Date for Murder (9 page)

T
HE
Chief spit into the fireplace. “I’ll be damned for a horned-toad,” he said. “These rich people are buggy as hell!”

“You want to see Leona Taylor now?” Mark asked.

“No, I want to go out in the garden,” the Chief said, “and pick daisies and string ‘em in my hair.” He got up and moved ponderously toward the door. “Maybe the gardener can tell us something about the cyanide. I want one thing definite at least.”

They went through French doors into the side garden and followed the cement walk around back. Henderson was just coming from the rear of the pool.

“You been at it long enough,” the Chief said when he came up to them. “What’d you do—find the maid out back or something?”

The deputy grinned and shoved his broad-brimmed hat back on his sweaty forehead. “Yes, sir,” he said. “Her name is Catrina.”

The Chief turned red and then purple. “Oh, God!” he said. “All right, what happened?”

Henderson seemed to catch on then. “Aw, Chief,” he said, “you got me wrong. She was out there and we got to talking a little, is all. She told me plenty.”

“Yeah,” the Chief said. “I’ll bet she did. I’ve seen her in town.”

The policeman blushed. “Well, she did. Said she was up this morning at seven. She didn’t stay like the rest of them. The Queen sent her to bed along about eleven and did the serving herself.”

The Chief was breathing through his nose heavily. “Seven! Yeah, go on.”

“Well, Chief, she got up and took a bath and then started for the house.”

“
For
the house?”

“Yeah, she lives out back with her father. He’s the gardener. So she was coming up the way I was, toward the pool there, when she saw them French doors closing up there.” He turned and pointed to the wall above, to the balcony which came from Major Manders’ living quarters.

“What else?”

“That’s all,” the policeman said.

“She didn’t see who it was, huh?”

“All she saw was the closing of the doors. She thought it was funny, of course, because no one’s used that room since the old man died.”

“Yeah, I see. Where in hell was she this morning at nine o’clock?”

“I don’t know,” the policeman said. “I saw her about ten.”

“That’s the time,” the Chief said, “when the Chink was serving up breakfast.” He looked glumly at the cop. “You better grab yourself something. See if the Chink’ll give you a bottle of beer, huh?”

He and Mark went around the pool and north along the walk to the point where they could see the gardener’s cottage off to their left. It was a small adobe set in the palm groves, and there was a small lean-to shed beside it. It seemed lifeless, still, but as they approached a bent figure came from the lean-to.

“Howdy,” the Chief said. “Busy, Curtis?”

The old man wagged his shaggy head. “Nothing more’n usual, Chief. What’s on your mind?”

“Murder,” the chief said. “Don’t tell me you ain’t heard.”

“Oh, sure. Catrina came in all upset a little while ago. But I reckoned you was here to ask something.”

“You reckoned right,” Mark said dryly. He lit his pipe and watched the old man lean against a palm trunk and chew a stem of dried oat.

“You got any cyanide, Curtis?”

The old man bobbed his head. “Lots of it. Use a spray sometimes. Want some?” He cackled as if it had been a good joke.

The Chief said, “You keep this door locked all the time?”

“Ain’t never locked. No one around here to steal nothing.”

“Then any time a person could walk in and you wouldn’t know it, huh?”

“Any time I was out in the groves,” the old man said. “That’s most of the day. Why, something gone?”

“Some of the cyanide,” the chief said. “It was used in the murder.”

“I thought he was drowned,” the old man said, unperturbed. “Reckon it could have been my cyanide, though.”

The Chief ducked his head and went into the lean-to shed. Mark followed, the old man close behind him. It was low in there, so low Mark’s head had to be kept bent so it wouldn’t hit the board ceiling. There were spades, mattocks, shovels, hoes and other assorted paraphernalia along the walls and strewn on the floor. Long date-picking ladders, wide at the bottom and almost pointed at the top, hung on pegs along the walls. Cans were stacked along one wall, and two pair of huge pruning shears with extension handles hung by the ladders. Gunny sacks half or dully filled with fertilizer gave the room a dead, decayed odor, and various sprays added a pungency that made Mark’s mouth taste brassy as if he hadn’t brushed his teeth after a drinking bout. Everything seemed in orderly disorderliness. Mark doubted if he could find anything quickly in there, and knew that the old man could put his fingers on any article at a moment’s notice.

