Alphabet Hicks

Eight

George Cooper was gone.

At half past eight Hicks sat at the table in the dining room eating ham and eggs. At his right were Brager and Heather Gladd; across the table were the Dundees, father and son. What talking there was came mostly from R. I. Dundee. Hicks listened to him with one ear, his brain being preoccupied with a violent disapproval of the latest turn in events.

Apparently Cooper had taken to the woods. As Hicks had patched it together from various pieces he had gathered, shortly after sundown, on the terrace, Cooper had become ill. When the spasms had become less acute he had asked for whisky, the policeman had suggested coffee, and they had gone to the kitchen. There the policeman had left him huddled on a chair, waiting for Mrs. Powell to prepare the coffee. Another policeman, sent by Lieutenant Storrs, had come to take Mrs. Powell to the library. When the first policeman returned to the kitchen, somewhat later, no one was there. That was all. Cooper had disappeared. Nobody had seen him go. The cars parked outside were all there. The guard stationed on the drive had nothing to report. Now the inquiry was in abeyance while all hands sought the fugitive.

Hicks didn’t like any part of it. For one thing, he had wanted to talk with George Cooper at the first opportunity. He had followed Martha Cooper from the restaurant, and on to Katonah, on account of the remarkable resemblance of her voice to Mrs. Dundee’s; he had a hunch about that, and it had become more than a hunch when he learned that Dundee’s proof of his wife’s treachery was a record of his wife’s voice on a sonotel plate. But by the time he had learned that, Martha Cooper was dead, and a new and more terrible’ suspicion forced itself on him, hunch or no hunch. Then came this jolt. Did Cooper’s flight mean that he had murdered his wife just to get her out of the way? It looked like it, and it was highly unsatisfactory.

Hicks glanced around at the faces. The other men had eaten as well as he had, but Heather had swallowed only half a piece of toast, in spite of the urging of Mrs. Powell. Hicks’s eyes glittered at her disapprovingly. He didn’t understand why she was there, and he resented anything he didn’t understand. Since she couldn’t eat, why the devil did she stick around in that dismal company? Why didn’t she go up to her room and lie down, or pace the floor, or cry, or sit at the window and look out at the dark?

R. I. Dundee was eating apple pie and announcing that he was going to remain for the night. Naturally he could leave whenever he pleased, since by his flight the man Cooper had confessed his guilt, but he was staying, and he wanted Brager and Ross, as soon as they had finished their coffee, to go with him to the laboratory.

Ross put down his coffee cup and said no, he would stay at the house. Dundee said he wanted him at the laboratory. Ross said stiffly that he was sorry, he couldn’t go.

“Why not?” Dundee demanded.

The young man stared at his father. “My God,” he blurted, “don’t you have any feeling about anything? Leave Miss Gladd here alone, with all — the way things are and the way she feels?”

“Nonsense,” Dundee said testily. “What good can you do her? Mrs. Powell is here, and those men around, and here’s Hicks. Certainly I have feeling. Is there anything any of us can do, Miss Gladd?”

“No,” Heather said.

“Of course not.” Dundee frowned at her. “I should say, you have my sympathy. My deep sympathy. I’m very sorry this has happened to you here at my place. I hope I don’t need to say I’m sorry. I’m clumsy at things like this, but if there is anything we can do, say so. I suppose you’ll want to take a day or two off.”

Ross made a noise that could have meant indignation.

Hicks asked, “When’s the next train to New York?”

They looked at him. “Are you leaving?” Dundee demanded.

Hicks said he was. Brager said there was a train at nine-twenty. Heather suddenly stood up and said:

“I’ll drive you down to the station.”

“He can phone for a taxi,” Ross said. “There’s time.”

“No, I’ll take him,” Heather insisted.

So that’s it, Hicks thought. That’s why she’s hanging around here, she wants a conference with her lawyer. He pushed back his chair and got up.

