Dead Run Page 7

  There was nothing on the desk to show at what he had been working.

  A fire was laid in a fireplace in one wall of the big room. It was warmer in the big office than it had been in the outer office, but it wasn’t all that warm. The sun in late December is a wan sun.

  “I suppose,” Alice Arnold said, “I could light the fire. Do you think it would be all right if I lighted the fire? I don’t think he’ll mind, do you?”

  The present tense is hard to drop.

  “I’m sure he wouldn’t,” Heimrich told her.

  She said “Oh” and got a match from a box of kitchen matches hidden in a ceramic container on a table. She put the match to paper under kindling and logs. The fire started eagerly. There was a stenographer’s chair at one end of the big desk and she moved it closer to the fire and sat on it. She sat erect, as if about to take dictation. She looked back at the desk, as if Samuel Jackson, Attorneyat-Law, were behind it and about to ask her to take a letter. Then she looked at the fire and held her hands out toward it. The outstretched hands trembled.

  It wasn’t warm in the big room, but it wasn’t that cold.

  Merton Heimrich looked around the big room. Across from the fireplace there was a convertible sofa-bed. It was a bed at the moment. It had been turned down, ready to be slept in. Sam had expected to come back from dinner and light his ready fire and get into his ready bed. Well, many people plan for a next minute which never comes. It is the task of an Inspector, BCI, to determine why those minutes are not to come.

  “I can’t tell you anything,” Alice Arnold said. “What do you want to ask me about the accident?”

  “There’s this, Miss Arnold,” Heimrich said, “we’re not sure it was an accident.”

  For a moment she merely looked at him, her pale blue eyes wide. Then she said, “I don’t know what you mean. Mary Cushing said a car hit him as he was crossing the parking—”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “That’s the way it happened. The way Mr. Jackson was killed. Somebody backed a station wagon into him and knocked him down and then—then came back and ran over him. It could have been an accident. And it could have been deliberate. If it was deliberate, Mr. Jackson was murdered, Miss Arnold. Why the Lieutenant and I are here, actually.”

  He drew it out a bit, to give her the time he thought she needed.

  She sat for several seconds and merely looked at him. Then she said “Oh,” and for the moment stopped with that. Then she said, “I see, Inspector. But—but Mr. Jackson never did anything to anybody. He was kind to everybody. Gentle with everybody. Who would want—”

  She left that unfinished, obviously because it did not need finishing. And Heimrich could not have answered it anyway. He told her he didn’t know, that that was one thing they were trying to find out. Who, and a why which might lead to the “who.”

  “Conceivably,” he said, “something that had to do with his law practice?”

  She looked astonished. She said, “No, I’m sure it couldn’t be. If you mean one of our—I mean, his clients—it just couldn’t be. Not possibly.”

  “Probably not, Miss Arnold. Can you give me some idea about his practice? I know he handled legal matters for the bank, of course.”

  “Yes,” she said. “All civil matters, really. Making out wills for people, arranging contracts. Closings, and that sort of thing. All privileged, you know. Nothing I can talk about, of course. Not even now. You do understand that?”

  “Yes, Miss Arnold. Approving contracts for bank loans. Things like that. There hadn’t been any change in his practice recently? I mean, well, he hadn’t taken on clients of a different kind? Criminal cases, say?”

  “None of our clients is a criminal,” she said. “I can’t think what you mean, Inspector. People like old Miss Gee. Surely you wouldn’t call her a criminal.”

  Heimrich knew old Miss Gee. She was in her nineties. She lived in a large house above the Hudson. Her family had lived there for some generations. Van Gee, the name had once been. A large amount of money went with the large house. Heimrich had no idea how, at the moment, she came into anything.

  “No,” he said, “I wouldn’t think of her as a criminal, Miss Arnold. Why did you happen to mention her?”

  “No real reason. It’s just because of her I happened to be working so late yesterday. Her will, you know. She was changing it again. She often does. Thinks maybe Cousin Ruth would like to have the old grand piano instead of Cousin Harry, who would really prefer the billiard table. She does it all the time, you know.”

