The Wind Chill Factor

by Thomas Gifford

  “Obviously not.”

  “Was it snowing hard, Mr. Cooper?”

  “Yes, very hard, and blowing.”

  “And you saw no automobile tracks leading to the house?”

  “No, it was flat snow, drifted.”

  “But it was very dark?”

  “Yes, very. No moon, no light.”

  “Well”—and he finally turned around to face me—“you didn’t see any signs of your brother’s arrival because, I suspect, he had arrived earlier, Mr. Cooper, and whatever signs there might have been were no longer visible.” He grinned. “And please understand that I am theorizing, merely theorizing.” Then the grin disappeared. “On the other hand, I’ll bet I’m right.” He turned to Bradlee, who was watching him with a hint of a smile. “I’ve seen a hell of a lot of corpses, Doctor, and I’d say this one has been dead a good twenty-four hours.” He looked at his watch, a small, delicate gold square against the black hair. “You, Mr. Cooper, have been home just about twenty-four hours. It’s all very ironic, isn’t it? You drive all this way, through all the snow, and you may have arrived here within—what?—minutes of your brother’s death.” He shook his head. “Where was your brother coming from, Mr. Cooper? I know he hasn’t been back here in a long time, but where was he coming from?”

  “Buenos Aires,” I said. “At least that’s where the telegram came from.”

  “My God, Buenos Aires,” he mused. “A long way to come to fall over and die, isn’t it?”

  We were following him down the stairway when Bradlee asked me how my head felt. Before I could answer, Peterson said: “And what’s the matter with your head, Mr. Cooper?” He kept on walking.

  “Somebody tried to kill him on the road,” Bradlee said.

  “You’re kidding!” Peterson stopped at the bottom of the stairs with a smile of unalloyed amazement on his dark features, beneath the thick mustache. “You are definitely kidding!”

  “No, Mr. Peterson,” I said edgily. “I’m not kidding. I’m delighted that the revelation amuses you, but I’m not kidding.”

  Peterson chuckled and went through the parlor into the library, where Paula sat reading a huge volume from a matched set of Dickens, Bleak House. He smiled at Paula, made some comment I missed, and sat down in a leather chair by the fireplace.

  “Listen, do you folks have a few minutes?” He was all humility. “This is all so interesting. I’d like to ask you a few questions, try to get done by midnight … okay?” He was suddenly all folksy warmth. The changes in Olaf Peterson came so fast that it was making my head ache again.

  “I could make coffee,” Paula said, smiling faintly at me. “I’m the world’s champion. Coffeemaker, that is. I seem to do so damn much of it.”

  “That would be fine, Miss Smithies.” Peterson looked at Bradlee and me. “Fix us all some coffee. We could all use some coffee, I’m sure.” She went away. “You say she was a close friend of your brother’s.”

  “Yes.”

  “Very close?”

  I nodded.

  “Oh, boy,” he said, lighting up an absurdly slender cigar. “Now, tell me all about the attempt on your life, Mr. Cooper.”

  I told him.

  “And you didn’t go to the police? Or the hospital? You just went to Howard Johnson’s and sort of curled up and called it a day?” His eyebrows, bushy and dark, were inching upward.

  “You’ve got it,” I said. “I was tired, the incident was over, and if I felt worse in the morning I could check in at a hospital then.”

  “But, Mr. Cooper, aside from your own health, you were involved in an attempted murder. You had seen close-up the men who tried to kill you, you had seen their automobile, and you knew what sort of damage it had sustained in bumping you off the road.” He stared at me balefully. “And yet you didn’t report any of that to the police. Or the highway patrol.” He pursed his lips beneath the smudge of mustache. “Mr. Cooper, your behavior in this instance borders on the criminally stupid.”

  I stared into the flickering fire.

  “And you’re not a particularly stupid man, are you, Mr. Cooper? Are you?”

  “Peterson, I had a good deal on my mind. I was alive and I was moving again. There was a storm going on that night that—I’m not sure I can make this clear—that seemed to make everything different. Another time I’d probably have done all those things I should have done. But that night I didn’t. And if your contribution to these proceedings is going to be to tell me that I’m criminally stupid, then you, Peterson, can take your funny little cigars, your suede coat, and your darling little hairpiece and stick them all right up your ass.” I stopped for breath, my voice shaking.

