Wife or Death Read online

  When he had made all the arrangements and seen Corinne safely upstairs into a private room, Denton went back down to the lobby.

  The trooper was still waiting, as he had requested. "What did you want to talk to me about, Mr. Denton?"

  "The accident, Corporal. Can you give me any details?"

  "About all we know is he went over a twenty-five-foot embankment. You know where it happened?"

  "Approximately."

  "It's a perfectly straight piece of road there. Just beyond is a bad curve, but he went off a good fifty yards ahead of it. No skid marks, no smell of liquor, so it looks as if he fell asleep at the wheel. Of course it's still possible he had a load on. If he did, a blood analysis'll show it up."

  "Any chance he might have been dead before he crashed?"

  "You mean from a heart attack?"

  "I mean could he have been murdered, then pushed over the bank?"

  The trooper seemed startled. "You have any reason to think he might have been?"

  "Yes," said Denton wearily.

  The trooper's entire bearing changed. "Then you'd better ride back to the barracks with me, Mr. Denton, and make a statement."

  "Not tonight, please. Anyway, Chief Spile of Ridgemore knows the reasons as well as I do. Get his statement. As far as I'm concerned, there's no question about it. All I want to know is—is there any way of proving it?"

  Corporal Childs gave him a queer look. "An autopsy ought to be able to tell. Anyway, from what you say, you can bet they'll be asked to do a thorough one. Offhand, I'd say you're going to be disappointed."

  Denton barked a laugh. "I admire your choice of words, Corporal. Why?"

  "Because the inside of his car looked like a slaughterhouse. I don't think there'd have been that much blood if he was already dead."

  "He could have been unconscious and was sent over the embankment to be killed by the fall."

  "You're in the wrong business, Mr. Denton. You should have been a cop."

  I should have been a lot of things, Denton thought. "When do you suppose they'll do the autopsy?"

  "They'll probably start it in the morning. Ought to have a full report by Monday."

  "Then I'll have to wait it out," Denton said. "Good night, Corporal."

  "Good night, sir." The trooper stared after him doubtfully. Then he made for one of the public phones.

  Denton reached home at 5:20 A.M., exhausted and wideawake. So he opened a fresh fifth of bourbon and sat down in his living room with it. He drank a quarter of the bottle's contents before he began to relax. At a little past six he fell into bed. He blacked out instantly.

  When he opened his eyes it was almost eleven. For a moment he thought wildly, the Clarion! But then he remembered. The paper stayed closed on Saturdays . . . Corinne!

  He dashed to the phone.

  When he was told that Mrs. Guest was still resting under sedation, he felt less guilty. He left a message saying that he would call for her later in the day.

  Forty-five minutes later he walked into Chief Spile's office.

  "Am I still your number-one suspect, Augie?"

  "You're a lot lower on the list," the chief said glumly. "Poor old George ... Course, it could be just what it looked like."

  "An accident?" Denton laughed. "You really believe that?"

  "It would be a pretty strong coincidence," admitted August Spile. "Wonder where George was headed when he went over that bank. It couldn't have been to call on Angel's killer if the killer was one of the guests at the Wyatts' party. They all live in town, and the car left the road around three miles out, going from town. Norm Wyatt's hunting lodge is out of town, but in the opposite direction."

  "That's one reason I'm so sure George didn't die in an accident," Denton said. "I think he was dead or unconscious, and the car was deliberately taken to that spot and pushed over with George in it, Augie, for the very reason you just mentioned."

  "That's kind of deep, Jim," the chief said, shaking his head.

  "It's a kind of deep case," Denton retorted. "Any word yet as to the time of George's death?"

  "I talked to Doc Olsen about an hour ago. Right now he can only guess, but he estimates between nine last night and one A.M. We know he was alive at nine, and it would have taken him at least fifteen minutes to drive through town and three miles beyond, so we can narrow it down to, say, nine-fifteen to one."

  "Did the pathologist say George might have been dead before the accident?" "

  "He thinks not, but he'll keep it in mind when he does the autopsy. He promised me the results on both autopsies by Monday. You can arrange for the funeral any time after that."

