I could feel uneasiness in my stomach—like a rat gnawing a floorboard.
With the same grin that was meant to be carefree, I said: “Afraid I wouldn’t have noticed much of anything. I was quite full of rye.” I hesitated and then asked: “Why?”
Inspector Sargent closed his notebook and sat with his large hands on his large, muscular thighs.
“This isn’t pleasant, Mr. Friend. I don’t like to have to disturb you with it.” His voice was meant to sound apologetic. It didn’t. “It’s just that a certain party’s been making—well, what you might call trouble.”
“Mr. Moffat?” I asked.
A faint flush diffused his face, making him look suddenly very young. “To be exact, yes.”
Now he had admitted that Mr. Moffat was behind this, I felt a little steadier. Mrs. Friend had stated positively that the President of the Clean Living League had had no chance to guess I was an impostor. I was sure enough of myself now to take the offensive.
I said: “I should think it was pretty obvious that any trouble made by Mr. Moffat was on the interested side.”
“Naturally. I realize that there is a large amount of money at stake.” Inspector Sargent was a formal young man. “But a policeman has to follow up complaints. You appreciate that?”
“I appreciate that.”
“I followed it up,” said the Inspector. “Since I did not want to disturb the bereaved family unless it was absolutely necessary, I went to the only two men, outside the family, who were in a position to help me.”
He indicated Mr. Petherbridge who was quivering and Dr. Leland who seemed lost in a gloomy reverie.
“And from what I learned from these two gentlemen,” continued Inspector Sargent, almost sadly, “I realized that Mr. Moffat’s complaint could not be dismissed without further investigation.”
The rat was back gnawing the floorboard. I asked: “And Mr. Moffat’s complaint?”
“I think,” said Inspector Sargent, “it would be better to have Mr. Petherbridge and Dr. Leland tell you first what they told me.”
“Please, Mr. Friend, please realize how painful this is to me.” Mr. Petherbridge had tumbled breathlessly into the conversation. “I thought nothing about it, I assure you. It had almost passed from my mind until Inspector Sargent questioned me. But, on the day your poor father died, only a few hours, in fact, before Dr. Leland was called in, your poor father telephoned to me. He seemed in a high state of excitement. He made an appointment for me to come around the next morning. He wanted, he said, to change his will. Of course, knowing your father, knowing his rather irascible nature and his constant…”
Inspector Sargent broke in: “Now, Dr. Leland, maybe you’ll tell Mr. Friend what you told me.”
For the first time Dr. Leland stopped looking gloomy and showed a more controlled equivalent of Mr. Petherbridge’s embarrassment.
“It’s like this, Friend,” he said. “I’d been attending your father ever since he came to California. He’d been sick for some time. That was a bad heart he had. That first time when he had an attack and I put him to bed—well, I wouldn’t have been surprised to hear any morning that he’d passed on during the night. Understand?”
I nodded, trying not to understand something which was looking a like a thunder cloud in my mind.
“Well, that evening your mother called me, I found Mr. Friend in bad shape. His heart beat was rapid, irregular; he had difficulty in breathing; he was in a delirious condition. There were all the symptoms of a serious attack. I stayed with him for several hours, doing what I could. Then sudden cardiac failure supervened and he was dead in a few minutes.”
He paused, the heavy lids drooping over his eyes. “Now, you’re not a doctor, Friend. No point in going into medical details. The point is that on the face of it, there was every reason to suppose your father had had, in the natural course of events, another attack which proved fatal. Knowing his condition, I accepted that diagnosis. I signed the death certificate without the slightest suspicion that anything might be wrong—and I claim that any other doctor in my position would have done the same.”
He paused, once again. It was an ominous pause. “But, after Inspector Sargent came to me and I started to think, some of the symptoms worried me. And then your father had been improving surprisingly during the few days that preceded his death. There was this, Friend, and that. And now”—he threw out his hands—“I’m not saying I fell in with this thing the Inspector brought up. I’m not saying that at all. It’s just that I am no longer secure in my diagnosis. I’m a big enough man to admit I might have been wrong. I have to admit the possibility that Mr. Friend may have died from an overdose of the digitalis I prescribed for him.”
