Verdict Suspended Page 10

  … slowly. Then faster and faster. The music grew louder. It was off pitch and a little sad, but the horses flashed past in their newly painted glory until finally Jaime could see. Ramon, the older boy, was on the black horse, with little Carlos sitting behind him. Small faces laughing and then, suddenly, freezing in terror. Small faces horrified; small hands pointing. High-pitched cries above the sad song of the calliope …

  Jaime saw them clearly. It was beginning to fall into place.

  Herb Catcher had grease on his nose. He mopped it with a dirty wipe cloth and regarded Jaime curiously. “Yeah, I still have the car,” he said. “After the wreck I towed it out in my back lot. I never got an order from the police to do anything about it. It’s still there.”

  “What caused the accident?” Jaime asked.

  Herb Catcher was a blunt man. “You were driving too fast,” he said. “I didn’t see it happen—I was under a truck I had to get out for a nervous customer. But I heard it. Man!” He dropped the wipe cloth on the bench and pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket. “Want to see your car? It sure won’t take the Grand Prix this year.”

  “Let’s go,” Jaime said.

  Catcher led the way through the garage to a back lot that was a semisheltered area for discarded parts and chassis. At the far end of the clutter the mangled sports car squatted forlornly on a support of wooden blocks. Catcher stopped and offered Jaime a cigarette from the pack. Jaime refused. Catcher took one, lighted it, and grinned wryly at six thousand dollars’ worth of imported junk.

  “The front tires blew,” he explained. “I jacked it up to get the weight off. The motor’s in good shape, but the front axle’s shot and the radiator’s gone. You’ve got about four hundred dollars’ worth of body work. You sure put a twist on that frame.”

  Jaime moved slowly about the wreckage. The collision had been head on, followed by a roll to the right.

  “How did I get out?” he asked.

  “Thrown out,” Catcher said. “No other way. You hit a barricade the highway department put up in front of a new section of asphalt. The car bounced and you flew…. I can fix her up for you, but it’ll run into money.”

  The right fender was gone. Jaime found a scrap of red metal in a junk heap and pulled it free. The fender. The underside was coated with a rough, white, hard substance.

  “I thought you said I hit asphalt,” he said.

  “I said you hit a barricade,” Catcher answered.

  “There’s no asphalt under this fender. This is dried cement.”

  Catcher discarded his cigarette and joined Jaime at the fender. He scratched at the whitish substance and nodded. “It’s cement, all right,” he agreed, “but it didn’t come from the highway. Look for yourself. Asphalt. This stuff came from some other place.”

  Old man Alvarez was still operating the merry-go-round. The sad whine of the calliope drifted across the highway, bringing bits and pieces of forgotten time. Jaime listened to what the calliope was telling him.

  “It’s clean cement,” he said. “There’s no highway grime or dirt on it. That means it was picked up fresh just before the crash.”

  Catcher was puzzled. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, Mr. Dodson,” he said, “but I can tell you, the police went over that wreck with everything from a fine-tooth comb to a vacuum cleaner. They didn’t find a thing.”

  But the calliope was telling Jaime another story. He rolled a piece of the dried cement between his fingers until it crumbled away to nothing. “They didn’t know where to look,” he said.

  The place to look was on a bluff above Cypress Point. The road was in—lined with young trees furnished by the Women’s Club. The sites for the sculpture were set. Jaime remembered, wryly, that he was on the judging committee. He drove to the crest. The uncompleted Center—another of Sheilah’s bizarre twists on ancient Grecian lines—stood stone silent against the sky. A concert hall, art gallery, two small stages. All of the shell was up—some of the interior. Jaime followed the curving drive to the wide mouth at the rear of the entrance. The cement for the basement floor had been poured on the day of Sheilah’s death.

  He braked the convertible and got out. No work had been done on the job since that day. The mixing truck was gone, but there was spillage on the earth where it had been parked. Near the entrance Jaime found what he was searching for: tire marks, sharp and distinct in a white mixture that was fresh enough when the tracks were made to throw an undercoating of cement on the fenders of the sports car.

