The Doomsters (13 page)

“Hardly,” I said with more hope than I felt. “If my hunch pans out, I’ll get paid for my time. There’s a million or two in the family.”

“More like five million. I get it. You’re on a contingency basis.”

“Call it that. Do I get to ask you any questions?”

“Go ahead. Ask them.” He leaned against a boulder and looked inscrutable.

“You’ve answered the main one already. That drowning could have been homicide.”

“Yeah. I finally ruled it out at the time because there were no positive indications—nothing you could take to court, I mean. Also on account of the lady’s background. She was unstable, been on barbiturates for years. Her doctor wouldn’t admit she was hooked on them, but that was the picture I got. In addition to which, she’d attempted
suicide before. Tried to shoot herself right in the doctor’s office, a few days before she drowned.”

“Who told you this?”

“The doctor told me himself, and he wasn’t lying. She wanted a bigger prescription from him. When he wouldn’t give it to her, she pulled a little pearl-handled revolver out of her purse and pointed it at her head. He knocked it up just in time, and the slug went into the ceiling. He showed me the hole it made.”

“What happened to the gun?”

“Naturally he took it away from her. I think he told me he threw it into the sea.”

“That’s a funny way to handle it.”

“Not so funny, under the circumstances. She begged him not to tell her husband about the attempt. The old man was always threatening to stash her away in a snake-pit. The doctor covered for her.”

“You get any confirmation of this?”

“How could I? It was strictly between him and her.” He added with a trace of irritation: “The guy didn’t have to tell me anything. He was sticking his neck out, telling me what he did. Speaking of necks, mine is out a mile right now.”

“Then you might as well stick it out some more. What do you think of the local law?”

“In Purissima? They have a good police force. Undermanned, like most, but one of the better small-city departments, I’d say.”

“I was thinking more of the county department.”

“Ostervelt, you mean? We got along. He co-operated fine.” Glenn smiled briefly. “Naturally he co-operated. Senator Hallman swung a lot of votes.”

“Is Ostervelt honest?”

“I never saw any evidence that he wasn’t. Maybe some
graft crept in here and there. He isn’t as young as he used to be, and I heard a rumor or two. Nothing big, you understand. Senator Hallman wouldn’t stand for it. Why?”

“Just checking.” Very tentatively, I said: “I don’t suppose I could get a peek at your report on the case?”

“Not even if I had one. You know the law as well as I do.”

“You didn’t keep a copy?”

“I didn’t make a written report. The old man wanted it word-of-mouth, and that was the way I gave it to him. I can tell you what I said in one word. Suicide.” He paused. “But maybe I was wrong, Lew.”

“Do you think you were wrong?”

“Maybe I was. If I did make a mistake, like La Guardia said, it was a beaut: they don’t come often like that. I know I shouldn’t admit it to an ex-competitor. On the other hand, you were never a very serious competitor. They went to you when they couldn’t afford me.” Scott was trying to carry it off lightly, but his face was heavy. “On the other hand, I wouldn’t want you to climb way out on a limb, and get it sawed off from under you.”

“So?”

“So take a piece of advice from an old pro who started in the rack—in the business, before you learned toilet control. You’re wasting your time on this one.”

“I don’t think so. You gave me what I need.”

“Then I better give you something you don’t need, just so you won’t get elated.” Scott looked the opposite of elated. His voice dragged slower and slower. “Don’t start to spend your piece of that five million until after you deposit the check. You know there’s a little rule of law that says a murderer can’t benefit from the estate of his victim.”

“Are you trying to tell me Carl Hallman murdered his father?”

“I heard the old man died of natural causes. I didn’t investigate his death. It looks as if somebody ought to.”

“I intend to.”

“Sure, but don’t be surprised if you come up with an answer you don’t like.”

“Such as?”

“You said it a minute ago yourself.”

“You’ve got some inside information?”

“Only what you told me, and what the old man told me when his lawyer sent for me. You know why he wanted me to make a confidential investigation of that drowning?”

“He didn’t trust the local law.”

“Maybe. The main reason was, he suspected his own son of knocking out the mother and throwing her in the water. And I’m beginning to think that’s what actually happened.”

