by Jack Iams
Welcome to your new home. I always say there’s nothing like a bit of mail to make one feel one’s settled.
I hope the handy man had the place ready for you in time.
I forgot to mention on the phone that you’ll have a neighbor named John Something I’ll look up before I mail this letter. A grumpy old party by all accounts but harmless. He’s the actual owner of your house but we handle everything and chances are you may not even meet him. I hear he hasn’t set foot in the place since his wife died there a good many years ago.
I’ll pay you a visit one of these days and we can discuss any details that may come up.
Yours for intercourse between nations,
Mrs. Lemuel Barrelforth,
President, New Jersey Chapter
British-American War Brides
Improvement Association”
“How very thoughtful,” said Sybil. “So that’s what Mr. Squareless meant by unhappy memories. But I didn’t think he was grumpy. Did you?”
“He acted a bit grumpy when the subject of his housekeeper came up.”
“Maybe she’s his mistress. That would account for it.”
“Why? I don’t get grumpy when you’re mentioned.”
Sybil raised her eyebrows. “I thought we were married.”
“Technically, yes. But there’s been such a gap since the ceremony, I have the feeling now of a wonderful love affair.”
“Indeed?” said Sybil. “Is it a feeling you easily recognize?”
“No comment,” said Tim. “Don’t you want to see the papers? They’re still full of our gambling war.”
“Oh yes. By all means.”
Tim went into the hall and came back with the Times and the News. The former devoted its left-hand column to the story, presented with a distasteful holding up of skirts, while the News screamed, Hunt Rival Big Shots in Gaming War. The facts were much the same as the day before except that it had been confirmed that Sam Magruder was the probable target of the Heinkel mob, and both he and Frankie Heinkel were wanted by the District Attorney’s office for questioning. Said the Times: At a late hour this morning, both were still unavailable. Said the News: At a late hour this morning, both were still on the lam.
Jacob Burlick, both papers reported, had been released on bail.
“The Times even has an editorial about it,” said Tim. “It’s entitled This Must Stop and it says it speaks for all decent people in calling upon the Mayor to take steps.”
“The News has one, too,” said Sybil. “Different approach, though. It says this is what comes of repressing the healthy gambling instincts of the American people and there should be a national lottery. Then it points out that one of the dead mobsters had a Russian name. And finally it says the whole business is one of the results of the war Roosevelt got us into.”
“It apparently speaks for the people the Times doesn’t,” said Tim. “Has it got any pictures?”
Sybil turned to the center spread. “Lots,” she said. “General view of the Breeze Club after the shooting, close-up of the bodies, a shot of our pal Jake, and look! Here’s the table we were sitting at.”
Tim glanced at her. It struck him that her bright chatter sounded suddenly forced, the sort of chatter that sometimes breaks out after a funeral. He looked over her shoulder at the double page of pictures. There was their table, all right, with an arrow pointing to it and a caption that read: Arrow indicates table at which Silky Sam sat with unidentified couple shortly before guns barked.
“Isn’t it exciting?” said Sybil. “I think I’ll cut it out and send it to England. With a note saying we’re the little couple who isn’t there.”
Again her voice seemed brittle and strained to Tim. Like Lady Macbeth coached by Noel Coward. He was silent for a moment, then he said quietly, “Sybil.”
“Yes, darling?” She smiled brightly.
“The chap on the pier—I told you he looked vaguely familiar.”
Expression and color left her face.
“I don’t want to upset you, but I’m pretty sure it was Sam Magruder.”
She sat motionless, silent, her eyes staring past him into space.
“I’m sorry,” he began, then he stopped. There was something in her drawn features that clicked. “You knew it all the time?”
“When you lifted his hat.” She spoke almost inaudibly, still without looking at him.
There was a loud knocking at the door.
