Counterfeit corpse, p.4
Counterfeit Corpse, page 4
She answered from upstairs. “He was killed, wasn’t he?”
“Yes,” I said, “but there’s nothing we can do about it now. I’m going out, but you better stay here.”
I ran out to the road. The driver of the car that had hit Wusky was still sitting where I had left him. I gave him a couple of sniffs of the ammonia, enough to snap his head back, and then gave his wife a drag.
“I’ve called the police,” I told the man. “Just take it easy and think before you speak and you’ll be fine.”
“I wasn’t going fast,” he said. “He just seemed to jump out of the shadows at me, like he was diving or something, and I—”
“Relax,” I said. “It was an accident.”
Another car had stopped by this time. I walked over to the driver as he got out and asked him if he had a flashlight. He said he did.
“Park out of the way,” I said, “and keep any cars from banging into us or there’ll be more dead bodies lying around.”
“Okay,” he said. “What happened?”
“Accident,” I said. “Car hit a guy walking along the road.”
“Tough,” he said, and started walking back down the road with his flashlight. I went back to where Wusky’s body was lying keeping one eye on the road in the other direction. A man who was standing there asked me what had happened and I told him the same thing.
“Jesus!” he said, in a strained and high-pitched voice. “Really clobbered him, didn’t it? Look at that head. Even knocked his shoes off.”
A siren, followed by a flashing red light above two headlights, announced the arrival of the police. Kilgore and another cop got out.
“Hello, Ivy,” Kilgore said. “You kill this, guy, too?”
“You can go to hell,” I growled. “There’s the car that hit him and the driver is standing beside it. If you want anything from me, I’ll probably be in the house.”
“Hold it a minute, Ivy,” he ordered. He bent over and took a quick look at Wusky. “He sure is dead. Did you see it happen, Ivy?”
“I was in the house and heard brakes squealing and then a woman yelled, so I came out. When I got here the car was right where it is now and Wusky was right where he is now.”
“Who did you say?”
“Wusky.”
“And who the hell is Wusky?”
“Wusky is the guy who is lying there dead.”
“By God, Donald,” he said sarcastically, “I don’t know what the hell we would do if we didn’t have you to identify all the dead bodies we find lying around. And how did you say he got killed?”
“I said I was in the house.”
“That’s right, so you did. Well, Donald, you just hang around while I get things squared away, because then I want to ask you how you manage to know so many dead bodies. Stand back!” he yelled at the crowd that was forming. “And get them cars off the road! You wanna have another accident!”
I walked back to the house and went out to the kitchen. Judy was there. She had changed her clothes. The party was over. She was drinking coffee and I poured myself a cup.
“You want some brandy in it?” I asked, reaching for the bottle.
“Please,” she said. Her hand was shaking. I poured some brandy into her coffee and took a little more for myself.
“Come on into the living room,” I said. “You’ll feel better soon.”
“It was awful,” she said. “I was looking for the garbage can and that car came around the corner and I thought maybe I could find the can in the lights. And then I saw that man step out on the road and the car hit him.”
“Did he just step in front of it?” I asked.
“He seemed to,” she said. “What will they do to you when they find out he was here and that you hit him, Uncle Donald?”
“Give me a bad time, if I know anything about Kilgore,” I said.
“Who’s Kilgore?”
“He’s the cop who’s out there now.” I filled my pipe and lit it, thinking. “How much chance did you have to see what happened?”
“Oh, only a second, just out of the corner of my eye.”
“Then how did you know who it was?”
“Well, it was a little short guy, I could see that,” she said. “I thought it was the man who was here. It was, wasn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said. “It was.” We had some more coffee and sat and talked and smoked, but the sparkle was gone.
There was a knock at the door and I got up and opened it. Kilgore was there, and so was Sullivan. “Mind if we have a word or two with you, Ivy?” the sergeant asked.
“Can’t it wait ’till tomorrow?” I asked. “It’s almost midnight.”
“Rather make it tonight,” he said, so I stepped back and they came in.
“Judy,” I said, when we were in the living room, “this is Sergeant Sullivan of the state police, and this is Patrolman Kilgore, from Tombury … My niece, Miss Thames.”
“I didn’t know you had company,” Sullivan said.
“Miss Thames is my sister’s daughter,” I said. “She’s visiting with me for a while.”
“Where are you from, Miss Thames?” Sullivan asked.
“My mother and I live in Springfield,” she said. “Why?”
“I just wondered,” he said. “Donald, did you see that accident out there happen?”
“No,” I told him. “I was upstairs when I heard it, and I came down and got my flashlight and ran out. It was all over then, so I came back in and called the Tombury police.”
“Kilgore tells me you were able to identify the body.”
“Kilgore is right, for once,” I said. “It was a man named Andrews. Wusky Andrews is what we always called him.”
“Who is we?”
“Everybody who knew him,” I said.
“And where did you know him?”
“In England.”
“Where in England?”
“Here and there.”
“Yes, but just exactly where? Where did you see him last, for instance?” Sullivan asked.
“Right here.”
“What do you mean, right here? Do you mean right here in this house?”
