Date for Murder (12 page)

“N
OW,
Miss Cartwright, there’s a lot of things I got to know,” the Chief said. They were seated in a far corner of the living room; Mark and the Chief on a divan, Myra in a chair opposite them. She seemed quite composed, her features steady in their sharpness. Mark watched her hands. The nails were long and unpainted, and she was plucking at a little knot in the hem of her loose slack shirt.

“Such as what was I doing walking on the railroad tracks at four-thirty this morning?” she smiled.

“Yeah, that too,” the Chief said.

“I was simply taking a walk,” she said. “As I told Mark—” she inclined her head toward him with a smile—”I have a financial problem and I was trying to puzzle it out.”

“You come up here?”

“Not within a few hundred yards. I was that close to the west edge of the grove,” she said.

“Can you prove that?”

Myra laughed, a metallic laugh. “Can you prove otherwise?”

The Chief spread his hands. “Okay, if that’s the way you’re going to be.”

“But it isn’t,” she said. Her smile softened her features. “Really, I can’t prove it. I saw no one.”

“A Mexican saw you.”

“I don’t remember him,” she said. “I was engrossed in my thoughts.”

“Okay. Now, Miss Cartwright, this ain’t going no farther if it don’t mean anything to this case. But I got to know. How familiar were you with the Major?”

Myra Cartwright’s eyes widened a little, but she certainly showed no undue surprise beyond that.

“I don’t see where there is any connection,” she said. “The Major and I were close friends. Two lonesome people, Chief.”

“You didn’t advertise it.”

“Certainly not. The Major wouldn’t have desired it—neither would I.”

The Chief leaned forward. “How close, Miss Cartwright?”

Myra flushed and straightened herself. Her features became almost pointed in her anger. “I resent the insinuation,” she said.

Mark asked idly, “Does your husband know about that, Myra?”

She flashed him a look of almost intense hatred. “My husband and I have little in common with one another,” she said stiffly.

The Chief sounded surprised when he spoke, as if he hadn’t known Myra was married. Perhaps he hadn’t, Mark thought. Few people seemed to. “Where is your husband, Miss Cartwright—or Mrs.—huh?”

“In the East,” she said with almost callous disinterest.

“Yeah? What’s his name?”

“Mr. Cartwright.” Her voice was heavy with sarcasm. “I use Miss for business purposes.”

“Okay, what’s his business?”

“I don’t see—He’s a bond broker, if you must know.” Myra was frigid now. Looking at her, Mark could scarcely believe that she was the yielding, seductive woman of a few hours before. How long ago, how far away that all seemed now! “He supports you, huh?”

“He has helped me in the past,” she corrected. “However, our estrangement has reached the point—well, that’s why I was worrying over finances.” It sounded a little like a chant, as if she had committed it to memory, Mark thought.

“Okay.” The Chief leaned forward and stared closely into her sharp face. “Just what did you do to the Major that made him kill himself?”

That, Mark thought, was a bombshell. Myra’s face blanched beneath its light make-up and fear traced a trembling line across her lips. Her long, uncolored nails made a wad of her shirt hem. After a moment she recovered and relaxed a trifle. But she spoke warily. “What made you think a thing like that?”

“I heard.”

“Who told you? That cat, Leona? Or the Major’s dear brother?” Her voice was suddenly spiteful.

“Why should Leona Taylor know?” the Chief countered.

“She seems to know everything,” Myra said.

“Yeah? Well, I still want an answer.”

Myra had evidently recovered herself fully. She laughed lightly without a false note Mark could detect. “It’s absurd,” she said. “The Major and I were simply friends. That is all.” Her eyes watched both men closely. “And I understand he died quite naturally.”

“Yeah, so did a lot of people.” The Chief suddenly switched tactics, as if the whole affair bored him. “When you were walking around this morning, you didn’t see anything, huh?”

“I did not.”

“Last night maybe you got some ideas who might have killed Link.”

Myra smiled. “That isn’t very fair. Any observant person could see he was quite well hated here.”

“By who, huh?”

“By Chunk Farman,” she said. “But I doubt if he would have killed Link purely out of jealousy. Grant certainly had no love for the man. Nor any of the others. You’ll have to ask them why.” She took a package of cigarets from her shirt pocket and lit one. She was quite cool now.

“Did this Jeffers hate him too?”