Chapter Eleven
Open-And-Shut Case
The Chief of Police Of Bankville, who was standing there, was fat and red-faced and comfortable-looking, a man who had never worried much and didn’t propose to start now. “Sorry to trouble you folks,” he said. “Specially seein’ you just moved in. But that’s these Pinies for you. Inconsiderate.”
“Come in and have some coffee,” said Tim.
“Don’t mind if I do,” said the Chief. “Smells mighty good.”
“How about your colleague?”
“My what? Oh, Officer Jenkins. I left him on the pier. Somebody’s got to watch the remains till Doc Medford gets there. Got to follow the rule book, even in a picayune open-and-shut case like this.”
He lumbered into the dining-room and sat down appreciatively. “Now this is a real treat, ma’am,” he said to Sybil as she placed a steaming cup in front of him. Tim noticed that her hand was steady.
“Got to mix a little business with the pleasure, though,” went on the Chief. “Don’t reckon it’ll take long.” He pulled a notebook from his pocket and spread it on the table. “Let’s see, I’ve got your names and presumably this is your address we’re sittin’ in. All we need now is a few words how you happened to find the remains.”
“Perhaps my wife had better take over,” said Tim. “She actually saw it first.”
“You don’t mind, ma’am?”
“Not at all,” said Sybil coolly. “I’d gone to the beach for a bit of a stroll before breakfast. It was a lovely morning, you know.”
“Real nice,” nodded the Chief, sipping his coffee.
“And I happened to glance up at the pier and saw a man’s face peeking over the railing. That is, it looked as if he were peeking over. That startled me because I’d expected the place to be deserted.”
“Naturally,” said the Chief.
“Then, when he didn’t move or change expression, I thought something must be wrong. I came back to the house and called my husband and we went down together to have a look. There was the body and there’s the story.”
The Chief scribbled. “You didn’t touch anything, of course.”
“No,” said Sybil. Her eyes met Tim’s.
“And you’d never seen the fellow before? You couldn’t have hardly, being strangers.”
“Quite,” said Sybil.
The Chief closed his notebook with a sigh of relief and put it back in his pocket. “Nice and simple so far,” he said. “Hope it stays that way, too. These Pinies, you know, they can give you one hell of a headache sometimes. Excuse me, ma’am, a terrible headache. It’s not that they’re any worse than most people, understand, but they’re like these hillbillies you read about, they don’t like outsiders poking into their affairs. Something happens, they shut up like clams. If one of ’em happens to beat his wife’s brains out, he figures it’s his business and nobody else’s. I’d just as soon it was myself, but the law’s the law.”
“You said a moment ago that it was an open-and-shut case,” said Tim. “How do you mean that, exactly?”
“Suicide,” said the Chief with a ponderous shrug. “That’s how it looks. Fellow sat down on the bench, pushed his hat back, shot himself, and let the gun fall into the water. Mind you, Doc Medford may decide different, but that’s how I figure it.”
“Wait a minute,” said Tim. “Did you say his hat was pushed back?”
&n
bsp; “Yeah. Pushed right back.”
“It wasn’t pushed back when I saw it.”
“Now, darling,” said Sybil, “you were rattled and so was I. Our friend here is used to this sort of thing and it’s all in the day’s work to him. Right?”
“Right,” said the Chief. “And speakin’ of the day’s work, I’d better be gettin’ on with it.” He rose heavily and beamed at Sybil. “This has been real nice, ma’am, real nice. As I said before, I hate to bother you with a thing like this. Worst of it is I’ll probably have to bother you again if there’s an inquest and I reckon there will be.”
“When?” asked Sybil.
“Depends. Got to get the body identified if possible and Doc Medford’s got to make his report. Couple of days, most likely. You folks got a phone?”
“We have, but it’s not connected yet,” said Tim. “I hope it will be in a day or so.”
“Well, I’ll keep in touch with you,” said the Chief. “And thanks for the coffee.” He straightened his rumpled blue coat and put his hat on as he moved sideways, like a plump crab, out of the room. A moment later, they heard the sound of his car rolling down the driveway.
