Yes, Dr. Latham Rorke had been with Miss Arnold when she had been discharged. The nurse who had pushed her in the obligatory wheel chair out of the hospital remembered Dr. Rorke. He had walked beside the wheel chair. He had helped Miss Arnold into a car. Yes, the nurse had thought the car was a Volkswagen. A little after four. Records would have the exact time.
It wasn’t all that important. Heimrich dialed again, this time the number of the late Dr. Barton’s house, and, apparently, his hospital as well. He had to wait for five rings. He got a “Yes?” heavy with tired resignation. No, he could not. Mrs. Barton was resting. Yes, this was her sister, Mrs. Evans. Somebody had to be with her, and heaven knew where that girl was, when she was really needed. Out with that young man of hers, probably.
Of course, she would have seen Carol Arnold if she had come in. Or heard her, anyway. Well, if the inspector insisted, she supposed she could go up and see. But she had been about to make her sister a cup of tea. She needed it, poor thing. Oh, all right.
Heimrich waited rather a long time. Finally, “Like I said, she’s not there. I knew she wouldn’t be.” There was triumph in the voice now.
Oh, all right, if she happened to see that girl when she came home, she’d tell her to call Inspector Heimrich. All right, at home. And perhaps her sister would be up to talking to Inspector Heimrich tomorrow. If it was really that important.
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow. Well, tomorrow would be time enough to find out when Carol Arnold had last driven the Pontiac and whether, on that occasion, the Pontiac had behaved itself.
7
Greed for money may not be the root of all evil, but it is frequently the root of homicide. So when he wakened Monday morning, Heimrich felt no special sense of urgency. The Van Brunt branch of the Putnam County National Bank, headquarters in Cold Harbor, did not open its doors until nine thirty. The bank, until a couple of years ago, had been the First National Bank of Van Brunt, and had opened at nine. It had been absorbed.
As he and Susan breakfasted, on the terrace while the shade of the house still reached far enough out, Merton Heimrich thought that Van Brunt was gradually becoming a branch of almost everything. Once, before he came to live in it, Van Brunt had had a post office of its own. Susan had told him that. Now it was an adjunct of Cold Harbor, Rural Route 5, known as Rt. 5. But no resident of Van Brunt really regretted this diminishment. Years ago the community had been a farm center. Then, in the time of Thomas Kirby, Susan’s grandfather, it had been horse country. Kirby had bred Arabians.
There were no longer many horses in that southern area of Putnam County. The nearest hunt was across the county line in northern Westchester. Van Brunt had become—what? A widening in the road; a dormitory community for those who did not too much mind a tedious commute. Or who had to go to city offices only two or three times a week. A place for a branch bank.
Where, of course, Adrian Barton, DVM, might not have banked. He had lived almost as close to Cold Harbor as to Van Brunt. And his bank might well have been in New York City. Well, the only thing to do would be to go and ask.
It was a quarter of nine when Merton reached toward the coffeepot, having his third cup in mind. But Susan was already lifting the pot. She poured into his cup. This was the black one. The first two were, to a diminishing degree, creamed. Black to start was too vigorous an awakening for a still sleepy stomach. And the first cigarette of the day went with black coffee. Heimrich had just lighted it when the telephone rang.
Susan would get it. He was to finish his coffee. If it was the barracks, which probably it wasn’t, she’d tell it Inspector Heimrich was on his way. Right?
“Tell them I’ll be late,” Heimrich said. “Or that I’ll call in. Or ask Charley to call me. I’ll—”
He did not finish, because Susan was already in the house and at the telephone.
She said, “Yes?” and then, “Yes, he is, Doctor. I’ll get him.”
Dr. Marvin, presumably, with a summary of the autopsy report. Heimrich took a final gulp of coffee and was in the house. “Dr. Rorke,” Susan said, and held the receiver out for him. Heimrich said, “Good morning, Doctor.”
“Sorry to bother you at home, Inspector. But the thing is, I’m worried. About Carol. Thing is, I can’t get in touch with her. And I told her I’d call this morning to see, well, if she’s all right. No reason to think she isn’t, actually. But—well, she got quite a whack on the head.”
