Blow Hot, Blow Cold

9

Masters was at Larry Connor’s office before eight o’clock on Monday morning. He didn’t know what time the dead man’s secretary reported for work, but he banked on the prevailing eight-to-five routine in town. He was right; it was one minute before the hour when he heard a key in the front door. Masters was waiting for her on the corner of her desk, hand shoved into a side pocket of his baggy pants fingering a lone quarter. The secretary was a pretty, well-set-up redhead in, he judged, her late twenties. She looked more surprised than alarmed when she saw Masters where he clearly had no right to be. Masters didn’t much like her hair. The color was a good natural red, but the hair had been ratted before combing to give it an illusion of excessive body.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“Lieutenant Masters. Police.” He showed her his credentials.

“But, Lieutenant, why are you here? Is Mr. Connor in already?”

“No. He won’t be in at all. That’s what I want to talk to you about. You’d better sit down.”

He drew his hand from his pocket as she moved past him to reach the chair side of the desk. She moved carefully, and he got the impression that she was anticipating very bad news. She deposited her purse in a drawer and sat down, folding her hands on the desk like a schoolteacher about to call a child to the blackboard.

“What’s the matter?” she said. “Has something happened to Mr. Connor?”

“I don’t believe I know your name.”

“It’s Ruth Benton.”

“Tell me, Miss Benton, have you been secretary to Mr. Connor long?”

“Over a year. About fifteen months. Why?”

“That would give you time to have become pretty well acquainted with him. What kind of man was he?”

The true answer was visible in her eyes, and he understood that Larry Connor, whatever he had been to others, had been very special to her. Had she been to him? Quite possibly. Ruth Benton would look very good to a man who had a wife like Lila Connor.

“He was kind, and thoughtful, and honest. He wouldn’t do anything dishonest, if that’s what you mean.”

“I don’t. Did he show signs of emotional disturbance?”

“He had his troubles.” She stopped, aware all at once of the tense Masters was using which, following his cue, she had used in turn without realizing it. “What has happened to Mr. Connor? Is he dead?”

“What makes you ask that?”

“Is he?”

“He is. He apparently committed suicide last night, here in the office.”

She took it well; and Masters, who had been dreading her reaction, was grateful. He waited patiently, and soon she looked up and spoke quietly. The quaver in her voice seemed as much the result of anger as of shock and grief.

“So she finally drove him to it,” she said.

“Who did?”

“His wife.”

“Yes, I understand that he wasn’t happy with Mrs. Connor. Was it that bad?”

“He’s dead, isn’t he? Isn’t something bad when you’d rather die than live with it?”

“Do you mind telling me how you became familiar with his private life?”

“Larry told me. He had to talk to somebody.”

So now it was “Larry,” with no pretense. Masters rather liked her for it.

“You were friends?”

“Yes.”

“That’s all?”

“No.” She stated it with neither defiance nor bravado, but as a fact. “We had a sort of special relationship. I’d rather not talk about it.”

“I see. You met outside the office?”

“Sometimes.”

“Where?”

“Various places. For drinks at the hotel. Now and then for dinner. A few times he came to my apartment.”

“Thanks for being honest.”

“Why shouldn’t I be? We didn’t try to sneak anything. We weren’t sleeping together — it was all very innocent, Lieutenant. I wish now it hadn’t been.”

“Did he hate his wife?”

“I wouldn’t say he hated her. She kept him in despair. He wanted to leave her.”

“He took her with him, Miss Benton.”

“What?” She gripped the desk.

“He killed her.”

“I don’t believe it!”

“Well, her body was found stabbed to death in her bedroom some time before his was found here.”

Ruth Benton stared down at her clenched hands, and then she slowly lowered her head until her forehead was resting upon them. He waited for her to break, expecting a storm of tears; but again he was relieved. She rose after a few moments and retrieved her purse from the desk drawer.

“I’d like to go home,” she said.

“Can I find you there if I need you?”

“I’m in the directory.”

“All right, Miss Benton.”

Clutching the purse she walked out, still giving the impression of rigid controls rigidly imposed. She was, he thought, a remarkably tough and durable young woman. Masters locked up and left.

At headquarters he reported to the chief, bringing the old man up to date on the two deaths and their apparent connection.

“It’s a mess,” the chief said, “but at least it’s a neat mess. Murder and suicide. All in the family. Wrap it up.”

“Before I wrap it up, Chief, there are a couple of things I’d like to look into.”

“Why? What things?”

Masters dug into his pocket and produced the leather key-case that he had borrowed from Larry Connor’s office. He opened it and laid it on the chief’s desk.

“This key-case, for one. These two keys are to his car — one to the doors and the ignition, the other to the trunk. These two are to the front and back doors of his office. I’ve checked all four. This fifth one, I’m guessing, is to either the front or back door of his house. The point is, why didn’t he have two house keys — to both doors?”

