The Ring of Truth

by George Harmon Coxe

  “H & R?” Ballard shook his head. “Harrington and Richardson?” He drew the words out, a look of puzzlement in his eyes. “He must have got it twisted.”

  “Why should he?” Standish asked. “You couldn’t have a gun a long time without knowing what kind it was. If it was a Harrington and Richardson you’d know it. You could say it was an H & R but you wouldn’t mistake it for a Smith and Wesson, would you?”

  Ballard extended his hand and Standish put the gun in his palm. He watched the lieutenant inspect it, saw the deepening frown and look of uncertainty as Ballard finally laid the weapon aside.

  “He could have been mistaken,” he said stubbornly.

  “You could ask his ex-wife, couldn’t you?”

  “How would she know?”

  “I don’t say she would,” Standish said evenly. “But if Ralph had that gun as long as he said he did, and he was married for eight or ten years, she must have seen it; probably several times.”

  “Just the same—” Ballard was not quite ready to give up but Standish interrupted.

  “If the H&R was a similar model to this Smith and Wesson she probably wouldn’t know the difference. But if it had a longer barrel or different type of action she ought to be able to tell whether this is the same or not.”

  He stopped, tired of talking and having no further suggestions. “Do what you want to,” he said, heading for the door. “Ralph said he had an H & R. I’ll take an oath on that. You got an S& W. You figure it.”

  To save time Standish sat on a stool at a drugstore counter and had a sandwich and a milkshake, and it was ten minutes to one when he stepped into his reception room to find Evelyn Tremaine talking to Mary Hayward. Apparently the woman had just arrived, since both were standing, and Mary said “Here he is now” as soon as she saw him.

  Evelyn examined him with humid dark eyes as he said “Good afternoon” and put aside his bag. She wore a smooth-fitting navy dress and a mink jacket, and the impression she gave was expensive, superior, poised, and impatient. Yet even as he heard her throaty voice asking to see him in private he thought of other things and wondered what this woman would be like once the veneer—and he thought it was a veneer—of aloofness was stripped away.

  He motioned her toward his consulting room and opened the door, nodding to Mary and indicating the telephone on her desk. Once inside, he surreptitiously switched on his inter-com as he asked the woman to be seated.

  She began by stating flatly that she had come to make a threat. She was aware, she said, of the inquiries he had made of her brother-in-law and Warren Choate; furthermore, the insinuations he had made the day before had so upset her that she had consulted her attorney, who assured her that Dr. Standish had neither the authority nor the legal right to undertake such an investigation. She said if he persisted in such unwarranted insinuations she and the others involved would see that the matter was placed before the proper authorities.

  Standish let her finish, knowing that she had reasonable grounds for her promised action even as his mind went on to other things. He wondered if the woman had been out earlier or if Lou Cheney was at this moment looking over her bedroom for a sample of her hair. He considered again the information he had forced from Warren Choate and took satisfaction in the thought that Ballard would now be working on his side. He watched her straighten her jacket and said he would like to ask a question.

  “You went to see Donald Tremaine last night, I believe?”

  Something flickered in the dark depths of her eyes and was gone. “Perhaps.”

  “You’ve visited him at his place other times as well.”

  Again something happened to her eyes, but the look was veiled before he could fathom it. She flicked a piece of lint off her dress and when she glanced up her smile was studied.

  “Visited Donald?” she said with mild hauteur. “Since my husband’s death? Don’t be ridiculous, Doctor.”

  She stood up then and Standish rose with her.

  “I appreciate your warning, Mrs. Tremaine,” he said. “And you won’t have to worry about me any more. Any further investigation will be done by the police. They have the necessary authority and they will probably use it.” Mary came in as soon as the outer door closed. “She’ll do it, Doctor,” she said. “She’ll make trouble for you.”

  Standish’s smile was slow and understanding, because he sensed her anxiety and knew her concern was for him. “Maybe,” he said, “but I doubt it.”

  Mary gave a little hopeless shake of her head. There was no censure in her manner now. She was worried about him and it showed in her young face.

  “I wash you’d tell me what you’ve been doing, and why,” she wailed. “You’ve talked to me before when you’ve had problems. If I only knew what was happening and what you were trying to do—”

  “You will, Mary,” Standish said. He took her by the elbow and gently turned her toward the door. “Just as soon as the office is clear. There should be someone out there now. Do you want to take a look?”

  18

  IT TOOK nearly three hours for Paul Standish to handle his regular appointments and three others that came unannounced and had to be taken care of. When at last the outer office was empty, Mary came into the consulting room, leaving the door open. She slumped wearily in the chair opposite the desk, and Standish, knowing what she wanted, had just begun to talk when the telephone rang. She answered it, spoke briefly.

  “Clem Jones,” she said.

  “Hi, Clem,” Standish said. “Did Cheney show up with that other specimen? . . . Good enough. So? . . . Yeah.” Then, with a quickened cadence: “Dyed? You’re sure? It’s what? . . . No. That’s okay. Just hang on to them—and thanks.”

  Not looking at Maty, he depressed the bar to break the connection and then dialed Lou Cheney’s number. After a few rings the operator for the answering service came on and he left a message for Cheney to call him as soon as possible.

