You Could Call It Murder Read online

  I laughed. I howled like a hyena, clutching my belly with one hand and pawing the air with the other. I roared and whooped hysterically while the excuse for a policeman watched me as if I had lost my mind. Maybe I had.

  The laughter stopped almost as suddenly as it had started. I straightened up and tried to get my dignity back. “No one knows where he was headed?”

  “Nope.”

  “Or why he ran off?”

  “Hell,” he said. “Guess that’s easy enough. He figgered he better run away before we hang him. He’s guilty as hell and he wants to save his neck.”

  I didn’t believe it. The more the situation developed, the more little puzzle-pieces started to come into view, the less likely it seemed for Alan Marsten to have killed Gwen Davison. After what I’d learned in the past day he was bloody well coming into the clear. I was all ready to suggest releasing the boy, when the little fool decided to set himself free.

  “We’ll get him,” the cop assured me. “You know what they say—he can run but he can’t hide. Dumbest thing a man could do, running away like a rabbit the way he did. That way not a soul in the world’s going to believe he didn’t eut that girl to pieces.”

  He dropped me a sly wink. “More’n that, I don’t figger his lawyer’s going to love him. Not going to work too hard to get him off. The boy really let him have it with that chair leg, let me tell you. By God, that fancy talker had a lump on his head the size of a turkey egg!”

  He had a lump on his own head. It was more the size of a duck egg, as it happened, but I decided against mentioning it to him. He probably already knew.

  Instead I thanked him, for nothing in particular, and left him there. I went out into the slush again and used the butt of one cigarette to get a fresh one started.

  On the way to where the MG was parked I ran into Bill Piersall, the younger and somewhat more competent Cliff’s End police officer. He told me what the other one either hadn’t known or hadn’t thought worth mentioning. The car Alan Marsten picked was a dark blue Pontiac, three years old, with New Hampshire plates. The state troopers already had word of the jailbreak plus descriptions of boy and car, and they were in the process of throwing a roadblock around the area.

  Which, according to Piersall, was not a difficult procedure. “Just a few roads out of here,” he explained. “They can seal ’em all off in no time at all. That boy’s caught in a net, Mr. Markham. He can’t get far.”

  “What if he stays in town?”

  He looked at me blankly. “Why’d he do that? He’s a dead duck if he stays around. Why, he just about admitted his guilt by taking off like that. He stays around and he doesn’t have the chance of a fish in the desert.”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “But he might be safer trying to hide out Especially with the roads sealed.”

  He nodded thoughtfully. “We’ll check,” he assured me. “We’ll give the town a good going-over, see if we can’t turn him out. But I think he’ll be off and running, Mr. Markham. I think they’ll pick him up on Route Seventeen heading south, as a matter of fact. He’s running scared, you see. Might be safer for him, trying to hide, but he won’t stop to think on that. He busted out of that cell because he was scared and he’ll run for the same reason.”

  He was on his way to the station house. I let him go and got into the red MG, fitted the key into the ignition and started the motor running. Piersall’s analysis was intelligent enough, I thought, but it was probably wrong.

  If I was right, Alan hadn’t killed Gwen Davison. And, in that case, he wasn’t running away out of fear. He was running in an attempt to accomplish something, to find somebody, to perform one task or another. And if that were so, he wouldn’t be leaving Cliff’s End. He’d either go straight for whomever it was he wanted to see, or he’d hide out and wait for things to clear up.

  That was the way it appeared to me. Which, taking into consideration the way the day had gone thus far, indicated that Piersall was probably right. Alan was a killer on the run and they’d pick him up at the roadblock on Route 17.

  It was that kind of a day. But it has to be a hellishly bad day before I’ll stop playing out my own hunches. And things weren’t quite that bad yet.

  Not quite.

  I drove back to my home away from home first of all. Those photographs were still around, and as long as they remained in existence they were a potential weapon for anybody who had his hands on them. As far as that went, I didn’t know whether or not Mrs. Lipton made it a practice of going through her guest’s drawers simply out of curiosity. I didn’t want her to get an eyeful.