I’d seen it coming from a long way off, but it hit me hard, with the weight of Glenn Scott’s integrity behind it.

“Do you know what the Senator’s suspicions were based on?”

“He didn’t tell me much about that. I assumed he knew his own boy better than I did. I never even got to meet the boy. I talked to the rest of the family, though, and I gathered that he was very close to his mother. Too close for comfort, maybe.”

“Close like Oedipus?”

“Could be. There was apronstring trouble, all right. The mother raised a hell of a stink when he went away to college. She was a clutcher, for sure, and not very stable, like I said. Could be he thought he had to kill her to get free. There’ve been cases like that. I’m only brainstorming, understand. You won’t quote me.”

“Not even to myself. Where was Carl when she died?”

“That’s just the trouble, I don’t know. He was going to school in Berkeley at the time, but he left there about a
week before it happened. Dropped out of sight for maybe ten days, all told.”

“What did he say he was doing?”

“I don’t know. The Senator wouldn’t even let me ask him. It wasn’t a very satisfactory case to work on. As you’ll discover.”

“I already have.”

      I
PARKED
on upper Main Street, in front of a flat-topped building made of pink stucco and glass brick. An imitation flagstone walk led through well-trimmed shrubbery to a door inset in one corner. A small bronze plate beside the door announced discreetly: J. Charles Grantland, M.D.

The waiting-room was empty, except for a lot of new-looking furniture. A fairly new-looking young woman popped up behind a bleached oak counter in the far corner beside an inner door. She had dark, thin good looks which needed a quick paint job.

“Mr. Archer?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, doctor’s still busy. We’re behind schedule today. Do you mind waiting a few minutes?”

I said I didn’t mind. She took down my address.

“Were you in an accident, Mr. Archer?”

“You could call it that.”

I sat in the chair nearest her, and took a folded newspaper
out of my jacket pocket. I’d bought it on the street a few minutes earlier, from a Mexican newsboy crying murder. I spread it out on my knees, hoping that it might make a conversation piece.

The Hallman story had Eugene Slovekin’s by-line under a banner heading: Brother Sought in Shooting. There was a three-column picture of the Hallman brothers in the middle of the page. The story began in a rather stilted atmospheric style which made me wonder if Slovekin had been embarrassed by the writing of it:

“In a tragedy which may parallel the ancient tragedy of Cain and Abel, violent death paid a furtive and shocking visit today to a well-known local family. Victim of the apparent slaying was Jeremiah Hallman, 34, prominent Buena Vista Valley rancher. His younger brother, Carl Hallman, 24, is being sought for questioning in the shooting. Mr. Hallman, son of the recently deceased Senator Hallman, was found dead at approximately one o’clock this afternoon by his family physician, Dr. Charles Grantland, in the conservatory of the Hallman estate.

“Mr. Hallman had been shot twice in the back, and apparently died within seconds of the shooting. A pearl-handled revolver, with two cartridges discharged, was found beside the body, lending a touch of fantastic mystery to the case. According to family servants the murder gun formerly belonged to the late Mrs. Alicia Hallman, mother of the victim.

“Sheriff Duane Ostervelt, who was on the scene within minutes of the shooting, stated that the murder weapon was known to be in the possession of Carl Hallman. Young Hallman was seen on the ranch immediately prior to the shooting. He escaped last night from the State Hospital, where he had been a patient for some months. According to members of the family, young Hallman has
been a long-time victim of mental illness. An all-points search is being made for him, by the local sheriff’s department and city and state police.

“Contacted by long-distance telephone, Dr. Brockley of the State Hospital staff said that young Hallman was suffering from manic-depressive psychosis when admitted to the hospital six months ago. According to Dr. Brockley, Hallman was not considered dangerous, and was thought to be ‘well on the road to recovery.’ Dr. Brockley expressed surprise and concern at the tragic outcome of Hallman’s escape. He said that the local authorities were informed of the escape as soon as it occurred, and expressed the hope that the public would ‘take a calm view of the situation. There is no violence in Hallman’s hospital record,’ Dr. Brockley said. ‘He is a sick boy who needs medical care.’

