Death Has a Small Voice

by Frances Lockridge

  “An elusive young lady,” he said. “I gather you have already tried?”

  “Right,” Weigand told him.

  The tall man looked at the police car and back at Weigand and Mullins. He raised his eyebrows again, slightly. “The police?” he said. “Surely—?”

  “Miss Godwin seems to have been robbed,” Weigand told him. “Burglarized, rather. By a sneak thief. We hope she’ll be able to identify some of her property.”

  The tall man came down the steps, shaking his head. He wore a homburg on his head. It became him. Seen closer, below the homburg, his hair was graying becomingly at the temples. He was very sorry to hear that Miss Godwin had been victimized.

  “You wouldn’t happen to know when Miss Godwin will be home?” Bill asked him.

  He smiled and shook his head; he shrugged.

  “Not our Hilda,” he said. “One never does, really. She’s unpredictable, of course. She may have packed up and gone anywhere. She often does, you know.”

  Bill Weigand shook his head, indicating that he didn’t.

  “But,” the tall man said, “you know who she is, surely?”

  The name had meant nothing; it appeared it should have. So prompted, Bill began vaguely to remember. Hilda Godwin. Hilda Godwin.

  “The writer,” the tall man said. “Perhaps we are inclined to over-estimate her fame. But still—” He waited. Making, Weigand thought, almost too evident an allowance for a policeman, he waited.

  “I do remember,” Bill said. “The poet. They compared her to Millay—almost compared her to Millay. Several years ago, wasn’t it?”

  “About five,” the man said. “When she was twenty. Mrs. Parker also was mentioned, by way of comparison. I believe there was even, in some quarters, passing reference to Keats.” He smiled, the smile of maturity. “She has the further advantage of being beautiful,” he said. “It is always desirable for a poet to have beauty.”

  He spoke well; it was evident he enjoyed it. His speech went well with the little house; it was less appropriate to the situation. Bill Weigand nodded, to indicate that he had heard.

  “Have to try again,” he said. “If you should find her, Mr.—?”

  “Wilson,” the tall man said. “Bernard Wilson.”

  There was, it seemed to Bill Weigand, the faintest of implied suggestion that that name, also, might prove familiar. It did not.

  “Wilson,” Bill said, finishing his sentence. “Will you ask her to get in touch with me? Acting Captain Weigand?” He paused, momentarily, realizing that even to the uninitiated the identification he had been about to add might seem strange. “Tenth precinct,” he said. “The West Twentieth Street station house. She’ll find it listed.”

  “Certainly,” Mr. Wilson said. “Although—she may be anywhere by now, as I said. California, Florida. The south of France.” He shook his head. “And I had stopped by to ask if I could give her tea,” he added. “Unpredictable, our Hilda.”

  It was far from a stolen dictating machine.

  “Well,” Bill said, “thanks.”

  He led the way to the police car; Mullins went around it to get behind the wheel. When Bill was in the car, Mr. Wilson crossed the sidewalk and spoke.

  “By the way,” he said. “What was the nature of the property you recovered? In case I should happen to find Hilda? She may merely be out to lunch, of course.”

  “A Voice-Scriber,” Weigand said. “It’s a—”

  “I know,” Mr. Wilson said. He shook his head. “How young writers change,” he said. “I can remember—”

  “Well, thanks,” Bill said again. Mullins started the car. They left Mr. Bernard Wilson on the sidewalk, with whatever it was he remembered.

  IV

  Tuesday, 4:10 P.M. to 7:20 P.M.

  After the first blow, she had not been hurt. Since she had been here, she had not been touched. She had only been locked in darkness. She had only, at intervals, faced the blinding light and heard the whisper behind her.

  “Where?” the whisper had said; had said over and over. “Where is it? When you tell me, I’ll let you go.”

  It had always been the whisper, never the full voice. It had to be the same, or it had no meaning. Yet she could not prove it the same. A voice is recognized by its timbre and by its pitch; by gradations and phrasing. A whisper has no timbre; it may be pitched almost at will. A whisper has no body.