“That’s exactly what I mean, Sergeant,” I said. “He was here this evening. Sitting right in that same chair where you are. When he left he walked out on that road, I guess, and got hit and killed. I can’t say that I care much, either.”
“What the hell did he want?” Kilgore exploded.
“Let me ask the questions first, please,” Sullivan said, making notes in a notebook. “Just what the hell did he want, Ivy? That’s a fair question, I think.”
“I can’t see that it has a damned thing to do with it,” I said. “What Wusky was doing here has absolutely nothing to do with what happened to him out there.”
“Well, we’ll let that go for a while,” Sullivan said. “Miss Thames, where were you when the accident happened?”
“I was in the kitchen,” she said. “I didn’t know anything until Uncle Donald came running downstairs and told me there’d been an accident and I should stay in the house while he went out.”
She sounded so sincere that I almost believed her myself, although I knew she was lying and wondered why. Had she pushed Wusky to his death? It was obvious that Sullivan and Kilgore believed her story.
“And then Uncle Donald came back in and called somebody on the telephone,” she continued, “and told me to make some coffee and he went out again. So I made the coffee and then. Uncle Donald came in and we had some and then you came in. Would you like me to get you some coffee?” The way she smiled when she asked them, they would have accepted cyanide if it had been offered. They nodded their heads and she went out to the kitchen.
“Now about this Andrews,” Sullivan asked me. “You said that you didn’t care much if he got killed. Why not?”
“I didn’t like the bastard,” I said. “You might say I despised him.”
“How’d you cut your hand?” he asked. Kilgore, who had been fidgeting ever since Judy went for coffee, got up and went out to the kitchen. “You didn’t have that bandage this morning.”
“I banged it against something,” I said. “When I was throwing some stuff out this evening.”
“Don’t let it get infected,” he said. “What did Andrews want?”
“Nothing that had anything to do with his getting hit by that car,” I said. Judy came back, followed by Kilgore with the coffee and two more cups and saucers. She was pouring coffee when Sullivan turned to her.
“Did your uncle and the man who got killed have any kind of an argument this evening, Miss Thames?” he asked.
“Yes,” she said eagerly, “and Uncle Donald hit him in the face and knocked him right out the front door!”
“The door was open,” I added modestly.
“Thank you,” Sullivan said, and closed his notebook. He lit a cigarette and smoked it while drinking his coffee. “Coffee tastes mighty good—thank you for offering it to us, Miss Thames. Don’t suppose you know my old friend, Chief Zimmer, up there in Springfield, do you?” He didn’t even look to see whether she nodded yes or no. (She nodded no.) “This is a nice place you have here, Ivy. How much room do you have upstairs?”
“Two bedrooms and a bath,” I said. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“I’m just making conversation,” he smiled. “Us cops don’t always have to have a reason for the questions we ask.”
“Then you’re the first one of that type I’ve ever known,” I said. “And I’ve met more than my share.”
“Ah yes,” he said, “but then they probably thought you’d done something. This time I can’t figure that you’ve done anything—nothing wrong, that is. Well”—he stood up—“come on, Kilgore, we better let these good folks get to bed. By the way, Ivy, you don’t happen to know where we might get another identification on that guy who got killed here tonight, do you? Fingerprint check or anything like that?”
“I presume you’ll check all the likely places, like the F.B.I.,” I said. “But you might also try Scotland Yard.”
“Oh, he was in trouble there too, huh? I’m not surprised at all. What did he have on you, Ivy?”
“No more than you have,” I said, trying to keep my temper. “Goodbye now, I’m sorry you can’t stay longer.” I opened the door.
“Oh, you’ll be seeing a lot of us, Donald,” Kilgore said. “We’ll be back here in the morning to look over the scene of the accident again. And try not to have any more, will you? We’re getting tired.” He yawned at me as he stepped out.
“No tireder than I am—of you,” I said. “Good night.”
“By the way,” Sullivan said, pausing. “Henri’s last name was Grennet, just in case you wanted to know. We had an answer from Lisbon this afternoon. Those Spanish cops work pretty fast.”
He was just trying to get me to ask him if he had had a reply from Scotland Yard, but I wasn’t going to give him that much satisfaction.
“Lisbon’s in Portugal,” I said, and closed the door. Judy came out from the living room. “Well,” I said, “I guess we can close the place up and go to bed. Sorry this all had to happen, honey, but it couldn’t be helped. Why did you tell them you hadn’t been outside the house?”
“Because you looked so tired, Uncle Donald,” she said. “If I told them I’d been out and seen it happen they’d have stayed and stayed.” She yawned. “And I’m tired, too. Was it such an awful thing to do, Uncle Donald?” When she smiled the way she did then I’d have forgiven her anything in the world, whether I believed her or not. “And that Kilgore told me all about Henri,” she added. “He thinks you did it, but I don’t.”
“I’m glad there’s two of us who think that way,” I said. “But I’m getting a little worried. Two bodies in one day is too much of a bad thing.” I was thinking out loud. “Wusky said there were others after them, but he had got here first.”
“After what?” she asked.
