State Department Murders

by Edward S. Aarons

  His clothing was a problem. The underbrush had done more damage than he had suspected last night, and he could hardly make a public appearance in that outfit.

  The problem was solved by Sally’s return. He heard her key in the door and then she came quickly inside, her arms laden with bundles, her hair disheveled by the breeze that took the edge off the summer sun. She was wearing oversized sun glasses that hid half her face. Cornell took the bundles from her.

  “Good morning.”

  “It’s not so good,” she said. She took off the glasses and looked at him coolly. “I’ve brought you some khaki slacks and a sport shirt and sun goggles. They ought to help.”

  She kept herself busy while he separated the canned groceries and coffee from the clothing she had purchased. He felt puzzled by the uncompromising stiffness of her back. When he put on the shirt, a gaudily designed rayon affair with enormous palm trees printed on it, he said, “Is anything wrong?”

  “No worse than it ought to be.” She went to the window and looked out at the sun-baked clearing. “Nothing to worry about.”

  He said, “Look, if something is wrong, let me know about it. There’s no reason for you to take a rap for me.”

  She looked at him. “Isn’t there?”

  “What’s wrong?” he repeated.

  Shrugging, she said, “I was mistaken last night. Kari Stone didn’t get away fast enough.”

  “She’s here?” Cornell demanded.

  “Don’t get upset. She’s at the Inn. Sort of under protective custody, I gathered.”

  “What about Paul Evarts?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Have they questioned Kari about me?”

  Sally said, “What do you think?”

  “All right,” he said. “It’s nothing for you to get so angry about, Sally.”

  “I’m glad you feel that way.”

  “I do.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  He frowned. “Look, I don’t understand—”

  “Don’t try,” Sally said. “Let’s have breakfast.”

  She buttered rolls and made a fresh pot of coffee and fried bacon and eggs. Cornell was silent, puzzled by her attitude. Something more than Kari’s capture must have disturbed her, but he couldn’t guess what it was. Her movements were all quick and angry. He lifted the drop leaf attached to the wall that served as a table, rummaged for the five-and-ten tableware, and set plates for Sally and himself. He looked at the door, expecting an interruption at any moment. Nothing happened. He turned to the girl with a growing impatience.

  “Get it off your chest,” he said. “It won’t work if you behave like this.”

  She brought the coffee to the table. “Last night I should have known it wouldn’t work, anyway. It was a mistake. You’re still in love with her, and I made a fool of myself.”

  “Are you still talking about Kari?”

  “Are there any others?” she asked.

  “Listen—”

  “All right, it’s not your fault. It was mine.”

  “That’s silly,” Cornell said. “You’re working yourself up over nothing at all.”

  “That’s right. Nothing at all.”

  “I didn’t mean it like that.”

  “I know.”

  “Look. There are other things to think about. How do the cops feel about me today?” he asked.

  The tension between them eased when Sally accepted the other subject. Her scouting expedition had paid off in concrete information. As far as she could tell, the roadblocks on all paths leading from the vicinity were being maintained. The police had issued a tri-state alarm, and the radio was full of the murder, mourning the assassination of a “great American.” Sally’s mimicry of the radio commentators’ eulogies was touched with bitter irony. Cornell wondered if she had known Jay Stone personally.

  “Are they looking only for me, or is it a general alarm?” he asked.

  “Just you, Barney. They’re calling you every name they can think of, from mad dog to Benedict Arnold.”

  “Has anybody mentioned Congressman Keach?”

  “Not a word. They’re only concerned with you. As far as the local, state, and federal cops are concerned, you evaded the Washington authorities on a tip that you were about to be arrested. They must be thinking of me.” Sally grimaced. “You came here to seek personal vengeance on Jason Stone for uncovering your traitorous activities. They’re not even using ‘alleged’ any more when they discuss Project Cirrus. Last night seems to have convinced everybody that the charges against you are true.”

