_1_
The first word John Hayden heard about the stranger who had arrived
in Morrisville to threaten his marriage came from Lee Cramer, who ran
the filling station at the south edge of the village. It was a gray,
damp, and windy day in early March, with no promise of spring in the
raw air, and now, at five-thirty, it was nearly dark when Hayden, on
his way home from his small factory near South Norwalk, angled the
sedan into the service area and stopped opposite the row of gasoline
pumps.
There were no other customers and Cramer popped out of the concrete
cube which was his office and hurried forward, leaning a little
against the wind and giving a tug to the zipper on the short woolen
jacket he wore over his coveralls. He was a short but sturdy man with
a rugged face and a lively manner, and as Hayden rolled the window
down, Cramer remarked with some disgust that it was a lovely day.
Hayden said yes but at least it was a change, it wasn’t raining.
“Fill it up?”
“Please. I think the front end is okay for now.”
Cramer activated the pump’s motor, and with the nozzle inserted
and the automatic cutoff working, he picked a paper towel from the
dispensing container, squirted cleaner on one side of the windshield,
and began to polish it. He had finished half of this when he stopped
and looked at Hayden.
“Say, did that fellow find your place all right yesterday afternoon?”
“What fellow?” Hayden said, leaning toward the open window.
“He drove in here and asked if there was a good motel in town.”
Cramer walked around the hood and attacked the remaining part of the
windshield. “I told him The Shady Maple was the only one we had,
and then he asked if I knew you. I told him yes. I said you were a
regular here and he asked how to get to your place. I told him.”
“Did he give his name?”
“I didn’t ask him.”
“What did he look like?”
Cramer heard the cutoff work in the nozzle and disappeared behind
the car to remove it. When he had racked it in place and stopped the
motor he said: “Three-eighty, Mr. Hayden. I’ll get the book.”
When he came out of the office with the charge book, Hayden repeated
the question.
“Oh--average size, dark-haired, late thirties maybe. A snappy dresser
with a city look to him. The cocky type. Nosy too.”
“Oh? What did he say?”
“He said he was a friend of yours. Wanted to know if you didn’t have
a factory that made citizen-band radios, and when I said yes, he
asked how you were doing. By then I’d had enough. I told him if he
was a friend of yours he could ask you himself. He said he would.
That’s why I mentioned it to you in the first place. I thought he was
going to look you up.”
Hayden signed the book and stepped on the starter, a frown working at
his brown eyes as he tried to place someone who would fit Cramer’s
description. When he failed he thanked Cramer for the information and
drove down the main street toward Jerry’s Tavern to get his nightly
after-work quick one.
In other days, before he had married and moved to Morrisville, he had
commuted to a small apartment not far from the Greenwich station.
Like so many of his fellow travelers, he had stopped at the Commodore
or the Biltmore Men’s Bar to fortify himself with two martinis for
the ride home. Since the habit was strong and since Marion seldom
wanted but one cocktail before dinner, it was his custom on weekdays
to stop at Jerry’s for that first drink to lessen the tensions of his
work day and bring him home for his drink with his wife in a more
relaxed and human frame of mind.
Jerry’s Tavern was almost directly across the street from The Shady
Maple, a long, narrow, dimly lighted establishment that was part of
an old building which had been sandwiched in between the more modern
structures making up the rest of the block. The ancient and massive
bar, the ornate back-bar, the woodwork, and the wide but uneven board
floors suggested that it had always been a tavern, but under the
present owner the kitchen had been modernized, so that Jerry could
offer a so-called businessman’s lunch as well as dinner from an à la
carte menu.
John Hayden parked opposite the tavern and fifty feet short of
the motel office, which stood at the head of one of the two long
rectangular buildings that housed the twenty-two units, noting as
he did so that perhaps a dozen cars had been parked aslant in the
quadrangle. He considered again the information given him by Lee
Cramer as he crossed the wide, tree-lined village street, wondering
some but not bothered as he entered the tavern and angled toward the
familiar bar.
Jerry himself was presiding, as he usually did at this hour, a large
and beefy man with a round balding head and very little neck. He wore
white half-sleeved shirts winter and summer, thereby exposing a pair
of hard and hairy forearms that tapered only slightly to his massive
and formidable fists. Now, seeing Hayden enter, he reached for a
bottle of bourbon, dropped ice cubes into an Old-Fashioned glass,
added whisky and a twist of lemon.
“Evening, Mr. Hayden,” he said as he centered the glass and picked up
the dollar bill. “When do you think we’ll see the sun again?”
“What are the odds?”
“Prohibitive.”
Jerry punched the cash register, put change on the bar, and moved
away to draw a beer for another customer. Hayden took a sip of his
drink and turned with one elbow on the bar to inspect the interior.
He was a rangy-looking man of thirty-two, with good height and no
more weight problem than he had when he was running the hurdles for
the small Ohio university where he got his education. His dark brown
hair matched his eyes, his brows were straight, his jaw angular but
well cut beneath a wide mouth that was quick to smile and made one
forget his face was a little gaunt to be handsome.
The smile came when his glance looked past the customers at the bar
and he saw Doris Lamar give him a small and welcoming salute as she
moved from the kitchen and began to set dinner places for a couple at
one of the booths that stretched along the opposite wall. He did not
recognize the pair, or the second couple who occupied the booth at
the rear, but he took time to give his approval to the nicely rounded
and supple body of the waitress as she went so efficiently about her
work. It was as he turned back to his drink that he noticed George
Freeman at the far end of the bar.
Freeman was the acting manager of The Shady Maple while the
owner and his wife were spending three months in Florida, a
stubby pleasant-mannered man of forty or so, with a colorless and
inconspicuous look that seemed somehow to present exactly the proper
appearance for the job he performed. Hayden did not know him well,
but he had heard that Freeman had become romantically inclined toward
Doris in the past months. Now, sitting hunched over the bar on his
solitary stool, there was a look of acute melancholia on his round,
boyish face, and the dark glasses he wore seemed strangely out of
place, considering the hour and time of year.
Because his attitude seemed so out of character, Hayden wondered
about it as he took another sip of his drink. For Freeman was
normally a friendly person in a shy sort of way, and to watch him
when Doris was present, to see the way his eyes followed her about,
was to know that he was very fond of her indeed. Even when he was
talking to someone else, his approving glance sought her out, and
his smile was quick and eager and obvious whenever he caught her
eye. There was, somehow, a worshipful quality in that look, and the
regulars who understood the relationship would wink and grin when
they noticed it. But this was a different man. This was a sullen,
brooding man, and when Doris came to get refills for the couple in
the rear booth, Hayden’s curiosity got the better of him.
“What’s the matter with the boy friend?”
“Scotch and water and another daiquiri, Jerry,” she said before she
acknowledged the question. “Hello, Mr. Hayden. You mean George? He’s
sulking tonight.”
“Why the dark glasses?”
“He had a little accident.”
“Today?”
“Last night.”
“From you?”
“From the fellow I was with.”
She did not look at him when she spoke but watched her tray, and when
the drinks were ready she went away. As she did so, George Freeman
slipped from his stool and started for the door. Looking neither
to the right nor the left, and acknowledging no one’s presence, he
marched out, and it was then that Hayden noticed the discoloration
under one eye that the dark glasses could not quite hide.
Jerry, who had moved opposite Hayden, watched Freeman’s stiff-legged
exit and muttered softly.
“I asked him if he ran into a door and he said no.”
“Who’s the fellow Doris mentioned?”
“Never saw him before. Came in yesterday about this time. Had a few
drinks and then dinner. He was kidding around with Doris and I guess
she and George had had a tiff or something because she had her back
up and went along with the kidding.”
“Was Freeman here?”
“Sure. That’s the reason she was putting on the act if you ask me.
He stood here glowering for a while and when he couldn’t take it any
longer he went over to the table and they had some words and George
took off. That’s all I knew about it until this guy shows up at ten
when Doris is getting through and drives off with her.”
He went away to serve another bar customer and Hayden, sensing some
movement beside him, turned to find the girl at his side. She seemed
at ease now that Freeman had gone and her green eyes beneath the
penciled brows appraised him as she touched her hair to see if the
curled ends at the back of her neck were all in place. It was blond
hair, a chemical job but well done, and he decided it suited the rest
of her face, which was perhaps a bit too coarse in some features to
be pretty but attractive for all that if one overlooked the permanent
aging at the corners of the mouth and the disillusionment that was
mirrored in her eyes. About thirty he thought, or a bit more, but
this light was very kind to her and he could understand why men might
be attracted to her.
“I thought you and Freeman had things worked out.”
“Not quite, Mr. Hayden.”
“I had the idea you liked him.”
“I do. But he doesn’t own me. Not yet anyway. And I didn’t start that
business last night; he did.” She made a small, deprecating sound and
a corner of her mouth dipped. “He’s forty but I guess he hasn’t been
around women much because there’s an awful lot he doesn’t know. Why
he was even jealous of you.”
“Me?” Hayden said in quick astonishment.
“Because you drove me home that rainy night a week or so ago.”
Hayden remembered the night. He had worked late and stopped in about
nine-thirty for one drink. Business was slack and he asked Doris if
she had a ride and she said no, so he drove her to the small cottage
she had rented, a three-block ride that lasted little more than three
minutes.
“George stopped here a little after ten that night,” she added, “and
Jerry told him he’d let me off early. It took George all the next day
to stop sulking. When he went into the same routine last night just
because he thought I was being too friendly to a customer, I decided
to show him he couldn’t tell me what to do.”
“Jerry said he was a stranger.”
“He was, and if George hadn’t made such a fuss I probably wouldn’t
have gone out with Sam later. Not that there was anything wrong with
him. He was not bad-looking, the city type, a sharp dresser. You
could tell he’d been around but then”--she tipped her head and gave
him a lopsided smile--“so have I. I’ve seen a lot of Sam Adlers.
Cocky, good spenders, always on the make for one thing or another.
Hard to discourage but not hard to handle once you understand what
makes them tick.
“After George had made his little scene and I finally got rid of
him, I decided to teach him a lesson and Sam made it easy. He asked
when I got off and I told him. He said would I like to go somewhere
later for a drink and a dance and I said maybe I would. He picked
me up at ten and we went to the Log Cabin,” she added, mentioning
a run-of-the-mill night spot on the Post Road. “George must have
followed us because he came storming up to the table and tried to get
tough. Sam was agreeable. George swung but Sam beat him to the punch
and the owner escorted George to the door. Poor George,” she said and
then, as a new thought occurred to her, the green eyes sobered.
“Incidentally, Sam asked about you.”
The statement reminded Hayden of the information Lee Cramer had given
him at the gasoline station and suddenly an odd and unaccountable
feeling of uneasiness started to work inside him. A frown dug in
above the bridge of his nose and the brown eyes narrowed slightly as
he studied her.
“You say his name was Sam Adler?”
“That’s the name he gave me.”
“What did he look like?”
He listened carefully as she gave her description, and the picture
that came to him corresponded with the one Cramer had drawn. To this
Doris added a thought of her own.
“He gave me the idea he was some sort of business acquaintance, but
if you ask me you’d be more likely to find him at the race track than
you would in an office.”
Hayden finished his drink and put the glass down, the uneasiness
expanding and his thoughts uncertain. Sam Adler, whoever he was,
had been in town since yesterday afternoon and he knew where the
Haydens lived. But Marion had said nothing about receiving a caller
yesterday. So maybe Adler hadn’t called yesterday. Maybe he’d called
today.
