Let Dead Enough Alone

by Frances Lockridge

  He did not wait for an answer. He shook his head. Holding his glass, he turned and walked out of the room.

  “Well,” Lynn said, without approval, when Boyd was, presumably, out of earshot. “What was that all about?”

  She waited for an answer. She looked at Brian Perry, who was looking at the door through which Boyd had gone; whose air of intentness remained. It was some seconds before he turned toward her, and took his glasses off. His eyes were still a little narrowed.

  “I was wondering,” he said. “I was wondering very much, my dear. Boyd used to spend a good deal of time at the club. Still does, for all I know. I’m speaking of the time Carla and I lived on the lake. He had a reputation—rather an outstanding reputation. Not as a man who drank a great deal. But—as a man who never showed he’d been drinking at all.”

  “Well,” Lynn said, “he seems to have changed.”

  “Yes,” Brian agreed. “He does seem to have changed. I wonder why, Lynn.”

  She didn’t know what he meant. She said so. She added that, after all, Struthers Boyd had dozed off toward the end of the party.

  “Without, up to then, showing any sign he’d been drinking,” Brian said. “Did you notice that? And—he had been. More than the rest of us. As for going to sleep—he was tired when he arrived. Under strain. Didn’t you notice that?”

  “No,” she said.

  “Easy enough to tell,” Perry said. “If you know what to look for, I suppose. He drank to relax his nerves. And did. But, without getting drunk, my dear. And now today—” He shrugged. “Also, you notice he didn’t slur his words? ‘Revolutionize’ can trip the tongue.”

  “You mean he was pretending?”

  “I thought so. Exaggerating, at any rate.”

  “He’s very—sunk,” Lynn said. “At Mr. Halley’s death. He seems to have been devoted to Mr. Halley. Mightn’t that—I mean his psychological condition—make him more susceptible?”

  “Possibly,” Brian Perry said. “Oh, quite possibly. A willingness to seek—and accept—the softening of impressions, the comfortable blur. Only—”

  She waited.

  “Well,” he said, “I’ve always thought that Boyd, under that hail-classmate-well-met manner of his was about as shrewd and competent as they come. And—about as unsentimental as they come. And—it never occurred to me until just now that he and John Halley were particularly devoted friends.”

  He continued to look at her, although now his eyes were no longer narrowed.

  “In fact,” he said, “I hadn’t supposed that John Halley had any. Among men, at any rate. Not that one would call devoted.”

  Heimrich waited until Forniss had reported that, on the fuse box and in its vicinity, he had found nothing to report. The narrow loop of wire by which the main fuse could be pulled from its socket would, at best, have taken prints too partial for usefulness. Forniss had found not even partial prints. If it had been handled, it had been wiped afterward.

  “Naturally,” Heimrich said, and told Sergeant Forniss of the report of the county pathologist. Forniss said, “Ouch!”

  “Yes, Charlie,” Heimrich said. “It’s disconcerting, isn’t it? I may have gone out on a limb. He may have taken a lethal dose of whatever it was and sat by the fire waiting for it to work. Might take as much as an hour to work, you know. While he’s waiting, the lights go out. Conscientious man, even to the end, or near it. I wonder if he was, Charlie?”

  Forniss could merely shrug heavy shoulders.

  “Yes,” Heimrich said, “that’s one of the problems, isn’t it? We don’t know much about him—except he was fifty-five or so, had a good deal of money, never had to work for a living. Be pleasant not to have to work for a living, wouldn’t it?”

  “Sure,” Forniss said. “In a boring sort of way.”

  “Now Charlie,” Heimrich said. “On New Year’s Day, anyway. I had a date.” He paused to consider this. The fact surprised him. “With Mrs. Faye,” he said. “To drink eggnog. A noxious drink, ordinarily. Still—” He looked at his watch. It was almost three. He would have to use the telephone; he should have done so before now.

  “Suppose,” Heimrich said, “we say he was a conscientious man. Man who, even when he was waiting to die, keeps his house going. Especially when it was full of guests. Seem likely, Charlie?”

  “Not very,” Forniss said. “But—sure, it could be.”

