Fires That Destroy Read online

  “Sure,” the blond said. “The usual things. Shorty’s just got a hot date with one of the babes from the clinic.”

  The detective replaced the telephone.

  “O.K., Doc,” he said. “They’re sending Findlay over from the precinct. They notified the M.E.’s office. That don’t leave us much to do but wait.”

  “Anyone for tennis?” the blond driver said. He grinned smugly.

  Bernice backed away. She went to her study desk. She pressed a button on the memo pad and called dive Behrens, Lloyd’s lawyer.

  He answered at once. Bernice could hear the music of a radio behind him, and shrill laughter.

  “Hello,” Bernice said. “Dr. Talbot Mundy has asked me to call you. This is Bernice Harper, Lloyd Deerman’s secretary. Mr. Deerman is dead. He fell—”

  “My God,” Behrens said. “My Jesus God. All right, Bernice, I’m on my way over now.”

  He hung up, cutting off some woman’s pealing laughter. Some woman at a party, Bernice thought. Some woman having a good time. Some woman with a man’s arms around her...

  There was a longer wait at the next number Bernice called. At last a woman’s sleepy, petulant voice answered.

  “Mrs. Sanders?” Bernice said. “This is Bernice Harper, Lloyd Deerman’s secretary. Could I speak to Mr. Sanders?”

  “What do you want with him?” Mrs. Sanders inquired. “I’m sorry, Miss Harper, but Mr. Sanders isn’t here this evening.”

  “Do you know where I could reach him?”

  “My dear, I don’t even know why you’d want to.”

  “Mrs. Sanders, Mr. Deerman is dead. He fell down the stairs. He’s dead. It’s very urgent.”

  “Oh. Oh, my dear. I—I am so sorry. I’ll do what I can. I’ll get in touch with Joe. I’m pretty certain I know where he is. I hope you’ll forgive me. I had no idea—”

  “Of course,” Bernice said. “Of course you didn’t.”

  She replaced the receiver and pressed another button on the memo pad. Her face remained set. The light from the desk lamp striking her glasses glinted, changing its pattern every time she moved her head.

  This time the telephone rang almost twenty times. Finally a woman answered. “Hello?” There was panic in the voice. It was the tone of a woman who expected the worst when the telephone rang after nine o’clock at night. “Hello? This is Marsha Deerman. What is it, please?”

  “Mrs. Deerman, this is Bernice Harper. I’m afraid I have bad news for you.”

  “Oh, my God!” Mrs. Deerman began to sob without waiting to hear any more. Bernice heard her indrawn breathing, heard her speaking frantically to someone at the other end of the line. “Here, Francie, you take it. I—I can’t stand to hear any more. It’s about Lloyd.”

  “Hello.” Now it was Lloyd’s eighteen-year-old sister, Francie. Her voice quaked.

  “Tell your mother that Lloyd is—dead,” Bernice said. “It was an accident. He fell from the top of the stairs. Ask her if she wants to come over.”

  There was no answer. The telephone hummed in Bernice’s ear. She was sure Francie had fainted. Then she heard a faint sob. It was another minute before Francie was able to speak.

  “Of course,” Francie said. “Of course. We’ll both come. Thank you, Miss Harper.”

  Thank you, Miss Harper. Bernice’s mouth tightened. She stood up.

  The library door opened and a man stepped through it. He was like a gray shadow. At first, Bernice was sure it was an illusion formed by the light on her glasses. She even thought bitterly, It isn’t the first time I’ve seen things when there was nothing there.

  His voice was gray. It isn’t the first time I’ve heard whispers, either, Bernice admitted. But now she saw that the little man was really there across the room. He said, “Miss Harper? I’m Detective Findlay. Fred Findlay. Dr. Mundy said I’d find you in here.”

  “Yes,” Bernice said. “I’m Bernice Harper.”

  The gray man glided across the room. “Like to ask you a few questions,” he said. “Dr. Mundy said it would be all right.”

  “Would you mind snapping on the overhead light?” Bernice said.

  “Oh, no. Not at all.” He pushed the button. The chandelier lights glowed. Bernice snapped off the desk lamp. That was better. Some of the pain in her temples subsided.

