by John Dunning
“What happened the night he disappeared?”
She looked at him hard now. “You’re beginning to sound like a detective yourself, Mr. Ten Eyck.”
He shrugged. “I’ll tell you the truth, then. The real reason I came here was to find a friend of mine who disappeared. Fella named Kendall.”
“I knew Kendall. Not well, but I was in a few radio shows with him. I didn’t know he’d disappeared. I thought he’d just . . . left.”
“Then I learned that another man disappeared around the same time. A handyman named Carnahan. Did you know him?”
“Just to say hello to. He was Livia’s friend.”
“You mean . . .” He let this trail away into a question.
“That’s what I hear.”
“He was quite a bit older than she is. From what I’ve heard.”
“Well, what of it? Girls are always throwing themselves at older, world-wise men. You should’ve seen the girls who chased after March.”
“Is that what Livia did?”
“I’m just saying that age isn’t the barrier it’s cracked up to be. She and Carnahan were very good friends. They’d walk on the beach just before dawn, when there was nobody but me to see them. I saw her kiss him once. Not the way you’d kiss your father. But what are we getting at here? Do you think March was connected to these others?”
“I don’t know. What would you think if you were me?”
“But that’s preposterous. Whatever happened to March, that was so long ago.”
He shrugged. “What about the night he disappeared?”
“Well, let me think. We had an early dinner. March was doing a play that night at nine and there was to be a microphone dress at seven thirty. So we ate and March left for the station at seven. I never saw him again.”
“But he did arrive.”
“Yes, I heard the play. They were doing the life of Lord Kitchener, with March in the lead. He had to carry it, he was in almost every scene for the full hour. He was magnificent, if I do say so, but March was always good in those roles of British pomp. He could really project that bellicose authority, if you know what I mean.”
“So you heard the play. Then what?”
“Nothing. I waited up for him but he never came home.”
“No calls? . . . to say he might be stopping somewhere?”
“Not a word. We had a telephone then and he certainly would’ve called if he were going to be very late. The show went off at ten. He should’ve been back here by ten thirty, eleven at the outside.”
“What did you do when you didn’t hear from him?”
“At about two o’clock in the morning I decided to go over. By then I had gone through all the natural reactions—I’d promised myself I’d kill him if it turned out he’d gone off with some tart and fallen asleep—but by two o’clock I knew something was wrong. I remember that thought flashing through my head, that something had happened and I’d never see him again.”
“You walked over?”
“Yes, I’d had this horrible thought—what if he’d had a heart attack in the dunes and was lying out there helpless? So I walked the way I thought he’d go—we’d gone that way dozens of times—up from the beach to the road, then over the dunes to the tower. I took a flashlight and called his name. But there was nothing . . . except . . .”
“What?”
“I did see his footprints. But only going.”
“Then he didn’t come back that way.”
“Not exactly that way. But it was very dark. You know how it gets here on those murky nights. And my light was dim.”
“Was there fog?”
“No, just dense clouds. I could see where he’d gone well enough, those big feet slogging along. But if he came back across the dunes, he crossed in a different place.”
“What happened when you reached the station?”
“Nothing. It was all locked and empty. I banged on the door but I knew there was no one to hear me.”
“Then you didn’t see anyone or anything unusual?”
“Just some lights across the way. But only for a moment.”
“Across what way?”
“Over on Harford’s property, far across the marsh near the woods. Might’ve been headlights of a car on one of the dirt roads, or maybe just torches—flashlights or whatever.”
“Did you tell the sheriff about that?”
“Of course. He didn’t think much of it. We got a better investigation out of the newspaperman than we did from the sheriff.”
“What did he do?”
“For one thing, followed up every lead I gave him. Went out and tried to talk to Tom, actually did get a statement from Harford, and tracked down that woman March was supposed to have been with. She was still up in Canada with her boyfriend. Who wasn’t March, by the way.”
“What was the sheriff ’s answer to that?”
“Some nonsense about a philanderer never changing his spots. Just because March hadn’t run off with one woman didn’t mean he hadn’t run off with another. And when push came to shove he could always fall back on the no-body argument. If there’d been a murder, where was the body?”
“But you said yourself, he didn’t set any world records trying to find one.”
“I suppose in his own mind he did try. Give the devil his due, he deputized some people and they combed through the marsh. Went all through the woods and searched the island with a dog. But by then a week had gone by and any trail there might’ve been was cold.”
“I hear those dogs are great, though, even with old scents.”
“The sheriff certainly put a lot of stock in it. I was asked for something March had worn, some piece of clothing that hadn’t been washed, so the dog could pick up the scent. But the silly dog led them into town, then turned around and came straight back to the station.”
“What did they do then?”
“Tried again, this time from here. Same thing happened, the dog made a beeline straight across the dunes to the station.”
“Then what? What did the dog do then?”
“Went down to the foot of the tower, where the little utility shed is. Nothing in there but some tools, a wheelbarrow, and some old machinery. The sheriff thought it was obvious that the floor had never been taken up but they pried it up anyhow. Nothing under it, just that hard sand, but the damned dog kept going back there. As if March had been sucked up into the tower and on into the radio cosmos. God, what a chilling thought.”