  Cornell frowned. “What bothers me is how they knew I was here at all.”

  “Somebody tipped them off.” Sally shrugged.

  “But who?”

  “That’s the jackpot question,” she said.

  He didn’t want to think about it, but the choice was limited. There were Kari and Paul Evarts and Sally, herself. Or maybe Congressman Keach, who must have recognized him from the car. That would mean Jason Stone was already dead when Keach fled Overlook in such a hurry. And by the same token, Keach had to be classified with the others as a suspect.

  Sally tried her coffee and said, “They’re broadening the search for you every minute, Barney—which means that every hour you stay here will ease the pressure in Calvert Beach. They assume you’re on the run and putting as much distance as you can between yourself and the scene of the murder. Which makes this hideout perfect, for the time.”

  “I can’t just sit here indefinitely,” Cornell said.

  “You can, and you must.”

  “No. I’ve got to do something about this myself.”

  “Like what?” she asked.

  “I don’t know yet.”

  Sally said, “I thought you’d feel that way. That’s why I bought you the glad rags. With that shirt and the sun glasses, you might be able to pose as another tourist—especially with me hanging on your arm. The only trouble is, I’m afraid I won’t be much good to you. Johnny Acorn is at the Inn.”

  “Did he see you?”

  “No. I saw him first. At least, I hope so. But if he spots me, he’ll guess everything. Johnny is smart. He probably has a good idea of how I feel about you. He might even guess I brought you here last night, when he learns I haven’t shown up for work at the Bureau this morning. He’ll find out from Marge—his wife, I mean. We work together.”

  Cornell was silent. He was disturbed by the thought of Sally being involved in this mess. He didn’t have much hope of staying free for long. For all his wish to do something about clearing himself, he was faced by a blank wall. He didn’t know where to start. It was impossible to reach Kari at the Inn, if she was in protective custody. The outfit Sally had gotten for him was a flimsy disguise, at best. It might work in the immediate vicinity of Pheeney’s Landing, but if anyone looked at him twice, it would be all over.

  Nor could he stay here forever, either. He didn’t like to hole up like a frightened rabbit. Capture would be inevitable in that case too. He wished he could get in touch with Evarts to find out just how matters stood. Yet whatever happened, he couldn’t just sit still and wait.

  Sally refilled his coffee cup. She looked clean and wholesome, and the memory of last night suddenly filled him with unbearable pressure. She had left herself defenseless for him, and that was what bothered her, he decided. It was an awkward situation. Either that, or she was a consummate actress, still following a design of her own, without morals or scruples, for purposes still obscure. But looking at her, with the blue ribbon tied in her chestnut hair, he found it hard to believe she could be dangerous to him.

  She was saying, “There’s just one more thing, so far. According to the radio I heard, the cops claim that Overlook was ransacked and robbed. Is that true?”

  “It looked that way, from what I saw of it.”

  “The authorities seem pretty upset about some papers that may have been taken. They didn’t specify what the papers could be. The information was given out by Sam Hand
. Do you know who he is?”

  “Stone’s hatchet man. Secretary and bodyguard and general factotum,” Cornell said. “I’ve seen him, but never met him.”

  “Mr. Hand seems to be especially eager for your scalp. But more important, he’s concerned with retrieving what he called Jason Stone’s private file on this country’s most dangerous enemies. He said your name was in that file.”

  “Where was Sam Hand last night?” Cornell asked.

  “Alibied in Washington,” Sally said briefly.

  “Did they say anything about the message that sent away all the servants from Overlook yesterday?”

  “Hand came out flatly and said it was part of your scheme to assassinate Stone. The police agree.”

