The Dishonest Murderer (14 page)

She saw the telephone, then. For a moment it seemed to grin at her as Smiley had grinned; seemed to challenge her, to dare her. It is obvious what you have to do, the telephone told her. It is perfectly obvious. You can't get out of it.

She reached a gloved hand for the telephone; with the gloved finger of the other hand she spun the dial. She waited, and Watkins said, “Admiral Satterbee's residence.”

“Watkins,” she said. He got in a quick “Yes, madam?”

“Can I speak to the admiral, Watkins?” she said. This would be it, the answer would be it.

“Certainly, madam,” Watkins said. “I'll tell him you're calling.”

She felt as if she had held that first deep breath, taken as if for a dive, from the moment she had released her hold on the door frame until this moment, as if only now could she let the breath go. It came out in a sigh.

Then she heard an indrawn breath at the other end of the telephone line and, eagerly, spoke first.

“Dad,” she said. “I just—”

“I'm sorry, madam,” Watkins said. “I believed the Admiral was in the library. But Marta tells me he has gone out. Is there any—”

The muscles of Freddie Haven's throat seemed to stiffen.

“Has he—has he been gone long, Watkins?” she managed to say.

“About three-quarters of an hour, I believe,” Watkins said. “At least Marta—”

“Yes,” Freddie said. Her voice sounded dulled, numbed, to herself. “I see, Watkins.”

“Is there any message, madam?”

“No,” she said. “It isn't important. Thank you.”

“Thank you, madam,” Watkins said, as she was replacing the telephone.

She stood, her hand still on the telephone, looking at the top of the desk, looking at nothing. Then the telephone seemed again to be challenging her, issuing its dare.

Call the police, the telephone seemed to say. You know you have to call the police. Tell them what you have found. The challenge—which was the challenge of all her training, all its acceptance of authority—was so overpowering that she started to lift the receiver again, even reached out to dial. She knew the number; everyone in New York knew the number. Spring 7-3100. Or you dialed the operator and said that you wanted a policeman.

She drew back her hand. She stood, looking down at the telephone, her mind racing.

If I telephone the police, she thought, they will make me tell them all I know; I will have to tell them what I know. I know when this man was killed, and they will find out that Dad was not at home, that he had gone out—in time. I know that Smiley saw Dad last night. The police can only suspect, even if the Norths have told them what I said when I went there. But only I can say the man was Smiley. The police cannot disprove it if I say it was another man—a man who looked a little like this man, but was not this man. But if I do not telephone now it may be hours before they find Smiley, and then they will not be able to tell exactly when he died and that will help Dad. And then she thought—if they do not even find me, they will not be able to prove that Smiley was the man who visited Dad, unless he tells them. They will only be able to guess. If they do not find me, I will not have to tell anything I know—not about the time he was killed, or anything.

If I can get out of here quickly, quietly, she thought, if I can keep out of the way until I can talk to Dad, that will be the best way. That is what I have to try to do. She looked at her gloved hands and thought that she would have left no fingerprints, so that they need not even know, need not ever know, that she had been there. But then she remembered the man who had brought her up in the elevator.

He would be able to describe her; probably if it came to that, he would be able to identify her. That could not be helped. If it came to the point, she would merely deny it, putting her word against his. The police could choose; they might believe the man, but they would find it hard to prove.

The thing was to get out of the office, away from the grinning dead man. She forced herself to remember everything. She had not at any time removed her gloves; she was carrying only her bag. She did not see that she was leaving anything behind which would help them prove she had been there.

She went out of the office and up the shabby corridor toward the elevator. But before she came to the elevator, she came to a door marked “Fire Stairs” and hesitated for a moment. There was a chance that the man on the elevator had not looked at her carefully, would not be able to describe her well. In any case, his description would almost certainly be less precise if he saw her only once than if he saw her twice. She went down the stairs, which were lighted by dim bulbs set in the ceiling, which were very dirty.

