I went in.
‘Sit down.’ His face was stony. ‘You didn’t do so well, did you?’
I sat down and looked directly at him.
‘What was that again?’
‘If you hadn’t forgotten that whisky in the car, Frank would now be alive.’
‘You think so? I’ll tell you something, Mr. Bernstein, you can’t keep drink from a drunk. If not now, it would have been later.’
He stared at me for a long moment, then shrugged.
‘I’m taking care of Mrs. Marshall’s affairs,’ he said. ‘What did Frank pay you?’
‘Seven hundred.’
He took out his wallet and thumbed out seven one hundred dollar bills which he put on the table.
‘I want you to stick around here, Devery. I want you to look after the place, keep the garden right and take care of the sightseers. There are bound to be ghouls who will come out here looking for souvenirs. Keep them out. I’m taking Mrs. Marshall to Frisco. My wife will take care of her until I can fix her affairs. You stick around until the house is sold. Is that okay?’
‘Is she selling the house?’ I asked staring at him.
‘Yeah. She doesn’t want to live here anymore and that’s understandable. Yeah, she is selling the house.’
‘Well, okay, Mr. Bernstein. I’ll take care of it.’
He nodded.
‘Right.’
Beth appeared in the doorway. She was carrying a holdall. Bernstein shot out of his chair and took the holdall from her.
‘Devery has agreed to stay on, Mrs. Marshall,’ he said, oil in his voice. ‘You go to my car. I won’t be a minute.’
I was staring at Beth. She looked broken. There was no other word for it. She held a sodden handkerchief with which she kept dabbing her eyes. She had probably dipped it in water before she had come down the stairs. She looked a shocked and sorrowing widow. As a performance she outclassed Hepburn.
She gave me a small, wan smile.
‘Thank you for all you have done,’ she said, her voice quavering. ‘Mr. Bernstein is so kind and understanding.’
Bernstein and I watched her walk slowly to the front door. He picked up Marshall’s locked briefcase.
‘See you at the inquest,’ he said curtly, then nodding, he picked up the holdall and went out to his car.
I stood in the doorway of the front door. Beth was huddling up in the passenger’s seat, the sodden handkerchief held to her eyes. Bernstein gunned the engine and drove away.
That left me on my own.
From that moment, I had an instinctive feeling I was being edged out. It was a feeling I wouldn’t accept, but it was there.
Beth had said she could handle Bernstein and she certainly had. I supposed our next meeting would be at the inquest. I would have to ask her where I could contact her. It would be dangerous for me to leave Wicksteed immediately after the inquest. I would have to stay around until the house was sold before moving to Frisco.
I spent a dreary, lonely day in the big, lonely house, trying to kill time. No one telephoned. No one came near. Finally, around 18.00, I got so sick of my own company, I drove into Wicksteed.
Parking, I went into Joe’s saloon.
They were all there in a huddle: Pinner, Olson, Mason and a tall, lean bird I hadn’t seen before. As soon as they saw me, they waved, and Pinner heaved himself out of his chair to cross the saloon to shake hands.
He signalled to Joe who brought a beer which he set on the table, nodding and smiling at me.
‘Well, Keith, this is something, isn’t it?’ Pinner said. ‘Meet Luke Brewer.’ He waved to the tall, lean bird. ‘He’s our coroner.’
Brewer gave me a thin smile as he shook hands.
‘What’s been going on, Keith?’ Pinner asked, leaning forward. ‘You’ve been right in the middle of it.’
I sipped the beer, then sitting back, I gave them the photo. With the coroner listening, it was a perfect opportunity.
I told them what I had told McQueen. Sure McQueen had already given Brewer the facts, I was careful, but my story had more colour than the story I had given McQueen. I finished by saying Bernstein had taken Mrs. Marshall to Frisco and he was representing her.
This item of news brought Pinner, Olson and Mason stiff in their chairs.
‘She’s gone to Frisco?’
‘That’s it. The house is going to be sold.’ I paused. ‘My guess is Bernstein is tricky. He has a way about him. He was very close to Frank.’ I sat back and looked slowly at the four of them, then went on, ‘I did have a chance to talk to Mrs. Marshall about the amusement park idea before Frank died and she seemed interested. I think she could be persuaded now she has Frank’s money, but this is my guess.’
Pinner thought about this, then looked at Brewer.
‘We wouldn’t want to submit Mrs. Marshall to an ordeal at the inquest, would we, Luke?’
Brewer chewed his thumbnail as he got the message.
‘There’s no question of that. Mr. Devery’s evidence will do. I don’t think I’ll even have to call Mrs. Marshall. It’s a straightforward verdict: accidental death.’
We all nodded.
And that was how it was.
The inquest went smoothly and fast. I was the principal witness: in fact the only witness. Brewer said it wasn’t necessary to call Mrs. Marshall who sat at the back of the courtroom with Bernstein. He expressed sympathy of the court and sympathy of the citizens of Wicksteed. It was all over in thirty minutes.
Pinner shoved his way through the crowd to shake Beth’s hand and murmur condolences. Bernstein whisked her away. I didn’t have a chance to get near her. I didn’t even catch her eye. She was pale, weepy and she looked nowhere... a great performance.
I watched Bernstein drive her away.
Pinner came up to me.
‘What do you think, Keith?’ he asked anxiously.
‘If she doesn’t play now, you can’t blame yourself.’
‘But do you think she will?’
I had enough of him and Wicksteed’s greed.
‘How the hell should I know?’ I said and leaving him, I got in the Caddy and drove back to the big, lonely house.
The funeral was two days later. Practically all the citizens of Wicksteed turned up, but Beth didn’t. Bernstein was there to represent her. He explained to Pinner who was leading the Wicksteed mob that Mrs. Marshall had collapsed. She had desperately wanted to be there, but her doctor had refused to let her attend.
Marshall’s body, in an expensive coffin, was tucked away in the Wicksteed’s burial ground next to his aunt’s grave. I stood with the hypocritical mourners. Pinner stood by my side. Olson, Mason and the rest of them, all wearing black ties and looking mournful, flanked Bernstein who looked bored. The press took photographs.
After the burial, Pinner tried to talk to Bernstein, but he got nowhere. Bernstein bulldozed his way through the crowd to me.
‘You’ll be hearing from me, Devery,’ he said. ‘Look after the house.’ Then he shoved his way to his car and drove off.
That seemed to be that.
Two days later, the local real estate agent came with a fat man and his fatter wife. They tramped over the house and decided to buy it as it stood. The price was right, and they were a couple who liked being on their own.
The following day while I was cooking a steak for lunch, the telephone bell rang.
It was Bernstein.
‘I’m depositing seven hundred dollars in your bank, Devery,’ he said curtly. I could tell from the tone of his voice he had no time for me. ‘The house is sold. From now on, you’re not needed. One other thing I’ll get you to do: sell the Caddy. Get the best for it and send the cheque to me.’
‘Okay, Mr. Bernstein.’ I paused, then said, ‘I would like to speak to Mrs. Marshall. Could you tell me where I can contact her?’