“I thought you said he shot himself.”
“That was what we were supposed to think,” Mulholland put in with a supercilious smile. He was a big, flashy ex-athlete who always walked as if he were watching himself in a mirror. I’d never liked him.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“He wasn’t killed with his own gun.”
“How do you know?”
He shrugged, and looked at Scanlon. “You want me to tell him?”
Scanlon was lighting his cigar. He waved a hand. “Go ahead.”
Mulholland pointed to the shotgun. “Both barrels were loaded, but only one had been fired. Here’s the empty shell.” He touched the empty with his finger, rolled it over so the printing was uppermost. “See? Number 6 shot, it says.”
“Yes. So?”
He moved his hand to the white envelope, tilted it, and six or eight shot pellets rolled out onto the surface of the desk. “So these are some of the shot we took out of his head, and they’re number 4’s.”
2
I stared from one to the other. “Are you sure?” I asked at last.
“Positive,” Scanlon said bluntly. “We’ve compared them with 4’s and 6’s from new shells, and miked ‘em —the ones that’re still round—and weighed ‘em at the physics lab out at the high school. These shot are number 4’s. And the fired shell was loaded with 6’s.”
“Well, wait—maybe it was a reload. I’ll admit it would be silly for him to reload his own shells when he could buy ‘em wholesale.”
Scanlon shook his head. “It was no reload. It was a new shell, right from the factory. The same as the un-fired one in the gun, and the other 23 in his hunting coat, out of a new box of 25. Somebody killed him, and then fired his gun to make it look like an accident. That’s the reason you heard two shots from over there.”
“If he did,” Mulholland said.
I turned and looked at him. “How was that again?”
“I said, if you did hear two shots—from that other blind.”
“If you want to ask me any questions,” I told Scanlon, “you’d better send your boy home, or tell him to keep his remarks to himself. We’re not going to get anywhere this way.”
“Shut up, both of you!” he snapped. He turned to me. “Now, you say you got out there before daylight. Was there any other car parked at the end of the road besides Roberts’?”
“There was no car at all when I got there.”
“I thought you said you saw his car.”
“When I was leaving,” I explained. “I was already in the blind when the other car got there. I didn’t know whose it was then, of course; I just saw headlights flashing through the trees. When I started home, somewhere around ten o’clock, it was still there, and I saw it was Roberts’ Porsche.”
“And you never did see any other car?”
“No.”
“Could there have been one without your seeing it?”
“It’s not likely, unless he drove in with his lights off, which would be a little hard to do on a road through heavy timber, or unless he arrived after daylight.”
“But at the time you heard those two shots from the other blind it was still too dark to drive without lights?”
“Yes.”
“That blind you were in is the nearest one to the end of the road. Did Roberts try to come out to it?”
“No,” I said. “When he saw my car there, he’d have been pretty sure it was occupied. It’s the best location of the four, and always taken on a first-come first-served basis.”
“Was the gate out there at the highway locked when you went in?”
“Yes,” I said. “And locked when I came out.”
He nodded. “Still, Roberts could have forgotten to lock it after him when he came in, and whoever killed him could have followed him almost to the parking area before he left his car. Going out, he wouldn’t need a key to close a padlock. On the other hand, of course, he could have walked in all the way. It’s less than three miles from the highway.”
“You mean you actually believe somebody went out there deliberately to murder him?”
Scanlon nodded, his eyes bleak. “What else is there?
He went hunting alone. You were the only other person out there. He didn’t shoot himself. So somebody shot him in cold blood. And then tried to set up this phony accident. He might have got away with it, too, if he’d thought to check the size shot Roberts was shooting.”
“But why?” I asked blankly. “Who’d have any reason to kill him?”
“If we knew that, he’d be down here now. You can’t think of anybody he’s ever had trouble with?”
“No,” I said.
“How did you get along with him?”
“All right. He was a good tenant, paid his rent on time, no beefs.”
“You usually use number 4 shot for ducks, don’t you?” Mulholland asked.
“That’s right,” I said. “I always do. And I was shooting 4’s today. Why?”
He gave me a cold smile. “I just wanted to be sure.”
“Good. Then your mind’s at rest. Go put some more hair tonic on it.”
Scanlon cursed us, and broke it up. We were an intelligent pair, I thought sourly, grown men acting like children. It was a legitimate question, under the circumstances, but I didn’t like the dirty way he put it. He always rubbed me the wrong way.
“Weren’t there any fingerprints on the gun?” I asked.
“No,” Scanlon said. “Not even Roberts’.”
“Somebody wiped ‘em off,” Mulholland said. “Clever, huh?”
I ignored him this time, and spoke to Scanlon. “Is that all?”
He was staring moodily at the shotgun. “Oh? Yeah, that’s all. Thanks for coming down.”
