“And a message on the recording machine,” Rocco said.
“I’d like to hear that message,” Lyon said. “I’d like very much to hear it.”
Rocco Herbert pushed the police car to seventy on the deserted Interstate as Lyon clutched the edge of his seat. As he glanced down at the floorboards, the sight of Rocco’s leg in a cast did not reassure him at all.
“Will the Hartford police cooperate?” he asked.
“Yes, as a courtesy, but if we release anything to the news media they’ll have my head.”
“That’s understandable.”
Police headquarters on Morgan Street in downtown Hartford nestled underneath the raised junction of two Interstate highways on one side and a large plaza and office complex on the other. The interconnected buildings were a maze of diverse architecture, the front section a relatively modern edifice, connected to an older portion containing the courts and offices.
Rocco slid the cruiser into the official lot and led Lyon through a maze of corridors to a small office.
Detective Sergeant Michael Pasquale met Rocco with a jab to the solar plexus. Rocco countered with a bear hug that lifted the slim detective several feet into the air and made him gasp for breath.
“Put me down, you half-guinea bastard,” the raised man finally managed to gasp.
“You’re getting thinner, Pat. What’s the matter, not getting enough off the pad these days?”
“Screw you. If I had half a grain of sense I’d be in a cushy spot like yours, laying half the housewives in town.”
“Only the ones under seventy.”
“With them on top, you big bastard.”
They went into the small office. The room was bare, the peeling walls partially covered by a large map of the city, with a battered desk and two wooden folding chairs for visitors.
“You got the tape?” Rocco asked.
“I got it for the time being, but for Christ’s sake don’t breathe a word about hearing it. The Houston family would have my badge.”
The detective pulled a small cassette player from the desk and inserted a cartridge. He positioned the tape and looked at them expectantly. “Ready for the command performance?” They nodded and he pressed the play button.
The tape hummed for a few moments, and then they could hear the rustle of papers and the unmistakable voice. Lyon knew it was Houston’s voice, but the quiet monotone surprised him.
“I have come to the end,” the tape intoned. “There are few alternatives left, and I am taking the only course of action open to me. Everything is in order and the lawyers will know where to look.” The voice stopped. Faint indescribable sounds could be heard, then the opening of a drawer. Lyon could imagine Houston’s hand reaching into the center drawer and withdrawing the pistol. The drawer closed. Again there was silence on the tape until the faint click of the revolver’s action, followed by the shot.
The sound filled the room, and, although expected, it startled the three of them. There were several seconds of silence again before the muffled sound of someone beating on a door, and then complete silence as the tape reached the end of the spool.
“How did you discover it?” Lyon asked.
“We would have eventually, but his secretary noticed that the recorder light was still on. We played it back and got this.”
“What’s on the rest of the tape?” Rocco asked.
“Absolutely nothing of interest. Letters he dictated, memoranda and other routine stuff. I had the secretaries listen to it also. They told me that there was nothing out of the ordinary.”
“How do you reconstruct it?” Lyon asked.
“What you hear is what we got,” the short detective replied. “No reason to feel otherwise. At approximately ten o’clock he locked his door, which is not a particularly unusual thing for him to do, they tell me. He was a real bug for privacy. He was despondent, mumbled those few remarks into the recorder and then shot himself. My God, you heard what happened on the tape.”
“What’s the pounding after the shot?” Lyon asked.
“We’re not sure if that’s his secretary from the outer office or the foremen next door in the board room. It’s up to the coroner, of course, but my report is as conclusive as I can make it. Self-inflicted gunshot wound. How could it be anything else?”
At nine the following morning Lyon Wentworth slowed his small car at the security gate of the Houston Company. As he waved to the guard and attempted to accelerate again, he was forced to slam on the brakes as the rail gate closed in front of him. The guard approached the car.
“The plant is closed for the day in honor of Mr. Houston,” the guard mumbled.