  The one who whispered, who had to be the same man, was as disembodied as the sound. The light shone in her eyes in the black cubicle in which she was locked; the man who held the light was invisible behind it. Now the whisper seemed to come from the lips of a tall man; now from those of someone much shorter. But the light itself was held now high, now low. It might be that, to confuse her, the man, if he was tall, sometimes crouched: if short, sometimes stood on tiptoe. Perhaps, although she did not believe this, it was not always the same man.

  It was time for him to come again, Pam thought. It must be time. Even that was better than this darkness …

  She had wakened to the darkness, how long ago she could hardly guess. She had wakened, pain in her head, and had at first not known herself awake. Then she had thought herself blind, and had screamed. The light came on then for the first time. He had been waiting.

  “Who are you?” the whisper behind the light said first. “Are you Mrs. North?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Oh—yes! What’s happened?”

  “You were sent a record,” the whisper said. “You took it to your husband’s office. To play it, of course. You remember that?”

  She had not. But then she did.

  “You killed her,” Pam said. “You—wait—you called her a snake. Then you killed her.”

  “Who?” the whisper said. “You don’t know, do you? You can’t prove anything, can you?”

  “I heard your voice,” Pam said. “Heard—the things you said. I’ll know the voice.”

  “Don’t boast,” the whisper said. “I wouldn’t boast. But—suppose you did? Without the record, suppose you did? There isn’t anything else. Not now.”

  “I—” Pam began, and then stopped. “You’re right, of course. Why have you done this, then?”

  “I didn’t find the record,” the whispering man said. “The envelope, but not the record. The watchman came up too soon. Tell me where it is. When I get it, I’ll let you go.”

  Pam did not answer. It was a lie. She did not need to be told it was a lie.

  “Where is it?” the whisper repeated.

  “If you find it, you’ll kill me,” Pam North said. “Why wouldn’t you? As you did—whoever it was.”

  “It’s in your husband’s office,” the whisper said. “You hid it there. Your husband won’t be back until Friday. Nobody’ll find it until then. I won’t kill you if you tell me where it is.”

  She said, “No,” to that. Then the light went out. Then the door closed as she jumped toward it; held against her. Then she heard a padlock snap.

  That was the first time. Since then she had not jumped at the door. Held under the unflinching light, outlined in it, her least movement, the least tensing of her muscles, was as revealing to the man who held the light as words would have been if she had said, “I’m going to jump for the door, now.”

  She was locked in a square room, the walls of rough boards. The room was about ten feet by ten; she could not tell how high it was. She could not reach a ceiling; jumping, she could not touch a ceiling. It was only after hours that she guessed what the room was. It was only after the night was gone that, looking up, she saw, far above, a curved line of light.

  At first, this was meaningless. There was too little light to lessen the darkness; there was only this thin line, telling of light elsewhere; this part of a circle of light. The circle, she thought, would be perhaps three feet in diameter. About the diameter of—

  But she could not think, at first. The pain still filled her head; the darkness was like a pressure on her body. Her mind would not work. She made it work. About th
ree feet in diameter—a circle of three feet, more or less. An opening of that dimension, not quite closed, leading upward to light. Pam North shook her paining head. It was as if she were seeing, from below, one of the manhole covers one sees in city streets; one of the covers which, removed, let men down into a labyrinth of water mains and conduits and great sewers. But she was not—

  She realized, then. She was in the coal bin of some building. The light above came around half the circumference of the badly fitting cover of the opening through which the bin was filled. Beyond the heavy board walls of the prison was the basement of the building, whatever it was, wherever it was.

  The bin was empty of coal but, now realizing where she was, Pam felt the grittiness of coal under her feet. She stooped down and felt the floor, and felt the harshness of the coal dust. Unconsciously, she wiped her hand on the wool of her dress, and then, still instinctively, brushed at the fabric before she realized that she had been lying on the coal-blackened floor for an undeterminable time before she regained consciousness. I’ve ruined my dress, Pam North thought, inconsequentially; it was such a pretty dress …

  It had been about two hours—she could not see her watch and so could only guess—after he came first that he came again. She heard him walking through the basement, and by the cadence of the footsteps knew it was a man. She heard his key in the padlock and faced the sound, tensing, and then the light was on her. The whisper came again.

