I
Captain of the Police Brandon sat behind his desk and glowered at me. He was a man around the wrong side of fifty, short, inclined to fat, with a lot of thick hair as white as a fresh fall of snow, and eyes that were as hard and as friendly and as expressionless as beer-stoppers.
We made an interesting quartet. There was Paula, looking cool and unruffled, seated in the background. There was Tim Mifflin, leaning against the wall, motionless, thoughtful, and as quiet as a centenarian taking a nap. There was me in the guest of honour’s chair before the desk, and, of course, there was Captain of the Police Brandon.
The room was big and airy and well furnished. There was a nice Turkey carpet on the floor, several easy chairs and one or two reproductions of Van Gogh’s country scenes on the walls.
The big desk stood in the corner of the room between two windows that overlooked the business section of the city.
I had been in this room before, and I had still memories of the little unpleasantness that had occurred then. Brandon liked me as much as Hiroshima liked the atomic bomb, and I was expecting unpleasantness again.
The interview hadn’t begun well, and it wasn’t improving. Already Brandon was fiddling with a cigar: a trick that denoted his displeasure.
“All right,” he said in a thin, exasperated voice, “let’s start from the beginning again. You had this letter…” He leaned forward to peer at Janet Crosby’s letter as if it had been infected with tetanus. He was careful not to touch it. “Dated May 15th, 1948.”
Well, at least that showed he could read. I didn’t say anything.
“With this letter were five onehundred-dollar bills. Right?”
“Check,” I said.
“You received the letter on May 16th, but put it unopened in a coat pocket and forgot about it. It was only when you gave the coat away the letter was found. Right?”
“Check.”
He scowled down at the cigar, then rested his broad fat nose on it.
“A pretty smart way to run a business.”
“These things happen,” I said shortly. “I remember during the Tetzi trial, the police mislaid…”
“Never mind the Tetzi trial,” Brandon said in a voice you could have sliced ham on.
“We’re talking about this letter. You went up to the Crosby’s estate with the idea of seeing Miss Maureen Crosby. Right?”
“Yeah,” I said, getting a little tired of this.
“But you didn’t see her because she isn’t well, so you had to stick your nose still further into this business by calling on Miss Janet Crosby’s personal maid. Right?”
“If you like to put it like that I don’t mind.”
“Is it right or isn’t it?”
“Oh, sure.”
“This woman Drew said she wanted five hundred dollars before she talked. That’s your story, and I’m not sold on it. You watched the house, and after a while an olive-green Dodge arrived and a big fella went in. He remained in there for about ten minutes, then came away. Then you went in and found her dead. Right?”
I nodded.
He removed the band from the cigar, groped for a match. All the while his beer-stopper eyes stared moodily at me.
“You claim the Dodge belongs to Dr. Salzer,” he said, and scraped the match on the sole of his shoe.
“Mifflin says it does. I asked him to check the registration number.”
Brandon looked over at Mifflin who stared with empty eyes at the opposite wall.
“A half an hour after Malloy telephoned you, asking you who owned this car, you received a report from Dr. Salzer that the car had been stolen. That’s right, isn’t it?”
“Yes, sir,” Mifflin said stonily.
Brandon’s eyes swivelled in my direction.
“Did you hear that?”
“Sure.”
“All right.” Brandon applied the burning match to his cigar and sucked in smoke. “Just so long as you understand, and just so long as you don’t get any fancy ideas into your head about Dr. Salzer. You may not know it, but Dr. Salzer is a very respectable and eminent citizen of this city, and I’m not going to have him bothered by you or anyone like you. Do you understand that?”
I pulled thoughtfully at my nose. This was unexpected.
“Sure,” I said.
He blew smoke across the desk into my face.
“I don’t like you, Malloy, and I don’t like your itsy-bitsy organization. Maybe it has its uses, but I doubt it. I’m damned sure you are a trouble maker. You stirred up enough trouble with that Cerf case some months ago, and if you hadn’t been so damned smooth, you would have been in a lot of trouble yourself. Miss Janet Crosby’s dead.” He leaned forward to peer at the letter again. “The Crosbys were and still are a very wealthy and influential family, and I’m not standing for you stirring up trouble for them. You have no legal right to the five hundred dollars Miss Crosby sent you. That is to be paid back to her estate—immediately.
You are to leave Miss Maureen Crosby alone. If she is in trouble with a blackmailer—which I doubt—she will come to me if she needs help. This business has nothing to do with you, and if I find you are making a nuisance of yourself I’ll take steps to put you where you won’t trouble anyone for a very long time. Do you understand?”
I grinned at him.
“I’m beginning to,” I said, and leaned forward to ask, “How much does Salzer pay into your Sports Fund, Brandon?”
The fat pink and white face turned a dusky-mauve colour. The beer-stopper eyes sparked like chipped flint.
“I’m warning you, Malloy,” he said, a snarl in his voice. “My boys know how to take care of a punk like you. One of these nights you’ll get taken up a dark alley for a beating. Lay off the Crosbys and lay off Salzer. Now get out!”
I stood up.
“And how much does the Crosby estate pay into your welfare fund, Brandon?” I asked.
“How much did old man Crosby slip you for hushing up that auto-killing Maureen performed two years ago? Respectable and eminent? Don’t make me laugh. Salzer’s as respectable and eminent as Delmonico’s chucker-out. How come he signed Macdonald Crosby’s death certificate when he isn’t even qualified?”
“Get out!” Brandon said very quietly.
We stared at each other for perhaps the best part of four seconds, then I shrugged, turned my back on him and made for the door.
“Come on, Paula, let’s get out of here before we suffocate,” I said, and jerked open the door. “Remember that little crack about taking me up a dark alley. It’s just as much fun sueing the Captain of Police for assault as it is anyone else.”
I stamped down the long passage behind Paula. Mifflin came after us walking like a man in hob-nailed boots treading on eggs.
He caught up with us at the end of the passage.
“Wait a minute,” he said. “Come in here,” and he opened his office door.
We went in because both Paula and I liked Mifflin, and besides, he was too useful to fall out with. He shut the door and leaned against it. His red rubbery face was worried.
“That was a sweet way to talk to Brandon,” he said bitterly. “You’re crazy, Vic. You know as well as I do that kind of stuff won’t get you anywhere.”
“I know,” I said, “but the rat got me mad.”
“I would have tipped you off, only I hadn’t time. But you ought to know Brandon hates your guts.”
“I know that, too. But what could I do? I had to tell him the story. What’s Salzer to him?”
Mifflin shrugged.
“Salzer’s a good friend to the police. Sure, I know he runs a racket up at that sanatorium. But there’s nothing illegal in it.” He lowered his voice, went on, “Where the hell do you think Brandon got his Cadillac from? A Captain of Police’s money doesn’t run to a job like that. And another thing: Maureen Crosby put Brandon’s kid through college, and she takes care of Mrs. Brandon’s doctor’s bills. You picked on two of Brandon’s best patrons.”
“I guessed there must be something like that to throw Brandon into such an uproar,” I said.
“Look, Tim, did Salzer really report his car stolen?”
“Yeah, I took the call myself.”
“What are you going to do about this killer? Anything or nothing?”
