Ah, Treachery!

Chapter 25

At first she thought her father had passed out from too much vodka. He was in the living room of the small Georgetown house on Volta Place, sprawled in the chair he liked to use for drinking and writing. It was a big leather and oak chair with wide flat arms. On one arm was a bottle of Smirnoff 80-proof vodka, three-quarters empty. On the other arm were a pack of cigarettes, a full ashtray and an empty glass. In front of him on a coffee table was his old black Smith-Corona portable typewriter with a sheet of white bond in it.

Shawnee Viar carried the sack of groceries through the living room, the dining area and on into the kitchen, where she put them away, all except the carton of Pall Malls. She took the carton with her when she returned to the living room and went back into the foyer. There she removed her blue overcoat with the missing ivory-colored button and hung it on the government-issue coatrack. Back in the living room again, still carrying the carton of Pall Malls, she went over to inspect her father. It was then she saw the gun on the floor beside Henry Viar’s dangling right hand.

She dropped the carton of cigarettes and used both hands to cover her mouth but the long low moan escaped anyway.

After four deep breaths, she edged toward him until she could feel for a pulse in his neck, certain there would be none. She found herself wondering when they had last touched, not hugs or kisses, but just the brush of a hand. She decided it had been at least ten years, maybe even fifteen.

The gun was a semiautomatic pistol and looked to her like the one kept in the drawer of his bedside table. It was a small weapon that could be concealed in a man’s hip pocket or a woman’s purse. She knelt beside him to look up at his face. The eyes were slightly open and staring at his lap. The mouth, too, was slightly open.

After discovering he hadn’t shot himself in the head, she noticed the small black hole in his black sweater. The hole was almost in the center of his chest and she reasoned that he must have shot himself in the heart.

Still kneeling, she turned to look at the page of bond paper in the typewriter. There was only one line on it. She read the line silently, moving her lips, then rose, went to the telephone, looked up a number in a red address book and called it. While it rang she looked at her watch and saw that it was 4:52 P.M.

The phone call was answered on the second ring by a man’s voice reciting the last four digits she had dialed. She said, “I’d like to speak to General Winfield, please. This is Shawnee Viar.”

“General Winfield’s out of town, Ms. Viar. I’m Nick Patrokis. Maybe I can help.”

“Is there a number where General Winfield can be reached?”

“I’m sorry, there isn’t. But the General and I work closely together and I’m sure he’d want me to help, if I can.”

“You know my father?”

“We’ve never met but I know who he is,” Patrokis said. “And I know the General’s known him for years.”

“He’s dead. My father, I mean.”

“I’m very sorry,” Patrokis said. “When did he — when did it happen?”

“I don’t know. I just got here. He was kind of slumped over in a chair in the living room. I thought he was asleep. No, I didn’t. I thought he was passed out. He drank a lot. Too much.”

“I understand.”

“He killed himself.”

“How?”

“With a gun. A small one. He shot himself in the chest, the heart, I guess, and the gun’s lying on the floor beside him.”

“Not in his lap?”

“No. It’s not in his lap. Is it supposed to be?” She didn’t wait for Patrokis’s answer. “He left a note. It’s still in his typewriter.”

“Then it’s not signed, is it?”

“It’s not signed.”

“Can you see the note from where you are?”

“No, but I remember it. It’s only one line: ‘Had enough? Try suicide. I did.’ ”

“Have you called the police?” Patrokis said.

“Not yet. I guess I should call them, shouldn’t I? But that’s why I was calling General Winfield. Because I couldn’t think of anybody else who’d give a damn if he’s dead or not. The General dropped by the other night. They had a long talk and, well, I thought maybe the General could tell me what I should do now.”

“You live in Georgetown, don’t you?”

“Yes,” she said and gave him the Volta Place address.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“I really don’t want to trouble you—”

“It’s no trouble,” Patrokis said.

“What about the police?” she asked.

There was a long pause of several seconds before Patrokis answered. “I’ll call them when I get there.”