Lyon saw that the large parking lots were almost empty, that the broad expanse of asphalt usually filled with cars, pick-up trucks and campers was now empty, except for an occasional vehicle inexplicably parked in various parts of the two large lots. Four cars were parked directly in front of the administration building.
“I see that there’s someone in the administration building,” Lyon said.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wentworth. We’re closed.”
There was an unusual harshness to the guard’s voice, a return to police authority from this heretofore friendly man.
“It’s really quite important,” Lyon said.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Wentworth. I’m trying to make it as easy as possible on you. My orders are never to let you in here. I can’t.”
The guard stood directly in Lyon’s path, and outside of running the man down, Lyon had no access to the plant. A flash of memory concerning all the private investigators he’d read about flicked through his mind. A Sam Spade would slip the intransigent guard a few dollars and quickly speed to the administration building. Lyon patted his side pocket … he didn’t have a few dollars. He didn’t even have his wallet.
Parking at a nearby diner he scrounged through the glove compartment and eventually discovered two dimes. He dialed Rocco’s number and explained the problem.
“No way,” the large man’s voice boomed back at him over the phone. “Go home. It’s over, man. Over.”
“You want the nomination for town clerk at the town committee meeting next week?”
“You make it sound like you’re asking if I still have relatives in Germany. That’s lousy and rotten.”
“I feel lousy and rotten.”
“Pasquale will never buy it.” His voice dropped to an almost solicitous tone. “I’m sorry I ever got you into this.”
Lyon looked down at the single dime in the palm of his hand. “I’m at the diner on Elm Street. Hurry up, will you? I only have enough money for one cup of coffee.”
Rocco reluctantly agreed, said he’d phone Detective Pasquale and they’d pick Lyon up in forty-five minutes. However, he found he was wrong. Coffee was fifteen cents a cup. He waited in his car and read the owner’s manual completely through several times before Rocco and Pasquale arrived in an unmarked city police car.
Pat Pasquale jumped from the car and grimly approached Lyon. “Listen, Wentworth. Your big buddy here has talked me into this, but if these people should complain … if word gets back to the police commissioner, it’ll be my ass—and if it’s my ass and I’m back on the beat … you’ll never drive the streets of Hartford again.”
“I want to express my appreciation to both of you for your cooperation,” Lyon said as he got into the back of the police car.
“I have only myself to blame,” Rocco said, shaking his head.
The security guard recognized Pat as they approached and waved them through with a salute. They braked to a quick stop in front of the administration building, Pat leaping from the car as if he were breaking up a holdup in progress. Rocco, complete with cane, eased his bulk from the seat and toward the stairs. The two policemen turned toward Lyon.
“You coming?” Rocco asked.
“There aren’t any inside door handles back here,” Lyon said.
Pat released the rear doors and they entered the building.
The reception area of the administration building was large, the walls covered with photographs of various plant operations, and display cases throughout the room exhibited several of the factory’s completed products. The receptionist’s glass booth was empty. A security captain lumbered from a side door to meet them and pump Pat’s hand.
“Thought you was finished yesterday, Pat.”
“Routine. A few loose ends before my final report. How’s it going, Bill? Keeping up the pace?”
“Hell, at least the hours are regular. That’s better’n the force, and don’t knock the excitement. Last year I caught a creep in the ladies’ room.”
Pat introduced them to the security captain, identifying Rocco as the chief of the Murphysville police and, without exactly stating what, made hints that Lyon had some sort of official capacity.
“Where were you when they found the body, Captain?” Lyon asked.
“Right back here in the monitor room. That’s where our closed circuit TV cameras are watched. I got an emergency signal from Miss Reed—that’s Houston’s number one secretary—and I was up there about the time the foremen broke the door in.”
“Was there anyone in the room besides Houston?” Rocco asked.
“Nope. The foremen went in, and I was right after them. I’ll swear to it.”
“Who had keys to his office doors besides Mr. Houston?” Lyon asked.