  Cornell was conscious of increasing frustration. Sam Hand was a new factor in a problem already too complex. He tried to remember what he knew of the man. He remembered Hand’s appearance—a giant of a man, with a keen intelligence that seemed destitute, however, of Stone’s originality. Hand had always bulked as Stone’s front man and spokesman, taking care of thousands of details that annoyed his employer. He was aware of Hand’s reputation for doglike devotion to Stone, but aside from these generalities, there was nothing more he could summon up from his memory. As for the missing papers, he had known last night that something had been taken from Overlook. He had heard of Stone’s private file before. Stone had made no secret, in the newspapers he owned, of having his own personal records of people and organizations he considered seditious. But Cornell himself had never encountered any real evidence that the records actually existed.

  He said, “We’d better add Sam to our list, regardless of his alibi. He might be the lad who got away from me.”

  Sally looked interested. “What lad?”

  He explained about the skulker he had glimpsed as he entered Stone’s reception room. “I couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman. He wore a queer sort of smock, and—”

  “A smock?” Sally interrupted.

  “That’s the impression I got, but—”

  “Wait a minute.” She got up quickly and crossed the room to pick up the coat he had worn last night. She came back and extended one of the sleeves to exhibit the elbow. “Where did you pick this up?”

  She was referring to a smear of bright yellow paint that marred the tweed. Staring at it, Cornell remembered the touch of pigment he had got on his hand when he leaned against the rail of the boathouse balcony the night before.

  “At Overlook,” he said. “Something must have been freshly painted there.”

  “This isn’t house paint,” Sally said. “This is an artist’s pigment. Cadmium yellow, or I haven’t been an amateur colorist for all these years. Where could it have come from?”

  Cornell said, “There are plenty of artists in the village. A whole colony of them.”

  “Sure. And one of them was at Overlook last night.”

  “But—”

  “You said you saw someone in a smock, didn’t you?” She looked at him with triumph. “Well?”

  “It makes sense,” he admitted.

  “Of course it makes sense. There was some sort of brawl going on in that studio on Main Street Yvan Rulov’s place.” Sally’s voice was excited. “One of them might have taken advantage of the vodka to slip out unnoticed and pay Jason Stone a visit! We don’t know why, but that’s something we can find out. Who and why. It’s a starting point, and it’s the best we have.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CORNELL looked out at the sun-baked scene beyond the cabin. Now there was a little more activity in the hot glare of light. Two women were washing clothes, fifty feet away. A rattletrap Ford came bouncing down the rutted, dusty road and crossed the clearing toward Kelly’s Bar. The tavern was open, inviting half a dozen men who loitered on the oyster piers. The Ford stopped in front of Kelly’s and a fat man, wearing a dusty white Panama and sporting wide suspenders that held up his baggy linen trousers, climbed out and stared at the glittering bay before going inside. Nothing looked suspicious or dangerous in the placid morning scene.

  Sally spoke behind him, her voice firm. “Don’t give it a thought, Barney. You can’t go into the village in daylight.”

  “Then who’s going to check on the artist we were talking about?”

  “I will,” Sally said. “As long as Johnny Acorn doesn’t spot me, I can get around without suspicion. Anyway, one of us will have to keep tabs on official developments, and Hannigan has taken quite a fancy to me.”

  “Hannigan?”

  “Gootsie’s friend—the local cop.” She mimicked a Southern drawl. “He jes loves to enlighten po li’l me!”

  Cornell met her grin with a frown. “I don’t want you to stick your neck out, Sally.”

  “It’s my neck,” she pointed out. “I’ll be all right, anyway. You’re the one who has to be careful. If you do feel you have to step outside, don’t leave the Landing. Nobody will pay any attention to you around here.”

  Half an hour later, Sally backed her small coupé out of its parking place. Her hair shone warmly in the sunshine, and the ribbon in it matched her blue eyes. The tires picked up puffs of dust as she went bumping into the dirt road beyond the proprietor’s house. When the sound of the motor faded through the woods, Cornell felt a great emptiness.

  For the first time he felt acutely alone. The cabin was growing warm under the hot sun, and his steps echoed impatiently as he cleaned up the breakfast dishes. He looked at himself in the mirror. Gaudy enough, he decided, with the green palm trees and the loose khaki slacks. With the sun glasses, he might pass as a tourist.

