Death of a Tall Man (12 page)

Bill Weigand thought it over, and after a moment he nodded. But his nod was doubtful.

“Starting a couple of minutes after the doctor himself went out,” he said, “for Miss Brooks was the only person in the office until Miss Spencer came back and Miss Brooks was at her desk—or, anyway, in that vicinity. Maybe at the files. I suppose somebody could have slipped out then, before the nurse came back. But that would mean Dr. Gordon went out, came back in less than half an hour and got killed. Which is possible, of course. After about two, and until she found the body, the nurse was in the examining-room area—or, anyway, wandering around the office. That would have made it harder. I suppose somebody could have got out then, but he would have been taking a chance. Playing his luck.”

He paused, considering again.

“However,” he said, “it is more possible than I thought at first.”

“Then,” Pam said, but Weigand's expression stopped her.

“But,” Bill said, “the obvious first. We have a man who had opportunity, possible motive—and who ran away. Right? So we don't make it hard unless we have to.”

“Yeah, Loot,” Mullins said, suddenly. “Like the old boy says.” He looked around at the others. “The inspector,” he explained.

“Right,” Bill said. “We—”

He was interrupted by the arrival of food. They had almost finished eating, with a minimum of conversation, when Bill was called again to the telephone. When he came back he was walking rapidly and his arms seemed to be full of hats and coats. Mullins was on his feet by the time Bill Weigand reached the table. Weigand nodded.

“We move,” he said. “The girl's started. She's got her car and is headed uptown. You can—”

But the others were standing too, and Jerry was looking for the waiter. He came, as waiters come when customers, who have not got their checks, stand up. He supplied the check and Jerry put a bill on it.

Weigand was already moving toward the door, with Mullins after him. He turned and said, “No” over his shoulder, and the others continued after him. His car was parked just ahead of the Norths's, and Weigand looked at the two cars and then at Pamela North, and then he half smiled.

“Be seeing you,” Bill said, and got behind the wheel of his car. Mullins got in after him.

“Oh, yes,” Pam said. “Oh, yes, Bill.”

The police car started, U-turned and went uptown.

“It's a lovely night for a drive,” Pam said. “Come on, Dorian. Jerry.”

She was moving, quickly, toward the Norths's Buick. Jerry hesitated only a moment. He looked at the trim, quick figure of his wife; he looked at Dorian. Dorian said, “Oh, well, Jerry.” They were all in the front seat of the Norths's car when Jerry U-turned and started up Madison.

“I've kept track of it,” Pam said. “It turned west in Fifty-ninth.”

They turned west in Fifty-ninth. The police car should be somewhere ahead. They could not see it. Then, apparently at Fifth, they heard the harsh demand of its siren.

They were lucky. The red light which the siren had protested was green when they reached Fifth. The way was clear through Fifty-ninth. The siren sounded again at Sixth. They went through on the tail of a green light. “Avenue of the Americas indeed,” Pam said, looking at it with disapproval. “Central Park South and the Avenue of the Americas!” Again, now obviously at Columbus Circle, the siren sounded.

Beside Pam North, between her and the window, Dorian laughed. It was a soft laugh, at once amused and gentle.

“My Bill,” she said. “He doesn't want us to get lost. After he's told us officially not to follow.”

They were going through Columbus Circle, not very fast, when the siren sounded again. It was downtown, now, and for a moment Jerry looked puzzled and hesitated. Then his face cleared and he turned down Eighth Avenue. Lights stopped him at Fifty-eighth.

“Oh,” Pam said, annoyed. “Now what?”

“Listen,” Dorian said. “He ought—”

They heard the siren, very distant; its location confused by the buildings. But Jerry took his right hand from the wheel and waved it toward Pam.

“Of course,” Pam said. “Through Fifty-seventh to the West Side. Then—” She paused, thinking. “Do you know the way to North Salem, Jerry?” she wanted to know. Jerry, starting the car with the change of light, took time to turn and grin at her. He turned west in Fifty-seventh. He said he thought he did. Farther ahead, now, the siren sounded faintly. Bill could give them a hint; he wouldn't wait.