“I understand,” Heimrich said. “You’ve been trying to reach her on the phone, I take it. And had no luck?”
“The size of it,” Rorke said. “Not at the Barton house. I finally got this Mrs. Evans to go up to Carol’s room. Took a bit of doing. Not a particularly accommodating woman, Mrs. Evans isn’t. From what I’ve seen of her, that is. And—well, she seems to have sort of a grudge against Carol. Maybe because Carol’s so young and beautiful and, of course, Mrs. Evans isn’t.”
“Beautiful,” Heimrich thought, was possibly a touch excessive. Or perhaps not; to Latham Rorke evidently not—to Rorke, the obvious and only word.
“Anyway,” Rorke said. Anyway, Carol Arnold was not in her room. There was no evidence she had spent the night there—nor conclusive evidence she had not. Rorke had tried the animal hospital, which had a direct line, as well as an extension from the house phone. He had not expected much, since the phone would have rung in the hospital when it rang in the house.
After a number of rings, the hospital phone had been answered. “By this kid who stays there nights, Inspector. Roger something.”
“King,” Heimrich told him.
Anyway, Carol Arnold wasn’t there. So far as King knew, she hadn’t been. Not since four thirty or five yesterday, when Dr. Rorke had brought her back.
“You had about then, Doctor?”
“Yes. From the hospital. When she insisted on it. I thought she shouldn’t; should stay there for observation a while longer. Concussion, well, it can be sort of tricky, Inspector. But the resident thought it would be all right, and he’s had more experience than I have. Also, of course, it’s his hospital and she was his patient.”
“Yes,” Heimrich said. “Go on, Doctor.”
There wasn’t much to go on with, Rorke said. He had driven her to the Barton place in his Volks. Yes, she had seemed all right. And he had the emergency-ward duty, starting at six. “With one of the residents, of course.”
And when Rorke left Carol at the animal hospital, she had seemed all right? Not dazed, or anything?
She had seemed all right. “Think I’d have left her if she hadn’t seemed all right?”
But he had telephoned this morning to make sure? Because he had some lingering doubt?
“Not really,” Rorke said. “Just—well, I suppose I wanted to be sure. Entirely sure, you know. And to talk to her. Ask if she still had a headache. And if the cat was all right.”
“The cat, Doctor? Or, the cats at the hospital?”
“Driving back from Cold Harbor, she said, ‘You poor little cat.’ She said it several times, as if she were talking to herself. You know what I mean. Or perhaps to some cat. I don’t know. But, well, thinking it over, I guess I got worried. Concussion does strange things sometimes. And—can you find out if she’s all right, Inspector?”
Heimrich could try, would try. And when he did find the missing girl, he would ask her to call Rorke. At the White Plains hospital? “Where else, Inspector? I’m an intern, remember.”
And, Heimrich told him, one who was, almost certainly, worrying needlessly. Heimrich hung up, hoping he was right. Probably he was; probably Carol Arnold had merely gone out on an errand. To buy aspirin, perhaps. She might well need aspirin. Only, gone out on foot? The Purvis garage was usually quick and efficient. The Pontiac would, with the crumpled fender pulled out from the tire, probably be usable, if certainly not handsome.
He would check up on Miss Arnold on his way to the bank. He strapped on his gun and put a light jacket on to cover it, and to be suitably garbed as a seni
or police officer going to ask questions of a bank manager. A jacket would be appropriate even if the bank was only a branch.
He was on his way to the door when the telephone rang. He answered it by saying “Heimrich.”
“Morning, M. L. Nothing very hot, but I thought it might fit in. A Mrs. Robert Evans has reported her car stolen. Came on it more or less by accident, reading through the routine stuff. But, parked on the premises of Dr. Adrian Barton. Way it came through. Around seven this morning, theft got the squeal.”
Charley Forniss had better go on.
