by Deaver Brown
Henry perked up. Quinlan’s trial for the murder of Stephen Lester, however abbreviated, had answered the major questions. There had been no mention of Ralph Valenti’s death.
“Did Valenti begin to suspect him?”
“Valenti had suspected him for a long time. Quinlan never intended to leave the police with a murder case. You remember how Valenti told us he would have tumbled Lester’s body down a hillside? Well, that was Quinlan’s plan from the start. Sukey Davidson was right to sense something suspicious in the change of program for Saturday night. But she got it the wrong way round. The program said that Quinlan would speak that night. He asked Valenti to take his place. We should have realized that the change was likely to have been instituted by the man who was originally supposed to speak. And the murderer at that time wasn’t thinking in terms of alibis. He was thinking about setting the stage for an unfortunate accident. But that part of the scheme was blown sky-high by Henry’s premature discovery of the body.”
“Then Mr. Valenti knew from the beginning?” Ruth asked.
“Not immediately. Like everybody else, he was sidetracked by Lester’s wives. But only for a little while. Henry was broadcasting Lester’s membership in the Appalachian Mountain Club. There was the change in speakers for Saturday night. And, after all, nobody was in better position than Valenti to realize that Quinlan’s version of lot seventy-three was suspicious. I think that by the time we left Ralph Valenti in the lobby of the White Mountains Motel, he was already beginning to add two and two.”
“And he didn’t say anything?” Ruth was indignant.
“I think he said plenty to Quinlan. But, basically, Valenti was a very bewildered and confused man. He didn’t know what to do. Quinlan, on the other hand, had absolutely no doubts at all. Quite apart from being the stronger character of the two. He told Valenti that he had done it for both of them. Nothing that Valenti did now was going to bring Lester back to life. But it could destroy Fiord Haven. Valenti was no sea-green incorruptible. He probably never came to a hard and fast decision. Instead, he put off any decision from day to day. That was enough for Quinlan. As time passed, it became harder and harder for Ralph Valenti to do anything on his own initiative. Then James Joel Finley emerged as a police suspect, and that was a real bombshell.”
“But, John,” Charlie protested, “Quinlan must have been grateful for anything that diverted suspicion from himself.”
Thatcher was slightly impatient. “Oh, no, he wasn’t. He wanted to keep the spotlight firmly on Eunice and Amanda. That’s why he tried to stir up trouble about Lester’s son inheriting part of the estate.”
“I knew Eunice was being victimized. I said so all along,” Henry trumpeted.
“Eunice was a sore spot with Quinlan. He could have kicked himself for corroborating her story about the sale of lot seventy-three. Of course, at the time he did so, he assumed that Amanda knew all about it. Then Amanda emerged from her hysterics long enough to deny the sale. And Quinlan was left in the position of having told a tale that was immediately fishy to Valenti, at least, and in the long run to anyone who cared to think about it. So he set about rectifying his errors. The last thing he wanted was attention focusing on Finley. It was too close to Fiord Haven, for one thing. And it threatened the delicate balance of Valenti’s loyalties.”
“You mean Valenti was unquestionably loyal to anybody connected with Fiord Haven?” Charlie asked incredulously. “Well, you met the guy and I didn’t, but it doesn’t sound likely.”
Thatcher was becoming tolerant of Trinkam as devil’s advocate.
“No, I don’t mean that. I mean that Valenti could justify remaining inactive as long as vague suspicion rested on the wives. But he couldn’t remain inactive when it came to Finley. He was Finley’s alibi. Inevitably he would be questioned further by the police. So would other people. Alan Davidson, after all, told us that Valenti had gotten some house plans changed for him between the Saturday afternoon tour and the pre-dinner cocktail party. Valenti must have spent that time with Finley. So, Quinlan wanted him to undermine Finley’s alibi.”
Ruth was pleased to have virtue reappear. “And Valenti refused?”
