Tightrope Walker Read online

  “—and when she reached the threshold of the doorway they pushed her. It was the only way to do it—by trickery—that would leave no marks.”

  “Who?” demanded Robin.

  “John Tuttle and Holton … I think with the help of Daniel Lipton, whose throat was cut five months later.”

  “I didn’t know him,” Robin said. “You’re leaving out Nora, aren’t you?”

  “I think the last two—Holton and Lipton—were the ‘faceless ones.’ ” Seeing how awful Robin looked I added politely, “It’s really possible, you know, that Nora tried to break away at the end, that she couldn’t face what was happening. She left for those two days, you know.”

  “Kind of you,” he said with a twisted smile, “but she came back, didn’t she? How was she when you saw her at the hospital?”

  I thought about this. “Like someone who had died a long time ago,” I said quietly, “leaving only a shell behind.”

  “I wish I could hate her,” he said. He reached into the envelope, sorted through a few snapshots and handed one to me. “Here’s the Nora I knew and loved.”

  She was sitting in a hammock, probably no older than fourteen, wearing grubby pants and a torn shirt that somehow made her beauty all the more potent. I felt a pang of envy—that long blond hair, the eager, radiant face, the flawless features. She was lovelier than anyone I’d ever seen; a fairy-tale princess indeed. “Who’s the boy behind her?” I asked as my eyes moved away from her face. I frowned. It’s not you, it can’t be, yet he looks so familiar to me.”

  Robin leaned over and looked. “Oh. That’s Jay Tuttle.”

  “We have yet to find him,” I told Robin. “I don’t suppose you’ve kept track of him at all, have you?”

  He looked at me strangely. “You mean you don’t know?”

  My frown deepened. “Well, you see, Nora wouldn’t tell me yesterday, and Mrs. Morneau seemed too—too frightened to tell us. She said he’d changed his name, changed a good many other things, too. She refused to tell us where to find him, and under what name.”

  Robin’s laugh was harsh. “Morney was never one to go against the Establishment, no.” Getting up he walked over to his bookcase and baffled me by returning with a recent copy of Newsweek magazine. “Here,” he said, turning the pages. “Under ‘New Crop of Candidates.’ They’re arranged alphabetically according to states. Look under Maine.”

  But of course as soon as he spoke the word “candidate,” the truth struck me. Nevertheless I leaned over the page and searched for the pictures of the two men who were running against the incumbent in Maine for the U. S. Senate. And there they were: Angus Tuttle and Silas Whitney.

  “Morney was misleading you,” Robin said. “Jay changed only his first name. Catchier, making it Angus. The plainness of his name always irritated him but believe me, he would never consider changing the Tuttle, it brought him too many votes in Maine. If you’d known him you’d have realized that.”

  He pointed at the toothpaste-ad smile that had bedecked the telephone poles, the restaurant mirrors and the general stores of Anglesworth and Carleton. “There’s your John Tuttle,” he said, “and Holton is his aide.”

  I said stupidly, “There are twelve teeth in that smile,” but my stomach had tightened. Dear God, I was thinking, what have I gotten us into, no one on earth is going to believe this man is a murderer.

  13

  It was raining when I left New York City, a slanting, silvery rain that was already cooling the air. I had telephoned Joe from Robin’s apartment to tell him about Tuttle but there had been no answer; all I could think about now was getting back to Trafton and seeing him. I think I was channeling all of my shock into picturing Joe’s; without this anticipation I would have had to face the anxiety I was experiencing. After all, Woodward had Bernstein, and Bernstein had Woodward.

  What worsened the sense of shock was that I’d honestly never given a thought to what Tuttle might have become, I’d been concentrating exclusively on Hannah. Perhaps because my mother had inculcated such heavy guilts in me as a child I had assumed that Tuttle would be living defensively, as I would, given to trembling atthe sight of every policeman, with the occasional nightmare from which he awoke drenched with sweat.

  Now I realized how unimaginative I’d been.