“That seems damn unimportant to me, Gus. Maybe the fellow just carried one key.”

“True. Still, I want to run out to the house again. If you don’t mind.”

“You be careful, Gus. We can’t afford any repercussions from this thing.”

“The soul of discretion, that’s me.”

“You said a couple of things. What’s the other one?”

“The air-conditioners. They were off at the house and office both. I wonder why.”

“Damn it, a man planning to commit suicide would hardly bother to turn on an air-conditioner!”

“But what about the house? It was a scorching day. The air-conditioner should have been running. There should have been no question of turning it on or off.”

“Maybe a fuse blew.”

“It didn’t. I checked. Dr. Richmond believes they may have intended to open their windows. The night had cooled off, and it’s possible.”

“That’s it, then.”

“Only they didn’t get it done. All windows were closed.”

“All right, Gus. Worry about keys and air-conditioners if you have to, but remember what I said. You be careful.”

Masters repeated that he would, and went across to his own office, where he found a memo from the man who had dusted for fingerprints. The report contained no surprises. Prints of both Connors had been found on various surfaces in the murder room. The husband’s prints had been all over his office, including the box and bottle Masters had found in the lavatory. On the handle of the murder weapon, the prints of Connor’s right hand had been found, no others. This in itself was not odd, but apparently there was only one set of them. Surely, even if Connor had been the only one to handle the letter-opener, he must have handled it many times. Why, then, a single set of prints?

Filing this slight puzzle away in his cluttered mind, Masters drove out to Shady Acres Addition. The Connor house on this quiet Monday morning looked normal and secure. He parked in the drive and cut across a corner of bluegrass to the front door. The key in the leather case fitted and worked smoothly.

He shut the door behind him and went upstairs. The bedroom had been relieved of its only disorderly item, the corpse, and the officers had left the room as neat as they had found it. It was, Masters thought, an inviting nest for the exercise of conjugal love, and it seemed to be waiting patiently for love’s resumption. Later, maybe, by others. Mr. and Mrs. Larry Connor were not in love, not at home, and not coming back. Masters sighed, reflecting on the waste, and went downstairs and let himself out, this time by the back door. He tried the front-door key on the back door from outside. It did not fit; it would not even enter the lock. Had there been another key in the case? If so, where was it?

Masters had the sudden feeling that he was being watched. He squinted sidewise and spotted a lusciously constructed young woman in white shorts regarding him intently from the terrace next door. Nancy Howell, that schoolteacher’s wife. There was something engaging in her curiosity, which she made no attempt to conceal. In fact, there was something engaging in her every line and curve, Masters thought. An appetizing dish for a pedagogue to come home to.

He returned the key-case to his pocket and made for the dish.

“Good morning, Mrs. Howell,” he said.

“Good morning,” Nancy said. “I was just wondering what you were up to.”

“Having another look. Sometimes you see something new when you come back.”

“Did you?”

“I can’t say I did.”

“Have you found Larry yet?”

“Yes.”

“I knew you would.” She gave her shorts a needless tug, which had the effect of directing attention to her legs. But this time Masters was watching her eyes, which were equally lovely, and deeply disturbed besides. “He was right there in his office, wasn’t he?”

“That’s right. All the time.”

“Dead?”

“Yes.”

“Poor Larry. Poor Lila. I feel sorry for them both. I don’t suppose you can understand that.”

“My sympathy is usually for the victim, Mrs. Howell. But I’ve always got some left over for the offender.”

“Isn’t that an unusual attitude for a policeman?”

“Is it? To me, a person in trouble is a troubled person.”

“What a lovely way to put it! It sounds like an epigram. Did you just think it up?”

“Probably not. I don’t usually think in epigrams.”

“Would you mind telling me how Larry died?”

“Not at all. It will be public knowledge soon. In all likelihood he died from a fatal dose of chloral hydrate taken in brandy.”

“Chloral hydrate? What’s that?”

“Knockout drops. Basic ingredient of a Mickey Finn. Harmless enough in small doses, fatal in large ones.”

“What a strange thing to use!”

“Not really. It has advantages. It’s easily acquired and easily taken. No pain, no sickness, no mess. You go into a coma, and that’s it. Cardiac or respiratory failure. There are lots worse ways to die.”

Nancy shuddered nevertheless. “Anyhow, this settles everything, doesn’t it?”

“It would seem so. Murder and suicide.”

“Then why have you come back?” She looked at him shrewdly, head cocked. “If everything’s settled, I mean.”

“There are odds and ends to gather up. Probably unimportant, but you never know. Besides, I want to ask you to do something for me.”

“Oh?”

