Wife or Death Read online

  "Now don't get your dander up," Chief Spile soothed him. "It's just that George Guest visited somebody in this neighborhood before he cracked up Friday night, and we're checking out the people he knew around here—"

  "Don't give me that!" Fallon was angry. "You didn't even ask me if he was here."

  "But you told us, didn't you? All right, did George drop in?"

  "No! The last time I saw George was at the Wyatts' after the Hallowe'en Ball. Jim, what's this all about?"

  Denton shrugged lightly. "Don't ask me, Matt, I'm only gong for the ride. Oh, one thing, though."

  "What?"

  "Did anybody take time off during the evening? To run out for a bottle, maybe? Or cigarets—anything like that?"

  "No. From ten-thirty to two A.M, all seven of us stayed in this room. You know, Jim," Fallon said slowly, "I think I resent this."

  "Forget it, Matt."

  They left Fallon scowling. He did not even bother to see them out.

  As Denton slipped behind the wheel, Augie Spile said, "You satisfied, Jim?"

  "If it's true," Denton said curtly. "I don't want to tell you how to do your job, Augie, but—"

  "I know," the chief said, without rancor. "I'll check the story seven ways to the ace. But I get the feeling it'll check out all right." He sighed. "Well, I guess we'd better get on to Norm Wyatt's."

  Denton drove across the little bridge and swung into the Wyatt driveway. The garage doors stood open, as usual, hut both cars were gone. Spile got out and rang the doorbell. No one answered.

  "Nobody home," he said, with obvious relief, getting back Into the car. "I'll try him tomorrow, Jim."

  "And if he's not home tomorrow?"

  "Man, you're a caution. Okay, Jim, if he's not home tomorrow I'll run up to the lodge. And if he's not at the lodge I'll track him down wherever he is, hell or high water. Will that make you sleep better tonight?"

  "Lots better," Denton said grimly.

  Then suppose you run me back to headquarters."

  Denton spent a gruesome evening at Gerard's Funeral Home. The casket was already set up in one of the visitors' viewing rooms, its lid closed. Denton did not have to ask Nelse Gerard why. The mortician's art could only achieve so much, and in Angel's case a Rodin was needed. There were no funerary Rodins within calling distance of Ridgemore.

  Not to his surprise, a small army of people trooped in and out during the evening. Denton had all he could do to conceal his amusement at the disappointment in their faces when they saw the closed lid. No one visited for more than a minute or two. The evening consisted of frustrated curiosity and lip-service condolences. Those who stared at him accusingly he stared down.

  He was very glad when it was over.

  He wondered briefly about George Guest's body, and asked Gerard.

  "Mrs. Guest didn't want her husband displayed," the mortician said severely. "And our results were so gratifying, too."

  "Art for art's sake, Nelse," said Denton, and left.

  Corinne had not shown up.

  17

  Angel's funeral service on Tuesday morning was scheduled for ten o'clock.

  Denton sat in the front row, between Ted Winchester and Amos Case. It was eloquent of the town's attitude toward him, he thought, that none of his friends present moved up to fill out the rest of the row. He saw the Long family, the Wyatts and Gerald Trevor, Matthew Fallon, Ralph Crosby and the rest . . , faithful unto death, O my Angel, Denton thought, and wished he were a telepathic stenographer so that he might transcribe what was going on in those fixed, uncomfortable heads. And how some of you bastards would love it, he inwardly laughed, if I were sitting here in handcuffs between two cops!

  Just before the Episcopal minister opened his prayerbook, Denton turned for a last frank look at the co-mourners. Most of the well over a hundred persons present were either strangers to him or seemed only uncertainly familiar; and most of these were women.

  Seated almost directly behind him were Ellen Wright—Fat Ellen—and Olive Haber—Skinny Olive—the political managers of most of -Ridgemore's whispering campaigns and, be was positive, of the newest slander, the one about him and Corinne and George. Denton knew, from an item on his desk at the Clarion in another connection, that the Haber woman was currently on the 7A.M.-3 P.M, nursing shift at the hospital, so in order to attend she must have had to take at least the morning off. Ellen Wright, who had money, toiled not, neither did she spin; she could be anywhere anything was going on at a moment's notice, and she usually was.

