Strangers When We Meet, page 19
It might be the mechanic he had spoken to and whose name he had forgotten to ask; or somebody else, as yet unknown to him, who worked at or used Harper’s, and who had probably sprained his ankle when he had chased the terrified Mary Ellen through the wood. But the trouble was that he couldn’t even suggest which of Harper’s employees—or which of his customers—it might be, except that it had to be one who had access to the Buick demonstration model, now in the window of the showroom. He had bungled things hopelessly, like the amateur he was, Steve thought, and his heart sank as he saw the Assistant District Attorney pass a sheaf of papers to Dale Rayburn, murmuring that they were medical reports. He heard the word “plea of diminished responsibility,” and his depression increased, for he understood exactly what the words implied and it wasn’t hard to guess that the reports were his own, obtained, he could only suppose, from the surgical staff at Mid-Western.
Head injuries, to the layman, usually suggested only one thing, and his hands clenched in impotent anger, as Detective Mahoney and his relief came into the room together. He had, he knew, somehow to try to convince Chief Hennessy that he was telling the truth because, if he failed, then in all probability the killer would make a second attempt to entice little Mary Ellen into his car and . . . dear heaven, there was Sarah as well! Sarah, driving around town at night by herself, Sarah, who had already suffered one attack which had almost proved fatal. If Mary Ellen’s would-be abductor and the Ellis County murderer were one and the same, then he had nothing to lose and everything to gain if he could eliminate the one witness who could identify him.
“Well, Gresham?” Mike Hennessy spoke harshly. “Let’s have your statement and get it over with, shall we?”
Steve began, choosing his words carefully and forcing himself to speak quietly and calmly, without haste. He described the scene he had witnessed from his bedroom window, laying particular stress on the appearance of the Buick and Mary Ellen’s terror, as she turned and saw the face of the driver. He said, “It wasn’t me she saw, I swear it wasn’t. I’ve met her twice, face to face—once when I called on the occupier of a house where she was visiting, on business, when she opened the door to me, and again this morning. Her mother will vouch for the truth of what I say, Chief Hennessy. Your niece shook hands with me without any sign of—of fear or suspicion. And Mrs. Taylor was there, she’ll confirm that too.”
Mike Hennessy, a trifle to his surprise, bore him out. “I’m ready to admit, gentlemen, that my niece has failed to see, in this man, any resemblance to the man who attempted to abduct her. But she’s only twelve years old and she was scared out of her wits—I don’t reckon we ought to place too much reliance on her memory and—”
“But you did have her along to an identification line-up next day, in the belief that she would be able to recognise him?” Dale Rayburn interposed.
“In the hope that she would,” the police chief corrected.
“But she did not do so? And Dr. Sarah Hamilton, who was also attacked, similarly failed to identify my client as her attacker?”
“Dr. Hamilton did not see him. She was attacked from behind, as she got into her car.” Hennessy shrugged. “But let’s get back to what happened yesterday evening, shall we?” He turned to Detective Mahoney’s relief. “Wagner, you were on duty outside the house in Curtis Street yesterday evening and you saw the Buick drive past. Did you notice anything alarming about the driver of that car?”
“No, Chief, I didn’t. He was driving slowly, that was all.”
“I checked the car myself,” Mike Hennessy went on. He described his visit to Harper’s Motors. “The Buick was there all right—with a flat. The night man told me it hadn’t been out since early afternoon. I guess you’d be willing to confirm, Counsellor Rayburn, that Chetwood Harper, who owns that car and the premises, is one of Granville’s most respected citizens? And I believe he broke his right arm a few weeks ago, and still has it in plaster?” On receiving Dale Rayburn’s nod of confirmation, the police chief turned again to Steve and said coldly, “Right—carry on, Gresham. If you’ve any more to say?”
