Friends till the End Read online

  “Bernard is a deeply caring person. These murders are disturbing to him.”

  “Oh, please, Maya. The only person Bernard has ever cared about is you.”

  “That’s how it should be,” she said smugly.

  In his study, Bernard switched on the desk lamp, fished around for his Magic Marker and took out his little notebook. In it he guiltily sketched a picture of a sheep with glasses, just to show that in spite of this new and interesting problem, Mrs. Woolly was never far from his thoughts. Then he sat quietly for a while, his mind clicking away in its neat, organized fashion. He was frustrated. The list of possible suspects was shrinking at an alarming rate. Bernard doodled angrily in his notebook. That Simms woman was stupid. She must have seen something, remembered something, and instead of going to the police she had gone straight to the murderer. She had not suspected how dangerous it was. Perhaps she thought that person, whoever it was, was her friend …

  Or perhaps she had not thought the killer was capable of more violence—was capable of strangling her. Bernard shook his head. Someone who had killed once would always kill again in order to protect their secret.

  Bernard looked thoughtfully out the window. Freda Simms had made a mistake, and she had died for it. Another person, too—perhaps more than one—could pay with his or her life. Bernard closed his eyes, trying to imagine himself in the murderer’s place. Frightened, now—frightened of discovery, and wary, but satisfied nonetheless. The circle of friends was shrinking rapidly, but so far the police didn’t have a clue as to the identity of the murderer. Whoever it was must be very pleased with themselves …

  Bernard shook his head and sighed. He jotted down some notes. Much as he hated the idea, perhaps it was time for some more definite action on his part.…

  Mr. Hal was thoroughly enjoying himself.

  “Found her myself,” he repeated with grisly relish. “Over there. Next to the bookcase. Terrible, isn’t it? Just terrible!”

  He did not look as if he thought it were terrible at all. Finding his employer’s dead body was clearly the most exciting thing that had happened in Harold Shrimpton’s life since the Super Bowl.

  Detective Voelker sighed to himself. It was going to be impossible to get any lucid story out of the man.

  “Face was all blue,” Mr. Hal was saying for the fiftieth time. “Terrible-looking. Made me feel faint all over. I was coming in to get my paycheck—I always get paid at the end of the month—and I rang the bell and called her name, but there wasn’t no answer. Well, Mrs. Simms always said to me, she says, ‘Mr. Hal’—that’s what my clients call me, you know, ‘Mr. Hal’—‘Mr. Hal,’ she says, ‘you just come inside any time you want, get yourself something cool to drink from the kitchen, just walk inside as if the place were yours.’ ”

  Voelker doubted very much whether Freda Simms had ever said anything remotely resembling that. She had not struck him as the overly generous type.

  “Just as if the place were yours, that’s what she said,” Mr. Hal was continuing with relish. “So today she didn’t answer. I walk right in—I do that all the time—and look around and go into the kitchen and say, ‘Mrs. Simms?’ sort of quiet, you know, in case she’s having a nap or something. But there’s nobody there, so I help myself to a little bite from the fridge”— Detective Voelker indulged himself at this point with a tight smile and the thought that, had Freda Simms not been beyond the reach of human emotion, she would have been furious to know that Mr. Hal was eating her food—“and then I wander into the living room, saying ‘Mrs. Simms? Mrs. Simms?’ all the while, and there’s no answer. And then I see her!”

  Mr. Hal clapped his hands to his head for dramatic effect.

  “There she is, lying with her face all blue on the rug next to the bookcase! Damned if I didn’t have to steady myself, I felt so faint!”

  Voelker wondered if steadying himself had involved taking some of Freda’s whiskey.

  “Yes, Mr. Shrimpton. Very interesting. Let’s go over the facts again, shall we? You arrived here—when?”

  “Around one o’clock. I always come here at one o’clock, three days a week, Tuesday, Friday and Sunday.”

  “You work on Sunday?”

  “Sure.” Mr. Hal looked superior. “I work seven days a week, mister, I don’t know about you. I work here Tuesday, Friday and Sunday, and I work over at the Comptons’ place Monday, Wednesday and Saturday, and on Thursday I work at the Prices’. I don’t mind. It’s pleasant work, gardening. Outdoor work. That’s what I like. I couldn’t stand an office job, if you know what I mean.”