“Why, sure. We’re going to find him. I know what you’re thinking, Vic, but you’re wrong. Salzer’s too smooth to get mixed up in a killing. You can count him out.”
“Well, okay.”
“And watch out. That stuff about a beating wasn’t fiction. You won’t be the first or the last guy who’s had his ears smacked down because Brandon doesn’t like him. I’m telling you. Watch out.”
“Thanks, Tim. I’ll watch out, but I can take care of myself.”
Mifflin rubbed his shapeless nose with the back of his hand.
“It’s not that simple. You start fighting back and you get caught with a police-assault rap. They’ll fake a charge against you and take you in, and then the crew boys will really go to town on you.”
I patted his arm.
“Don’t let it worry you. It’s not going to worry me. Anything else?”
Mifflin shook his head.
“Just watch out,” he said, opened his office door, peeped up and down the passage to make sure the coast was clear and then waved us out.
We went down the stone stairs into the lobby. Two big plain-clothes men lounged by the double doors. One of them had fiery red hair and a white flabby face. The other was thin and as hard looking as a lump of rusty pig iron. They both eyed us over slowly and thoughtfully, and the redheaded one spat accurately at the brass spitoon six yards from him. We went past them, down the steps into the street.
II
At the back of Orchid Buildings there is a narrow alley, used primarily as a parking lot for cars belonging to the executives and their staffs working in the building, and at the far end of the alley you will find Finnegan’s bar.
Mike Finnegan was an old friend of mine: a useful man to know as he had contacts with most of the hoods and con men who arrived in Orchid City, and any shady activity that happened to be cooking he knew about. Some years ago I had taken a hand in a little argument between Finnegan and three toughs whose ambition at that time was to poke Finnegan’s eyes out with a broken whisky bottle. Finnegan seemed to think if it hadn’t been for me he would have lost his sight, and he was embarrassingly grateful.
Besides a source of useful information, Finnegan’s bar was also a convenient after-officehours meeting-place, and, guessing Kerman would be there, I parked the Buick outside and went in with Paula.
It was a little after eleven o’clock, and only a few stragglers remained up at the counter.
Jack Kerman lolled at a corner table, a newspaper spread out before him, a bottle of Scotch within easy reach. He looked up and waved.
As we crossed the room, I flapped a hand at Finnegan, who gave me a broad smile.
Finnegan would never win beauty prize. Built like a gorilla, his battered, scarred face as ugly as it was humorous, he looked a cross between King Kong and a ten-ton truck.
Kerman rose to his feet and gave Paula an elaborate bow.
“Imagine you coming to a joint like this,” he said. “Don’t tell me you’ve left your vinegar and repressions locked up in the office safe.”
“Skip it, Jack,” I said, sitting down. “Things are popping. Before I tell the tale, have you anything for me?”
Before he could answer Finnegan arrived.
“Evening, Mr. Malloy. Evening, Lady.”
Paula smiled at him.
“Another glass, Mike,” I said. “I’ll help Kerman finish the Scotch.” I looked at Paula.
“Coffee?”
She nodded.
“And coffee for Miss Bensinger.”
When Finnegan had brought the glass and the coffee and had gone back to the bar, I said, “Let’s have it.”
“I saw Joan Parrnetta,” Kerman said, and rolled his eyes. “Very nice; very lush.” He made curves in the air with his hands. “If it hadn’t been for the butler who kept popping in and out, a beautiful friendship might have developed.” He sighed. “I wonder what it is about me women find so attractive?”
“Your lack of intelligence,” Paula said promptly. “It’s a change for women to talk down to men.”
“All right, break it up!” I said sharply, as Kerman began to rise slowly from his chair, his hand reaching for the whisky bottle. “Never mind what she looks like. What did she say about Janet?”
Kerman resumed his seat, glaring at Paula.
“She said she was the most surprised person on earth to hear Janet had died of heart failure. Two days before she died, she played tennis with the Parmetta girl, and wiped the floor with her. Does that sound like heart trouble?”
“Anything else?”
“I asked her about this guy Sherrill. He’s out of town, by the way. I didn’t see him. Joan Parmetta said Janet was madly in love with Sherrill. They saw a lot of each other. Then a week before Macdonald Crosby’s death Sherrill stopped going to the house, and the engagement was broken off. There was no reason given, and even Joan, who was intimate with Janet, didn’t get the lowdown, although she fished for it. Janet said they had a disagreement, and she didn’t want to talk about it.”
“Did she say what kind of a guy this Sherrill was?” Kerman shrugged.
“She only met him a few times. She said he was handsome, has no idea what his job is, whether he has money or not. He has a house on Rossmore Avenue. Small, but nice. A Chinese girl looks after the place.” He blew a kiss to the ceiling. “She’s nice, too. I didn’t get much out of her, though. She had no idea when Sherrill would be back. The guy lives well and must be making money. There was a Cadillac the size of a battleship in the garage, and the garden looked as if plenty of dough had been spent on it. There was a swimming-pool, too, and the usual lush trappings; all on the small side, but very, very nice.”
“That the lot?” Kerman nodded.
Briefly I told him of my call on Eudora Drew, how Big Boy had arrived, of the murder and my interview with Brandon. He sat listening, his eyes growing rounder and rounder, his drink forgotten.
“For the love of Pete!” he exploded when I had finished. “Some evening! So what happens? Do we quit?”
“I don’t know,” I said, pouring myself another drink. “We’ll have to return the money. To do that we’ll have to find out who takes care of the estate. It’s a certain bet Maureen doesn’t. She must have lawyers or some representative who takes care of her affairs. Maybe we can find that out from Crosby’s will. I want to have a look at Janet’s will, too. I want to find out if she left Eudora any money. If she didn’t, where was Eudora’s money coming from? I’m not saying we’re not going on with this; I’m not saying we are. We’ll get a few more facts, and then decide. We’ll have to be very careful how we step. Brandon could make things difficult.”
“If we return the money the case should be closed,” Paula said. “There’s no point in working for nothing.”
“I know,” I said. “All the same this set-up interests me. And, besides, I don’t like taking orders from Brandon.” I finished my drink and pushed back my chair. “Well, I guess we’d better break this up. I could do with some sleep.”
Kerman stretched, yawned and stood up.
“I’ve just remembered I have to take the Hofflin kids to Hollywood tomorrow morning,” he said, grimacing. “A personally-conducted tour of Paramount Studios. If it wasn’t for the chance of seeing Dot Lamour I’d be fit to climb a tree. Those three brats terrify me.”
“Okay,” he said. “You’ll be back the day after tomorrow?”
“Yeah. If I’m still in one piece.”
“I’ll have made up my mind by then what we’re going to do. If we do go ahead, we’ll have to put in some fast, smooth work. Hang on a moment. I want a word with Mike.”
I went over to the bar where Finnegan was lazily polishing glasses. An old roué and his blonde were just leaving. The blonde looked at me from under spiked eyelashes and winked. I winked back.
When they were out of ear-shot, I said, “There’s a guy who’s been tailing me, Mike. Big, built like a boxer; squashed ear and nose, wears a fawn-coloured hat with a cord around it. Smokes a cheroot and looks tough enough to eat rusty nails. Ever seen him?”