  Denton was startled and chagrined. Not once since learning of Angel's death had he had the conscious thought: You'll have to bury her. He had not even notified Angel's parents, though by now they must have heard the news on TV or seen it in the papers.

  He wondered if they would come to Ridgemore. He had never met them; and Angel herself had not seen them for years, although Titusville was a mere hundred miles or so away. She had written her mother once or twice a year, sometimes—not always—getting an answering note. If the Koblowskis did come, it would be strange meeting his in-laws for the first time at his wife's funeral.

  But no stranger, he thought, than everything else involving Angel.

  Denton walked over to Gerard's Funeral Home.

  Nelson Gerard was an impeccable little plump man with the universal gravity of his profession. He always made the mourners feel that their loss was equally his. He had also the rather disconcerting habit of referring to the dead in his embalming parlor as if they were still breathing: "Your mother was so cooperative, bless her," or "We did have a little fight on our hands, Mrs. Jones, but your husband's calmed down beautifully." It was impossible to think of Nelse Gerard in terms of ordinary human behavior—eating, sleeping, getting drunk or making love to the impeccable little plump woman with the virginal name of Parthenia to whom he was married. Only a small coterie knew that he was a regular patron of the whorehouse on Bath Street

  and that he played the most reckless game of poker in town.

  Gerard greeted Denton like an understanding father. He took Denton's hand in both of his, pressed lightly and warily and said. "Now Jim, I don't want you to worry about anything. We will do it all. If she were my own daughter—"

  "You'd be off getting drunk somewhere," said Denton. "Look, Nelse, don't give me the treatment—T know where your body is buried. When can I get this over with? Augie Spile tells me the county pathologist will release the body on Monday."

  "Jim, Jim," sighed the mortician. "Always the maverick. Why, if that's the case," he said briskly, "how about Tuesday morning?"

  "Okay."

  "Church service?"

  "Right here'll be fine."

  "St. John's Episcopal is your church, isn't it? Father Ireson to conduct the service?"

  "I guess so."

  Nelse Gerard made a precise little note on a pad. "Now. Are there any out-of-town relatives of Mrs. Denton's who should be notified?"

  "Just her parents. They live in Titusville, Pennsylvania. I don't know the street address, but it's a small town."

  "The name?"

  "Mr. and Mrs. Stanislaus Koblowski."

  "How do you spell that?"

  Denton spelled it.

  The funeral director wrote it down. "Relatives on your side to be informed?"

  "Oh, hell, Nelse, forget it. I have an aunt in Los Angeles, but she never met Angel and I'm sure she couldn't care less."

  "She might wish to send flowers," Gerard said reprovingly. "Her name and address, please?"

  Denton shrugged and told him. The pen scurried across the pad.

  "We will, of course, sign your name to the wires. Now." The little man drew the corners of his mouth down; for an absurd moment Denton thought he was going to cry. "The unfortunate question of costs. We relieve the bereaved of having to worry over financial details by placing an all-over figure on the funer
al. The chief determining factor is, of course, the casket. Do you have any idea, Jim, of how much you wish to spend?"

  "I carried a thousand-dollar insurance policy on her. Make it an even thousand dollars."

  Denton had thought that question out on his walk over. The insurance policy on Angel's life answered it beautifully. Without the policy he would have named a more moderate figure: he felt no obligation to lay away a wife expensively who had got herself murdered in the act of running away with another man. On the other hand, the thought of making a profit on her death was distasteful.

  "One thousand," Gerard wrote down delicately, but Denton could see that he was pleased. "Would you care to select the casket now?"

  "Good God, no. Not now or any time. You pick it out, Nelse. If you stick me, remember I publish a newspaper."

  "Jim," the mortician said reproachfully, but it seemed to Denton that he looked a little disappointed. "Let's see ... Oh, yes. Pallbearers. Of course, they're not essential—I mean, we can provide pallbearers from our staff. But perhaps some personal friends—?"

