noon. I happened to make the call from the vestibule of my home. One of the hotel employees answered, a woman with an Irish accent. I asked her to look in on Miss Gebhardt when there was such a delay in the answering of the phone. I was worried, you see. Unfortunately at that moment I heard someone at the door. The servants were out. I had to answer it, so I hung up the phone.”
“You thought it might have been your wife at the door?”
“It was my wife. At the first opportunity, I called back but the line was busy. That was probably an hour later. I didn’t have a chance to call again until late evening. By then I had seen the newspapers.”
“Why didn’t you come to us then?”
“The shock was considerable. Then when I got thinking about it in some order, I felt there were certain things I should take care of first. I didn’t know what this visit with you might involve.”
“What sort of things had to be taken care of?”
“On some pretense, I wanted to get Ida out of town. She has a heart condition. It’s a source of great worry to me.”
Holden looked at him. “You might as well feel sorry for yourself, Mr. Winters. I can’t think of anybody else in the world who will. Wait in the other room till the statement’s ready for you to sign. Read it first.”
Winters got up with as much dignity as he could muster. “I’m not a suspect in her murder, am I, sir?”
Holden smiled contemptuously. “Your kind of murder isn’t that clean. On your way.”
When he and the lieutenant were alone, Goldsmith got up and helped himself to one of Holden’s cigarettes.
“Worth coming in for, Goldie?”
“I’d like to have seen him squirm some more, but I’ll take that for a down payment.”
“Look, Goldie, the town is crawling with his kind. We put on the heat, he puts it on. He knows a lot of firemen. See what I mean? This way you, get the leisure to read poetry.” He grinned when Goldsmith’s eyes met his over the cigarette. “I presume that’s what you’re doing with the two books you signed out on the inventory?”
Goldsmith took the cigarette from his mouth and looked at it. “Funny thing about one of those poets—Francis Thompson. When he was down and out a prostitute took him home with her and kept him. That’s when he started writing poetry.”
18
D AY BY DAY, THE Gebhardt murder story moved farther back in the newspapers. When, toward the end of the week, it disappeared altogether for a day, Father Duffy decided that he could wait no longer. He had received an answer to his letter to Little Falls. No one there remembered a Father McGohey. By the time it came, it no longer mattered. He had located a Reverend Walter A. McGohey, a captain in the United States Army during World War I. In 1919 he had returned to his parish in Marion City, Pennsylvania.
Friday afternoon Father Duffy stepped off the train in Marion City. He had one week’s vacation coming, and as it turned out, the Monsignor was glad to have him take it while his nephew was in New York. Less than a week before Father Duffy had planned his vacation in Canada. He had thought about the long days fishing, and nights so quiet that he could hear a bird stirring in its nest. A week ago? Much longer it seemed, and unimportant, anyway. And of the choice between tramping the thousand dusty streets of New York and the one dusty lane, which was the whole of Marion City, he still felt that he had chosen the more direct way to his quarry.
The priest checked his bag at the station and inquired the direction to St. Teresa’s rectory.
“You can’t miss it for the cemetery,” the station master told him, pointing through the town. “We’re more dead than alive here.” He chuckled at his own joke.
Walking through the town, Father Duffy decided there was more truth in the jest than the jester had intended. Marion City had been a mining center at one time, but the coal veins had dried up, and the only business left was in the stores,
“You thought it might have been your wife at the door?”
“It was my wife. At the first opportunity, I called back but the line was busy. That was probably an hour later. I didn’t have a chance to call again until late evening. By then I had seen the newspapers.”
“Why didn’t you come to us then?”
“The shock was considerable. Then when I got thinking about it in some order, I felt there were certain things I should take care of first. I didn’t know what this visit with you might involve.”
“What sort of things had to be taken care of?”
“On some pretense, I wanted to get Ida out of town. She has a heart condition. It’s a source of great worry to me.”
Holden looked at him. “You might as well feel sorry for yourself, Mr. Winters. I can’t think of anybody else in the world who will. Wait in the other room till the statement’s ready for you to sign. Read it first.”
Winters got up with as much dignity as he could muster. “I’m not a suspect in her murder, am I, sir?”
Holden smiled contemptuously. “Your kind of murder isn’t that clean. On your way.”
When he and the lieutenant were alone, Goldsmith got up and helped himself to one of Holden’s cigarettes.
“Worth coming in for, Goldie?”
“I’d like to have seen him squirm some more, but I’ll take that for a down payment.”
“Look, Goldie, the town is crawling with his kind. We put on the heat, he puts it on. He knows a lot of firemen. See what I mean? This way you, get the leisure to read poetry.” He grinned when Goldsmith’s eyes met his over the cigarette. “I presume that’s what you’re doing with the two books you signed out on the inventory?”
Goldsmith took the cigarette from his mouth and looked at it. “Funny thing about one of those poets—Francis Thompson. When he was down and out a prostitute took him home with her and kept him. That’s when he started writing poetry.”
18
D AY BY DAY, THE Gebhardt murder story moved farther back in the newspapers. When, toward the end of the week, it disappeared altogether for a day, Father Duffy decided that he could wait no longer. He had received an answer to his letter to Little Falls. No one there remembered a Father McGohey. By the time it came, it no longer mattered. He had located a Reverend Walter A. McGohey, a captain in the United States Army during World War I. In 1919 he had returned to his parish in Marion City, Pennsylvania.
Friday afternoon Father Duffy stepped off the train in Marion City. He had one week’s vacation coming, and as it turned out, the Monsignor was glad to have him take it while his nephew was in New York. Less than a week before Father Duffy had planned his vacation in Canada. He had thought about the long days fishing, and nights so quiet that he could hear a bird stirring in its nest. A week ago? Much longer it seemed, and unimportant, anyway. And of the choice between tramping the thousand dusty streets of New York and the one dusty lane, which was the whole of Marion City, he still felt that he had chosen the more direct way to his quarry.
The priest checked his bag at the station and inquired the direction to St. Teresa’s rectory.
“You can’t miss it for the cemetery,” the station master told him, pointing through the town. “We’re more dead than alive here.” He chuckled at his own joke.
Walking through the town, Father Duffy decided there was more truth in the jest than the jester had intended. Marion City had been a mining center at one time, but the coal veins had dried up, and the only business left was in the stores,
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