“According to Quinlan, Valenti didn’t say anything that positive. But it was obvious that he would cave in under pressure. Quinlan took advantage of the movie showing that night to stab Valenti. Quinlan knew better than anyone else which movie feature would provide him with the most cover. The only precaustion he took was to call Sukey—as James Joel Finley. That gave him the Lester wives on the spot.”
Henry preferred subjects where he was the expert. “You know, we saw Amanda when we were in Boston. She was outraged at Quinlan’s confession. She’s still convinced that the whole thing is some kind of conspiracy with Eunice as arch-villain. She wants to start a crusade.”
“Amanda is merely passing the time.” In some fields Ruth was the expert. “Before we know it, she’ll get caught up in another marriage and forget this nonsense.”
“Speaking of marriages,” Thatcher said, “I understand you were in Boston for Eunice’s.”
“It was last week. Peter Vernon isn’t good enough for her, of course.” Henry’s objections were now pro forma.
“They make a very nice couple,” Ruth said firmly. “But what I want to know about is the future of Fiord Haven. In Gridleigh, they say it’s going on.”
“I think that’s one of the reasons that Eddie Quinlan confessed,” Thatcher ventured. “He decided he could spend his time in jail either organizing his defense or ensuring Fiord Haven’s survival, but not both. That’s one thing to be said for single-minded people. It doesn’t take them long to make up their minds when they have that kind of choice. Quinlan is determined to make some kind of restitution to his family and to Valenti’s. He persuaded some local people and a New York realty firm to step into the breach and exercise the Tilley option.”
“Don Cavers and Guy Villars have gone into it,” Henry volunteered.
Charlie, for some reason, was disapproving as he made his contribution. “Sylvia Hazen’s outfit is the New York partner.”
The name touched a chord.
“That Miss Hazen seems like a nice young girl to me.”
Henry and Sylvia had proven to be natural affinities. It took more than a crash helmet to shake Henry.
Ruth nodded approval. A long time ago she had told Thatcher that, if Henry insisted on championing damsels in distress, it would be safer for him to concentrate on damsels without large husbands in residence. She had probably encouraged the shift from Eunice to Sylvia.
“Miss Hazen,” she now said, placid as ever, “took Henry on a tour of New York, yesterday.”
“But, Henry,” Thatcher involuntarily protested, “you lived here for over fifteen years.”
Henry was evasive. “It’s all new, now.”
“On her Vespa,” Ruth continued serenely. “Henry rode pillion.”
Thatcher and Charlie stared. Today Henry was resplendent in his city clothes—Saville Row tailoring, blazing white shirt, scarlet waistcoat. Before they could probe further, the fifth member of the party arrived.
“Hello, all,” Sylvia Hazen caroled. She was dazzling in a short leather cape that she flaunted like a torero. Her final pivot before settling almost cleared the table.
“Well, Henry,” she demanded, peeling off gauntlets. “What about the Pacific Crest Trail? Have you run it up the flagpole for them?”
Nothing loath, Henry straightened to this task. “Sylvia and I were talking, and I got to thinking, John. Maybe we’re getting hidebound about the Appalachian Trail. After all, there are other trails. There are the Pennines in England. But maybe the West Coast would be the best bet. And Sylvia’s interested, too.”
“Splendid,” Thatcher managed to say.
Miss Hazen looked at him piercingly. “No freaking out!” she said crisply, apparently to forestall lecherous suggestions. “We’ll play it clean.”
As Thatcher was beyond speech, Charlie Tr
inkam unwisely picked up the ball.
“How long is this one?” he asked, attempting a diversion.
“About twenty-three hundred miles,” Sylvia shot back.
“It’s too much to hope that the Lewis and Clark Trail will be ready next year,” Henry said dreamily. “Now that’s going to be close to five thousand.”
“Christ!” Charlie said with feeling.
Miss Hazen downed her martini militantly. “What’s wrong with a foursome?” she challenged. Her eye passed coldly over Charlie Trinkam’s unathletic contours. “It wouldn’t do you any harm, you know.”
Charlie goggled.
Henry Morland beamed.
And John Putnam Thatcher found himself reviewing a list of alternative pastimes.