The Dishonest Murderer Read online

  “Safe at home,” Bill told him. “At least, Jerry may still be taking my wife home. Don’t worry, Mullins.”

  “Listen,” Mullins said. “I like them. Only—well, everything gets so screwy. You know that, Loot.”

  Not this time, Bill told him, smiled and went to business. Yes, the alarm was out; the Missing Persons Bureau was on it.

  “Although,” Mullins said, and Weigand, not waiting for him to finish, said “Right.”

  “To keep everybody honest,” he said. “In case we’re wrong.” He tapped his fingers on his desk top, beating out a rhythm. “Blake?” he said.

  “Unless something got fouled up,” Mullins said, “he’s there.”

  Bill Weigand nodded. He continued with his tapping. He said, more to himself than to Mullins, that it was working out very neatly. Mullins made sounds; the Loot liked to have sounds made, at appropriate intervals, when he was talking to himself.

  “Miss Burnley was in love with the senator,” Bill said, and counted it off with one finger. “She didn’t want him to marry Mrs. Haven. She picked up—probably from the elder Grainger—something she thought would be useful. She wrote the letter to the admiral. Right?”

  Mullins accepted the invitation.

  “You figure he was selling out?” Mullins said. “Like she said? If she wrote the letter?”

  “I figure she thought so,” Bill told him. “And that she got it, at least the start of it, from Grainger himself. Not the boy, the old man. I doubt if they’d let young Grainger in on anything so—so touchy. Anyway, say she wrote the letter. The admiral, instead of flying off in all directions, telling the senator to quit darkening his door, hires Briggs and Smiley.”

  “The poor old guy,” Mullins said. “Jeeze.”

  “Right,” Bill said. “She doesn’t know about this, thinks the letter was a dud, takes other methods. She, incidentally, would have been almost certain to know about the senator’s weak heart. Somehow, she gets him to go downtown, dress up in old clothes, have a drink of chloral. He goes off and dies; so he doesn’t marry Mrs. Haven.”

  “Like Mr. Grainger suggested,” Mullins said. “The one who stutters.”

  “Right,” Bill said. “As was suggested. But Smiley is following the senator, sees Miss Burnley with him, decides there’s money in what he knows, tries to collect and—” Bill shrugged.

  “Collects lead,” Mullins said.

  “Right,” Bill Weigand said. “That’s the picture, Sergeant. You like it?”

  “Well,” Mullins said. “It’s neat. And then she runs away?”

  “Right,” Bill said. “Then she runs away.”

  “Why?” Mullins said.

  “Because, when the news comes that her plan’s really worked, that Kirkhill’s dead, she breaks down and lets out she was still in love with him. Lets it out to young Grainger. Remember, it’s in the picture she really loved Kirkhill; probably she didn’t quite believe, didn’t really believe, she’d killed him. She waited all evening, keeping bright and chipper for the party, all sorts of things going on underneath—and then Blake walks in and tells her and the rest of them that the senator’s dead. She doesn’t have to wait for identification. She knows who it is, all right. She manages to hold in until she gets in the cab with Grainger, then she gives way. Later she gets to thinking about what she’s said, realizes we’ll follow up, decides to run. O.K., Mullins?”

  “O.K., Loot,” Mullins said. “It’s a picture.”

  “A very nice picture,” Bill Weigand said. “Simple, tangible, possibly not covering everything, but it isn’t necessary to cover everything. We know that. The extraneous always crops up. Brother George, the letter Mr. Phipps thinks the senator got from George, or about George, and destroyed. Phipps was just guessing, of course. He says so. It remains intangible. Presumably it was from, or about, somebody else named George.”

  “And Mrs. Haven?”

  “Innocent bystander,” Bill said. “As, essentially, her father is. And Celia. And Mr. Phipps, of course. It’s neat enough, Mullins.”

  “Who called to tell us Smiley’d got it?” Mullins asked.

  “Who but Miss Burnley?” Bill asked. “Wanting, for some reason, to establish the time. Something we’re to find out when we catch her.”

  “If,” Mullins said.

  Bill Weigand looked across the room at the wall, then. His face changed; the tattoo of his fingers grew more rapid. The ringing of the telephone interrupted him. He answered, listened, noted down numbers in two groups of three. He said, “Thanks,” hung up, and said to Mullins, “As we thought.”