  I parked the car and went into the large tourist home. Mrs. Lipton met me with a smile and asked me if I would be staying another night. I smiled back at her, told her I probably would, and paid her for another evening. She held the smile while she pocketed the bills, then stepped out of my way and let me go up the stairs, taking them two at a time. I went into my room and closed the door after me.

  The strongbox was in the drawer and the pictures and negatives were in the strongbox. I carried the box to the lavatory, locked myself in, and tore each of the eighteen photos into tiny and innocuous shreds. I did the same for one strip of six negatives, but I changed my mind and folded the other strip, putting it into my wallet. There was always the chance that the photos might come in handy at a later date. Even if they didn’t, I could always make prints and sell them to high school children if the going got rough.

  I flushed the shredded prints and negatives down the bowl, unlocked the door and left the bathroom for whoever might want it. I put the broken strongbox back in my drawer because there wasn’t much else to do with it, tucked the gun back into the waistband of my trousers. God knew what use I might have for it, but it could conceivably come in handy.

  Back in the MG again, I sat for a moment feeling like a yo-yo top on a string, bouncing back and forth all over the town of Cliff’s End and accomplishing nothing at all. Thoughts like that can only depress one. I got the car going again and drove off.

  Jill wasn’t in her dormitory. A hallmate told me she had classes from one to three that afternoon, then usually dropped over to the college coffee shop for a bite to eat. I left a note on her desk to the effect that I would meet her at the coffee shop after three on the chance that she returned directly to her room. I looked at my watch—it was one-thirty, which gave me an hour and a half to kill before I could see her. I looked for a way to kill it.

  Helen MacIlhenny was one way. I found the dean in her office, evidently not too busy to see me. I sat down in a chair and looked across her desk at the woman. She asked me if I was getting anywhere and I told her the truth.

  “A few dozen things are happening,” I said. “But no pattern’s developed yet. Maybe I’ve accomplished nothing. It’s hard to say.”

  “Are you piling up clues?”

  I smiled sadly. “It doesn’t work that way in real life,” I said. “Only in the comic books. You pick up a piece here and a piece there and you never know which are clues and which are trivia. Then the final piece drops into place and everything works itself out. It’s fun when it’s over, but a headache while it’s going on.” I turned the sad smile into a grin. “A headache some of the time, anyway.”

  “Meaning now, I suppose?”

  “Meaning now.”

  She nodded. “Is there anything I can do for you, Mr. Markham? Anything I can tell you?”

  “Maybe. Is there anything on the order of a curfew for the students here? A bed check or something of the sort?”

  “Freshmen have to be in their dormitories by midnight, two o’clock on weekends. It’s strictly enforced.”

  “And the older girls?”

  “No curfew,” she said. “We have a rather liberal philosophy of education at Radbourne, Mr. Markham. We believe that you have to give a student responsibility in order to teach him to handle it. A bed check or curfew would be rather inconsistent with that way of thinking.”

  “It would. Is attendance req
uired at classes?”

  “Only the first and last class of each session. If a student is going to acquire knowledge, he or she will do so out of motivation, not compulsion. Class attendance is not required. Some students learn the material as well on their own. And, to be painfully frank, some of our lecturers aren’t worth getting up at eight in the morning to listen to. As the students are well enough aware, Mr. Markham.”

  I nodded. “Then it would be possible for a student to leave campus for a day or two without anyone realizing it.”

  “Oh,” she said. “You mean Barbara—”

  “Not specifically.”

  “Oh,” she said again. “Yes, I would be inclined to say that it’s possible enough, Mr. Markham. A student could go away and return without it coming to my attention, or to the attention of anyone in authority. Of course, a prolonged absence would not go unrecognized. Barbara’s case is a case in point. Some students worried about her and called the matter to my attention.”

  She thought for a moment. “And a prolonged absence would not be disregarded,” she went on. “There’s no hard and fast rule against it, you understand. But it would be discouraged.”

  I didn’t say anything. I was not thinking about Barbara Taft at the moment. As a matter of fact, I was clearing up Jill Lincoln’s trip to New York, among other things. I looked at Helen MacIlhenny. She had a thoughtful expression on her face.

  “Mr. Markham,” she said, “I have the feeling that you know something which I don’t know.”

  “That’s not likely, is it?”

  Her sharp eyes twinkled. “Oh, I’m afraid it’s highly likely. You ought to tell me. I’m supposed to have my finger on the pulse of Radbourne, so to speak. The dean must know all that goes on around this little campus.”

  “So must the detective,” I said.

  “Then you don’t have anything to tell me? I’ve a feeling something has been going on behind my back, something serious. And that it’s linked with the murder.”

  I admitted that it was possible. “When I have something,” I said, “I’ll let you know about it.”

  “Will you?”

  “Of course.”

  “I wonder if you will, Mr. Markham.”

  There was a pregnant pause. It was my turn to ask her something so I picked up my cue.

  “What do you know about a girl named Jill Lincoln?”

  “Jill Lincoln? Why?”

  I tried to be nonchalant. “Someone mentioned her as a close friend of Barbara’s,” I said. “I may be having a talk with her soon to find out if she knows anything. I like to know something about a person before a conference.”

  “Is that all?”

  “Certainly.”

  She looked quizzically at me. “Oh, well,” she said. “I suspect you’ll tell me what you want to and when you want to, and I suspect that’s your privilege. What do you want to know about her?”

  “Whatever you feel is pertinent”

  “I see. Well, there’s not much to say, I’m afraid. I’ve never had much contact with the girl, Mr. Markham. She’s a reasonably competent student and she’s never been in any serious trouble, the sort that has to be brought to a dean’s attention.”

  “From a wealthy family?”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “I don’t know.” I shrugged. “Barbara seems to have had friends from the upper circle, so to speak.”

  Helen MacIlhenny frowned at me. “Radbourne’s liberalism is a social affair as well, Mr. Markham. There’s remarkably little grouping along dollar lines. As a matter of fact, Jill’s family is not too well off at all, hardly in a class with Barbara’s. Her father owns two or three dry-goods stores, as I understand it. He’s no candidate for the poorhouse, not by any stretch of the imagination. Devoutly middle-class—that might be a good way to put it No, Jill doesn’t come from wealthy parents.”

  On the way to the police station I stopped in the drugstore, took up temporary residence in the telephone booth and put through a call to the Taft home in Bedford Hills. Edgar Taft wasn’t in but Marianne was.

  She took the call.

  “Roy,” she said, “I was hoping you would call. Now, while Edgar was out”

  “Something happen?”

  “No,” she said. “Nothing’s happened, not really. But I wanted to tell you that . . . that you don’t have to waste any more time up in Cliff’s End. You can come back to New York now any time you feel like it.”

  “Really? Is that Edgar’s idea?”

  She hesitated. “Not . . . exactly. Roy. I appreciate what you’ve done. He was very upset emotionally by Barb’s death; you know that. You’ve been a settling influence. Otherwise he would have sat around feeling that nothing was being done, and he’s a man who cannot live with that feeling.

  She stopped, probably for breath. I waited for her to get back on the track.

  “But now I think he has accepted the fact that Barb committed suicide, Roy. I’ve . . . I’ve tried to help him reach that conclusion. His attitude has been a common one. He thinks of suicide as a cowardly act, the act of a worthless person. But I’ve been making him ... I should say helping him ... to realize that Barb was a very sick girl, an extremely disturbed girl. And that can make a difference. He sees that now.”

  I let her wait for an answer until I had a fresh cigarette going. Then I said: “So now he’s cooled off and I’m supposed to drop everything. Is that the idea?”

  “More or less.”

  “I see. Marianne—”

  “You could come to New York, Roy. Come up to our place this evening, talk to Edgar, tell him you’ve been working like a dog and nothing’s turned up to indicate anything but suicide. Then tell him that as far as the reason for her depression goes, it seems as though it’ll be impossible to determine it for sure. Tell him it was just one of those unfortunate things, that—”

  “Marianne.”

  She stopped.

  “I can write my own dialogue, Marianne. I don’t need a script, you know.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “I’m afraid I’ll be in Cliff’s End another day or so at the least. Not solely because of your daughter’s death. I’m involved in another matter as well.”

  “In Cliff’s End?”

  ‘That’s right.”

  A significant pause. “I see, Roy. Well, all right. I just thought that the sooner he could be reassured once and for all that Barbara wasn’t murdered. Well, you’ll be back soon enough, I suppose.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Yes,” she said. “Roy, I want you to know how much I appreciate everything you’ve done so far. It means a great deal both to Edgar and to myself.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “When Edgar comes home, should I give him any message? Or I could call his office if it’s anything important. He doesn’t like it when I disturb him during office hours—”

  “I thought he was retired.”

  A slight laugh. “Oh, you know Edgar. He’d lose his mind without an office. Roy, is there anything you want me to tell him? Any message?”

  “No,” I said. “There’s no message.”

  I put the phone on the hook and wondered why something bothered me. I should have felt relaxed enough. I did not.

  Alan Marsten. I had to get to the police station and find out what, if anything, had happened. Piersall had his theory, that the boy would be caught at a roadblock, and if it were true he had probably been caught already.

  If not, I wanted to find him.

  Because if Piersall was wrong and I was right, then Alan Marsten was on his way somewhere, looking for somebody, ready to do something. Somebody might get hurt—either Alan or the person he was looking for.

  Who would he be after? Why had he run—like a rabbit or like a lion, depending upon your point of view—and what in the name of the Lord was he planning?

  Good questions.

  Then I thought of an answer ...

  Eleven

 
BILL PIERSALL had lost most of the forest-ranger look. He sat behind his desk now, a cup of black coffee at his elbow, the receiver of a phone pressed to one ear and gripped tightly in one hand, a cigarette burning itself out between the second and third fingers of the other hand. As far as the phone conversation went, he seemed to be doing more listening than talking. I stood in front of his desk, ignoring his waving signals to sit down and relax. Instead I shifted impatiently from one foot to the other and waited for him to finish up.

  He did, finally. He cursed somewhat boyishly and set the receiver in its cradle, then fastened weary eyes on me.

  “Nothing so far,” he said. “Not a damn thing.”

  “No action with the roadblocks?”

  “Oh, we’ve had action in spades,” he said bitterly. “Three suspects hauled in so far and none of ’em looked any more like that Al Marsten than you or me. One of ’em was thirty-six—can you imagine that? Thirty-six years old and madder than hell to be pulled in like a crook, and ready to sue the whole damn state of New Hampshire for false arrest.”

  He picked up the coffee cup and drank most of what was in it. He put the cup down and made a face. “Cold,” he explained. “Even the coffee’s cold in this godforsaken state.”

  “You’ve had nothing then?”

  “Nothing.” He finished his cold coffee and screwed up his face once more in disgust. “Looks like you’re right,” he said, not too grudgingly. “Must be he’s hiding out in town. Not even a native could get through those roadblocks, and he’s no native. He doesn’t know the country at all.”

  “Where are the blocks?”

  “One’s down on Seventeen between here and Jamison Falls. That’s where I thought we’d get him. And there’s a few—”

  “How about Sixty-eight? Is the road blocked?”

  “Sure.”

  “This side of Fort McNair?”

  He was shaking his head. “Other side,” he said. “Sixty-eight’s the only road through McNair so they might as well close it further down to make sure he didn’t get there before ’em. What’s happening in McNair?”