Jordan thought about what to ask next. “Getting back to the Kitchener broadcast. Do you remember who else worked that show?”
“I think Hazel was there . . . no, wait, for some reason she couldn’t do the show and they had some other woman doing the female voices. And I think Barnet directed. Maitland was here then, but it had to be Barnet. I remember now. There was some kind of row between Barnet and Hazel over the script. That’s why she didn’t do the show. It would also explain why I didn’t get a call. I wasn’t getting along with Barnet even then.”
“Do you know what the fight was about?”
“Can’t imagine. I do remember that Stallworth announced it.”
“What about Kendall?”
“Oh no, this was years before Kendall got here.”
“Was Harford around then?”
“We never saw him. Jocelyn had just died, you know.”
“How about Eastman?”
“He was here then. Whether he worked that show I can’t say.”
“Rue was probably in high school then. How about Brinker?”
“I can’t remember. He’s been here quite a while, you know. He’s older than he looks. I think he was here at least by thirty-seven.”
“Poindexter would’ve done the sound, and Stoner worked the board.”
“Almost surely. Poindexter’s son wasn’t old enough and Livia hadn’t arrived yet. Or had she? God, my memory’s turning to mush. But I do seem to recall that someone else was on the board. March told me they’d had a frigh
tful row the day before and Gus had walked out too. You see, Jordan, our program director isn’t the easiest man to work with, and he and Stoner have never gotten along.”
“Could the man on the board have been either of the Germans?”
“Oh no. You’d have to ask Gus, but I don’t remember seeing either of them until a year or so ago.”
He finished his Dope and put the bottle down beside hers.
“So, what’s it all mean?” she said. “And what can be done about it at this late date?”
“I don’t know, maybe nothing. But I’d like to nose around, if that won’t bother you.”
“Be my guest. Nobody else seems to care.”
“You wouldn’t have a picture of your husband handy—just something I could look at?”
“Of course. I’ll get it for you.”
She left him to mull over what he’d learned. He heard her footsteps cross to the front of the house, then a deep quiet came over the porch. But the tide had turned and the wind picked up; a small set of chimes began to jangle at the edge of the porch, and turning to look at it, he saw the limping figure of the old man coming up the beach. A chilling apprehension blew over him, a harbinger in the wind.
The old man walked with a determined shuffle, fighting his way through the soft sand on his way up to the house. Now Jordan could hear him breathing, a wheezing aaahhh-aaahhh-aaahhh as he came. He stopped at the fence and looked up. Jordan waved a friendly greeting, but the old man turned quickly away: down through the soft sand to the hard beach.
Mrs. Flack came out with a photograph in her hand.
“Your friend was just here. I think he was upset when he saw me.”
“He probably was.” She sat at the table. “Now he’ll sulk for days.”
“Sorry. Didn’t mean to cause you a problem.”
“It’s not your fault. Tom sees things, or imagines he does. He’s fine with me but he can’t function with strangers anymore. He had a godawful time in the first war, aside from being gassed. He has hallucinations. Imagines himself back in France.”
“That’s not uncommon. They call it shell shock.”
“I’m afraid he’s getting worse. Some days he’s almost his old self, then he’ll get lost in some fantasy. He’s been in and out of sanatoriums since the armistice.”
Jordan felt a new wave of questions. She sensed this and said, “You’re fishing around. Looking for a tactful way of asking me if Tom Griffin might’ve killed my husband.”
“You’re a smart woman, Mrs. Flack.”
“I’m not all that smart; common sense would lead anyone to that question soon enough. We had all the makings of a classic triangle: the husband who treats his wife shabbily, the other man who loves her, the hot tempers of creative people.”
“And you did see lights that night in the marsh.”
“Yes, and Tom and March did sometimes quarrel. But I could say the same of March and me. There were times when I felt like killing him myself. All I can tell you is, I didn’t, and I know Tom didn’t either.”
“Do you mind, though, if I ask you a few more things?”
“You may ask me anything.”
“Where does your friend Tom live?”
“Across the marsh, at Harford’s. There’s a road, and he keeps himself a little boat hidden in the brush by the inlet. Harford lets him live in one of those thatched-roof Shakespearean cottages that were built for Jocelyn’s friends. I don’t know what Tom would have done except for Harford. I imagine that surprises you. You’ve probably heard all kinds of things about Harford that may or may not be true.”
“Actually I haven’t heard much of anything.”
“Then let me put this in your hopper. Tom came home from the war in a basket and Harford sent him to a place where they put him back together again. By nineteen twenty-one he was so much better that he was able to act again. He had a good season in New York, then made it to London for two years, and that’s where we met him. He’s had some good years since then, but sooner or later the nightmares come back—the shakes, the midnight sweats, the visions of death. Then he’s got to go away again. But he always goes first cabin and Harford picks up the bill.”
She waited for his reaction. “Harford’s a strange man, Jordan. He’s distant and full of mystery. But his loyalty to people who have been in his life is absolute.”
