I TOOK DANA home, and said I was going downstairs for some cigarettes. I went to the nearest drugstore and bought a mild sedative—the sort you can get without a prescription. When I got back with it, Dana had undressed. All I could see was a housecoat and a pair of cute little mules.
I gave her the sedative. I offered to sleep on the couch, but she wasn’t having any. She insisted she’d be all right. I made her promise to telephone me in case she wasn’t.
I stuck around until she started to get drowsy. Then I kissed her good night and walked out, closing the door gently. I started across town on what I knew would be an unpleasant mission.
The accident room of the McKinley looked only a shade more unclean than it had on my first visit. The same girl found Arthur talking with a big, burly man who turned out to be the ambulance driver. He looked like the sort of lad who loved his job. Going through traffic and under red lights at fifty seemed to be just about what he had been designed for.
Arthur was on duty. He smiled when he saw me and walked forward with his hand out.
I told him about Agnes as gently as I could. I spared him the details. I said I believed that whoever had done it was really shooting at Dana. That left Agnes just as dead.
He took it pretty hard. His weak mouth trembled. I felt like a heel, as though I were personally responsible. He asked me a lot of questions, and about all I could do was to tell him I didn’t know the answers. I stayed until an accident call came in. Arthur went out with the ambulance driver. I told him to keep a grip on himself. Then I went home.
I didn’t have much luck getting to sleep. When I finally dozed off, I didn’t enjoy it because my dreams were unpleasant. I woke at nine, drank some coffee, lighted a cigarette and retrieved my two morning papers from outside the door.
The killing of Agnes Sheridan made gusty reading, in spite of the fact that the reporters hadn’t had much to go on. They pulled out all the stops in describing the “exclusive” Club Caliente. I never had been able to figure what made a place like that exclusive unless it was the prices, but that’s the way it was invariably described.
Nobody knew anything about Agnes; they hadn’t had time to check on her. One account described her as a “vivid, vital, beautiful brunette,”which was pretty good going, considering.
The mystery angle was neat. No motive. No suspect. No gun. I could see that Lieutenant Max Gold of the homicide squad had told the reporters precisely what they’d find out anyway, and not another word.
Neither Dana nor Ricardo were mentioned, except as the stars of the de luxe show. Candy’s name wasn’t there. Neither was mine. It was a nice story. But when you had finished reading it you hadn’t read anything.
Shortly before nine-thirty, I telephoned the office and told them I wouldn’t be in. I kidded a little with the switchboard operator, but I don’t think I was as funny as Jack Benny.
I knew what I was going to do. It didn’t matter what it was, except that I felt the time had come for me to do something.
The more I thought, the more convinced I became that the bullet which had killed Agnes had been intended for Dana. I thought back over all the things that had happened, all the things that had been said, and one item stuck.
Max Gold had his eye on Candy Livingston. Max was a shrewd detective. He had been interested in Candy’s presence at the club the previous night. He had said that her kidnaping story was a phony. He suggested that she might have been connected with the hundred thousand dollars which somebody had stuck into my puny account at the bank.
That checked with a lot of other things. I didn’t know where Candy fitted in, but I felt certain she knew a lot she wasn’t telling. Maybe I was the guy who could induce her to talk. I’d be rough or affectionate or whatever the situation called for. I had a definite job. That job was to protect Dana from whatever might be threatening her.
Fired with enthusiasm and high purpose, I telephoned Candy’s apartment. A cute little feminine voice answered and identified itself as belonging to Miss Livingston’s personal maid. I asked for Candy, and the maid said that she wasn’t there. She said that Miss Livingston had left more than a half hour before. No, she wasn’t sure where Miss Livingston had gone. Candy had said she’d be back late that night or early the next morning. I left my name and number.
I phoned Dana. She was out, too. I went to her apartment house and waited in the lobby. She came in about two o’clock in the afternoon. She looked pale and drawn. We went up to her apartment and started to fix up a little lunch.
She said, “I saw Ricardo this morning. He telephoned me.”
“And . . . ?”
“Kirk! I’m sure he had nothing to do with that shooting. And he’s terrified. The police questioned him for hours. He says it doesn’t matter how innocent he is, they’ve built up a strong circumstantial case against him. I’ve never before seen him frightened. It isn’t a pretty sight.”
I tried hard to be sorry for Ricardo, but wasn’t very successful. I was nervous about Dana meeting him. Of course, I believed that Ricardo was messed up in this thing, but Dana thought otherwise. So, naturally, she wouldn’t be afraid of him. There didn’t seem to be much I could do about it.
I left her when it came time to go to the club. I went to my place and did a lot of reading without absorbing anything. I was in bed by ten o’clock and asleep shortly after that. At three o’clock my telephone rang. I snapped on the reading lamp and said, “Hello.”
It was Candy Livingston, bright and chipper as you please. She said, “I just got home and found your message. What gives?”
I made a date to see her at one o’clock the next afternoon. She didn’t mention Agnes’s death. I couldn’t get anything over the telephone except that she was glad I had called her. I cut off and went back to sleep. I slept until ten o’clock.
The Wednesday morning papers had a brief mention of the Agnes Sheridan murder. No more than three sticks in length Still no gun. Still no suspect. Everything just the same.
I went to the barber shop and demanded the works. When I left there I was slicked down beautifully and smelled like a tuberose. I reached Candy’s apartment building five minutes late. Kirk Douglas, always socially correct. I was kidding myself along, but deep down inside I was nervous.
Candy answered my ring. I had anticipated a seductive negligee, but I didn’t get it. What I did get was a nifty little house dress which was quite revealing despite its studied simplicity. She didn’t look like the Candy Livingston of Cafe Society, but she was still blonde enough and gorgeous enough to knock your eye out.
She took my coat and hat and led me into the living room. The carpeting was so thick it tickled my ankles. At the end of the room two glass doors were open. The table had been set. Cocktails were already mixed. Candy said, “You’ll probably be surprised as hell when I tell you we’re alone. I let the servants go.”
“Tomorrow is Thursday,” I said. “They’d be off then anyway.”
The lunch was simple and lovely. So were we. Candy was lovely and I was simple. We moved into the living room for coffee. She shoved a humidor at me, remembered how much sugar I liked in my coffee, and seated herself beside me on the couch.
I fancied that I detected amusement in her eyes. She said, “To what do I owe the honor of this visit, Mr. Douglas?”
I tried to match her mood. I said, “Perhaps I couldn’t resist you any longer.”
“I’m not buying that. The brilliant young architect doesn’t prowl at midday without a reason.”
“Haven’t you ever been told that you’re reason enough?”
“Not by you, I haven’t.” She leaned toward me, her expression serious. “It’s about Monday night, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” I liked her directness. “That—and other things.”
She said, “Take your time. We’ve got until tomorrow morning.”
I said, “How well did you get to know Agnes Sheridan?”
“Not at all well. But I’m that sort of a person. Sudden intimacies. She seemed to like me, and I liked her. She was fun in her own intense sort of way. I enjoyed having her around.”
“Did you ever visit her?”
“Never.”
“She told you nothing about herself?”
“No. It wouldn’t have been easy, anyway. I’m no good at butting into other people’s affairs.”
I said casually, “You were in the powder room when she was shot, weren’t you?”
“Yes.” She looked at me peculiarly. “Why do you ask that?”
“I saw you pass our table. I presumed—”
“But you weren’t sure. You’re trying to ask whether I was in the corridor. Well, I wasn’t. I didn’t kill her.”
I said, “Wow! but you hit straight.”
“Why not? You came here to question me; just why, I don’t know. But since that’s on your mind, you may as well play it across the board.”
“You’re a nice person, Candy,” I said. “And you’re making a tough job simple. First: Have you any theory about who killed Agnes, or why?”
“No.”
“Okay. How do you feel about Dana?”
“I like her personally. And I’m jealous as hell.”
I said, “I know you were kidding that night at my place . . .”
“I wasn’t kidding. I’m in love with you.”
I felt silly. And embarrassed. I said, “I think Agnes was killed by accident.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I believe that whoever shot her meant to kill Dana.”
Candy’s eyes got big. “I still didn’t do it. I’m not that type.”
I was getting no less bewildered by the minute. The girl’s directness intrigued me. I decided I’d better take full advantage of my opportunity. I said, “I’ve been talking to Max Gold about you. He’s a lieutenant attached to the homicide squad of the New York police department.”
“So what?”
“He doesn’t hold you in very high esteem.”
“Is that supposed to make me miserable?”
“Gold claims that your story about being kidnaped was a fake. The way he expressed it was, ‘Her story stinks’.”
She smiled. “He sounds like a wise guy.”
“I believe he is. Really wise. Not just somebody who cracks that way.”
“In other words: You believe him.”
“I didn’t say that. I don’t know anything about it. I’m only asking.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m worried. A lot of things have been happening all around me that don’t make sense. I think you can supply some of the answers.” I looked straight at her. “Were you really kidnaped.”
“No.”
“But you were away . . .”
“It was one of those things. I told you frankly that I was wild. Too much money; too little supervision. I met a man and fell for him. There wasn’t anything new about that.” She broke off suddenly. “I’m a damn fool to be telling this to you.”
“Go ahead, please.”
“I went away with this man. It was fun at first. Until I discovered that he was a prime louse. He was also a blackmailer. I’m moderately notorious, but that was one escapade I didn’t care to see plastered all over the gossip pages. We cooked up the kidnaping story. It was designed as a face-saver for me. It was worth what it cost to get away from him.”
I said, “Would you be willing to tell me his name?”
She hesitated, then said, “You know the man already. He’s one of the cleverest confidence men in America. His name is John Ferguson.”