Mike rubbed the tumbler he was holding, raised it to the light and squinted at it. Then he placed it carefully on the shelf.
“Sounds like Benny Dwan. It’s a cinch it’s Benny if his breath smells of garlic.”
“I never got that close. Who’s Benny Dwan?”
Mike picked up another glass, rinsed it under the tap and began to polish it. He could be annoyingly deliberate when answering questions. He didn’t mean anything by it; it was just his way.
“He’s a tough torpedo,” he said, squinted at the glass and polished some more. “Got a job up at Salzer’s sanatorium. He was a small-time gambler before he joined up with Salzer. Served a five-year stretch for robbery with violence back in 1938. He’s supposed to have settled down now, but I doubt that.”
“What’s he doing at Salzer’s sanatorium?” Mike shrugged.
“Odd jobs: cleans cars, does a bit of gardening, stuff like that.”
“This is important, Mike. If it is Dwan, he’s up against a murder rap.”
Mike pursed his thick lips in a soundless whistle.
“Well, it sounds like him. I’ve seen him in that hat.”
I went over the description again, in detail and carefully.
“Yeah,” Mike said. “That sounds like him all right. He’s never without a cheroot and his nose and right ear are flattened. Must be the guy.”
I felt vaguely excited.
“Well, thanks, Mike.”
I went back to the other two who had been watching me from across the room.
“Mike’s identified Big Boy,” I told them. “He’s a guy named Benny Dwan, and guess what: he works for Salzer.”
“Isn’t it marvellous how you find things out?” Kerman said, grinning. “So what are you going to do?”
“Tip Mifflin,” I said. “Wait a second, will you? I’ll call him now.”
They told me at Police Headquarters that Mifflin had gone home. I turned up his home telephone number in the book and put the call through. After a delay, Mifflin’s voice came over the line. He sounded sleepy and exasperated.
“This is Malloy,” I told him. “Sorry to wake you up, Tim, but I’m pretty sure I can identify the guy who rubbed out Eudora Drew.”
“You can?” Mifflin’s voice brightened. “Say, that’s fine. Who is he?”
“Benny Dwan. And get this, Tim. He works for Salzer. If you go out to the sanatorium right now you might lay your hooks into him.”
There was a long, heavy silence. I waited, grinning, imagining Mifflin’s expression.
“Salzer?” he said at last. His voice sounded as if he had a mouth full of hot potatoes.
“That’s right. Brandon’s little pal.”
“Are you sure about this?”
“Yeah. Anyway, I’ll identify him for you, and so will Paula. We’d be glad to.”
“You will?” Indecision and agony crept into his voice.
“Sure. Of course, Salzer may be annoyed, but apart from Brandon, who cares about Salzer?”
“Aw, hell!” Mifflin said in disgust. “I’ll have to have a word with Brandon. I’m not stirring up that kind of trouble.”
“Go ahead and have a word with him. Be sure to tell him I’m phoning the night editor of the Herald with this story. I wouldn’t like Dwan to slip through your fingers because Brandon doesn’t want to upset his little pal.”
“Don’t do that!” Mifflin yelled. “Listen, Vic, for God’s sake, don’t go monkeying with the press. That’s something Brandon won’t stand for.”
“Pity, because that’s what I’m going to do. Tell him, and get after Dwan unless you want the press to get after you. So long, Tim,” and while he was still yelling I hung up.
Paula and Kerman had come over to the phone booth and were listening.
“Got him in an uproar?” Kerman asked, rubbing his hands.
“Just a little hysterical. They don’t seem anxious to annoy Salzer.” I dialled, waited, then, when a man’s voice announced, “Herald Offices”, I asked to be put through to the night editor.
It took me about two minutes to give him the story. He accepted it the way a starving man accepts a five-course lunch.
“Salzer sort of pampers Brandon,” I explained. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he doesn’t try to hush this up.”
“It won’t be my fault if he succeeds,” the night editor said with a ghoulish laugh. “Thanks, Malloy. I’ve been looking for a club to beat that rat with. Leave it to me. I’ll fix him.”
I hung up and moved out of the booth.
“Something tells me I’ve started a little trouble,” I said. “If my bet’s right, Brandon won’t have pleasant dreams tonight.”
“What a shame,” Kerman said.
III
Drive North along Orchid Boulevard, past the Santa Rosa Estate, and eventually you will come to a narrow road which leads to the sand dunes and my cabin.
As a place to live in, it’s nothing to get excited about, but at least it’s out of ear-shot of anyone’s radio, and if I want to yodel in my bath no one cares. It is a four-room bungalow made of Canadian knotty pine with a garden the size of a pocket handkerchief, kept reasonably tidy by Toni, my Filipino boy. A hundred yards from my front door is the blue
Pacific Ocean, and at the back and to the right and left are scrub bushes, sand and a half-circle of blue palmetto trees. It is as lonely and as quiet as a pauper’s grave, but I like it. I have lived and slept there for more than five years, and I wouldn’t care to live or sleep anywhere else.
After I had left Finnegan’s bar, I drove along the sandy road, heading for home. The time was twenty minutes to midnight. There was a big water-melon moon in the sky, and its fierce white rays lit up the scrub and sand like a searchlight. The sea looked like a black mirror. The air was hot and still. If there had been a blonde within reach it would have been a romantic night.
Tomorrow, I told myself as I drove along, would be a busy day. Paula had promised to check both Macdonald and Janet Crosby’s wills as soon as County Buildings opened. I wanted to see Nurse Gurney again. I wanted to find out who Maureen Crosby’s lawyer was and have a talk to him. If I could I wanted more information about Douglas Sherrill. If the wills didn’t produce anything of interest, if Maureen’s lawyer was satisfied with the set-up, and if there appeared to be nothing sinister about Douglas Sherrill then I decided I’d hand back the five hundred dollars and consider the case closed. But I was pretty sure at the back of my mind that I wouldn’t close the case, although I was open to be convinced I was wasting my time.
I pulled up before the pine-wood hut that serves me as a garage, ploughed through hot loose sand to open the doors. I got back into the Buick, drove in, switched off the engine and paused to light a cigarette. As I did so I happened to look into the driving-mirror. A movement in the moonlit bushes caught my eye.
I flicked out the match and sat very still, watching the clump of bushes in the mirror. It was, at a guess, about fifty yards away, and in direct line with the back of the car. It moved again, the branches bending and shivering, and then became motionless once more.
There was no wind, no reason why those bushes should move. No bird could be big enough to cause a movement like that, and it seemed to me someone—a man or possibly a woman—was hiding behind them, and had either pushed back the branches to see more clearly, or else had lost balance and had grabbed at the branches to save himself from falling.
I didn’t like this. People don’t lurk in bushes unless they’re up to no good. In the past Paula had repeatedly told me the cabin was dangerously lonely. In my job I made enemies, and there had been quite a few who had threatened at one time or the other to rub me out. I reached forward and stubbed out my cigarette. This spot was temptingly isolated for anyone with evil intentions. You could have started a miniature war right here without anyone hearing it, and I thought regretfully of the .38 Police special in my wardrobe drawer.
After I had cut the car engine I had dowsed the headlights, and it was pitch dark in the garage. If whoever was lurking in those bushes planned to start something, the time to do it would be when I stepped out of the garage into the moonlight to shut the doors. As a target in that light and from that distance I couldn’t be missed.