  Denton considered. The word had struck a wicked spark. Pallbearers. Personal friends. Well, she'd had some very personal friends indeed. Why not? "Arnold Long," he said. "Ralph Crosby," he said. "Matthew Fallon," he said, playing a hunch. He considered further. There was ... In the end, weighing probabilities, recalling the depth and quality of his suspicions at various times in the past, Denton named three other bachelors of the town. It was a macabre sort of game, and he found himself rather enjoying it, if enjoyment was the word.

  When Nelson Gerard had written the names down, he said In tones of profound mourning, "One last thing, Jim. We would like to have a photograph of Mrs. Denton, a portrait if possible."

  "What in hell for?" Denton asked blankly.

  "Well, I've heard—I mean I understand—that the circumstances of your wife's demise .., that is to say, I know something of her condition when she was found. Naturally we like to achieve as close an approximation to the living subject as we can."

  "Oh," Denton said. "Sure, Nelse, I’ll send one over," and he rose.

  Do your best, little man, he thought as he left. But from what I saw on that slab, I'm betting you never make it.

  13

  It was just past one when Denton drove up to the hospital.

  He found Corinne dressed, standing in the third-floor corridor. She was talking with a nurse. The nurse looked around at Denton's approach and—rather hurriedly, he thought— turned and walked away.

  "Corinne." He took her hands. "You're looking human again this morning. How do you feel?"

  "Don't tell me how I look," she retorted, "I've consulted a mirror. Jim, for last night—"

  "Oh, stop it. Ready to leave?"

  "I'm all checked out. I got your message, and I've been waiting for you."

  Corinne was very quiet in his car. The only thing she said was, "I'm so grateful to you, Jim. I think the thing I felt most last night—I mean, aside from .., well, you know— was how alone I was going to be."

  "Not with all your friends."

  "We'll see," she said; and that was all.

  Like Denton, she had no family in Ridgemore, even though she and George Guest had both been born there. On the elder Guest's retirement, he and George's mother had moved to Florida, leaving the Guest Hardware Store to their son. George's only brother, an engineer, lived in Texas. As for Corinne, her father had died several years before and her mother had gone to Cleveland to keep house for her other daughter, who was unmarried.

  At Corinne's door, Denton took her hand. "How about my calling up somebody t6 come over here and sort of keep you company?"

  She smiled. "I didn't mean I never wanted to be alone, goopie. Today I'd prefer it. I have a lot of thinking to do, calls to make—" she bit her pale lips "—George's folks in St. Petersburg, Fred in Houston, my mother and Katie in Cleveland .., the funeral arrangements.. ."

  "Why not let me take care of that for you, Corinne?"

  "I'd really rather do it myself, Jim." Somehow her hand slipped out of his. "Thanks so much, so really much."

  He had to get away from her. Her eyes appeared to have grown twice as large overnight, or her face diminished by half. "You call me if I can help in any way. Hear?"

  "I will, Jim." She turned to the door, suddenly turned back. "Oh, Jim, I'm so sorry! In all this about . . , about George, I forgot that you—"

  He shook his head. "Don't give it another thought, 'Rinny." 'Rinny .., he hadn't called her that since their high school days. "It's not the same thing. You and George had something. You know Angel and I had nothing. I can't feel grief over her, so don't waste your sympathy. And remember, anything I can do—"

  This time she seized his hand and squeezed it. "I will, Jim, truly I will." And unlocked her door and went inside swiftly. But he had not even reached the curb when he heard her running footsteps. "Jim . . ."

  "Yes, Corinne, what's the matter?"

  "Nothing. I wanted to ask you . . ." She stood there, panting a little. "The accident... It was an accident, wasn't it?"

  Denton was silent. Then he met her enormous eyes and said, "Nobody knows. But I don't think so."

  He drove off like a kid in a drag race, trying to get away from her anguished stare as quickly as he could.

  Suddenly he was ravenous.

  At home he made himself a pile of egg salad sandwiches. They left him full but unsatisfied, and he realized that his hunger had a less easily appeased source.

  Sipping his third cup of coffee—he had gulped the first two—Denton found himself brooding over the death of George Guest. If only the irresponsible damn fool had left some word, some hint, of his destination the night before!