Steve braced himself, conscious that this was the last chance he would have to make Hennessy believe him. “I went to Harper’s last night,” he said. “And I found the child’s hair ribbon there, under the front seat of a secondhand Oldsmobile sedan in the parking lot . . . a car that answers roughly to the description of the one I drive. I thought the ribbon might have been Mary Ellen’s, so I took it back with me, and before coming here this morning I showed it to Mary Ellen’s mother.” He saw Chief Hennessy’s cheeks flood with angry colour, but continued, still in the same level tone, “Mrs. Scott said it wasn’t Mary Ellen’s ribbon and I put it back in my pocket without thinking. I figured I must have made a mistake—it certainly never occurred to me that the ribbon might have belonged to the other child . . . the one who was murdered in Ellis County. The car’s three years old. I reckoned it would have had other children in it during those years and I suppose I just took it for granted that one of them must have dropped the ribbon. I don’t even know why I put it back in my pocket, once I’d decided it had no value as—as evidence—”
Mike Hennessy interrupted him. He asked, with dangerous calm, “What time were you at Harper’s Motors last night, Gresham? You care to tell us that?”
“Sure. I left my room just after three in the morning and I was back there just before five. I couldn’t sleep, and I got to thinking about that Buick, so—”
“Not so fast,” Hennessy snapped. “Mahoney”—he turned to the second of his detectives—“you were on duty in Curtis Street, keeping observation, until nine o’clock this morning, when you brought Gresham along here for the line-up. Did you see him leave the house?”
Mahoney shook his head. “No, Chief. I had his window under observation all night. Just before three a.m.”—he consulted his notebook—“at a quarter of three I saw a light go on. It remained on until four-fifty a.m. To the best of my knowledge, the suspect never left his room.”
“I went out the back way,” Steve explained wearily. “Through the garage and over the wall into the garden backing on to Mrs. Taylor’s, and then over another low fence into Plummer Street. I walked to Harper’s Motors along Union Street and left by Blake. I . . .” he hesitated, uncertain of whether or not to involve Sarah, and finally added, “I can produce a witness who saw me going back to Plummer, if necessary. And I talked with the night mechanic when I first went into Harper’s. I don’t know his name, but he’d remember me, because I had to have an excuse for being there and I told him I was looking for work.”
“Why did you do that?” the Assistant D.A. asked.
“Well, I noticed the Oldsmobile among a whole collection of used cars and I figured it might be an idea if I took a closer look at it. I couldn’t see the Buick then, though I saw it later, when the mechanic put it in the showroom window.” Steve sighed, feeling suddenly unbearably tired and aware, from the attitude of his listeners, that so far he hadn’t succeeded in convincing them of anything. He turned to Chief Hennessy, “Chief, I found that hair ribbon in the Olds, I give you my word I did. I was poking around and there was a wrapping paper, off a peppermint candy, so I hunted some more and that was how I found the hair ribbon.
And if it is the one the murdered child was wearing, don’t you see that suggests—”
“I know what it suggests,” the police chief returned. He reached for the phone on his desk. “Get me Harper’s Motors—the office. I’d like to talk with Mr. Harper, if he’s available, if not with his head salesman or his secretary . . . right, I’ll hold the line.” He waited, tapping impatiently with blunt fingers on the polished wood of the desk. Steve felt the throbbing start again in his head and knew that his brow was damp with sweat. Their eyes were all on him, Sheriff Cluny’s, the Assistant District Attorney’s, the two detectives’ and even Dale Rayburn’s. Hennessy’s gaze, when it rested momentarily on his face, was accusing; the rest held doubt, even Rayburn’s, though he smiled encouragingly, when Steve looked directly at him and said quietly, “It’s best to check. Policemen deal in facts . . . you’ve nothing to worry about, if your story’s true.”
But, as he remembered the Buick and its driver’s purpose in seeking out little Mary Ellen, the delay added to Steve’s frustration. He listened to Chief Hennessy’s telephone conversation without hope, hearing the police chief’s deep voice and the staccato questions it asked as if it were coming from a long way away.
