23-The Tenth Life

by Lockridge, Richard

  Her heels clicked on the wooden floor of the entrance hall. The footfalls behind her were heavier, softer. Dr. Latham Rorke was, apparently, wearing soft-soled shoes, suitable for hospital corridors. Mrs. Cummins appeared in the living-room doorway and started a sentence. “It’s Dr.—”

  She did not finish because Latham Rorke spoke from behind her. He said, “Inspector, Mrs. Heimrich said—” He did not finish either. He saw the girl on the sofa. He said, “Jesus!” and went toward her.

  “Yes, Doctor,” Heimrich said. “A patient for you, I’m afraid.” But by that time Rorke was on his knees beside the sleeping girl. His hand was feeling her wrist for the pulse. He did not time it. After a second or two, he gently pushed up her eyelids and looked into her eyes. Then he put his head down on her chest and listened. Then he stood up and looked down at her.

  “She’s very sound asleep, Doctor,” Mrs. Cummins said. “It came over her very suddenly. I’m afraid she’s concussed, doctor. I’ve seen this sort of thing in emergency wards. All right one minute. Out cold the next. I used to be a nurse, you know.”

  Rorke did not appear to hear her. He faced Heim-

  rich.

  “How did she get here, Inspector?” he said. There seemed to be accusation in his voice. But perhaps it was only shock.

  “According to Mrs. Cummins,” Heimrich said, “she just walked in this morning. Said something about people being after her. Mrs. Cummins gave her a cup of coffee because she seemed to need something, Mrs. Cummins thought. She drank the first cup and Mrs. Cummins went to get her another. And came back to find her on the floor, asleep.”

  “Hell,” Rorke said, “she’s not just asleep. Anybody can see that. Aftermath of a concussion, could be. Or—”

  “Yes, Doctor,” Heimrich said. “Probably the concussion, as Nurse Cummins says. An ambulance is on its way.”

  “Just this morning, Inspector? When she came here, I mean? But it was Sunday night she—”

  “Yes, Doctor. There are a good many missing hours. But it was just this morning. What we’re told, anyway.”

  There was nothing special in Heimrich’s voice as he said this; nothing to make Latham Rorke look at him searchingly and then, for a moment, at Mrs. Grace Cummins, R.N. He did seem about to say something, but again there was the thud of a closing car door outside. And again Mrs. Cummins went to the house door. There did not, this time, appear to be anything heavy in her smock pocket. The smock swung lightly around the stocky woman.

  “Why, Mrs. Jenkins,” the cattery owner said. “If you’ll bring her this way. It’s all set up.”

  She was answered by a scream, not human but apparently anguished.

  “There, baby.” Another female voice, presumably that of Mrs. Jenkins. “It’s going to be all right.”

  The wailing Siamese cat did not appear to think so. It, almost certainly the expected “she,” screamed again, in greater anguish than ever.

  “Female in season,” Rorke said. “They make a hell of a noise, don’t they? ‘Calling,’ they call it. Where’s that damn ambulance?”

  He was answered by the distant sound of a siren. It sounded again, not so distantly.

  “As you hear,” Heimrich said.

  There were again footfalls from the entrance hall of the big white house. This time there were two pairs of clicking heels. They did not approach the living-room door, but their sounds diminished. The cat, undoubtedly imprisoned in a carrying case, screamed again.

  “Brought to be serviced,” Heimrich said. “Mated. Whatever they call it. By Prince Ling Tau, the cat of cats. Which will be quite a trick, considering.” He did not say considering what. Latham Rorke was again on his knees beside Carol Arnold. Again he was taking her pulse. This time he was reading his watch as he counted the pulsing in the wrist he held.

  “She’ll be all right, Doctor,” Heimrich said. Rorke did not respond to this comforting—and clearly unfounded—assurance.

  The siren sounded again, very close this time. Turning off the highway, almost certainly. Heimrich went to the door to meet it; to guide the attendants.

  They wheeled the stretcher in and lifted Carol Arnold onto it. “Same kid as last time,” one of them said to the other as they lifted the stretcher into the ambulance. “Same one we picked up Sunday, remember? An out-of-luck girl, seems like.”

  Rorke climbed into the ambulance with his girl, his out-of-luck girl. Yes, he would call the barracks when she was able to talk.

