Shivers (10 page)

“I don’t know her too well. My husband fixed some things in her place last week sometime; said she had company. Male company. He might be able to tell you more. But I don’t know much about the residents’ comings and goings. It ain’t none of my business.” She offered to call the woman over the intercom.

“No thanks,” Albright said. “We’d like to go up unannounced.”

“Suit yourself, officer.”

They went upstairs to her apartment and rang the bell. There was no answer.

“Can we get the key and look around?” Steven asked.

Albright gave him one of his exasperated looks. “I don’t think it’s warranted, sorry.” Steven cursed under his breath.

“Let’s go back down,” Albright said impatiently.

They returned to the lobby. The door to the manager’s apartment was open and emitted loud noises. Steven and the detective stepped inside and saw a grizzled old man in overalls, the bleached blonde’s husband, holding a paper spread open in front of him. His wife looked up from the section he was showing her and placed her hand to her mouth. She looked from Albright to Steven and back again.

“You the police she tol’ me about?”

Albright nodded. The old man held out the paper for the detective to take. “I’m afraid you won’t be asking poor Missus Jessup nothin’, if you’re the ones wanted to talk to her.”

On the third page of the paper there was a picture of the woman taken several years earlier. She was smiling, her hair long and framing her face attractively. In bold print the headline read: NOTED BIOLOGIST FALLS TO DEATH IN SUBWAY.

Steven grabbed the paper from Albright and read with disbelief.

The old man looked at the detective and said, “Happened just last night. They found her driver’s license in her handbag. Otherwise, ‘tweren’t no way to tell who it was, all cut up like that. They’re notifying relatives now. Probably come to close up the apartment later today or tomorrow.”

Steven’s eyes whirled through the story, scanning the important details:
Vivian Jessup, a retired biologist, was killed in the subway . . . It is unclear at this point whether she fell accidentally, jumped of her own volition, or was pushed . . . Witnesses did not notice her presence until she was falling onto the tracks at the 59th Street station . . . “There was no possible way we could have saved her,” said one . . . Mrs. Jessup was the widow of Gerald B. Jessup . . . The couple became well-known in scientific circles when they worked together to shed new light on positive uses of bacteriological agents . . .

“Did you know about this?” the manager asked, blinking away tears. “Is that why you came here?”

“No, I assure you,” Albright told her. “I’m with the Missing Persons Squad. I came on an entirely different investigation.”

“You must have known,” the woman argued. “How could you not have known? You
are
with the police department.”

Albright almost laughed. One hand didn’t know what the other was doing.

“We honestly didn’t know,” Steven interrupted. “I had no idea this was going to happen. We are investigating my brother’s disappearance.”

“Your brother?” she asked. “You mean the young man in your picture?”

“Yes. He’s been gone for two days. We thought that Vivian might have had some information.”

“Alfie,” the woman said to her husband. “Look at the picture for them.”

Albright handed it to him. “Look familiar?”

“I can’t be sure. Maybe. Maybe not. I might have seen him coming in with her once or twice when I was watering the plants out in the lobby —but I just can’t be sure. You’ll have to check the doormen.”

“What do we do now?” his wife inquired. “Will we have to talk to more detectives? About that poor woman? Oh, what an awful way to die. Horrible. Horrible.”

“Steady, Nancy, steady.” Alfie gave the picture back and put his arm around her shoulder. “We’ll talk to anyone we have to.”

“Can I use your phone?” Albright asked, pointing to the push-button job on the table behind Alfie’s back. The old man nodded. Albright took the entire phone off the table and walked with it to the other side of the room while he “punched.”

Steven left Alfie alone to comfort his wife and walked out into the lobby. Mrs. Jessup had been far more than she’d seemed. Not just a rich lady looking for fun and excitement, but a scientist of some renown. Steven’s concern over her hideous passing was overshadowed by the horror of its implications, the implications of these new insights into her life. Just yesterday she had been talking about suicide, his brother’s suicide, and only an hour or so after he had left her . . .

Was he responsible? Was it his fault? His badgering, his insensitivity? Had his overwhelming concern for his brother caused him to overlook her very real anguish? But she had been so oblique, so uncooperative.