  He was excited. He stooped and flaked bits of cement between his fingers. Flesh touched the same texture he’d found on the discarded fender. Back at Hanson’s Pier, the calliope had begun to tease at a chain of memories like the lure of the Pied Piper’s pipe. It was still daylight when he smashed into the road barrier. He wasn’t drunk. It had to be, then, that he was in full flight … or that he wanted to hit the barrier.

  Jaime came slowly to his feet, remembering….

  Sheilah was a woman. She went to her office in tailored suits, imported fabrics, hand-tailored; but a dinner party called for elegance. She loved elegance. She was wearing a black sheath cocktail dress—plain, unadorned—except for a huge onyx dinner ring and ear clips. She wore her blonde hair brushed back, close-cropped and neat. She stood at the bar examining a highball glass. She looked up as Jaime entered the room.

  “They’re quite nice,” she said, holding up a glass. “I’m surprised.”

  Jaime stood before her like a sullen boy summoned to the teacher’s desk. “Why should you be surprised?” he demanded. “Greta bought them for you. She has good taste.”

  “Yes, she has.” Then Sheilah put the glass down on the bar and stopped playing. “She wants you,” she said.

  “I think you have that twisted,” Jaime said. “I want her.”

  “Then take her! If you’re short of cash, I’ll advance you a few thousand. Try Mexico City. I hear it’s romantic.”

  “Sheilah,” Jaime said tightly, “I could kill you when you say that.”

  There were words people had to speak—stinging and cutting like the old hates that spawned them. Sheilah listened quietly and then picked up a little crystal bell and rang for Trench. When he came in from the kitchen she said:

  “Trench, for God’s sake mix up a dosage of your special-for-Jaime martinis. The boy needs to relax.”

  Trench left.

  “It’s no good, Sheilah,” Jaime said. “I’m in love with Greta.”

  “You’ve been in love before,” Sheilah said.

  “No. I’ve had fun before. I’m going to marry Greta.”

  Sheilah didn’t like rebellion. Jaime had been a nuisance … sometimes an embarrassment. But this was different. He could feel her anger across the room.

  “You’re really serious, aren’t you?” she said.

  “You know I am!”

  “Well, so am I,” Sheilah said. “That’s why we’re having a dinner party, Jaime, my love. I have an announcement to make to your beloved—in the presence of others.”

  “You’re not going to hurt her!” Jaime said. “I won’t let you get away with anything!”

  The air was electric when Trench returned with a martini shaker on a tray. Sheilah was at her most regal elegance when the air was electric. She took up one of Greta’s glasses again while Trench poured.

  “They really are handsome, aren’t they, Trench? A gift of love—all eight of them.”

  Trench was well trained. He filled two martini glasses; gave one to Sheilah and the other to Jaime. For a moment he stared at Jaime’s face and then hurried back to the kitchen. Sheilah took two sips from her glass.

  “The announcement,” she said, “concerns you, Jaime. I’m letting you out of the business.”

  Jaime hung onto his glass. He didn’t attempt to raise it.

  “You’ve had a long time to learn. You wouldn’t. You wanted to play. All right, play on your own. I’m tired of bailing you out of trouble. Marry anyone you like
.”

  “I don’t believe you,” Jaime said. “You’ve threatened to cut me out before.”

  Sheilah’s eyes flashed. “But only threatened, Jaime. This time I’ve done it. We’ll see how your beloved likes a Dodson without money. I started legal action this afternoon.”

  “I’ll fight you!” Jaime choked.

  “No, you won’t, Jaime. I know too much about the rake-off you’ve been getting on supplies. You’ll bow out gracefully, or you won’t work anywhere…. If you don’t believe me, go up to the Center. A change has been made.”

  Sheilah drained her glass. She was watching him … and enjoying it. Jaime could feel the hate welling up inside like a volcano.

  “The center! That mess of gingerbread on the hill! Why don’t you put gold leaf on the ceilings and red plush drapes on the stage?”

