THE ATMOSPHERE in the room wasn’t nice. Arthur looked stunned; Dana, shocked; Max Gold, incredulous and the other detectives, as though they didn’t give a damn. Me—I felt completely, utterly and colossally miserable.
Gold was doing a high-pressure thinking job. He stared at me, then at the rug, and then at me again. He said, “You sound pretty sure of yourself, Douglas.”
I said, “I’m sure, all right. That’s the way it’s got to be.”
“Of course it is.” Max’s voice was heavy with sarcasm. “But being just a dumb cop, I don’t see why. When did you get this brain-wave?”
“Just a little while ago. I wasn’t holding out on you. Until then I hadn’t even considered Arthur. Once I did, everything else dropped into place. Don’t get the idea I like what I’m doing. I never felt more like a heel in my life. It would be a lot more fun to pin this on Ferguson or Ricardo. But that isn’t the way things are.”
Gold said, “I’m listening. But so far I haven’t heard anything.”
He was skeptical and just a trifle hostile. I couldn’t blame him. I tried to keep my eyes away from Arthur. He looked like a shock victim: dazed and bewildered. I said, “In the first place, I don’t believe Arthur tried to kill Ferguson because my life was in danger. What he did was immediate and instinctive. I think it was the instinct of self-preservation at work. If he hadn’t been so excited—if his aim had been straighter—he’d have eliminated the last person who represented danger to him.”
Dana said, in a small, frightened voice. “You wouldn’t say something like that without being sure, would you, Kirk?”
“You know me better than that.”
“I don’t,” stated Max Gold bluntly. “And I’m not buying yet, Douglas. You gotta give me something definite.”
“All right, I will. I can prove that Arthur killed Agnes. That is the one vitally important thing I’m positive about. I know some other things, too. But not all. There are plenty of loose ends I can’t tie together, but the killing of Agnes Sheridan isn’t one of them.”
I looked at Arthur. He still hadn’t moved or said a word or protested against what I was doing. I said, “You told me, Arthur. You told me as plainly as though you had said it in so many words.”
“You might let me in on it,” suggested Gold. “I’m a big boy now. You can tell me things.”
I said, “I’ll make it as brief as possible. The night before Agnes was killed, the four of us had dinner together at the club: Agnes, Dana, Arthur and myself. We planned to go skating Monday night. We invited Arthur and he said No. He gave two perfectly valid reasons. One was that he was on duty all night. The second was that he couldn’t skate and didn’t want to learn.
“Remember one more thing. Arthur had been at the club many times. He knew the show schedule to the minute. He knew when Dana would go on and when she would finish. He knew that there was an exit from the club through the adjoining building. He knew that Agnes would leave her skates in Dana’s dressing room during the show, and after it was over, the two girls would go through that corridor to the dressing room. To do that, they had to pass the door of the second exit. The internes at the McKinley go off duty informally every once in a while for a variety of reasons: to run across the street for doughnuts and coffee, for instance. Arthur could leave the hospital, get to the Caliente just before Dana & Ricardo finished their act, do the shooting, and get back without ever being missed. The most elaborate check-up would indicate that he had been on duty continuously.”
Gold said, “I’ll swallow that, but there’s still something missing. You said you didn’t peg Arthur until just a little while ago. You said he just the same as told you he did it. That’s what I’m asking for. The clincher.”
I chose my words carefully. “It was something Arthur said, lieutenant. He said it right after he shot Ferguson. He was up in the air like a kite. I was firing questions at him. I argued that he had acted too hastily. I said that the shooting might have been done by Ricardo and that Ricardo could have meant to kill Dana.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing was wrong with the idea. What was wrong was Arthur’s answer. When I suggested that Agnes could have been killed by mistake, Arthur said vehemently that my idea was ridiculous. He said, ‘You can’t make a mistake when one woman is wearing a street costume and the other has on a purple evening dress.’ ”
Dana said, “Oh!” and I knew she had caught my point. But Max Gold shook his head. “I don’t get it,” he said. “I wouldn’t say there was anything dopey about that remark.”
“There was only one thing wrong with it, lieutenant. What you don’t know is that the dress Dana was wearing is the first purple one she ever owned. She never wore purple in her life before. The dress was delivered to her apartment less than two hours before the show went on. No one could have known that she intended to wear purple. And no one who didn’t actually see her that night could know that she was wearing it. The only ones who saw that dress were those who were at the dinner show. Plus one other person. That person was the man who killed Agnes.”
Gold said, “Well, whaddaya know! Supposedly, Arthur wasn’t there, but just the same he saw the dress. So he was there. Not bad, sonny, not bad. But look: Why would he want to kill Agnes? He’d been playing around with her, but he didn’t know she was Ferguson’s wife.”
I was deadly tired. I didn’t feel proud of myself. I didn’t feel anything but sorrowful. I said, “You’d better handle it, lieutenant. I hate the job I’ve had to do, and I wouldn’t want to carry it any further. Maybe Arthur will fill in the blank spaces. If I’m right, his guilt can be proved easy enough. The bullet they’ll take out of John Ferguson should tally with the bullet that killed Agnes Sheridan. What’s more, if Ferguson recovers—as the medical examiner seems to believe he will—he’ll dp a lot of talking. All he’ll be interested in will be to save himself from facing trial for murder. Even the kidnaping charge wouldn’t bother him, especially since we know that he couldn’t be convicted of it.”
Gold started talking to Arthur. He was gentle and patient. He explained that the similarity of the two bullets and the inevitability of a straight story from Ferguson would convince any jury. He didn’t hold out any hope. He just stated facts.
Arthur didn’t seem to be much interested. He looked small and pitiful in his big overcoat and his hospital whites. He was like a man in a trance. He said, quietly, “Kirk is right, lieutenant. I killed Agnes just like he said I did.”
“Why?”
“Because a lot of other things had happened. They kept getting bigger and more terrible. On Sunday night, Agnes and I were alone for a long time after dinner. She asked a lot of questions. Those questions convinced me that she knew all about the jam I was in and was just trying to check on it. I was desperate and half crazy.” His voice broke. “I—I’d rather not talk any more. I’ve told you everything you need to know. I’m glad you know it. It had to end this way.”
His face went blank. He didn’t seem to realize what was happening to him. He didn’t seem to care. Gold glanced at me and shrugged. He said, “How much more do you know, Douglas?”
“A great deal—with plenty of details missing. But, as a beginning, I’ll remind you that we never understood how Ethel Brower got into my apartment. The answer to that is that Arthur had a key. He still has it. I had been away, and Arthur was using my apartment on his off nights.”
Gold said softly, “Don’t let me stop you.”
“Candy Livingston told us that Ethel Brower knew John Ferguson. Arthur knew him, too. It was Arthur who introduced me to Ferguson.
“On January 25th, Candy Livingston’s representatives gave a package containing a half million dollars in unidentifiable bills to an emissary of the person who was presumed to have kidnaped Candy. That was the night of one of the worst blizzards New York has had in forty years. The money was handed over, according to the newspapers, in Central Park, near Fifth Avenue.
“An hour or so later a man named Norton was hit by a reckless, or a snow-blinded, driver. That was also in Central Park, but it was on the West Side near the 72nd Street entrance. It’s difficult to imagine anybody strolling in the park that night just for the fun of it. A passing motorist phoned for an ambulance. The call—as I understand the procedure—was routed through police headquarters to the proper precinct. The McKinley Hospital got the call. Arthur was on ‘accident’ and made the ambulance run. I believe there is some connection between the man who was injured in the park and Candy Livingston’s ransom money. Your guess is as good as mine. Only Arthur knows the truth.”
Arthur didn’t wait for Gold to question him. He said, in a flat, expressionless voice, “I’ll tell you about it. I haven’t anything more to lose now.”
He swallowed and then moistened his lips.
“That’s the way it started,” he said. “Just a routine call: a man who was dying. I did what I could on the spot and then rode inside the ambulance with him. He was conscious, but he knew he was dying. I picked up his belongings: his hat, one glove, a bulky package. He said there was a half million dollars in that package. He said it belonged to a man named Ferguson. He seemed terribly anxious to be assured that the money would be delivered to this man. Then he said that $100,000 of it belonged to him and that I could keep it, if I’d take the balance to Ferguson and explain what had happened.
“I didn’t know it was ransom money. Of course, I suspected there was something funny about it, but I agreed anyway. The temptation was too great. You see, I’ve been broke all my life. Here was my chance to have some of the things I’ve always wanted.
“Norton died shortly after he got to the hospital. I put the package of money in my room. The next day I did just what he had told me to do. I took out $100,000 and hid it. I delivered the rest to Ferguson. He seemed satisfied.
“Several days later I read about the kidnaping and the ransom money. I should have gone to the police, but I didn’t. That still looked like all the money in the world. I kept it and thought about it, and then—when I figured it was too late to tell the police anyway—I commenced to get scared. I was afraid it would be found in my possession.”
I said, “So you deposited it to my credit?”
“Yes, Kirk. I didn’t mean any harm. You’ve been my friend. I wouldn’t hurt you.”
I said, “I know you wouldn’t, Arthur.”