Tim looked at Sybil and lit a cigarette. “Damned funny about the hat,” he said. Sybil shrugged. “Don’t you think it’s funny?” he asked with a faint hint of annoyance.
“I don’t know,” said Sybil. “It’s none of our business.”
“No? It’s none of our business if there’s a killer lurking around the premises?” He stopped short and sat up straight in his chair. “My God, that may be it! The killer may have sneaked back to the pier and rearranged the hat. Maybe he was on the pier when we were. Maybe he heard me mention the hat.”
“Awfully far-fetched, darling,” said Sybil. “You know what I think?”
“No, but I’d very much like to.”
“I think the police rearranged the hat themselves. To avoid a lot of unnecessary fuss.”
“Unnecessary to whom?”
“To all concerned.”
Tim drummed his fingers on the tablecloth. Then he said, “Look, Sybil, let’s not play guessing games with each other. There’s no doubt in my mind that that body is Sam Magruder’s. Apparently there’s no doubt in yours, cither. Did you hope I wouldn’t recognize him?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I knew you’d want to tell the police.”
“Why shouldn’t I tell the police?”
“Because it would involve us in a great deal of unpleasantness.”
“You don’t find it unpleasant to think there’s a murderer loose in the neighborhood?”
“I don’t think there is one in the neighborhood. Isn’t it reasonable to suppose that Mr. Magruder was taken for a ride, as the gangster films say, and that the—the assassins drove him here because they wanted to dispose of the body in an out-of-the-way place?”
“Well, yes,” said Tim. “I suppose that’s reasonable.”
“You certainly don’t think they’d have hung about, do you?”
“I don’t know. In any case, why not tell the police?”
“Give me a cigarette,” said Sybil. The words sounded dry in her throat. He handed her a cigarette and lit it. “You see,” she went on, “it would be most unfortunate if my name should be publicly linked in any way with Mr. Magruder’s death. Which it certainly would be if we told everything to the police. Because, inevitably, it would involve his acquaintance with my father.”
“You mean,” said Tim, “that it might reflect on your father’s name?”
“More than that,” said Sybil, “ft might draw attention to his death.”
“I see,” said Tim, although he didn’t.
Sybil puffed hard on her cigarette. “I didn’t want to tell you this,” she said. “It’s over and done with. But my father didn’t die a natural death. He was killed by an automobile.”
“Oh,” said Tim. He fumbled for suitable words. “An accident, eh?”
Sybil’s voice grew hard and flat. “No,” she said, “it wasn’t an accident. It was intentional. He was murdered.”
She put her head down on the table and began to cry.
Chapter Twelve
Father Was A Gay Old Boy
Tim walked around the table and put an awkward hand on Sybil’s shoulder. Nothing happened, so he walked around the table again and said, “There, there.” Sybil went on crying. He started around the table a third time, then realized with a start that a face was peering through the kitchen door.
“Who the hell are you?” he snapped.
The face looked injured and embarrassed. “Elias Whittlebait, at your service.”
“Oh,” said Tim. “Excuse me.”
“Ain’t the missus well?” asked Mr. Whittlebait.
“She’s a little upset.”
Mr. Whittlebait pursed his lips and looked sage. “About that there—that there—” He let his nasal voice trail off and nodded in the direction of the pier.
Sybil lifted her head and tried to smile. “You go talk to Mr. Whittlebait,” she said to Tim. “I’ll be all right in a minute.”
“Let’s go into the kitchen,” said Tim.
It was a relief to be talking with another male about such solid matters as plumbing, storm windows, furnace care, and the weather. Mr. Whittlebait seemed to hold exceptionally sensible views on these and kindred subjects, including wages. Tim was charmed with him and he was sorry when the handy man descended to the basement with his valise of unlikely-looking tools.