  Heimrich hadn’t known. A grandmother of his had similarly twiddled with her will, although she hadn’t had grand pianos or billiard tables to leave anyone. He said “Mmm” and then, “You had to work late yesterday afternoon? Typing Miss Gee’s new will?”

  “You can call it ‘afternoon’ if you want to, Inspector. It was more like evening, actually. Night, almost. She wanted to sign it today, Mr. Jackson said, and that he was sorry to keep me so late. Not that I minded. I’d do anything for Mr. Jackson. He is a wonderful man to work for.”

  “I’m sure he was, Miss Arnold. He was a fine man to know. About how late did you work last evening?”

  “Half-past seven anyway. I know it was almost eight when I got home, and I live just around the corner. Of course, the ice made it slower. Driving home, I mean. I finished up and answered the telephone and probably it was a quarter of eight before I locked up and started home.”

  “Answered the telephone,” Heimrich said. “A call for Mr. Jackson, I suppose?”

  “Of course. But he’d gone by then. Over to the inn for dinner. He offered to wait until I’d finished and take me with him, but I like to finish what I’m doing and it would still take me about half an hour and I didn’t want to hold him up, of course.”

  She wouldn’t, Heimrich thought. Sam Jackson had been a fine man to work for. Perhaps to fall a little in love with. Autumnal romance is by no means unheard of, despite what kids of Michael’s age may think. Michael’s age and his Joan’s. He hoped Susan had been able to persuade the girl not to drive on into the city and pluck her father from whatever wall he was climbing. Not that there was any real reason to worry about Joan Collins.

  “This telephone call,” he said. “Mind telling me who called, Miss Arnold?”

  “I don’t know. Whoever it was just wanted to speak to Mr. Jackson. And I said he’d just gone across the street to dinner.”

  “You didn’t ask who was calling?”

  “Of course I did. So Mr. Jackson could call back, if it was important. But whoever it was said not to bother. That it wasn’t all that important. And hung up.”

  “Man or woman, Miss Arnold? The one who called?”

  “A man, I guess. Only the voice was—oh, a little muffled. As if whoever it was had a cold. But I think it was a man. Oh, and something you asked me about a few minutes ago. About anything different recently in Mr. Jackson’s practice. There was—”

  But then the telephone rang, and she went to Jackson’s big desk to answer it.

  Chapter 6

  She said, “Mr. Jackson’s office, good morning, may I—” and stopped. She said, “Oh, yes, he is. Just a—” But by that time Heimrich was beside her and holding out his hand for the receiver. He spoke his name into it. Then he said, “Yes, Asa,” to Corporal Purvis.

  “It’s about this Miss Collins, sir. Seems like she’s smashed up her car pretty bad, Inspector. Knocked over on its side, her Volks is. Down below the Flats, the car is. I’m calling from the Three Oaks, sir. Miss Collins is—”

  “Is she hurt? How badly hurt?” Heimrich’s voice was abrupt, demanding.

  “She says not, sir. Says she isn’t hurt at all. Just shaken up a little. Bruised some, maybe. She was standing by the car when I got there, you see. Had got out of it, somehow. Was just standing there, looking at it.”

  “She’s with you now? At Armstrong’s saloon?”

  “She’s out in my car, sir. Wanted to know if there’s any place around
here she can rent a car. She says she’s got to drive on to New York.”

  “Tell her there isn’t,” Heimrich said. “And drive her to Dr. Chandler for a checkup. I’ll call the doctor and set it up. If he says she’s all right, take her back to the inn. What does she say happened? Hit an icy stretch and skidded off the road?”

  “No, sir. What she says happened, a station wagon cut in front of her and forced her off. That’s what she says, Inspector. A little farther on there’s that ditch, sir. If she’d tipped into that—well, it wouldn’t have been so good.”

  Another station wagon? Or the same station wagon? Why hadn’t the girl listened to Susan? Why hadn’t he—

  “All right, Asa. Get her to the doctor’s for a going over. Get your father to pick up the Volks. Take her back to the inn, if Dr. Chandler says she’s up to it. Stay there yourself. Lieutenant Forniss and I’ll be over in a few minutes. Right?”

