The Suspect (25 page)

He stopped. "It's a lovely tale, isn't it, Mr. Alberg? I'm sure you've heard it before, a man of your experience, a man who knows how long it takes some people to die."

He looked away, out at his garden.

"One day,” he said, "I don't know why, but I was out, for some reason, and Audrey wasn't with me. She was ten. I came home and I could hear it from outside the house: her screaming, my father roaring, my mother screaming? He gave Alberg a distorted smile. "Lucky we didn't have neighbors living close by, huh? Do you think that's why he got the place? Because nobody could hear what was going on inside?"

He got up again and went to the window. "I practically broke the door down, getting in,” he said bleakly. "He was beating her with a stick. Her face was bleeding, her hair was matted with blood. Her hands and arms were bleeding, too, because she'd stretched them out, see, to ward him off. My mother was clawing at his back. She was a small woman. I don't even think he felt her.

"I ran right through the house to the mudroom in the back and got the shotgun and loaded it and ran back into the room where they were and shot out all the windows. That stopped him, all right.”

He looked around the kitchen, but Alberg didn't think he saw it.

"I pointed the shotgun right at him," said George, detached. "I told him to get the hell out and never come back or I'd blow his goddamn head off. He stood there, lurching around the room, waving his hands and swearing at me. He wouldn't come close—I think he knew how badly I wanted to do it blow his head to kingdom come.”

He turned to look at Alberg. "But he wouldn't go, either. I think he was so drunk he couldn't quite figure out what I was yelling at him. Meanwhile there's Audrey on the floor, bleeding and crying, and my mother looking wildly around, not knowing what to do."

George shuffled around behind the leather chair and hung onto its high back. "I dropped the shotgun and shoved him out of the house. The car was sitting out there. An old,Model T. I pushed him into it—he stank of booze and he could hardly stand up, but I shoved him into the driver's seat and got the car going. 'Drive,' I said to him. 'Drive, you son-of-a-bitch. Get the hell out of here.' Then I ran back into the house, to see to Audrey. "

He pushed a hand through his hair and looked almost bewildered, for a moment. Then he let himself lean heavily upon the back of the chair. "My mother was with her, by then. I'll give her that. She was crooning at her, looking over the injuries. I came charging in and I said, 'The bastard's in the car, it's pointed up the canyon road, if there's a Christ in heaven he'll drive himself over the cliff.' I was shouting and shaking all over."

He looked directly at Alberg. "But then my mother heard the car rev up and start to move away, all jerky-sounding. Her head came up and she scrambled to her feet and she ran out after him. She was screaming at him, telling him she was sorry."

He leaned forward a little, looking at the staff sergeant intently. "Did you get that, Mr. Alberg? She was telling him she was sorry."

"I got it, Mr. Wilcox," said Alberg quietly.

George gave a shuddery sigh. He had aged, shockingly, since Alberg had come into the house. "I went outside," he said. "I saw her running after the car. It wasn't going very fast. I watched her, didn't even yell at her, and I saw her get herself onto the running board, and open the door, and climb into the car." Alberg watched him carefully.

"I fixed up Audrey as best I could. Had to take her to the doctor, though, for stitches."

Alberg waited.

"It was such a long time ago," said George. He was ancient, now, his skin the color of parchment. "Sometime that night, or maybe it was early in the morning, I can't remember, they came to tell us the car had gone over the cliff."

He looked up. "It was a minister and a Mountie, as a matter of fact," he said, "who came to tell us that.”

He came around the chair, holding on to it, and sat down. "That's it, Mr. Alberg,” he said. "I killed my parents. I killed them both. That's what it comes down to. And I've got absolutely nothing more to say to you."

After a while, Alberg got up and left.
 

CHAPTER 30

"You might want to look in on your friend George," said Alberg when she opened the door. He looked haggard and depressed.

"Where is he?” said Cassandra, who was in her nightclothes. "At home.”

"What's the matter with him?”

Alberg looked beyond her, into her house. "He's very tired.”

He leaned against the doorframe. "Why didn't you tell me he was moving?"

"Why should I have told you?”

