The Wind Chill Factor (6 page)

Standing in the master bedroom again, I watched him survey the scene with his chin cupped in a dark, hairy hand. His spatulate fingers were well manicured. He’d opened his trench coat, revealing a navy-blue fisherman’s sweater underneath and a yellow shirt collar poking up against his chin. He had a very short, thick neck.

“Your brother,” he said.

I nodded.

“You found the body,” he said. “You didn’t move anything.”

I nodded.

“Miss Smithies—” He paused. He looked at Bradlee. “What was her late husband’s name? Phillips?”

Doctor Bradlee nodded.

Peterson walked closer to the table at Cyril’s side, stared down at the snifter and the corked bottle of Courvoisier. He knelt and looked at the lamplight through the bottle of Courvoisier. He pursed his lips and began to think out loud, a quality to which I became inured. “For the sake of argument, let’s say he opened this bottle—that it was a fresh bottle. This house has no regular, full-time occupants drinking a bit of brandy now and then, so we have the odds with us there. There is very nearly half a bottle of brandy that has been drunk.” He looked up smiling broadly, incongruously, reminding me of a standup comic delighted by his own old and weary joke, laughter in the audience. “Now, there is either a hell of a lot of Courvoisier inside Cyril Cooper or”—he paused for some kind of effect—“or there was someone else sitting here drinking it with him. And if there was someone else here, I’d like to talk to him.” He beamed and then immediately dropped his smile and scowled at me: “This is the part of being a detective I simply
love.
The easy part, Mr. Cooper. Obviously, you’ve had a nasty shock tonight. You didn’t kill him yourself, did you? No, I didn’t think so.”

“I’ve driven all the way from Boston in answer to a telegram from him,” I said. “He wanted me to meet him here on the twentieth.”

“You’re late, Mr. Cooper.” He wasn’t looking at me anymore. He jammed the poker into the ashes, clanged it against the grate.

“No, as a matter of fact, I wasn’t late. I arrived last night, late last night.”

“And why didn’t you find him then, I wonder?”

“Because he wasn’t here. At least—”

“You were in this room last night, then?”

“No, I—”

“But you were in the house last night? You slept here?”

“No.”

“No? I thought you said you arrived last night. Perhaps I am merely confused. …” His back was to me. Bradlee was extracting a cigarette from a gold case, tapping it on the lid.

“I did arrive last night. I came into the house about eleven o’clock, poked around downstairs for a few moments, then took a bottle of brandy from the library and drove down to the cottage by the lake and slept there.”

“And you didn’t see your brother?”

“Obviously not.”

“Was it snowing hard, Mr. Cooper?”

“Yes, very hard, and blowing.”

“And you saw no automobile tracks leading to the house?”

“No, it was flat snow, drifted.”

“But it was very dark?”

“Yes, very. No moon, no light.”

“Well”—and he finally turned around to face me—“you didn’t see any signs of your brother’s arrival because, I suspect, he had arrived earlier, Mr. Cooper, and whatever signs there might have been were no longer visible.” He grinned. “And please understand that I am theorizing, merely theorizing.” Then the grin disappeared. “On the other hand, I’ll bet I’m right.” He turned to Bradlee, who was watching him with a hint of a smile. “I’ve seen a hell of a lot of corpses, Doctor, and I’d say this one has been dead a good twenty-four hours.” He looked at his watch, a small, delicate gold square against the black hair. “You, Mr. Cooper, have been home just about twenty-four hours. It’s all very ironic, isn’t it? You drive all this way, through all the snow, and you may have arrived here within—what?—minutes of your brother’s death.” He shook his head. “Where was your brother coming from, Mr. Cooper? I know he hasn’t been back here in a long time, but where was he coming from?”

“Buenos Aires,” I said. “At least that’s where the telegram came from.”

“My God, Buenos Aires,” he mused. “A long way to come to fall over and die, isn’t it?”

We were following him down the stairway when Bradlee asked me how my head felt. Before I could answer, Peterson said: “And what’s the matter with your head, Mr. Cooper?” He kept on walking.

“Somebody tried to kill him on the road,” Bradlee said.

“You’re kidding!” Peterson stopped at the bottom of the stairs with a smile of unalloyed amazement on his dark features, beneath the thick mustache. “You are definitely kidding!”

“No, Mr. Peterson,” I said edgily. “I’m not kidding. I’m delighted that the revelation amuses you, but I’m not kidding.”