She had thought the stairs would go to the basement of the building, and that from there she would find a way out unnoticed. But the stairs seemed to end on the first floor. As she came out, she thought, she would be in sight of the man if he was sitting on the wooden chair. She thought of climbing back to the floor she had left, ringing for the elevator, since to be seen again openly would be less damaging than to be seen leaving the building surreptitiously. But she decided to chance it. The man might be in the elevator, taking somebody else up. He might merely be somewhere else, about some other business. He might have gone out for a drink.

She pushed open the door quickly and found herself in the ground floor corridor, near the elevator. The wooden chair was there. It was empty. The door of the elevator stood open, but the man was not in the car.

She walked quickly toward the street door, her heels tapping on the corridor floor, tapping loudly, seeming to her to pound like gunfire in the corridor. But that could not be helped, and it might not be important. If she encountered the man now, she could insist she had rung for the elevator, had reluctantly walked down when it did not come.

She was out of the building, however, before she saw the man, and then his back was to her. He was pushing a snow shovel, unhurriedly, shoveling snow from the sidewalk into the street. Apparently he had not heard her, and she turned away quickly. There were more people around now than there had been; in front of a good many of the buildings men were cleaning the sidewalks. The snow had stopped; the sun was trying to come out.

She had gone perhaps a quarter of a block, and was beginning to feel momentarily safe, when she heard the sound of a siren behind her. She turned, involuntarily. A small police car skidded to a stop in front of the building she had just left. There was a policeman getting out, the man with the snow shovel was leaning on it, looking at him, other people were turning, beginning to move toward the car.

She forced herself to turn back. She forced herself to go on. She walked several blocks south before she allowed herself to hail a taxicab. Then she discovered that she had no idea where she could safely go.

VI

Saturday, 3:30 P.M. to 5:10 P.M.

Pamela North had left the bathroom door slightly open so that, if necessary, the discussion could be continued while she bathed. Jerry, somewhat the better for aspirin and coffee, lay on one of the beds and blew cigarette smoke at the ceiling. He said, not for the first time, that he failed to see how their intervention would help anybody. He said, also not for the first time, that Admiral Satterbee was not, to that extent, “his” admiral.

“You'll be sorry if you do,” Pam said, in reply to this. “I'm just telling you. You know how you hate to get your feet wet. I suppose I'm thinking more of the admiral's daughter, really.”

This presented no difficulties to Jerry North. One of the cats, probably Gin, was standing with forepaws on the edge of the bathtub, speculating on whether to join Pam in it. It was probably Gin, because Sherry had, on one rather exciting occasion, decided the same point in the affirmative, and Martini had not, since she was a very young cat, even considered anything so preposterous. Martini observed bathing from a distance, with rather haughty disapproval. Sherry now shuddered and closed her eyes to the horrid sight.

Jerry sorted this out, effortlessly, and replied to the remark addressed to him. He said that the admiral's daughter was even less “his” than the admiral.

“But very pretty,” Pam said. “And don't eat the rug.”

“Still not mine,” Jerry said, and was told not to sound so wistful.

“Seriously,” Pam said, splashing, “she wants us to help. Bill wants us to help. I think we ought to help.”

That, Jerry told her, was the point. Freddie Haven wanted them to help her; Bill Weigand wanted them to help him. “A conflict of interests,” Jerry said.

“Not if—” Pam said. “I'm sorry, Teeney. I didn't mean to. I splashed her. Unless the admiral really did do it, or hired the fat man.”

Pam splashed again and the telephone rang. Jerry said, “Hell!” and went into his study to answer it. “If it's for me, I'm in the tub,” Pam said, raising her voice. “And don't eat the towel, either.” Jerry heard this faintly, from a distance. He said “Yes?” into the telephone.

“This is the admiral,” he was told and, in spite of the remnants of his headache, Jerry North grinned. Momentarily, he was tempted to reply, “What admiral?” He said, “Yes, Admiral?”

“There's hell to pay,” the admiral said. “This man Kirkhill's got himself killed. One was going to marry Freddie.” He paused. “My daughter,” he said, amplifying.

Jerry North said he knew. He said it was a very shocking thing.

