“I’ve been thinking, Lois,” he said. “We’ve known each other a long time. You were only a baby when I used to see you down at the pool. You may not like me, but I think you respect my judgment.”
“I suppose I do, Ridge. I never thought about it.”
“All right. Let’s say you trust me, anyhow. I’ll admit I’ve been in touch with the police ever since that woman was killed at the pool. Has it occurred to you that Judith might have been the one who carried Phil’s golf club there?”
“Of course not. Why would she?”
“Suppose she was meeting someone—the Benjamin woman perhaps—and was afraid. After all, it was midnight. She might have carried it for her own defense.”
“And killed her with it?”
“Not necessarily. The blow was not fatal. The woman may have been dazed by it, and later fell into the pool.”
“The police don’t think that.”
“They’re not saying what they think,” he said irascibly. “I’m asking you. Did she know the woman? Had she made an appointment to meet her, by letter or telephone?”
“Not that I know of, Ridge. Anyhow I can’t see Judith, terrified as she was, going down to the pool in the middle of the night. You know we’ve had a man loitering about the place, don’t you?”
“So I understand. Have you no idea who it is?”
“No. I think the police believe we invented him.”
He made no comment on that. Instead he wandered over to the fireplace, and stood looking at the Laszlo portrait of Mother. It reminded me of something Anne had once said, and of my talk with Helga that morning.
“I’ve been wanting to ask you a rather personal question, Ridge,” I said. “Anne has always believed you financed the Arizona trip after Father’s death and the crash. If you did, and Judith resented it—”
“Judith never resented anything to do with money, my dear.”
“I am only trying to account for why she left you,” I said uncomfortably. “It was kind of you, of course. Mother had no money sense, either.”
“On the contrary,” he said, his voice low and slightly acid, “she had an excellent money sense. I was younger than I am now, and very much in love. So when she came to me after your father’s death and said she was in trouble, I helped her.” He hesitated, then he smiled. “I helped her to the tune of fifty thousand dollars in cash.”
They left soon after, Anne in a bad humor because Judith would not answer any of her questions, Ridge almost certainly regretting what he had told me. We had had only a moment or so before Anne came in, and I was too stunned to think clearly.
“I can’t believe it, Ridge,” I managed at last. “What sort of trouble? Surely Mother told you.”
He cocked his head on one side, after a habit he had which always annoyed me.
“If I told you I didn’t know, you wouldn’t believe me, would you?”
“I don’t think you’d give her all that money without a pretty good reason.”
“There might have been a quid pro quo, you know, my dear.”
“You mean—Judith?”
“That’s rather a crude way of putting it, isn’t it?”
“Did she know about it?”
“Not then. She may have learned it later. You might give me credit for sticking to my bargain, too. It hasn’t always been easy.”
Then Anne came in and soon they were gone. I was still somewhat dazed when I went upstairs. Judith’s door was closed and Helga was sitting in the hall, in case she needed anything.
She looked at me sharply.
“You’d better get some sleep, child,” she said. “What was Ridge Chandler doing here? It’s no place for him.”
“He thought Judith was putting on an act.”
She sniffed indignantly and I left her there. But I did not go to bed. I wanted to get out of the house and think. Too much had happened in the last few hours. Not only Judith’s attempt at suicide and the attack on O’Brien. Both Phil and I were under suspicion of murder, and this time I had no one to help me. Up to then I had never felt entirely alone. I had carried my problems to the cottage, and had come away with renewed courage. Even the last time I had seen O’Brien before he was shot, and when he kissed me—
From the porch I could hear water running upstairs, and knew the men were awake. But I did not want to talk to them, or to anybody.
Instead I went down to the cottage. The police had left the key on the hall table after they had finished with it. I took it and went down the drive. Someone had released the chickens and apparently fed them, for they were clucking contentedly. But I found myself trembling as I unlocked the door and went in.
With the exception of the stained rug, which had been taken away, the place was orderly enough. The telephone was in place, and except for a dusting of powder here and there for fingerprints and the shabby look of the big chair without its cover it looked much as usual. Rather to my surprise the contents of the table drawer were still there, clippings and all, although they had certainly been examined. And, realizing how some of them related to the Benjamin woman, I knew O’Brien would eventually be in for a stiff grilling about them.
I did not touch them, but I picked up the photograph of Walter Benjamin and held it under the lamp. With my hand over the beard the face looked vaguely familiar, especially me eyes. Otherwise I did not recognize it, but I took it with me when I went back to the house.
The men were eating a belated breakfast in the dining-room, or rather Bill was. Phil was having only coffee. He looked half sick, as well he might, but he attempted a smile.
“Don’t tell me condemned men eat large meals before they go to the chair,” he said. “The very sight of Bill and four eggs makes me shudder.”
I took the chair beside him and put the photograph in front of him. He gazed at it without interest.
“Who is the hairy ape?” he inquired. “Friend of yours?”
“Put your hand over the beard and see if you know him, Phil.”
He tried it, but he shook his head.
“Reminds me of somebody,” he said, “only I don’t know who. Don’t tell me that’s Judith’s persistent lover. She doesn’t go for whiskers.”