  Voelker was not interested in the reasons behind Harold Shrimpton’s career choice. He frowned and looked through his notes.

  “I liked her garden,” Mr. Hal said suddenly and unexpectedly. “Beautiful hedges. I trimmed them myself. Unicorns and things, you know. Whatever came to mind. I guess the place’ll be sold now,” he said wistfully. “Too bad.”

  “Yes,” said Voelker. Connors had questioned the guy, and now he had gone over everything with him twice. He figured he had heard all Mr. Hal had to say on the subject.

  It was fairly straightforward. The gardener had knocked on the door, gone into the house, gone into the kitchen, then wandered into the living room, where he had found the body. At that point, whether he needed “steadying” with some whiskey or not, he had acted promptly and efficiently. He had staggered over to the nearest phone and called the police.

  The murder was straightforward, too. Strangulation with a narrow rope. Of course there’d be the coroner’s report, but there was no doubt about what had happened. The rope had been taken, but the marks were still there.

  “Anyone could have done it,” Connors said, materializing at his side. “Man or woman. It wouldn’t take much strength.”

  Yes, thought Voelker. From his brief acquaintance with Freda Simms, he would guess that she was drunk when it happened. She would probably not have put up much of a struggle.

  His men were checking for fingerprints now. Voelker chewed his lip. They would have to check on her whereabouts last night. Where she had been, who she had been with. Perhaps she had picked up someone at a bar and he had killed her?

  Voelker didn’t think so. No, he didn’t think so at all. The body, according to the medical examiner, showed no signs of sexual abuse.

  Robbery?

  Nothing had been taken from the house. Freda had had one hundred fifty-three dollars in her wallet, which was still lying on the sofa, untouched. She had an expensive stereo, priceless rugs and works of art. Nothing had been disturbed.

  Whoever it was had been very careful, thought Voelker. The doorknob had been wiped clean. It had gleamed in the afternoon sun, faintly mocking them, as Voelker and his men had approached the house. The only fingerprints on it had been Shrimpton’s. In all probability the murderer had touched nothing, disturbed nothing, left no traces. He or she had taken nothing except Freda’s life.

  The whole thing was so damned straightforward, except for the identity of the murderer, which to Voelker’s tired and angry brain was as elusive as ever. He looked at Mr. Hal, who was waxing eloquent on the subject of hedge clipping to a bored Detective Connors. Voelker said:

  “Excuse me, Mr. Shrimpton. One more thing before you go. How long have you been working here for Mrs. Simms?”

  “About a year. Little less than a year. Beautiful garden out there, gentlemen. Just beautiful.”

  Voelker nodded tiredly. “He can go,” he said to Connors.

  “Yes, sir.”

  The man had nothing to do with it, except in his role as Discoverer of the Body, thought Voelker. He rubbed his forehead and said, “Get the car. I’m going over to have a talk with the Sloanes.”

  “It’s not fair.”

  “What’s not fair, Miss Sloane?”

  “What happened to Freda.” Isabel was looking very tired this afternoon. She had dressed without her usual care in a pair of old jeans and an oversized workshirt. Connors had come by and interviewe
d her before, breaking the news to her, but Voelker had wanted to talk to her himself. It was obvious that she had been crying.

  “It’s not fair,” she repeated dully. “She was a good person—a good person.”

  “Murder usually isn’t fair,” Voelker said. He looked at her curiously. “I didn’t realize that you and Mrs. Simms were—so close, Miss Sloane.”

  Isabel played restlessly with the corner of her shirt.

  “We weren’t. It’s not that, exactly. It’s—it’s like Laura all over again. Laura and Freda—” Tears welled up in her eyes. “It’s so horrible!”

  “Yes,” said Voelker. “Well. I have a few questions to ask you, Miss Sloane, and then you can go. Where were you last night between midnight and two A.M.?” Those hours, according to the invariably reliable medical examiner, were when the strangulation had taken place.

