Girl Meets Body Page 6

  Tim mocked a dubious eye. “Last night it was screams, death notes, and burglars,” he said. “Today it’s a corpse.”

  “I can’t help it. I want you to come back with me and look at him.”

  “Okay, but it’s going to be embarrassing if he’s not dead. What’ll I do? Ask him how he dares sit on a public pier while my wife September-morns?”

  “Ask him how he dares not to look interested,” said Sybil. “Anyway, the pier’s supposed to be closed. Come on.”

  “Not with you in a towel.”

  Sybil made a face at him and took a rough tweed coat from the stand. She buttoned it around her and Tim said, “That’s better. Now I can concentrate.”

  They walked across the dunes in the crisp sunlight. Tim paused to kick off his slippers, which he stuck in his bathrobe pockets, and the warm sand felt good between his toes. The whole morning felt good, for that matter, and he couldn’t seriously believe that there was anything amiss. He even began to whistle.

  “Ssh,” said Sybil.

  “Are you suggesting that my whistle is more arousing than your pure white body?” asked Tim.

  Sybil didn’t bother to reply. They were nearing the foot of the pier, which, Tim saw clearly now, joined the end of the boardwalk at right angles. Ramshackle wooden steps led up to it from the beach and a red and yellow sign beside them said: No Dogs or Bicycles on Boardwalk. The vague structures Tim had noticed on the pier the night before proved now to be a haphazard collection of small shuttered buildings, in need of paint but still boasting their summer glory in faded letters: The Nik-Nak Shop; Pantry Luncheonette; Sportland, Everybody Wins a Prize.

  The two buildings on either side of the entrance exhorted, respectively: Play Bingo and Play Bojo, Simplified Bingo. Between them extended a wooden bar with a piece of cardboard nailed to it and stating in penciled letters: Pier Closed for Season. Keep Off.

  “You see,” said Sybil, “he had no business being there.”

  “Neither do we,” said Tim. “And neither did those guys last night.”

  “Good lord,” exclaimed Sybil, “I’d quite forgotten about them. Maybe they killed him. Hurry.”

  Tim followed her up the steps with a skeptical grin, but, after they ducked under the barrier, he felt his confidence oozing. There was an uncanny desolation about the empty buildings, as if they had been left like this in the wake of a plague. Even the garish gaiety of their signs had a chilling quality, suggesting that witches held their midnight sabbaths here, screaming “Bingo!” in shrill cackles.

  Tim and Sybil padded along the pier, its boards pleasantly sun-warmed under their bare feet. It ended in a sort of square veranda evidently designed for those who didn’t want to play bingo, simplified or otherwise, but only to sit in the sunlight. Around three sides of it ran a continuous bench, its back formed by the railings of the pier.

  On the northern side, facing the inlet, sat a man. His body was slumped sideways and slightly twisted so that his head was turned three quarters toward the sea, his chin resting on the railing and an arm hanging limp on either side. From the beach, he might have appeared to be a comfortably sprawled lounger, but from where Tim and Sybil stood, a grotesque rigidity in the limbs left no room for doubt.

  “You were right this time,” Tim said with grim apology. He glanced at her and saw that her face was sickly white. “You stay here. I’ll have a look at him.”

  He approached the body, unconsciously tiptoeing tor no good reason. It was clad in workmen’s clothes, blue denim trousers, an old brown coat out at the elbows, and a cheap lumberjack shirt. A slouch hat was pulled hall over the face and from under its brim, a trickle of blood had left its crusty path, staining the light gray stubble of one cheek.

  “Don’t touch him,” called Sybil nervously.

  “Won’t hurt to see what hit him,” said Tim. Gingerly tie took the hat brim between thumb and forefinger and raised it a little. Near the right temple was a little round hole, the flesh around it burned reddish brown.

  Behind him, suddenly, Sybil gave a little scream. He turned to see her with her hand pressed against her mouth, her eyes wide and horrified.

