Which Way to Die? (7 page)

Corrigan was rather surprised. The scoop on Barber was that he had gone sour on the sex since Audrey Martello's murder. Besides, Harry was only about twenty-five; Pat Chase must be seven or eight years his senior. On the other hand, it would be unnatural for a man as young and virile as Barber to remain celibate. Corrigan, with a great many years on Barber, found it impossible himself. Barber had probably picked an older girl for two reasons: The difference in their ages would be no bar to a satisfactory physical arrangement, and at the same time it would minimize the danger of another emotional involvement. He had been badly burned, and he would tend to avoid the fire post-Audrey.

There was no mystery about the blonde's position in the affair. In their thirties women began to worry about their attractiveness, and a younger lover could fill an important need. Besides, Harry Barber was a handsome and famous guy—shacking up with him no doubt gave her a sense of victory in the eternal manhunt.

Corrigan pushed the matter from his mind as none of his business. A portable typewriter caught his eye. It lay on a card table near the windows, in its carrier, with the case open. He could see the word ROYAL.

The anonymous threat-letter popped into his head. It had been the work of a literate person. Harry Barber was a college graduate, and he would certainly have remembered the officer who had worked on the case. Corrigan found himself rejecting the thought. Harry wasn't the kind to write anonymous notes. His M.O. was to jump into a situation with both feet and think about it later.

“I haven't seen Harry, except from the stands, in over a year. Why did he think I might drop around, Pat?”

“What did you want to see him about?” the girl asked clearly.

Corrigan smiled. She was going to defend him like a mother hen.

“As I said, this isn't official. But off the record, I'd like to know what he was doing in Ossining yesterday.”

She screwed up her cute nose. “He thought you spotted him! It isn't what you think.”

“What do I think, Pat?”

“That he was there because of the release of those two crazy killers. It was pure coincidence, Tim. He just happened to have business in Ossining.”

“Like what?”

She shrugged like a pussy. “You'll have to ask Harry. I'm not the prying kind of neighbor.”

Corrigan leaned far forward and took her hand. “I'm here because I like Harry, Pat. I'd hate to see him get into trouble. Revenge is for clucks. I know how he feels …”

“Harry wouldn't do a foolish thing like that,” she said quickly. “He was mad as hops when the release was announced, but it was more at the Court of Appeals than at Alstrom and Grant.”

“I doubt he's forgiven them,” Corrigan said dryly.

“Who said anything about forgiveness? Harry doesn't pretend to be Jesus Christ. How would you feel about two animals who slaughtered the girl you loved for no other reason than to see if they could get away with it? And for whatever kicks they got out of it?” Pat Chase withdrew her hand; to his surprise she was actually vehement. “He still loves Audrey.”

Making it hard, if not impossible, for the girl next door to serve as anything more than a bed partner, Corrigan thought. But then the door opened and Harry Barber came in. He was a striking figure of a man, with “superb athlete” written all over him. He towered six inches above Corrigan and was half again as wide. He was hatless and wore a yellow sports shirt which revealed corded arms covered by curly blond hair; his skin was weathered by the sun and wind, not by a gym lamp. There was something open about his face; it would be hard to distrust him. Corrigan, who did not usually go by surfaces, found his caution nodding.

“Captain Corrigan! Great to see you again.”

He shook Corrigan's hand gently, as a strong man should. Corrigan thought: He'd be a very tough guy for a little man to fight, even a little man with OSS and police training.

“How goes it, Harry?”

“On the field? We could use a couple of three-hundred-pound linemen.”

“I mean how are you?”

“Hungry. How about staying for lunch?” Barber turned to Pat, who was standing silently by waiting. He stooped and kissed her on top of her shining head. “Started anything, Pats?”

“A frank-and-bean casserole in the oven. There's plenty for a guest.”

“Thanks, but I can't stay,” Corrigan said. “Lunch date. I just stopped by, Harry. I imagine you can guess why.”

The football player glanced at the girl and she made a face. “He spotted you, Harry.”

“It was one of those things, Captain,” Barber said. “This trick knee of mine. My old brace was wearing out, and the manufacturer happens to be in Ossining.”

