Stand Up and Die

by Frances Lockridge

  Essentially, the same division remained. But in the new will, only Virginia Monroe was to receive her share outright on Mrs. Saunders’s death. Liz’s share was to be put in trust, her wants were to be satisfied out of the interest, but at the discretion of the trustees. Not until her thirtieth birthday was she to receive the principal.

  “I tried to argue Penina out of it,” Kirkwood said. “Told her that, when people die, they should let go. A good many people try not to, you know.”

  Heimrich did know. He nodded. Kirkwood went on, this time without prompting.

  Kirkwood and Virginia Monroe were named as trustees of Liz’s inheritance. Their discretion as to the amount she should receive until she was thirty was not absolute. She was to receive no more than five thousand dollars a year.

  “Why did Mrs. Saunders do this?” Heimrich asked.

  “I don’t know,” Kirkwood said. “I’ll admit I tried to find out. She said, ‘It’s none of your business, Howard.’ Pleasant enough—she was always that—but final. She could be that, too.”

  “And now?”

  Now, without waiting, Liz got her share. She also got her sister’s share, since Virginia had died before she could inherit.

  “How does that happen?” Heimrich asked.

  Kirkwood shrugged again. Mrs. Saunders had wanted it that way. If Virginia was not living at the time of Mrs. Saunders’s own death, Liz inherited, at once, her own share and her sister’s.

  “It’s inconsistent,” Kirkwood said, before Heimrich said anything. “I pointed that out. She said, ‘That’s the way I want it, Howard.’ So that’s the way it is. I suppose Penina didn’t think it important. Vee was—” His voice became uncertain for a moment. “Vee was young,” he said then. “Nobody thought of her dying.”

  Heimrich nodded. The old do not think of the young dying.

  “Well,” Kirkwood said, “there are the facts. I suppose you can make them ugly, can’t you? Liz says she didn’t like her sister. I never thought that—underneath, Liz is as sweet as anyone I’ve ever known. But she says that. Now—she profits by her sister’s death. I suppose you’ll say that Vee could have been killed by a woman? In spite of all that—horrible business? You come into this cold, don’t know the people, don’t know Liz couldn’t any more—” He seemed suddenly to give it up. His voice trailed away.

  “Now Mr. Kirkwood,” Heimrich said. “I don’t—”

  But Kirkwood suddenly looked up again, suddenly interrupted.

  “But there’s something wrong with it, isn’t there?” he said, and he leaned forward a little, spoke with a kind of eagerness. “There was no point in killing Vee while Mrs. Saunders was alive—and could change her will. And nobody knew that the old lady was going to die. I’ve talked to Paul about it. Sure, she might have died any time. But she might have lived for months, perhaps even for a year or more. So your theory falls apart.” He continued to lean forward. He waited.

  “Now Mr. Kirkwood,” Heimrich said. “My theory? I haven’t said it was my theory, have I?”

  “It’s clear what you’ve been thinking,” Kirkwood said. “Unless—” He paused. “You’re not going to argue someone—Liz, I suppose—killed Mrs. Saunders, are you?” Incredulity was obvious in his voice.

  “Now Mr. Kirkwood,” Heimrich said. “I’m not arguing anything. Facts come first, naturally. Theories come after facts.”

  Which was true part of the way, Heimrich thought; which was true enough to go on with, at the moment.

  “Dr. Crowell is going to ask an autopsy,” he said. “At my suggestion.”

  “That,” Kirkwood said, “seems outrageous to me.” He flushed slightly. “I know the District Attorney. I’ll—”

  “No,” Heimrich said. He closed his eyes. “No, Mr. Kirkwood. I don’t think you’re a fool. You know I’ll have an autopsy performed if I want one.” He opened his eyes. “Whoever you know,” he said, and closed them again.

  Heimrich waited, let Kirkwood think it over. It appeared he did. “All right,” Kirkwood said, “I suppose you can. You can let this man Gates, who admitted he’d met Vee only when he had to admit it, wander around until he finds some other girl in the dark, and gets himself another knife. You can do that, too.”

