Pushing Murder (10 page)

“She did.”

“And she also said you'd like us to come see you.”

“I'd appreciate it.”

“Then of course we will. Loretta's secretary, a charming girl, is an excellent driver. She lives in New York and goes back and forth quite often. When shall we come? Mornings are best because”—the pleasant voice grew dejected—“by late afternoon Loretta is usually—shall we say—under the weather.”

“Could you come tomorrow as early as possible?”

“Nine o'clock?”

“Wonderful. You know St. Victor's Hospital?”

“Oh, yes. I left my appendix there about a hundred years ago.”

We laughed, and I said, “One more thing: please say nothing of this call to anyone.”

“Oh, we live very quietly. There's nobody—”

“I mean, if someone should call, perhaps someone you haven't heard from in years—”

“Mrs. Gamadge”—a little laugh—“at my age calls from old friends are a rarity—in fact, old friends themselves are a rarity!”

What a sweetheart. But I had to be definite. “Father, I don't want to sound melodramatic, but please, between now and when I see you, tell no one that I called or that you're coming here.”

“If you say so.”

“Thanks. See you tomorrow.”

I hung up, and Henry said, “Why all the caution? Aren't they a bit remote?”

“How do I know if they're remote?” I kicked at my covers irritably. “How do I know if Dwight even knew them? Maybe he didn't. Maybe he did. And if he did, suppose one of them knows something damaging that wasn't in Janet's letter? And suppose he decides to check on who
I'm
checking on.… We don't want him paying them a surprise Christmas visit, do we? Now go home, all of you, and come back tomorrow at nine to meet our visitors.”

*   *   *

I dozed, which was a mistake. Bad dreams can be more lethal during an hour's nap than in the course of a whole night. I woke up drenched in misery to find Sadd standing by the bed. His words didn't help a bit.

“The store is a little gem, business is good, and Sal is probably the happiest woman in New York City.”

11

“I'm getting quite attached to this room,” I said at eight forty-five next morning. “I may set up an office here.”

I'd been fed, tended, told I was in good shape, and now looked around at fresh floral tributes, more funny cards, and my teammates sipping coffee. “Who's going down to meet our visitors?”

“I will,” said Kit, putting down her cup. She left, and I said, “Sadd, tell Dan and Henry about the situation at Pushing Murder.”

Sadd put a marker in his book. “Well, he guards her like a dragon. Never leaves her side. I asked her to let me buy her a drink at the corner pub while Dwight minded the store, and she said fatuously that he never let her out of his sight—how right she is—that he was positively jealous and wasn't that silly and wonderful?”

We looked at each other wordlessly. Finally Henry said, “Have they moved into the apartment upstairs yet?”

“Yes, it's just finished, and we're all to be invited for a housewarming after Christmas.”

Oh, Lord, oh, Lord.

“As far as I can see,” Sadd went on, “they never leave the place. They eat up in the apartment, the phone rings there and in the store—Dunlop leaps for it—all shopping is apparently done in tandem, and Sal loves it.”

Dan said, “Did you talk to Dunlop?”

“Yes, indeed. We chatted, and he looked me in the eye, that is, when he wasn't looking at Sal—his vigilance is terrible—and he helped me pick out that stuff.” Sadd indicated a red plastic bag with the Pushing Murder logo. “Divide it up. Merry Christmas.”

Henry said, “He has to have some weakness, some vulnerability. Does he drink? See other women?”

“He sure as hell won't do either between now and Christmas,” said Dan. “The strain on him has got to be awful.”

“If it is,” I said, “he just keeps saying to himself, ‘Only X more hours and I'm free.' Then, in his Santa Claus costume, up the chimney he goes, and dash away, dash away.”

There was a tap on the door, and our visitors walked in with Kit.

For someone who had to “arrange” to be sober, Loretta Vaughan looked remarkably well. I remembered her as a big woman and had expected to see ravages, but she was heftier than ever, her gray hair was well groomed, and her gaze direct. Only her hands gave her away. As she took my outstretched one in both of hers, I felt as if I had grasped a live wire. She withdrew them quickly, thrust the poor, vibrating things in the pocket of her coat and said, “Clara, I'm sorry to see you here. And this is Father Bob.”