Alberg sighed. "May I come in? just for a minute? I won't stay long. I've got to get home .... ”

They went into the living room, where a crystal pitcher filled with sweet peas sat on the glass coffee table. Cassandra noticed that he looked at this for a long time. He would recognize the pitcher, she knew.

"He's very fond of you," he said.

"Yes," said Cassandra. "And I'm very fond of him." Her eyes were filling with tears. She clenched her fists. '

"He did it, you know," said Alberg, still looking at the flowers in the crystal pitcher.

"Did what?" said Cassandra.

He turned slowly to look at her. She watched his face as the thought first skittered across his mind, then skittered back, grew still, and took root there.

"You knew,” he said.

"Knew what?" said Cassandra, desperately.

"Oh, for Christ's sake, Cassandra, stop playing games with me. He did it. He killed him. How long have you known?"

They were still standing, and he seemed to tower above her, his eyes icy and his face pale. "When did he tell you? Did he run to you that same afternoon, weeping on your shoulder. . because you remind him so much of his sister? How long have you known?”

"Stop shouting at me," said Cassandra, suddenly strong. "If you want to speak to me in my own house you will sit down and speak to me like a civilized human being, not a frustrated damn cop."

He opened his mouth, closed it. "Tell me,” he said grimly, and he didn't sit down.

"Tell you what? I have nothing to tell you.”

"For Christ's sake, Cassandra—" With an effort, he lowered his voice. "We're talking about a homicide."

"I know what we're talking about,” said Cassandra. "You don't have any evidence, do you? And he hasn't told you anything, has he?"

"He told you,” said Alberg bitterly. "I know he did."

Her anger drained away. She was regretful and heavy-hearted, looking at him. She wanted to embrace him, as she had embraced George, and try to comfort him, as she had tried to comfort George.

"Karl. Listen to me." He turned hostile eyes on her. "I can't help you. Even if he had told me he did it, and I reported this to you, it wouldn't help you much. If,” she said carefully, "if he had told me he committed a crime, I would have rummaged around in my library. And I would have found out that a confession like that isn't admissible evidence, it's hearsay. " She looked away from him. "You'd have to get corroboration even if he confessed to you directly. Which he hasn't." She looked up at him. "And which he won't."

He moved toward the door.

"No, please.”

He waited, not looking at her.

"He's a miserably unhappy old man,” said Cassandra. "He's giving up everything he loves—his garden, his life here. He is not in any way a danger to anyone. And he's my friend.”

Alberg looked at her with contempt. He went to the door.

"Is your job so simple, Karl? Is your job really so damned cut and dried?"

She had to raise her voice and speak very quickly to get the last words out before the door slammed behind him.
 

CHAPTER 31

The next day Sid Sokolowski was standing by the counter making conversation with the duty constable when he heard the front door open. He turned, casually, and saw George Wilcox.

"Who's in charge around here?" said George. He was dressed in a brown suit Sokolowski figured must be almost as old as he was, and a brown tie, and was wearing a brown hat with a narrow brim from which sprang a small green and red feather.

"Staff Sergeant Alberg is in charge, sir," said Isabella, looking him over. "What's the nature of your business?"

"That parrot is the nature of my business, madam,” said George, waving toward the bird. "It's my property, and I've come to claim it."

Sokolowski had disappeared down the hall. He now hurried back into the reception area, followed by Alberg.

"Good morning, Mr. Alberg," said George.

"Good morning, Mr. Wilcox," said Alberg.

"May I have a word with you in private?"

"Sure. Come to my office.”

George didn't sit down, when offered a chair. He wandered curiously about, looking out the window, sticking a finger in the soil of the ivy that still sat on top of the filing cabinet, finally coming to rest behind Alberg's desk, facing the wall on which hung the photograph of the staff sergeant's daughters. He studied the photograph absorbedly for several seconds while Alberg, moored awkwardly in the center of his office, watched him and grew increasingly irritable.

"Well?" he said finally. "What is it that you want, Mr. Wilcox? Have you changed you mind? Want to sign a statement?"

The bitterness in his voice startled him, and it seemed to startle George Wilcox, too. He turned from the photograph and looked at Alberg.

"They're beautiful young women, Mr. Alberg," he said. "I envy you. I understand you're divorced. Divorce won't hurt them. At least, not for long."