  A murderer, I realized, must first of all have a great and consuming ego, something like an overgrown and poisonous mushroom I decided as I pictured it, even compared it, to my own ego, which I had often felt must resemble a withered prune. There would have to be something missing inside a murderer, a sense of connectedness to other people, so that he would see them as satellites to feed and nourish him, not as human beings just like himself. The thought of any similarity between himself and others would be intolerable, he would be cleverer, more resourceful, realistic and intelligent, and after he had successfully murdered he would think of himself as God, wouldn’t he?

  Obviously I had overlooked the conceit and the arrogance. He wouldn’t tremble at the sight of a policeman, he would smile, his secret glowing inside of him, his superiority reinforced.

  As to what to do about Tuttle, Joe would know, Joe would know exactly what to do and which people to see, as Robin had not. “I’m an actor,” Robin had explained. “With Hannah’s manuscript I’m on familiar, solid ground, you can trust me there. I know the agent she had, and I know the agent’s going to be excited as hell about this sequel. All this I can handle, it’s part of my scene. Murder, no.”

  Of course I had not told him about Hannah’s house burning down, with me very nearly trapped inside, but that had happened in Maine. Now I was leaving New York and heading for Pennsylvania, and Maine felt a long time ago, distinctly unreal and very far away.

  I entered Trafton feeling that, given any encouragement, I would jump out of the van and kiss its pavements. It was just six o’clock as I drove down the boulevard, turned up Grand Street, and then down Cherry so that I would come out on the 900 block of Fleet Street. I had been absent for six days; during that time Trafton had acquired a patina and a charm I’d never before noticed. I slid the van skillfully into a parking slot in front of Joe’s office, slipped a dime into the parking meter, and raced upstairs to his door.

  The first thing I saw was my telegram lying on the floor mat. Unopened.

  This was certainly jarring. I’d sent this telegram yesterday morning, on Wednesday, and this was early Thursday evening. I couldn’t imagine why it was lying there carelessly on the mat some thirty-four hours later. I rattled the door and then banged on it because there was always the possibility that Joe’s phone had been out of order for days and the telegram had just been delivered, but I was only playing for time while my heart adjusted to disappointment. I’d nobly overlooked Joe’s not waiting for me on the steps outside, I’d forgiven his not seeing me from his window and rushing down to greet me but Joe hadn’t even known I was coming; the let-down was considerable. Like Mrs. Morneau I’d been writing scenarios ever since I left New York City; I’d expected to be crushed in a passionate embrace, told I’d been missed (savagely) and the dialogue, while scarcely immortal, had contained only a few clichés and had flirted here and there with R ratings.

  All right, I thought grimly, this is the way life is, Amelia.

  I climbed back into the van and headed north to my own block of Fleet Street. The shop would have closed at six but I could telephone Mr. Georgerakis and tell him of my return, and I was sure he would have a number of anecdotes as well as a warm welcome for me. This revived me. I reminded myself that Joe would eventually come home—after all, he lived here—and I could picture his chagrin when he found my two-day-old telegram on his doorstep. I was suddenly anxious to see my shop now, and Pegasus and the hurdy-gurdy.

  I parked the van in the alley, fumbled for my keys and unlocked the door of number 688. The shop looked cheerful and tidy. I hurried upstairs to check my plants and found that Mr. Georgerakis had watered them, just as he’d promised. I came downstairs and looked
around with satisfaction, noting that three more bathrobes had been sold, two clocks, and quite a few pieces of the willow ware. To round out this satisfying moment someone began knocking on the shop door and my heart lifted as I realized that it could only be Joe. I eagerly unlocked the door and opened it.

  It wasn’t Joe. It was a well-dressed, gray-haired man carrying an attaché case.

  “I am sorry,” he said, noticing my disappointment, “but I’m frankly glad you haven’t left yet, I was to pick up a case of willow ware? I was here earlier, as perhaps the gentleman told you, the one who was in the shop this afternoon.”

  “He didn’t tell me. A whole case?” I repeated, charmed by the thought in spite of my second disappointment.

  “An eight-place setting.”

  This was very nice indeed: not many people in my neighborhood can afford even a four-place setting all at once, they buy a dish or two at a time. An eight-place setting came to thirty-five dollars, of which my profit was seven-fifty. “Come in by all means,” I told him, opening the door wider.

  He nodded and walked inside. I knew I’d seen him before and I wondered if he worked in the neighborhood and passed the shop frequently. The most conspicuous feature about him was his glasses, which were round, steel-rimmed, and very large; and his clothes, which were conservative and well cut, with a gleam of gold at the wrist. Otherwise he was literally colorless, with that parchment-pale skin that older men have who rarely see the sun, a pair of thin lips, and a short, fleshy nose. But somewhere I’d seen him before. “I’ll be only a minute,” I told him. “I’ll just open up the case and make sure there’s been no breakage.” I added anxiously, “You do realize it will be thirty-five dollars plus tax?” As soon as I said this I realized how stupid I sounded; he looked like a man who could afford antique willow ware or Limoges or expensive hand-crafted pottery. I deserved the faintly amused look he gave me as he reassured me that he did indeed know the price.

  I hauled the case out from under the rear shelves, reached for the stubby penknife hanging from its hook and knelt beside the case. As I slit open the top of the carton I suddenly realized that I’d not seen this man on Fleet Street.

  I didn’t think I’d seen him in Trafton, either.

  I associated that face—those large round glasses and the attaché case—with a background of wooden benches.

  This was puzzling: wooden benches. I closed my eyes and hoped that something else would swim to the surface. Wooden benches. A feeling of haste and sadness, too. A face noticed. Other faces. And wooden benches.

  I’d been alone. Or had I?

  I bent over the dishes, my fingers exploring the china. “Nothing broken,” I called cheerfully over my shoulder, and tucked the ends of the carton back in place. “She’s all yours,” I added.

  Where had I encountered wooden benches lately, and why was I so sure that it had been lately? And then I thought, It had something to do with Joe. Joe was with me.

  I picked up the case and half turned to look at the man again. He didn’t see me. He had quietly walked over to the door where he was clearly outlined against the white shade that I pull down every evening, with CLOSED printed on the street side. Now I saw him reach out and touch the lock, and as I heard it quietly snap—with that crazy ping! sound they make—I caught my breath. There had been wooden benches at the Blue Harbor airport in Maine, and that was where I’d seen him; he’d followed us into the waiting room looking conspicuously out of place with his attaché case, conservative business suit and large steel-rimmed glasses. I’d watched him with amusement and after that, I remembered, I’d kissed Joe goodby, driven back to unit 18 and then to Hannah’s house and the box room, after which … but here my thought stopped. My heart almost did, too; it was the sound of the lock that did it. Once before I’d heard a lock snap unexpectedly, in Hannah’s box room, and now I had the suffocating feeling that I had just met the person who had turned that lock, too.

  I didn’t hang up the penknife on its hook; I slipped it instead into my pocket.

  Amelia, I thought, remain calm.

  Amelia, I told myself sharply, don’t panic, the life you save could be your own.

  Except he wouldn’t dare to try anything here, whoever he was, surely not in the middle of a city, on a busy street.…

  Oh no? sneered a part of my mind. He’s just locked the door, hasn’t he? The two of you are quite alone and no one in Trafton knows you’re back. He wouldn’t find a better chance in a million years, would he?

  The telephone, I thought, somehow I’ve got to get to the telephone.

  I pretended that I’d neither seen nor heard him lock the door. I strolled toward the counter and toward the telephone behind it with a bright false smile on my face and the case of dishes in front of me like a shield. As I neared the counter I saw his attaché case lying there and I saw the letters stamped on it in gold: H. Holton.

  Hubert Holton. I had a nearly overwhelming urge to scream but I took my hysteria and shoved it deep inside of me—it was like stuffing something away in a dufflebag—where I could feel it turning in the pit of my stomach but fueling me in a more disciplined way. I said calmly, “I believe Mr. Georgerakis still has these dishes on sale at 20 per cent off. I’ll just give him a ring and ask—”

  “No,” he said with equal calm. “I’ve no time for that.”

