by A B Guthrie
“I suggest Mr. Post,” Perkins said.
“Bring him in.”
Goodman left to get him.
While they waited, Hawley said, “Coroner Jenkins has a cute mind. Right?” He was asking Charleston.
“Cute? Not stupid by a long shot.”
“And maybe he has something. Cherchez la femme, eh?”
Perkins interrupted. “Cherchez everybody at this point.”
Goodman came in with Post, who grabbed at the chair indicated and sat down with a thump. “It’s a temptation to tell you birds to go screw yourselves.”
Perkins said, “I wouldn’t advise it.”
Hawley smiled his tight smile. It didn’t touch those shallow gray eyes. Windows of the soul, huh? If so, the shades were drawn. Hawley said, “There’s such a thing as obstructing justice.”
“Pardon me if my guts shake, I’m laughing so hard. How obstruct it? I don’t know anything.”
Goodman was taking notes. Doggett and Rendell sat still.
“Then you’ll be glad to cooperate,” Hawley said, his words a denial of their meaning. “What can you tell us about Oliver C. Smith?”
“Not one damn thing that will help you. But still you keep me on the hook. ‘Don’t leave, Mr. Post,’ you bastards say. ‘We’ll tell you when you’re free. Just stay put, like a good man.’ Goddamn, I should have been out of this burg before now.”
“That’s one thing you’ve almost told us. That you didn’t like him.”
“Is there a law saying I have to?”
“He was your brother-in-law.”
“Christ sake! I didn’t pick him.” Post made a sweeping gesture with one hand, dismissing the relationship.
“Did you dislike him enough to kill him?”
“Whoa, now. I’m not that crazy. But if I did hate him enough, somebody beat me to it.”
“What brought you to England, Mr. Post?”
“Public transportation. Quite good in this country. Tried it lately?”
Hawley’s tone was mean. “Forget the smart-aleck act. Answer the question.”
“Beg your pardon all to hell. I came with my business partner, Mr. Witt. He wanted to visit his twin brother.”
“That’s all?”
“Shut up if you want to hear. No, it’s not all. Like her brother, my wife was born in the Cotswolds. Wanted to see the country again. Been a long, long time. Smith, that bastard, was born here, like I said. He came on some business deal. He never told me what.”
“Where were you the night of the killing?”
“I answered that once. Don’t you birds ever look at your records? I signed a statement saying I was in my room with my wife. Look in the files, for God’s sake.”
Hawley said, “You seem opposed to our investigation. Why is that?”
“I’m tired of foolishness. I’m tired of cops.”
“But you must want us to find the murderer?”
“You say so. I don’t.”
“It’s not too hard to think you’re it.”
“Think all you please.”
“There must be reasons why you hated Oliver Smith. Tell us.”
“Tell you nothing. It’s personal and none of your business. I didn’t stick a knife in his back. You want more from me, see my lawyers in London. That’s Clayton, Clayton and Burroughs.”
Hawley turned away from him. “Any questions? Perkins? Charleston?”
“Not much to the point, I’m afraid,” Charleston said, “but I’m wondering why both Mr. Post and Mr. Smith shaved off their beards?”
Post said, “Well, I’ll be goddamned!”
“True, Mr. Post?” Hawley asked.
“Talk about nosy Parkers. You want to know my toilet habits, too? I just got tired of whiskers.”
“Smith also?”
“You can ask him. Maybe he kept a diary.”
Hawley took a deep breath and let it out in a long sigh. “I can’t see that the question of beards is either here or there. All right for now. I’m going to let you go, Mr. Post. For the time being, you understand. Keep yourself within reach.”
“Yeah, stick around, stick around, when I ought to be on my way.” Post shook his head in disgust. “I’m here too long as it is. Delay. Delay. Shit!”
As Post went out, the phone rang. Perkins moved to take the call, but Hawley struck down his hand, grabbed the receiver and said, “Hawley here.” He listened for a moment, hung up with a slam and announced, “More bloody trouble! Headquarters. One goddamn thing, then another. Be back when I can.” He got up without another word, strode out, and left the door open.
