Friends till the End (12 page)

They went over the party again—who had stood where, who had given Walter Sloane a drink, who was left when the first symptoms came on.

“Nobody,” said Heather. “Nobody, as I’ve told you. Just Harry and me. Everyone else had gone already.”

“Yes, yes. So you did say.”

From there they turned to the past. Harry had known Walter Sloane for nearly thirty years, since Sloane had married Harry’s cousin Sally. Heather had known him for twenty years.

“Who do you know who might have a grudge against him?”

Heather shook her head. “You don’t understand. If this—this murderer is out to get Walter, then—well, it could be nearly
anybody
. Everybody has some kind of grudge against him. He’s that kind of man. He accumulates grudges as he goes.”

“What kind of grudges?”

“I wouldn’t like to say,” Heather said firmly. “It’s not for me to implicate anyone. And besides, it’s never anything serious. He just has such a bad manner about him.”

Yes, thought Voelker. Walter Sloane certainly did have a bad manner about him. Still, it was not very likely that some etiquette freak was trying to kill him for that.

“Do either of you have any kind of quarrel with Mr. Sloane?”

There was no good way of asking this, so Voelker had learned long ago to state it matter-of-factly. He knew he would not get a truthful answer, but he hoped to startle them into giving something away.

All he got for his trouble was a stony stare from both Crandalls.

“Certainly
not
,” said Harry with emphasis.

“You’ve told me yourself that you quarreled with him frequently, Professor Crandall.”

“Yes, of course. Are you seriously suggesting that because we disagreed over politics or certain points of information, that I would try to poison him?”

“Of course not. Naturally not. These questions, however, have to be asked …”

Soon after that he found himself outside their door, on his way to the car. The atmosphere had chilled subtly after that question about possible quarrels with Sloane. Voelker found that interesting. He wondered if there was something there …

The trouble with these circles of friends was that they all stuck together in a primordial kind of way. We are Insiders and you are an Outsider, they said. They were so used to being loyal and keeping each other’s secrets that they continued to do so, even in the face of a police investigation.

Voelker sighed. He could be missing the truth about the Crandalls. There could be nothing there. Nobody liked to have the finger of the law pointed straight at them. No one enjoyed answering questions.

That was the trouble with being the police. People had to talk to you, but they didn’t have to tell you everything they knew, either!

“Bernard, why are you sitting here in the dark?”

“I’m thinking.”

“Is Misty in there with you?”

A tail thumped against the floor. Maya switched the lights on.

“Honestly, Bernard. It gives me the creeps, the way you sit there without the lights on.”

“It helps me think.”

This was true. Bernard had conceived of the ideas for his most popular books, including the most famous of all,
Mrs. Woolly and the Bengal Tiger
, while sitting in the dark.

“What, may I ask, are you thinking about?”

“Nothing.”

“I see.” Maya gave him a long level stare. “Well, would it disturb you if I took Misty away for her dinner?”

Misty’s tail thumped harder. She jumped up from her position at Bernard’s feet and followed Maya from the study.

Once they were gone, Bernard switched off the overhead light and sat in darkness for a while. Then he turned on his desk lamp and, taking out a bright green Magic Marker, began to write.

Bernard had a special shorthand system; his very own method that he had devised while working on his books. It was his firm belief that vowels were unnecessary for reading comprehension, so his system (of which he was inordinately proud) consisted almost entirely of consonants.

He said out loud, “Anomalies?” and wrote in large green letters at the top of the page,

ANMLYS?

He sat and pondered that for a while.

Then he murmured, “Jealousy,” and carefully printed

JLSY

Underneath he wrote,

$$

His hand continued down the page, making sparse, abbreviated notes.…

“You don’t understand,” Isabel said the next day. “I don’t
want
my father to come home.”

“Why not?” asked Snooky.

“I don’t like the way he treats Richard, for one thing. And I’m not happy about how he acts toward me, either. Give me a hand here, will you, Snooky?”

He unfolded the blanket she gave him and put it on the bed. Isabel was getting her father’s room ready for his return.

She fluffed up a pillow, opened the window to let fresh air in and, looking around the room, said, “Well, at least he won’t find too much to criticize here.”

“I don’t understand. You’re rich, aren’t you? Why don’t you hire someone to help with the housework instead of doing it all yourself?”

“I’m not rich.
Laura
was rich. She was loaded. But Richard and I never saw much of it. Besides, Daddy thought we shouldn’t be spoiled. Ever since I came home from college I’ve taken care of everybody. Laura never did, that’s for sure. That wasn’t her style.”

She finished her inspection of the room and went downstairs to the kitchen, where she motioned Snooky to a seat at the table and brought out two cups of coffee.

“Milk?”

“Yes, thanks.”

“Sugar?”

“Yes.”

She watched as he put four heaping teaspoons of sugar into his cup.

“Snooky. That’s
disgusting.
”

“Thanks.”

“You never used to drink it that way.”

“What can I say?”

She lit a cigarette and smoked thoughtfully. Snooky glanced around the room. The kitchen was ultramodern, all glass and steel and shiny black surfaces. “What’s with this furniture?” he asked.

“What do you mean?”

He gestured. “The walls. The chairs. The stove. Whose taste is it?”

Isabel looked around vaguely, as if seeing the room for the first time. “Oh. Laura’s, of course. She did the whole house over when we moved in, after they got married. It was old-fashioned, she said, so she redid everything.”

“I’ll say. Is this a table? It looks like it’s about to blast off.”

Isabel shrugged. “That was Laura. It had to be something different to please her.”

There was a pause. Snooky stirred his coffee, then said, “Listen, Isabel. Why don’t you get a job?”

She laughed. “A job? You mean, to get out of the house?”

“That’s right.”

