The Suicide Murders

FOURTEEN

At ten o’clock I found myself driving over the high-level bridge which connects the two halves of the city. Below me, in the dark, I knew the mingled waters of the canal and creek began their joint run to the lake about two miles away. Below me too the ghosts of the old sailing fleet haunted the valley, and the echoes of a thousand hammers and adzes at the vanished drydock were enough to distract a man going about a foolish mission because of the pretty place it came from. I turned left at the first street over the bridge, and went down the bumpy, short steep hill to Bellevue Terrace. I checked the numbers. On one side ran a group of frame and stucco houses, not unlike Martha Tracy’s house, all dating from the 1920s. On the other side of the street, all of the houses looked as though they’d been built within a month of one another just after the Second World War. The houses on the right and left looked at one another across a gap of at least thirty thousand dollars. The last house number I read was still too high, and by then I could see that the street continued on higher ground, the two parts joined by a hedge-bordered cinder path. To get to the upper section of the street, it was necessary to drive around the wedge-shaped beginning of a gully, which led down a dark and forested incline to the creek.

On this part of the street, at least the houses were all about the same value, with the ones backing on the ravine looking a little more desirable than the ones across the road. Still, I wouldn’t say no if you offered me any of them. I picked out my house, and kept on going. The street ended in a right-angled turn to my right, with the new street slipping into working-class houses as soon as the corner had been surely rounded. Squatting inside the angle itself, I could see a huge, brooding mansion of stucco and wood, with dark protruding eaves and unfriendly-looking screened-in porches. The house I was looking for stood next door to this. It was much smaller than the houses around it, without looking shabby, or suggesting that the owner sipped his tea from his saucer. It was simply dwarfed by the mansion, from which it was separated by a high privet hedge.

I parked my car around the corner in front of a brick veneer bungalow with three small square windows under the eaves. I felt in my pockets; I had the flashlight and the package. I wished I had a rabbit’s foot for luck.

There was no moon. It wouldn’t have mattered much if there had been. There were street lights all over the place. Luckily, there were lots of shade trees and hedges. I could hear my footsteps thundering behind me; my shadow came up under me, grew, marched ahead, then faded away, as I walked along the sidewalk. The house was dark. I turned in and made my way past the attached garage, and a very noisy-looking garbage can, to the back. Here I found a screened-in porch with stacks of summer furniture lying in dusty disorder. The screen door opened easily, with a twang of its spring. There was enough light for me to find the inside door without lighting my flash. I could make out the metallic glint of the spring lock above the knob. I fished out the key, and inserted it. I was a little surprised that it turned.

I closed the door behind me, and brought out my flash. I was in a bright kitchen. The tile was real, 1930s, not plastic, and it extended down to the counter tops. The floor was terracotta. I moved forward keeping the beam of my flashlight as low as possible. I made my way through a narrow hall into the front vestibule and then easily found the stairs, which curved down at me. I went up. The walls in the hall upstairs looked mushroom col-our in this light, but were probably pink. I found the second doorway to the right and went it. A large bed dominated the room. It was neat, covered with a chintz bedspread that matched the curtains. The bureau stood between the two windows. I opened the drawer. A flash of light had cut across the front of the house. I slipped the package into the drawer, which was full of rolled socks, and closed it quickly. I was half finished. The other half of the job was for myself; I was going to nose around and find out what this whole thing was all about.

My retreat took me back the way I’d come except that when I reached the bottom of the stairs, I saw the light slide by the front window again. I felt a flea crawl from my armpit down to my waist. On second thought, I’d nose around someplace else. I must have crossed to the back door in less than two seconds and without making a sound. You couldn’t hear the clock as I closed the door, and in a second I had left the porch. My mind was working out where I could safely hide for a few minutes when the sun exploded in my face.

“Hey!”

“Don’t move!” I didn’t, although I tried to shield my face from the powerful flashlight shining in it. I tried it every way, but the light held me like the arm of an arresting officer.

