Death of a Tall Man (25 page)

Mullins hung on to the door handle as the car sloshed fast, inside, around a curve. For several miles he said nothing. Then he said, mildly, that he didn't, after all, see how they could have known.

“My God, Mullins,” Weigand said. “How else would you explain the glasses? The thing we didn't bother to explain?”

Mullins thought it over again.

“O.K., Loot,” he said, finally. He was affirmative, this time.

The Norths's convertible shook in the wind; the top rattled. The car, wading away from the Sound, fought the storm.

“It oughtn't to do this in April,” Pam said. “Ought it?”

“It can,” Jerry told her. “God knows it can.”

That, Pam said, was obvious. She still thought it oughtn't to. She said it was very extreme for April.

“Showers,” she said. “May flowers. But not this. Can't we go faster?”

Not, Jerry told her, if they wanted to get there.

“Oh,” Pam said. “We have to get there. Now we know it wasn't Mr. Oakes. But somebody who looked like him.”

Jerry did not answer for a moment. The road seemed suddenly to have disappeared. He found it again just in time and was surprised to discover that he could see along it for what might be several hundred feet.

“Seems to be slackening,” he said. Then he spoke in a different voice, as if he had just heard something which startled him. “What did you say?”

“We know it wasn't Mr. Oakes,” Pam said. “What did you think I said?”

“I thought you said, somebody who looked like him,” Jerry told her. “Which is absurd. If this—if this means anything—it was somebody who
didn't
look like him.”

“But—” Pam began and then broke off. When she spoke again her voice was that of a person who has been enlightened. “Oh,” she said, “you mean Mr. Oakes.” She considered. “Of course,” she said, “I can see how you would. A misleading relative.”

“A what?” Jerry said.

“They're so difficult, sometimes,” Pam said. “But it's so awkward to put a name after them in brackets. Don't you think?”

Jerry's hands were engaged; he could not run one of them through his hair. But his voice, when he spoke again to Pam, sounded as if he had just run a hand through his hair.

“Listen, darling,” he said. “I don't think I quite—” Then he stopped suddenly. “Oh,” he said.
“Him.”

“Naturally,” Pam said. “What else would it be?”

Jerry had no answer to that. But as he thought it over—and as the rain did actually, for the moment, slacken—he drove the sloshing Buick faster toward North Salem.

“Only,” Pam said, after several miles, “if it was that way, what did he use?”

The storm, having extinguished the lights, having contemptuously ended man's small attempt at emulation, seemed for the moment satisfied. They finished their dinner by candlelight, with their shadows flickering behind them on the wall. The wind was not so loud; the drumming of rain, which had seemed to fill the air even inside the solid old house, lessened. Eve Gordon and Lawrence Westcott talked; they drew Nickerson Smith into their talk and offered it to Debbie. She smiled, as if she had come back from a long way off, she said something, she went away again, the smile still on her lips—still meaningless. Westcott—or Smith?—was sitting where Dan ought to be. Nickerson Smith—he was opposite her. Where she wanted Dan to be.

She ate very little; she watched the shadows on the wall, hardly seeing them, but unconscious of them. They were part of the night which had come suddenly, come so furiously. The shadows—the beating rain—the odd new planes the soft light of the candles marked on familiar faces. On her own, she supposed; certainly on that of Nickerson Smith, sitting across from her. And Westcott's face. When Westcott turned momentarily toward her, so that the light of the center candles touched his face obliquely, the side of his face nearest her was shadowed. It was as if he had suddenly put on the mask of another man—an older man, a very different man. His face was no longer the open, uneventful—and undisturbing—face of Lawrence Westcott, man of the country, given to long, tweedy walks with dogs; given to philandering comfortably with an older neighbor's pretty wife. It was the face of a man with unknown purposes of his own, unrevealed determination and force. Debbie was startled, suddenly, seeing this new face where there had been, before, merely unconsidered familiarity. It was an odd trick for the light to play, she thought. If it was a trick.

Where was Dan? Why didn't he come? And why was Nickerson Smith looking across the table at her with such complete attention? He seemed to be waiting for something from her, demanding something from her.