“Damned nuisance,” the admiral told him. “Freddie's upset. Hear you've had experience in such things.”

“I suppose you mean murder,” Jerry North said. “I suppose you think we're detectives, too. We're not.”

“Too?” the admiral said.

“Tour daughter does,” Jerry told him. “Did, anyway.”

There was a brief pause.

“That where she is?” the admiral said. “Your place?”

“Not now,” Jerry said. “She was. Early this morning. As you say, she's upset.”

“What did she tell you?”

Jerry hesitated a moment, made his decision.

“That you had a visitor last night,” he said. “Early this morning. After Senator Kirkhill's body had been found. A visitor she didn't like. She's afraid—”

“No reason to be,” the admiral said, cutting in. “But—”

Jerry waited. Admiral Satterbee seemed suddenly to have run down. Then the admiral said, “Wumph.”

“Something needs straightening out,” he said, and spoke rather rapidly, as if he wanted to get through with it. He made a slight sound, almost a gulp. “Tell you, North,” he said. “Appreciate your advice. You and that wife of yours. Know you've had experience.”

“We'll do anything we can,” Pam North said. Her voice was loud in Jerry's ear. She was on the living room extension.

“What?” Admiral Satterbee said. “North, you there? Who—”

“This is Pamela North, Admiral,” she said. “
You're
upsetting your daughter, more than anything. You and this fat man.”

“Wumph,” the admiral said. “Good afternoon, Mrs. North. Your husband seems to feel—”

“He's got a headache,” Pam said. “It's nothing. Champagne, mostly. And hating being mixed up in murder.”

“I—” Jerry said.

“Like you to come up, then,” the admiral said. “Matter of fact, Freddie's—gone away somewhere. Worried about her.” He paused. “Worried about the whole business,” he said. “I—I may have made a—” He paused, taking a deep breath before a difficult word. “Mistake,” he said. “Can't deny it.”

“We'll come,” Pam North said. “Won't we, Jerry?”

“I—” Jerry said.

“In—oh, half an hour,” Pam said. “If we can get a cab.”

“North?” the admiral said.

“All right,” Jerry North said. He replaced the receiver. In a moment he was joined by his wife. She was wearing a towel and an expression of animated interest.

“The poor man,” she said. “What could we do?”

Jerry looked at her and was pleased with what he saw. He stood up, took her shoulders in his hands, and kissed her.

“All right?” she said.

“Sure,” Jerry North said. His head no longer seemed to ache. “Sure,” he repeated.

“Innocent admiral,” Pam said. “Case of the. Get dressed, Jerry.”

He looked at her and grinned.

“Heavens,” she said. “I'm practically dressed. All I have to do is put on my clothes.”

Dressing took neither of them long. Nor were they long in finding a taxicab. But the trip uptown was a slow slither through snow already dirty, churned by wheels. A maid answered the door of the Satterbee apartment, said the admiral was expecting them, took them through the living room to the library which opened off it. Admiral Satterbee, tall, erect, military in a gray suit, came around a broad, mahogany desk. There were two piles of manuscript pages on the desk, one taller than the other.

“Working on your book, North,” he said. “Occupying my time. Freddie's not back yet.”

He stood looking at them, and his eyes were worried.

“Good of you to come,” he said. He looked at them, looked down at them. “I'm worried,” he said. “I'm afraid my daughter is—misunderstanding something.” He seemed to seek words. When he found them, they were not clarifying. “Didn't want her to make a mistake,” he said. “About Kirkhill. But I may have fouled things up.” He looked at them, as if this were illuminating. “Didn't know he'd get himself killed, of course,” the admiral said. “Couldn't anticipate that. Wumph?”

He seemed to blame Kirkhill, whose action had been irregular.

“But sit down,” he said. “Get you a drink?”

“Yes,” Jerry said. “That would be fine.”

“Scotch,” the admiral said, not as a question. He opened a cabinet, took out a bottle, glasses, a thermos jug of ice, soda. He mixed three drinks. He handed them around. He sat down behind the big desk.