23-The Tenth Life

by Lockridge, Richard

  “I haven’t got a car, sir. Yet, I mean. Dad drives me over, when he’s free. If he’s not, I walk. It’s only a couple of miles or so.”

  “Friday night?”

  “Dad drove me. He usually gets home early on Friday nights. In the summer, anyway.”

  “Then he would have seen Dr. Barton and Miss Arnold walking up to the house, when you did?”

  Roger King supposed so. He could ask his father, if it was important.

  It was not; anyway, not yet. There was no reason to question the accuracy of the boy’s memory.

  Barton had not slept in the big double bed Friday night. Saturday and Sunday night he had slept in the morgue of the Cold Harbor General Hospital. Earlier in the week, and the bed not made up? Possible, of course.

  It turned out not to be. Roger was quite certain that no emergency had kept Dr. Barton at the hospital during the previous week. And on Friday the cleaning woman came and went over everything. “She makes up my bed every week; it’s always fresh Friday night. She does the doctor’s too, if it needs it.”

  So, a hundred to one Carol Arnold had slept in the bed the night before. For part of the night, anyway.

  “Last night, Roger, did you hear anything you wouldn’t have expected to hear? After you had gone to bed, I mean? A car starting up, say? Or a toilet flushing? Anything that would indicate there was someone else here? Or leaving here?”

  Roger King had not. “Of course, I guess I sleep pretty soundly, sir. Only I set the alarm for one o’clock and go and check on the animals. Then I go back to sleep. You think Miss Arnold might have stayed here last night, Inspector?”

  Heimrich did. And that the Van Brunt branch of the Putnam County National Bank had been open for half an hour or so. And that Lieutenant Charles Forniss probably was well on his way to Ithaca, New York.

  Heimrich went to his car.

  8

  Heimrich parked the Buick in the almost empty lot of the Old Stone Inn, which is closed on Mondays, and crossed Van Brunt Avenue to the Van Brunt branch of the Putnam County National Bank. The bank had not only been absorbed, it had been reconstituted. The four tellers no longer occupied cages. They sat behind a counter, separated from one another only by low railings. Each had his or her name on a small marker in front of his segment of the counter. The counter ran along one side of a long and moderately narrow room, with stand-up desks on the other. Three of the tellers, all women, had bright Monday faces. The fourth, male, had a dour Monday look. When Heimrich went in, none of the tellers was busy.

  Heimrich does not often visit the Van Brunt branch of the Putnam County National Bank. He mails in his salary checks to the Heimrichs’ joint account. Personal visits to the bank, as to draw out cash, are made by Susan, whose shop is only a few doors away.

  Heimrich walked down the narrow room to a desk outside a railing. The desk was occupied by a gray-haired woman, identified by a sign which read “Mrs. Winifred Gleason.” Heimrich did not know Mrs. Gleason, who said, “Good morning, sir. May I help you?”

  Heimrich told her who he was, and that he would like to see the bank manager.

  “I think Mr. Tootle is free,” she said. “Just a moment, Inspector.”

  She used the telephone, and it rang at a desk beyond the railing—one of four desks, but the one in a commanding position. She could, Heimrich thought, merely have stood up and waved at the pink-faced, quite young man at the commanding desk. Mr. Tootle spoke one word into the telephone, and Mrs. Gleason said, “You’re to go right in, Inspector. Mr. Tootle is free at the moment. He’s the one standing up.”

  The pink-faced man was standing up behind his desk. He was not standing tall nor standing thin. He was a round, small man, and his hair was rather the color of his face. Mrs. Gleason pressed a button, and there was a click in the railing gate. Heimrich went through the gate and to the waiting bank manager— J. Luther Tootle, according to a marker on his desk. “J. Luther Tootle, Vice-President.”

  Tootle held out his hand, which Heimrich accepted. Tootle said, “Good morning, sir. Stays warm, doesn’t it?”

  Heimrich agreed it stayed warm, although he would have said “hot.”

  “Hot” would have seemed excessive, Heimrich assumed, to a bank manager, even to one as jovial and youthful as this one seemed. Heimrich sat in an indicated chair.

  “So, Inspector,” Tootle said. “How can I help you? A police inspector, isn’t it? Not a bank inspector.” He laughed when he said that. When J. Luther Tootle laughed, he said, “Ha, ha,” which was new in Heimrich’s experience.

  “State Police,” Heimrich said. “My wife and I have an account here, Mr. Tootle.”

  Tootle’s face grew properly grave at this information. Money was a grave matter. He said, “Is there some question about your account, sir?” He looked somewhat as if there had better not be.

  “None at all,” Heimrich said. “Quite another matter. Did Dr. Barton bank here? Dr. Adrian Barton.”

  “A very sad thing,” Tootle said. “A tragic thing, one might say. Am I to take it that this is an official inquiry? Related to Dr. Barton’s sudden death?”

  He was to take it so.

  “A fine man, Dr. Barton was,” Tootle said. “And an excellent veterinarian. Took wonderful care of my wife’s dog a few months back. She’s a Pekinese, you know. Very delicate little animals, you know.”

  Heimrich said, “Mmm,” and thought that a Peke was somehow appropriate. He said, “Dr. Barton had an account here, Mr. Tootle?”

  “Well,” Tootle said, “our depositors’ relations with the bank are confidential, Inspector. I would have to consult the main office, I’m afraid.”

  “This is, as I said, an official inquiry,” Heimrich said. “Into, quite possibly, a murder. But consult Cold Harbor if you have to, by all means.”

  Tootle said, “Then if you’ll excuse me for a minute, Inspector,” and got up from his desk and went farther toward the end of the long room and opened a door marked, “J. Luther Tootle, Vice-President.” He went into his private office, where, obviously, matters of importance were considered—such as getting instructions from higher-ups.

  He was gone only briefly. Presumably there was a direct line connection between Van Brunt and Cold Harbor. He sat again at his desk. He moved a marigold in the vase on his desk, bringing it in better symmetry with other marigolds. He said, “Yes, Dr. Barton had an account with us. Not, er, very sizable. Four figures only. In his personal checking account, I mean. And a joint account with Mrs. Barton. And, I’m told, several savings certificates. Of course, Mrs. Barton is one of the Colby sisters, you know.”

  He stopped and looked intently at Heimrich, his expression that of a man who expects reaction—like, possibly, a galvanized leap from a chair, or a collapse into it.

  For a moment, Heimrich felt no reaction at all, which was faintly embarrassing. Then, belatedly, he got one. It did not make him leap from his chair, but it was interesting.

  “You mean the Colby Castle Colbys,” he said.

  “Indeed yes,” Tootle said. “Yes, indeed, sir.”

  The “Colby Castle,” which is not a castle, is a landmark. It stands overlooking the Hudson a few miles north of Cold Harbor. There is, to be sure, a turret at one end of it which might be considered a watchtower. The turret appears to be an afterthought. It is, nevertheless, a mansion rather than a castle. It is pre-Revolutionary, the onetime dwelling place of a patroon. Who had not been named Colby.

  Heimrich checked his memory for what Susan had told him of the Colbys and their acquired mansion. Colbys had still been living in it in the time of Susan’s grandfather. One Amos Colby had bought it, Susan did not know from whom, shortly after the Civil War. During the war, he had been a supplier to the Union army. Of uniforms, Susan had thought. Made, she supposed, of shoddy. Whatever the quality of the uniforms, the fortune they had brought Amos Colby had evidently not been shoddy.

  “His son wanted to be lord of the manor,” Susan had told Merton Heimrich one evening
on the terrace. “From what grandfather told me, when I was a little girl, the manor had other ideas. He, the son, wasn’t, as they say, accepted. Not by the people who counted.” Her inflection had put quotations around the “who counted,” Heimrich remembered. “My people were awful snobs, I guess,” she had added. “Along with the other old families.” Again, her inflection had provided quotes.

  A much more recent Colby, presumably the father of Louise Barton and Mary Evans, had sold the mansion, in the thirties, to a corporation—Landmarks Preservation, Inc.—which conducted tours of the ancient building at three dollars a person a tour, or something like that. It was generally assumed in the community that, even in depression times, the current Colby had received a moderate fortune from the sale of the mansion and the land around it. And that whatever he got had been added to an already considerable fortune. And that Colby—Jonathan?—had died some ten years ago, leaving only female offspring.

  Which would explain the Cadillac. Which also at least minimized a possible motive. Still—

  “Do you happen to know, Mr. Tootle, whether the bank is named executor in Dr. Barton’s will?”