There wasn’t much further to go on with. The car was a red Volkswagen sedan, vintage of 1974. No, Mrs. Evans didn’t remember the license number. Who remembers license numbers? No, she couldn’t look the number up, because the registration certificate was in the glove compartment. Well, no, she didn’t think she had taken the ignition key out when she parked the car. After all, she’d parked it right in front of her sister’s house. Yes, she had discovered the car was missing about six thirty, when she had opened the door to see what kind of day it was going to be. No, she hadn’t heard the car start up during the night. She had been sleeping in one of the beds in her sister’s room, which was at the back of the house.
And how, Mrs. Evans had asked the sergeant who took the squeal, was she expected to get home, because, after all, she did have a husband? And the Bartons’ car was at the garage. Because that girl is such a bad driver.
“Better get the cruise boys on it,” Heimrich said. “Red 1974 Volks. License unknown, but you can get it from the Motor Vehicle Bureau—listed under Robert Evans. Probably driven by a blond in her early twenties. Do not apprehend. No charges. Just—well, have them ask her to drive back to the Bartons’. Yes, tail her to see she does.”
“No APB, M. L.? Car theft?”
“Not yet, Charley. And I doubt it’s really car theft. Car borrowing’s more like it. Know anybody in Ithaca, Charley? Where Cornell is?”
Charles Forniss knows somebody almost everywhere. But for once he disappointed Heimrich. He couldn’t think of anybody he knew in Ithaca, New York. There would be, of course, a State Police substation there, or nearby.
“Mmm. Well … tell you what, Charley. Suppose you drive up yourself and ask around.” About Carol Arnold, who’s a student at the vet school. About Adrian Barton, DVM, graduate of the school and licensed veterinarian.
“Anything you can get, Charley. Because it’s murder one on Barton, apparently.”
“Thing is, M. L., it’s summer vacation. May not be anybody around.”
“Reason I want you to go yourself, Charley. Not leave it to the troops. And there’s a chance Miss Arnold herself may show up, wouldn’t you say? She lives in Ithaca, apparently. Driver’s permit issued there. Get her address that way. O.K.?”
O.K. But there was that Abernathy matter.
That could wait for a day or so. It wasn’t murder one. Murder comes before breaking and entering, even when the enterer exits with jewelry worth a good many thousands. Which should have been put in a safe-deposit box in the first place. Thinking of banks—
No. A girl and a red Volkswagen came first. He drove to the Barton animal hospital. The hospital door was locked. Beyond it, a dog barked. Then several dogs barked. Heimrich went around the brick building and up to the white frame house. There were no cars in the garage; no red Volks standing in front of it.
Apparently his approach had been watched from a window. He was still some distance from the house when the door opened. Mary Evans came out first. Her sister came after her. They stood side by side and looked at Heimrich, who said, “Good morning.”
“Well,” Mary Evans said, “It’s about time, Inspector. But where is it?”
He assumed she was speaking of her car. They hadn’t found it yet. They would, he was certain.
“And with that girl in it,” Louise Barton said.
There was nothing the matter with her voice this morning. It was a little like her sister’s; had the same demanding quality in it. Standing together, there was a family resemblance between the two. Mrs. Evans was the heavier, but her sister did not, today, look as frail as Heimrich had at first thought her. Also, Louise had once, he thought, been a pretty woman. He doubted the sister had.
“You think so, Mrs. Barton?” Heimrich said. “Why?”
“Because it would be like her,” the slighter woman said. Then her sister said, “You wouldn’t believe what Lou has had to put up with, Inspector.”
“Waiting on her hand and foot,” Mary Evans said. “Cooking her meals. Making her bed.”
“Now, Mary,” Louise said. “It wasn’t quite that way. She did make her own bed. It’s only, if Adrian had to have somebody, I’d rather it had been a man. Like last summer. Ralph was really quite a nice boy. And I don’t see why girls want to be veterinarians, anyway.”
“I,” Mary Evans said, “don’t see why dear Adrian had to have anybody.”
“Now, Mary, you mustn’t talk like that. My dear husband knew what he needed. And I’m afraid I haven’t been able to help much the last few years. You know how it’s been, dear. What with one thing and another.”
Heimrich, feeling that this discussion might go on indefinitely from one thing to another, interrupted. He said, “About your car, Mrs. Evans? You’d left it unlocked, you think? Out here by the house? And this morning it was gone?”