  “Don’t let it upset you, dear,” said Tim anxiously. He lowered the hat brim as he had found it and hurried to her. “That’s no way for an old lance corporal to act,” he added with what was meant to be soothing jocularity.

  “Sorry,” said Sybil. “Sorry.” She choked on the words and blinked hard, as it trying to get control of herself. In a moment, she managed to speak more calmly. “Probably suicide, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Tim.

  “Why not? He could have sat down there, taken a last look at the sea and then shot himself. His head would have fallen the way it is now, wouldn’t it? And his arm would have dropped outside the railing the way it is, and the gun gone into the water.”

  “True enough,” said Tim. “Also, somebody might have arranged him that way. A couple of somebodies whom a certain husband, at the behest of his wife, had a few words with last night.”

  “Oh, dear,” cried Sybil worriedly. “I should never have let you go.”

  “So I thought at the time,” said Tim. He smiled and patted her arm.

  “You’re only guessing it’s not suicide, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “No,” said Tim, “I’m not guessing. There’s no bullet hole in the hat.”

  “Oh,” said Sybil. She was silent for a while, leaning against his shoulder. Then she asked, “I suppose we should notify the police?”

  “Yes.”

  She hesitated. “There’s no need to tell them about last night, is there?”

  “About the men on the pier? I certainly think I should.”

  “Why? Why should you get mixed up in it?”

  “I won’t get mixed up.”

  “Of course you will, if you tell them. You’ll have to be a witness at all sorts of proceedings and you’ll be asked to identify suspects and heaven knows what all. You’ll have precious little time for any Ph.D.’s.”

  “It’s a matter of civic duty,” said Tim.

  “It will probably be strongly implied,” said Sybil, “that you failed in your civic duty by letting the men get away.”

  “By God,” said Tim, “if they start anything like that—”

  “See? You’ll simply be making trouble for yourself if you mention it.”

  Tim glanced at her curiously. “You seem unduly anxious to have me forget about it.”

  “Of course I am,” said Sybil. “For the reasons I’ve just stated.” She spread her hands a little, as if to say Q.E.D.

  Tim continued to stare at her. “You know,” he said slowly, “I have a foolish sort of notion that I’ve seen that chap before someplace. Do you have it, too?”

  “No.”

  “You’re quite sure?”

  “Quite sure.”

  “Hallucination, probably,” said Tim. “Let’s get back to the house.”

  Chapter Nine

  Whittlebait Is A Modest Man

  Walking up through the dunes, Sybil said, “It must be one of those people Mr. Squareless was telling us about. What was the word? Pinies.”

  “My God,” said Tim. “I hope it isn’t Mr. Whittlebait.”

  “Goodness, what a selfish remark. Besides, who would want to kill our poor leprechaun?”

  “Somebody who envied him his chance to be near you. Especially since you’ve taken lo running around with no clothes on.”

  Sybil sighed. “I can remember when you liked me with no clothes on.”

  “That was indoors,” said Tim, “and this is no time to get onto such subjects.”

  “You mean the honeymoon’s over?”

  “Remember the old song, ‘Tea for Two’?”

  “Of course, darling.” She hummed. “‘Nobody near us
to see us or hear us…’ Is that what you’re thinking of?”

  “I’m thinking of the next line. Something about not having a telephone. I’m wondering if we have a telephone to call the police.”

  Sybil, who had been holding his arm, pushed it away. “I do believe,” she said, “you’re more interested in the police than you are in me.”

  “It’s a fixation,” said Tim.

  “I suppose I’ll get used to it as the years go by. But you’re not going to tell them about last night, are you?”

  “I don’t know. Haven’t made up my mind.”

  “If you do,” said Sybil, “the honeymoon really will be over.”

  They had emerged from the dunes and were crossing the gravel driveway to the porte-cochere under which Tim’s car was still standing. Hard to realize, he thought, that it wasn’t much more than twelve hours since he had left it there. They mounted the porch stairs and went into the house, bright and cheerful with morning sun.