  When he hung up and leaned back in his chair Mary asked no questions but her gray eyes were pleading for information and he resumed his story where he had left off. To justify certain actions he knew he had to tell her about what had happened outside his apartment house the night before, and even though he minimized the danger he could see that she was frightened and distressed. An unaccustomed pallor had crept into her cheeks and her mouth was slack when he finished.

  “Oh, no,” she said, her voice hushed. “Why? Because someone thought you were getting too close to the truth?”

  “Probably.”

  “And you didn’t see who it was?”

  “No.”

  “Did you tell the lieutenant?”

  “This morning. He met me out front of my place. I talked with him again later.”

  “What does he think? What’s he going to do about it?”

  “I imagine he’s taking it up where I left off.”

  He went on to relate the details of his talk with Donald Tremaine and Warren Choate. He spoke of the stock sale Tremaine had made three days before the accident and his demand for cash.

  “You mean that might have been how he paid Flemming? But”—she gave a small distracted gasp—“it all seems so horrible. It was bad enough for Flemming to run down Robert Tremaine—even if, as you say, he was the kind of man who might do a thing like that. But then to shoot him and that poor Ralph Estey—I mean it’s so cold-blooded.”

  “Right,” Standish said. “Flemming had become a menace. He had to be removed. He was the type who couldn’t be threatened or scared off. A man like that could only be handled in one way. I guess if you were desperate enough it wouldn’t be too hard. Estey was just a poor patsy who could make the murder-suicide theory stand up.”

  Mary leaned forward in her chair, Bps still parted and eyes enormous. “Do you know who it was, Paul?” she said, forgetting to be formal.

  “I’ve got an idea but—”

  The telephone shrilled an interruption before he could finish.

  “Maybe that’s Cheney,” he sa
id. But when Mary answered she shook her head. “The lieutenant.”

  “Doc?” Ballard said. “Just wanted to tell you you were right.”

  Standish made no reply and the silence built until Ballard broke it.

  “Did you hear what I said?”

  “Yes. In what way was I right?”

  “About the gun. I showed it to Estev’s ex-wife. She says no.”

  “Does she know anything about guns?”

  “Not much. But she’s seen Estey’s enough to give me a rough description. She says the barrel was a little longer. And Estey must have been right about it being an old gun because she said the cylinder didn’t flip out like the Smith and Wesson. It was a tip-up action. You know, you have to break it to load or eject shells. You want to figure the rest of this for me or shall I tell you how it looks to me?”

  “You sound as if you’re buying my theory now.”

  “I have to. What the hell else can I do? The way it looks to me, that Smith and Wesson is the kind of gun a guy like Flemming would own. Someone walked in on him—someone he knew—and had a couple of drinks and slipped him the chloral hydrate just like you said when you got the pathologist’s report. When Flemming passes out our boy looks around for a gun—Flemming might even have been carrying it—and uses it. He takes it with him—”

  “He’d have to know about the fight Friday night and Estey’s threat,” Standish said.

  “Sure. But that could apply to any of the people you’ve been talking to. The same people would know that Hennessey’s is closed Monday nights. It wouldn’t be too hard to con Estey into some kind of meeting in that musicians’ room. Estey had a key to the place and our boy would know the body wouldn’t be discovered until probably Tuesday evening. Somebody brings a pint and they have a drink and the guy uses the gun.”

  Ballard swore softly and said: “That poor bastard probably never knew what happened. . . . Anyway, the guy had to use the Smith and Wesson because to make the murder-suicide thing stand up the two slugs had to match. He left that gun and probably took the Harrington and Richardson that Estey said he would be carrying. He probably still has it.”

  “He probably,” Standish said, “used it on me last night.”

  “Sure. Well—I just wanted to tell you how it looks from here. Now that we know which way we’re moving we ought to come up with something before too long.”

  “Where’ll you be later?” Standish asked.

  “Working. If I’m not here they’ll know where to reach me. You think of anything else, give me a buzz, okay?”

  Standish passed along the information to Mary but it was nearly six before Lou Cheney returned his call.

  “What’s it this time, Doc?” the detective asked, coming straight to the point.

  “Clem Jones called me. He said you delivered. No trouble at the widow’s?”

  “No. Didn’t expect any. It was simple enough except that I don’t like to operate that way. If I hadn’t known you quite a while I’d have said no and stuck to it.”

  “Have you still got a man on Donald Tremaine?”

  “Pulled him off this morning. But he came up with a little something first, probably not important.”

  “What?”

  “On his way to the office, Tremaine stopped at the downtown air terminal and made some inquiries about flight times and fares to Miami and Panama. He didn’t buy any tickets.”

  The information quickened Standish’s interest and gave substance to the idea he already had in mind.

  “Good enough, Lou. And look—I think I can afford a few more hours of your time. Could you put a man on Tremaine’s place this evening? The one who was there last night if he’s free.”

  “When?”

  “Well—just as soon as it gets dark.”

  “What are you after?”

  “I just want to see if he has any visitors.”

  “Like maybe the brunette friend?”