“Run along to bed, Judy,” I said, “and don’t worry your pretty little head about anything. And when you get ready to get in bed, walk back and forth at the front window a couple of times with the light on, just so those cops out front can see that you’re safe in your own room. I don’t think they believe you’re my niece, honey. By the way,” I added, “if you aren’t, let me know first, will you please?”
“Good night,” she said.
CHAPTER 6
It was after midnight when I got to bed. It had been a day for thinking about. First of all, of course, there was Henri, and I wondered where he had come from and what he had wanted from me. I’d never know. But I couldn’t believe he had come to do me any harm, so I could only believe he had come to do me good. He was coming to help me—that would have been more like him.
Help me in what way, I wondered. Wusky had said there were others after my ten-pound-note plates, but I couldn’t take him seriously. It didn’t seem possible. Maybe Henri had learned that Wusky was coming to see me, and maybe Wusky had been prowling around my house the night before and killed Henri, but I doubted it. Wusky didn’t have the guts.
And then there was Judy, who had acted so strangely after the accident. She had come into the living room once when Wusky and I were talking, but she knew he was a short guy even though he had been sitting down the only time she saw him. She was interested in those damned ten-pound plates too. Well, if she wanted them I’d give them to her.
Then I thought again that maybe she wasn’t actually my niece Judy Thames at all. She’d done an awful lot of talking, but she hadn’t said much when you came right down to facts. And she hadn’t phoned Martha, her mother, which she would naturally have done, it seemed to me. Maybe I should get up and call Martha, but it was a little late for that. Of course, if she wasn’t Judy, but some little gold-digger or something, I didn’t know exactly what I was going to do …
The morning came bursting in my window with a blaze of sunshine, and I could smell coffee cooking, so I got up and dressed and went downstairs. Judy was there. “Hi,” she said. “Sleep well?”
“Sure did,” I said, pouring myself a cup of the hot coffee. “What’s cooking for breakfast?”
“Bacon and eggs,” she said. “That’s all I could find for breakfast, but if there’s anything else you want that we can make, let me know. I’m a pretty good cook.”
“Fry me two eggs, with the hot fat spooned over them, and I’ll be happy,” I said.
When we had finished breakfast, and I was enjoying my first pipe over my last cup of coffee, I remembered the thoughts I had had the night before. “Where did you ever learn to cook?” I asked.
“Oh,” she said, “I’ve been cooking ever since I was a little girl. Mother and I take turns cooking for each other. We practically live in that great big kitchen of ours, you know?’
I didn’t know, never having been in Martha’s house, and I said so.
“That’s right, you haven’t,” she said. “Well, it’s a two-story brick house, with a living room and a dining room and the kitchen downstairs, and three bedrooms and a bath upstairs. Outside we have a garage, where we keep the Chevy, and in the back there’s a …” She went on and described the house and its surroundings in great detail, so that I began to think any fears I might have had were away off the beam.
“Are you still going to school?” I asked when I could get a word in edgewise.
“Oh no,” she said. “I graduated from Springfield High a year and a half ago, and then I went to Business School for half a year, and then I had a job as a stenographer in the mill. The Aspituck Woolen Mill. But the mill closed down right after Christmas, so I didn’t have a job. And then I went to Boston and had a job there for a couple of months, but my boss got fresh and I quit and went home. And then I thought I’d come down here and work for you, Uncle Donald,” she laughed, “and here I am. You aren’t going to fire me, are you?”
“You can stay here as long as you like, Judy,” I said. “But we forgot to call Martha yesterday, so we better do it today. Right now.” This is the real test, I said to myself.
“Let me put these dishes in the sink and we’ll do it right now,” she said, jumping up. “Mother will be worried to death, wondering where I am. I’ll be in the living room right away. I know the number.”
She stacked the dishes together and hurried out. I got up and walked to the living, room and knocked my pipe out against the mantle. At the same time somebody knocked on the door. At first I didn’t hear it, but the knock was repeated, urgently.
There was a man standing on the front steps, a man about my size, wearing a tan gabardine topcoat and a soft felt hat. The expression on was face was polite, but nothing more.
“Donald Ivy?” he asked, and when I nodded he pulled a thin black leather folder out of his inside pocket, opened it, and introduced himself. “I’m Special Agent Roamer of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. May I come in for a few minutes?”
I glanced at the identification card in the folder, saw that his name was Samuel T. Roamer and that he was a Special Agent of the F.B.I., just like he said. “What for?” I asked. “What have I done now?”
“This is a friendly visit,” he said. “That is, I hope it will be.” He had drifted through the front door and into the hall while he talked, and kind of had me surrounded before I knew what was happening.
“I guess you are in,” I said. “What’s on your mind?”
“Well,” he began, when we were both seated in the living room and I had my pipe fired up, “my headquarters office asked me to check up on you.”
“Go head and check,” I said. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
He pulled a little notebook from his pocket. “Are you sure you’re Donald Ivy? According to my notes, you have a bushy mustache, kind of a—”
“Retired British brigadier type,” I said. “I shaved it off. Who told you I had one?”
