by Howard Engel
“Morning,” he said, waving a cup of coffee in my direction. I took it and he indicated the way to the kitchen. I followed and found Cath sitting at a plain pine table. She looked up as we came in.
“Hi,” she said without any great enthusiasm. “What you said on the phone … You’ve got me worried.”
“Have you ever been fingerprinted?” I asked. “For any reason?”
“Never. Why?”
“Well, the cops will have lifted prints from Ramsden’s house. Some of them are bound to be yours, if you touched anything. But, if your prints aren’t on file, then they won’t bother you unless they find some record of your appointment in his date book, for instance. Your appointment may be recorded on his answering machine.”
“He called me, Benny. He named the time and I agreed to come alone and without a camera crew.” McStu came around behind Cath, sipping his coffee and putting his free hand on Cath’s shoulder.
“What time did you get there? I mean was it before or after eight-thirty?”
“I was right on time, maybe a minute or two early. I was a little nervous about seeing him.”
“Was he alone?”
“There was no one I saw,” she said, drawing out the “saw” so that I wondered what her other senses told her. Cath was wearing faded blue jeans, a red, rag-wool sweater and glasses, which made a new Cath for me anyway. McStu was in heavy twill trousers. On top he was wearing a big white Irish pullover with a crew neck. There was a large loaf of brown bread on a cutting-board, to which he returned while Cath was telling me what happened.
“He answered the door himself and we went right into his office in the front of the house. He saw my cassette recorder and told me that he didn’t want to be taped. So I put it away.”
“What sort of mood was he in? Did he look harassed or bothered about anything? Was he preoccupied?”
“I suppose the fact that I was with him less than ten or fifteen minutes might be interpreted that way. I’d expected to stay longer, but he gave short answers—not very satisfactory answers—to my questions. Some he just shook his head at or waved his hand telling me to get on to the next.”
“What was the gist?”
“Denial. He wasn’t responsible for Oldridge’s death. He didn’t know of her financial difficulties. He hadn’t seen her for a long time before her death, but stood ready to help, had she got in touch with him. In spite of the evidence brought out at the inquest!”
“Did he say anything about the property or Liz’s will?”
“Just that he was surprised and delighted to accept the property on behalf of the Bede Bunch. Did he think I didn’t know that he had helped her write the will?”
“And he was its sole executor,” added McStu, handing me a sandwich. I took a peek at the filling and put the sandwich back on the plate.
“I asked him if there were any plans in the offing to sell the property. That was one of the questions he dodged.”
“I asked you before whether you thought there was anyone in the house with you and you said that you didn’t see anyone. Did you feel that there was another visitor?”
“Yes! Now you mention it. I can’t place it exactly, but I felt that I was interrupting something. But I can’t prove it. I honestly didn’t see or hear anything.”
“Ben,” McStu asked, “is Cath a suspect at the moment?”
“No. To the best of my knowledge, we’re the only ones who know about her appointment. But she was probably the last person to see Ramsden alive.”
“Except the murderer.”
“Yeah, except for the murderer. Did you tell anyone at the TV station that you were going to see Ramsden?”
“Orv Wishart knew I was trying to get to see him. He knew about the pocket-documentary I was putting together about Liz’s death.”
“Did he encourage you?”
“Orv is all encouragement. He can’t do enough for me. He must be the last man on earth who still opens doors for women.”
“But he didn’t know the date and time of your appointment to see Ramsden?”
“It’s written on the pad on my desk. If he looked he’d see it. It wouldn’t be the first time that he’s been into my things when I’m not there.”
Orv bothered Cath. It came out in everything she said about him. She owed her job to him and she disliked the fact and the further disagreeable fact that she might have to put up with his familiarity if she wanted to hold the job. She’d been reading the news at the station for more than a year. When could she consider that the job was hers?
“You haven’t touched your sandwich,” McStu said, and I looked at the uneaten sandwich on the white plate beside me. But he’d been talking to Cath, who picked up her own sandwich and took a bite. I did the same, but I stayed on the crusts and didn’t get into the part with the filling. It wasn’t that I was Orthodox; it was just that I hate surprises. Virginia ham is a surprise that takes some getting used to. I went on nibbling and listening to catch anything Cath remembered about her meeting with Ramsden.
“You really scared me, Benny, when you suggested that the killer might have been in the house with us.”
“Time of death is a pretty hard thing to pinpoint,” I said, catching the look McStu gave me. As a crime writer, he probably knew more about time of death and rigor mortis and lividity than I did. Why doesn’t he try to get to the bottom of this business like the crime writers on television always do?
I managed to sneak my plate over to the wooden sideboard by the sink and ditch my sandwich.
“Cath, how did you know I was following you? It’s a matter of professional pride.
“Oh, Benny, I should have told you at your mother’s. I got a tip by telephone.”
“A tip? From whom?”
“It was a man’s voice. Of course, he didn’t give me his name.”
“An anonymous tip! Just like that?”
“You want me to take a lie-detector test?”
