Stranger At Home (13 page)

She stood still for a moment. Then she turned and went out and shut the door.

Trehearne let his right hand drop very casually into his coat pocket. He sat down again on the corner of the desk.

“This is a funny kind of case, Mr. Vickers,” he said. “So many people were present at, or near, the scene of the crime, and yet nobody remembers anything. I've just got a report from the boys who have been checking the guest list. All any of those people can say is, ‘Hell, I don't know. I was drunk.' Nobody knows where anybody was, who anybody was with, or what time anything in particular happened. Nobody even remembers when you came in Nobody, that is, but Bill Saul.

“So everything that happened that night is hidden in a fine alcoholic haze. Only four things stand clear. You came back. You remained sober. At one time, your wife was down on the beach. And Harry Bryce was killed.”

He stopped, pulled a cigarette out of his pocket with his left hand, and then got his lighter the same way. He did not light the cigarette for effect, or to give him the chance for a dramatic pause. He wanted a cigarette because he was nervous and keyed-up, and trying not to show it, and because Bill Saul's beer had left a sour taste in his mouth. Vickers watched him. He did not seem to be worried. He was just watching.

Trehearne said, “I'd like to tell you what happened that night – as I see it.”

Vickers threw one long leg over the arm of the chair. “Why not have a comfortable seat while you're doing it? That desk corner is rather hard on the butt, I find.”

Trehearne said, “Thanks,” and got up, but he did not find himself a chair. He began to move around the room, slowly, aimlessly, but in such a way that he was always facing Vickers.

“Four years ago,” Trehearne said, “a man went on a cruise with three of his friends. One night one of the friends tried to murder him. Perhaps the friend did this merely because he coveted the man's wife. Perhaps the man's wife had secretly talked with the friend, and made certain suggestions, and promises. I don't know. Anyhow, the job was done, and bungled, because the man lived. He didn't tell anybody that he was alive, even after his memory returned; not even his wife. He didn't even tell anybody that he was coming back. This could only mean one thing. He knew that one of his friends had tried to kill him – and he didn't trust his wife.”

The sunlight lay in big sharp-angled squares on the rug, and it was quiet in the den when Trehearne stopped talking in order to think, and Michael Vickers lay back in the chair and said nothing.

Trehearne went on.

“He came back, late one night. Nobody knew he was coming. Nobody had a chance to set the stage for him, to cover up, to decide what he should see, and how much. The man wanted it that way. He walked in on a wild party. He couldn't find his wife. He must have asked about her, and the people who answered were drunk, and they didn't know who the man was, and they probably said things that were common gossip. And the man went on looking for his wife.

“He found her. She was down on the beach with one of his old friends, Harry Bryce. Perhaps they were in the cabana, perhaps not. Anyway, they were there, and he saw them.

“I think he didn't let them see him, for a while. Perhaps they were just on the verge of breaking up, and the wife was heading out for the open sea to cool off a bit. I think the man waited until she had gone, and then he walked up to his old friend and spoke to him, and then hit him very hard over the head with a short iron bar which he found lying about, and consigned the body to the water. After that he took out his handkerchief and wiped the bar carefully lest there be fingerprints, and then threw the bar after the body. There was blood and iron rust on his hands, and he cleaned them, too, and then weighted the handkerchief with a stone or something, and threw that after the bar. Then he went back up to the house where everybody was so wonderfully drunk, and played host for the rest of the night.

“Perhaps he was rather pleased with himself, playing host. Perhaps he was thinking there was one down, a part of his vengeance taken care of. Two more to go, and a faithless wife to be punished. Or perhaps he had recognized Harry Bryce as the man who struck him down. Anyway, he felt pleased, and pretty safe.”

Trehearne stopped and looked into Vickers' eyes, and waited.

After a moment Vickers said gently, “Have you ever done any fiction writing, Mr. Trehearne?”

Trehearne shook his head.

“You'd do well at it. You've concocted a really excellent little plot. From the limited data at your disposal, you've built quite an impressive structure.” Vickers smiled wryly. “I was clumsy about that log book, I admit. I'd hoped that Harry might inadvertently have said something important.” He sighed. “Good old Harry. I might have known.”