“Why do you ask that?” Her voice was brittle.

“You was with him as his date, I been told. I thought maybe he said something.”

She laughed. “He did. Clint doesn’t like him. He never has. Grant, I understand, used to bring Link to the fraternity house. There was something about gambling. They all lost a bit of money. Clint claims Link was a cheater. He hates a cheater.”

“Yeah? Okay, Miss Cartwright. Thanks.” The Chief sighed lugubriously as Myra got up and walked toward the door at the far end. Idell had gracefully retired there and was evidently absorbed in a fashion magazine. “Could I speak to you, Miss Manders?”

Idell laid down her magazine and rose. “Shall I bring you a drink?”

She had been drinking a great deal these past two days, Mark realized. He accepted with a nod. The Chief said, “Beer if you got it.”

“Dad Curtis brought it back,” she said. When she reached them, she added, “The Queen is taking care of him. He’s pretty well broken up.”

“I guess he is,” the Chief agreed. “Are my men still out there?”

Idell said, “They took her away while you were downstairs. I suppose they’re about through by now.” She looked suddenly small and pathetic, and Mark had a strong desire to take her in his arms and soothe her as he would a small and worried child. “When is it all going to end?” she whispered. “There is something horrible about this place.” She shuddered. “Something so different from the way it used to be. It was all gay and happy before. Now it’s—well, it just isn’t home any more.”

Mark reached out and touched her hand where it lay on the white-clad knee of her slacks. “I hope it will be soon,” he said.

The Chief bobbed his head. “Yeah, but it won’t be any sooner’n we get things figured out. Look, Miss Manders, maybe you can help us. All this hiding things ain’t going to do no good. We can find out other ways—if we got to.”

Idell’s white face told Mark she was well aware of what the Chief was driving at. She said in a low, hoarse voice, “All right.”

“Now why was you going to marry the guy? You didn’t like him, huh?”

“I didn’t like him,” she said. “I hated him!”

“But you was going to marry him?”

“Yes.” She leaned forward, but she was seeing Mark more than the Chief. Her eyes, large and incredibly dark and beautiful, were pleading for understanding. “This is my home. This is the only real home I’ve ever known. I’ve always loved it here. I want to see our land stretching green and fertile as far as it goes. Do you understand that? I love this land like—like I love nothing else in the world.

“When I was a little girl I knew what I wanted out of life.” Her bosom was rising and falling swiftly with her emotion. “I wanted to make this ranch great. And all through school I studied the things that would make it possible. I planned and dreamed. And I’ve had to scheme!”

“And Link could stop you?” Mark asked quietly.

“He could have,” she said. Her lips twisted in a tight, bitter little smile. “He could have taken everything away from me.”

“And you were going to marry him to prevent that?” Mark asked; his voice sounded as if he were thinking of little Nell and the mortgage.

She evidently sensed his thoughts, for she colored. “It wasn’t that,” she said. “Not that at all. Link never said a word; I don’t think he even considered it, really. He wanted his money …” She clapped a hand to her mouth and stared at them, wide-eyed.

“I think we can guess that,” Mark said. “Go on.”

“But,” she said a little shakily, “he never spoke to me. It was Grant who told me about his debt. I couldn’t believe it at first. It was so—so huge. Why, it would have taken this from us. Taken everything but our trust funds. And even then it wouldn’t have been paid.”

“How was this debt made?” the Chief demanded.

She shook her head. “Grant never told me fully.” She tried to smile, but it was a poor effort. “I suppose this is putting both of us in an awful spot. But I want to get it over with. I want everything to be cleared up—so I can have our ranch again in peace.”

“Go on,” Mark urged gently. He was leaning toward her now, and their fingertips were touching. She smiled her appreciation.

“When Grant told me, I couldn’t think of any way out. He wanted to sell. Link couldn’t force him, of course. My share is independent of Grant’s. It’s joint ownership but he can’t sell without my consent. There was something, though, he said, Link could do in a court to get an injunction against the property.

“So,” she said, breathing more easily now, “I decided there was only one thing to do. If I could make Link part of the family, it didn’t really matter then. I would always have the ranch. I don’t think Link ever knew Grant told me of the debt. I—well, he fell for me, and I played up to him. I let him think he made me fall for him, and three months ago I promised to marry him. That’s all there is to that.”