“Such a nice balance,” Dorian said, thoughtfully. “So like Bill.”

They turned up the West Side Highway. They rolled rapidly north—and listened. The siren was faint—hardly distinguishable—when it sounded again. But it was still ahead.

“You could keep up,” Pam pointed out. “Only—”

“Only I'd get pinched,” Jerry told her. “We'll have to guess at it from now.”

“But you agree, North Salem?” Pam said.

Jerry swerved right to the center lane, swerved left after a dawdling taxicab was behind them, and went up to fifty-five. Then he said, “Yes, I agree” and sank lower in the seat. “Cigarette, baby?” he said. Pam lighted a cigarette, steadied her hand with fingers against his cheek, and put the cigarette between his lips.

“It
is
a nice night for a drive,” she said, as if she were a little surprised. “I do hope Martini won't mind.”

5

M
ONDAY
, 10
P.M. TO
T
UESDAY
, 12:20
A.M.

“This,” Jerry said, grimly, “is what you call a nice night for a drive.”

Pam peered ahead, said, “Watch out!” and then said, “No, it's all right, I thought I saw something.” Then she said well, it had been a nice night for a drive. At first.

It had been all right to Hawthorne Circle where, after a very brief consultation, they had turned right toward White Plains. It had been all right until, beyond White Plains, they had turned up Route 22, which began in such deceptive magnificence. Then, just when they had finished climbing the first curving hill, the fog got them. It was wispy at first, and unpredictable as always. They encountered it at high spots of the road, but not at all high spots. They would drive for minutes with the lights bright and then they would plunge, while Jerry swore and braked, into dripping dimness. The headlights would then throw white dazzle back into their eyes and Jerry would dip them and they would crawl, fearful of the ditch on their right, fearful of other cars groping toward them on the left. Approaching lights were dim, baffled; two cars would creep toward each other hesitantly, worriedly sounding horns. Dark objects would loom out of the fog ahead and then vanish mysteriously. Then they would run out of the fog for a moment, think it was over and pick up speed, suddenly find themselves again immersed.

“The best way is to turn off on one twenty-one,” Pam said. “If we can find it.”

“If,” Jerry said, “we can find anything.”

Dorian was mostly silent. She looked out of the window on her side of the car.

“The funny thing,” she said once, “is that it isn't really thick. You can see houses and lights, only a little dimmed. Only washed over.”

Jerry crept to a stop behind a car which seemed to be blocking the road. He discovered it was almost off the road, parked. He pulled out and went cautiously around it and said it was a hell of a place for anyone to park. He answered Dorian.

“The lights,” he said. “Without lights you can see, but not enough. With them—” He swerved toward the center of the road, avoiding a culvert wall.

“With them you can see too much fog and not anything else,” Pam said. “Watch it, Jerry!”

Jerry swerved a little to the right, to avoid a car groping toward them in the center of the road. He yelled at the other car, with exasperation.

“One twenty-one ought to be along pretty soon,” Pam said. “Maybe it will be better.”

“Why should it?” Jerry had asked her. “Probably it will be worse. And probably we'll miss it.”

They had not missed it, although they had driven past the intersection and had to back, perilously, to make the turn. It was no better—no worse—no different.

“Anyway,” Dorian said, “it will be as bad for everybody. For the girl—what's her name?” Pam told her. “Debbie. For Bill.”

Both the Norths shook their heads. Pam explained.

“It may be,” she said. “But it needn't. Sometimes ten minutes one way or the other make all the difference. Perhaps they came a different way—there are a lot of ways. That might make a difference. It might be perfectly clear.”

“Yes,” Jerry said. “And it might be twice as bad. Air currents. Lakes. Differences of temperature. They may have sailed through.”

“We aren't,” Pam said. They weren't.

Two hours should have done it, even with cautious driving—an hour and three quarters would have done it as Jerry had been going before the fog. Now it had been at least that long since they had started and there was, actually, no telling where they were. They were on a twisting road which ambled through Westchester on its way to half a dozen places; a road which branched into other roads, intersected absent-mindedly and lost itself in intersection. It was easy enough in daylight, if you knew it; it was not difficult on a clear night. But it was full of traps in fog or rain.

