Curiosity Didn't Kill the Cat Page 3

  If Jeffries had been murdered, it seemed unlikely that it had been premeditated. It seemed utterly improbable that anyone would have a motive to kill him. He hadn’t been particularly well liked, but neither was he hated. He inspired indifference more than anything else. Why would anyone want to kill him?

  But that was the question Nel was asking—not did someone kill him, but why. And who. There was no doubt in her mind that he had been murdered.

  He turned, finding her calm gaze fixed on him, and in the wan light, her face seemed something drawn in charcoal; all soft grays.

  “Nel, Steve Travers may have sent you to me to calm down the hysterical old woman, as you so inaptly put it. But he also knows I hold a private investigator’s license, and from time to time I take on problems of this sort. At least, when I have a personal interest in them.”

  Her eyes widened. “Conan, you—”

  “I know. Steve’s one of the few people who know about it. I prefer to keep it quiet.” He smiled fleetingly. “In this, as in everything else, I’m an amateur. A professional dilettante. And I intend to maintain that status.”

  “Should I be encouraged that you’ve told me this?”

  He frowned and looked out the window.

  “No, not really. I know my limitations. But I’d like to know more about it.” He looked around at her. “I’d like to know why you think your husband was murdered.”

  She seemed to sag, her breath coming out in a long sigh. Then she nodded, lifting her chin slightly.

  “To be quite honest, I have nothing you could call concrete evidence, and I haven’t the slightest idea what happened last night. I…wasn’t home when Harold left the house.” She paused, shaking her head. “I so seldom went out without him, but Pearl and I had been invited to the Barnhards’ for bridge. And on the one night I was gone—” She stopped, then went on firmly. “It doesn’t matter. Anyway, I don’t know what happened last night, and the only evidence I have is my knowledge of my husband. But as far as I’m concerned, it’s as concrete as a fingerprint.”

  He nodded. “All right, Nel, go on. I’m listening.”

  “Well, that’s more than the police would do.”

  “They’re used to working with more concrete evidence—such as fingerprints.”

  “I know, and I can see their reasoning. Harold was seen walking down Front Street in the general direction of the beach access—”

  “Who saw him?”

  “Alma Crane, our neighbor across the street.” Her tone was briefly cold. “Who else? The all-seeing eye of Hollis Heights.”

  Conan knew Alma Crane and understood Nel’s coldness. He made no comment, waiting silently for her to continue.

  “Anyway, a few hours later, he was found washed up on the beach. So the police, quite naturally, I suppose, assumed he went for a walk on the beach and got caught in a high wave.”

  “But you have another explanation?”

  “No. All I know is that explanation is wrong. It sounds reasonable enough, and would be—for anyone but Harold. I knew my husband, Conan. I know it’s inconceivable that he would voluntarily go out on that beach last night—or any night. And if he didn’t go voluntarily, he was taken there forcibly, and he died there. That doesn’t add up to ‘accidental drowning.’”

  He walked back to his chair and sat down, frowning as he stubbed out his cigarette and lit another.

  “What makes you so sure he wouldn’t go to the beach voluntarily?”

  She hesitated as if she were trying to find the right words.

  “You see, Harold had many…eccentricities, and one of them was his strange—well, I suppose you’d call it a fear of the sea. It was strange. He spent most of his life on or near the ocean, and in a way, he loved it; at least he loved his life on the sea. But at the same time, he was deathly afraid of it. I think it started when he lost that ship. That was in the Korean War. He never talked about it much, but I understand there weren’t many survivors. At any rate, his attitude toward the ocean was…ambivalent, at the least. Fear, is the only word I know for it, and it was getting worse with time.”

  She sighed and leaned back in her chair, gazing out the window.

  “I never did really understand it. I was only grateful he was willing to live here on the coast. That was a concession to me; he knew how I loved it. But when we decided to move down here, there was one thing he was adamant about: he would not live on the beachfront. We had a chance to buy the Adams house—you know, that nice place down on the front next to Mrs. Leen’s?”