He tried to remember whether his wife’s manner and actions had been
any different when he came home last night and remembered now that
there had been one small change. She had had a drink before he came
in last night and this in itself was unusual. But he understood that
women who were four months pregnant were likely to do unusual things
now and then, and he had not given it a second thought. Now, aware
that there was no point in letting his imagination get off the track,
he knew that it was time to go home. He glanced at his watch, thanked
the girl for the information, and, in the act of turning away,
stopped abruptly.
“Have you seen him since last night?”
“Yes. He was in for lunch. He’s staying over at The Shady Maple if
you want to talk to him. Room twelve.”
Hayden thanked her again. He said maybe he would talk to Adler, but
not now. He went out quickly then, his bony face somber and signs of
worry beginning to show in the dark brown eyes.
_2_
John Hayden knew as he walked into the living room of the ranch-style
home they had bought six months earlier that something was definitely
wrong; he knew it even before he saw his wife and the empty
Old-Fashioned glass on the end table beside the wing chair.
He had parked the sedan next to the station wagon that Marion used
to run around in and had come through the small breezeway to the
kitchen. The door to the dining room area at the end of the living
room was open and the lights were on but there was no sound and this
in itself was disturbing. Always before, she was waiting for him in
the kitchen by the time he had parked the car and always, even when
she did not feel well, there was a smile and a kiss for him, a moment
when she stood close when his arms tightened about her.
Before that, in the rented house where they had spent their first
eight months of married life, there was not even a garage and she
somehow always managed to hear him arrive and meet him at the door.
Now he saw the ice bucket and the bottle of whisky and the steak
which had been put out to defrost; the potatoes, which had been
scrubbed for baking, were still on the counter and the oven had not
yet been turned on.
“Marion?”
There was no answer as he crossed to the open door and he called
again, his voice carrying an edge that worry and anxiety had put
there. He was in the other room then, hurrying a little until he saw
her in the chair, the light from the floor lamp burnishing her soft
dark hair. Even then there was no reaction until he stopped in front
of her.
“Oh, hello,” she said, not looking at him.
“Hi, darling.”
He bent down to kiss her and she turned her head slightly, so that
his lips found a cheek that was soft, fragrant, and discouragingly
cold. He straightened slowly, greatly disturbed now and a little
scared. It took an effort to contain himself and he did not know
whether to sit down and ask for some explanation or pretend that he
was not yet aware that anything was wrong. Because he wanted to give
her a chance to make the first move, he kept his tone unconcerned.
“Hey,” he said lightly. “You’ve already had a drink.”
“You always stop for one at the tavern, don’t you?”
“Sure, sure.”
“So what’s wrong with me having one too if I want it?”
“Nothing, sweetheart. Just making an observation. I’ll fix a fresh
one.”
“Do that,” she said. “I think you’re going to need it. And make
another one for me, a strong one, please.”
“Right.” He leaned down to take her glass. “Shall I turn the oven on?”
“Oven?” she said, as though she had never heard the word before.
“For the potatoes. Do you want me to put them in now?”
“If you want to.”
By the time he had reached the kitchen he was thoroughly upset and he
stood a moment by the sink and let his breath out slowly. Somewhere
in the back of his mind was the thought of a stranger named Sam
Adler, but he could not yet accept the intuitive prodding that told
him this man might be the key to his wife’s strange conduct. Instead
his glance moved idly about the modern room and he recalled how
delighted Marion had been when they first inspected the house. The
owner, who had built it two years earlier, had been transferred by
his company to the Pittsburgh office, and they had been lucky to get
something that suited them so well at a fair price.
Now, seeing again the scrubbed potatoes and the built-in oven, he
decided to ignore them. When he went to the refrigerator to get a
lemon he noticed the row of gleaming copper pans on the pegboard
at one side of the stove. They came in graduated sizes and Marion
treated them as though they were heirlooms made of some precious
metal. The knife that he usually used to cut lemon peel was not in
the rack but he had no wish to look for it and he used the next
size, cutting generous slices and bruising them against the bottoms
of the Old-Fashioned glasses with the end of a mixing spoon before
adding water and bitters and sugar, a pinch for him, a more generous
portion for her. He cracked ice, added whisky, stirred, and still he
stood there until he was sure he could face her with his thoughts and
emotions under control.
She had not moved while he was in the kitchen, and when he had put
her drink on the end table, he took the chair which faced hers from
the other side of the fireplace. He took a cigarette from the silver
box beside him, not offering her one because she had stopped smoking
when her pregnancy was confirmed. When he had a light he said:
“Cheers, dear,” and pretended not to notice when there was no reply.
He took a big swallow and the whisky put a welcome warmth in his
throat and the top of his stomach. He let the silence build as he
studied her, and though she still would not look at him he saw that
her cheekbones, which to him had always added some extra beauty to
her face, were pale now, the smooth skin taut-looking, the full,
sweetly shaped mouth compressed and severe. The hazel eyes were
fastened on her glass, but he could see the long black lashes,
unblinking now and fixed by some inner struggle that was tormenting
her. She was wearing a flannel skirt and cashmere sweater set, and it
came to him now that she did not look four months pregnant.
She denied this when he had mentioned the subject before. She said
her clothes were beginning to feel too tight but he could only be
sure at night when, under the gentleness of his hand, he could
feel the rounded firmness beneath the satiny skin of her belly that
grew so gradually from week to week. He had told her that she must
tell him when the first signs of life came, so he could feel it for
himself, and she had promised him that she would....
He pulled his thoughts back to the moment and a sickness began to
grow inside him as he tried to make his voice hearty.
“Have a tough day, baby?”
“You could call it that.”
“Any morning sickness after I left?”
“Some.”
“Has Junior been behaving?”
“Junior’s been fine,” she said in the same dull tones.
“Unfortunately--” She stopped here; then, as though becoming aware
of the glass in her hand for the first time, she lifted it and he
could see her throat move as she took two quick swallows. She put
the glass down on the end table and the sound of it was loud in the
otherwise quiet room. But she was looking at him now, her chin up,
the stiffness still in her face, her eyes enormous. He saw her lips
quiver once and then she said harshly: “Unfortunately for Junior,
he’s going to be a bastard.”
He heard the phrase distinctly but he did not believe his ears,
and for that first shocking instant he was more distressed by the
word itself than by the inference it conveyed. The effect was more
punishing than a physical blow because it struck deep inside him and
he had as yet no time to consider her meaning or speculate about
the reasons for her outburst. For one of the first things that
had attracted him to her was a look of breeding that he had found
authentic, and in their fourteen months of married life the closest
Marion had ever come to profanity was three or four determined damns,
and then only under extreme provocation.
True, in the past couple of months there had been small emotional
upheavals, but he understood that these were due to her condition
and he made the proper allowances. He knew that she felt queasy at
times, that morning sickness bothered her now and then. There were
occasional tears that seemed to have no logical explanation, but if
she was sometimes a bit difficult she could also be contrite; when
the outbursts were over, the proof of her feeling of guilt was often
demonstrated by a passion that surprised him. All these thoughts came
to him as he stared at her, and before he could demonstrate or reply
she attacked him again.
“Did you hear what I said?”
“I heard you.”
“Well, say something. Or do you want me to repeat it?”
It came to him then that she was trying to tell him something that
he was in no condition mentally or emotionally to accept. This was
no outburst brought about by some instability of the mind. He knew
somehow that she was close to hysteria and such knowledge chilled
him and put a further strain on nerves already ragged. He wanted to
come out of the chair and shake her, to shout at her to stop this
nonsense, but some inner warning signal made him sit still and demand
an explanation as soberly as he could.
“Not now or any other time,” he said, an edge in his tone. “Just give
a simple explanation of what you’re talking about--if you can.”
The cold, no-nonsense quality of the words had their effect, and
he saw her labored breath as she fought for some self-control. He
watched it, the slow gathering of that control, and her voice, when
it came, was as distant as his own.
“A child whose parents are not married is illegitimate. If you prefer
that word, let’s use it. All I’m trying to say is that our baby will
be illegitimate.”
“What?” He felt the back of his neck prickle as he sat up, and
suddenly his scalp was tight. “What the devil are you talking about?
You must be--”
“But I’m not,” she said, interrupting. “I found out today that we’re
not married, at least not legally.”
“_Marion!_”
“No.” She gestured impatiently with one hand. “Let me finish, please.
It’s really very simple. Ted is still alive.”
He knew what she meant then but he could not accept the statement.
His mind and senses rebelled and he fought against belief, even
though he knew that for her there could be but one Ted. He himself
had never seen the man--Marion had been widowed for six months when
he first met her--but he knew that for a period of three years she
had been Mrs. Ted Corbin.
“I don’t believe it,” he said, aware of the inadequacy of his words
but unable to find others.
“I didn’t want to believe it either but it’s true. I saw his
picture--”
A sob that was a convulsive choking sound cut through the sentence
and he saw her face crumble. Tears spilled from her eyes. When she
could no longer face him she bowed her head and covered her mouth and
eyes with her hands. The sight of all this torment and helplessness
chewed his insides and he came to his feet with a muffled curse. Two
long strides took him to her chair and he went to one knee and leaned
close.
In his effort to comfort her he took her hands and pulled them gently
down and she did not resist. He started to slide an arm around her
shoulders and draw her close, and suddenly he could feel her stiffen.
When he tried to persist she drew back. Her head came up, and though
her eyes were still wet, they were wide open now and there was a look
in them he had never seen before. Then, as the astonishment grew in
him, she put her hands against his chest and pushed.
“Don’t touch me.”
“Marion!”
“I mean it.”
The cold and brittle sound of the words told him that she was deadly
serious, and although he did not understand what prompted the
outburst, he wisely withdrew his arm and came to his feet.
He went back to his chair, glaring now as he saw his drink. He
snatched it up and finished it in one gulp, but this time the whisky
did him no good. For the anger was rising in him now, an impotent
helpless anger that had no direction. It took a considerable effort
for him to sit down and face her again, to see that the tears had
stopped and that she was frightened by what she had done.
“Who told you?” he demanded.
“A man.”
It seemed then, as he recalled the information he had picked up at
Cramer’s filling station and Jerry’s Tavern, that he already had the
answer.
“Was his name Adler?”
The question seemed to startle her. “How--how did you know?”
“When was the first time you saw him, yesterday afternoon?”
He had her attention now. Her lips were parted and she moistened them
with the tip of her tongue. She sat up a little straighter, the hazel
eyes puzzled and all traces of hysteria gone.
“But--how did you know, John?”
He told her. He spoke of Lee Cramer and Doris Lamar and George
Freeman. He kept his voice level in an effort to mask his own doubt
and anxiety.
“Yes,” she said when he repeated his question. “I guess it was around
four.”
“Did you let him in?”
“No. I hadn’t finished dressing. I had the chain lock on the front
door like I always do when you’re not here. He said he was a book
salesman. I told him I didn’t want any and he asked me if I had any
children. I said no.”
“Then what?”
“He said he was selling some sort of encyclopedia for children.
He seemed pleasant enough and I didn’t want to be rude so”--she
hesitated and sounded a bit embarrassed as she continued--“I don’t
know why I told him this but--”
“Never mind why. Just tell me what you said.”