Ross and Brager were both telling Heather that she shouldn’t try to drive a car, she ought to go to bed. Dundee told Hicks he wanted a word with him, and arose and led the way to the kitchen, where Mrs. Powell was washing dishes, and on outdoors. There he peered around into the dark, faced Hicks, and demanded:

“Well?”

“All right,” Hicks said. “I told them if they wanted to know what I came here for they’d have to get it from you.”

Dundee uttered profanity. “And that man killed his wife and ran away, and now they’ll catch him, and that’s that. I was a damn fool to tell you anything. But you put it over on me, and I’m not a whiner. I want to handle this thing my way, and if I don’t find that plate I want to keep that sonotel operating in Vail’s office, and if you tell my wife about it she’ll tell Vail. It’s worth a thousand dollars to me if you don’t tell her. Cash. I’ll give it to you tomorrow. Come to my office—”

“No,” Hicks said. “I have a previous engagement.”

“Nonsense. I’m only asking you to wait—”

“Forget it,” Hicks snapped. “No sale. What and when I tell your wife will be decided by secret ballot, with only one voting. Nor were you a damn fool. If I had told them why I was here, it would have been pretty unpleasant. By the way, what did you say to them about your wife?”

“To whom?”

“The police or the district attorney.”

“Nothing. Why should I? Look here, if you’ll wait—”

“No. Forget it. Somebody must have. They asked me if I knew Mrs. Dundee, and if I had seen her here today. I said I hadn’t, and they asked if I was sure I hadn’t. How did they ever know there was a Mrs. Dundee?”

“I don’t know.” Dundee was incredulous. “They asked if you saw her here today?”

“They did. You didn’t mention her at all?”

“Certainly not. And I don’t believe—”

He cut it off as the kitchen door opened. Heather Gladd was there an instant in the rectangle of bright light, then she closed the door behind her and moved forward, calling:

“Mr. Hicks?”

“We’re talking,” Dundee said sharply.

“We’re through talking,” Hicks said. “I’ll miss that train.”

“We can make it,” Heather said. “It’s after nine o’clock, but it’s only three miles.”

“Then you’re taking me?”

“Yes.”

Hicks dashed into the house. He found his hat where he had left it in a closet in the hall. In the living room there was no one but the man in a Palm Beach suit and an old Panama hat, which apparently was glued on. He was reading a magazine.

“I’m going to New York,” Hicks said.

“Okay.” The man surveyed Hicks with gloomy interest. “You’re that Alphabet Hicks. Got one of those cards with you? I’d like to have one.”

Hicks took one from his wallet and handed it over.

The man looked at it. “L.O.P.U.S.S.A.F. What does that stand for?”

“Lover of Peace Unless Somebody Starts a Fight. I’m in a hurry. Miss Gladd is driving me to a train. All right?”

“Sure. So you really do carry these things. I’ll be damned. Crazy as hell. We’ve got your address. The bellboy on the drive will let you by. If not, yell for me.”

He returned to his magazine.

Hicks found Heather Gladd seated behind the driver’s wheel of a modest sedan at the edge of the graveled space in front of the garage. Only three of the parked cars remained, and one of those was R. I. Dundee’s. The engine was already going, and as soon as Hicks had climbed in beside her and shut the door Heather engaged the gear and the car moved forward. Short of the entrance they were stopped by a policeman, but after a couple of questions and a glance inside a car he nodded them on.

They turned into the public road, and went a mile or so, and no words passed.

Hicks turned his head to look directly at her profile. “There isn’t much time to talk,” he remarked.

She was silent for another half a mile, then said only, “I don’t... feel like talking.”

“I suppose not, but wasn’t there something you wanted to say to me?”

“No.” She turned the wheel for a curve. “Except — they didn’t ask me much. Just a few questions, and they asked me if I knew anything — if there was any trouble between Martha and George and I told them no. Yes, and I ought to thank you — I don’t mean I ought to, I mean I do thank you — for keeping your promise not to tell them. You did keep it, didn’t you?”

