The Drowning Pool

by Jacqueline Seewald

  “Not another friend of Page.”

  Sarcasm was wasted on the captain; he never reacted to it.

  “You got it. And he wouldn’t be the only unhappy camper if Page doesn’t build further in Webster. Take Mayor Ryan, for example.”

  Should he start taking notes? Gardner felt like he was a student back in high school, but he listened politely without interruption.

  “The Mayor is also a friend of George Page, as it happens.”

  “I guess a person can never have too many friends,” Gardner said with a hint of irony, thinking of what Kim had said the other evening.

  “And I don’t have to tell you about the feud that the mayor and the chief are having. Now to some folks, it all seems like petty crap, but to those of us who understand the situation, we see that it’s a serious matter, a question of power and control with significant implications.”

  A question of who gets the most pay-offs. Gardner couldn’t help being cynical. He’d lived in the town enough years to suspect graft and corruption, not that he could really prove anything. They were too smooth for that. Hard evidence was difficult to come by. Then again, the entire state had been controlled by corrupt politicians for as long as he could remember.

  “So the mayor and the chief have put aside their personal differences to help Page?” Gardner surmised.

  Nash eyed him askance. “You implying something?”

  “Not a thing. I just find human behavior fascinating.”

  “Helping Page is the only thing the chief and the mayor agree on these days.” Nash cleared his throat and continued. “I’ve decided to keep you working evenings for a while. Since Bradshaw was whacked in the evening, and most of the people involved are available then, it seems the smart thing to do. Hope you don’t object.”

  “Would it matter? I’m sure my kids will be thrilled. You want to explain it to them?”

  Nash quickly sought to change the subject. “How’s St. Croix working out? You breaking her in?”

  “More like the other way around,” Gardner said with a wry smile.

  “I knew she wouldn’t be easy to work with. A real pistol. That’s why we gave her to you.”

  “Should I send a dozen roses as a thank-you?”

  “Don’t be a wise ass. The chief says she’s a first-rate cop. They wouldn’t have hired her otherwise.”

  “Unless the chief was under pressure from the mayor and the department had been criticized publicly because of its discriminatory policies.”

  Nash put up his hand as if to dismiss the matter. “Everybody knows Mayor Ryan is after the chief’s scalp.”

  “So now the department has its own female Jackie Robinson.”

  “Well, something like that,” Nash conceded. “Anyway, just get this murder solved as fast as possible so the big shots don’t come after our asses.”

  At that moment, a red-faced man bustled into the office, looked around quickly, eyes lighting on Nash.

  “Speak of the devil,” Nash muttered.

  “And he’ll hear you,” Gardner said.

  “Okay, where’s Chief Morgan?” the red-faced man demanded.

  “Not here right now, Mr. Mayor,” Nash responded.

  “Damn it! Where is he?”

  Gardner had never seen the mayor so angry; he was usually very affable and in control.

  “Really, sir, I have no idea,” Nash said.

  “Well, you can give him a message for me. Just say that this business of having his policemen harassing me won’t work. I don’t appreciate you guys following me around day and night, and I especially don’t like coming out and finding twenty-two tickets on the windshield of my car! It’s overkill. Gestapo tactics. And I’ll see to it that everyone knows about it too. The story is going to the newspapers. Make sure you tell him that. I know him for the crook he is, and I’m bringing the old fart up on charges of corruption and insubordination.” With that, Mayor Ryan stormed out of the office, furiously slamming the door behind him.

  “Jesus Christ!” Nash let out, “I can’t believe it!”

  Gardner made no response. He tried to avoid involving himself in petty local politics as much as possible. The chief considered himself above the law, and so far he’d gotten away with it. Mayors came and went but the chief stayed in power. As long as the chief did his job honestly, Gardner kept out of the political forum.

  Back at his own desk, Gardner got down to business. He phoned Herb Fitzpatrick and, after quickly disposing of the amenities, dug into the Bradshaw case.