“I told him there might be a child in another five months and if
he wanted to come around again after that I might consider his
proposition.” She hesitated again, a frown working on the smoothness
of her brow and worry once more clouding her glance. “I started to
close the door and he put his weight against it. He gave me a funny
smile and suddenly I was afraid of him. I told him if he didn’t leave
I would call the police and he said that would be all right with him.
He said he wasn’t really selling books; he just wanted to get a look
at me. He said he had a message from my husband.”
Again she stopped and once more Hayden prompted her. “What did you
say?”
“I told him he was being ridiculous, that if I wanted to talk to my
husband all I had to do was pick up the telephone. He said he didn’t
mean my present husband; he meant Ted Corbin.”
She took a small breath and said: “I don’t know what all I said then.
I know I told him I didn’t believe him, that Ted had been killed
along with fifty-eight other people in a plane crash more than two
years ago. I guess I said some other things and he waited until I
finished, that sly look still in his eyes and that half-smile on his
mouth. Then he told me I was mistaken. He said he had seen Ted two
weeks ago, that he was in perfect health.
“‘I can prove it to you Mrs. Corbin,’ he said. ‘Or Mrs. Hayden,
if you like it better that way. Suppose we keep it a secret, just
the two of us, until tomorrow. I’ll be back tomorrow afternoon and
I’ll bring that proof with me. If you’re smart you’ll listen to the
proposition I have in mind.’”
Again she ran out of breath and this time she stopped. She continued
to look right at him but it seemed to him that she did not really see
him and after another moment he stood up, the glass still in his hand.
“I take it he came back this afternoon.”
“Yes.”
“With proof?”
“He showed me a snapshot of Ted.”
“It could have been taken a long time ago.”
“That’s what I told him but I knew it wasn’t so. Ted’s alive.”
There were a lot of things he wanted to say then but he knew they
could wait. He saw that his wife’s drink had scarcely been touched,
and now, as he stopped beside her chair, he took the handkerchief
from his breast pocket and passed it to her.
“Blow your nose.” He waited until she took the handkerchief. “And
work on that drink a little, will you?”
“I don’t want it.”
“Pretend it’s medicine. We’ve got some talking to do,” he said. “I
want to hear more about this proof Adler has. I want to know just
what happened this afternoon.”
He moved through the dining room area to the kitchen door and stopped
to glance back at her. He said he was going to make another drink and
while he was doing it she could try to remember exactly what had been
said.
_3_
John Hayden did not make a fresh Old-Fashioned but simply added ice
and whisky to the dregs of the first one. He gave the mixture a quick
and violent stir. When he had tossed the spoon aside he did not lift
the glass but stood staring with unseeing eyes at the darkness
outside the windows while he tried to ease the tension inside him and
quiet his trembling nerves.
He held one hand out palm down and watched his fingers shake. When
he could not still them he clenched his fist and shifted his glance.
Again he noticed the steak, and because he knew it would not be
cooked tonight, he put it back into the refrigerator and tossed
the potatoes into the vegetable bin. The diversion helped and his
breathing was all right now but there was some thinking to be done
and it came to him that this was the time to do it.
He had to think logically, reasonably, sensibly, and he was afraid he
could not do so while sitting opposite Marion and watching the naked
display of emotions on her sensitive face. To see and understand
her distress was to undermine his own self-control and involve him
emotionally as well, and this would only further erode his own
resolve to find the truth as soon as possible.
To set the pattern he directed his mind deliberately to the accident
which had taken Ted Corbin’s life more than two years ago. At the
time the name meant nothing to him and he had not yet met Marion, but
the accident was a front-page story, not only because of the lives
lost, but because the mid-air disintegration of the aircraft was so
similar to an accident that had happened some months before.
He had left New York and was working for Brandt Radio and Electronics
Company at the time and later, when he met Marion, he remembered
the accounts he had read. At first there was some talk of sabotage
because the destruction of the aircraft was complete and parts of it,
as well as bodies and parts of bodies, had been scattered over a wide
area of the farm land on which they fell. Later, the experts were
able to determine that the disaster was caused not by sabotage but
by some structural failure which, combined with the air pressure at
thirty-two thousand feet, had produced the explosive effect.
He learned other details while he was courting Marion. She had
already been widowed for six months when he met her at a party in
Greenwich, and it was another six months before they were married.
The accident had not been mentioned since, but he remembered now that
Ted Corbin had gone to Illinois, ostensibly on business but actually
to look for a new job. He had gone aboard this particular flight
at Capitol City one evening, and about an hour out, somewhere over
Indiana, tragedy had struck the plane, its crew, and its passengers.
Because of the violence of the accident, identification had been
difficult in many instances; in some it had been impossible. As a
result the remains of certain passengers known to have been aboard
the aircraft had been buried in a common grave. Ted Corbin was one of
these. He had been an orphan who had no living relatives, and Marion,
in no condition to consider the grisly evidence, had taken the advice
of friends and approved the arrangement.
There had been some insurance involved--a small life policy that
Corbin had carried for some time, plus a seventy-five-thousand-dollar
trip policy he had bought in the airport. The fact that the insurance
company had paid this claim seemed proof enough that Ted Corbin did
indeed die aboard that aircraft. It was this fact that now came to
bolster Hayden’s contention that Corbin was dead and that Sam Adler’s
scheme, whatever it was, could not be based on fact. Such thoughts
helped as he picked up his glass and started for the living room.
Knowing nothing at all about the proof his wife had spoken about, he
understood that she was convinced that Sam Adler had told the truth.
He was willing to let matters stand that way for the present because
it seemed more important to reassure her about the baby and make her
understand that her fears were exaggerated, that the conclusion she
had reached was subject to sensible revision. Once he had explained
things to her, he could go on to the details of her talk with Adler
and see just what had to be done.
“You spoke about proof,” he said as he sat down, “but let’s skip that
for now.” He put his glass aside and fashioned a smile for her. “Come
on, baby, take another sip of your drink.”
He waited, pleased and encouraged when she took a small and dutiful
swallow.
“Okay,” he said. “Now, before you tell me just what happened this
afternoon, let’s get one thing straight.” He paused again, his dark
eyes intent. “Junior is not going to be illegitimate except in a very
technical sense and probably not even that.”
“But if Ted is alive--”
“Please! Let me finish. If he _is_ alive, and I’m not buying that
yet, you have plenty of grounds for a quick and quiet divorce that
no one around here has to know about. You can do that in Nevada or
Alabama or Mexico. We can be remarried just as quietly. So if we can
do that, how can the baby be illegitimate?”
“Are you sure?” she said, hope touching her glance for the first time.
He was not at all sure and knew little about such laws, but he also
knew there would be some way out and he lied convincingly.
“Certainly I’m sure. So let’s forget about that angle and talk about
this guy Adler. He says Ted Corbin is alive and I say he isn’t. I
wasn’t there at the time, but you and Roger Denham went out west
after the accident. You know the facts; you told them to me. Corbin
wired you that he would be on that flight. The airline people said he
was checked aboard, didn’t they?”
“Yes.”
“They found his trench coat and figured this had been hanging in
the tail compartment, which explained why it wasn’t burned. You
identified that trench coat. The name tape you had sewn in it was
still there. The baggage check they gave him when he handed in his
ticket was in the pocket. They found his suitcase. Part of it was
charred but there was enough still intact for you to identify his
toilet kit and a pair of his shoes.”
“Yes, but--”
“Furthermore,” he went on, not to be interrupted, “the insurance
companies never pay off until they are convinced the claim is
justified. So let’s get back to Adler.”
He sat up, aware that he had her attention now, that all traces of
hysteria had gone. “He came here yesterday afternoon and talked to
you. He came back this afternoon and you let him in.”
“I had to. I had to find out the truth, didn’t I? I’d thought about
nothing else for twenty-four hours. I was scared but I tried not
to show it. I told him the same things you’ve just told me and he
just nodded, and smiled in that sly way of his, and showed me the
snapshot. It was Ted.”
“How do you know it hadn’t been taken a long time ago?”
“I just know. He had coveralls on with some insignia on the chest. I
could see a little of the background and it looked to me as if he was
working in a filling station. It certainly hadn’t been taken while
we were married and I know he couldn’t have looked like that before
that. He looked older, and a little leaner, and he was bareheaded,
and tanned--”
“There could be some other explanation,” Hayden said. “One little
snapshot isn’t enough.”
“He also showed me some fingerprints.”
“What?” He peered at her. “What fingerprints?”
“He had a picture of the fingerprints of one hand, a photograph. He
said they were Ted’s fingerprints.”
The statement jarred Hayden and his earlier uncertainty began to
undermine his thoughts, even as he sought some way to refute this new
evidence.
“How do you know they’re Corbin’s?” he demanded. “Those prints could
be anybody’s.”
“Adler said he could prove it if he had to.”
“How?”
“When Ted was in college he worked two summers for some government
project in Tennessee. I don’t know what it was but he had to be
fingerprinted. He told me. Those prints would be on file somewhere
with the government, wouldn’t they?”
She shifted her weight as she spoke and leaned forward, her arms
crossed and hugging her breasts. She was dry-eyed and serious now,
and what she said then reminded him again that his wife was as
intelligent as she was lovely.
“I think we should stop talking about the word _if_. Instead of
doubting that Ted is alive, let’s assume for a moment that he _is_.”
He did not like the assumption but he was forced to admit that it had
some merit.
“All right,” he said. “Adler says he can prove that your husband is
alive. So what’s his angle? What does he want?”
“Just what you’d think he might want. Money.”
“How much?”
“Twenty thousand dollars.”
“And for this he gives you the picture and the fingerprints and
promises to forget the whole thing.”
“Something like that.”
“What did you tell him?”
“I told him we didn’t have that much money and we couldn’t raise
it. He said that would be too bad because in that case he’d have to
go to the insurance company. He knows the insurance people paid me
seventy-five thousand dollars. He said he thought that they’d be
delighted to pay him ten thousand in order to collect seventy-five
thousand. If he could prove what he says, we’d have to give the
money back, wouldn’t we? And how could we do that?”
Hayden let out his breath and reluctantly brought into focus the
thought that heretofore had been left in the back of his mind. He
tried to evade it and could not. He glanced at his drink and found
that it had little attraction at the moment. To give himself time he
took another cigarette and lighted it with deliberate movements.
That seventy-five thousand dollars, although he did not know she had
it at the time, was the extent of Marion’s dowry. She had given it to
him eagerly when he had a chance to take over control of the Brandt
Company after the owner had died a year ago. Without that investment
he would still be a salaried employee, and while the company’s credit
rating was good and its banking relations sound, his own personal
finances allowed little leeway....
“I’m sorry,” he said, aware that she had spoken.
“I said, could we raise twenty thousand?”
“Probably.”
“Do you think we should? I mean, and pay him.”
“I don’t know what to think.”
“Could you pay the insurance company back?”
“No.”
“But you could pay some of it?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe they would give you some time to pay the balance.” She paused,
nibbling absently on her lower lip. “We could sell the house and go
back to renting for a while. That would help. We could sell one of
the cars, or at least get two cheaper ones.”
“Don’t talk like that.”
“But--”
“No buts either. Not now anyway.” He took a swallow of his drink and
stood up, a hardness in his bony jaw and his mouth grim. “Not until
I’ve had a little session with this guy Adler.”