Isabel sighed. “Ever since I graduated, everybody I know—my father, my father’s friends, my friends, everyone—has been trying to get me to go out and find a job. A
job
!” She said the word as if it offended her. “Why should I work? I like my life here, Snooky. I like sleeping late and not having to go to an office in the morning. I like having my own hours, staying up as late as I want. Nobody understands that I’m enjoying myself.”

“Really? You don’t seem to be enjoying yourself.”

“Richard needs looking after,” said Isabel, looking past him, “and of course Daddy, once he comes home again. I’m needed here.” She glanced at him angrily. “Anyway, how dare you? You’re the last person in the world to tell me to go out and get a job. Look at you! Even in college your brother had despaired of you. Remember those letters he used to write?”

“In college? William was writing me letters even back then?”

“Uh-huh.”

“But I hadn’t done anything
wrong
back then.”

“He had big plans for you, Snooky. He wanted you to become a businessman or a lawyer.”

“Yes. You’re right. You do have a good memory, Isabel.”

“You never told him your major was ‘Undefined Arts and Leisure.’ ”

Snooky smiled. “That’s right. That’s what I used to call it. Of course I told William I was majoring in economics.”

“It was a long time ago, Snooky.”

“Yes. Yes, it certainly was.”

He glanced at her. Isabel looked private, withdrawn; closed in upon herself like a spiral seashell, swirling endlessly away into the depths. Even in repose her face looked troubled.

“Mr. Sloane,” Detective Voelker said, struggling to keep his temper. “Mr. Sloane, I’m just trying to do my job.”

“Not very well,” barked Walter Sloane. He leaned back in the hospital bed and closed his eyes. “I asked for some kind of protection after the first attempt on my life. Do I have to
die
before the police will get involved?”

Voelker viewed the long, gaunt body in the bed with active distaste. Sloane did not look well. He had been in the hospital nearly a week, but there was still a green tinge to his skin and his face was set in long anxious lines.

“I’m worried, man,” he said. “Worried?—I’m frightened! Somebody’s out to get me, and I don’t have the faintest idea who it is. Except that it’s one of my closest friends, that’s for sure. Damn them all!”

Voelker had regained control of himself and now sat impassively. He had come here for a specific reason. In his researches into this case he had run up against one fact he found extremely interesting. But while he was here he was going to get as much information as he could.

He said, “Mr. Sloane, does anyone have a quarrel with you that you know about?”

“No, damn you. If I knew, would I be so worried?”

Sloane closed his eyes again. When he spoke, minutes later, his voice had changed. It was calmer, more controlled.

“I’m sorry. Damn it, I’m sorry. It’s just that I’ve been so sick and so frightened. I knew people hated me, but I never knew—well, I guess I never realized how much.”

Voelker pounced on this.

“People hated you? Who is that?”

“Everyone,” said Walter Sloane. He turned his face toward Voelker and the detective was shocked to see how ravaged it was. “Everyone does. I know that. Everyone except—except Laura. And Isabel.”

“Yes,” said Voelker politely, and waited.

After a moment Sloane said: “Specifics?”

“Please, Mr. Sloane. It’s the only way we can guarantee your safety. You must realize that this person, whoever he or she is, will try again. And you may not be the only one in danger. Your son and daughter may be also.”

“Yes. Yes, I realize that.”

Sloane leaned back. “Well, there’s the Abramses. Ruth resents me because my marriage to Laura lifted me and my kids above them economically. Ruth and Sam are always scraping to get by.”

“Why is that? Isn’t Mr. Abrams more or less the junior partner in your firm?”

“Yes, but most firms have good years and bad. This last year has been bad. Thanks to Laura, I didn’t suffer; I don’t really need the money. But the Abramses do. And so Sam started trying to take over my job.”

“In what way?”

“He started getting pushy, that’s all. He wanted my job, I’m telling you. There’s more money in it for him, more prestige. It made me mad. I let him know I wouldn’t stand for it. He claimed the idea never even occurred to him. Damned liar. I know ambition when I see it. I’m ambitious enough myself, damn it.”

Yes,
thought Voelker.

Sloane shifted and turned his gaze to the window. He said unexpectedly:

“Maybe I was wrong. Going through something like this … it changes you. Changes your perspective on
things. Maybe Sam was just trying to be helpful. Maybe he was getting grabby because it was a bad year, and he would have been all right once things settled down. I don’t know. I really don’t. You’ll have to ask Sam and Ruth about it yourself.”

“I intend to.”

“I’m sure you do, you clever bastard.” Sloane’s voice was amused. “Don’t think I don’t know what’s going on behind that long face of yours. Useful sort of face to have in your business, isn’t it? Don’t like me much, do you? Well, join the club.”

Unexpectedly, Voelker found himself thawing. Heather Crandall had been right; Walter Sloane had an unfortunate manner; but he also had a kind of rough-edged charm to him. It was this, Voelker suspected, that had kept his friends around him all these years.

“Heather and Harry Crandall,” Walter Sloane was saying. “I don’t know. Harry’s the greatest pompous ass that ever walked the earth, of course—sometimes when I hear him going on about those damned slime molds I want to strangle him—these academics, they’re all alike! Idiots, all of them. Think they know better than everybody about everything. Harry was talking about Boccherini at our party, just shooting his mouth off the way he always does, even though the damned fool doesn’t know a thing about Boccherini. He didn’t even get the right
decade,
for Christ’s sake. And as for his other theories—!”

He let the sentence linger meaningfully in the air.

“The man’s a stuffed shirt. Impossible. Just impossible. Still, you know, we’ve been friends for a long time. I don’t know why, honest to God I don’t. He’s Sally’s cousin, of course. My first wife. They were really her friends. Everyone liked Sally. But when she died, they were stuck with me.”

“Your first wife died of …?”