“Can you remember?”
“Oh, no. I didn’t pay any attention. Something about a person named Steve and a person named Marty.”
“Please try to remember, Dr. Daniels. My name is Steve.”
“All I can remember is that you’re supposed to go talk to this Marty.”
Steve leaned forward. “Doctor, is there any possible chance that Miss Hess was framed?”
The friendliness vanished at once. “My dear young man! It is my duty to keep that sort of thing from happening. If you think for one moment that a man of Dr. Dressner’s standing would think that he could persuade me to—”
“All right. Thanks for your help.”
Steve walked down the broad tan steps of the County Courthouse, into the hot afternoon sunlight. If Daniels had remembered correctly, it certainly did sound as though Gloria had gone off the deep end. Go tell Marty something. Go on out to the cemetery and sit on your heels and tell Marty all about it. Tell him all about the willowy nurse who thought she was a spy or something.
Well, by now the kids would be out of Prade’s reach, and Mrs. Chandler would have a wrong story to tell anyone who asked her. Prade would notice the kids were not home and quickly add two and two. He had the feeling that time was running out, and he was getting nowhere.
He got a handful of change and shut himself into the steam bath of a phone booth. “I am sorry, but Senator LaVerne cannot be reached. He is on a fishing trip in Canada. He goes every year at this time. I do not know how you could contact Mr. McGell. Perhaps I could find out and call you back?”
“This is something that is important to the senator and to Mr. McGell. I wonder if you could locate Mr. McGell for me and tell him to get in contact with me here in Coleburne as soon as possible.”
“I don’t know whether I could assume the responsibility of—”
“I can safely say, miss, that this is a matter of life and death.”
“Oh! Well, in that case, if you will give me your name again and where you can be reached—”
Steve gave her the information she wanted. He walked, damp with perspiration, out of the phone booth. A late Friday afternoon in the summer. A long weekend coming up. The world had no time for a girl who might possibly have been framed, for a man who had no weapon but anger and indignation.
A cop in pale-blue hot-weather uniform was waiting at one of the main intersections, waiting to take over traffic duties from the robot light when the afterwork rush started. Officer, I want to confess to killing a man.
No, not that way. Don’t go out of circulation too fast, he told himself. Use what freedom there is left to do something constructive — if you can think of anything. So you killed a man. mister. Who was he? Where did he live? Where did he come from? What was his business? Was he married?
All I know about him is that he was Chester “Marty” Novecki, and he didn’t die of a fall. He was pushed. In the face. I broke this hand on him.
Somewhere, he thought, there would be some record of Marty. If McGell was ever located, he’d want to know more about the man. He’d want a few details. Where did they keep such details? Probably some forlorn municipal bureau, some room stacked high with the dusty records of death. He remembered the death of his father, the long, involved form the undertaker had brought. Somebody had had to fill one of those out on Novecki. Lew had mentioned a funeral for Marty. Lew was a loyal man. He’d always throw his business to his friends.
Steve called up George and caught him as he was about to leave the office.
“Steve? Just got word your — friends are doing fine.”
“Good, George. Thanks. Say, if Lew Prade died, who’d handle the funeral?”
“That’s a funny question. Brown and Carew, probably. They’re on Vincent Street, a block beyond the Y. At least they’ve buried a lot of Lew’s friends.”
He thanked George, hung up. walked through the heat to the ultramodern undertaking establishment of Brown and Carew. As he walked he planned what he would say. He did not know anyone there, and it was highly unlikely that he would meet anyone who would know him. by name or by sight.
By the time he touched the bell he had his plan under control. A man with a sad, polite smile admitted him.
“Can we be of service, sir?”
“I hope so. My name is Dale. Insurance. We have a death claim just submitted by the widow of a man named Novecki. Chester Novecki. I believe you took care of the funeral arrangements.”
“Oh, yes, we did, Mr. Dale. My name is Thompkins. I happen to remember that matter because Mr. Prade... ah... took care of all expenses. But if I remember correctly, sir, there were no relatives.”
“Novecki had been separated from his wife, but she was still the beneficiary on a small paid-up policy. I want to determine whether or not this was the Chester Novecki on which we carry the policy, Mr. Thompkins. I’d consider it a favor if I could look at your records.”
“That’s — a rather unusual request. If you could show me some authorization, I think it might possibly be arranged.”
“I can wait while you call the local office of my company, Mr. Thompkins. Just ask them if Dale is handling the Novecki investigation.” He made his voice as casual as he dared. He gave the name of one of the larger agencies.
“I’m sure it will be all right, Mr. Dale. Would you care to come back through to the office?”
They walked down a wide, softly carpeted corridor, past small rooms where services were held, past a larger room where caskets and urns were on display, to a small, efficient-looking office in the rear. A quick, owl-eyed girl dug into the files at Thompkins’ request, handed him a long form with a deft flourish. Thompkins glanced at the form and handed it over to Steve with a similar flourish. Steve read through it quickly.
Name of deceased: Chester Novecki. Age: 50 (approx.). Height: 5' 5''. Weight: 130. Hair: Gray. Eyes: Blue. Cause of Death: Injuries resulting from fall down flight of stairs while under influence of alcohol. Treated: Emergency at Coleburne General, removed to Valley Vale day before death. Certification: Dressner.
“Is something the matter, Mr. Dale?”
“Uh... no. This doesn’t seem to be the man. We’re interested in — a much younger man.”
He looked again at the form, bewildered, confused, but with a great gladness, a gladness that seemed more chemical, more glandular than the product of any conscious thought, beginning to well up in him. The blanks regarding occupation, residence, next of kin. were all filled out with a single word — “Unknown.” Obviously a bum. One of the tired, shuffling old creeps with the broken shoes and the gray, hopeless faces, one of those vacant-lot citizens who tenderly heat up soup cans full of ethyl gas and inhale the fumes to acquire a three-day blackout, one of those to whom death itself is merely the hopelessness of each day carried to a slightly greater degree.
How simple it had been for Prade, for Dressner. Pick a bum with a hopeless prognosis out of the charity ward and let him die at Valley Vale. Then tell Dalvin, the gullible sucker, that Marty’s right name had been Chester Novecki. Cure Marty of his concussion, or whatever it was. and send him out of town so that dope, Dalvin, wouldn’t run into him on the street.
He remembered what Gloria had said, about its being too simple, too pat. And so, in the night, she had taken the chance of trying to prove her hunch, of trying to check Dressner’s records. She had been caught, and there had been little risk in making the arrangements with the righteous and simple-minded Dr. Daniels. Three months of rest for Miss Hess, while that jerk, Dalvin, channeled the Jennings and Ryan deliveries over to Ricky Vogeling. The bulk of the equipment was due during that three months. Then let the Hess girl go. Let her tell Dalvin how he’d been a sucker, and it would be too late for them to do anything about it. As the drug was taking effect on her she’d sent the clear message. Go talk to Marty. It was a clue, and he’d been too dull to catch on. And it was only because of his instinct to give to McGell as complete data as possible that he’d stumbled on the deception. Prade was, in his own way, a perfectionist. He’d probably sent a horseshoe of flowers to the funeral he’d paid for — “GOOD LUCK. MARTY.”