Laura (Femmes Fatales) (7 page)

Chapter 3

“Listen!” she said.

We heard the sound of rain and the crackling of wood in the fireplace and foghorns on the East River.

“We’re in the midst of Manhattan and this is our private world,” she said.

I liked it. I didn’t want the rain to stop or the sun to rise. For once in my life I had quit being restless.

She said, “I wonder what people are going to say when they hear I’m not dead.”

I thought of the people whose names were in her address book and the stuffed shirts at her office. I thought of Shelby, but what I said was, “One thing I don’t want to miss is Waldo when he finds out.” I laughed.

She said: “Poor darling Waldo! Did he take it hard?”

“What do you think?”

“He loves me,” she said.

I put another log on the fire. My back was turned so that I could not see her face when she asked about Shelby. This was Thursday, the twenty-eighth of August; it was to have been their wedding day.

I answered without turning around. “Shelby has been okay. He’s been frank and cooperative, and kind to your aunt.”

“Shelby has great self-control. You liked him, didn’t you?”

I kept poking at the fire until I almost succeeded in smothering it. There had been the phoney alibi and the bottle of Three Horses Bourbon, the insurance money and the collection of unused shotguns. But now I had run into a new set of contradictions. Two and two no longer added up to four. The twenty-five-thousand-dollar insurance motive was definitely out.

It was hard for me to start asking her questions. She seemed tired. And Shelby was to have been today’s bridegroom. I asked only one question:

“Did Shelby know this girl?”

She answered instantly. “Why, yes, of course. She modeled for several of the accounts in our office. All of us knew Diane.” She yawned.

“You’re tired, aren’t you?”

“Would you mind very much if I tried to get some sleep? In the morning—later, I mean—I’ll answer all the questions you want to ask.”

I phoned the office and told them to send a man to watch her front door.

“Is that necessary?” she said.

“Someone tried to murder you before. I’m not going to take any chances.”

“How thoughtful of you! Detectives are all right, I suppose, when they’re on your side.”

“Look here, Miss Hunt, will you promise me something?”

“You know me much too well to call me Miss Hunt, Mark.”

My heart beat like a drum in a Harlem dance band.

“Laura,” I said; she smiled at me. “You’ll promise, Laura, not to leave this house until I give you permission. Or answer the phone.”

“Who’d ring if everybody thinks I’m dead?”

“Promise me, just in case.”

She sighed. “All right. I won’t answer. And can’t I phone anyone either?”

“No,” I said.

“But people would be glad to know I’m alive. There are people I ought to tell right away.”

“Look here, you’re the one living person who can help solve this crime. Laura Hunt must find the person who tried to murder Laura Hunt. Are you game?”

She offered her hand.

The sucker took it and believed her.

Chapter 4

It was almost six when I checked in at the club. I decided that I’d need a clear head for the day’s work and left a call for eight. I dreamed for two hours about Laura Hunt. The dream had five or six variations, but the meaning was always the same. She was just beyond my reach. As soon as I came close, she floated off into space. Or ran away. Or locked a door. Each time I came to, I cursed myself for letting a dream hold me in such horror. As time passed and I struggled from dream to dream, the real incidents of the night became less real than my nightmares. Each time I woke, cold and sweating, I believed more firmly that I had dreamed of finding her in the apartment and that Laura was still dead.

When the desk clerk called, I jumped as if a bomb had gone off under my bed. Exhausted, my head aching, I swore never to drink Italian wine again. The return of Laura Hunt seemed so unreal that I wondered if I had ever actually considered reporting it to the Department. I stared hard at real things, the steel tubes of the chairs and writing desk, the brown curtains at the windows, the chimneys across the street. Then I saw, on the bureau with my wallet and keys, a spot of red. This brought me out of bed with a leap. It was the stain of lip rouge on my handkerchief which she had used. So I knew she was alive.

As I reached for the telephone, I remembered that I had told her not to answer it. She was probably sleeping anyway, and wouldn’t have been pleased if a thoughtless mug called her at that hour.

I went down to the office, wrote out my report on the typewriter, sealed and filed all copies. Then I went in to see Deputy Commissioner Preble.

Every morning I had gone into his office to report on the Laura Hunt case and every day he had said the same thing.

“Stick to the case a little longer, my boy, and maybe you’ll find that murder’s big enough for your talents.”

His cheeks were like purple plums. I wanted to squash them with my fists. We represented opposing interests, I being one of the Commissioner’s inside men, and more active than anyone in the Department on the progressive angle. Deputy Commissioner Preble was his party’s front. Now that they were out of power, his was strictly an appeasement job.

As I walked into his office, he gave me the usual razzberry. Before I could say a word he started: “Do you know what this case is costing the Department? I’ve had a memo sent to your office. You’d better step on it or I’ll have to assign someone to the case who knows how to handle homicide.”

“You might have thought of that in the beginning,” I said, because I wasn’t going to let him know that I hadn’t been on to his tactics. He had been waiting all along to show me up by letting me work until I’d hit a dead end and then handing the case to one of his favorites.

“What have you to say? Another of those minute-and-a-half reports, huh?”

“You needn’t worry about our not getting Laura Hunt’s murderer,” I said. “That part of the case is completed.”

“What do you mean? You’ve got him?” He looked disappointed.

“Laura Hunt isn’t dead.”

His eyes popped like golf balls. “She’s in her apartment now. I had Ryan on guard until eight this morning, then Behrens came on. No one knows of this yet.”

He pointed at his head. “Perhaps I ought to get in touch with Bellevue, McPherson. Psychopathic Ward.”

I told him briefly what had happened. Although the heat wave was over and there was a chill in the air, he fanned himself with both hands.

“Who murdered the other girl?”

“I don’t know yet.”

“What does Miss Hunt say about it?”

“I’ve reported everything that she told me.”

“Do you think she knows anything she hasn’t told you?”

I said: “Miss Hunt was suffering from shock after she heard that her friend had been killed. She wasn’t able to talk a lot.”

He snorted. “Is she pretty, McPherson?”

I said: “I’m going to question her this morning. I also intend to surprise several people who think she is dead. It would be better if this were kept out of the newspapers until I’ve had time to work out my plans.”

It was strictly Front Page even for the Times, and a coast-to-coast hook-up on the news broadcasts. I could tell by his face that he was working out an angle that would immortalize the name of Preble.

He said: “This changes the case, you know. There is no
corpus delicti
. We’ll have to investigate the death of the other girl. I’m wondering, McPherson . . .”

“I wondered, too,” I said. “You’ll find it all in my report. A sealed copy has been sent to the Commissioner’s office and you’ll find yours on your secretary’s desk. And I don’t want to be relieved. You assigned me to the case in the beginning and I’m sticking until it’s finished.” I shouted and pounded on the desk, knowing that a man is most easily intimidated by his own methods. “And if one word of this gets into the papers before I’ve given the green light, there’ll be hell to pay around here Monday when the Commissioner gets back.”

I told only one other person about Laura’s return. That was Jake Mooney. Jake is a tall, sad-faced Yankee from Providence, known among the boys as the Rhode Island Clam. Once a reporter wrote, “Mooney maintained a clam-like silence,” and it got Jake so angry that he’s lived up to the name ever since. By the time I came out of Preble’s office, Jake had got a list of the photographers for whom Diane Redfern posed.

“Go and see these fellows,” I said. “Get what you can on her. Look over her room. Don’t tell anyone she’s dead.”

He nodded.

“I want all the papers and letters you find in her room. And be sure to ask the landlady what kind of men she knew. She might have picked up some boyfriends who played with sawed-off shotguns.”

The telephone rang. It was Mrs. Treadwell. She wanted me to come to her house right away.

“There’s something I ought to tell you, Mr. McPherson. I’d intended going back to the country today: there was nothing more I could do for poor Laura, was there? My lawyers are going to take care of her things. But now something has happened . . .”

“All right, I’ll be there, Mrs. Treadwell.”

As I drove up Park Avenue, I decided to keep Mrs. Treadwell waiting while I saw Laura. She had promised to stay in the apartment and keep away from the telephone, and I knew there was no fresh food in the house. I drove around to Third Avenue, bought milk, cream, butter, eggs, and bread.

Behrens was on guard at the door. His eyes bulged at the sight of the groceries, but he evidently thought I’d set up housekeeping.

I had the key in my pocket. But before I entered, I called a warning.

She came out of the kitchen. “I’m glad you didn’t ring the bell,” she said. “Since you told me about the murder—” she shuddered and looked at the spot where the body had fallen “—I’m afraid of every stray sound.”

“I’m sure you’re the only detective in the world who’d think of
that
,” she said when I gave her the groceries. “Have you eaten breakfast?”

“Now that you’ve reminded me, no.”

It seemed natural for me to be carrying the groceries and lounging in the kitchen while she cooked. I had thought of that kind of girl, with all those swell clothes and a servant to wait on her, as holding herself above housework. But not Laura.

“Should we be elegant and carry it to the other room or folksy and eat in the kitchen?”

“Until I was a grown man, I never ate in anything but a kitchen.”

“Then it’s the kitchen,” she said. “There’s no place like home.”

While we were eating, I told her that I had informed the Deputy Commissioner of her return.

“Was he startled?”

“He threatened to commit me to the Psychopathic Ward. And then—” I looked straight into her eyes “—he asked if I thought you knew anything about that other girl’s death.”

“And what did you say?”

“Listen,” I said, “there are going to be a lot of questions asked and you’ll probably have to tell a lot more than you’d like about your private life. The more honest you are, the easier it will be for you in the end. I hope you don’t mind my telling you this.”

“Don’t you trust me?”

I said, “It’s my job to suspect everyone.”

She looked at me over her coffee cup. “And just what do you suspect me of?”

I tried to be impersonal. “Why did you lie to Shelby about going to Waldo Lydecker’s for dinner on Friday night?”

“So that’s what’s bothering you?”

“You lied, Miss Hunt.”

“Oh, I’m Miss Hunt to you now, Mister McPherson.”

“Quit sparring,” I said. “Why did you lie?”

“I’m afraid if I told you the truth, you might not understand.”

“Okay,” I said. “I’m dumb. I’m a detective. I don’t speak English.”

“I’m sorry if I’ve hurt your feelings, but—” she drew the knife along the checks in the red-and-white tablecloth “—it’s hardly the sort of thing that one finds on a police blotter. Blotter, isn’t that what you call it?”

“Go on,” I said.

“You see,” she said, “I’ve been a single woman for such a long time.”

“It’s as clear as mud,” I said.

“Men have bachelor dinners,” she said. “They get drunk. They go out for a last binge with chorus girls. That, I guess, is what freedom means to them. So they’ve got to make a splurge before they get married.”

I laughed. “Poor Waldo! I bet he wouldn’t care very much to be compared with a chorus girl.”

She shook her head. “Freedom meant something quite different to me, Mark. Maybe you’ll understand. It meant owning myself, possessing all my silly and useless routines, being the sole mistress of my habits. Do I make sense?”

“Is that why you kept putting off the wedding?”

She said: “Get me a cigarette, will you? They’re in the living room.”

I got her the cigarettes and lit my pipe.

She went on talking. “Freedom meant my privacy. It’s not that I want to lead any sort of double life, it’s simply that I resent intrusion. Perhaps because Mama always used to ask where I was going and what time I’d be home and always made me feel guilty if I changed my mind. I love doing things impulsively, and I resent it to a point where my spine stiffens and I get gooseflesh if people ask where and what and why.” She was like a child, crying to be understood.

“On Friday I had a date with Waldo for a sort of bachelor dinner before I left for Wilton. It was to be my last night in town before my wedding . . .”

“Didn’t Shelby resent it?”

“Naturally. Wouldn’t you?” She laughed and showed the tip of her tongue between her lips. “Waldo resented Shelby. But I couldn’t help it. I never flirted or urged them on. And I’m fond of Waldo; he’s a fussy old maid, but he’s been kind to me, very kind. Besides, we’ve been friends for years. Shelby just had to make the best of it. We’re civilized people, we don’t try to change each other.”

“And Shelby, I suppose, had habits that weren’t hundred percent with you?”

She ignored the question. “On Friday I fully intended to dine with Waldo and take the ten-twenty train. But in the afternoon I changed my mind.”

“Why?”

“Why?” she mocked. “That’s precisely why I didn’t tell him. Because he’d ask why.”

I got angry. “You can have your prejudices if you like, and God knows I don’t care if you want to make your habits sacred, but this is a murder case. Murder! There must have been some reason why you changed your mind.”

“I’m like that.”

“Are you?” I asked. “They told me you were a kind woman who thought more of an old friend than to stand by him for the sake of a selfish whim. You’re supposed to be generous and considerate. It sounds like a lot of bull to me!”

“Why, Mr. McPherson, you are a vehement person.”

“Please tell me exactly why you changed your mind about having dinner at Waldo’s.”

“I had a headache.”

“I know. That’s what you told him.”

“Don’t you believe me?”

“Women always have headaches when they don’t want to do something. Why did you come back from lunch with such a headache that you phoned Waldo before you took your hat off?”

“My secretary told you that, I suppose. How important trifles become when something violent happens!”

She walked over to the couch and sat down. I followed. Suddenly she touched my arm with her hand and looked up into my eyes so sweetly that I smiled. We both laughed and the trifles became less important.

She said: “So help me, Mark, I’ve told you the truth. I felt so wretched after lunch on Friday, I just couldn’t face Waldo’s chatter, and I couldn’t sit through dinner with Shelby either because he’d have been too pleased at my breaking a date with Waldo. I just had to get away from everybody.”

“Why?”

“What a persistent man you are!”

She shivered. The day was cold. Rain beat against the window. The sky was the color of lead.

“Should I make you a fire?”

“Don’t bother.” Her voice was cold, too.

I got logs out of the cabinet under the bookshelves and built her a fire. She sat at the end of the couch, her knees tucked up, her arms hugging her body. She seemed defenseless.

“There,” I said. “You’ll be warm soon.”

“Please, please, Mark, believe me. There was no more to it than that. You’re not just a detective who sees nothing but surface actions. You’re a sensitive man, you react to nuances. So please try to understand, please.”

The attack was well-aimed. A man is no stronger than his vanity. If I doubted her, I’d show myself to be nothing more than a crude detective.

“All right,” I said, “we’ll skip it now. Maybe you saw a ghost at lunch. Maybe your girl friend said something that reminded you of something else. Hell, everybody gets temperamental once in a while.”

She slipped off the couch and ran toward me, her hands extended. “You’re a darling, really. I knew last night that I’d never have to be afraid of you.”

I took her hands. They were soft to touch, but strong underneath. Sucker, I said to myself, and decided to do something about it then and there. My self-respect was involved. I was a detective, a servant of the people, a representative of law and order.

I went to the liquor cabinet. “Ever seen this before?”

It was the bottle with the Three Horses on the label.