  Tootle did not. Yes, conceivably, the head office might. If, of course, Dr. Barton had made a will. Some people didn’t. At this thought, Tootle’s voice became markedly dolorous. Barton’s lawyer would know. If, of course, he had a lawyer. No, J. Luther Tootle had no idea who this potential attorney might be. He had no reason to think the head office would be better informed.

  Heimrich thanked Mr. Tootle, who was very glad if he had been able to be of some help, and left the bank and found a telephone. He dialed the number listed for “Barton Adrian DVM Res” and waited while a telephone rang. After it had rung four times, he got “Dr. Barton’s office” in a male voice and, more faintly, “Yes?” The “yes” was female and long-suffering. Then he heard, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Barton. I didn’t know whether—”

  “It’s all right, boy,” Mrs. Barton said. So there was a “Res” extension in the hospital—picked up by Roger King. “People will keep calling. Who is it?”

  Heimrich told her who it was. He got, “Oh, you again.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Barton. Miss Arnold hasn’t returned, I gather?”

  “Nor my sister’s car. Which you were going to find for her.”

  “Her husband came to pick her up?” He did not add, “in the Cadillac.”

  Her husband had, although it had been inconvenient. “Anyway, he said it was. Grumbled about it.”

  Heimrich was sorry. They expected soon to recover Mrs. Evans’s Volks. And would Mrs. Barton give him the name of Dr. Barton’s lawyer? Why should she? “Part of the routine, Mrs. Barton. Help us clean up details of this—tragic event.” Tragic? Well, he supposed so.

  “Aren’t I being bothered enough, Inspector? People calling up all the time. Asking about their animals. Oh, and to say how sorry they are, of course.”

  Heimrich understood hers was a very trying time. And the name of the lawyer? Their lawyer, he assumed.

  “Miss Goldman was his. Not mine. She’s Jewish. Calls herself ‘Miz’—M-S, I mean. That newfangled womens’ lib stuff, sounds like to me.”

  Well, Mrs. Barton was a recent widow. One had to make allowances—try to, anyway. And where could he get in touch with Ms. Goldman, attorney at law?

  Cold Harbor, she thought. Couldn’t he look it up?

  He could look it up. And they would keep looking for Mrs. Evans’s car.

  (And for a pretty girl named Carol Arnold. And, come to think of it, for a Siamese cat, missing since delivery to her owner had been interrupted by an automobile accident.)

  “Goldman A atty” was listed in the directory. Heimrich drove to the Cold Harbor address given. He kept wondering about the cat missing, carrying case and all, from a mildly wrecked Pontiac—an intentionally wrecked Pontiac. (Cold Harbor was, loosely, on the way to the barracks, where Forniss would call first from Ithaca.)

  The office of A. Goldman, atty., was on the second floor of a five-story building on Main Street. A dairy bar was on the ground floor. There was an elevator, but Heimrich climbed stairs instead. Yes—A. GOLDMAN on a ground-glass door panel. A pretty young woman at a reception desk. Ms. Goldman was with a client. If Mr.—“Oh, Inspector”—Heimrich cared to wait. It probably would not be a long wait. He could sit right over there. It really shouldn’t be too long.

  It was only about fifteen minutes. Heimrich speculated about a missing cat. Among other things.

  “Miz Goldman will see you now, Inspector.”

  Ms. Goldman was in her mid-thirties, at a guess. She was blond and wore a black dress which, on her, was not a severe black dress. She was a very handsome young woman. She stood up behind an uncluttered desk and said, “Inspector Heimrich? I’ve been rather expecting you. Or someone like you. May I see your credentials?”

  She might, and did.

  “About Adrian, I suppose,” she said. “The poor dear man. So sudden. I gather the police think he was killed, don’t they?”

  “We think he may have been, Miz Goldman. He was careful about the z sound.

  “I know,” she said. “I think it’s silly, too. On the other hand, my marital status is nobody’s business but my own, is it? But ‘Miss’ is all right, if you’d rather. It’s M. L. Heimrich, isn’t it? I’ve heard of you. M. L. the way I’m merely A.? Parents are inconsiderate, aren’t they? Imagine ‘Angela.’”

  She smiled and Heimrich smiled back. He said, “All right. Imagine ‘Merton.’”

  She made a slight face of agreement. A lively and engaging young woman, Merton Heimrich thought.

  She said, “Cui bono, I suppose? Nobody very excessively, at a guess. But here it is.”