  He smoked a cigarette and washed the coffeepot. Sally had forgotten to get him a razor. Probably Kelly’s sold all sorts of supplies to the cabin patrons. He knew he was just seeking an excuse to go out, and he decided he didn’t need any excuse at all. Nothing would happen here. There might be a radio in Kelly’s too, and he could learn how things stood at firsthand.

  Cornell put down the coffeepot, dried his hands, and looked into his wallet. He had enough money for a week. He took his driver’s license and every identifying card in the wallet, and carefully tore them all to bits and flushed them down the toilet. Then he stepped outside.

  The two women had finished their washing and were standing under a shade tree, talking. One of them glanced at him and smiled. Their talk increased. Cornell stuck his hands in his pockets and sauntered in the direction of the bar. The sun was hotter than he had suspected, and he felt the quick dampness of perspiration under the gaudy shirt.

  A long lanky man with a pronounced potbelly like a football under his belt sat on the porch of the main house at the camp entrance. He had his feet up on the rail, and a small, tired-looking woman sat in a rocker beside him, shelling peas. The man was talking in a rather loud voice, and Cornell had almost walked by before he realized he had been hailed.

  “Mr. Smith!”

  Definitely, the man had addressed him. Turning, he walked across the dusty yard toward the porch.

  “Good morning.”

  “’Morning, Mr. Smith,” said the man. “I’m Kelly.”

  Cornell nodded. The woman didn’t look at him, after the first glance. Cornell wondered what had possessed Sally to use her own name when registering for the cabin. He was conscious of a tightening tension under the man’s small-eyed stare.

  “Get a good night’s sleep?” Kelly asked, and leered.

  He understood, then. Sally had spread it on thick about their being honeymooners. He met Kelly with a grin.

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “Got a nice little wife there, you have.”

  “Thanks,” Cornell said again.

  Kelly winked. “Hope you enjoy your stay here.”

  “We will,” he said. “Everything is fine.”

  Kelly snickered. “Any man in your shoes better not say anything else!”

  “I’m not complaining,” Cornell said.

  After a moment, he turned and walked away. An urge to move
fast made his legs tremble. He controlled it, as well as his limp, as best he could. Nothing had been said about the murder. He felt relieved that he had passed at least one inspection. But when he turned at the entrance to the bar and looked back, the porch was empty. Kelly and his wife were gone.

  It didn’t have to mean anything, he decided.

  The shed was dim and cool, with a low beamed ceiling and a long bar, and a grocery division at the far end. Water lapped at the pilings under the floor. Cornell paused inside the screen door and started to lift his sun glasses because of the dimness, then thought better of it. The fat man who had entered earlier was not in sight. A slim, white-haired woman was picking over the canned groceries. A pimply-faced adolescent worked the pinball machine. Cornell turned toward the bar.

  “Coke,” he said, “A razor, too.”

  “Blades?”

  “The whole outfit,” Cornell said.

  “I reckon we can dig one up.”

  The bartender was a small man with slow, sad eyes and an exhausted stoop. He uncapped a bottle and handed it to Cornell, then rummaged behind the cash register. The Coke was tepid. Behind him, the pinball machine whirled and clicked. The woman shopper began to argue querulously with the barman about the price of her groceries. The barman was patient. Eventually he came back and slid a packaged safety razor across the bar to Cornell.

  “Cream? Soap?”

  “Brushes,” Cornell said.

  He finally spotted what he had been looking for—a small radio on a shelf near the pinball machine. He went over and switched it on in time to catch a syrupy commercial. The towheaded boy looked up and said:

  “Next news broadcast at eleven, mister.”

  “Anything new?”

  “They ain’t got him yet.”

  The barman said, “They will. I never saw so many cops around here in my life. The G-men will get him. Them Communists ain’t so smart.”