Departure Delayed, page 4
Must have lost weight in the hospital. Sure, you lost weight. You went out and did a job. You got shot up. Something cracked in your mind. He doesn't know about that. He doesn't think about it that way.
FBI men watching our home. That was why there had been no alarm that I was “missing.” That was why there had been no stories in the papers. They weren't having publicity. They didn't want me to know they were hunting me down. And all the time I'd been under their noses.
“I—I suppose—when I went there I gave my name to the clerk in the hotel?”
McCormick nodded. '“The older clerk remembered. We checked with the Army. They've got quite a few Roy Marshalls. But you were the only one just out of Halloran and in—or near—New York City.”
No one else but you. He was so certain of his case. Here were the facts. He was happy to spread them on display. You can't run away from them. Take a closer look.
He sat down again, swung the chair so that he faced me. "Let's go back a bit, Marshall,” he said, almost genially. "Let's look it over. When you left Halloran—what were your plans?” "Plans? I wanted to get home. I've been wanting to go home a long time.”
"But you had that note from Curtis—didn't you say—before you left the hospital?”
"Oh yes. I—I intended to stop in there first. I didn't know what he wanted.”
"Did you—see him?”
"I—"
He knew I'd seen Curtis. That was why I was here now. Because I'd been identified by the clerk at the hotel. Because I'd gone upstairs to see Curtis the day he was killed.
You could hate a man like McCormick. No hurry. No fuss. The whole story will come out in due course. But you know he's playing a game. He's got you pinned down. There isn't any way out.
"I've told you before—I don't remember what happened on that day.”
"Not until you came to yesterday on the subway—”
The sympathy in his voice rang false. He was putting on an act. The paternal note. Trust in me—I'm on your side. Stop trying to lie your way out.
He tried a sudden shift. "Before you went into the Army, Marshall—did you have any special ambitions?”
Before I went into the Army. Back a couple of eternities ago. Something I lived through on some other planet.
"I wanted to be the best agriculturist in Ohio. I was going to school—agricultural school—”
"Your parents operate a farm, don't they?”
"Yes. I—I figured someday they'd—well, retire, you might call it. And I'd take over running the farm and—”
"You're the only son?”
"I've got an older brother. He left home early, went off to school. He's a lawyer in Dayton. Married, with a couple of kids. Anyway—”
“Anyway—you figured someday the farm would be yours. You would take over, as you put it.”
He gave the words a twist. I said, “Not the way you make it sound. What's it got to do with my being here now?”
“Murders like an iceberg, Marshall. Body and the clues are what you see on the surface. The motives—reasons—the planning—all that's underneath.”
“Suppose you don't find motives?”
“It makes our job harder. But take this case. We have our evidence—most of it. We know there has to be a motive.” He was smiling again. “So you plan to go back to the farm?”
“I plan to get my degree at school. That'll take about six months. After that—”
After that was none of his business. I'd talked over plans with Dad in my letters. Modernizing the farm. Putting it on a scientific basis—turning out crops twice as big as we ever had before. We could make it the show place of Ohio. We could build our own lab—
“Have any idea about getting married?”
“No. Knew a lot of girls back home. Maybe someday—” “But you haven't any special girl?”
“In the Army I played around with lots of women. Never thought about them seriously.”
He laughed. “Not bragging, are you?”
“Not bragging,” I said. “I'm like other guys. You think about meeting somebody—the ideal, I guess you'd call it—” There was a knock at the door. One of the policemen opened it, let in three more men. McCormick greeted them expansively, told them to draw up chairs. It was obvious he'd called them to take part in the interrogation.
Two were young—dressed in plainclothes. The third was a middle-aged Lieutenant Commander. McCormick informed me the plainclothes men were from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The Commander was Navy Intelligence.
McCormick enjoyed playing the host. He had them draw up the chairs in a semi-circle. He pulled out a box of Primadoras and passed them around. When I shook my head, he seemed surprised.
“You'd prefer a cigarette?”
I said I would. I hadn't realized how much I'd wanted a smoke until I took the first drag on the cigarette he gave me. It was sudden release. It made me realize how tense I'd been.
I knew it was part of the treatment. Part of McCormick's special technique.
The others were looking at me. Their faces were wooden. The FBI men had that air of efficiency you hear about. One was medium height, with close-cut blondish hair and a round face. He could have been a bank clerk in Peoria. The other was taller, with dark eyes that seemed to take you apart. The Commander sat slightly away from the others. His face was leathery and scowling.
McCormick had held back his questions, waiting for them. He faced me like a trainer putting a pet seal through his paces.
“We want the whole thing, Marshall. Start in at the beginning—when you left the hospital. Right up to now.''
Some of it I'd already told him. I started in again. I told them as much as I recalled about leaving Halloran. Then-coming to on the subway. About the barroom—and finding out I’d been shot. About Dr. Gertz and going to my room and finding the girl. I explained how it happened I'd used that name “Johnny Wilson.”
All the time I talked, they kept glancing at each other. I sweated it out, trying to find words, trying to make them see it was the truth. I didn't have to be told what they were thinking. They didn’t believe me. I'd dreamed it up.
