Her mind was wandering off into remoter and less painful times. I said:
“Forgive me for laboring the point, Mrs. Deloney, but I have to ask you if that suicide note still exists.”
She turned, trying to smooth the marks of grief from her face. They persisted. “Of course not. I burned it. You can take my word as to its contents.”
“It isn’t your word that concerns me so much. Are you absolutely certain your husband wrote it?”
“Yes. I couldn’t be mistaken about his handwriting.”
“A clever forgery can fool almost anybody.”
“That’s absurd. You’re talking the language of melodrama.”
“We live it every day, Mrs. Deloney.”
“But who would forge a suicide note?”
“It’s been done, by other murderers.”
She flung back her white head and looked at me down her delicate curved nose. She resembled a bird, even in the sound of her voice:
“My husband was not murdered.”
“It seems to me you’re resting a great deal of weight on a single handwritten note which might have been forged.”
“It was not forged. I know that by internal evidence. It referred to matters that only Luke and I were privy to.”
“Such as?”
“I have no intention of telling you, or anyone. Besides, Luke had been talking for months about killing himself, especially when he was in his cups.”
“You said you hadn’t been close to him for months.”
“No, but I got reports, from mutual friends.”
“Was Hoffman one of them?”
“Hardly. I didn’t consider him a friend.”
“Yet he hushed up your husband’s suicide for you. Your husband’s alleged suicide.”
“He was ordered to. He had no choice.”
“Who gave the order?”
“Presumably the Commissioner of Police. He was a friend of mine, and a friend of Luke’s.”
“And that made it all right for him to order the falsification of records?”
“It’s done every day,” she said, “in every city in the land. Spare me your moralizing, Mr. Archer. Commissioner Robertson is long since dead. The case itself is a dead issue.”
“Maybe it is to you. It’s very much on Hoffman’s mind. His daughter’s murder revived it.”
“I’m sorry for both of them. But I can’t very well alter the past to accommodate some theory you may have. What are you trying to prove, Mr. Archer?”
“Nothing specific. I’m trying to find out what the dead woman meant when she said that Bridgeton had caught up with her.”
“No doubt she meant something quite private and personal. Women usually do. But as I said, I never knew Helen Hoffman.”
“Was she involved with your husband?”
“No. She was not. And please don’t ask me how I can be sure. We’ve scratched enough at Luke’s grave, don’t you think? There’s nothing hidden there but a poor suicide. I helped to put him there, in a way.”
“By cutting off his funds?”
“Precisely. You didn’t think I was confessing to shooting him?”
“No,” I said. “Would you like to?”
Her face crinkled up in a rather savage smile. “Very well. I shot him. What do you propose to do about it?”
“Nothing. I don’t believe you.”
“Why would I say it if it wasn’t true?” She was playing the kind of fantastic girlish game old women sometimes revert to.
“Maybe you wanted to shoot your husband. I have no doubt you did want to. But if you actually had, you wouldn’t be talking about it.”
“Why not? There’s nothing you could possibly do. I have too many good friends in this city, official and otherwise. Who incidentally would be greatly disturbed if you persisted in stirring up that old mess.”
“Am I to take that as a threat?”
“No, Mr. Archer,” she said with her tight smile, “I have nothing against you except that you’re a zealot in your trade, or do you call it a profession? Does it really matter so much how people died? They’re dead, as we all shall be, sooner or later. Some of us sooner. And I feel I’ve given you enough of my remaining time on earth.”
She rang for the maid.
Chapter 22
I still had time for another try at Earl Hoffman. I drove back toward his house, through downtown streets depopulated by the Sabbath. The questions Mrs. Deloney had raised, or failed to answer, stuck in my mind like fishhooks which trailed their broken lines into the past.
I was almost certain Deloney hadn’t killed himself, by accident or intent. I was almost certain somebody else had, and that Mrs. Deloney knew it. As for the suicide note, it could have been forged, it could have been invented, it could have been misread or misremembered. Hoffman would probably know which.
As I turned into Cherry Street, I saw a man in the next block walking away from me. He had on a blue suit and he moved with the heavy forcefulness of an old cop, except that every now and then he staggered and caught himself. I saw when I got closer that it was Hoffman. The orange cuffs of his pajama legs hung below his blue trousers.
I let him stay ahead of me, through slums that became more blighted as we went south. We entered a Negro district. The adult men and women on the sidewalk gave Hoffman a wide berth. He was walking trouble.
He wasn’t walking too well. He stumbled and fell on his hands and knees by a gap-toothed picket fence. Some children came out from behind the fence and followed him, prancing and hooting, until he turned on them with upraised arms. He turned again and went on.
We left the Negro district and came to a district of very old three-storied frame houses converted into rooming houses and business buildings. A few newer apartment buildings stood among them, and Hoffman’s destination was one of these.
It was a six-story concrete structure with a slightly rundown aspect: cracked and yellowing blinds in the rows of windows, brown watermarks below them. Hoffman went in the front entrance. I could see the inscription in the concrete arch above it: Deloney Apartments, 1928. I parked my car and followed Hoffman into the building.
He had evidently taken the elevator up. The tarnished brass arrow above the elevator door slowly turned clockwise to seven and stuck there. I gave up pushing the button after a while – Hoffman had probably left the door ajar – and found the fire stairs. I was breathing hard by the time I reached the metal door that let out onto the roof.
I opened the door a crack. Except for some pigeons coohooing on a neighboring rooftop, everything outside seemed very quiet. A few potted shrubs and a green plexiglass windscreen jutting out at right angles from the wall of the penthouse had converted a corner of the roof into a terrace.
A man and a woman were sunning themselves there. She was lying face down on an air mattress with the brassiere of her Bikini unfastened. She was blonde and nicely made. He sat in a deck chair, with a half-empty cola bottle on the table beside him. He was broad and dark, with coarse black hair matting his chest and shoulders. He wore a diamond ring on the little finger of his left hand, and had a faint Greek accent.
“So you think the restaurant business is low class? When you say that you’re biting the hand that feeds you. The restaurant business put mink on your back.”
“I didn’t say it. What I said, the insurance business is a nice clean business for a man.”
“And restaurants are dirty? Not my restaurants. I even got violet rays in the toilets–”