Chapter Eighteen

I lay in that delicious half-consciousness between sleep and the grind of waking life, the warmth of Lila’s body snuggling beside me, and my thoughts played idly and drowsily over past events.

I did not think of the case. At few times have I cared less who ever murdered whom. I thought about women. I do not boast when I say there were a lot of women to think about.

I will write a book, I mused, about Women I Have Known. Not women I have loved, certainly, nor even women I have slept with. Just women I have known. Like, a brunette named Pamela who had been incredibly beautiful, wonderful to love, and a crazy murderess. A big, sunny blonde named Inez who had given her love to a crooked chiseler, and got in jail because they thought she murdered him, and never succeeded in picking up much interest in life again even with most of the money in the city at her disposal. A cheap little blonde called Carol whose love was a commodity, not too high-priced, and whose pay for a last burst of affection was a fatal bullet.

Then an airline stewardess, name of Maida Malone—Maida with the sea-green eyes, the figure no dress could possibly make shapeless, who had a nervous collapse after she was almost arrested for murder. And Ann—the redhead with bands on her teeth—no kidding, bands!—the girl I somehow kept thinking I might marry. The only girl I’d ever thought about settling down with … someday.

And now, this case; and who did we have? Elena, the dream of beauty. Something I’d wanted the way a kid wants an expensive toy. To play with, and probably to break and throw away. I didn’t think there was much more than that to it. Sure, she was lovely and she knew how to fix car engines. Aside from that she was a weak, backboneless gal who took the easy way every time—I thought. The dream died a little hard, but it was dying.

There entered also Priscilla, a little girl who loved skiing, a girl I could probably learn to love like a brother—but like a brother, period.

And Lila. What can you do in self-defence when a woman comes into your life by hitting you over the head with a beer bottle—and then decides to stay around? I looked at her. She was sleeping on her side with her face on her hands, her mouth parted and the long lashes of her closed eyes resting on her cheeks. I didn’t know where she’d come from, what she’d been through, what men had known her, what she wanted out of life, what—hell, let’s just say I didn’t know her. And I was damned certain she didn’t know me. But she wanted to stick around me for a while; just from what showed on the surface, she felt some hidden appeal from me. I liked her. I’d let her stick all right.

Because somehow she suddenly made Ann’s approach to me seem dull, dead and cold—yeah, Ann, the beautiful redhead. The girl who had a house in the suburbs and the five children in her eyes. That was all right, but maybe I just wasn’t mature. It didn’t seem to me I was old enough for that yet.

So I mused until the front door clicked open and before I felt like moving or anything, Framboise was standing there—clearing his throat again. It was getting to be a bad habit with him.

“Hi beg your pardon,” he said politely.

“Hi beg your pardon, too,” I said. “There’s no beer on the ice. You’ll have to drink rye, it’s in the kitchen. Don’t think anything of this. She’s my sister.”

“Ho, now hi didn’t t’ink anyt’ing so bad as t’at,” Framboise said, leering.

“What a mind you’ve got,” I grunted. I dug my elbow gently in Delilah’s ribs, several times, with no effect. She muttered a few unintelligible curses and slept on.

“Lila!” I said. All I got was a snort. I told Framboise, “You’re a big, strong boy. And I’ve got a broken leg. You lift her off here while I get out.”

Framboise picked Lila up. He had a few instincts of a gentleman because he was careful to pick her up, the blanket with her and keep it over her. I rolled off the chesterfield and he put her back. She growled, like a dog chasing a cat in its sleep, but she didn’t wake up.

Danny Moore had mounted a metal hoop in the bottom of the cast. I was supposed to be able to walk on it when the plaster was good and dry. I crawled over to the wall, stood up, and kicked the cast tentatively against the nearest door frame. It gave back a dead, solid sound and felt rigid as a steel truss.

“I think I’m operational,” I said. “Come on out to the kitchen. You can drink and I can eat. What time is it?”

“Four-t’irty.”

“Oh, fine. I was supposed to have a conference with MacArnold and Montgomery this morning.”

I went to the phone, which I had thoughtfully unplugged early in the morning before retiring. I plugged it in, and it immediately started to ring. I looked at it, trying to gather strength. Then I unplugged it again.

“Coffee,” I told Framboise. “Then I can face what’s left of the day. What are you doing back here?”

“I tol’ you I would come back. I couldn’ sleep, not since noon. I ’ave brought together a t’eory.”

“Well, get ready to amend it. You left this morning before you heard the full story.”

“Comment?”

“How d’you think I got this broken leg? Playing hop-scotch with the neighborhood kids? I got one small thing in return for this disability here. I established a link between Crawfie Foster and Irish Joe. The way it went before, either Crawfie was taking the pictures as a private blackmailing enterprise of his own—which was possible—or he and Irish Joe were in it together. I caught up with Crawfie last night—at last. I followed him to a meeting place where Irish Joe and the Indian talked to him. Then they saw me. They didn’t bother to talk to me. They just jumped me.”

