Death Takes a Bow (15 page)

Sproul had died of an overdose of morphine, and had had a moderately bad heart. That made it official. He had been male, white and weighed 210 pounds; in life he had been six feet, one inch tall. He had been—

Weigand grew interested. Sproul had been born in Centerburg, Iowa, in 1896. His father had run a feed store. Sproul had gone to school in Centerburg and to high school and, the feed business apparently proving profitable, to the state university.

He had been—and Weigand lifted eyebrows in amusement—graduated from the School of Agriculture. So Victor Leeds Sproul, the suave taster of the elegant, was a farmer at heart. Apparently it had remained at heart; there was no record that he had farmed. He had been drafted in the other war, but had not got overseas. He had, however, got to New York. The record thereafter was incomplete; men were working on it. It was slow work, his parents being dead and Centerburg being far off. But there were ways, and they were being tried. Even with the most likely avenue—the official records of the French Republic—closed, there were ways. There would be people who had known Sproul when. There were always people who had known everybody when. But it might take time to find them.

This didn't, Weigand thought, looking out the window at the streaming rain, look like being a quick one. There was a good deal, come down to it, to be said for the family murder, with suspects conveniently cooped together. Or, if you were to have murder, for any circumstances similarly restricting. This one looked like being all over the place. However.…

He left the other dossiers, most of them incomplete but growing, until later. He spread the dozen sheets of Sproul's lecture notes out in front of him and began a scrutiny. He began it hopefully, sustained by a theory—the theory of the most likely. Assuming Sproul had been murdered, as and when he was, the most likely reason was that he had been about to say something in his lecture which somebody did not want said. If that proved true, it would explain a good deal of the good deal which needed explanation.

Sproul had planned to begin, it appeared, with innocuous praise of a people and of a nation and of a nation's way of life. “Centuries look down,” he had evidently planned to quote, and he had capitalized “Continuity of time.” You could reconstruct, Weigand found—in Paris, as you went about your foolish business in her streets, history looked down on you from ancient buildings and echoed in famous streets; along this road Villon had walked and great kings ridden; down this crooked lane you might have heard anguished cries on the eve of St. Bartholomew's Day and here tumbrils jounced on cobbles. You drew from these things, Sproul might have been going to say, a renewed sense of the continuity of life and of civilization, and perhaps he might have meant to add that barbarians had been this way before, and vanished finally, leaving no trace.

There was nothing in this, as it appeared, to prompt murder. It might have been eloquent, if Sproul was eloquent, and probably he was. It might also, like most eloquent things, have been a little obvious at the core. But audiences had grown exigent if they murdered to deflect the obvious. Weigand turned to the next page. Sproul had, about there, planned to come down to the present. History lived in these streets and buildings; so did the contemporary. “Heard of the Left Bank—maybe too much,” one note ran. “Apologize—but lived there many years—it, too, part of way of life gone” … “Variety of people … all over world. Spoon River.…”

That was not so obvious. Spoon River? Weigand looked at it. Spoon River?

The Spoon River Anthology
, of course; the only Spoon River of which Weigand had ever heard. Edgar Lee Masters. But Masters, about then, had been living, Weigand dimly recalled—having known a man who knew a man—in New York. At a rather odd place in Sixteenth Street, the man who knew a man had said. And—but of course it was obvious. Sproul had intended, almost certainly, to do his own
Spoon River Anthology
on the people he had known in the Paris days. He would say—or would that be too obvious? Weigand's eyes traveled on. It had not been too obvious. Seine River Anthology. Weigand's interest quickened.

Brief, probably acid, summaries of lives. That would be the idea. Not in free verse, one could assume; prose vignettes, quite possibly intended to take the skin off and hang it to the barn door. A project to which skin owners might be expected to object. Names? Weigand's eyes went on. Not names. Letters. The inevitable Mr. A., the infinitely to be expected Miss B. Here—and then Weigand's eyes stopped abruptly and he made a pessimistic remark about his ultimate future. He made it in a tone of honest surprise.

Somebody had been ahead of him, and that he had known. But he had not supposed that his predecessor through the pages of Mr. Sproul's notes would leave markers, as if Weigand were following a paper chase. But that was what his predecessor had done. He had drawn, of all things, a little arrow pointing toward “Mr. A.” and he had gone to the further trouble of underlining the notes which apparently referred to Mr. A. Faint pencil marks called Lieutenant Weigand's attention.

Somebody, and evidently somebody who held Weigand's intelligence in notably low esteem, wanted to make matters very clear. Somebody wanted to be helpful. The police department had enlisted, quite without volition, an anonymous assistant. Weigand, after again remarking that he would be damned, followed the penciled lines. The notes here read:

“Odd people among—give some examples—all like a bit of gossip.… Mr. A., example—farm boy from Iowa—educated crop rotation—by wits” (Lived by wits?)—“authority on sophistication—but used to sneak off—”

“Hell,” Weigand said. There was nothing there; nothing but a joke on the audience. Mr. Sproul had started his anthology with a vignette of Mr. Sproul. Very comical; very—ingrained was the word. A man for the secret joke, the no longer joking Mr. Sproul. Why had the anonymous adviser thought it worth while to draw Weigand's attention to Mr. A.? Unless—Weigand paused to consider the “unless.” Unless the adviser, who presumably was the same person who had used a blackjack on the Weigands, wanted to indicate that Mr. Sproul was Mr. Sproul's own murderer. Or unless Mr. A. only appeared to be Mr. Sproul, so that references to him constituted a joke within a joke. The idea intensified Weigand's headache and he stared broodingly at the typed notes. He shrugged and returned to them.

Where Mr. A. had sneaked was to one of the American style restaurants which used to dot Paris in the tourist days, where the homesick might get ham and eggs and, if fortune favored acutely, corn on the cob. That was the secret about Mr. A., apparently—the yearning of the Iowa farm boy for the products of the Iowa farm. Not a vital secret, on the surface. No more revealing, in essence, than would be the yearning of a boy from Marseilles for bouillabaisse. Although Americans of a certain habit of thought might think it revealed more. Mr. A. was, he would take it, Mr. Sproul himself and Mr. Sproul had not murdered Mr. Sproul to keep him from giving Mr. Sproul away. Weigand reached in his pocket, took out a flat box of aspirins, and swallowed a few. He went on to Miss B. Miss B. was also underlined. Weigand let his eyes hurry along; they were all underlined; all these alphabetical anonymities. The adviser had played no favorites. He went back to Miss B. The notes were cryptic, which was understandable. Too cryptic? There was that discouraging possibility. However—

“Miss B. L. Bounti. Tourist came to stay … artists and writers—WRITERS—circumspect. Br. Lovely lady—curious tastes—surprising under braids … CUT LOOSE.”

What, on this framework, had Sproul planned to build? It was less than a framework; less than a blueprint. It was a penciled rough, such as an architect might sketch to remind himself of plans he might some day make … Miss B.? Weigand read it again. Braids? A little girl with braids, who had cut loose in Paris and revealed curious tastes? Paris was, or had been, a place for those with curious tastes—for circumspect young women who had a surprising “b” under braids. Brain? Or “bees” as in “bees in her bonnet?” But it would come to the same thing. And was “br” again “brains” or was it—any one of a hundred other words. “Bright,” perhaps—perhaps she was a bright young lady. Or perhaps she merely had a brother. Or was brillig. 'Twas brillig and the jabberwock … To hell with it!

A circumspect young woman who wore her hair in braids—Then Weigand remembered. Jean Akron's blond hair was coiled in braids around her head, unfashionably but with effectiveness. And she had a brother—she certainly had a brother. And you would call her circumspect; it was possible to conclude that, to Sproul, she would have seemed in Paris a “tourist (who) came to stay.” And was an artist or a writer? No—who was interested in artists and writers. Particularly writers? And was there a kind of leer in the planned reiteration of one of the varieties of mankind in which Miss B. was interested? Was there a kind of leer in the whole passage devoted to her; a kind of slyness, that hinted of hints to come? Hints, could it remotely be, about Miss B. and her brother?

What had Sproul planned to say about Jean Akron, assuming, as it seemed reasonable to assume, that Jean Akron was Miss B.? Something Jean or her brother might have gone to considerable lengths—even to great and final lengths—to prevent his saying? The notes, Weigand decided, left the matter open. They left room for speculation. It would be his duty to speculate. This much he decided: The notes on Miss B. did not, at the worst, discount his theory that Sproul might have been killed to close his mouth; to prevent his repeating, from coast to coast, something which some person would be much inconvenienced by his saying anywhere.

