He pulled into the circular drive of the big house and parked at the front door. The atmosphere was peaceful; the sun shone, and flowers bloomed. Howell wondered whether it would be so peaceful after he had bearded the lion in his den.
He got out of the car and walked to the front door, which was ajar. He pressed the doorbell and heard the chimes clearly from inside. No one came to the door. Where was old Alfred? Off doing the grocery shopping? Wasn’t there a cook, too?
Howell pushed the door open a foot and stuck his head in. “Hello!” he called out. “Anybody home?” He found himself hoping there wouldn’t be. He was still a little afraid of Sutherland. And he would dearly love a few minutes alone in his house.
“Mr. Sutherland?” He pushed the door open further and stepped into the entrance hall. There was a small echo as his heel met the gleaming, mahogany floor. “Hello? Anybody home?” He walked boldly down the hall, straight through to the door opening onto the broad, rear veranda, with its commanding view of the lake. There was no one out back, either. He walked down the back lawn to the little office building he had once broken into. No one there: the door was tightly locked, and he didn’t have a Neiman’s credit card, this time.
He walked quickly back to the house and called out again a couple of times. He was, apparently, alone at the house, for however short a time, and it was tempting. He had already had a thorough look out in Sutherland’s office; he wondered, now, what might be in the study. Making no effort to be quiet, just in case someone was in the house, he walked toward the study door. As he approached it, he could see his own reflection in one glass door of the shotgun case. The other door was open. The next thing he saw was a bare foot.
He stopped in his tracks and regarded it for a moment. It was a large foot, long and narrow, very white. The toes seemed particularly long. The foot of a tall man. It protruded from behind the chesterfield sofa. Howell took another step. The other foot was there, too, resting at an odd angle to its companion. Those, Howell said to himself, are the feet of a tall, white, dead man.
Howell took two more steps into the room and made himself look at the rest. The body, clad in silk pajamas and dressing gown, lay as if it had slipped off the sofa, propped halfway up against the arm. The wall behind the sofa held a smashed hunting print, hanging at a crazy angle, and a substantial portion of Eric Sutherland’s brains. Howell looked back at the body. All that remained of the head was the lower jaw, attached to a partly scooped-out shell that had been the back of the skull. It still had ears.
Howell stood still and tried to breathe normally. He had seen his share of corpses, but never one quite like this. And he had never been the first on the scene. He looked slowly and carefully around the room. A beautifully engraved shotgun lay near the body; alongside it was a yellow pencil. The desk seemed undisturbed. A small safe next to it was closed. Nothing else seemed out of place. Howell stepped to the desk, being careful not to trip over anything or step in anything. He took a ballpoint pen from his pocket, stuck it through the handle of the middle drawer and opened it. He poked around with the pen. Nothing unusual; paper clips, rubber bands, a checkbook. He opened the other drawers: a bundle of bank statements, some stationery, stamps. The sort of stuff he’d expect to find in anybody’s desk.
Howell inserted the tip of the pen under the desk blotter and lifted it. Nothing. Eric Sutherland didn’t appear to have left a note. Not at the scene, anyway. Howell squatted and looked at the safe next to the desk. He knew nothing about cracking safes, but he knew something about human nature. On his knees, he opened the desk drawers again with his pen and looked underneath each. Nothing. He stood up and pulled out the stenographer’s shelf on the right. There was a piece of paper taped to the shelf containing a list of phone numbers Sutherland called frequently; the sheriffs office, the bank, a couple of banks in Atlanta, Enda McCauliffe. He pushed the shelf back in and pulled out its mate on the left side. The face of the shelf was clean, but Howell spotted a piece of cellophane tape on the edge of the shelf, protruding slightly. He pulled the shelf out to its limit. The combination to the safe was taped to its inner edge.
Howell looked at his watch. He reckoned he had been at the house for less than five minutes, in the study for half that time. He ran to the door and had a look around the front of the house. Still deserted. He ran back to the study and slipped out of his shoes and socks. Quickly, he pulled the socks onto his hands, knelt and started to dial the combination of the safe. It didn’t work. He tried again more carefully, and this time, the handle moved and the door swung open.
The safe was crammed with all sorts of papers. Evidently, Eric Sutherland had been the sort of man who preferred to keep important things locked away, instead of in unlocked desk drawers where people like Howell might find them. Howell flipped quickly through the contents. He was breathing fast, now, terrified that someone would walk in on him. There were a lot of deeds in the safe – the farm land under the lake, Howell suspected; there was a bundle of cash, twenties, fifties, and hundreds; there were some ledgers; no time for any of that stuff. A heavy, bright blue envelope caught his eye. It looked new. He fumbled with the string closure with his stocking fingers and finally got it open.
LAST WILL AND TESTAMENT
was its title. Howell flipped quickly through it, passing up small bequests to the butler, cook, and gardener. There were some small charitable bequests, not many. When he got to the bequest of the residue of Sutherland’s estate, he was brought up short. He reread the first paragraph twice, to be sure he absolutely understood its meaning, then he pressed on for two more pages, reading as fast as he could and still retain what they said. The will was witnessed by Enda McCauliffe and two other people whose names he did not recognize. But it was what came after the will that riveted him to the spot. He read on. He was totally rapt now; a platoon of police storming into the room would not have disturbed him.
He finished and looked about him. Eric Sutherland had a copying machine, but it wasn’t here. Where had he seen it? Of course, in the office building out back. He looked at his watch. He had been in the house for a good eight minutes, maybe longer. He tried to think how long it might take him to get out there, jimmy the door, wait for the machine to warm up, and copy the will. Five or six minutes, and he couldn’t afford to make a mess of the door. There had been no keys in Sutherland’s desk. Since the body was wearing pajamas, they were probably upstairs in his bedroom with the normal contents of the man’s pockets.
No. Too much time, too much risk. He couldn’t afford to end up in jail, not today. He put the will back into the envelope, got the string wound around the closure and replaced it in the safe. He closed it, worked the handle and spun the lock.
He pulled the socks off his hands, then picked up the phone and dialed the sheriffs office. Scotty answered.
“Is Bo there?”
“Yes,” she said in a hushed voice. “Why? What’s up?”
“Let me speak to him.”
“Why? What’s going on, John?”
“Let me speak to him right now, Scotty.” He heard her call out to Bo.
“Hey, John, how’s it going?”
Howell glanced at his watch. “I make it four minutes to eleven, Bo. What time have you got?”
“Four and a half to. You want to compare watches? I’ll show you mine if you’ll show me yours.”