Time to Murder and Create

In my room I checked through the Times. Prager was on the obit page under a two-column headline. Just his obituary, with the statement that he had died of an apparently self-inflicted gunshot wound. It was apparent, all right. I was not mentioned in the article. I'd thought that was how his daughter might have gotten my name. Then I looked at the message slip again. She had called around nine the night before, and the first edition of the Times wouldn't have hit the street before eleven or twelve.



So that meant she'd learned my name from the police. Or that she had heard it earlier, from her father.



I picked up the phone, then put it down again. I did not much want to talk to Stacy Prager. I couldn't imagine that there was anything I wanted to hear from her, and I knew there was nothing I wanted to say to her. The fact that her father was a murderer was not something she would learn from me, nor would anyone else. Spinner Jablon had had the revenge he'd purchased from me. So far as the rest of the world was concerned, his case could remain in the Open file forever. The police didn't care who had killed him, and I didn't feel obliged to tell them.



I picked up the phone again and called Beverly Ethridge. The line was busy. I broke the connection and tried Huysendahl's office. He was out to lunch. I waited a few minutes and tried the Ethridge number again, and it was still busy. I stretched out on the bed and closed my eyes, and the phone rang.



"Mr. Scudder? My name is Stacy Prager." A young and earnest voice. "I'm sorry I haven't been in. After I called last night I wound up taking the train so I could be with my mother."



"I just got your message a few minutes ago."



"I see. Well, would it be possible for me to talk with you? I'm at Grand Central, I could come to your hotel or meet you wherever you say."



"I'm not sure how I could help you."



There was a pause. Then she said, "Maybe you can't. I don't know. But you were the last person to see my father alive, and I-"



"I didn't even see him yesterday, Miss Prager. I was waiting to see him at the time it happened."



"Yes, that's right. But the thing is… listen, I'd really like to meet with you, if that's all right."



"If there's anything I could help you with over the telephone-"



"Couldn't I meet you?"



I asked her if she knew where my hotel was. She said she did, and that she could be there in ten or twenty minutes and she would phone me from the lobby. I hung up and wondered how she had known how to reach me. I'm not in the telephone book. And I wondered if she'd known about Spinner Jablon, and if she'd known about me. If the Marlboro man was her boyfriend, and if she'd been in on the planning…



If so, it was logical to believe that she'd hold me responsible for her father's death. I couldn't even argue the point-I felt responsible myself. But I couldn't really believe she'd have a cute little gun in her handbag. I'd ragged Heaney about watching television. I don't watch all that much television myself.



It took her fifteen minutes, during which time I tried Beverly Ethridge again and got another busy signal. Then Stacy called from the lobby, and I went downstairs to meet her.



Long dark hair, straight, parted in the middle. A tall, slender girl with a long, narrow face and dark, bottomless eyes. She wore clean well-tailored blue jeans and a lime-green cardigan sweater over a simple white blouse. Her handbag had been made by cutting the legs off another pair of jeans. I decided it was highly unlikely there was a gun in it.



We confirmed that I was Matthew Scudder and she was Stacy Prager. I suggested coffee, and we went to the Red Flame and took a booth. After they gave us the coffee, I told her I was very sorry about her father but that I still couldn't imagine why she wanted to see me.



"I don't know why he killed himself," she said.



"Neither do I."



"Don't you?" Her eyes searched my face. I tried to imagine her as she had been a few years ago, smoking grass and dropping pills, running down a child and freaking out sufficiently to drive away from what she'd done. That image failed to jibe with the girl seated across the Formica table from me. She now seemed alert and aware and responsible, wounded by her father's death but strong enough to ride it out.



She said, "You're a detective."



"More or less."



"What does that mean?"



"I do some private work on a free-lance basis. None of it as interesting as it may sound."



"And you were working for my father?"



I shook my head. "I'd seen him once last week," I said, and went on to repeat the cover story I'd given Jim Heaney. "So I really didn't know your father at all."



"That's very strange," she said.



She stirred her coffee, added more sugar, stirred it again. She took a sip and put the cup back in the saucer. I asked her why it was strange.



She said, "I saw my father the night before last. He was waiting at my apartment when I got home from classes. He took me out for dinner. He does that-did that-once or twice a week. But usually he would call me first to arrange it. He said he just had the impulse and took the chance that I'd be coming home."



"I see."



"He was very upset. Is that the right word? He was agitated, he was unsettled about something. He was always inclined to be a moody man, very exuberant when things were going right, very depressed when they weren't. When I was first getting into Abnormal Psych and studied the manic-depressive syndrome I got tremendous echoes of my father. I don't mean that he was insane in any sense of the word, but that he had the same kind of mood swings. They didn't interfere with his life, it was just that he had that type of personality."