  “Say it is,” Heimrich said. “We can’t prove it wasn’t, can we? He goes down to the boathouse, planning to start the generator. But, just before he gets there, the stuff hits him. He gets dizzy, confused, ataxia sets in. In other words, he becomes likely to fall into anything. He falls into the lake. Drowns before the Nembutal kills him. Attempted suicide; actual death by accident. And, we’re on a limb.”

  “Nope,” Charlie said. “Why did the lights go out?”

  “Now Charlie,” Heimrich said. “I’m talking about proof—not what we think. This caretaker’s clock may have been fast for days, and he never noticed it. Hasn’t much need to know the exact time, probably. Miss Ross may have done something to the blanket, as she first thought she did. She couldn’t very well deny she had thought that, could she? And—if we could prove it, what would we have? Malicious mischief. You’ll have to admit it’s disconcerting, Charlie.”

  “Somebody in the cellar,” Forniss said. “And Mrs. Halley going downstairs and sneaking back up.”

  “Coming back up,” Heimrich said. “If anybody was sneaking it was our little Audrey. If there was anything in the cellar, it was a rat. Maybe a squirrel. Places like this get full of squirrels in the winter. When we ask her, Mrs. Speed will tell us there were nut shells all over the place when she came to clean up for the party.”

  “All right,” Forniss said. “We tell them we’re sorry. Pack up and go home.”

  “Now Charlie,” Heimrich said. He got up and walked to a window and looked out. Snow was falling heavily again—more heavily, he thought, than at any time before. And a wind was driving it. A northeast wind, now. “We’d need snowshoes,” Heimrich said. “Or skis. I wonder—”

  He did not say what he wondered. Instead he crossed the room and went out to the telephone in the hall. To the operator, when she answered, he said, “Weather, please,” and waited.

  “—for New York City and vicinity,” a precise, slightly metallic, voice said. “Three P.M. temperature twenty-seven degrees; barometer twenty-nine point seven five and falling. Moderate to heavy snow this afternoon and tonight, probably continuing into tomorrow. Maximum accumulation six to nine inches. Increasing northeast winds, becoming fresh to strong late this afternoon and continuing strong tonight. Forecast for New York City and vicinity. Three P.M. temperature—”

  Heimrich hung up. He dialed the operator again. He gave a number in the Town of Van Brunt, heard the ringing signal, said, “Mrs. Faye?”

  “This is Susan,” she said.

  “You’re all right?” he said. “I mean—”

  “Snug as a bug,” she said. “I gather you’re not coming around?”

  He told her why he was not coming around. He swallowed. He said, “I wonder whether some evening during the week—” There was great doubt in his tone. He realized he was speaking softly, presumably so that Sergeant Forniss would not overhear him. He felt somewhat embarrassed. “Almost any evening,” Susan Faye said. He felt fine. Even if murder did seem to be taking on the paler hue of malicious mischief. He made a call to the headquarters of Troop K, at Hawthorne. There was a special advisory that the snow in northern Westchester might reach the depth of a foot or more. Cars were stalling everywhere—and sliding into one another, and into ditches. What could be done would of course be done. He called New York, and the headquarters of Homicide West. He talked to Sergeant Stein, on duty. Sergeant Stein took notes—notes of names. He would get things in the works.

  “Snowing here,” Stein said. “Snowing where you are?”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said, mildly, and hung up and went back into
the living room.

  “Get her all right?” Forniss said.

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “We’ll maybe get a foot of snow.”

  It was growing dark in the room; already the short afternoon was ebbing. He turned on several of the lamps.

  “You want Mrs. Halley?” Forniss said.

  “I suppose so,” Heimrich said. “It’s a gloomy day, isn’t it. Yes, I suppose we’d better—” He broke off. “No,” he said. “Not yet. We’ll work around the edges, Charlie. Let’s see what the other—”

  He was interrupted. Ray Crowley came in, carrying a tray. There were sandwiches on the tray and a pot of coffee.

  “Compliments of Lucy Speed,” Crowley told them. “Said, ‘Those poor men. Even if they are policemen’ and, ‘Here, Ray, take them these.’ Great old girl for feeding people. Anytime I stop by the club—” He did not finish.

  They ate, discovering that they were hungry.

  “What are they doing, Ray?” Heimrich asked, with the first sandwich finished.

