Monkey Puzzle Page 17

  ‘And all night?’

  She frowned and waved the smoke away with a wide gesture, jangling the bracelets on her thin wrist. ‘I don’t understand what you’re getting at.’

  ‘The reason I ask is, we have a report that your car drove out around midnight that night, and returned sometime in the early hours.’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘So your husband didn’t go out?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘What?’ She was lighting another cigarette, oblivious to the one already spiralling smoke from the ashtray.

  ‘Did you go out, at all? That night?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Perhaps to see someone? A friend?’ He watched her, ‘A lover?’

  ‘How dare you? I’m a happily married woman.’

  ‘Is anyone really happily married?’ Stryker asked, leaning back and closing his notebook. ‘I mean, years go by, the same things over and over again, especially in bed. The same jokes, the same snores, the same back turned once too often. I’ve been there, myself, I certainly wouldn’t blame a person for reaching out.’

  ‘Well, I would.’ She got up, suddenly, and went to a cabinet in the corner.

  ‘I admit Chris has changed quite a bit in the last year or so. It’s just a phase, this religious thing of his, I’m sure that’s all it is. He used to be so funny, so witty – now I’m afraid he’s become a bit of a Puritan. Not very conducive to poetry.’ She was pouring out some whiskey into a crystal goblet. Her hand was shaking, and the cigarette wobbled into the air, sending out little jerks of smoke which drifted up to her eyes and made her blink. ‘Although I suppose an argument could be made for Donne and Hopkins. Chris keeps trying it, anyway.’ Brightly, brightly.

  ‘Isn’t poetry supposed to be a little mystic?’ Stryker asked.

  ‘Mystic, certainly. But “born-again” isn’t exactly delicate, is it? Thump, thump, thump, they pound it down your throat. Even the children . . .’ she faltered, put the whiskey to her mouth quickly.

  ‘I understand your husband is very fond of your children.’

  ‘Oh, yes . . . to the point of suffocation.’ She inspected for dust here and there, moving around the room.

  ‘You don’t approve of that?’

  She whirled on him. ‘I don’t see what all this has to do with murder, if you don’t mind my saying so. Chris and I are fine. The children are fine. The dog is fine and the cat is even better. The goldfish . . .’ she made a gesture. ‘Comme çi, comme ça.’

  ‘Are you friendly with your neighbours, Mrs Underhill?’

  ‘My neighbours?’ It seemed he’d introduced a new species of lower life forms into the conversation. ‘I don’t even know their names. I’m not a neighbourly type, I have too much to do.’

  ‘Particularly between midnight and three in the morning?’

  ‘I told you . . .’

  ‘You told me your husband didn’t go out between midnight and three o’clock on Friday, but your car did. Did you loan it to someone, Mrs Underhill? Was it stolen? Why didn’t you report the theft if . . . ?’

  ‘If you’re basing all this on something my so-called neighbours said, you must be a pretty poor judge of character, Lieutenant. They’re a pinch-faced bunch around here, all stiff necks and lace curtains . . .’ Again, she lifted her drink.

  ‘Do you know Mr Heskell, Mrs Underhill? Mark Heskell? He seemed to know you quite well.’

  The glass fell.

  And shattered.

  He finally found a parking space a good six blocks away and he had to trudge back against the flow of student traffic to the Library. He went through the double glass doors and began trolling for Underhill. It seemed like half the English Department had decided to up sticks and repair to the Library. Stark was in the Medical Department, Fowler in the Modern History section, Heath was crouching before the Philosophy shelves, and Coulter was on tip-toe trying to get down a volume from Near Eastern Geography. Stryker paused to get it for her. She smiled benignly at him.

  ‘And they say there’s never a policeman around when you need one. Were you looking for me, Lieutenant?’

  ‘No, Dr Coulter – for Underhill. According to the schedule he has a seminar here in a few minutes.’

  She nodded. ‘Upstairs, right at the back. There are small classrooms in each corner of the Library to take overflow – mostly from the English Department. We all make use of them from time to time, primarily for seminars as the atmosphere is more relaxed. I think he might be up there, now.’