She straightened in her chair as he spoke and traces of alarm touched
her eyes.
“Not now, John. Please. I told Roger you wouldn’t until you’d talked
to him.”
“Roger?” The word came out in an explosive sound and his stare was
both angry and incredulous as his mind digested the implication.
“Roger?” he said again. “You mean you told Roger about this?”
“I had to,” she said, close to tears again. “I had to talk to
someone.”
“Maybe you had some idea about swinging this thing yourself?”
“No, it wasn’t that. Please try to understand. I intended to tell
you everything. I have, haven’t I? But I needed someone who could be
objective. I needed advice and I knew I could trust Roger. Roger’s
smart and intelligent and he knows all about legal things. I wanted
to get his reactions before I talked to you.”
There was more but Hayden did not hear it all. He could not help
feeling hurt at what she had said, but as his mind moved on, the
forces that had prompted her to turn immediately to Roger Denham
took on some importance. For Denham had grown up with her. He knew
her long before she had married Corbin, and from bits and pieces of
information that had come to Hayden over the past couple of years, he
understood that Denham had at one time been a suitor. He was not at
all sure that Denham approved of him, but he understood that Marion
looked upon Denham as a friend who was happy to advise and help her
when she needed help most.
It had been Denham to whom she had turned at the time of the
accident. He had gone with her to Indiana and helped with the
identification and the funeral. He had represented her with the
insurance company and helped her invest the proceeds until she had
turned them over to Hayden. Because of this friendship, Denham
had helped in setting up the present corporate plan for the Brandt
Company when Hayden took over, and he was, in fact, the company
attorney.
Remembering these things now, he realized that while Marion had
turned to the lawyer on some impulse born of desperation, he, John
Hayden, was probably going to need a lot of this same kind of help
before this matter was settled. He did not like the way she had
confided in Denham before she talked to him, but he could not quarrel
with her now. It was natural enough that his feelings be hurt, but
that was no longer the primary consideration.
“What did Roger say?” he asked.
“About the same things you did. He didn’t believe it at first.
He asked if Adler had left the photograph and the print of the
fingerprints and I told him no. He didn’t come right out and say so,
but I think he felt the same way you did about paying for Adler’s
silence. He said I was to tell you the whole story and not let you
rush up to The Shady Maple and deal with Adler yourself.”
“Did he say why?”
“Well--” She gestured emptily and dropped her glance. “He said you
were a rather well-adjusted person and not particularly aggressive
but that men like you, when they had the provocation and lost their
heads, could be pretty violent.”
“A philosopher too, hunh?”
“Please, John.”
“I’m sorry,” he said and meant it. “Okay, I’ll see him.”
She came to her feet then and for the first time there was a small
smile on her mouth and a look of relief in her eyes.
“He said he’d wait in his office for your call and that he could meet
you at his place after dinner if you still wanted to talk to him.”
She smoothed out her skirt and twisted the cardigan back into place.
“You call him and I’ll see about dinner.”
Hayden said he would make the call but she could forget about dinner.
He told her what he had done with the steak and the potatoes. He said
he wasn’t hungry any more; he doubted if she was either, and why not
just heat up a can of soup and make a little salad?
_4_
Roger Denham lived in an old Cape Cod cottage that he had bought
some years earlier and remodeled. Originally there was only the
gray-shingled shell and a tree-studded, hedged-in lot, but this in
itself had a charm all its own, and he had preserved most of the
original features when he put in the plumbing, the heating plant,
and electricity. He had good taste and he had furnished the house
himself, mostly with antiques, so that each room had a comfortable,
lived-in look.
As a confirmed bachelor he did more or less as he pleased. There
was a cleaning woman who came mornings to get his breakfast and
straighten up the place. He ate dinner out most of the time and did
his entertaining at one of his two clubs. On rare occasions when
he gave a dinner party he had a couple come in and take complete
charge of all arrangements. Now, at eight o’clock, he answered John
Hayden’s knock and ushered him into the low, beamed-ceilinged living
room, with its hooked rugs and paneled walls, and waved him to the
slip-covered divan.
“Before you say anything, John,” he said, “I hope you weren’t annoyed
at Marion for phoning me and explaining the situation before she
talked to you.”
“I may have been at the time,” Hayden said, “but I’m not annoyed now.
It’s too late for that.”
“Good. You’re her husband. You’re the one she loves. But I’ve known
her longer than you have. We’ve been friends since we were children
and she needed to talk to someone who was not emotionally involved.
She felt she had to have some sound objective advice and frankly I’m
glad she told me. It looks as if you’re both in trouble and I hope I
can be of some help.”
He had moved over to the fireplace as he spoke and now he turned,
his back against the glowing embers, his hands clasped behind him.
Standing there in his slacks and a shetland jacket, he made a trim,
athletic-looking figure, an inch or so under six feet but with good
shoulders and slim hips. His hair was sandy and cut short to help
disguise the fact that it was thinning somewhat, his eyes were gray,
and the thin-rimmed glasses helped to give his lean face an ascetic,
austere expression. His upper lip was long and not given to useless
smiling, and although he was at all times polite and well mannered,
there was seldom any outward display of warmth or compassion. Hayden
had wondered in the past whether this was due to the fact that Denham
had been orphaned early and brought up strictly by his grandparents,
or whether this was something that applied only to him and was a
personal reaction brought about by the knowledge that while Denham
had been a long-time friend of Marion’s, it was he, Hayden, she had
married.
It was also possible, he knew, that his opinion of Denham was
somewhat unfair. There had been times in the past when the thought
of that long-time relationship had brought moments of jealousy. When
Marion sensed this, she not only reassured him but laughed at him.
Roger, she said, had been more like a brother than a lover. The
fact that he was rather handsome, brilliant, well-brought-up, and
comfortably fixed had nothing to do with it. Some men, she said,
regardless of their attributes, simply did not attract some girls
physically. For her, Roger was one of those.
She liked him and admired him, but his attempts to establish a more
ardent relationship were misplaced and he had eventually come to
accept the status quo. He had not approved of her marriage to Ted
Corbin, saying that they had nothing in common, and in this he was
right. That he may have felt the same way about her second marriage
bothered Hayden not at all, but it could explain a lack of personal
warmth, either real or imaginary, where he was concerned. In any case
it did not matter. It was not important and it did not affect his
respect for Denham’s knowledge and ability. It was this knowledge and
good judgment that he needed now and he said so.
“All right,” he said, “you know the facts. What do you think we
should do?”
“I think we ought to talk a little. I think you’ll want to go see
this fellow Adler personally, but let’s take a look at all sides of
his proposition first. He wouldn’t leave either the picture of Ted
Corbin or his fingerprints with Marion, but she saw them. I think we
ought to start with the assumption that Corbin actually is alive.”
“I don’t see how he could be.”
“Neither do I. But neither do I see anyone like Adler making a pitch
like this and hoping to collect if he didn’t have something tangible
to sell.”
“So?”
“So the easiest thing would be to pay Adler, and if that’s what you
have in mind I could probably cut his price in half.”
“How?”
“By making a threat that will stand up. No matter what you decide
to do, my advice to you is to let me carry the ball. See him by all
means. Find out what you can. Play along for a while. Stall. When
you’ve learned all you can, tell him to see me.”
“Then what?”
“I’ll take it from there and I can talk tough if I have to. I can get
a warrant for his arrest on attempted extortion. When he sees I mean
business he may decide to take, say, ten thousand dollars and get
clear while he can.”
Hayden thought it over and did not like the conclusion that came to
him. He said he had never run into blackmail before, but from what
he had read, and what he had heard, he had an idea that it would be
difficult to stop paying once he had started.
“What assurance would I have that Adler wouldn’t hit me again next
year or the year after?”
“You wouldn’t have any, except his word or the threat of arrest.”
“There’d be no guarantee.”
“None. And there’s also another angle that you may not have
considered. If Corbin is alive he disappeared deliberately through
some odd coincidence that had to do with that fatal flight from
Capitol City. We don’t have to speculate about that now; the point
is that it would not be difficult for Corbin to keep track of Marion
if he wanted to. For all we know, he could be behind this blackmail,
with Adler nothing more than a messenger boy or collector.”
This thought was a new one to Hayden and he found it doubly
discouraging. He found it hard to accept too, but he could not argue
with the possibility Denham suggested.
“If that’s how it happens to be, I doubt if Corbin would be satisfied
with one payment.”
“So do I. That’s something for you and Marion to decide for
yourselves, but I guess you know there’s only one other alternative.”
“You mean bring the whole thing out into the open.”
“Exactly. Prefer charges against Adler, have him arrested; let the
authorities put the pressure on him. They could make him produce
Corbin if he’s alive, and you’d have to work it out from there.
There’s no fraud involved on that insurance payment, either by you or
by Marion, and if you put your cards on the table--”
“I guess they’d want their money back, wouldn’t they?”
“Probably. But, even so, there’s an area for discussion. Could you
raise seventy-five thousand dollars?”
“No.”
Denham ran fingers through his thinning hair and moved sideways so
that he could lean his shoulders against the mantelpiece. He took off
his glasses, frowning as he held them up to the light. As he began to
polish the lenses with his handkerchief he said:
“Let me review your corporate setup and see if I’ve got it right. You
came to work for Brandt because he was getting old and wanted someone
to take over the operation. You brought in this bright young genius
from M.I.T. to improve the product and do your research. You got this
other youngster in to handle the sales end. Before you really got
operating under the new setup, Brandt died. His estate wanted to get
out from under and they gave you the opportunity to take over the
business. Am I right so far?”
“Yes.”
“Marion gave you the seventy-five thousand from the insurance money
that I had invested for her. Your engineer and your salesman raised
some money on their own and you made a small public offering of
stock. So the way things stand now, you own roughly thirty per cent
of the shares, your two partners own fifteen per cent each and
the public holds the other forty per cent. Now how much could you
raise--?”
“To get the whole seventy-five thousand,” Hayden cut in, “I’d have to
sell out. By pledging my shares I probably could get thirty-five or
forty thousand from the bank. Certainly not more than that, the way
things stand.”
“It might be enough to start with.”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, in the first place, that insurance money was paid to Marion.
She gave it to you. That stock is not jointly owned, is it?”
“No, it’s in my name.”
“So how’s the insurance company going to get seventy-five thousand
dollars out of Marion when she doesn’t have it?” He lifted one hand
to forestall comment and continued: “What I’m trying to say is that
this could be a matter for negotiation or the courts. We could force
the insurance people to sue and there would probably be a judgment of
some kind. You understand I’m simply guessing at this point because
I’m not up on the laws that cover such cases.”
He put on his glasses and replaced the handkerchief. “But offhand I’d
say that in such a situation the insurance people would be willing
to negotiate. In other words, they might well be agreeable to a
settlement of somewhat less than the original amount. They could most
certainly get a judgment, but since in a way it would be like finding
money in the street, they’d probably make some kind of a reasonable
settlement rather than have the thing drag through the courts.”
“I could pay them part of it,” Hayden said, “if they would take notes
for the balance and let me pay it off over a period of two or three
years.”
“That’s a possibility,” Denham said, “but the thing you have to
decide now is how you’re going to play the hand.”
“Suppose the insurance people wouldn’t settle?” Hayden said,
persisting. “Suppose there was some way they could force me to pay up
in full?”
