Stand Up and Die

by Frances Lockridge

  He thought of murder, as always, with a kind of quiet hatred. He thought of it now, also, with professional weariness. Such killing as this of Virginia Monroe combined all elements best calculated to make a policeman wish that he were, indeed, engaged in any of half a dozen other occupations. This was over and above revulsion from the brutality of the crime, shocked realization of the inherent tragedy of the crime. Those things would move all who read of the murder in the newspapers, who saw the lovely pictured face of the dead girl and were humanly grieved by, humanly insulted by, the manner of her death. Heimrich was moved by them.

  But he resented the murder of Virginia Monroe for other, and more specifically professional, reasons as he walked the shady side of Main Street in the general direction of the State police substation.

  For one thing, a good many would be given the chance to read about it in the newspapers. It was a crime made for the newspapers—made by the dead girl’s beauty and by her profession, made by her father’s standing; made, too, by the dramatic contrast between the sunny peace of East Belford and the dark violence in Plum Lane. Already the press had descended on East Belford and, precisely, on Captain Heimrich. Heimrich did not object to reporters; they did, however, often get under foot. And through them, as they enraged the public by their facts, the rage of the public would demand a speed of action which, so far as Heimrich could see, was unlikely to be attained.

  He was very conscious, both humanly and professionally, of the need of speed if things were as they appeared to be. If, walking—or, more likely, driving—the roads and quiet lanes of Westchester, there was what Liz Monroe, most accurately, called a “horrible” man there almost certainly would be other horrors before he was caught, if he was not caught quickly. Women forced by circumstance to go into dark places would go in terror. When they could, women, and men too, would begin to stay indoors after dark. The type of men who didn’t take any chances, might be expected to act with dispatch under circumstances which aroused their suspicions, and it was always bad—always dangerous—when civilians decided to protect themselves. Civilians, in Heimrich’s experience, almost inevitably blundered, leaving unpleasant matters to be cleaned up, in the end, by professionals. Heimrich sighed, thinking how many men who live in the country arm themselves.

  Speed was highly desirable. But if things were as they appeared to be, speed was also impossible, without uncommon luck. It might be, of course, that they had already been lucky—that having their hands on Timothy Gates (who was not as free to move about as he might think himself) meant they had their hands on the man they wanted. Heimrich wished he could be sure of that.

  If Gates were not the “horrible” man, and there was one, then they would be most likely to catch him only after he had killed again. They could pick up all men who aroused suspicion, question them and then, ninety-nine times out of a hundred, let them go. This they would have to do, were already doing. And the man they sought might be outwardly the most respectable of men, the most favorably known of men, not remotely an object of suspicion, a candidate for questioning. They could check to discover how many psychopaths had recently been released from institutions in New York State, and in Connecticut and New Jersey and for states around, and whether any had escaped. That they would have to do, were doing. They could also stand on street corners and pick up every third man who passed. It would be as good a way as any, if it were practicable, or permissible.

  Such things as were possible, on the assumption that the man who killed Virginia Monroe was a deranged sadist, were being done. The best hope remained that this assumption was inaccurate. The best hope was that Virginia Monroe had been knifed to death not because she was pretty and young, and happened to be in a certain place at a certain time, but because she was Virginia Monroe. That hope, Heimrich followed. He did not, for the moment, find it very bright.

  Liz Monroe had been able to tell him little more. The address of her sister’s apartment in New York, that she had been able to supply. The police in the city were doing what they could. Heimrich hoped that Bill Weigand was on it; the address had been downtown on the West Side, and Weigand was Homicide, West. Something might be turned up among papers in Virginia Monroe’s desk. (Papers which would have to be gone over.)

  Heimrich had found out more about Liz herself—had found out that she was more or less in charge of her grandmother’s house, that she had no other occupation, that her responsibilities had been increased since her grandmother’s illness. He had discovered that the Monroe sisters were, so far as Liz knew, Mrs. Saunders’s only relatives; that certainly they were the closest. He had learned that Mrs. Saunders had been well enough until the fall before, and that then her blood pressure had risen sufficiently to alarm Dr. Paul Crowell, her physician. She had, during the winter, been for almost a month in Mt. Kisco hospital for observation and treatment; for two months after that, she had been under the care of a nurse in her home. It would appear that she had responded to treatment, since the nurse had been let go. It would appear she had not, however, recovered. At her age, Heimrich supposed she never would.