“Just me,” the captain replied. “Not another person in the world. Mr. Houston was a bug on security. You should see the equipment we’ve got—out of this world.”
“Where’s your key now?” Pat said.
The guard captain pulled a keyring from his pocket. The ring was securely attached to his belt by a small chain. He flipped through the ring quickly before selecting and holding out a slim key. “Here it is. Never left me.”
“I won’t stay in the same room with that man,” Miss Florence Reed said while pointing an accusatory finger at Lyon. “If it wasn’t for what he did, frightening Mr. Houston and carrying on … this wouldn’t have happened.” She turned away, a handkerchief to her eyes.
“We’re here on official business, Miss Reed,” Pat said in a somber tone. “You could be of help.”
“I wouldn’t even be here today if Mr. Graves hadn’t called and asked me to come and help get things together for the board meeting.” She sat at her desk and stared disconsolately at the file folders piled before her. “But I find it so difficult to concentrate.”
She was an attractive but sexless woman in her mid-forties, immaculately groomed, the type of woman who wore her glasses across her breast on a thin dark band. Her attire was almost always white blouse and dark, well-tailored suit.
She let them in Houston’s office and went back to her desk to look blankly at her file folders. They closed the door softly and walked around the large office.
The room appeared undisturbed, exactly as Lyon had seen it less than forty-eight hours ago. Any reminders of the death of Houston had been removed. The desk was shiny, the appointment pad and legal pad still neatly aligned on its surface.
“Do you know why in hell we’re here?” Pat said to Rocco.
“No,” the large man replied and turned to Lyon. “Why do you think he didn’t kill himself?”
Lyon crossed to the desk and picked up the appointment pad. “I’m not sure,” he said, “except that I know that the man I talked to in this office wouldn’t have. He wasn’t the sort of man who’d turn a gun on himself the next morning.”
“Bullshit!” the Hartford detective said. “I’ve investigated maybe fifty suicides. They’re all kinds of people, successful, unsuccessful, rich, poor, you name it. Who knows why someone really decides to take the big step?”
“Wouldn’t you say there are certain patterns?” Lyon continued. “And I’m speaking now of the serious ones, not the pill-takers or wrist-slashers, the ones who put a gun to their head. Aren’t there patterns?”
“Of course,” the detective replied. “Suicides fall into two categories: the neurotic cry for help, those who don’t really expect to die, but sometimes are a little overzealous and do; and the serious ones. Like, say, the ones who put the gun to the head—that’s serious.”
Rocco took the appointment pad and flipped through it. “What’s the pattern?”
“Like Houston,” Pat said. “Well dressed, his desk neat, his note on the recorder, ‘see the lawyers,’ it said, everything neatly packaged and then—bam.”
“A considered course of action,” Lyon said.
“Exactly. Probably as precise as the way he ran his business.”
Lyon took the appointment calendar from Rocco. “Why would a man in the last few minutes of his life make appointments as far as two weeks away, some the same afternoon?”
“What do you mean?” the detective asked.
“I saw the future appointments,” Rocco said. “But who knows when they were made unless we check them all out.”
“I remember,” Lyon said. He sat at the desk and quickly began to write names, dates and times on the legal pad. Finished, he handed the sheet to Rocco. “When I was in this office the other day I looked at this pad. Here’s a list of appointments he had at that time … compare them to the list now on the calendar.”
The detective and Rocco sat on a divan and compared the lists. “There’s five additional appointments,” Rocco finally said.
“That doesn’t mean a damn thing,” the detective said impatiently. “Houston probably got twenty calls a day from people trying to see him. On that last morning he found it easier to agree than to put them off. Out of force of habit he made the note on the calendar.”
“Possibly,” Lyon said. “Let’s ask Miss Reed.”
Florence Reed, eyes red-rimmed, followed Rocco back into the room and stood uncomfortably near the desk. Her hands twisted a small handkerchief until one bony finger made another gesture toward Lyon. “Does that man have to be here?” she asked.