  “What new info have you got for me?”

  “The knife we found is definitely the murder weapon. It matches up. No question that Bradshaw was killed in the utility room either. It was his blood, just as we suspected.”

  “That should make it easier. Oh, one other thing. Did you find any keys?”

  “The victim’s house keys? Yeah, they were still in his pants pocket, along with his wallet containing a hundred bucks or so and a bunch of credit cards. Your perp’s not a thief anyway.”

  “Never thought so. Find any keys that would open the utility room?”

  “Strictly negative.”

  “What else was on the body?”

  “Just the usual stuff—a half empty pack of cigarettes and an expensive lighter with the vic’s initials.”

  “Okay, thanks.”

  When Bert returned, they went over the information together. Gardner thought she seemed more involved—or was it just wishful thinking?

  “I still think the killer had to be a man,” she said.

  “How can you be sure?”

  “It’s obvious. Look, Bradshaw must have had an appointment to meet somebody there. He came straight from work. That utility room isn’t exactly a romantic hideaway. Did you get a whiff of the place? It reeks. Not the kind of place a guy uses for a bang.”

  “Don’t be too sure of that. I’ve seen stranger. If he meant a meeting to be kept secret, as in the case of a married woman, it might be the perfect spot.”

  She threw him a look of annoyance. “Clearly, he wanted his meeting kept private, but that only implies something confidential was being discussed. When we fished him out of the swimming pool, Bradshaw was fully clothed. We never even located a bathing suit that could have belonged to him. Sounds like business dealings to me. Maybe he confronted somebody—Martin Walling, for instance. Bradshaw could have told Walling he had evidence showing complicity in certain warehouse robberies.”

  “A decided possibility, but where did Walling get the keys to the utility room?”

  “From Sonny. Walling could have put the kid on the payroll. I think Walling hired him as an accomplice.” Bert’s dark eyes shone with intensity and total concentration. “Figure whoever put Bradshaw in the pool had to be strong. Sonny had the keys, and we know for a fact that he lied to us about how well he knew April Nevins. He could have helped Walling for more reasons than money. He had to feel jealous of Bradshaw muscling in on his territory. I say we break the kid down.”

  Gardner didn’t deny that Bert might have the solution to the homicide, but something bothered him, even if he wasn’t certain what it was.

  “Yes, we should have another talk with both Walling and the boy. But first, I’d like to finish questioning the rest of Bradshaw’s friends. Besides, it’s standard procedure to interrogate all possible suspects and witnesses before we go after anyone in particular.”

  Bert acquiesced grudgingly. “I guess you want to meet the Scofields.”

  “Looks like a good evening for making new friends. I keep losing the old ones.”

  Bert frowned at his tone of levity. She didn’t talk again until they reached the Scofields’ apartment. Mr. Scofield answered the door and led them up a flight of carpeted stairs into his living room. Gardner’s first impression of the Scofields was that they were a handsome couple. Louise Scofield had auburn hair stylishly coiffed, and large green eyes dominated her pretty face. Yet she gave the impression of being frail and vulnerable, partly
due perhaps to the unusual paleness of her milky skin. Although small-boned and of delicate build, her figure was as perfect as her face. On the other hand, Bill Scofield, equally attractive, seemed a different sort of person. He had a self-reliant, macho look about him, a determined hardness, as if he considered himself more than ready to cope with the world for his wife as well as himself.

  “Thank you for seeing us this evening. We understand that you were friends of Richard Bradshaw.”

  “Friends?” Scofield said. “Hardly. He and I played tennis together and sometimes chess. He was good at both games and offered a challenge. But we were never friends. Bradshaw wasn’t just competitive. There was a vicious aggressiveness about the man. He always had to prove he was better than anyone else.”

  “Mrs. Scofield, how would you characterize the deceased?”

