George Harmon Coxe Page 10

  “Anything new?”

  “No,” said Ballard, and he did not elaborate. “What did your p.m. show?”

  “Just what you thought it would show.”

  “No complications?”

  “No.”

  “No chloral hydrate?” The question was mildly sardonic and needed no answer.

  “Did you have your man make the paraffin test on Estey’s right hand?”

  “I did.”

  “Well?”

  “Well what?”

  “How did the test come out?’

  “Negative.”

  “Ahh—”

  “It’s still not conclusive.”

  “You’re a stubborn man.”

  “And a practical one,” Ballard countered. “From the physical facts—and until we have something conclusive that says otherwise—the official position is suicide. The State’s Attorney will go along. If you want to disagree and would like to say so to the press, it will be your neck, not mine.”

  “Fair enough. Fortunately the press hasn’t bothered me, but personally and privately and for your ears only, I’ll take the minority view.”

  He glanced again at his appointment book when Mary returned and told her not to make any after-hours appointments that afternoon. She did not argue but her disapproval was apparent in her face and in her tone as she said: “Very well, Doctor.”

  For once he was able to keep to schedule. There were no complications, no emergency calls, and few complaints. As a result the office was empty by three-twenty. As soon as the door closed Standish reached for his hat and coat.

  “I don’t know how long I’ll be gone, Mary,” he said. “You can run along whenever you’re ready.”

  “But—where can I reach you?”

  “I can’t tell you that either,” he said, avoiding her glance. “When you leave tell the answering service I’ll be in touch when I can. If anything comes up that can’t wait they 11 have to call in someone else.” He turned at the door and, seeing the disturbed and reproachful look in her gray eyes, he added: “It shouldn’t be more than an hour or two.”

  The address Standish sought was only three blocks away, a modest apartment house in a quiet neighborhood that was considered more upper-middle-class than fashionable. The name plates in the foyer told him that Marion Choate had apartment 3-B and he rode up in the automatic elevator trying to think of some reasonable opening remark.

  The woman who opened the door in response to his ring had a lot of auburn hair, hazel eyes, and a sturdy, full-fashioned figure. She wore a plain gray skirt and a white blouse transparent enough to show the well-filled brassiere underneath. The eyes under the heavy but well-shaped brows looked right at him in that first second and revealed nothing.

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Choate?” Standish, still with no worthwhile gambit, gave her one of his bedside-manner smiles. “I’m Dr. Standish.”

  “Oh?” The eyes were at once observant and showed humorous glints. “M.D. or Ph.D?”

  The remark broke the ice for Standish and his grin became more genuine. “M.D., Mrs. Choate. As a matter of fact I’m the medical examiner. I saw you with your husband at the hearing last December when Robert Tremaine was killed. I tried to get in touch with you yesterday—”

  “Yes, I know. Warren called this morning and told me you talked to the others. I was in New York for the day.” There was somehow a look of approval in her smile now as she stepped back. “Come in. Come in. . . . Is it too early for a drink?”

  Standish, a little uncertain about such sudden hospitality, mumbled a reply by saying: “A little, I’m afraid. I mean, for me.”

  “Yes. I suppose a doctor has to be careful but I’m sure you won’t object if I have one.” She started to turn away; then turned and smiled again.

  “I don’t see your doctor’s bag, and there’s no stethoscope around your neck, so I gather that this is not a professional call but a social one.”

  Standish bowed his head to hide an incipient grin. It was about all he could do under the circumstances. But the delay, while she went to a well-supplied sidebar and poured Scotch over the three ice cubes she had put into a glass, gave him a chance to regroup mentally. It was a nice room, not elaborate but with wall-to-wall carpeting and well-chosen pieces.

  “Well,” she said coming toward him with the drink in her hand. “Just what brought you here, Doctor? Something to do with that accident last December?”

  “Yes,” Standish said, still a little uncomfortable in this woman’s presence but feeling the warmth of her greeting and offhand manner. “Sort of cleaning up some loose ends.”

  By then he was well aware of her full hips and breasts. In later years, without proper dieting, she might be heavy, but the full mouth and short upper lip, the frank inspection of her eyes, suggested a sensual appetite not easily satisfied. When she sat down on the divan and motioned to a place beside her he took it but kept a good three feet between them.

  “Your husband said that you are separated,” he said, “and that a divorce is in the works.”

  “Correct on both counts.”

  “And you—by that I mean you and your husband—have been friendly with the Tremaines. I mean, when Mr. Tremaine was alive—1”

  He let the sentence go because he realized that he was talking like a college freshman. He made a mental effort to pull himself together. The woman was not flirting with him in the accepted sense of the word but she had somehow put him on the defensive and it was not a comfortable feeling. He decided to concentrate, to level, to stop beating about the bush.

  “I’m right about that, am I not?”

  “Indeed you are. Robert and Warren were in school together. The business, such as it is, was started by Robert’s father. Warren was one of the hired help, one of the bright ones, I might add. So when Mr. Tremaine, senior, died it was natural enough for them to try and run the business together.”

  “I see,” Standish said, still not satisfied with his progress. “I know about the business insurance policy and I assume that now, being sole owner of the business, your husband is a little better off financially than he was before the accident.”

  “True.” She sipped her drink and crossed her legs. She watched him with good humor but also with some obvious speculation.

  “Which could mean, for instance, that your husband’s alimony settlement will be more acceptable to you than it might have been, shall we say, last November before the accident. In other words—”

  “In other words, yes.” She took some more of her drink and began to wiggle her low-heeled shoe up and down on the crossed foot. “Warren wants a divorce, and so do I. We were married ten years, roughly, and I entered the holy state of matrimony at twenty-two. So now you know how old I am.”

  “And that foursome of yours,” Standish said, beginning to like what he was doing, “developed into a situation where you could see that your husband and Evelyn Tremaine were somewhat sympatico.”

  She laughed abruptly but the sound was genuine. She took another swallow of her drink. She flipped the heel of her loosely fastened shoe up and down again.

  “I like you, Doctor,” she said, and there was no doubt in Standish’s mind that she meant it. “Sympatico?” She savored the word. “Indeed yes.”

  She finished her drink and put the glass down, and suddenly she was no longer smiling and the change in her mood was obvious.

  “I’ll level with you, Doctor. Warren and I haven’t had anything going for quite some time. In the beginning we both did not want children too soon. We wanted fun. We wanted to roll around in the sack to our hearts’ content—forgive the phrase—without obligations. So time went by, as time does. Warren said no kids, at least for now, et cetera, et cetera. Well I do. I want them before I get too old to have them. I also discovered that Warren by himself was not quite enough any more. He has a girl and I found a man who thinks a little more my way. In New York. Everything is coming up roses—where did I hear that?—so now you hav
e a capsule account of our marital life.”

  “And the night of the accident,” Standish said, focusing his mind on the subject that had brought him here, “you and your husband had a bit of a tiff—for one reason or another—with Robert and Evelyn Tremaine. You left before they did.”

  “Right,” she said emphatically. “We left. Never mind why or who said ‘Let’s go.’”

  “Your husband brought you home?”

  “He did.”

  “And you undressed and went to bed.”

  “I did. He, fed up to here with his darling wife, said: ‘I’ll see you, toots,’ and took off.”

  “For where?”

  “‘To get another drink and get away from you,’ to quote him.”

  “Do you know what time he came back?”

  “I do not.” She waved one hand in the general direction of the hall. “We have two bedrooms here—his and hers. I have no objection to normal and frequent man-woman relationships in marriage. In fact I highly recommend them. But for me Warren wasn’t the man and hadn’t been for some time.”

  “Then, except for Robert Tremaine, who apparently was too drunk to know what hit him, the accident made it a little easier for the rest of you, at least in some respects.”

  “I suppose you could look at it that way. Warren is certainly somewhat more affluent than he was.”

  “From what you say Evelyn Tremaine was no longer particularly in love with her husband at the time.”

  “I think you could say that.”

  “She also received half of the company insurance, half of the personal policies that have double-indemnity clauses in them. There also must have been some personal estate of her husbands. Would you know how much that amounted to?”

  “I may have heard Warren mention it. I wouldn’t want to be quoted but I seem to remember that it might run around a hundred thousand after taxes.”

  “That should be enough to make her a rather desirable catch.”

  “If you happen to like your woman thin and cold and snooty-looking.”

  “What about Donald Tremaine?” Standish asked, hoping he could keep her talking.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well—he benefited financially as much as anyone when his brother was killed, didn’t he?”

  “Indeed he did. Until then he’d been a mousy little bookkeeper making maybe eight thousand a year. I understand he took the hundred thousand he got as his half of the company insurance and bought himself a partnership in the firm he’d been working for. I understand he’s a vice-president now. I think Warren said he should take down close to twenty thousand a year from now on if you include his share of the profits.”

  “You didn’t know him well? In a personal way?”

  “No. I’m afraid I can’t help you much there. Our paths seldom crossed. Donald always seemed a little too proper and fastidious and moody and straight-laced and naive. Evelyn could probably tell you more if you want to bother to ask her.”

  She turned toward him, her arm across the back of the divan now and bringing up one knee on the cushions. The hazel eyes still held the humorous, speculative glints and he had the idea she was mocking him just a little as she said:

  “Does this take care of the loose ends you mentioned when you came, Doctor?”

  “You’ve been very helpful.”

  “And just what is it you’re trying to prove?”

  Standish had no ready answer but he did the best he could. He mentioned the Flemming murder and spoke of Ralph Estey.

  “I’m beginning to wonder,” he said guardedly, “whether that accident that killed Robert Tremaine was as simple as it seemed.”

  “What else could it have been?”

  “There’s a possibility that it could have been planned that way.”

  The hazel eyes were no longer smiling but wide open and concerned.

  “You mean it was deliberate? That someone hired this man Flemming?”

  “I think it’s possible.”

  “And what do the police think?”

  “They don’t agree.”

  He stood up, deciding he had gone as far as he could. She uncurled her legs and came to her feet as he started toward the door. He turned there and found her standing close. She did not seem to be upset and she was studying him again, the eyes appraising. When she leaned forward another inch he could feel the points of her breasts touch the front of his jacket. She did not seem to notice this; neither did she move and he felt again the physical pull of this woman’s body and personality. He understood without conscious thought that this was one—if she liked you—who would not he flat on her back with her hands quietly at her sides. He shook his head to dispel the image because there was another woman he had to talk to and he wanted to approach her with an open mind.

  He thanked her for her help and she gave him her hand as she stepped back, the pressure of her fingers firm and lingering.

  “Any time, Doctor.” The smile was back. “Any time at all. Maybe next time the hour will be late enough to have a drink with me.”

  12

  EVELYN TREMAINE lived fairly close to Marion Choate’s apartment but the neighborhood itself seemed far removed. No business establishments or apartment buildings had encroached on this area of old homes and well-kept lawns and quiet streets. The house he sought was a brick colonial of two stories and attic, not large but substantial, with wall chimneys on each side, a white-trimmed door, and a handsome fanlight.

  It was several seconds after Paul Standish had pushed the bell button before he heard the latch click and then Evelyn was surveying him through the half-open doorway and revealing just enough of herself to show him pink stretch pants and a shaggy, loose-fitting white sweater.

  “Oh,” she said flatly. “You again.”

  Standish, hat in hand, did what he could with a smile. He had not expected a welcome or any real cooperation but he thought he had an opening wedge that would at least get him inside.

  When she said: “Is this a continuation of yesterday’s session?” he said: “I’ve just talked to Mrs. Choate. You know, I wasn’t able to reach her yesterday, and she mentioned a couple of points I thought you might be able to clarify.”

  The statement was apparently ambiguous enough to whet her curiosity because the door opened wide and she said, with some reluctance and no enthusiasm: “Very well. Come in.”

  She turned to let him follow her and close the door. This gave him a full view of the stretch pants, which were snug as a pair of tights, revealing beautifully shaped legs and a compact bottom that moved with confidence and grace.

  On the left of the hall was a dining room with a mahogany table and silver gleaming from the sideboard. There was an old linen chest across the hall with an oil painting of someone’s ancestor above it. Just beyond was the entrance to the living room. Here there was no wall-to-wall carpeting but wide-board floors and Oriental rugs and a sizable fireplace and, at the rear beyond the double doors, a porch and terrace.

  “This is most attractive,” Standish said, genuinely impressed and forgetting the woman for a moment. Apparently she noted the sincerity of his tone and the black eyes considered him again.

  “The room?”

  “The whole thing. The house is old, isn’t it? I mean, you didn’t build it to look old?”

  “Oh, it’s old enough. Robert’s grandfather built it.” She waved him toward a chair and perched on the edge of the sofa opposite the fireplace, clasped hands propped on one knee. “What was it you wanted to say?”

  Standish adjusted himself to the transition from one woman to the other. Where, at Marion Choate’s place, there had been warmth and good humor, here there was more beauty and an air of coolness, reserve, and formality. There would, he knew, be no offer of a drink and he was afraid that any information he might get would have to be forced. He considered again her dark beauty, the shining black hair, the straight patrician nose, the flawless complexion.

  “Mrs. Choate and I were talking about
the accident.”

  “So I gathered.”

  “We agreed that except for your husband it tended to solve some problems.”

  “Problems?”

  “According to her, her marriage had been on the rocks for some time. She expects to get a more generous settlement than she would have, say, six months ago. She hinted,” he added, stretching the truth a little, “that you might marry Warren Choate after the divorce is final. . . . You can decline to answer on any grounds you choose, but is that so?” For an instant he thought he saw a flicker of humor in the dark eyes before she said: “It’s a possibility, yes.”

  “Because of the accident would you say that Donald Tremaine is more desirable marriage material than he was?”

  “If you mean in a material way, yes.”

  “He never married?”

  “No.”

  “No regular girl friends?”

  “You mean as of now?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wouldn’t want to say.”

  “How about in the past?”

  “In the past there were one or two he may have been seriously interested in. Unfortunately at the time his salary was around eight thousand or eighty-five hundred and that just wasn’t enough to consider seriously. Not for the girls I have in mind. He never was what you’d call a ladies’ man. He seemed shy and fumbling and uncertain. Or maybe he just lacked self-confidence in that particular area.”

  “Did he inherit anything from your husband’s personal estate—I don’t mean the insurance?”

  “He didn’t need anything.”

  “Oh?”

  “There was a trust fund set up by his father.”

  Standish had not heard of this before and his dark-blue eyes grew attentive and thoughtful as he sought some way to amplify the statement.

  “A trust fund still in existence at his age?” he said. “Why was that?”