  “Well?”

  Pam shook her head.

  “Where is it?” the whisper said. “You’ll tell me in the end, you know. I don’t want to hurt you, but I can.”

  She had known that. She had waited for him to say that. He was right, of course. He could hurt her until she told him what he wanted to know. But, until then—

  Pam shook her head again.

  “You’re stubborn,” he whispered. “It won’t do you any good. There’s no need to be a fool.”

  “No,” Pam said.

  “Aren’t you thirsty?” the whisperer asked. “I’d think you’d be thirsty.”

  She was. She nodded.

  “Well?” he said.

  She shook her head.

  He stepped back then, the light receding, holding her until the last moment. Then the door slammed shut and the lock clicked, and there was only the darkness—only the darkness and the thin, semi-circular edge of light above.

  She had been conscious of growing thirst before, but not sharply conscious. Now the idea of water began to grow in her mind; now her mouth grew dry as if dry, hot air were being forced into it. Partly, she realized, this was due to suggestion—he had spoken of thirst and her mind, even her body, responded. She could go for hours yet before thirst was more than an inconvenience, several hours before hunger was added to thirst. So that was what he planned. Hunger and thirst—and darkness. Now the darkness was the worst. It wouldn’t always be.

  Somebody would come. Somebody always came. Jerry, Pam thought, I’m here! But where was here?

  She thought, already they’ll be looking for me. Martha will come and find I’m not there; she’ll know because the cats won’t be fed. And then Jerry’ll—But no, Jerry’s in San Francisco, not here. He won’t even know, and Martha’ll just think I’ve gone some place for the night. But won’t she know I’d make some arrangement about the cats? Or that I’d leave her a note? Then won’t she—?

  She’ll get hold of Bill, Pam thought. She knows Bill. And then hell start looking and—

  But what good will it do? What will he have to go on? He’ll find out I went to the office and Mr. Helder will remember taking me up. But Mr. Helder didn’t see the man who hit me, or I wouldn’t be here. He must have carried me down the stairs and through the lobby when Mr. Helder was somewhere else and then to a car, of course. Then he must be strong. Then—

  It went round and round in her mind. It went faster and faster, until her own thoughts seemed to dizzy her and she sat down on the gritty floor and hugged her knees in her arms and then put her head on her knees and sat so, huddled, feeling that her mind had been running. And the dryness in her throat grew, and the dryness of her lips grew.

  It was longer before he came a third time. This time she merely sat as she was, huddled on the floor, and shook her head to all he said; shook her head even when he said, “You must be getting very thirsty, by now.” He did not remain long the third time. He whispered, “All right, I can wait,” and the light went out.

  When Pam looked up again, the thin edge of light was fainter. She realized that the shortened day of late October was nearing its end. This time yesterday, Pam thought, I was getting on the train in the country, or off the train. This time yesterday, I was going home. There was water on the train—cold water at the end of the car; paper cups to hold the water. But I wasn’t thirsty and I didn’t drink any water. And there was water at home, all the water in the world, and ice for the water, and I wasn’t thirsty and didn’t drink the water. And somewhere in this house there is water in pipes, water flowing; somewhere there’s a tap and if I turned it water would rush out, frothing a little from the pressure. I could hold a glass under it and water would gush into the glass and flow over the top as I cooled the glass and wash down over the hand I held in the glass in and—

  How long this was, she did not know.