It was still on the table when Helga came in with the grocery list. She gave it a long careful look and suddenly dropped the pencil and pad she was holding. I thought she was going to faint.
Chapter 22
THE NEXT TWO OR three days passed with maddening slowness. O’Brien was in the hospital in town and gradually improving. I believe Phil saw him at least once, but only for a few minutes. He had apparently no idea who had shot him, or why. According to Fowler, he had been unable to sleep because of the heat and had gone out to the bench by the pool. He had been lighting a cigarette when it happened.
The shots had come from the shrubbery across the pool, he thought, but he had been unconscious for some time. It was daylight when he managed to reach the cottage. He had tried to telephone for help, but the phone fell, and he passed out again. He had had intervals of consciousness after that. During one he had tried to get up and find a ligature of some sort for his leg, but by that time he was too weak to move.
I listened, trying to conceal my surprise. He had not once mentioned the man who had been haunting The Birches. Whatever his reason was I could not imagine, but that he had one I did not doubt. They had recovered one bullet. The other had gone through his leg and was never found. He had been right, however, about the shrubbery. The police found the shell among the rhododendrons where an automatic pistol had ejected it. But Fowler came to me house one morning and asked for me. Phil had gone, and I had just hung up after calling the hospital. He must have heard me from the porch, for there was an odd glint in his eyes.
“You and O’Brien are pretty good friends, aren’t you?” he observed.
“We get along,” I said cautiously.
“That all? They tell me he’s asking to see you.”
I felt absurdly cheered but Fowler ha
dn’t finished.
“I have an idea,” he went on, watching me, “you knew who he was when he came here. Knew why, too. I think it’s time we had a little talk, Miss Maynard. Don’t you?”
“I can’t think why,” I said. We were both standing and I didn’t ask him to sit down. I had no idea what he wanted but I felt myself stiffening.
“No?” he said. “Well, tell me this. O’Brien goes out sometimes in the night because it’s hot and he can’t sleep. That’s all right. It could be. But why should a man only hunting a breeze carry his gun with him? Because that’s what he did. It was under the bench.”
“Are you trying to say he shot himself?” I said, startled.
“No. It hadn’t been fired. I’m saying he was out there gunning for somebody, only the other fellow got him first.”
I made a feeble protest.
“I’ve told you,” I said. “We’ve had a man lurking about the place for weeks. Only you don’t believe me.”
“So O’Brien sets out to shoot him! That’s pretty drastic, Miss Maynard, even for a New York cop.”
He left on that. It was no use telling him O’Brien was merely trying to protect us. He had had the story of our nightly visitor over and over. But I was thoughtful as I went up to Judith.
She did not notice. Ever since we had found her she had simply lain in her bed, with her poor wrists bandaged and her doors locked most of the time. She offered no explanation of what she had done, but she was gentler than I had ever seen her, and grateful for what little I could do for her. She had lost most of her beauty, too. Her face looked pinched and white, and without makeup she was almost plain.
I was trying to induce her to eat some lunch that day when I heard the telephone. I answered it myself, fearful as I had been all along that the press would get the story. It was not a reporter, however. It was O’Brien!
I almost dropped the receiver when I heard his voice, remote but clear.
“Is that you, Lois?”
“Yes. For heaven’s sake what are you doing on the phone?”
“Never mind that, and get this quick, while the goddam nurse is out of the room. Got a pad there?”
“Yes. What is it?”
“Take this down. ‘A. Morrison. Insist stop further efforts immediately, and contact me.’ Sign it ‘T.O.’ Get it?”
“What am I to do with it?”
“Put it in all the New York papers, under Public Notices or the Personal column. How soon can you do it?”
“This afternoon, if you’re in a hurry. But what’s it all about? I don’t understand.”
His voice was flagging, however. He said to keep it to myself. Then he muttered something about the nurse coming in, and hung up abruptly. I stood there looking at the pad in my hand. Whatever it meant to someone it meant nothing to me. But it was important. There had been urgency in his voice, in the very effort he had made to call me.
With Helga looking after Judith I caught the next train to town and left the notices as he had instructed. None of the people receiving them did more than count the words. I suppose they are accustomed to cryptic messages, but I felt self-conscious as I handed them in.
It was four o’clock when I finished, which left me an hour and a half until Phil’s train. I had time to see Doctor Townsend if he was still in his office. I was lucky. He was there, and Miss Robey, his nurse, was even agreeable.
“We have been wondering about Mrs. Chandler,” she said. “We haven’t heard from her for some time.”
“She hasn’t been very well. Is there a chance I can see the doctor?”
She said I could, although I would have to wait awhile, and eyed me with considerable curiosity.
“I see by the papers you have had a shooting at your place,” she said. “Not serious, I hope.”
“It was probably accidental,” I said mendaciously. “The man was a tenant. He rented a small cottage of ours. But there is always somebody shooting in our part of the country. Of course, it’s not deer season, but the natives don’t bother about that.”
I smiled. So did she. I don’t think she believed me, but at least it ended the conversation. She went back to the desk in her small office, and before long a buzzer rang and she disappeared. By the usual system the previous patient had gone out by a different door, so I found the doctor alone. He got up, waved me to a chair, and sat down again.