“I’m afraid I did leave the key in it. I thought it would be safe here if anywhere.”
“And, during the night, you didn’t hear it start up?”
“We were both in my sister’s bedroom. I couldn’t bear to have her there alone at a time like this. And the bedroom’s at the rear of the house. And after I was sure Lou was asleep, that the pill had worked, I—well, I took one myself. Not that I usually do. They’re habit-forming, whatever you say.”
Heimrich hadn’t planned to say anything about sleeping pills. He said “Mmm” in agreement and then, “So neither of you heard anything?”
Neither of them had.
“We’ll find your car, Mrs. Evans,” he said. “And I can have a car come and take you home. Where is that, incidentally?”
“Cold Harbor, of course. And my husband’s coming for me. In our other car. The Cadillac.”
A rather marked disparity in cars, Heimrich thought, and again promised that they would do everything possible to recapture the little red Volks. And that Mrs. Evans would be notified as soon as there was any news. And, if he could have her address in Cold Harbor? And her telephone number?
He got both. He turned back toward the hospital. Roger King was sitting in the shade outside it. As before, he was reading a book. And as before, he put the book face down on the grass as Heimrich approached. He stood up. Heimrich said, “Good morning, Roger. Keeping you on, I see.”
“Good morning, sir. Yes, Mrs. Barton asked me to stay around until Miss Arnold gets back. To keep an eye on the animals, you know. Until their owners come to get them.”
“Speaking of Miss Arnold,” Heimrich said. “When she came back here yesterday afternoon with Dr. Rorke, how did she seem to you?”
“Seem, Inspector? How do you mean?”
“Oh, dazed or anything. She had a bad bang on the head.”
Young King had seen the bad swelling on her head. But otherwise, she had seemed much as usual. She had said “Hi” as she usually did. Then she and Dr. Rorke had talked a few minutes and Roger had gone back to his night watchman’s room.
No, he had not heard Dr. Rorke’s car start up and move off. It must have done, of course, because when he came out in about half an hour—“to go to the bathroom, sir”—the doctor had gone, and so had Miss Arnold. He had supposed she’d gone up to the house.
“Apparently she hadn’t,” Heimrich said. “Have you any idea where she might have gone?”
Possibly to the doctor’s office. She sometimes helped out there. Acted, part of the time, as the doctor’s secretary. When, he gathered, Mrs. Barton didn’t feel up to it. B
ut he didn’t really know. “Like I said, sir, I just stay here nights. Feed the animals sometimes. Change the cats’ litter pans. See that the dogs can get out to their runs. That sort of thing. If one of the animals seems to be getting sick, I call the doctor at the house. And he comes down. That’s the way it used to be, anyway.”
“Yes, I see,” Heimrich said. “Dr. Barton never spent the night down here?”
Once in a long while, the doctor had. When there was a very sick animal he didn’t want to leave. It almost never happened; perhaps four or five times since Roger King had worked there.
“He’s got a room the other side of the hall, Inspector. I mean the other side of the hall my room’s on. There’s a bed in it. A cot, anyway. But, like I say, he almost never used it since I’ve been here.”
“Miss Arnold might conceivably have used the room last night? Instead of going up to the house. To, well, sort of keep out of the way. Not bother Mrs. Barton?”
Roger didn’t know. As far as he did know, Miss Arnold had never used Dr. Barton’s office bedroom.
“Let’s just have a look,” Heimrich said, and followed the somewhat gangling youth into the hospital.
The door to Barton’s emergency bedroom was on the opposite side of the hallway from young King’s door. It was closer to the animal wards. King opened the door.
It was a small room, almost completely occupied by a bed. The bed was by no means a cot. It was a double bed. And, it had been slept in. The sheet and summer blanket were thrown back; there was the imprint of a head on the rumpled pillow.
“Last Friday, son,” Heimrich said. “Was that one of the nights the doctor stayed here, do you remember?”
It had not been. Last Friday night, the doctor and Miss Arnold had walked up to the house together, after office hours. He had seen them just as he arrived.
“By the way, Roger, do you come here by car? Drive yourself, I mean?”
23-The Tenth Life Page 8
