The Dishonest Murderer by Frances Lockridge Page B

“yeh” or something like “yuh.” But almost never “yes.”
    Blake did not continue, but his word did not, as it might have done, break the tenuous communication. It left him alive in the car, sharing the car with her, sharing with her the mood of this momentary seclusion from the world, from the storm.
    â€œMr. Weigand,” she said. “Lieutenant Weigand?”
    â€œYes,” Blake said again. “Lieutenant. Acting captain, actually. We all seem to forget, most of the time.”
    â€œCaptain Weigand,” she said. “He’s—in charge of the investigation? Of—of Bruce’s death.”
    Blake hesitated. He stopped the car for a light, and this time turned. She could hardly see his face, could see it only dimly in the light from a street lamp.
    â€œTechnically,” he said, “Inspector O’Malley’s in charge. Or the commissioner, actually. But the lieutenant will handle most of it.”
    â€œWith you?” she said.
    He smiled. She could see that in the half light. His sensitive face was attractive when he smiled.
    â€œPeople like me,” he said. “A sergeant named Mullins. A sergeant named Stein. A lot of people.”
    â€œYou’ll find out?” she said.
    â€œI expect so,” he said. “Sooner or later. One time or another.” His smile faded. “Don’t worry so, Mrs. Haven,” he said. “Don’t—” He paused, gave up that line. “I suppose there’s nothing to say,” he told her. “I know there isn’t. It’s—it’s a shocking thing to face. But, try not to worry so.”
    He chose a strange word, she thought, and then thought that the word was right. It was not, as it seemed, a substitute for “grieve,” for the formality of “grieve.” He meant that she was not to worry; the word was chosen precisely. It must be in her manner, then—worry, rather than grief. Worry or—fright. “Don’t be frightened,” Lieutenant Weigand had said, or, “You’re frightened.” Now this man with a sensitive face, this other policeman, said almost the same thing.
    She was silent for a time, and Blake turned back, started the car again. They were in Park Avenue, now; now they were circling the Grand Central Station. Am I worried, frightened, instead of—grieving? she wondered. Is that the way I feel? Is it the strangeness, first, the strangeness of people still alive, of Dad, and Bruce’s death only after that? But then—but then it would have been wrong. Oh Bruce, she thought, would it have been wrong? Forgive me, Bruce.
    â€œI was going to marry him,” she said, to the back of Sergeant Blake’s head. “I was going to marry him. Now he’s been—killed. You say, don’t worry. Why do you say that?”
    He shook his head, not turning, watching the snow swirl in the beam of the headlights.
    â€œIt was the wrong word,” he said. “I know there’s nothing to say. I was trying to say I was sorry. But there’s nothing to say.”
    She did not answer for long minutes. They were far up Park, nearing the apartment.
    â€œI’m not worried,” she said, finally. “Not—frightened. Just unhappy.”
    â€œOf course,” he said. “I used the wrong word. I’m sorry, Mrs. Haven.” He turned the car in toward the curb. He stopped and got out and came around the car. But by then she had opened the door, stood on the sidewalk. The snow began to whiten the fur of her coat.
    â€œAnyway,” she said to him. “Thank you.”
    He misunderstood, or pretended to misunderstand. His answer assumed she was thanking him for driving her home.
    â€œâ€™S all right,” he said. “Would you like me to go up with you?”
    â€œNo,” she said. “Oh no.”
    He went with her across the sidewalk, stopped at the entrance to the apartment house.