“It makes an awfully strong motive against you and your brother, Miss Manders. Especially after that happening early in the morning.”

“I know it,” she said. “But—well, Grant was drunk, and I certainly never could have carried Link to the swimming pool.”

“You could have had a helper,” the Chief said. He talked as if he were thinking out loud. “That young Farman guy sure goes for you. He’d do anything you say.”

“Chunk is a dear,” she said. Her eyes were bright. Then she laughed. “But really, Chief, I haven’t been plotting like that. I accepted my position a long time ago. I made the bed, you know.”

“Yeah, but still you got a motive. And your brother, too.”

“Grant was too drunk,” she smiled, “to contemplate anything, I’m sure.”

“Yeah. Only he must have drunk twice then. ‘Cause he sure as hell didn’t stay dead from that first time he passed out.”

Idell gasped. “What do you mean?” Once more Mark saw that little knot of fear beating at her throat, and her eyes were veiling themselves to hide whatever secret they might accidentally mirror.

“He was up after the ruckus was all over,” the Chief said.

“Who told you that?”

“Sorry,” he said amiably. “Well, I guess I got to talk to him some more. He sure as hell didn’t help me much the last time.” He got to his feet, and Mark followed. Idell put a hand out and touched the Chief’s arm.

“Please,” she said, “Grant is under a heavy burden. And he isn’t very strong.”

“We understand, Idell,” Mark told her. Her hand caught his in passing and squeezed his fingers. He smiled back at her.

The Chief climbed the stairs wearily. “This case has got me down,” he said. “I’m going to talk to this guy and then go home. I’m wore out.”

“Maybe we’ll know more tomorrow when those reports get in,” Mark said sympathetically.

“You got any ideas, huh?”

Mark nodded. “I’ve got a lot of ideas, Chief. But there isn’t a sure one in the bunch. Look, can you check up on Myra Cartwright’s husband?”

“Hell, I’m going to. That dame don’t set right with me. And I ain’t satisfied with that Farman kid, either. Not by a damned sight.”

They stopped in front of Grant Manders’ door and rapped. They heard a stirring inside, and then suddenly the light came on, throwing a line across the floor at the base of the door.

“Reading huh?” the Chief grunted. They heard the soft sound of feet on the floor, the slipping of bedclothing over flesh, and then the rustle of someone rising and donning something. After a moment there came the sound of footsteps. Mark thought he caught two pairs, and the soft closing of a door. But he couldn’t be sure.

The door opened suddenly. Grant Manders stood there, red pajama bottoms peeking from under a long lightweight dressing gown. His hair was tousled, his sulky face and eyes sleepy-appearing. He yawned ostentatiously as he blinked at them.

“What is it?”

The Chief said with heavy emphasis, “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Manders. We thought you would be reading. We got a few questions, huh?”

Grant stepped aside and allowed them to come in. The room was large, with French doors opening onto a balcony at the rear and a skylight directly above. Beneath the light stood an easel with a bare canvas on it, and the far corner of the room was made into a small den, with screens, now folded almost shut, cutting off the view from the bed.

“I fell asleep,” Grant said. “Shut off the light to rest my eyes and fell asleep.” He saw Mark’s eyes on the easel. “I dabble with painting some,” he said. “But nothing serious.”

Mark sat down on a divan in the little den-like part of the room. His eyes were on the bed for a moment. He noticed that both pillows had been used and the sheet was wrinkled. The Chief sat beside him, Grant took a chair so that if he faced ahead they could see his profile. But he turned directly toward them.

“Yes?”

“You been up here reading ever since you left downstairs, huh?”

“That’s right.” He tried to smile amiably, but he seemed worried. His eyes would not hold still, and his voice was a bit dry. “I felt beastly all day. Naturally, after the ass I made of myself last night.” He was not apologizing, simply stating a fact.

“You heard Miss Taylor come up?”

“I did.”

“What time was that?”

“I have no idea.” Grant waved his hand around the room. “I abhor clocks, and never keep one.”

“She stayed in her room after she got there?”

“I suppose so. I didn’t hear her go out. What is this leading to?”

The Chief saw no reason to confuse the issue with news of Catrina’s death, so he said, “Just checking. Tell me, Mr. Manders, what time was it last night when you got up? Or this morning. I mean the first time?”