  “Smitty?” Mullins said. Bill Weigand nodded. He said, “Right, Sergeant.” He was silent for a long moment. “I hope Blake makes out all right,” he said, then. “We’ll just have to wait.”

  “He’s a good man,” Sergeant Mullins said, generously.

  Pamela North sat in a deep chair and three cats sat on Pamela North. They had needed resolution to find space on this favorite human, but they did not lack resolution. Martini had come first, speaking softly, but with command, and Pam, who had been curled in the chair, stretched out her legs. Martini flicked up from the floor, advanced up Pamela and approached a masked face to this, at intervals, adored belonging. Pam scratched behind the black-brown ears, rubbed the slender jaw, and made the appropriate remarks. Martini purred, reached out a dark paw and patted Pam’s cheek and then, having had enough of sentimentality, turned around, went down Pam, and stretched on Pam’s legs, facing out.

  Sherry, after watching all this with interest, gave a small sound and jumped up behind her mother. She then advanced and sat on her mother’s head. Martini made sounds of great disapproval and pretended to bite her blond daughter. Sherry ignored this. Martini wriggled out from under, backed up, and curled, leaving most of the original spot to Sherry.

  Gin, the junior seal-point, trotted briskly around the room, letting out angular cries. This activity seemed to have no bearing on anything, and the remarks baffled translation. The other cats, from security, looked at her with mild interest. Martini then yawned, and put one forepaw over her eyes, apparently to shut out the sight. Gin stopped her circling, scratched behind her right ear without sitting down, which is a trick even for a cat, and then noticed, apparently for the first time, where her mother and sister had gone. She jumped behind Martini, making Pam say “Ouf!”, said, “Wah?” herself, and walked over the other two, licking each in passing. She found a tiny freehold on Pam’s knees and made the most of it.

  “Goodness,” Pam said. “Have you three any idea how much you weigh? As a whole?”

  Nobody answered this. Pam’s legs began to go to sleep. Then Pam began to go to sleep. Then the telephone rang. All three cats leaped away from Pam angrily, then sat in a circle and stared at her. Pam, fighting against an unreasoning conviction that something had happened to Jerry, moved almost as rapidly as the cats, snatched the telephone and said “Hello?” in a kind of gasp. She went on, unable to stop herself in time, and said “Jer—” and then did stop herself. It was not Jerry, or, seemingly, about Jerry. It was Freddie Haven.

  “Go slower,” Pam said. “I don’t—”

  “—someone to know where I am,” Freddie Haven said. “I said I wouldn’t tell—them. Not yet. But I want someone to know. It’s—” She gave a number in the West Sixties. “Breese Burnley’s,” she said.

  Pamela North pursued elusive meaning, captured it, captured part of it.

  “No,” Pam said. “Not by yourself. Wait a minute.”

  “I have to,” Freddie Haven said. “Anyway—” she added, and stopped. “It’s all foolish,” she said. “I know it’s foolish. I’ll be all right. I—I just wanted someone to know. Good—”

  “Wait a minute,” Pam said. Her voice was anxious, hurried. “You mustn’t go there, or anywhere. Tell the police if—if there’s something.”

  “Not yet,” Freddie said. “I’ve got to go now, Mrs. North. It’s—I can’t wait any longer. Have you got the address?”
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  “Yes, but—” Pam said. Then she did not say anything more, because she heard the click of the disconnected telephone. She put her own telephone back, looked at it, took it up and dialed.

  She got Homicide. She did not get Bill Weigand, whose line was busy, or Mullins. She was invited to hold on or leave a message. She asked for Sergeant Blake. She was invited to leave a message. This time she did. “Tell the lieutenant, tell any of them, that Mrs. Haven has gone to Miss Burnley’s apartment,” Pam said. “Gone alone, I think. And—and that I couldn’t hold on because I’ve gone too. Mrs. North. Because there isn’t anyone else and someone has—” She broke off. “Never mind the last,” she said. “Just that about Mrs. Haven and Miss Burnley’s apartment.”

  “O.K.,” the man at Homicide said. “Mrs. Haven, Miss Burnley, Mrs. North. O.K.”

  Pam North replaced the telephone.