  Now she heard a sound. It was the sound of his footsteps again. He was coming back. If she said, “Yes, I’ll tell you,” he would give her water. Then he would go. and find the record with his voice on it—did he think there was more than that? Did he think his name had been used? Why didn’t he ask? Because she would lie, of course; he knew she would lie. Why should she tell the truth, if his name had been used? If it had been, he would have to kill her. He—

  He would find the record and destroy it and then, since he had killed once, he would kill again. Why shouldn’t he? But first he would give her water. He would have to do that. He would—

  But the steps did not, this time, come to the door of the bin. They started toward it; then veered away. They stopped. Then there was the harsh sound of something, apparently something heavy, being dragged on a cement floor. This lasted for a few moments and stopped. Then it began again, with a difference. Pam, who had at first listened dully, listened now with concentration. She got to her feet and, moving as softly as she could, went to the side of the bin nearest the sound and pressed close to the boards, listening.

  Now, she thought, he was pulling the heavy thing up a flight of cement stairs. She could hear his breathing, and once a grunt of effort. Then that sound stopped. When sound started again, it was the screeching drag of something on level. This was very brief. Then there was the sound of a closing door.

  There was an interval then of perhaps fifteen minutes before the next sound. It was of a door being opened and then closed; footsteps came after that, and this time came to the door of the bin. She turned to face the door, and the light glared at her.

  “All right,” the man whispered. “Come out!”

  She did not move.

  “Come out,” he whispered again. “You’d better.” There was threat in the whisper.

  Pam North did as she was told. The light receded as she moved toward it, and she walked through the door. She took another step, saw dim light in a basement, saw an oil burner, thought, that’s why the bin was empty, and then, from behind, something heavy, stifling, was over her head. It bore her down, it stifled her. Then she was pulled backwards.

  It had been difficult to explain to Deputy Chief Inspector Artemus O’Malley. It was no easier to explain to the vigorous, youngish man with a crew haircut who sat across the desk; the man who said that he had no doubt whatever that Captain Weigand knew his business, but where did Hilda Godwin come into it? If he knew where she was, he would tell the captain, naturally. His curiosity would remain.

  “This burglar,” Gilbert Rogers said, “gets killed. He’s stolen a Voice-Scriber like that one”—he indicated—“from Hilda. I can see you want to give it
back to her or, anyway, tell her where it is. But what’s the rush?”

  Bill Weigand looked reflectively at the Voice-Scriber on Mr. Rogers’ desk. He did not see it; he nevertheless looked at it, as a platform speaker, improvising, may now and then look abstractedly at the ceiling. Youngish Mr. Rogers had, of course, put his finger on it. What was the rush?

  There was an interruption. A trim and blond young woman came into the office and, seeing Weigand, said, “Oh” and prepared to leave. Rogers said, “Yes, Miss Agee?” and the blonde said, rather rapidly, “I’m sorry Mr. Forbush sent these in from Boston and said maybe you’d like to listen to them and you were out but I didn’t know there was—”

  “All right, Miss Agee,” Rogers said. “Leave them. I’ll listen to them.”

  Miss Agee put three square envelopes, one on top of the other, on Mr. Rogers’s desk. She straightened the edges, making the pile neat. She went out. Bill Weigand looked abstractedly at the pile of stiff envelopes, not seeing them.

  “Voice-Scriber records,” Mr. Rogers said, when Bill continued to look. “As I was saying—”

  Bill saw the envelopes at which he had been looking—the squarish envelopes, each containing a recorded voice.

  “They’re mailed that way?” he asked.

  “Sure,” Rogers said. “Forbush up in the Boston office—” He stopped, because Bill Weigand did not seem to be listening. Bill reached out and picked up the topmost envelope. He read: “Do Not Bend.” He read: “Voice-Scriber Record.” A squarish envelope. Actually, a completely square envelope. Martha had said—

  “Some authors dictate,” Bill said. “Apparently Miss Godwin did?”

  “She may have,” Rogers said. His tone asked, “What difference does it make?” He considered. “I believe she did, now and then,” he said. “You don’t think your burglar stole a book? He didn’t. We’ve got the book. At least, a book. I doubt whether she’s started another. You can’t tell about authors, of course.” He sighed, perhaps at his own thoughts. He waited.