put their questions briefly, received precise replies, and departed. Both they and Miss Corsa had been able to remain unexcited.
Not so the rest of the trust department. Mounted Cossacks charging down the corridor could scarcely have roused greater response. Thatcher, whether physically on the premises or not, was a presence much felt in the trust department, and indeed throughout the Sloan. As a result, everybody felt proprietary interest in his comings and goings. A reference to him in The Wall Street Journal was comment-worthy from Brooklyn Heights to Westport. A quote in Time magazine kept the staff buzzing for days. A policeman left Thatcher’s subordinates burning with curiosity.
Except Miss Corsa, that is
“You don’t think John is in any difficulties, do you?” Charlie asked the world at large.
“No, I do not,” Miss Corsa replied coldly. There were times when Mr. Thatcher did not meet her levels of expectation, but she was not going to put up with this sort of thing.
“How could he get into difficulties on the Appalachian Trail?” Walter Bowman asked. “Unless he fell off, of course.”
“You’re thinking of Mount Everest, Walter,” said Charlie absently. “John hasn’t been hurt, has he, Rose?”
“No,” she said. Clearly more was needed. “There has been some sort of accident. Mr. Thatcher and Mr. Morland were witnesses, that is all. The police just wanted—”
“An alibi!” Walter Bowman exploded. His great bulk precluded much familiarity with mountaineering, rock scrambles or cross-country hikes, but he knew all about police routine.
“Certainly not,” said Miss Corsa, again affronted.
But Everett Gabler, as usual, had been thinking critically along more specific lines. He came to a sharp-witted conclusion before Charlie and Walter did.
“So, John isn’t on the trail now. That means that he’s somewhere we can reach him.”
Miss Corsa admitted this was true.
“Aha!” It was triumph. The confrontation triggered by the State Banking Commission had not abated one whit.
But Trinkam realized that prying for further information out of Miss Corsa would be no small task. Misguidedly, he appealed to her softer side.
“I don’t like the sound of this police business, Rose. Walter’s right. John may need us. Perhaps we should ring him up to see if we can help . . .”
He had gone too far.
“If Mr. Thatcher is in any need of us,” Miss Corsa announced, “he will no doubt call us. Now, I am afraid I must finish this report.”
Even this dismissal did not terminate the entente.
“That,” said Everett, giving credit where credit was due, “was a good effort, Charlie.”
Charlie recognized generosity. “Thanks, Ev,” he replied sincerely.
To the north, no such meeting of minds obtained.
“I don’t understand you, John,” said Henry in a peppy voice. “Aren’t you interested in all of this?”
Henry was ominously full of frisk.
Thatcher admitted mild interest in Stephen Lester’s murder. This was not enough for Henry, who glared out the window of the car taking them to the State Police barracks and formal statements that would signal—Thatcher hoped—the end of their involvement with Stephen Lester and Fiord Haven. If he could keep the lid on Henry.
“Put it this way,” said Henry finally. “I’m a suspect, you know. Can’t blame the police for suspecting me, but you can’t blame me for wanting to know who did Lester in—”
“Henry,” said Thatcher wearily, “you are not a suspect, as you yourself were insisting last night. I understand you feel sorry for Eunice Lester—”
But Henry did not accept easy outs.
“Of course I’m a suspect,” he said proudly. “I knew Lester, didn’t I? I had plenty of time to knock him over the head . . .”
How, Thatcher wondered, had that admirable woman, Ruth Morland, managed to endure her husband these many years? More to the point, what was their police driver making of this?
“Here we are,” said Henry, all anticipation.
The barracks of the New Hampshire State Police was a small, utilitarian crackerbox on Route 12. It was not set up for the rapid processing of large numbers of people. For that matter, the staff of Barracks Four, even augmented by additional personnel, was not able to handle the number of witnesses involved. Top-level efforts were being reserved for the two Mrs. Lesters. Routine interviews with thirty assorted potential Havenites were continuing at the White Mountains Motel.
Furthermore, since Stephen Lester’s body had come to light at the site of James Joel Finley’s lodge, it
was necessary to talk to an entire construction crew.
So when Morland and Thatcher entered the barracks, they found that they would have to wait their turn. Ahead of them, in the waiting room, were a baker’s dozen of construction workers. After a brief lull, the conversation resumed.