Denham pushed away from the mantelpiece. He took a breath and
shrugged. “I’m afraid that would be tough on you; Marion too. But
let’s not cross that bridge yet.... Where are you going?” he asked as
Hayden came to his feet.
Hayden took a moment before he replied. For the anger was stirring in
him again, and it helped somewhat to combat the feeling of dejection
and hopelessness that had been working on him for the past couple of
hours. He found himself hating this man he had not yet seen but who
had come so suddenly to threaten his marriage, his happiness, and his
business.
“I’m going to see Adler,” he said bluntly. “I’m going to find out
what the score is and if he gives me too much trouble I’ll probably
break his damn neck.”
“Well, don’t.” Denham uttered a small dry laugh to show that he
understood Hayden was only kidding. “If you decide you have to get
tough with him, let me handle it. I’ve had more experience in these
things, and if I have to threaten him I can make it stick. So keep
your hands in your pockets. Find out all you can. Then stall. Tell
him you need more time. Go home and take a couple of sleeping pills
and get a good night’s rest. Get in touch with me tomorrow and we’ll
make some plans.”
He had been walking to the door with Hayden as he spoke, and when he
opened it he uttered a final word of caution.
“No rough stuff, okay?” When there was no reply he added: “I’m sorry
I can’t offer you a drink but you know I seldom have it around unless
I’m throwing a party.”
Hayden said it did not matter. He said he was going to stop at the
tavern and have a couple of quick brandies to settle his nerves.
After that he’d see what Sam Adler had to say.
* * * * *
The front of The Shady Maple Motel was well lighted at this hour and
the sign that said _Vacancy_ was still beckoning to travelers who
needed a place to sleep. John Hayden was never quite sure why he
decided to park beyond the entrance, but something prompted him to
let the car roll past, and he finally came to a stop under an ancient
and towering elm tree that cast black shadows upon the street.
When he had turned off his lights and cut the motor, he walked back,
keeping to the same side of the street and seeing again the cars that
had been parked in the quadrangle. In contrast to the lighted windows
which were shaded by drawn Venetian blinds, the parking area had a
darkened and deserted look, but the office glowed brightly and he
thought he saw someone at the desk through a crack in the shade as he
started across the street toward the tavern.
Jerry was still presiding and several of the regulars were perched
on stools watching something on the television set, which was placed
high in one corner of the room. Later he was to remember that he
did not see Doris Lamar, but at the moment he paid no attention to
anything at all in the room except the empty space at the near end of
the bar. Although Hayden seldom came there in the evening, Jerry’s
broad muscular face showed no surprise at seeing him and he made no
comment when Hayden asked for a double brandy, with water on the side.
“How much, Jerry?” he asked when the drink was served.
“That will be a dollar and a half, Mr. Hayden.”
Hayden counted out the money and Jerry went away. He studied the
small snifter glass, which was now nearly full. He stood that way
for a while, unmindful of those about him or the dialogue from
the television set, recalling again Roger Denham’s advice and
concentrating on keeping a tight grip on his emotions. He was not, as
Denham had told Marion, an aggressive man by nature; yet he knew he
was going to have trouble keeping his hands in his pockets, as Denham
had advised. Without ever having met Adler, he already hated the man
and he knew that to talk sensibly and with calculation in his present
condition would be difficult.
That was why he needed the brandy. That was why he did not savor its
bouquet and enjoy it as a connoisseur would. He sipped and sipped
again. He took a swallow of water. He got a cigarette going. He
held out one hand, palm down, as he had done in his kitchen earlier
and was pleased to see that the extended fingers were steady. Then,
the impatience beginning to ride him, he swallowed the last of the
brandy, followed it with a gulp of water, and walked out into the
night.
The wide main street was empty as he crossed it. After the friendly
warmth of the tavern the night seemed raw, the wind coming in gusts
that swayed the glowing motel sign and brought forth protesting
metallic sounds. Sedans and station wagons gleamed darkly in the
reflected light from the occupied units and, recalling that Doris
Lamar had said Sam Adler had room twelve, he angled past the office
and started down the center of the quadrangle. It was then that he
saw the woman.
At no time did he get a good look at her. He saw her but vaguely
as she moved on the cement walk that connected the units in the
left-hand building, but she vanished almost instantly and he thought
she had come out to get something from one of the cars. He slowed his
steps slightly because he did not want to frighten her. He stopped
a moment to peer ahead of him and when he did not see her again he
wondered where she had gone.
The motel had been built in two facing and parallel sections, and the
parking area was partly open at the far end. Between the end units
was space for two cars and beyond this was a scraggly hedge which
separated the property from the vacant lot facing the next street.
There was only one car here now, and although he had heard nothing
to indicate that a car door had been opened or closed, he realized
the wind might have muffled the sound. He also knew that what the
woman did--if in fact it was a woman--was none of his business. His
business was with Sam Adler and he cut between two parked cars,
angling to the connecting sidewalk so he could examine the unit
numbers. By then he knew that Sam Adler had the last room on the
right, the one with the car parked beside it, a small, new-looking
sedan with New York license plates.
The blinds had been slanted in the room beyond to give it privacy,
but lights were on and he found satisfaction in the knowledge that
Adler was home. Somewhere inside, a radio was playing softly and he
knocked confidently, then knocked again.
He turned as he waited, wondering if the woman he thought he had seen
was watching him. When there was no acknowledgment beyond the door,
his impatience prompted him to knock once more before he tried the
knob.
When it turned easily he pushed into the lighted room saying:
“Adler?” as he stopped and swung the door behind him. For another
moment he thought the room was empty but a door, apparently giving on
the lighted bathroom, was partly closed and he called again: “Hey,
Adler!”
There was still no answer and, not understanding why this should
be, he took another step, his troubled eyes busy, a sudden tension
winding his nerves as instinct telegraphed its first sharp warning.
It was this extra movement that brought a new angle of vision and
finally told him that he was not alone.
A low chest obscured part of the still figure that was sprawled
beyond it, but he could see the hips, the legs, the oddly twisted
shoes which lay close together and parallel with the floor.
Unable yet to understand what had happened but certain now that
something was horribly wrong, he called again, not knowing that
he did so. Some inner compulsion that was both automatic and
irresistible made him move again and then he saw it all, the
dark-stained white shirt, the slanted neck with the face turned
toward the wall, the widespread arms with the limp-fingered hands
that curled inward.
He stood very still then, a cold and frightening emptiness inside
him as he stared down at this man he had never seen before, and even
then, as his mind struggled for some answer, he seemed to know that
Sam Adler must be dead.
_5_
John Hayden was not aware of time as he stood tense and immobile,
breath held and his heart beginning to pound. The recorded playing
of some dance band came softly from the radio in a syncopated beat,
and with his feet still anchored by the shock of his discovery, he
swiveled his head and glanced slowly about the room.
It was, he saw at once, the sort of unit known as an efficiency.
Without actually tabulating its contents, he was aware that the
furniture was constructed of some blond wood and in a style that was
more modern than traditional. The two beds, which were placed at
right angles along two walls, had slipcovers and pillows to make them
look like couches until they were ready for use. Opposite the partly
opened bathroom door was a cubicle with a built-in dresser and some
coat hangers on a metal rod, and the end of the room directly ahead
of him contained a shallow kitchenette. Here there were cabinets
and cupboards, a sink, a counter, an enameled unit that contained a
small icebox and an even smaller electric range on top. From where he
stood he could see two glasses and a bottle of gin, nearly empty now,
bottles of soda, the pulpy halves of lemons from which the juice had
been squeezed.
His unconscious inspection completed, he brought his glance back to
the man on the floor and now he moved reluctantly toward him. The
torso had been turned so that it rested partly on one side, and as he
leaned down he saw the reason for the wide, dark stain that glistened
moistly on the white shirt.
Because Adler’s back was away from him and not far from the wall
it lay partly in shadow but he could see the wooden knife handle
protruding from the ribs just to the left of the spine. The shape of
that handle suggested that it was a kitchen knife and he thought it
had probably come from the unit at the end of the room.
He remembered the description that had been given him by Doris Lamar
and knew it fitted the sharp-featured face that now looked slack and
gray and lifeless. The sleek, black hair needed cutting. There was
a dark smudge of beard along the angle of one jaw and the nose, in
profile, had a broad and flattened look. The hand that he finally
reached for seemed surprisingly warm and limp, and he tried to
concentrate now as he sought a pulse beat that never came.
He straightened slowly then, traces of shock still mingling with the
confusion in his mind. He could feel the dampness in his palms and
his breath came shallowly as he tried to put his thoughts in order.
It took a while to relate Adler’s death to his own problems, and his
first reaction was one of relief as he understood that the man no
longer posed a threat to his happiness. The thought shamed him even
as it came to him, but it did not last long. For he remembered other
details now, and that fleeting sense of relief gave way at once to a
fear that was real, genuine, and greatly disturbing.
This fear did not spring from any thought that he would be suspected
or charged with murder, and he wasted no time speculating on the
reason for Sam Adler’s death. The fear he felt came from remembered
details that Marion had told him earlier. Adler had shown her a
photograph of her first husband; he had shown her a second photograph
of fingerprints that he insisted belonged to Ted Corbin. Therefore
these photographs had to be on the body or somewhere in this room.
Under other circumstances there would have been no hesitation on
Hayden’s part. His life had been well ordered and he had an inbred
respect for the law that came from a proper background. The thing
to do was to call the police immediately and let them take it from
there. This was what the sensible part of his mind told him, but the
things that had happened to him in the past two or three hours had
shaken him mentally, morally, and emotionally.
Nothing that had happened to him before had equipped him to handle
such a situation, but he was certain that the first thing the
police would do would be to search the room. When they found those
photographs they would eventually uncover the very things that he
had been trying to protect. By digging into the past they would
eventually know why Sam Adler had come here and what he had been
trying to do. All this added up to a fine motive for murder, and the
thought of what could happen induced a sense of panic that could have
distorted his thinking.
Still undecided and torn between two conflicting demands, he backed
away and made a slow, deliberate tour of the room. He moved to the
kitchenette and saw again the gin and the bottles and glasses and the
squeezed lemons. He continued on to the lighted bathroom and pushed
the door open with his elbow. As he stepped inside he was at once
aware of the distinctive odor that lingered in the air. It was a
perfumed smell, not strong but definite; it also had a quality that
he did not think had come from the plastic bottle of after-shave
lotion which stood beside the razor and toilet kit on the glass shelf
above the bowl. This was a more perfumed smell, more feminine, and as
he backed from the room he remembered again the woman he had thought
he had seen in the darkness of the quadrangle.
The thought did not linger because by now he knew what had to be
done. In the light of what happened later, there were times when he
doubted the wisdom of his decision, but he did not stop to consider
whether he was acting wisely; he was motivated by those inner fears
and emotions that revolved about himself and Marion and the threat
Sam Adler had made to their future together.
Adler had shown Marion two photographs. They must therefore be
somewhere in the room now. Without them the police could find no link
between Adler and the past. A likely place to keep them would be a
man’s wallet, and while he shrank from any contact with the lifeless
figure he started toward it, only to stop when he saw the sport coat
draped over the back of a chair.
