The Suspect - L R Wright (10 page)

He had wide, strong shoulders, Alberg noticed.
Probably all that gardening. His own shoulders were still stiff and
sore, from Tuesday's efforts.

"What have you done, exactly?" said George,
sitting down again. "Besides take the fingerprints of innocent
bystanders, I mean. Did you photograph the corpse? Query people up
and down the street?"

Alberg nodded. He told himself that he had lots of
time.

"You found that fish seller yet?"

Alberg shook his head.

"Probably in Vancouver by now,” said George.
"Or on his way to Calgary or someplace. What else? What do you
know? The autopsy, for instance. There must have been an autopsy.
What did that tell you?”

"
He was struck on the head. It killed him.”

George looked at him for a long moment, then sat back
and folded his arms. "I always said you were a secretive bunch,
you Mounties. In or out of uniform."

Alberg couldn't help but grin. "There's not much
to tell you. Really. Okay. There are a few things." He counted
them off on his fingers. "One, the perpetrator didn't force his
way in. Two, the victim was struck from behind, while sitting down.
Three, no damage was done—"

"
Except to Carlyle,” said George.

"—
to the house. Four, nothing was stolen, that
we know of. Of course the forensic guys found some fingerprints. The
victim's, a cleaning woman's, yours.” ,

The coffee was bubbling now, its fragrance drifting
through the kitchen. George got up and took two mugs and a sugar bowl
from the cupboard and a small container of milk from
the
fridge. He smelled this cautiously before putting it on the counter.

"What do you figure from all that?” he said,
taking the pot off the burner and placing it in the middle of the
stove. "An unknown person went to Mr. Burke's house, armed with
a blunt instrument. Mr. Burke let him in. He sat in his rocking chair
looking out over the water. The unknown person struck him, from
behind. He died almost instantly.”

George poured the coffee and put the mugs down on the
crossword puzzle on the footstool. He went back for the milk and
sugar and two spoons. "Help yourself,” he said, and shoveled
sugar into his mug, and stirred it vigorously. "Why the hell
would Carlyle let the fellow in," he said, "if he was
carrying a blunt instrument?"

"
That's an interesting question,” said Alberg,
reaching for his coffee. "Maybe he didn't recognize the object
as a weapon,” he said, looking at George. "Or maybe the killer
used something he found in the house.”

George sipped at his coffee, staring at the floor.
"Have you found it?" he said finally. "The object? The
weapon?"

"
No.”

George looked up. "It's probably out in the
middle of the ocean by now,” he said comfortably.

Alberg observed him grimly. "You can be a very
irritating man, Mr. Wilcox. Did anybody ever tell you that? I bet
they did.”

George grinned. He drank some more coffee, added a
small amount of milk, and stirred it again. He put the spoon down on
the newspaper. "Okay. So you want to know about l Carlyle.”

"
Right." '

"
You been down to the Old Age Pensioners' hall?
He was in a choir there. Played bingo or checkers or something, too,
I think.”

"Yeah, we've done all that. Didn't help us
much.”

George looked at him shrewdly over the top of his
mug. "How come I rate the big cheese, by the way?"

"
You found the body."
 
"That was just my bad luck," said George.
"I told you, I didn't know him all that well. How well do we
ever know anybody, when it comes right down to it?"

Alberg put his coffee down on the TV tray. He took
from an inside pocket an envelope on which he had scribbled a list.

"
We went through the house pretty thoroughly, of
course,” he said, and looked up to see George Wilcox watching him
warily. "He had a lot of stuff, did Mr. Burke. A stereo, very I
good speakers."

"
Huh," said George, contemptuously.

"
A twenty~six-inch remote control color
television set. An aluminum rowboat. An upright grand piano, white."

George grunted.

"
A whole lot of silverware: flatware, a tea set,
trays and things. A bunch of china—that might be valuable too.”

"
Is that what you've got written on that
envelope?" said George irritably. "You got a list of his
assets there, or what?"

"
And then of course there's the house,” said
Alberg. "It's mortgage free. All paid for."

"
Huh," said George. "So's mine.”

"He didn't leave much actual cash," said
Alberg regretfully.

"
But there are some Canada Savings Bonds, a few
stocks—about twenty-five thousand dollars' worth, all told."

"
Christ," said George. "Spare me."

Alberg put the envelope back in his pocket. "He
left it all to you," he said.

For a second George's expression didn't change. Then
the sneer slipped away, and his mouth fell slightly open. He leaned
forward and cocked his head, looking intently at the tobacco stand
next to the chair in which Alberg was sitting, as though it were that
which had spoken. "What?" he said, staring at the tobacco
stand.

"You get it all, George," said Alberg. "The
whole shebang.”

And he watched, bemused, as George collapsed in a fit
of laughter which Alberg briefly thought might choke him.

"
You all right now, George?" he asked
softly, when the old man's wheezing had subsided. "Because we've
got a lot to talk about, you and I. And there are a couple of things
we should get straight, before we go on.

"First of all," he said, leaning forward,
"I don't want to waste any more of my time with this
cantankerous-old-man act you have so much fun with. And second of
all, I know Carlyle Burke was your brother-in-law."

He sat back. "So let's get on with it, shall we,
George? Tell me why you didn't get along so well with old Carlyle.
And tell me what your fingerprints were doing not just on the phone
but all over the damn kitchen. And then tell me why he left
everything he owned to you, this fellow you didn't care for. Okay,
George? Start talking."
 

CHAPTER 11

Alberg, sitting in the worn leather chair, fingered
the stuffing which oozed from a crack in the seam of the right arm
and kept his eyes on George Wilcox.

After a minute, George settled back and folded his
arms.