“Ho,” he said.

“So now what have we got? Foster and Irish Joe cooperating to shoot pictures that aren’t good for anything but blackmail, and yet aren’t used for that.”

“Exactly where my theory comes in. You know w’at else t’e pictures could be used for? Identification.”

“That’s a big word,” I said. “Just what the hell does it mean—in this connection?”

“T’is t’ird partner. ’E is very anxious to keep out of t’e picture, no? Say ’e has a grudge against Wales. ’E knows Wales is a customer of t’e gambling joint. So ’e arranges wit’ Irish Joe to have pictures of all t’e customers snapped. Irish Joe employs Crawfie for t’is purpose. Now, ’e doesn’t even ’ave to appear near the gambling joint to identify Wales. ’E identifies ’im from a picture. ’E puts a finger on ’im an’ the nex’ time Wales comes to gamble, Bingo.”

“Yeah?” I said. I guess I sounded cynical.

“Hokay, it’s only an idea. It doesn’t hexplain much, an’ we have to find out a lot to prove it. But it’s an idea to work from. An’ if t’ere is no blackmail, ’ow else do you explain t’e pictures?”

I mulled it over. “Pictures for blackmail, no,” I mused. “So pictures—for identification? Could be. Maybe you haven’t got the rest of it right, but that might be a place to start. I’ll work it over. What are you going to do?”

“Go furt’er into Wales’ background.”

“How about trying to locate the third partner?”

“Ah,” he said smoothly, “but you and your friends are t’e ones wit’ the confidential information. W’y don’t you fin’ out?”

“I’ll try,” I said grimly, “hard. Meanwhile, when do your boys get smart enough to find where Foster and Irish Joe are hiding?”

Framboise grunted disgustedly. “T’e skip-tracers ’ave been working on Foster since ’e disappeared—t’ere was a complaint t’en. My boys ’ave joined t’e search since you said ’e mebbe shot t’e Dover girl. But ’e has sure disappeared. An’ as for Irish Joe, we are jus’ getting hon ’is trail. We didn’ know t’e owner of t’at gambling place until you tol’ me earlier today. Now we ’ave a description out on ’im. An’ on ’is Indian friend. We’ll fin’ t’em.”

“When you bring them in, let me know. I want to come down and jump on their legs.”

The front door started to quake as though at least six people were hammering on it at once. Framboise raised an eyebrow.

“MacArnold, probably,” I explained.

“’E mus’ have been in bed early las’ night. ’E is very strong t’is afternoon.”

I got painfully to my feet, or rather to my foot and my cast. Framboise said, “Never mind. I’ll let ’im in. I’m going in any case.”

“Okay. Phone me if you get anything.”

“Please, in the name of the Sacré Coeur, do the same for me,” he said, and left.

From the hallway I heard MacArnold introducing Framboise to Montgomery. There was a brief silence and then Framboise in his deep voice said, “I t’ink I’ve seen you before, have I not, M’sieu?”

Montgomery said drily, “Sure. You helped arrest me the other night.”

“Oh?”

“I was gambling on an unfortunate evening. Besides, I was the one who found Chesterley’s body. Remember?”

“Ho, oui, T’at is your interest in t’is case.”

“That was the beginning of my interest,” Montgomery said. “But only the beginning.”

Then Framboise slammed the door behind him and MacArnold and Montgomery came out to the kitchen. They looked at my cast. They said simultaneously, “Well, for the love of God!” and “What the hell did you do to yourself?”

“Just a skiing accident,” I said casually.

“Yeah. In June.”

“All right, so I slipped in the bathtub.”

“You are not funny,” MacArnold informed me, “and we’ve been trying to rouse you since ten a.m. Come on, what’s up?”

I told him the whole story.

“Well, that’s fine,” said MacArnold scornfully. “You can really fluff things up. You locate Crawfie and let him slip away. You let Irish Joe and the Indian get away too. You don’t even get your car back.”

“Okay, rub it in,” I said. “What bright accomplishments have you and Montgomery performed?”

“We built ourselves up two fine hangovers in Louis Two’s,” Montgomery said. “Period.”

“Okay. At least I established that Crawfie and Irish Joe are working together.”

“Yeah, but where does that leave us on our list of problems?” Montgomery dragged a sheet of paper from his pocket and unfolded it, and we all looked:

1. Can we prove Irish Joe and the Indian killed Chesterley?

“No,” I said, “not unless we beat a confession out of them. But it’s still as good a guess as any.”

2. Where is Crawfie Foster?

“Teed’s established he’s still in the city,” said Mac, “and we still have to pin him down.”

3. How were the pictures taken?

4. Who shot Priscilla Dover?

5. Why aren’t the pictures being used for blackmail?

There was nothing new on three and four, so no comments were made. About five I said, “Framboise has a somewhat screwy idea. He thinks the shots were taken to identify Wales for someone—say the third partner—who didn’t dare show up at apartment sixteen. This guy put the finger on Wales’ pic, and Wales was rubbed out.”

“Ah, how far-fetched can you get?” Montgomery asked.

“They aren’t being used for blackmail,” I maintained.

“I’ll bet they aren’t being used for that either. Let’s admit a blank on that one and carry on.”

6. Why was Wales killed?

“And who killed him?” Mac wanted to know. “I don’t get that one at all.”

“Nobody does,” I grouched. “Go on.”

7. How did Priscilla find out about the pictures?

Montgomery said, “If we knew that, I’ll bet we’d know where Crawfie’s hideout is. She must have followed him to it. When will she be able to talk?”

“Finish the list, and I’ll ask Danny Moore,” I said. “When I talked to him last night in the hospital he said she was coming along well. Still weak, but recovering.”

8. Are Irish Joe and Crawfie working together?

“I answered that,” I said, and rubbed it in, “even if it was supposed to be MacArnold’s problem.”

“Better you should have solved your own problem.”

9. Who is the third partner in the gambling house?

MacArnold turned to Montgomery. “All right, sound off. That was your line of enquiry. Did you find out who it was, or do you still think it was one of us?”

“I’ll sketch in the requirements for the third partner,” said Montgomery. “He either agreed to, or assisted in the Chesterley killing; that could be anybody. He knew Teed was interested in the case and had Irish Joe beat him up—that could be MacArnold or me. He knew Priscilla had discovered Crawfie’s secret, and that could be myself or Teed. He shot Priscilla—that could be anybody, including Teed, because none of us have alibis for the time it happened. He probably shot Wales. That lets out you and MacArnold, Teed, but it doesn’t let me out unless you want to take my word I’m not the guy.”

“I guess we can take your word. Anyway, we don’t need to make it so personal. It doesn’t have to be one of us, you know. It could be just the little Indian. It might be Crawfie. It might have been Wales because perhaps Wales was shot to increase Irish Joe’s profits—if he was the third partner.”

“In other words, it might have been almost anybody,” MacArnold decided. “The tenth item is, ‘Why was the Riley stolen?’ That’s not a vital question, so I guess we’ve completed the review.”

“It’s vital enough,” I roared. “However, I’m beginning to think they just took it because I was out of commission and that made it easy to steal. They wanted a good car to use.”

“Now what do we do?”

“I go to the can,” Montgomery said. He came back in a minute dangling an intimate item of female dress from one finger—a rather translucent pair of white nylon briefs.

“What’s this? Souvenir of one that got away?”

“Oh, hell. I forgot about Lila. Go wake her up, will you?” I asked him. “She’s on the chesterfield.”

“Better just leave her there for when you come in tonight,” MacArnold suggested.

“I don’t like your evil minds. Get out.”

“What are you going to do?”

“Go up to the hospital to see Priscilla. I’m sure it won’t hurt her to talk for a few minutes, and it’s getting pretty vital to have her information. Wales has been added to the death list. Maybe there’ll be more, unless we clean this up. Somebody’s playing for enough chips to take human life awful easily.”

“Okay, what’ll we do?” Montgomery asked.

“Anything you can think of. I haven’t got any other ideas. If you don’t get hot on a trail, stay near a phone. I’ll ring you if I get anything from Priscilla.”

“We’ll go to my place,” MacArnold decided. “My beer-well hasn’t been drawn on much lately.”

They left together. I stumped into the front room and shook Lila. “Okay, kid, enough sack-time,” I said. “I got a use for you.”

She turned over and opened her eyes lazily. “I was beginning to think you’d never find one,” she said. “What was all the commotion?”

“Three guys have come and gone. We’re trying to solve a murder case, or didn’t you know?”

“Seems to me I’ve heard about it.” She got off the chesterfield, modestly pulling the pyjama jacket down over her round thighs. There was a small amount of hell to pay when she couldn’t find her pants in the bathroom, but aside from that she dressed uneventfully, swilled down half a tin of grapefruit juice and a cup of coffee, and we went out to the Morris. She drove it well, which was a good thing. I was in no condition to drive a car.

We stopped at a florist’s and got an armful of red roses. Then we crawled up the hill to the hospital. They told me at the desk Priscilla was in the private patients’ pavilion, on the fifth floor. For two bucks I took a load off my cast, and got the porter to settle me in a wheelchair and get me to the general region of Priscilla’s room.

The floor nurse was behind a desk in a small glassed-in cubicle. “How’s Miss Dover today?” I asked her.

“She’s done remarkably well,” the nurse told me. She reached for a folder containing charts, and flipped over them. “She had a good rest last night, and she’s been eating well today. Of course she’s very weak. No visitors.”

“I’m the next of kin.”

“Oh—you’re Mr. Dover—her father?”

“No, I’m just her sponsor here. But I’m the nearest thing she’s got in this city. May I see her?”

“I suppose so. Go down and peek in her door. I wouldn’t go in if she’s asleep.”

I hobbled self-consciously down the hall, trying not to make noise with my steel-shod stump. I came to Priscilla’s room and pushed open the door. I needn’t have worried. The rooms were soundproofed by a second heavy door on the inside.

I eased open the sluggish, silent door. Her window blind was up and the room was bright. Priscilla lay in the bed asleep.

She looked very small and frail in the hospital bed. Her face had scarcely more color than the sheets. They’d pulled her long brown hair up in a severe, tight coiffure, leaving her ears and thin little neck naked, somehow indecent.

Then I saw the blue bruises at her neck.

For a minute I forgot I had a broken leg. I tried to run toward her and my cast tangled with the half-open door. I went flat on my face with a crash that knocked out my wind and was about hard enough to crack the plaster on my leg. But I didn’t stop to see what damage had been done. I kept on toward her, first crawling, then staggering erect.

At the bedside I felt for her pulse, and finding nothing listened for her heart. I listened for minutes.

I heard nothing. This time, I’d been too late.

I hobbled back to the door and yelled, “Nurse!”

The floor nurse came toward me with a machine-gun clacking of leather heels. “Please! We must have quiet—”

“Get an interne. Fast!”

She didn’t argue. She turned and ran quickly, with a swish of her starched skirts, back to her cubicle.

I went into Priscilla’s room again, and it began to hit me. There was nothing I could do. I’d been powerless to catch the bastards who did this. I’d worked too slowly, been too stupid, failed and failed and failed.

Rage came over me in a rush. My fingers itched for a gun, or for the feel of an evil throat under them. I wanted to shoot, to choke, to smash, to kill.

They talk about eradicating war. Hell, there will be wars long after people stop having babies. Hate is stronger than love; it’s stronger than anything. The foulness of this crime appalled me. But it didn’t make me want to retire from the world and be a Trappist monk.

It made me want to kill.

The interne and the nurse came in together. The interne was tall, dark, square-faced. He was going to make a good doctor; already he had the quiet manner that handles emergencies without so much as a raised voice. As he reached the bed he said quickly but calmly to the nurse, “Emergency surgical wagon. Hurry it.”

She swished out. He lifted Priscilla’s eyelids, lowered them again, shook his head. He stripped back the bedcovers, and pulled away the hospital gown to bare her breast. He lifted his stethoscope and listened.

The nurse brought in a white enamel, rubber-tired wagon with bottled drugs and surgical instruments laid out, ready for use, under a sterile cloth which she whisked aside. She looked questioningly at him. “Long needle? Adrenalin?”

He shook his head. He replaced Priscilla’s gown and lifted the bedclothes gently, up—and over her face.

“I’m sorry,” he told me. “I’m afraid I’ll have to detain you. Would you tell me what happened?”

“I found her like this. I called the nurse.”

“She has been strangled.”

The nurse drew her breath in sharply and covered her mouth.

“Who else had been here to see her, nurse?”

“No one, doctor. She’s not allowed visitors.”

“Could anyone get in here?” I asked.

“Not without passing my cubicle. And of course, I make sure I know the business of anyone who comes to this floor.”

“Are you ever out of the cubicle?”

“There is a second nurse on the floor. One of us is always there.”

The interne shook his head. “There is a staircase at the end of the corridor. Anyone could come up that way and reach this room without being seen. But—I’m afraid you’d better stay until we get the police, Mr.—?”

“Teed. I’ll be glad to stay. When you call Homicide, will you ask them to send Detective-Sergeant Framboise? He knows this case.”

“I will,” the interne said gravely.

“I’d like to speak to him too.”

“All right. Come with me.”

We left the nurse with Priscilla and went to the cubicle. When Framboise came on the line and the interne had reported to him, I took the phone. “I’ve got to get to work. Will you tell this doctor to tell me to go?”

“Sure. Don’t do anyt’ing foolish.”

“I wish to God I could. But I don’t even know where I can lay my hands on any of them.”

He talked to the interne again, and the interne nodded. I was free to leave. But first, there was one thing I had to do. Somehow, I hated to do it. I called MacArnold’s number.

“Hi,” I said. “Montgomery with you?”

“Why, no,” Mac said. “He dropped me off here. Then he decided to go back to his own place for a while.”

I hung up before he could ask me what was wrong.