  Why did I say that? she thought. I didn’t know I was going until then. I didn’t know I had to go until I said it. I wish Jerry would come.

  But Jerry, who had no way of knowing that there was any reason to hurry, might be another half an hour. It just isn’t possible to wait another half an hour, Pam thought. I’ll leave Jerry a note and he can come and get me.

  “Dear Jerry,” she wrote. “It really is Breese and she’s got Mrs. H to go there so I have to too. Please come but don’t let the cats out.” She read this over and signed it, “Love, Pam.” Then she drew a line under the word “is.” With that attended to, Pamela North let herself out.

  Sergeant William Blake parked the inconspicuous sedan a block away and walked the remaining distance. The wind had gone to the northwest and blew up the street, steadily, with purpose, harshly cold. The tall detective bent to it, but he did not walk like a man in a hurry. In front of the building he hesitated a moment, the light from a street lamp on his face, and then walked on until the light was behind him. A smaller man appeared out of nowhere and said, “Got a match, buddy?”

  “Don’t ham it, Smitty,” Blake said. “Well?”

  “Yeah,” Smitty said. “About five-ten minutes ago.”

  “Good,” Blake said. “Give the lieutenant a buzz. Come back and stick around.”

  “O.K.,” Smitty said. “You’ll be?”

  “Around, I hope,” Blake said. He shivered slightly. “It’s cold,” he said.

  Smitty said that Blake was telling Smitty. He disappeared again. Blake walked on for a few paces, decided he was hamming it himself, and turned back.

  Smitty said, “O.K. Loot,” and left the warmth of the telephone booth in the all-night drug store at the far end of the block. He decided to chance it, ordered a cup of coffee and drank it quickly. He went to the door, looked out at the street, hesitated unhappily, and then went out into the cold. The wind blew him up the street. He had gone only a hundred feet or so when a taxicab came down the street and passed him, its roof lights on. It sounded as if it were running in second. Smitty noted it, but he had something else to do. He began to check the numbers on the license plates of the few cars parked in the block.

  She ran up the steps and then, before she opened the outer vestibule door, she involuntarily paused. She had to make herself open the door; it became, in that second, an act of will against all instinct. She opened the door and said, “Oh!” with an indrawing of the breath.

  Phipps stood in front of the mailboxes on the vestibule wall. He was pressing a button over one of them. He turned as she entered and shook his head before he spoke.

  “She doesn’t answer,” he said. “I just got here. I’ve been ringing. She doesn’t answer.”

  His normally deep, musical voice was higher pitched, excited. He shook his head again. He turned back and pressed the bell push again; Freddie Haven could see his thumb flatten on the button as he pressed.

  “She can’t be asleep,” Freddie said. “You said—”

  “She just called me,” Howard Phipps said, his thumb still on the button. “Just before I called you. Of course she can’t be asleep, unless—” He did not finish. He released the pressure of his thumb on the button and then pressed it several times, quickly. They both waited. There was no response.

  Howard Phipps turned to face Freddie. His brows were drawn together; there was an expression of surprise on his face, and an expression of growing anxiety.

  “I’m afraid,” he said, and stopped and started again. “I’m afraid something’s happened. We’ll have to call—”

  He interrupted himself. He turned to the door leading into the building and she saw him trying to turn the knob. That’s no use, she thought; it was locked before; it’s always locked. Phipps did not, she thought, take the knob as if he expected it to turn. It was, she thought, only a gesture; it was the futile thing one did in order to be sure one had done everything. And then she saw the knob turn.

  Even as he pushed the door open, Howard Phipps turned back to her.

  “I don’t—” he began, and then, suddenly, he swore softly. “She must have come down and unlatched it,” he said. “So we could get in. So we could—find her!” He said the last two words quickly, running them together. He did not wait for her to precede him through the door; he went in and said, “Come on, Freddie,” over his shoulder. She went after him. Fear was swirling in her mind again.

  It was a long way, seemed a long way, up the two flights of stairs; a long way down the corridor to the door they sought. Phipps, still in the lead, did not hesitate, now. He reached for the knob hurriedly, turned it hard. The door opened.