If I was to surprise the hidden hand I would have to do something fast. The longer I sat in the car, the more alert and suspicious he would become—if it was a he. And if I didn’t buck up he might even start blazing away at the back of the car in the hope a stray slug might find me, always supposing he had a play-pretty, and I fervently hoped he hadn’t.
I opened the car door and slid out into the darkness. From where I stood I could see the stretch of beach, the thick shrubs, the trees startlingly sharp in the moonlight. It would be a crazy thing to walk out there into that blaze of white light, and I wasn’t going to do it. I stepped back and ran my hands over the rough planks of the rear wall. Some time ago, after I had had a night out with Jack Kerman, I had driven a little too fast into the garage and had very nearly succeeded in driving right through it. I knew some of the planks had never recovered, and the idea now was to force an opening and slide out that way.
I found a wacky plank and began to work it loose. All the time I was doing this I didn’t take my eyes off that clump of bushes. Nothing moved out there. Whoever was lurking behind the bushes was lying very, very doggo. The plank gave under my pressure. I pushed a little more and then, turning sideways, edged through the opening.
At the back of the garage there was an expanse of sand, and then bushes. I legged it across the sand and got under cover without making any noise, but losing a considerable amount of breath. It was a little too hot for that kind of exercise, and, panting, I sat down on the sand to figure things out.
The sensible thing to do would be to creep around to the back of the cabin, keeping out of sight, get in and collect the .38 from my wardrobe drawer. Once I had that I felt I’d be able to cope with anyone looking for trouble. A shot fired from my bedroom window a couple of feet above that clump of bushes would very likely take the starch out of whoever was lurking there.
The only snag to this idea was that as I hadn’t appeared from the garage the hidden hand might guess I had spotted him and he might be moving in this direction to cut me off. One the other hand he might think I was still in the garage, scared to come out, and was prepared to wait until I did come out.
I rose slowly to my feet and, keeping my head down, began a quiet creep towards the cabin, sheltering behind the bushes and treading carefully. That was all right so long as the bushes lasted, but ten yards ahead they petered out and started again after a gap of twenty feet or so. That gap looked distressingly bare, and the light of the moon seemed to be pointing directly at it. By now I had left the protecting screen of the garage. The lurker in the clump of bushes couldn’t fail to see me if I crossed that open space. I kept on until I was within a few feet of the gap, and then paused and peered through the scrub. The only consoling thing about this new set-up was I had greatly increased the distance between the clump of bushes and myself. Instead of being fifty yards away, I was now something like a hundred and twenty, and to hit a moving target even as big as me at that distance called for some pretty fancy shooting. I decided to take a chance.
I took off my hat and, holding it by its brim, sent it sailing into the air towards the clump of bushes in the hope it would distract attention. Then, before the hat settled on the sand, I jumped forward and ran.
It is one thing to get up speed on firm ground, but quite something else when your feet sink up to your ankles in loose sand. My body went hurtling forward, but my feet remained more or less where they were. If it hadn’t been for the diversion of the hat as it sailed into the moonlight I should have been a dead duck.
I sprawled on hands and knees, scrambled up somehow, and dived for cover. The still, quiet night was shattered by the bang of a gun. The slug fanned the top of my head as it zipped past like a vicious hornet. That shooting was much too good. I threw myself flat, rolled my legs under me, turned a somersault and was under cover again. The gun banged once more and the slug flung up sand into my face.
I was now as calm as an old lady with burglars in the house. Sweating and swearing. I plunged on, diving towards thicker cover, shaking the bushes, stamping the sand like a runaway rhinoceros. Again the gun banged, and this time the slug slid along the back of my hand, breaking the skin and burning me as if I had been touched with a red-hot poker. I dropped flat and lay panting, holding my hand, unable to see anything beyond roots and branches and prickly sand-grass.
If Buffalo Bill out there took it into his head to close in for the kill I would be in a pretty lousy position. I had to keep moving. The cabin still seemed to be a long way away, but there was cover, and, providing I could move without making any noise, I still felt confident I’d get there. I wasn’t going to take any more chances. Whoever it was out there could shoot. At that distance he had nearly bagged me, and that is shooting of a very high order. I wasn’t in a panic, but I was sweating ice, and my heart was banging like a steam-hammer. I began to crawl on hands and knees through the sand, moving as quickly as I could, making no noise. I had gone about fifty feet when I heard a rustle of grass and a sudden snapping of a dry twig. I froze, listening, holding my breath, my nerves creeping like spider’s legs up and down my spine. More grass rustled, followed by a soft, whoosing sound of disturbed sand: close, too damned close. I lowered myself flat, lay hugging the sand, the hair on the back of my neck bristling.
A few yards away a bush moved, another twig snapped, then silence. He was right on top of me, and, listening, I imagined I heard him breathing.
There was nothing for me to do but wait, so I waited. Minutes ticked by. He probably guessed I was right by him and he waited, too, hoping I would make a sound so he could locate me. I was willing to wait like that all night, and, after what seemed to me hours, he again shifted his position, but this time away from me. I still didn’t move. I listened to his footfalls as he moved from bush to bush, searching for me. Very slowly, very cautiously, I came up on hands and knees. Inch by inch I raised my head until I could see through the thinning branches of the scrub bush. Then I saw him. Big Boy! There he was in his fawn hat, his shoulders like a barn door, his flattened nose and ear ugly in the moonlight. He stood about thirty yards from me, a Colt .45 in his fist. He was half-turned away from me, his eyes searching the bushes to my right. If I had had a gun I could have picked him off with no more trouble than shooting a rabbit at the same distance with a shot-gun. But I hadn’t got a gun, and all I could do was to watch him and hope he would go away.
He remained motionless, tense, his gun arm advanced. Then he turned and faced me and began to move towards me, a little aimlessly as if he wasn’t sure if he was coming in the right direction, but determined to find me.
I began to sweat again. Ten good paces would bring him right on top of me. I crouched down, listening to his cautious approach, my heart hammering, my breath held behind clenched teeth.
He stopped within three feet of me. I could see his thick trousered legs through the bush. If I could get his gun.
He turned his back was towards me. I jumped him. My hands, my brain, my spring were all directed on his gun. Both my hands closed on his thick wrist and my shoulder thudded into his chest, sending him staggering. He gave a startled yelp: a blend of fury and alarm. I bent his wrist, crushed his fingers, clawed at the gun. For a split second I had it all my own way. He was paralysed by the surprise of my spring, by the pain as I squeezed his fingers against the butt of the gun. Then as I had the gun he came into action. His fist slammed into the side of my neck, a chopping blow, hard enough to drive a six-inch nail into oak. I shot into the bushes, still clinging to the gun, trying to get my finger around the trigger, but not making it before his boot kicked the gun out of my hand. It went sailing away into the scrub. Well, that was all right. If I hadn’t got it, he hadn’t either.
He came at me with a shambling rush, tearing his way through the bushes to get at me. But those sand bushes require respect. They don’t like being rushed at, and he hadn’t taken more than a couple of leaping steps before his toe stubbed against a root and he went sprawling.
