Friends till the End Read online

  “Pitty did—why have tea in one piece—confissing! Endless—nither numly?”

  “Thank you.”

  “These the notes for your book?”

  “No.”

  “What are they, then?”

  “Just some notes I made to myself.”

  “That your special shorthand system?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, it works great, Bernard. I can see that.”

  Bernard looked at the piece of paper again. “I knew what I meant at the time.”

  Snooky concentrated hard.

  “Pretty dead,” he said at last in triumph. “Why heave it in one piece—confessing! Unless—in there nimbly?”

  “Thank you, Snooky.”

  “Anytime.”

  Snooky was in the living room an hour later, deep in a book, when Maya entered with a determined look on her face. “Snooky, I have to talk to you—now.”

  “Fine.” He put down his book. His sister eyed it dubiously. “What’s that?” she said.

  Snooky turned it over. It was called UFO’s: Our Friends from Outer Space.

  “I found it on the shelf in Bernard’s study. It’s interesting.”

  “Bernard? That’s impossible. Bernard would never read that.”

  “Why? He doesn’t believe in UFO’s?”

  “It’s not that. For Bernard, the universe is crowded enough as it is. The thought of other planets being inhabited makes his flesh creep.”

  “Well, it was on his shelf, Maya. Either there’s a part of him you don’t know about, or maybe visitors from outer space put it there.”

  “I have to talk to you,” Maya repeated.

  “You’re doing okay so far.”

  “I’ve been thinking about you and your friend Isabel.”

  “What a coincidence. So have I.”

  “Honestly, I think she’s bad for you, Snooky. I don’t think you’re in love with her. Of course you’re not. Love is something completely different.”

  “Okay.”

  “I think this is just another one of your silly hare-brained affairs, which last a few days or weeks and always seem to end with you coming to visit us. Am I making myself clear?”

  “Perfectly.”

  “There have been three murders around that girl and for all we know, she could have committed them. Yes, she could have. Don’t wince and look away. Something extremely peculiar is going on. And I’m worried about you. You’re young and stupid. I know you won’t drop her right away because you’re convinced you’re in love, but I wish you’d be more careful. She could be just using you to back up her story or alibi or whatever it is. There’s something very cold and self-centered about her and neither Bernard nor I like it. I know you don’t see it, but it’s there.”

  “Okay.”

  “Anyway, please be careful. I don’t know what you’re getting yourself mixed up with.”

  “I will, Maya. I’ll be careful.”

  “You’re not really listening to me, are you?” asked Maya in despair.

  “No.”

  “But you’re going to be angry at me later anyway, aren’t you?”

  “Probably.” He picked up the book. “But hey, maybe the aliens will land and we’ll all have something else to think about by then. Hey, My—did you know that there are places in Peru where their ships go by every night?”

  In the Sloane house, another brother and sister were talking.

  Richard said, “You know I didn’t have anything to do with—with what happened to Freda, don’t you?”

  “Oh, Richard. Don’t be ridiculous. Of course you didn’t.”

  There was the sound of a little bell from upstairs. Isabel had given her father a bell to ring when he needed something.

  “Oh, hell,” said Isabel expressively, and went upstairs to the sickroom.

  “Yes, Daddy?”

  “I want some milk,” her father snarled. “Some hot milk, with chocolate in it and some of those marshmallows—the little ones.”

  Isabel looked at him, puzzled. “But, Daddy—you’ve never had cocoa in your life.”

  “Well, I want it now. And bring it quick, will you?”

  Honestly, thought Isabel, going back downstairs, he could be pregnant for all the demands he makes. He’s just enjoying himself, like the big baby he is. She went into the kitchen and pulled the cocoa mix out of the cupboard.

  She found a half-empty bag of tiny marshmallows, sticky and encrusted with goo, and opened it gingerly. “Ugh,” she said, lifting some out. Well, they would have to do. She knew her father well enough to know that plain cocoa without marshmallows, when he was in this mood, would definitely not be acceptable.

