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Ruth asked, “Did Helen call you last night, Dr. Holcombe?”
“Helen call me? Why, no, she didn’t. As a matter of fact, I considered calling her, but I didn’t, more’s the pity.”
“Why did you think to call her?”
Gordon shrugged. “I was depressed. I suppose I wanted her to cheer me up, but I didn’t call. I don’t remember why I didn’t.”
Dix waited a beat, then asked, “Do you know Jackie Slater, Gordon?”
“Jackie Slater? No, I don’t. Why should I? Who is he?”
“How about Tommy Dempsey?”
“No, dammit. I don’t recognize either name. Why are you asking me?”
“They’re very likely the men who tried to murder Special Agent Warnecki Saturday night.”
“Wait, Dempsey—that name sounds familiar . . .”
“Jack Dempsey was a famous boxer, you ignoramus.”
“Shut up, Chappy. Why are you asking me these idiot questions? For God’s sake, Dix, get out there and do your job!”
Savich said, his voice suddenly hard as nails, his face as hard as his voice, “Tell us where you were last night, Dr. Holcombe.”
Gordon stopped in his tracks at that voice. He looked at Savich, turning even paler. “You want me to give you an—alibi? Me? That’s ridiculous, I—I—Very well, I’m sorry, it’s just—Okay, I understand, this is standard procedure and I did know her very well. I had dinner with my daughter, Marian Gillespie, at her house. We dined alone, I stayed until around nine o’clock, played the piano while she tried to sight-read a clarinet solo composed by George Wooten, a musician from Indiana who sent it to her yesterday. She got through it before I pulled out my fingernails. It was perfectly dreadful.”
“Marian plays like a dream,” Chappy said. “Twister here is a snotty perfectionist. No one can do anything well enough to suit him.”
“The music was dreadful, you fool, not Marian’s playing. Wooten believes anything dissonant means genius—you know, like those modern artists who smear anything at all on a canvas. Before you croon to me about being a perfectionist, Chappy, look how you treat Tony, who’s doing so well running your bank.”
Sherlock cut him off. “What did you do then, Dr. Holcombe?” She pointedly ignored Chappy, looking intently at Gordon.
“What did I do? I didn’t do anything. I went home, that’s what people usually do when they’re ready for bed. They go home. Like I said, I was depressed and angry because some maniac murdered Erin. I kept thinking of her, couldn’t get her out of my mind. It really hit me that I’d never see her again, and never hear her play again.”
Savich’s voice sharpened even more. “Please tell us what time you got home and what you did.”
“Okay. All right. I got home at around nine-thirty. I looked through my mail since I didn’t have time to do it before I went over to Marian’s. I watched the news on TV, drank a scotch, went up to bed. I tried not to think about Erin. I had trouble sleeping so I watched a bit more TV, but I couldn’t get Erin out of my mind. And now Helen is dead, too.”
“Can anyone verify this, Gordon?” Dix asked.
“No, I live alone, as you well know. The help isn’t waltzing in and out after five o’clock in the afternoon.”
There was a moment of silence, broken by Ruth as she looked from one brother to the other. “The two of you look remarkably alike. Bear with me, but I’m new here, and I’ve never seen two brothers treat each other the way you do. Why, Chappy, are you accusing your brother of murder? Can you explain this to me?”
Chappy laughed, clutching his hands over his belly. “Come on, Agent Ruth, look at that pompous, affected academician. Can you blame me? The pathetic liar’s never done a decent thing in his life, except play the fiddle.” He hiccupped, slapped his hand over his mouth, and hiccupped again.
Gordon said flatly, “Please disregard that jealous baboon, Agent. After our parents died, he decided he’d be my daddy, and did he ever do a job of it, until I could get away from him. The only thing that means anything to him is money.” He jerked his head in his brother’s direction. “I plan to bury you in a casket filled with one-dollar bills, Chappy, let them keep you company.”
“Now, make that thousand-dollar bills and you might have something, you cheap bastard,” Chappy said, kicking the toe of his loafer toward his brother.
Ruth cleared her throat. “Yet you came here, Dr. Holcombe, when you didn’t know what else to do.”