  “Gates doesn’t wander, precisely,” Heimrich said. His tone dismissed it. “Now, one other thing. Dr. Crowell said he expected to receive something—that Mrs. Saunders had mentioned it. A trinket of some sort, he says. Perhaps something more substantial.” Heimrich opened his eyes. “Well,” he said, “does he, Mr. Kirkwood? And, by the way, do you?”

  “I’m the executor,” Kirkwood said. “I’ll get a fee. A good one. You think I killed a woman who wasn’t killed?”

  “Now Mr. Kirkwood,” Heimrich said. “That’s all you get?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Dr. Crowell?” Kirkwood hesitated. “I can get a court order for the will itself, naturally,” Heimrich said.

  “All right,” Kirkwood said. “Paul gets—more than he thought he would. As I figure it, he gets about seventy thousand dollars.”

  “Well,” Heimrich said. “Go on.”

  Kirkwood did. The clause concerning Dr. Crowell’s inheritance was unusual. Kirkwood was not even sure it was not unique. Kirkwood, because of this, remembered it almost verbatim. He might change a few words, but he could give the gist.

  “It went like this,” he said. “‘To Dr. Paul Crowell, of and so forth, in consideration of his devoted attention’—maybe it says service—‘over many years, and the skill he has exercised in maintaining life in an ancient and ailing body, I hereby bequeath the sum of five thousand dollars for each and every year by which, when I die, I shall have exceeded my allotted span of three score years and ten.’ Her age was to have been taken as of her nearest birthday. She’d have been eighty-four in September. So—you multiply five thousand by fourteen. That’s what Paul gets.” He paused. “And he had the best reason in the world to keep her living, didn’t he?”

  “Now Mr. Kirkwood,” Heimrich said, “I’ve said nothing about Dr. Crowell, have I? In the connection you—jump at.”

  “So far as I can see,” Kirkwood said, “you suspect all of us.”

  “Why yes, Mr. Kirkwood,” Heimrich said. “I do, naturally. What did you expect?”

  “That a girl like Liz killed her sister,” Kirkwood said. “And—the rest of it. That a man like Paul killed an old lady for money, when it was to his interest to keep her alive. That—”

  “Now Mr. Kirkwood,” Heimrich said. “Dr. Crowell may not have known it was to his interest, of course. He didn’t indicate to me he knew of this—this conditional inheritance.”

  “Probably he didn’t,” Kirkwood agreed. “He says he expected something you call a trinket. Where does that leave you?”

  Heimrich, as an answer, slightly moved his heavy shoulders. He was about to speak further when a bell rang.

  “Somebody at the door,” Kirkwood said. “Somebody selling something, probably. Hold it a minute, will you?”

  He went to the stairs. He went down the stairs. Heimrich heard the door open.

  “Oh,” Kirkwood said, “Liz. I didn’t—” His voice was lowered suddenly, so that Heimrich did not catch the rest. Heimrich went to the head of the stairs. Liz Monroe faced him at the foot; Kirkwood turned to face him.

  “Come up,” Heimrich told them. He waited until, after a moment of evident hesitation, Liz Monroe started up. He moved back, then, and waited for them.

  She started hesitantly. But halfway up the narrow staircase, Liz Monroe braced her square shoulders. When she stood at the top of the stairs she raised her chin, looking up at Heimrich. The line of chin and throat was clean. It was beautiful. In every line of her slim body there was, also, a kind of defiance,

  “I came to see my lawyer,” she said. There was an edge to her deep voice. “Are you everywhere, Captain?” There was no particular answer to that. Heimrich made none.

  “You’ve ordered an autopsy on grandmother’s body,�
�� she said. “Why did you do that?”

  “Now Miss Monroe,” Heimrich said. “I didn’t order it, precisely.”

  She dismissed that with one of the quick gestures of her long-fingered hands.

  “Paul told me what you said,” she told him. “Why?”

  “To find out why she died,” Heimrich said. He looked down at her curiously. “Why did you think, Miss Monroe?”

  “We’ve lived here all our lives,” she said. “Our families, and their families. In this little place. Quietly in this little place. We’ve been thought well of.”

  “I know,” Heimrich said.

  “You can’t,” the girl told him. “You wouldn’t—degrade us if you knew. Do you think anybody will ever forget?”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “People forget. Or, they don’t think about it any more.” She looked at him, her widely spaced eyes defiant.