  “You could see that?” he asked me, his face a map of concern.

  “See what?”

  “The hairpiece? You could tell?”

  “Don’t let it worry you. I used to work in television in New York. You get to recognize little rugs like that one. It’s a nice one, Peterson.”

  “Twelve hundred bucks and he sees it”—he snapped his fingers—“just like that! Christ! Well, anyway”—ignoring my outburst—“what was on your mind? What were you thinking about so hard you didn’t report the fact that two guys tried to kill you?”

  “Well, I was thinking about my family.”

  For the first time his eyes moved across the walls, taking in the photographs. Himmler, Goering, Hitler smiled benignly upon us.

  “That I can understand,” he said, making a face. “Go on, what were you thinking about your family?”

  “I suppose I was just reminiscing, really. I don’t think much about the family, I haven’t for a long time. But driving home I had the chance and I indulged myself. And I thought about my brother. I wondered why he wanted me to come home to meet him.” I fidgeted with my pipe. Paula came back in with the coffee in mugs.

  “You didn’t know why?” Peterson said. “You came all this way without knowing why? Mr. Cooper, you are just full of surprises.”

  I looked at Paula as she handed me the cup. Almost imperceptibly she shook her head. All right, I thought to myself, calculating, I won’t mention the papers she’d found. Eventually, though, we’d have to tell somebody.

  “No, he gave no reason at all. He just said he’d meet me here on the twentieth and I came.”

  Peterson drank some coffee, smiled up at Paula.

  “That’s the way Cyril and I are.”

  “Were,” Peterson corrected me.

  “Were,” I said.

  “How’s his head, Doctor?”

  “He’ll be all right, but somebody hit him very hard, Olaf. He’s a very fortunate fellow.”

  Peterson got up without speaking and went through the passageway leading to the kitchen.

  Doctor Bradlee ground a cigarette into an ashtray, balanced his mug on the arm of his chair. Paula closed her eyes, her face drawn but expressionless.

  “There are certain things to be done, John,” Bradlee said. “We’ve got to get Cyril into town so we can do the autopsy in the morning. And I think we should notify Arthur Brenner. Of all people, Arthur should be told at once. He’s been through it all with you Coopers; he’s next to being a member of the family.”

  “Do you think I should call him now?” I looked at the Rolex. “It’s nearly midnight.”

  “I think you should, yes. Arthur will still be up, either playing with his kiln or reading. Call him, you owe it to him.”

  Eleven

  ARTHUR BRENNER WAS NURSING A very bad cold. His rich deep voice showed the wear and tear of coughing and sneezing; he sniffled as I spoke to him. He was a calm and careful man, a fine lawyer and onetime diplomat, an experienced intelligence officer in time of war. Quietly, sniffling, he kept repeating, “I see, I see,” asking simple, pertinent questions.

  I explained that Olaf Peterson was there, that there would be an autopsy, just to get the record straight, since we had no idea as to why or when Cyril had died. I heard him sip his toddy.

  “I see,” he said
slowly. “Whatever Olaf and Brad think is right should be done. And I think there are certain matters you and I should discuss. Cyril’s estate, for one, which is substantial. Try not to let this thing throw you off your stroke. Death is a fact of life, as you well know, and a step we all take at one time or another. So be of good heart and come to see me in the morning. I’ll be at my office after I stop by Brad’s office for some penicillin. And, John—I’m glad you’re here. Thank you for calling me.”

  Arthur Brenner was a Crisis Man, probably the most methodical and unexcitable man I had ever known. A complete and humane man, intellectually and philosophically sound, a rock, someone to cling to.

  Peterson was fumbling around in the kitchen, slamming cupboard doors, clinking glasses, rattling papers. Bradlee was putting on his overcoat. “I’m going home.” He yawned. He clasped my arm reassuringly. “We’ll get someone out from the funeral home tomorrow morning. Really, there’s nothing to be done yet tonight. Everything here will keep.” He said goodnight to Paula and I followed him to the door. “I gave her a very gentle tranquilizer. She’ll sleep all right.” He patted my arm again, struggled with his car for a few moments, and then it came to life in the cold and began pushing through the deep snow.

