The Chill

Chapter 24

Arnie drove me out to the Lakeview Inn, a rambling California Gothic pile which must have dated from the early years of the century. Generations of summer visitors had marched through the lobby and trampled out any old-world charm it might once have had. It seemed an unlikely place for Roy Bradshaw to be staying.

But Bradshaw was there, the elderly night clerk said. He took a railroad watch out of his vest pocket and consulted it. “It’s getting pretty late, though. They may be asleep.”

“They?”

“Him and his wife. I can go up and call him, if you want me to. We never did put telephones in the rooms.”

“I’ll go up. I’m a friend of Dr. Bradshaw’s.”

“I didn’t know he was a doctor.”

“A doctor of philosophy,” I said. “What’s his room number?”

“Thirty-one, on the top floor.” The old man seemed relieved at not having to make the climb.

I left Arnie with him and went up to the third floor. Light shone through the transom of 31, and I could hear the indistinct murmur of voices. I knocked. There was a silence, followed by the noise of slippered feet.

Roy Bradshaw spoke through the door. “Who is it?”

“Archer.”

He hesitated. A sleeper in the room across the hall, perhaps disturbed by our voices, began to snore. Bradshaw said:

“What are you doing here?”

“I have to see you.”

“Can’t it wait till morning?” His voice was impatient, and he had temporarily mislaid his Harvard accent.

“No. It can’t. I need your advice on what to do about Judson Foley.”

“Very well. I’ll get dressed.”

I waited in the narrow ill-lit hallway. It had the faintly acrid smell which old buildings seem to absorb from the people who pass through them night by night, the smell of transient life. The snoring man was uttering terrible moans between his snores. A woman told him to turn over, and he subsided.

I could hear a quick interchange of voices in Bradshaw’s room. The woman’s voice seemed to want something, which Bradshaw’s voice denied. I thought I recognized the woman’s voice, but I couldn’t be sure.

I was sure when Bradshaw finally opened the door. He tried to slip out without letting me see in, but I caught a glimpse of Laura Sutherland. She was sitting upright on the edge of the unmade bed in a severely cut Paisley robe. Her hair was down around her shoulders, and she was rosy and beautiful.

Bradshaw jerked the door shut. “So now you know.”

He had pulled on slacks and a black turtleneck sweater which made him look more undergraduate than ever. In spite of the tension in him, he seemed quite happy.

“I don’t know what I know,” I said.

“This is not an illicit liaison, believe me. Laura and I were married some time ago. We’re keeping our marriage secret, for the present. I’m going to ask you to go along with that.”

I didn’t say whether I would or not. “Why all the secrecy?”

“We have our reasons. For one thing, under the college regulations, Laura would have to give up her post. She intends to, of course, but not immediately. And then there’s Mother. I don’t know how I’m going to break it to her.”

“You could just tell her. She’ll survive.”

“It’s easy enough to say. It isn’t possible.”

The thing that made it impossible, I thought, was Mother’s money. Having money and looking forward to inheriting more were difficult habits for a man to break in early middle age. But I felt a sneaking admiration for Bradshaw. He had more life in him than I’d suspected.

We went downstairs and through the lobby, where Arnie was playing gin rummy with the night clerk. The bar was a gloomy cavern with antlers on the walls instead of stalactites and customers instead of stalagmites. One of the customers, a local man wearing a cap and windbreaker and carrying a load, wanted to buy Bradshaw and me a drink. The bartender told him it was time to go home. Surprisingly, he went, and most of the others drifted out after him.

We sat at the bar. Bradshaw ordered a double bourbon and insisted on one for me, though I didn’t need it. There was some aggression in his insistence. He hadn’t forgiven me for stumbling on his secret, or for dragging him away from his wife’s bed.

“Well,” he said, “what about Judson Foley?”

“He tells me you recognized him Friday night.”

“I had an intuition that it was he.” Bradshaw had recovered his accent, and was using it as a kind of vocal mask.

“Why didn’t you say so? You could have saved a lot of legwork and expense.”

He looked at me solemnly over his drink. “I had to be certain and I was very far from being that. I couldn’t accuse a man, and set the police on his trail, unless I were certain.”

“So you came here to make certain?”

“It happened to work out that way. There are times in a man’s life when everything seems to fall together into place, have you noticed?” A momentary flash of glee broke through his earnestness. “Laura and I had been planning to steal a weekend here for some time, and the conference gave us the opportunity. Foley was a side issue, but of course a very important one. I looked him up this morning and questioned him thoroughly. He seems completely innocent to me.”

“Innocent of what?”

“Of Helen’s murder. Foley went to her house to give her what protection he could, but she was already beyond protection when he got there. He lost his nerve and ran.”

“What was he afraid of?”

“A false accusation, what he calls a frameup. He’s had some trouble with the law in the past. It had to do with shaving points, as they call it, in football games.”

“How do you know?”

“He told me. I have,” he said with a chuckle of vanity, “a certain capacity to inspire confidence in these – ah – disaffiliates. The man was utterly forthright with me, and in my considered opinion he had nothing to do with Helen’s murder.”

“You’re probably right. I’d still like to find out more about him.”

“I know very little about him. He was a friend of Helen’s. I saw him once or twice in her company.”

“In Reno.”

“Yes. I spent a part of the summer in Nevada. It’s another fact about myself that I’m not publicizing.” He added rather vaguely: “A man has a right to some private life, surely.”

“You mean you were here with Laura?”

He dropped his eyes. “She was with me a part of the time. We hadn’t quite made up our minds to get married. It was quite a decision. It meant the end of her career and the end of my – life with Mother,” he concluded lamely.