  “It breaks it all,” she said. “All into little, dirty pieces.”

  “Now Miss Monroe,” Heimrich said, “we all want things to go on as they’ve always gone on. Want assurance that they will; that there won’t be pieces to pick up. I can’t arrange that, Miss Monroe.”

  “You can stop this. Leave the poor old thing alone, now she’s dead.”

  “No,” Heimrich said. “I’m sorry. I’m always sorry about things like this, naturally.”

  “It spreads out and out,” she said. “What good does it do? Do anybody? Virginia? Anybody at all?”

  “Now Miss Monroe,” Heimrich said. “I’m a policeman. I’m looking for a murderer. I didn’t begin it.”

  “Nor grandmother,” she said. “Nor I. Not any of us. Can’t you leave us alone?”

  “No.”

  “Suppose I don’t consent to the autopsy, then?”

  “Ask Mr. Kirkwood,” he said.

  She looked at Kirkwood.

  “It’s no good, Liz,” he said. “He reports the death as suspicious. Then—”

  “It isn’t suspicious,” Liz said.

  Heimrich shook his head.

  “I may suspect,” he told her. “You see that, naturally. Suspicion is subjective.”

  “You enjoy this. You enjoy tearing all of us apart. You’re not—human.”

  “I’m a policeman,” Heimrich said. “As I told you. I’ll find out who killed your sister. And why. I’ll find out how your grandmother came to die so—so coincidentally.”

  “Whatever happens to the rest of us?”

  “Oh yes,” Heimrich said. “Whatever happens, Miss Monroe. Whatever people say.”

  She flushed, suddenly, unexpectedly.

  “Is that all you think it is?” she asked him.

  “No,” he said. “Perhaps not. There’s a certain pattern. You want to keep that pattern. You think you’ll never put it together again. What people say is part of it, naturally. Not all of it. You’re young, Miss Monroe.”

  “I’m tired to death of that,” she said. “Indescribably tired of that. What is it supposed to explain?”

  “Listen, Liz,” Kirkwood said. “You’ve said enough. You’re all—steamed up.”

  Heimrich had been expecting that, or for the girl herself to notice it. Well, it had been helpful while it lasted, or he hoped it had.

  “Who wouldn’t be?” Liz asked Howard Kirkwood, but at the same time something that was headlong, unconsidered, went out of her voice. She looked again at Heimrich. “I got worked up,” she said. “Sorry.” She paused for a moment. “I suppose you aren’t, though,” she said. “Give the girl enough rope? Why is she so set against the autopsy? Why’s she so excited? Talk so much?”

  She got it quickly, Heimrich thought, or got part of it quickly. She was very intelligent, very quick. She also “got worked up,” went headlong at things. Which was interesting, since one who went headlong sometimes went with violence. She would try to be careful now, however.

  “About the autopsy?” Heimrich said.

  The girl took a deep breath before she spoke, her breasts rising against the soft fabric of her summer dress. It was as if she counted before she spoke.

  “Since I can’t stop you,” she said. She waited a moment. “Can I talk to Mr. Kirkwood now? About something else?”

  “Of course,” Heimrich said. “As soon as I ask you another question or two—since you’re here.”

  “You save yourself a trip,” she told him. “How convenient for you.”

  He made no direct response to that.

  “You came to talk to Mr. Kirkwood about the autopsy?” he said.

  “Wait a minute,” Kirkwood said. “You can’t ask her that, you know.”

  Liz made another of her quick, dismissive gestures.

  “Where I stood,” she said. “Yes, Captain.”

  “Not about your grandmother’s will?”

  “Now,” Kirkwood said, “wait, Liz.”

  “You’ve told him about it?” Liz asked the plump man. Kirkwood’s face seemed to be regaining firmness, Heimrich noticed.

  “It’s a matter of record,” Kirkwood said. “Or will be. In any event, there’s nothing to hide, of course.”

  “Nothing to hide,” Liz said. “And no place to hide in, is there? We’re all in a bare place, aren’t we? Stripped bare.” Excitement was in her voice again. Again she breathed deeply. “Is it true that I get all the money, with my sister dead?”

  “Yes,” Kirkwood said.

  “And don’t have to wait? Wait all those years?”

  “That’s true.”