  “The tall girl,” Ray said, “Miss Ross. And the doctor. They’re in the breakfast room. Talking. Mr. Boyd’s in the dining room. He’s drinking. I don’t know about the rest. Want I should find out?”

  “No,” Heimrich said. “They won’t go anywhere. Not in this.”

  Crowley went to a window. He said it sure was snowing.

  “What do you know about these people, Ray?” Heimrich asked him.

  “Not an awful lot,” Crowley said. “All very law-abiding. Mr. Halley spends—used to spend—a good deal of time at the club, I understand. Played a lot of golf. Mr. Boyd too, but only on weekends. I just knew who they were, to look at. Boyd’s a promoter of some sort, as I get it. Whatever that means, exactly. The Halleys stay here most of the summer. She goes back and forth to town more than he does. Dr. Perry and his wife had a house on the lake—other end. They rented it oh—three or four summers. Before she died. He didn’t come back after that. Not that I ever heard of, anyway. See why he wouldn’t want to, after what happened.”

  “Happened, Ray? What happened?”

  “Mrs. Perry was drowned,” Crowley said. “Didn’t you know about that? Summer before last, it was.”

  Heimrich was very patient. He said, “No, Ray. Nobody told me.”

  Ray Crowley flushed.

  “Water skiing,” Crowley said. “Hit something—log or something. Sort of thing that happens all the time. Only—she apparently hit her head on something else. A rock, I guess. Didn’t find her until the next day. Not that they didn’t—”

  He stopped, very abruptly.

  “I just remembered,” he said. “Mr. Halley was towing her. With the little speed boat he used to have.” He looked at Heimrich, and was very red. “Hell,” he said. “I’m not much of a cop, I guess.”

  “Well, Ray,” Heimrich said. “You did remember. So it’s all right, Ray. But, I think we might talk to Dr. Perry about—”

  All the lights in the room went out.

  Forniss was on his feet, instantly; he was running—into the hall, along it, his feet fast and heavy on the bare flooring. The house echoed with his running. They could hear him on the cellar stairs. They waited in the dim room, and heard Forniss coming back. He did not hurry, now; it was clear he came alpne. He came into the room, and as he did so the house seemed suddenly to come to life behind him. There were voices, the sound of feet.

  “Nope,” Forniss said. “Not this time. This time it’s the real thing.”

  “Try the telephone, Charlie,” Heimrich said.

  Forniss went to the telephone, lifted the receiver and listened. He dialed, and asked for a Mount Kisco number. He listened again, and hung up. He came back. He said the phone was all right.

  “Funny thing,” he said. “It usually is. You’d think if one went the other would. The Company’s line’s busy.”

  “Naturally,” Heimrich said. “Half the county’s calling in by now.”

  When the electricity dies, a country house dies. This is not so true of houses in cities and in towns, or of such remote houses as live in other days—which electricity has never brought to life. Such houses are more sturdy; pull thick walls around themselves and peer out of small windows. Fireplaces warm them, and stoves for wood and coal; oil lamps give enough yellow light for their quiet lives. The Halley house might once have been such a house, but that had been long ago. Now, like all its neighbors, it dangled at the end of wires.

  Almost at once, when the power failed, the house began to take on the chill of death. This was, at first, more imaginary than real. At first there was only a murky darkness, not yet complete. But darkness is colder than light; there is a chill to the spirit in darkness. And such light as remained would soon fade.

  But those in the house, when the power failed, began to stir—to hurry this way and that. There was, instantly, a kind of nervous anxiety permeating the house. The movement was not, in all cases and at first, to any evident purpose. There was the sound of feet on stairs and Audrey Latham—who had changed to a woolen dress—came into the room and said, “Something’s happened to the lights. What’s happened to the lights?” Tom Kemper came, in slacks and sweater, and told everyone that this was a hell of a note, and now what? Abner Speed came in from the kitchen with a flashlight, looked at the fireplace and shook his head, and went glumly away again. They could hear his feet on the cellar stairs. Mrs. Speed came in carrying a candle in either hand, and there was a small flickering light in the room—light which seemed only to accentuate the darkness.

  “I’ll bring some more,” Mrs. Speed said and sighed deeply. “It’s a terrible thing,” she said, and started out.