“Benny, she told me about it,” McStu added from the sidelines.
“Okay, okay! I believe you. What did you do about it?”
“I tried leading you all over the place, but then I just had to find out who you were. That’s when I started tailing you. I am a trained investigative reporter, you know.”
“It’s the answer I was hoping for. I’m not getting feeble in my old age after all. Speaking of being a reporter, you once told me you’d started doing a documentary about Liz Oldridge.” I began climbing into my boots and coat as I waited for Cath’s answer.
“I’d made a start.”
“You said you talked to Clarence Temperley. When?”
“A few days before the inquest.”
“I’ve got to see that tape, Cath!”
“Sure. All that stuff is in the bottom drawer of my desk at the station. Just tell Robin who you are and he’ll set it up for you. I’ll call him now. You really think that the tape with Temperley’s serious stuff?”
“I won’t know until I’ve seen it, Cath. I’d better get over there.” I finished getting into my things, while McStu and Cath watched.
“I’m staying around for a few days, Ben,” McStu said. “Just to see how things go.” McStu held Cath close as I struggled with the door.
“Benny!” It was Cath and her eyes were wide.
“What is it!”
“You know I had this feeling that we weren’t alone? Well, I just remembered where it came from. There were two briefcases in his office. One near his desk and one near the chair I was sitting in. That’s what gave me the feeling that I was in the middle of something!”
“You didn’t tell me that!” said McStu.
“I just remembered!” she said grabbing his hand. “It was a big, hard-cornered briefcase, battered, old, but with good leather. I remember that I had to move it so that I could sit down.”
“So, it was to the right of the chair?”
“Yeah. That makes the killer right-handed, right?”
“Cath,” McStu int
errupted. “This is serious. You’re not on TV now.” She made a face at McStu and won a smile in spite of the scolding.
“Any other last moment block-busters?” I asked as I opened the door. Cath and McStu were again occupied with one another as I went across the groaning frozen boards of the porch to the steps.
I was putting my money on the improbability that Cath was herself the killer of Thurleigh Ramsden. This assumption lay outside the realm of evidence and proof; it was little more than a feeling in my bones, a hunch, coupled with the fact that I liked Cath and I didn’t much care for Ramsden dead or alive. It was a perfect set-up for making an ass of myself. I’d better be right about her, I thought, as I fought to open my half-frozen car door.
TWENTY-THREE
As I went up the elevator, it hit me that this was the second time that I’d visited Frank in a hospital room after he’d been banged on the head. The first time was about ten years ago, but I could still remember his huddled form wedged behind my office door, as though it was last night. This second instance was almost forgotten already, although I didn’t intend to tell Frank that.
Dr. Frank Bushmill belonged to a fine old Irish family and had brought with him to Grantham one of the better-educated minds. While he worked with feet for a living, it was heads he was interested in. Mine, for instance. He kept telling me about the books I should read and when I made no step to get them, he presented me with copies, sometimes calf-bound and inscribed. He was a particular fan of the Irish writer Flann O’Brien, who had signed all of the books he lent me. In a way Frank was hiding out in Grantham, waiting for the tinkle of a mass bell in his brain that said it’s all right to come home. All is forgiven. Frank was one of the saddest gays I’d ever met. He drank too much and he lived on the edge of suicide when the black depression hit him. There weren’t many weeks that went by when I didn’t at least once find him on the floor or on his couch in the faded past of an exalted moment. He was an easy drunk to deal with: he didn’t get mean or amorous. When he was sober, he was a great fan of Anna Abraham and me. We sometimes went to the movies together.
When I saw that the door was closed, I wondered whether I shouldn’t check back with the nursing station. I didn’t want to wake him if he was asleep. But I decided to try it and take the consequences. As it turned out, he was in the middle of getting his clothes on. He had managed everything but his shoes when I came in.
“Shut the door behind you, Benny, for God’s sake, or we’ll have all the orderlies in the place coming in!”
“You must be feeling better,” I observed.
“The fact is, they need the bed, and that’s the truth. My X-rays aren’t even dry and the little bit of a candy-striper comes in and announces ‘You’re out of here!’ You’re out of here! Just like that. I turn on the child and repeat an ancient Irish curse. ‘Out of here?’ says I. ‘How are you!’ And she says ‘Give us a kiss’ and closes the door behind her. What’s the world coming to?”
“How’s the lump on your head?”
“It’ll do, Benny. I’m not looking to improve on it. ’Twill serve.”
“Did you get a good look at the men who did it?”
“I told you at the time, Benny. Is it you or me who’s been hit about the head? Two, maybe three young punks. I gave a description to that fellow Bedrosian. Now try to cheer me up while I try to remember how to tie up the other shoe.”
“Where do you want me to start? I’ve been following a woman and got caught in the act by the woman herself. I must be getting old.”
“She was tipped you were behind her, Benny. She was watching out for you.”