I went back to the car. It was too early for dinner and I couldn’t face the thought of a whole evening in that empty house, so I went back to the office and worked on a rough draft of my income tax until after eight before going into Fuller’s. Everybody was talking about Roberts, and I had to repeat what I knew about it a half-dozen times. It was around ten when I drove home. The house is only six blocks from downtown, a rambling cream-colored brick I’d built when Frances and I were married, replacing the old Warren house which had burned down in 1955. An extension of the circular drive goes back along the side of it to the two-car garage, which adjoins the kitchen. The house is roughly U-shaped, with the kitchen and dining room in the short wing, the long 35-foot living room and my den across the front with the entrance hall between them, while a continuation of the hall runs back through the other wing past the guest rooms to the master bedroom with its fireplace, dressing room, and bath taking up the far end.
Rain, wind-driven, beat against the house. I mixed a drink and tried to settle down in the living room with a book, but it was no good. I kept thinking of Roberts. It was fantastic. Why would somebody have wanted to kill him? And why out there—aside from the futile attempt to make it appear an accident? Only eight of us had keys to that gate. Besides Roberts and myself, there were Dr. Martin; Jim MacBride, the Ford dealer; George Clement, the town’s leading attorney; Clint Henry, cashier of the Citizens National Bank; and Bill Sorensen and Wally Albers, who were away at the moment, on a cruise to Jamaica with their wives. They were all good friends of mine. Of course, as Scanlon said, Roberts might have left the gate open when he came in, or the man could have walked in, but even so he’d have to be familiar with the terrain and the location of the blinds to get there, three miles from the highway, in the dark. The turnoff was fifteen miles east of town.
I went out and mixed another drink. The telephone rang. There’s an extension in the kitchen; I sat down at the table in the breakfast nook and reached for it.
“Is this Duke Warren?” It was a girl’s voice.
“Yes,” I said. “Who’s this?”
“Never mind. I just thought I’d tell you—you won’t get away with it.”
I frowned. “Get away with what?”
“I suppose you think because you own most of the town they won’t do anything. Well, I’ve got news for you.”
Somebody on a telephone jag, I thought, though she didn’t sound drunk. “I’ll tell you, why don’t you call me in the morning?”
“Don’t try to brush me off. You know what I’m talking about. Dan Roberts.”
I’d started to hang up, but caught myself just in time when I heard the name. “Roberts?” I snapped. “What about him?”
“If you had to kill somebody, why not her? You don’t think he was the only one, do you?”
I slammed the receiver down on the cradle and stood up, shaking with rage. When I tried to light a cigarette, I fumbled and dropped it in my drink. In a few minutes I began to get it under control, realizing it was childish to let a thing like that get under my skin. Nobody paid any attention to psychos and creeps. They crawled out of the woodwork every time something happened, spewed up their anonymous telephone calls, and went back. I washed out the glass and rebuilt the drink, tried the cigarette again, and got one alight this time, regretting now that I’d hung up on her. I should have made some effort to find out who she was. The telephone rang again. I went over and picked it up, very coldly this time. But it was probably somebody else; she wouldn’t have the guts to call back.
She did. “Don’t hang up when I’m talking to you. You’re in no position to.”
“No?” I asked. “Why not?” I knew practically everybody in town; maybe if she kept talking I could identify her. The voice was vaguely familiar.
“Maybe you think Scanlon’s a fool? Or afraid of you?”
She didn’t sound particularly bright; nobody who’d known Scanlon as long as an hour could have any illusions as to his being a fool, or that he’d ever been afraid of anything. “Get to the point,” I said. “What about Scanlon?”
“I think he’ll be interested to learn that she’s been going to Dan’s apartment. Of course, she used to live there, so maybe she just forgets she’s moved.”
“You bet he’ll be interested,” I said. “So I’ll tell you what you do. Go down to the sheriff’s office right now and tell him about it. I’ll meet you there, and when you get through I’ll file charges against you for slander and defamation of character.”
“Don’t bet on it. I just might have proof.”
“Well, don’t forget to bring it when you come out from under your rock, because you’re sure as hell going to need it.”
“I’m talking about a cigarette lighter. Or didn’t you know that’s where she lost it?”
“I don’t know why it’s any of your business,” I said, “but she hasn’t lost it.”
“Are you sure, now? A thin gold lighter with a couple of fancy initials that look like F.W.? It’s a—hummm—Dunhill. Sweet dreams, Mr. Warren.” This time she hung up.
I sat there for a moment, feeling vaguely uneasy; that was Frances’ lighter she’d described. And now that I thought of it, she had said something about it, two or three weeks ago. Then I remembered. It had needed repairs, a new spark wheel or something, so she’d sent it back to the store in New York where I’d bought it for her. As a matter of fact, it was probably here now. I jumped up and went out to the living room; unless I was mistaken, a small parcel had come for her since she’d been in New Orleans. I yanked open the drawer of the table where I’d put her mail, and was conscious of relief and, at the same time, a faint twinge of guilt that I’d even felt it necessary to check. It was a small, flat package, insured parcel post, and it was from Dunhill’s in New York.
As I dropped it back in the drawer, I noticed the letter under it was from her brokerage firm in New Orleans, and wondered idly if she’d been switching stocks without asking my advice. Not that it mattered particularly; it was only a small account, around six thousand dollars, and hers personally, the money she’d received from the stock and fixtures of the dress shop when we were married.