“Yeah.” Hicks was gazing at her profile. “What else did you want to say?”

“Nothing. That’s all.”

“Then why did you insist on taking me to the station when you could hardly stand up?”

“Oh, I... don’t mind. I like to drive.”

“Yeah, it’s fun.” Hicks’s tone suddenly became peremptory.

“Pull up at the side of the road.”

“What?” The car swerved and she jerked it straight again. “What for?”

“We’re nearly at the village. Get off the road and stop the car or I’ll stop it for you.”

She obeyed. The car slowed down, bumped onto the grassy roadside, and stopped.

“What—” she began.

“Leave the engine on,” Hicks said curtly. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about. We’ll miss the train.”

“That’s all right, more trains tomorrow.” In the dim light from the dashboard Hicks could see her tight lips and wide eyes. “I am referring to George Cooper. You know where he is. You wanted an excuse to leave. You’re going to phone him or you’re going to see him—”

He stopped abruptly, gazing at her. She made no sound. In a moment he said softly, “I’ll be doggoned,” opened the door on his side, started to get out, suddenly turned back, and commanded her:

“Get out of the car.”

She didn’t move.

“As a precaution,” he said. “You might go on without me.”

“Please don’t,” she faltered. “Oh, please! What does it matter to you? If you—”

He turned off the engine, removed the key and slipped it into his pocket, opened the door and climbed out, walked to the rear of the car, and seized the handle of the door to the luggage compartment. It wouldn’t turn. Heather came running and grasped his arm.

“Don’t—” she pleaded. She tugged at him.

He shook her off and took the key from his pocket and unlocked the door and flung it open.

“You’re too darned smart,” Heather said bitterly.

In the darkness not much could be seen of the man’s figure stuffed into the compartment like an embryo in a jar except the white blotch that was his face. But Hicks saw his eyes blink and there was a movement.

“You’re alive, huh?” Hicks said.

“I didn’t tell him,” Heather said.

“Come on out,” Hicks commanded. “Take it easy — wait a minute — hold it — look out!”

The lights of a car had suddenly appeared around a curve coming from the direction of the village. Hicks reached for the edge of the compartment door and pulled it shut, telling Heather urgently:

“Bend over and vomit!”

She stared at him. His arm shot across her shoulder. “Bend over! Vomit!”

The next moment the lights were on them, and the car was stopping in the road right there, not ten feet away. A voice called:

“Having trouble?”

“Nothing serious,” Hicks said.

A man got out and approached, and as he stepped into the light Hicks saw that it was the policeman who had been sitting on the terrace with George Cooper when Hicks returned to the house.

“Oh, it’s you,” the policeman said. He looked at Heather, though with the performance she was putting on she was not specially pleasant to look at. “What’s the matter?”

“Spasmodic ejection.” Hicks kept his arms around Heather’s shoulders. “She was driving me to a train and she got sick.”

“I’m better,” Heather gasped.

The policeman went to their car and looked in, front and back, and returned. “Did you just come from the house?”

“Yes.”

“You won’t catch that train.”

“Then I’ll get one at White Plains. Do you want to run me down there? Miss Gladd ought to go home and go to bed.”

“I’m all right,” Heather said. “I will be in a minute.”

“They’ll take you home and I can take the car.”

“No, thanks. No, really.”

The policeman was looking at the ground. “You don’t seem to have got much result.”

“That’s the trouble,” Hicks said. “She only ate half a piece of toast. You can check that at the house. Ask Mrs. Powell.”

“It’s no occasion for wisecracks.”

“It’s no occasion for much of anything, if you ask me.”

The policeman looked at him, hesitated, looked at Heather, walked to his car and got in, and the car sped away.

When the sound of the car and the sight of its lights were entirely gone, Heather suddenly began to giggle.

