Wednesday was a gray day. I had hidden Grassman's body on Monday. It
seemed longer ago than Monday. The memory was very vivid, but it seemed
to be something that had happened a long time ago. I saw the suitcases
when I opened my closet to get at my own clothes. I was curious about
what she had packed. I felt guilty about opening them. Then I decided
that I had earned the right to look.
I put the larger one on the bed and tried the latches. It wasn't
locked. It popped open. There were furs on top, silky and lustrous. She
had packed neatly. Underneath the furs were suits, dresses, skirts,
blouses. The bottom layer was underclothing, slips, panties with frothy
lace and intricate embroidery in shades from purest white through all
of the spectrum to black.
The other suitcase was much the same. The clothing was fresh and
fragrant with perfume. It was perfume that was not musky. It had a
clean flower scent. I could understand how this was important to her. I
remembered her speaking of the charity gifts of clothing, of the dirt
in which she had grown up. She would want clothing, a great deal of it,
and all fresh and clean. I found the black leather box in the bottom of
the second suitcase. I opened it. Jewelry lay against a black velvet
partition. Bracelets, rings, clips. I could not tell if the white and
green and red stones were real. They were lustrous. They caught fire
in the light. But I could not tell. I lifted the partition. There was
money under it. Money in fifties and twenties and hundreds, a sizable
stack of bills. I counted it. There was six thousand and forty dollars.
When I replaced the partition the stones looked more real.
After the suitcases were back in the closet, I wondered what her
thinking had been when she had packed the money in there. Perhaps she
assumed I wouldn't search the bags. I hadn't intended to. Maybe she
thought that even if I did search them and did find the money it would
be safer with me than it would in the apartment. She could have been
right. It was safe with me. Even had I been the sort of person to take
it and leave, that sort of person would have waited for the chance of
acquiring much more--a chance only Antoinette could provide.
I found the bird woman cleaning one of the rooms. I paid her another
two nights in advance for myself and asked her to save the room next to
mine for a friend who would check in on Thursday. I gave her one night
rental on the second room.
As I drove toward town I found myself wondering if what Antoinette
had proposed might be the best solution for me. It was tempting. I
thought of the ripeness of her, the pungency of her personality, the
very startling impact of her lips. There would be no illusions between
us. She would make it easy to forget a lot of things. We would have
no claims on each other--and would be wedded only by the money, and
divorced when it was gone.
After I ate I went to the hardware store. I parked a half block from
it. I wanted to talk to George again. I wanted to see if I could steer
the conversation toward Eloise and Mr. Fulton. I wanted to see if he
would say anything that would make more sense out of the Grassman
death. Obviously Fitz hadn't contacted Antoinette. And she seemed
confident that no one else could find the money. So it began to appear
less logical that Grassman's death had anything to do with the sixty
thousand. Then why had Grassman been killed? He could have gotten into
some kind of argument with Fitz. We had seen Grassman at the lake on
Saturday. Somehow I had spoiled things with Ruth and so I had gotten
drunk on Saturday and again on Sunday. Fitz could have killed him on
Sunday, not meaning to do so. He could have loaded the body in his car
and gone looking for some place to put it, and spotted my car. The
California plates would be easy to spot. But by putting the body in my
car, he would be eliminating any chance of my leading him to the money
Timmy had buried.
But maybe Fitz was convinced that with the clue in his possession,
with the name Cindy, he could accomplish as much or more than I could.
He was a man of great confidence in himself. And not, I had begun to
believe, entirely sane.
If Grassman had contacted Fitz, perhaps George could provide me with
some meaningful clue as to why.
But there was a sign on the door. The store was closed. The sign gave
no additional information. It was crudely printed on paper Scotch-taped
to the inside of the door: _Closed_. I cupped my hands on the glass and
looked inside. The stock did not seem to be disturbed. It could not
mean closed for good.
It took me several minutes to remember where George lived. I couldn't
remember who had told me. White's Hotel. I found it three blocks away.
It was a frame building. It was seedy looking, depressing. It had once
been painted yellow and white. I went into the lobby. Old men sat in
scuffed leather chairs and smoked and read the papers. Two pimpled
boys stood by the desk making intense work out of selecting the right
holes to punch on a punchboard while the desk man watched them, his
eyes bored, his heavy face slack, smoke curling up from the cigarette
between his lips.
"I want to see George Warden."
"Second floor. The stairs are over there. A girl just went on up to
see him a minute ago." I hesitated and he said "Go ahead on up. Room
two-oh-three. She takes care of him when he gets in rough shape. It's
okay. George got taken drunk the last couple of days. She tried to
phone him and he wouldn't answer the room phone so she came on down.
Just now got here."
