He said, “You were out last night?”
“Yes.”
“What time did you leave?”
“I don’t know — early.”
“You weren’t here when Kelsey became ill and the doctor was called about nine or so?”
“I’ll? Doctor? No, no, I wasn’t here.”
“You left before nine,” Sands said, “and returned when?”
“I’m sorry,” Mr. Heath said in a low voice. “I can’t remember.”
“Late?”
“Late, yes. There was something about matches. Out there.” He gestured out the windows to the front of the house.
“Someone was there?”
“Yes.”
“On the driveway?”
“Yes... no, not on the driveway. Driving. Someone was in a car out there.”
“He lit a match and you saw him?”
“No. No, he hadn’t any matches.”
“You talked to him?”
Mr. Heath pressed his hands against his eyes. “He hadn’t any matches. No, he did have some. I remember he had some matches. But I remember the other, too, that he didn’t have any.”
“Don’t try,” Sands said easily. “It will come back. Ever smoke yourself?”
Mr. Heath looked around guiltily. “Well, yes. Sometimes, in my room. I’ve got a room on the third floor.”
“Have one,” Sands said. He held out his cigarette case and Mr. Heath reached out his hand to take one.
“He wanted some matches,” he said suddenly. “Then he discovered that he had some, a whole boxful. He showed it to me.”
“A big box of big wooden matches?”
“No, in paper packets. The kind with advertisements on the cover.”
“Advertisements like dog food, coal, restaurants...”
“Joey’s!” Mr. Heath shouted. “Something about Joey’s!” He was shaking with excitement and could barely hold his cigarette to the match Sands offered.
“Joey’s Nightclub,” Sands said.
“That was it!” Whatever Alice had said about him she’d have to take back now. He had remembered the matches and the young man sitting behind the wheel of the car looking pale and scared.
“He was frightened about something,” Mr. Heath said. “I put my head down and looked in the window because I wasn’t sure what he had asked for. When he saw me he seemed startled as if he’d seen a ghost. And he knew me. The man knew me. He called me by name.”
“He was a stranger to you?” Sands asked quietly.
“Yes, yes, I thought he was a stranger, but if he knew me...” He turned his head away. “Perhaps he wasn’t a stranger. Nobody knows me except the people who come to the house.”
“Your son is well known.”
“Johnny. Yes, everyone knows Johnny. He was captain of the rugby team at McGill for two years.”
“He looks like you.”
“He does? You think he looks like me?”
“Very much.”
“Ah, no. He was Isobel’s son. She wouldn’t have allowed him to look like me.”
“But he does. You don’t know where there’s an ashtray?”
They both looked solemnly around the room but there was no ashtray.
“I usually use my pants cuffs in moments like this,” Sands said. “But I haven’t any cuffs.”
“I haven’t either,” Mr. Heath said. He looked pleased and self-conscious like a schoolboy conspiring with his hero. “There’s that vase over there.”
A Greek black-figured vase stood on the mantel, alone and important. Sands lifted it off the mantel and passed it to Mr. Heath. They both flicked their ashes into it, then Sands placed the vase on the floor between their chairs.
“Isobel,” Mr. Heath said.
“Pardon?”
“I said, that’s Isobel.”
“Oh. Where?”
“In the vase.”
“Is it?”
“Yes, that’s Isobel.”
Sands looked inside the vase and there, sure enough, was Isobel, pulverized beyond recognition. He replaced the vase carefully on the mantel and brushed his hands on his trousers.
“Well,” he said, “if it’d been me I wouldn’t have minded.”
“Ashes to ashes.”
“Exactly.”
Their voices were grave, but when Sands turned he saw that Mr. Heath was shaking with silent laughter. His whole huge body was convulsed and when the waves of laughter had subsided he had to wipe the moisture out of his eyes with a handkerchief.
His voice was choked. “I... haven’t had — so much fun — in years!”
“Well,” Sands said, smiling. “That’s fine.” He waited for a minute until Mr. Heath was sober again. Then he said, “I’m interested in your stranger with the box of matches. Do you remember his face?”
“I remember that it was young and frightened.”
“Good, bad or indifferent?”
“Good, I think,” Mr. Heath said slowly. “But he had his hat pulled down and I can’t be sure.”
“How did he discover that he had some matches after all? Did he look for some?”
“No. They were there on the seat beside him all the time. That was how I saw the name Joey’s. It was printed across the top of the box. Funny how you’ve made me remember all this.”
“Mnemonic midwifery,” Sands said. “Part of my job. What kind of car was he driving?”
“There was nothing unusual about it that I can recall. Neither new nor old. I don’t notice cars much. I never had a car. I used Isobel’s.”
“I hope I’m not tiring you.”
“No, you’re not! That’s what they’re always saying and never giving me a chance to talk!”
“Do you remember anything else about the young man?”
“His voice. I don’t know much about anything else but I do like to listen to voices,” he said with pride. “I used to be a musician in a small way and I have perfect pitch. I don’t mean that as a boast because actually perfect pitch isn’t much help in the long run. But I use it to amuse myself. Isobel used to talk on middle C. She was a monotone, so much that when she was angry her voice simply rose a whole octave to the next C. It was very interesting.”
“A gift like yours would come in very handy in my profession.”
“Would it?” Mr. Heath flushed with pleasure. “Well, most people talk on just three or four notes normally. Have you heard Philip talk?”
“Yes,” Sands said. “Nice voice.”
“He has a very expressive voice. It changes from second to second and without sounding affected he can use a whole octave to express one idea. If you stand far enough away so you can’t hear his actual words his talking sounds like music played on a bad instrument.”
“And the stranger’s voice?”
“Like Philip’s, but coarser than Philip’s. It was almost a professional voice, strong and husky like a sideshow barker’s.” He glanced up apologetically. “Of course I’m merely guessing. He might have had a cold or he might drink too much.”
Sands’ pen paused over his notebook. His mind went back to the matches. Not long ago he had had a packet of matches, with Joey’s Nightclub printed on the cover. The hat-check girl had given it to him when he was leaving the club. She had taken it out of a box.
What kind of customer received a whole box of them? A friend of the hat-check girl’s? Or a friend of Joey’s? Or a customer who spent very freely?
The young man in the ordinary car wouldn’t belong to the last group. It was odd, if you knew Joey, that anyone at all had been given a whole box. Joey respected the cent and he was still in business while other and better nightclubs had had the life span of a fruit fly.
A young man with a husky voice and an ordinary car and a box of matches...
“Did he drive away after you left?”
Mr. Heath hesitated. “No, I don’t think so. I didn’t hear the sound of a motor.”