I DON’T know just when I decided to at least have a look at the place those keys belonged to. Perhaps I’d been subconsciously meaning to do it all along. But I found myself driving there instead of walking to the show. I stopped on St. Ann Street and parked directly across from the house.
It was typical of French Quarter buildings. They all look like hell from the outside unless you are keen enough to notice and appreciate the beauty of the delicate wrought-iron balcony trim. It’s as lovely as lace. The houses generally are badly in need of a coat of paint and this was no exception, from what I could see in the gleam of the street lamp. You must go inside to find the grace the old architects put into such places. I sat debating whether or not I should go inside this one.
My dash clock said 7:45. I looked at the metal tag on the key chain: Apt. Four. If the building followed true to form that should be third floor front. I glanced up at the windows. Dark. In fact, the whole front was dark and a To Let sign hung over the second floor balcony rail.
Suddenly I made up my mind, took a small pocket flash from the glove compartment, got out, and crossed the street. With a sense of urgent excitement prodding me, I fitted the large key into the patio gate lock and, heart thudding, slipped through the shadowed courtyard and up the stairs to the third floor landing. There had been a dim bulb on the second floor but none on the third. I used my flash and located Four just where I’d figured it to be.
I controlled a strong impulse to turn and run, took my courage in both hands, and moved slowly to the door. It was fitted with an oddly worked brass knocker: an elephant’s head with raised trunk. Irrelevantly I thought: I’ve never seen a knocker like that before. I lifted it and rapped smartly. If anyone came I could say I had the wrong place.
There was no answer but I thought I heard a movement inside. I rapped again and listened intently. Right then was when I should have left, but I counted to twenty and tried the other key. The tumblers turned easily. I took a deep breath, opened the door softly, and faced pitch darkness. A faint odor of some odd perfume came wafting out of the dark room. Behind me was the feeble beam of the light on the second floor landing. Before me—blackness.
A queer premonition rose in me and I hesitated a second, then clipped my flash back on and stepped inside. I meant to find a wall switch and get some light, even if it meant being arrested for breaking and entering. But my flash happened to be turned down on the floor when I went in and it got no higher. Ringed in its small circle of light was a head, an ugly stain spreading under it and darkening the light carpet.
My first thought was to get the hell out of there and quickly. The second was to see who lay there and how badly hurt she was. That impulse took me, with reluctant, dragging steps, over to the prone figure. I bent down and played my flash on her face.
Lili Cheng lay there, bleeding and unconscious. My mind revolted against the possibility of anything worse than that.
“Oh my God!” I exclaimed and added, as if she could answer, “What the hell happened to you?”
I knelt down and started to lift the small Celestial and there was a celestial explosion inside my skull.
I awakened to a splitting headache and a fast forming resolution never to mix homebrew and gin again. Then I tried to remember where I’d drunk homebrew and gin. If I hadn’t, what was causing this head? And what made the bed so lumpy? My mattress at home wasn’t like this. In that case, where in hell was I and how had I got there? I groaned and turned over, rolling only about three inches from bed to the floor.
I lay there a minute, trying to collect my wits, and suddenly the whole picture came back to me: The dark room, Miss Cheng’s head in the beam of the Hash, and the explosion in my own head.
I told myself: Someone conked me on the head; hit me from behind, the skunk! But why? And who did it?
Because I’d found Miss Cheng—and the same person who hit her had hit me too. I must have fallen over the nurse; her back was the lumpy bed I’d been laying on. I knew I should try to get up and do something, but my head was a roaring mass of pain, so I just lay there another moment or two. Or maybe it was an hour.
After a while I began to wonder what hour of night it was. It must be late because the moonlight was casting weird shadows around the room and the moon was past full. Vaguely I sensed a discordant note about the room. The heavy drapes were pulled back from the windows which opened to the balcony. That’s where the light was coming in. When I’d been outside I’d have sworn those drapes were drawn together. I decided they must have been because now a faint glow reflected from the street lamp as well as the moon, and the room had been pitch black when I entered.
My mouth went dry with fear as a new and terrifying thought struck me. Perhaps the person who’d assaulted us was still in the room! Frankly, I was scared witless and hadn’t sense enough to figure that whoever wielded whatever it was that had brained me must have gone long since. Long moments dragged by before I worked up enough courage to move at all. Then I Simply edged over an inch or two—the floor felt solid and friendly and heaven only knew what might be lurking in the shadows!