Peterson chuckled and went through the parlor into the library, where Paula sat reading a huge volume from a matched set of Dickens,
Bleak House.
He smiled at Paula, made some comment I missed, and sat down in a leather chair by the fireplace.

“Listen, do you folks have a few minutes?” He was all humility. “This is all so interesting. I’d like to ask you a few questions, try to get done by midnight … okay?” He was suddenly all folksy warmth. The changes in Olaf Peterson came so fast that it was making my head ache again.

“I could make coffee,” Paula said, smiling faintly at me. “I’m the world’s champion. Coffeemaker, that is. I seem to do so damn much of it.”

“That would be fine, Miss Smithies.” Peterson looked at Bradlee and me. “Fix us all some coffee. We could all use some coffee, I’m sure.” She went away. “You say she was a close friend of your brother’s.”

“Yes.”

“Very close?”

I nodded.

“Oh, boy,” he said, lighting up an absurdly slender cigar. “Now, tell me all about the attempt on your life, Mr. Cooper.”

I told him.

“And you didn’t go to the police? Or the hospital? You just went to Howard Johnson’s and sort of curled up and called it a day?” His eyebrows, bushy and dark, were inching upward.

“You’ve got it,” I said. “I was tired, the incident was over, and if I felt worse in the morning I could check in at a hospital then.”

“But, Mr. Cooper, aside from your own health, you were involved in an attempted murder. You had seen close-up the men who tried to kill you, you had seen their automobile, and you knew what sort of damage it had sustained in bumping you off the road.” He stared at me balefully. “And yet you didn’t report any of that to the police. Or the highway patrol.” He pursed his lips beneath the smudge of mustache. “Mr. Cooper, your behavior in this instance borders on the criminally stupid.”

I stared into the flickering fire.

“And you’re not a particularly stupid man, are you, Mr. Cooper? Are you?”

“Peterson, I had a good deal on my mind. I was alive and I was moving again. There was a storm going on that night that—I’m not sure I can make this clear—that seemed to make everything different. Another time I’d probably have done all those things I should have done. But that night I didn’t. And if your contribution to these proceedings is going to be to tell me that I’m criminally stupid, then you, Peterson, can take your funny little cigars, your suede coat, and your darling little hairpiece and stick them all right up your ass.” I stopped for breath, my voice shaking.

“You could see that?” he asked me, his face a map of concern.

“See what?”

“The hairpiece? You could tell?”

“Don’t let it worry you. I used to work in television in New York. You get to recognize little rugs like that one. It’s a nice one, Peterson.”

“Twelve hundred bucks and he sees it”—he snapped his fingers—“just like that! Christ! Well, anyway”—ignoring my outburst—“what was on your mind? What were you thinking about so hard you didn’t report the fact that two guys tried to kill you?”

“Well, I was thinking about my family.”

For the first time his eyes moved across the walls, taking in the photographs. Himmler, Goering, Hitler smiled benignly upon us.

“
That
I can understand,” he said, making a face. “Go on, what were you thinking about your family?”

“I suppose I was just reminiscing, really. I don’t think much about the family, I haven’t for a long time. But driving home I had the chance and I indulged myself. And I thought about my brother. I wondered why he wanted me to come home to meet him.” I fidgeted with my pipe. Paula came back in with the coffee in mugs.

“You didn’t know
why
?” Peterson said. “You came all this way without knowing why? Mr. Cooper, you are just full of surprises.”

I looked at Paula as she handed me the cup. Almost imperceptibly she shook her head. All right, I thought to myself, calculating, I won’t mention the papers she’d found. Eventually, though, we’d have to tell somebody.

“No, he gave no reason at all. He just said he’d meet me here on the twentieth and I came.”

Peterson drank some coffee, smiled up at Paula.

“That’s the way Cyril and I are.”

“Were,” Peterson corrected me.

“Were,” I said.

“How’s his head, Doctor?”

“He’ll be all right, but somebody hit him very hard, Olaf. He’s a very fortunate fellow.”

Peterson got up without speaking and went through the passageway leading to the kitchen.

Doctor Bradlee ground a cigarette into an ashtray, balanced his mug on the arm of his chair. Paula closed her eyes, her face drawn but expressionless.

“There are certain things to be done, John,” Bradlee said. “We’ve got to get Cyril into town so we can do the autopsy in the morning. And I think we should notify Arthur Brenner. Of all people, Arthur should be told at once. He’s been through it all with you Coopers; he’s next to being a member of the family.”

