to motive in cases like this,” Manning said. “And I wouldn’t kid you. You’ve got a beaut. Maybe you’ve read about such things in the papers. A guy nuts about some girl and the wife holding out on the divorce. Sometimes the wife gets killed.”
Rick made no answer but he knew with discouraging certainty that it had happened before; could even have happened tonight if he had not run away.
“There’s another motive, too,” Legett said. “Your father-in-law says your wife inherited a trust fund from her mother. About two hundred thousand at the time. Worth about four hundred thousand now. Do you know what happens to that money?”
Rick had forgotten about the trust fund but he knew the terms well enough. The income from the fund was to be Frieda’s until she was forty, at which time she got control of the principal. Now that she was dead the money would be held in trust for Ricky to be his when he was twenty-one.
“I know what happens,” he said, “but what about it? That money will never be mine.”
“Suppose the boy dies, too?”
Rick started out of the chair, his face stiff and pale at the cheekbones, his eyes hard as they fixed on Manning’s round bespectacled features.
Legett moved in front of him, his tone placating.
“Easy, Mr. Sheridan. Right now we’re considering all possibilities.”
The county detective seemed not to have moved a muscle. He sat where he was, his gaze reflective. Under its spell Rick calmed down and measured his words.
“I didn’t kill my wife,” he said. “I happen to love my son very dearly.”
“Mr. Brainard tells us,” Manning continued as though he had not heard, “that his daughter got about fifteen thousand a year from that trust before taxes. That income is yours to do with as you please until the boy’s of age. In my book that’s a motive.”
He heaved out of the chair and put his notebook away. After a glance at Legett he said: “Let’s go down and get some of this on paper, Mr. Sheridan.”
“What about Nancy Heath?”
“She’ll have to come, too.”
“Why? She told you—”
“She’s a witness. She’ll have to sign a statement. There’s a policewoman with her now.”
“But—she lives in New York. How long will she have to stay?”
“I don’t know. But when she’s finished, if she wants transportation to New York, we can provide it.”
4
RICK SHERIDAN never remembered too many details of the night he spent in the state police barracks. He told his story twice more and answered countless questions before a statement was typed and offered for his signature, and between such sessions there were times when he was left alone in the little office for considerable periods. Once a uniformed officer brought him a sandwich and coffee and later someone got him cigarettes from the machine in the hall. The sky was getting light in the east when they told him he could go, and as he passed the office at the front of the building Nancy called to him.
The furniture indicated that this was probably the office of the commanding officer but there was no one behind the desk at this hour, only Nancy and an attractive, dark-haired policewoman. They were having coffee and sitting close together in friendly fashion, and for a moment Rick just looked at them in open-eyed amazement.
“Nancy,” he said. “Have you been here all this time? I thought you were home hours ago.” He looked at the policewoman and continued indignantly. “What’s the idea of holding her here all night?”
“They didn’t, Rick.”
“She wanted to wait,” the policewoman said. “Would you like some coffee?”
Such cheerful hospitality took the edge from his concern and he mumbled his thanks as he refused. Nancy put her cup aside and stood up. “Thanks awfully, Alice,” she said and shook hands with the woman as though they were good friends; then she was walking out the door with Rick, her arm locked with his.
“She’s really very nice,” she said.
“Who?” said Rick, his thoughts on more serious matters.
“Alice. She told me about her work. Some of it sounds fascinating.”
He gave her arm a shake. “Look, baby,” he said, having no time for her impressions of Alice, “when did you finish? When did they say you could go?”
“About two or a little after. They asked a million questions, mostly the same ones over and over.”
“Did they offer to take you home?”
“Oh, yes. But I told them I’d rather wait for you.”
Rick shook his head. He sighed and let his breath out. To himself he said, What a girl. Aloud he said: “How did you know they were going to let me go at all?”
“I didn’t. They told me they didn’t know about that but I thought if they did let you out in time I’d rather ride to town with you. If they didn’t—well, someone has to deliver that True-Fruit art to Ted Banks this morning, and I could do it for you.”
They were at his car by then, and when he had opened the door he stopped to take her hands in his and smile down at her. When he saw the green eyes soften and smile back at him he sighed again.
“You’re wonderful,” he said. “I love you. . . . Get in. How about a shower and some breakfast?”
“I’d love it.”
In the light of day the living room showed obvious signs of the official invasion. Traces of dusting powder smudged the woodwork here and there, the ashtrays were filled to overflowing, and one wastebasket held a half dozen used flashbulbs. When Nancy started to straighten up Rick stopped her, saying he would call Mrs. Furman, the cleaning woman who came regularly three mornings a week.
“You can take your bath first if you still want it. I’ll get the coffee started and squeeze some oranges.”
During the night the breeze had shifted to the easterly quadrant, cooling itself before moving inland, and it was bright and pleasant at five minutes of eight as Rick drove up the ramp to the parkway. Little had been said since they left the house and presently Nancy voiced a thought that had been bothering Rick for some time.
“What are you going to do about Ricky?”
He could make no immediate answer to the question but he could see in fancy the camp buildings in the pine grove at the edge of the Adirondack lake. It was not the de luxe sort of camp that is advertised in some of the better magazines but it had been highly recommended by two of Rick’s friends, and he had been impressed by the man who had directed the camp for more than twenty years and by the number of college boy counselors who worked there each summer.
The values that Rick wanted his son to know were taught here in a simple and direct way and each camper had work to