  She carried the mug back upstairs and entered his room. He was propped up against the pillows, reading.

  “What’s that, Daddy?”

  “Essays. Montaigne,” her father grunted. “Thought I might as well keep up with my reading for the next time I have to talk to that great bore, Harry Crandall. Thought I’d be prepared.”

  Isabel paused by his dressing table. When would that be, she wondered. When would her father feel safe again in the company of his friends?

  “Leave it there and turn off the overhead light as you go,” her father said in a kindlier tone. “And Isabel—”

  “Yes, Dad?”

  “Thanks,” he said unexpectedly, glancing up from his book. “You’re a good girl, you know that?”

  “Yes, Daddy. I know.”

  As she went out, she turned to switch off the light and flashed him a look of hatred and scorn!

  It was the next day, Monday, and Detective Voelker was sitting in his office surrounded by lab reports. He perused them worriedly.

  Someone besides Freda Simms and the gardener had left fingerprints in the living room. These prints were not on file; nor did they match the fingerprints of any of the Sloanes or their friends.

  The coroner’s report merely confirmed what Voelker had suspected. Freda Simms had been drinking heavily on Saturday night.

  Voelker scowled at the fingerprints. Who was this? Probably someone who had picked up Freda in a bar—or vice versa—and brought her home. This mystery man could have been the one who strangled her. He could have been … but somehow Voelker didn’t think so. No, he didn’t think so. He was fairly sure these prints had nothing to do with the murder.

  He had his men out combing the local bars and restaurants looking for anyone who had seen Freda Simms last Saturday night. And the man she might have been with. Voelker would like to have a long talk with him. Of course she could have met him anywhere. And it would take time … lots of time.

  He shook his head and continued reading the reports.

  “Of course we’re going to the funeral,” Heather said. “Wait a minute, Ruth. Harry, you can’t wear that—no, go change—I mean it, Harry—that tie is atrocious. This is a solemn occasion.” Into the phone she said, “Well, naturally we’re going. I mean, poor Freda.”

  “Yes,” concurred Ruth doubtfully. “I suppose—I suppose we’ll be going, too. I guess we’d better start getting ready. Sam doesn’t want to go and neither do I—you see, Heather, I mean, it’s not as if we knew her all that well—but I guess we really should …”

  “Of course you should. We’ll see you there, then.”

  “Yes—” said Ruth’s hesitant voice as Heather hung up with a sharp click. Heather turned to survey her husband.

  “No, no, Harry,” she said in exasperation. “No, not that tie either. Are you out of your mind? Flamingos at a funeral?”

  Snooky drained his cup of coffee and stood up.

  “Well, I’d better get dressed. The funeral’s in an hour. I’m meeting Isabel there beforehand.”

  “Be careful,” Maya said.

  “I will. Bernard, can I borrow your jacket? You know, the dark one?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I’m going to wear it.”

  “Wear it? Wear it where?”


  “To the funeral.”

  Snooky and Maya gaped at him.

  “But sweetheart,” Maya said, “you don’t have to go to this funeral. You didn’t even know the woman.”

  “I know,” said Bernard, rising ponderously to his feet. “I want to go.”

  “Why, for God’s sake?”

  “I want to meet all of Snooky’s little friends,” said Bernard.

  The funeral was a solemn affair, although no one cried. Funerals at which no one cries are sadder occasions than funerals at which everyone cries. The reception, hosted by an elderly aunt of Freda’s who had turned up at the last minute and claimed all her money, was terribly grim. It was made even grimmer by the presence of Bernard, who sat in a corner and stared balefully at all the guests. To everyone’s surprise, Isabel and Richard appeared with their father firmly sandwiched between them; Isabel had been determined that he should come and pay his respects to the dead. There were plenty of people at the reception; Freda was one of those essentially lonely people who gather others around them like a magnet. There were more men than women. One of Freda’s friends-and-acquaintances, a gifted puppeteer, enacted a puppet mime show over the coffin. Another, a poet, brought red roses. Yet another spent his time explaining to Ruth Abrams, who was trying very hard not to listen, what a very special person Freda had been.