  On with the show, Father!

  Father Ireson discharged his pastoral duty cleverly, Denton thought, under the difficult circumstances. His cleverness consisted not in what he said about the deceased, but in what he left out. He could not very well bestow the customary "beloved wife and mother" encomium, since the deceased's wifehood had been conspicuously without virtue and her womb undelivered of the usual fruit; he could not even commiserate with her parents, since they had depressingly absented themselves. He could not sing her beauty, which she had put to corrupt uses; extol her past, which had been questionable; or give hope for her future, which had been nullified by a load of buckshot. So he let himself go on the subject of her eternal soul. Here the good father was on safe and familiar ground, and he could speak authoritatively.

  Denton garnered little satisfaction from the entertainment he had planned—watching his handpicked pallbearers bearing their common beloved's pall to the hearse. For suddenly his mouth held the mortal taste of ashes and he found himself wishing he were on the moon, with or without a spacesuit, it made no difference.

  Afterward he went home and made his lunch, which consisted of three whisky sours. Two funerals in one day called for nourishment of a rather delicate sort.

  George Guest's obsequies at two o'clock drew an even larger audience, in whose staring ranks Jim Denton saw nearly all the mourners of the morning funeral and a great many more besides. As Ridgemore's leading hardware man George had been popular, having neither Angel's nor Den-ton's gift for making enemies.

  Denton deliberately shut his eyes to the sharp or surreptitious looks that followed him to the front row, where Corinne was seated with her family and George's. He knew what they were thinking: There's Jim Denton again. Wouldn't you think he'd have the common decency to stay away from the funeral of the man whose wife he's been sleeping with? How much gall can you have? And so on, with and without variations.

  But I'm damned, Denton thought, if I'm going to pass up my last chance to say good-bye to the best friend I had, or to deprive Corinne of the comfort my presence will give her. To hell with all of them.

  Corinne's eyes were a lifeless red and her face was swollen from crying. With her sense of the fitness of things she had shrunk from flaunting her new widowhood. She was not wearing the expensively couturiered all-black the guidebooks called for; she had chosen a simple dark brown suit and unobtrusive accessories. She looked up when he stooped over her, murmured something and looked away, back to the casket on its bier a few feet before her.

  And that was all. Conscious of the stares, ignoring them, Denton greeted George's dazed-looking parents, whom he knew well; exchanged a few words with George's brother Fred; spoke briefly to Corinne's mother and sister Kate; walked over to the bier with a coolness he did not feel, looked down at the very poor wax imitation of George lying there, and then took a seat quietly to one side.

  The Methodist minister, Reverend Curtis, labored under none of the difficulties that had hampered his Episcopal colleague of the morning. Mr. Curtis's subject was impeccable morally, a good fellow, a public-spirited citizen, a leading light of the community; a member of Rotary, the Masonic Lodge, the Mayor's Committee on Sewage Improvement, past commander of the American Legion post; loving husband, devoted son, staunch brother, loyal friend. Mr. Curtis had no trouble whatever glowing fiercely.

  Through it all Denton was conscious of the stares, in particular the stares of Ellen Wright and Olive Haber, who were occupying
the same seats in the second row center they had sat in during the morning service for Angel. The pair would turn, crane, turn back quickly, put their heads together and whisper; this went on throughout the minister's eulogy. Den-ton could only hope that their sibilance was overwhelmed by Mr. Curtis's loud firm voice and so failed to reach Corinne's ears.

  He was glad when the service was over and the casket was whisked from the room. He had no intention of going to the cemetery; he knew Corinne would understand, just as he had understood without explanation her reason for not asking him to be a pallbearer.

  So he was among the last to leave. Reverend Curtis had wrought better than he knew. Still under the spell of his oratory, several women threw venomous looks Denton's way as they passed him. One, a woman he had never seen in his life, actually flexed her claws as she glared.

  Old Ellen and that bitch Olive have really done a job on me, he thought dispiritedly. For the first time it struck him that recent developments might have economic repercussions; he would have to watch the circulation figures of the Clarion. About the only thing I can hope for, he thought, is to be arrested and tried for murder—boy, would that boost circulation!