  “Something like that—I hope.”

  “Where’ll you be?”

  “Right here in my office. If anyone shows, have your man phone me here. If nothing happens by midnight he can call it off.”

  Mary had been listening intently to every word, the gray eyes round and the bps slightly parted. She watched him cradle the telephone, the impatience growing in her.

  “What,” she demanded when he made no comment, “are you going to do if this visitor does come?”

  “Pay Tremaine a little call.” Standish sat up and glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late,” he said. “Why don’t you run along?”

  “How will you eat?”

  “You can get me a sandwich and coffee before you leave.”

  She eyed him steadily for a moment or two and then stood up. She moved past the desk and on through the examining room to the dressing room. When she came back she was wearing a tailored green dress and her camel’s-hair coat. “What kind? Ham, cheese, chicken, tuna-fish—”

  “Chicken, I guess. With plenty of coffee .”

  When she went out Standish hoisted himself out of his chair and went into the examining room to get some ice. He poured a good-sized drink and was nearly finished when Mary returned with three brown-paper bags. From the first she produced two sandwiches, one of which she placed in front of him and the other across the desk by the patient’s chair. From the second she took two large cartons of coffee, and from the third came two fresh pears and a bunch of seedless grapes.

  She unwrapped the sandwiches and produced paper napkins. She got two cups from the examining room and some little envelopes containing sugar. Standish waited until she sat down. He examined his sandwich. When Mary finally looked at him he smiled.

  “So,” he said, “you won’t go home.”

  “No. This time I’m going to stay. I’m going wherever you go. If you get into trouble I want to know about it.”

  She picked up half her sandwich, her gaze challenging and defiant. Standish, some part of his mind already grateful for her attitude, eyed her fondly. “Let’s eat,” he said, “I’m hungry.”

  “Me too.” She took a determined bite of her sandwich. “I hope you like grapes.”

  And so they ate and made the coffee last as long as they could and smoked cigarettes and turned on the office radio. There was a tiny portable television set here but there was nothing on they wanted to see. Standish tried to interest himself in one of the recent medical journals and Mary pretended to be absorbed in a paperback novel which she had produced from her handbag. They said very little and both seemed conscious of the desk clock, which crept with discouraging slowness to eight-thirty, to nine, to nine-thirty. Finally, with an explosion of sound that startled them both, the telephone rang.

  Standish did not recognize the voice which came to him, but the message was clear.

  “Right,” he said. “Stay there! I’m on my way.”

  19

  PAUL STANDISH found the man in the shadows diagonally across the street after he had parked his sedan a hundred feet short of the narrow-front house where Donald Tremaine lived. Here in the darkness he was a plump, fairly short man, with no identifying features showing under the hat brim but a straight mouth and a solid-looking chin.

  “Unless she moved right out again while I was calling you”—the detective pointed toward a comer filling station a block and a half away—“she’s still up there.”

  “The same one that was here last night?”

  “I wouldn’t want to swear to it. I almost missed her. If she came in a car she left it on the other street. She was walking, just turning in, when I spotted her. Dark dress, dark glasses, dark coat.”

  “Do you know anything about the other tenants?”

  “Top floor”—he pointed to the lighted front windows—“a young couple. Name of Camey. Third floor”—here the windows were dark—“an older couple named Walker. They turned out the light just before I phoned. Probably went to bed. The landlord lives alone.”

  A car rolled past as he was talking and wh
en Standish started to speak he felt the hand on his arm and stopped. The hand moved, pointing now, and Standish saw that the car had pulled into the curb just short of the comer. They waited that way, immobile and silent, while the car lights went out. Finally there came the light but unmistakable tapping of heels on the opposite sidewalk. Only the sound marked the woman’s progress until she was almost opposite the entrance and Standish had only a quick glance before she turned and was inside.

  What he saw was another woman who could have fitted the detective’s previous description. Dark hair, dark glasses, dark coat. The only difference was that this woman—he was quite sure of this—wore a scarf on her head.

  The detective grunted softly. “Unless she’s calling on the landlord or the Carneys, it looks like this Tremaine is a popular guy. . . . Do you want anything more from me?”

  Standish had nothing in mind but, not knowing what would happen next, he was reluctant to let the man go.

  “Where’s your car?”

  The detective pointed to the next intersection. “Round the comer, a tan Chewy sedan.”

  “Do you think you can locate the car this last woman came in? . . . Then get the license number and wait in your Chewy.”

  “What are you going to do?” Mary said when the man moved on. “Shouldn’t you call Lieutenant Ballard?”

  It was a good question and Standish found some irony in the situation when he realized that Mary, who normally wanted nothing to do with Ballard, was now suggesting that he be asked for some support.

  “I’ve been thinking about it for quite a while,” he said.

  “Are you going up there?”

  “Yes. And at this point I think I’d better go alone.”

  “Why?”

  “I know a thing or two that Ballard doesn’t. The trouble is what I have is not conclusive and may prove nothing. Ballard has to go by the book. He has to observe certain rules and regulations, especially the way the courts are looking at things these days. I can go up there as an individual with nothing to lose.”