  “Yes, yes,” said Ruth irritably, wondering what she had done to attract this—this person and what she could do to extricate herself. “Yes … of course … oh yes, she was, she was.”

  Freda’s aunt, who at the age of seventy-six was now suddenly and spectacularly wealthy, gave Freda a nice going-away party.

  “For that’s how I think of it,” she fluted, her voice carrying across the room, “as just a little going-away party. Of course Freda’s just on the Other Side—you know that, don’t you?—the Other Side …”

  She intended to devote the rest of her life and all of Freda’s personal fortune to research in parapsychology.

  “Just a going-away party,” she trilled delightedly. “I’m sure she’s here somewhere, enjoying herself …”

  Bernard, upon hearing this, wished that she were. Perhaps then he could ask her to point out her murderer.

  For of course her murderer was here. His eyes scanned the room. Maya, Snooky, Isabel, Richard, Walter Sloane. Heather and Harry Crandall—there. He recognized Heather from the visit to his house. Ruth and Sam Abrams—over there. Snooky had pointed them out to him at the funeral. Ruth was looking at a young man who was monopolizing her as if she wished he were in the coffin instead of Freda.

  Bernard heaved himself slowly to his feet and crossed the room.

  “Maya,” he said. “Introduce me to these people.”

  Maya looked startled but obediently did so. She had just met most of them herself.

  “Heather and Harry, this is my husband Bernard … Sam, Ruth, my husband Bernard … you know Isabel already, of course … this is her father, Walter Sloane and her brother Richard.…”

  Bernard remarked to Heather Crandall that he was tremendously sorry about the incident with Linus and the ears.

  Heather looked charmed and said it was all right. Children were so fanciful, weren’t they? They lived in a world of their own, and believed nearly everything that was told them. She told Bernard that he must have had very strange karma with Linus in order to frighten him so much at first meeting.

  Ruth Abrams was obviously grateful to be rescued from her persecutor and talked to Bernard for quite a while about cats. Ruth loved cats. Why, they had owned a cat as far back as she could remember.…

  The funeral seemed to have dampened Harry Crandall’s garrulousness. He spoke briefly to Bernard about The Tibetan Book of the Dead, but his heart was not in it. He stood to one side, looking pale and saying little. Walter and Sam were standing together awkwardly. Bernard moved over to them and began to talk.…

  By the time the reception was over, Bernard had spoken to everyone in the ill-fated circle around the Sloanes. In the car on the way home he was silent, as usual. Maya regarded him nervously.

  “It’s so unlike you, Bernard. I don’t understand it.”

  Bernard smiled.

  A week later Sam Abrams was rooting about in his basement workshop. He kept all sorts of things down there. There was a sewing machine (broken), a workbench, three old rusty filing cabinets, one kid’s chest of drawers from when Marcia was young, the cat box, piles of old wire and rope, and a set of tools. He had promised Ruth that he would clean it up sometime, and he kept promising, but somehow it never happened. He liked it the way it was. The only problem was, it was so messy that most of the time he didn’t know where things were. Right now he was looking for a Phillips screwdriver, a small one. He thought he had put it over there on the bench, but it wasn’t there now, and unless the cat had knocked it off he wasn’t sure where it could be.

  He would have to get this place organized, he thought, arms crossed, looking around him. Ruth was right, it really was a mess. He had gotten everything nicely organized at work—all the file cabinets in order for once, everything filed away neatly—now that the employees could work and concentrate without cringing before Walter’s bellowing voice. Yes, everything was running smoothly there, for once. He felt good about that.

  But this basement was another problem. Now where was that screwdriver? He supposed he could use a nail file or something like that if he had to, but it wouldn’t be nearly as good.…

  It was somewhere between the piles of old newspaper and the discarded cardboard boxes that he realized that the pest killer was missing. It was a new kind, very expensive, and he had bought just a little bag of it to try this summer on the lawn. The plants would get red spider mites and mealybug, and nothing seemed to help, but this product advertised, “Pests gone in five days.” Five days! He’d believe it when he saw it. In his experience mealy-bug could run through an entire plant population, inside and outside.

