Margaret Millar - An Air That Kills

He spoke first. “Hello there. Is this where Mr. Ronald Galloway lives?”

“Yes,” Turee said. The single word came out with difficulty. His contact with policemen had been limited to minor traffic tickets and he felt tongue-tied and uneasy, as if they had come to accuse him of a crime he had committed unawares.

“You’re not Mr. Galloway, by any chance?”

“No. A guest.”

“Mr. Galloway is here, then?”

“No. We — the other guests and myself — have been waiting for him since last night. I thought — that is, when I first saw you, I presumed you had some news of him.”

“A missing report, if that’s news. I’m Lieutenant Cavell and this is my colleague, Sergeant Newbridge. May I ask your name, sir?”

“Ralph Turee. I’m an associate professor at the University of Toronto.” The words and the tone sounded snobbish and pretentious, as if he were deliberately attempting to lay a cloak of respectability over himself, like a child covering himself with a blanket and thinking he was well hidden. Yet the image irritated him. It seemed unfair to himself. He had committed no crime, he had nothing to hide, no reason to feel guilt.

Lieutenant Cavell’s eyes narrowed, and the scar along his cheek deepened into a smile, as if he was quietly amused by such boyish antics as hiding under blankets. “Is that a fact, sir. Now suppose we go inside and talk a little about Mr. Galloway. Newbridge, you can look around out here.”

“Yes sir,” Newbridge said, but he appeared puzzled, as if he hadn’t any idea what to look for or what to do if he found it.

Turee and Cavell went into the lodge. Esther had taken her place in front of the fire and was sitting with her legs crossed and her hands in her lap, looking poised and casual. Too casual. Turee suspected that she’d been hiding behind the door listening to the conversation.

She acknowledged the introduction to Cavell politely enough, but she didn’t rise or offer her hand or even appear anxious to hear what he had to say.

It turned out to be very little. “I have only the barest facts. Less than an hour ago I received a radio message from the Toronto division that Mr. Galloway had been reported missing by his wife. I have the time and place he was last seen, the make, model of his car, and that’s about it. I am not in charge of the case or anything like that. I was merely asked to check up at this end, see if he had arrived or anything had been heard from him.”

“Nothing,” Esther said brusquely, “Not a word.”

“Well now it seems to me that if he’s still on the road it will be an easy matter to spot him. Late model Cadillac convertibles aren’t common in this neck of the woods, and if he had the top down in this weather, as I’ve been informed, he should stick out like a fire engine. If, on the other hand, he got tired and pulled into some motel for the night, we shouldn’t have too much trouble there either. Motels aren’t common in this area.”

“Suppose he isn’t in the area.”

“Why should we suppose that, Mrs. Galloway? He intended to come up here, didn’t he?”

“Intentions can change.”

“Is he the unpredictable kind who might take a notion to go off on a trip somewhere?”

Esther shook her head. “No. At least, not in the past.”

“Is he a heavy drinker?”

“He gets drunks sometimes, but it’s a quiet thing with Ron. He simply goes to sleep.”

“I hesitate to ask this, Mrs. Galloway, but it’s my duty. Have you any reason to believe he was interested in another woman?”

Esther glanced briefly at Turee before she answered. “Absolutely none.”

Her tone was so positive that it seemed to fluster Cavell. As if to cover his confusion with some activity, he removed from an inner pocket of his jacket a small brown notebook. “According to my information, Mr. Galloway was last seen by a Mrs. Bream who lives in Weston. Is she a friend of yours, Mrs. Galloway?”

“Her husband and mine have been friends since Upper Canada College. Ron went to Weston to pick up Harry, that’s Mr. Bream, and bring him along to the lodge. Only Harry had an emergency call to make first, so he came on alone. He’s upstairs now, still asleep. I can wake him up, if you like.”

Turee made a grimace of protest, but if Esther noticed it she paid no attention.

“I don’t think Harry can tell you any more than you already know,” Turee said. “I suggest we let him sleep. He had a rough night.”

Cavell raised his eyebrows. “Rough in what sense, Mr. Turee?”

I’ve got to learn to curb my tongue, Turee thought, and not to volunteer any information. Eventually they’ll find out everything, about Thelma and the baby and Ron, but it’s not my business to bring it out. He said cautiously, “We were up nearly all night attempting to track Ron down.”

“We?”

“Harry Bream and I, and the other two guests, Bill Winslow and Joe Hepburn.”

“And just what form did these attempts take?”

“Harry and I drove back to Wiarton and called Esther — Mrs. Galloway — on the chance that Ron hadn’t left the house for some reason or other. She told us he had left so then we called Harry’s wife. She said that Ron had turned up on schedule, stayed long enough for a drink and then set out again.”

“Is that all?”

“Well, Thelma — Mrs. Bream — said Ron had complained of feeling ill. There’s a possibility there, don’t you think?”

“Such as?”

“Well, Ron takes his symptoms pretty seriously. He may have stopped off to see a doctor, he may even be in a hospital somewhere.”

“He’s as healthy as a horse,” Esther said.

“Yes, but he doesn’t think so.”

“Besides, he’s scared to death of hospitals. He had to be practically dragged to come and see me when the boys were born.”

Cavell stared at her thoughtfully. “It seems to me you’re not very willing to accept any theory, Mrs. Galloway.”

“Willing, yes. Able, no. I know my husband quite thoroughly and none of the possibilities suggested so far has seemed plausible.”

“Have you any theory of your own, Mrs. Galloway?”

“I might have.”

“If you had,” Cavell said dryly, “what would it be?”

“I think Ron may be trying to avoid me, for some reason.”

It was so close to what Turee himself was thinking that he made a little sound of surprise, like a man who’s just had his mind read.

Cavell said, “Why should your husband be trying to avoid you, Mrs. Galloway?”

“I don’t — know.” She flashed another sharp look at Turee as if she half suspected that he could supply the answer if he chose to.

Turee thought, she’s too damned bright for her own good. And too honest to hide it. No wonder she and Ron have some bad times.

“You might,” Esther added, to Cavell, “talk to Harry Bream.”

“Why?”

“He and my husband are what you might call buddies.” She put a sneer in the word. “If Ron has any secrets, Harry is his most likely confidant.”

Turee made one more attempt to spare Harry the ordeal. “No more likely than I, surely, Esther?”

“Much more and you know it.”

“All right then. I’ll go and wake him up.”

Harry was still asleep, lying on his stomach and without a pillow, like a baby; and, as a baby will suck at things for comfort and security, so Harry had seized a corner of the blanket and had it pressed tightly against his mouth.

The night table beside the bed held an unlabeled bottle of red capsules and a nearly empty water glass.

“Harry? Hey. Harry.”

He did not respond either to his name or the touch of Turee’s hand on his shoulder. Turee leaned down and with great effort rolled him over on his back. Then he put his hand firmly under Harry’s chin and moved his head from side to side several times until Harry’s eyes opened.