20-Inspector's Holiday

by Lockridge, Richard

  “He’s early today,” Susan said.

  Heimrich said, “Well, after all, it’s Saturday,” and walked down the steep driveway—a big man who walked with long, sure strides. Susan watched him and her lips formed into a smile. She thought, fleetingly, of hippopotamuses, to which Merton Heimrich sometimes, when in a low state of mind, compares himself. Her smile widened. She shook her head. There was a gentle breeze, and it ruffled her short brown hair a little.

  Heimrich went over the hump in the driveway and disappeared between the two boulders on either side of it where it joins High Road. It was a quiet day, and she could hear the rasp of the mailbox’s opening and of its snapping closed again. Her husband appeared over the driveway’s hump, and his strides were as long and sure up the steep grade as they had been when he went down it. Hippopotamus indeed, Susan Heimrich thought.

  He had one hand full. “Mostly junk,” he said, as he spread the day’s mail on the table beside the tray. “But a letter from the boy.”

  The boy is Michael Faye and Susan’s son. He has grown tall since Heimrich first met him, which was when he was a small grave boy named after his father, who had died in Korea long before Heimrich looked for the first time at a slim, tall young woman with tiredness in her face and the lines of strain, and thought, She isn’t really pretty, and why is it so pleasant, so almost exciting, to look at her?

  There was no strain in her face that noon. They clicked tall glasses together and sipped from them, and Susan opened the letter, which was addressed to Inspector and Mrs. M. L. Heimrich. It was postmarked “Hanover, N.H.” and must, Susan thought, have been mailed almost as soon as he had got back to Dartmouth for his junior year. I’m lucky in my son, Susan thought. Nowadays so many of them seem to turn entirely into somebody else. It’s natural they should, she thought. But I’m glad he stays Michael. “Dear Mother and Dad,” she read. I’m glad he doesn’t call me “Mom” and that he never did. I’m glad he calls Merton “Dad” instead of “sir.”

  “There was frost last night,” she read. “The leaves are turning. But the courts are still all right and I got Professor Arnold for Eng. Lit. III. And Frank and I got a room together and it’s one of the ones with a bathroom. Believe it or not.”

  She read on while Merton shuffled through the mail, which was indeed mostly “junk.” There were several appeals for contributions, largely for causes which most Van Bruntians would consider left wing. The Heimrichs are members of the NAACP. Mailing lists get passed around. They are also members of Common Cause. One thing leads to another.

  “He’s got his first service working again, he thinks,” Susan said. “He’s getting more top spin on his forehand.” Young Michael, the spring before, had played in the number two spot on the Dartmouth tennis team. His first service had tended to go too deep. “He thinks he may get on the staff of the school paper. But I’ll let you read it yourself. It’s not very long.”

  “What’s ‘The Tor?’” Heimrich asked her.

  “A steep rocky hill,” Susan said. “Also part of the title of a play by Maxwell Anderson. He says he’s got all the money he needs. For now. What’s about a tor?”

  “The Tor,” Merton told her. “Here.” He slid a square white envelope toward her. He slid it face down. On the flap the words “The Tor, Highlands, New York” were embossed. They rose up thickly from the heavy white paper.

  “It looks like a wedding announcement,” Merton said, and picked up Michael’s letter. Michael’s typing was exact. So, for that matter, was Michael’s backhand. And young Michael’s grave mind.

  “The Jameson place,” Susan said. “What it’s always been called. Oh, when I was quite a small girl, ‘King Arthur’s Tor.’ We didn’t know what ‘tor’ meant. I thought it was a castle. In a way it is, almost. But you must know it, dear.”

  “Oh,” Merton Heimrich said, “that Tor. Yes; Mr. Jameson has always been a law-abiding sort. No official contact. What has he to say to the villagers?”

  Susan had been turning the square white envelope over in her hands. It was addressed, in script which had the feel of formality, to Inspector and Mrs. M. L. Heimrich. She opened it, with the care she felt it deserved. The message, in the same script on a thick white card with “The Tor” engraved at the top, was brief.

  “Cocktails and buffet on the twenty-third of September from six o’clock. Black tie.” “RSVP” was in the lower left-hand corner of the card.

  She handed the invitation to Merton. He read it. He said, “Why us? Why black tie at six o’clock in the country?”