“One damned delay after another,” said a middle-aged man with small eyes and sinewy arms. “Now this.”
There was a murmur of agreement.
“You figure this killing will hold things up more, Alec?”
Alec was clearly the man in charge. He shrugged.
“This guy Finley’s planning big changes after the foundation’s already in. What can make for more delay than that? Even if this guy, Lester, wasn’t killed down at the job, we’ve still got six or seven days of sitting on our hands. Big brain, our architect. I’ll hand him that.”
Alec, Thatcher saw, was not included among James Joel Finley’s admirers.
But if Thatcher was the man to settle back and listen, Henry was not.
“Alec Prohack,” he said, bounding up to shake hands vigorously. “Didn’t recognize you at first.”
It developed that Alec Prohack had bossed the crew that built Henry’s new warehouse some years ago.
“Mr. Morland,” he said enthusiastically.
Not to Thatcher’s surprise, Henry Morland was absolutely at home with Alec and the rest of the boys. A vague gesture toward Thatcher was introduction enough. Predictably, Henry felt free to ask questions.
“Didn’t know you were working over at Fiord Haven,” he said.
There was a low, meaningful silence, the sort that leads all city people to expatiate on the subject of taciturn Yankees. Thatcher knew better. Alec and the gnarled, brown, tough men with him were sharing a joke. A monkey-faced oldster put it into words:
“We’re following orders,” he said slyly.
Somebody guffawed.
“That’s right,” said Alec Prohack gravely. “We follow orders. They got big plans up there, those fellows do.”
“Smart, those fellows,” said Monkey Face, no doubt the group wit.
Again, that silent, shared joke. The most youthful member of Alec Prohack’s crew played straight man.
“Big businessmen,” he said in mock admiration. “Come here from Boston. They do things different, in Boston.”
“Yup,” said an elderly man.
Now, tourists from Brooklyn may take these yups at face value. But Alec Prohack and his men were indulging themselves. Whatever this signified, Thatcher did not think it was deep respect for Fiord Haven.
There was, of course, the usual small-town attitude toward outsiders. There might be something else.
The door from the inner office opened. Eddie Quinlan was ushered out by a trooper.
The trooper, too, was a local man.
“Alec, you and the boys don’t mind if Lieutenant Barteau takes Mr. Morland and Mr. Thatcher first, do you?”
“Go on,” said Alec largely. “Besides, we’ve got all the time in the world.”
As Henry disappeared behind closed doors to deliver his formal statement, Thatcher felt a momentary qualm. Yet even Ruth Morland had often conceded that no one could really protect Henry from himself. Fortunately, Thatcher’s attention was reclaimed.
Quinlan showed no disposition to hurry back to the White Mountains Motel.
“I’m sorry you’ve gotten tied up by all this, Mr. Thatcher. I still maintain that some nut must have done it. The police will probably catch up with him down in Nashua . . .”
“Maybe Boston, even,” said Monkey Face.
Eddie Quinlan nodded, missing the irony.
“Yeah, he could be almost anywhere,” he said.
Thatcher returned a noncommittal reply, meanwhile registering that Quinlan, amidst his other preoccupations, had learned who John Putnam Thatcher was. Today there was a slight deference in his manner that was directed to the Wall Street banker, not the Appalachian Trail hiker.
Quinlan belatedly recognized Prohack and his crew.
“They interviewing you too, Alec?” he asked with a friendly grin.
Alec said that they were.
“I suppose they have to,” Quinlan commented quickly. “They’re being damned thorough, I’ll give them that. They’re interviewing every single one of the guests, too. I suppose they’re checking you guys out because Lester’s body was found up at the site. You never even met him.”
Quinlan’s husky Boston voice was encouraging.
But, Thatcher sensed, Alec and his friends did not need encouragement. There wasn’t an ounce of tension in the whole crew.
Prohack, meanwhile, took his time.
“Well now,” he finally drawled, “what makes you think that?”
Quinlan was surprised. “But, Alec, we break our necks to keep the customers from getting under your feet. You’re the one who insisted on it.”
Prohack nodded. “Sure. But this Lester must have wandered off the beaten track. One or two of them always do. The rest of you were at the buildings when he turned up at our trailer, just when we were quitting for the day.”
Thatcher saw Quinlan’s involuntary movement.