“Debbie, darling,” Eve said. “Quit worrying. Come back. We're waiting for you.”

“Waiting?” Debbie said. Then she looked at the others' dessert plates; at her own. She had eaten some of it, apparently. “Oh,” she said. “I'm sorry. I've—I've finished.”

“Good,” Eve said. “Coffee, then.”

Eve Gordon led the way into the long living room. It was very dim, now—very shadowed. There were candles near the door from the dining room; on tables by the fireplace there were other candles. Between there were deep shadows, chairs which looked as if they were crouched. Eve led them through the shadows, talking back to them, her voice unconcerned. On a low table by the fire the coffee things were waiting on a silver tray. Eve poured coffee into small white cups.

Nickerson Smith picked up his cup and walked toward a window. He stood looking out for a moment. Then he spoke without turning.

“I think it's really letting up a bit,” he said. “I think—” Then he stopped speaking, as if somebody had put a hand over his mouth. They looked at him, and he was peering out through the window. He leaned close to it, put his left hand up and cupped it beside his eyes, shutting out the faint light in the room. His whole posture showed intense concentration on something outside.

Westcott stood up.

“What is it?” he said. “See something?”

Smith did not turn. He put down his cup absently and continued to peer out through the still rain-swept glass.

“Thought—” he said, and stopped again. He did not turn. “Somebody out there,” he said. “Can't be sure. Somebody—wait a minute.” He leaned closer still to the window and seemed to be listening.

Westcott moved toward him; Debbie and Eve Gordon stood up.

“Thought I heard somebody yelling,” Smith said. “I don't know. A figure—seemed to be going back there—toward the back. A man, I think. And then I thought—” He ended with a shrug and turned toward them. “Seeing things, probably,” he said. “It's too dark. But I thought I heard somebody calling.”

“Dan!” Debbie said. “It was Dan!”

“I couldn't tell,” Smith said. “A man—I thought it was a man. He was—running. Trying to run. As if—” He looked at Debbie and smiled. It was a forced smile. “Couldn't have been Dan,” he said. “He'd come in. Wouldn't he?”

His tone sought confirmation.

“Trying to run!” Debbie said. “You said—
trying
to run. What did you mean?”

“The grass is wet,” Smith said. “He—he slipped. Staggered. Naturally.”

“No,” Debbie said. “He was hurt. Wasn't he? It was Dan—he—”

Eve came to her quickly and put an arm around her shoulders.

“Don't!” Eve said, her voice challenging. “Don't! It wasn't Dan.”

“You don't know!” Debbie said. She shook off the arm. “You don't know. How can you? It was Dan!” She turned to Nickerson Smith. “Wasn't it?” she said.

Smith looked at her. When he spoke his voice was slow, gentle—as if he were drawing a veil of reassurance over his own fears.

“I don't think so,” he said. “Really I don't. It could have been—” he paused. “Anybody,” he said. “Any tall man. If it was anybody at all. If I didn't—confuse a shadow.”

“Look,” Westcott said. “You saw somebody?”

Smith looked at him. He shrugged.

“All right,” he said. “I think so. It needn't have been Gordon. I couldn't tell—couldn't come anywhere near telling.”

The two men looked at each other. Then Smith nodded.

“I think so,” he said. “Do no harm to look.”

“You girls stay here,” Westcott said. “Smith and I'll have a look around. Find whatever it was.”

Smith started toward the hall.

“No,” Westcott said. “Out the back—down here. You said he was going that way?”

Smith did not answer. He turned and started down the living room toward the french doors at the far end—the french doors which opened, like those of the dining room, like the door from the kitchen, on the terrace. The terrace the rain had washed of whatever might have clung to it; whatever might have seeped between the flagstones which paved it. The two men moved fast. Smith opened a door, and as it blew in toward him, caught it and held it for Westcott. They both went out and the darkness took them.