“I didn’t dare keep the money,” he continued. “I couldn’t throw it away. I put it in your account. I knew you wouldn’t find out about it until your monthly bank statement came in. I knew you’d tell me. That way, I’d always know what was happening—I’d know when and if the police started tracing it. I suppose I figured further than that, too. I had an idea that if nothing had happened in, say, a year—I’d invent some sort of a plausible story. I knew you’d believe me and give it back. You’d have forgotten all about dates and kidnapings and things like that.”
He stopped again and I prodded him. Gently, as Gold had done. “About Ethel Brower?” I said.
“She was the sweetheart of this man Norton who gave me the money. She knew all about it. She went to Ferguson to ask for Norton’s share. Ferguson told her Norton had given it to me. She came to see me and asked for her share. She wanted at least half. I told her what I had done. I explained that no matter how willing I was to give it to her, I couldn’t. It was in the bank, in your name. I told her I couldn’t touch it. She didn’t believe me. Before she left me she said she was going to see you. I knew what she would say. I knew you were out with Dana that night. I went to your apartment and waited—just in case she showed up. When she did, we had a talk. She threatened me. She said I was in this kidnaping up to my neck. She started to call the police. I tried to stop her. I got panicky. I strangled her. She died very quietly. She looked so peaceful that I thought maybe no one would know she had been killed. I closed her eyes, turned out the light, and walked down the fire stairs. Nobody saw me.”
I said, “I had wondered about her eyes being closed. That’s one of the things that occurred to me after I thought it was you, Arthur. It doesn’t follow that a doctor would close the eyes of a dead person, but no layman ever would.”
Arthur went on talking. His voice was low and monotonous, He had been banged around so much that he didn’t care any more. “Ferguson read about Ethel Brower being killed in your apartment, Kirk. He wanted to meet you. He didn’t know how far the police might go in a murder investigation. I suppose he was afraid that if they suspected me, I’d talk. He was afraid of that. He wanted to get in personal touch with you so he’d have a double check on what was happening. I shouldn’t have fooled you, Kirk. I hate that worse than the other things I did.”
I felt like bawling, but I kept a grip on myself. I said, “And Ricardo’s luck piece, Arthur? You put that in the apartment yourself, didn’t you?”
“Yes. It seemed I’d always be in danger if there wasn’t some other suspect. I stole the luck piece out of Ricardo’s dressing room one night when he was dancing.” His eyes brightened a trifle. “And the man who shot at me: I think that was Ferguson. He was a smart man, but not very brave. When he failed to kill me, he was probably afraid to try again.” He spread his hands helplessly. His head had drooped so that I could see the sparse brown hair. He was through. Finished. I would have enjoyed kicking myself around the block.
Cops are supposed to be tough, especially homicide cops. But Max Gold wasn’t. He didn’t like the job he had to do. He put his hand on Arthur’s shoulder and said, “Maybe we better get goin’, kid.”
Arthur gave me a piteous smile. He said, “Don’t think I blame you, Kirk. You did the right thing. You couldn’t do anything else.”
They took Arthur Maybank away. Everybody went away except Dana and me. We were alone with the ghost of a tragedy. Dana crept into my arms and started to cry. Then she saw that I felt worse than she did. Se went to work on me trying to cheer me up. It was a pretty futile job. I couldn’t believe that I’d ever feel cheerful again.
I took Dana home and offered to spend the rest of the night in her apartment. She said No, and sent me home. My place looked awful. I hated it. I wanted to get out of there. The room was filled with too many dreadful things that I wanted to forget.
I surprised myself by going to sleep. I slept until eleven o’clock. I was awakened by the telephone. It was Dana.
She said she had phoned the office and they had told her I wasn’t there. She asked how I was, and told me she was feeling better, too. She asked whether I would drop by her apartment on the way to work.
I got there in about half an hour. Dana looked haggard, but there was a light in her eyes that made me think that something good was coming.
She sat beside me on the couch. She took my hand and put my arm around her. Her body was warm and soft. She said, “Is it wrong to be happy when we’ve been through so much misery, darling?”
I said that it certainly wasn’t and asked her why.
She said, “Ricardo just left. I had him come over, because I thought he had a right to know. I told him everything. I never saw anybody so relieved. The police had terrified him. They had made him believe that they could convict him easily.”
She looked up at me.
“He was so relieved that he was pitiful. And when he learned that you had figured it out—that you had saved him—he made the one generous gesture of his life. He said he’d give me a divorce.”
This was sudden, but it was good. That made it harder to digest.
But when it did sink in, I did things. I put the other arm around her. I held her tight. I said, “Dana, sweetheart. We’re engaged.”
She smiled. “We’ve been engaged for a long time, Kirk,” she said. “But now we’re engaged to be married.”
THE END