  “Seems to me I saw a phone in that little library,” said Tim. He went into the living-room and through the French doors. “Here we are,” he called back. Then, a moment later, he called again. “But it’s dead, damn it.”

  “Dead!” cried Sybil from the hallway. “Who?”

  “The phone, dear, only the phone,” said Tim, coming back to the hall. “We’ll have to get it connected. Meanwhile, we’d better drive to Bankville. I suppose that’s the nearest police station. Although we might see if our neighbor, Squareless, has a phone.”

  “He said he was a recluse. Recluses don’t have phones.”

  “A really serious recluse likes to have a phone so he can let it ring,” said Tim. “However, I guess it would be better, at that, if we went straight to the police.”

  “You go, darling,” said Sybil. “I’ll stay here.”

  Tim looked surprised. “I didn’t think you’d want to be left alone after—after what’s happened.”

  “I’ve recovered now,” said Sybil. “Besides, it’ll take me ages to dress, and I can be getting breakfast ready for you.”

  “Make it a big one,” said Tim. “It may sound ghoulish, but the morning’s activity has given me a whale of an appetite.”

  He went upstairs and pulled a sweater and a pair of pants over his pajamas, stuck his feet into sneakers, and came back down. At the doorway, Sybil said, “Darling, I’m quite serious about not telling the police any more than you have to.”

  “It probably would mean a lot of fuss and feathers,” admitted Tim.

  “So you won’t?”

  “All right,” said Tim. “It’s a promise.”

  “Seal it.”

  He sealed it so thoroughly that when he finally released her, he couldn’t remember for a minute what he was supposed to be doing.

  She stood on the porch waving to him until the old sedan had disappeared among the green-gray dunes. It reappeared on the little white bridge across the inlet and she waved again. Then it was gone. Sybil waited a moment or so, biting her lip thoughtfully. Then she thrust her hands deep into the pockets of the tweed coat and with an expression of tight determination she headed for the beach.

  When she reached the last dune, roughly the spot in which Tim had crouched during the night, she paused and looked around. There was no living thing in sight except a solemn conclave of sea gulls standing on the sand. The bluff on which the house stood hid her from the Squareless mansion, although it was apparent that the end of the pier, jutting well beyond the point of land, was visible from their neighbor’s windows. Well, she thought, she’d have to risk that.

  She pattered up the steps to the boardwalk and slipped across it to the pier, then moved cautiously from building to building like an Indian scout from tree to tree. As she neared the square veranda at the pier’s end, she felt her breath coming faster. The unpleasant thought occurred to her that the killer or killers might have returned to the scene, might even then be somewhere among the silent, shuttered buildings.

  The veranda, in the smiling sunlight, was unchanged. The shabbily clad figure was still slumped across the bench.

  Once again, Sybil looked in every direction. Then, with the twisted face of a car-sick child trying not to throw up, she crept across the warm planking to the body and knelt beside it. Swiftly her hands went through the pockets of the threadbare coat.

  Somewhere behind her a board creaked. She froze into terrified immobility, as motionless as the waxen thing beside her. Seconds of silence went by, silence broken only by the water lapping at the pilings under her. She went through the pockets of the denim trousers.

  Finally she stood up, her face weary and frustrated and green. Nausea suddenly gripped her throat and she barely made the railing before she was actively sick.

  “Come, come, my girl,” she said aloud. “Pull yourself together.”

  Grimly she forced herself to turn once again to the dead man. Carefully, even artistically, she adjusted the slouch hat until it looked as if it had been idly shoved to the back of his head by the wearer. The bullet hole stared, like a hideous third eye, from beneath the brim.

  Sybil stepped back and considered her handiwork with a mixture of revulsion and satisfaction. Then she turned quickly and ran along the pier.

  She was weak and shaky when she got back to the house. As she entered the hall, she heard a door slam from the direction of the kitchen and she jumped like a frightened rabbit. She steadied herself on the newel post and called in a loud and artificial voice, “Who’s there?”

