Crime is Murder (18 page)

“But I’ve always wondered, Mrs. Cornish. I’ve always wondered just what did happen that terrible night when I sent Stella Larkin down to the studio with a message—”

“When
you
sent—?”

Nydia spat out the words. They were louder than the music, sharper than the brasses and the strings.

“Elizabeth Bannister,” Lisa continued quietly. “Dr. Hazlitt remembers her now, even if he did try to forget. The Mastersons had a governess for their son. A plain, drab sort of girl who kept all of her dreams so carefully hidden that no one ever suspected she had dreams—except the man she loved. A lonely man. A man who was possessed by his wife the way a rare object of art or a prize animal might be possessed. A sensitive, tortured man who never knew the meaning of love until we found it together.”

“You? You were the one!”

The words were spoken clearly, audibly. There was no taking them back. Nydia could fall silent, but she couldn’t erase what had been said.

“So you did know,” Lisa answered. “You could hear Martin working in the studio. Was it the music that told you? He never wrote such music for you, did he?”

The music answered for Nydia, so plaintively, so full of love that there was no need for words.

“No wonder you hate it so, Mrs. Cornish. Listen to it. Listen to what it is saying. Isn’t it lovely? Not music from a carousel? Music from a heart! Music even a child could remember and reach out for through the years!”

“You were the one!” Nydia cried.

“Yes, I was the one!”

Lisa’s cry almost drowned out the music.

“I was Elizabeth Bannister, and I was the woman Martin Cornish loved! We were going away together, Mrs. Cornish. Did you know that? We were leaving Bellville and all its wretchedness and going away together, but the very week,
the very week
we were to leave—”

Lisa’s voice fell silent. It was as if some things could not be said. When it came again, it came more quietly.

“I was in bed upstairs, the very room I use now. It faces out toward the studio. It was dark, and I could see the flames leaping up above the pines. I could see the reflection from the flames dancing on the walls. I tried to get up and go to him, but I couldn’t move. I’d been stricken that day with a dread disease. That’s why I had sent Stella with the note. I couldn’t move at all. I could only cry out, and Dr. Hazlitt was there. He must have known. He couldn’t have forgotten that!”

“You were the one he loved!”

Nydia Cornish’s voice seemed to come from the depths of hell. She was very close to the recorder. She was very close to the desk.

“And not poor Stella Larkin at all,” Lisa said. “Does that trouble you, Mrs. Cornish? Does it trouble you the way it has always troubled me? But how could it? The devil has no conscience. A woman who could deliberately try to drive her own daughter mad—”

“That’s a lie! You can’t prove that! You can’t prove anything you’ve said!”

But Lisa’s voice went on as if nothing had been said.

“Is it because she’s so much like Martin? Is that why you hate her, too? Or are you still trying to get even with a dead man?”

“You’ll never write that! You’ll never write any of these terrible lies!”

“But you’re wrong, Mrs. Cornish. I’ve already written them.”

“You couldn’t have.”

“I wrote the whole story the day I put Martin’s composition—the music he wrote for me—into the envelope Marta had so carefully posted in time for the award dead line, the envelope you had put the blank sheets in. I sent it on to Sir Anthony. That music is the story. Listen to it! Sir Anthony already knows that it’s Martin’s music; by tomorrow all the world will know, and all the world will demand the truth. And then Marta will be free—not because of the award money she’ll never claim and never need, but free because the truth will make her free.”

“You’ll never tell!” Nydia screamed.

“I shall tell,” Lisa said.

“You’ll never tell! You’ll never tell anyone anything! You can’t prove anything!”

“I don’t have to prove anything. You have already proven it. You came tonight, Mrs. Cornish. Not Tod; not Stanley Watts; not Dr. Hazlitt.
You
came! You are guilty, and your crime—”

Lisa’s voice was lost then. It wasn’t the music, rising toward its ultimate conquest; it wasn’t the wind grabbing at the windows again; it was the sound of an explosion that silenced her words. One shot. One loud, blasting shot that almost shattered the mechanism of the machine on the desk. Professor Dawes didn’t wait for a repeat explosion. His hand silenced the recorder as abruptly as Lisa’s voice had been silenced.