“But,” said Trehearne, “good old Harry is dead now, and you killed him.”

“That bit about the iron bar is based on fact, I suppose?”

“Yes. The murder weapon was found this morning. The laboratory found particles of blood and hair in the rough welding around the nut. That's what the phone call was.”

Vickers nodded. “The handkerchief was a nice piece of follow through. You'd make a writer, my boy.” He studied Trehearne, with malicious amusement. “Your accusation has not a God damned leg to stand on, you know. It's good sound deduction, all very logical, and I'd be inclined to believe it myself. But you know what a good defense lawyer will do to you in court.”

“I know,” said Trehearne. “Except for one thing. The handkerchief.”

There was the smallest hesitation before Vickers answered. “The what?”

Trehearne said patiently, as though it were something Vickers should have known all along, “They found a handkerchief, not far from the murder weapon. It was one of yours, initialed V. It had stains on it. Rust, the same rust that's on the bar. And blood. Harry Bryce's blood.” He shrugged. “We're still working on the case, of course. More evidence will probably show up. Meantime, I think I can take a chance on an indictment.”

Vickers sat up, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees. He stared at Trehearne.

“I suppose,” he said quietly, “it's no good telling you I didn't do it. That I didn't see Harry that night. That I wouldn't have killed him if I had. And that I never touched either the iron bar or the handkerchief.”

Trehearne said, “It's no good.” His right hand, in his pocket, tensed ever so slightly.

Vickers laughed. “Don't worry. I've nothing to get myself shot for – yet.” He leaned back in the chair, and Trehearne went to the door and opened it.

“Mrs. Vickers.”

She came in, holding herself very erect. She looked from Trehearne to Vickers and back again, and Vickers said, “I've been arrested, darling. For the murder of... Harry Bryce.”

Trehearne said sharply, “I'll take care of this, Vickers. And I must warn you that anything you say may be used in evidence against you. You too, Mrs. Vickers.”

Over in the chair, Vickers shut his hands over the ends of the chair arms until the knuckles turned white.

Angie said, “Do you think I did it?”

I don't think so. But there's always the chance that you and your husband did it together. That Harry Bryce had become so troublesome to you that you welcomed a chance to get rid of him, and in so doing reinstate yourself with your husband. I do not believe your story.”

“And you're arresting Vick.”

“That's right.”

Her enunciation was very slow, very precise. “On what grounds?”

“Common sense, generally. Specifically, his handkerchief was recovered from the bay, stained with blood that checks with that of the murdered man, and rust from the bar that killed him. That's enough for a starter.”

“What are you holding me for?”

“No charge as yet. Further questioning. Of course, neither one of you can be made to testify against the other.”

Her golden eyes met Vickers. Trehearne watched like a hawk, but not the faintest trace of a signal passed between them. “That's nice,” said Angie. “On the other hand – silence gives consent.” She put her hands suddenly to her temples and began to walk up and down.

“Handkerchief,” she said. “Wait a minute. What do I know about a handkerchief? So much has happened... Oh God, let me think!” She stopped, her head bent in an attitude of intense concentration. “Handkerchief. Mr. Trehearne, did you find one on the body?”

Trehearne's dark eyes narrowed. His voice had a curiously flat note when he answered. “Come to think of it, we didn't.”

Angie said, “Harry didn't have one when he came here that night. He'd forgotten it, or lost it. I gave him one of Vick's. A white one, of very fine linen, with a hand-embroidered V in the corner. Joan Merrill was with us. She'll remember. Is that the one you found?”

“Yes,” said Trehearne. ‘I'm afraid it is.” He sat down on the desk again. He was no longer smiling, and there was nothing in the least seraphic about the expression of his mouth. “That's fine. That helps a lot. Because if the handkerchief came off the corpse, anybody could have used it.” He thought a moment, and then went on softly, “Yes, anybody. Including someone who wanted Vickers accused of the crime, knowing he would be the logical suspect. Including a woman, who wouldn't have a handkerchief of her own right handy.”

