“I figured you knew,” I said. “Yes, Walter killed Jonathan.”
Ames put his glass down with a bang that echoed in the small library. “Damn it, Fortune, how can you be sure of such a thing? Walter had no motive. You agreed anyone could have been there!”
“What happened after Monday tells me, Ames,” I said.
“After Monday?” Ames looked at me, and then at Mrs. Radford. He picked up his glass, drank.
“Mrs. Radford made a deal, Ames,” I said. “A payoff to protect the killer. She wouldn't have done that for anyone but Walter. Only Walter makes sense out of the rest of it.”
Ames squeezed his glass, said, “Gertrude?”
“Be quiet, George, for goodness' sake,” Mrs. Radford said, and said to me, “What do you intend doing, Mr. Fortune?”
“My God, Gertrude!” Ames's theatrical face was ten years older. “You really knew, and ⦔ He drank. Whisky dribbled down his shirt front. “Do you know what they did? Walter and this Baron? Tell her, Fortune! The whole fantastic story!”
“Please, George,” she said. “I'm not the least interested.”
I watched her smooth and youthful face that had never asked herself a question she could not answer, and I believed her. She didn't know how Weiss had been framed, and she didn't care. How Weiss took the fall for Walter didn't concern her, only that he did take it. Weiss was nothing, a zero, a convenience to be used for Radford-Ames survival. She did not care how Jonathan had died, or even that he was dead once it had happened. Jonathan, dead, did not matter. The family went on: a unit, a whole more than any single member.
She folded her frail hands. “Walter had a tragic accident. He acted foolishly afterward, yes, but he was frightened, and he knew that the authorities would not consider it the simple mistake it was. They would have persecuted him. He made a stupid arrangement, it seems, but I managed to correct that. Now, is this what you came to tell me, Mr. Fortune?”
“Among other things,” I said.
“Then you've told me. I see no reason to bother anyone else. Walter has been disturbed quite enough.”
“Is that all you have to tell me, Mrs. Radford?”
“Certainly. My late husband showed me how business functions. If you have some proof against Walter, tell me and we can discuss money and terms. If you have no proof, you can leave before I call our Chief of Police and have you arrested. You have no legal right to be here, I've investigated that. Do you have proof?”
“Jonathan's death may have been an accident, I think it was,” I said. “The other three murders weren't accidents.”
“Do you have proof, Mr. Fortune?”
Her pale eyes studied me, and what could I say? I had no proof yet. Ames came to my rescue for the moment. He set his third empty glass down, rubbed his pink, barbered face:
“Walter couldn't have killed Baron, Fortune. That much I know.”
Mrs. Radford said, “Please tell him nothing, George.”
Ames ignored her. “Walter really was with me at the apartment on Wednesday night. He never left.”
“Did he make any telephone calls?” I asked.
“No, none. I remember because Deirdre made quite a few, and Walter was disturbed by that. He became angry at her calls.”
“George!” Mrs. Radford said. “You're a fool!”
I finished my coffee, sat back in the chair. “Walter didn't kill Baron or the other two, Mrs. Radford. You did.”
“Oh, don't be ridiculous! If you try to prove that ⦔
“Not by pulling a trigger,” I said, “by making the deal you made on Monday night. You killed them as sure as if you had gone out and done it yourself. Your deal made it all happen.”
I heard Ames pouring another drink. I didn't look at him. I was looking at Mrs. Radford. She didn't even blink at me. She shook her head:
“When a man buys something, he is not concerned with what others do to deliver it to him,” she said firmly. “My late husband taught me that, too. I entered into an arrangement, I kept my side of the contract. I am in no way responsible for how others arranged to deliver their side. That is not my affair.”
Ames said, croaked, “What arrangement?”
I could tell by his voice that he had at least guessed. Before I could do anything else, the butler, MacLeod, appeared in the doorway. Walter was not with him, but Morgana Radford was. She looked like she had not changed her clothes since I had last seen her, but there was an odd gleam in her eyes.
“Where's Walter?” I said to MacLeod.
Mrs. Radford waved me away. “Call the police, MacLeod. I have asked Mr. Fortune to leave; he has refused. Tell the Chief that I believe Mr. Fortune is armed.”