“Mr. Connor’s body is at the mortician’s. The law requires an official identification. Will you identify him?”

“Oh, dear.”

“I shouldn’t have asked. One of the men in the neighborhood will do. Is your husband home?”

“No, David left for the school long ago. And Jack’s at his office, I should think, and Stanley’s at his store. I’ll go with you, Lieutenant. I... I don’t mind.”

“Thanks. I’ll drive you there and bring you back.”

“I’ll get into a dress if you’ll wait. Will you come in?”

“I’ll wait here, thank you. No hurry.”

Nancy returned in a simple blue dress that won Masters’s admiration. He wondered how she had achieved such casual smartness in so little time with so few props. It was largely, he supposed, the result of basic assets, which were sound, very sound. All the way downtown he was keenly conscious of the little woman beside him in the police car, and he kept his eyes strictly on the road as a matter of discipline. What scent was she wearing? It was faint and elusive; and when he parked behind the mortician’s, having approached through the alley, he still had not identified it.

Not so with the scent inside the building. It was the odor of death embalmed, and it seemed to seep from the very plaster and wood and old brick. Or perhaps it was only the amalgam of all the odors that accumulate where the dead are prepared for eternity. They were admitted by a man wearing a kind of apron; and he directed them to a small room where Larry Connor lay waiting patiently to be embalmed after his autopsy. Not, Masters reflected, that an autopsy in this case could reveal much of anything. Evidence of chloral hydrate, always difficult to detect, had surely dissipated...

He was aware all at once that Nancy had stopped walking, and he turned back to her. She was standing quite still, eyes closed and saucy face drained of color. He had an exorbitant feeling of alarm, certain that she was going to faint. But before he could reach her, she opened her eyes and took a deep breath.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Howell?” he asked.

“Yes. I got a little dizzy for a moment, that’s all.”

“Are you sure you want to do this?”

“I don’t want to, but I will.”

And it was, after all, not so bad. Larry was so still and remote, so withdrawn from all trouble whatsoever — and so essentially un-Larry-like, when it came to that — that it was impossible to feel more than wonder that he had come by his own wish to where he was. His sad thin face had fallen into lines of disdain that expressed his utter indifference to all that had happened to him or might happen hereafter. Was it only the night before last, Nancy thought, that she had sat with him on a bench and listened to him talking out of a keg? His voice returned to her in a whisper, come from an incredible distance and a long time past. And where was Lila? Was Lila also in this place of deathly sweetness? Nancy turned and walked away, Masters following. In the alley she stopped by the car, leaning against it for a moment; and he was aware of a desire to stroke her head, to hold her hand — to give her, by some human gesture, what comfort he could.

Masters was, in fact, feeling guilty for having subjected her to the ordeal. The truth was that he had been inexplicably reluctant to leave her, after their conversation on her terrace, and he had hit on this grim chore as a way of retaining her company. From the beginning of this affair, he had sensed that her lively and innocent curiosity was the product of a good brain, however scattered; and what he wanted to do, he now saw with considerable surprise, was to test on her the meager substance on which his uncertainty was founded.

“I wonder,” he said, “if you would have a cup of coffee with me.”

“I’d rather go home, I think.”

“I’d appreciate it, Mrs. Howell. I’d like to talk to you.”

“About what?”

“A couple of things that bother me. What do you say?”

“I’ll give you a cup of coffee at my house, Lieutenant. Will that do?”

“If it wouldn’t be too much trouble...”

So they went back and sat at the table in Nancy’s kitchen and had the coffee that was left from breakfast. She watched him from across the table, her curiosity on leash.

“You may think I’m crazy,” Masters began.

“Why?”

“Because, Mrs. Howell, this thing keeps looking one way, and I keep thinking it might have been another way entirely.”

“What other way?”

“It looks like murder and suicide. I keep thinking it might have been murder and murder-made-to-look-like-suicide. By a third party.”

Nancy was startled. “Whatever gave you such an idea?”

“As I said, a couple of things. A key that may or may not be missing... You finding the air-conditioner in the Connor house turned off. Why? Dr. Richmond thinks someone meant to open the windows. I’m not satisfied with that.”

“But why else would it have been turned off?”

“What if someone had wanted to confuse the times of death?”

“I don’t think I understand, Lieutenant,” said Nancy, fascinated.

“In fixing the time of death with a reasonable degree of accuracy,” explained Masters, “a number of factors have to be taken into account — the climate, the weather, the temperature, the barometric pressure, peculiar local conditions and so on. Bodies deteriorate much faster in high temperatures than in low, for example. Of course, where air-conditioners are involved the medical examiner takes them into account also in his figuring.”

“You mean,” breathed Nancy, “suppose somebody manipulated the air-conditioning factor in this case?”