“Stop that!” Hicks said sharply. “Stop it! Get back in the car. I’ll drive.”

“But you won’t—”

“We’re getting away from this road. Get in.”

After she was in the seat Hicks went to the rear of the car to make sure the latch of the luggage compartment was caught, then climbed in behind the wheel and took the key from his pocket and started the engine. It was less than a mile to the village. He asked Heather the way to Route 22, and she told him the turns through the village, and again they were out on the unlighted highway. Heather asked where he was going, but he didn’t reply. A couple of miles south of Katonah he suddenly left the pavement to turn right onto a narrow dirt road which almost immediately began to wind through a wood. A little farther on, at a wider spot, he steered to the roadside, stopped the car, and turned off the engine and the lights.

“It’s dark,” Heather said in a small voice.

Hicks twisted in the seat to face her, though it was indeed too dark to see much, and demanded, “What kind of a double-barreled idiot are you, anyway?”

“I am not,” she said in the same voice.

“No? What were you going to do, put me on the train and then skedaddle with him?”

“No. I wasn’t.”

“You say. What were you going to do?”

“I don’t know. But I couldn’t—” She stopped.

“How did you get him into the car?”

“I didn’t get him in. He got himself in. When I went back to the house I went to the kitchen door and he was just coming out. He had a big knife in his hand. He was crazy — I mean the way he acted and talked. He said they were going to arrest him for killing Martha, and he didn’t do it, and he wouldn’t let himself be arrested — he had me by the arm, making me go with him out to where the cars were. He had the knife, and I couldn’t call for help because I was afraid he would so something terrible with the knife — not to me, to himself. He opened the luggage compartment of a car — I think he thought it was the one he came out in, but it wasn’t, it was one that belonged there — and he crawled inside and told me to drive the car to New York. He was just simply out of his mind. I said the guard on the drive wouldn’t let me by, and he said I could if I watched for a chance and he was going to stay there until I did, and he pulled the door down and shut himself in. I opened the door and begged him to give me the knife, but he wouldn’t. So I got the key from the dash and locked the door, and kept the key. Then I didn’t know what to do. I thought if I told someone — he still had the knife. Then I thought I might get a chance to get him away and get alone with him and talk with him.”

She stopped. Hicks emitted a grunt.

Heather said, “I don’t think I’m an idiot. What about you?”

“Well, what about me?”

“When that car came and you told me to vomit.”

“Yeah,” Hicks growled. “That’s it. I simply do not like to deliver anybody to a cop. You notice I didn’t have time to figure that out, I did it instinctively. I’m mentally or morally defective or both. I don’t even believe he’s not a murderer. I guess he is.”

“He is not.”

“You seem sure of that.”

“I am sure.” Heather had a hand on his arm. “I’ve known him for years. I know he couldn’t do anything like that, not even to anyone, and not to Martha. But even if he could, if something happened to him and he did it, he would never say he didn’t do it. I know that for sure. That’s what makes me sure, I know he wouldn’t deny it, not to me anyway, no matter how crazy he was. If he did it, then he did. But he’d admit it. And he swore to me he didn’t. So I know he didn’t.”

Hicks opened the door on his side. “I’d like to get his opinion on the matter.”

Heather held onto his arm. “He has that knife—”

Hicks pulled loose, climbed out, went to the rear of the car, and opened the door of the luggage compartment. It was too dark to see anything until there was movment, when something like a leg came poking out, and then another. Hicks reached and had an elbow. The torso and head emerged, and the man was out, half erect, when suddenly he crumpled into a heap on the ground.

A croak came from him: “Jesus! Oh, Jesus!” It was much nearer prayer than profanity.

“The knife,” Heather gasped. “Is he—”

“Give me a chance,” Hicks said irritably. He lit a match and examined the man’s face and throat and chest, then lit another and stuck his head inside the luggage compartment. When he backed out and straightened up he had something in his hand, and the light of a third match showed him the clean sharp long blade of the knife. He took the blade’s tip between thumb and forefinger and sent it sailing away into the woods.