  She didn’t answer immediately, sinking down on a chair instead. In a shimmering silk dress, she looked delectably cool. Gardner noted that the living room was furnished in a deceptively simple, modern style. Some original abstracts and landscapes hung on the living room walls, and he observed that the artist had signed with the initials L.S.

  “They’re waiting for an answer, Lou,” Scofield said. There was the slightest hint of a southern accent to his voice, giving it a softness that was in direct contrast to the harshness of his expression.

  “We knew Rick through Joan and Martin Walling. Joan and I became friendly in the beginning of the summer, but I never knew Rick well at all. Bill knew him much better.”

  “Did I?” Her husband’s response was acrid.

  Gardner studied Scofield. He was a tall man, over six feet. Scofield had sand-colored hair and sapphire eyes that suggested the coldness of a mountain lake.

  “Mr. Scofield, you mentioned Bradshaw was competitive. Aside from tennis or chess, how did he communicate or demonstrate that to you?”

  Scofield ducked his direct gaze. “Lots of small ways. He’d pull cute little tricks in front of the ladies to impress them and at the same time put me down. It was mostly subtle and not easy to explain.”

  “If you could give even one example, it might help us understand the kind of man Bradshaw was and give us a lead. Very often, the way to solving a murder of this kind is to find out as much about the victim as possible.”

  “I don’t see how that would help you, but all right. Bradshaw knew I had a fear of swimming underwater. One evening we were over at the pool with the Wallings and April Nevins. Bradshaw started needling me about my phobia, betting me I couldn’t swim half the length of the pool underwater. He claimed he could swim the whole distance at one shot, that he had the breathing technique down pat. For a heavy smoker, he did have surprisingly good wind. I told him if he wanted to show-off, that was his own business, not mine, but he wouldn’t let up. He even got Martin on his side—of course, that was no surprise. Walling was his stooge. When I flatly refused, he started making snide remarks about men who pretend they’ve got guts but are really cowards.”

  “No one took him seriously,” his wife said gently.

  “Didn’t they?” Scofield turned back to Gardner. “He made me look like a jerk in my wife’s eyes. Had a good laugh at my expense. Then he sat down with the women and basked in their admiration.”

  “Not mine,” came his wife’s quiet response.

  “That’s so much bull and you know it!” he fumed. “You ate up his attention like bonbons.”

  Louise Scofield’s great green eyes took on an apprehensive look. Gardner wondered what lay behind her fear. A more natural reaction to her husband’s apparent jealousy would have been anger rather than fright.

  “Lose your temper often?” Bert asked Scofield with a directness that was almost as unnerving as it was hostile.

  “I think of it as righteous indignation. You got some criticism of that?”

  “It all depends on what you got to feel righteous about.”

  Scofield’s eyes took on a metallic luster. His wife, by comparison, looked paler and more frightened than ever. Gardner decided to try and ease the tension in the room.

  “Mrs. Scofield, you don’t appear to be much of a sun worshipper.”

  “No, I go to the pool late in the day, use sun block and sit in a shaded area. I’m one of those very fair people who always seem to burn rather than tan.”

  “She gets sick if she’s out in the sun,” Scofield said.

  “You’re not in ill health I hope,” Gardner commented.

  “Oh, no,” she interjected hastily. “I just haven’t been feeling very well lately. Sort of a general malaise. Run-down I guess.”

  “She’s taken the last few days off from work. Bradshaw’s death really seems to be hitting her hard.”

  Louise was livid. “Stop it, Bill!”

  Out of the corner of his eyes, Gardner saw Bert clenching her fist.

  “Mr. Scofield, you obviously didn’t work with Bradshaw, did you?”

  “No, I’m happy to say that I did not. I’m in advertising.”

  “And Mrs. Scofield?”

  “Lou’s a commercial artist. In fact, that was how we met. She started working for the same agency I did.”

  “And you still work together?”

  “No, she’s stayed with the Baincroft Richardson ad agency in Manhattan. I’ve changed agencies since then. I got a better paying job elsewhere.”