Over a late dinner with Geeta in the dining room, Charleston said, “I’m sorry about your day, Mr. Ebersole not in the store and all.”
“I’ll see him tomorrow, I hope. He’s not sick, as I said. At his age he just takes a day off now and then.”
“And nothing in the antique shops?”
“One beautiful piece of flow-blue. A big platter, oval, perhaps fifteen inches long. Argyle pattern. But oh my! Seventy-five pounds! Too much money, and too big a risk carrying.”
“It’s too bad, not to find more flow-blue, since you like it so much.”
“I saw a Hepplewhite sideboard and a Queen Anne lowboy, both priced at a fortune.” She smiled into his eyes. “Anyhow, they were too heavy to carry, even for you.”
“Queen Anne, that bow-legged stuff.”
She ignored him. “Later on I had tea with Mr. and Mrs. Witt. There was quite a crowd. More tourists as you can see when you look around. The Witts are friendly enough, and I tend to like them.” She added with mischief, “Not because Mrs. Witt was born in Glendive, Montana.”
He answered in the same spirit. “It should. We’re as good as kin.”
“Mr. and Mrs. Post, now, they’re plainly offish, as if we were tainted. I have a feeling they’re not on such good terms with the Witts, either.”
“Any examples?”
“No. It’s just a feeling.” She went silent, scanning his face. “Why don’t you knock off tomorrow?”
“We’re set to interview Mrs. Post and the Witts.”
“And you have to be there.”
“Time’s so short.”
“I know. I know. And you have to solve the case, even if all by yourself.” She looked into his eyes and went on, “Chick, you silly man. I adore you.”
Chapter Eleven
Perkins rather looked forward to the day as he walked to the inn for breakfast. Now they’d get to the Americans, really get down to business this time. They were bound to know more than they’d said. He’d let Charleston do the questioning, subject to his own interruptions, of course.
Last night he’d gone to the Ram’s Head bar for a late drink, for a soothing touch of Morangie with a bit of water. There were six or eight customers in the place, Americans by the sound of them. Until he turned around with the drink in his hand, he did not see Mrs. Witt, seated alone in the rear of the room. She caught his eye and made a small, beckoning gesture. She said, after he had seated himself, “You always look so serious, like a general about to order a charge.”
“Murder’s a serious business.” He let himself smile. She was a pretty thing.
“I would guess you were a soldier once?”
“Ancient history.”
She answered lightly, “I can see you’re terribly superannuated.”
“Quite.”
Her face went serious. “Is it fair to ask if you are making progress?”
“Of course. It’s also fair to say we are proceeding. Wouldn’t you like another drink? Sherry, isn’t it?”
“Thanks, no. One’s enough.” Her teeth were white. She reached out and touched his sleeve, as if to draw his especial attention, then quickly withdrew her hand. “I may have something to tell you.”
“Then you’d better tell me, Mrs. Witt. It’s not the thing to withhold evidence.”
“I don’t intend to withhold it.” Her eyes were on him. He thought he saw deep,
past iris and pupil, deep into a sort of innocent suffering. It had been a long time since he’d been with a woman, let alone a small and fetching one, the kind a man wanted to cuddle, thinking of proud breasts and satin flanks.
He shook the picture from his head. Goddamn it all, he had a career to think about, he subscribed to a code of conduct, as became an officer. And here he was, letting his imagination run like a teen-ager.
She went on, “I’ll tell you, of course, but not here. Not now.”
“Then tomorrow, when we’ll be questioning you.”
“Not then, either, but I will tell you. I promise.” Her eyes were smiling.
She stood up abruptly, bringing him to his feet to see her off. Like a fool, he held out his hand. She took it, and he felt the pressure and warmth of her.
“I must leave,” she said, hesitating. “My husband may have finished one of those interminable chess games he plays with Mr. Post. I pass my nights reading.”
“And drinking sherry?”
“Shame on you. Just once in a while, if that interests you.”