  “When they bring her out of it,” he told Inspector Heimrich. “You know it’s not the concussion, don’t you?”

  “Only a guess, Doctor. A layman’s guess. An overdose, you think?”

  “I’m pretty damn—” Rorke said, but then one of the attendants closed the ambulance doors, shutting him into silence.

  12

  Heimrich used the Buick’s telephone and got Lieutenant Forniss on it. Did Forniss, by any chance, know anyone in New York who was connected with the nursing profession?

  Well, as a matter of fact, Forniss did. At any rate, he had. An Eleanor Lipscomb. That was, she had been Eleanor Lipscomb. Probably Eleanor something else by now. Not a girl likely to have stayed unmarried all these years since Korea. Perhaps not even stayed a nurse, although the last he’d heard, she had. Supervisor of nurses at some New York hospital, a couple of years ago, anyhow. “She was a Navy nurse, M. L. On a hospital ship. A j.g., way I remember it. Nice-looking girl. I dated her a couple of times back then. In San Francisco, that was. We were both on terminal leave. Why, M. L.?”

  Heimrich told him why. In regard to Grace Cummins, R.N. Anything he could get, by telephone. Through the former lieutenant, junior grade, if he could get in touch with her. Otherwise through the New York Police Department, which probably wouldn’t have anything.

  “She says she was on the nursing staff at Saint Vincent’s, Charley. Some time ago, probably. At Doctors later, she says. Just background, Charley.”

  Charles Forniss said, “Yep,” and was M. L. coming in?

  “Later, probably.” Heimrich looked at his watch. A few minutes after eleven.

  “Tell you what, Charley. I’ll probably be at the inn around—oh, make it one o’clock. Try me there.”

  Forniss would do.

  Heimrich called Susan. Yes, she’d get a cab down and join him at the Old Stone Inn for lunch. Any special reason? “Just lunch, dear. And how’s the pooch?”

  Colonel seemed to be all right, although not especially ambitious. No desire to go out and frolic in the sunshine. Taking advantage of the air conditioning. “Around twelve thirty, dear?”

  Heimrich thought so. He had to stop by Cold Harbor first. In the bar, of course. Susan said, “Of course, Merton dear,” with almost no amusement in her voice.

  Heimrich drove to Cold Harbor. The local police told him where he might find the First Baptist Church. It was a couple of miles out on Crescent Street, which was to the right, two blocks down that way.

  Crescent Street turned out to be a perfectly straight street, which did not much surprise Merton Heimrich. Probably fifty years ago, or a hundred years ago, it had curved in a crescent. Straightening it had not changed its name.

  The First Baptist Church of Cold Harbor might well have stood a hundred years ago as it stood now —white and with a steeple, and sedate. A very pretty little church, actually, and in the tradition of New England. New England has a tendency to creep into New York by osmosis.

  The First Baptist Church had its own graveyard. It also had a locked front door. But an elderly man was pushing a lawn mower among the gravestones. Did he know where Dr. James might be found?

  “You meaning the Rev James, mister? He ain’t no doctor I ever heard of.”

  “The Reverend Mr. James then,” Heimrich said.

  He could try the parsonage. Just up the road a piece. Only the Rev might be out, making what he called his calls. Heimrich thanked the church’s yardman—or sexton; did Baptists run to sextons?—and drove the piece up the road, as indi
cated. The parsonage was white as the church was, although not so recently painted. A girl of about four was tangled with a small white dog in the front yard. She untangled herself from the leash, and the dog barked at Heimrich, although not with malice.

  “Is your father at home, baby?”

  “Yes. But I’m not a baby, mister. Babies are like that.” She held her hands about a foot apart.

  “Of course,” Heimrich said.

  A slight young woman in a large apron appeared on the front porch.

  “That’s Mamma,” the little girl said. “Come here, Benjamin.” She tugged at Benjamin’s lead and the little dog jumped against her, not quite knocking her over.

  “Benjy!” the young woman in the excessive apron said. “Quit that! You’re a bad dog!”

  The small white dog paid no attention. He did not quit his enthusiastic bouncing against the little girl, who showed no evidence of wanting him to. Heimrich said, “Mrs. James?” and, when she nodded her head, “I wonder if I might see your husband, if he’s in?”

