Meet Me at the Morgue

chapter 24

A plainclothesman challenged me at the entrance to the Johnson drive, and let me pass. My car was standing in the turnaround, where I had left it early in the morning. I swung the Lincoln around it and into the garage. As I got out, Helen opened the inside door of the garage. There were shouts and splashes behind her in the pool where the boy was playing.

She looked pleased to see me. Her smile had lost its dangerous brittleness:

“Come in, Mr. Cross. I’m so glad you’re safe and sound.” I could feel the warmth of her hand through my sleeve. “You’ll forgive my running out on you in the desert. I couldn’t feel quite secure until I had Jamie home with me.”

“You did the wise thing. I notice you have a police guard out front.”

“I didn’t ask for one, but they thought it best for the present, since there’s no man here.” She frowned slightly. “Surely nothing else is going to happen to us.”

In the green planted enclosure of the patio, it was hard to believe that anything had happened. The flowers in the planters gazed up like innocent eyes into the depthless blue sky. At the shallow end of the pool the boy was frolicking in water up to his waist, chasing a red plastic beach ball brighter than his hair. There were the remains of a cold lunch on the umbrella table at the far end.

“Isn’t he wonderful?” she said. “He hasn’t the faintest notion that he was kidnapped, or even that there was anything amiss. The whole thing’s been a picnic to Jamie.”

“He’s been a lucky boy.”

Her deep green glance sought mine and held it. “You were his luck, Mr. Cross. I’m grateful to you, forever.”

Something inside of me spoke, surprising my consciousness: “I wish he were my boy.”

It was the wrong thing to say, and the wrong time to say it. She didn’t answer. I turned away. Jamie was jumping up and down in the water, beating its surface with his palms.

“Hi!” he sang out. “I’m a sea-lion. These are my flippers. Where’s Fred?”

“He’s gone on a trip,” I said.

“With Daddy? Did Fred go with Daddy?”

“That’s right. They went away together. Fred asked me to say good-bye to you for him.”

“Good old Fred,” the boy said earnestly. “I’ll miss Fred.”

His mother spoke softly at my shoulder: “Is he dead, too?” There was a kind of awe in her voice.

“He crashed in the mountains. I was with him when he died.”

“It seems so many have died.”

“Four men,” I said. “Two of them at least were no great loss to anybody.”

She made a visible effort to pull herself together, and changed the subject: “You must be tired and hungry, Mr. Cross. Please sit down. Let me give you something to eat.”

“I’m tired, but I bet you’re tireder.”

“Not really. I was on my last legs this morning, I admit. Now that Jamie’s back, I feel almost good. Anyway, the sandwiches are already made. Permit me to minister to you with sandwiches. It’s the least I can do.”

“You’re very kind.”

I sat by the pool with her and ate her sandwiches and watched her boy and became permeated with a sense of what I had been missing. And would doubtless continue to miss.

“Mrs. Johnson.”

She turned her head against the canvas back of her reclining chair. A lock of hair fell forward over one eye. She blew at it, without effect, and laughed. “Lord, I feel lazy.” She raised her bare brown arms and stretched, arching her body. “I’d just about dozed off.”

“I know you’ve had your fill of questions today.”

“Indeed I have. Did I tell you the reporters were here when I got home? And photographers. I want to sink back into anonymity, permanently.” She folded her hands in her lap and closed her eyes and smiled.

“Mrs. Johnson.”

“I’m listening. You called me Helen last night. I didn’t mind.”

“Helen, then.”

“Your first name is Howard, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”

She opened her eyes. They were grave. “Hello, Howard.” Jamie was lying face down by the pool, near her feet. He raised his head and echoed her: “Hi, Howard.”

“Hi, Jamie.”

“Hi, Howard.”

I went on in a softer voice, hoping he wouldn’t hear me:

“Mrs. Johnson – Helen.”

“Is something the matter?” She lifted one hand and waved it nervously. “I mean apart from the obvious things, like Abel.”

“I’ve been trying to tell you – well, you know my job. I’m not exactly a cop, but sometimes, in the clutch, I have to act like a cop. There are several questions that need to be answered.”

“By me?”

“They concern you.”

She sat up, rigid. “Do you suspect me of doing something wrong?”

“It’s not a question of suspicion. There are certain facts–”

“You do, then.” Her eyes narrowed. “Fire away, Mr. Cross.”

The boy looked up: “You called him Howard a minute ago.”

“I know I did.” She relaxed a little. “Do me a favor, Jamie.”

“Go into the house?”

“That’s right. I want you to put dry clothes on now. They’re on your bed. And don’t try to go into Daddy’s room. It’s locked up.”

“Why is it locked up? Daddy isn’t in there, is he?”

“No, he’s not in there.”

She kissed him, suddenly and passionately. He disengaged himself and trotted away, leaving wasp-waisted footprints on the tile.

“I don’t know what to tell him,” she said.

“Tell him the truth – that your husband died a natural death. That is the truth, isn’t it?”

Her face hardened. “Ask Dr. Campbell. Don’t ask me. I’m not a physician. I only know what I told you last night. I was quoting Dr. Campbell.”