  She opened a top drawer of her desk and took a folded, blue-covered document out of it. She slid the document across the desk to Heimrich. She said, “You see, I did expect you, Inspector. All ready for probate.”

  The will of Adrian Barton, deceased, was a short and simple will. Except for three specified bequests, the bulk of his estate went to “my dear wife, Louise Barton.”

  Roger King was to receive a thousand dollars, “to aid him to continue his education.” Ralph Connors was to get five times that much, “to help defray the costs of his education.” And “To Carol Arnold, so that she may learn to treat horses, the sum of Five Thousand Dollars ($5,000) in cash.”

  “That codicil was added last week.”

  A. Goldman was named as executor of the estate.

  “Did Dr. Barton give you any idea who this Ralph Connors is, Miss Goldman?”

  “Yes. Adrian and I were—well, friends, Inspector. Not just lawyer and client. He did tell me things he didn’t need to. Connors is a vet student at Cornell, and Adrian had him down at the hospital last summer. To help and to get practical experience. ‘Fieldwork,’ the university calls it. And gives credit for it, I understand. Adrian had been doing that for several years, he told me. Inviting people down he considered promising students. He’s—he was—a very dedicated veterinarian, Inspector. Had a thing about animals.”

  “Only four-legged ones, Miss Goldman?”

  “Oh, he didn’t object to humans. Particularly—”

  She stopped with that.

  Heimrich said he saw. He said, “Miss Carol Arnold this summer. Mr. Connors last summer. You said he’d been having students here in summers for several years. But only these two inherit.”

  “Yes. I don’t know about the others. Perhaps— well, perhaps he made more money the last couple of years.”

  “You said, Miss Goldman, that nobody would profit ‘very excessively’ because of Dr. Barton’s death. You meant that?”

  “I was talking out of turn, Inspector. Which is a bad thing in a lawyer. I merely—well, I gathered that Adrian didn’t have a lot of money. I don’t know how or why I gathered that. And it’s not a statement given under oath. Just a—passing inadvertence. Oh, by comparison, I suppose I meant.”

  “By comparison,” Heimrich repeated
. “I take it you mean comparison with his wife?”

  “Do you? Well, perhaps. Mrs. Barton is probably quite a rich woman, Inspector. But she and Adrian— well, I gathered from him they kept things rather separate. In regard to money, anyway. There’s that ‘gathered’ again, isn’t there? Distressing from one with legal training, isn’t it? But, after all, Mrs. Barton is—was, anyway—a Colby. But I’m not her attorney, Inspector. Nat Lewis is. So, if your investigation is going to extend to her, you’ll have to talk to Nat.”

  Heimrich stood up. He said he doubted he’d need to see Mr. Lewis and that she had been very helpful.

  “Nothing you couldn’t have got when I file for probate,” she said. “All public then, of course. Including estimate of net worth for tax purposes.”

  “I know,” Heimrich said, and thanked her again.

  She stood up behind her desk.

  “If you wonder why I was Adrian’s lawyer and not hers,” she said, “it was because she doesn’t like my name. Not the Angela part of it. The Goldman. She’s, well, she’s a little that way, Inspector. Of course, nobody’s ever told her Lewis is a substitute for Lipshitz. Not that Nat makes any secret of it. But Mrs. Barton —well, doesn’t get around very much. Nat’s father is still Aaron Lipshitz.”

  Heimrich went downstairs to the Buick, turning things over in his mind. None of the things turned easily, or settled into a useful pattern.

  Carol Arnold stood to gain from Barton’s death. Not, to be sure, to gain any very substantial amount. But “substantial” is a word subject to variations. If you are broke and trying to pay for an education at an Ivy League college, five thousand dollars may seem like a good deal of money. Miss Arnold had access to anything in Dr. Barton’s hospital. She might, in the course of her studies, have learned about curare and veterinarians’ occasional use of it. Almost certainly, she would be able to use a hypodermic syringe.

  And—she was missing. She had been, now, some time missing. She had not borrowed a car to drive to a pharmacy for aspirin.

  Heimrich used his car telephone and got the duty sergeant at the barracks. The all points bulletin for a red Volkswagen was to be extended to a three-state alarm. The driver of the Volks, if female, in early twenties and carrying a driver’s license made out to Carol Arnold of Ithaca, New York, was to be detained for questioning. If apprehended in New York, she was to be brought to the barracks of Troop K, New York State Police, for that questioning.