  “They’ve always been on the formal side,” Susan said. “Keepingup-the-traditions sort of thing. I don’t know why us, dear. Except—”

  She broke off. He looked at her and waited. When she merely looked off toward the river which sparkled below them in the sunlight, he said, “You speak as if you knew them. Mr. and Mrs. Jameson?”

  “Mr. and Miss,” Susan said. “Brother and sister. I suppose because, to them, I’m still the Upton girl. They must be quite old by now. My father and Arthur Jameson knew each other when they were young, which probably was at about the same time. Went to the same parties, I suppose. Knew the same people.”

  “Wore the same black ties?”

  Susan laughed briefly. She said she supposed so.

  “Old families together,” she said. “Carrying on the old traditions, I suppose. It was before the Uptons lost their money, dear. Before I married Michael, who was from the Flats. Whose parents and grandparents had lived in the Flats. Who didn’t belong. It must have been—oh, a strange sort of world. Of society. An anachronism nowadays. Probably even when I was very young. I didn’t see much of it when I got old enough to remember. And when father didn’t have the right kind of money any more. And of course after I married a Faye.”

  “And now a Heimrich,” Merton said. “Which brings us back where we started, doesn’t it? Back to why us? Merely because you were born an Upton?”

  “I don’t know,” Susan said. “Perhaps because you’re an inspector, dear. Makes you a V.I.P., probably.”

  It was Merton Heimrich’s turn to laugh briefly.

  “Policemen aren’t V.I.P.s,” he said. “Not to old Hudson River families.”

  “To the offspring of one of them,” Susan said. “Very. Also, you have a dinner jacket, darling. You look fine in a dinner jacket.”

  “The Jameson place is twenty miles or so above Cold Harbor,” Heimrich said. “It will be time for the equinoctial storms.”

  He was told that he knew that was nonsense; that a week from today might be as much like summer as today.

  “Do you want to go?”

  She looked off again toward the wide, sparkling river. After a moment she nodded her head. She amplified that slightly.

  “Sort of,” Susan said. “It might be fun. If it wasn’t, we wouldn’t have to stay long.”

  “It sounds like rather an austere kind of fun,” Merton told her. “Black tie at six in the evening. And of course there may be a bigtime murder about then. One’s a little overdue.”

  Inspector M. L. Heimrich is a specialist in murder occurring in the southern counties of New York and not in urban areas. When he made inspector, Susan had hoped that the new rank would mean he sat at a desk and told others—others like Lieutenant Charles Forniss—what to do. She had hoped his hours would be more or less from nine to five, with weekends free. It had not worked out as she hoped. Heimrich has found old habits hard to break. In Susan’s rather guarded opinion, he hasn’t made much effort to break them.

  “Excluding murder?” Susan said. “And hurricanes?”

  “All right,” Merton said. “‘Inspector and Mrs. M. L. Heimrich are happy to accept your kind invitation to cocktails and buffet on Saturday, the twenty-third, if violent death or hurricanes do not intervene.’ Shall I make us another round?”

  “Do that,” Susan said. “Then I thought an omelet. With sausages? And perhaps avocado, if it’s ever ripened.”

  “Fine,” Heimri
ch said, and went off with empty glasses.

  When he moves, Susan thought, it’s sometimes almost as if he were dancing.

  2

  It was still sunny on Saturday, the twenty-third of September. The sun was a week lower in the west; it was a little cooler. But it was a fine late afternoon when they drove north on NY 11F toward Highlands, New York, which consists of a post office and a grocery store, licensed for the sale of beer, and a purveyor licensed by the Alcoholic Beverage Control Commission of the State of New York. Heimrich wore a dinner jacket which fitted smoothly over his wide shoulders. Susan wore a red and black dress, which fitted smoothly everywhere and was made from a fabric of her own design. She had a soft white sweater over her shoulders, in case it was cold coming back. The Buick purred. Heimrich had turned off the police radio so that it did not chatter at them. If all hell broke loose somewhere, Troop K could call the car by telephone.

  Heimrich said it ought to be along here somewhere and slowed the car. He said, “Were you ever at The Tor as a child?”