  Heimrich shook his head, and stopped, dutifully, before a traffic light which had turned red. It was seconds before his concentration broke sufficiently for him to notice that there was no traffic for the light to control. He crossed the street.

  So he knew the condition of Mrs. Penina Saunders’s health. He could imagine nothing less likely to be helpful. It was remarkable how much one picked up that one didn’t have use for.

  That, so far as he could see, was all he had got from Liz Monroe after the departure of Dr. Crowell had interrupted them. From the maids he had got nothing. They probably would have to be returned to. (So, probably, would Liz.) The maids had not known the thing it was most to be hoped they might know—when Virginia had left the house the night before, with whom she had left if with anybody, where she had gone. Virginia had still been in the library, reading, when the maids who lived in had gone to their rooms. The woman who came in by the day, did the heavy cleaning, had left at five and so had nothing to contribute.

  Virginia had then, it appeared, been in the library at about eight-thirty.

  At a few minutes before nine, someone had taken one of the cars—Liz Monroe’s little MG, from the sound—out of the garage. Alford Swanson, the outdoors man, had heard the car start up. He had been in the Swansons’ apartment over the garage at the time. His wife had still been in the main house. He had not looked out to see who drove the car; he had assumed, again from the sound of the car’s motor, that it was Miss Liz.

  This had sent Heimrich back to Liz Monroe who had not—who then repeated she had not—been out of the house all evening. She supposed that, if the car had been taken, Virginia had taken it. She often did. The key was always in the ignition.

  “It was as much hers as mine,” Liz said. “Everything was.” She had hesitated a moment. “At least,” she had added.

  The MG was not in the garage when Heimrich looked. An ancient stately Packard was there, and a station wagon. The garage floor was oil-stained, where another car habitully stood. No car stood there now. It appeared Swanson had been right.

  Captain Heimrich discovered he had walked two blocks past the street into which he should have turned to reach the State police station. He found that he was in front of the Maples Inn. He found, by looking at his watch, that it was seven o’clock. He went up the walk to the Inn, and into it. He went first to a telephone, housed not in a conventional booth, but in a small room between the lobby and a cocktail lounge. He stayed at the telephone for some minutes. He went then into the cocktail lounge.

  The lounge achieved a note of innocent incongruity. It was a small room; when the Inn had been a private house, it might have been a breakfast room. Wide boards formed the floor. The windows in the far wall were small; tight little windows, planned to hold what they could of fireplace heat. The fireplace itself was of brick, and smoke from many fires, curling out when the wind was wrong and fires smouldered,
had darkened the brick facing. Stepping into the room, one was conscious that the floor pitched perceptibly toward the fireplace wall. It was a snug old room.

  But there was a fluorescent panel, trimmed with chrome, in the ceiling. There were banquettes along two walls, and they faced metal tables with composition tops. There were metal wall lights. The ancient plaster was covered with wall paper all in the green and red and brown of hunting scenes—coaches rolled; hunters sat rigid on handsome horses; hounds admired their masters or, somewhat repetitively, leaped stone fences in pursuit of a brown fox, which fled through the next repeat, tail very bushy, tongue hanging out.

  At a table in a corner, two elderly ladies in tweed drank old-fashioneds full of fruit. They looked up at Heimrich when he entered and both smiled distantly, and nodded with discretion. Heimrich nodded in return and sat behind a metal table. He ordered scotch from a quick young man in a white coat. He lighted a cigarette and, in due course, drank scotch. He invited ideas to enter his head, and none accepted. In due course he left the tweeded ladies, consuming what he suspected of being a third round of old-fashioneds—so much fruit, he thought, could hardly be good for them—and went into the dining room.