Albright had left the manager’s apartment and was walking over to Steven. “Well,” he said, “maybe the lady couldn’t stand the guilt. Killed herself ‘cause she thought she made your brother do himself in.”

“That might explain her death,” Steven said, “but
not
my brother’s disappearance. I still don’t think he killed himself over her.”

“Probably not. Just her delusion. Joey’ll turn up, don’t you worry.”

“You can guarantee that?”

Albright ignored the remark. “Sad business, this. Did you know she was a biologist?”

“Hadn’t the slightest clue.”

“Surprised?”

“I suppose so. Look, can’t we get into her apartment
now?
There might be something— some information—in there that we can use.”

“Nope. That’s not my job. If they find anything in there I’ll hear about it and I’ll let you know. Don’t worry.”

Steven’s shoulders sank. “I can’t help but think . . .”

“Think what?”

“Forget it.”

“Go ahead. Tell me.”

“My brother disappears. Vivian insists my brother is dead. And now,
she
gets killed the next day. What does that look like to you?”

Albright stared at Steven for a moment, weighing his response. It did not come with any great conviction.

“Coincidence.”

“You don’t really believe that, do you? Man, you cops can explain anything away.”

Albright shook his head. It looked as if he had something on his mind, something he had to get off his chest, but he remained silent.

“Are you all right, Detective Albright?”

The man’s head was quivering and his face had reddened.

“Uh. Yeah. Sure, I’m all right.” He was back to normal now. “Listen, I have things to do. Do you mind if we split up here? I’ll call you if anything comes up.”

“So that’s the story,” Steven said bitterly. “My brother was just a nobody. Let him disappear and who gives a damn. But her—she was somebody. Famous biologist. Wealthy widow. Everybody’s going to try to get to the bottom of
this,
right? But my brother can get lost and stay lost.”

“Now look, Everson,” Albright said. “Your brother is missing, and that’s all. Missing. But this woman was ground to pieces by an express train. When somebody falls in front of a train, there’s gotta be a reason, and it’s our job to find out what that reason is.” Again his voice held no conviction. He was just reading lines.

“Not
your
job, remember?
Your
job is to look for my brother.”

“And a million others. Look I’ve taken a personal interest—I don’t even know why—and you oughta be glad. Because since your brother was reported missing, I’ve been given almost
fifty
new cases to look into. That’s right— fifty! So shut your mouth, go home, and let me do my job. Y’know, the fact is that this woman’s death may have been the best thing that could have happened. If your
brother’s
mixed up in it, we’ll find him, all right?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Albright’s face curled up in a nasty sneer. “A young buck. A rich old lady. Ever heard words like ‘hustler,’ ‘gigolo’? She kicks him out. The spending money is cut off and the young buck is angry. He broods about it, follows her, pushes her in front of a train. Ah, sweet vengeance.”

“Joey would
never
have done something like that!”

Albright raised his hands defensively. “I’m only telling you how some people will see it. Don’t get mad at me. At least they’ll be out there lookin’ for the kid. Let’s just hope he
is
innocent.”

“Of
course
he’s innocent. He’s the victim here, not—” Steven stopped suddenly, too tired to continue the argument. “I’m sorry. It’s been such a strain. Believe it or not, I appreciate the time you’ve given me. It’s all turning into such a mess.”

“Go on home now,” Albright said with concern. “Try and relax. You don’t look so hot.”

Steven caught a glimmer of a smile on the edges of Albright’s mouth. He smiled back and the detective’s beam widened. The man reached out and slapped Steven on the shoulder.

“It’ll be okay.”

“I hope so.”

They separated. Albright stayed in the lobby. Steven went out into the street to hail a taxi.

Steven gave the cabby his address and sat back in the seat to relax. He was stunned by Vivian Jessup’s death. What had driven her to it? Where had she been going at that hour? To see Joey? He rubbed his eyes, eyes that were red and full of crust. Aching eyes. Leaning back his head, he closed them and sighed. He did not open his eyes again until he’d arrived back home.