He might have answered that everything about her interested him. “Won’t you sit down again and have another sherry?”
“Not tonight. Thanks.”
He found himself saying, “Another time, then?”
She answered, “I hope so,” smiled a goodbye, and walked out, her small bottom moving under her trim slacks.
He watched her until she was gone from sight. So long, so long and never with a woman who tugged at his senses like this one. He hoped never to see her alone. Or did he? Put it on the line, get it out in front—did he? The bloody truth, say it! What he wanted and what reason told him were two different things. Better decide in favor of the brain, you fool. Better behave like a good officer. Why had he ever decided to be a policeman? He wasn’t cut out for it.
Now, reaching the entrance to the inn, he put last night out of his mind. He saw the Charlestons at a table in the dining room, and, on invitation, joined them. Chick introduced her. She had a serene face and honest and inquiring eyes. Her hair, brushed back from her forehead, was a little longer than was the fashion. She wore a tweed skirt and light, tan jacket over a white blouse with a gold bar pin at the throat. It was his day, Perkins thought, to meet attractive women.
Charleston asked, “Where’s the sergeant?”
“Working, I’ll wager. You wouldn’t ask if you knew Goodman. Up early and away to the incidents room and the typewriter.”
Perkins ordered a full English breakfast, ham and eggs, slices of tomato, and toast, with coffee later.
“Chick,” he said while he waited, “we’ve hesitated about questioning Mrs. Vaughn.” He lowered his voice, thinking he might have been speaking loud enough for others to hear. “But we can’t overlook her.”
“Why don’t we question her here at the inn? She might not be so nervous.”
“Good idea.”
“And Jane Witherspoon, her helper. I think you’ve seen her.”
“Right. Seen and forgotten.”
The waitress brought his food. Charleston, after a sip of coffee, said, “Then later today we get down to the nitty-gritty?”
Before Perkins could answer, Mrs. Charleston spoke up. “It seems like forever, but I know how it is. I’ve learned by experience.” She shook her head in a pretense of dolefulness, and there was love in the eyes she turned on her husband.
Perkins stayed his fork to say, “No end until the end. But it’s been a very few days, Mrs. Charleston.”
She sighed and said, “I know,” then brightened to add, “Chick’s enjoying himself.”
Charleston grinned and said, “Just like home.”
When they were done, Geeta rose and said, “While you two go about your business, I’ll go chat with my favorite wine seller.”
Perkins got up almost at the same time. “You’ll excuse me then. I’ll see about arrangements, Chick. It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Charleston.”
Jane Witherspoon was at the counter, registering four arrivals. Mrs. Vaughn was on the phone. Perkins stood and waited.
Finally the Witherspoon woman rang for the bellman, looked to Perkins and asked, “May I help you, Inspector?” He didn’t know whether she was Mrs. or Miss.
“Yes, if I could talk to both of you.”
“Both of us? Together?”
“I’m sorry. Both of you, but one at a time.”
Mrs. Vaughn, through with the phone, stood up and stepped to the counter.
He said, “We have a few questions to ask. We thought you might prefer to meet us here, rather than in the incidents room. Can you suggest a place?”
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Vaughn said, “I just go to pieces over anything like this. I don’t know what’s the matter with me.”
Perkins said gently, “No need to feel that way with us. None at all, Mrs. Vaughn. We’re really not monsters, just men fumbling around for the truth.”
“Thank you.” She breathed deep. “I feel more at ease. I try to keep a room vacant for emergencies. It’s close by. Would it do?”
“I’m sure. Are there chairs enough?”
“There will be.” She summoned the bellman and told him to take two chairs to Room Ten.
“And now,” Perkins said to both, “Will one of you please ring the incidents room and ask Sergeant Goodman to join us here?”
Jane Witherspoon headed for the phone.
“Perhaps you want to go first?” Perkins suggested to Mrs. Vaughn.
Charleston showed up then and, two minutes later, Goodman. Perkins asked Mrs. Vaughn if she’d please lead the way.