  When I got back to the library, Peterson was in his chair smoking another thin cigar. “Well, Mr. Cooper, I’ve taken up entirely too much of your time this evening.” He was being judicious now; after all, my brother was dead upstairs. “However, there are a couple of curious points before I go. When you arrived here last night did you go into the kitchen at all?’

  “No. I poked my head into the parlor, walked through it to the library, stood in the foyer for a minute or two, and left. That’s all.” My eyes burned with fatigue. My head ached.

  “You weren’t smoking a cigar?” He peered at the ash on his own, flimsy, gray, delicate.

  “No.”

  “And you didn’t drink any brandy while you were here?”

  “No.”

  “Come out in the kitchen with me for just a moment, will you? Excuse us, Miss Smithies.”

  I followed him through the passageway.

  He pointed to a brandy snifter on the counter. Above it the cupboard door was open.

  “Without touching it, would you just look at that snifter?’

  I looked at it.

  “So? I’ve looked at it.”

  “That’s wonderful, Mr. Cooper. Now just walk down to the end of that counter and step on the foot-pedal of that little trash container.”

  I did. There was a dark mess in the bottom of the container: a cigar butt, ashes.

  “All right,” I said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Cooper.” His face split into a broad, toothy grin. “That’s all. But do remember what you’ve seen. We may talk about it tomorrow. Ah, don’t look so concerned. It’s all just a game. A game.”

  In the front hall he buckled himself into the suede trench coat.

  “Drop by my office tomorrow. We’ll get this whole thing cleared up, autopsy results, the whole sad business. Will you be staying in the house tonight?”

  “No, I’m going back to the cottage.”

  “Ah, of course. Well, do say goodnight to Miss Smithies for me.” He paused in the open doorway. The hallway filled immediately with icy cold air. “And get a good night’s sleep. You look like hell.”

  Back in the library Paula Smithies was staring at the rows of framed photographs on the walls. “My God, John,” she said as I came back and slumped down in the chair behind my grandfather’s desk, “this is simply incredible. It’s like a museum. I’ve heard all about your grandfather’s political connections, the whole Nazi thing, but looking at these photographs makes it all awfully real, like a March of Time newsreel, a documentary.” I nodded and drained cold coffee from a cup. Her voice grew trancelike. “Austin Cooper and Hitler, Austin Cooper and von Ribbentrop, Austin Cooper and Speer, Austin Cooper and Goering, Austin Cooper and Mussolini, Austin Cooper and I don’t know, there should be a photograph of your grandfather shaking hands with the devil.”

  “Oh, it must be there somewhere,” I said.

  She turned back to me, flexing her body. “Does it bother you?”

  “No, not at all. I never think about it.”

  She slid back down in the chair, stared at me glassily. “What do you think of Mr. Peterson?”

  “He’s a smartass. An egomaniac and probably quite mad.” I yawned. The sound of the wind and snow beating against the house had become part of my consciousness.

  “What do you think he thought about it? What did he want you to go to the kitchen for?” She yawned too, shaking her head.

  “I think he was showing off.” I wondered if that was what I really thought or only what I wished. “He did a little number upstairs about how much brandy was left in the bottle that came right out of Sherlock Holmes. In the kitchen he showed me a brandy snifter and some garbage. I don’t know what the hell he was talking about but he’s a compulsive show-off, so he’s bound to tell me tomorrow.”

  It was one o’clock and I went to the kitchen and popped a couple of pain pills Bradlee had given me. Paula heard the water running and came out and took the tranquilizer.

  “I should go home,” she said.

  “All right.” As I helped her into her coat I said: “What about the documents, Paula? Peterson’s going to have to know, I imagine, sooner or later.”

  “I don’t know why,” she said, buttoning up, collecting her leather patch bag and gloves. “What have those things got to do with Peterson?”

