Once a Widow (9 page)

“Can you stay here for a little while?”

“Sure.” Kovici gazed at the bed and added gently, “He won’t need surgery now. Clint, I’m sorry. I know he was a friend of yours.”

Shannon nodded, trying to control the twitching muscles of his jaw.

“The police now?” Kovici asked.

“Yes.” Shannon moved to the door. Martha James was pale, but her eyes were no longer dull. She spoke quite firmly. “I found him like that. I’m sorry about the fuss I made. Silly of me. I’m fine now.”

Shannon touched her shoulder. “You can leave now. Dr. Kovici will stay here.”

“I’ll stay, too.”

“You’d better get back to your work.”

“Whatever you say.” Miss James’ gaze skittered away from the bed.

Shannon opened the door and he and the nurse stepped out to face a sea of silent, questioning faces. Mr. Charles Grange was there, the administrator of the hospital, wearing pajamas, slippers and a plaid dressing robe. He was a bachelor and occupied a room in the north wing close to his office. His expression was one of anger and importance, but he knew that he was not important enough to enter a hospital room where two doctors, a nurse and a patient were behind a closed door. Charles Grange was a big man, over two hundred pounds, with a white fat face and sharp black eyes. Thin black hair straggled uncombed over his partially bald skull. He eyed Shannon coldly. “What’s going on in there?”

Shannon did not like Grange. As a member of the hospital board the doctor had opposed Grange’s appointment to the position of administrator. Shannon knew him to be a penny-pincher and a tyrant, a man without any deep feeling of kindness or humanity. To Grange, a hospital was like any other business, a factory, a production line, and the most important item was the profit and loss statement at the end of the year. He was a cost-cutter, sometimes to the detriment of adequate hospital service. As a result Charles Grange took credit for the mortgage being paid off a full five years ahead of time, and for the fact that the hospital now showed a profit at the end of each year. This greatly pleased the board of directors, even though a few members knew, from personal experience, that the meals served to patients were not particularly appetizing. Nutritious, of course, because Charles Grange was an authority on calories and vitamins.

Now Shannon ignored Grange’s question and spoke to the assembled persons. “There has been a—an accident. You will all know about it later. Right now the staff will return to duty and the patients to their rooms.”

Slowly they dispersed, with backward glances. Most of the persons there knew Dr. Shannon and liked him. Miss James, tight-lipped, walked briskly away, headed for her desk in the south wing. When the corridor was empty, Shannon faced Grange and said bluntly, “There’s been a murder.”

“What?”

Shannon said evenly, “Mr. Lewis Sprang, a patient of mine, was killed in his room some time last night.”

Grange waved a fat white hand, dismissing the statement. “Impossible,” he said coldly. “I suggest that you make another diagnosis. Mr. Sprang is an old man. Hemorrhage, perhaps, of cerebral origin, a stroke. Or coronary thrombosis. A murder could not possibly occur in this hospital. Why do you—”

“Shut up,” Shannon snapped, “and don’t spout medical mumbo-jumbo to me. Miss James found him dead, murdered, and she screamed, naturally. He died from a blow on the head, several blows. I’m calling the police.”

Charles Grange stiffened and his lips puffed out. “Now, look here, Shannon, I’m running this hospital. You have no right to—”

“I’m the coroner,” Shannon cut in angrily, “and to you I’m
Doctor Shannon.”
He pointed to the door of 102. “You stay out of that room. Understand?” He swung away, already ashamed of his anger and knowing that he’d expended upon Grange part of his grief and shock and sense of outrage at the brutal killing of Lewis Sprang.

It was six-twenty in the morning and the cashier’s office was empty. Miss Coral Thatcher did not report until eight. Shannon used the phone there to call Chief of Police Chad Beckwith at the policeman’s home. When he answered, his voice thick with sleep, Shannon spoke quickly and to the point. When he’d finished, he heard Beckwith sigh. Then he said, “My God, Clint, that—that’s terrible.”

“Yes,” Shannon said in a tight voice. “I’ll wait for you here.” He hung up, lit a cigarette, took three thoughtful puffs and looked for an ash tray. Not seeing one, he stubbed the cigarette out in the earth of a small pot sprouting an African violet, thinking wryly that Coral Thatcher would not appreciate such desecration of her carefully tended plant. He also thought of calling Celia, but she and Jack would still be sleeping and there really was no reason to arouse them.