For a moment no one spoke. The only sound was Johnny’s muffled sobbing, until Sheriff Elliot cleared his throat.

“Good Lord,” he said. “Do you suppose that story was true? Do you suppose Nydia Cornish could have started that fire?”

“Does it really matter?” the professor asked.

His eyes met the sheriff’s. The sheriff looked at Marta. She was still tense and pale, but she hadn’t broken. Perhaps later. Perhaps when this night of horror was all over there might be time for tears.

“Ghosts,” the professor added, smiling sadly as he remembered who had first used the term, “are difficult to hang. I almost wish everything on this wire could be erased.”

“But it can’t be,” Joel said.

“No.” The professor looked straight at Marta now. “It can’t be,” he said, “but it can be outlived. Miss Bancroft would have wanted it that way. She had a weakness for happy endings.”

“She had a weakness for getting into trouble,” Johnny choked. “Why did you have to drag her into this, Professor? Why did you have to be so suspicious of Marta? Why did we have to come to this terrible town anyway?”

It was as useless to try to answer one of Johnny’s questions as to answer any of them, and she didn’t expect an answer. All the answers anyone would ever have were on that wire recorder. The sheriff, puzzled now more than shocked, seemed to realize that.

“We’ll have to check on all of that story, I reckon,” he said. “But I doubt if we ever prove much. Maybe the insurance money—”

“It’s probably all gone,” Joel said. “Tod’s been crying all week about the fund running low. I don’t imagine there’s any evidence left by this time.”

“Then Mrs. Cornish was right. There really wasn’t any proof until this—”

The sheriff’s eyes completed what his voice left unsaid. There was a body on the floor that couldn’t be written off as an accident even by an old doctor whose caution outweighed his misgivings; and there was a wire recorder on the desk with a story that had gone far beyond the ending it had been set up to receive.

“I’m sure Miss Bancroft never meant it to end this way,” the professor added. “She was merely playing Mrs. Cornish’s game, playing on an individual’s weakness until the weakness destroyed the individual. But she forgot what a deadly weakness a woman’s vanity can be.”

“And Nydia forgot to be careful,” Johnny said. “She must have rushed out of here in complete panic. I’d left the station wagon out in front so Lisa could drive down to the concert, but Nydia Cornish couldn’t—at least, she hadn’t driven in years. Where did she think she was going, anyway?”

The question seemed superfluous when left alone in a reflective silence. Johnny, like the others, was just trying to understand. A throne had tottered, a queen had fled. It was as simple as that, actually. As simple as Lisa Bancroft’s body on the floor.

“Where could she go?” the professor answered. “In a sense, she committed suicide when she fired that shot. And exactly why she did it is something we’ll never know. Was it because Marta had escaped and the days of Nydia’s vainglory were over, or simply an outburst of sheer fury at finally facing the woman her husband had preferred to her? In any event, at least Miss Bancroft had the fleeting satisfaction of knowing that she had proved her point.”

As he spoke, the professor’s hand reached out and touched the starter switch on the recorder once more. The little discs began to spin, taking up the sound where it had ended a few minutes ago: the second shot, the sound of a body falling, a walking stick clattering to the floor, the fleeting footsteps racing blindly down the hall, and behind it all the music of Martin Cornish ebbing away as softly as life itself might ebb away.

To all of the others in the room, the next sound came as a startling postscript to tragedy; but to Professor Dawes it was a determined woman having the last word. The microphone had fallen from the desk along with that clattering cane. Into it, quite distinctly against the softness of the music, Lisa Bancroft gasped out a message that had been meant only for him.

“Do you see, Professor? The crime
is
murder.”