He tried the outside pockets first but found only a pack of
cigarettes and paper matches and two sticks of gum. But the inner
pockets revealed a coat-type wallet of worn pigskin and he quickly
found the two glossy prints in the center fold. He saw that they were
about three inches by four, one showing the prints of four fingers of
a right hand, the other a well-focused snapshot of a bareheaded man
in coveralls. He took a moment to study this one and realize that his
wife’s impression had been correct. The background did indeed suggest
a filling station and there was some insignia on the breast pocket of
the coveralls the man wore.
When he had first begun to call on Marion there had been a cabinet
photograph of her first husband in her apartment. This had
disappeared after their engagement, but he was as convinced now as
she had been that this was an unposed snapshot of Ted Corbin. That he
seemed older-looking and leaner than the remembered man in the other
photograph seemed to bear out Adler’s contention that the picture had
been taken recently.
A quick inspection of the inner pocket of the wallet revealed no
other pictures, but he did find a Social Security card and two
driver’s licenses. One had been issued in New York State and gave a
Flushing address. When he saw that this was an old license he turned
to the other, which gave a Conti Street address in Mobile, Alabama.
He copied this address in a small notebook before he replaced the
wallet, and now a new and urgent thought came to him that was at once
discouraging.
If there were photographic prints there had to be negatives. If
these were found they would be equally damaging. With this thought
in mind he began a quick but thorough search of the room. He made
himself bend over the body and pat the hip pockets. He searched
the suitcase and the small blue flight bag. He went through the
pockets of the gray suit that hung in the alcove and did the same
thing to the blue topcoat. The drawers in the chest and the built-in
vanity held nothing to interest him, and when he finally ran out of
places to look, he was forced to accept the fact that there were no
negatives in the room.
But if there were prints there _had_ to be negatives. So where were
they?
He repeated the question aloud, a sense of frustration growing in him
until he realized that time could be important and he was wasting it.
He did not think he had been here long, and as he stepped to the door
he told himself that no one could prove he had been here tonight. Or
could they?
“How about fingerprints?” he said, half aloud.
What had he touched that might betray him? Not the bathroom door
because he had opened that with his elbow. The drawer pulls? No, they
were too small. The wallet was something else again and he removed
it, rubbed it with his handkerchief, and replaced it gingerly. That
left only the outer doorknob, and as he reached for it, handkerchief
in hand, one more thought came to nag him.
Marion knew he was coming here but he felt certain he could trust
her to say the right thing. But how about Roger Denham? Denham knew
he was coming. If questioned, Denham would naturally say so. True,
Denham could be cautioned not to give the facts as he knew them, but
that might imply guilt and he did not want to be under that sort of
obligation to the lawyer. Then, even as he considered the problem, a
solution came to him.
The door had been unlocked when he came. All he had to do now was
to release the safety catch, thereby locking it. Whoever discovered
the body would have to admit that the door was locked from outside
and this was exactly what he would tell the police if they ever
questioned him.
“I’ll admit I came to see Adler,” he’d say to them. “I knocked and no
one answered. I tried the door. It was locked. I figured he was out.
There was no way of knowing when he’d be back, so I went home.”
Still with the handkerchief in his hand, he inched the door open,
fixed the lock, and mentally crossed his fingers as he prepared
to leave. If someone saw him now it would be too bad, but it was
a chance he had to take, so he sucked in his breath and went out
quickly, closing the door behind him.
The darkness seemed complete after the lighted room but he stepped
close to the side of the car with the New York license plates and
stood in a half-crouch until his eyes adjusted themselves. He could
see nothing, hear nothing but the muted sounds of the radio. Because
he did not dare walk the length of the quadrangle and expose himself
to the lights of the office and the motel sign, he moved the other
way, peering for an opening in the hedge at the rear and finding one,
then circling around the far side of the building until he reached
the elm, which cast its inky shadow over his car.
He coasted into his garage a few minutes later and came to a stop
beside the station wagon. He turned out his headlights and stepped
to the floor and then he had to grope in the darkness for the switch
that activated the overhead bulb. In doing so he stumbled, and as he
put out a hand to steady himself his fingers found the hood of the
station wagon. It was then that he became aware of the warmth of the
metal and, not quite believing his senses or understanding how this
could be, he moved forward, his hand finding the ornamental grille in
front of the radiator.
By then he was sure. There could be no mistaking the heat in the
radiator and he stayed where he was as his mind raced on, disturbed
and strangely frightened by his discovery and the knowledge that
Marion had used the car, and recently.
But how recently? And for what purpose?
He tried to tell himself that this was not unusual, that there was
some simple and innocent explanation. A trip to the drugstore for a
prescription or some toiletry or a late newspaper. This, he knew,
had happened before, but even as he acknowledged the possibility he
remembered again the woman he had seen so briefly at the motel, the
distinctive odor of perfume in the lighted bathroom. To arrest such
unwanted imagery he glanced at his watch and was surprised to see
that it was still only ten minutes after nine.
This, he told himself as he pulled down the overhead door and turned
toward the breezeway, was all to the good, and as he crossed the
area to the darkened kitchen he outlined the tentative timetable
which began with his prompt arrival at Roger Denham’s place at eight
o’clock.
He had been there no more than a half hour, if that. Another ten
minutes, say eight-forty, had brought him to Jerry’s Tavern. Five
minutes with his brandy would put him at Sam Adler’s door at
eight-forty-five or a minute later. Since it was about a ten-minute
drive from the tavern here, he must have been at the motel no more
than twelve or fourteen minutes.
And he not only had the two pictures; he had not been seen. So what
should he do about Marion? Ask her where she’d been or pretend he did
not know she had been gone? This, he knew at once, would be best,
and he was determined to stick with the decision as he entered the
kitchen and locked the door behind him.
_6_
He did not stop in the kitchen but continued on into the lighted
living room, expecting to find his wife in her chair and wondering
just what he was going to say to her. Then, even as he brought some
discipline to his thoughts, he realized that the effort was wasted.
The room was empty and the only light came from a floor lamp by the
wing chair.
For a second or two as he stood there he felt a welcome sense of
relief, but it did not last when he remembered the station wagon and
its warm radiator. Because he knew she must be home he moved quietly
to the inner hall. From there he could see the open door of their
bedroom and the darkness beyond. Still moving soundlessly, he reached
the doorway and peered inside. There was enough light behind him to
reveal the elongated mound her body made under the covers and the
dark hair spread upon the pillow.
The fact that she had gone to bed early was, in itself, not unusual.
In the last couple of months there had been several times when she
had retired soon after dinner and he understood the reason for
this. On those occasions he would come into their darkened room and
undress as quietly as he could. Sometimes she would be awake, or
would waken, and he would slip into bed beside her and hold her until
she fell asleep again. At other times, knowing that she was asleep
and not wanting to disturb her, he would move down the hall to the
guest bedroom. The fact that the light was already on here was her
way of telling him that tonight she was inviting him to sleep alone,
and he stood another moment, watching for some sign of movement and
wondering whether she was asleep or whether she was afraid of the
questions he might ask.
The thought brought with it a sense of frustration but it gave him
little alternative and he went back to the kitchen and turned on the
light. The dishes they had used for their soup and salad earlier had
been rinsed and stacked on the counter and he now put them into the
dishwasher. He thought about making a drink and knew he did not want
one. But he wanted something and he compromised by getting a beer
from the refrigerator. He took this into the living room, and when he
had a cigarette going he eased into the chair, his somber gaze fixed
but unseeing and his mouth set grimly as his mind began again to
grapple with his problems.
He made no conscious effort to think; he simply could not help
himself. He found himself wondering how long it would be before Sam
Adler’s body was discovered. He wondered what course the police
investigation would take, and as he recalled again the story of
George Freeman’s fight with the stranger he found a new motive for
Adler’s death. Freeman was the quiet type that no one seemed to
know too well. That he was intensely jealous where Doris Lamar was
concerned seemed obvious in the light of what had happened, but
he realized now that there was no point in trying to imagine what
Freeman might do under extreme provocation.
Once the investigation was under way, the police would be sure to
learn about the relationship between Freeman and Doris Lamar and Sam
Adler. But--and this thought jarred him--they might also learn from
Doris that Adler had been asking questions about him. Suppose they
came here to ask other questions. Suppose someone had seen Marion
tonight when she was out in the station wagon. Suppose...
This line of reasoning angered him and he swore aloud. Such
disloyalty shamed him and he told himself again that Marion could not
have killed Adler; she could not kill anyone. She was a completely
normal, well-adjusted, and sensible girl. She always had been. The
fact that her pregnancy had given her some moments of emotional
turbulence could not possibly have brought her to the point of
violence. This is what he told himself and this is what he believed,
and yet some obscure segment of his brain that he could not control
persisted in asserting itself.
He could not forget the knife that had been thrust into Sam Adler’s
back. It was, he felt sure, a kitchen knife of some sort, and the
obvious assumption was that it had come from the kitchenette in
Adler’s room. But he could not dismiss the thought that Adler had
been stabbed in the back. It was hard for him to understand why a
man would use this method unless the killing was premeditated. But
to a woman a kitchen knife was a familiar object. Driven by fear or
desperation or a moment of temporary insanity, a woman wanting to
strike back and finding such a knife handy might use it.
He lost track of time as he sat there brooding, his beer forgotten
and growing flat in the glass. In an effort to curb his imagination
and to submerge his present doubts and fears, he forced his mind back
into the past while he considered the girl he had married, not just
as he knew her since they had been together, but before that, before
Ted Corbin.
She had been brought up in Westchester in a family that was socially
acceptable and soundly rooted. As Marion Haskell there was enough
money for a good finishing school and a college education, even
though the Haskells had never been wealthy. Her father worked in Wall
Street and his speculations were not always too wise, so that when
a heart attack took him a month or so before Marion was to graduate
from Vassar, there was not a great deal left except the house, two
small insurance policies payable to her and her brother, and a large
one that went to her mother, who, for the past few years, had been
living with her son in Texas.
Marion had gone to work for an advertising agency in New York
immediately after graduation. She had been sharing an apartment with
another girl when she met Ted Corbin, who was a friend of a friend of
her roommate’s. Corbin was working as a paper salesman at the time,
and the factors that caused the marriage to founder after three years
were the very ones that attracted Marion to him in the first place.
That Corbin was a big, good-looking, and easygoing man was at once
in his favor, but what intrigued her most was the fact that he was
so different from the young men she had gone out with in the past.
Mostly these were Ivy League youths whose standards, conduct, and
ambitions were so similar to her own. The pattern was familiar to
her and she enjoyed being with them; the affairs that she had with
one or another from time to time were in a minor key, but always the
language they shared was the same.
Since Ted Corbin had not been trained to fit the pattern, he
presented an approach that Marion found both different and exciting.
For Corbin had been born and brought up in a small Pennsylvania
mining town, and if his intelligence quotient was perhaps less than
some, he had other skills, one of which was the ability to play a
hard and aggressive type of football that was much in demand. This
got him into a school in South Carolina, and by the time he had
graduated he had gained some prominence in his field. He had lasted
two years in the professional league, and when he realized he would
never be a first-string regular, he had taken a job with a southern
paper company, which eventually brought him to New York.
The fact that he was not adept or skilled in social intercourse did
not seem important to Marion, even though she was aware of this. She
liked his breeziness, his easy manners, his offhand ways; it was
only much later that she discovered these ways were a little crude,
a little too coarse for her taste. For he was, basically, an outdoor
man. He liked to hunt and fish and go to the fights or the ball
game. He had not read a book since he left college and she discovered
that he had no intention of ever reading another. His taste in
newspapers was limited to the tabloids or the sporting pages. His
friends were not her friends, and even though he tried at times, the
lack of communication eventually made him sullen and distant.