  “I might,” Sheilah said, “but I don’t have to make so many compromises any more. I don’t have to pay your way.” And then her expression changed. She lost the enameled hauteur. She backed away toward the fireplace. “Jaime!” she gasped. “Don’t be a fool!”

  The memory stopped, abruptly. Jaime stood as motionless as stone while the last of the white cement crumbled from his fingers.

  Chapter 10

  The telephone was ringing when Greta returned from the office. She was tired and worried. Dull days were tiring, and she had put in a full day of inventory-taking without a customer or a word from Jaime. She dropped a bag of groceries onto the divan and ran eagerly to the telephone. Not until she picked it up did she realize it was an extension from Steve’s house.

  A man’s voice was speaking.

  “Steve? This is Dr. Pitman at the hospital. Is Jaime Dodson with you?”

  Steve must have been at work. His reply had a trace of annoyance. “With me? No. Why?”

  “Because he was here a short time ago. He asked a lot of questions. Pumped me about Dr. Curry.”

  “Curry?” Steve repeated. “How did he know anything about him?”

  “Lennard told him there was a third psychiatrist. He asked about the accident—wanted to know if he was drunk. That sort of thing. I don’t like the sound of it.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s been through shock, Steve. Several shocks. The accident … Sheilah’s death … the inquest. He did a peculiar thing. He pulled the blinds here at my office windows and asked me to repeat something. Wait … I jotted it down. He asked me to repeat these words: ‘Jaime, what happened after Sheilah fell?’” Pitman paused. “Do you make anything of that?”

  Greta hung to the phone, listening. It was seconds before Steve answered.

  “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “I’ll take care of it…. Did he say anything else?”

  “He doesn’t think a prowler killed Sheilah…. Steve, I think you better find that boy and straighten him out. He’s bugged over something.”

  “I will,” Steve promised. “Thanks for calling me…. Did Jaime say where he was going after he left your office?”

  “Not a word. Stalked out as soon as he pulled the drapery trick. I didn’t have a chance to stop him. But he had a definite objective, I’m sure of that! I tell you, he’s bugged over Sheilah’s death, Steve. Get him off it!”

  Greta heard Pitman’s phone drop back into the receiver, and then she heard Steve breathing. She might even have imagined that—but she felt him, sensed him waiting, thinking for an agony of moments until a crisp click terminated the connection. She lowered her own telephone thoughtfully. Pitman’s words were jangling alarm bells in her mind.

  It wasn’t five minutes later that Steve came to the cottage. Greta wasn’t surprised. She was storing groceries in the refrigerator when he knocked. “Come in, Steve,” she called. He came in, followed the sound of her voice to the kitchen, and asked for Jaime.

  Greta faced him. He was trying hard to look casual but Steve was a better actor in a courtroom.

  “I haven’t seen Jaime all day,” she said. “I just got home.”

  “What about this morning?” Steve prodded. “Did he say what he planned to do today?”

  Morning. It was a time of strange questions and of sudden, fierce avowals of love.

  Steve watched her too closely. He caught the trouble in her eyes. “What happened this morning?” he demanded.

  “Nothing,” she said quickly. “Nothing important…. Steve, what’s wrong?”

  Steve took the bag of groceries away from her and resumed the storage job. The refrigerator light was out. He scowled disapproval at the darkness and closed the door with an abrupt thud.

  “Jaime’s confused,” he said. “What he needs most of all is to get back to work.” He faced her hopefully. “I can still arrange for that job.”

  But Greta was in no mood for a tranquilizer. “You haven’t said anything, Steve. Stop lying to me!”

  “I’m not lying! Believe me, Greta. Jaime’s all right. But there’s something I want you to do. When he comes home, let me know. Just pick up the telephone—it’s on a direct wire to my desk—and say: ‘Steve, when do I get the bulb for my refrigerator?’ Will you do that?”

  “Why?” Greta demanded. “Why don’t I say, ‘Steve, Jaime is home. Do you want to talk to him?’”