“The cyanide,” the Chief said. “Don’t touch it, though.”

Old Curtis pointed to a can near the center of the wall, then bent down curiously. “Hell,” he objected, “that ain’t it. Damned if it ain’t been moved …” He crowed triumphantly. “There ‘tis, under the work table there.” He pointed to a work table filled with flats, most of them empty, a few containing tiny plants in their first stage of growth. “Danged if it was there last time I saw it,” he said. “Some ornery cuss has moved it on me.”

“The murderer,” Mark said.

“I reckon,” the old man admitted. He seemed more perturbed over the moving of the cyanide than over its more recent use.

“When did you use it last?” Mark asked.

“ ‘Bout a week ago.”

“Remember to have me send the print man down here,” the Chief said. “Maybe he can catch something on that can. Don’t touch it, Curtis.”

“Okay, but get through with it. It don’t belong under that bench,” the old man said querulously. “It belongs right with these others against this wall. Dang these messy people anyway.”

The Chief grinned and ducked out into the stifling but fresher air. When they were all out, he asked, “What time did you get up this morning, Curtis?”

“My usual time,” the old man said. “I don’t let none of the goin’s on in that house bother my work. I got up at six like always.”

“What did you do then?”

“I went out to the back section an’ started irrigating,” he said. “Got it started and came back an’ made my breakfast. Then I went back out. Just got in here ‘bout ten minutes ago.”

“You didn’t see anyone or anything, huh?”

“Saw Catrina goin’ to the house,” the old man cackled. “Reckon she did it?”

The Chief smiled. “Did she have reason?”

The old man cackled again lewdly. “Couldn’t rightly say. Have to ask her.”

“The Chief ducked his head. “Let’s go back to the house. I want to see the Queen.”

Mark stifled a yawn. “I’m getting sleepy—and hungry.”

The Chief looked at his watch. “Nearly twelve. Could do with some food myself. We’ll see the Queen and the maid and go grab a bite. By that time we should have some dope, and the guy handling the prints should be here.” He sighed gustily. “I suppose the county prosecutor’ll be on our necks along with them newspapermen before we get through.”

They found the Queen engrossed in a lettuce and tomato salad and a stubbie of beer in the kitchen. The Chief pulled a chair across from her and sat down. Mark ranged on the other side of him.

“Well,” she said testily, “I suppose you’re happpy, Tom Rourke.” She waved the fork at him. “Let me warn you, if you cause any trouble for those children, I’ll—”

“Now, Queen,” he said, “take it easy. I’m here to solve a murder. All I want is a few answers, huh?”

“Have some beer,” she said. She called out, “Catrina, bring two bottles of beer, will you, please?”

Catrina appeared after a brief moment, set down two glasses and two full stubbies. She gave Mark a worried little smile. He grinned back at her. She was a cute redhead, he thought. Only built a little too chunky. Her hair was red and shingled so the ends hung over her ears and curled forward to little points. Her face was full and round, her lips pouting a little in a warm, hinting manner. Her breasts were full and high, straining against the light print dress she wore.

“I want to talk to you in a minute, Catrina,” the Chief said.

“About the—murder?” Her voice was high-pitched, almost squeaky.

“Yeah,” he grinned. “Your old man thinks maybe you had a reason, huh?”

“Oh!” She saw him smiling and showed her teeth tremulously. “He’s nasty-minded!” she said indignantly, and turned away. Mark watched her hips sway as she walked. He sighed when she went through the door into the pantry.

“All right,” the Queen said when the Chief had drained a half glassful of beer. “What is it?”

“What time you go to bed, Queen?”

“Four o’clock,” she said. “Same as the others.”

“You went right to sleep?”

“I did. I was up from six the morning before. This job is no joke since the Major left.” She alternately served herself with salad and watched the Chief.

“What time did you wake up?”

“I didn’t—you woke me with your caterwauling around. It was about nine.”

“You didn’t hear anything in between four and nine?” “I was asleep.” Her eyes were on her salad.

Mark leaned forward. “Nothing sort of half waked you, did it? I mean anything that you might recall as a dream?”

“Nothing.” She compressed her lips positively. “Not a thing. I said I was tired out.”

The Chief sighed. “What about them dates, Queen? You always put dates in Link’s room, huh?”