“Do you think I should call him now?” I looked at the Rolex. “It’s nearly midnight.”

“I think you should, yes. Arthur will still be up, either playing with his kiln or reading. Call him, you owe it to him.”

A
RTHUR BRENNER WAS NURSING A
very bad cold. His rich deep voice showed the wear and tear of coughing and sneezing; he sniffled as I spoke to him. He was a calm and careful man, a fine lawyer and onetime diplomat, an experienced intelligence officer in time of war. Quietly, sniffling, he kept repeating, “I see, I see,” asking simple, pertinent questions.

I explained that Olaf Peterson was there, that there would be an autopsy, just to get the record straight, since we had no idea as to why or when Cyril had died. I heard him sip his toddy.

“I see,” he said slowly. “Whatever Olaf and Brad think is right should be done. And I think there are certain matters you and I should discuss. Cyril’s estate, for one, which is substantial. Try not to let this thing throw you off your stroke. Death is a fact of life, as you well know, and a step we all take at one time or another. So be of good heart and come to see me in the morning. I’ll be at my office after I stop by Brad’s office for some penicillin. And, John—I’m glad you’re here. Thank you for calling me.”

Arthur Brenner was a Crisis Man, probably the most methodical and unexcitable man I had ever known. A complete and humane man, intellectually and philosophically sound, a rock, someone to cling to.

Peterson was fumbling around in the kitchen, slamming cupboard doors, clinking glasses, rattling papers. Bradlee was putting on his overcoat. “I’m going home.” He yawned. He clasped my arm reassuringly. “We’ll get someone out from the funeral home tomorrow morning. Really, there’s nothing to be done yet tonight. Everything here will keep.” He said goodnight to Paula and I followed him to the door. “I gave her a very gentle tranquilizer. She’ll sleep all right.” He patted my arm again, struggled with his car for a few moments, and then it came to life in the cold and began pushing through the deep snow.

When I got back to the library, Peterson was in his chair smoking another thin cigar. “Well, Mr. Cooper, I’ve taken up entirely too much of your time this evening.” He was being judicious now; after all, my brother was dead upstairs. “However, there are a couple of curious points before I go. When you arrived here last night did you go into the kitchen at all?’

“No. I poked my head into the parlor, walked through it to the library, stood in the foyer for a minute or two, and left. That’s all.” My eyes burned with fatigue. My head ached.

“You weren’t smoking a cigar?” He peered at the ash on his own, flimsy, gray, delicate.

“No.”

“And you didn’t drink any brandy while you were here?”

“No.”

“Come out in the kitchen with me for just a moment, will you? Excuse us, Miss Smithies.”

I followed him through the passageway.

He pointed to a brandy snifter on the counter. Above it the cupboard door was open.

“Without touching it, would you just look at that snifter?’

I looked at it.

“So? I’ve looked at it.”

“That’s wonderful, Mr. Cooper. Now just walk down to the end of that counter and step on the foot-pedal of that little trash container.”

I did. There was a dark mess in the bottom of the container: a cigar butt, ashes.

“All right,” I said.

“Thank you, Mr. Cooper.” His face split into a broad, toothy grin. “That’s all. But do remember what you’ve seen. We may talk about it tomorrow. Ah, don’t look so concerned. It’s all just a game. A game.”

In the front hall he buckled himself into the suede trench coat.

“Drop by my office tomorrow. We’ll get this whole thing cleared up, autopsy results, the whole sad business. Will you be staying in the house tonight?”

“No, I’m going back to the cottage.”

“Ah, of course. Well, do say goodnight to Miss Smithies for me.” He paused in the open doorway. The hallway filled immediately with icy cold air. “And get a good night’s sleep. You look like hell.”

Back in the library Paula Smithies was staring at the rows of framed photographs on the walls. “My God, John,” she said as I came back and slumped down in the chair behind my grandfather’s desk, “this is simply incredible. It’s like a museum. I’ve heard all about your grandfather’s political connections, the whole Nazi thing, but looking at these photographs makes it all awfully real, like a
March of Time
newsreel, a documentary.” I nodded and drained cold coffee from a cup. Her voice grew trancelike. “Austin Cooper and Hitler, Austin Cooper and von Ribbentrop, Austin Cooper and Speer, Austin Cooper and Goering, Austin Cooper and Mussolini, Austin Cooper and I don’t know, there should be a photograph of your grandfather shaking hands with the devil.”