“Yeah, it could be that. And it could be that that’s what she wants me to believe. I don’t think I understand this woman. She’s as smart as hell, but she’s still worried that her boss might be after her. She thinks he’s one of those old-fashioned employers whose interest in his female employees runs into their private lives.”
“This is the way the world ends, Benny, not with accord but assault.”
“That’s the way Cath sees it, but I’m not sure she’s got it right. I think she’s caught some of that show-business paranoia people in television get.”
“Yes, Narcissus with a polluted pool; a cracked mirror gives a bad reflection. You wouldn’t be talking about the face on the TV news, now, would you, Benny?”
“Forget I said it. See, I’m losing all my marbles at once. There goes another professional secret.”
“Oh, it’s safe with me, my lad. Just think of how many of my patients you know about! Bunions by the billions, corns beyond counting. But, Benny, you can’t be serious about Cath Bracken’s boss? That’s Orville Wishart.”
“That’s right. So what?”
“Well, Benny. How can I put it delicately? There are those inclined to white wine. Some prefer red. Orv Wishart looks not upon the wine when it is red. No more than I do, if you follow my drift.”
“You mean …?”
“Exactly. For in the end it stingeth like the adder.”
“I think you’re giving it a bum rap, Frank, but we all have our prejudices and hang-ups. Most of us prefer red.”
“There you are. There’s no accounting for tastes.”
“You’re sure about that, Frank?”
“My boy, I’m not given to common gossip. You may take it as common knowledge within a small informed group.”
“He’s not maybe a fan of both red and white?”
“The taste for rosé is not well-developed in our friend, Benny. You may take it from me.” Frank got up from the chair, wobbled a little, then straightened himself with a hand on the back of the chair. He glanced at the small mirror on the back of the closet door and gave himself a friendly grin. “Now, may I buy you a coffee?” he said, and we walked out of the room, past the nursing station, to the elevator.
It was close to an hour afterwards that I left Frank sitting in a booth at the Di. I’m not sure what we talked about. His earlier revelation had quite taken over my mind and made things that I thought were facts appear as the shams they were. I could now see why Orv’s wife, Antonia, was interested in reclaiming Rupe McLay, the drunken lawyer from the Nag’s Head. I could strike off Orv’s amorous interest in Cath as the reason for my being hired by Newby in the first place. But he could still have some other interest in Cath, some reason I couldn’t guess at. The more I wondered about this, the more I wanted to talk to Orv.
As I pointed my steps in the direction of the TV station, I began wondering about the three punks who tried to get into my office. What could they have been after? Who put them up to it? Were they hired by whoever got Newby to hire me? I stopped and stared at my reflection in the window of Woolworth’s while I worked that one through. What could they think I had? If someone like Orv had hired me through Newby, why didn’t he just send for me and make an offer? It was getting murky in my mind; I couldn’t work it out. I pulled in my belly, readjusted my belt and continued down the street.
When I arrived at the station, Robin O’Neil was waiting for me. He didn’t look too happy about it. “So, you’ve taken your young protégée to Catherine Bracken, have you? Bypassing your old friend?”
“What protégée, Robin?” Then I remembered the invented cousin I’d used in my last conversation with Robin. His nose was out of joint and he didn’t care who knew it. “I’ve got the tapes you wanted here,” he said as he took me to Cath’s desk. There were half a dozen cassettes all neatly labelled. I found the one with Temperley’s name on it and handed it to Robin. He said “Follow me!” as though it was a killer curtain line in a play he was directing. I followed and let him play with the fancy buttons on the electronic gear in an editing alcove.
Soon I was watching a well-lighted Clarence Temperley blinking as the lights were readjusted and the interview got moving. For a while he answered Cath’s off-camera questions about Liz Oldridge without adding greatly to my knowledge. The key part of the interview was the following exchange:
CATH:
You came to your present position in the bank on the death of the former manager? Is that right?
CLARE:
Yes. Edge Garsington died at his summer place quite suddenly. I was brought in to hold things together.
CATH:
And Liz Oldridge was one of your customers then?
CLARE:
That’s right. She was already an eccentric.
CATH:
You were a party to the agreement between Thurleigh Ramsden and Ms. Oldridge concerning her safety deposit box?
CLARE:
I was there and tried to make bank policy clear to both parties.
CATH:
You were also there when Oldridge tried to gain access to her box without Ramsden?
CLARE:
That was an unfortunate scene. Yes, I was there.
CATH:
Am I right in saying that she wanted to take money from the contents of the box?
CLARE:
Yes, and I explained that in the light of their agreement, I couldn’t let her.
CATH:
She was quite upset, was she?
CLARE:
Oh dear me, yes!
CATH:
Did you explain to her that she could void the agreement?
CLARE:
She couldn’t void the agreement! Mr. Ramsden would also have to sign.
CATH:
Mr. Temperley, I’ve talked to a number of bank managers and they told me that these arrangements are to a degree discretional. As bank manager, you could have bypassed the joint-access agreement.
CLARE:
I would never have done such a thing. An agreement is an agreement!