  “It was never a place for children,” Susan said. “Once or twice, I think. Probably when I was ten or. eleven. A long time ago. I suppose it was during King Arthur’s first marriage. They had a son, I think. Older than I was. Almost grown up, actually. But I don’t really remember, dear. A blur, really. I don’t know why Mother and Dad took me there. Up there where those stone posts are, I think. Go slower, Merton.”

  Merton Heimrich went more slowly.

  Two fieldstone pillars, topped with globes, were set on either side of the opening of a drive. A metal plaque was set into each of the pillars, and on each plaque were the words: “The Tor.” He turned into the drive, which was of bound gravel and mounted steeply to a turn. The Buick’s tires grated on the gravel.

  “Do you remember anything about this King Arthur?” Heimrich asked, as the car crept up to the curve in the driveway. “Or was it too long ago?”

  “Richard Cory, sort of,” Susan said, to which, negotiating the sharp curve and approaching a second one, Heimrich said “Huh?”

  “‘A gentleman from sole to crown,’” Susan quoted. “‘Clean favored, and imperially slim.’ You know the poem.”

  “He went home and put a bullet through his head,” Heimrich said. “Yes.”

  He went around the second curve. It was a little like driving through a tunnel. Tall evergreens lined the drive on either side. The drive still wound upward. A “tor” is a high, rocky promontory. Another car showed close behind Heimrich in his rearview mirror, then disappeared as he entered still another curve.

  “I begin to remember,” Susan said. “It’s a very long driveway and always twisting. The house is at the very top. It’s a fieldstone house, I think. Gray. I think it’s gray. It was—I think it was frightening to a little girl. So big and so gray. But I don’t really remember. I—”

  She stopped because Merton had clamped the brakes on hard. He had clamped them because a very large dog—a Doberman, he thought—stood in the middle of the driveway and showed no sign of standing anywhere else.

  “My God,” Heimrich said, “the hound of the Baskervilles.” He honked at the dog. The dog took seconds to think this over. Then he turned and went up the driveway at a trot. “A sentinel?” Susan said, and Heimrich said, “Or a guard,” and let the Buick creep up the grade behind the trotting dog. He added that this must be a hell of a thing to keep plowed in the winter.

  “Oh,” Susan said, “probably there are plenty of serfs.”

  There was light ahead, shining through the trees. Heimrich guided the car around another curve, and this was the final curve. He crept out of the tunnel into a wide, roughly circular, graveled area, bright under the floodlights on the roof of a three-story house. It was a house built of gray fieldstone, as Susan had remembered it. A dozen cars were parked around the circle, symmetrically nosing in toward the lawn beyond the paved spread. Heimrich turned the Buick into the parking area and thought, It’s going to be one of those damn big brawls, and a youth in a white jacket and dark trousers and, a little inconsequentially, tennis shoes said, “I’ll park it for you, sir—oh, it’s you, Inspector.”

  Heimrich stopped the car and said, “Evening, Teddy. You’re quite a way from home, aren’t you?” to Theodore Carnes, who lived in Van Brunt.

  “Sometimes I help out when people have parties,” Carnes said, and went around the Buick and opened the door on Susan’s side. “Came up on the Honda.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Heimrich said. He knew Teddy Carnes’s Honda, by sound and sight. Now and then it very noisily traversed High Road. It often banged its way along Van Brunt Avenue, dodging alarmingly among cars.

  “Go right along in, Inspector, Mrs. Heimrich,” Teddy said. “I’ll park her for you.”

  Susan came around the car and stood by her husband. Teddy Carnes got into the Buick, and another car, a Mercedes, pulled up behind the Buick and stopped.

  “So it’s you I’ve been trailing,” Sam Jackson said, and went around the Mercedes and opened the door for his wife. Susan said “Hi” to Mary and Samuel Jackson, and Heimrich said “Evening” to both of them. Jackson was very tall beside his wife, who was a slender five feet beside her more-than-six-foot husband. Mary Jackson said, “Darlings!” as she was likely to say, and held out her hands to Susan.

  Teddy came back from parking the Buick and said, “I’ll park it for you, sir,” to Jackson, who said, “Do that, Teddy.”

  The four of them walked toward the big gray house, from which light poured and, as they drew nearer, music.

  “The old boy’s really laying it on tonight,” Sam Jackson said. “A real birthday party.”

  Heimrich, walking beside Jackson, said, “Is it? We didn’t know.”