One part interested them—the bullet wound. The thing had given me only a couple of twinges since morning and I'd practically forgotten about it. I hadn't mentioned it before to McCormick—never got that far in the story.
“It isn't serious,” I told them. “Only I don't know how it happened. I haven't any idea who did it—or why.”
They weren't impressed. Part of the act. Part of the alibi I'd been trying to build up. They made me stand up and take off my coat and shirt so they could examine the wound.
The bandage was still in place. McCormick said, “Light flesh wound. Not much more than a scratch. We’ll have one of the docs look at it later.”
“The damn thing doesn’t fit the picture,” the smaller FBI agent declared. “A fellow smart enough to build that yam-ought to be too smart to pull a stunt like shooting himself.” “None of the alibi makes sense,” his partner put in. “That gag about the girl. We can check on her—if she exists. But nobody’s been able to find the murder gun—and this man gets shot and hasn’t the vaguest notion why or where. It looks easy on the surface—until you start digging.”
“The man’s built the story rather cleverly,” the Commander said. “If he sticks to it—it may be more difficult to break than we expect. He did just get out of Halloran—”
“I doubt if that cuts any ice,” McCormick said, leaning back in the chair. “Whenever a serviceman gets caught in a crime —they always try to blame it on war psychosis.
The Commander turned to me. “We don’t believe your account, Marshall,” he said slowly. “You’re lying. Best thing for you would be to forget all that rigmarole. Who was in this thing with you? What was behind it?”
I didn’t answer. I could see what was behind his arrogant air. Captain Curtis wasn’t an ordinary figure. Too much information for our government—especially from the Orient-had funneled through his hands. Too many people might have had reason to want him dead.
They had to have the motives—the whole story. This time the motive might be more important than the murder itself.
“We’ve got to make this man realize,” the Commander insisted, “that the truth now is his only hope.”
“Maybe he will—later.” It was the taller FBI man. “My idea is to start checking—”
“I can’t see any cause for alarm,” McCormick told them. “We’ve got him. We can keep hammering away from now to eternity. He’ll crack sooner or later. Meanwhile—we start fitting the pieces together.”
The door opened. It was Lieutenant West, the one who’d taken my fingerprints. He was grinning. “We got the report,” he told McCormick. “Thought you’d like to know—the prints in the Curtis room—and Marshall’s print—are the same.” There was a stir among the others. McCormick said, “Well —that’s it.”
I stood up. “What difference do the prints make?” I demanded. “I never denied going there—I don’t remember it but I guess I must have. The fingerprints are just—”
“The proof we need,” McCormick said quietly. “You wouldn’t make a good cop, Marshall. You see, a suspect can take back a confession. Witnesses die—disappear—change their stories. But a fingerprint—”
He turned away, called the two policemen at the door. “Take this man out. We’re holding him temporarily on suspicion of murder. Nothing’s to go to the press.”
The policemen started to escort me out. As we reached the door, McCormick halted them. “You might like to know, Marshall. We found those prints on his wallet. It was lying on the floor. You made a mistake—not taking it with you.”
CHAPTER FIVE
They shoved me into a narrow “temporary detention” room. You re being held on suspicion of murder, my mind was repeating. You’re not a human being any more, not anybody with rights. You’re caged in.
They kept on with the questions. They’d leave me alone for an hour, then bring me back upstairs for more. Sometimes it was just McCormick, playing on all the strings, making me go over and over that same story, trying to force me into a slip. I couldn’t make a slip. I wasn’t trying to duck. I was telling what I remembered.
Twice during the afternoon they took me to a conference room on the second floor. A half dozen detectives and FBI men started throwing questions at me there. They asked about robberies and holdups that had happened in the past month —things I never heard of. I told them I didn’t know about those crimes. Then they’d start again asking about the murder.
They must have taken me up and down the stairs ten times during the afternoon. About three o’clock one of the cops on duty brought me a ham sandwich and some coffee. It was the first food I’d had since breakfast.
The place was shadowy. One electric light burned in the passageway outside the barred door and a streak of gray light licked in through the narrow slice of window. I sat on the bunk, staring at the flat, tan tiled wall. I tried to think but thoughts didn’t come straight.
Their questions kept popping back in my mind. Let’s go back over it again. Let’s start in at the beginning. It’ll go a lot easier if you give it to us straight. What made you do this thing? Didn’t you plan the whole thing after you got his letter? You didn’t want his money, did you? Had you known Captain Curtis before? Ever heard of him? Where had you heard about him? Let’s go back to the beginning. . . .
Over and over. Leading me through the same maze—up to where the detectives had arrested me at the hotel. Then going back and starting in again.
McCormick said my mother was sick. He said it was because of this trouble. It would be better for everybody if I started telling the truth.
Mom sick. Worried. I had to let them know I was all right. But I couldn’t see them. I didn’t want to see them or talk to them. I had to get the thing straightened out, one way or the other.
McCormick seemed to understand. He said he’d let them know I’d been found. But there wouldn’t be any word about where I was picked up—or being held. Anyway not for a few days. Not until he was ready to take his case into court.