“I can understand your reason for keeping it quiet. Still I wish you’d told me that you met Foley and Helen last month in Reno.”

“I should have. I apologize. One acquires the habit of secrecy.” He added in a different, passionate voice: “I’m deeply in love with Laura. I’m jealous of anything that threatens to disturb our idyl.” His words were formal and old-fashioned, but the feeling behind them seemed real.

“What was the relationship between Foley and Helen?”

“They were friends, nothing more, I’d say. Frankly I was a little surprised at her choice of companion. But he was younger than she, and I suppose that was the attraction. Presentable escorts are at a premium in Reno, you know. I had quite a time myself fending off the onslaughts of various predatory females.”

“Does that include Helen?”

“I suppose it does.” Through the gloom I thought I could discern a faint blush on his cheek. “Of course she didn’t know about my – my thing with Laura. I’ve kept it a secret from everyone.”

“Is that why you don’t want Foley taken back for questioning?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I’m asking you.”

“I suppose that’s partly it.” There was a long silence. “But if you think it’s necessary, I won’t argue. Laura and I have nothing really to hide.”

The bartender said: “Drink up, gentlemen. It’s closing time.”

We drank up. In the lobby Bradshaw gave me a quick nervous handshake, muttering something about getting back to his wife. He went up the stairs two at a time, on his toes.

I waited for Arnie to finish his game of gin. One of the things that made him a first-rate detective was his ability to merge with almost any group, nest into almost any situation, and start a conversation rolling. He and the night man shook hands when we left the hotel.

“The woman your friend registered with,” he said in the car, “is a good-looking brownette type, well stacked, who talks like a book.”

“She’s his wife.”

“You didn’t tell me Bradshaw was married,” he said rather irritably.

“I just found out. The marriage is sub rosa. The poor beggar has a dominating mother in the background. In the foreground. The old lady has money, and I think he’s afraid of being disinherited.”

“He better come clean with her, and take his chances.”

“That’s what I told him.”

Arnie put the car in gear and as we drove west and south along the lakeshore, recounted a long story about a client he had handled for Pinkerton in San Francisco before the war. She was a well-heeled widow of sixty or so who lived in Hillsborough with her son, a man in his thirties. The son was always home by midnight, but seldom before, and the mother wanted to know what he was doing with his evenings. It turned out he had been married for five years to an ex-waitress whom he maintained, with their three small children, in a row house in South San Francisco.

Arnie seemed to think that this was the end of the story.

“What happened to the people?” I asked him.

“The old lady fell in love with her grandchildren and put up with the daughter-in-law for their sake. They all lived happily ever after, on her money.”

“Too bad Bradshaw hasn’t been married long enough to have any children.”

We drove in silence for a while. The road left the shore and tunneled among trees which enclosed it like sweet green coagulated night. I kept thinking about Bradshaw and his unsuspected masculinity.

“I’d like you to do some checking on Bradshaw, Arnie.”

“Has this marriage business escalated him into a suspect?”

“Not in my book. Not yet, anyway. But he did suppress the fact that he met Helen Haggerty in Reno last summer. I want to know exactly what he was doing here in the month of August. He told Judson Foley he was doing research at the University of Nevada, but that doesn’t seem likely.”

“Why not?”

“He’s got a doctorate from Harvard, and he’d normally do his research there or at Berkeley or Stanford. I want you to do some checking on Foley, too. Find out if you can why Foley was fired by the Solitaire Club.”

“That shouldn’t be too hard. Their top security man is an old friend of mine.” He looked at his watch in the light from the dash. “We could go by there now but he probably won’t be on duty this late on a Sunday night.”

“Tomorrow will do.”

Phyllis was waiting for us with food and drink. We sat up in her kitchen foolishly late, getting mildly drunk on beer and shared memories and exhaustion. Eventually the conversation came full circle, back to Helen Haggerty and her death. At three o’clock in the morning I was reading aloud her translated poem in the Bridgeton Blazer about the violins of the autumn winds.

“It’s terribly sad,” Phyllis said. “She must have been a remarkable young girl, even if it is only a translation.”

“That was her father’s word for her. Remarkable. He’s remarkable, too, in his own way.”

I tried to tell them about the tough old drunken heartbroken cop who had sired Helen. Suddenly it was half-past three and Phyllis was asleep with her head resting like a tousled dahlia among the bottles on the kitchen table. Arnie began gathering up the bottles, carefully, so as not to wake her unnecessarily soon.

Alone in their guest room I had one of those intuitions that come sometimes when you’re very tired and emotionally stirred up. I became convinced that Hoffman had given me the Blazer for a reason. There was something in it he wanted me to see.

I sat in my underwear on the edge of the open fresh-smelling bed and read the little magazine until my eyes crossed. I learned a good deal about student activities at Bridgeton City College twenty-two years ago, but nothing of any apparent consequence to my case.

I found another poem I liked, though. It was signed with the initials G.R.B., and it went:

I read it aloud at breakfast. Phyllis said she envied the woman it had been written to. Arnie complained that his scrambled eggs weren’t moist. He was older than Phyllis, and it made him touchy.

We decided after breakfast to leave Judson Foley sitting for the present. If Dolly Kincaid were arrested and arraigned, Foley would make a fairly good surprise witness for the defense. Arnie drove me to the airport, where I caught a Pacific flight to Los Angeles.

I picked up an L.A. paper at International Airport, and found a brief account of the Haggerty killing in the Southland News on an inside page. It informed me that the wife-slayer Thomas McGee, released from San Quentin earlier in the year, was being sought for questioning. Dolly Kincaid wasn’t mentioned.