  “Nothing, if Cyril died a natural death. But the way Bradlee reacted to the condition of the body, and then the way Peterson nosed around … well, I don’t know, Paula, but if there was anything funny about Cyril’s death—then Peterson’s going to want a lot of answers to a lot of questions. And one of the questions is going to be, why did Cyril decide to come all the way home from Buenos Aires?” We were standing in the foyer looking at each other. I kept thinking that she was a very attractive woman, that Cyril had known a good thing when he’d seen it. She seemed so self-sufficient.

  “Well, we can talk about it in the morning. Arthur would know what we should do.”

  We went out to start her car. It was deep under snow and I tried to brush it off with my arm. It was dry, soft like dust, incredibly cold. Paula slid in behind the wheel and turned the key, producing that aggravating grinding noise, again and again. I went behind the car to sweep the back window. The grinding got fainter and fainter. I went back to her and she looked up, smiling vaguely. “Well, surprise.”

  “It’s too cold,” I said. “It’s not going to start, so forget it.”

  “I’ll have to stay the night.” Our breath hung in the air before us. Wind chewed at the naked branches of the trees overhead, blew snow in my face. Shaking her head in a spasm, she said: “I can’t stay in the same house with Cyril, please, John, I can’t.”

  “We’ll go down to the cottage.”

  The way to the cottage was completely drifted. It was the sort of night you read about people losing their way twenty yards from the safety of their homes and freezing to death in the snow. We sank almost to our knees in it, slogged onward, Paula trying to follow in my tracks. There was almost no moon, no light at all, but finally we staggered onto the small porch. “God,” she gasped. “Are we here?” Everything was becoming increasingly unreal. It was as if we’d entered another life, full of cold and death and menace, and we were very tired.

  Immediately I laid fresh fires in the living room and the bedroom, poured us brandy, made sure the doors were locked. “You can sleep in the bedroom.” I got the fires going. “I’ll take the couch out here.”

  “All right,” she said slowly. “I can feel those tranquilizers. They’re just creeping right up my spine, or down it.” She giggled. “You’ve got to excuse me. I’m getting punchy.” She paused. “We just found Cyril a few hours ago.” Tears streaked her cheeks. We were standing in the doorway to the b
edroom and I put my arms around her and held her against me.

  “It’s going to be all right,” I said. “We’re going to get it all straightened out tomorrow. It’ll stop snowing and we’ll go to town and get everything straightened out.”

  “I hope so.” She turned her face to me and I kissed her softly on the mouth. Her lips were dry and she clung to me like a child. I stroked her hair. Then I told her to go to bed and I went back into the living room. The couch faced the fireplace and the room was getting pleasantly warm. I found a blanket in a closet and threw it across the couch. I went to the front door, unlocked it, peered outside at the thermometer. The reading was twenty-eight below zero and with the wind God only knew what the wind chill factor must have been. Sixty, seventy below.

  I came back in, locked the door again, and went back to the bedroom door. Paula was in bed, smiling at me, covers pulled up to her chin.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” She nodded slowly, slipping under the tranquilizer. “I’m all right. And thank you for being so nice to me.” Her voice was low and soft. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

  I went to the chair and picked up my robe. She reached out and took my hand. “Kiss me goodnight,” she mumbled. I leaned over and brushed my lips across her cheek and she smiled, young-looking and terribly vulnerable, a woman who had been through a lot in her lifetime and had somehow not been spoiled by it, had handled it all. And my brother Cyril had loved her.

  “Tomorrow we’ll take this whole thing to Arthur,” I said from the doorway, “and he’ll tell us what to do. Arthur will take care of the whole thing.” But she was asleep and couldn’t hear me.

  Twelve

  IN THE BRIGHT GRAY HAZE of morning Paula and I stood in the snow and watched the men from the funeral home bring Cyril out the front door and slide him into their black van. The young men who were doing the carrying slipped in the snow with their burden, swore under their breath, cheeks and ears whipped cheery winter red by the wind. One of them came over to me, muttered something, and with stiff fingers I had to sign something. I had to shake the ballpoint pen: the ink was too cold to feed out onto the paper. Then they drove slowly away like a ship carving its way through deep breakers.