I guessed it was Ruth. I wanted to see her. I didn't know how she'd
react to me. I didn't want to talk to George with her there, though. I
went up the stairs slowly.
When my eyes were above the level of the second floor, I saw Ruth
running down the gloomy hall toward me. I reached the top of the stairs
just as she got there. Her eyes were wide and unfocused. Her mouth was
working. Her face was like wet paper.
I called her name and she focused on me, hesitated, and then came into
my arms. She was trembling all over. She ground her forehead against
my chin, rocking her head from side to side, making an odd chattering,
moaning sound. After a few moments she regained enough control to speak.
"It's George. In the room. On the bed."
"Wait right here."
"N--No. I've got to telephone. Police."
Her high heels chattered down the wooden stairs. I went back to room
203. The door was open. George lay across the bed, naked. There was
a rifle on the floor. A towel was loosely wrapped around the muzzle.
It was scorched where the slug had gone through it. I moved uneasily
around to where I could see his head. The back of his head was blown
off. I knew that before I saw his head because I had seen the smeared
wall. In the instant of death all body functions had shared the
smeared explosion. The room stank. His body had a gray, withered look.
I moved backward to the door. I backed through it into the hall. I
mopped my forehead. It was a hell of a thing for Ruth to have walked in
on. They could just as well move the sign to this door, to this life.
Closed. Closed for good.
I stood there in the hall and heard the sirens. The desk clerk came
lumbering down the hall. Old men from the lobby followed him. They
crowded by me and filled the doorway and stared in.
"Good Christ!" the desk clerk said.
"My oh my oh my," said one of the old men.
* * * * *
Some of the faces were familiar. I knew Hillis and I knew Brubaker and
I knew Prine. Prine was not on top this time. He was taking orders
from a Captain Marion. Captain Marion was a mild, sandy man who wanted
everything cozy and neighborly. He had a wide face full of smile
wrinkles, and a soft, buzzing voice, and little blue eyes sunk back
beyond the thick crisp blond curl of his eyebrows.
Rather than individual questioning, he made it a seminar. I could tell
from Prine's bleak look that he did not approve at all.
They got us all down into a room in police headquarters. There
was a stenotype operator present. Captain Marion apologized for
inconveniencing anybody. He apologized several times. He shifted papers
and cleared his throat and coughed.
"Well now, as I finish with you people I'll tell you whether you can
take off or not. Nothing particularly official about this. It's a sort
of investigation. Get the facts in front of us. Let's see what we got
here. First let me say a couple of words about George. I knew his daddy
well and I knew George well, and I knew Timmy. George could have been a
big man in this town. He was on his way in that direction, but he lost
his grip. Lots of men never seem to get back on the ball after bad wife
trouble. But I had hopes George would pull out of it. Seems to me like
he didn't. And that's too bad. It's quite a waste. George was a bright
man." I saw Prine shift his weight restlessly.
"I got it right here on this paper that the body was discovered at
twenty minutes after ten this morning by Ruth Stamm. Now Ruthie, what
in the wide world were you doing down there at that White's Hotel?"
"Henr--I mean Captain Marion, George didn't have anybody to look after
him. Every once in a while I'd sort of--help him get straightened out."
"You used to go with Timmy, didn't you?"
"Yes, I did. I was trying to help George."
"Did Buck approve of that?"
"I don't think so. I mean I know he didn't."
"I see. Ruthie, what took you down there this morning?"
"I went by the store yesterday afternoon and there was a closed sign
on it. It worried me. After I got home I phoned White's Hotel. Herman
Watkins was on the desk. He told me George was drinking. This morning
I phoned the store and there was no answer. Then I tried the hotel.
George wouldn't answer the room phone. He does that sometimes. I mean
he used to do that. I have a key. So I drove down and went up to the
room. The door wasn't even locked. I opened it and--I saw him."
"What were you planning to do?"
"Get him some coffee. Get him cleaned up. Give him a good talking to, I
guess. As I've done before."
"Ruthie, you can stay or go, just as you please. Now then, I've got
this other name here. Talbert Howard. You came along right after
Ruthie. What were you doing there?"
I saw Ruth Stamm start to get up and then sit back down. "I wanted
to talk to George. I saw that the store was closed, so I went to the
hotel."
"What did you want to talk about?"
Prine answered for me. "We had this man in last week, Captain. We
thought he was another one of those people Rose Fulton keeps sending
down here. This man claims he's writing a book about men who died in
the prison camp where Timmy Warden died. This man claims he was there,
too. He's never written a book. He's unemployed, has no permanent
address, and has a record of one conviction."
"For what?"
I answered for myself. "For taking part in a student riot when I was
in school. Disturbing the peace and resisting an officer. The officer
broke my collarbone with a nightstick. That was called resisting an
officer."