  “You’re Mr. Deerman’s private secretary, is that right?” Findlay said.

  “That’s right,” Bernice said.

  “And companion?” Findlay was a shadow encroaching on her again.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nothing. I don’t mean anything. The doctor said you lived here in the house with Mr. Deerman. That’s all.”

  “That’s all,” Bernice said.

  “How old are you, Miss Harper?”

  “I’m twenty-four,” Bernice said.

  “Really? Are you really twenty-four?”

  “How old do I look?”

  “Twenty-four. Twenty-four is fine. I know you’re upset, Miss Harper.” He wrote in his notebook. “What’s your home address? Where do your folks live?”

  She told him. He wrote again.

  My folks, Bernice thought. They’re going to love this. Especially mother. I can hear her now. I told you, Bernice. You were a good Christian girl. With a good job at Brennan’s. You should have kept it. Think of the disgrace. Think of the neighbors.

  “Your name is Bernice Harper. You’re twenty-four and you were Lloyd Deerman’s private secretary. And companion.” Findlay was wandering around the room as he talked. “How many servants are there, Miss Harper?”

  “Three. A cook, Mrs. Mason. Mr. Deerman’s butler, Gilman. And a maid who did the housework.”

  “Where were they tonight. Miss Harper?”

  “They were out,” Bernice said.

  He turned from inspecting the bookcases that lined three walls of the study. “They were out? All of them?”

  “None lived in the house,” Bernice replied. “They always left, every night. After their work was done.”

  “Oh? What time did they leave tonight?”

  “I don’t know. I was working. They don’t usually say good night to me. By the time they’re through here, they’re tired and they just leave.”

  “You remember hearing any of them around in the house? Say after nine o’clock?”

  “No. I was working. Here in the study. But I’m sure they were gone.”

  “Why would you be sure?”

  Bernice stood up. “They work long hours, Mr. Findlay. They work hard. At the first chance they get, they leave.”

  “Suppose I told you that the cook was having trouble with the stove? Suppose I told you I just talked to her in the kitchen?”

  Bernice felt icy water in her veins. Her face flushed. She had to steady herself against the desk. For the moment she was stunned, exactly as she had been when the clock began to chime.

  “I would say you’re wrong,” she said.

  Findlay slid across the room. He stood directly in front of her. For the first time Bernice got a good look at that face. It was gray. But it was hewn from gray granite. Even the wrinkles pulled there by his age seemed agonizingly hacked in the flinty surface. His gray eyes were cold and humorless. When he spoke, his pale lips barely moved above his stained teeth. Bernice was afraid of him. She had never been so afraid of anyone in all her life. It was the first time she was consciously aware of being afraid of any human being. But she was afraid of this man. Afraid to stay alone in the room with him.

  “Why would I try to trick you?” Findlay said.

  “I know that the cook loved Mr. Deerman very much,” Bernice replied. She was breathless. She hated herself, but knew she couldn’t control it. “If she had heard him yell—as I heard him—she would have come running—as I did.”

  Findlay nodded. “All right, Miss Harper. I guess I chose the wrong team that time. So there was nobody in the house with Mr. Deerman but you. Nobody but you.”

  “Why’d you do that to me?” Bernice whisp
ered.

  “I have a job to do, Miss Harper. I’m a man getting on in years. Not married. Never married. Never did. A man gets to be my age, he’s got to have something. I’ve got my job. I guess I know every trick there is to know, Miss Harper.” He sighed. “Just as I know every dodge and every excuse and every lie that was ever tried.”

  “I’m not lying to you,” Bernice said. “Why don’t you wait until I do?”

  “How old are you?” His soft voice broke across hers.

  “I’m still twenty-four.”

  “Twenty-four.” He wrote that down in his notebook again. He looked up at her, squinting, attempting to see beyond the barrier formed by the light glinting on her glasses. “Where were you when you heard him yell?”

  “I was here. I was working here in the office. That’s why I stay here in the house. Mr. Deerman liked to work at all hours. It was difficult to find anybody for a job like this.”