  “Asleep,” said Isabel.

  “Were you here in the house yesterday afternoon?”

  “No. I went for a drive in the country.”

  “I see. Alone?”

  “No. With my friend, Snooky Randolph.”

  “And what time did you get back?”

  Isabel hesitated. He could have sworn she blushed. “I don’t know. I’m not sure. Around—oh—around eight-thirty or nine, I guess.”

  “And what time did you go to sleep?”

  “Oh, by eleven or so. Richard and I watched television for a while, brought my father up a snack and went to bed—yes—around eleven.”

  “Miss Sloane, how long would you say it would take to walk to Mrs. Simms’s house from here?”

  Isabel considered this. “About twenty minutes ”

  “And to drive?”

  “Around five.”

  Voelker nodded. “How sick is your father really, Miss Sloane?”

  Isabel looked surprised. “My father hasn’t been out of his bedroom since he came home from the hospital, Detective Voelker.”

  “But he’s not actually sick anymore, is he? He’s perfectly capable of going downstairs, getting in the car or walking over to Mrs. Simms’s house while everyone else was asleep?”

  “Yes, he is. And so are my brother and I, which is what you’re really thinking, isn’t it?”

  Voelker shrugged slightly. He was not in the habit of sharing his innermost thoughts with anyone. “Thank you, Miss Sloane. Will you please send in your brother?”

  Richard was sullen and evasive. Yes, he had been at home last night. Yes, all night. Yes, he had watched television with Isabel. No, he didn’t go out for any reason. What were they suggesting? He didn’t know anything about it. Could he go now?

  What time had he gone to sleep? Around eleven-thirty. Yes, eleven-thirty. He had been keeping late hours recently and he was tired.

  Voelker mounted the steps to Walter Sloane’s bedroom to find him in a state of near apoplexy. His son and daughter were being harassed by the police. Worse yet, his dinner was late! No, he hadn’t been out of the house. He hadn’t even been out of his bedroom. No, damn you, he didn’t know anything.

  “But I’ll tell you one thing,” Sloane said. “My kids aren’t murderers! You’re sniffing down the wrong trail, Mr. Know-it-all Policeman! You’ve got it wrong—all wrong!”

  Voelker, fleeing from the room, was inclined to agree with him.

  * * *

  When he went downstairs it was to find Isabel Sloane and her friend What’s-his-name Randolph in a somewhat compromising position on the couch. Isabel’s head was on her friend’s shoulder, his arms were around her and she was crying vociferously.

  When Voelker came into the room, Isabel sat up and patted her hair, but the young man’s arm stayed over her shoulders.

  “Mr. Randolph,” Voelker said, “I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  The young fool was looking ridiculously infatuated, he thought irritably. He looked as if he could barely tear his gaze from the girl’s face in order to answer questions concerning a homicide investigation.

  His story backed up Isabel’s in every detail. Yes, he had dropped her off here last night. She had gone into the house around nine o’clock. It was June and the days were long so they had stayed, ummm, talking in the car for a while.

  This was, from his delivery, so obviously a lie that Voelker felt even more irritated.

  He had gotten home around nine-fifteen and had been there, at his sister’s, all night. He knew nothing about Mrs. Simms’s death until Isabel called him an hour or so ago.

  Young fool, Voelker thought peevishly. Wonder if they’re in it together. He was at both of those parties too. Maybe he wants a rich wife …

  He asked Isabel whether she knew where Freda had been the night before.

  Isabel had no idea. She didn’t keep tabs on Freda, you know. No, she didn’t know any places where Freda liked to hang out. That was her own private business. Although she imagined Freda was probably out somewhere, if it was Saturday night. Freda was very popular with men.

  And that’s that, thought Voelker. Nobody knows anything and Freda Simms could have been out anywhere.

  As he left the room he felt, rather than saw, the two young people collapsing on each other again.

  * * *

  Heather Crandall, contrary to Voelker’s expectations, had quite a lot to say about Freda’s death. None of it was interesting or relevant, but she delivered it with a great deal of vigor.

