Inspector’s Holiday
A Captain Heimrich Mystery
Richard Lockridge
For Hildy
1
It was not snowing on the morning of that thirtieth of March. Heimrich had gloomily supposed it would be; had envisioned a blizzard. But at seven-thirty in the morning the low house on a hill overlooking the Hudson merely shook a little in the northwest wind. The wind raced clouds across a sky which, at intervals, showed blue. The temperature was even a degree or two above freezing. The northwest wind would change that. Falling into the twenties by afternoon; probability of occasional snow flurries. They would be away by then.
Heimrich put his electric razor in its case and the case in the space measured for it in a small, square suitcase. He closed the case. He made sure that the tag was on it. He carried it out to the living room and put it with the others by the door. There were a good many of the others, and the tags were on all of them.
Susan was sitting by the fireplace, in which no fire was burning. The house was warm enough, but she was wearing her heavy winter coat. Merton Heimrich did not say anything. He did not even lift his eyebrows.
“I’m fine, dear,” Susan said. “Just fine. I—I just put my coat on to be ready when he gets here.”
She didn’t look fine, Heimrich thought. She was always slender; she was thin now. Her face was thin, and there was little color in it. Heimrich walked across the room and stood and looked down at her.
“Just fine,” Susan said. “Really, darling.”
He kept on looking down at her.
She smiled at him. The smile was her own smile. A few weeks ago it had not been. It had been faint on her lips. Her lips were faint still under lipstick.
“Sure you are,” Merton Heimrich told his wife, and sat down in a chair by hers and poured himself coffee. He drank from his cup. He said, “Sure you are.” He got what conviction he could into his voice. He knew he hadn’t got enough into it, and she reached across the table between them and put her hand on his. She said, “You make too much of things, darling. Really you do. Really I’m fine. It was just the flu. The flu everybody had.”
“Sure,” Heimrich said, and turned his hand over so he could press it on hers. “Just the flu everybody had.”
Not everybody had had the flu that winter. Merton Heimrich, Inspector, New York State Police, had not had it. But Michael Faye had had it, mildly, and so had scores in the hamlet of Van Brunt, County of Putnam, State of New York. It had been that kind of a winter east of the Hudson. The first snow had come before Thanksgiving. Since it had fallen, nobody had seen bare ground. The state plows had left snow ranges on the sides of highways; the town road from which the Heimrichs’ steep driveway climbs had been, at best, patchy with ice and rumpled snow, with sand strewn haphazardly on the steepest slopes. For three days at one time and two at another, Merton Heimrich had been snowed away from his office at the headquarters of Troop K, which is some miles south of Van Brunt.
Nobody could remember a winter such as this winter had been and, for that matter, still was being. Susan Heimrich had grown up in Van Brunt and could remember no such winter. Merton Heimrich, who had lived in Van Brunt since its firehouse had burned down and a charred body had been found in its ruins, could remember no winter which approached this winter in sheer malevolence. And a good many people had got the flu and a few had died of it.
Susan’s flu had not, however she now insisted, been “just the flu that everybody had.” There had been complications; eventually, there had been pneumonia. For most of February she had been in a hospital; once home, she had convalesced with, Merton thought, agonizing slowness. “I’m much better today,” she had said, over and over, seeing anxiety in his face. “I’m much, much better.” And the doctor had agreed that she was doing as well as could be expected, adding, with the understandable bitterness of a man who had to be much out in it, “In this kind of weather.”
“She’s let herself get run down,” Dr. Forbes had said. “Fighting her way down every day to that shop of hers. Fighting her way home again. And worrying about you, come to that. Half the time out half the nights.”
“The kind of job I’ve got,” Heimrich had said to that. “A bit like the kind you’ve got, Doctor. People get sick at inconvenient times. They also kill at inconvenient times.”
He had been told to make her rest more. Forbes had added, “What you really ought to do is get her away somewhere the weather’s decent. It won’t be, here, for God knows when. That’s what you ought to do.”
“Pretty hard to manage,” Heimrich had told Dr. Forbes, who had merely shrugged his shoulders.