“Get that light out of my eyes. I’m not going anywhere. Is this 184 Bellevue Terrace?”

“You know damn well it isn’t. Stand where you are, and don’t try anything.”

“What should I try?” I could hear footsteps coming along the sidewalk leading from the front of the house.

“Bill?” a voice inquired.

“Yeah,” said a voice behind the light. “I got him.”

“Good. See if he’s carrying a gun.” That idea was almost too much for me.

“Look, you guys, I know what you must think this looks like, but let me tell you straight out that I can explain everything.”

“I’m sure you can, sir,” said the voice called Bill. A dark shape worked around the edge of the blinding light and came around behind me. I could feel my pockets being slapped, as a pair of expert hands worked me over.

“He’s clean,” said the voice, and the light dipped enough for me to catch sight of a dark blue police uniform standing behind it. I looked over my shoulder. The other man was a cop too. And I might have spent the evening watching television, or reading a good book, or even going to the movies.

“Turn around,” said the first cop, the one called Bill. “We’re going back into the house.” An arm prodded my shoulder, and I followed quietly.

I opened the back door, and turned on the lights in the kitchen. To the left there was a small breakfast nook with a round table. Bill motioned me to sit down. I sat. They placed themselves at the edge of the curved red leatherette bench, blocking my escape from both directions.

“Okay,” said the one that wasn’t Bill, “let’s hear who you are and what you think you’re doing here. But remember, we’ve got a pretty good idea about it ourselves, so try not to waste all of our time with a lot of made-up malarkey about getting the address mixed up. Give it to us straight, and it will go better for you.”

“Okay, here’s the story. It’s simple enough. I’m Ben Cooperman, I’m a private investigator. If you’ll let me reach into my pocket, I’ll show you my I.D.”

“Just don’t move suddenly. Take it easy.” I pulled out my wallet and handed it to the one not called Bill. Bill intercepted and looked through the wallet thoroughly.

“Right, Mr. Cooperman, let’s hear the whole thing from the beginning.”

“Fine,” I said, “fine.” I took a big breath and let them know I was going to start. Bill brought his notebook into play with a lazy motion, the other fellow was more deliberate.

“Okay, you think you’ve caught a burglar, right? Well, how many burglars carry a key to the house they’re burglaring? I know where I am and I can’t remember any law against conducting private business in a private house.”

“Don’t get excited,” said the one called Bill. “Take it easy. We haven’t said anything about burglary, have we? Don’t do our job for us. You were saying that you were what? Using a flashlight in order to save electricity.”

“In a private house a person can bang about in the dark if he wants to. It only becomes police business if I bother the neighbours.”

“Is this your house?” said the other one.

“No, it isn’t.”

“Whose house, then?”

“The owner of the house is Tom Twining of Griffiths and Dunlop, the real estate company.” They both wrote that down. The name tasted like artificial sweetener in my mouth. God help me.

“You were seen carrying a parcel into the house. Where is it now?”

“Look, I don’t see where you get off asking me these questions. You saw my ID. I’m a private investigator pursuing an investigation. How come you guys never followed me home before? Where did I get so popular all of a sudden?” Bill looked over at the other cop, whose neck was red around his collar, and who’d missed a few spots on his chin with this morning’s razor.

“Get it,” he said. The one who wasn’t Bill pulled his six foot length upright and disappeared. Bill looked at me, relaxing a little. He took off his cap and placed it in the middle of the table. His rusty-coloured hair was dark with sweat. My own armpits stuck to my sides. Then the other cop was back with the package. He swung his tall knees under the table and looked at me.

“Is this the package you brought into the house?”

“I didn’t say I’d brought a package into the house.” I felt like a politician caught telling the truth.

Bill began to tear the tape and pull off the paper. I watched in silence. At least the blue cardboard box came out without dribbling white powder on the table. From the box, Bill lifted a small, short-barrelled hand gun, about.32 caliber, with a dull blue look to it that I didn’t like one bit.