  He nodded. “Yes, I know the one.”

  “It was a real bargain then, but Harold wouldn’t have anything to do with it. He paid twice as much for the house we have now, and it isn’t nearly as nice. And he was always…extremely careful with his money. Penurious, to be quite frank.” She leaned forward, emphasizing her words. “But the important thing to him was that our house is up on Hollis Heights, a good three hundred feet above the beach level. He didn’t seem to mind so much being within sight of the ocean, but he literally couldn’t stand being—well, within reach of it.”

  She sighed and leaned back, closing her eyes.

  “And Harold did not take walks on the beach, day or night. In all the time we lived here, nearly ten years now, he only set foot on the beach three or four times, and that was at my insistence, and always on mild summer days. He used to get quite upset when I went down to the beach, and he never wanted me to go alone.”

  She looked up, a troubled, reminiscent expression clouding her gray eyes.

  “And those few times he did go with me, he insisted on waiting until low tide, and all the time he was nervous as a cat. You’d think he was expecting a tidal wave. The longest time he ever stayed on the beach with me was about half an hour. Then he just grabbed my arm and practically ran for the access. That was also the last time he went to the beach, and that was six years ago. It was a kind of phobia, I suppose. It was entirely unreasonable, and even he admitted it. But he couldn’t seem to help himself; even the thought of going to the beach made him almost ill these last few years. He just couldn’t stand to be that close to the water.”

  She paused and looked questioningly at Conan.

  “So, can you tell me, in the face of all that, how it would be possible for Harold to suddenly decide—especially on a very stormy night, with the tide nearly high—that he wanted to take a little stroll on the beach?”

  He was silent, searching for an answer, feeling the acute sense of discomfort that always accompanied any confrontation with the inexplicable. He crossed his legs, settling himself deeper into the chair, frowning as he took an impatient puff on his cigarette.

  “Nel, has Harold been acting strangely? I mean, have you noticed any change in personality lately?”

  She laughed. “You mean symptoms of senile dementia? No, and he was in excellent physical health, considering his age. He had a checkup about a month ago. I know what you’re doing, Conan. I’ve been doing the same thing for hours—looking for some simple, logical explanation for an utterly unreasonable act. I can save you some time and trouble. Harold was perfectly clear mentally, and quite stable emotionally, except for his phobia about the sea, and he solved that problem very neatly by simply staying away from the beach. Suicide isn’t a possibility. He might complain about the way the world was going, or about my cooking, but he never complained about himself. He always seemed quite content with his lot in life.” She shook her head, her shoulders coming up in an uneasy shrug. “Conan, there is no logical explanation for his going to the beach last night.”

  He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.

  “Then perhaps the question is why he left the house, not why he went to the beach. Have you any doubt that he left the house voluntarily?”

  She hesitated, then shook her head.

  “No. Mrs. Crane saw him leave. He was alone, and apparently under no duress. But I can’t guess what prompted him to go out; he said nothing to suggest he had any inte
ntion of leaving the house last night. I suppose it’s possible he had some sort of secret life; something that would explain his going out without telling me. But knowing him, it’s highly unlikely; he wasn’t that imaginative. And if he ever had any secret rendezvous, they were few and far between. He has never, under any pretext, gone out alone when I was home, and I very seldom went out without him. He made too much of a fuss about it. Besides, even if I knew why he left the house, it still wouldn’t explain how he ended up on the beach.”

  “It might have some bearing on that.”

  She pressed her fingers to her eyes tiredly and nodded. “Yes, I suppose so.”

  “Nel, did you talk to Mrs. Crane?”

  “Of course. When Pearl brought me home and we found Harold gone, I called Mrs. Crane. I knew she’d take due note of it if he left the house. After that, I could hardly get rid of her.”

  “I suppose she came over to your house.”