Back at the apartment building that Steven had just left, Detective John Albright fitted the manager’s passkey into Vivian Jessup’s lock and slowly opened the door.

Harry Faulkin woke up with a start, wondering what time it was and if he was late for work. He checked the clock on the night table. Plenty of time, although it was already past noon. He looked over at the other side of the bed, and was surprised to see no one lying there. He grumbled, got to his feet, and headed for the kitchen. His head hurt and his mouth was dry and fetid.

The living room looked like a grotesque combination of Halloween and Christmas. Thank God somebody had remembered to turn off the “rain water” or it might have overflowed the basins in the front of the baseboards. He mistrusted machinery when left to its own devices. The big puffy clouds were in pieces, scattered all over the room. He’d turned the phonograph off, but the “lightning” had been flashing all day. What an electric bill he’d have. He switched the light off, and turned on the regular lamps. It looked like all the guests had left; usually he found one or two of them behind the couch or in the bathtub.

He would have to give his maid Thelma an extra-special bonus for cleaning up this mess;
he
sure wasn’t going to touch it. Hors d’ oeuvres had been ground into the carpet, and the table cloth on the buffet table was stained with everything from cigar ashes to onion dip. Champagne glasses and beer mugs were lying on the sofa, and little plates dabbed with left-over delicacies had been deposited in every convenient nook and cranny.

He ignored all the sloppiness and entered the kitchen. It too was messy, but not as bad as the other room. Mostly there were empty liquor bottles all over the place. He had to clear them away from the counter so that he could make a pot of coffee. He sure wished it wasn’t Thelma’s day off; he would just have to let everything stay as it was until she returned on Friday. She’d raise unholy hell until he told her she’d get a much larger paycheck at the end of the week.

Something drew him to the window. He was about to look out into the brand-new, if slightly-used, day when he realized that it had inexplicably started to snow earlier in the morning. He had first noticed it when Sylvia and he had been looking for rice to use for snowflakes. Dumb idea, he thought now. He forgot if he had thrown the rice around or not, but if he had, Thelma would surely find it.

He peered down into the street, wondering if it was coated with white. Nothing. If it had actually been snowing—and he remembered now that some of the other guests had seen it and kidded him about his inaccurate forecast— then it certainly couldn’t have lasted too long. But there hadn’t
been
any indication that it would snow. He put the coffee into the pot. Who cared? No one ever expected the weather forecasts to be right. Least of all his.

Finally, somewhere under his continuous preoccupation with endless hedonism and self-concern, Harry remembered the phone call he’d gotten from Steven. Something about his brother. The guy’d been pretty upset.

Steven was an okay fellow. They’d known each other an awfully long time. He picked up the kitchen extension and dialed his friend’s number.

“Stevie baby! How’s tricks?”

“Harry! How’d the party go?”

“Te
riff
. Te
riff
. I’m telling you.” He was good at segues. “How’s your brother? He come home yet?”

“No. Haven’t heard a word. I might as well go back to work. I’m too upset to enjoy my time off.”

“Still got a couple of weeks, right?”

“Yeah.”

“Listen. Don’t worry. The kid’ll turn up. You know how they are. Let’s get together for brunch today. Talk the whole thing over.”

“Okay. Where’ll I meet you?”

Harry gave him a name. A place conveniently located. For Harry, that is.

“See you then, Harry. It’ll be good to talk to someone about this.”

“You and Andrea still have problems?”

“She’s out of town. I’ll tell you all about it.”

“Okay, pal. Coffee’s boiling over. See you soon.”

“Bye.”

Harry poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table.
Harry, my boy,
he thought,
you make a good friend.

It was almost three o’clock in the afternoon when Eric Thorne was finally able to take a break and go have a talk with Emily. His day at the Institute for Psychic Research had been a hectic and unrewarding one. Perhaps it was because his mind was so preoccupied. All he could think about was getting away to talk to someone about the uncanny experience he’d had in his apartment the night before. It all seemed so distant now. Except for a brief moment when he’d first stepped off the train and started to walk toward the building, he hadn’t succumbed to panic or fear once during the day. But he couldn’t help but dwell on the incident. Just telling someone about it would be of enormous therapeutical value.