That gave me time to get to my feet and leg it towards the open. If we had to fight I wasn’t going to be hampered by a lot of grass turfs, scrub and bush roots. This guy was a lot heavier than I, and had a punch like the kick of a mule, and I was still dazed from that chop on the neck. I didn’t want another. The only satisfactory way to fight him was to have plenty of space to get away and come in again.
He was up on his feet and after me in split seconds, and he could move. He caught up with me as I broke through the last screen of bushes. I dodged his first rush, socked him on the nose as he came in again and collected a bang on the side of my head that made my teeth rattle.
The moonlight fell fully on his face as he came in again: a cold, brutal, murderous mask; the face of a man who intends to kill, and nobody or nothing is going to stop him. I jumped away, wheeled back and slugged him on his squashed ear, sending him reeling, and that gave me confidence. He might be big, but he could be hit and he could be hurt. He grunted, crouched, shook his head, his hands moving forward with hooked fingers. I didn’t wait for his rush, but went in hitting with both fists. But this time his face wasn’t there, and his hands fastened on the front of my coat, pulling me against him.
I jerked up my knee, but he knew all about that kind of fighting, and had already turned sideways on, taking the hard jab of my knee against his thigh. One of his hands shifted and grabbed at my throat as I slugged him in the ribs. He grunted again, but his fingers, like steel hooks, dug into my windpipe.
Then I really went for him. I knew once he weakened me I was done for, and that paralysing grip on my throat could sap my strength in seconds if I didn’t break his hold. I hammered at his ribs, then, as he still clung on, I dug my fingers into his eyes.
He gave a sharp screech, let go of my throat and staggered back. I went after him, belting him about the body. He held his eyes and took what I handed out. There was nothing much he could do about it, and I hammered him to his knees. There was no point in breaking my fists on him, so I stepped back and waited for him to uncover. His breath came in short sobbing gasps. He tried to get to his feet, but couldn’t make it. Groaning, he dropped his hands to hoist himself up, and that was what I was waiting for. I measured him, swung a punch at him that came up from the sand and connected on the point of his jaw. He went over backwards, flopped about, scrabbling in the sand like a wounded squirrel, started climbing to his feet, fell over and straightened out.
I went over to him. He was out all right, and, looking down at the blood running out of the corners of his eyes, I felt sorry for him. I didn’t mean to hurt him as badly as that, but it was his life or mine, and at least I hadn’t killed him.
I leaned forward and pulled the thick leather belt from around his waist, rolled him over and strapped his hands behind him. I took off my belt and lashed it around his ankles. He was too heavy to carry and I wanted to get to my phone and my gun. I thought he would be all right until I got back, and I turned and pelted towards the cabin.
It took me a couple of minutes to wake up Mifflin again. This time he sounded as mad as a hornet you’ve slapped with a fly-whisk.
“All right, all right,” I said. “I’ve got Dwan here.”
“Dwan?” Anger went out of his voice. “With you?”
“Yeah. Come on. Get the boys and the wagon. I want some sleep tonight.”
“Dwan! But Brandon said…”
“To hell with what Brandon said!” I bawled. “Come on out and get him.”
“Keep your shirt on,” Mifflin said dismally. “I’m coming.”
As I slammed down the receiver, a gun went off with a choked bang somewhere out on the dunes. I made two quick jumps to my wardrobe, flung open the door and grabbed the .38. I was back at the front door almost before the echo of the shot had died away. I didn’t rush out into the moonlight. I stood looking around, just in the shadow of the verandah, seeing nothing, hearing nothing and feeling spooked.
Then somewhere behind the palmetto trees a car started up and drove away with a rapid change of gears.
I sneaked down the verandah steps, holding my gun waist high, down the garden path and across the moonlit stretch of sand. The sound of the departing car became fainter and fainter, and finally died away.
I reached Benny Dwan and stood over him. Someone had shot him in the head, firing very close. The bullet had smashed in the side of his skull and burned his squashed ear with the gun flash.
He looked very harmless and lonely. He also looked very dead.
IV
The little blonde who looked after the PBX in the outer office gave me a coy little smile as I pushed open the frosted panel door on which was inscribed in gold letters: Universal Services, and on the right-hand bottom corner, in smaller letters: Executive Director: Victor Malloy.
“Good morning, Mr. Malloy,” she said, showing her nice white little teeth. She had a snub nose and puppy-dog manners. You felt you had only to pat her for her to wag her tail. A nice kid. Eighteen if she was a day, and only two heart throbs: me and Bing Crosby.
The two kids sitting behind typewriters, also blondes and also puppies, smiled the way Bobbysoxers smile and also said, “Good morning, Mr. Malloy.”
Mr. Malloy looked his harem over and said it was a swell morning.
“Miss Bensinger is over at County Buildings. She may be a little late,” the PBX blonde told me.
“Thanks, Trixy. I’ll be right in the office. When she comes in tell her I want her.”
She ducked her head and flashed me a look that might have meant something to me if she had been a couple of years older and didn’t work for me, and swung around on her stool to take an in-coming call.
I went into my office and shut the door. My desk clock told me it was five past ten, early for a drink, although I wanted one. After a little hesitation, I decided the bottle wouldn’t know it was too early, hoisted it out of the desk drawer and gave myself a small, rather shamefaced nip. Then I sat down, lit a cigarette and pawed over the morning’s mail without finding anything to hold my interest. I dropped the lot in the out-tray for Paula’s attention, put my feet on the desk and closed my eyes. After the night’s excitement I felt a little frayed at the edges.
A bluebottle fly buzzed sleepily around my head. The two typewriters clacked in the outer office. Trixy played with her plugs. I dozed.
At twenty minutes to eleven I woke with a start at the sound of Paula’s voice in the outer office. I had time to get my feet off the desk and drag my out-tray towards me before she opened the door and came in.
“There you are,” I said as brightly as I could. “Come on in.”
“If you must sleep in the office, will you try not to snore?” she said, pulling up a chair and sitting down. “It’s demoralizing the staff.”
“They’ve been demoralized for years,” I said, grinning. “I had about two hours sleep last night. I’m a tired old man this morning, and I must be treated kindly.”
Her cool brown eyes rested on the bruise on my cheekbone, and her eyebrows climbed a half-inch.
“Trouble?”
“Well, excitement,” and I told her about Benny Dwan’s visit.
“He’s dead?” she said, startled. “Who shot him?”
“I don’t know for certain, but I have an idea,” I said, hoisting my feet on to the desk. “Ten minutes after my call to Mifflin, the cops arrived, but Mifflin wasn’t with them. You remember those two coppers we ran into at Headquarters: the guy with the red hair and the tough-looking one? Well, they turned up. Sergeant MacGraw; that’s the red head, and Sergeant Hartsell. A couple of nice, well-behaved, quiet-mannered heels You could wish to avoid any day of the week. They made no bones about how pleased they were to find Dwan dead. Of course that was understandable. His death lets Salzer right out. All he has to do now is to claim Dwan was no longer working for him. Why Dwan stole Salzer’s car, knocked off Eudora and tried to knock off me is something for the police to find out. It’s my bet they never will find out.”
“You said you had an idea who killed him.”