  He was bound for his car, which he had purposely left some distance from Gerard's, when he came on young Arnold Long and portly Thad Sommers talking on the sidewalk around the corner, out of sight of the entrance.

  "What are you two hiding for?" Denton said. "Aren’t you | going to the cemetery, either?"

  "I can't stand funerals," the Long scion muttered. "And | two in one day—"

  "And one of them Angel's, to boot," Denton said. "I can I imagine how rough that is on you, Arnie." Young Long [flushed and began to look belligerent. "But what about you, Thad? You're an old married man. Ill bet Clara's looking for you with fire in her eye."

  "Look, Jim, I'm in the thrombosis age bracket," the stout man said, wiping his face. "I'll be in the cemetery soon enough."

  Denton laughed, and both men looked at him suspiciously.

  "Matt Fallon tells me you fellows had a poker session at his place Friday night. Anybody get hurt?"

  "Not me," Arnold Long said. "I made eight bucks. You broke ahead, too, didn't you, Thad?"

  "A few dollars. I was in the hole for plenty till way past midnight, when all of a sudden the cards turned."

  "Matt says he phoned George that night," Denton remarked, "but missed him—must have been by a few minutes."

  "Poor old George," Thad Sommers said. "That's one poker game he couldn't have lost at."

  "We tried to phone everybody," Long said. "It was ten-thirty before we got enough for a game. We even tried to get hold of Norm Wyatt and his father-in-law."

  "They spent the night at Norm's hunting lodge," Denton said.

  "What we figured when we got no answer at Norm's house."

  Denton said, "You didn't? Ardis was home."

  "The hell she was. At nine-thirty, anyway. Unless she's gone deaf. I made the call myself, and I let the damn thing ring for a couple of minutes."

  "Well." Denton smiled. "Norm and old Trevor probably wouldn't be interested in your chicken-feed game, even if you'd located them. See you boys."

  All the way home he chewed on this disturbing discovery. Why should Ardis Wyatt have told him she was in all Friday evening when, at nine-thirty at least, she had been out? Denton saw, too, that Ardis's not having been home around that time gave credibility to one aspect of George Guest's movements that night. His theory that George had driven by the Wyatts* and out to the lodge without stopping became more convincing if, on noticing the cars gone from the Wyatts' garage, George had stopped and, getting no answer to his ring, had then driven on to the lodge. George had been a little on the belt-cum-suspenders side; he would have made sure no one was home.

  Denton gave the Wyatts and Trevor plenty of time to get back from the funeral. At five o'clock he drove over.

  Norm Wyatt and Ardis's father greeted him with just the awkward little touch of reserve he had come to look for in his friends. Not so Ardis. She received him with warmth and concern.

  "You look awful. Norm, make Jim a drink."

  Denton shook his head. "Thanks, Ardis, but I'd better not All I had for lunch was a few whisky sours."

  "Well, you poor man! Then you've got to eat something. We're having an early dinner, Jim. How about joining us?"

  There was nothing underlying her voice except sympathy. And this was strange. Why should Ardis Wyatt, of all his friends and acquaintances in Ridgemore except Corinne, remain untouched by the universal suspicions about him? Was it possible, Denton asked himself suddenly, that Ardis's complete acceptance of him was based on secret knowledge? That she knew Denton had not murdered Angel—because she had good reason to believe her own husband had done the job?

  He said, "You're a pal, Ardis, but I'd make a rotten dinner companion tonight. I merely stopped in to ask you something. When you told me you were home here all last Friday evening, did you mean all evening?"

  Ardis frowned. "Certainly, Jim. Why do you ask?"

  "Some of the boys were trying to scare up a poker game Friday night, and one of them just told me he phoned here at half-past nine and got no answer."

  "Half-past nine . . ." Ardis's expression cleared. "Of course. I’d forgotten about that. I stepped over to the Smiths' next door around that time. Janice Smith had a new dress she wanted me to see. I couldn't have been gone more than fifteen minutes or so. That's when they must have phoned." Ardis excused herself to see to her dinner.

  "Well, that's that," Denton said with a wry smile. "I'm beginning to have great respect for professional detectives."

  "I don't get it, Jim." Norman Wyatt was at the bar mixing himself a drink; he spoke without turning around. "What's the point? I mean whether there was somebody here all Friday night or not?"

  "I told you the other day, Norm. About George's probably having stopped by here Friday night after taking Emmet Taylor home? When Ardis told me she was home all evening and George hadn't been here, I thought I'd figured it wrong. But now it adds up. Ardis would have been next door admiring a dress at just about the time George must have rung your bell."

  "Jim." Gerald Trevor seemed very disturbed. "I understand I you've suggested that Guest was on the trail of whoever murdered your wife when he dropped into that ravine. Why [ would he come here? To this house?"

  "Because Angel's killer was almost certainly one of the men who attended your house-party after the Hallowe'en Ball, Mr. Trevor, and I think George heard or saw something that night that became significant to him after Angel's murdered body was found. Maybe he wanted to verify his facts. Or check-list everyone who was here with you people. Whatever it was, he kept going and wound up dead. I want to know where George was headed that night. I'm convinced it wasn't Rock Hill Road

  . I think he was taken there in a state of unconsciousness and his car pushed into the ravine to make his death look like an accident."

  "I know, Ardis told me you thought George Guest was murdered, too." The handsome old man shook his head. "I find it hard to believe."

  "Murder is always hard to believe, Mr. Trevor."

  "Jim, let me get this straight." Norm Wyatt gulped and put down an empty glass. "It's your belief George went on from here to call on someone he suspected had shot Angel, turned out to have been right—and got himself murdered for his pains?"

  "Yes, Norm," Denton said easily. "The only thing is, if he was looking for confirmation or something from you people, why didn't he keep trying to find you before tackling the killer? I mean, getting no answer here, it seems to me he'd have assumed you were all at the lodge and so would have driven up there first. You two gents weren't out doing some illegal night hunting, were you?"

  "Hell, no," Wyatt grunted. "Gerald and I sat up till nearly midnight playing cribbage. If George had driven up there he'd certainly have seen our lights and stopped in."

  Denton stiffened. Wyatt's father-in-law had gone a dirty gray, quite as though an unthinka
ble thought had occurred to him. The instant Trevor saw Denton's glance he smiled a quick, weak smile.

  "That's right, Jim," the old man said; he had to stop to clear his throat. "I beat Norm four games out of five. One of 'em was a skunk."

  What had Trevor suddenly remembered? Wyatt's statement had jolted him to the core. Could it be that something had occurred at the lodge on which, until now, the old man had put an innocent interpretation?

  Denton let his imagination create a scene in which the cribbage game was interrupted by a car driving into the lane. Norman Wyatt went out to see who it was. Minutes later Wyatt returned and told his father-in-law that it had merely been some stranger asking directions. But down at the foot o( the lane, a good hundred feet from the house and concealed by the darkness, George Guest lay unconscious in his car, his skull fractured by Wyatt. The two men had then gone to bed, but later Trevor awoke to find his son-in-law gone.

  Had it suddenly occurred to old Trevor that the so-called stranger had actually been George Guest?

  Denton asked casually, "You didn't have any visitors that night?"

  But Gerald Trevor had recovered. He said firmly, "No one at all. I didn't even hear a car pass."

  Whatever had disturbed the old man, he meant to keep it to himself.

  18

  It was a quarter to six when Denton left the Wyatts'. He knew that Augie Spile knocked off at five. He drove directly to the police chiefs home.

  The Spiles were just getting up from their dinner. The chief shooed his children into the kitchen with their mother and shut the door.

  "You're busier'n a chicken yard," the big man said. "What've you come up with this time, Jim?"

  Denton told him. "And don't make any mistake about it, Augie. That old boy remembered something that happened at the lodge that night, and whatever it was came as one hell of a blow to him! And it's not going to be easy to get it out of him, either. Trevor's as wrapped up in Norm Wyatt as though Norm were his son instead of his son-in-law."

  "What do you suppose Mr. Trevor remembered?" Spile asked, frowning.