Captain Marion looked at Prine. "Steve, you make everything sound so
damn serious. Maybe this boy wants to write a book. Maybe he's trying."
"I happen to doubt it, Captain," Prine said.
"What did you want to talk to George about, son?"
"I wanted more information about Timmy." I glanced at Ruth. She was
looking at me with contempt. She looked away.
"What happened when you got there?"
"The desk clerk told me a girl had just gone up. I met Miss Stamm when
I got to the head of the stairs. She was too upset to talk."
"I got a look in that room myself. Hardly blame her. Terrible looking
sight. All right, son. You can go if you want to."
"I'd prefer him to stay, if you don't mind, Captain."
Marion sighed. "All right, Steve. Stick around, Mr. Howard. Now,
Herman, we'll get to you. The doc says he can fix the time of death
about midnight last night. He may be able to get it a little closer but
he says that's a pretty good guess. Did you see George come in?"
"No, sir. I didn't see him. It was a pretty noisy night last night.
There were a lot of people coming and going. I heard George was doing
his drinking at Stump's, until Stump wouldn't serve him any more. He
left there about ten. Frankly, Captain, I was playing a little poker in
the room behind where the desk is. I can't see the desk from there, but
I can hear the bell on the desk and hear the switchboard if any calls
come in. That's why I brought Mr. Caswell along with me."
"I'm Caswell," a little old man said. He had a thin, high voice and an
excited manner. "Bartholomew Boris Caswell, retired eleven years ago. I
was a conductor on the Erie and Western Railroad. I'm not what you call
a drinking man and I see George Warden come in. I was behind him, maybe
half a block. I just happened to look at my watch because I wondered
what time I was getting in. Watch said eleven twenty-seven. Doesn't
lose a minute a month. See it? One of the best ever made. Right now
it's eleven minutes of two and that clock on the wall over your head,
Captain, is running two minutes slow."
"Are you sure it was George?"
"Sure as I know my own name. Man alive, he was drunk. Wagging his arms,
staggering all over. If it wasn't for his friend he'd never have made
it home."
"Who was his friend?"
"Don't know him and didn't get a look at him. Stiff-legged man, though.
Stiff in one leg. Like a limp. He horsepowered George right into the
hotel. Time I came in, they were gone upstairs. The lobby was empty. I
could hear some of the boys hooting and hollering and carrying on up
on the second floor. So I went there. They were back in Lester's room.
He had himself two gallons of red wine. At least he started with two
gallons. I had myself a little out of my own glass that I got from my
room. It didn't set so good on what I had been drinking. Didn't set
good at all. It like to come up on me. So I went on down to bed. Got
into my room at three after midnight. Right then I heard a funny noise.
Just when I was closing my door. It sounded a little like somebody
dropped a book or maybe tipped over in a chair and thumped his head.
I listened and I didn't hear anything else so I went right to bed. It
turns out that must have been when George shot himself."
"That would fit what the doctor says. Herman, could you find anybody
else who heard anything?"
"I couldn't find anybody else at all."
"You don't need anybody else," Caswell said. "I've told you all you've
got to know, haven't I?"
"Thanks, Mr. Caswell. You can go along if you want to."
"I'll stay and see what happens, thank you."
Captain Marion studied the papers in front of him and then muttered to
himself for a while. At last he looked up. "It's not up to me to make
any decision. That'll be up to the inquest. But I think we can figure
that George was pretty beat down. Lost his wife. Lost his brother. Lost
most of his business. Drinking heavy. It certainly looks to me that if
any man had reasons for suicide, George did. Steve, you look uneasy.
What's on your mind?"
"Captain, I don't think it's that easy. I've seen some suicides. I've
read up on them. A towel was used as a crude silencer. I've never heard
of that being used. A suicide doesn't care about the noise. He wants
people to come running. He wants it to be dramatic. The towel-wrapped
muzzle of the gun was in his mouth when it went off. The gun was new.
A three-oh-three bolt-action rifle, right out of stock, with the tag
still wired to the trigger guard. There were nice clean prints on the
side of the action. Too clean. They were George's, of course. There
were no prints on the inside doorknob. It wasn't wiped, but it had been
smeared. That could have been accidental or purposeful. Many suicides
are naked. More than half. That fits. Buttons had been ripped off his
shirt. Maybe he was in a hurry. Maybe somebody undressed him in a
hurry. There was a bottle on the floor, under the bed. Half full of
liquor. George left very clear prints on that. I'm interested in the
stiff-legged man."
"What do you mean, Steve?"
"I think somebody met George after he left Stump's. I talked to Stump.
George was nearly helpless. He carried a key to the store. I think
somebody went to the store with him and took a rifle out of stock.
