Free Dead Letter by Jonathan Valin Page B

insult. But,
before I answer that question, I’d like to know what interest you
have in the matter."
    "Fair enough. At the time of his death I was
working for Professor Lovingwell."
    "In what capacity‘?"
    "He hired me to recover some papers that were
stolen from his safe."
    Bidwell looked at me uneasily. "You are a
private detective?" he asked.
    "Yes."
    "I see," he said in a voice that made it
clear that the fact did not sit well with him. "I take it that
you suspect some connection between the theft of the papers you
mentioned and the Professor’s suicide?"
    "I’m not sure. The Professor’s daughter has
hired me to look into her father’s death, which wasn’t a suicide,
by the way."
    "What!" Bidwell said with astonishment. For
a second his face hardened into absolute fury. "Are you playing
games with me, mister!"
    "Lovingwell was murdered," I said. "I’ve
just talked to the police."
    "Murdered," he said savagely. He looked
quickly around the little forest, as if he were afraid that someone
had loosed snakes, as well as muskrats, in his preserve. Then he
turned back to me. "You and I had better have a little chat,
Stoner. Under the circumstances, there are some things you ought to
know."
    We went up to Bidwell’s office. It looked like a
high-priced psychiatrist’s suite—chrome, glass, and thick-pile
rugs. Except that instead of diplomas Bidwell had hung crossed
Mausers on the paneled walls.
    "Have a seat," he said, gesturing to a
chrome-and-leather director’s chair in front of his desk.
    "Do the police have any suspects?"
    "Not yet."
    "Do you?" he said deferentially.
    "I know that the Professor was worried about
recovering those papers and that something greatly upset him on
Tuesday morning, after you called."
    Bidwell looked thoughtfully at a folder on his desk.
I tried to make something out of that look, but couldn’t decipher
it. "He didn’t mention any papers to me," he said after a
moment. "Our conversation was purely personal." Bidwell
blushed as if he’d said a dirty word.
    "You say you’re workin’ for his daughter?"
I nodded.
    "Well," he said, still reddening. "I’m
afraid she was the subject of our talk."
    "What about his daughter?"
    "This is most awkward," Bidwell said. "But
I feel you have the right to know. I believe that Professor
Lovingwell was afraid his daughter might do violence to herself or to
him."
    It was my turn to gawk, blush, and struggle through a
sentence. "He told you that Sarah was dangerous?"
    "In so many words, yes. Ever since his wife’s
death seven years ago, that girl’s been nothin’ but trouble.
Daryl came to me several times in the past few years, most recently
on Saturday last, to talk it over. You see I have a daughter who’s
a bit younger than Sarah, but they . . . share some of the same
problems. I guess that’s why we got on so well," he said
sternly. And I suddenly realized that that diffidence was his way of
disguising affection for a friend. "That man had two crosses to
bear—first the wife and then the child. But he wasn’t one to
complain. Not even when the girl started messin’ with radicals and
interfering with his work. He said he admired her spirit." Such
charity was clearly incomprehensible to Louis Bidwell, who shook his
head with disgust.
    "He’d of been better off stickin’ her in a
home," he said bitterly. "And the wife, too."
    "Why would Sarah ‘do violence’ to her
father?"
    Bidwell gave me a "you-tell-me-how-it’s-possible"
look.
    "For five years that man nursed his wife through
one nervous breakdown after another. Never complained, never asked
for help. In spite of all his efforts, she committed suicide seven
years ago. Of course it was a terrible blow. And I personally don’t
think he was ever the same afterward. The worst of it was that Sarah
blamed him for her mother’s death. She had always been a little
unbalanced, like the mother. And the suicide just toppled her over
the edge. She started runnin’ around with hippies and