The caution hardened. Corrigan gave him the fisheye. “No mail service? You skipped practice just for that?”

“They have to be fitted,” Barber said patiently. “Want to see the brace? And you can check with the company.”

Corrigan said, “Look here, Harry. I don't doubt you stopped off and bought a new brace after you saw me. But I spotted your car twenty miles south of Ossining, and I know a tail when I see one. You were following Mrs. Grant, probably have been ever since that court decision.”

Barber shook his head. “You've got me all wrong, Captain.”

“All right, Harry,” Corrigan said. “But will you take some friendly advice? Don't try anything.”

“You think I'd risk prison for those lice?” Barber said. “I've had plenty of time to cool off. Anyway, they'll be taken care of by Audrey's old man, that hood Martello.”

“Don't bank on it, Harry. We're covering Marty and his mob like a roll of adhesive tape.”

He retrieved his hat, then paused at the door to tell Pat Chase he was glad to have met her. She said she was glad, too, in a subdued voice.

8.

Corrigan unhooked the phone at the elevator on the eleventh floor and pressed the button in the middle of the dial.

Norma answered, but it was Chuck Baer who met him when he stepped off in the penthouse foyer. Corrigan approved. He knew Baer's quality on a job; no doubt the private detective had insisted that no one but he was ever to touch the switch that operated the penthouse lift.

“How's it going, Chuck?”

The redhead made a face. “If it wasn't for Norma, I'd be stir-crazy. I may marry her.”

“Go find your own chick. This one's mine. I mean I'm going to give it the old college try.”

“Yeah,” Baer said. “Every time I back her into a corner, she wants to talk about you. I think I'm wearing her down, though. I've been telling her the truth about you.”

“That can only make her love me more.”

“Not the way I tell it,” Baer said. Then they grinned at each other and went into the living room.

Gerard Alstrom was seated in a chair before the cold fireplace reading a book, but not as if he enjoyed it. Elizabeth Grant was on the settee mooning fondly through the sliding glass doors at her son and Andy Betz, who were slouched at the lawn table on the roof. Young Grant and the chauffeur had a cribbage board between them, and Frank was dealing the cards.

Mrs. Grant acknowledged Corrigan's arrival with a distant nod. He nodded back, just as distantly. Gerard raised one hand in a thumb-to-nose salute. Corrigan ignored him. The pair on the roof glanced around and immediately went back to their game.

Corrigan looked around. Baer read his mind. “She's out in the kitchen knocking out a soufflé, Tim.”

At that moment Norma, in an apron, appeared in the doorway to the hall. “Hi,” she said. “Lunch in five minutes. Mrs. Grant, would you ask Frank and Andy to break up that silly game? We're going to use the lawn table.”

“With pleasure.” Elizabeth Grant jumped up. “They've been at it since breakfast. I might as well have stayed on Long Island for all the attention I'm getting from my son.”

She stamped out, the picture of neglected motherhood.

Gerard said, without raising his eyes from the book, “If that stupid woman didn't bug him so much, maybe Frank would pay some attention to her. How he can stand her is beyond me. All mothers should be strangled at birth.”

He made no attempt to lower his voice. The sliding doors were open, but Elizabeth Grant gave no indication that she had heard him. She was stooping over Frank, fondling his hair. He pushed her hand away.

Norma said quickly, “There will be seven of us, Tim, and the lawn benches only accommodate three on a side. Would you and Chuck put a couple of straight chairs out there so we'll have more elbow room?” She went back to the kitchen quickly, too.

Each man picked up a chair and carried it outside.

“So it's Chuck now,” Corrigan said.

“I try to make a little progress each day,” Baer said modestly. “When I talk her into addressing you as Captain, I figure I'll be in.”

John Alstrom, it appeared, was at his office that day.

The soufflé was excellent. Otherwise, lunch was unpleasant. Elizabeth Grant pouted over her son's pointed lack of attention; for most of the meal she delivered a monologue about the sacrifices she had made for him. Frank listened with frequent glances at heaven. Corrigan could have kicked him. She was undoubtedly hard to take, but that she deeply loved her son was beyond question; he could have paid some attention to her out of common decency, if not affection. Who else gave a damn about him? But he treated her as if she were a despised dog, to be ignored or kicked as the fancy took him. He won't miss her till she's gone, Corrigan thought, when he has to face the world unshielded. If he lives that long.

Norma Alstrom hardly touched her lunch. She seemed under a deep strain. As soon as the last one, who happened to be Mrs. Grant, set down her coffee cup, Norma abruptly rose.

“Gerard, you and Frank clear the table. I have to talk to Captain Corrigan.”

She took Corrigan's hand and led him around to the other side of the house. As soon as they were out of earshot, Norma inhaled. “I don't know how much more of Elizabeth Grant I can take. She keeps up that martyr pose all the time. No wonder Frank is unbalanced.”

“What's Gerard's excuse?” Corrigan asked.

She looked at him.

“Sony,” he said. “You can't expect me to love him because he's your brother. He's a killer, too.”

“You're right,” Norma said, and shook her head. “Elizabeth thinks they're innocent, and of course Andy Betz does, too. Tim, they really did it, didn't they?”

“You know they did, Norma. If you thought Gerard was innocent, you wouldn't blame him for ruining your marriage.”

“I suppose it's unnatural to hate your own brother. But how many girls have psychos for brothers?”

“Why do you stay here? You certainly don't owe Gerard anything.”

“For Dad's sake. He would never understand if I turned my back on Gerard. Gerry's only going to be in the country for a couple of weeks more, and I may not see him after that for years, if ever. Besides, I'm needed for practical reasons.”

“Practical?”

“You haven't seen any servants here, have you? There's no room for help to sleep in, and Mr. Narwald and Mr. Fellows said it would be too great a security risk to have them trooping in and out. So I'm elected. Mrs. Grant and I were supposed to share the chores,” Norma added with a laugh. “Elizabeth's never used a dust cloth in her life. She doesn't even know how to make a bed properly. Meet Norma, girl-of-all-work.”

They had paused near the wall on the bedroom side of the building. Corrigan scanned the sky. “Do you know when the boys are supposed to leave here? And where they're going?”

She shook her head. “They've kept it a secret even from me. All I know is, they plan to travel under false names for a couple of years, maybe longer. I don't see how they can ever come back here with any hope of safety as long as that Martello man is alive.”

You've got it pegged right, baby, Corrigan thought. With Marty Martello still breathing, Gerard and Frank had to go through life braced for a bullet in the back—or worse—at any moment of the day or night.

“What you need, Norma,” Corrigan smiled, “is a breather. How about getting away from here for a few hours?”

“Oh, that would be wonderful!” Her face lit up like a Midway. “Do you think we really could?”

“Let them feed themselves one night.”

“There's a supply of frozen dinners in the freezer …”

“That'll do it. Can you be ready by seven?”

“Oh, yes!”

“I'll be here.” Corrigan glanced at his watch. “Meanwhile, I'd better be getting back to the job. Thanks for lunch.”

She looked years younger.

He had started toward the house when he stopped. The building across the street … Chuck Baer was probably checking its roof every once in a while to make sure no sniper appeared; but as long as he was so close to the wall Corrigan decided to make a check himself.

“Just a minute,” he said.

To see the roof across the street he had to get close to the wall. Corrigan carefully set his right foot in the center of the flower bed and leaned far forward, palms gripping the edge of the parapet.

A man was standing at the wall of the other roof. He was in the act of taking a pair of binoculars from a case. The figure was wiry and looked familiar, but at that distance Corrigan could not make out his features.

He pushed away from the parapet and stepped back out of sight of the other roof.

“Are there any binoculars in the house, Norma?”

“I have some opera glasses in my room.”

“Get them—fast.”

She ran. A moment later she reappeared with a pair of rhinestone-studded opera glasses. Corrigan adjusted them by focusing on a gull sailing overhead. Then he stepped into the flower bed again, on the same footprint, and directed the glasses at the roof across the street.