Sleeping Beauty (27 page)

“How did he travel?”

“He had a Navy station wagon.”

“Who drove it?”

She answered after a pause: “Some Navy man—I don’t remember who.”

“Smith?”

“It might have been Smith. I think it was. But please don’t question him about it, will you?”

“Why not, if your husband is innocent?”

“He
is
innocent.”

“Then you shouldn’t object to my questioning Smith or anyone else.”

Her eyes went dark with anger, sudden and stormy. “Don’t tell me what I should or shouldn’t do. This is my house you’re in, and my life you’re meddling with—”

“The point is that you have a life. Allie Russo lost hers.”

I picked up Elizabeth’s diary from the desk and riffled through the pages. She made a move to stop me, but drew back. Her look of anger had changed to something more definite and personal. I got the impression that she was willing now to see the whole truth come out.

“Did you say the woman with the little boy came to your house in March?”

“Yes. It was early in March of 1945.”

The entry was easy to find, under March 5th: “A strange thing happened today. A young woman and a small boy, aged about four or five, came to the house. She told me something so terrible that I’m not going to write it down, diary. But I’ll never forget this day. It’s made me a doubting Thomas. (The little boy’s name was Thomas, the woman said.)”

I read it out loud to Elizabeth. She bowed her head:

“I didn’t remember what his name was. Or that I’d written it down.”

But I wondered if she hadn’t remembered the entry unconsciously, perhaps brought the diary out so that I would find it. I said:

“Do you want to take another look at Allie Russo’s picture?”

Her eyes met mine. “It isn’t necessary. I recognized her the first time you showed me the picture. She was the woman who came here with the boy.”

“How often did she come here?”

“Just the one time. I went and lived with Father after that, and eventually Jack and Marian took over this house until Ben
came home.” She held out her hand. “May I have my diary back, please?”

I handed it to her. Holding it tight against her body, she left the room.

I bade a silent farewell to her narrow-waisted back. The night before had been a one-time thing, not without passion but without consequences. Except that I would never forget Elizabeth.

Captain Somerville got home a few minutes later. I heard him and his wife talking quietly in the front of the house, too quietly for me to understand what they were saying. Then Somerville came into the study and closed the door behind him. He looked old and tired.

“My wife says you want to speak to me.”

“If you have a minute.”

“Can’t it wait till morning? It’s very late.”

He yawned at his own suggestion. Tears of exhaustion and exasperation ran down his face. His beard had grown out in the course of the day; it caught the light and glinted.

“It’s a matter of priorities,” I said. “You’re trying to stop an oil spill—”

“And succeeding,” he insisted. “The whole thing will be over in another day or two.”

“I hope so. I’m trying to stop another kind of spill—a series of murders and other crimes.”

“A
series
of murders?”

“There have been three that I know of. The first one occurred on the night of May 2nd, 1945, when Allie Russo was shot in her bedroom.” Somerville flinched, but I went on. “Last night or early this morning, a hospital inmate named Nelson Bagley was drowned off a Montevista beach. Sylvia Lennox’s secretary was beaten to death on the same beach.”

Somerville’s face lost its remaining color. His eyes closed for a moment, and he swayed. He reached out and took hold of my arm, his fingers hooking painfully into the flesh above my elbow.

“Who told you about Allie Russo?”

I shook his hand off. “Her death is public knowledge. And her son happens to be my client.”

“Laurel’s husband?”

“Yes. Laurel still hasn’t been heard from, and she’s in danger. We don’t want her to be the fourth victim.”

There was a sound in the hallway, a small sound such as a dog makes when he’s left outside. The door was opened, and Marian Lennox came into the room. She moved with awkward diffidence in her dark clothes.

“You were talking about Laurel, weren’t you?”

“Her name came up,” I said.

She moved toward me with one hand outstretched, like a blind woman, but her eyes were bright and fearful. “Did you say Laurel was the fourth victim?”

“I said she’s in danger of becoming that. It’s what we’re trying to head off.”

“And you’re not helping much,” Somerville said to her. “Mr. Archer and I are having a very serious private discussion. Or we were hoping to have one.”