  “His seventy-third, I think it is,” Jackson said. “Or seventysecond. First time he’s thrown this kind of party for one of them, far’s I know. Far’s we’ve been invited, anyway. Not like him, actually.”

  “I’ve never met him,” Heimrich said, as they went up wide, easy, stone steps toward the wide, brightly lighted door of the big house. “Invitation pretty much came out of the blue for us. Susan’s parents knew the Jamesons, apparently. She vaguely remembers being brought here as a child.”

  “The Upton girl,” Jackson said. “The Uptons. The Van Brunts before Cornelia started killing people and you caught her at it, M. L.* The Jamesons. The Frashinghams.”

  “And the Jacksons,” Heimrich said.

  “Yes,” Samuel Jackson said. “I suppose you’d have to count us in. My father and his father. An ‘our crowd’ sort of thing, I guess. Before my time. I’m Arthur’s attorney. Why we’re here, I suppose.”

  Susan and Mary had reached the wide door. A Negro in a white jacket opened it, bowing. He said, “Everybody’s in the drawing room, ladies.’ Gentlemen. You go right along in.”

  They went into a large, square room which contained half a dozen carved and forbidding wooden chairs and a refectory table. On their right, double glass doors stood open, and music came through the doorway and the sound of voices. A hell of a lot of voices, Merton thought. He does not approve of large parties. He wished they had stayed at home with Colonel, the outsize Great Dane, and Mite, the all-black tomcat. He and Susan followed the Jacksons through the doorway.

  Just inside the double doors, the Jacksons stopped to shake hands with a tall, lean man in a dinner jacket and, unexpectedly, a wing collar. The man had thick gray hair and a long tanned face and if he was their host he was seventy-three—or seventy-two—and didn’t look it.

  “Mary!” the gray-haired man said. “Sam! Glad you could make it. So glad.”

  Which, of course, settled that.

  Arthur Jameson looked beyond the Jacksons. He said, “Susan! You must be Susan Upton. You haven’t changed a bit. My word, you haven’t.”

  “I must have been about ten or eleven when you saw me last. I’m sure I’ve changed a bit. This is—”

  “Inspector,” Jameson said. “Inspector Heim
rich. Delighted you could come, sir. Help an old codger with his little celebration. Probably you know everybody here.”

  “Good of you to have us, Mr. Jameson,” Heimrich said, and looked around the big room—an enormous room, actually. A rectangular room, with a bar at the far end of it; with a tremendous fireplace midway of one of the long walls. There was an ornamental screen in front of the fireplace. There were twenty or more people in the room. All the men wore dinner jackets and most of the women bright dresses, some of them long dresses. At first glance Heimrich did not see anybody he knew.

  “Get yourselves drinks,” Jameson told them. “Or Barnes here will get them. See what they want, Barnes.”

  Barnes was a thin dark man in a white jacket, who had more or less appeared out of nowhere. He said, “Yes, sir, Mr. Jameson.” Heimrich rather expected him to end the sentence with another “Sir,” but he didn’t. A crack in the ritual?

  Heimrich looked down the long room toward the bar and, finally, saw a familiar face. Harold, until he had retired a year or so before, had been the bartender at the Old Stone Inn.

  “Scotch and soda,” Sam Jackson said, and Mary said, “Could I have a daiquiri, please?” And Heimrich said, “Look who’s tending bar, dear,” and took Susan’s arm and guided her down the room, among the strangers—a good many of whom, he thought, looked like being contemporaries of their host—toward the familiar face. When they reached the bar, Harold said, “Inspector. Mrs. Heimrich. The usual for both of you?”

  The words had a pleasant sound. Susan said, “Please, Harold,” and then, “No. I think I’ll have a gin and tonic.” Heimrich merely nodded his head at Harold, and Harold mixed a gin and tonic and a dry martini. He twisted lemon peel over the martini.

  In the few minutes they had been in the big drawing room, it had become almost crowded. At the open double doors Arthur Jameson still was greeting arriving guests. People Heimrich did not know were converging on the bar, smiling, polite and clearly thirsty. “We’re blocking traffic,” Susan said, and they edged away from the bar, holding their glasses carefully, saying, “Sorry. If we may?” and getting smiles and polite movements from people they did not know. They reached what was, moderately, a clearing.