“I put dates in every room,” she said. “It was an idea of the Major’s. And a very nice gesture, too. He always has a lot of packages of his dates on hand for the guests.”

“When did you put dates in Link’s room last?”

“Yesterday afternoon. He ate a package a day at least.”

“And the others?”

“Usually they’ll eat a package maybe in a week. Sometimes they don’t touch them.”

“And when did you put dates in Link’s room again?”

“That was the last time. Her mouth was full of salad.

“Have you been in his room since yesterday afternoon?”

“With these policemen running around in there? I should say not. And listen, Tom Rourke,” she said explosively, “I don’t expect to find everything torn up by your shenanigans, either!”

“Somebody beat me to that,” he said. “How could anyone get more dates without asking you?”

“Walk in the pantry and help themselves,” she said. “There’s a whole shelf full.”

“You know how many was in there last night?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Then anyone could have walked in, got a package of dates and walked out and you’d never know the difference, huh?”

“Yes.”

He stroked his chin for a minute. “Queen, why did the Major commit suicide?”

The Queen’s fork clattered to the enameled top of the table, jangling in the silence. For a moment she held her breath, and then expelled it with a gasp. “Who told you that lie?” she demanded truculently. But her face belied her words. It was dead white, whiter than her hair, and agonized around the edges of her mouth. Mark felt pity welling in him for her. He knew how she valued the family name of Manders and how she would fight as if she were their mother to save both Grant and Idell.

“I heard,” he said calmly. “Answer it, will you, Queen?” There was pleading in his voice; the Chief knew her well enough not to try bullying.

“It isn’t true,” she said flatly. Some of the color was coming back into her cheeks, and the tension releasing itself from around her mouth. Reassurance returned to her voice. “It’s a lie, Tom Rourke, that’s what it is. A dirty lie! ”

“No it isn’t, Queen,” he said gently. “I know it’s true. Frank Manders admitted it. So you might as well stop hedging.”

She sagged all at once, from her shoulders to below the table where they could not see her. Mark thought she had suddenly become incredibly old and haggard; the spring had gone from her, and the youth which had been only in her mind had gone too. It made her look utterly worn, beaten.

“I never thought he would,” she whispered. “Now the Major’s name will be smeared all over the papers, the mud dragged up and a stink raised about it all … Tom,” she said pleadingly, “don’t let that happen.”

“There won’t be no stink, Queen,” he said. “Not if we can help it.”

She straightened a little, but her eyes said she didn’t trust him to keep away from the newspapers, not Chief Rourke. “I don’t know why he did it,” she said.

“But you knew?”

“Yes. He was healthy as you or me.”

The Chief swallowed before he spoke again. “Who was the woman mixed up in it, Queen?”

Her mouth snapped like a trap; Mark saw her eyes veil over as if she had deliberately shut herself off from them. “I never heard about any woman,” she told him. “The Major wasn’t a woman’s man.”

“You’re lying to me, Queen,” he said. “I think you know. You’ve been here all the time.”

“Why didn’t you ask that Link boy all this when you had the chance?” she demanded. “It was his fault! He the same as killed the Major!” She rose from the table and walked stiffly away from them.

“A
FTER
you saw them French doors closing, what did you do, Catrina?” the Chief asked.

Catrina had taken the Queen’s place at the table. She munched on a bacon and lettuce sandwich. “I went into the kitchen,” she said. “But Sing wasn’t up. I knocked on his door, and he told me to go away. He said he would call me when he needed me. I went back to the house.” She said it all at once, in her squeaky voice.

“And then what time did you get back here?”

“After you came,” she said. “After everyone was downstairs.”

“Did Sing wait that long to call you?”

“No,” she said, and flushed a little. “He called me around nine, but I had something else to do. I was a little late.”

“Yeah, I guess you were. And what kept you from your job so long?” The Chief was obviously enjoying himself now.

“I was burying my canary,” she said. Her face flamed.

The Chief choked, and his chair, tilted back on two legs, thudded forward. “Doing what?”

Catrina looked embarrassed. “Burying my canary. When Sing phoned I had just found him dead. He was a sweet little thing and looked so pitiful there that I couldn’t bear to leave him.”

“So you buried him, huh?”

She nodded.

“Where?”

Catrina hesitated. “On the edge of the grove on the west side.” “Why way out there?”