“Your night man’s name is Lerue, you say—Robert Lerue? He wouldn’t be still around, would he? I’d appreciate it if I could talk with him . . . oh, I can get him at his home, which is? Thanks . . . and the phone number? I’m grateful to you, Mr. Harper . . . oh, just a routine enquiry, that’s all . . . no, so far we haven’t, but we’re making some progress. While we’re on the subject, I wonder if you’d mind sending a man to check up on one of your used cars . . . yeah, it’s in the parking lot. A three-year-old black Olds-mobile sedan . . . sure, thanks very much, Mr. Harper. Oh . . . he’s in no trouble. Like I say, it’s just a routine enquiry, but Lerue may just be able to help us. How long has he worked for you? Yes . . . and he was previously with the Granville Trucking Company? I understand, Mr. Harper . . . good men aren’t that easy to find, but don’t worry, I won’t upset him any more than I can help. And you’ll call me back about the Olds? I’m obliged. Thanks again, and good day to you.”
The blunt, capable fingers depressed the button on the phone rest and Steve watched them, not really conscious of what they were doing. Lerue must have been the man he had spoken to, the mechanic. Was he the killer? Looking back, recalling the man’s face, his manner, it seemed unlikely that he could be. He had seemed so normal, grumbling about his job, the work piling up and the fact that he wasn’t paid extra for night work. His Christian name was Robert . . . but why should that fact have any significance? Robert Lerue . . . somewhere, in his tired brain, a memory lurked; it was something someone had said to him, but he couldn’t remember what it was. And then there was the Granville Trucking Company, surely that . . .
Chief Hennessy asked for another number and Steve made an effort to rouse himself, listen to what was being said. It was best to check, Dale Rayburn had told him, because policemen dealt in facts . . .
Hennessy said, into the mouthpiece of his receiver, “Is this Mr. Robert Lerue? Well, would you call him to the phone, if you please? The police . . . thanks, I’ll hold on.” There was a pause. “Mr. Lerue? Yeah, this is Chief of Police Hennessy. You’ll recall that I came in to the repair shop yesterday evening and . . . that’s right, I did. Oh, the same matter . . . just a routine enquiry, like I told you. I’m wondering if you can help me . . . thanks. What I want to know is whether a man called in at the gas station in the early hours of the morning, asking for work? Tall guy, around six foot one, dark . . . oh, he did? What time? Well, approximately, then . . . sure, I understand. Thanks very much, Mr. Lerue, sorry to bother you. I guess you’ll be wanting to get back to bed . . . I’m obliged to you. No . . . no, no, it’s nothing you need concern yourself about. Good day.”
Mike Hennessy replaced his telephone receiver on its cradle, but before he could speak, the phone rang and he scooped it up again. “Chief Hennessy . . . ah, Mr. Harper! Thanks for calling me back so promptly. It’s . . . what did you say? . . . you’re quite sure? Yes, of course. We’ll do our best to trace it . . . and the licence number? Right, I’ve got it. Good day to you, Mr. Harper.” He let the telephone receiver fall with a clatter and looked at Steve. For the first time since their brief acquaintance had begun, there was no hostility in his eyes. “The Oldsmobile isn’t in Harper’s parking lot,” he said and, still looking at Steve, shrugged his powerful, blue-clad shoulders. “I guess I could be wrong about you, Gresham,” he stated. “I guess I could, but it remains to be seen, doesn’t it? We’ll find that Oldsmobile and run a check on it, but until we have, I’m holding you here and we’ll go through your statement again. You’ve no objections to that, have you, Mr. Rayburn?”
Dale Rayburn hesitated, looking at Steve and then at his colleague from the District Attorney’s office. Sheriff Cluny, who had remained a silent listener throughout the interview, offered quietly, “You haven’t anything to lose if you’re innocent, Mr. Gresham. Chief Hennessy and I are just as anxious to find out the truth as you are, believe me. And I do have a few questions I’d like to put to you.”