  Nobody answered, but she was sure she heard someone moving in the kitchen. “Who’s there?” she cried again, this time with a suggestion of panic.

  The swinging door from the kitchen opened and a mild face peered around it into the dining-room. “It’s only me, ma’am,” said a meekly nasal voice. “Elias Whittlebait.”

  “Oh,” said Sybil and involuntarily she began to laugh. She clung to the newel post and laughed, weakly, almost hysterically.

  Elias Whittlebait looked hurt. He was a smallish man, pale and thin, with a walrus mustache that seemed too big for his face. His eyes were blue and, behind thick-lensed spectacles, looked watery. He was wearing blue denim overalls and coat to match, a collarless shirt, and a cap.

  He took the cap off and said, “Are you all right, ma’am?” The uneasy question apparently referred to her mental condition.

  “Yes,” gasped Sybil, struggling to control the intensity of her relief. “Yes, Mr. Whittlebait, I’m quite all right. I thought you were a burglar.”

  “No burglars around these parts,” said Mr. Whittlebait, with a reassuring smile. “Even if there was, you wouldn’t have to worry with me lookin’ after the place.”

  “I’m quite sure we wouldn’t, Mr. Whittlebait.” She had been trying to think what he reminded her of anti she remembered now: Bill the Lizard, of Wonderland.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” said Mr. Whittlebait modestly. “I come round to see if everything was satisfactory.”

  “Everything’s splendid, thanks.”

  “Glad to hear it,” said Mr. Whittlebait. “Particularly you bein’ a stranger to our shores and your husband one of the boys that fought to preserve our way of life.” The little speech sounded as if he had practiced it.

  “That’s very nice,” said Sybil.

  “So, if there’s anything I can do to make you comfortable—”

  “Oh, yes,” said Sybil, “there is. The w.c. on this floor doesn’t work.”

  “The what, ma’am?”

  “The w.c.”

  “Sorry, ma’am, I don’t—”

  “Of course, you don’t call it that in this country, do you?”

  “Call what what, ma’am?”

  “The bathroom. The toilet.”

  Mr. Whittlebait averted his eyes. “Oh,” he said, “you mean the commode. You mean it don’t—flush
.”

  “That’s it.”

  “I’ll take a look.” He went into the lavatory under the stairs, and she could hear him making clanking noises. Presently he came out, still looking embarrassed. “I’ll have to get some tools for that,” he said. “I’ll be back later on.”

  “Good,” said Sybil. “My husband will be here then and he’ll doubtless want to talk to you.”

  “Then I’ll say good morning, ma’am, for the time being.”

  “Good morning, Mr. Whittlebait. It’s a pleasure to have you looking after us.”

  Mr. Whittlebait bowed, then a sudden look of horror appeared behind his spectacles, his mouth fell open beneath the walrus mustache and he turned and fled through the kitchen door.

  Now what in the world? thought Sybil, then she glanced down and said, “Oh, my God.” She had absently unbuttoned her coat, quite forgetting in the morning’s excitement that it was all she had on.

  Chapter Ten

  The Face Was Familiar

  Tim returned an hour and a half later to find Sybil with a frilly apron over a sweater and flannel skirt, and the house full of the fragrance of coffee and bacon. “Now this is what men get married for,” he said and plunked himself hungrily at the sunlit table.

  “I’m glad that point’s cleared up,” said Sybil. “Where are the coppers?”

  “Down at the pier. I expect they’ll be along pretty soon to ask us some questions.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “Just that we found a body on the pier. Simple statement of fact.”

  “Very prudent. But you’ve been gone a long time.”

  “Ran some errands,” said Tim, through a mouthful of grapefruit. “Got the papers and saw about connecting the phone and stopped at the post office to see if we could have mail delivered.”

  “Can we?”

  “No. Have to get it there. Damn nuisance. Here’s something I’ve fetched for a start.” He tossed a letter across the table. “It’s addressed to you. From the War Bride people, apparently.”

  Sybil tore the envelope open and read the letter aloud:

  “Dear War Bride: