What I couldn’t understand at first was why I was bothering to go through this pile of paper, since every third person seemed to be named John Smith. And most of the others were pretty obvious aliases. I read in one of Haig’s books that amateurs almost always use a first name, or a form of one, as the last name of their alias. So I ran into a high percentage of names like John Richards, Joe Andrews, Sam Joseph, and so on.
Then I hit a name I knew, and then I hit it again, and then I hit it a third time, and I cabbed to Haig’s house with three pieces of paper in my pocket that would wrap up a murderer.
Sixteen
He was at his desk. “You left just before Mr. Shivers called me,” he said. He looked intolerably smug. “You’ll perhaps be pleased to know that my instincts were quite on the mark. I thought I knew who the killer was, and now all doubt has been removed.”
“So has mine.”
“Oh? That’s interesting. I’d enjoy hearing the line of reasoning you followed.”
“I didn’t follow any line of reasoning,” I said. “My leg-work evidently got to the same place as your brainwork, and at about the same time. I reached Andrea Sugar and checked the records of men who had been to Indulgence shortly before Jessica was killed. I didn’t expect anything to come of it because I didn’t figure he would use his right name, but he probably had to because Jessica would recognize him.”
“That’s logical.”
“Thank you. He didn’t just go there once. He went there three times within the week preceding her death. I was thinking that you could call that a lot of nerve, but one thing the guy has not lacked is nerve. He’s about the nerviest bastard I’ve ever heard of.”
“That’s well put.”
“Thank you.”
“You are welcome.” His hand went to his beard. “I find it fascinating the way your legwork and my mental work found the same goal by opposite routes. Do you remember something I told you the other day? That there was a definite Ross MacDonald cast to this entire affair?”
“Something about forty years ago in Canada.”
“That’s correct. But it’s closer to fifty years than forty, and the locale is somewhat south of the Canadian border.” He closed his eyes and stroked his beard some more. “What an extraordinary amount of planning he devoted to all of this. The man has elements of genius. He’s also quite mad, of course. The combination is by no means unheard of.”
“Well, we’ve got him now. And these three slips of paper nail him to the wall.”
And I passed them across to Haig.
“Gregory Vandiver,” he read aloud.
“May he rot in hell.”
“But this is very curious,” he said.
“What’s curious about it? I already explained why he must have figured he had to use his right name. Because Jessica would have known him already. You told me I was logical.”
“I never said you were logical. I said that particular statement was logical.”
“Well, what’s the problem? Vandiver has had cash problems. Of all the people in the case, he’s the only one with a real money motive. For most people the difference between two million dollars and ten million dollars doesn’t matter much, but he got into investments over his head and needed the prospect of really big money. So he—”
“Be quiet, Chip.”
“Oh, for Pete’s sake—”
“Chip. Be quiet.”
I became quiet. He turned around and watched the rasboras for awhile. They ignored him and I tried to. He turned to face me, but his eyes were closed and he was playing with his beard. Sometime I’m going to shave him in his sleep, and he’ll never be able to think straight again.
He had been wearing his beard away for maybe five minutes when the doorbell rang. I stayed where I was and let Wong get it. A few seconds later he brought in a man who looked familiar. It took me a second or two to place him as one of the Sands Point police officers.
He said, “Mr. Harrison? I’m Luther Polk, we met yesterday afternoon.”
“Yes,” I said. I introduced him to Haig, who had by now opened his eyes. “I suppose you want a further statement, but I don’t think—”
“No, it’s not that,” he said. “I will need a further statement from you eventually, but there’s something else. Do you want to sit down?”
“No, but if you’d be more comfortable—” He shook his head. “I have some bad news for you,” he said slowly. “I felt I ought to bring it in person. Late last night or early this morning Mrs. Vandiver shot and killed her husband. She then took her own life. The bodies were discovered by servants at approximately ten this morning. Mrs. Vandiver left a sealed envelope addressed to you beside her typewriter. Under the circumstances it was necessary to open and read the letter. It’s a suicide note, and explains the reasons for her actions. I thought you would like to have it. I’ll need to retain it as evidence, but you may examine it now if you wish.” This is the note:
Dear Chip,
By the time you read this I will probably be dead by my own hand. Unless I lose my nerve, and I might. But I don’t think so.
It was Gregory who tried to kill me by planting a bomb in my car. It was also Gregory who killed Melanie and Jessica and Robin, and he would have killed Kim too in due time. I found this out an hour ago when he tried a second time to kill me. He was attempting to strangle me in my sleep. I woke up in time to get loose. I’ve always kept a small pistol in my bedside table. I managed to get it in time. I shot him and killed him. In a few minutes I think I’ll shoot myself.
I’m just so tired, Chip. Tired of everything. It’s astonishing that I could have been married to this man for so long without sensing his evil nature. I merely took it for granted that he was a bore. I never had an inkling that he was a homicidal maniac into the bargain.
Maybe I’m in shock. Maybe suicide is an irrational act for me to perform. I certainly don’t feel guilty for having killed Gregory. It was self-defense, certainly, and I would be let off for that reason. So maybe I’m just using this as an excuse for something I’ve wanted to do for a long time.
I don’t know if you can understand this, since I scarcely understand it myself. But I somehow think you might be able to, Chip.
Please don’t think too badly of me.
I read it through a couple of times. Then I gave it to Haig. “She was my client,” he said, “and I failed to protect her.”
Luther Polk said, “Sir, if she was determined to take her own life—”
“If I had had one more day,” Haig said. “One more day.”
“It was definitely self-defense, just as she wrote it,” Polk went on. “There were abrasions on her throat from where her husband had tried to strangle her, and—”
“Pfui!” Haig said. “Caitlin Vandiver did not write this bit of fiction. Gregory Vandiver did not attempt to strangle her. She did not shoot him. She did not shoot herself.”
Polk just stared down at him.
“A little over forty years ago,” Haig said. “And a bit to the south of Canada.”
I probably should have picked up on it by then, but I was only half hearing the words. I picked up one of the membership forms from the desk and looked at the signature, and then I got it.
“Oh,” I said.
Haig looked at me.
“I just recognized the handwriting,” I told him. “But what I can’t figure out is why. I know, forty years ago in Canada. But why?”
“In a quick phrase?” He touched his beard. “Because he didn’t have the guts to kill his father,” he said.
I tried to make some sense out of that one while Haig began listing names on a memorandum slip. Polk was saying something in the background. He must have felt as though he had walked into a Pinter play after having missed the first act. We both ignored him. Haig finished making his list and handed it to me.