  ‘Thanks. Do you want any more books from the top while I’m handy?’

  ‘No, thank you – this will do nicely.’ She hugged the tome to her chest and beetled off to a small study desk which was already top-heavy with books and papers.

  He went up the central stairway and through the rear stacks, situated behind a second set of swinging doors. This area was less opulent than the first, shelves crammed and closely spaced, the study desks smaller and in fours instead of pairs.

  He found Underhill in a corner classroom, writing a list of assignments on the board. He spoke over his shoulder when Stryker opened the door. ‘You can start copying these . . . and put your first offering on the desk.’

  ‘I’m afraid I came empty-handed,’ Stryker said.

  Underhill whirled, startled. ‘Oh. Sorry. Thought you were one of my students.’

  ‘I’d like to talk to you about last Friday night.’

  ‘Oh?’ He turned back to the blackboard and continued to write. The chalk squeaked and he muttered under his breath.

  ‘And yesterday afternoon. Did you, by any chance, take Professor Pinchman home during the morning?’

  The chalk broke and fell at Underhill’s feet. He bent to pick up the pieces, and when he straightened his face was flushed. ‘Edward? No. I had classes most of the morning.’

  ‘Last Friday night, then. According to your statement you went home and stayed there, right? With your wife and family?’

  ‘That’s right?’

  ‘All night?’

  ‘Of course all night.’

  Stryker pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘What was the argument about, Underhill? Money? Sex? The kids? Or maybe your religious inclinations.’

  ‘What argument? What are you talking about?’

  ‘The argument that sent your wife from the house, Mr Underhill. From the house and straight to the arms of her lover.’ Underhill was gaping at him. ‘Did Adamson tell you about it at the party, Mr Underhill? What everyone knew but you – that your wife was having an affair with Mark Heskell? Did you drive home in a rage and confront her, accuse her?’

  Underhill moved backward and bumped into the desk, sat down on the edge of it, put his hand to his eyes. ‘All wickedness is but little to the wickedness of a woman,’ he said.

  ‘Your wife isn’t a wicked woman, Mr Underhill, she just misses the man she married, that’s all.’

  ‘She that is not with me is against me,’ Underhill said.

  ‘Oh, stop it,’ Stryker said, impatiently. ‘Frankly, I can see her point of view, if you go around mouthing stuff like that all day.’

  ‘I don’t,’ Underhill said, dropping his hand. ‘At least, I don’t mean to – but there are so many apt observations in The Book one just . . .’

  ‘Your wife left the house at midnight, taking your car. Did you follow her? Perhaps what woke the neighbours was two cars going out, not one.’

  ‘No, I didn’t follow her.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I knew where she was going! Why should I follow her? He that toucheth pitch shall be defiled therewith. I wanted nothing more to do with her, God help me, I might have killed her if she hadn’t left, then. She knew that.’

  ‘Really? What about “vengeance is mine, sayeth the L
ord”?’

  Underhill’s lips pulled back in a wolfish grin. ‘The Lord never had an unfaithful wife.’

  ‘Kind of missed out there, did he?’

  ‘Oh, God,’ Underhill moaned, turning away. ‘Why Heskell? That soul-less blasphemer. That’s what I couldn’t understand. When Aiken told me I thought he was making it up, it was so outrageous. But she admitted it. I have never known such pain . . . I swear to you . . . real physical pain. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe . . . I just stared at her.’

  ‘He makes her laugh,’ Stryker said.

  ‘Laugh?’ He didn’t seem to know the word.

  Stryker consulted his notebook. ‘She left your house at just after eleven o’clock, she says. But she didn’t arrive at Heskell’s place until nearly twelve-thirty. That’s an hour and a half unaccounted for. She says she drove around.’

  ‘Then she drove around. Carole’s not a very good liar, when she’s challenged. She panics, and it shows.’

  ‘Indeed. How about this for panic, Mr Underhill? How about the possibility that she was enraged by Adamson’s having exposed her affair to you, that she drove by the University and saw his office light on, that she went up there, killed him, and then went on to Heskell?’