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Stranger in the Dark

IT WAS ALMOST MIDNIGHT BEFORE LARRY GOT BACK TO THE hotel. The pocket-sized lobby was deserted, except for a nearsighted clerk at the reception desk, and the fiddling had stopped in that quaint little terrace bar just off the dining room. Everything was quiet and deserted just the way he wanted it to be. No one to stare at him. No one to notice and remember how frightened the American looked when he came in. Above all, no stout Nemesis with a roll-brimmed hat on his head and a fat cigar in his hand to step up behind him and say, “I‘m sorry, Herre Willis, but I must ask you to accompany me to police headquarters.” He’d be nice about it, of course. Always polite, these Danes.

Larry didn’t stop at the desk. The key was still in his coat pocket, and the lift was automatic. All he had to remember was which button to hit for the third floor. That could be a little confusing because the third floor was four stories up, but after a few days a man could get used to that sort of thing. After a few days a man could get used to almost anything. The corridor was empty. The key in the lock, the quick, eyes-over-the-shoulder entrance, and he was safe for the moment inside the narrow hall that stretched like a long pocket toward the other door.
Please keep both doors closed at all times
. The familiar prose of the fire-prevention instructions kept him company in the silence. Two doors weren’t enough. Tonight there should be five or six doors with padlocks on each one—that’s how he felt when he was through the hall and inside the room. Only then did he remember the light switch.

It seemed strange that the room was just as he’d left it a few hours ago when everything else in the world had changed. The maid had been in to turn down the bed, but that was the only difference. The conspicuously new cowhide bag still stood on the luggage rack bearing its conspicuously new airline stickers and bright gold initials under the handle. L.O.W.
That’s you, Larry. Larry Orin Willis. Look at your passport if you have any doubts. Look at your brief case on the desk with the catalogues still spilling out of it—Prairie State Farm Tool and Equipment Company, L. O. Willis, special representative. That’s you, the boy wonder himself. Take a good look and remember, but don’t go near a mirror. Don’t dare look at that stricken face, or you’ll never have the nerve to go through with what has to be done
.

It was better with the light off again; the darkness seemed a lot friendlier somehow. And now a wide window emerged from the blackness of the opposite wall, an open window with long lace curtains that stirred faintly in the night wind. Larry crossed the room and peered down at the splashes of yellow light on the street below. No sign of anyone watching. No pedestrian traffic at all. The wheels of a swift-moving bicycle whispered on the cobblestones, and somewhere a taxi purred off into the darkness, but otherwise the street was as empty as a lonely man’s heart. Then the chimes in the bell tower broke loose again, and it was midnight. Twelve o’clock and the night was over. Twelve o’clock and the beginning of the last day.
… It is the last day, Larry. Twenty-four hours and she’ll be gone. Just twenty-four hours and you’ll never see her again, if you’re lucky enough to have those twenty-four hours. Then, if you’re real lucky and everything goes well, you can take in the guided tours. You can see the castles and the cathedrals and the museums, and send post cards to the boys back at Prairie State. You can even buy a few souvenirs to remind you of your visit in the kingdom of fairy tales
.

… Fairy tales. The words caught in a groove of Larry’s mind and began to play back over and over again like a phrase of a broken record. What did it mean? The princess in the fairy tale … the pursuit of culture? Just two more things he didn’t understand and probably never would. Right from the beginning he’d been in the dark, bewildered and scared. Maybe that was the big trouble. Right from the beginning he’d been running, even before there was anything to run from, and a running man can’t think straight. If he runs long enough, he can’t think at all.

But a man sitting alone in the midnight darkness can think.
Twenty-four hours
. It wasn’t much time to set straight the small world of Larry Willis, but if he started at the beginning and unpacked his mind as carefully as he’d packed that cowhide bag a few days ago, piece by piece, item by item, he could at least be sure that everything was in its proper place and nothing had been overlooked. It wouldn’t change anything, but it would help pass the hours until dawn.

… And so it was Wednesday night in that old-fashioned dining room downstairs. It was two nights ago, just a couple of hours after the man at passport control had smiled and said, “Welcome to Copenhagen, Herre Willis.”