  Mrs. Scofield stood up slowly and took a few steps toward the kitchenette.

  “Where are you going? Can’t you see they still have questions?”

  “I—I thought I’d see if the steaks were thawed for dinner.”

  “Well, sit down! If Bradshaw were here instead of being talked about, you’d probably be riveted to your chair.”

  Mrs. Scofield resumed her former place, head down, obviously intimidated. Bert moved toward Scofield; her face wore the same hard expression Gardner had observed in the diner when the snickering teenager had insulted her.

  “I don’t like the way you talk to your woman. Don’t dis her. Show some courtesy. That’s what a real man would do.”

  Gardner did not miss the grateful look Mrs. Scofield shot in Bert’s direction. Then she quickly cast her eyes downward again. Scofield looked surprised and taken back by Bert’s remark, and the hostility implied by her tone of voice.

  “Just a few more questions,” Gardner interceded smoothly. “Did Bradshaw give you cause to be jealous, or did he observe a weakness and simply play on it?”

  Scofield seemed just as surprised by the straightforward nature of Gardner’s question as he had by Bert’s hostility. He took a moment to collect himself before answering. “Bradshaw was always after Lou, trying to flirt with her, paying her compliments, sitting as near to her as he could possibly get.”

  “Doesn’t sound worth getting excited over,” Bert said.

  “Who are you to judge? You didn’t see the guy in action. He only let up a tad when I explained my personal philosophy to him. He actually blanched then. His face turned as white as the belly of a dead catfish.”

  “What philosophy would that be?” Gardner asked.

  “My attitude toward adultery.” Scofield flashed a quick, inscrutable glance at his wife.

  “You might explain it to us.”

  “It’s very simple. I believe if a man catches his wife in bed with another guy, the husband has every right, a duty, in fact, to kill both of them.”

  There was a moment of absolute silence in the room.

  “You don’t consider that harsh?” Gardner asked.

  “It’s justice. You think it sounds extreme? I say it’s fair.”

  “Most men would be satisfied with a divorce.”

  “I’m not most men! I was brought up to believe people should be made to pay for their transgressions.”

  Gardner glanced over at Mrs. Scofield. Her coloring resembled nothing so closely as a peeled summer squash. She rose abruptly to her feet, only to begin swaying unsteadily as if she were about to faint. Bert went to her, took hol
d of her arms and gently seated the young woman again. Mrs. Scofield gave Bert a small, grateful smile, but her eyes looked terribly sad.

  “Are you all right?” Bert asked with genuine concern.

  Lou’s hand rose to her forehead. “I was just a little dizzy for a moment. Everything suddenly went dark. As I said, I haven’t been feeling too well lately. I guess it must be a touch of the flu.” She folded her hands primly in her lap.

  “I am sorry, Mrs. Scofield,” Gardner apologized. “We don’t have any more questions for you. So if you’d like to lie down, please feel free.”

  “Thank you,” she said. Slowly, she got to her feet again and then left the room.

  They all watched her go, then Gardner turned back and faced Scofield, eyes meeting with direct contact.

  “Did you murder Richard Bradshaw?” He kept his tone of voice quiet but intense.

  “What? Of course not! I could have, should have, but I didn’t.” Scofield met his gaze unflinchingly.

  “Are you certain that your wife was having an affair with him?” He looked at Scofield directly.

  “That’s none of your goddamned business,” Scofield fired back, his face turning the color of a blood sun. The man was coming toward him, his fists raised, a savage expression on his face.

  “Take it easy,” Bert warned.

  “We’re through with our questions,” Gardner said. The last thing he needed was for them to get into a physical confrontation in this situation. Scofield backed off, and Gardner signaled Bert that it was time to leave.

  Once on the outside, Bert took long, rapid strides toward their parked car. “I would enjoy taking that bastard apart.”

  He decided that although Scofield was a big man, Bert was probably capable of doing a job on him.