Weigand lighted a new cigarette and continued to Mr. C. He read:

“Mr. C. Artist all know—monkeys.”

That was all it said about Mr. C. He was an artist and there was something about monkeys. Weigand stared at it and said “Damn.” Mr. C. and his monkeys seemed to be new characters, making belated entrances. If Mr. C. was important, all that Weigand had so far done in listening to people, watching their faces, speculating over their inflections and the words they chose, was valueless. Which meant he would have to start over. On the other hand, he could defer Mr. C. He decided to defer Mr. C.

“Mr. D.… excellent nws. Boon c—very boon … long in P. very few knew … little matter of pad. ex.ac. c.e. Wd. badly in Cin.”

To hell with abbreviations. “Excellent nws” indeed. Weigand stared at it. “Excellent news?” Why was Mr. D. excellent news? Mr. D. was not excellent news to Weigand; he was not news at all. “Excellent news—” “newspaperman?” That was evidently possible. And “boon c” would be, obviously boon companion, presumably of Sproul … “very boon” might be Sproul's way of saying that Mr. D. let himself go on occasion; that, like Miss B., he “cut loose.” He had been “long in P(aris)” and very few knew—“him?” Or “why” he had been so long in Paris? Had he remained in Paris because of a little matter of a pad. ex.ac.c.e., which, Weigand had to admit, meant nothing whatever to him at the moment. Nor did the information that Mr. D. had “wd,” which presumably was “weighed” or “wanted” badly in “Cin.” seem to mean much. Unless Sproul was a bad speller and had intended to say that Mr. D. had waited in sin, somewhere. Badly. That made no apparent sense.

But Weigand did have a newspaperman on his list—George Schwartz. The lanky, pleasant copy-reader who was formerly the husband of Loretta Shaw, who was to have married Sproul. And who apparently was still in love with Loretta Shaw. Or, at any rate, wanted to get his arms around her, which might be the same thing. Weigand found himself speculating absently on the nature of love and drew himself harshly back. That was no way for the mind of a detective to behave.

The door opened, and Mullins came in. Weigand looked at him absently.

“Do you ever speculate about the nature of love, Sergeant?” he inquired, in a formal voice.

Mullins stared at him and said “huh?” But he did not seem particularly surprised.

“Skip it,” Weigand told him.

“Sure I do,” Mullins said. “What'ja think I am, Loot? Other day, I ran into as neat a little—”

“Right,” Weigand said. “You'll have to tell me about her, Sergeant. Say in about a month. Right?”

“In a month,” Mullins said, “I maybe won't remember. But what the hell? Here's some more reports, Loot.”

Weigand waved at the desk. He scrawled on a pad in front of him.

“Pad. ex.ac.c.e.” he wrote and tossed it to Mullins.

“What does that mean, Mullins?” he inquired. “Without thinking?”

“Padded expense accounts,” Mullins said. He stared at it. “Or maybe not,” he said. “I don't get the ‘c.e.' part.”

Weigand stared at him wonderingly.

“Mullins,” he said, “you're wonderful. As Mrs. North says.”

Mullins looked pleased.

“Did she, Loot?” he asked, hopefully.

“Hundreds of times,” Weigand assured him. “She says, ‘Mullins is wonderful.' Dorian, on the other hand—”

“O.K., Loot,” Mullins said. “O.K. I bit. O.K. But it could mean that. All except the ‘c.e.'”

“Exactly,” Weigand told him. “You
are
wonderful. Probably it does mean that. And probably ‘c.e.' means city editor. Probably it all means that Mr. D., who may be Mr. Schwartz, padded expense accounts when he was city editor of some paper in—probably in Cincinnati, where he is now badly wanted.”

Weigand was pleased. Here, at any rate, was something they could check on. The Cincinnati police would cooperate; it was specific. Would Schwartz have killed Sproul because Sproul was about to reveal the peculations of Schwartz's past?

Weigand paused and thought it over, his feeling of accomplishment dwindling. It was unlikely that Schwartz would kill Sproul because Sproul knew so relatively unimportant a secret. If Schwartz was going to do any killing of Sproul, it would much more probably be over Loretta Shaw. If Schwartz killed, he might be expected to kill violently, in response to violent stimuli.