  It was large and moderately filled. Except for a table occupied by the press, most of the diners were women. The women had the well-bred assurance of the comfortably retired. A young woman took him to a table; an older woman served him dinner, which was French by designation, slightly Italian by accent, and entirely admirable. Heimrich wondered whether Timothy Gates had dined early, or was dining late, or was eating elsewhere.

  Captain Heimrich had paid his bill, was waiting for his change, when Liz Monroe stood in the door and began to look around the room. She was, Heimrich realized, as he stood up, recognized by most of the diners. There was a little stir in the room, a kind of murmur in the room. Liz stood in the door until she saw Heimrich. Then she came into the room. She wore the same dark suit; she was hatless.

  There was a man with her. He was of about the girl’s height; he was, or soon would be, plump; he had a face which, Heimrich thought, must be often smiling, but which was not smiling now. He had light hair, which was receding. He followed Liz to Heimrich’s table, and Heimrich waited.

  “They said you’d be here,” Liz said. “We’ve something to tell you. Mr. Kirkwood has.” She indicated.

  “Howard Kirkwood,” the almost plump man said. “My God, this is a dreadful thing.”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “It is, Mr. Kirkwood.”

  Heimrich looked around the room, and, as his gaze shifted, a dozen people pretended, with little success, that they had not been staring. Heimrich had no great objection to conducting interviews in public; he often, indeed, found it profitable. But this was somewhat too public. The press started up; Heimrich shook his head with decision. The press, reluctantly, subsided.

  “Can we go somewhere?” Kirkwood asked. He clipped words, which was somewhat unexpected.

  “The bar,” Liz said. “There won’t be anyone there now.”

  “My dear girl,” Kirkwood said. He looked at Heimrich and shrugged. “Do you think that would be—”

  The girl’s gesture stopped him. It was quick, impatient. Strain had not diminished, Heimrich realized. It had, if anything, been intensified.

  “Proper?” Liz said. “No. What difference does it make? Should I weep in a dark room?”

  Kirkwood touched her arm.

  “Take it easy, Liz,” he said. “The bar will be all right. Captain?”

  Heimrich nodded. They crossed the central hall, went to the cocktail lounge beyond. The tweeded ladies were just emerging. One of them said, “Dear Liz.” She shook her head. The other said, “I just don’t know what to say, my dear. It’s just too—”

  “I know,” Liz said. “There isn’t anything.”

  The tweeded ladies looked at Howard Kirkwood, and shook their heads, their faces dolorous. Kirkwood shook his. The ladies looked at Heimrich and included him, in a species of parenthesis. Heimrich shook his head. Liz led them into the lounge, and to a corner table. They were alone in the room except for the bar attendant, who clattered mildly behind a serving window.

  Kirkwood said he needed a drink. Liz Monroe shook her head, Heimrich shook his. “Fix me a brandy and soda, will you, Lou?” Kirkwood said toward the service window and a voice behind said, “Coming up, sir.” Kirkwood walked to the service window and brought the drink back. He drank a quarter of it. He put the drink down.

  “You know,” he said, “I just can’t believe this has happened. That Vee isn’t—” For a moment, he put his head in his hands, his eyes covered. He raised his head and said, “Sorry. I just heard, you know.” He paused. “We were going to be married,” he said.

  Howard Kirkwood shook his head slowly. Then he turned to Heimrich.

  “This isn’t what you want, of course,” he said. “It doesn’t help.” Heimrich looked at him and waited. “I was with Vee last night,” Kirkwood said. “Until—oh, about twelve. Perhaps a little after. I don’t know whether that helps?”

  “It may, naturally,” Heimrich said. He closed his eyes. “Tell me about it, Mr. Kirkwood,” he said.

  “She was all right when she left me,” Kirkwood said. “She drove off in the little car. She—waved.” He paused, his face working. “Waved goodbye,” he said.

  Heimrich waited.

  “When did it happen?” Kirkwood asked.

  “Between midnight and about three in the morning, we think,” Heimrich told him.

  “She was alive at midnight,” Kirkwood said. “She—drove off.” His voice was not steady.