He returned to room 102. Charles Grange stood in the corridor talking to two nurses and an orderly. Shannon nodded grimly at the group, ignored Grange’s cold stare, entered the room and quietly closed the door. Dr. Kovici turned away from the window and gazed at Shannon silently. Shannon said “Beckwith is on his way.” He bent over the body on the bed, gently lowered the sheet and touched a lean cold cheek. “Maybe six hours,” he said softly, “give or take a little. Stomach contents will put it closer.” He straightened and sighed. “I’ll have to do an autopsy.”

“Can I do it for you, Clint?”

“Thanks, but it’s my job.” Shannon gazed at the body. “I—I feel sort of responsible.” He looked at Dr. Kovici and something blazed in his brown eyes. “It’s senseless,” he said harshly. “Lew didn’t have an enemy in this town, or anywhere. He was a kind man who helped many people.”

“That’s what I’ve heard. And it wasn’t robbery—his money is in his wallet in the drawer there.” Dr. Kovici nodded at the metal bedside table.

Gently Shannon thumped a fist into a palm. “Lew never hurt anyone. The—the thing that killed him is a—a wild animal. I’d like to find it and kill it, personally.”

“Relax, Clint,” Dr. Kovici said a little uneasily.

Shannon passed a hand over his face. “Sorry, John, but this thing hit me.”

“I understand. But why do you say you feel responsible?”

“Because I prescribed morphine for him last night, and seconal, because I wanted him to get all the sleep and rest possible before this morning. If I hadn’t, he would have been awake and able to fight back, cry for help. But he was a—a sitting duck. Maybe if he had not been drugged he would still be alive.”

“You followed standard procedure, Clint. Don’t blame yourself.”

“I know, I know,” Shannon said wearily.

Chief of Police Beckwith arrived a little before seven o’clock. Shortly afterward the homicide crew set up operations in room 102. Flash bulbs popped, fingerprint and lab men went to work and Beckwith set up headquarters in Charles Grange’s office for the interrogation of hospital personnel. The hospital was in an uproar and Dr. Shannon did not have time to think about his patient in room 140, the attractive middle-aged woman who had been found unconscious on Snake Island, and who had traded rooms with Lewis Sprang.

On that Monday morning George Yundt dressed for work and counted his blessings. He was still shaken at Mr. Sprang’s announcement that he intended to close out his savings account, but was thankful that he had warning. For the first time he realized the seriousness of what he had done and what the consequences could be. If he had not gone on the fishing trip with Mr. Watson and Mr. Sprang, and thus learned of Mr. Sprang’s intentions, he would probably be in jail before the day was over. George shivered a little as he stood before the dresser mirror in his room at the Y and adjusted his bow tie. It had been a lucky thing for him; he could fix it up now, return Mr. Sprang’s money to his account. He thought of the bills in the cardboard box on the floor of his closet, buried beneath other boxes, old shoes and a stack of books, almost seven thousand dollars. He’d put all of it back, Mr. Sprang’s first, and forget his dream of going to Cuba and beginning an exciting new life. It had been silly, anyhow. What had made him have such a dream? And what had made him steal (yes, steal—let’s face it, George) to realize such a dream? Yes, he’d put it all back, a little at a time, starting today with Mr. Sprang’s three thousand dollars.

As a teller in the Harbor City State Bank, George Yundt’s salary was three hundred and forty dollars a month, which was not bad for an unmarried man of twenty-four who had quit school in his second year of high and who had no special talents and almost no ambition. He sometimes thought vaguely that he would like to be cashier of the bank some day and sit at the front desk behind the low railing with the swinging door, but he had no real hope. He was the youngest male employee and by the time the present man in line for the cashier’s job had filled it, and died, he would be far too old, even if he stayed with the bank that long. It was when George realized the hopelessness of a career in the banking business, or in any business for a young man with his limited qualifications, that he began to work out his system of transferring customer’s funds into his own pocket. It was the only way he could accumulate any real money to do the things he wanted to do, such as going to Cuba, even though he saved more than half his salary each month.

His system was simple and he was confident that he could continue to cover up indefinitely, or at least until the next bank examination, and that would not be for a year. The auditors had just left without catching him. The spot-check they’d made on savings accounts had not been on any of the accounts he’d pillaged. After a little practice it had been easy for him to forge withdrawal slips on large inactive accounts belonging mostly to elderly people. He was very careful about copying the sometimes shaky signatures from the master cards, and even if a withdrawal should be questioned it would be difficult to prove that he was the culprit. Old people could be forgetful about withdrawing money, especially if they were confronted with a reasonable facsimile of their signatures. Also, there were other tellers and workers in the bank, which was a large one, serving four counties along the south Erie shore. George merely selected an inactive account, signed a withdrawal slip for any amount he chose, ran it through the bank’s records and took the money from the till.