"And he was depressed the night before last?"



"It was more than depression. It was a combination of depression and the kind of hyperactive nervousness you can get on speed. I would have thought he had taken some amphetamines except I know how he feels about drugs. I had a period of drug use a few years ago and he made it pretty clear how he felt, so I didn't really believe he was on anything."



She drank some more coffee. No, there was no gun in her purse. This was a very open girl. If she had a gun she'd have used it immediately.



She said, "We had dinner in a Chinese restaurant in the neighborhood. That's the Upper West Side, that's where I live. He hardly touched his food. I was very hungry myself, but I kept picking up his vibrations and I wound up not eating very much either. His conversation kept rambling all over the place. He was very concerned about me. He asked several times if I ever used drugs any more. I don't, and I told him so. He asked about my classes, if I was happy with my coursework and if I felt I was on the right track so far as how I would be earning a living. He asked if I was involved with anybody romantically, and I said I wasn't, nothing serious. And then he asked me if I knew you."



"He did?"



"Yes. I said the only Scudder I knew was the Scudder Falls Bridge. He asked if I had ever been to your hotel-he named the hotel and asked if I had been there-and I said I hadn't. He said that was where you lived. I didn't really understand what he was driving at."



"Neither do I."



"He asked if I ever saw a man spin a silver dollar. He took a quarter and spun it on the top of the table and asked if I had ever seen a man do that with a silver dollar. I said no, and I asked him if he was feeling all right. He said he was fine, and that it was very important that I shouldn't worry about him. He said if anything happened to him that I would be all right and not to worry."



"Which made you more concerned than ever."



"Of course. I was afraid… I was afraid of all kinds of things, and scared even to think of them. Like I thought he might have been to the doctor and found out there was something wrong with him. But I called the doctor he always goes to, I did that last night, and he hadn't been there since his annual physical last November, and there was nothing wrong with him then except slightly high blood pressure. Of course, maybe he went to some other doctor, there's no way of knowing unless it shows up in the autopsy. They have to do an autopsy in cases like this. Mr. Scudder?"



I looked at her.



"When they called me, when I found out he had killed himself, I wasn't surprised."



"You expected it?"



"Not consciously. I didn't really expect it, but once I heard, it all seemed to fit. In some way or other, I guess I knew he was trying to tell me he was going to die, trying to tie off the ends before he did it. But I don't know why he did it. And then I heard that you were there when he did it, and I remembered his asking me about you, if I knew you, and I wondered how you fit into it all. I thought maybe there was some problem in his life and you were investigating it for him, because the policeman said you were a detective, and I wondered… I just don't understand what it was all about."



"I can't imagine why he mentioned my name."



"You really weren't working for him?"



"No, and I hadn't had very much contact with him, it was just a superficial matter of confirming another man's references."



"Then it doesn't make sense."



I considered. "We did talk for a while last week," I said. "I suppose it's possible something I said seemed to have a special impact on his thinking. I can't imagine what it might have been, but we had one of those rambling conversations, and he might have picked up on something without my noticing it."



"I suppose that would have to be the explanation."



"I can't conceive of anything else."



"And then, whatever it was, it stayed on his mind. So he brought up your name because he couldn't bring himself to mention what it was that you said, or what it meant to him. And then when his secretary said you were there it must have sort of triggered things in his mind. Triggered. That's an interesting choice of word, isn't it?"



It had triggered things, the girl's announcing my presence. There was no question about it.



"I can't make anything out of the silver dollar. Unless it's the song. 'You can spin a silver dollar on a barroom floor and it'll roll because it's round.' What's the next line? Something about a woman never knows what a good man she has until she loses him, something like that. Maybe he meant he was losing everything now, I don't know. I guess his mind, I guess it wasn't terribly clear at the end."



"He must have been under a strain."



"I guess so." She looked away for a moment. "Did he ever say anything to you about me?"



"No."



"Are you sure?"



I pretended to concentrate, then said I was sure.



"I just hope he realized that everything's all right with me now. That's all. If he had to die, if he thought he had to die, I at least hope he knew I'm okay."



"I'm sure he did."



She'd been going through a lot since they called her and told her. Longer than that: since that dinner at the Chinese place. And she was going through plenty now. But she wasn't going to cry. She wasn't a crier. She was a strong one. If he'd had half her strength, he wouldn't have had to kill himself. He would have told Spinner to go screw himself in the first place, and he wouldn't have paid blackmail money, wouldn't have killed once, wouldn't have had to try to kill a second time. She was stronger than he had been. I don't know how much pride you can take in that kind of strength. You either have it or you don't.