“A similar view was expressed by Sheriff Ostervelt, who says that he is organizing a posse of a hundred or more local citizens to supplement the efforts of his department in the search. The public is asked to be on the lookout for Hallman. He is six feet three inches tall, of athletic build, blue-eyed, with light hair cut very short. When last seen he was wearing a blue work shirt and blue dungaree trousers. According to Sheriff Ostervelt, Hallman may be accompanied by Thomas Rica, alias Rickey, a fellow-escapee from …”

The story was continued on the second page. Before turning over, I took a close look at the picture of the two brothers. It was a stiffly posed portrait of the sort that photographers make to commemorate weddings. Both brothers wore boiled shirts and fixed smiles. Their resemblance was accentuated by this, and by the fact that Jerry hadn’t grown fat when the picture was taken. The caption was simply: “The Hallman brothers (Carl on the right).”

The dark girl coughed insinuatingly. I looked up and
saw her leaning far out over her counter, slightly crosseyed with desire to break the silence.

“Terrible, isn’t it? What makes it worse, I know him.” She shivered, and hunched her thin shoulders up. “I talked to him just this morning.”

“Who?”

“The murderer.” She rolled the “r’s” like an actress in melodrama.

“He telephoned here?”

“He
came
here, personally. He was standing right here in front of me.” She pointed at the floor between us with a fingernail from which the red polish was flaking. “I didn’t know him from Adam, but
I
could tell there was something funny. He had that wild look they have in their eyes.” Her own look was slightly wild, in a girlish way, and she’d forgotten her receptionist’s diction: “Jeeze, it bored right through me.”

“It must have been a frightening experience.”

“You’re
not kidding. ’Course I had no way of knowing he was going to shoot somebody, he only
looked
that way. ‘Where’s the doctor?’ he said, just like that. I guess he thought he was Napoleon or something. Only he was dressed like any old bum. You’d never think he was a Senator’s son. His brother used to come in here, and
he
was a real gentleman, always nicely dressed in the height of fashion—cashmere jackets and stuff. It’s too bad about him. I feel sorry for his wife, too.”

“You know her?”

“Oh yes, Mrs. Hallman, she comes in all the time for her sinuses.” Her eyes took on the waiting birdlike expression of a woman naming another woman she happens not to like.

“Did you get rid of him all right?”

“The crazy-man? I tried to tell him doctor wasn’t in, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. So I called out Dr.
Grantland,
he
knows how to handle them, Dr. Grantland hasn’t got a nerve in his body.” The birdlike expression subtly changed to the look of adoration which very young receptionists reserve for their doctor-employers. “ ‘Hello, old man, what brings you here?’ the doctor says, like they were buddy-buddy from way back. He put his arm around him, calm as anything, and off they went into the back room. I guess he got rid of him out the back way, ’cause that was the last I saw of him. ’Least I hope that’s the last. Anyway, doctor told me not to worry about it, that things like that come up in every office.”

“Have you worked here long?”

“Just three months. This is my first real job. I filled in for other girls before, when they went on vacation, but I consider this the real start of my career. Dr. Grantland is wonderful to work for. Most of his patients are the nicest people you’d ever want to meet.”

As though to illustrate this boast, a fat woman wearing a small flat hat and a mink neckpiece emerged through the inner door. She was followed by Grantland looked professional in a white smock. She had the vaguely frightened eyes of a hypochondriac, and she clutched a prescription slip in her chubby hand. Grantland escorted her to the front door and opened it, bowing her out. She turned to him on the threshold:

“Thank you so much, doctor. I know I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”

      G
RANTLAND
closed the door and saw me. The lingering smile on his face gave up the ghost entirely. Shoved by a gust of anger, he crossed the room toward me. His fists were clenched.

I rose to meet him. “Hello, doctor.”

“What are you doing here?”

“I have an appointment with you.”

“Oh no you haven’t.” He was torn between anger and the need to be charming to his receptionist. “Did you make an appointment for this—this gentleman?”

“Why not?” I said, since she was speechless. “Are you retiring from practice?”

“Don’t try to tell me you’re here as a patient.”