Sybil was smoking a cigarette when Tim returned to the dining-room. Her eyes were slightly swollen but otherwise she appeared calm. A little too calm, in fact. There was an impassivity in her face that Tim found vaguely disturbing. He touched her cheek experimentally, then sat down again at the table.
“Feel better, dear?” he asked.
“Much.”
“Would you like to tell me about it?”
“About what?”
“About your father.”
“Why?”
Tim counted ten while he told himself that Sybil had been under a strain and he mustn’t let himself get annoyed. “I thought you’d like to get it off your chest,” he said.
“Off my chest? How unromantic.”
“Off your alabaster bosom, then.”
“That’s better.” Again, that hard brightness. She lit another cigarette from the half-smoked one. Then she said, “I’d hate to spoil your illusions about the nobility”
“I’ll risk it.”
“You’ll risk finding out that even a lady with a capital L has feet of clay? Big feet, usually, though not in my case.”
With an effort, he kept his voice tender. “Please tell me about it,” he said.
“Very well.” She spoke in a precise monotone, like a child forced against its will to recite tor company “Daddy sailed for the United States in August of 1939 On the Queen Alexandria. The day he landed in New York, he was struck by a car in front of his hotel. The car didn’t stop. Daddy was killed instantly. That’s all.” Tim waited a moment, then he asked, “Why do yon think it was intentional?”
“He told me. He told me before he left he might never come back.”
“Did he tell you why?”
“No. But I guessed.” She stuffed the fresh cigarette out in her saucer. “I might as well finish. Daddy was in some sort of a mess. He loved to play cards and he loved to play for high stakes. He used to say he should have lived in the Restoration.” A faint fond smile crossed her face and vanished. “On one of his trips—Daddy was quite a globe-trotter, too, you know—I think he must have lost a great deal more than he could afford. More, perhaps, than he could pay. And I think he felt it incumbent upon him, as a matter of honor, to face his creditors even though he knew them to be a ruthless gang of crooks.
He knew what they might do, and they did.”
“Did you tell the authorities?”
“At the end of August, 1939?” said Sybil. “Do you think any British authorities had time for a silly young girl’s far-fetched murder theory just then? Even I didn’t have time for it. But it was always in the back of my mind, all through the war. It always will be. Unless—Unless I don’t know what.”
Again Tim waited a bit before he spoke. “Where does Sam Magruder fit in?”
“Daddy trusted Sam,” said Sybil softly. “That I’m sure of. And I have a feeling he may have seen Sam before he went to his—to his last rendezvous. Whatever it was, Sam had something to tell me. Something I’ll never know.” Tim reached out and patted her hand. There was a question he wanted to ask and he wanted to pave its way. “Sybil,” he said, “don’t misunderstand me. But did you expect to see Sam Magruder when you came to New York?”
She looked at him with eyes that narrowed a little. “No,” she said. “I’d forgotten all about him. Why?”
“I wondered. It was a pretty lucky coincidence, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” said Sybil. “A very lucky coincidence. And just a coincidence. Are you suggesting it was something else?”
“I’m suggesting nothing,” said Tim. In spite of himself, the coldness of his voice matched hers. “I’m about to, however.”
“Yes?”
“I suggest that we notify the police immediately that we have recognized the body of the man on the pier as that of Sam Magruder. And that we give them all the information and co-operation that we can.”
Sybil stared, then she said, “Don’t be ridiculous.” She spoke with the iron lightness of a woman whose husband had just asked if her old evening dress wouldn’t do another season.
“I fail to see why it’s ridiculous,” said Tim.
“You fail to see a great many things,” said Sybil. The hard brightness cracked before her rising emotion. “You fail to see what I’ve been through. What I’m going through. You don’t care. You don’t understand. You don’t want to understand. You’re a—a pedant.” She choked on her words.
“What?” shouted Tim, his own frayed temper suddenly giving way. “By God, I’ll be called a lot of things, but I’m damned if I’ll be called a peasant. Not by, capital L ladies or anybody else.”