"My fingerprints are all over his kitchen
because, I don't mind saying it, I was—I was somewhat
discombobulated," he said, "seeing him lying there. I
grabbed at things to hold me up, on the way to the phone. I grabbed
at the wall, I grabbed at the sink .... ” He lifted his shoulders,
let them drop.

The late-afternoon sun struck into the room at a
steep angle; the windows were marked by the rains of spring and
probably winter, as well. Tumbleweeds of dust lay in the corners of
the floor.

George sighed. "I met Carlyle a few years after
the war," he said. "Must have been '48, '49. Myra and I
wandered out here from the prairies. Saskatoon." His folded
hands rested comfortably in his lap. "I was born out here. Went
to Saskatchewan about 1930. A bad time to head out there, as it
happened, but we survived. I even went to school, eventually, got to
be a teacher. Met Myra, got married, et cetera, et cetera." He
shrugged. "Anyway, we got tired of the cold, that's what it was.
Myra's people had retired out here. I didn't have any family left by
then, except my sister, Audrey. She lived with us." He shifted a
little in his chair. His feet were flat on the floor, toes pointed
outward, heels about eight inches apart.

"Myra's people lived in the Fraser Valley, "
he went on. "She wanted me to get a job out there. But I
considered myself a city person. There were lots of jobs, back then.
I could take my pick, pretty well. I picked Vancouver. " He
tipped his head at Alberg. "Are you a city man, Staff Sergeant?"
He leaned toward him. "Is that what I call you? Staff Sergeant?"

Alberg nodded.

George sat back, slowly. "You don't want my life
history. I got a job in a high school, teaching history. Carlyle was
on the staff. That's how I met him." He turned his head to look
out the window. "He taught music."

"
And?” said Alberg, after a couple of minutes.

"And what?"

"
Come on, George.”

"
You're calling me George now? Have you got a
first name? What is this 'George' all of a sudden, anyway?"

"Sorry. You've got more to tell me. Go on."

"Go on, go on," said George. "As
though all I've got to do is push a button somewhere and out it
comes." His face was flushed. He leaned forward, his elbows on
his knees, and studied the floor. "After a while Carlyle met
Audrey, God knows how, I can't remember how. And it ended up they got
married." He glanced at Alberg, outraged. "I was suddenly
his brother-in-law, for Christ's sake. Couldn't believe it.”

"Right from the start, then, you didn't like
him,” said Alberg.

George sat up straight and looked out the window
again, concentrating. Several moments went by. Alberg waited.

"
He played the piano," said George,
finally. "He could play anything. Sometimes he'd go to the music
room .... I'd be going down the hall, wide and empty, the kids gone
for the day, the floor all scuffed; I'd hear him playing. It came
soaring out from behind the door and filled every nook and cranny in
the school. That's what it felt like. Mozart. Or Chopin. Or
Beethoven. As long as I couldn't see him playing, it was like some
angel had sneaked in to try out the piano." He sat quietly for a
moment. Then, "Ah," he said, and pushed himself up. He
picked up his coffee mug and went over to the kitchen counter. "It
was the man's one redeeming characteristic," he said. "Didn't
seem right, that he could play like that. But he could.”

"
What was it that you didn't like about him?"
said Alberg.

"
Didn't trust him," said George promptly.
"Never trusted him. He came over all friendly to me the first
day I got there. I took one look and said to myself, 'I don't trust
that man.' ”

He went back to his chair and lowered himself into
it. "When he married my sister I had to overlook all that. Never
got to know him well; closely, I mean. Never wanted to. I had a big
resistance to Carlyle, all the time I knew him." Quite suddenly,
he looked exhausted. I

"How long was he married to your sister?"

"
Two years.”

"
What happened?”

"
She died. In a car crash.” He rubbed his
face, pale and strained. "We were out of the country when it
happened, Myra and I and our daughter, Carol. I was teaching in
Germany.” He straightened and rubbed the small of his back with
both hands. "That's what it must have been, you see. He never
got married again, didn't have any family except that sister in
Winnipeg and they couldn't stand each other. He must have figured I
was the closest thing to kin he had." His voice shook a little.
"The crazy old bastard.”

Alberg felt depression nudging him, gentle little
pushes that made him feel slightly sick. He struggled against it,
looking around the room for something to hook on to. "This place
could use a good cleaning,” he said disapprovingly.

George looked at him, startled, and grinned. "Myra
was quite a one for the cleaning. I've barely touched the place since
she took ill, last November thirteenth ” He glanced around the
kitchen. "You're right, though.” 

They sat quietly, and Alberg became aware of the
sound of the sea's incessant surging against George's beach, and the
occasional cry of a gull. He saw that the waters were calm; there was
a tremble upon them, that was all. George's garden, between his house
and the beach, was an orderly riot, not a weed in sight, just lush
growth and colors that were almost audible. He saw this through the
streaked window of George's kitchen, and had an urge to go out there
and see it all clearly, watch the leaves breathe and smell the roses.

"
When did your wife die?" he asked.

"
On the twentieth of March, this year,"
said George.

"Do you still miss her?”

George looked at him with distaste and didn't reply.
Alberg didn't know where to go from here. He felt almost stupefied,
sitting in George's kitchen, nestled into the worn leather chair, and
thought if he stayed there much longer his eyelids would grow heavy
and his head would drop back.

"So you met a man you disliked on sight,"
he said, trying to organize his thoughts. He ought to get up, thank
George Wilcox for his time, and leave, that's what he ought to do.
But he felt the interview had been sloppy. Maybe there wasn't
anything more to be learned here, but he was uncertain about exactly
what he bad learned. He wrenched his mind into action.

"You instinctively distrusted him," he said
doggedly. "But you taught at the same school. I presume you were
polite, never let him know how you felt. Is that right?”