MacLeod looked at me, and left. I stood up. Mrs. Radford knew damn well I'd never use the pistol. Morgana Radford looked at her mother, but she spoke to me:
“Walter went out to find Deirdre. I told him.”
“Told him what, dear?” Mrs. Radford said.
“Where did he go?” I said.
Morgana didn't seem to hear either of us. She told it her own way. “I know Walter's been watching her. When Deirdre went out tonight, Walter wasn't here, so I followed her. To that gambling house! She's gone there alone before. I told Walter. An hour ago. He ran out. Now he'll see her for what she is!”
The righteous, fanatical girl trembled where she stood with the rest of us watching her. There was something pitiful about her. She was going to save her golden little boy, destroy the evil witch, open Walter's spellbound eyes.
“Don't be juvenile, Morgana!” Mrs. Radford said. “I'm sure Deirdre knows just what she is doing. Walter is being foolish again.”
In a way Mrs. Radford was a lot like Sammy Weiss. For Weiss it would all work out fine as long as he did nothing; his luck would change. For Gertrude Radford all one had to do was pay for something, buy someone, and everything was accomplished as she wanted it.
I walked to the door.
“Mr. Fortune!” Mrs. Radford snapped. “You will not bother Walter or Deirdre.”
I looked back. “I'm sorry, Mrs. Radford. You've done enough damage. I don't take your orders.”
“George!” she said. “Morgana, get MacLeod.”
She turned to each of them. Ames poured another drink and looked at the floor. Morgana just stared at her mother. Neither of them moved. After a moment, Ames turned his back to the old woman, and to me. There was no anger on Mrs. Radford's smooth face, only amazement.
“Stop him,” she said. “What's wrong with you? George?”
I left her and them. MacLeod did not appear to stop me. I went out to my car. I didn't have any doubt about what gambling house Morgana Radford had meant.
26
T
HE PARKING LOT
of the big brown house was full of cars and empty of people. I saw Deirdre Fallon's red Fiat. I didn't see Walter Radford's Jaguar. The lot was dark and swept by the wind. A mist of dry snow blew like drifting sand across the open lot from mounds at the edges.
When I parked and got out, the scouring wind made sounds that played tricks with my nerves. I was a long way from my own backyard. Costa's silver Bentley was parked in its private space around the corner from the front entrance. I went inside.
The rooms were all going full blast, the elegant marks losing their money as fast as in any garage-floor crap game, if with more comfort and gentility. I stayed far in the background, my duffle coat on my arm. I did not see Walter or Deirdre Fallon. I chewed my lip for a time, then headed for the telephone booth inside the front door. I put on my coat and slid into the booth.
Costa's office number would be private, but the club should have a listed number. It did. I dialed and watched through the glass as a houseman ambled to a wall telephone. I asked for Costa. I saw the houseman hesitate. I gave my name and said it was urgent. He told me to wait. I watched him press a button, and my line went on hold. He pressed another button, and almost stood at attention as he spoke into the phone. He nodded, and my line went off hold.
“Hello, baby, what's up?” Costa's easy voice said.
“I want to talk to you.”
“You know where to find me.”
“No, somewhere a little more public. I'm at the railroad station. Just drive up slow; I'll see you.”
There was a silence. When his voice came back on the line, it could have sliced steel. “You putting me on, Fortune?”
“You better come,” I said. “Come right now, and come alone.”
I hung up. In the booth I sat down where I could see both the front door and the curtained entrance to Costa's office. He had to come, if only to call my bluff. He appeared in less than two minutes, wearing a sleek black Chesterfield and an angry scowl. His coat bulged. He stopped to talk to the houseman. He was alone. I didn't see Strega anywhere. I was a two-bit private eye, and a cripple, and I had counted on his pride. He strode out the front door. I slipped from the booth and followed him.
Outside, I saw him just turning the corner toward the Bentley. I slipped to the corner and peered around. The Bentley was only some twenty feet away. I waited until he had the door open and was sliding behind the wheel. Then I sprinted the twenty feet.
He was so busy he didn't see me until I was leaning in the window, my old pistol in my hand. His black eyes looked up at me, and then he grinned. He curled a lip at my gun.
“Where'd you pick up the musket, baby?”
“I keep it around for courage,” I said. “Keep your hands on the wheel, and face front until I'm in the back.”
I slid into the back seat. His sleek black hair shined in the faint light reflected from the snow. He was watching me in the rear-view mirror, all his teeth flashing in the smile.
“You need courage, baby?” he asked in his easy voice.
“Someone is acting like I do,” I said.
“The Radford thing?”
“Yes. Where are they, Costa? Walter Radford and Miss Fallon?”
“Why would I know, baby?”
“I think you know.”
Costa moved. I pushed the pistol at him, but not too close. He put both his hands out in front of him.
“I like to see who I talk to, Fortune,” he said. “My hands are open. My coat's buttoned. You got me alone. I'm turning.”
He turned until he could rest his hands on the back of the front seat. He leaned against the door, his dark eyes on me. I sat back far out of range. A Bentley is a big, roomy car.
“You think I killed old Jonathan after all, baby?” he said.
“No, Walter Radford killed his uncle.”
“So what's the pitch?”
“Walter didn't kill Paul Baron or the other two.”
“What other two?”
“Leo Zar, and a girl named Carla Devine.”
Even in the reflected light I saw his black eyes take on a hard sheen like well-polished ebony. He whistled through his teeth. I waited. Outside in the wind-swept parking lot no one appeared and nothing moved.
Costa said, “You think you know something, baby?”
“I know that after Walter killed Jonathan, Paul Baron came to his ârescue' and set up a frame on Sammy Weiss. That gave Baron a real hold on Walter, with the murder knife as security. Or Baron thought it did. Mrs. Radford outfoxed him. She made a deal with his partner. So Baron got shot, and the other two were killed because they knew too much about the frame-up.”
“Baron had a partner? You mean all along?”
“It's all that makes sense. Only someone Baron really trusted could have both killed him and set the second frame-up on Weiss. Someone who knew everything Baron was doing.”
“Who, baby?”
“Deirdre Fallon,” I said. “It has to be. She probably conned Walter into getting Baron to cover Jonathan's murder in the first place. She was there; she got the idea.”
“I knew there was something about that one. It figures, yeh. She's smooth; she's been around. She didn't figure with Walter.”
“No, she didn't figure until the small blackmail turned into a big squeeze. Then Mrs. Radford bought off the big squeeze. The payoff was Walter himself. He was rich now, and he wanted Deirdre. All Deirdre had to do was get Baron out of the picture.”
“You think Walter knew?”
“No, but maybe he's guessed by now.”
Costa rubbed his jaw. “Did she have to kill Baron? That's taking a hell of a risk even for all Walter would have.”
“She had to,” I said, “but she didn't kill him. Not alone. She set him up and got a sucker to do the dirty work for her.”
“A sucker?” His black eyes were down to points.
“Someone who wanted her, Costa. Maybe a share in the loot, but mostly for her, I figure.” My hand sweated on the pistol.
“You think I'm dumb enough to kill for a woman, baby?”
“I gave up trying to figure what men will do for a woman a long time ago. There was an arranged frame-up on hand, maybe it looked foolproof,” I said. “Where is she, Costa? Where's Walter?”
“I ain't seen them, baby. They're not around here.”
“Her car's here.”
“Here?” he said. “That Fiat?”
“In your lot over there.”
“Damn, baby, you're ahead of me. I didn't see her tonight.”
“She'll cross you,” I said. “She'll get someone to kill you, or do it herself. She's in too deep. Baron and Leo Zar were both armed. They'll never prove Carla on anyone. You can take a plea. Manslaughter, or even self-defense.”
His voice was all the way down to bare bone. “You take big chances for a cripple, baby.”
I leaned. “Earlier tonight you said you didn't know Carla Devine. But when we were all up on Sixty-third Street Deirdre made sure you knew that Leo Zar and I were looking for Carla. I wondered why she said that out loud at the time. A few hours later, Carla Devine was dead. Then I knew. Deirdre was tipping you that Carla had to be silenced before Leo or I got to her.”