  He looked around doubtfully. Wasn’t it here that … no, well, maybe not. He thought he had put the bag of insecticide on this shelf here, next to the old brown bottle of dried-up ointment, but maybe not. Or perhaps the cat had gotten to it and it was somewhere on the floor, being batted around like a toy mouse.

  He cursed and surged forward again in search of the Phillips screwdriver. He really would have to clean up the basement one of these days!

  9

  Jim Voelker sat at his desk, hunched over in frustration. He was looking through his files on the Sloane case.

  Voelker had a methodical turn of mind. His notes were carefully kept and neatly organized. He had a list of the people involved and their various interconnections. He had doctors’ reports, medical examiner’s reports, finger-prints and background data. He had transcripts of interviews, names, addresses, dates and photographs. All of which had gotten him nowhere.

  He sat back with a curse. Damn it, he thought. There were only a few suspects in this case. It should be obvious. Surely the murderer would have overplayed his or her hand by now.…

  But they hadn’t. They remained as safe as they were in the very beginning, and somewhere, in a nice suburban home, one that he had visited, somebody was laughing at him even now.

  The thought made him furious. He stood up and kicked the wastepaper basket. It fell over and rolled away. The other detectives in the room glanced at each other but said nothing. They knew better than to interfere with Voelker when he was in one of his Moods. That was how they referred to it around the department, one of his Moods with a capital M. Voelker was a likable guy but he had a temper when he got going.

  Voelker grimaced to himself. He knew he had a bad temper but he usually managed to hold it in. His friends usually told him that he bottled it up too much, rather than the opposite.

  Bottled it up …

  That got him thinking …

  Who was it among these people who bottled things up, perhaps for a long time, in silence?

  Who was it who held things
inside until one day they couldn’t hold it in any longer?

  Who was the nicest person in this group of ill-fated friends?

  He sat down and went back through his files again.…

  Meanwhile, Bernard and Snooky were having another one of their face-offs in the study.

  “So you’re sure,” Bernard was saying, “you’re absolutely sure you didn’t see anyone tamper with Sloane’s glass at that first party?”

  “I’m sure.”

  “It must have been very cleverly done. Think, Snooky. Didn’t you see anything?”

  Snooky closed his eyes for a moment, then shrugged. “You have to understand, Bernard. I didn’t know anyone was about to be poisoned. I’m not clairvoyant. As I recall, I spent most of the evening worrying that the hors d’oeuvres were going to run out.”

  “Yet that woman must have seen something.”

  “Freda?”

  “Yes.”

  Bernard stared out of the window. Snooky, frustrated, picked up a rubber band and began to twang it vigorously. “I’ve thought about it over and over again,” he said, “and I haven’t come up with anything. Everyone was acting normally. They all seemed to be having a good time. Those parties were just like a hundred others I’ve been to, except that somebody died. I’m telling you, Bernard, to me it doesn’t add up. It just doesn’t make any sense.”

  “Oh!”

  “What? What is it?”

  Bernard remained silent.

  “What? What did I say? What is it? What are you thinking about?”

  Bernard shook his head slowly.

  “Nothing. Thank you, Snooky. It’s just something—something I should have realized a long time ago.…”

  Jonathan, Marcia and Melvin had finally departed, driving off in a cloud of dust with plenty of shrieked “good-byes,” and Ruth felt extremely relieved. She told Heather so.

  “I’m extremely relieved.”

  “Yes. It was a drag to have the kids around, wasn’t it?”

  Ruth thought about this. It wasn’t exactly a drag, it was … it was hard to put her feelings into words.…

  “No. I don’t know. I guess so. I guess it was,” she said unhappily. “It’s not that I don’t love seeing them, of course I do. It’s just so—so difficult.”