  The coffee cup came down on the table with a bang and a splash. He jumped up and ran for the telephone directory.

  He found the number listed under the name Howard Taylor. Howard Taylor was the father of George Guest's young clerk at the hardware store. He dialed and caught Emmet at home.

  "This is Jim Denton, Emmet. You've heard about George Guest?"

  "On the air this morning, Mr. Denton." The boy sounded shaken. "I tried to phone Mrs. Guest a couple times, but she doesn't answer."

  Denton explained why. "Emmet, did you help Mr. Guest close up last night?"

  "Sure, Mr. Denton. Like always."

  "Did he happen to mention where he was going from the store?"

  "No. He only said it was a couple of blocks from where I live. It's been kind of bugging me, come to think of it."

  "How's that?"

  "Well, the announcer said the wreck was found on Rock Hill Road

  , and I wondered how he got way out there. He'd told me he was going within a couple of blocks of my house, like I said, and even offered to drive me home. He didn't say where he was bound, but—"

  Denton experienced the exultation of feeling a trout rise to his fly on the first cast. "You mean he drove you home?"

  "Yes, sir."'

  "You're on Sutton, aren't you?"

  "That's right. Fourteen hundred block."

  "What time did he drop you off?"

  "Must have been nine-fifteen or so. I didn't look at my watch, but we got away from the store about nine-ten, and it's only five minutes' drive."

  "You have no idea where Mr. Guest was headed, except that it was near your home?"

  "That's all he said."

  Denton hung up and began checking addresses in the neighborhood of the Taylor house. The Longs lived at the opposite end of Ridgemore; to get there, George would have had to double back past the store, a considerable drive. Ralph Crosby's place was on the same side of town as the Taylors', but almost to the town limits, and according to young Emmet, George had said he was going "a couple of blocks" away.

  Matthew Fallon lived at 1314 Porter Street

  . 1314 Porter Street

  was exactly three city blocks from where George had dropped Emmet Taylor.

  Denton's pulse was singing no
w. He hushed it in the name of caution. The thing to do was check the entire male guest list for the Wyatts* party against the Taylor address. Since the list was in a desk drawer in his office—and the desk stood directly beneath a large street map of Ridgemore—Denton jumped into his car and raced downtown to the Clarion office.

  Half an hour's research satisfied him that, aside from the cartoonist, none of the men attending the Wyatt party lived closer than half a mile from the Taylors'. Mart Fallon began to look very good—or bad, Denton thought grimly, depending on the point of view.

  Then, scanning the street map, he realized something.

  Sutton Avenue

  in the vicinity of the Taylor home was an unmarked but universally recognized boundary line between two of Ridgemore's residential areas. One block away, paralleling Sutton, ran the river, crossed by a sturdy little bridge. The heights overlooking both sides of the river were crowned with homes in a much higher real-estate bracket; where the Taylor house and its immediate neighbors were rated in the $12-$15,000 class, the river properties brought from three to five times more. On the rise just across the bridge nestled the Wyatt house.

  The Taylor place was miles from the Wyatts' in value and desirability, but exactly two blocks away in distance.

  It gave Denton rather a start. Without attempting to analyze his surprise, he decided to look in on the Wyatts before doing anything about Matthew Fallon.

  Both Norman Wyatt's Cadillac convertible and Ardis Wyatt's Buick station wagon were standing in the garage, Denton noted as he got out in their driveway. It must be nice, he thought, to be able to afford more than one home and car. Although the Wyatts could rarely spend more than two or three months a year in Ridgemore, they kept both cars there the year around; in their Beverly Hills garage stood three other permanent residents, foreign jobs in the Hollywood mode.

  Norm Wyatt, in need of a shave, wearing hunting boots, denim trousers and red flannel shirt, answered the door.

  "Jim." The movie executive looked startled, then embarrassed. "Come in, Jim, come in. You just barely caught us. We got down from the lodge only a few minutes ago. Jim .., about Angel . . ." He stopped, then said, "I don't know what to say."