George Yundt’s parents were divorced and both remarried, his mother to a bartender in Sarasota, Florida, and his father to a widow with six children in Davenport, Iowa. He seldom heard from them and did not think about them very much. They had been divorced when he was fourteen. A maiden aunt, his father’s sister, had taken him in, because she was lonely and because she did not approve of the new mates chosen by her brother and ex-sister-in-law. Aunt Louise lived on Social Security and a small pension from the telephone company where she had been employed for thirty-two years. George’s time with her had been pleasant, and he had been sorry when she died the day before his sixteenth birthday.

His parents had not been able to attend the funeral, but both wrote to him asking about the terms of Aunt Louise’s will, and telling him to let them know if he needed anything. He didn’t need anything, not from them. He had an after-school job at the bank doing janitor work and he continued to live alone in Aunt Louise’s cottage on the edge of town. Mr. Sprang had been the executor of the estate and had called on George one October evening to tell him that he was the sole heir to his aunt’s worldly possessions, and that he, Mr. Sprang, had been appointed (in his aunt’s will) to look after George’s interests until he was eighteen.

That had been fine with George. He liked Mr. Sprang, who was a board member of the bank and had gotten him the part-time janitor’s job. The estate had not been much. The cottage had been mortgaged for almost as much as the sale brought, and George wound up with his aunt’s clothing, which he gave to the Salvation Army, and the furniture, which he sold for one hundred and ten dollars. Also, there was thirty-seven dollars and fifty-two cents in a sugar bowl in a cupboard over the kitchen sink, and a few old books in the attic:
When Knighthood was in Flower; Over the Top; Janice Meredith; Tarzan of the Apes; Elmer Gantry; When a Man’s a Man,
by Harold Bell Wright, and a complete set of the works of Robert Louis Stevenson bound in red leather. George kept the books, mostly because no one wanted them, not even as a gift, and transferred them to the room he rented at the Y.M.C.A. He eventually read most of them and his favorites were
Treasure Island
and
Janice Meredith.

Shortly after his aunt’s death George was forced to quit school. Mr. Sprang, continuing his kindness, had secured him a job as junior teller in the bank. After George’s parents learned that Aunt Louise had been practically estateless he heard nothing more from them, except at Christmas, when he usually received a card from his father’s wife and a dollar bill from his mother.

He seldom dated girls in Harbor City, although he had plenty of opportunity, serving the public as he did. Girls did not interest him particularly; they seemed silly and juvenile. He admired older women, but unfortunately most of those who came into the bank were married or otherwise attached. He spent many evenings alone in his room, listening to his small radio, reading one of Aunt Louise’s books or a paperback western or science story. He did not smoke or drink, but liked food very much, especially rich pastries and chocolate sundaes garnished with nuts and whipped cream. For this reason, at the age of twenty-four, he was beginning to get fat, even though he swam a lot, both in the Y pool and in the lake. Swimming was his one real accomplishment.

He had decided that when he’d accumulated ten thousand dollars, which would be soon now, at the time his two-week annual vacation was due, he would just take off and no one would know that he was not returning to Harbor City, not until his vacation was over and he failed to report for work at the bank. By that time he would be safe in Havana, Cuba. For some obscure reason the very thought of that tropical city had always stirred him with delight and longing.

George was intelligent enough to know that his life was aimless, that he should have more ambition, more drive, as Mr. Swann, second assistant cashier at the bank was always telling him, in a friendly way. But why should he? He was practically alone in the world, and as long as he had food, clothing and shelter he was content. The bank officials liked George, even though he often seemed to be dreaming of things not connected with his work. But his cage usually balanced to the penny when banking hours were over, and he was popular with the customers, always polite, with a ready smile. He was nice-looking, fresh and wholesome. His clothes were neat and in good taste. He wore a freshly laundered starched white shirt every day and a subdued clip-on bow tie. Mr. Swann, who considered himself a smart dresser, had told him many times that he should learn to knot his own bow ties because factory pre-tied ones looked artificial. George could never see the logic of this; his bow ties looked much neater than Mr. Swann’s sloppy polka-dot ones, with the ends never even. Mr. Swann insisted that it was a mark of grooming for a man’s appearance to be casual, but he could never convince George that his shirts should not be starched.

George Yundt solved his infrequent biological urges in the only normal way possible to a bachelor without regular social contact with females; when necessary he visited a certain well-draped, softly-lighted establishment on the outskirts of the metropolis of Toledo, Ohio. The price was ten dollars, and well worth it in his time of need, George thought, and the lady who conducted the place was pleasant and discreet. Sometimes before George left she gave him a can of beer in her clean bright kitchen and talked to him in a motherly manner. Her house was forty miles from Harbor City and George always went alone. Working in a bank, he had to be careful.