Friction developed early in the marriage but they tried in their own
ways to combat it. But it was harder for Corbin because there was
little depth to his thinking and he did not have the basic equipment
to adjust to new things. Discouraged by his failure to make the
marriage go, he had sought comfort in earlier friends. He drank
too much and had difficulty in holding a job. There had been three
jobs in three years, and he was on his way to see about a fourth
when tragedy struck the aircraft. Even before that, they both knew
that their marriage was finished. They had practically agreed on a
separation and Marion had started to look for another job in the
advertising field....
The sound that cut through Hayden’s thoughts and made him jump in the
chair so startled him that for the moment he did not know whether it
came from the telephone or the front door. It took him another few
seconds to break the spell of nervous tension that gripped him, to
glance at his watch, to understand that he had been sitting here for
nearly two hours. For it was now a few minutes after eleven, and as
the sound was repeated and he came to his feet, he understood that
whoever had rung the doorbell had not come here on a social call.
He moved quickly then, the trepidation growing in him as his pulse
quickened.
He did not know the two men who faced him as he opened the door, but
he saw that one was tall and lean-looking in his trench coat, the
other somewhat shorter and more heavily built. It was the tall one
who made the introduction.
“Mr. Hayden?”
“That’s right.”
“I’m Lieutenant Garvey of the State Police.... This is County
Detective Ball from the State’s Attorney’s office.”
Hayden’s acknowledgment was a mumbled “Hello,” and although he had
already considered the possibility of such a call, he was glad the
light was at his back. For in those first moments he could feel his
features stiffen as the blood drained from his face. He had the
impression that the shadowed eyes beneath the hat brims were intent
upon his reactions and he concentrated on making his voice sound
reasonably surprised but not disconcerted.
“What can I do for you?”
“We’re sorry to bother you at this hour,” Garvey said, “but we need
some information and we thought you might help us. May we come in?”
“Certainly.” Hayden stepped back and waved them toward the living
room. “In there. Take off your coats.”
They removed their hats and unbuttoned their coats but did not take
them off. They sat down on the divan and he could see now that Garvey
was in his late thirties, a confident-looking man with a prominent
jaw, deep-set gray eyes, and short brown hair. Ball was older and
more round in the face. His head was nearly bald on top and Hayden
was at once aware of the dark eyes which were steady, watchful, and
inquisitive.
“I was just having a beer before I went to bed,” he said, and took a
swallow of the stale brew to prove it. “Can I offer you anything?”
“No thanks,” they said.
“We’ll try not to keep you up,” Garvey said. “But we’d like to find
out what you know about a man named Adler.”
_7_
John Hayden took another slow and deliberate swallow of the beer and
reached for a cigarette. He knew then that he was as ready as he ever
would be for the questions and it pleased him to see that the flame
from their table lighter was steady when he held it up. He could
still feel his pulse but it was no longer racing, and he frowned
deliberately at the end of the cigarette before he replied.
“Adler?” he said on a note of puzzlement.
“You don’t know him?” Ball asked.
“I don’t think so. At least I don’t remember anyone by that name.”
“He was staying at The Shady Maple Motel.”
Hayden frowned again for their benefit. “What about him? Is he in
some kind of trouble?”
“Not any more.”
“Someone stuck a knife in his back,” Garvey said. “According to the
medical examiner he probably died somewhere between eight and nine
o’clock tonight.”
Hayden heard them out and then, nothing showing in his face, he rose
and moved over to close the door to the inner hall.
“My wife went to bed early,” he said. “She’s four months pregnant and
I’d like her to get her rest.” He came back and sat down. He looked
right at them. “I don’t know anyone named Adler,” he said, “but I’m
curious to know why you came here at all.”
“We’ve been making a lot of inquiries, Mr. Hayden,” Ball said. “From
things we’ve heard we got the impression that you _did_ know Adler.”
“To the best of my knowledge I never laid eyes on the man.”
“George Freeman--he’s managing The Shady Maple--” Garvey began.
“I know him.”
“--found the body around nine-thirty, or so he says. He couldn’t tell
us much about Adler except that he was a stranger who registered
yesterday afternoon.”
“We started to check on him,” Ball said. “We put some men on the main
street to see what we could find. You know Lee Cramer at the filling
station, don’t you?”
“Know him well.”
“He remembered Adler. He had some conversation with him yesterday
afternoon and Adler asked if he knew you. He asked where you lived
and Cramer told him. Now why would Adler do that if he didn’t intend
to get in touch with you?”
“Cramer told me about that conversation,” Hayden said and was pleased
that his voice sounded so steady and unruffled. “He described the man
but he didn’t mention any name.”
Garvey, who had been examining a small, leather-covered notebook,
looked up. “We made some inquiries at Jerry’s Tavern,” he said. “The
way we get it you stopped in there twice tonight.”
“That’s right.”
“You had some conversation with the waitress there--Doris Lamar--”
“That was around a quarter of six.”
“Mind telling us the substance of that conversation?”
“It was mostly about her and George Freeman.”
“Did she tell you that a man named Sam Adler had been making some
inquiries about you?”
Hayden hesitated but not for long.
“Yes, now that I stop to think of it. She said she and George had
had an argument about something. Adler made a play for her the night
before and she decided to put Freeman in his place. They went dancing
later at the Log Cabin and Freeman came in and took a swing at Adler
and Adler beat him to the punch. When I saw Freeman he was wearing
dark glasses. He looked as if he had a shiner.”
“He did,” Ball said. “It was a beaut.”
“So Adler asked Lee Cramer if he knew you and where you lived,”
Garvey continued. “Cramer told him. Tonight Doris Lamar told you the
same thing. But you still say you don’t know Adler?”
“That’s right.”
“He didn’t come here to see you?”
“He did not.”
“And you have no idea what he wanted?”
“No.”
“Where were you this evening?” Ball asked.
Hayden suddenly found it difficult to meet the unremitting steadiness
of the county detective’s dark gaze. The uneasiness was growing in
him now and for some reason his thoughts moved off on a tangent and
he found himself comparing these two with the detectives he had seen
on television and in the movies. He had never been questioned by
a policeman about anything, but the detectives he had seen on the
screen were hard-nosed, tough-talking characters who threw their
weight around and wore down suspects by intimidation and threats. In
contrast, these two men spoke quietly and in matter-of-fact tones.
They were polite, and at the moment well mannered, but he understood
that they would be relentless in their pursuit of any information
they thought pertinent.
He thought about the two photographs he had in his pocket and was
thankful that they could not know about them. There had been moments
of misgivings when he left the motel room, but he was glad now that
he had acted the way he did. They might pin him down on this or that,
but without those pictures which linked him and Marion with the
past there was no motive--unless they somehow located the original
negatives.
“I had an appointment with my attorney at eight o’clock.”
“Who would that be?” Garvey asked.
“Roger Denham,” Hayden said and mentioned the address.
“You went to his house?”
“That’s right.”
“When did you leave?”
“I’d say around eight-thirty.”
“Then what?”
“I stopped at Jerry’s Tavern.”
“For a drink?” Ball asked in his customary even tones.
“Naturally.”
“What did you order?”
“A double brandy and water,” Hayden said, and even as he spoke he
knew that the announcement would bring forth additional comment.
“Was that the usual thing for you at that time of the evening?”
Garvey asked.
“No. I felt like a double brandy and I ordered it. I drank it and
drove home.”
“Jerry said that when you left you started across the street toward
the motel,” Ball said.
“Sure,” Hayden said, “because my car was parked on that side of the
street.”
“You got home about when?”
“Nine, or a little after.”
Ball leaned back and exchanged glances with the lieutenant.
Apparently this was sufficient for a silent meeting of the minds
because when he continued he seemed to speak for both of them.
“We’d like very much to speak to your wife for a few minutes, Mr.
Hayden,” he said. “I know it may seem to you like an imposition and I
appreciate her condition, but in a murder case it’s important that we
find out as much as we can and as quickly as we can. Perhaps if you
explained--”
He did not finish the sentence but stopped abruptly, his gaze
shifting and the dark eyes opening. In the next instant he started
to rise and so did Lieutenant Garvey. The reaction was so surprising
that Hayden turned; not until then did he realize that his wife was
standing in the doorway, her hand still on the knob.
“I thought I heard voices,” she said. “Is something wrong, darling?”
He got to his feet as she spoke, and even with all the confusion in
his mind he had time to notice how pretty she looked. She had never
been a girl who went to bed with cream on her face or curlers in
her hair, except when it had just been washed; now her face had a
clean, scrubbed look, and her dark hair was caught at the nape with a
ribbon. The hazel eyes had a sleepy look and the dark blue robe she
wore was long and tailored. He found his tongue as he stepped to her
side and drew her into the room.
“Marion, this is Lieutenant Garvey and Detective Ball--my wife.”
The two men said: “How do you do, Mrs. Hayden,” and looked impressed.
“Police officers, darling?” she said with just the right inflection.
“But why?” She smiled at them. “Please sit down. Tell me about it.”
“A man named Sam Adler was killed sometime this evening at The Shady
Maple Motel,” Hayden said before the two detectives could reply.
“Someone stabbed him. They seem to think we might know him.”
He saw the effect of his words on her as she sat down. The long
lashes lifted and her eyes were suddenly wide open and staring at
him. He watched the slackness working on her mouth and the color
slowly drain from her face. It was a frightening thing to see, this
change in her face, and he was terribly afraid that she might blurt
out the things she knew before she had a chance to think. He knew she
was about to speak, and he could not stop her, and it came to him
then that the look of shock and fear in her eyes was concerned not
with the two officers but with him.
_She knows that I was going to see Adler_, he thought. _She’s
wondering if I killed him and how can I tell her I didn’t?_
“Stabbed?” she said in a tone that matched the look on her face. “How
awful.”
She looked at the two men on the divan. She looked back at Hayden.
The paleness was still in her cheeks but her eyes had narrowed
slightly and were no longer unguarded. She frowned, and he knew this
was deliberate. He was grateful for the intelligence and resiliency
that enabled her to regain her composure and her wits so quickly. Her
voice sounded just right when she continued.
“But I don’t understand,” she said. “Surely”--she looked at Garvey
and then at Ball--“you don’t think we know anything about it.”
“We’re just checking now, Mrs. Hayden,” Ball said. “We know he
arrived in town yesterday afternoon and we know he asked some
questions about your husband.” He went on to repeat the information
he had given to Hayden. He took time to let her digest what he had
said before he continued. “What about you, Mrs. Hayden?”
“Me?”
“Did you know Adler?” He hesitated and when she did not reply he
said: “Doesn’t it seem a little odd that this man should come into
town and ask where the Haydens live and then not bother to look them
up?”
He apparently expected no answer and Garvey took over. “In cases like
these we sometimes get a break,” he said. “Like tonight for instance.
In trying to get a line on Adler and find out what he was doing here
we talked to a lot of people. We spent some time at Jerry’s Tavern
and there was a fellow at the bar who overheard what we were saying
to Jerry and the waitress.”