  Steve was under strain. The answer snapped off the edge of his tongue. “Because Sheilah was a devil!” he said. “She knew everything—planned everything—ran everything! With Sheilah on earth there was no need for God … except that God might have had compassion.” Then he stopped, guiltily. “Forget the nerve ends,” he said. “Just remember to call me when Jaime comes in.”

  He didn’t want conversation. He walked quickly through the living room. His hand was on the doorknob when Greta’s question stopped him.

  “And then what do you do?” she challenged. “Watch for a prowler again?”

  Steve didn’t move. She hurled another question.

  “What did Dr. Pitman mean about a third psychiatrist?”

  Now there was a response. Steve faced her, surprised.

  “How did you know about that?”

  “I listened. The telephone was ringing when I came in. I thought it was Jaime. What did he mean, Steve?”

  Steve’s hand tightened on the doorknob. “It was a legal matter,” he said. “Something I had to do as preparation for the inquest. Don’t worry about it.” And then, before she could ask any more questions, he opened the door and went out.

  When the door closed behind Steve, Greta waited for several moments and then walked slowly back through the bedroom and out onto the balcony. All of the houses along the beach had balconies facing the sea. Little decks from which could be traced the rough line of coast that fringed the surf with a wall of sand and rock. On the edge of the point she could see the deck of Sheilah’s house protruding like a black prow against the sky. The sun was at a late angle. The glass roof was turning coral. Below, the sea surged in small ruffles against the beach and pounded white plumes on the jetty of rocks off the point. Steve was such a thoughtful host. He provided a honeymoon house with a view—and then stood guard like a custodian of prisoners. He left cryptic instructions and warm assurances. But one thing he neglected to do. He provided no answer for the question that was screaming through her mind:

  “Jaime, what did you do after Sheilah fell?”

  When Steve returned to the main house, Albert Trench was in the kitchen preparing dinner. Steve glanced at him in passing and went directly to the study. He sat down behind the desk and stared at the telephone. Minutes passed. Impatiently, he picked it up and dialed the operator.

  “There’s a new tenant in the Patterson house,” he said. “A Mr. Howard. Can you tell me if he’s installed a telephone?”

  He waited.

  “He has?” Steve picked up a pencil and scribbled a number on a piece of paper. “Will you ring, please?” He waited again. A shadow fell across the desk. He looked up to see Trench holding a small tray on which was one properly filled martini glass.

  “
Oh,” Trench apologized. “I forgot, sir. You’re a scotch man.”

  “That’s all right,” Steve said, accepting the drink. “Everyone has to be good at something.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And some people have to be good at everything,” Steve added pointedly.

  “Some people are good at everything,” Trench said.

  On the telephone, the operator was reporting: “I’m sorry, sir. The party doesn’t answer. Shall I continue ringing?”

  “Yes,” Steve said, “but call me back when you reach him. I can’t hold the line open. I’m expecting another call.” He dropped the telephone back in the cradle and came to his feet, glass in hand. He wasn’t accustomed to having a servant in the house. A cleaning woman now and then was enough. Trench annoyed him. “So you’re the loyal, devoted slave type,” he mused. “Loyal beyond the grave.”

  “I got along admirably with Miss Dodson,” Trench said.

  “You didn’t resent her at all?”

  “No, sir. Why should I?”

  Steve hated martinis. He drank this one quickly, fully aware of its creator’s disapproving eyes.

  “Other people resented her,” Steve said. “Quite a few other people.”

  “Yes, sir. We knew that.”

  “We?” Steve brightened. “The imperial ‘we’? I didn’t know Sheilah had a dynasty.”

  A smile was actually unpleasant on Trench’s face. He wore it so rarely that the exercise seemed painful. “We,” he said with deliberate accentuation, “were together a great deal. Miss Dodson knew who she could trust.”

  “I know she did,” Steve agreed. “She had good reason to know … Albert Trench. Now that’s an odd name. Not a difficult one to trace. Previously a chauffeur in Seattle. Involved in an accident in 1953. Two persons killed. The driver drunk. Convicted of manslaughter. Appealed. Released on a legal technicality … but guilty in the eyes of any future employer.”

  “You’re a well-informed man,” Trench said.