  She turned back to Heimrich, with that. She said, “All right. Go ahead, Captain.” She held her hands toward him, wrists parallel. Heimrich could not quite tell whether there was mockery in the gesture. He assumed there was. He ignored the offered wrists. She waited a moment; then she turned and walked to a chair and sat in it.

  “You knew about the provision in your grandmother’s will?” Heimrich asked, and then held his hand, for a second, palm toward her, and turned to look at Kirkwood.

  “You don’t need to answer that,” Kirkwood said. “You don’t need to answer anything.”

  “Thank you, Howdy,” she said. “I’m not quite sure for what. But thank you. Yes, Captain. I knew.”

  “Did it surprise you?”

  “No, Captain. She told me about it.”

  “Then,” Heimrich said, “she told you why, naturally.”

  The girl’s hands were in her lap, now. They were quiet. She was breathing slowly and deeply; more slowly than people commonly do, and more deeply. Heimrich thought that it is difficult not to go too far, in anything.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’m not bare enough yet, am I, Captain?”

  He waited.

  “She told me,” she said. “She was very gentle about it, very sympathetic. She thought I was a fallen woman. She thought I had round heels. She thought I had to be protected from myself—from my weakness. Of course, she didn’t put it in any of those ways. She was roundabout, ladylike. For a while, I could hardly understand what she was talking about.”

  Heimrich waited.

  “Now you want to know, was I?” she said. “What’s the good of saying anything?”

  Still Heimrich waited, looking down at her.

  “All right,” Liz said. “Somebody lied about me. I haven’t got round heels.” She lifted her feet from the floor, and this time the mockery was evident. “See,” she said. “Fine square heels.”

  “Now Miss Monroe,” Heimrich said. He walked to a chair and sat facing her. “Go on.” He closed his eyes.

  “I make you sleepy,” she said. “So dull of me. Such a dull girl, really.”

  “Now Miss Monroe,” Heimrich said.

  “We had a chauffeur for a few months,” Liz said. “Poor old Henry got too old, and grandmother put him out to pasture. The new one was young. That was a mistake, wasn’t it? He was young and tall and he had rather a sweet smile. He wasn’t very bright, but he was tall and he had red hair—wasn’t that vulgar, Captain?—and he had a nice smile. Grandmother had just given me
the MG, and he taught me to drive it. They act a little differently, you know.”

  “Do they?” Heimrich said. “I never drove an MG. Go on, Miss Monroe.”

  “He didn’t know anybody here,” Liz said. “He was lonesome, didn’t know what to do with himself. There weren’t any pretty young girls working for us, you see. That was a mistake, wasn’t it? Grandmother ought to have hired a pretty chambermaid, so he could take her to the movies. Don’t you think so, Captain?”

  Heimrich opened his eyes briefly, closed them again. It was, he thought, so often difficult not to overdo an attitude. Particularly, he thought, it is hard when one is bitter, and tense with bitterness and shock. And perhaps with fear? Heimrich wondered.

  “Once I didn’t have a date,” Liz said, “and I went to the movie alone. And this servant—his name was Guy, not really a good name for a servant, is it?—had gone to the movie too. After the movie we were both going back to grandmother’s house, and I let him walk with me. He wasn’t in his uniform, of course. He was just a tall young man with red hair and kind of a sweet smile. And once he drove me to the club because my sister had the MG, and grandmother—she was getting around then—wanted the Packard and he was to bring it back. And I rode up in the front seat with him. I even talked to him. As if he weren’t a servant at all.”

  She stopped suddenly, began again after a pause during which she seemed to seek, by sheer will power, to force Heimrich to open his eyes. He did open them. He smiled faintly. “All right, Miss Monroe,” Heimrich said.

  “You think people don’t feel that way nowadays, don’t you?” she said. “That that’s all a hundred years ago? A thousand years ago?” She paused again. “It ought to be, oughtn’t it?”

  “Oh yes,” Heimrich said. “Naturally.”

  “Grandmother made her world when she was—oh, when she was a young woman,” Liz said. “Fifty years ago. Sixty. She and old Mrs. Parsons up the street, and the Misses Adams and Mrs. Farmright and poor, dear Mrs. Phipps, who hasn’t any money to speak of and lives with Mrs. Farmright and—”