“I’m sorry. When I heard Laurel’s name, I thought you might have some new information.” She looked into her brother-in-law’s face, and then into mine. “Where is she, Mr. Archer?”

“Harold Sherry has the answer. I don’t, at least not yet.”

“Where is Harold Sherry?”

“Somewhere out in the boondocks, dragging a wounded leg.”

“And Laurel is with him?”

“She may be. At any rate, he probably knows where she is.”

“What can we do to get her back?”

Somerville had been pacing the room, and now he stepped between us. “That’s what Archer and I are trying to talk about, Marian. Or were, when you interrupted.” He moved toward her, clasping her shoulders in his hands, and speaking in a softer voice: “I’m well aware of what you’ve been through today, and I don’t mean to be unfeeling. But I suggest you go to bed now. Did you get any sleep at all last night?”

“I don’t remember. No. I don’t think I did.”

She half closed her eyes and hung her head as if she took comfort from the support of his hands. He rocked her gently:

“You’re half asleep, old girl. Now get off to bed. Do you want me to pour you a drink to take along?”

“No, thanks. You’re very kind, Ben, but it would just excite me. Elizabeth promised me a sleeping pill.”

“Get her to give you a couple of chloral hydrates. It’s what I use when I can’t rest.”

He turned her, slid one arm around her shoulders, and walked her out into the hallway. Then he bent down and kissed the side of her face. The gesture seemed unforced, and it gave me a new impression of Somerville. In spite of his long trouble with his wife, he liked women and, in an old-fashioned patriarchal way, was good at handling them.

The contact with Marian seemed to have calmed him. “I’m sorry about the interruption. I’m afraid my sister-in-law is close to breakdown. Her whole life has been just about wiped out in the last thirty hours.”

“How is her husband, Jack?”

“I saw him this evening, and he’s doing all right physically. But he doesn’t handle trouble too well, and Marian handles it very badly. She’s at loose ends without him. And you can imagine what these uncertainties about Laurel have done to
her.” He rapped his knuckles together. “We’ve got to get Laurel back.”

“I think I’ve been making some progress. You can help me, Captain.”

“Just tell me how.”

“By answering some questions.”

“All right. I’ll do my best.”

Somerville looked out into the hallway, then shut the door. We sat almost knee to knee in the chairs that his wife and I had occupied. I said:

“Did you know Allie Russo?”

His face became completely grave and still. “I won’t deny it. But I want it understood that anything I tell you about her is in confidence.”

“It has to be further understood that if you have important evidence it goes to the police.”

“Who decides its importance?”

“Both of us, or either.”

Somerville moved uneasily. “I can’t accept that.”

I said without much emphasis, “Would you rather talk directly to the Los Angeles police? Allie Russo’s death occurred in their jurisdiction, and they never close the books on unsolved murders.”

His hand wrenched and scoured at the lower part of his face as if he was trying to reshape it. “I had nothing to do with her death.”

“Who did?”

“There were several suspects, including her husband. She had a rather disordered life after she left Russo.”

“How do you know that?”

“I saw her from time to time.”

“Did you see her on the night she was killed?”

“I did not. I was with my wife at her father’s house that evening. I went from there directly back to the ship, and we sailed for Okinawa the following morning.”

“Did you know she was dead when you sailed?”

“I certainly did not. Ask my wife, and she’ll confirm what I just told you.”

“She already has.”

“Then what is this all about?”

“You said you wanted to help.”

“I do. That should be obvious. But I can’t solve your problems for you by confessing something that I didn’t do.”

“What about something you did do? Were you Allie Russo’s lover?”

“Not in any real sense. I may have slept with her a few times.”

“You may have.”

“I did. It was no great matter. I wasn’t married at the time, and she had already left her husband when I met her. We were good friends, that’s all.”

“How did you meet her?”

“One of my crew members asked me to help her out. She was living with her little boy in a cheap hotel in Seattle, and he got the flu. I arranged for some medical treatment.”

“What was the crew member’s name?”