“I have an animal graveyard,” she said. “With little mounds and sticks for markers.” She sniffed a little, whether because of grief or for effect Mark could not be sure. “I seem to lose so many animals. My pet horned-toad died this spring, and my cat last winter, and Timothy today, and my two goldfish almost a week ago. They just can’t seem to stand it here for some reason.”

“It’s a very healthy climate,” Mark said.

“I like it,” she said brightly.

“Who else did you like?” the Chief asked her. “Link?” “Mr. Rourke!”

“All right, did he make any passes at you?”

She was blushing. “Well, just a couple.”

“Yeah?” The Chief was interested. “When?”

“Sometimes he would be in his room when I went to clean it. He watched me make the bed and things. But don’t think—”

“I won’t,” he said. “He didn’t get gooey, huh? Didn’t promise you nothing?”

“I told you,” she said firmly. “All he did was kiss me once or twice.”

“All, huh. Any other guy here makes passes at you?”

“No.” She glanced at Mark and smiled secretively.

“And you didn’t see nothing but the doors closing up there, huh? And didn’t do nothing between seven and nine-thirty but bury the canary?”

“I had breakfast and read a little,” she said. “That’s all.”

“When you were burying the canary—you didn’t see nothing?”

“No.” Mark wasn’t watching her face, but her hands. One was tightly over a piece of sandwich, punching nail holes in the soft, fresh bread. The other had slipped out of sight behind the table. He wondered why she was lying; he knew she was from her hand.

“Okay,” the Chief said. “You didn’t hear nothing these past three days, huh? No threats or anything?”

“No,” she said, her face still averted.

“Okay, Catrina. Thanks.” He pushed to his feet and sighed. “I want to talk to that Chinaman and to the Taylor woman, but they can wait. I’m hungry. Watching these two stuff themselves ain’t doing my appetite any harm. Coming, Mark?”

“Yes,” Mark said, “and I’m going to bed after I eat, too. This night life isn’t like it used to be.”

The Chief rambled conversationally on the way out to their respective cars. The gist of his conversation was that all rich people were either crazy, going crazy or were sure to go crazy sooner or later.

“It’s the dough,” he said. “Goes to their heads. They can’t think of nothing but getting it, and when they got it they can’t think of nothing but spending it. And after it’s spent then they worry about getting some more. Pretty soon they get in the habit of spending and getting and worrying so they go nuts doing ‘em all at once. It ain’t right.”

“You’re not poor,” Mark grinned.

“I’m under an honest administration,” the Chief said. He swelled up a little.

Mark knew that as far as was possible, the Chief was telling the truth. As administrations went, the one he worked under was honest. He himself was the most honest, and far from the stupidest, official Mark had ever known.

“Granted,” Mark said. “See you at Mickey’s for that Scotch.” He climbed into his car and roared off toward town. He bumped across the railroad tracks and swung into his station. The kid who had the afternoon and evening shift was there chinning with the morning boy.

“Hey,” Mark said, “any news about a red convertible coupé being found?”

“You mean the one they dragged in about an hour ago?” the morning boy said. He was pimply. His eyes were blue and big. “Gee, there’s a lot of talk. They found bullet holes in it. And Madge at the joint next door says someone was shooting at Miss Manders. Is that right, Mark?”

Mark knew it was really out now. He said, “That’s right, kid. Hang on, will you? And if you can spot for a while tonight, I’ll give you double time. I have business.”

“Hell, yes,” the kid said. “I’ll take all night for that. I can sleep on the couch.”

“Might as well,” Mark grinned. “There wasn’t much doing last night.”

He drove off, swinging across the highway and angling into town. He parked head into the curb in front of Mickey’s; cocktails, lunches and cards. The card room was behind swinging doors in the rear. It was sparsely populated now; the whole place was doing a slow business. Lunch hour was over and the time for the afternoon cocktails and highballs had not yet arrived. The Chief was in a booth. He waved.

“I called headquarters,” the Chief said. “The print guy’s going up there. They’ll get a toxicologist busy at Riverside as soon as the stuff gets there.”

Mark said, “We’re liable to find something on that stairway. If it was the murderer climbing back up to the Major’s room, then there must be something.” He stopped and thumped his hand into the palm of the other. “Like those scratches on Link’s chest. How did he get them? Nails on the balcony, probably.”