  “Of course,” she said. “He’s in his study. Working on Sunday’s sermon. Is it church business?”

  “In a way,” Heimrich told her. “I won’t interrupt him for long, Mrs. James.”

  He followed her into the small white house, past old and rather bored furniture of assorted styles. She knocked on a closed door. She said, “There’s somebody to see you, dear. He says it’s church business.”

  Well, Heimrich thought, I did say that. And she didn’t say he was in his “den.”

  She opened the door and said, “Go right on in. He never hears me when he’s working.”

  Heimrich went into a very small room. The man in it was in his early or mid-thirties. He was wearing tennis shorts and a tennis shirt. He did not, to Heimrich, look especially like a clergyman or, for that matter, a Baptist, born again or not. But Merton Heimrich, born Episcopalian but no longer working at it, knows few Baptists. He is also quite willing to settle for the one the country has. Which makes him a little singular in Van Brunt.

  The man dressed for tennis was sitting in front of a portable typewriter. There was a blank sheet of paper in the typewriter, and the Reverend Mr. James was staring at it. Heimrich cleared his throat.

  “Yes,” James said. “I heard her.” He turned to face Heimrich, who, more or less involuntarily, said, “Doctor.” He managed to avoid saying “Father.” The church of his boyhood had been high.

  “Just mister,” James said. “Not a doctor of divinity. Regarding church business, my wife said.”

  “In a way. About one of your church members, anyway. I’m a policeman, by the way.”

  James stood up at that. He regarded Heimrich for several seconds. Standing, James looked more than ever like an athlete.

  “I doubt if any member of our church has broken the law,” James said. “And you aren’t in uniform, are you?”

  “It’s not about lawbreaking,” Heimrich said. “And you’re not in uniform either, are you, Reverend?”

  James laughed at that. He had a friendly laugh. “I get edgy when I’m trying to think out a sermon,” James said. “God’s words don’t come easily. To me, anyway. You’re a detective, I suppose. Captain, or something?”

  “Inspector, Mr. James. Inspector Heimrich.”

  “Yes, Inspector. I’ve heard of you, haven’t I?”

  “Possibly. I live just down the road in Van Brunt.”

  “And your stepson is the tennis pro at the club,” James said. “Friend of mine’s a member. Taken me along once or twice. What member of our church, Inspector? And what about him or her?”

  “Mrs. Grace Cummins. And was she at church last Sunday? The noon service?”

  “Dear Mrs. Cummins,” James said. “Yes, I’m sure she was, Inspector. She is very faithful. She almost never misses a service. Usually sits up front, too. Not like many of my—er—flock. Yes, I’m quite sure she attended service last Sunday. Why, Inspector?”

  “Just checking up on things,” Heimrich said. “Quite sure, Mr. James? Only quite? She says she did attend the noon service.”

  “Then she did,” James said. “Do you question her statement?”

  “In my line of work, we question a great many things, Mr. James. Seek corroboration, anyway. I’m afraid we’re not long on faith. As men of the cloth are, of course.”

  Heimrich had picked his descriptive phrase out, he supposed, of his boyhood. It did not, under these circumstances, seem particularly appropriate. “It may be important,” he told the young clergyman dressed for tennis. “Have you a specific memory that Mrs. Cummins was at church Sunday? Or is it—well, just that you assume she was because she almost always is?”

  James stood for a moment and looked at Heimrich. Then he turned away and moved to a window. It was a small window and his body blocked it, and blocked out what little air stirred through it into the small, hot room. The parsonage, which Heimrich managed not to think of as the rectory, did not run to air conditioning.

  James looked out the window for several minutes. When he turned back, his young face seemed troubled.

  “As near as I can come to it,” he said, “I can’t remember her not being at the service. I think I would if she hadn’t been. She’s—well, she’s pretty much a fixture, if you know what I mean. What it comes to, I’m sure she must have been. In her usual pew. I’m almost certain I’d have noticed if her pew had been empty.”

  “Only almost, Mr. James?”

