“You can’t stop there, lady,” he said.
“Why not?”
“These are single units, one parking space apiece, no exceptions.” The old man removed his straw hat. “My name’s Abercrombie. I make sure the rules are followed.”
“I’m in a hurry.”
“Everybody’s in a hurry. When everybody’s in a hurry nobody gets anywhere. It’s like all the people wanting to drive in the fast lane when the other lanes are open.”
“Where do I leave my car?”
“You can go back to the street or you can follow this road to the guest parking lot at the rear.”
She went back to the street. She had the impression that Mr. Abercrombie’s rules would cover every inch, every nook and cranny, every leaf and blade of grass on the premises. When she returned he had disappeared.
She knocked on Roger Lennard’s door and said in the voice she reserved for students who were being deliberately malicious, “Roger, it’s Rachel Holbrook. I want to talk to you. Open this door.”
If there was any response she couldn’t hear it above the sounds of traffic on the street and in the air.
She knocked again, waited, then tried the door. It was locked. She’d come prepared for that. Now and then one of the students would lock himself in a dorm or lavatory or classroom and she would have to call in a locksmith to extricate him. After a number of these occasions the locksmith had provided her with a piece of metal, one of the tools of his trade called a picklock, and taught her how to use it. She carried it in her purse as casually as she did her wallet and lipstick. She used it now expertly, her body screening her movements from the possible gaze of Mr. Abercrombie.
The door opened. The first thing she saw was a kitchen table containing a salt shaker, a bottle of ketchup and a typewriter. There was a sheet of paper in the typewriter and a white envelope beside it. The kitchen chair was overturned and the telephone was on the floor beside it. It was a child’s phone in the form of Mickey Mouse and she couldn’t imagine Roger owning such a thing unless it had been given to him by a practical joker.
“Roger?”
She took a tentative step into the room. It was only then that she saw him lying on his side on a couch, his partly open mouth revealing bright red stains.
She forced herself to go over and touch his forehead. It was warm, but not warm enough. She picked up the telephone and called the emergency number printed on the front of it. Then she righted the kitchen chair and sat down to wait for the police and paramedics. She knew what the red stains in his mouth meant: There was nothing that could be done for Roger except by experts.
Even in the dim light she could make out the words on the page in the typewriter.
She picked up the white envelope and saw with a shock that it was addressed to her at Holbrook Hall. It was ready to be mailed, sealed and stamped with an extra stamp because of its bulk. Impulsively, without even thinking of any consequence of her action, she put the envelope in her purse. Then she called one of the numbers Aragon had written on his card.
He answered on the second ring. “Yes?”
“This is Rachel Holbrook,” she said. “I’m at Roger Lennard’s place. I think he’s dead.”
“Dead?”
“Yes. Pills.”
“How did you get in?”
“I used a picklock.”
“Surely you know that’s illegal.”
“Yes.”
“What else have you done?”
“I took an envelope from the table. It was addressed to me, sealed and stamped. I consider it my property.”
“What you consider and what the police consider may be quite different. You’ve called them, haven’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Put the letter back. Stay cool. I’ll be right over.”
He hung up.
She opened her purse to put the letter back, then closed it again. It was her property, Roger wanted her to have it, no one had any right to take it from her. Clutching the purse under her arm, she went out the door into the afternoon sun.
Mr. Abercrombie was leaning against the hood of Roger’s car, watching her.
“I saw what you did,” he said. “Picked the lock like an old pro.”
“I had to. I thought he might be drunk.”
“And is he?”
“No. I think he’s dead.”
Abercrombie made a snorting little noise. “You women are always exaggerating. A man takes a drink, he’s drunk. He lies down for a nap, he’s dead.”
“I called the police and paramedics.”
“For crying out loud, you crazy lady. What did you do that for? Why didn’t you come to me? We can’t have police and paramedics cluttering up the property for no reason except your imagination.”
Two sounds were audible now: the full-scale siren of the police and the two-note electronic whelper of the paramedics.
“Crazy lady,” Abercrombie said again. But he unfolded a canvas chair for her to sit on and began fanning her with his straw hat.
“Mr. Lennard had a row,” he said. “You know, a quarrel. A man came to see him around lunchtime and I could hear their voices real loud until someone closed the windows. I saw the man leave, walk toward the street. He was a big fellow, heavyset, wearing a light grey suit and a Panama hat. Of course there’s no chance of foul play or anything like that,” he added anxiously. “Is there?”
“I can’t answer that.”
“Do you think I should tell the police about Mr. Lennard quarreling with that man?”
“Yes.”
“Should I tell him about you picking the lock to get in?”
“No,” Mrs. Holbrook said. “I’ll tell them myself.”
The paramedics arrived, four young men so quick and precise that their movements seemed choreographed. Abercrombie held the door open for them and they all went inside, filling the tiny room to capacity. People were already coming out of the other housing units, some curious, some frightened, some annoyed. They were quiet, listening to the paramedics’ radio.
“This is Medic Two calling Santa Felicia Hospital... We have a cardiac arrest, a man about thirty, no pulse, no respiration... We’re applying CPR, no luck so far... We have him now on the scope, getting only a straight line... Adrenalin intravenous started... We’re moving right out...”
Roger was carried out, strapped to a stretcher. In the sunlight Mrs. Holbrook saw what she had missed previously: that his right eye and the whole right side of his face were badly swollen and discolored.
The police arrived as the emergency vehicle was pulling away, two black-and-whites and an unmarked car. The man who got out of the unmarked car looked like an ordinary middle-aged businessman on his way to his job at a bank or insurance office. He introduced himself to Abercrombie as Lieutenant Peterson, while three of the other men went inside.
“She discovered him,” Abercrombie said, pointing to Mrs. Holbrook. “I don’t know her. I never saw her before. She picked the lock. Go ahead, ask her.”
“What is your name, sir?”
“Abercrombie.”
“I’d like your full name and address, please.”
Abercrombie told him and the lieutenant wrote down the information on a note pad.
“And the victim’s name, please?”
“Victim?” Abercrombie repeated. “How do you know he’s a victim?”
“Well, he was certainly the victim of something or we all wouldn’t be here. Right?”
“His name was Roger Lennard.”
“And his occupation?”
“A schoolteacher, something like that. He didn’t call it a schoolteacher.”
“Mr. Lennard was one of the counselors at my school,” Mrs. Holbrook said.
“And your name is?”
“Rachel Holbrook.”