Debbie and Evelyn Gordon stood for a moment without moving, looking down the shadowed room. The door swung a little farther open as the wind, eddying in the protected terrace area, took it. The firelight flickered on the two women; it made lights in Debbie's soft hair. She stood with her feet together, her body tense, looking after the men—waiting. She still stood so after Eve, with a little sound—a tiny, worried sound in her throat—turned back to the fire. The older woman stood looking at the fire. But her body, too, was tense with listening.

A minute passed, slowly. And then, without warning, the rain began again, beating down on the house. It was a heavy sound, almost a roar; from the terrace, rain hurled itself against the windows. And the wind came up, raging in the trees. Through the open door, there was a sudden flurry of rain. Almost without thinking, Debbie moved down the room toward the door.

She had gone about halfway when there was a sound. It was a voice, indistinguishable—faint in the sound of the wind and rain. The words, if there were words, were lost in the rushing sound of the storm. And then, just as the voice died out, there was the sound of a shot.

Debbie ran, then, toward the door. Eve called behind her. “No, Debbie. No!” But the girl did not seem to hear. In a moment she was through the door. Eve had started after her; she stopped, now, and stood for a moment looking after her. Then, moving slowly, she went back to the fire and again stood looking into it.

It was like stepping into a wall of water. There was no moment of transition; no moment of preparation. Instantly, it seemed, Debbie's clothing was soaking on her. She was wearing a light suit, with a white blouse under the coat. The coat was heavy, pulpy, on her shoulders. Her hair was beaten against her head and neck. She stood, ignoring the rain, trying to see into the darkness.

There was a flash of lightning and the lawn all about was clear for that instant. The trees, black in the rain, were clear—black and bending to the wind. She could see the rain itself, whipping across from the northwest. And, out at the far edge of the lawn—near the stone wall which bounded it—she saw the figure of a man. She could not, in the instant she had, see more than that it was a man, with his back toward her. He seemed to be standing there; she had an impression that he was looking down at something on the ground. But it was too momentary a glimpse for her to be sure of anything.

But her fears were as instant as the light which had come and gone. The man—he must be Larry Westcott or Smith. And what he was looking at—on the ground the thing he was looking at—! She heard herself speaking. But it was more a soft cry than speech. “No!” she said. “No! Dan—Danny!”

She started running, then. As she left the sheltered terrace the wind caught her. It pushed at her; for a moment she reeled, almost losing her feet. Then a stream of light lay momentarily across the lawn. It picked her up and lost her, as a car coming up the drive swung to the right in the circle and then, reversing itself, turned left toward the garage. The girl stopped for a moment and faced toward the car, which was fifty yards or more away. As she faced the car, she also faced the wind. It snatched at her breath. She stood there a moment, the rain tearing at her wet clothing.

Then she heard a voice. It was a man's voice. Again it was blurred in the sound of the storm. She could not identify it. But it called her name.

“Debbie!” the voice called. “Debbie!”

It did not seem to come from the direction in which she had seen the man looking down at the ground. It was behind her and, as she still faced toward the car circle—and the front of the house—it was off to her right. Behind the house, she thought.

She heard other voices, evidently from the people who had come in the car. She could not make out whose they were. She tried to call against the wind to them, but the wind seemed to force the words back into her throat. She stood for a moment longer, hesitating; then she turned and ran back, the wind pushing her, toward the voice which had called her name. As she ran, she heard someone shouting—perhaps at her—from where the car was. And as she ran, new lights swept the lawn as a second car turned in. But these lights did not pick her up.

“The girl,” Mullins said. “Back there! Running.”

He was opening the door of the police car as he spoke. Outside, he shouted down the wind. He shouted like a policeman—“Hey! Hey!”

Weigand ran around the car to him.

“Down there,” Mullins said, and used his arm—seemed to use his whole body—to point the way. Then he shouted again. “Hey!”

“She won't hear you in all this,” Bill told him, leaning close, his voice, raised, near Mullins' ear. “Go get her.”

Mullins ran across the wet grass. His foot caught in a low hedge and he went forward in a heavy dive. But he landed with hands and knees ready, rolled in the slippery wetness, rolled to his feet. He ran on, yelling.