THE NEWSPAPERS LEFT no doubt about their view. ‘Heiress Beauty in Death Plunge’ ran the headline in the Chicago American; ‘Fatal Fall on Shore Drive’ in the Sun Times, with a picture of an ambulance and two Chicago Police Department squad cars in front of Stacey’s building. The other papers followed, in varying degrees of sensationalism. Even the stuffy Tribune splashed with the death, noting that the victim’s father had been one of the city’s leading businessmen.
Guttman had brought the papers when he came over from the Quadrangle Club. He’d put away the whisky bottle and washed the glasses, then fried eggs and made toast while Nessheim showered and shaved and put on a suit. Nessheim kept the door to the bedroom shut, where he’d finally fallen into whisky-induced sleep, with Stacey’s nightgown clutched in his hands.
He sat at the dining-room table now, ignoring his plate while he scanned the news stories. Guttman said, ‘I didn’t know if you’d want to see these.’
‘They’re all saying suicide.’
‘I know,’ said Guttman unhappily.
‘It wasn’t.’ It was about all he could hang on to since Stacey’s death. ‘Somebody pushed her out that window, Harry.’
Guttman said nothing.
Nessheim said, ‘I heard a scream on my way up. The elevator was out of order, so I took the stairs. Suicides don’t scream, Harry.’
Guttman still didn’t say anything.
Nessheim pressed on: ‘When I got up there the elevator was working again. That couldn’t have been a coincidence – I think whoever killed her was on their way down, having put it out of order so it would be waiting for them on the sixth floor.’
This time Guttman nodded, but it was half-hearted. Frustrated, Nessheim said, ‘She wasn’t the type to do herself in, Harry. You didn’t know her, but you can trust me about that.’
‘Okay.’
‘Anyway, why would Stacey bump herself off if she thought I was coming an hour later? If she was so upset that she wanted to do herself in, then why arrange to see me at all? She wanted to see me, but she wasn’t expecting me to come early.’ He tried to control his frustration.
Guttman said, ‘The police want to talk to you some more.’
‘All right,’ said Nessheim wearily. After finding Stacey dead on the sidewalk, he’d spent five hours being grilled, having to give his account over and over again. It had been bearable only because he been forced to react to the constant questioning, which kept him from thinking about what he had seen – and what he had lost.
A homicide detective named Palborg had arrived and honed in on his relationship with Stacey. Had there been an argument? Was she feeling down? It was obvious the police hadn’t found his note to her, and he had said nothing about it. What good would it do if, like Guttman, the cops thought Stacey was working for the Reds?
Guttman said, ‘I haven’t told them about our conversation the other day. As far as I’m concerned, they don’t need to know anything about her political associations.’
‘Thanks,’ said Nessheim dully.
Then Guttman surprised him. ‘Actually, the cops aren’t sure it was a suicide either. That’s why they want to talk to you again.’
‘I know she was murdered – so do you. I want to find out why.’
Guttman shifted uncomfortably. ‘There’s a problem. If the police don’t like your answers, they may want to arrest you. You’d never get bail in such a public case.’ He nodded towards the pile of newspapers.
‘Do they think I killed her?’
Guttman’s expression gave nothing away. ‘Like you, they’re thinking she didn’t go out the window on her own. They plan to tell the papers that tomorrow – it will make them look like they’re on top of things. Making an arrest would be the icing on the cake.’
‘Why me? She was dead before I entered the apartment. I heard her scream on the way down.’
‘Sure, but how can you prove that? Especially when they found your prints in the apartment.’
‘Of course they did. I was there – I’m not denying that.’
‘Most of the prints they found are in the bedroom.’ Guttman looked down at the floor, and Nessheim remembered there was a prudish streak in him. ‘But they also found some on the window in the living room …’
‘They would have done. I was at the window – that’s where I saw her on the ground.’
Guttman nodded awkwardly. There was something going on here that Nessheim didn’t understand, something Guttman didn’t want to say but clearly felt he had to. Guttman said at last, ‘The thing is, the window was open, right? I mean,’ and he hesitated, ‘it had to be, didn’t it?’
‘Yes, it was wide open.’
‘Exactly. And it was open when the police first got there. So how did your prints get on the glass? The window slides sideways to tuck behind the window next to it. Your prints would have been on it only if it were shut.’
Nessheim now saw what Guttman was getting at: the police were thinking he had opened the window, then somehow bundled Stacey out of it. He also realised how his prints had got there. ‘The only time I stayed over there, I got up in the middle of the night and went out to the living room. I opened the window then because I wanted to hear the Lake. I’d have left prints all over it.’
It sounded lame, he knew that, and he felt the need to stare at Guttman until Guttman finally nodded. Nessheim said, ‘I need some time, Harry. There are people I need to talk to.’
‘What are you hoping to discover?’
‘I want to find out why Stacey came to Chicago and I want to know why she lied to me. If it turns out you’re right about the reasons, I’ll be the first to say so. Either way, that will tell me why she was murdered.’
Guttman thought about this, then finally said, ‘I have to make a couple of calls.’
‘There’s a phone in the kitchen,’ said Nessheim, pointing next door. His voice was hoarse and flat.
‘Why don’t you go wait in the living room while I’m on the phone?’
It wasn’t a request.
It took a while before Guttman reappeared. Nessheim paced around while he waited, at one point going into the bedroom where he picked up Stacey’s nightgown, which still carried the faint aroma of her lilac scent. Back in the living room he stared out through the window towards Kimbark Avenue, where an eerily low sun had now melted most of the remaining snow. He felt numb and sick at the same time. Why had he written to Stacey? He should have talked to her face-to-face, and listened to her side of the story. Now he desperately wanted to get out of there, scared that at any moment the cops would arrive and take him out in handcuffs. Then he would never unravel the mystery of Stacey Madison. He was on the verge of grabbing his coat and running for it when Guttman came down the hall.
‘I’ve bought you forty-eight hours. But you’ve got to keep your head down. I don’t want the cops to spot you.’
‘Because they think you’re in Wisconsin. I’ve told them you’ll turn yourself in when you come back.’
‘Thanks, Harry.’ He knew how big a gamble Guttman was taking on him. ‘There’s something I didn’t mention. On my way up the stairs to Stacey’s apartment I ran into an old lady who was on her way down because the elevator wasn’t working. I was going to help her, but then I heard the scream. The cops claim they couldn’t find her – they acted like I’d invented her. But when I looked out the window of Stacey’s apartment, I saw her again. She was trying to get the doorman to help her find a cab. But he –’ and he stopped, not wanting his voice to break.
‘Okay. Let me try and find her. Anything else?’ When Nessheim shook his head dumbly, Guttman said, ‘Then give me your keys, will you?’
‘Why do you want my keys?’
‘If you’re meant to be in Wisconsin, you can’t sleep here, now can you? The cops will check, believe me. So I’ll stay here – they’ll think I’m waiting for you to come back. And you can stay in my room at the faculty place. But keep your head down, okay?’
‘All right. Let me just take my car key.’ Nessheim started to work it off the key ring.
‘Give me that, too – I don’t want you driving your car. They’ll be looking for it.’
‘But I need my car.’
‘You can use these,’ Guttman said, handing over two keys on a thin wire hoop. ‘It’s not ideal, I know, but I don’t see that we’ve got much choice. These are for Stacey’s car – I parked it round the corner.’