“Was Tom in his life? . . . before the war?”
“Tom was in Harford’s unit in the war. I don’t know what happened, I never talk to Tom about those places and times. But here we are. Harford takes care of Tom, and because of Tom—and March, to a lesser degree—he takes care of me as well.”
“You’ve lost me now.”
“That’s because you’re making a false assumption. You’re thinking, If Harford’s taking care of this poor woman, he’s making a rotten job of it. But he can only do what I allow him to do.”
“Which is what?”
“Nothing too obvious.” She blushed and laughed self-consciously. “He buys my paintings. My awful so-called art.”
“Maybe it isn’t so awful.”
“I don’t fool myself much about that. Mainly I dabble to pass the time.” She laughed and looked away toward the sea. “Harford buys my supplies, my canvas, all under the guise that it’s Tom who’s doing it. Once a month Tom will come by and select some piece, and leave me an envelope with some grocery money in it. And that’s how it works. Harford does only what necessity dictates. If he leaves too much money in the envelope I won’t take any of it. If he intervenes on my behalf at the station I won’t stand for it. I will not be rammed down Barnet’s throat like some charity case. But I will admit there were times when Harford’s money kept the wolf at bay.” She looked at him across the table. “You probably think I’m a silly old woman awash with false pride.”
“I think you’re the last woman I’d ever accuse of having anything false, Mrs. Flack.”
She handed him the photograph and he stared down at the quintessential British authority figure in full-dress splendor, with war medals splashed across his chest and a perfect set of seven-inch mustaches. “In his war uniform March even looked like Kitchener. He dressed for the show that night—there was an audience and Barnet wanted it to be colorful. The last thing I said to him was how unfortunate that it wasn’t a stage play so a real audience could see the old bastard in all his color and pomp. I was joshing him, you see. We’d had a terrible fight that afternoon and I wanted to get past it. He laughed and swatted my fanny and I knew it was going to be all right. Then he walked out of my life.”
( ( ( 15 ) ) )
HE had no illusions about approaching Livia on the subject of Carnahan. His luck with Mrs. Flack had been extraordinary. This would be tougher.
He knocked on the sound room door, then opened it. Poindexter was standing alone in the center of the room, wearing earphones and holding a pistol of at least .38 caliber in his right hand. Suddenly he fired—four shots in rapid succession; then, as if he’d sensed an intruder, he took off the phones and turned slowly, stopping with the gun pointing at Jordan’s chest. He smiled venomously through layers of fat and said, “Stick ’em up.”
His voice was hard, full of malignance. Jordan waved at the ceiling. “You got the drop on me. Now let’s put the gun down.”
“Does it make you nervous? They’re only blanks.”
“Put it down anyway.”
The gun clattered on the table. “What do you want here, Mr. Jordan?”
“I’m looking for Miss Teasdale.”
“Of course you are. But you can’t have her, she’s gone into the city for her class. She’s such an ambitious woman . . . wouldn’t you say so?”
“She tries to do a good job, if that’s what you mean.”
Poindexter picked up the gun. “Actually I’m rather busy. If there’s nothing else, how about getting the hell out of here?”
He now faced a bleak afternoon. By three thirty he had tomorrow’s Uncle Wally roughed out, lack
ing only the headlines from the morning Times. He hung around, helping Carmody with the night work, dreading the time when he must go home to his empty room.
At six o’clock he went looking for Stoner but no one had seen him. He looked for Becky but her office was closed and dark.
He went to the pier and sat at the end of the bar, drinking beer and watching the women dance. Hours passed; he lost count of the beers he’d had but he knew he’d had plenty when the midnight festivities began with a musical game called the Blackout Waltz. Without warning the lights would go out, partners would change, people would grope toward each other with waves of uneasy laughter, the music would begin again with a soft murmur beneath it as the people drew together and enjoyed the delicious and titillating fun of dancing in the dark with a stranger. He heard a voice at his side: “Come on, big man, dance with me, I’ve been watching you all night.” The next thing he knew he was out on the floor with some full-bodied woman in his arms, shuffling and bumping against other laughing couples as the band played on. He felt the smoothness of her cheek against his neck and smelled the fragrance in her hair. Suddenly he felt sick and the room began to spin, and he pulled away and blundered through the swirling strangers.
He walked out on the beach. His legs felt weak and his stomach queasy.
He sat in the deserted square near the telephone box.
At last he stood in his room and looked at himself in the mirror. Fool, he thought.
He sat up suddenly after four hours’ sleep. The clock in his head told him he was late. He got up, dressed, and struck out across the dunes.
He looked in through the front door. Eli wasn’t there. The clock over the receptionist’s desk told him he was thirty minutes late.
He rapped on the glass but Eli didn’t come.
A moment passed and he heard the sound of tires on gravel and saw headlights swinging into the front yard. Stallworth, he thought, coming in for the dawn patrol.
The car door slammed. Footsteps came along the stone walk. But the man who turned the corner wasn’t Stallworth.
It was Harford.