Mary Ellen would be at school now, Steve thought; at school, with other children and her teachers keeping an eye on her . . . she wouldn’t be alone, so the killer, whoever he was, couldn’t touch her. He gave his assent to the Sheriff’s suggestion and then faced Chief Hennessy, who had risen to his feet.
“Chief, will you listen to me, please?”
Mike Hennessy hesitated and finally nodded. “I’m listening—what is it?”
“I’m not a policeman, but I do have a theory about this killer. I believe he deliberately drove past Mary Ellen last evening in order to find out whether she could identify him. She did . . . and he knows she did. I ask you to take my word for that, Chief Hennessy.”
“And if I do?”
“If he’s a local man, living here,” Steve said gravely, “he has two alternatives— either he has to leave Granville or he has to silence Mary Ellen . . . because as long as she is alive, he can’t feel safe. I have just one advantage over you and the sheriff —I know I didn’t try to abduct her and I know I didn’t kill that other poor child in Ellis County, any more than I—attacked Dr. Hamilton. I’m not asking you to take my word for this, but I am asking you to put a guard on Mary Ellen when she leaves school this afternoon. Her mother’s meeting her, but for all our sakes—and hers most of all, Chief Hennessy—I beg you to take adequate precautions to ensure her safety. If I’m wrong you won’t be losing anything and if I’m right . . .” Steve didn’t complete the sentence but spread his hands in a weary, defeated gesture. “Check up on me all you want to, ask me any questions you like, but for God’s sake guard that child, until you find out the truth! I also think that you should send a reliable man out with Dr. Hamilton when she makes sick calls, especially at night.”
He couldn’t tell, from the police chief’s expression, whether or not Hennessy believed him, but he knew that at last his words had made some impression, when he heard the barked orders which would keep Mary Ellen under police surveillance when her school finished and she was alone. He thought of Kathleen Scott, remembering her trust in him and the many kindnesses she had shown him, and let out his breath in a long heartfelt sigh of relief. Perhaps he had repaid a little of the debt he owed her. It was also a great weight off his mind when he heard instructions being issued which would mean that Sarah Hamilton need no longer drive through the night by herself, and when Hennessy told him to resume his seat, he did so willingly, no longer conscious of either resentment or fear.
Sheriff Cluny conducted the initial questioning, holding the bedraggled brown hair ribbon on the palm of his hand. “Mr. Gresham,” he began politely, “I want you to tell me your movements from the time you entered Ellis County on the evening of the twenty-first. I want to know where you went, who you saw and spoke to and exactly what you did, if you please.”
Despite the mildness of his tone and his punctilious courtesy, his interrogation was thorough, and from behind his big, official desk, Chief Hennessy watched and listened, his expression bleak and unsmiling as he occasionally interposed a question of his own. After a while he took over. He began by asking about the Romeo Delta Zulu crash and then, probing relentlessly, about the nature of the injuries Steve had suffered and the finding of the Board set up to determine the cause of the accident.
“You suffered from amnesia, didn’t you, Gresham, and as a result, you were unable to tell the Board of Enquiry what caused the crash or what steps you took to avert it?”
“Yes, that’s right. I couldn’t remember anything about the crash at all.”
“Because you had a skull fracture?”
“I guess so. I don’t know.”
“The surgeons at Mid-Western called in psychiatrists to treat your amnesia, including Dr. Sarah Hamilton—that’s true, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it’s true. But I was under Dr. Burger, not Dr. Hamilton. She didn’t treat me, that is to say—”
“But they weren’t able to cure your amnesia, were they, any of them? And when you were finally discharged from hospital, after eleven months, you were still suffering”—Chief Hennessy turned the pages of the report he had shown the two lawyers, frowning—“yes, here it is . . . you were still suffering from severe headaches and occasional mental black-outs?”
“Yes. But I was given tablets to take. They help the headaches and relieve the—the tendency to black out almost immediately.”