  Purvis said “Sir” and hung up. I should have made it an order, Heimrich thought. I should have made it material witness. If Michael’s girl isn’t all right it’s my fault. He called Dr. Ernest Chandler. “Doctor’s office is full of people, Inspector. Of course, if it’s an emergency.”

  “It is. Ask the doctor to call me at the inn, if she isn’t all right. Or to call me anyway.”

  “I’ll ask him to do that, Inspector.”

  Heimrich called his home. Susan answered after four rings. He told her what he had to tell her and she said, “Oh, damn! I tried to get her not to. Tried hard. But she wouldn’t listen. The sweet, crazy kid.”

  “My fault,” Heimrich told her. “I should have made it an order. Don’t leave Van Brunt. Young Purvis is taking her back to the inn if she’s up to it. You might—”

  “Of course, dear. I’ll have to fill the oil stove, and then I’ll go right down. You think she was forced off the road? By a—a station wagon?”

  “What Asa says she told him. Be sure the stove’s off before you try to fill it.”

  “Yes, dear,” Susan Heimrich said. “I always do, Merton.” And she hung up.

  “An accident,” Heimrich told Alice Arnold. “We may have to come back later. There may be one or two things more we’ll need to ask you.”

  She said, “Of course, Inspector. I guess I’ll have to stay here for a while, anyway. People will be calling, I suppose.”

  “Probably,” Heimrich said. “Well—” He moved to join Forniss, already at the door from the office.

  “There’s one thing,” Miss Arnold said. “I don’t suppose it means anything. But you did ask me if there was anything new in Mr. Jackson’s practice. Recently had been, and I said there hadn’t. Because it slipped my mind. I’m not really tracking very well today, I’m afraid.”

  “You’re doing fine,” Heimrich told her. “You have thought of something?”

  “Only,” she said, “that Mr. Jackson is defending that Mrs. Kemper. The one they say killed Mr. Lord. Up in Cold Harbor. Last Fourth of July. I suppose you’d have to call that a criminal practice, Inspector. I should have thought of it right away. Only when you asked about criminal practices, somehow I thought of gangsters. People like that. Not people like poor Mrs. Kemper, although everybody says she did do it. Shot him while he was making a speech, you know.”

  Heimrich did know, although his knowledge was not at first hand. On the Fourth of July, he and Susan had been in Italy on holiday. Probably when Burton Lord, retired or semiretired producer, had been shot to death while making a speech at his third annual Fourth of July picnic, Heimrich and Susan had been having an after-dinner drink on the terrace outside the bar of the Gritti Palace, watching boats on the Grand Canal.

  Heimrich had not known that Sam Jackson had been counsel for Loren Kemper, twenty-odd-year-old widow of Anthony Kemper—and allegedly mistress of Burton Lord—indicted by the Putnam County grand jury on a charge of murder in the first degree and in jail at the county seat of Carmel, NY The information surprised him somewhat. Jackson had not, as far as Heimrich knew, been a trial lawyer. Oh, a few times in civil cases. Heimrich remembered that once, several years ago, Sam had represented the plaintiff in an automobile accident suit—and won it, too, although up against insurance company lawyers.

  Heimrich thanked Alice Arnold for her belated recollection. He and Forniss walked the long dark corridor to the outer office and down the stairs into the winter sunshine. The wind was still blustery and cold as they crossed Van Brunt Avenue toward the inn. But ice had melted off the pavement and the sun had almost dried it.

  “See any way his defense of Mrs. Kemper could the in, Charlie?” Heimrich asked as they crossed the also-drying parking lot.

  “Nope,” Forniss said. “Nor why Jackson got mixed up in it. From all I hear, it’s open and shut. Shut for the Kemper babe, which is what she is, they tell me. Oh, try to get an all-male jury, which just might decide she’s too pretty to be locked up for the rest of her life. Lot of people saw her with the rifle, they told me, including District Attorney Peters himself. He happened to be one of the guests. Swore himself in before the grand jury and testified he saw her shoot. Used a rifle. Had to, since she was maybe a hundred yards away. Pretty good shooting at that. Only she’s—she was, I ought to say—a member of some rifle club and pretty good. Why Jackson took the case God knows. Open and shut, like I said.”

