The Man Who Loved His Wife (26 page)

“I'd like to ask you one question first, if I may, sir?”

“Go ahead.”

“You've read the diary?”

Knight's hand fell upon the briefcase lying beside him on the banquette. In it was a copy of the diary reproduced by a new machine so accurately that every stoke of Fletcher's ballpoint, every deviation in the flow of ink, every heavily stressed punctuation mark, showed clearly. The original was now locked away in Lowell Hanley's safe. The meeting in Mr. Hanley's office had concerned this subject. Discussion had been heated. The District Attorney had, in general, taken Knight's view of the case while the Chief of Police had been skeptical about several
important points. The department's chief psychologist had given his opinion in words of four syllables. No agreement had been reached, and Knight had been instructed to go on with the investigation, but with discretion.

“Indeed I've read it. Very interesting.”

Don saw that the detective was not prepared to let him know how they meant to use the information Fletcher Strode had provided. “May I ask,” Don, too, exercised discretion, “if there were any references to suicide, overt or otherwise?”

“You haven't read it?”

Don had told Knight yesterday, when the diary was brought out, that he had not read it. He knew, too, that Knight had not forgotten, but was also playing a discreet game. Instead of making an issue of it, he said, “All I know is that Dad wrote in it a lot. And if he was plotting suicide, there might have been some indication in a concealed journal. And,” he took out a cigarette and felt in his pockets for his lighter, which was there but which he pretended not to find because he knew that Knight liked to render small services, “some interesting stuff about the circumstances that preceded his death.”

Knight leaned over to touch his lighter to Don's cigarette. He used a lemon-flavored cologne, but too profusely to be in good taste. Don drew back. Knight noted tension in the hand that held the cigarette, tautness in the flesh around the eyes.

He said, “Yes, the events of the poor fellow's last days were given in some detail.” He waited. Since Don did not ask questions, Knight went on provocatively, “You lived in the house, you must have noticed that Mr. Strode was in a state of mental and emotional distress. Wasn't it noticeable?”

“It was hell. Sheer hell for all of us, but particularly for Elaine.”

“Would you say that his wife was the cause of this condition?”

“More the victim.” Don observed a grim silence, sighed, added, “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but at times he was brutal to her.” His hand flew, as though self-impelled, to the place where the bruise stained Elaine's jaw.

Knight sipped tomato juice.

“You don't believe that cock-and-bull story about her slipping against the kitchen sink? Elaine'd die before she'd say he hit her. Especially now that he's dead.”

Knight gave Don no encouragement.

“What I wanted to ask you, sir, was there anything in the diary about finding me in Mr. Strode's bedroom with Elaine?”

“In his bedroom?”

Don's smile dismissed implications of incest. “I was afraid he might have made something of it, although it was really innocent. The cleaner's boy delivered a bundle when Elaine and I were alone, and I offered to carry it to his room for her. There were several of his suits in those plastic bags the cleaners use—”

He used a diversion to heighten Knight's curiosity. Having finished his martini, he signaled the waiter. “You don't mind if I indulge in my bad habit?”

“It's your own liver,” Knight said. “I can tell you this much, there was nothing in the diary about that incident in the bedroom. Why does it bother you so much?”

“I was afraid that Dad might have made something of it. And I wouldn't like anything of that sort to get out. Especially in the newspapers. People have nasty minds, and I have a wife to think of. I'm glad he didn't mention it in the diary.”

“Is that incident the important information you had for me?” Knight asked sternly. “It was my impression that you knew something more.”

If he had noticed the mention of plastic bags, he preferred not to heed it.

“I know what caused Mr. Strode's death.”

They had to sit silent while the waiter slid their plates into place. A silver cover was removed from a silver platter, vegetables and poached eggs exhibited. A chateaubriand stuffed with caviar could not have been more elaborately served. Knight nodded approval. When the waiter had gone, he poked at the vegetables with his fork. “Now this is a correctly cooked string bean. Not overdone, the vitamins are preserved. How did Mr. Strode die?”

“He was smothered with a plastic bag.”

Knight went on eating. His face showed neither pleasure nor surprise. Only a slight twitch of the nostrils betrayed excitement. “How do you know that?”

Like a defense attorney who has spent many hours preparing his arguments, Don gave facts. Even the mood has been considered: compassion for the sorrowing daughter, indulgence of Cindy's mistake. Like a father speaking of an adored brat, he explained, “She had no idea that it was incorrect to keep the bag hidden.”

“Stupid,” was Knight's word. Without compassion. “Just stupid.”

“She was trying to be gallant. In her own way. Protecting the family name. She believes that suicide is disgraceful. Her father's reputation is very dear to her.”

Knight sniffed. He could understand Mrs. Hustings's having snatched the bag away and, in the first moments of shock, hidden it away, but once an investigation was under way, she ought to have performed her legal duty.

“I'm afraid my wife isn't too familiar with the law. She's led a sheltered life.”

“Don't they teach them anything in those fancy girls' colleges?”

“Not such masculine subjects as the law,” retorted Don with a challenging glance.

Knight gave attention to the business of isolating the lima beans, carrots, and corn kernels from the beets and potatoes, which he pushed to the far side of his plate. As though it were a mere aside, less important than the string bean that now claimed his attention, he murmured, “Must be a lot of life insurance, huh?”

