Death in Donegal Bay (20 page)

“I lied about it, too,” Allingham admitted. “But certainly not to cover up a murder. My God, are you accusing Joan of that, of murder? I don’t know what you have learned about her or her relationship with Lucy, but accusing her of murder is absurd!”

“Not if she was trying to protect you,” I pointed out. “She knew what a scandal-sheet story would do to you and your cause.” I looked at Joan. “Luther would never have given the reporter the story he was hoping for. He loved Lucy.”

A silence.

Then Pointer asked, “What’s going on here? What’s this about relationship?”

Nobody answered him.

I said, “When I talked with Luther, he said he knew why Lucy had stayed with Joan after the divorce, but that was another story. It was a story he would never tell anybody. He knew she was a lesbian when she was still living in Florian. But I repeat—he loved her.”

From the other end of the room, Joan said, “The night Luther was killed, I was asleep right here. My father will attest to that.”

“Not under oath,” he said wearily. “You were down at that benefit concert in San Valdesto. At least that’s what you told me. It is time to stop lying, Joan.”

He looked at me. “We have lied, both of us, but we’re not murderers. You have come up with a damaging set of suppositions, I’ll admit. But you have no real evidence, have you?”

“That’s for sure,” Pointer said.

“We have a fingerprint,” Vogel said. “We lifted it off that cognac bottle. I brought the print with me. If it doesn’t match Miss Allingham’s, you are right. We don’t have a case.”

Allingham looked at his daughter and back at Vogel. “We’ll go to the sheriff’s station tomorrow for the fingerprint check. The rest, the other thing that has been mentioned here tonight, there is no need to reveal that, is there?”

Vogel shook his head. “Your daughter’s sexual preferences are no concern of mine. But murder is. I think we should check the fingerprint tonight.”

“No need for that,” Pointer said. “Tomorrow will do as well. The understanding we got from your chief was that you were coming up here for information, not to make an arrest.”

Vogel glared at him.

“Call the station if you want,” Pointer said. “Captain Walsh is in charge. You know him, don’t you, Lieutenant?”

“I know him,” Vogel admitted. “He could be your twin.” He turned to Allingham. “What brand of cognac do you serve your guests, sir?”

“Spanerti.”

“That was what we found in Barnum’s room. And there isn’t a liquor store in San Valdesto that sells it. Do you buy it locally?”

Allingham shook his head. “It is not available locally. I buy it from the importer in San Francisco.”

“And strychnine?” Vogel asked. “Is that available locally?”

Allingham’s face stiffened at the scorn in Vogel’s voice. He said, “Our gardener uses it. He mixes it with chopped meat for the rats that have been troubling us.”

“I’ll want to see him tomorrow,” Vogel said. “Make sure that he is available.”

Allingham said, “We’ll all be here, Lieutenant. You have my word on that.”

We left. As we got into the car, Pointer said, “I suppose you think I am a goddamned toady.”

Vogel didn’t answer. He started the engine.

Silence. We drove out over the drawbridge. We drove about a hundred feet down the long driveway before Vogel pulled over onto the grass and turned out the lights.

“Now what?” Pointer asked.

“Tomorrow!” Vogel said acidly. “She could be in Argentina by tomorrow.”

“You don’t know the old man like I do,” Pointer argued. “He’s no liar. He didn’t have to tell you about the strychnine, but he did. And the cognac, too.”

“I’m not after him,” Vogel said. “I’m waiting for her.”

“So we sit,” Pointer said. “Did either of you guys bring a bottle?”

We didn’t answer.

“I’ll tell you how sure I am,” Pointer said. “If she comes down this driveway tonight, I’ll make the collar myself.”

Forty-five minutes later, a Mercedes with the lights off rumbled over the drawbridge and started down toward us.

Vogel switched on the car lights and pulled over to the center of the driveway. “Here she comes,” he said. “It’s your collar, Pointer.

On the drive home, Vogel said, “They sure take care of their own up here, don’t they?”

“Yup. We would have looked like a pair of damned fools if that print hadn’t matched, wouldn’t we?”

“I wouldn’t. I only came along for the ride.”

“And the credit,” I said. “Not that it will make you very popular in Veronica Village. But you still rank high with the boys here for the Donegal Bay information you fed them. I suppose Joan Allingham will be tried in San Valdesto.”

He nodded. “They’re on the way to pick her up right now. And who do you think is going to defend her? Farini!”

“It’s a crazy world,” I said.

“They’re all nuts,” he agreed. “Everybody but us.”

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copyright © 1984 by William Campbell Gault

cover design by Jason Gabbert

978-1-4532-7343-2

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