  He said that as they went into the taproom. The fire had been built up; Joe was behind his bar, polishing glasses, although the bar did not open until noon. Still, the day before Christmas. People tend to get thirsty early on the day before Christmas.

  Michael Faye was sitting at a table near the fireplace and drinking coffee. He, to his stepfather, looked forlorn.

  “Joan’s gone on to New York,” Michael said, and sounded forlorn. “Mother tried to argue her out of it, and I tried, God knows. But she wouldn’t listen. Kept saying she’d promised her father. Thing is, I don’t think she even likes him very much. Her father, I mean. She’s a crazy kid, Dad. Gets ideas in her head and—”

  He ended it with a shrug.

  Then he said, “Ready to take me home, Dad? Maybe we could still pick up a tree. Only, hell, there can’t be any lights, can there? Or weren’t you and Mother going to have a tree?”

  “We’ll pick up a tree,” Merton Heimrich told the boy, at the moment so much a boy, and so disconsolate. “Only not quite yet, Michael. You see, something’s come—”

  He stopped, because he heard a car stop outside. He looked at the door to the parking lot. So did Michael and Lieutenant Forniss.

  It was Corporal Purvis who pulled open the door. Then he stood aside, and Joan Collins came into the room. She walked steadily. She walked to the fire and reached her hands out toward it. Then she said, “I’m all right, Michael dear. Perfectly all right.” But there was, Heimrich thought, strain in the young voice.

  Michael looked at her. Then he got up and went to her. He said her name and, “So you changed your mind. That’s wonderful.”

  She merely looked at him for a moment. Then she held her hands out toward him.

  “You could call it that,” Joan said, and managed a rather stiff smile. “You sound as if you didn’t—”

  “I was just about to tell him, Joan,” Heimrich said. “She—well, she had her mind changed for her, Michael. You’re all right, my dear? You’re sure you’re all right?”

  “Not a scratch,” Joan said. “You can ask the doctor. There’s a bruise on my right arm and the doctor says it will probably turn black and blue. I banged into something, I guess. But not hard enough to matter, really. The doctor says it was a good thing I was wearing a safety belt. But I always do, of course. What about the car, Inspector?”

  Heimrich looked at Asa Purvis.

  “Dad’s going to check it out, sir,” Purvis said. “He’ll call you and let you know. I asked him not to do anything about it until you’d had a chance to look at it, Inspector. I—I guess I told him that was what you said, sir. Because—”

  “Yes, Corporal,” Heimr
ich said. “You were quite right. We do want to have a look at Miss Collins’s car.”

  Michael was looking at his girl. There was bewilderment in his eyes and on his face. Then he looked at Heimrich.

  “Joan had an accident, son,” Heimrich said. “Down the road a bit. Hit an icy patch and—”

  “No,” Joan Collins said. “It wasn’t the ice. Didn’t Corporal—it’s Purvis, isn’t it?—didn’t he tell you? I was forced off the road. By a driver who—well, who was half-witted or something. Somebody in a big station wagon. He cut—”

  After Forniss and the Inspector had gone to see Sam Jackson’s secretary; after Susan Heimrich and Michael had tried, without success, to dissuade her from going on to New York—“Dad was expecting me. I knew he’d start climbing walls”—Michael had driven them back to the house above the Hudson. He had carried her cases down and stowed them in the Buick. He had insisted on driving, because there could still be icy spots.

  (He is an all-right driver, Heimrich thought. Susan’s a better one. But children usually think of their parents as tottering.)

  They had had no trouble getting to the house, or in stowing the suitcases in the red Volks; no trouble in starting the Volks. Michael had ridden with Joan, Susan following in the Buick after she had checked the fire. And “Done a few things around the house.” Apparently she was still doing them.

  “I dropped Michael off here,” Joan said. “He told me which way to go. Down the state road to thirty-five, and then on the Taconic. I knew the way from there.”

  She had driven on NY 11F for a few miles, along a straight stretch “with little houses close together on both sides of the road, some of them rather rundown. Not like the rest of the houses around here. Michael says there’s something you call it.”