He walked around to sit in the black chair, allowing Alberg access to his own swivel chair and the comforting paraphernalia that cluttered the surface of his desk.

"I came to tell you something," said George. He took off his hat and held it in his lap, stroking its feather. "There's life," he said, "and there's conscience, and there's fate, and then there's law, Mr. Alberg. I've struggled with three of them, and I've decided to avoid a struggle with the fourth.”

Alberg felt unutterably depressed.

"And it's not as though the struggling's over with," said George, so softly that Alberg had to strain to hear him. "I don't even know if I had reasons for some of the wrong things I've done. I don't even know if things are really as complicated as they seem to be or if—if it's just that I was plain wrong.”

He put on his hat, adjusting it with fumbling fingers. "I thought it might give you some satisfaction, if I told you that."

The white waves of his hair swept out beneath the brim of his hat, echoing its curve. As he got unsteadily to his feet, it struck Alberg for the first time that an eighty-year-old man probably didn't have much longer to live.

"I meant it about the parrot," said George, as they went slowly down the hall. "I have to take it with me." He stopped out of hearing range of Isabella. "The other stuff. If it turns out that it has to come to me, like the will says, I've made arrangements to have it all sold."

"Planning another trip on the proceeds?" said Alberg.

George looked up at him. Defeated, he shrugged. "I've got to take the damn bird, though," he said obstinately.

Back in the reception area, Alberg grasped the handle of the cage, through the cloth, picked it up, and handed it to him.

"Be my guest," he said.

The parrot shrieked.

"We'll miss him,” said Isabella.

"I'm sure he'll miss you, too,” said George.

"Give him some cheese now and then,” said Isabella. "It seems to keep him calm.”

"Does it, now," said George.

"How are you going to get him home? Have you got a car? Where do you live?" said Isabella.

"I have my own personal taxi, madam,” said George, "which is right now waiting to deliver me to the bus station. " He went out the door without another glance around him.

Alberg, through the window above the green-cushioned bench, saw Cassandra's yellow Hornet waiting at the curb. Before he turned away he saw her reach across the front seat to open the passenger door for George.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, George and Cassandra were sitting side by side in the waiting room of the small bus station. They were surrounded by three large suitcases, a cardboard carton tied with heavy string, and the parrot's cage, cloaked in its red-and-white checked cloth.

Alberg came through the door and walked directly over to George. He didn't acknowledge Cassandra's presence.

"I have something for you," he said, handing George a brown paper bag. "Don't open it until you're on the bus."

He turned and walked away before George could say a word. Cassandra reminded herself that he was just a cop, a stubborn, coldhearted cop whom she'd known for precisely six days.

When the bus came, the driver loaded George's three suitcases and the cardboard carton into the bottom of the bus. He expressed dismay about the parrot but was finally persuaded to let George carry it on his lap.

Cassandra tried to embrace him but it was difficult because he wouldn't let go of the cage, from which issued a series of ever more piercing cries, or the brown paper bag. She contented herself with kissing his cheek and patting his shoulder and making him promise to write to her.

George, as the bus left, waved until Cassandra was out of sight.

He had managed to get a seat by a window and the bus wasn't full so he stashed the parrot on the seat next to him, where it gradually quieted.

He wiped his eyes and pushed his handkerchief back in the pocket of his suit jacket and undid the jacket buttons and sat for some time, looking out the window, with the brown paper bag in his lap. He had felt the outlines of its contents through the paper and thought he knew what it was.

Eventually he took it out, and as soon as he saw it he was stabbed with love, and grief, and a terrible sense of things having gone wrong. AMW—Audrey Marion Wilcox. He and Myra had given it to her, on her twenty-first birthday, which had fallen two days before the birth of Carol.

He held it tightly for a while, before he lifted the lid and saw the jewelry, all of it familiar, all of it gifts from him: the bracelet, for her eighteenth birthday; the necklace, for Christmas the year after he and Myra were married; the ring, for her thirtieth birthday, shortly after they had moved from Saskatchewan to Vancouver; and the cameo, sent to her from Germany after he and Myra and Carol had taken a trip to Italy in the spring of 1956, just a few months before her death. He had seen the letters beneath the pile of jewelry, of course, as soon as he'd opened the box.