My eyes gradually adjusted themselves to the dimness and finally I decided to sit up. I couldn’t, I told myself, just lay there all night. Movement brought a flash of pain and I groaned, then cringed back—expecting disaster. But the only sound was my own loud, terrified breathing.
I felt cautiously of the back of my head. There was an egg-sized lump there and it hurt like hell. I rubbed it tenderly, relieved to discover the skin hadn’t been broken and I wasn’t bleeding. But Miss Cheng! She had been bleeding! I thought: My God’1 She may have bled to death by now and me just laying here and letting her bleed!
I struggled to my feet and groped along the wall until I located a switch and snapped it on. For the first time I really appreciated Thomas Edison!
Light, beautiful light, flooded the room. Weird, menacing shadows became prosaic chairs, tables, and other pieces of furniture. But the sprawled and alarmingly still figure of Miss Cheng gave the lie to the otherwise harmless appearance of the room. So did the wicked-looking poker which lay a couple of feet away from her.
I realized it was what we’d been hit with and started to pick it up. Then I remembered prints and drew back hurriedly. The motion brought a twinge of pain and I felt of the still swelling lump, giving pious thanks that I’d never bobbed my hair. Undoubtedly the thick knot had cushioned the blow. But—the thought chilled me—the nurse had short hair.
I knelt beside her and searched for a pulse. There wasn’t any. She was not only quite dead, she was growing cold.
Fear rolled back like a tidal wave. I stood up and moved hastily toward the door. Then I stopped and grimly pulled myself together. I thought: I must get the police and get them right away!
I looked around for a phone but saw none—it must be in one of the other rooms. But maybe the murderer was hiding in one of them? I wished I had a gun and the wish was father to a bright idea. I began looking for one in the large walnut desk near the door.
I searched through it. No gun. Then I crossed the room and began going through a chest of drawers, keeping a weather eye on the doors and balcony windows. In the third drawer I found a .38 revolver, fully loaded. My fingers curled gratefully around the cold metal.
Bold as brass now, I stalked over and threw open a door leading to the bedroom, calling loudly to anyone in there to come on out, I had ’em covered! No murderer appeared. I repeated the performance at the dining room door, then went on to the kitchen, turning on all lights as I marched. I tried the bath last, but turned up nothing more lethal than a sleepy tom cat, who almost scared me into a fit when he leaped up from the floor and scatted out, brushing against my legs as he ran.
I returned to the kitchen and at once realized what Miss Cheng had meant when she said the doctor had another place where he carried on his experiments. This kitchen was a lab, a dam well-equipped one too.
“Well!” I spoke out loud and the sound of my voice comforted me. “Now I know what he was doing with those keys! But it’s a hell of a funny place to have a laboratory. Mebbe he used it for other purposes too!”
I went back through the apartment, looking behind curtains and in coat closets. No one was there but me; the cat and Miss Cheng’s body—and I had to do something about the latter right away.
The phone was in the bedroom but it did me no good. The line was dead. I’d just have to go downstairs and find a phone or a cop—and I dreaded the trip through that dark courtyard. But dark patio or light, what I most wanted was a strong arm of the law right beside me, and the sooner I found one the better. Back in the living room the sight of the dead nurse strengthened my desire for a shield-wearer. I opened the door and fled down the stairs, taking some of them two at a time.
Outside I scurried across the courtyard, which wasn’t dark at all but was bathed in the silver of the late moon. When I reached the patio gate I had a moment that should have turned my hair snow white—it wouldn’t budge and I knew damn well I hadn’t locked it!
I stood there shaking and trying to remember what I’d done with the keys. I thought, frantically: I can’t, I won’t go back to that apartment alone I Then I thought of my pockets and went weak-kneed with relief when I found the keys tucked in one of them.
Trembling like gelatine, I got the gate open, went through it like all hell was behind me, shot across the street, and jumped in my car. Not until then did I realize I didn’t have my purse and it must still be on the Hoar beside Miss Cheng! My car keys were in it.
This last blow was too much. I dissolved in helpless, hysterical tears, whimpering, “I can’t, I won’t go back in there! I want a cop!”