“I’ll look it over when I go back,” the Chief said. “It don’t prove nothing.”

“No,” Mark said, “but you might find something that will show you who took the body over to the pool.”

“It won’t be that simple,” the Chief said. “Not with these rich bitches. Hey, Mickey, a double Scotch for this guy and a beer for me.” He sighed. “You ain’t on duty.”

Mark finished his drink and declined another. “I’m going to bed,” he said, “after I send a wire.”

“To who? Another dame?”

Mark grunted. “I’m checking with a friend of mine on a New York paper. I thought I might get something off the record.”

The Chief nodded. “That’s an idea. I got to wire them guys, too. For all I know, this Link might be the D.A.’s brother-in-law.”

“Or his mistress’ first-born,” Mark said. “Thanks for the drink.”

“Get some sleep for a change,” the Chief said as Mark rose.

Mark didn’t answer. Now that the first excitement had worn off, he felt the need for sleep with a suddenness that surprised him. He decided he must be getting old. He yawned until tears came to his eyes, and he nearly passed the Western Union office without seeing it.

He turned back and went inside the cool room. The clock on the wall said it was one-thirty. He went to the counter and pulled a message pad toward himself. Hooking his fingers over a stubby pencil conveniently provided and inconveniently tied down with string, he started to write. His message was short:

“Send me full particulars on James Link, your city, about thirty. Looks like ape. Friend of Grant Manders during college last year. Also Leona Taylor, possibly showgirl.” He signed it “Mark,” added, “Answer Western Union collect, night letter,” and addressed it to Buzz O’Mara in care of the New York
Telegram
.

“Send this out right away, will you?” he said to the slim brunette behind the counter.

She grinned at him, tearing the message from the pad without taking her sultry eyes from his face. “Haven’t seen you around for some time, Mark.”

“I’m working nights,” he explained.

“Who?”

He made a face. “At the station.”

“Babe, I suppose,” she said with heavy mock disappointment.

Mark grinned and walked out. On his way to his car he passed two girls, a peroxide and a hennaed redhead. Both pouted provocatively when they saw him. Mark waved at them. He tried to recall their names but had no success. He had met the redhead in Palm Springs one night, he was sure of that. He shook his head. Hell, it didn’t matter. She wasn’t much or she would have stayed in his mind.

In his room he stripped and slipped on a terry cloth bathrobe and went out to take a shower.

Then he returned to his room, found the bottom half of his pajamas and slipped into them. He threw himself onto the bed on top of the sheet. Babe stirred at the sagging sound his bed made.

“Hi,” she said sleepily through the open door. “Where in hell you been? Mary, Jane, Sue, that Manders dame or the Cartwright wench?”

“Good night, baby,” he said with a chuckle. He rolled over, and immediately a warm haze enveloped him. Sleep almost had him when he heard Babe’s persistent voice nagging in his ear.

“You might be the latest, but you ain’t the only one,” she was saying. “Not even in the same night.” By the sound of her voice he guessed she had come in and was standing beside his bed.

“What in hell are you raving about?” he demanded without opening his eyes.

“Cartwright,” she said.

“Turn off the green light, kid,” he yawned. “Jealousy doesn’t become you.”

“Jealousy,” she sneered. “Of what? That tart!”

“Then shut up about her.”

“Okay,” she said in an affectedly disinterested voice. “If you don’t want to know what I saw this morning, you can go to sleep.”

Mark sighed and sat up. If she was pulling a gag just to wake him up, there was liable to be another murder before long. He blinked sleepily at her.

She snuggled up to him. “I’m not jealous, Mark,” she said, “but I thought you’d like to know. I saw Myra heading across the tracks at four-thirty this morning. You were in your office.”

“I wish I had seen her,” he said. “Where was she going?”

Babe shrugged. “I had a pair of burgers going and didn’t pay much attention. I just noticed her duck under the fence across the tracks and head north.”

“There’s nothing there but desert and the Manders’ place,” Mark said.

“That’s what I was thinking,” Babe said. “I forgot all about it or I would have told you sooner. Seemed funny her driving home with you and then walking right back up there.”

“Thanks, kid,” he said. He ruffled her hair. “I wish I knew what it meant.”

“I can guess,” Babe said tartly, “with her reputation.”

“We aren’t untarnished,” he yawned. He went to sleep in her arms.