Say that it started with the fat man. It wasn’t the whole truth, but the whole truth never has a starting place. It goes back days, and years, and even generations, without ever settling anything at all. So ignore the rough crossing on that airborne roller coaster, and forget about the upset nervous system and the disappointment of not being booked in at the Palace, where the convention was being held, and begin with the bald-headed fat man who sat at the table just across the aisle eating sardines from a can. He was terribly methodical about it. First a thick slab of bread from the well-stocked plate at his elbow, then a generous spread of rich yellow butter, and finally the little silver sardines laid on with tender care and loving kindness. Between mouthfuls, he downed quick swallows of a liquid fire called
akvavit
followed by about half a glass of beer for a chaser. After six sardine sandwiches, four schnapps, and two bottles of beer, he concluded the preliminaries and ordered dinner. But at no time did he forget to keep a watchful eye on the American.

Larry felt miserable. The eyes of the fat man were as warm and friendly as the eyes of the little sardines, and it was tough enough to be alone this first night in a strange land without being turned into a free exhibit for the natives. Maybe his face was dirty, or maybe he’d cut himself shaving in that antiquated bathroom upstairs. He squirmed about until his own image appeared in the paneled mirror on the opposite wall of the dining room, but all he could see was the unscarred and uninspired face of Larry Orin Willis. It wasn’t the most handsome face in the world, a little too thin, a little too taut about the mouth and eyes, and much too pale under that close-cropped stubble of sand-colored hair; but it certainly wasn’t odd enough to inspire all that undisguised fascination. A little of that could do a lot to a man with a set of frazzled nerves, and it was quite a relief to have the waiter come along with the check and block off the view.

“I guess you don’t get many Americans at this hotel,” Larry Suggested. It was good just to hear his own voice again.

The waiter, who wasn’t suffering from malnutrition either, presented the check with averted eyes as if this unpleasant duty violated his sense of hospitality.

“Every hotel,” he sighed, “has Americans.”

“That big fellow across the aisle isn’t American.”

“No, sir, he is not.”

“Is he a guest here?”

“I can’t say, sir. I’ve never seen him before.”

Larry didn’t know why the fat man disturbed him so much. It wasn’t as if he were carrying secret documents to a foreign power. He’d only come to Copenhagen to attend a manufacturer’s convention—no small assignment for the youngest junior executive in the history of Prairie State (founded 1847) but nothing, surely, to Cause alarm because a fat man with a huge appetite had a curiosity to match. Fatso probably wasn’t thinking of him anyway. He might have his mind on some Viking beauty beyond the pillars, or even on the musicians over in the alcove near the terrace. Larry couldn’t see the musicians from where he sat, but a violin and a piano were working over a medley of fast waltzes, and a few minutes ago a troubadour in a shabby suit and an apache cap had strolled through the dining room making love to the Seine in borrowed French. It was all as picturesque as hell, and Larry, who didn’t realize it yet, was just as lonely.

The waiter seemed to recognize the trouble. “Your first time in copenhagen?” he asked.

“My first time out of the States,” Larry confessed.

“You will have a fine time here. There is much to see. Much to do.”

Larry counted out the kroner with melancholy eyes. Much to do. On Monday, yes. On Monday the convention opened. On Monday he could take his brief case, present his credentials, and start living it up with a lot of other fellows in the farm-equipment field, but this wasn’t Monday. This was Wednesday night, nine twenty-seven by his wrist watch, and almost exactly three hours since he’d started learning how it feels to be a foreigner.

“You haven’t had a real vacation in five years, boy. Take an early Plane. See the sights. Enjoy yourself.”

That was H.J. talking. That was the day he’d been called into the front office to hear the news. Maybe the convention wasn’t quite the same as a cabinet appointment, but it wasn’t bad for a country boy using nothing but the old boot-strap technique. It was something like a promotion, a bonus, and a vacation with pay rolled into one, and it was so unexpected that for a moment he’d wanted to run straight to Cathy with the news because something so big had to be shared with someone…. But he couldn’t run to Cathy because Cathy wasn’t his girl any more. It was five years since she’d given up waiting for a tycoon in the making and married that curly-haired plumber who didn’t have the time of day.