I was off to a bad start, but I blundered on: “You mustn’t take offense. I have to ask these questions. Fred Miner said a strange thing this morning, before he died. He said that he was protecting Jamie, that you had ordered him to take Jamie into the desert.”

“That I had?”

“Yes. I asked him who told him to do it. He answered: ‘Mrs. Johnson. She’s the boss.’ ”

“He was lying,” she whispered harshly.

“Are you sure?”

She waited a long time before replying. Her oiled face was like a mask gleaming metallically in the sun. “I thought you were my friend.”

“I’m trying to be.”

“By making covert accusations against me? Is that what you call friendship?”

“I’m sorry. I’ve got to either clear Miner, or pin the kidnapping on him. I feel an obligation towards the law, the truth, whatever you want to call the abstractions that keep us going, keep us human. There’s nothing personal in this.”

“Obviously there isn’t. I don’t suppose you’ll take my word that I’ve done nothing wrong?”

“Not on a blanket denial, no. I’d like something more specific.”

“All right then, fire away, and make it fast. I don’t want Jamie to hear his mother being cross-questioned.”

“You’re making it difficult for me.”

“I hope so, Mr. Cross. First of all, you’ll naturally want to know how long and how well I knew this chap Kerry Snow.”

“You’ve asked the question. Will you answer it?”

“I answered it this morning, to the F.B.I. That tale-bearing little wretch of a Larry Seifel–” She broke off. “All I can tell you is the truth. I never heard of Kerry Snow until Fred Miner gave me his name. It was in January 1946, I believe, a Monday morning. Fred was ambulatory by then. He’d had a weekend convalescent leave, and he came back to the hospital in a bad mental condition, at least it seemed so to me. I asked him what the trouble was. He wouldn’t tell me, of course – he never has – but he made me promise to do something for him. He gave me this man’s name, and his address in Los Angeles, and asked me to pass the information on to the F.B.I. I said I would. All it amounted to was phoning Larry Seifel down at District headquarters.”

“Did you know Seifel well?”

“We’d gone dancing a few times. Is it important, in the abstract?”

“What about Miner?”

“What about him? He was my patient. I liked him. I always have, until yesterday.”

“Did he tell you what Snow was wanted for?”

“I think he mentioned desertion. I got the impression that he’d run across Snow by accident, over the weekend, and recognized him as a wanted man. They served on the same ship, didn’t they?”

“Yes. You say you never met Snow, or heard of him before that?”

“I not only say it. It’s the truth.”

“I believe you.”

“You are too kind.”

“There’s still another point that needs to be cleared up.”

She sighed. “There would be. But go ahead.”

“I’m not sure I can explain it properly. Kerry Snow left a girl behind him, a young creature named Molly Fawn who claims to be his widow.”

“Do you distrust all widows?”

“Please,” I said. “I’m trying to do my job.”

“I’m trying to survive.”

“Shall I drop it for now?”

“No, let’s get it over with.” She smiled bleakly. “You have that abstract gleam in your eyes. Follow the gleam. I can take it, I hope.”

“According to Molly Fawn,” I said, “Snow spoke of a woman who had betrayed him to the police in 1946. Could you be that woman?”

“I don’t see how. How would he know of my part in it?”

“Miner might have told him, or Seifel.”

“Why should they?”

“I don’t know. I do know this: After Lemp was hired by your husband to … observe your movements–”

“To spy on me,” she emended.

“Lemp went back to Los Angeles and told Kerry Snow that he had located the woman.”

“The woman who had him arrested?”

“Yes. That seems to be what brought Snow here to Pacific Point: the hope of finding the woman and getting back at her in some way.”

“And you think I’m that woman?”

“I don’t think anything.”

“Then why have you been asking me these questions?”

“I was hoping to learn something useful.”

“About me?”

“About the case in general. After all, you are connected with it. You did have a hand in Kerry Snow’s arrest. Your chauffeur murdered Snow.”

“It’s murder now, is it?”

“Apparently. And your son was kidnapped by Snow’s crony.”

“Anything else?” she cried, a little wildly.

“Yes, there is one other thing. According to Molly Fawn, the woman Snow was looking for had red hair.”

She lay back in her chair like a fighter after a hard round, and spoke with her face averted:

“You disappoint me, Mr. Cross. I gave you credit for some intelligence. If you can’t see that I’m an innocent woman, you are a stupid man.”

“You’re not the red-headed woman in the case, then?”

“I have red hair, I can’t deny that. Everything else I deny.”

“All right.”

“It’s not all right. I’ve tried to be decent all my life. I think I deserve to be trusted. When I learned yesterday that Abel didn’t trust me, he lost his meaning for me. I no longer cared for him. I feel no sorrow for him.”

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I suppose I’m oversuspicious. It’s an occupational disease in law-enforcement work.”

“I’m sorry, too.” She would not look at me.

The boy called from the doorway: “Mummy! Is the argument over? I’m ready to come out now.”

“Come on then,” she said brightly. “Mr. Cross is just about to leave.”