  “Something has to be done about this investigation,” she said severely. “These murders can’t be allowed to continue. It’s a disgrace to the neighborhood, a positive disgrace. Soon I won’t be able to let my children walk to school. As a mother and as a concerned citizen, Officer, I must protest.”

  Voelker regarded her wearily. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I warned Freda about her lifestyle,” fumed Heather. “I warned her. I said, Freda, my dear, all this hanging around in bars and picking up strange men is going to be your death someday. Yes, it is. I warned her. I told her so.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sure you did.”

  Unexpectedly, Heather warmed up to him. “I’m sorry, Officer. I’m sure you think I’m way out of line, talking to you like this. It’s just that I feel I’ve gotten to know you during this terrible time. You look tired. Would you like some tea?”

  Detective Voelker didn’t think so. Neither did Detective Connors, who had stayed to supervise the investigation at the Simms house and had joined him at the Crandalls’.

  “Do you know any of the bars or nightclubs that Mrs. Simms frequented?”

  No, said Heather. She looked surprised and a little disapproving. Of course not. How would she know?

  “You feel sure that Mrs. Simms was killed by a man she had picked up somewhere?”

  Heather looked even more surprised.

  “Of course,” she said. “What other explanation could there be? Naturally it was some stranger she met and took home. She would invite people home, in spite of all the times I told her … well.” It was dangerous, of course, she went on, but Freda would persist in her habits. See where it got her in the end.

  “You don’t think the murderer could have been—someone she knew?”

  Heather looked shocked. Someone she knew? How could that be? No, no, it was a stranger. Somebody she met at one of those bars she went to. There were a lot of dangerous people out there, she said primly. Psychotics. They looked all right, then they turned on you. Surely the detective would know about that?

  “There’s a word for it,” she said. “Psychopaths. People with no social conscience. They kill just for the pleasure of it. It gives them a feeling of power—of control. And sometimes they look absolutely all right. So, you see, there’s no way of knowing.”

  Yes, said Detective Voelker, looking at her rather oddly. Yes.

  Just before he took his leave, he asked whom she had told about Mrs. Simms’s death.

  “Well, Harry, of course. He’s not here right now, he’s at the university. He’s in the lab all week long, even on Sundays, al
though I do try to discourage him. And of course I called Ruth Abrams as soon as I heard.”

  Yes, said Voelker. Of course.

  Ruth Abrams met Detective Voelker at the door with a plateful of overbaked chocolate chip cookies. That was about all he got out of her. Yes, Heather had told her on the phone; yes, yes, terrible, wasn’t it? Other than that she knew nothing. Her husband said the same.

  Both couples had told him that they were sound asleep at eleven o’clock the night before. They seemed surprised that he would even ask. Of course, thought Voelker, one of them could have gotten up, gone downstairs and taken the car over to Freda’s without waking the other one. Or maybe one couple was in it together. This was a confounded business. He said so later to Connors, with a great deal of heat.

  “One of them is lying,” he said. “One of them is lying. But damned if I know which one it is.”

  Connors said he thought it was the girl. The Sloane girl. No reason to believe her story. That Simms woman could have seen her put something in her father’s drink.

  “She stands to inherit a lot if her father dies,” Connors pointed out. “She and her brother. She couldn’t have the Simms woman getting in the way.”

  “If that’s the case, why hasn’t she done her father in already?”

  “Biding her time. That’s what she’s doing. Just biding her time. Waiting until all this blows over.”

  Voelker shook his head. Perhaps … but he was inclined to think not. Walter Sloane had been safe in his own home, waited on and protected by his two children. Surely if they had wanted to murder him they could have done so by now.

  “This is a confounded business,” he said out loud, and Connors agreed.

  Bernard looked doubtfully at the piece of paper in front of him. On it, in his neat green handwriting, was printed

  Pty dd—y hve t in 1 pce—cnfsng!

  Nlss—nthr nmly?

  Bernard contemplated this in silence. Finally he leaned back in his chair and called, “Maya?”

  Snooky appeared at the study door. “Maya’s out, Bernard.”

  “Oh. Okay. Can you make head or tail of this?”

  Snooky took the paper and glibly read: