Death of an Angel (10 page)

“Yes,” she said. “That was it. Only, it was the way I said. It—it fell apart in my hands. After I called you.”

“Why? You thought of something that didn't fit?”

“I suppose so. But, really, because none of it fitted. I called back at your office, but they said you'd already gone out.”

“What was the theory, Miss Shaw?”

“No,” she said, “it wouldn't be fair. Now that I know it—it can't really be right.”

Nevertheless, he told her, they were interested in any theory. In any possibility. It took him a little time. She seemed very reluctant. Once—he thought to gain time—she interrupted something she was saying and listened, and then she said she thought she had heard something; and then that, probably, she had only heard Nellie, and that Nellie—Nellie Blythe—was her maid, and had a room on the third floor.

“If there's nothing to it, nobody will be hurt,” he told her, several times, in several ways. He was asked, finally, if he promised that. He promised that. Then—

Putting it in words, she said, made it the more absurd. Arnold Latham, Jr., had been furious. Perhaps that wasn't the word. He had been bitter. That was true. Strangely, disproportionately bitter.

About what?

But she thought everybody knew. Brad had been planning to marry Peggy Latham. Arnold's sister. A date had even been set.

“And then Brad and I met,” she said. “We—neither of us could help it. Brad felt awful about Miss Latham but—what could he do? It would have been worse to go on with it and—it wouldn't have been fair to anybody, would it? But Arnold couldn't see it that way. He—he said dreadful things to Brad.”

“Mr. Fitch told you this?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Latham said threatening things?”

“I don't know if they were really threatening. Just—very angry things. You see, the Lathams haven't—well, they haven't too much money. Not the way people like that have money. I suppose—but that would be a dreadful thing to say, wouldn't it?”

“That Mr. Latham was counting on his sister's marrying a very rich man? Was disappointed enough to kill because of that?”

“I told you it was wrong,” she said. “It was just—something happened to my mind.”

“So far as you know, Mr. Fitch hadn't—” He hesitated. “Miss Latham isn't expecting a child by him?”

She straightened at that, opened her large eyes very wide.

“People like that?” she said. “But really, captain! That sort of thing doesn't happen to them.”

Only to poor little working girls, her tone implied.

The others—what did she think? That they knew too much? The files of almost any adoption agency, if she could look at them—which she could not—would tell her a different story.

“So far as you know, Mr. Fitch hasn't left her money? As—as a sort of compensation?”

“Why,” she said, “he wouldn't have done
that
. That would be—such a crude thing to do.”

“Yes,” Bill said. “Very crude, Miss Shaw. You know Mr. Latham, Jr.? His sister?”

She had met Arnold Latham once or twice, before she and Fitch had—made up their minds. Peggy Latham, she thought, only once. “A blond girl, quite tall. The kind who plays golf.”

“Did Mr. Latham seem to be a violent person?”

“No. I told you it was all—that it wasn't right. You made me tell you about it.”

“Yes,” Bill said. “I did. When you were formulating this theory, Miss Shaw. Didn't it occur to you that, if Mr. Latham was going to kill anyone, it wouldn't be Mr. Fitch?”

She looked at him. She appeared to be puzzled.

“I don't—” she said, and then shook her head. The heavy, dark brown hair swayed with her head's movement.

“You,” Bill said. “If anyone. That's obvious, isn't it? On the assumption that, with you out of the way, his sister would be back in the money? Literally, in the money?”

“I didn't—” she said. “What a—a frightening—”

“Miss Shaw,” Bill Weigand said, “why did you ask me to come here?”

She had an expressive face—for all its dainty beauty, a very expressive face. They had told Mary Shaftlich that, years ago, when she was taking elocution at Northeast High School. Her face was, now, extremely expressive. Words were unnecessary. She's really good, Bill Weigand thought. But it's true she's better when someone else writes the words.

“You didn't ask me to come here to tell me this,” Bill said. “You were frightened when you called—frightened and entirely wide awake. Not because of this—this nebulous theory. This—”

“I don't understand,” she said. “It's all true. About Mr. Latham. His sister. It's—”

“Right,” Bill said. “Say it's all true. Or—say there's truth in it. Why did you want me here?”

“Because—”

“What happened between the time you called me and the time you came to the door and let me in? To make you give this very excellent—performance?”

“I don't perform,” she said. “I'm an
actress
. Anyway—”

A man laughed. The laughter was brief, it was heavy, it was more derisive than amused. Bill Weigand whirled in his chair; his right hand made an instinctive movement toward the revolver which New York policemen are required to carry at all times. Bill saw the man's legs, first, as the man came down the narrow flight of stairs in the corner of the long room. Then he saw the man—a man of medium height, a rather stocky man. The man's hands were in full view.

The man reached the foot of the staircase and started toward them. After a few steps, he said, “I've seen you better, Mary.”

She was on her feet. The movement was quick, lithe, for all its haste, infinitely graceful.

“You!”
she said. “Don't call me that.”

“All right, Mary,” the man said. “I'll call you Naomi. You still didn't get very far, did you? All that trouble for nothing.”

“You spoiled it,” she said. The beauty was still in the voice. “You—you spoil everything.” The little hesitancy, the little catch, was there. “You always did. Always—always—always.”

She formed two slender, graceful hands into tight fists, and shook them, both together, at the stocky man. At which, he laughed again.

6

Sunday, 12:20
A.M.
to 4:20
P.M.

The stocky man's laughter was brief. It seemed to Bill Weigand that, this time, there was amusement in it.

“Act one, scene two,” the man said. “Impotent rage. Or—is it petulance, my dear?”

“Get out of here,” Naomi Shaw said. “Just get out of here.” Her voice went up somewhat. It was still a lovely voice, but it was not quite the same voice. There was, Bill thought, suddenly a trace of Missouri in it—the merest trace of Missouri.

“Pear-shaped tones, Mary,” the man said. “Where are the pear-shaped tones?” He seemed suddenly to remember Bill's presence. “For two years,” he said. “Almost two years, I heard about pear-shaped tones. You know what they are?”

Bill had heard the term.

“Never could visualize it,” the man said. “Not that she doesn't talk right nice. Don't you think she does?”

“Sometimes,” the girl said, “I could kill you, Bob. Sometimes I don't know why I didn't.”

“Now, honey,” the man said, “I didn't give you a chance, remember? Anyway, you aren't big enough. Don't you remember what a little girl you are?” He smiled, then, and the smile momentarily broke the squareness of his face. “And,” he said, “you didn't want to, honey. You never will want to.” He turned to Weigand. “She was stringing you along,” he said. “But I guess you got that, didn't you?”

“Yes,” Bill said.

“Matter of fact,” the man said, “I thought she was pretty good, didn't you? Not convincing, maybe. But, hell, she didn't have much time. And, like she said, nobody wrote the words for her.” He nodded his noticeably square head. “Pretty good act.”

“You always do things like this,” Naomi Shaw said. “Always.
Always
.” But, now, her voice was softly down again; now the accents of Missouri were smoothed out of it. Naomi Shaw went a few steps, seemed to flow the few steps, and sat in the corner of a sofa. “He always did,” she said, to Bill.

“Suppose,” Bill Weigand said, “we make this a little less private. For one thing, who are you?”

“Name's Carr,” the stocky man said. “Robert Carr, construction engineer. The lady's ex.”

“Not enough,” Naomi said. “Not enough by half.”

“Talks British, don't she?” Carr said. “Not arf she don't. Gets ideas in her pretty head, too. Don't you, honey?”

“A year and eight months,” Naomi said. “The longest year and eight months ever.”

“That's right,” Carr said. “Gave me the best year and eight months of her life, the lady did. But Chile—nope. Not for Mary Shaftlich Carr. Not Chile.”

“He's not fair,” Naomi said, to Bill. “He's never fair. And, there's no secret I changed my name. Everybody does.”

“You have to get used to that sort of thing,” Carr said. “Everybody's in the theater. You know that, captain? So everybody changes his name. Or her name.”

“Suppose,” Bill said, and his tone was mild, but it was a policeman's tone. “Suppose we shorten this, shall we? Miss Shaw tells me this theory about a man named Latham. Tells it, and at the same time throws it down. You listen. Sit on the top step?”

“Thereabouts,” Carr said.

“Until I indicate I'm not buying the story,” Bill said. “Then you come down.”

“And,” Carr said, “you start to reach for your gun.”

“Right,” Bill said. “It's just as well you didn't. Have you got a gun, by the way?”

“Me?” Carr said. “You're as bad as the lady, captain. Same things, probably. She acts melodrama. You probably run into it. Why the hell should I tote a gun?”

“I don't,” Naomi said. “I'm a comedienne. Even in Timbuktu you ought to have heard that.”

“Pakistan,” Carr said. “You know, in Pakistan you miss some of the most important news, honey. About girls from Kansas City getting to be stars on Broadway. Backward place, Pakistan.”

“I'm sure,” Naomi said. “You'll fix that. Fill it all full of dams.”

“You played a gangster's moll in
Second Precinct
,” Carr said. “Got shot for a second-act curtain. Before that you were a maid in
This Mortal Coil
. You screamed in that one. Didn't get shot. All very comic.”

“Oh, God,” Naomi Shaw said. “Always.
Always!
”

“I said, suppose we cut this,” Bill reminded them. “Miss Shaw gets me here to listen to this—this afterglow of a dream. You, Carr, listen to see how it goes over. When it doesn't go over, you come down and start this—whatever it is. Now—you let me in on it. Right? And—
now
”

“I—” Naomi said.

“You,” Bill said, and pointed at Carr. “You rest that pretty voice, Miss Shaw.”

“Why—” she said, and Bill looked at her. “Oh,” Naomi Shaw said.

“O.K.,” Carr said. “She got it into her head I killed Fitch. Then she got it out of her head—or I got it out. But she'd already telephoned you, so she could turn me in. Then—”

“That isn't it at all,” Naomi said. “I wasn't—”

“Miss Shaw,” Bill said, “will you try to keep quiet? For five minutes?”

“Won't do you any good,” Carr told him. “Used to say that myself and—”

“And,” Bill said, “will you skip all that, Carr? She thought you'd killed Fitch?”

“Said she did. Thought I got jealous, after all these years. If I couldn't have her, nobody could have her. Gets things like that out of these plays she acts in.”

Bill looked at Naomi Shaw, and just in time. She closed her lovely lips with exaggerated care.

“Well,” Bill said, “were you jealous?”

And then Carr hesitated. He looked at Naomi Shaw, and she looked at him, through wide dark eyes.

“All right,” Carr said. “She gets under your skin. Also, she didn't love that polo player. Just kidded herself. Wouldn't have—”

“I suppose,” Naomi Shaw said, “I really love you?”

And Carr looked at her for some seconds and then, quite slowly, in a tone almost matter of fact, said, “Yes. You can't get away from it.” Naomi said, “Oh, God,” in a voice dripping with hopelessness. Carr turned back at once to Bill Weigand.

“She got this idea,” he said. “She called me up at my hotel, just as I was turning in. She was—well, pretty upset. She told you she hadn't been able to cry, but she was crying then, all right. Kept saying I'd killed him and that they'd find out—they'd be sure to find out. Meant you people. I told her, hell, I hadn't killed anybody—not for a long time, anyway. Not since the war. If then. Seabees didn't kill people much. But—I couldn't get her to listen. Finally, I said I'd come around and talk sense to her and she said no, I mustn't. So—”

So, he said, he had come, and been let in, and found out that Naomi had already called the police. Because, she had told him, she was hysterical, was frightened. Frightened, he had gathered, of him. He'd have thought she would have had better sense. Although, thinking it over now, he didn't know why he had thought that. She was always the impulsive type. Had been since she was a kid.

“You convinced her you hadn't killed Fitch?”

Carr seemed surprised at the question. He said, “Sure.” He added, “That was the easy part.”

“Convince me,” Bill Weigand told him.

That would be easy, too. Fitch was killed this morning. Carr looked at his watch. Yesterday morning. Carr hadn't been in town. He had been in Chicago. “That's where the company headquarters are,” he said. “People I work for.” Told this, Naomi realized how absurd her suspicion was. “You see,” Carr said, “she thought I was still in town.”