“Yeah. When those two boys took Dwan away I wandered around and looked for clues. They came in a police car fitted with diamond tread tyres. I found the same pattern in the sand at the back of my cabin. It’s my guess they came out early in the evening to keep an eye on me and had a front-row seat for the little show Dwan put on for my benefit, and when I knocked him out and left him tied up the temptation was too much for them. While I was phoning Mifflin, they strolled over to Dwan and silenced him.”
“You mean two police officers…?” Paula began, her eyes growing wide.
“Look at the trouble it saves,” I said. “Put yourself in their place. Here is a guy wanted for murder, who will most certainly talk if he is ever brought to trial. He has probably a lot of things to say about Dr. Salzer that would make interesting reading in the papers. Brandon is a pal of Salzer. What could be more convenient than to put a slug into Dwan’s head and save the cost of a trial and inconvenience to Brandon’s little pal? Simple, isn’t it? I may be wrong, of course, but I doubt it. Anyway, there’s not much we can do about it, so let’s skip it and get down to something we can do something about. Have you looked up the Crosbys’ wills?”
Paula nodded.
“Janet didn’t make a will. Crosby left three-quarters of his fortune to her and a quarter to Maureen. Obviously Janet was his favourite. If Janet died, Maureen was to have the lot, providing she behaved herself. But if she ever gets mixed up in a scandal and gets herself in the newspapers, the whole fortune is to go to the Orchid City Research Centre, and she is to be paid only one thousand dollars a year. Crosby’s trustees are Glynn & Coppley, on the third floor of this building. Half the capital is tied up, the other half Maureen has the free run of, providing, of course, she behaves herself.”
“That’s a nice set-up for a blackmailer,” I said. “If she has put a foot wrong, and some crook has heard about it, he could shake her down for as much as she’s got. It wouldn’t be a lot of fun for her to live on a thousand a year, would it?”
Paula lifted her shoulders.
“Lots of girls live on less.”
“Sure, but not millionaire’s daughters.” I picked up the paper-knife and began to dig holes in the blotter. “So Janet didn’t leave a will. That means Eudora didn’t come into a legacy. Then from where was she getting her money?” I looked up and stared thoughtfully at Paula.
“Suppose she knew about Maureen’s drug cure? Suppose Maureen was paying her to keep her mouth shut? It’s an idea. Then I come along, and Eudora thinks she can screw a little money out of Maureen. She tells me to call back at nine, and puts through a telephone call either to Maureen or her representative who might be Dr. Salzer. In fact, could be Dr. Salzer. ‘Let’s have some more dough or I’ll talk,’ she might have said. Salzer sends Dwan down to reason with her. Instead, or even acting on orders, Dwan knocks her off. How do you like that?”
“It sounds all right,” Paula said dubiously. “But it’s guess work.”
“That’s right. It’s guess-work. Still, I don’t dislike it myself.” I made three more little holes in the blotter before saying, “I think I’d better have another word with Nurse Gurney. Look, Paula, she’s off duty during the day. Will you phone the Nurses’ Association and see if you can get her private address? Spin them a yarn. They’ll probably let you have it.”
While she was out of the office I had another nip out of the bottle and lit another cigarette.
First, Nurse Gurney, I told myself, and then Glynn & Coppley.
Paula came back after a few minutes and placed a slip of paper on my disfigured blotter.
“Apartment 246, 3882 Hollywood Avenue,” she told me. “Did you know she’s one of Dr. Salzer’s nurses?”
“She is?” I pushed back my chair. “Well, what do you know? It keeps coming back to Salzer, doesn’t it? “I edged my out-tray towards her. “There’s not much here. Nothing you can’t cope with.”
“That’s nice to know.” She picked up the tray. “Are you going ahead with this case?”
“I’m not sure. I’ll tell you this afternoon.” I reached for my hat. “I’ll be seeing you.”
It took me half an hour to reach Hollywood Avenue. The mid-morning traffic on Centre Avenue made the going slow, but I was in no hurry.
1882 Hollywood Avenue turned out to be a six-storey apartment block, that had been thrown together with an eye to quick profits and little if any comfort for the customers. The lobby was dim and shabby. The elevator was big enough to hold three people if they didn’t mind packing in like sardines. A chipped metal sign with a hand pointing to the basement stairs had Janitor printed on it in faded blue letters and hung lopsided on the wall.
I entered the elevator, pushed the grill shut and pressed the button marked 2nd Floor. The elevator rose creakily as if it was in two minds not to rise at all came to a sighing standstill two floors up. I tramped down an endless corridor flanked on either side by shabby, paint-chipped doors. After what seemed to me to be half a mile walk I arrived at Apartment 246, which was up a cul-de-sac, one of two apartments facing each other. I screwed my thumb into the bell-push, then propped up the wall and selected a cigarette. I wondered if Nurse Gurney was in bed. I wondered if she would be glad to see me again, and hoped she would.
I had to wait about a couple of minutes before I heard sounds, and then the door opened.
Nurse Gurney looked a lot more interesting out of her nurse’s uniform. She was wearing a housecoat thing that reached to her ankles, but fell apart from her knees down. Her feet and legs were bare.
“Why, hello,” she said. “Do you want to come in?”
“I wouldn’t mind.”
She stood aside.
“How did you find my address?” she asked, leading me into a small living-room. “This is a surprise.”
“Yeah, isn’t it?” I said, dropping my hat on a chair. “You look knocked for a loop.”
She giggled.
“I happened to look out of the window and saw you coming. So I’ve had time to recover. How did you know I lived here?”
“Phoned the Nurses’ Association. Were you going to bed?”
“Uh-huh, but don’t let that drive you away.”
“You get into bed and I’ll sit beside you and hold your hand.”
She shook her head.
“That sounds dull. Let’s have a drink. Was there anything special or is this just a social call?”
I lowered myself into an armchair.
“Fifty-fifty, although the accent’s on the social side. Don’t ask me to fix the drinks. I’m feeling a little under the weather. I didn’t sleep good last night.”
“Who were you out with? “
“Nothing like that.” I reached gratefully for the highball and saluted her with it.
She came over and flopped on the divan. Her housecoat fell back. My eyes had time to pop before she adjusted it.
“You know I never expected to see you again.” she said, holding the tumbler of whisky and ice so her chin could rest on the rim. “I thought you were one of those hit-and-run artists.”
“Me? Hit-and-run? Oh, no, you’ve got me dead wrong. I’m one of those steady, faithful, clinging types.”
“I bet—wait until the novelty wears off.” she said a little bitterly. “Is that drink all right?”
“It’s fine.” I stretched out my legs and yawned I certainly felt low enough to creep in a gopher’s hole and pull the hole in after me. “How long do you expect to go on nursing the Crosby girl?”
I said it casually, but she immediately gave me a sharp, surprised look.
“Nurses never talk about their cases,” she said primly, and drank a little of the highball.
“Unless they have a good reason to,” I said. “Seriously, would you like a change of jobs? I might fix you up.”
“Would I not! I’m bored stiff with my present work: it’s cock-eyed to call it work, seeing I don’t have a thing to do.”
“Well, surely. There must be something to do.”
She shook her head, began to say something, then changed her mind.
I waited.
“What’s this job of yours?” she asked. “Do you want nursing?”