But, once thought about, it had not really been too hard to manage. He had accumulated leave and, as an inspector, could take it pretty much when he chose. There’d be a deep hole dug in the bank account. (But her face is so very thin; she moves as if she were so very tired.) Young Michael was a freshman at Dartmouth, where the winter had probably been even worse. (“Dear Mother and Dad: They say it was fifty below at six o’clock this morning. We froze our way to breakfast. I got a midterm A in—”)
Colonel, who is a moderately enormous Great Dane, and Mite, a solidly black tomcat who has somewhat absurdly outgrown his name, could stay at the vet’s. They would not approve. Colonel, who is morose at best, would be disheartened to the point of collapse. If Mite could stay in his pen with him? “In Colonel’s mind, Mite is his cat. In Colonel’s mind, he invented Mite.”
The veterinarian had looked his doubt. There was a place for boarding cats and a place for dogs, and each stayed in his proper place. But—well, they could try it. And Mrs. Heimrich certainly ought to get away. She’d had a tough time of it, from what he heard.
The shop was not a problem. Even in better winters, there is no rush of trade to the shop on Van Brunt Avenue, which is also NY 11F, with “susan faye, fabrics” lettered in italics on its front window. In most winters those who can afford to pay for Faye designs flee the country for city apartments. The more rugged permanents do not redecorate their big houses. Not even the most sanguine encourage themselves to drive miles on twisting, narrow roads, uphill and downhill through snow, to buy curtain fabrics. But until this year, Susan Heimrich, who had been Susan Faye before and after the death of Michael Faye, Sr., in Korea, had kept the shop open. Seldom interrupted by customers, she had stood in the back room of the shop and splashed bright colors. Some of her best designs had grown in mind and hand on winter days.
But this year she had closed the shop in late January because the road to it was so often hazardous and because, although she was really “fine,” she had not felt up to working. The most vivid poster paints became dim to her eyes. She did not give up easily. Only when Merton Heimrich drove her to the doctor’s office and they learned that the dimness of color, and the general shakiness of body, were among the results of a fever of a hundred and three did she admit to herself, or to anybody, that she wasn’t “fine.” And in the hospital, when the fever rose and breathing, even in an oxygen tent, was a gasping thing, her right hand still fluttered as if it held a brush.
The Snell Travel Service in Cold Harbor, which lies a few miles north of the hamlet of Van Brunt, thought first of the Caribbean. Such lovely weather there; the islands so exquisitely tropical in scenery and in weather; the beaches so magnificent, the life so gay. The Bahamas? The Virgin Islands? Jamaica would be wonderful. If, of course, they wanted to go farther? Get really off the beaten track? Some people she knew went every winter to the Costa del Sol on the Mediterranean in Spain. So unspoiled, they said it was. And the state-owned hotels, called paradores. Really splendid places, from what she’d heard.
Miss Gertrude Snell, who was Snell Travel Services, had n
ot herself been to the Costa del Sol. But she had heard it was lovely. So foreign, but with English widely spoken. They could fly from Kennedy International to Madrid and from Madrid down to—“wait till I look it up”—Málaga and hire a car and drive along the coast—“unspoiled fishing villages all along the coast” she understood there were—until they found just the place they liked. It would be warm this time of year. Not perhaps as warm as, say, Jamaica. But certainly warmer than it was here. Br-r-r!
Heimrich’s job sometimes requires flying in airplanes. He does not like them. He does not like long waits at airports for departures or long circling above airports for arrivals; he does not like the tedious distances airports are from places one wants to be. And Susan begins to quiver when airplane doors close with the awful finality of airplane doors. A ship?
Miss Snell believed there were ships. Merton Heimrich thought she spoke as if she had for the first time heard of them. She could look it up. Of course, the weather would be perfect this time of year in Nassau, and there were such lovely hotels. But she would certainly look up the matter of ships. She would give Inspector Heimrich a ring.
