Tully scowled, watching Ballinger stow away the films. “By the way,” he said suddenly. “How did Kathleen happen to drown? She was an expert swimmer, according to one of these stories. Or were you still in Chicago at that time, Jake?”
“No, I’d been here about six months when it happened. It was a big story. Anyone or anything connected with Mercedes has always been a big story here.” The old man shrugged. “There was a lot of back-of-the-hand talk, because the Swiss authorities didn’t come up with any clearcut explanation for the accident. There’d been a squall of sorts, and the girl had taken the boat out alone, presumably — they finally decided that when the boat upset she got a crack on the head, or a cramp. Or swam around in circles in the dark till she was exhausted.”
“It doesn’t sell me,” Tully said.
Jake Ballinger looked at him. “Are you suggesting that the bonnie Kathleen was murdered?”
“How the devil do I know what I’m suggesting?” Tully exploded.
He and Ballinger went down into the street.
“Thanks, Jake.”
“For what?” the old editor rumbled.
In spite of himself, David Tully grinned. “For nothing, I guess.”
Back at home Tully thought and thought, and finally he resorted to the telephone again. He hesitated only a moment. Had Sandra Jean already taken Andrew Gordon across a state line to get married? Although that would be pretty fast work even for Sandra Jean... He dialed the Cabbott number.
The butler answered.
Tully asked for Mr. Gordon.
Andy came on. “What do you want?” His voice was guarded.
“I’m relaying a message from Sandra Jean.”
“Not so loud!”
“She wants to meet you here — in my house — right away.” He used the most conspiratorial tone he could contrive.
“But I was supposed to meet her at the Blue Iris in a half hour!” The boy sounded in an agony of indecision.
“Look, Junior, I’m simply telling you what Sandra said. I don’t give a damn whether you meet her or not.”
Tully ended the conversation with a slam. He ran to the picture window and waited.
Twelve minutes later headlights swung into his driveway. Tully had the front door open before Andy could ring.
“Come in, fly,” Tully said.
“What?” the boy said blankly.
“I said come in.”
Andy Gordon came in. His eyes were bloodshot and his dark young face looked puffy and hung over.
“Where’s Sandra Jean?” He looked around suspiciously.
“She isn’t here,” Tully said.
“What d’ye mean she isn’t here?” Andy cried. “You said—”
“I wanted to talk to somebody about Kathleen Lavery,” Tully said.
The boy blinked and blinked. “What the hell is this?”
“I decided your stepfather George probably doesn’t know, and your mother would be too tough. That leaves you, Andy.”
The big muscular young body seemed to swell. “I’m not so tough, is that what you mean?”
“You’re not tough at all, Andy.”
The boy came at him like a blind bull. Tully sidestepped and hooked hard. Blood spurted from Andy’s nose. He hit the floor hard. He grabbed at his nose, looked at his blood-smeared hand with terror, and began to cry.
“That’s more like it, kid,” Tully said. “Because the next time you swing on me it’ll cost you a mouthful of teeth.”
“Damn you!” Andy Gordon wept. “I’ll kill you...”
“I haven’t got the time to let you. I want answers, Andy, and I want them straight and now.”
“Answers to what?” the boy said viciously.
“It’s about Kathleen.”
19
“Crandall Cox and Kathleen,” Tully said. “Did they know each other?”
“How would I know?”
“She knew Ollie Hurst, even thought of marrying him. She knew Cox too, didn’t she?”
“I tell you I don’t know! Man oh man, I’ll fix you for this, Dave—”
“Stick to the subject at hand. Mercedes took Kathleen abroad to keep her from marrying Ollie. Did Cox figure any way in that?”
“I don’t know!”
“You do know,” Tully said. “Mercedes runs a pretty taut ship. She’s held Kathleen’s fate up to you since you were in diapers — I mean, as a horrible example of what comes from crossing mama. Right, Andy?”
Andy was pressing a handkerchief to his nose. “Wait till she hears about this.”
“I’m not impressed any more,” Tully said. “I have a wife to get back. Are you going to talk?”
“The papers—” Andy shrank back.
“I read the papers, Andy. They printed the official handouts. Your half-sister was a good enough swimmer to be on her school swimming team. She didn’t drown accidentally, now, did she?”
Andy glared up at him. Whatever it was that he saw in Tully’s eyes, it made his own eyes shift.
“No. She didn’t.”
“Well,” said Tully. Then he said, “And she wasn’t murdered, either. The Swiss police are among the best in the world. They wouldn’t have missed that.”
“I don’t follow you,” the boy said sullenly.
“Kathleen was the daughter of a millionaire American. And there was no proof her death wasn’t an accident. Under the circumstances, didn’t the Swiss authorities decide to let it go at that?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Tully stooped over him and said softly, “Kathleen killed herself, Andy, didn’t she? Took that boat out in a squall and deliberately upset it and let herself go under? Probably leaving a suicide note that Mercedes destroyed. Isn’t that the truth about Kathleen?”
The boy’s voice was little more than a whisper. “Yes.”
“Why, Andy? Why did Kathleen kill herself?”
“She’d found out she was pregnant.”
“Thank you very much, Mr. Gordon.”
Mercedes Cabbott’s son shot to his feet and darted toward the door. Before Tully could move Andy was out of the house.
A moment later his car roared its belated defiance as it escaped.
Tully went into the utility washroom off the kitchen and plunged his face into a basinful of cold water. Then he went into the kitchen and looked up the number of the Pittman sanitarium and dialed it and asked if Mr. Oliver Hurst was still there, and how was Mrs. Hurst? He was told that Mr. Hurst had left not long before and sorry, we can give out no information about our patients.
Tully broke the connection, began to dial Ollie Hurst’s home number, thought better of it, and hung up.
He got into the Imperial and drove over to the Hurst house.
Ollie answered the door. He looked like hell.
“Dave. I was just going to call you.”
“How is Norma?”
“Quiet under sedation. The doctor kicked me out. Come on in. Something up?”
“Yes. I hate to ask this of you, Ollie — you look about as beat as I feel! — but would you do me a favor?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Ollie Hurst said crossly. “What?”
“I’m going up to the Cabbott ménage to see Mercedes. I’d like you to be present when I tackle her.”
“About what?”
“I’ll explain later. Will you come?”
Ollie stood there. “You put me on a spot, Dave. I’m not comfortable in that house.”
“I wish I could spare you,” Tully said. “But Ollie, I’ve got to have you there.”
“All right.”
Ollie went for his jacket and tie. Tully got into his car and waited. Finally the lights went off and the lawyer came out and climbed in beside Tully. Tully turned the car around and headed for the hills.
As the Imperial turned into the Cabbott grounds Ollie Hurst said suddenly, “This isn’t about Ruth, is it, Dave?”