“None of us knows how much,” Don answered, “but does that mean much to your investigation? Even if the coroner's verdict is suicide, I'm sure the benefits will be paid. Mr. Strode held his policies for a long time.”

“A lot of people, most of them, think the companies won't pay in suicide cases.”

“I don't think my wife knows anything about that.”

“Where's the bag?”

“At the house. Over a dress in our closet. Your assistant looked straight at it and asked no questions.”

“I see.” What Knight saw were headlines and news photographs:
Sergeant Curtis Knight who discovered the vital clue in the mystery death of the New York millionaire.
He thought of the morning's angry meeting, of the war between the District Attorney and the Police Chief, of ambition rampant and caution couchant, of the polysyllables offered by the psychologist. How would the introduction of the plastic bag affect the present situation and Knight's future career? The whole thing might blow up in his face. “Of course,” he said thoughtfully, “this may change the entire aspect of the case.”

“In what way, sir?”

“The use of the plastic bag nearly always indicates suicide.”

“Nearly but not always?”

Knight pointed his fork at Don's face. “Have you any good reason for believing this wasn't?”

“I'm thinking of possibilities. Infants smothered in cribs are usually the victims of their mothers' carelessness, but suppose, sir, that a parent finds a child a burden and wants to be free? You see the point, don't you?” Again Don played lawyer, tried to impress jury and judge with logical theory. “A man drugged with sleeping pills is just as helpless as a sleeping child. That's only an illustration, but certainly possible.”

A conical green lampshade protected a meager bulb in the small lamp set upon their table. The dusky ray, slanting upward from a circular opening, etched in Don's face. Knight tilted the shade so that further light was shed upon his companion. The scrutiny was disconcerting to Don, who signaled the waiter for another drink. Knight cautioned him against it.

“If you're going to drive home, it's not safe.”

“Nor legal,” said Don with a wry grin. He changed the order to coffee, and tried a new strategy. “If you were to search the house again, sir, you might find the bag hanging over a tan party dress in my wife's closet. And ask a few pertinent questions
which, of course, would bring out the truth—”

“Allow us to handle it in our own way,” Knight said, stressing plural pronouns so that the young man could see he was not to be got around by any scheme to further his own career.

“You realize, of course, that my wife's handled the bag and I'm afraid I touched it myself, inadvertently, when I looked at it.”

“Fingerprints don't often show up on that plastic. Rarely. If that's what worries you.”

“Why should I worry? So long as you don't punish poor Cindy for her gallantry.” Don cast a smile of understanding at Knight to show tolerance of female foibles.

“I'll want a written confession from your wife.”

“That'll be very hard for her.”

“Gallantry requires a bit of hardship.” Knight grimaced.

“You haven't mentioned this to anyone else?”

“No.”

“Does Mrs. Strode know anything about it?”

“Not that I know of, sir.”

Knight said nothing more until he had finished his coffee. In parting he offered a grateful hand. “You were right to tell me about this. Otherwise your wife might be in a lot of trouble. As things stand, I don't think the delay in her confession will amount to much. I'll talk to Lowell Hanley about it.”

Nothing more was said of the new clue, but the handshake was a gesture of tacit cooperation. Don drove home at an illegal speed. In midafternoon the freeway was fairly empty—a good omen. Cindy heard his car and ran to meet him at the door.

“I've got a surprise for you.”

“What is it?” He threw the question over his shoulder as he hurried to the bedroom closet to have a quick look at the sight which would soon greet the eyes of Sergeant Knight.

“Looking for something?” Cindy asked with feigned ignorance.

“Where is it?”

“Where's what, Donnie?”

He closed the bedroom door before he spoke of the bag.

“It's gone.” Cindy beamed.

“Where? Who took it? Was anyone here?”

“I burned it”

“You . . . what?”

“Out there.” She tilted her head toward the window that looked toward the garden. “No one saw. It only burned for a few seconds, that stuff goes up in a flash. There were hardly any ashes and I put them in the dirt where the gardener puts all the old raked leaves and dead flowers and stuff. I mixed it all up with dirt and that guck.”

She waited for praise. Don grunted.

“No one will ever know now.” She smiled at the girl in the mirror. Don came up behind her. She saw him in the mirror, too. His hands rose so that she expected an embrace. Instead she was whirled around and shaken like a wet dishrag. “Donnie! What's wrong now? I thought you'd be glad.”

He jerked her close and looked down into her face. “Why should I be glad?”

“I just thought you would.”

“Cindy, is there anything else you ought to tell me?”

“What do you mean?”

“You've acted very strangely since your father died.”

“Me?” She wriggled out of his grasp and backed away.

“You're the one who's acted funny. Really weird.”

“I was trying to protect you.”

“Don't you think I was trying to help you?”

“Thanks, don't bother.” He flung himself upon the bed.

Cindy turned to the mirror, trying on a haughty expression but finding it difficult while she winked and screwed up her eyes in the process of putting on makeup.

Don watched. “What's all that for? You don't think you're going to a party tonight?”

“Have you forgotten? We've got to go and arrange for the funeral. Elaine said we could spend as much as we wanted.”

“You have to make yourself up like a tart to go to a mortuary!”

He was impossible. Cindy gathered up her little pots and pencils, flung herself into the bathroom, closed the door with
a bang. She spent a long time on her face, for her hand was unsteady with the brushes. When she came out her eyes were bare of the usual black rims and she had penciled her brows with a faint line. “I won't wear any makeup if you don't like it, darling.”