The Dishonest Murderer (18 page)

“Anchor to windward,” Admiral Satterbee said, unexpectedly. Everybody looked at him. Then Bill Weigand looked at Pam North. He narrowed his eyes a little; his expression was quizzical.

“Two strings to his bow,” Pam said. “The real murderer, because he saw him. The admiral, because he thought he might turn a pretty penny.” She shook her head. “The trouble is,” she said, in a different tone, “once you start them you can't stop.”

“Pam!” Jerry North said. “Listen, Pam.”

“Anyway,” Pam said, after a moment of appearing ready to listen, “the real murderer killed him. Mr. Smiley, I mean. Mr. Smiley called him up, or something, and arranged to meet him and—you said in his office, Bill?”

Bill Weigand said, “Right.” He said, further, that Pam was presumably right about the appointment with—somebody. Otherwise, Mr. Smiley hardly would have been in his office late in the afternoon of New Year's Day.

“Look,” Pam said. “How did you happen to go there, Bill? I mean, did you just drop in as a matter of routine and find—find he had been killed?”

Bill shook his head. He was riding it, Jerry North thought; he was letting Pam set the pace, he was content to watch, to take up such points as he chose. Not for the first time, Jerry North had a feeling of interplay between Pam and Bill Weigand, of a kind of
rapprochement
in these matters. He found himself wondering, abstractedly, whether Dorian Weigand ever had that feeling about her husband and Pam North. He recalled himself.

“We got a squeal,” Bill said. “That is, somebody called us up. Said that there had been a murder and gave the address, and the room number, of Smiley's office. The boys went around.”

“And,” Pam said, “of course you couldn't trace the call, because it was from a dial telephone and—”

“We didn't,” Bill said. “Actually, it's possible to trace a call from a dial 'phone. If you can keep the person talking for forty minutes to an hour. Usually, you can't.”

“Man or woman?” Pam asked.

Bill shrugged. “Whisperer,” he said. “In and out very fast. The switchboard man isn't sure.”

“But,” Pam said, “why? To fix the time?”

Bill Weigand shrugged again. He said they didn't know, yet. His tone set a period to this interlude. He turned back to Admiral Satterbee.

“You want to stand on what you've told us?” he asked. “You don't want to say anything more?”

Admiral Satterbee shook his head. He was decisive. But then he hesitated, and did speak, and there was a little triumph in his voice.

“Reason for reporting the murder was to fix the time,” he said. “If it was. Notice fixes a time when I was out taking a walk? What do you think of that, Lieutenant?”

That, Bill told him, was a point. It could also be a coincidence. “Further,” he said, “who knew you were taking a walk?”

“Watkins,” the admiral said. “My dau—” He broke off. But he realized, showed the realization in his expression, that he had broken off too late. He grew suddenly red, angry. “Won't have—” he began, and someone knocked at the door.

Bill Weigand did not seem disturbed at the interruption. He said “Right” to the closed door, and Mullins opened it.

“This Grainger'll be over,” he said. “And Mr. Phipps is here, now. The red—Mrs. Haven's with him. They want to see you.”

He was told to bring them in.

Freddie Haven came first. She had changed since the party, Pam thought; she had changed even since the strange interview in the North apartment after the party. Her face seemed to have been hollowed out. She's afraid, Pam thought. She's even more afraid.

Freddie went to her father, holding out her hands.

“Dad,” she said. “You're all right? Everything's—”

Possibly, Pam thought, watching the two, there was warning in the admiral's expression as he looked at his daughter. He took her hands. He nodded and smiled, looking into her eyes. Only then, only after a long moment, did Freddie seem to become conscious of the others. She looked at Pam, at Jerry North. By the faintest movement, her eyebrows lifted.

“Your father has,” Pam said. “Just now.” She wanted to add, “Don't be afraid,” but she did not.

Freddie looked at her father again, looked away, looked at Lieutenant Weigand. There was no expression she could fathom in his face; he seemed merely to be withdrawn, waiting. He said, “Good afternoon, Mrs. Haven,” and there was no emphasis in his tone.

Phipps had been standing at the door, waiting. He came in, then. He said, “Good afternoon, sir,” to the admiral, looked at the Norths and paused for an instant, and then turned to Weigand.