“Nothing would please me more. No. it’s not me. A friend of mine. He’s an iron-lung case, and wants a pretty nurse to cheer him up. He has plenty of money. I could put in a word for you if you like.”
She considered this, frowning, then shook her head.
“I can’t do it. I’d like to, but there are difficulties.”
“I shouldn’t have thought there would be any difficulty. The Nurses’ Association will fix it.”
“I’m not employed by the Nurses’ Association.”
“That makes it easier still, doesn’t it? If you’re a freelance…”
“I’m under contract to Dr. Salzer. He runs the Salzer Sanatorium up on Foothill Boulevard. Maybe you’ve heard of it.”
I nodded.
“Is Salzer Maureen’s doctor?”
“Yes. At least I suppose he is. He never comes near her.”
“What’s he got, then—an assistant?”
“No one comes near her.”
“That’s odd, isn’t it?”
“You’re asking a lot of questions, aren’t you?”
I grinned at her.
“I’m a curious guy. Isn’t she bad enough to have a doctor?”
She looked at me.
“Between you and me, I don’t know. I’ve never seen her.”
I sat up, spilling some of my whisky.
“You’ve never seen her? What do you mean? You nurse her, don’t you?”
“I shouldn’t be telling you this, but it worries me, and I have to tell someone. Promise you won’t pass it on?”
“Who would I pass it on to? Do you mean you’ve never even seen Maureen Crosby?”
“That’s right. Nurse Flemming won’t let me into the sick-room. My job is to fob off visitors, and now no one ever visits, I haven’t a thing to do.”
“What do you do, then, at night?”
“Nothing. I sleep at the house. If the telephone rings I’m supposed to answer it. But it never rings.”
“You’ve looked in Maureen’s room when Nurse Flemming isn’t around, surely?”
“I haven’t, because they keep the door locked. It’s my bet she isn’t even in the house.”
“Where else would she be?” I asked, sitting forward and not bothering to conceal my excitement.
“If what Flemming says is right, she could be in the sanatorium.”
“And what does Nurse Flemming say?”
“I told you: she’s sweating out a drug jag.”
“If she’s in the sanatorium, then why the deception? Why not say right out she’s there? Why put in a couple of nurses and fake a sick-room?”
“Brother, if I knew I’d tell you,” Nurse Gurney said, and finished her drink. “It’s a damned funny thing, but whenever you and I get together we have to talk about Maureen Crosby.”
“Not all the time,” I said, getting up and crossing to the divan. I sat by her side. “Is there any reason why you can’t leave Salzer?”
“I’m under contract to him for another two years. I can’t leave him.”
I let my fingers stroke her knee.
“What kind of guy is Salzer? I’ve heard he’s a quack.”
She slapped my hand.
“He’s all right. Maybe he is a quack, but the people he treats are just over-fed. He starves them and collects. You don’t have to be a qualified man to do that.”
My hand strayed back to her knee again.
“Do you think you could be a clever, smart girl and find out if Maureen is in the sanatorium?” I asked, and began a complicated manoeuvre.
She slapped my hand, hard this time.
“There you go again—Maureen.”
I rubbed the back of my hand.
“You have quite a slap there.”
She giggled.
“When you have my looks you learn to slap hard.”
Then the front-door bell rang: one long, shrill peal.
“Don’t answer it,” I said. “I’m now ready not to talk about Maureen.”
“Don’t be silly.” She swung her long legs off the divan. It’s the grocerman.”
“What’s he got I haven’t? “
“I’ll show you when I come back. I can’t starve just to please you.”
She went out of the room and closed the door. I took the opportunity to freshen my drink, and then lay down on the divan. What she had told me had been very interesting. The uncared-for garden, the crap-shooting chinamen, the whittling chauffeur, the smoking butler all added up to the obvious truth that Maureen wasn’t living at Crestways. Then where was she? Was she at the sanatorium? Was she sweating out a drug jag? Nurse Flemming would know. Dr. Jonathan Salzer would know, too. Probably Benny Dwan and Eudora had known.
Perhaps Glynn & Coppley knew, or if they didn’t they might wish to know. I began to see a way to put this business on a financial footing. My mind shifted to Brandon. If I had Glynn & Coppley behind me, I didn’t think Brandon would dare start anything. Glynn & Coppley were the best, the most expensive, the top-drawer lawyers in California. They had branch offices in San Francisco, Hollywood, New York and London. They were not the kind of people who’d allow themselves to be nudged by a shyster copper like Brandon. If they wanted to they had enough influence to dust him right out of office.
I closed my eyes and thought how nice it would be to be rid of Brandon and have a good, honest Captain of Police like Mifflin in charge at Headquarters. How much easier it would be for me to get co-operation instead of threats of dark alley beatings.
Then it occurred to me that Nurse Gurney had been away longer than it was necessary to collect a few groceries, and I sat up, frowning. I couldn’t hear her talking. I couldn’t hear anything. I set my drink down and stood up. Crossing the room I opened the door and looked into the lobby. The front door was ajar, but there was no one to see. I peeped into the passage.
The door of the opposite apartment looked blankly at me and I returned to the lobby. Maybe she was in the johnny, I thought, and went back into the sitting-room. I sat and waited, getting more and more fidgety, then after five minutes I finished my drink and went to the door again.
Somewhere in the apartment a refrigerator gave a whirring grunt and made me jump halfway out of my skin. I raised my voice and called, “Hey!” but no one answered. Moving quietly, I opened the door opposite the living-room and looked around what was obviously her bedroom. She wasn’t there. I even looked under the bed. I went into the bathroom and the kitchen and a tiny room that was probably the guest-room. She wasn’t in any of these rooms.
I went back to the living-room, but she wasn’t there either. It was beginning to dawn on me she wasn’t in the apartment, so I went to the front door, along the passage until I arrived at the main corridor. I looked to right and left. Stony-faced doors looked back at me. Nothing moved, nothing happened; just two lines of doors, a mile of shabby drugget, two or three grimy windows to let in the light, but no Nurse Gurney.
V
I stared blankly out of the window of the small living-room at the roof of the Buick parked below.
Without shoes or stockings she couldn’t have gone far, I told myself, unless… and my mind skipped to Eudora Drew, seeing a picture of her as she lay across the bed with the scarf biting into her throat.
For some moments I stood undecided. There seemed nothing much I could do. I had nothing to work on. The front-door bell rings. She says it’s the grocerman. She goes into the lobby. She vanishes. No cry; no bloodstains; no nothing.
But I had to do something, so I went to the front door and opened it and looked at the door of the opposite apartment. It didn’t tell me anything. I stepped into the passage and dug my thumb into the bell-push. Almost immediately the door opened as if the woman who faced me had been waiting for my ring.
She was short and plump, with white hair, a round, soft-skinned face, remarkable for the bright, vague, forget-me-not blue eyes and nothing else. At a guess, she was about fifty, and when she smiled she showed big, dead-looking white teeth that couldn’t have been her own. She was wearing a fawn-coloured coat and skirt that must have cost a lot of money, but fitted her nowhere. In her small, fat, white hand she held a paper sack.
“Good morning,” she said, and flashed the big teeth at me.
She startled me. I wasn’t expecting to see this plump, matronly woman who looked as if she had just come in from a shopping expedition and was now about to cook the lunch.