It took her only a day to discover that one of man’s first means of getting from one place to another was still available. There really was a ship. It went, of all places, to Málaga. “Which is quite near Gibraltar, actually. Only in Spain.” And there was a sailing from New York on the thirtieth of March. Of course, it would take much longer than by plane. The ship—the S.S. Italia of the Italian Line, the ship was—was due in Málaga on April sixth. If Inspector and Mrs. Heimrich didn’t mind so long a voyage—the ship took the southern route, of course, so the weather should be quite pleasant—she thought she could get a booking. First class? Although cabin was supposed to be very comfortable on the Italia. Not that the Italia was the Michelangelo or the Raffaello. She didn’t say it was. But a very fine ship and only a little smaller than the line’s two big ones and with stabilizers, so it shouldn’t be a rough voyage at all, particularly on the southern route.
They talked it over. Susan said they didn’t need to do it, because she was fine—getting stronger every day. And it would cost a lot. And if they waited, spring would come up to them. And if they went first class, Merton probably would have to take a dinner jacket. And—
But her eyes were brighter than he had seen them in many weeks. There was even something of the old gaiety in her voice. But of course they shouldn’t—and what would they do with the animals? And—
Cabin 82, starboard side, on the S.S. Italia, sailing from the foot of West Fiftieth Street at noon on March 30. A check, rather sizable, exchanged for tickets and tags to go on suitcases; passports checked and found in good order; vaccination certificates provided by Dr. Forbes.
So they waited in the living room of the house on a hilltop from which they could look down on the Hudson River—currently full of ice—for a trooper to come in a police car to drive them in their own Buick to the city and the foot of West Fiftieth Street and the S.S. Italia of the Italian Line. They were due aboard not later than ten, and it was—Heimrich looked at his watch. It was ten minutes of eight. Any time, now. With the roads the way they were—
A car sounded at them from outside. Made it up the drive all right. (There was an icy stretch on which Heimrich himself had spun wheels the night before. He had spread on it the granulated clay which was used in Mite’s toilet pan, and which works better than sand on icy spots.)
Heimrich went to the door and opened it, and the wind banged at him. But he is a big, solid man—he is inclined to think of himself as resembling a hippopotamus—and defeated the wind.
The man getting out of the unmarked sedan, with only its long radio antenna to identify it as a police car, was not the expected trooper. Lieutenant Charles Forniss of the State Police got out of the car and said, “Morning, M. L.,” and came toward Heimrich. Heimrich said, “Hi, Charley,” to the man who had worked with him for many years and hadn’t had to come to drive them in. The day before at the barracks Forniss had said, “Take care of yourself. And take care of Susan.” They had shaken hands and that was the good-by for the month or six weeks. Forniss hadn’t come to act as chauffeur because he had to. He had come because he wanted to. Heimrich was not surprised; at least he was not very surprised. He was, on the other hand, very pleased. Forniss hadn’t got up early for an inspector. He had got up early for a friend.
The two big men loaded suitcases into the police car. This was not particularly legal. The car was not for private use. But legality can be stretched. Coming back, Forniss would not have to drive up from the barracks to exchange the Heimrich Buick for the police car. He mentioned this. They stowed luggage in the trunk, and there seemed to be a good deal of it. Taking dinner clothes adds to luggage. (“We could just as well have gone cabin,” Susan had said as they packed. “You can easily mail your dinner things back after you get off the ship,” Miss Snell had said, with the confidence of one who had never tried it. Probably feed men even in business suits, Heimrich had thought, as he tried the jacket on, with the uneasy feeling that he probably had widened out of it. He had not.)
There was room in the police car’s trunk for all the bags. All the bags had tags on them—“S.S. Italia, 3/30, Cabin 82.” There was ice on the drive outside the door. Merton Heimrich put an arm around his slim—no, damn it, “thin”—wife and helped her across the ice. He’s ridiculous to worry so, Susan thought. He’s not ridiculous. He is very dear.
