Heartstone

“Mr. Caproni?”

Albert smiled at Mrs. Maser. She was one of the few people who outranked him in seniority. He still felt fu

“What can I do for you, Fa

“I hate to disturb you, but this could be important.”

Albert noticed that Mrs. Maser was tense. Now that was unusual.

“There is a man at the front desk. He has been drinking and he looks like a derelict, but…well, he said he had a message for you. I don’t think he is a crank. He looks sincere.”

“What was the message?”

“He said that he had been sent to tell you that Willie Heartstone was dying and that Mr. Heartstone wants to tell you who killed Elaine Murray.”

The room shifted and Caproni felt faint. One minute there had been solid ground beneath him and then it was gone and he was floating, light as air.

“Mr. Caproni, are you all right?”

William Heartstone. He fought for control. A deep breath. The dizziness passed, leaving him disoriented and unsure of himself.

“Get Pat Kelly. I want that man back here. Tell Pat no rough stuff, but don’t let him leave. And bring me a tape recorder. A portable.”

His voice was quivering. Quite unlike him. It seemed to come from far away. From the past. He could hear it echoing in the solitude of a dingy hotel room on the one and only day that he had ever seen William Heartstone.

Caproni filled a glass with cold water from the tap in his private bathroom and wished it was Scotch. He straightened his tie, tucked in his shirt and put on his jacket. The Murray-Walters case. After all these years.

The morning paper was resting on the corner of his desk. There was a picture of Philip Heider standing arm in arm with the President. There was talk that he was being considered for Attorney General. What effect would the reappearance of William Heartstone have on his career? None, probably, Caproni mused bitterly. Heider was one of those indestructible people who gain strength from the things that corrupt and sicken most people. His tracks were too well covered anyway. Thanks to him and Shindler there was no evidence. Only shadows and whispers.

Heider had never been the person responsible for what had happened in the Murray-Walters case anyway. From the begi

Maybe Caproni, with his influence, could have discovered the truth if he had really tried, but his reflection in the mirror stared out accusingly, reminding him that he, as much as anyone else, was responsible for what had happened. There was a point in time when he could have made a decision that would have made a difference, but he had lacked the courage. Maybe he had never really wanted to find out the truth. All the guilt and uncertainty that he had stored in the attic of his mind pressed once more against his shoulders. The weight made him tired and he slumped in his chair.

Pat Kelly, Caproni’s chief investigator, entered the office. The thin, frightened man beside him was obviously down on his luck. He looked like a child next to Kelly. Caproni decided that Weaver did not appear to be too steady on his feet and he signaled him into a chair as soon as the introductions had been made.

“Mr. Weaver, I understand that you are a friend of William Heartstone?”

“You mean Willie? Yes, sir. We go way back. I met him at the V.A. after he lost his leg.”

“He lost a leg? I didn’t know that.”

“He was in an awful accident. It done somethin’ to him up here,” Weaver said, pointing to his head. “But he ain’t mean and he never hurt no one, honest.”

“Why did you feel you had to tell me that he wouldn’t hurt anyone, Mr. Weaver?”

Louis bowed his head and stared into his lap.

“It’s about why I come. Willie got religion in Fort Worth and ever since he’s been talkin’ about his soul and the bad thing he done. Only I ain’t never seen him act like he says he did.

“Then he got sick and he wouldn’t talk about anything else except coming back to Portsmouth and seeing you.”

“Where is Willie now?”

“He’s at the Cordova on Tenth Street.”

Caproni knew the Hotel Cordova from his police days. It had changed management a dozen times since then, but it had not changed. It was still one of the many dollar-a-night flophouses in the lower Water Street district that catered to alcoholics, drifters and pensioners.

“How sick is Willie?”

Louis’s fingers kneaded the brim of his hat, twisting and curving it. Caproni’s question made him think of Willie, alone on the hotel bed. Poor Willie, coughing and sweating and moaning in his own personal hell.

“I think he’s going to die.”

“Has he seen a doctor?”

Louis shook his head.

“We didn’t have the money. I spent my last dollars on the room. And when I talked about the V.A. or the County Hospital he would get all excited. The only thing he talks about is seeing you and making his peace.”

Caproni gave his secretary instructions to have a doctor sent to the Cordova. Then he, Kelly and Weaver took the elevator to the lobby. Kelly ran into the cold to get the car and Weaver and Caproni stood in the lobby.

“Willie’s not in any trouble, is he, Mr. Caproni? We’ve been good friends for a while now and I know he done some small things. I mean we both pinched some wine now and then. But I ain’t never seen him do something real bad.”

Caproni stuffed his hands into his overcoat pockets and stared out at the snow-covered trees in the park across the street. The park took up the whole block across from the courthouse. It was small and, during the summer, it was overcrowded and dirty. The winter had emptied and purified it, transforming its tired and beggarly trees and grass into royalty by draping them with cloaks of smooth white snow. It was nice to think about nature’s ability to change the sordid and unclean into something regal, but Caproni knew that the dirt still existed beneath the snow.

The Murray-Walters case was like that. The years had smoothed over the questions and the doubts, but Caproni knew about the dirt. He had never forgotten what Shindler and Heider had done and he had never forgiven himself for his lack of courage when he had been faced with a choice between his own career and another man’s life.

“Willie’s not in any trouble, is he?” Louis repeated. Pat Kelly drove the car in front of the entrance.

“I don’t know, Mr. Weaver,” Albert Caproni said as they moved into the storm.