“I’m glad to see you,” he said. “Quite frankly I don’t like the way things look. How is your sister?”
“You know about it, then?”
“Your brother called me soon after it happened. He couldn’t say much over the telephone, but I got the general idea. Have you any idea what drove her to what she did? Did anything happen to cause any sudden depression?”
“Not to her, at least not that I know of. She’s been very nervous, of course, and when Mr. O’Brien was shot we were pretty much upset. But I think she related the shooting to herself; as though it was part of the plan to murder her. It sounds silly, but I’m sure that’s what she believes.”
“I don’t see the connection.”
“It’s not easy,” I said. “But this O’Brien is a police officer from Homicide here in town. I think he was there to protect her, or partly so, anyhow. Then when she thought he’d been killed—”
“What do you mean by ‘partly so’? Was there another reason?”
“I don’t know, Doctor. It’s a long story, if you have time for it.”
He glanced at his watch. “I’ll make time, Miss Maynard,” he decided. “I’ve failed in your sister’s case, and I don’t like failure. Does this story relate to her?”
“Only in part,” I said. “It began a long time ago, when a Homicide inspector here in New York was shot and killed. His name was Flaherty, and Lieutenant O’Brien was fond of him. He’s never given up the case entirely, and lately I think he felt he was making some progress.”
I told him what I knew. It took some time, as I had said, but he listened carefully: from Judith’s sudden intention to divorce her husband to her fainting on the train; from the Benjamin woman’s death to O’Brien’s asking me to locate her home and my breaking into it, including the bankbooks and clippings I had found; and from the strange man who threw me into the pool to Judith’s attempt at suicide.
Carefully schooled as he was, he looked more and more astonished.
“It’s certainly puzzling,” he said. “And you’ve had quite a time yourself. The wonder is that it isn’t you who cut your wrists! I gather you think your sister really made a serious attempt at suicide.”
“She had locked herself off from any help. I only found her by climbing a ladder and going in through a window.”
He smiled for the first time.
“You are rather an amazing young woman,” he said. “I don’t have many like you here.” Then he became professional again. “Was there enough of the barbiturate to have killed her?”
“The doctor thinks so. I suppose the idea was to put herself to sleep while the—the other thing went on.”
“To sleep away,” he said thoughtfully. “Well, that’s not unusual.”
“And to do it as comfortably as possible,” I observed, and saw him nod in agreement.
“Yes,” he said. “Suicides do that sometimes. They go to bed rather than fall on a hard floor, for instance. What about this shooting of Lieutenant O’Brien, Miss Maynard? Have the police any theories about it?”
“None that I know of, unless they suspect me. I think the police believe I pushed the Benjamin woman into the pool. Or that my brother did it. It was his golf club that knocked her out, you know. It doesn’t matter to them that we never saw her until she was dead.”
He did not smile. He got up instead and went to a window, although I didn’t think he saw anything outside. When he turned his face was grave.
“Has it occurred to you that Mrs. Chandler may have done it? The woman came there to see someone. It might have been your sister. That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?�
�
“I want to know if you think she’s capable of a thing like that. Her former husband thinks she is a manic-depressive.”
“So?” he said. “Well, in a way aren’t we all? We have our ups and downs, but we’re not necessarily off balance. One thing strikes me as odd, Miss Maynard. Your sister never told me the circumstances of her leaving Mr. Chandler. Most women do. They go to all lengths to expatiate on such things, to present their reasons, in other words, to defend themselves. She never has.”
“She was never in love with him. He knows that himself. I think my mother rather forced the marriage. Judith was very young at the time, you know.”
“The sow is not the only creature that kills her young,” he said cryptically. “As you know, I’ve had your sister for some time. I have never thought she was really paranoid. Sensitive and egocentric she was. She had plenty of personal conflicts, but no particular hostility, although I realized she was not fond of her former husband. Nevertheless, as I told you before, she never gave me a real chance. I could go only so far. Then she blocked me. In fact I’ve been blaming myself for what she did. The last time she was here I told her she was wasting my time, and hers.”
I could not think of anything to say. He went back to his desk and sat down, looking unhappy. He opened her file and glanced down at it.
“You see, Miss Maynard,” he said, “the picture is somewhat altered. I gather that The Birches was a peaceful place until recently. Then all at once, or close together, we have a death, a shooting, and an attempted suicide. I don’t know anything about the Benjamin woman, but I do know about O’Brien. The police have been here, you see. O’Brien was and is a member of the Homicide Squad here in town. He has a fine reputation. But he went into the army, and was invalided out of the South Pacific. Recently he asked for a leave of absence. But he is still a police officer, Miss Maynard and I think you are right when you say he had a reason for being at The Birches.”
I managed to steady my voice. I felt sure what was coming.
“Do you know what that reason was?” I asked.
He shrugged.
“Your local chief of police is a shrewd man,” he said. “He has been here. He doesn’t think the three events are unrelated. Your brother told him your sister had been consulting me, so he came to see me. What he asked me was if your sister was capable of murder. Or of one murder and the shooting of this man O’Brien.”
The Swimming Pool Page 21