They skidded only a little going down the steep driveway from the hilltop house. Eleven F was reasonably clear. “Warning: May be icy spots ahead.” The Parkway had some puddles. They would be ice by midafternoon, if the Weather Bureau knew its business, which, from the coldness of the wind, it did. But they were going away from ice. In the back seat, Heimrich put an arm around Susan’s shoulders and drew her against him. Susan turned to look up at him and smiled and said, “Yes. Isn’t it?” although he had not said anything.
Traffic thickened on the Parkway and on the Henry Hudson. Below the George Washington Bridge it crept, and there was much horn-blaring as commuters churned toward offices. But they had counted on that. After they left the West Side Highway at Fifty-seventh Street, trucks loomed around them and air brakes hissed in front of them. But that, too, had been counted on. It was a little aften ten when they pulled to a curb lined with men in green smocks with “Italian Line” across them in red.
The too many suitcases went on a truck. “No,” Charley Forniss said. “No place to park it. Anyway, I’ve been on ships.”
Charles Forniss had been a Marine Corps captain before he became a policeman. He’d been on ships. Forniss and Heimrich shook hands, although they were not hand-shaking types and, anyway, had shaken hands the day before. Forniss held both hands down to Susan, and she took them both, and he said, “Take care of yourself,” and then, to Merton Heimrich, “Take care of her.”
Heimrich said, “Sure. Mind the store, Charley,” and he and Susan followed the man who pushed the luggage truck down a long, cold pier to a gangplank marked “First Class,” and men in white jackets took cases off the trunk and disappeared while Heimrich tipped the longshoreman and went to a booth and gave tickets and their passports to a dark-haired young woman who, somewhat unexpectedly, said “Grazie.” They went up the gangplank, and a tall man in a white jacket said, “Madame-sir-this-way-please.” He put a hand, somewhat tenderly, on Heimrich’s arm and guided. He guided into a line, but not a long line. The line led to a table with two men in uniform sitting behind it.
The man ahead of Heimrich in the line was almost as tall as Heimrich, but he was very thin. He had gray hair and the back of his neck was deeply tanned. The woman who walked beside him, as Susan walked beside Heimrich, wore a short mink coat.
The ship’s officer at the end of the table had a plan in front of him—a plot of the ship’s dining room. The tall thin man leaned down to him and said, “Grimes, Ronald. Table for two if you can manage it.”
The tall man had a low voice and English intonation.
The officer next the one with the plan of the dining salon—“Salone da Pranzo Prima Classe” it had read on the deck plan which had come with the tickets—had typed sheets in front of him and ran a pencil down them. He said, “Cabins Sixteen and Eighteen, Sir Ronald?”
The tall gray-haired man merely nodded his head. The officer with the dining-salon plot in front of him looked over it. There were squares on the plot with four smaller squares around the sides. The officer drew pencil lines through two of the small squares at one of the large ones and said, “Table Twenty-two, Sir Ronald,” and wrote “22” on a slip of paper and handed it to the tall thin man, who said, “Kew,” and gave his place to Heimrich. The man with the typed passenger list looked at another, smaller list. He put a check mark on the larger list after the name “Grimes,” and Heimrich gave his name. He did not give his first name, of which he disapproves. He said, “Mr. and Mrs. M. L. Heimrich. We asked our travel agent to arrange for a table for two.”
Lists were consulted. The officer with the dining-room plan looked at it and found two more chairs to scratch from a table for four. He said, “Table Seventeen, Inspector.”
It was not supposed to be “Inspector.” It had been made clear to Miss Snell that “Mr. and Mrs. M. L. Heimrich” had booked passage on the S.S. Italia. “Inspector” invites questions, such as “What do you inspect, Inspector?” And the answer “Murder, chiefly,” gets “Oh!” and, from the less reserved, inquiry for details.
Miss Snell had not listened. Of course, it did not too much matter.
They stopped and reserved deck chairs—on the enclosed promenade; starboard side by preference. They would be sailing south and east; the afternoon sun would fall to starboard. It would be good to sit in the sun again. Susan could do with the sun’s warmth, even if sunlight came through glass.
Cabin 82?
20-Inspector's Holiday Page 1