I think he slid it down his pant leg. That gave him a stiff-legged
walk. He took George up to his room. He fed him more liquor. When he
passed out he undressed him, sat him on the edge of the bed, wrapped
the muzzle, opened his mouth, put it between his teeth, and pulled the
trigger. He put prints on the gun and bottle, smeared the knob, and
left."
"Steve, dammit, you always make things harder."
"Strange things are going on. I got a report from the county sheriff's
office today. A man named Grassman left his stuff in a cabin and
didn't come back for it. That was last Sunday. He'd been staying there
a couple of weeks. Milton Grassman from Chicago. The county police
found stuff in the cabin to indicate he worked for a Chicago firm
of investigators, and was down here on that Fulton thing. He stayed
twenty miles north of town, on the Redding road. Yesterday a car was
towed in. Over-time parking. A routine deal. Blue sedan, late model,
Illinois plates. Just before I came here I found out the registration
on the steering post is to this Grassman. All right now. Grassman has
disappeared, leaving his clothes and his car. George Warden dies all of
a sudden. Grassman was down here looking into the disappearance of a
Mr. Fulton who took off with George Warden's wife. It ties up, somehow.
I want to know how. If we can tie it up, we can find out for sure if it
was suicide or murder. I vote for murder. It was a bold way to do it,
and a dangerous way to do it. The man who did it took chances. But I
think he did it. Was it Grassman? Was it that man over there who claims
to be writing a book? Who was it? And why was it done?"
Marion sighed heavily. "Steve, I could never get it through my head why
you take off so ugly on those men who came down to poke around. That
poor Fulton woman, if she wants to spend her money, why don't you let
her? It's no skin off us."
"I don't want my judgment or the result of any investigation of
mine questioned. We're the law and order here. I don't want amateur
competition."
"Sometimes those fellas can help, Steve."
"I have yet to see the day."
"What did those Chicago people say? Did you get in touch?"
"No."
"Well, you phone them, Steve. Or teletype Chicago and let them handle
it with the agency. Those fellows may want to send somebody else down."
"Why, for God's sake?" demanded Prine, losing control.
"Why, to look for Grassman!" Marion said mildly. "Missing, isn't he?"
* * * * *
I managed to walk out beside Ruth. She was cool, almost to the point of
complete indifference. "Ruth, I want to be able to explain some time."
"I don't think it's worth bothering about, really."
The day had begun to clear and we stood in frail sunlight.
"I don't know why I should worry so much about your good opinion," I
said, trying to strike a light note.
"If I were you, I wouldn't even think about it. I'm usually frank with
people. Too frank, as you will remember. I expect others to be the
same. I usually expect too much. I'm usually disappointed. I'm getting
used to it."
I found myself becoming annoyed at her attitude. "It would be nice for
you to get used to it. It would make it easier to be the only perfect
person--surrounded by all the rest of us."
"What do you think you--"
"I think you sounded pretty stuffy. That's all. You make a lot of
virtuous noise. And you condemn me without knowing the score."
"You don't seem exactly eager to tell me the score."
We stood glaring at each other. It suddenly tickled her sense of the
ridiculous. I saw her struggle to keep from smiling. Just then a man
came up to us. He was young, with a thin face and heavy horn-rimmed
glasses.
"Hello, Allan," Ruth said. "Allan, this is Tal Howard, Allan Peary."
We shook hands and he said, "Ruthie, I just heard they're going to
appoint me to straighten out George's estate. What there is left of it.
Do you happen to know what happened to the household effects when he
sold to Syler?"
"He sold everything, Allan."
Allan Peary shook his head. "I don't know where the money went. I've
been in touch with the bank. There's only three accounts open. The
lumberyard and the store and his personal account. And damn little
money in any of them. You're about the only one of his old friends
who saw much of him, Ruth. Where did it all go? He liquidated an awful
lot of stuff in the past year. What the hell was he doing? Playing the
market? Gambling? Women? Drugs?"
"He was drinking it up, I guess."
"Oh, sure," Allan said. "I know what Syler paid for the house. I know
what he got when he sold the lease on Delaware Street. I know what he
got for the cement trucks. If he didn't touch anything but Napoleon
brandy at twenty-five bucks a bottle, he'd have to drink a thousand
bucks a week worth to go through that money."
"Maybe it's in some other account, Allan."
"I doubt it." He looked at me uneasily and said, "I don't want to
talk out of school, but he had a big tab at Stump's. He was behind on
the room at the hotel. And I heard last week that Sid Forrester had a
sixty-day exclusive listing on the lumberyard and had an interested
customer lined up. That was the only thing George had left that was
making any money."
"Maybe when you go over his accounts you can find what he wrote checks
for, Allan."
"That isn't going to work, either. He wrote checks for cash and cashed
them at the bank. Amounts ranging from five hundred to two thousand."