The man was struggling to arise.

“Don’t try to stand up,” Hicks told him. “Work your legs.”

“They won’t work,” the man croaked.

“Certainly they won’t work, they’re asleep.” Hicks turned to Heather. “Hold the back door of the car open.”

She was steadying herself against a fender. “But what are you going—”

“Who do you think you are, the general manager? Open the door!”

She obeyed, opening the door on the left and holding it. Hicks bent over, got an arm under Cooper’s shoulders and another under his hips, hefted him bodily, carried him with no great effort apparently to the side of the car, got a foot on the running-board, and deposited him inside on the floor. He pushed the benumbed legs out of the way, banged the door, got into the front seat, and said to Heather, who was climbing in on her side:

“I want to have a talk with him. That’s the only reason I’m doing this. For practical reasons. Tomorrow morning, as soon as he gets some food in his stomach, if he has any sense he’ll report to the district attorney at White Plains and go on through with it. Who owns this car?”

“He’s out of his head,” Heather said. “He doesn’t even know who we are.”

“I’ll tell him later. Who owns this car?”

“The company. R. I. Dundee and Company. We all use it.”

“Good. I’m working for the company too. I’ll drop you at Bedford Hills and you can hire a car to take you home. Tell them we missed the train and tried to catch it at Bedford Hills and missed it again, and I took the car on to New York. Have you got any money?”

“I have some at home.”

Hicks looked over the back of the seat and saw that Cooper was where he had put him, making no attempt to move. “You stay down,” he commanded, and started the engine, got the car turned around, and headed back for Route 22.

There was no hitch in the program. Heather had evidently abandoned her aspiration to be general manager, and about the only talking was when Hicks gave her his address in New York, without a telephone number because he had none. At a garage in Bedford Hills he arranged for a car to take her home, two dollars for the six miles, and went on his way. The passenger in the rear made neither sound nor movement. The car was in good condition and the southbound traffic light, and he made good time.

His wrist watch said five minutes past eleven as he rolled to a stop in front of the address on East 29th Street. The windows of the Italian restaurant on the ground floor were only dimly lit. Hicks got out and opened the rear door, took a look at what was there, and asked gruffly:

“Can you walk?”

Without moving Cooper said, “I don’t want to walk.”

“Nuts.” Hicks got him by the shoulder. “Listen, brother. My bed is two flights up. You can either walk to it or be taken to Bellevue, which is only three blocks away, and let them carry you.”

Cooper pulled himself to a sitting posture. “I don’t want to go to Bellevue.”

“Then upsy-daisy. Snap out of it.”

“I don’t want to go to bed.”

“You don’t have to. You can sit in a chair. Come on.”

Cooper muttered something, but showed an inclination to move, and Hicks got hold of him and helped him out. His legs supported him, and a firm grasp on his arm was all he needed to steer him across the sidewalk, into the entrance, and up the two flights of stairs.

The medium-sized room that Hicks ushered him into was neat and clean and bare-looking. The bed and dresser and table and two chairs were devoid of any pretense at embellishment, and for decoration the walls displayed a picture of Abraham Lincoln, a chart of the human body showing muscles and blood vessels, a drawing of an airplane flight cut from a magazine, all unframed, and a large framed canvas that was a brilliant splash of red and yellow. When asked, as he had been once, where he got the Van Gogh, Hicks replied that someone he had done something for had given it to him.

Hicks closed the door. Cooper looked around, focused his eyes on the bed, and staggered across and fell on it before Hicks could reach him. Hicks stood and glared down at him. He stooped for a closer look, and straightened up again.

“The unspeakable bum,” he said in a tone of disgust. “Out. Asleep. And the only bed I’ve got. I can do one of two things, undress him or toss him out of the window.”