“Yes?” Bill Weigand said. “You have something to tell us?”

Howard Phipps, standing, speaking slowly, a little deprecating by tone, by expression, the information he was giving, told Weigand about Bruce Kirkhill's brother, about the letter which might have been from the brother, or about him. Freddie found herself looking at Lieutenant Weigand, studying his thin face, trying to listen to this with his ears, his mind. But Weigand's face told her nothing. He listened, he was courteous, he seemed interested. But his face changed little.

“You think this might have explained Senator Kirkhill's going where he went, dressing as he did?” Bill Weigand said when Phipps seemed to have finished.

Phipps shrugged.

“It seems possible,” he said. He looked at Weigand. “I realize you may have other information,” he said. “May know things that makes this of no importance. Still—”

“Right,” Bill Weigand said. “We'll look into it. It may be important.” Then he asked a few questions, crisply.

The answers were not, Freddie Haven thought, illuminating. Phipps did not know more about George Kirkhill than his name. He did not know anyone who could give more, could give a description for the police to work on. He hesitated, then. “Unless Fay Burnley,” he said. “She knew the chief in the old days. Before the war.”

Freddie could not tell how the thin-faced detective took this. He merely nodded; said, “Right,” again. Then he went to the door and talked to someone outside it for a few minutes and came back. He nodded to Howard Phipps and, now, thanked him. He said they'd find out what they could.

Freddie thought Lieutenant Weigand was dismissing Phipps, and Phipps seemed also to think that. He said, “Well—” and started to turn away, and Weigand seemed about to let him. Freddie heard, from Pam North, the faint sound of an indrawn breath and then she saw Lieutenant Weigand's long fingers flutter at Mrs. North, although he did not turn his head toward her. “Oh,” Pam said, softly, using up the breath she had got ready.

Possibly, Lieutenant Weigand said, his voice still level, almost expressionless, Mr. Phipps could help them further. “Since you're here,” Weigand said, and Phipps looked interested, nodded, turned back into the room. At a gesture from Weigand, he sat down.

“Someone wrote a letter about the senator,” Bill Weigand said. “To the admiral, here. Anonymously. Charging that the senator was selling out, or was about to sell out, to a group which opposed this hydro-electric project. The Valley Authority. Since you were close to the senator—”

Phipps did not let him finish. Phipps leaned forward in his chair, and began to shake his head. He seemed indignant. He feels as I feel, Freddie thought. He feels it's absurd—cruel—a rotten, cruel thing.

“Not the chief,” Phipps said. “I'd as soon believe—” He paused, seemed to get control of himself. “It's a lousy lie,” he said.

The swirling blackness was back in Freddie Haven's mind. A letter—what was this letter? She grasped, through the blackness, at this thing Lieutenant Weigand said so flatly, so casually. She looked at her father, and her eyes were wide, puzzled, frightened. He had got this letter, he had believed it, he had hired these men—

“Oh,” she said. “Oh!”

“You didn't know about that, Mrs. Haven?” Weigand said. His voice seemed to come from a long way off. “You didn't know about the letter?”

She shook her head, slowly. She looked at her father.

“Made a mistake,” he said. His voice was gruff, strained. “Should have torn it up, paid no attention. But—” He broke off. “Made a mistake,” he said. “Sorry about it.”

“Your father employed a man named Smiley,” Weigand said. “And Mr. Briggs, here.” He indicated Briggs. “You saw Smiley last night? That was what upset you, Mrs. Haven?”

She nodded, slowly, toward the distant, unemphatic voice; nodded out of the swirling confusion in her mind. She felt that Lieutenant Weigand was waiting for her to say something, make some comment. But she merely nodded again.

Weigand turned back to Howard Phipps. Answering Phipps's assertion, he said that the letter—the allegation in the letter—were things that had to be looked into.

“It's—preposterous!” Phipps said. “You couldn't bribe the chief, get him to sell out. Some crack-pot—it must have been one of those people.” He looked at Weigand. “Hell,” he said. “You know how those things are. Someone's prominent, a lot of people believe in him, something comes out from under a rock and—”

“Right,” Bill said. “I know. Probably you're right.” He paused for a moment. “There's only one thing,” he said. “Did you ever hear of a man named Smiley?”