There were three straight chairs and a rocker in the room, in addition to a bed, a bedside table, a chest of drawers and a pants presser. A door gave onto a closet and a bath. Standard equipment, Perkins thought, as he asked Mrs. Vaughn to take the rocker. He and Charleston took straight chairs facing her. Goodman removed his chair a bit so as not to be prominent as he took notes.
Perkins nodded to Charleston. “You have questions, Chick?” Charleston was just as good an interrogator as he himself, maybe better. Let him have the floor.
Charleston said, “Mrs. Vaughn, we’re sorry to have to disturb you. We can imagine how you feel. But there’s one thing we’d like to make sure of.”
She murmured, “I’ll help if I can.”
“It’s the question of locking up on Monday night before the murder. Can you tell us for sure, were the side and back doors locked?”
She answered, “Oh, dear. It seems so long ago. You know, the nights and days just run together. It’s arrivals and departures, new guests coming in and guests going out, new faces, known faces and hellos and goodbyes. When was that night again?”
“Monday night, April 21. The body was found the following morning.”
“One of us always locks up, Larry or myself.”
“And did you that night?”
“We must have. It’s—you know—a habit.”
“And that’s as sure as you can be?”
She put a hand to her head and closed her eyes as if to see inside her skull. “I’m so vague.”
“I’m sure you can see the importance of the question. With no signs of a break-in, with the doors all locked, then …”
“Then it must have been one of us, someone already inside.”
“Yes. Now Larry Bates says he seems to remember that you trailed along with him, just to be sociable, as he locked the doors?”
“Sometimes I do. He comes from nothing and needs encouragement. Sometimes I do.”
“That’s as much as you can say?”
“I’m afraid so.”
Perkins coughed and said, “Excuse me.”
Charleston crossed his legs, waited a second, and went on, “Let’s leave that question then. Maybe later you’ll remember and tell us. Now, Mrs. Vaughn, what was your opinion of the late Mr. Smith. Did you like him? Dislike him? What did you observe?”
“I think I’ve answered that qu
estion before. He was a guest, that was all.”
“And nobody said anything to you? Nobody expressed an opinion?”
“Nobody, Mr. Charleston. No one at all.”
Perkins reflected that she was probably telling the truth. In consideration of her health, no one chose to bother her.
“And you heard nothing that night, nothing out of the way?”
“Nothing. I’ve answered that before, too.”
“What do you know about the trouble in the bar, the fight that preceded Mr. Smith’s death?”
“Only what was reported to me. It seems Mr. Tarvin tried to hit Mr. Smith and missed, being drunk, and then Constable Doggett came in, and they put Mr. Tarvin in jail.”
“And that’s all you made of it?”
“No, sir. I told Mr. Tarvin never to come back.”
“How?”
“By mail to his company in Bath.”
Charleston said, “Thank you, Mrs. Vaughn. I think that’s all, unless Inspector Perkins has more questions.” Perkins shook his head. “Would you ask Jane Witherspoon to come in?”
As she rose to leave, Perkins said, “Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” and received a quick smile in return. He added before she could go out the door, “Is this Witherspoon person single or what?”
“A Mrs. She’s a widow.”
Jane Witherspoon entered confidently and seated herself in the rocker without being asked. She wore a green blouse that gave color to her face and life to hair that showed a little gray. She was, Perkins thought, not too old to bear looking at twice, or more.
“Mrs. Witherspoon,” Charleston began, “we go through a lot of routine in any murder case, unless, of course, it’s open and shut.”
“You can forget the preliminaries, Mr. Charleston,” she broke in. “Ask your questions, and I’ll tell you what I know.”
“Fair enough, but I hope you’ll go beyond what you actually know. You may have suspicions. You may have noticed something that would arouse ours. So don’t feel hesitant in your answers. You’ll find us discreet.”
She laughed lightly. “That’s the adulterer’s word. Discreet.”
“Could be. But it’s murder, not adultery, that concerns us.”
“That sounds kind of stuffy. I bet you think so, too.”