I bawled for several minutes before I realized this was not getting me anywhere. I stopped crying and turned on the dash light. It said 2:15 and I’d gone in that building before 8:00. I must have been out for hours. Irrelevantly I thought: It’s exactly twenty-four hours since I started home after talking to Ned. Now both he and his nurse have been murdered and I’ve got to get a cop.
“What a mess!” I spoke aloud and again the sound of my voice was remotely comforting. At least I was still alive and could talk. My mind began to function again and I looked in the glove compartment where I always kept a dollar bill for emergencies. Well, this certainly was one! I found the bill, pocketed it and got out of my car turning my footsteps toward Royal Street.
St. Ann Street was quiet and deserted. Which suited me fine. I think I’d have fled screaming at the sight of anyone but a policeman. On the comer of St. Ann and Royal I saw a parked cab and started for it. The driver stepped up to open the door, then stepped back hurriedly. In the light from the street lamp I saw his face go ashen.
“What’s the matter?” I asked impatiently. “What are you staring at?”
“You—you, you’ve got blood all over you!” His voice was frightened.
“I’m not surprised,” I answered. “Let’s get going.”
He made no move to get going, but stood rigid—his eyes popping wide. I followed his gaze to my belt line. The pistol was tucked in it. I’d thrust it there when I’d made sure the apartment was empty.
He backed off a foot and looked like he was going to cut and run.
“You—you sh-shoot someone?” he quavered.
“Good God no! Do I look like a murderess?”
“N-n-no. But you got a gun and you’re all bloody and you ain’t bleeding!”
I fought for control, lost the fight, and went off into a gale of semi-hysterical laughter.
“Don’t be a bloody ass!” I advised, when I could finally speak. “I haven’t shot anyone. Just you get in and drive me to police headquarters as fast as you can.”
That convinced him murder had been done and most likely by me.
“How about the Third Precinct?” he asked. “That’s closer.”
“I don’t care if it is,” I said irritably. “You’re being paid to drive, not to think for me. I want headquarters. Now get going.”
I climbed in the cab and after a momentary hesitation he got in and drove off. It was the fastest cab drive I’d ever had.
Inside I headed for the detective’s office. It was empty, so I made for the pressroom. r d probably find them all in there swapping lies with the night side reporters. I was right.
Standing in the security of the pressroom door, facing the familiar faces, I went suddenly weak in the knees and clung to the jamb, my legs wobbling.
Alarm and concern painted itself on the faces around me while waves of weakness rolled over me and threatened to wash me out.
Someone grabbed me by the arm and got me to a chair. Then came a babel of voices, all asking questions.
“F’crissakes, Slone! What happened to you?”
“How’d you get all bloody?”
“What are you doing with that gun?”
“Jeesus Keerist! What kinda brawl you been in?” “What the hell you been up to now?”
My head started to throb again. I found my voice.
“Shut up!” I yelled at them. “Shut up, all of you!”
They shut. I looked around the circle of astonished expressions and singled out Rudy Gross, Tommy’s brother—only recently promoted to a plainclothes man. I got up and motioned to him.
“Come into your office. I’ve got to tell you about something.”
I started for the hall and the floor came up and hit me in the face.
Lights hurt my eyes and I closed them again quickly. As if in a dream I heard a bedlam of excited voices.
“Wet this handkerchief again!”
“No, just pour the water on her face!”
“Hell, pour some of this gin down her throat! That’ll bring her around!”
“Didja feel that lump on her noddle? Big as an egg! Someone musta beaned her!”
“Stand back, you guys! Give her some air!”
“Gimme that gin, she’s coming to!”
Through half-open eyes I could see a spinning white circle. I opened my lids wide and the circle slowed and gradually swung to a stop, resolving itself into a group of worried faces. I struggled to a sitting position on the pressroom couch, looked around me, and laughed out loud.
“Don’t look so upset, children. I’m all right.”
“Yeah? What the hell happened to you?” Rudy asked.
“Uh huh! Where did you get that wallop on the head?” Barney de Sales, our morning paper police reporter, wanted to know.
I looked at the eager expressions on the two beat men’s faces. Instinct reasserted itself. Why should I make them a present of this story? Hadn’t I suffered and nearly died for it? In a few minutes it would be too late for their papers and I’d have it exclusively. I’d keep it. To hell with them!
“I had a car accident,” I said. “Hurt my head and had to leave my car on the street. A cab brought me here and I was going to report it.”
“Report a car accident to a detective?” Ed Walker, who worked night-side for the opposition, snorted.
“Yeah! And what about that gun? And the blood?”
“The gun is one I keep in my car,” I lied. “I didn’t want to leave it.”
“That egg is on the back of your head,” De Sales pointed out. “And your hair isn’t bloody.”
“So what? It’s not your business, but mine.” I turned to Rudy. “Will you please take me home? I’m completely pooped.”
“Sure kid,” he said. “Come on, let’s go.”
I followed him out and once away from the pressroom I tried to break into a run. But Rudy had tight hold of my arm—he thought I needed to be helped to the car.
“Leggo of me and let’s get the hell away from here!” I hissed at him. “I’m in the very hell of a mess and that’s not the half of it! I damn near got killed and Miss Cheng did!”
“What?” he asked, startled out of his solicitude.
I jerked away from him and broke into a trot. He jogged alongside of me, asking questions I only half heard.
“Where’s your car? I’ll tell you all about it in a minute.”
He pointed to a closed car on the far side of the lot. “That black Chrysler over there.”
I speeded up and climbed into the car. He followed me. Inside and beside the muscular arm of the law, safe and sound, I broke down and really let go.
“She’s dead!” I bawled. “Deader’n hell. I don’t know who killed her and klunked me too, and I don’t know how long she’s been dead. She may have been alive when I first got there but when I came to she was dead.”
He shook me, none too gently. “What the hell are you talking about? Who’s dead? How did you get that lump on your head?”
I pulled myself together with an effort and told him the story. I left out only one thing: How I happened to have keys to the apartment.
He listened without interrupting. When I stopped talking he asked, “Who hit you, a man or a woman? Or don’t you know?”
“I’m not sure, but I think it was a woman.”
“Why?”
“There was a scent of perfume in the apartment. Of course, it might have come from Miss Cheng, but I don’t think so.”
“Where is the apartment?”
I looked at his dash clock, 3:05 and too late for the morning papers even if the boys followed us. I gave him the St. Ann Street number and we pulled out of the parking lot. He drove off and I tried to get my nerves unknotted.
We drove up and parked in front of the house, got out, and went in through the still open gate. I couldn’t remember whether or not I’d left the door upstairs open; if not 1’d have to expose the keys. When we got there would be time enough to start worrying about that.
I followed him up the curving stairway and brought up at the door to number Four. It was ajar, a patch of light outlining the opening. Rudy unlimbered his police special and went in. I trotted after him.
The place was just as I’d left it: lights all on, doors standing open, drapes pulled back, and, on the floor, Miss Cheng’s body.
Rudy bent over her and examined the wound. I picked up my courage and looked too. Then I felt better about the time I’d lain scared witless on the floor. The blow must have killed her instantly. The wound was big enough to put a fist in.
“Has she any perfume on?” I asked.
He sniffed, his face close to the body. “Nope, she just has a nice clean smell.”
“Then another woman has been here. I don’t waste my scent on working hours and I can still smell perfume.”
He straightened up, sniffed and nodded. Then he looked at the prone figure again. “Someone sure busted hell out of her. Doesn’t seem possible a woman would have the strength to strike a blow like that.”
“I’ve read that Chinese have very thin skull structure,” I said. “And she had bobbed hair. My knot caught part of the blow I got, but even so I must have been out for hours.”
He spotted the poker, wrapped his handkerchief around his hand, and picked it up. Blood and strands of hair were matted on the handle end.
“Hmmm. It was held by the stirring end. There may be prints. Guess I’d better call Tommy and have him get Doc Rollins and come on over here.”
“You’ll have to call from outside. This phone is dead.”
“Wires cut?”
“I didn’t look. It’s in the bedroom if you want to check.”
“It can wait. I’ll go on out and find a phone. You stay here.”
My protest was loud and fervent.
“You’ll be all right,” he said, handing me back the gun I’d dropped in the pressroom. “Just keep this handy and if anyone tries to come in let ’em have it. But,” he grinned, “for Pete’s sake don’t shoot me! When I get back I’ll whistle, like this—” he whistled “Yankee Doodle Dandy.”