Tiny, bald, and birdlike, his clerical collar engulfing his chin, Father also extended his hand. It was paper thin but firm, and he said, “Mrs. Gamadge, I hope you're better.”

I assured him I was and introduced everyone. Loretta kept her hands in her pockets this time and nodded genially around. Father Bob shook hands, and Henry divested him of a dark green parka which would have nicely fit Hen. Loretta shrugged out of her coat, a worn tweed, and said she'd keep it over her shoulders. The lapels, I noticed, were a good grasping ground. Everybody sat down, coffee was offered and accepted.

“Just half a cup for me,” said Loretta. Wise. A full cup in those hands would be disastrous.

I said, “You are both wonderful to come.”

“We were glad to,” said Father. He put up his hand and adjusted a rather prominent hearing aid. “But it's for such a terrible reason.”

Loretta looked at the floor. “We're finding this very difficult to believe. It's a relief to talk about it, especially to people who won't gossip and only want to help. But before we say another word, Clara, what's put you in the hospital?”

I'd expected the question and had decided to withhold the whole answer for now. “I broke my ankle. Tell us, has Janet been buried?”

“She's been cremated,” said Father, “and I'll say a Requiem Mass for her at St. Francis Seminary. Her ashes will go in the family plot in Greenwich, where Lewis is buried.”

I reached for the prayer book and the scapular. “Thanks to Kit and Dan, we were able to salvage these. Would either of you like to have them?”

Loretta stood up and took the items from me. She glanced at them and handed them to the priest.

“Your department, Father.”

He looked at them, and his thin face worked. “I gave her both.”

The poor man. Had I made things worse? But I was trying to ease my way toward the fateful question. I said, “Look at the card with the guardian angel. Does that name mean anything to either of you?”

Loretta leaned toward him as he held it up. Father said, “Of course. May God forgive him.”

Loretta sat back in her chair. “What does that SOB have to do with anything?”

Everyone suppressed a smile, and Father Bob said gently, “Retta, there's no call for—”

“—for anything but to wish him in hell—if he isn't already there. Why do you ask, Clara? Are you going to tell us that that pismire has surfaced again?”

“Yes.”

“In relation to Janet?”

“Yes.”

“My God.”

“Retta”—Father looked distressed—“if you're going to be vulgar and profane—”

“—and not even drunk, think what I'll be later.” Her hands came out of hiding and rose, shaking, to push the neat gray bangs from her forehead. “Maybe you don't remember as well as I do, Father, but—”

“Certainly I do.” The frail shoulders moved. “Who has more reason to remember than I do?”

Sadd has a gift for easing a tense situation by introducing a subject entirely different but somehow apropos. He said, “Father, I have a confession to make. It has to do with your beautiful monastery in Italy, Monte Cassino.”

The little priest looked at him in surprise. “Monte Cassino? It was destroyed during the war, you know.”

“Yes, and I helped destroy it. I was in the Fifth Army. Mea culpa.”

“But you had no choice!” Father Bob was earnest. “It was a Nazi stronghold. The Benedictines had been driven out. And it's been beautifully restored.” He smiled. “Absolved.”

We all laughed a little except Loretta, who was staring at the floor. This was all very well, but back to rotten old business. I took the plunge. “Not only has Allen Quinn surfaced—under another name, of course—but he is the man we want.”

They both stared at me, and Loretta moistened her lips. “What do you mean?”

“He killed Janet.”

She didn't move. Father Bob seemed to shrivel in his chair. Henry stood up and opened my cabinet. He poured sherry into plastic glasses and said, “This will help.”

He put it into the priest's hand, but Loretta waved it away and opened her pocketbook. She took out a small flask, uncorked it, and downed the contents in one long pull. She jammed the cork back on and said, “That's all I brought with me, so have no fear that I'll disgrace you. Clara, how do you know this?”

I hesitated. “It's a longish story. He tried to kill me first. That's why I'm here.”