“His name is James,” Ball said. “He runs a television repair shop
and he had to make a call on your road this afternoon. As a matter of
fact it was at the Lamsons’.” He took time to direct his steady gaze
at Marion and then at Hayden.
That gave Hayden time enough to brace himself because he knew what
was coming. He did not know the details but he knew that the Lamsons
lived no more than sixty or seventy yards down the road and he
understood that Ball would not take this line of questioning unless
he already knew enough to prove his point, whatever it was. There was
nothing to do but sit there and wait for the detective to continue
and presently he did.
“This fellow James asked about Adler. He wanted to know what he
looked like and what kind of a car he drove. The reason for his
curiosity was that when he had finished his service call and was
putting the ladder on his truck he noticed this sedan with the New
York license plates.”
He paused, as though waiting for some reaction before he said:
“Before he drove off he noticed this man come out of your house and
get into the car. He described the man and the description fitted
Adler. We took him over and let him look at the body. He says that’s
the man he saw this afternoon.”
Again Hayden could only wait and hope. Because he was afraid to watch
his wife’s face he reached for another cigarette and fumbled with the
light. He wanted desperately to help her, but as he tried to think of
something to say she proved she needed no help.
“Oh--is that the man you’re talking about?” she said with just the
right emphasis. “Yes. He was here this afternoon.”
Garvey said: “Ahh--”
Ball said: “What did he want?”
“He was a book salesman.”
The reply seemed to stop them for a second. They took time to peer at
her before they exchanged quick glances.
“What kind of books, Mrs. Hayden?” Ball asked.
“Some children’s encyclopedia.”
“He just happened to stop here?”
“Not exactly. He said a friend--he wouldn’t give any name--told him
we might be interested in such a set.”
“Did he show you the set?”
“He was hardly here long enough for that. I told him we weren’t
interested.”
“That’s funny,” Garvey said.
“What’s funny?” Hayden said, proud of his wife’s response and hoping
to take the pressure off of her.
“Book salesmen usually carry books,” Garvey said. “A lot of them have
sample bindings. The idea is that when they hook you for a set they
try to sell you the most expensive binding they can. But you didn’t
see any books, did you?”
“No.”
“Or any sample bindings?”
“No.”
“There were no books in Adler’s room,” Ball said, making the sentence
sound like an accusation. “No samples of any kind. There were no
books and no bindings in his car either.... Maybe he showed you some
literature about that set of books,” he added, “like some circulars
or folders.”
Hayden cut in because he could not keep silent any longer. Marion’s
composure had been steadfast and magnificent, but he could see the
strain showing in her face and he was not sure how long she could
maintain her self-control in the face of such persistent questioning.
“Look, gentlemen,” he said. “It’s late. I’ve told you about my wife’s
condition. We’ve tried to co-operate with you--”
“We appreciate that,” Ball said.
“A man named Adler was stabbed to death,” Hayden continued, his words
quick and aggressive now. “You seem to think we know something about
it. I’ve told you I don’t know the man. You heard what my wife said.
It seems to me you might make more progress concentrating on someone
who had a motive for murder.”
“If you mean Freeman,” Garvey said, “we intend to. But we also have
to find out all we can about Adler and the sooner the better.”
“Bear with us for another minute or two,” Ball said. “A couple of
questions and we’ll take a recess until tomorrow. We’re curious about
a phone call Adler made.” He paused, as though wanting to be sure
they understood him.
“The rooms at The Shady Maple have telephones,” he said, “but calls
have to be made through the office. At around eight-fifteen a call
came from Adler’s room. He asked Freeman for a number. Freeman wrote
it down and dialed. Now, according to him, he makes a point of never
listening in on a conversation once the connection is made, so this
time he waited just long enough to hear the number answer before he
cut out. This call was completed. A woman answered. We checked the
number. It’s listed in your name, Mr. Hayden.”
He paused again to give Marion his attention and Hayden was afraid to
look at her. For it seemed now that this was the answer to the warm
radiator on the station wagon. Adler had phoned her and Marion had
apparently gone to see him, and now the truth would come out....
“What did he want, Mrs. Hayden?” Ball continued.
“I don’t know.”
“What?”
“There was no such call.”
“But Freeman--”
“I don’t know Mr. Freeman, but I’m afraid he was mistaken about this
number.”
She was looking right at Ball when she answered and her chin was up.
At that moment she had command of her emotions and Hayden was both
surprised and pleased by her defiance. He also knew that the two
officers did not believe her. Their expressions said so. As their
glances met, Garvey gave a faint shrug and Ball tried once more.
“You’re sure of this?” he asked.
“Quite sure.”
They stood up and started to button their coats and Garvey said: “You
were here all evening, Mrs. Hayden?”
“That’s right.”
“What time did your husband leave?”
“Well”--she frowned to show that she was considering the
question--“he had an appointment at eight.”
“With Mr. Denham?”
She hesitated just long enough to give Hayden a quick glance before
she said: “Yes. I suppose it was about ten or twelve minutes of eight
when he left.”
“And what time did he come back?”
“I’m not quite sure.”
“Oh?”
“You see, I haven’t been feeling too well. I went to bed shortly
after John left.”
“You didn’t hear him come in then?”
“I sort of heard him. I mean I was about half asleep and half awake
when I heard his car come into the garage. I didn’t turn on the light
then or look at the clock.”
She stood as she finished and straightened the robe. She gave them
a polite nod and said she hoped they would excuse her. When she
turned away, Hayden started for the front door and the two officers
followed. As they stepped out into the night they thanked him again
for his co-operation. They said they would be in touch with him
tomorrow and it was possible that the State’s Attorney might want to
question him and his wife again.
_8_
By the time John Hayden came back to the living room the hall door
was closed and he thought Marion had gone to bed, but when he stepped
from the kitchen where he had gone to rinse out the beer glass she
was waiting for him. He saw, as he stopped in front of her, that the
look of composure and aloofness she had maintained for so long had
dissolved into one of concern and helplessness. The hazel eyes seemed
close to tears as they searched his face, and reaction made her voice
unsteady as she put up her arms and said:
“Hold me. Hold me tight, please.”
He drew her swiftly to him, grateful for the chance, his palms hard
against the small of her back as her arms encircled his neck. He
could feel the softness of her body, the full length of it. He could
feel her tremble before she relaxed, and the fragrance of her hair
was in the back of his throat as her head snuggled against his jaw.
She kept it there and spoke against the side of his neck.
“Remember before you left when I told you not to touch me?”
“Yes.”
“I couldn’t help it. I love you, darling. I know I’m being
unreasonable, but if Ted is alive--oh, I don’t know how to explain
it--”
“Don’t try.”
“You do understand?”
He was not sure that he did. He knew that it had something to do with
this thought in the back of her mind that questioned the legality of
their marriage and robbed them of the right to live as husband and
wife. He did not agree but he could not argue the point now, because
her closeness and the pressure of her body wakened old desires and
brought new tensions. He had to swallow before he could speak but he
lied convincingly.
“Sure,” he said. “Just don’t worry about it. We’ll work it out.”
The words seemed to comfort her. She uttered a small, muffled sob and
caught her breath, and then her arms relaxed and he knew the moment
had passed. He let her go and she tried to smile up at him, and he
could see the relief in the wet brightness of her eyes.
“All right,” she said and took another deep breath. “We’ve got to
talk,” she said and backed into a chair. “Did you go to see him,
John?”
“Adler? Yes. He was already dead.”
“Then the police were trying to trap us.”
“Trap us? How do you mean?”
She crossed her knees and seemed unaware that one leg was exposed
beneath the dark blue robe. She leaned forward, her look intent.
“But don’t you see? Adler had those two pictures with him. The police
would search his room and his clothes and his wallet, wouldn’t they?”
“Sure but--”
“So they couldn’t help but find those pictures. They probably already
have them. They’re bound to find out what they mean.”
“How are they?”
“But I’ve already told you. Ted worked for the government. His
fingerprints are on file. How long do you think it will take the
police to find out that the fingerprints on that picture belong to
him?”
Hayden made no immediate answer. He simply looked at her, a little
amazed that she could be so emotionally feminine one moment and
so practical the next. There was nothing weak and helpless in her
attitude now, and it came to him that the only way he could reassure
her was to tell her the truth. Reluctantly then, not sure he was
doing the right thing, he took the two photographs from his pocket
and displayed them.
“Oh,” she said and caught her breath as her eyes snapped open. “You
took them.”
“I had to, didn’t I?”
“But he was dead.”
“Certainly he was dead. I walked in and found him and I wanted to get
out in a hurry and then I remembered these and knew I had to look. I
found them in his wallet.”
“Did--did anyone see you?”
“I don’t think so.”
He slipped the pictures back into his pocket and hoped what he said
was true. For he remembered again the woman he had seen so vaguely
in the motel quadrangle. She could have seen him, as he saw her. He
did not know if she would remember or whether she would be able to
describe him. In all that darkness it was even possible that she had
not seen him at all. Then, as his mind went on, he knew that there
was something else he had to know. He felt certain that she had lied
to the two police officers, but it seemed now that it was important
to understand to what extent she had lied.
“What about the phone call?” he asked.
“Phone call?”
“Adler did call, didn’t he?”
The lashes dipped to obscure her eyes as she hesitated. She seemed to
notice the exposed leg and took time to cover it.
“Yes,” she said finally, and then her head came up and once more she
met his gaze head-on. “But they can’t prove it. How can they? This
man Freeman can say he dialed this number and I can say he didn’t, or
at least that I didn’t hear it. It’s just his word against mine.”
This, he knew, was true but it was not enough for him, not now.
Quietly, and with no overtones of censure in his voice, he said:
“What did he want, baby?”
The unsettling effect of his question was at once apparent. Again
she lowered her glance. She picked a piece of lint off the robe and
smoothed out the fabric with her fingertips.
“It’s sort of hard to explain,” she said finally.
“Why?”
“Because I’m not sure I can make you understand.”
“Try.”
“Well, he was one of those men that seemed to think that all he had
to do was make a pass at a woman and she would fall into his arms.
I told you what he looked like. He was not bad-looking, actually.
You could tell he thought he was pretty smooth. He was very glib and
self-assured and much too familiar. At least he tried to be.”
“This was this afternoon?”
“Yes. Even when he was telling me what he wanted, when he knew how
upset I must be by what he said, he was a little suggestive. He went
out of his way to let me know he thought I was something special and
men like that are usually hard to discourage.”
She lifted one shoulder in an empty shrug and said: “He called me a
few minutes after you had left. He said he wanted to see me. I told
him he must be out of his mind. I said you would probably stop and
see him later but he said that didn’t matter. He said there was no
reason why I couldn’t stop by for a friendly drink. He said he didn’t
want to be unreasonable and it would be easier if we could talk
things over in a friendly way.”
“What did you say?”
“I hung up on him.”
She paused, watching him now to see if he believed her, and this
time he was the one who had to avert his glance. It was a convincing
performance, and if he had not been aware of certain facts he might
have believed her. As it was, his heart sank and a feeling of
hopelessness began to undermine his thoughts. He knew now that she
was lying, but some inner impulse he did not understand prevented him
from saying so. He dared not accuse her now. He could not tell her
that he had felt the radiator of the station wagon.
He believed that Adler had made that call. He believed that she had
answered it. The station wagon had been used between the time he left
and returned. If she had not gone to see Adler, then where had she
gone? If the trip had been an innocent one, why had she not admitted
it?