“But, Alec, that could be important! My God, that was only an hour or so before he got killed. How did he act? What did he say?”
Alec shrugged. “He acted like everybody else who’s bought a lot. All steamed up about when everything would be ready. Roads, the ski trails, the tows. How were we going to develop the beach?” “Hell, the longer he looked at the plans, the more questions he asked. You know, once they’ve bought themselves a lot, most of your buyers forget that they’ve still got a house to build.”
What a shame, Thatcher thought, that Henry was not here for this confirmation of Eunice Lester’s story.
Quinlan, however, had been reminded of another problem.
“How long is this going to put us back?” he asked, not masking his worry.
Alec crossed brawny arms. “Depends on what changes Finley’s got in mind, now.”
Eddie Quinlan ran a hand over his sleek hair. Alec and the crew watched stolidly.
“Well,” Quinlan said, “I guess we’ll just have to take things the way they come.”
Not a bad philosophy, Thatcher decided, when five minutes later a crestfallen Henry appeared.
Chapter 8
BEATING AROUND THE BUSH
HENRY’S DEJECTION was explained when Thatcher succeeded him in Lieutenant Barteau’s office. Together with the other luckless guests of Fiord Haven, they were requested to remain at the White Mountains Motel for at least a short time.
“My impression, Henry, was that you found this whole mess more interesting than hiking,” said Thatcher, to dam a flow of complaint.
This provoked Henry into an impassioned declamation. He was unalterably devoted to the Appalachian Trail, but he retained the normal man’s interest in the passing parade, particularly if it incorporated an unsolved murder.
Henry was not as contradictory as he sounded, Thatcher reflected during this spate of eloquence. His slight person camouflaged a gargantuan zest for living; a burning commitment to the great outdoors left him with plenty of energy for Stephen Lester and his affairs.
Henry had switched from volubility to portentousness. He narrowed his eyes. “Boston,” he said heavily.
Oh God, thought Thatcher. Henry had another idea.
* * *
The New Hampshire State Police had had the same idea earlier. Already reports were pouring in from Boston, from Weston, Massachusetts, and for that matter from California.
Not that they were particularly informative. A preliminary survey showed that everyone was what he claimed to be. There were no criminal convictions, there were no undesirable associates, there were no official bankruptcies.
Stephen Lester, aged thirty-five, was a resident of Weston, and the owner of a home and two cars. He was employed as sales manager by North American Chemical Company. His wife, Amanda Trainor Lester, was aged
twenty-six. There were no children.
James Joel Finley, aged fifty, member of the American Institute of Architects, was a partner of Finley & Ching, in Carmel, California. Finley & Ching were the designers of the Eugene Bullard Memorial Amphitheater outside Los Angeles, the Lawrence Library of Taos Community College, Taos, New Mexico, and the Pineapple Pavilion in Honolulu. Finley was currently separated from his fourth wife. Particulars would follow as available.
Arlington, Massachusetts, reported that Eunice Lester, aged thirty-four, was a divorcée with one son, employed as a personnel manager in a Boston department store.
“It’s a sure thing that anything interesting about the wives isn’t coming up on a police wire,” said Frewen, tossing papers aside. “What’s Boston got to offer?”
“Quinlan and Valenti,” Barteau replied.
But Boston was not much more helpful.
Edward J. Quinlan, the teletype informed New Hampshire, was a Boston lawyer aged thirty-five, who had been active in real estate for ten years. Ralph G. Valenti, aged thirty-eight, had joined him four years ago. Together they had developed River Estates, a garden apartment complex in the Jamaica-way, before launching Fiord Haven. Both men were married. Each had two children.
Reports about the salesmen, the guests and everybody else associated with Fiord Haven were just as useless. Gerry Wahl, Burt O’Neil, the young Davidsons, all added up, as Frewen said, “To one big fat zero.” He slammed his hand on the desk. “No reason, on the face of it, for any of them to kill Lester.”
“You don’t buy the wives, either?” Barteau asked.
“Right now they’re the best bet,” Frewen replied. “Especially the ex,” He broke off. Eunice Lester’s life, home and activities were due for more stringent examination. Her fiancé would be investigated as well. Currently, Frewen was withholding judgment. “But I still can’t figure out why the wives would come up here to kill Lester. Hell, it’s a lot safer down there.”