I SAT THERE gawking. I had come for information, and Candy had handed me a portion that I couldn’t even begin to digest.
Ferguson! I hadn’t figured him in this. He hadn’t meant a thing to me other than a suave, distinguished-looking man who wanted to construct a beautiful office building. He had selected a brilliant young architect to design something that would set a new style in office buildings. He built me up in my own estimation, and now he was letting me down by turning out to be a common crook. I had a brief, consoling remembrance of what the Big Boss had said: that my sketches and ideas were excellent; that even if Ferguson didn’t approve them, some other client would.
Candy’s sapphire eyes never left my face. She was enjoying the situation. She said, “Is it all clear to you now, Kirk?”
“It would be—if I could understand it.”
“Which part of it?”
I reached for a cigarette with fingers which were far from steady. She started talking again. “I usually take what I want,” she said quietly. “There was a time not so long ago when I wanted John Ferguson. His appearance fooled me. Underneath he’s just a cheap, tawdry heel.”
I was trying to fit the pieces together. I said, “I introduced you to him. You accepted the introduction.”
“What would you expect me to do? Say, ‘Oh, I’ve met Mr. Ferguson. I played house with him for quite a while, and then paid a half million dollars to get rid of him.’ ”
“I see your point.”
“I’m not ashamed of many things, Kirk. But I am ashamed of the Ferguson episode.” She toyed with an ebony-and-gold cigarette holder. “I’m quite a tramp, don’t you think?”
“No!” I was vehement about it. “I think you’re grand.”
“And you like me better than ever before. But you’ve still got your passion under control.”
I said, “I never was right bright.”
My mind was playing with something else. I smiled at her and asked permission to go ahead with my quizzing. She shrugged and said, “Why not? What have I got to lose?”
I said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, but one idea has stuck with me. I’ve always had the rather absurd feeling that your meeting with me was not accidental.”
She nodded. “Good going. It wasn’t. I heard about you. I had you investigated. I learned that you were friendly with Ricardo & Dana. It was natural for me to go to the Caliente; half my life has been spent in joints like that. Meeting them was simple, too. But my real purpose was to meet you.”
“Why?”
“Because a young lady named Ethel Brower had been killed in your apartment. I read what the newspapers said about it. I wanted to estimate for myself whether you had killed her.”
“You should have known better, Candy. If the police had thought so, they would have arrested me.”
“That had me puzzled. But there was a possibility that I might discover things the police would miss. So I made my pitch.”
I asked, “Why were you interested in Ethel Brower?”
“Because I had met her—when I was going through the kidnaping routine with John Ferguson.”
“She was afraid of him?”
“I don’t think so. But she visited his place in Jersey several times. I think she was the sweetheart of some man who worked for him.”
“And when you discovered that she had been killed in my apartment . . . ?”
Candy laughed. She said, “Nobody can be as dumb as you act. Whatever was happening, Ethel Brower probably knew about it. After my release from what you might call durance vile, she turns up strangled in the apartment of a perfect stranger. The police believe your story that you don’t know her. So if you hadn’t killed her, it seemed to me that Ferguson was elected.”
“Why?”
“Because the gentleman had always kept clear of the law. He has picked suckers like myself, people who were helpless because they were just a little bit over the line. As far as I know, he has no criminal record. He didn’t propose to start one. It might have been that Ethel Brower tried to shake him down for some of the half million dollars I paid. Ferguson wouldn’t like that. He could have followed her to your apartment, figuring that she was planning to sell out to you. He might have ended the argument in his own conclusive way. He has very strong hands.”
I said, “Why me?”
She shook her head. “That’s something I never could figure. Neither he nor Brower could have picked your name out of a hat. There’s some connection that I don’t savvy.”
I got up and walked across the room. I leaned against the mantel. I said, “Maybe I can help, Candy. On January 28th somebody deposited one hundred thousand dollars cash to my credit at the bank. I haven’t the slightest idea who it was.”
That seemed to floor her. She said slowly, “That was four days after my ransom money was paid. Three days after I returned without a wedding ring.”
I fumbled around. “I always connected it with you.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re the first person I ever met who has that much money.”
She laughed; a nice, clear laugh. She said, “It’s the sort of thing I might have done. But I didn’t. I hadn’t even met you then.”
“That’s what I told Max Gold. But there’s bound to be some tie-up.”
“Probably. So I’ll ask you again: Why you? And why do you stand over there when this couch is so comfortable?”