They were all looking at Howard Phipps. They were all looking at him, waiting. Freddie Haven found herself wanting to speak, to break the moment, to tell Phipps that the man named Smiley was dead.

Phipps shook his head. The only expression in his face was one of bewilderment.

“No,” Lieutenant Weigand said. “Why should you, Mr. Phipps? But—he was investigating this letter. For Admiral Satterbee. And—he's dead. Somebody killed him.”

They all looked at Phipps's face. It was suddenly blank, incredulous.

“But—” he said. “I tell you the chief—” Phipps shook his head slowly, shaking off an impossible thought. “I tell you,” he said. “It couldn't be that. It's a coincidence. This Smiley—he was a detective?”

“Right,” Weigand said. “Private.”

“Then it was something else,” Phipps said. He leaned forward; he was intense. “It must have been! He was killed because—because of something else he was doing. It's—it's just one of those things. It's
got
to be.”

“Of course,” Weigand said, in the same uninflected voice, “the senator might have been approached without your knowledge, Mr. Phipps. You have only—what would you call it?—a moral certainty. You're very sure, I'm sure Mrs. Haven here is equally sure. But—” He finished with a just perceptible lifting of his shoulders. He seemed to wait.

Howard Phipps began to shake his head, slowly, unwillingly. But then he lifted his head quickly and spoke quickly.

“More than that,” he said. “The chief was making a speech in a couple of weeks—a big speech. I was getting material for it, starting a rough draft. He was coming out stronger than ever for the project. You see? If there was anything to this charge, he'd have begun to hedge, to—”

“Yes,” Bill Weigand said. “Right. It's a point, Mr. Phipps. As you say, the letter may merely have been the work of a crank.” Weigand looked at the admiral, briefly. “Probably was,” he said. “Unless—have you any idea who the crank might have been, Mr. Phipps?”

Phipps shook his head.

“You, Mrs. Haven?” Lieutenant Weigand said. “Admiral?” Freddie shook her head. The admiral said, “No.”

“Right,” Weigand said, without inflection. “Now—for the record. You were walking this afternoon, Admiral? From two-thirty or a quarter of three until three-fifteen or three-thirty. That's all you can tell us?”

“Yes.”

“And you, Mrs. Haven?”

She made her voice steady, tried to make it casual.

“I guess it runs in the family,” she said. “Walking in the snow. That's what I was doing.”

It sounded false in her own ears; her voice sounded brittle. But Weigand only nodded, said “Right,” and turned to Howard Phipps.

“Here until—oh, about two-thirty,” Phipps said. “Then in my room at the Waldorf. On the telephone, most of the time. Going through papers. It's—it's all a hell of a mess, you know.”

“I,” Harry Briggs said, without being asked, “was in my apartment, where your man found me. Listening to the radio.”

Weigand thanked him.

“Now, Mr. Phipps—” he began, and interrupted himself and said, “Yes?” in response to a knock on the door. The door opened; it was Sergeant Blake, this time. They all looked at him. Fleetingly, his eyes caught Freddie's, momentarily held them. Why, Freddie thought, I could talk to him! It would be safe, it would be all right. But, as quickly, she realized this was not true. He was one of “them”—one of those who could not be told she had made an appointment with Smiley, talked to him a little while before he was killed. And then, for the first time, she realized fully, consciously, why they could never be told. She had talked from an extension here, in the apartment.
In her father's apartment!

She had begun, unconsciously, to smile toward Sergeant Blake. The smile faded away.

VIII

Saturday, 6:15 P.M. to 11:10 P.M.

Sergeant William Blake had brought Curtis Grainger, and Grainger was angry. His face reddened when he saw Lieutenant Weigand, and he said, “Listen!” Then he looked around at the others, hesitated a moment, and looked again at Weigand.

“All this st-stuff about my father,” he said. “In the newspapers. If you th-think—”

“I don't edit newspapers, Mr. Grainger,” Bill Weigand said. His voice was mild.

“Libels!” Curtis Grainger said. “I'll—”

“I doubt it,” Weigand said, interrupting. “But if you like, if your lawyers like, sue them.” His voice was easy. “In any case, don't yell at me,” he added. He smiled faintly.