“Yes, he does,” Rocco said. “Mrs. Reed, you …”
“It’s Miss.”
“Yes. Miss Reed, you worked for Mr. Houston for several years?”
“Twenty years, as his private secretary for fifteen. He was a wonderful man.”
“You were here when Mr. Wentworth and Mr. Houston had their altercation?”
“I certainly was.”
“What happened after that?” Rocco asked.
“Just a moment, please.” She went quickly back to her desk and returned with an office diary. Efficiently she flipped through the pages, the return to professionalism seeming to grant her greater self-control. She read from her diary in a monotone. “He … Mr. Wentworth, arrived at 4 P.M. Mr. Houston had an emergency call to Building Three and I asked … him … to wait. Mr. Houston returned at 4:08. At 4:40 Mr. Wentworth was removed from the office. There were a great many people in the office for a while, then at five Mr. Roger Hackman came for his appointment. Mr. Houston left for home at 5:45.”
“Who’s Mr. Hackman?” Lyon asked.
Florence Reed looked at Lyon without answering until asked the same question by Rocco Herbert. “I don’t know,” she finally said.
“You were his private secretary for fifteen years and yet don’t know this man?” Rocco’s voice had turned to authority.
Florence Reed seemed truly flustered. “I … I don’t know. I almost always know who he has a meeting with, but a week ago, when he made that appointment, I asked who Mr. Hackman was affiliated with and he wouldn’t answer.”
“You’re positive he left at 5:45?” Pat said.
“I am absolutely positive. I never left before Mr. Houston did.”
“What about the next morning?” Rocco pressed quickly.
“Mr. Houston arrived at the office at 8:45. Debbie, that’s the other girl in the office, served him coffee and a sweet roll. He met with Mr. Graves for ten minutes, and at 9:15 Mrs. Houston arrived.”
“Mrs. Houston?”
“Yes, she stayed until around ten. Mr. H
ouston must have locked the doors after she left.”
Lyon looked at the appointment pad. “Then between 9:05 and 9:15 and from 10:00 until he died, Mr. Houston made five appointments.”
“I don’t know,” she replied. “I suppose so.”
Lyon handed her the list of new appointments. “Can you tell me who these people are?”
She looked at the list for a moment. “The appointment scheduled for eleven that morning was Mr. Giles, that’s his personal attorney. Mr. Houston used Mr. Giles for his personal work or his confidential matters. The next one, Mr. Henderson, is our vice-president in charge of sales; Mr. Qunlaye is a trust officer at the bank; Mr. Williams is Mr. Houston’s private accountant. And then Mr. Hackman again.”
“I’m interested in the recording machine, Mrs. Reed,” Lyon said.
“It’s Miss. What is it you want to know?”
“Did Mr. Houston often record his letters and memos?”
“Constantly. He had a set in his car, his home, and here, just like all the executives do. We record all the board meetings and many of the important committee meetings. Mr. Houston was very meticulous about accuracy.”
“I have a question, Miss Reed,” the detective said. “As I understand it, Mrs. Houston left at ten that morning.”
“That is correct.”
“And no one went in or came out after that?”
“No one.”
“You weren’t away from your desk during that time, for coffee, the powder room, anything?”
“Debbie and I were both in the outer office until we heard the shot. Neither of us left.”
“Thank you very much,” Rocco said. She fled the room back to her desk.
Lyon walked slowly to the desk. It hadn’t changed from his first examination. Pushing the drapes aside he inspected the windows. The large panes of glass fit securely into the building frame without any opening mechanism. “We don’t know if someone was hiding in the bathroom,” Lyon said.
“I thought of that possibility,” Pat said tiredly. “Six company foremen tell me they looked. Right after they busted the door down, they looked. There’s a dozen witnesses that swear no one was in the room when the shot was heard except Asa Houston. Period. Now, you can fool around all you want with appointment pads and all that crap, but let me tell you, buddy, there ain’t no way.”
A Child's Garden of Death Page 15