I grinned and seated mself beside her. I said, “Why are you being so frank with me? You must have a reason.”
“I have.” She didn’t evade. “I’m frightened.”
“Of what?”
“Ferguson. If he killed Ethel Brower it was for the purpose of keeping her mouth shut. He might do the same to me for the same reason.”
I got her point. It seemed far-fetched, but so did a lot of other things that had been happening. While thoughts were chasing each other through my head, Candy started asking questions.
She said, “You think Agnes Sheridan was killed by accident, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“You believe that whoever killed her meant to kill Dana Warren?”
“Yes.”
“How long has Dana known Ferguson?”
“That’s out. I introduced them to each other.”
“You introduced me to Ferguson, too.”
I said, “But look! That doesn’t make sense. I didn’t know anything about you. I’ve known Dana for a long time. If she had ever met Ferguson before . . .”
“Okay. Don’t get all het up about it. How about God’s gift to the women . . . this Ricardo person? He might have been friendly with Ferguson without your knowing it, mightn’t he?”
“It’s possible.”
“Ricardo knew where you lived. Ferguson could have found out that Ethel Brower was trying to contact you, and checked it up to Ricardo to argue her out of it.”
“But why Ricardo?”
“Don’t be simple,” she said impatiently. “You and Dana are in love with each other. She’s Ricardo’s wife. In addition to that, she’s a valuable piece of dancing property. It wouldn’t be impossible that Ricardo is still in love with her. So suppose that Ferguson and Ricardo were friends. Suppose Ricardo suggested you as the fall guy? The hundred thousand dollars you had suddenly acquired would be difficult to explain. Ricardo would have a lot less to worry about if you were out of the picture. Maybe that isn’t the best answer in the world, but it’s the best we’ve thought of yet.”
I could have dressed her story up. I could have told her that Ricardo had just learned that Dana was quitting the act—and him—no matter what happened. I could have told about his luck piece being found in my apartment. I could have suggested that, if Ricardo already had one murder on his hands, it wouldn’t have been too difficult to nerve himself to commit a second.
I could have told her all that. But I didn’t. Unless or until I found out that there had been contact between Ferguson and Ricardo previous to the Brower incident, it seemed hardly fair. It put me in the position of fitting facts to theories; of merely trying to prove a point.
We did a lot more talking. For all Candy’s lightness, I saw that she was frightened. I said finally, “You’ve given me a lot of information. What do you want me to do with it?”
“Whatever you think best.”
“That really puts me on the spot. I might make a bad guess.
“I’ll take a chance.” Her sense of humor came to the rescute. “I’ve been doing that pretty much all my life.”
It was dusk when I got up to go. Candy helped me with my coat. She said, “Would it hurt much to kiss me?”
I put my arms around her. I kissed her. I did a pretty good job of it. It was she who broke away. She said, “Why didn’t somebody tell me these things?”
I stepped into the hall and heard her close the door behind me. I rode down to the street level. I went to a drugstore, telephoned the homicide squad and asked for Lieutenant Max Gold. He was there. I said I wanted to see him, and he said he thought he’d be able to take it. I grabbed a taxi and gave the address: 230 West 20th Street.
The room in which Gold received me wasn’t much. But it was businesslike. He said, “Let’s have it.”
I gave him the works—from the moment I stepped into Candy’s apartment up to five minutes before I left. When I finished he looked at me a long time. Then he said, “That’s a nice shade of lipstick you’re wearing. But it looks better on a blonde.”
I blushed and rubbed my lips and didn’t say anything. He said, “Nice going, kid. I didn’t think you had it in you.” Then he drummed on the desk top with broad, strong fingers. “It adds up cute,” he commented. “My bet is John Ferguson.”
I remained silent.
“We know a lot about Ferguson,” Max went on. “He’s a smart cookie. Never picks a victim who isn’t willing to take the best of it. We’ve never been able to cook up an indictment that would stick. Like this Candy Livingston thing: the victims are reluctant to testify. But the rest of it checks.”
“Not all of it,” I said. “Unless you’re willing to concede that whoever killed Agnes Sheridan was really trying to get Dana.”
He smiled thinly. “Even that checks,” he said placidly “We just got our final reports on Agnes. They’re interesting.”
He took his time. I knew it would be big, but even so I wasn’t prepared for what he told me.
“This is what you might call the missing link,” he said quietly. “Agnes Sheridan was John Ferguson’s wife.”