  “Oh, yes. Full of neighborly solicitude.”

  He laughed briefly. “Alma always likes to be where the action is. What did she tell you?”

  Nel took a deep breath. “Not a great deal, although it took quite a while for her to tell it. She said she heard our front door close and looked out her window. That was at eight-thirty. She pinpointed the time by the fact that the Lawrence Welk show had just concluded and she’d turned off her television.”

  “When did you leave the house?”

  “Pearl picked me up at eight. Anyway, Alma said Harold left the porch light on and took time to lock the door, then he walked down Front Street ‘at a good clip.’ She can see quite a distance from her south windows; she knows he stayed on Front as far as Beach Street. There’s a light at the corner there, and he didn’t turn off. But it was too dark for her to see him after that.”

  Conan frowned. Beach Street intersected Front only a block north of his house—and the access.

  “Was he alone?”

  “Yes.”

  “You have no idea where he might have been going?”

  “No. We don’t know anyone down at this end of Front; not well, at least. Except you.”

  “Well, Harold never paid any calls on me here at home. Is there any reason he wouldn’t take the car? I mean, mechanical problems that would preclude his using it?”

  She picked up her glass, swirling the brandy idly, smiling with a hint of irony.

  “No. The car was always in perfect working order. Harold wouldn’t tolerate mechanical malfunctions; he ran a tight ship.”

  “That would suggest his destination was close—within walking distance.”

  “True, but it doesn’t suggest to me what his destination might have been.”

  “Did Mrs. Crane have anything else to offer?”

  “Oh, a great deal, but nothing else that could be classified as factual.”

  “Nel, what about—” He paused, then, “I don’t like to make things worse for you, but was there anything unusual about the body? Any signs of violence?”

  She shut her eyes briefly. “I—I don’t think so. Nothing obvious, anyway.”

  “And the official cause of death was drowning?”

  “Yes. I’ve ordered an autopsy done, but I haven’t heard anything about it yet.”

  “Do you know who the examining physician was?”

  “Nicky Heideger.”

  His head came up. “Nicky?”

  Dr. Nicole Heideger was probably one of the finest G.P.’s in the country, but because she was too outspoken about local politics, she was persona non grata to the administrators of the Taft County Hospital.

  “I know it was Nicky, Conan. I talked to her last night at the hospital.”

  “I was only surprised she’d be called in. Nel, when Harold was found, was anything missing—billfold, money, jewelry?”

  She shook her head vehemently. “No. He still had his billfold, and there were forty-five dollars in it. He was wearing a rather expensive watch and a two-carat diamond ring. It wasn’t a simple case of robbery.”

  “All right. What about yesterday? Did anything unusual happen?”

  “No. We were both at home all morning, then we came down to the bookshop in the afternoon—you remember.”

  “Yes. Where did you go after you left the shop?”

  “To the post office to pick up the mail.”

  “Were there any personal letters for Harold?”

  “No. The only mail in the box was a letter to me from my daughter Jane.”

  “And after you left the post office?”

  “We went back home.”

  “Were there any calls or visitors?”

  “No, and neither of us left the house. We were together all day until Pearl picked me up for our bridge date at eight o’clock. Everything was perfectly normal; there wasn’t the slightest hint that anything was wrong. When I left, Harold was sitting by the fire, peacefully reading a book. He was in his robe, already prepared for bed.”

  Conan’s lips were compressed, and he nearly knocked the ashtray from the table as he put his cigarette out. He despised questions with no answers. Why would a man comfortably reading, already prepared for bed, go to the trouble of dressing and braving a rising storm on foot? Particularly a man like Captain Jeffries, whom the villagers called a recluse; a hermit.

  “Did…Harold drink much?”

  She laughed at that. “He didn’t drink at all. That was another of his quirks.”

  He nodded, staring down at the rich patterns in the Lilihan, his frustration mounting steadily. It was like trying to climb a sheer wall; he kept fumbling for a foothold, and the wall only became increasingly solid, offering not even the slightest crack. He wondered why he kept asking questions.

  He shifted his gaze to Nel, still finding her calm a source of amazement.

  “What about Harold’s financial status?”

  “He had a pension from the Navy, of course; that was his sole source of income, and it was quite sufficient for us.”

  “No investments or anything of the sort?”

  “United States savings bonds. Harold was a flag-waver, really; a borderline chauvinist. Nothing else, except some small insurance policies. I kept the accounts, and if he indulged in any financial speculation, it was either before we were married or entirely sub rosa. And on a small scale.”

  “Insurance policies?”

  She eyed him obliquely. “I’m the beneficiary of all of them—and his sole heir. He has a brother still living, but Ben did quite well for himself in real estate in California. Harold didn’t think he needed anything from him.” She pulled in a deep breath, her weariness coming through. “It’s ironic. If you’re looking for someone with a reasonable motive to kill him, I’m the only one.”

  Conan rose and went to the window again, finding immobility intolerable. And he was running put of questions.

  “Nel, haven’t you any thoughts, any speculations, however irrational? For instance, when you reached the conclusion he’d been murdered, did anyone—or anything—come to mind?”

  Her head moved back and forth slowly.

  “No one and nothing. And I have no speculations, irrational or otherwise. All I know is that Harold didn’t go out to the beach of his own volition.”

  “Did he leave any messages? A note, perhaps, or—”

  “No. I looked for one both before and after he…he was found.” She frowned and leaned down to open her purse. “There was something, though; but I’m not sure it means anything.”

  He tensed, the frustration translating itself into reined excitement. Hope. A fragment of a hint, something, anything that would give him a small foothold.…

  He walked over to her and took the sheet of paper she proffered, studying it almost hungrily. It was from a notepad and bore the navy insignia and Jeffries’ name and rank. A telephone number was written across the lower part of the page.

  “This is Harold’s handwriting?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where did you find it?”

>   “It’s from a notepad by the telephone. It’s a local number by the prefix, but it doesn’t belong to any of our friends. I checked our address book.”

  He stared at the number, his frustration returning with a rush that made his shoulders sag. He saw his own disappointment reflected in Nel’s eyes.

  “What is it, Conan?”

  He returned the sheet to her. “That’s the bookshop number.”

  “It’s what?”

  “The bookshop.”

  “Oh.” Her hand moved spastically, crumpling the paper, and for a moment she seemed on the verge of weeping. Then she pressed the paper flat and put it in her purse, managing a short, brittle laugh.

  “Well. So much for my one concrete piece of evidence. I wonder why he wanted the bookshop number.”

  Conan frowned, walking slowly back to the window.

  “I don’t know, but I doubt anyone at the bookshop had anything to do with his death.”

  Again she laughed. “Well, I can’t see you or Miss Dobie doing him in, and that leaves Meg. She’s out on the basis of the feline aversion to water.”

  He called up a smile at this, more for the effort behind it than the humor. She was at the frayed end of hope. “Nel, you found nothing else?”

  “You mean in the form of written messages? No. Pearl and I searched quite thoroughly. We even sorted through the ashes in the fireplace.” She paused, watching him, and her voice had a dull, final tone. “I’ve given you nothing to work with.”

  He turned, drawn by her weary, weighted resignation. There was no hint of recrimination in her eyes, but she seemed immensely tired. And age was a part of her now; he could well believe she was a grandmother. Before, it would have been irrelevant to call her old; now it was only unkind.

  “Nel, I’m an amateur. I’m not equipped to deal with this. If there’s an answer, it’s probably buried in Harold’s past. Or his death might be a psychotic and random act, entirely unmotivated. In either case, getting at the truth would challenge the facilities of a fully equipped police force.” He turned away. “I could tell you I’d investigate it, but it wouldn’t mean anything. It would be a hollow promise.”