Neither spoke. My words seemed incomprehensible to them, and no wonder. I was handling it badly; I was trying to bring two persons in a canoe alongside a torpedo boat. Slow down, Clara, or they'll capsize.

Again Sadd came to the rescue. “Here's what happened: Janet ran into him quite by accident about a week ago. He is going under the name Dwight Dunlop, and he is victimizing a woman—”

“What else?” murmured Father Bob dazedly.

“—whom Janet knew and was fond of. Clara also knows her. Perhaps you do too, Mrs. Vaughan.”

I said, “Loretta, do you remember Sara Orne?”

“No. Yes. Vaguely.” Loretta looked longingly at her empty flask.

Dan said, “If we can get protection for this woman, we can let the police move in on Dunlop.”

“Move in on him!” Loretta glared around. “That sounds as if you know where he is!”

“We do,” I said.

“Clara—with my bare hands—”

“Retta”—the priest touched his ear with a trembling hand but spoke firmly—“we're here to help. You're not doing it with this exhibition.”

The door opened, and an aide came in with a magnificent poinsettia. Kit found a place for it and handed me the card. I put it aside, and Loretta said, “Okay, okay, you want to protect this person. I suppose I can understand that. But how in heaven's name can we help? After thirty years, he's well in the clear on the St. Elizabeth episode.”

“But there were other episodes,” said Henry. “And one might lead to another. Were you ever able to garner the smallest scrap of information on him since?”

Loretta was shaking her head grimly and thrusting the flask back in her pocket. “Not the smallest scrap. And believe me, Janet left no stone unturned. He became a second Invisible Man.”

“The first one was traced,” said Sadd thoughtfully, “partly by his footprints in the snow. We're hoping Allen Quinn left some footprints.”

Loretta looked at him. “What's that name he's going by now?”

“Dwight Dunlop.”

She snorted. “Of all the phony, pretentious—”

“There were others in between,” I said.

“I'll bet there were!”

Dan said, “And you have no records or documents or correspondence pertaining to him?”

“None.” It was Father Bob who spoke now, rousing himself. “When St. Elizabeth's closed, that chapter of Janet's life closed, and she never spoke of him again. And she never went to Bryantville again.”

“Where?” said Loretta, looking at him blankly. Then, “Oh, was that the name of the town? I can't even remember where it was.”

Kit said, “Mrs. Folsom said central Connecticut.”

“Probably.” Loretta's hands found refuge in her coat pocket, no doubt clasping the comforting flask. “Yes—now that I think of it, Janet had found some little place out in the boonies, in the Waterbury area.”

“Did you ever know anybody in the town?” asked Dan.

Loretta looked as astonished as if she'd been asked if she knew someone in Outer Mongolia.

Father Bob said, “Actually, there was one sad little last incident.” He took a sip of his sherry. “Remember the girl from Bryantville who came to see us, Retta?”

Again she looked blank, then nodded. “Sure. Forgot about her.”

“It was a month or two after Allen disappeared.” Father Bob looked into his glass. “She came to Janet in a distraught condition, saying she was expecting his child. We had no reason not to believe her.”

“No reason
whatever,
” said Loretta.

“But what could we do but help her financially?” He took another sip as we all sat rather still. A child who would now be what?—middle twenties?

Kit said, “And was it—was the child ever born?”

“I haven't the foggiest.” Loretta looked at her watch. “We never saw her again. Janet may have. It would be like her.”

“Do you remember the girl's name?” asked Dan.

They looked at each other helplessly, then Father passed his hand over his eyes. “It's all so long ago…”

“It was the usual sordid story.” Loretta stood up. “Of course he'd promised to marry her, and of course she didn't know he was already married.”

“Married?” Five spoke as one.

“To who?” I said.

“Whom,”
said Sadd.

They looked at each other in surprise.

“To Janet, of course,” said Father Bob.

Stunned silence, then I got out the words, “And Janet never divorced him?”

“Never.”

“He's a bloody bigamist!” cried Dan.

“Was,”
I said sadly. “Isn't now.”

12

Not our pleadings, protestations, or rain of questions could keep Loretta there five more minutes.