  “And flashlights,” Heimrich said. “Bring flashlights, Mrs. Speed.”

  “Like as not they’re dead,” she said. “Mostly they are.” She sighed again, and went out through the door at the rear of the living room. Speed came back up the cellar stairs, his footsteps slow and heavy. He came into the living room, carrying wood. He piled it on the hearth and stood up and started out. He stopped, and looked around at them, “Kindling,” he said.

  “Mr. Speed,” Heimrich said. “Can you start the generator?”

  “Me?” Speed said and stopped, apparently considering. “Guess not,” he said. “Never have. Don’t work here regular. Remember that.” He started out into the hall; stopped and said, “’Scuse me” in the tone of one who has been bumped into. He had not; he had stopped before colliding with Struthers Boyd, unexpectedly dressed in a heavy windbreak, and wearing a cap with ear protectors. Boyd appeared to be entirely sober.

  “Came for the key,” Boyd said. “Poor old John must have had it on him.”

  “Key?” Heimrich said. He regarded Boyd. “Oh,” he said. “You mean to the boathouse?”

  “Well,” Boyd said, “we don’t want to sit here and freeze, do we? Won’t bring poor old John back.” He paused, a little as if he had tripped over his last words. “Best friend a man ever had,” he said. “All the same—”

  “You know how to get the generator going?” Heimrich asked him.

  “Nothing to it,” Boyd said. “Got one at my place. Press a button and there you are. Unless the battery’s down. Or nobody’s kept it from freezing up. Or you’re out of gas. Just give me the key.”

  Heimrich carried a candle to a table in the corner of the room. He picked a key chain from among the few objects John Halley had carried when he died. One of the keys was, obviously, to a padlock. Boyd took the keys and started out. “Better go with him, Charlie,” Heimrich said. “Lend a hand. Take a flash.”

  “Got to get—” Boyd began. “Excuse me,” Abner Speed said, blocking his progress, standing with arms full of kindling. “A shovel,” Boyd said. “Dig our way in.”

  They got a shovel from the basement. Forniss and Boyd plodded through the deepening snow. The tracks to the lake, raggedly sharp two hours before, were now barely visible. They crossed the road and went down the slope toward the lake. Snow had drifted in front of the
boathouse door, which was on the lee. They shoveled. In time they got the door open.

  The flashlight, which Sergeant Forniss had got from the police car, threw strong, hard light into the low building. There was a catwalk around three sides of a rectangle of dark water. Near the door, where there was just room for it, was a squat mechanism covered with canvas. Working together, they stripped the canvas off. There was nothing in Boyd’s efficient movements to show that he had been drinking.

  “Starter button ought to be about—” Boyd said, looking. “Yes. All we’ve got to do now—” He pressed the button. There was a grinding sound—nothing else. He took his finger off the button; put it back on and pressed hard, his big finger bending under the strain. With the same result. “You try it,” Boyd said, and Forniss did, and held the button down, and got noise only.

  “Could be there’s no gas,” Boyd said. “But I’d have thought—throw the light over this way.” Forniss threw the light over that way. “No,” Boyd said. “Not shut off. Must be that—” He squatted by the generator. He swore, and stood up again.

  “Distributor rotor’s out,” he said. “No wonder we didn’t get anywhere. Now what the—” He stopped. “Those damned kids,” he said. “That’s what it is. Old John outsmarted them. See what I mean?”

  “Nope,” Forniss said, “I don’t know that I do, Mr. Boyd. You mean—kids stole the rotor?”

  “Doubt it,” Boyd said. “More likely John took it out. Some of those kids are devils. John was a jump ahead of them.” He paused again. “And, looks like, of us.”

  Forniss waited.

  “A bunch of kids around here,” Boyd said. “Like a dog pack. Some of them will do anything—Halloween, or just when they find a place shut up. Tear down the mailboxes. And fences. Mess up anything they can get to. Couple or three years ago, they got to my generator and started it up. Went away leaving it running—and laughing like hell, I wouldn’t wonder. Would have burned it out, except the gas ran out first. See what I mean now?”

  “Yes,” Forniss said. “I see now.”

  “John took the rotor out,” Boyd said. “Hid it somewhere. Foxed the kids.”