The decision, apparently, was for the former, for he started the undressing, beginning with shoes. They were heavy brown oxfords. One was off and deposited on the floor when the sound came of voices and footsteps outside on the stairs. Someone en route for the fourth floor, Hicks thought, going for the other shoe, and had it in his hand when there was a loud knock at his door. He jerked around and called out:

“Who is it?”

The reply came, “ABCDXYZ! Open up!”

Hicks made a face. Bill Pratt of the Courier, carrying between ten and fifteen drinks.

“I’m not at home!”

“Oh, yes, you are! You must be, because we saw the light in your window. Don’t keep this lady waiting, she’s a friend of yours. Let down this barrier.”

“What lady?”

“An old, old friend. Here hanging onto me. I’ll count ten and bust the door down. One, two...”

Hicks put down the shoe, stepped on the table and switched off the light, crossed to the door and opened it just wide enough to slide through, and was in the hall with the door closed behind him and the spring lock caught.

“I was just going out,” he explained.

Bill Pratt, tall and loose-jointed, with careless clothes and a carefree face, said indignantly, “Then you can go back in again. We’re here on business.”

“That’s him all right,” said the girl.

“Do you deny it?” Pratt demanded. “Do you deny that you promised this girl a year’s subscription to the Movie Gazette and maybe a trip to Hollywood? Wait! Wait till I tell you. I met her this evening at the Flamingo. She’s a fine girl and a swell dancer.”

He looked at the girl. “My God, you’re a good dancer.”

“You met her at the Flamingo,” Hicks said.

“I did. Any objection to that?”

“No.”

“Okay. She said an inmate of an insane asylum with a card having the name A. Hicks and a string of letters on it told her this morning that if she could identify some photographs she would get a year’s subscription to the Movie Gazette. Let’s go in and sit down.”

“In a minute. So what?”

“So of course I knew it was you. I want to know two things. I want to know what kind of a gag it is, and I want enough to make at least a column, and I also want to know when her subscription to the Movie Gazette is going to start. She’s the best dancer in New York and I want to know when her subscription is going to start, and I also want—”

The girl put in, “You haven’t told him about the photograph.”

“What photograph?”

“The one I didn’t know. I told you about it.”

“I forgot that part. Tell it again.”

“There was one I didn’t know, but I know it now, because she came today to see Mr. Vail. Only I don’t know her name.”

Hicks’s eyes fastened on the girl. “She came to see Vail today? What time?”

“Around noon. Just before I went to lunch.”

“How long did she stay?”

“I don’t know, but she left before I came back from lunch.”

“Why don’t you know her name?”

“Because she didn’t give it. She said she was expected, and Mr. Vail said to send her in.”

“That’s why I know it’s a story,” Pratt said. “Let’s go in and sit down. You see, going there with that photograph, you must have known that woman was going—”

“It is a story,” Hicks admitted. “But I need a drink, and so do you. We all need a drink. Come along.”

“He was going to show me your room,” the girl protested. “The kind of a place a famous man lives in. He says you’re cuckoo.”

“Some other time.” Hicks herded them to the stairs and got them started down. “We’ve got to talk this over and we’ve got your subscription to attend to.”

“A drink is a splendid idea,” Pratt said positively. “And music for dancing. My God, she’s a good dancer.”

On the sidewalk Hicks explained that there was no place for dancing in the neighborhood, but plenty of drinks. He took them to Second Avenue and north a block, and into a Bar & Grill. After they had slid into a seat of a booth he said:

“Excuse me a minute. Go ahead and order and make mine the same.”

He went through a gap in a partition leading to the front, glanced back to make sure he could not be seen, proceeded to the entrance, and emerged to the street. A block farther north he entered a drugstore, looked up Judith Dundee’s number in the phone book, shut himself in a booth, and dialed it. Three minutes later he came out again, took another route back to his address on 29th Street, to avoid passing the Bar & Grill, got into the car he had parked there, and headed uptown.