  “I’m afraid so, Inspector. You see, after the services, I go to the church door to tell the worshipers good-bye. Most of us do. The pastors of churches as small as mine, anyway. I’ve been trying to visualize last Sunday. The members I said good-bye to. And, well, I can’t visualize Mrs. Cummins. She always tells me how good and inspiring my sermon was. Whether it was or not. I can’t remember her doing that last Sunday. But I’m almost sure she did.”

  “But it’s still almost, isn’t it?”

  “I’m afraid so, Inspector. Not good enough, I suppose? But if she said she was at the service—well, I’m sure she’s a truthful woman. I know she’s a devout one. What we’d call a true believer, of the old tradition, actually. A woman of deep faith, unquestioning faith. People like that do not tell untruths, Inspector.”

  A “man of the cloth,” even if in tennis shorts. A man of simple faith. But it was not a faith Heimrich, or any policeman, could hold. Even the righteous can sometimes lie, if the cause is good enough.

  “Not what you came for, is it?” James said. “I’m sorry, Inspector.”

  “No, Mr. James. Not quite. But I’m glad to get your opinion of Mrs. Cummins. A truthful woman. A deeply religious one, you think. A believer in what people call the old-time religion.”

  “Certainly. As I am. Oh, with some reservations, I suppose. A little more tolerant of allegory than old-timers like Mrs. Cummins, possibly. But not as to the essential truth, which I think manifest. You are a Christian, Inspector?”

  “By birth,” Heimrich said. “Not devout, I’m afraid. I don’t really believe a whale swallowed Jonah and—well, spit him up again. Mrs. Cummins does, I assume.”

  “And in a literal hell and a literal heaven,” James said. “And probably that God has a beard.”

  “And in an eye for an eye and a tooth for a tooth?”

  “Probably, Inspector. The faith of her fathers, certainly. As do I. With, possibly, a few reservations. Not toward the essentials. I wouldn’t have you think that. Do you happen to be a Catholic, Inspector?”

  It was an entirely unexpected question.

  “Not of the Roman variety,” Heimrich said. “The priest of the church my parents took me to as a boy was careful to make that distinction. He also preferred to be addressed as ‘Father.’ Well—thank you, Mr. James.”

  “For very little, I’m afraid. God bless you, Inspector.”

  Both the little girl and the little dog were gone when Heimrich left the parsonage. Probably, he thought, they were both having lunch. It w
as still a little early for his own. He drove slowly down to Van Brunt and the Old Stone Inn.

  It was only twenty after twelve when Heimrich went into the inn through the door which led directly to what the inn prefers to think of as the “taproom.” But Susan was already there. She was sitting, unexpectedly, with Lieutenant Charles Forniss, New York State Police.

  Heimrich joined them. Neither had a drink, but the barman was mixing. When Heimrich came in, the barman looked across the cool room at him, and Heimrich nodded. The barman added a jigger of gin and a flick of vermouth to his mixing glass and resumed stirring. Then he scooped ice into a cocktail glass and put it beside another glass, also filled with ice, in front of him on the bar.

  Heimrich said, “Hi, dear,” to Susan. He raised his eyebrows toward Charles Forniss. Forniss smiled and, slowly, shook his head.

  “Nothing hot,” Forniss said. “Just felt like getting away from the barracks. The air conditioning’s on the blink again.”

  The barman brought their drinks. Forniss’s was bourbon on the rocks. The barman said, “Morning, Mrs. Heimrich. Inspector.” Heimrich said, “Morning,” having, once more, forgotten the barman’s name. Susan smiled at the barman.

  Heimrich raised his eyebrows again toward Forniss.

  “Miss Lipscomb’s still supervisor of nurses at Saint Vincent’s. Not Miss Lipscomb any more. Mrs. Larkin now. But she remembered me. On the third try. She also remembered Mrs. Cummins. As Grace Clarke, but the same gal. She was on the staff at the hospital. Left and went to Doctors just as Eleanor was coming on the St. Vincent’s staff. But Eleanor kept hearing about her, she says. Gossip about her. Seems there was quite a bit of that.”

  Eleanor Larkin, née Lipscomb, had given Forniss the name of the nurses’ supervisor at Doctors Hospital. “A Miss Klein.” Miss Klein had said all that was twenty years ago, and why on earth? She had been told it was merely a routine inquiry and had said, “Huh!” but had not seen any reason why not.