The Long Skeleton

by Frances

  The effect on Bronsky himself of this difference of opinion, with Parkman on one side and science on the other, was nonexistent. Bronsky had started bonfires also in Brooklyn churches, and a Kings County judge took a look at him and had him sent to Matteawan. But Parkman had had his moment.

  A good many letters were written to newspapers about the incident, and all those in the Herald Tribune and most of those in the Times agreed with Judge Parkman that it was indeed high time, that even-handed justice (as personified in Judge Parkman) should be exercised, and that if “do-gooders” had their way, as they had had ever since Franklin Delano Roosevelt was mistakenly allowed to occupy the White House, the moral fiber of the country would be left in tatters. “Must We Coddle Criminals?” the Journal American asked, in a vigorous editorial, and concluded that we mustn’t.

  Whether this example of judicial highmindedness was a major factor in Judge Parkman’s subsequent, if unfortunately brief, rise to favor in party ranks could only be guessed about. Judge Parkman had other suitable attributes. He was a rich man, for one thing, and he had made frequent and gratifying contributions to party funds; he was a corporation lawyer of reasonable standing before his elevation to the bench, and again after his descent from it. He was a vestryman of note; his advocacy of what were termed “right to work” laws was as firm as his rejection of minimum wage laws was vigorous. He had taken an unwavering stand against rent control legislation and, while he recognized the place of labor unionism in the social scheme, he warned that many unions had long since stepped out of it.

  In short, Judge Parkman had appeared a natural for a nice nomination—lieutenant governor, perhaps—until he had responded with too little caution to the gentle promptings of Amanda Towne. That, it was generally felt in political circles, had done him in. The firmest rejection of coddling, of the welfare state, was thereafter not enough. To win as a Republican in New York State it is necessary to pick up at least some votes in New York City. And New York City is polyglot, and varicolored. Unless the whole matter blew over, which it was not going to if the Democrats could help it, Judge Parkman had had it.

  Judge Parkman might well, Bill Weigand thought, ringing the doorbell of a sedate and private house on one of the best blocks in the East Sixties, have taken a dislike to Amanda Towne. Even a rather violent dislike. But still—

  “Is Judge Parkman in?” Bill asked a butler, who looked at him with austerity.

  “I will have to—” the butler began, and Bill said, “Captain Weigand. Of the police.” To that, the butler said, “Oh,” in a disparaging tone, but opened the door a little wider. Bill went into a foyer and found Sergeant Mullins sitting there, in what amounted to outer darkness, facing sliding doors which were closed against him. Mullins sat on a small wooden chair with a knobby back—a chair not really planned for sitting on. He stood up, thankfully, when Bill came in and they waited while the butler knocked at the sliding doors and then, encouraged by a “Yes?” from within, opened only one of them—there were gradations in these matters, Bill thought with amusement—and said, “A man from the police, sir.”

  There was a snort from beyond the door.

  “Judge Parkman will see you,” the butler said, with the air of one who cannot imagine why. Bill Weigand led the way through the door and Mullins went after him. The butler looked at Mullins sharply; Mullins returned the look. The butler drew back a little, enlarging the aperture.

  Judge Parkman was a big man—a big man with a ruddy face and white hair and an expression of indignation which seemed, Bill thought, to have found permanent tenancy.

  “So you’re the one,” Judge Parkman said, without rising from a deep leather chair. “What is the explanation?”

  “Explanation?” Bill repeated, and was bland. “Of what, judge?”

  He was told he knew very well what. He was told that he had exceeded his authority.

  “Prying into my private affairs,” Judge Parkman said. “Snooping around among my associates. Permitting these men of yours”—he glared at Mullins, with that—“to make slanderous implications.” He glared at Bill. “You may as well know,” he said, “that I have consulted counsel.”

  “Right,” Bill said. “Very understandable. And—he advised that you return home, didn’t he, judge? To answer whatever proper questions we might want to ask, since you have nothing to hide?”

  “It is,” Judge Parkman said, “none of your concern what passed between myself and my legal adviser. As a police officer, you should know that.”

  “Right,” Bill said again. “Nevertheless, you have returned home. Do you mind telling me why you left so—precipitately?”

  “Yes,” Judge Parkman said. “I do mind. And—what do you mean precipitately? I decided to take a few days’ rest. To get away from busybodies. People who are trying to make political capital out of—” He stopped abruptly, apparently feeling that he was once again saying more than he would be wise to say. “And I hear that your people are nosing around in my private affairs,” he said. “Among my associates. Well?”

  He glared up at Bill Weigand, who looked down at him with no special expression.

  “Suppose,” Bill said, “I put it to you this way, judge. That you know quite well we are making an investigation of the murder of a woman named Amanda Towne. Of her husband, a man named Russell Barnes. A few hours after Barnes is killed, you—”

  Judge Parkman’s face turned very red indeed—so red that Bill was reminded of Deputy Chief Inspector Artemus O’Malley. He thought that, on the whole, he much preferred O’Malley.

  “You have the effrontery to stand there—” Judge Parkman said, and this time Bill Weigand interrupted.

  “Yes,” he said. “You were—probably—encouraged to make certain statements during an interview with Miss Towne. As a result of these statements—or, say, of the interpretation put on them—there was a good deal of talk. Adverse talk. Adverse to your political—ambitions.”

  “I,” Judge Parkman said, and now spoke a little as if he were addressing a meeting, “have no political ambitions. If called upon by my party to—”

  “Right,” Bill said. “I don’t say you have. Or had. It would, I’d think, be natural, in any case and under the circumstances, if you felt some resentment toward Miss Towne. Perhaps a great deal of resentment. Perhaps you even felt that she was—put up to it?”

  “I wouldn’t put it past people like that,” Judge Parkman said. “Everybody knows that people like that are a bunch of Communists at bottom. Communistic eggheads. Read Red Channels. Got it down in black and—” He stopped. He stared at Weigand. “How about you?” he demanded. “Wouldn’t be the first policeman.”

  Bill Weigand kept his temper. This was something of a strain.

  “I know nothing about Miss Towne’s—political background,” he said, evenly. “Not that it has anything to do with the matter. Obviously, you disliked her. She was killed. At almost the same time you leave your house. Nobody knows where you’ve gone. Or admits knowing. Your wife doesn’t. Naturally, we try to get in touch with you. You must have realized we’d want to talk to you. Along with a good many other people.”

  “When I left here,” Judge Parkman said, “to get away from all this tempest in a teacup, I didn’t know that the Towne woman was dead. Or that even a bungling policeman would think that I—I would have any information to give. Mrs. Parkman, of course, knew where I had gone. And why.”

  “Then,” Bill said, “she wasn’t frank with the police, was she? You’ve been a judge and—”

  “I didn’t know you people would be nosing around,” Parkman said. “How would I? I don’t say I’d have suggested—anyway, I’m here now.”

  Because his lawyer told him to be, Bill thought. Or—because he had arranged a story?

  “Do you mind saying where you were?”

  “Yes. I do mind.”

  “Right,” Bill said. “Leave that for the moment. Where were you Wednesday evening? Between, say, seven and around nine or so?”
/>
  Judge Parkman shook his head. He was quieter now. His eyes, which had been suffused, were sharper, now, and narrower. “No,” he said. “No concern of yours.”

  “Right,” Bill said. “Did you, at a little after seven, telephone Miss Towne at her apartment at the Breckenridge? Agree either to join her there, or to meet her some place else?”

  “That’s preposterous.”

  “Did you?”

  “Certainly not. Why would I want to see her? The fat was in—certainly not.” His eyes were very narrow now. “Does somebody say I did?”

  “We,” Bill told him, “have certain information.”

  “Your information is inaccurate. Or—somebody is stringing you along.”

  Bill merely looked at him.

  “Yes,” Parkman said, and spoke with confidence. “Before you go farther out on a limb. I can prove where I was. If it becomes necessary.”

  “You don’t think it’s necessary now?”

  “I do not, captain.”

  “I suppose,” Bill said, “the same answer applies to the next afternoon? From, say, about four o’clock on? From then until you packed a suitcase and left here, and told your wife—and the butler, I suppose—not to say where you could be found?”

  “Yes. For the time being, at any rate.”

  “Did you know Barnes? Russell Barnes. A copyreader on the Globe-Dispatch?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t run into him at the Breckenridge Wednesday evening? At his wife’s apartment, for example?”

  “No. You’re wasting time, aren’t you? Yours and mine?”

  “Apparently,” Bill said. “You’re a lawyer. You’ve been a judge. As a police officer, I ask you to co-operate.”

  “Very proper phrasing,” Judge Parkman said. “No. I have no information which would assist in your investigation. You get that down, sergeant?”

  Mullins looked at him with disfavor. Mullins said, “Yes.”

  “Get this down,” Judge Parkman said. “I categorically deny any knowledge of the circumstances surrounding the deaths of Mrs. Amanda Barnes, known also as Amanda Towne, and Russell Barnes, reputedly her husband. Have you got that down?”

  “Yes,” Mullins said, although he had not touched pencil to paper.

  “Then,” Judge Parkman said, and stood up—a large and heavy man, with a face again suffused—“get the hell out of here. Both of you.”

  “Right,” Bill said.

  “And stay the hell out of my affairs.”

  “No,” Bill said. “You know better than that, judge.”

  “So now, loot?” Mullins said, in the car outside. “It ’ud be a pleasure.”

  Weigand did not need to ask what would give Sergeant Mullins pleasure. He agreed entirely.

  “We keep after it?” Mullins said, and Bill said, “Right. For the time being.”

  “So you don’t,” Mullins said. “I guess I don’t either. All the same, it ’ud be a pleasure.”

  He turned on the radio and the car was filled with the grating of police talk. None of it appeared to concern them.

  Bill drove Mullins to the nearest subway, told him to knock it off for the night, and drove himself home. He had rather expected to find the Norths, fugitive from painters, still there, but he did not.

  “Jerry decided he had to go home and read something,” Dorian explained. “Was it important, Bill?”

  “Miss Towne had been trying to get information about Cunningham,” Bill told her. “Judge Parkman didn’t do it, he says.”

  She looked up at him.

  “I’m afraid he’s right,” Bill said. “Although as Mullins says, it would be a pleasure.”

  “Dear Mullins,” Dorian said. “Such a right-thinking man,” and reached her hands up. Bill pulled her from the chair, and to the place she belonged. Presently, when the opportunity arose, she suggested they might merely take the telephone off the hook.

  “If,” Bill said, “I weren’t a policeman.”

  It couldn’t be helped, Dorian said—Dorian, who, a fairly long time ago now, had fought against his being a policeman, and against herself and, losing, won. It was surprising, they both thought, and neither needed to say, how little difference years really made in things which mattered most.

  Pamela North dreamed she was being smothered by, of all people, Deputy Chief Inspector Artemus O’Malley. He was pressing a pillow over her face and, however much she struggled—and she struggled with every nerve and muscle—she could not get free of the pillow, or back to the air again. But then there was a loud sound—somebody had shot Inspector O’Malley, obviously and just in time—and a dazzling light.

  “You’ll catch your death,” Jerry said, looking at his wife, who—fighting against the pillow of death—had writhed out of covers, and more.

  “O’Malley tried to kill me,” she told him. “Only it was the paint, I suppose. But you shot him just in time. Jerry! Why on earth aren’t you asleep? Instead of shooting people and turning on lights?”

  She pulled bedclothes up.

  “Oh,” Jerry said, returning to the matter at hand. “I want you to read something.”

  “Read something?” Pam said. “At this—” she looked at the watch on her wrist—“hour,” she said. “Two o’clock in the morning. I know you’re a publisher and everything but—What?”