I sat down with my drink, still trying to clean the telephone call out of my mind. Who was the girl, and what was her object in a thing like that? Some nut with a grudge against the whole human race, or did she have some specific reason to hate Frances, or me? She must have known Roberts pretty well; once she’d referred to him by his first name. The voice had been tantalizingly familiar, but I still couldn’t place her. And how had she described the lighter so well? Of course, she could have seen Frances using it somewhere, but why the odd phrasing? It’s a—hmmm—Dunhill. If that was deliberate, it was damned clever; it gave the impression she was holding it in her hand as she spoke.
She wasn’t that clever, I thought, beginning to feel a chill between my shoulder blades. Cursing, I strode back to the table, and yanked open the drawer again. Tearing off the wrappings, I flipped up the lid of the velvet-covered box. It was the same gold-plated lighter, with the same ornate monogram, but it was a brand-new one.
For what must have been a full minute I stood looking stupidly down at it, and then around the room, trying to re-orient myself the way you do after being hit hard at football. There must be some mistake. Maybe they’d given her this one to replace the old one, on a guarantee, or something. No, the receipted sales slip was under it, with a refund voucher for overpayment. She’d sent a check. I turned and grabbed the telephone, and it wasn’t until the long-distance operator was putting through the call that I wondered what I was going to say to her. This had to be done face to face. Well, I could tell her to come home. The hotel switchboard answered.
“Mrs. Warren, please,” I said.
“I believe she’s checked out,” the girl replied. “One moment, please; I’ll give you the desk.”
She’d said she was going to stay over till Sunday. What had changed her mind so suddenly? “Desk,” a man’s voice said.
“This is John Warren. I’m trying to reach my wife on a very urgent matter. Could you tell me how long ago she checked out?”
“Yes, sir. It was shortly before seven this evening.”
“Do you know whether she received a long-distance call? Or made one?”
“Hmmm—I think there was a call for her from Carthage, Alabama, but she didn’t get it—”
“How’s that?” I interrupted.
“It was before she came in. Around five-thirty.”
“Was there any message, or a number to call back?”
“No, sir. There was no information at all, so we didn’t make out a slip on it. I just happened to remember it because Mrs. Warren asked when she came in if there’d been any calls, and I checked with the board and told her about it. She made no calls herself, though; we have no toll charges on the bill.”
“Wait—you mean besides the one at 1:30 this afternoon?”
“No. There were none at all, Mr. Warren.”
I was gripping the receiver so hard my fingers hurt, and I had to restrain an impulse to shout. “You’d better check again if your information’s no better than that. She called me at 1:30.”
“It must have been from outside the hotel, sir. We always clear with the switchboard when making up the bill, especially on unscheduled checkouts, and we have no record of it.”
“I’m still lying here in bed. . . .” Well, she hadn’t said whose. I traced a thoughtful doodle along the table top with my forefinger, said, “Thank you very much,” and dropped the receiver back on the cradle. As I was turning away I suddenly remembered the three or four trumpet notes I’d heard in the background when she was talking to me, and it struck me now there’d been something oddly familiar about them. God, had she been on a military reservation? No—I’d spent a good part of my life being ordered by buglers in the Army and in military schools when I was a boy, and even with my tin ear I could recognize any of the calls after the first few notes. It was something else. It must have been just music, which to me was always a more or less unintelligible jumble of sounds. I cursed. What difference did it make?
I went out to the kitchen, poured another big slug of bourbon—straight this time—and st
ood by the table looking down at the opened gift box containing the cigarette lighter. The whiskey helped, but it was still sickening as I began to probe through the mess with a stick, trying to classify the things that crawled out of it. Some were facts, some were assumptions, and some were mere guesses, but they all oozed off in the same direction. If the girl had been right about Roberts, you could at least assume she might be right about the rest of it. You don’t think he was the only one, do you? And it was a cinch it wasn’t Roberts who tried to get her at the hotel in New Orleans. He was already dead.
I suddenly remembered trying to get her last night, with no success. Maybe the story about being out on Bourbon Street with the Dickinsons was as big a lie as the rest of it. And why had she checked out of the hotel so abruptly? According to the clerk, she still hadn’t come in at five-thirty, but she was checked out and gone before seven, while she’d told me she was going to stay till Sunday. She hadn’t received any phone call from here; she’d merely asked if there had been one, and when she learned there had, she’d packed and taken off.
I noticed again the letter from the broker’s office sticking out from under the box the lighter had come in, and without quite knowing why, I slipped it out, tore open the envelope, and then stared uncomprehendingly at the typed verification form it contained. She had liquidated the account three days ago. Why? What had she needed $6000 for? We had a joint checking-account here, and I never questioned the checks she cashed. I crushed it in my hand and threw it on the rug. It didn’t matter. Roberts was what we were going to have out, and we’d do it before she got through this living room.
I glanced at my watch. The way she drove, she’d be here in less than an hour. Dropping the cigarette lighter in my pocket, I switched off the light and sat down to wait, conscious of the cold weight of anger in my chest and of the whiskey mounting to my head.
3
Forty minutes later gravel crunched in the driveway beyond the far wall of the living room. I heard the garage door bang as it came up. The door closed.
The long Saturday night Page 2