“You see, Mr. Friend,” said Inspector Sargent very quietly. “That is Mr. Moffat’s complaint. He came to my office yesterday and charged that it was his belief your father had been—murdered.”
There it was—the noose.
“So you understand, Mr. Friend,” the Inspector went on, “how under the circumstances I am forced to take action on Mr. Moffat’s complaint. I’m afraid before we can close the case there will have to be an autopsy.” He produced a paper from his pocket and put it down on the arm of his chair. “I have brought an exhumation order. It has to be signed by a member of the family. I thought it would be less painful for you to sign it than for your mother.”
I searched my mind for a loophole that was not there. Trying to sound cynical, I said:
“And what if I tell you I think the charge is preposterous and that I refuse to have my father dug up to satisfy the spite of Mr. Moffat?”
“I would advise you to sign, Mr. Friend. After all, a refusal to sign might indicate that you were uneasy about the results of the autopsy.”
Inspector Sargent was watching me with steely intensity. I stared back at him. It was not one of my better moments.
“My right arm’s in a cast,” I said. “It won’t be much of a signature.”
“Anything—a mark—will be sufficient with these two gentlemen as witnesses.”
Inspector Sargent produced a fountain pen. He brought the paper over and put it down on the broad arm of my wheel chair, handing me the pen and indicating the line on which I was to write. For the second time that day I scribbled Gordon Renton Friend III with my left hand. Mr. Petherbridge and Dr. Leland signed too. The Inspector put the document back in his pocket.
“I know you won’t be feeling comfortable in your mind until the autopsy is over with, Mr. Friend. I’ll do my best to rush things through. I should be able to get you the result in approximately twenty-four hours.”
Mr. Petherbridge and Dr. Leland had hurried to the door like two housedogs desperately wanting out.
Inspector Sargent shook my left hand and smiled his broad, unfathomable smile.
“Don’t worry, Mr. Friend. You’re probably right. Mr. Moffat probably just took a leap in the dark—a last wild gamble on getting that money. If I were you I wouldn’t even mention this to the family. You’ll only get them nervous. And it would be a shame to get them nervous, if no murder was committed, wouldn’t it?”
“Yes,” I said.
He opened the door. Mr. Petherbridge and Dr. Leland shot out. Inspector Sargent followed.
He closed the door respectfully behind him.
I pushed
my wheel chair out into the corridor which was splashed with golden sunshine. The sun always seemed to be shining on the Friends’ house. I longed for a thick black fog or a hurricane—anything to mar that gentle, sunny atmosphere of peace and good will.
I made my way into the living-room to find the Friend family alone and at its blandest. Selena had already changed her shapeless black dress for a gay Hawaiian swimming suit. She had freed her hair from the hideous ear coils and it hung loose to her shoulders, shimmering in the sunlight. Marny had changed too. She was curled up on one end of the couch, smoking avidly. Mrs. Friend, still meek and widowish, sat at the window with her knitting and a box of chocolates on her broad lap.
They all glanced up casually when I entered. Mrs. Friend smiled her maternal smile.
“Hello, dear. The Clean Living League’s just finished its sunshine hour and bundled jollily off in its bus. Darling boy, I do think it was rather naughty of you not to come out and say goodbye to poor Mr. Moffat. After all, he took his bitter pill with fairly good grace.” She paused, selecting a particularly juicy chocolate. “By the way, dear, who was that nice-looking boy with Mr. Petherbridge and Dr. Leland? They scuttled away before I could speak to them.”
Mrs. Friend’s tranquility had never seemed more unbearable. I said: “That nice-looking boy with Mr. Petherbridge and Dr. Leland was a policeman.”
All three of them stared.
Mrs. Friend, her voice carefully at ease, murmured: “And what did he want?”
“He wanted Gordy Friend to sign an exhumation order.” I let them have it right between the eyes. “He thinks old Mr. Friend was murdered.”
Marny crushed her cigarette into an ashtray. Selena stood up. Even Mrs. Friend’s reaction was sufficiently strong to make her hand with the candy freeze in midair.
More than anything, I felt tired then.
“You don’t have to worry,” I said. “I played my part as Gordy Friend admirably.” I paused. “You don’t have to bother to look surprised, either.”
“Surprised?” Selena whipped around on me. “What in heaven’s name do you mean?”