  Jerry held a fairly heavy book, and held fingers between pages. He opened the book and said, “Start at the top of this page.” He sat down on his own bed, and lighted a cigarette and watched her read.

  “My goodness,” Pam said, at the bottom of the page, and looked up at Jerry.

  “Go ahead,” he told her, morosely, and she went ahead. “Oo-h!” Pam said at the middle of the next page, and at the bottom of the third she said, “Ouch.” She read on; Jerry had stubbed out his cigarette by the time she lowered the book and looked at him.

  “Something, isn’t it?” Jerry said. “I remembered it vaguely, and it took quite a while to find it.”

  “He can do something about it, can’t he?” Pam said.

  “And,” Jerry North said, “how.”

  “Kingsley agrees—what’s the phrase?—‘to hold you harmless against any claim’ or whatever it is. Isn’t that in the contract?”

  It was in the contract. It was always in the contract.

  “And all the same,” Jerry said, “he can sue the shirts off our backs.”

  He reached over and picked the book up from Pam’s bed and looked at it with resentment—a resentment as deep as love had once been deep.

  He put Look Away, Stranger, by Byron Kingsley, on the table between their beds, and handled it as if it burned his fingers.

  It took a long time to arouse Tony Gray on Saturday morning. Bill Weigand put his finger on the bell push and kept it there, and heard the bell shrilling in the apartment, but heard nothing else. He tried knocking, and was unanswered. He tried the bell again—Gray slept soundly, or was not at home. Or might, of course, be dead, which would really tie things—and especially Deputy Chief Inspector Artemus O’Malley—into knots.

  Tony Gray opened the door, wearing the bottom half of pajamas and an expression of outrage. He was by no means dead. He was bristlingly alive; his red hair bristled. “What the hell?” he demanded, in the anguished tone of a man much put upon. But then he said, “Oh—you.”

  “Yes,” Bill said. “Sorry, Mr. Gray.”

  “Just an hour ago,” Gray said, “I finally got to sleep. What do you want at this—this obscene hour?”

  The hour was a little short of nine o’clock. Bill, however, felt sympathy. He repeated that he was sorry. He wanted what he always wanted, information. What did Mr. Gray know about a man named Cunningham?

  Gray repeated the name. He said he didn’t know a thing. He amplified. But then he said that Weigand might as well come in. Weigand went in. “Who’s Cunningham?” Gray asked. “Never heard of him.”

  Cunningham was an old friend of Amanda Towne. He lived in Arkansas, or had. He might n
ow be in New York. Miss Towne had been trying to get in touch with him—trying through contacts in Little Rock, and, it appeared, getting nowhere. Presumably—or, at any rate, possibly—she had hoped to get further background information for her interview with Byron Kingsley. Kingsley had known Cunningham.

  “All news to me,” Gray said. “And—that’s sort of funny. I suppose that’s why you’re around at this nauseating hour?”

  It was. Gray had been gathering information on Kingsley, preliminary to the interview which had never been held. Wouldn’t he, in the normal course, have been the one to probe further into Kingsley’s background, if further probing was indicated?

  “You’re damn right,” Gray said. “It’s sort of funny. I’ll give you that. Standard order of procedure, she gave me a name, and said, ‘Research him.’ If it was a him. And, left it to me.”

  She had issued the instructions in this case but, apparently, she had not actually left it to him. He had done the usual things—got biographical material from the publicity department of North Books, Inc., read “that damn long book” for Mandy and marked passages she might want to quote, to reveal that intimate knowledge of a work of literature so desirable in one who interviews its author; had himself talked to Kingsley at some length, seeking personality “gimmicks,” making notes thereon and submitting the results to Amanda Towne.

  “Asked her what more she wanted,” he said. “Did she think I’d missed anything? She said she’d go through it and let me know and, next day or so, said she had and that she thought we had plenty. Nothing about any special angle in the past, or in Arkansas. Nothing about anybody named Cunningham.”