“I’m sorry to trouble you,” I said, lifting my hat. “I’m looking for Nurse Gurney.” I waved to the half-open front door behind me. “She lives there, doesn’t she?”
The plump woman dipped into the paper sack and took out a plum. She examined it closely, the eyes in her vacant, fat face suspicious. Satisfied, she popped it into her mouth. I watched her, fascinated.
“Why, yes,” she said in a muffled voice. “Yes, she does.” She raised her cupped hand, turned the stone out of her mouth into her hand in a refined way and dropped the stone back into the sack. “Have a plum?”
I said I didn’t care for plums, and thanked her.
“They’re good for you,” she said, dipped into the sack and fished our another. But this time it didn’t pass her scrutiny and she put it back and found another more to her liking.
“You haven’t seen her, have you?” I asked, watching the plum disappear between the big teeth.
“Seen who?”
“Nurse Gurney. I’ve just called and I find the front door open. I can’t get any answer to my ring.”
She chewed the plum while her unintelligent face remained blank. After she had got rid of the plum stone, she said. “You should eat plums. You haven’t got a very healthy colour. I eat two pounds every day.”
From the shape of her that wasn’t all she ate.
“Well, maybe I’ll get around to them one day,” I said patiently. “Nurse Gurney doesn’t happen to be in your apartment?”
Her mind had wandered into the paper sack again, and she looked up, startled. “What was that?”
Whenever I run into a woman like this I am very, very glad I am a bachelor.
“Nurse Gurney.” I felt I wanted to make signs the way I do when I talk to a foreigner. “The one who lives in that apartment. I said she doesn’t happen to be in your apartment.”
The blue eyes went vague.
“Nurse Gurney?”
“That’s right.”
“In my apartment?”
I drew a deep breath.
“Yeah. She doesn’t happen to be in your apartment, does she?”
“Why should she be?”
I felt blood begin to sing in my ears.
“Well, you see, her front door was open. She doesn’t appear to be in her apartment. I wondered if she had popped over to have a word with you.”
Another plum came into view. I averted my eyes. Seeing those big teeth bite into so much fruit was beginning to undermine my mental stability.
“Oh, no, she hasn’t done that.”
Well, at least we were making progress.
“You wouldn’t know where she is?”
The plum stone appeared and dropped into the sack. A look of pain came over the fat, blank face. She thought. You could see her thinking the way you can see a snail move if you watch hard enough.
“She might be in the—the bathroom,” she said at last. “I should wait and ring again.”
Quite brilliant in a dumb kind of way.
“She’s not in there. I’ve looked.”
She was about to put the bite on another plum. Instead she lowered it to look reproachfully at me.
“That wasn’t a very nice thing to do.”
I took off my hat and ran my fingers through my hair. Much more of this and I would be walking up the wall.
“I knocked first,” I said, through clenched teeth. “Well, if she’s not with you I’ll go back and try again.”
She was still thinking. The look of pain was still on her face.
“I know what I would do if I were you,” she said.
I could guess, but I didn’t tell her. I had a feeling she would insult at the drop of a hat.
“Tell me,” I said.
“I’d go downstairs and see the janitor. He’s a very helpful man.” Then she spoilt it by adding, “Are you sure you won’t have a plum?”
“Yeah, I’m quite sure. Well, thanks, I’ll see the janitor like you said. Sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”
“Oh, you’re welcome,” she said, and smiled.
I backed away, and as she closed the door she put another plum into the maw she called her mouth.
I rode down the elevator to the lobby and walked down a flight of dark, dusty stairs to the basement. At the bottom of the stairs a door faced me. It bore a solitary legend: Janitor. I raised my hand and rapped. A lean old man with a long, stringy neck, dressed in faded dungarees, appeared. He was old and bored and smelt faintly of creosote and whisky. He squinted at me without interest, said one word out of a phlegmy old throat, “Yes?”
I had a feeling I wasn’t going to get much help out of him unless I shook him out of his lethargy. From the look of him he seldom came up out of the darkness, and his contacts with human beings were rare. He and Rip Van Winkle would have made a fine business team, providing Winkle took charge of things; not otherwise; decidedly not otherwise.
I leaned forward and hooked a finger in his pocket.
“Listen, pally,” I said, as tough as an Orchid City cop. “Shake the hay out of your hair. I want a little co-operation from you.” While I talked I rocked him to and fro. “Apartment 246—what gives?”
He swallowed his Adam’s apple twice. The second time I didn’t think it would come to the surface again, but eventually it did—but only just.
“What’s up?” he said, blinking. “What’s the matter with Apartment 246?”
“I’m asking you. Front door’s open; no one’s there. That’s where you come in, pally. You should know when a front door’s been left open.”
“She’s up there,” he said owlishly. “She’s always up there at this time.”
“Only this time she’s not. Come on, pally, you and me are going up there to take a look around.”
He went with me as meek as a lamb. As we rode in the elevator, he said feebly, “She’s always been a nice girl. What do the police want with her?”
“Did I say the police want anything with her?” I asked, and scowled at him. “All I want to know is why the front door’s open when she isn’t there.”
“Maybe she went out and forgot to shut it,” he said after turning the matter over in his mind. I could see he was pleased with this idea.
“Now you’re getting cute,” I said as the elevator came to a creaking standstill. I was glad to get out of it. It didn’t seem strong enough to haul one, let alone two people. “Did you see her go out?”
He said he hadn’t seen her go out.
“Would you have seen her if she went?”
“Yes.” He blinked, and his Adam’s apple jumped a couple of notches. “My room overlooks
the front entrance.”
“Are you sure she didn’t come out during the past ten minutes?”
No, he couldn’t be sure about that. He had been cooking his lunch.
We went down the long corridor into the cul-de-sac and into Nurse Gurney’s apartment.
We went into each room, but she still wasn’t in any of them.
“Not there,” I said. “How else could she have left the building without using the front entrance?”
After staring blankly at the wall, he said there was no other way out.
I poked a finger towards the opposite apartment.
“Who’s the fat woman who eats plums?”
This time his Adam’s apple went for good.
“Plums?” he repeated and backed away. I guess he thought I was crazy.
“Yeah. Who is she?”
He looked at the door of Apartment 244, blinked, turned scared old eyes on me.
“In there, mister?”
“Yeah.”
He shook his head.
“No one’s in there. That apartment’s to rent.”
I felt a sudden chill run up my spine. I shoved past him and sank .my thumb into the bell-push. I could hear the bell ringing, but nothing happened; nobody came to the door.
“Got a pass key?”
He fumbled in his pocket, dragged out a key and handed it over.
“Ain’t nobody in there, mister,” he said. “Been empty for weeks.”
I turned the lock, pushed open the door and went into a lobby just like Nurse Gurney’s lobby. I went quickly from room to room. The place was as empty and as bare as Mrs. Hubbard’s cupboard.
The bathroom window looked on to a fire-escape. I pushed up the window and leaned out. Below was an alley that led into Skyline Avenue. It would have been easy for a strong man to have carried a girl down the escape to a waiting car below.
Leaning far out I saw a plum stone on one of the iron steps. Pity she hadn’t swallowed it. It might have choked her.