It was difficult afterward to determine where they fell into a trap. Their lights picked up a road marker, held it momentarily through the fog. It was not NY 121. It was NY Something Else. They could not make out what. Jerry swore again. He said that did it.

“Are we lost?” Dorian said. She was not alarmed; she was interested. “Actually,” she said, “the fog is beautiful. Out of the side window.”

They were lost, Jerry said. As nearly as you could be lost, where they were. It would be temporary.

“All the roads around here go to pretty much the same places,” Pam said. “Only in different directions.”

It sounded odd, Jerry told Dorian, staring ahead through the windshield. It sounded odd, but it was about the truth. It was impossible really to get lost. You merely got delayed. This road, whatever it was, would come into another road which would, in the end, take them to most of the places Route 121 would have taken them. By different turnings, through other places. By this Bedford and that Bedford.

“Or,” Pam said, “back to twenty-two. Most of them do that, given long enough.”

That was true, Jerry said, and stopped the car because his lights had picked up a stop sign. Beyond it was a road sign.

“Speaking of twenty-two,” Jerry said, and turned right. “Now we're not lost. We're merely wandering.” They drove a mile through heavy fog. Then, with no warning, the lights shone brightly on the road and far up ahead little lights in houses became sharply clear. Jerry went up to fifty, and asked what time it was. Pam looked at the car clock, computed, and said it was about a quarter of eleven. Jerry went up to fifty-five and stayed at it.

It was clear in Brewster, where the traffic light stopped them. It was clear beyond where they turned right on US 6 and, after a few miles, right off it. Even as they skirted Peach Lake there was no fog.

“It's funny,” Dorian said. “Water—and no fog.”

“It's always funny,” Pam told her.

It was ten minutes after eleven when they stopped at the crossroads in North Salem and asked directions at the tavern. It was ten minutes later when, following the directions, they turned in between stone pillars at what they hoped was the Gordon place. There was no house at once; there was a graveled drive between trees. It was quiet and clear and they rolled along the drive silently, so that they could hear the tires crunching on the gravel. They passed through what had been an old barway in a dry stone wall and came out in a more open field, with a big, white house ahead, among trees. The house was near the center of what had once been a great rectangular field, bounded all around by stone walls and rows of trees. There were no lights in the house. It was white and dead in moonlight.

Then a light flashed at them, went out, went on again, went out a second time. Jerry stopped. The car was just beyond the old barway, on the white gravel drive which led straight toward the house.

A State trooper came toward them. The lights picked him up. Jerry switched off the headlights and the little parking lights came up on the front fenders. The moon made it seem almost as bright, after a moment, as it had been with the headlights on. The trooper came to Jerry's side of the car, stood looking at Jerry and said, “Well?” Then he turned his flashlight on Jerry and shifted its beam to Pam and then to Dorian.

“Well?” he repeated. “Aren't you a little off the road, bub?”

“Is Weigand here?” Jerry said.

The trooper put one elbow on the car door and looked at Jerry.

“What do you know about Weigand?” he said. He looked at the other two. “Homicide?” he said, obviously doubting it.

“This is Mrs. Weigand,” Jerry said, indicating. “We're—friends. He's probably expecting us to show up.”

“Is he?” the trooper said. “Why would he be expecting you?”

“Because he sirened at us,” Pam said. “So of course he knew we were coming. Only we got lost because of the fog.”

“Well,” the trooper said. “Well. Well. He sirened at you. What did he say?”

“What?” Pam said.

The trooper shook his head.

“All right, bub,” he said. “Move her on up. Easy. About as fast as I can walk. Eh, bub?”

Jerry moved her up, very slowly, with only the parking lights. There were several cars standing in a widening of the drive near the house, in front of a three-car garage. One of them was the police car which had brought Weigand. It looked very long and formidable in the moonlight.

“Lots of people, apparently,” Pam said, with interest. “Are they sitting in the dark?”