“Helen call me? Why, no, she didn’t. As a matter of fact, I considered calling her, but I didn’t, more’s the pity.”
“Why did you think to call her?”
Gordon shrugged. “I was depressed. I suppose I wanted her to cheer me up, but I didn’t call. I don’t remember why I didn’t.”
Dix waited a beat, then asked, “Do you know Jackie Slater, Gordon?”
“Jackie Slater? No, I don’t. Why should I? Who is he?”
“How about Tommy Dempsey?”
“No, dammit. I don’t recognize either name. Why are you asking me?”
“They’re very likely the men who tried to murder Special Agent Warnecki Saturday night.”
“Wait, Dempsey—that name sounds familiar . . .”
“Jack Dempsey was a famous boxer, you ignoramus.”
“Shut up, Chappy. Why are you asking me these idiot questions? For God’s sake, Dix, get out there and do your job!”
Savich said, his voice suddenly hard as nails, his face as hard as his voice, “Tell us where you were last night, Dr. Holcombe.”
Gordon stopped in his tracks at that voice. He looked at Savich, turning even paler. “You want me to give you an—alibi? Me? That’s ridiculous, I—I—Very well, I’m sorry, it’s just—Okay, I understand, this is standard procedure and I did know her very well. I had dinner with my daughter, Marian Gillespie, at her house. We dined alone, I stayed until around nine o’clock, played the piano while she tried to sight-read a clarinet solo composed by George Wooten, a musician from Indiana who sent it to her yesterday. She got through it before I pulled out my fingernails. It was perfectly dreadful.”
“Marian plays like a dream,” Chappy said. “Twister here is a snotty perfectionist. No one can do anything well enough to suit him.”
“The music was dreadful, you fool, not Marian’s playing. Wooten believes anything dissonant means genius—you know, like those modern artists who smear anything at all on a canvas. Before you croon to me about being a perfectionist, Chappy, look how you treat Tony, who’s doing so well running your bank.”
Sherlock cut him off. “What did you do then, Dr. Holcombe?” She pointedly ignored Chappy, looking intently at Gordon.
“What did I do? I didn’t do anything. I went home, that’s what people usually do when they’re ready for bed. They go home. Like I said, I was depressed and angry because some maniac murdered Erin. I kept thinking of her, couldn’t get her out of my mind. It really hit me that I’d never see her again, and never hear her play again.”
Savich’s voice sharpened even more. “Please tell us what time you got home and what you did.”
“Okay. All right. I got home at around nine-thirty. I looked through my mail since I didn’t have time to do it before I went over to Marian’s. I watched the news on TV, drank a scotch, went up to bed. I tried not to think about Erin. I had trouble sleeping so I watched a bit more TV, but I couldn’t get Erin out of my mind. And now Helen is dead, too.”
“Can anyone verify this, Gordon?” Dix asked.
“No, I live alone, as you well know. The help isn’t waltzing in and out after five o’clock in the afternoon.”
There was a moment of silence, broken by Ruth as she looked from one brother to the other. “The two of you look remarkably alike. Bear with me, but I’m new here, and I’ve never seen two brothers treat each other the way you do. Why, Chappy, are you accusing your brother of murder? Can you explain this to me?”
Chappy laughed, clutching his hands over his belly. “Come on, Agent Ruth, look at that pompous, affected academician. Can you blame me? The pathetic liar’s never done a decent thing in his life, except play the fiddle.” He hiccupped, slapped his hand over his mouth, and hiccupped again.
Gordon said flatly, “Please disregard that jealous baboon, Agent. After our parents died, he decided he’d be my daddy, and did he ever do a job of it, until I could get away from him. The only thing that means anything to him is money.” He jerked his head in his brother’s direction. “I plan to bury you in a casket filled with one-dollar bills, Chappy, let them keep you company.”
“Now, make that thousand-dollar bills and you might have something, you cheap bastard,” Chappy said, kicking the toe of his loafer toward his brother.
Ruth cleared her throat. “Yet you came here, Dr. Holcombe, when you didn’t know what else to do.”