  Lights were on in the living room. Phipps said, “Look!” and was across the room as he spoke. He bent over the girl on the sofa. He said, “Breese! Breese!” He took her shoulders and began to shake her, gently, twisting her back and forth. He kept calling her name. And then, while Freddie was still crossing the room, so quickly had he moved and spoken, he said, “Thank God.” He turned to Freddie, then.

  “She’s taken something,” he said. “She’s taken something, but she’s alive.” He paused. “The poor kid,” he said. “Whatever she’s done—the poor kid.”

  By then Freddie was kneeling beside the sofa. Breese moved slightly. Then she lifted one arm as if to put it across her eyes, but the movement faltered, ended, the arm fell back.

  “Coffee!” Phipps said. “That’s what she needs. We can—maybe we can bring her out of it.”

  “We’ll get help,” Freddie said, but Phipps shook his head.

  “Not yet,” he said. “Let’s—let’s give her a chance, Freddie. If we can bring her out of it, give her a chance to talk—about—about all of it. The letter, everything. You see?”

  Freddie shook her head, but the movement was uncertain. She looked at Breese Burnley again, and saw the girl’s eyelids flutter. Breese did not, now that Freddie looked more closely, now she could look more calmly, seem deeply asleep. Perhaps Howard was right.

  “The kitchen?” Phipps said and then, at once, “Oh—of course.” He started for it. “See if you can do anything,” he said. “I’ll make coffee. If I can find it.”

  “Breese,” Freddie said. “Breese—wake up!” She began to rub the girl’s wrists. “Try to lift her,” Phipps said from the kitchen. “Try to get her sitting up. Damn it, where’s the—oh.” He had found it—the coffee, the percolator. The taut exasperation ebbed from his voice. She could hear water running, then the hiss of a gas jet turned high. After a moment, while she still tried to lift Breese, get her sitting upright on the sofa, Phipps came back. “Got it started,” he said. “Is she—?”

  “I think she’s beginning to wake up,” Freddie said. “I think—” Then Breese’s blue eyes flickered open. They were blank. Freddie did not think the girl saw her. Then the eyes closed again. But now Freddie, her arm around the girl’s shoulders, felt Breese’s body respond. “She’s trying to sit up,” Freddie said.

  “The coffee’ll do it,” Phipps said. “She must have—have misjudged the dose. Or, subconsciously—well, you know what I mean. I think she’s going to be
all right.”

  “What do you suppose she took?” Freddie asked. Phipps looked down at her, with an expression of surprise.

  “Don’t you see?” he said, and shook his head. He spoke more gently. “Well, I’m afraid she must have had chloral hydrate to—don’t you see, Freddie?”

  She did see. It was all too easy to see. Involuntarily, she withdrew her arm from Breese Burnley’s shoulders.

  “I know,” Phipps said. “It’s—I’m afraid that’s the way it is. She was going to tell us. She lost her nerve and—well, thought she’d end it. She fixed the doors so we could get in, but she thought we’d come—well, too late. Or, she thought she thought that. I suppose, subconsciously—” He shrugged.

  Freddie continued to kneel by the sofa, close to the unconscious girl. She looked at Breese. Even now, she was beautiful, perfect in her orderly beauty—perfectly dressed, perfectly groomed. It was almost as if she had dressed for death, perfumed herself for death. It was hard to believe that Breese had loved so, then hated so. Because, if it had been Breese, love which changed to hatred would have to be the reason.

  “She’s pretty,” Howard Phipps said, and Freddie was faintly surprised to discover how his thoughts must have been paralleling her own. He stood looking down at her, his expression abstracted. “What was that scent she always used? Do you know, Freddie?”

  Freddie shook her head. “I don’t know the name,” she said. What did it matter, now? It could not matter to Phipps; probably he did not even realize what he had said. “I don’t know,” she repeated.

  “I’ll get the coffee,” Phipps said. “It ought to be ready. Then we’ll get her sitting up and—and see what we can do.”

  Freddie did not move. She knelt there, looking at Breese. Did you love him so much? she asked, without words. Did you hate him so much? And then, unconsciously, she shook her head. Was Bruce like that? she asked the sleeping girl. Could he make you feel like that? So that—that you changed when you were with him, so that he was—not like anyone else? Was Bruce like that?

  “Here,” Howard Phipps said. He came out of the kitchen with a cup of coffee in his hand. “Help me. We’ll get her to drink this. We’ll—”