Vickers got up. “I take it you're not arresting me, then.”

“I guess not,” Trehearne said. And added, “Yet.”

“Then,” said Vickers, “may I ask you to get the hell out of my house?”

“You may.” Trehearne rose. “After I have made this call.” He picked up the phone, dialed the Wilshire Regent, and asked for Mrs. Merrill. When she came on he asked a couple of carefully phrased questions concerning Angie, Harry Bryce, and the handkerchief, sighed, and said, “Okay, thanks. Angie's right here. Want to talk to her?” He stepped back and gave Angie the phone. His face was quite innocent. Vickers gave him a fleeting glance that was full of sardonic humor.

Angie said, “Hello, Joan. I tried to get you earlier on, but you... Yes, everything's all right. Of course. Vick and I are just taking it easy, and talking. No, thanks. Please, dear, don't be angry with us. Only a day or two, to get things straightened out, and then we want you back. I knew you would. All right, Joan. I'll call you tomorrow. Good-by.”

She hung up. Vickers turned to Trehearne. “Satisfied?”

“Should I be?” Trehearne picked up his hat and went out. Vickers and the two hounds followed him to the door. Angie stood at the doorway and watched them, her flowered shirt a spot of burning color in the dimness of the hall.

Trehearne said over his shoulder, “I'll be back.”

“Any time, old boy. Any time at all.” The friendly words were spoken in a tone that was sheer cold insult. Vickers shut the door. Trehearne went down the steps to his car. His dark eyes had a hot reddish light in them. He was beginning to understand what people meant about Michael Vickers.

On the way down the hill he stopped to talk to Brownie.

“Any luck?”

Trehearne shook his head. “No. Good lead, but it blew up in my face.” He looked with dreamy wistfulness into space. “I wish,” he said softly, “that you could throw people like that in the common tank and work 'em over for what they've got to give. Really work 'em.”

“You sound like you don't care much for Vickers.”

“I love him. I love to be called ‘old boy' in a tone that says I'm a little less than human and not quite clean. I love a man that's as good as hooked for a murder, and so Goddamned sure of himself that he doesn't flicker an eyelash. I love a man that's lucky the way he's lucky.”

Brownie winked. “How about Mrs. Vickers?”

“Ah,” said Trehearne. “There you pose me a problem. If I were not a sedate married man with two kids, I could go for that. I might wake up in hell the next morning with a love token shoved up to the hilt in my back, but I'm not sure it wouldn't be worth it.”

He sighed, and pushed the gear lever into second. “Keep your eyes open, keed. Wide open. If you see so much as a window shade out of place in the joint, grab the nearest phone.”

Brownie raised his eyebrows. “Like that, huh?”

“Like that.” The car began to roll. “Mr. Vickers has been away four years. He and his wife have a lot to talk over.”

Brownie withdrew into the shadows. Trehearne let the car coast downhill in second. He was thinking hard. Words of the old ballad wandered out of his mouth, with no conscious help from him.

Oh, true love, have you brought me gold, or have you paid my fee, or have you come to see me die upon the gallows tree?

After the door had closed on Trehearne's stiffly retreating back, Michael Vickers returned to Angie, who was still standing where the two men had left her. Or rather, she was leaning there, her head and shoulders back against the wall. Her features had the dry whiteness of chalk, and her eyes were closed. Vickers picked her up in his arms and carried her into the living room.

“I'm tired,” she whispered. “I'm so tired.” She began to cry, very quietly, not making any fuss about it. She did not even sob. The tears made little bright patterns on her cheeks.

Vickers put her down on the big couch and sat beside her. Very tenderly he pushed her dark hair back from her forehead and then let his hand stay there.

“You didn't have to tell him that,” he said, “about the handkerchief. I'd never have known, and Joan would never have given you away.”

“It was the truth. I won't have you accused unfairly.”

Vickers' mouth twitched, with a certain wry humor. “In other words, if I killed Harry I've got to be caught fair and square, with no deviation from the rules.”

Her eyes met his, held them, and did not turn away.