  Underhill’s face was deathly pale. ‘That’s totally impossible, there’s absolutely no way – ’

  ‘Heskell says she was very upset when she arrived at his flat.’

  ‘Of course she was upset – but not because she’d killed someone. Because we’d had an argument and I’d threatened to divorce her and take the kids. She loves them – so do I. She was going to break it off, to end it. She promised me that, and I believed her.’

  ‘Or was it the other way around, perhaps?’ Stryker pressed on. ‘She threatened to divorce you and take the kids away from you? According to her you adore your daughters. She left you alone there – you were alone all night. No corroboration, now. No alibi, now. Did you go down and kill Adamson? Did you take your wife’s car and go past the University, see his light, snap, and go up there and kill him?’

  ‘Why should I do that? Better to kill Heskell, surely?’ Underhill was shaking, now, but there was no panic in his voice. ‘What good would it have done to kill Adamson?’

  ‘Murder isn’t always logical – he was killed by someone who was in a terrible rage, someone who resented or feared something he’d said, resented it enough to find some triumph in cutting out his tongue. Was it you, Underhill?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Was it your wife?’

  ‘No!’

  There was a noise behind Stryker, and he turned to see several students standing in the open door. He silently cursed their intrusion, and stood up. ‘We’ll talk again,’ he told Underhill. ‘Don’t leave the city.’ As he turned, Underhill spoke. His voice was still shaky.

  ‘I never would have left them alone in the house.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘My little girls. I never would have left them alone in the house. Not for any reason.’

  ‘Is that your alibi? Two little girls, sound asleep?’

  ‘No.’ His voice was steadying. ‘That’s my joy, Lieutenant. Alibis are your problem.’

  Stryker looked at him for a moment, then went to the door. The students stared sullenly at him, then reluctantly parted to let him pass. As he moved through he was jostled, roughly, and somebody muttered ‘Fascist pig bastard.’

  ‘At your service,’ Stryker agreed, and walked away.

  TWENTY-ONE

  ‘So Underhill doesn’t have an alibi for Friday night, after all?’ Toscarelli asked, settling one hip on Stryker’s desk and sipping at his paper cup of coffee.

  ‘Nope. Nor does he really have one for yesterday afternoon – he had two classes before eleven, and a student conference, then nothing until one,’ Stryker said, with a grimace. ‘And he has a beard. It could have been him who took Pinchman home. Say Underhill helped him out, got him home, then saw the possibility of pinning the killing on him by faking a confession and suicide.’

  ‘To save himself?’

  ‘Or to save his wife,’ Stryker said. ‘Poor bastard.’

  ‘You feel sorry for him?’

  ‘I feel sorry for any guy who finds out Heskell has been jumping his wife,’ Stryker said, sourly. ‘Jesus – Heskell.’

  ‘That the one with the dimples?’ Pinsky asked, from the next desk. He was polishing his shoes, trying to get rid of the salt stains that had built up as he walked to about a hundred doorways, checking alibis. ‘The one who shot his mouth off to the reporters on Saturday?’

  ‘The same,’ Stryker nodded. ‘I mean – Carole Underhill is an attractive woman. Why she should go for that middle-aged cherub – ’ He hadn’t the voice for his dismay.

  ‘Instead of a doll like you?’ Neilson asked.

  ‘Instead of anybody,’ Stryker said. ‘Even you.’

  ‘Ah – it was only because she hadn’t met me, yet,’ Neilson grinned. ‘No wonder she settled for Heskell – despair must have set in, waiting for me to come along, the man she’d love.’

  ‘Hah,’ Pinsky said to his shoes. ‘I told you Heskell’s fiancée was lying. Now he doesn’t have an alibi for Friday night, either.’

  ‘Oh, yes he does,’ Neilson said. ‘Mrs Underhill.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ Pinsky said, after a moment.

  ‘Not until twelve-thirty,’ Stryker pointed out. ‘His fiancée now admits she left him at eleven. I timed the distance between the Underhill place and Heskell’s apartment. Twenty minutes at the most, maybe as little as fifteen late at night. Carole Underhill says she drove around but maybe she went to Heskell first – and then they both went over and bumped off Adamson.’