  “Now Mr. Kirkwood,” Heimrich said. “I realize this is hard for you.”

  “I got out about six this evening,” Kirkwood said. “Driving over from Golden’s Bridge I decided to call Vee and see how she was fixed for dinner. I got home and my father told me what had happened. I—” He put his head in his hands again.

  Liz Monroe looked at him. It was hard, Heimrich decided, to read her face; it had been hard earlier. Heimrich waited, and Kirkwood, after a moment, lifted his face. “I’m sorry,” he said. He passed one hand over his forehead; he drank from his glass.

  “We went to a movie last night,” he said. “The Belford Playhouse. Vee called me up.”

  She had called, Kirkwood said, a little before nine. He had been at home, working, going over briefs. Virginia Monroe, who was “Vee” to Kirkwood, had said, “How about taking me to the movie?”

  “I jumped at it, of course,” Kirkwood said.

  He had suggested going around for her in his car, but she had said that that would be wasting time.

  “I live only a couple of blocks from the theater,” Kirkwood explained. “It’s at the far end of Main Street.”

  To pick Virginia up, he would have had to drive half a mile down Main Street and then back. The second showing began at nine and it was then about ten minutes of. So they arranged to meet, and did meet, at the theater, Virginia driving there in the MG, he walking.

  The picture had lasted until about eleven. After that they had driven around in the little sports car, idling on back roads.

  “Just talking,” Kirkwood said. “About nothing in particular. About—ourselves. The way people do.”

  Again his voice lost steadiness. But this time he did not stop.

  They had driven as far as Ridgefield, and then circled back, passing through North Salem. They had paid little attention to where they went; knowing the roads, it didn’t matter where they went. There was always a road back. Time did not matter, nor direction.

  Finally, it had been Vee who had remembered time, remembered that he had to catch a commuters’ train to the city in the morning. She had been driving and, for the last few miles, had let the MG out a little. It had been about midnight when she dropped him at his house.

  “My parents’ house, actually,” he said. “They let me fix up an apartment.”

  She had dropped him. He had stood for a few
minutes by the car. She had driven off, north on Main Street, in the direction of her grandmother’s house. She had waved as she drove off.

  “She was on top of the world,” he said. “We—we both were.”

  Heimrich had his eyes closed. He nodded, without opening them. After a time, he said, “Now Mr. Kirkwood.” Kirkwood said, “Yes?”

  “After you left the theater, while you were driving around,” Heimrich said, “do you remember meeting anyone who might know you? People do in the country, sometimes.”

  “I know,” Kirkwood said. “No, I didn’t notice anybody. We passed a few cars, of course. But most of the time we had the road to ourselves.”

  “You didn’t stop anywhere? For a drink, perhaps?”

  “No. Nowhere.”

  “While you were standing by the car,” Heimrich said. “In front of your house—your parents’ house—did anyone pass? Anyone see you?”

  “I don’t think so,” Kirkwood said. “Someone may have seen us. I don’t know.”

  He waited a moment, but Heimrich said nothing.

  “She was alive when I saw her last,” Kirkwood said. “She waved goodbye. You want me to prove that, don’t you?” He leaned forward to look intently at Captain Heimrich.

  “Now Mr. Kirkwood,” Heimrich said. “We like to pin things down, naturally.”

  “I loved Vee,” Kirkwood said. “We were going to get married. You’re sitting there and suggesting—” He broke off. He looked at Liz Monroe, as if to share incredulity, even revulsion. Liz Monroe merely looked at him.

  “Now Mr. Kirkwood,” Heimrich said. “I’m suggesting nothing. You’re a lawyer, Miss Monroe tells me. You know we must consider everything. All the evidence.”

  “You want what I’ve told you in the form of a statement?” Kirkwood asked, and again leaned forward. “Under oath?”

  Heimrich closed his eyes. He shook his head.

  “I want cooperation,” he said. “That’s all, Mr. Kirkwood. You’ve given me that, apparently.” He opened his eyes. “I want the facts,” he said. “All kinds of facts, naturally. As a lawyer would, Mr. Kirkwood.”