“I suspected it from the start. Then I let the famous Friend charm make a sucker out of me again. You’ve always known Mr. Friend was murdered. You’ve always known it would come out. That’s why you imported me.”
“But…” began Selena.
Mrs. Friend flashed her a glance. She got up. She stood massively in front of me, her eyes straight on mine. “Imported you—for what?”
“To take the rap, of course. Where’s Gordy, by the way? I suppose you’ve hidden him away somewhere until the whole dirty business is over and I’ve been convicted.”
“You fool,” flared Selena.
“Yes, dear,” Mrs. Friend’s gaze was still fixing mine. “If you think that, I’m afraid you are rather a fool.”
With a stately movement of her hand, she beckoned the two girls over. They came on either side of her. The three of them faced me.
Very slowly, Mrs. Friend said: “I know you have every reason not to trust my word. But I’m telling you this because it is true. None of us has the faintest knowledge of this incredible claim that has been made about my husband. None of us has the faintest idea where Gordy is. And you—you were imported, as you so quaintly put it, purely and simply for the reason we told you and for no other.” She paused. “You believe me?”
“Does it matter whether I do or not?”
“It matters to me because I am fond of you.” She took Selena’s hand. “The girls are fond of you too. I do not want you to think we are—fiends.”
There was that word again.
“Perhaps,” continued Mrs. Friend, still scrutinizing my face, “you may believe me if I appeal to your reason. I know nothing about this murder charge and I am sure it is quite preposterous. But how in the name of reason, even if we wanted to, could we put the blame on you? It is conceivable that we might have been able to get away with it if we had convinced you you really were Gordy. But we have not convinced you. All you would have to tell the police was that you were an amnesia victim whom we had lured here after my husband’s death and whom we had exploited in a conspiracy to get the money away from the Clean Living League. Once you’d claimed you weren’t Gordy, the police would be able to get any amount of witnesses to prove you were right. The old servants here, for example, who knew the real Gordy. People from Pittsburg where Gordy worked. People from St. Paul where Gordy grew up. My dear young man, you would be exonerated before you could say Aurora.”
She was smiling now, that incredibly serene smile of hers.
“As a matter of fact, instead of your being in our clutches, things are quite the reverse.” She had been holding her chocolate all this time. Now she put it in her mouth. She chewed on it. It must have been a nougat filling. “It looks to me very much as if we were completely at your mercy.”
Mrs. Friend, of course, had done it again. There was no flaw in her logic. As always, she had made me feel like an ass.
She was still smiling. So was Selena—radiantly with all the anger burnt out of her. Only Marny still looked wary and on guard.
“So, dear?” queried Mrs. Friend.
I shrugged. “Okay,” I said. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right, dear. I’m sure it was a most awkward situation with the policeman. No wonder you were a little rattled.” A vague gesture sent the girls back to their seats. Mrs. Friend herself resumed her place on the davenport by the window. “I hope we are all calm again. I have learned that one is much better off if one does not become excited.” As if to prove her point about the undesirability of getting excited, she picked up her knitting and started the needles going. “Now dear, tell us quietly exactly what happened.”
I told her quietly exactly what happened. All three of them listened intently. When I had finished, Mrs. Friend put down her knitting and smiled.
“You see, dear. How right I was? There’s nothing to get excited about at all. It’s all obviously a preposterous charge trumped up by Mr. Moffat. Not a grain of truth in it. What a revolting man. I wish I hadn’t been so pleasant to him. But at least there’s one thing good. Whatever scruples I may have had about doing him out of the money have all been swept away—completely swept away.”
Her continued calm seemed now to border upon idiocy.
I said in exasperation: “You’re so goddam eager not to cry ‘Wolf’, you’d look up into a pair of lathering jaws and murmur ‘Pretty Pussy’.”
Mrs. Friend laughed. “What a cute phrase.”
“For God’s sake stop being airy. Whether Mr. Moffat’s accusation is trumped up or not, there’s a definite murder charge out against the Friend family—and the Friend family at the moment includes me. The least we can do is to be prepared for whatever happens. If you haven’t got the sense to be serious, I’ll handle it my own way.”
“Yes,” said Marny suddenly. “You’re right. Of course you’re right.”