A
FTER
lunch Pink said he had to see a dog about a man and Jardin dropped him at the Magna studio on Melrose. “We may as well face it, Val,” said Rhys when Pink had gone. “We’ll have to go there some time.”
“Why not now?” smiled Val. She felt better, because the sherry had been good and so had the chicken patties. And it was true—they might as well get used to the notion that they were proletarians just as quickly as they could. The only fly in the afternoon’s ointment was Walter; he had left them abruptly, with a gloom that was odd even for him. Val brooded about Walter as Rhys drove up to Santa Monica Boulevard and turned west on the car-tracks. She would definitely have to do something about Walter. Things couldn’t go on this way. It was absurd of him to reject her proposal of marriage—absurd and a little dangerous, considering that last quarrel with his father and the look in his eye.
“Here we are,” said Rhys bravely.
Val sat up. There they were, one square from Hollywood Boulevard’s bedlam—in front of the
La Salle
.
“Parking,” said Rhys, “is going to be a problem.”
“Yes,” said Val. “Won’t it?”
Rhys finally found a tiny space near a curb, and he parked and they got out and looked at each other and squared their shoulders and entered the hotel. “You must be the Jardins,” said a small blonde girl with a blonde dip over one eye. “Pink ’phoned me about you. I’m Mibs Austin.”
“Hello, Mibs,” said Val, looking around at the lobby.
Miss Austin took the earphones off her head and leaned earnestly across the register. “Now don’t let
anything
worry you, honey. I just about run this dive. Watch out for Fanny, the woman who’ll clean your apartment; she skips corners. The radio needs a new thingumbob—I’ve told the manager about it. And, Mr. Jardin, the valay here is very high-class.”
“I’m sure we’ll love it,” said Val.
“Oh, and your stuff came, too,” said Miss Austin. “I watched myself. They didn’t break a single thing.”
“Stuff?” echoed Val. “What stuff? Oh, you mean the trunks. Thanks, Mibs; we’re terribly grateful for everything.”
They took the wheezy elevator to the third floor, rear—it was thirty dollars a month cheaper in the rear—leaving Miss Austin behind to stare. Trunks? Who said anything about trunks?
Rhys pushed the key slowly into the lock of 3-C, and slowly opened the door, and Val slowly went in and said: “Oh!”
The pseudo-modern furniture, the noisy drugget, the questionable prints—all, all had vanished. In their places were the things the moving men had carried out of
Sans Souci
under the mysterious Mr. Queen’s vigilant eye only a few hours earlier. Rhys said: “I’ll be double-damned.” He dropped his coat onto his own sofa and sank into his own leather chair.
Val flew to the telephone. “Mibs! Who brought our furniture here? I mean, how did—”
“Wasn’t it supposed to be? The man said—”
“Mibs! Who?”
“The movers. They just brought the van loads and dumped ’em. We had orders to take out the hotel furniture this morning.”
“Oh,” said Val. “And who was it ordering
that?
”
“Why, the gentleman in 4-F. What’s his name? That Mr. Spaeth. Oh! Miss Jardin, is that the Spaeth—?”
“Hello,” said Walter from the doorway, and Val dropped the ’phone to find him grinning at her like some friendly mugwump.
“Walter, you
fiend
,” sobbed Valerie, and she ran into her bedroom and slammed the door.
“Was it you?” asked Rhys.
“It’s all here,” said Walter gruffly. “I mean everything we could cram into five rooms. Here’s the warehouse receipt for the rest, Mr. Jardin.”
“Warehouse receipt?” said Rhys in an odd voice.
“I’ve put the leftovers in storage for you.”
Rhys laughed a little blankly and rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m afraid what’s happened today is getting to be a little too much for my primitive brain. And that Queen fellow—who was he?”
Walter dropped his hat and coat on the sofa and sat down to light a cigaret. “Funny thing. He’s just come to the Coast on a movie-writing contract—he’s a writer as well as a detective, you know—and an old school chum of mine in New York told him to look me up. So I asked him to act as my proxy. He did it well, don’t you think?”
“But, Walter, why?” asked Rhys gently.
Walter scowled at his smoke. “Well… I know how stiff your neck is. You wouldn’t have accepted money. So to avoid arguments…”
Jardin rose and went to the window and pulled up the Venetian blinds and threw the windows open; the drizzle had stopped and the sun was trying to shine again. Traffic noises roared into the room from the rear street below. He closed the windows at once and turned around, a little shrunken. “It’s wonderfully decent of you, Walter. But I simply can’t accept it. Besides, Val has told me about your father cutting you out of his will.”
“I’ve some money of my own from my mother’s father—plenty more left.”
Rhys smiled sadly. “I’ve deposited the cash, and it’s too late today to draw it out again. But, Walter, the first thing—”
“Forget it.”
“Walter, you make it awfully difficult.”
They eyed each other in silence, at an impasse. Then Val sobbed from the bedroom: “The least you could do, you swine, is come in here and console me!”
Walter rose with a foolish grin. “I think,” murmured Rhys, “I’ll go out for some air.” He picked up his hat and left as Walter went into the bedroom.
A little later the telephone rang and Val ran into the living-room, fussing with her hair, to answer it. All trace of tears had vanished. Walter followed, looking even more foolish, if that was possible, than before. “Yes,” said Val. “Just a moment. It’s for you, Walter. The telephone operator wants to know if you’re up here.”
Walter said: “Hullo,” still looking foolish, then he said nothing at all as he listened to a voice, the foolish look slowly turning grim. Finally he muttered: “I’ll be right over,” and hung up.
“What’s wrong?”
Walter reached for his hat and coat. “My father.”
Valerie went cold. “Don’t go, Walter.”
“I’ve got to settle this thing once and for all.”
She flew to him, clinging. “Please, Walter!”
Walter said gently: “Wait for me. I’ll be back in half an hour and we’ll drive out Wilshire to the beach for dinner.” And he pushed her away and went out.
Val stood still for a long minute. The old half-quenched fears began to burn brightly again. She picked up the coat left on the sofa and took it into the foyer, hardly aware of what she was doing. But as she was hanging the coat in the foyer closet awareness returned. She held the coat up and looked at it more closely. It was Walters! He had taken Rhys’s by mistake—they were both tan camel’s-hair of the same belted style, of a size. And as she turned the coat over in her hands, something fell out of one of the pockets and struck her foot. It was an automatic, very black and shiny.
Val recoiled in instant reflex. But after the first horrible moment she pounced on it and thrust it hastily back into Walter’s coat, unreasonably glad her father was not there to see it. Then she took it out of the pocket and, handling it as if it were a scorpion, carried it into her bedroom and buried it in the deepest bureau drawer, her heart pounding. A gun, Walter. … She was so frightened she sat down on her bed to keep from recognizing the weakness in her knees. Walter had never had a gun. Walter hated guns, as he hated war, and poverty, and injustice. … She rose a little later and began to unpack her trunks, trying not to think.
Rhys returned in ten minutes, smoking a cigar and looking calmer. He called out to Val: “Where’s everybody?”
“Walter’s had a call from his father,” said Val in a muffled voice from the bedroom.
“Oh. … Where do I put my hat?”
“In the foyer closet, silly. And be sure from now on you hang things up. This is going to be a co-operative joint.”
Jardin chuckled, put away his hat, and went into his bedroom to unpack. By 5.30 their clothes were hung and there was nothing left to be done. “I wonder where Walter is,” said Val worriedly.
“He’s only been gone a half-hour.”
Val bit her lip. “He said—Let’s wait in the lobby.”
“It’s raining again,” said Rhys, at the closet. “Val, this isn’t my camel’s-hair.”
“Walter took it by mistake.”
Jardin put on a tweed topcoat and they went downstairs. Val stared at the clock over the desk. It was 5.35. She said nervously: “I’m going to call him.”
“What’s the matter with you, puss?” Jardin sat down near the potted palm and picked up a newspaper; but when he saw his photograph on the front page he put the newspaper down.
“Get me Solomon Spaeth’s residence,” said Val in a low voice. “I think it’s Hillcrest 2411.”
Mibs plugged in. “Hillcrest 2411. … Nice guy, Walter Spaeth. Lovely eyes, Miss Jardin, don’t you think so?… Hello. Is that you, Mr. Spaeth?… This
is
Mr. Walter Spaeth, isn’t it? I thought I recognized your voice, Mr. Spaeth. Miss Jardin’s calling. … Take it right here, Miss Jardin.”
Val snatched the telephone. “Walter! Is there any trouble? You said—”
Walter’s voice sounded queerly thick in her ear. “Val. I’ve got no time now. Something awful—something awful—”
Val whispered: “Yes, Walter.”
“Wait for me at the
La Salle
,” said Walter’s funny voice.
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.” His voice sank. “Val. Please. Don’t mention this call to any one. No one!”
Val whispered again: “Yes, Walter.” She heard the click; it sounded very loud. She hung up and said slowly: “Let’s sit down.”
At 6.30 Val said in a hoarse voice. “I can’t stand it any longer. He told me not to tell—He’s in trouble.”
“Now, puss—” said Rhys uncomfortably.
She whispered: “Something awful. That’s what Walter said. Something awful.”
Her father looked at her with concern. “All right, Val. We’ll go over there.”
He drove up into the hills at fifty miles an hour. Val hung out of the car. Neither said a word. The moment they swung into the road outside the gate of
Sans Souci
they knew something was wrong. The crowds which had swarmed there for weeks were gone. In their place were the running lights of many large, official-looking cars. It was growing dark. “I told you,” said Val. “Didn’t I tell you? Something—something—”
The gate was opened by a policeman. There was no sign of Walewski, the night gateman, near his pillbox. But there were other policemen. “What’s happened, officer?” demanded Jardin. “I’m Rhys Jardin.”
“Oh, are you? Hold it a minute.” The policeman said something to another policeman, and the second man went into the pillbox; and they heard the twinkle of Walewski’s telephone. Then he came out and jerked his finger. Jardin shifted into first and drove through the gate. The second policeman hopped onto the running-board and stayed there. Val, on the edge of her seat, was conscious of a long howling in her ears, as of winds.
At the Spaeth door they were met by three men, all in plain clothes. The three looked them over coldly. Then one, taller than the rest, with a nose like an arrowhead, said: “Come in, please.”
They were surrounded by the three and marched through the house. On the way they passed Winni Moon, who sat on the lowest step of the stairs which led to the upper floor staring with horror at her long feet while Jo-Jo chattered on her shoulder. Solomon Spaeth’s study was packed with men—men with cameras, men with flash-bulbs, men with tape measures, men with bottles and brushes, men with pencils. The air was thick and blue with smoke. And there was Walter, too. Walter was sitting behind his father’s desk, pushed away, with a large man over him. His face was drawn and pale. And there was a crude bandage wound around his head which would have given him a rakish look if not for the ragged blob of blood which had soaked through from his left temple.
“Walter!” Valerie tried to run to him, but the tall arrow-nosed man put his hand on her arm. Val stopped. She felt really very calm. Everything was so water-clear—the smoke was so blue and the bandage was so red, and Walter’s head moved from side to side so very definitely as he looked at her. From side to side. Like a signal. Or a warning. The room misted over suddenly and Val leaned back against the nearest wall.
“You’re Miss Jardin?” said the tall man abruptly.
“Yes,” said Val. “Of course I am.” Wasn’t that an absurd thing to say?
“My name is Glücke—Inspector, Detective Division.”
“How do you do.” That was even more absurd, but it was the strangest thing. Her brain had no control over her mouth.
“Were you looking for Mr. Walter Spaeth?”
“Inspector,” began Rhys. But the tall man frowned.
“Yes,” said Valerie. “Yes, of course. Why not? We had an appointment for dinner. We looked for Mr. Spaeth in his apartment but he wasn’t there so we thought perhaps he had gone to his father’s house and so we came over—”
“I see,” said Glücke, looking elsewhere with his brilliant eyes. It seemed to Val that Walter nodded the least bit in approval. It was all so queer—everything. She mustn’t lose her head. It would come out soon. Glücke—that was a funny name. Until she found out what…
Jardin said: “That’s right, Inspector. My daughter has told you. … May I ask what’s happened?”
“Don’t you know?”
“I beg your pardon.”
“Well,” said the tall man dryly, “they don’t send for the Homicide Detail in petit larceny cases.” He stood still. Then he made a sign, a small sign with no question in it, as a man would make it who is accustomed to be instantly obeyed. A group of men crowded together before the ell beside the fireplace separated. A dead man was sitting on the floor in the angle of the ell, one foot doubled under him. A reddish, brownish, ragged stab-wound marred the otherwise immaculate appearance of his dove-gray gabardine jacket. As he sat there in the corner he looked like a small fat boy who has been slapped without warning; there was an expression of pure surprise on his unmoving face. Val yelped and spun about to hide her eyes against her father’s coat.
A reporter with a cigaret cached above his ear shouted into the telephone on the desk: “Benny! For the love of Mike, do I get a rewrite or not? Benny!… Get this. Act of God. … No, you dope, act of
God!
Solly Spaeth’s just been murdered!”