Masters could only admire her quickness of mind. “Exactly. Let’s assume a third principal in this affair, Mrs. Howell — and let’s call him Murderer. Murderer wants to kill Lila Connor — let’s not bother just now with why. He knows the Connors’ domestic history; he knows they had a bitter quarrel Saturday night. He sees that Larry Connor is a natural set-up to be tagged for the killing if Lila Connor is murdered. Obviously, if he can frame Larry for Lila’s murder, it’s safer if Connor also dies and therefore can’t defend himself. So Murderer says to himself: This has to look like a murder and suicide — the husband killing the wife and then taking his own life...”

“Are you seriously suggesting that Larry was killed simply to cover up Lila’s murder?”

“I’m just thinking out loud,” said Masters with a smile. “Now. Circumstances — maybe the pressure of time, or events that can’t be avoided — make it necessary for Murderer to kill Lila and Larry Connor close enough together so that it would be hard, if not impossible, to establish with any accuracy in which order the murders took place. But the essence of Murderer’s plot is that Lila’s death be medically recognized and accepted as having occurred prior to her husband’s. That’s where the air-conditioning manipulation comes in.”

“I see,” said Nancy, frowning in concentration. “Or do I? Was the air-conditioner running in Larry’s office when you found him?”

“No, it was off. The place was stuffy and hot.”

“But if your theory is correct, wouldn’t you have had to find Larry’s air-conditioning on?”

“No. But let’s not worry about the mechanics of it now. The point is, Mrs. Howell, I’m not ready to accept the murder-and-suicide.”

But Nancy shook her head. “It’s too fantastic, Lieutenant. You have absolutely no reason for thinking all this. You’ve simply made it up.”

“At least it would explain the hot house, and the missing key to the Connors’ back door. If, that is, the key is actually missing. Do you happen to know if Larry Connor carried a back-door key?”

“He must have. I’ve seen him let himself in that way when Lila wasn’t home.”

“There you are. You’re an observant young woman, Mrs. Howell. That’s why I wanted to talk with you.”

“I only hope that my observations don’t make a lot of trouble for some innocent person.”

“They won’t.”

“I’m not so sure. I’m beginning to think you may be just clever enough to think up something against someone who had nothing to do with anything.”

“I hope not. Shall I go on with my fantastic ideas?”

“I admit they’re interesting. As well as frightening. What’s next?”

“Well, another thing that puzzles me is why Larry Connor would kill his wife and then deliberately go to his office to kill himself. Why not do it at home?”

“He couldn’t have been very rational. Maybe he had some idea of running away, and later realized it was hopeless.”

“I know, suicides often do crazy things. Still, it’s something to be considered. You saw Connor leave. Did he act irrational? Did he act like a man running away from a murder?”

“No.” Nancy stared into her cup, where the coffee was getting cold. “He didn’t, as a matter of fact.”

“There you are again, another little incongruity. All right, let’s suppose that he left Lila alive. Suppose he was going, exactly as he told you, down to his office to spend the night. He could have been followed and killed, and the murderer could then have returned, bringing with him Connor’s key to the back door, from Connor’s key-case, and killed Lila.”

“Wait a minute. This is getting more and more absurd. You are implying that the murderer, if there is one, is someone from right in this neighborhood.”

“Oh, yes. If there is a murderer, as you say, he is surely right here in the neighborhood. Probably attended the party Saturday night.”

“Which one of us, may I ask, do you suspect?”

“It could have been any of you. It depends on how much of the truth has been told. It may depend, too, on who is protecting whom. Think a minute. You say you left Stanley Walters at the fence in the alley after telling him Connor had gone to his office. So Walters is eligible. Dr. Richmond lives just on the other side of the Connors. He could easily have seen Connor leave, overheard the two of you talking in the driveway. Furthermore, the doctor admitted that he went out later on a prolonged call to the hospital. Did he go there directly? Did he stay there all the time? In any event, Dr. Richmond is also eligible. Shall I go on?”

“I’d rather you didn’t,” said Nancy faintly. “It’s too utterly nauseating. The next thing I know, you’ll be saying that I could have committed murder myself.”

“Certainly. You’re eligible, too.” Nancy was stricken dumb, and Masters said hastily, “If I thought for a minute you were guilty, I wouldn’t be talking to you this way.”

“Well, I have talked with you far too long and said far too much, Lieutenant, and I don’t believe I want to talk with you any more.”

“I’m sorry.”

Masters rose and looked wistfully into his empty cup, which he had hoped Nancy would refill. But she had risen, too, and was standing there, the very picture of womanhood offended. He said, to mollify her, “It’s only speculation, Mrs. Howell.” But when she continued to play Living Statues, Masters reverted to type and added, “So far, that is,” and left with a bitter taste of triumph in his mouth.