I was still protesting as he went clattering down the stairs. Left alone, I wandered about the big room, my back hair raising every time I heard a creak which, in that old house, was often. I retrieved my purse and began planning my story in my mind. I wondered how Dennis would take it. He’d sure want to know how in hell I got mixed up in this mess.
I stopped in front of the chest where I’d found the pistol and saw the drawer was still open. I started to shut it when I noticed a sheaf of paper slips. I took them out and leafed through them. Notes, payable on demand and made out to Marta Dellman. I added the total and whistled with surprise. Sixty-eight thousand dollars!
I started to replace them, thought better of it, and put them in my purse. Might as well be hanged for a sheep as a lamb—if I got caught. They might save her embarrassment if I could get them to her without it being known.
A second packet of papers caught my eye and I pulled them out too. Letters this time. All tied together. I untied them and glanced through. All were addressed to Ned, either to the office or the hotel, and had been mailed from all over, some were from abroad. The handwritings were feminine but not in the same hand. I’d turned them over to look at return addresses when a stealthy step on the stairs brought me alert. I dropped them in my purse too, and crept to the door, gun in hand.
Breathless, hidden behind the partly open door, I waited for the intruder and grimly decided to shoot first and ask questions later. But the sounds halted, stopped, then started again—this time going rapidly downstairs. I scurried out and took after the fugitive. Rounding the second floor landing, I looked down the stairwell and saw a woman kiting down the last few steps.
“Stop!” I yelled. “Stop or I’ll shoot.” But she was already in the patio.
I raced into it, just in time to hear the gate slam. A split moment later I threw it open, but she was already turning the corner—out of range of gun or recognition. A faint scent seemed to linger in the air.
Panic swept over me and I thought: I’m getting out of this bloody place! To hell with it—I’m going home!
A powerful motor zoomed down Chartres Street, narrowly missed a sedan turning the comer, and roared off toward Canal. The sedan skidded into St. Ann and came to a screeching stop in front of the patio gate. It was Rudy’s and he was raging mad.
“Did you see that damn fool woman?” He howled, leaping from the car.
“I saw her all right and I’m—”
“Why, goddammit! She nearly wrecked me! There ought to be a law! Did you notice what kind of car she had?”
“Only that it had plenty of power. But I’ll bet the driver was the woman whom I just caught sneaking up the stairs. I chased her but she got away.”
It dawned on him that instead of being where he’d left me, I was parked on the curb—gun in hand.
“What? Did you see who she was?”
“No. She ran too fast for me. I heard the car start and a second later you almost crashed with her car. She—she may have been the murderess!”
As the import of the last words struck me, I began to shake.
“I’ve had enough,” I said flatly. “I’m going home. Right now.”
“You can’t do that!” he protested quickly. “Tommy’s coming right over. He wants to talk to you.”
“If he wants me he knows where I live. I’m going home, do you hear?” My voice rose to a hysterical scream. “Don’t you dare try to stop me! I won’t stay here! I won’t do it. I want to go home!”
“Shhh.” He put an arm around my shaking shoulders. “You’ll wake the whole street. You can go home. I’ll take you as soon as Tommy gets here.”
“I’m going right now! This minute!”
“You’re in no condition to drive. You’re shaking all over.”
“I can drive. I can drive anywhere so long as it’s away from here!” I headed for my car, Rudy tagging after me.
“I wonder if the landlady lives there?” he queried conversationally. “Looks like all the ruckus tonight would have roused someone.”
I turned on my ignition before answering. “I don’t know. She may be in the rear. Those walls are thick, noise doesn’t carry far. The first and second floor fronts seem to be empty.” I stepped on the starter.
“Yep. Well, we’ll have a look around when Tommy gets here. I wish you’d wait.”
“Not a chance. I’m scramming.” I handed him the revolver. “Take this damn thing and f’crissakes explain how my prints got on it or Beton will be accusing me of something else.”
“Les? What did he accuse you of?”
“Murdering Ned McGowan—that is, he practically accused me of it. I’ll tell you about it someday. Right now I’m leaving. Good-by!” I shoved the gear in first and rolled off.
Turning into Royal Street, I looked at the clock—4:05. I’d been back in that place an hour. Indeed, I’d practically spent the night there! I giggled nervously: Fine thing! Spending the night in Ned McGowan’s apartment!