  I lifted the case and threw it at him across the six or seven feet that separated us but there was nothing slow about his reflexes, he ducked and the case hit the floor with a thud and a crash of broken china. Before I could reach the telephone he picked up the long scissors lying across the dry goods and cut the telephone wire. Following this he brought a small, businesslike gun out of his pocket and leveled it at me.

  “All right,” he said evenly, “how did you know?”

  “I noticed you in Maine, at the Blue Harbor airport,” I told him.

  He nodded. “Quite a remarkable young woman.”

  So I was remarkable; that was pleasant to hear but not from him. “And you’re Hubert Holton.”

  “You’re also a trouble-maker,” he pointed out in his soft, precise, emotionless voice, “and I don’t appreciate trouble-makers.”

  “No,” I said, watching him, “two murders can be embarrassing.” I shouldn’t have said that, of course, because until that moment I don’t suppose he was aware of how much I knew, but I wanted to fling much more than a case of dishes in his face.

  He blinked at that, and his voice sharpened. “What led you to Anglesworth? I’ve checked, and so far as I can discover you never knew Hannah Meerloo, or Jay, or Nora. What prompted this idiotic excursion of yours into the past?”

  I countered, “First tell me how you heard I was making that excursion.”

  He shrugged. “Mrs. Lipton phoned me—I was in Augusta—and told me that you and a young man, driving a very distinctive van, had visited her to ask about Danny’s witnessing Mrs. Meerloo’s will in 1965. She thought it might be worth a few dollars to her. I thought it worth attending to personally, and with not many motels open yet I soon found your van parked at the Golden Kingfisher Motel, and of course the name of your shop here was on the side of the van. After that I followed you to Mrs. Morneau’s house and then to the airport, and then—” He stopped and added harshly, “And Jay had a hysterical phone call yesterday from Nora telling him about your visit.”

  “You mean telling you that I’d survived,” I said softly. “You left out your attempt to kill me in Carleton, Mr. Holton.”

  “So I did,” he said smoothly. “As I say, a quite remarkable young woman, and now I’d like to hear what took you to Maine in the first place.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t think so, Mr. Holton, because I don’t like people who try to kill me and I’d prefer to let you always wonder how I knew about Hannah. You goofed, you know.”

  “I do not,” he said coldly, “ ‘goof,’ as you phrase it.” He looked at me as if he were assessing a balance sheet, weighing deficiencies and possibilitie
s. “What you fail to understand, my dear Miss Jones,” he said, as if delivering a lecture to a class of backward students, “is that not even the police would be interested in such ancient deaths. I think you’ve forgotten—if you ever knew—that there’s such a thing as a statute of limitations.”

  “Oh?” I said. I hoped it wasn’t true. I refused to believe it was true. “Then why are you so—uh—upset?”

  “Because your nuisance value is considerable,” he pointed out, “and I simply cannot allow you to jeopardize Jay’s chances of being elected to the U. S. Senate. I’ve worked too hard.”

  “You’ve worked too hard?” His eyes were like cold gray marbles behind his glasses but his manner was calm; it was difficult to realize that although we were skirting the issue we were really talking about my death.

  “Of course,” he said, surprised by my obtuseness. “I waited a long, long time to find Jay, and I’ve taught him everything he knows. He’s young, he’s only beginning, there’s no limit to how far he can go in politics.”

  I stared at him. “You killed Hannah for that?” I said incredulously. “A woman with more talent, imagination and intelligence than that precious Tuttle of yours could ever have?”

  He shrugged off my naïveté as if it were a mosquito: impatiently. “She was only a woman,” he said contemptemptuously. “And you show a tiresome interest in the past that doesn’t become a person of your age,” he added, “For myself it’s the future that matters, not the past past.”

  I blurted out, “Why didn’t Jay marry Nora?”

  I swear that he looked shocked by my question. “Marry?” he repeated. “But my dear Miss Jones I had no intention of letting him marry Nora, it was money he needed, a grubstake one might say. He didn’t have a dime, and I had only a professor’s modest salary. Jay needed money for clothes, meeting the right people, for entree into the cliques that matter.”

  I must have looked just as shocked as he had looked a moment ago. I said, “But Nora had money, and Nora loved him.”