  ‘How did they know he was there?’ Pinsky grunted, putting one shoe on and pulling the other off.

  ‘Maybe she saw the light on when she drove past – it’s on the route she’d probably have taken.’

  ‘But she couldn’t be sure he’d still be there when she went back – and anyway, it could have been the cleaners, couldn’t it?’ Neilson asked. ‘The lights, I mean?’

  ‘Not at eleven-thirty.’

  ‘She could have gone straight up and done it, then gone to Heskell,’ Pinsky said, definitely. After a moment, however, he went on. ‘Or maybe Heskell did it and she’s lying about him being home when she got there. Maybe he came along after . . . maybe they’re covering up for one another.’

  ‘Why should Heskell want to kill him?’ Tos asked.

  ‘Because everyone else wanted to,’ Pinsky said, with a cheerful grin. ‘He’s the type likes to keep up with the crowd.’

  ‘What did Heskell actually say?’ Tos asked Stryker.

  Stryker thought back to his interview with Heskell. The careful curl drooping over the forehead, the wide tie and the long shirt collar that was his attempt to look like Lord Byron, the roll of fat on the back of his neck, the gravy stain on his lapel. ‘He tossed his head,’ he finally said. ‘He denied it, then admitted it, then bragged about it, then started bad-mouthing Underhill for not paying enough attention to his wife.’

  ‘Sweet guy,’ murmured Neilson.

  ‘So where does that leave us?’ Pinsky asked, in a strained voice as he bent over to put his shoe back on.

  ‘It leaves us at the end of the day, going home,’ Tos said wearily. ‘We can start all over again tomorrow after a good night’s sleep.’

  Stryker ignored him. ‘Heskell’s got ambitions, I’m told. He’s very political, very active in university affairs. Some people feature him as President, eventually. He certainly thinks he will be. Now, if someone like Adamson got hold of some scandal about him, he could put paid to Heskell’s ambitions, all right. Especially if he made it very, very public. He still might be able to count on Carole Underhill keeping her mouth shut, maybe even Underhill himself – but no
t Adamson. There would be only one sure way to shut Adamson up.’

  ‘But Heskell has an alibi for yesterday when Pinchman was being set up – he had classes right through and he was at them, I checked. And he doesn’t have a beard,’ Neilson said.

  ‘I already said it could have been Underhill, covering up for his wife,’ Stryker reminded him.

  ‘He might cover up for his wife, but not for Heskell,’ Pinsky said. ‘We can’t eliminate any of them for sure, can we?’

  ‘What about Wayland?’ Stryker asked, suddenly.

  ‘Vanished into thin air,’ Toscarelli said. ‘But they’ll bring him in, eventually. We got a picture from the Records Office, and we’ve circulated it to the night guys. Leave it to them. Come on, I’ll drop you off home.’

  Stryker appealed to Pinsky. ‘Will you get him off my back? Tell him I’m fine, I can drive myself.’

  ‘He’s fine, he can drive himself,’ Pinsky repeated, dutifully.

  ‘You didn’t tell him about the phone call,’ Neilson said.

  Toscarelli scowled at him and shook his head, but Stryker had heard it, and stopped. ‘What phone call?’

  ‘Godamn you, Neilson,’ Toscarelli growled.

  ‘What phone call?’ Stryker asked, coming back.

  ‘Your girl called, what’s her name, Kate Trevorne,’ Toscarelli said, casually, crumpling up his empty paper cup and tossing it in the wastebasket. ‘It was nothing.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘She said she’d call you back in the morning. See? Big deal. It was nothing.’ Toscarelli was getting into his coat.

  ‘She didn’t say what it was about?’ Stryker persisted.

  ‘Nope.’ Toscarelli struggled with his buttons. ‘Well . . . something about a manuscript of Adamson’s. She said it was nothing. That was her very word. “It’s nothing, I’ll call him in the morning,” she said.’

  Stryker rocked back and forth, heel to toe, and thought about this. A manuscript?

  He looked at Toscarelli. ‘I don’t know why you keep calling her my girl,’ he complained.