Murder with a Past

17

When the private ambulance drove away Ollie Hurst, looking eighty years old, got into his car and began to back out of the driveway. Tully walked along, one hand on the driver’s door.

“Let me know what the psychiatrist says, Ollie.”

The lawyer swallowed. “Dave...”

“Forget it. If you need me, call.”

Tully waited at the edge of the road until Oliver Hurst’s car disappeared around the curve. Then he went into the house and made for the phone in the den.

“Julian? Dave Tully. I’ve got to see you.”

“What about?” The Homicide man sounded tired and peevish. “I was just getting set at the TV.”

“It’s important, Julian. May I come right over?”

“To my house? My wife’s walking around half-naked. Where you calling from?”

“Home.”

“I’ll come over there.”

Tully hung up and went into the kitchen and dug around in the refrigerator. Nothing but cold cuts. He made a face and set the kettle on to boil. He was just pouring hot water into the big mug with the word PAPA on it when he heard Julian Smith’s car pull into the driveway.

He let the detective in and said, “How about a cup of coffee? I know you don’t drink.”

“Instant?” The detective was in rumpled slacks. He needed a shave.

“That’s all there is in the house.”

“The hell with it,” Smith said.

He followed Tully into the kitchen and sat down wearily. “How’d you get those scratches on your cheek?”

Tully set the kettle back on the electric range and sat down to his coffee. “That’s the reason I want to talk to you, Julian. Norma Hurst did that.”

“Norma Hurst?” The lieutenant stared at him.

“I found her here when I got home. She’s gone off the deep end again, Julian. She thinks she’s Kathleen Lavery.”

Julian Smith slowly took out a crumpled pack of cigarettes. “Kathleen Lavery... She was Mercedes Cabbott’s daughter, wasn’t she? Died in a boating accident in Europe somewhere?”

“That’s right.”

Smith looked puzzled. He lit his last cigarette, made a ball of the empty package, glanced around, then stuck the paper ball in his pocket. “What happened, Dave?”

“Ollie went out food-shopping and she took off. I had to handle her with kid gloves, and she did quite a bit of talking — as Kathleen. Finally Ollie got around to looking for her here. She went completely off her rocker and into a violent phase — got hold of my barbecue knife, and I had to knock her out. Delusions of persecution.”

“Where is she now?”

“At Pittman, the private sanitarium. Ollie called for an ambulance. That’s the place she was in after their child died.”

The detective looked around for an ashtray, saw none, and tipped the ash into his cupped hand. “I don’t get it, Dave. I’m sorry, of course, for both of them, but why did you have to get me out at this hour of the night to tell me about it?”

“Because I think what happened tonight is tied into the Cox case.”

Smith looked around again for an ashtray. “Don’t you have an ashtray?” he asked irritably. Tully got up and went into the den and brought back an ashtray. It seemed to make the Homicide man feel better. He emptied his hand of ashes and tapped some more from his cigarette into the tray and said in a good-humored tone, “You sure you aren’t the one who’s gone off his rocker, Dave?”

“I’m saner than you are, with your damn compulsive neatness,” Tully snapped. “Here’s what I learned via Norma’s delusion tonight: Kathleen Lavery and Ollie Hurst were in love with each other. In fact, they planned to get married. Mercedes characteristically interfered — talked Kathleen into a three-month separation from Ollie in Europe. The whole thing became academic when the girl was drowned in Switzerland.”

“So?” the lieutenant asked, unimpressed. “What’s that ancient history got to do with this Cox crumb’s murder at the Hobby Motel a few nights ago?”

Tully said slowly, “I think Crandall Cox’s killing had its origins in that ancient history. He may have come back here to shake down Sandra Jean—”

“And Ruth?”

“Okay, and Ruth! — but his killing had nothing to do with either one of them. I think Cox was murdered by Kathleen Lavery.”

Julian Smith blinked. “Are you nuts, Dave, or am I?”

“Listen to me, will you?” Tully said tensely. “Norma’s lived all her married life with the guilty knowledge that she got Ollie Hurst only because Kathleen Lavery died. The guilt has built up to the point where apparently Norma feels the compulsion to deny that the girl died at all. But in the real world the girl is dead. The only way Norma can resurrect her is to slip into a deluded state and become Kathleen herself.

“Now look!” Tully leaned over the table toward the silent Homicide man. “Cranny Cox was born and brought up in this town. He was a no-good and a girl-chaser from his teens. If you dig deeply enough, Julian, I’m betting you’ll find that in those days Cox chased Kathleen Lavery and, what’s more, caught her and made time with her.

“Norma knows this—”

“How?”

“How the hell do I know how?” Tully cried. “Maybe Kathleen told Ollie after they fell for each other, and Ollie told Norma when they got married. Anyway, the other day Cox comes back here. Somehow Norma finds out, probably through Ruth. But Norma’s already nursing the delusion that she’s Kathleen. She goes to see Cox that night — as Kathleen. Cox doesn’t realize he’s dealing with a mental case, tells her to get lost or something — almost certainly, being Cox, laughs in her face when she calls herself Kathleen. It triggers Norma’s violence — I saw it happen tonight. And there’s the gun, my gun, within reach. Julian, I tell you the answer to this puzzle is that Norma Hurst shot Cox while she thought she was a girl dead God knows how many years!”

“And your wife?” Julian Smith asked.

“You mean what’s happened to her?”

“That’s exactly what I mean.”

“But don’t you see?” Tully cried. “In the grip of that delusion Norma’s as strong as a man — and a damn strong man at that! I had to clip her on the chin because I couldn’t subdue her any other way, and you know I’m no weakling, Julian. I tell you Norma took Ruth forcibly to some hiding place, maybe tied her up and gagged her. Maybe the doctors can give Norma one of those new drugs they’re using on mental patients, find out where Ruth is before she starves to death! I know, Julian, it sounds pretty wild—”

Smith leaned over and touched Tully’s hand. “Relax, Dave, or you’ll be needing a paddy wagon yourself. I’ve got a full-scale search going for Ruth on a round-the-clock basis. She’ll be found.”

“Then you don’t buy this Norma-Kathleen theory,” Tully said bitterly.

“No, Dave,” the lieutenant said.

“Why the hell not!”

“Well, for one thing, that telephone call from Ruth. If she’s innocent, the killer forced her to make that call. It’s not the kind of behavior a mental case like Norma would evince, from what I know about such cases. It isn’t the type of aberration that sets up a pigeon to cover up a killing. If Norma’s type of psychopath had done it, she’d probably have shot Ruth on the spot and gone on a rampage and shot at every living thing in sight. I’m sorry, Dave.”

Tully sagged in his chair. “So I’m back where I started,” he muttered. “There’s an out for everybody in this thing but Ruth.”

He got up heavily and went to the kitchen window. The house suddenly felt like a prison.

“By the way,” Julian Smith’s voice said from behind him, “Ruth’s picture is being telecast over every TV station in the state tonight. It may help.”

“May. Will it?”

“I’ve seen it happen, Dave. A gas station attendant, a waitress in a diner, a pedestrian on a street corner — we’ll get plenty of calls, and we won’t ignore one of them.” Tully felt the detective’s hand on his shoulder. “Why don’t you take a pill and hit the sack? I promise to wake you up personally if there’s any news at all.”

“Go to hell,” Tully said.