  “Was he easy to work for? Easy to get along with?”

  Bernice looked at him. She moved her head a little. The light glinted. “No,” she said. “No, he wasn’t. Not at all.”

  He nodded. “Another score for you, Miss Harper.” He looked slightly pained. “Don’t make too perfect a score, will you, Miss Harper? I hope you won’t. Too good is almost as bad as being all wrong. It takes away your amateur rating. Kind of makes a professional out of you. You can see how it might?”

  Bernice lifted her head. Her mouth tightened. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she stated. “And I think you’re being rotten.”

  “If you think that, then you know what I’m talking about. Still. I’ll have to give you another score. You aren’t afraid to talk back.”

  “Should I be afraid to talk back to you?”

  He shrugged. “There’s no reason for you to be afraid of me. Unless you have a reason. Inside you.” He smiled at her. “I’m just another policeman, miss. Trying to earn my salary.”

  Bernice shut her mouth in a tight line. Her hands on top of the desk were moist. She stared at the gray man and hated him. She hated him with all her soul. She had to control her breathing when she opened her mouth to speak. She was sure he could hear the erratic thud of her heart all the way across the desk.

  “Let me alone,” she said. “Let me alone.”

  He held up his hand. “Now, just string along like a good girl. Will you do that?”

  Her mouth twisted. “You wouldn’t believe me, anyway,” she said. “Why should I?”

  He met her eyes. “Believe me,” he said. “Just believe me. You should.”

  Findlay’s head lifted at the sound of the door opening behind him. But he continued to look at her. He said, “Do you have any idea, Miss Harper, how difficult it is for a man to kill himself by falling down a stairway?”

  She was staring over his shoulder. Her breath sighed out of her. “Dr. Mundy!” she whispered.

  Findlay turned and leaned against the desk.

  “Why don’t you tell her, Dr. Mundy?” Findlay said. “You tell her. Tell her how much easier it is for a man to break his neck when he’s been—pushed.”

  Dr. Mundy closed the door behind him. The hallway was crowded now. Bernice listened to the chatter. She wished she were out there, even facing the reporters.

  She watched Dr. Mundy cross the room.

  He answered Findlay. “Because I don’t agree with you, Mr. Findlay. My mind isn’t on murder all the time. I sincerely believe my patient tripped at the head of those stairs, fell, and died from injuries sustained in that fall.”

  Findlay’s brows went up. He jotted down a note. Bernice stared at the notebook, wondering what he’d written.

  “Why?” Findlay said. “Why do you think that?”

  “My patient was blind,” Dr. Mundy answered. “He had been since childhood.”

  “Oh,” said Findlay. “Oh. I see.”

  “Yes,” Mundy said. “He was obstinate and perverse about his affliction. He was very independent. He had been repeatedly warned about trying to navigate those stairs alone.”

  “That makes a difference, all right,” Findlay said at last.

  Bernice looked at him. His voice was different. But there wasn’t the slightest change in the granite set of his face. And he wasn’t looking at Mundy. He was still staring at her.

  Bernice shivered.

  “Well, you’ve built up quite a score. Quite a score,” Findlay told her. He looked at the doctor. His voice was sardonic. “You mind if I ask you a couple more questions?”

  Mundy flushed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was only trying to help.”

  “You have helped. I didn’t know Deerman was blind.”

  “His family is here,” Mundy said. “Maybe you’d like to question them?”

  “Yes. Ask them in, will you?” Findlay looked at the doctor. He waited until Mundy nodded finally and withdrew from the room. He faced Bernice again. “I see there’s a row of account books on that shelf behind you, Miss Harper. Right behind you. One of them is missing. There’s a dusty place. Obviously, it hasn’t been moved—or dusted— recently. I don’t see it on your desk. I don’t see it in the room. Could you say where the book is?”

  Bernice’s smile was almost smug. “I don’t like to make too good a score,” she said. Anger gave her voice an edge. “But there are several books missing. Look around, you’ll see.

  “Yes, I saw. It’s just that I wasn’t interested. Now, about the account book?”

  “It’s been sent with the others,” Bernice said. “It’s being re-covered. Mr. Deerman is—he was very particular about his books. He liked the bindings new and serviceable.”