“Nelson Bagley.” His voice was flat. “Bagley was crazy about her, but I don’t think he ever got to first base. Which is probably why he killed her.”

“You know that he killed her, do you?”

“Yes. I think I do.”

“Were you there when it happened?”

Somerville took a deep breath and let it out, making an angry noise. “Certainly not.”

“Did you know about her death on the night she was killed?”

He thrust out an impatient hand which pushed the idea away. “I didn’t say that. I wasn’t aware that Allie was dead until nearly three weeks after it happened. We were at sea off Okinawa. The battle for the island was still going on, and the
Canaan Sound
was providing fighter support for our troops—”

“What about Allie’s death?”

“I was getting to that. We withdrew from the battle area to refuel—that was the night of May 22nd—and the oiler put some mail aboard before we started the fueling operation. My personal mail included an envelope containing a newspaper account of Allie’s murder. Some kind soul had clipped it out and sent it to me.” His voice was dry and harsh.

“Do you know who the kind soul was?”

“There was nothing in the envelope to identify him or her. Of course, I’ve thought of various possibilities, including her husband and my wife.” Somerville gave me a rapid questioning look.

“I don’t think it could have been your wife. The clipping may have been sent by Allie’s murderer.”

He shook his head. “Allie’s murderer was aboard the
Canaan Sound
with me.”

“Do you mean Bagley?”

“Yes. The newspaper clipping gave a fairly accurate description of Bagley as he was then. One of Allie’s neighbors saw him sneaking around her house on the night she was killed. Apparently he was spying on her through the back windows. As soon as I read the description, I sent for Bagley, but he failed to show up. Then something happened that put the whole thing out of my mind.”

“Was that when the ship caught fire?”

“No, it didn’t happen immediately. That came later, and Nelson Bagley was responsible for it.”

I studied Somerville’s face. His look was grim and driven. I wondered for a moment if Bagley had become his monomania, the imagined source of all the trouble in his life, killer of his mistress, wrecker of his ship.

“I’ve heard it suggested that you were responsible for the fire on the
Canaan Sound.”

The Captain showed neither anger nor surprise. “I may have been partly responsible.”

“You’re very candid.”

“I’m trying to be honest with you,” he said. “The captain of the oiler reported later that I called for too much pressure when we were filling the avgas tanks, and that was why one of them ruptured.”

“Did you?”

He lifted his hand like a statue coming alive, then dropped it as if coming alive was too much effort. “I don’t remember the details of that night too clearly. I’ve spent a lot of other sleepless nights trying to. But I honestly don’t remember making the request for higher pressure. Possibly I did. Certainly something went wrong.” His eyes were puzzled. “I’d just received the news of Allie’s death. It stunned me, and it’s left me with a very foggy recollection.”

It was an extraordinary admission. It seemed to me that for the first time I was hearing the truth about the loss of the Captain’s ship and the Captain’s mistress.

“Wasn’t your avgas officer blamed for the rupture of the tank?”

Somerville’s eyes moved with difficulty, like stone eyes, to my face. “Have you been investigating the
Canaan Sound
disaster?”

“Not exactly. But it keeps coming up.”

“Has Ellis been talking?”

“Some. He took it very hard when he was shown Bagley’s body. He seems to blame himself for the whole thing.”

Somerville looked down at the floor between us.

“Did you encourage him to take the blame, Captain?”

“That was hardly necessary. Ellis was a willing volunteer. Anyway, it didn’t really matter to him.”

“It didn’t matter? You should have seen him today.”

Somerville shook his head abruptly. “I mean in the sense that he wasn’t a career officer. It was just a job, and when he left the Navy I saw to it that he got a better job. But I lost my command. I lost the possibility of any future command. I sat out the rest of the war.”

The Captain was still and quiet for a time. He seemed to be mourning obscurely, for his lost honor, or his lost pride. I had the queer impression that he had been sitting out those last few months of the war ever since, while some unreal alter ego carried on the business of peacetime life.

“You said that Bagley set fire to the ship. Were you serious, Captain?”