Bill Pronzini - Savages

The Mathias home was on a long block strung with venerable old elms that gave it a parklike atmosphere. Mediterranean style, two stories, decorative wrought-iron balconies, fronted by a barbered lawn surrounded by six-foot privet hedges. The circular driveway was empty; so was the extension of it alongside that led back to a two-car garage. No sign of life on the property; too soon for Mathias to be home. If he spent much time here at all these days. For all I knew he slept in his office at RingTech, to make it easier to manage his pressing and oh-so-stressful business affairs.

I parked under one of the curbside elms and set out to canvass the neighbors. There were five houses on the south side of the block, four on the north side with the Mathias pile in the middle; I started with the ones flanking it and then moved across the street. No answers at two places, one of them occupied-lights glowing faintly behind drawn curtains, a car sitting in the drive. Only a little after five thirty, broad daylight, and the people still hid themselves behind closed and no doubt locked doors. Fear of strangers, even a sixty-two-year-old man wearing a conservative suit and tie, fear of home invasion, fear of solicitors after their money, just plain fear. Not a good way to live, even in these parlous times.

One of those who did answer their doors wouldn’t talk to me, looked at me with the same sort of suspicion as the Ruiz kid and then brushed me off with an “I’m busy right now” excuse. Another demanded to know why he was being bothered with “old business.” A third gave me a couple of minutes to ask my questions but had nothing to tell me about Nancy Mathias or the night she died. Hardly knew her, kept to herself, used to be friendly until she remarried; didn’t see anything, didn’t hear anything, don’t know anything.

Then, on the sixth try, I got lucky.

It was the next to last house on the south side, a larger than average bungalow surrounded by neatly tended formal gardens. It had a deep front porch covered by the kind of motor-driven Plexiglas awning that can be lowered in bad weather and furnished with a couple of old, comfortable armchairs. A frail-looking woman in her late seventies sat in one of the armchairs, a robe over her lap and a tortoiseshell cat curled up on it. She was more than willing to talk. She introduced herself-Mrs. Mary Conti-invited me to sit down, asked if I’d like something to drink, commented on the nice late-summer weather. At first I thought she was the garrulous type, but that wasn’t it at all.

“I’m a widow,” she said. “I lost my husband, Adam, last October. Heart trouble; he was bedridden for nearly a year before he finally passed on. We were married fiftytwo years, he was a wonderful man. We used to sit out here together on summer evenings before he became ill. My daughter keeps after me to sell the house and move in with her, but I can’t bring myself to do that. I’ve lived here for forty years, both my children were born here. How can I sell all those wonderful memories?”

Lonely. Sad and lonely.

Gently I steered the conversation around to the Mathiases. Oh yes, she said, she knew poor Nancy. Not well, hadn’t seen much of her in recent years, but she was a good neighbor, always had a kind word. Her new husband? Mrs. Conti had waved to him once or twice, but he hadn’t waved back. He seemed a very dour sort of man, she said, but then she really didn’t know him.

Nothing in any of that. But when I asked her about the night Nancy Mathias had died, I got some of what I was looking for.

“Oh yes, I remember that night,” she said. “It was very warm, a beautiful night, so many stars. Just the kind of night Adam would have loved. Big Girl and I sat out here until quite late-this is Big Girl, my tortie; she’s a terrible slug, isn’t she?”

“A beauty, though. How late did you sit out that night, Mrs. Conti?”

“Oh, it must have been almost eleven before I went in. Yes, almost eleven.”

“Did you happen to see or hear anything unusual?”

“Unusual?”

“At or near the Mathias house. Someone entering the property.”

“Well, you know, I did see someone, but I’m not sure if he went to the Mathiases’ or one of the other houses. The elms throw out heavy shadows, and my vision isn’t what it used to be.”

“Man or woman?”

“A man. Yes, I’m sure it was.”

“What time was that?”

“Oh, it must have been about ten o’clock. It seemed odd to me because it was late for visitors and because of where he parked his car. The people who live on our block all park in their driveways or garages, not at the curb.”

“Where did this man park?”

“Right across the street.”

“And he walked from there to the Mathias house?”

“In that direction, yes, he did.”

I looked across toward the Mathias house. The privet hedges blocked any view of the front entrance. “Could he have turned in at their gate?”

“He may have. I’m just not sure.”

“Did any lights come on in the Mathias house?”

“… No. None that weren’t already on.”

“Which lights were already on?”

“The night-light over the door. It’s always on after dark. Some sort of timer, I believe. And a light in the room above. Mrs. Mathias’s study.”

“How do you know that’s her study?”

“Oh, I’ve seen her working in there many times. Adam and I used to take evening walks around the neighborhood. Sometimes she would wave to us. That was when she was married to Mr. Ring.”

“Did you see the man again, the one who parked across the street?”

“Not for some time.”

“How much time?”

“It must have been half an hour or more.”

“Could you tell where he came from?”

“No. He was just there when I glanced up, in the shadows. He seemed to be in a hurry, now that I think of it. Very long strides. Adam used to walk that way-long, swinging strides. I had to practically run to keep up with him.”

“What kind of car did he have?”

“Adam?”

“No, ma’am. The man, the stranger.”

“I don’t know very much about cars, I’m afraid.”

“Small, large? Two-door, four-door?”

“Well, it was small. Sort of… what’s the phrase? Low-slung?”

“Yes. A sports car?”

“That’s right. A sports car.”

“Dark or light colored?”

“Light colored. There was a bit of moon and its hood and top gleamed and I remember it made me think of quicksilver.”

“So it could have been silver.”

“Yes. Yes, it could.”

“About the man himself. Did you get a clear look at him?”

“Not very clear, I’m afraid. His coat collar was pulled up.”

“Did you have an impression of height, weight? Big, small, thin, fat?”

Mrs. Conti worked her memory, one hand stroking the old cat on her lap until Big Girl made a burbling sound like water boiling. “Well, he wasn’t fat. Tall? No, not really. But not short, either… I’m sorry, the only image I have in my mind is of a moving shape.”

“Could you estimate his age?”

“No… except that he seemed young to me. He moved the way a young man does, if you know what I mean.”

“Yes, ma’am. Did you tell the police about him?”

“The police? Why, no. No one from the police came to see me.”

No surprise there. A woman dies from a fall inside a locked house, with no signs of forced entry. Verdict from the beginning: accident. None of the investigators had seen a need to canvass the neighbors, so they hadn’t bothered.

Mrs. Conti said, “Should I call and tell them?”

“No, that isn’t necessary.”

“But if you believe that man had something to do with poor Mrs. Mathias’s accident… That is why you’re investigating, isn’t it?”