About five-thirty they brought me upstairs again, this time for a lineup. There were five other men in the lineup with me. Pickpockets and holdup men and car thieves. They were young—in their twenties—but dirty and unshaven. One had a cut over his eye and dried blood still on his face.
A police sergeant made us line up on a stage with a battery of lights blinding our eyes. Outside, in front of the lights, were detectives and witnesses. There was talk going on out there. One of the detectives told them to be quiet.
The special feature, this game of putting the finger on the guilty, was about to begin.
Two witnesses picked me out. I could see figures moving toward the platform and I saw one of them point. “That’s him. That’s Marshall. Couldn’t mistake him.”
I knew the voice. It was the older of the two clerks in the hotel. The other witness who picked me out was the weakfaced clerk I’d spoken to first.
When I saw who they were I figured it was just a formality. The police were just going through the ritual of having the hotel men identify me in the lineup. It wasn’t anything new, anything I hadn’t known about.
Then I heard the girl. I couldn’t see her. She was brought in at the back of the room and they didn’t bring her close to the platform.
“Miss Eaton,”—that was the smooth voice of McCormick— “do you see anyone there you recognize?”
Miss Eaton. Carol Eaton, the girl whose letter I’d discovered in my room. They must have spent the afternoon searching the room. They found the letter, got hold of this girl.
“Yes,” she said. “That’s the one. The third from the left. That’s—Johnny.”
There was a hush in the room as she spoke. Her words came clearly—vibrating. But I knew she was frightened—trying to choke off her emotions. She sounded like an actress on the stage.
“You’re entirely sure?” It was McCormick again. “There’s no possibility of mistake?”
“No.” It was almost a whisper. “That’s the man who said he was Johnny Wilson. The man I married—under that name.”
I was back alone, in the cell. The words echoed in my thoughts: This is the man who said he was Johnny Wilson. The man I married under that name.
I almost felt like laughing. Congratulations, Sergeant. Your bride just picked you out of the lineup. Your bride. The girl you married. Only you don’t remember anything about it.
It wasn’t any real marriage, of course. Not when you used a false name. It wouldn’t count. Only—maybe the law said it did count. Maybe the law said it was valid, even with a wrong name.
I knew how McCormick would see it. You not only committed murder. You betrayed an innocent girl, tried to drag her into your rotten deals. One more item for the files.
They left me in the cell for about three hours after the lineup. It got to be night. The gray light stopped seeping in through the window. About eight or eight-thirty, two detectives marched in with a tray of food.
It smelled good. Thin soup and a platter of corned beef and potatoes and a cup of coffee. It looked like a banquet. The detectives leaned against the wall and watched me eat. They tried poking a few questions at me but I didn’t hear them.
When I was finished one of them said, “Got a man wants to talk to you, Marshall.”
“Somebody I know?”
The detective shrugged. “Ever hear of a fellow named Farr? Richard Farr?”
It sounded familiar. I tried to think where I’d heard it but I couldn’t. I told them I might have heard about him somewhere but I wasn’t sure.
“He’s working with Navy Intelligence people right now,” the detective said. “He’s heard about you. Let’s get going.”
I talked with Richard Farr in McCormick’s office. McCormick wasn’t there. It was Farr, the two detectives and myself.
He stood behind the desk, glaring down at me. He was a big man. His hair was white and he had small, darting blue eyes. He told me to sit down in the chair by the desk.
The detectives had told me about him. He’d worked for Curtis—unofficially—as an undercover operative.
There was anger in the pencil line lips. It ran under the surface—wordless anger you see sometimes on men in combat when a pal gets killed.
“I was his friend.” There was a trace of British accent in his voice. “Captain Curtis was my friend. I want you to understand that.”
“I’m sorry. I wish—I would like—”
He gave no hint that he even heard me. “Lieutenant McCormick has informed me of your rather incredible alibi. You have an inventive mind.”
“I didn't know Captain Curtis.” I'd told them that so many times. It was playing a record over and over. “I went to see him on that day. They say that's what I did—”
“I know—I've heard it all. You insist you lost your memory. Weren't in your right mind. But it isn't important. Let's get on. You were in Korea, I'm told.”
“That's right.”
His eyes narrowed. “You went into enemy terrain. There was some story—”
“You—you know?”
“I know—but not enough. I know that country—the whole East. I was bom there, lived there all my life. My parents were missionaries in China. It was in South China I knew Captain Curtis. That was before the war. Before I was imprisoned by the Reds. I finally got out—but that's a long story. Now, Captain Curtis sent for me—”
He paused, “But I didn't get here in time. I didn't get to see him. The plane got as far as Chicago and I was waiting there and—” Abruptly he stopped. “I want to hear about that special job you were on.”
There was no reason to hold back. Farr was working with Navy Intelligence. He had access to classified information. I could spill the story out.
He didn't interrupt. He stood there behind the desk—towering, stone-faced, motionless—listening. Even when I finished he stayed silent. After a long wait he said, “I heard about her. I heard how she died—how Sam Downes got away. I hadn't realized—you were the American involved.”