  Findlay nodded. “All right, Miss Harper. Thank you. Now, what lights were on in the house? Do you remember?”

  Bernice nodded. “There was this desk light. The foyer was lighted. And there was one light in Mr. Deerman’s bedroom. Upstairs.”

  “There was? How do you know?”

  “I looked up!” she snapped. “I saw it burning! It’s directly across the hall from the stairs. Anyone could see it!”

  He held up his hand again. “You’re about to graduate, Miss Harper. Just string along with a dirty-minded old man with a job to do. Will you? What about your relationship with Deerman? Where did it begin? How? Why?”

  “What does it matter?” Bernice whispered. “Why do you care how we met, and where?”

  “Just string along, Miss Harper,” he said. “You have a good score. You can afford to.”

  Two

  How did she meet Lloyd Deerman? And where?

  Bernice looked at the detective. She hated him. She began to talk, telling him only polite and pointless lies. But inside her mind, behind the barrier of those thick-lensed glasses, Bernice was thinking bitterly, How did it begin, Mr. Findlay?

  It must have begun in my mother’s womb. Would you be shocked if I said that aloud to you, Mr. Findlay? Of course that’s where it began. If you knew anything about genetics, you’d know that. You’d know about dyes and hair texture and tooth structure. You’d know two ugly people may be parents to a lovely child, their features blending into a pleasing whole. Or it can work the other way. Two nice-looking parents. Living up in the Bronx. Working hard. The wife going to church and gossiping about her neighbors all week. An ordinary woman. And the husband, drinking a little, looking longingly at the prettier, younger women. Their child is born. The first few years she has rickets, scarlet fever, and the mumps. When she started to kindergarten at five, they found out she has astigmatism. They put glasses on her and she wore them every waking moment. Sure, that’s where it began, Mr. Findlay.

  She looked at him. When did it begin? It must have begun the first time some woman looked at Bernice and said, “Isn’t she a h-o-m-e-l-y little thing?”

  She breathed deeply. She never learned to wear clothes correctly because there was never money enough for pretty clothes. Lack of money haunted her childhood. Some people can take a thing like that. Not Bernice. She grew up determi
ned to have all the things she’d been denied. Someday she was going to be appreciated. Treated the way lovely girls were treated.

  Personality is something you have to develop, Mr. Findlay. Or would you know? Or would you care? If you don’t get a chance to joke with the boys because you’re working all the time, you certainly don’t learn how to joke with them, do you? But on the other hand, that doesn’t make you any less starved for attention, does it? You become indrawn, secretive. When people did try to be nice, you snapped at them, and snarled like a vicious little lap dog.

  She shook her head. You become sensitive. You become so sensitive that two people cannot whisper across the room without causing you to be ill. You’re sure they’re talking about you. You want to run. You spend your whole life running from people. And all the time all you want inside is to run toward them and find them waiting, smiling, and their arms outstretched. To hell with you, Mr. Findlay, that’s how it began. And that’s when it began. But I’d die before I’d say any of that to you.

  Bernice could look at herself objectively. At twenty-four she was quite disenchanted. At fourteen she’d lain in bed, warm and excited, feeling the hot flow of blood throbbing through her when she thought about a boy, a boy’s hands and a boy’s arms and a boy’s mouth. But she attended school and worked afternoons and evenings. She was always hurrying. They never looked at her. Or if they did, she was sharp-tongued, using her wits as defense against hurt. So they left her alone. She told herself that was what she wanted. But she knew better. She was lonely all the time.

  She might even have been pretty, but her longing and her loneliness had made her unhappy, and it showed in her sharp, bitter face.

  Bernice remembered vividly how she’d graduated from high school, near the top of her class, but not at the top, sliding through unnoticed. Maybe six people clapped when they handed her her diploma. She paid her own way through business school. That seemed the quickest way to what she wanted. She learned typing and bookkeeping and shorthand. They got calls at the school. They sent Bernice dashing out to answer them. She was the best student at the business school. They told her so a dozen times. Over the telephone, they praised her to prospective employers.