Cathy again! The hand Larry wiped across his face was meant to wipe an image from his mind. Five years with hardly a thought of her, and now, just because a routine was broken and for a couple of days there’d been nothing to do but listen to the propellers spinning out old dreams, she was back gnawing at his mind like an unpaid bill!

But she wasn’t going to get away with it. By this time the waiter was gone with the kroner, but his suggestion lingered on. Larry stood up, all six, lanky feet of him, and started across the dining room to the place marked garderobe where he’d left his coat. In a city as large as Copenhagen there must be a lot of places where a stranger could make friends and lose memories … but one friend he could do without. He paused at the fat man’s table and leaned down close so old fish-eye could get a good look for his trouble.

“I hate to break this up,” Larry said, “but I have to go now.” Then he went on, feeling a little foolish about the whole thing. The fat man had merely removed the fork from his mouth long enough to display a wide, gold-capped smile.

“Farvel,”
he said, and looked about as sinister as an overaged cherub.

That’s the way it started—the fat man, the aggravated nerves, and A quiet little hotel that sent Larry prowling the dark streets in search of something to drive away those first-night-away-from-home jitters. A Copenhagen night could be cool even in August. Larry left the hotel with the collar of his trench coat turned up around his ears and the belt hanging loose so that the split tails flapped in the wind. He felt a little self-conscious about the trench coat—like something out of a foreign intrigue film—but at least he’d resisted the beret. It was still locked inside that cowhide bag up in his room. Once outside the hotel, he turned left because that was what Viggo had told him to do.

“I speak American. My friends say, ‘Why don’t you speak English?’ but I speak American. Anything you want to know just ask me, Viggo. I give you the dope. O.K.?”

That was Viggo, about fourteen years old and four and a half feet high including The little round bellboy’s cap on the top of his head. One casual question as to where a man might lose an evening, and Viggo had all the answers complete with guidebooks and street maps.

“You like music … dancing … drinking? Tivoli is but a few blocks away. Here, I show you.”

What Larry really wanted was a nice, noisy American bar where he could rub shoulders with a few fellow exiles and swap talk on the businesses they were lucky enough to have left behind; but he’d have to make tracks to find it. Somebody must have sold H.J. cut-rate reservations because—in spite of the waiter’s insistence on American infiltration—this cozy hostelry seemed strictly for the natives. The abbreviated lobby was already deserted, and the only bar on the premises was a quaint little affair on that terrace off the dining room where everybody drank beer and conversed in a tongue that sounded something like an auctioneer with laryngitis. Whatever Viggo was talking about must be an improvement, and so Larry took the guidebook and the map and made a left turn outside the hotel.

For the first few blocks the street was almost dark and almost empty. He walked slowly, watching for street names he couldn’t pronounce and place names he couldn’t understand. Turn right at the Radhuspladsen, Viggo had said, and so Larry, who didn’t know a Radhuspladsen from a safety island, watched for everything. He watched for the fast-moving bicycles and the slow-moving autos. He watched for the straggling pedestrians brushing past him on the narrow sidewalk, and looked into the windows of the little shops, remembering souvenirs he’d have to buy and cards he’d have to send. Would it be too obvious to send a card to Cathy? Something casual, perhaps, “Greetings from Copenhagen.” Just a reminder of what she’d missed by marrying that Plumber. Or maybe something brusque and businesslike, “Had to rush off to Copenhagen by plane. Please ask Charlie to fix that leak in my front lawn sprinkler.”

There she was moving in on him again. Larry left the shop and tried to become engrossed in the front page of a newspaper displayed in the lighted window of a publishing house. It wasn’t easy. The paper was Danish, and all he could make of it was the photo of a moon-faced man in a high-collared uniform with a slavic sounding name in the caption. Russian, probably. Some high-ranking officer who’d just been executed, or likely would be after they got through hailing him as a hero of the Republic. When Larry remembered how close he was to the iron curtain at that moment, he walked on a little faster. In that way he reached the square just in time….