He was lonely much of the time, although he did not realize it, and often he had bad dreams at night. He joined one of the local service clubs, but Mr. Swann had been stuffy about his taking a long noon hour to attend the luncheons once a week, and he dropped out. He was not really sorry; the eager, loud-talking, civic minded members of the club had bored him. He did not really care whether or not the Red Cross or the Community Chest or the Heart Fund made their quotas, or if Christmas baskets were delivered to the needy.

When he was twenty-four years old George’s only real desire was to go to Havana. He was certain that he could make some sort of connection there (he had been quite good in sophomore Spanish) and start a new life. Maybe he would meet and marry a beautiful and wealthy Cuban girl, the daughter of an aristocrat. It was not impossible. In the meantime, until he had ten thousand dollars, before his vacation was due, he would continue his role of the quiet and friendly George Yundt, that nice young man who works in the State Bank, at the third window, you know? The one with the blond wavy hair and the friendly smile? I always wait for him. He’s
so
nice about clipping coupons for me. I live on the coupons, you know, and simply never dip into my savings account. I just let the interest pile up and don’t even check the balance.
That’s
for my old age…

George Yundt knew it was wrong to take the money from the elderly customers’ savings accounts, but he did not worry about it. He simply knew that he was going to smile his way through the days at the bank until ten thousand dollars was in the box in his room. Then he would be free. He held no bitterness toward anyone, not for his parents, not even Mr. Swann. He knew what he wanted to do and he had it all figured out. His vacation would start on Saturday afternoon (the bank was open until noon on Saturday). He would pack, drive his old Chevvy to Toledo, sell it at a used car lot there, take a taxi to the airport and a plane to Miami. Then a plane to Havana. He had checked the schedules and already he was visualizing blue water, Morro Castle and white sand. And freedom.

But it was all over now, the dream. He had not actually realized that he was a criminal until Mr. Sprang had mentioned his savings account and his decision to withdraw it today. It had been so easy to get the money, so absurdly simple, but now the fear of discovery was like ice in his chest and stomach. He went to the closet, removed the cardboard box, counted out three thousand dollars and placed the bills in the inside pocket of his tan summer-weight suit. Then he left his narrow cell-like room, locked the door. He had breakfast in the diner across the street, where he usually ate, uneasily aware of the bills in his pocket.

A little before eight-thirty he reached the bank, entered with his key, moved across the huge marble-floored lobby, through a low swinging door to the bookkeeping area and on to the employee’s cloak room behind the massive vault. The only other employee there at this hour was Dan Canberri, the vault custodian and keeper of the safe deposit boxes, an aged, sour-faced man who had been promoted from janitor to custodian when arthritis prevented him from mopping the lobby floor twice a week. He was tilted back in a chair against the wall smoking a vile smelling cigar and reading the morning Cleveland Plain Dealer before he placed it on the desk of the president, Mr. Allison, who did not arrive until nine-thirty, after the bank had opened for business and things were humming. As George passed Mr. Canberri he said, “’Morning, Dan,” and kept going. Mr. Canberri grunted and continued to read Mr. Allison’s paper.

In the privacy of the cloak room George counted the money again, to make certain it was all there. Then he entered the men’s washroom, ran a comb through his thick blond hair, adjusted his bow tie and went out to his cage. Other employees were arriving now, they greeted him in friendly fashion. Mr. Swann came in at a quarter of nine and went through the morning ritual of opening the vault. Mr. Swann was the official vault-opener and had never been late. When the huge door swung open George was first in line to get his cash tray. Mr. Swann checked it out for him and George carried it to his cage and marked his balance sheet. After the bank opened at nine he was busy for the first half hour with a flurry of customers, mostly merchants getting change, silver and bills, for the day’s business. During a lull at nine-forty George went to the depositors’ file, removed Mr. Sprang’s signature, card and carried it to his cage. There, after making certain that he was not observed, he made out a savings deposit slip in Mr. Sprang’s name for three thousand dollars, currency, and carefully copied the signature. Then he removed the bills from his inside jacket pocket, placed them with the slip in his cash drawer and breathed a deep sigh of relief. He would replace the rest of the money he’d taken from other accounts within a few days, he thought, and all would be well. As long as the total savings account balances were correct, no one would ever bother to check. the dates of deposits and withdrawals.

At ten o’clock Mr. Swann made his preliminary rounds to collect the items in each cage so that the bookkeeping department could get a start on the day’s business. After he was gone George turned to the man at the window next to his and said, “Guess I’ll grab a cup of coffee.”