“QUIET!” SCANLON ROARED. “Mulholland, get those damned people out of here and close the doors. And tell Simpson to keep the corridor clear out there. Nobody can even get in or out of this madhouse.”
It was growing light now beyond the dusty windows of the courthouse; Sunday morning had dawned at last. The cut on my hand had been stitched and bandaged. I was handcuffed, sitting at one of the desks in the sheriffs office. Scanlon and Howard Brill, another of his deputies, were keeping an eye on me from opposite sides of the desk, while Mulholland and another man struggled with the crowd surging in through the doors and threatening to overrun the railing and counter inside the entrance. Scanlon’s face was lined with fatigue, the eyes red from lack of sleep. I had an idea I looked just as bad, or worse.
I lit a cigarette from the pack someone had given me. It was awkward in the handcuffs. Brill pushed an ashtray toward me, his face reflecting the mingled revulsion and pity with which laymen regard the dangerously insane; he hadn’t been a policeman long enough to have acquired the necessary objectivity. I paid no attention. I was too busy with my own bleak thoughts and trying to guess what Barbara was up to. She was nowhere in sight, and hadn’t been here when they brought me in. I supposed she’d gone home.
Mulholland had got the doors closed now and come back. He looked at me, shook his head, and sat down on the corner of another desk. The scuffling of feet and the sound of protesting voices and shouted questions had begun to subside out in the corridor as Simpson pushed back the crowd. Scanlon said something.
“What?” I asked.
“Do you want to make a statement?” he repeated.
“Yes,” I said. “I want to make three. I didn’t kill my wife. I didn’t kill Roberts. And I want George Clement.”
Mulholland sighed. “Here we go again.”
Scanlon took a cigar from his pocket and bit the end off it, regarding me with the blank impersonality of a camera lens. We’d been friends a long time, but he was a professional from the boot-heels up, and if you took the money you did the job. You could get sick later, in private. He struck a match and held it in front of the cigar. “Clement’s on his way over here now.”
Well, he shouldn’t be long, I thought; this time he didn’t have to stop and kill anybody on the way. Just then, there was a commotion at the door as he came in, readjusting the set of his jacket after pushing through the crowd outside. His face was composed and sympathetic as he came over to me. I stood up and we shook hands, a little awkwardly in the handcuffs. She’d said to play it this way. The least I could do was try.
“I’m sorry about this, Duke,” he said in the comforting tone a veterinarian would use to an animal with a broken leg. “The whole thing’s obviously a mistake that’ll be cleared up. I can’t interfere with the investigation, of course, but I’ll be here in case you need me.”
“Fine,” I said. “I knew I could count on you. And I’m sure it’s just as obvious to you as it is to me that the way to clear it up is to find out who killed Roberts and Frances, and why. I think I know why, and if we could get a little help from the police—”
Scanlon cut me off coldly. “That’ll do, Warren. You’re not here to make a speech. You’re under arrest for suspicion of murder, and I have to warn you that anything you say can be used against you. Do you want to make a statement?”
“I’ve already made it. I had nothing to do with those murders. And if you’ll get Doris Bentley in here—”
“Never mind Doris Bentley.”
“Do you want to solve this thing, or don’t you?”
“You’ve got enough charges against you now, without attempted rape. So far, she hasn’t filed a complaint, but I wouldn’t crowd my luck if I were you.”
“Did she tell you what I went there to see her about?”
“She said you tried to rape her.”
“That’s all?”
“Maybe she thought that covered it. You broke into her room at three o’clock in the morning and started tearing her clothes off; if you were just trying to get her recipe for meat loaf, you should have said so.”
George had sat down at another desk off to my left. I stole a glance at him as I said to Scanlon, “I still think you’d better get her in here. She might be able to tell you where Junior Delevan was killed that night.”
Scanlon’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that?”
There wasn’t a quiver in George’s face. He merely glanced curiously in my direction as though wondering why I’d dragged that in.
“And Doris,” I went on, “is also the girl who called you Thursday night and told you I killed Roberts because he was having an affair with my wife.” If I couldn’t get action one way, I could in another.
“How did you know about that?” Scanlon barked.
“Because she also called me.”
“Before your wife came home?”
“That’s right.”
That did it. Without turning his head, Scanlon snapped to Mulholland. “Get that girl in here.”
Mulholland went out, on the double. When Scanlon used that tone, he meant jump, and jump fast.
I turned to George. “I realize I’m probably making your job tougher, but it was necessary.” Obviously, Doris’ confirmation of the telephone call to me would nail down the two things the prosecution would be overjoyed to prove: motive and premeditation. “But since I didn’t kill her,” I went on, “it doesn’t make any difference anyway.”
They all looked at me pityingly—everybody except George. He took a cigarette from a silver case, studied it thoughtfully as he tapped it on a thumbnail, and said, “Well, my hands are more or less tied here, Duke, since I can’t interfere with the investigation, but perhaps it no would have been better…” He let his voice trail off. In other words: I’ll do my best, but you’ve probably already hanged yourself.
We waited. I wondered if I could break her down when she got here; if she managed to brazen it out, it’d just be my word against hers. Maybe I could get some help from Scanlon; he was too brainy an investigator to ignore a lead in an unsolved murder case, even if it came from an obvious madman. In less than ten minutes they pushed through the crowd in the corridor and came in; Mulholland apparently hadn’t given her time to do more than throw some clothes on. She had on no makeup, and her hair was sloppily combed, which probably wasn’t going to help her morale any. I could tell she was scared, all right; she was trying to look tough and assured, but was merely defiant as they came over to the desk. She glanced at me and then quickly away before I could meet her eye.
“I didn’t want to file any charges,” she said sullenly. “He’s just a nut.”
“That’s not what we wanted to see you about,” Scanlon told her. “Are you the girl who called here the other night and told us Mrs. Warren had been visiting Dan Roberts’ apartment?”
For a moment I thought she was going to deny it. Then she looked bitterly at me, and said, “I suppose he accused me of it?”
“Never mind. Did you?”
“All right, what if I did? It’s true.”
“I see. And you also called Warren, and said the same thing?”
“Yes.” She was in now, so there was no use denying that part.
“Was it before you called us, or after?”
“It was before.”
“Do you remember the time exactly?”
“Not exactly, but it was between ten and eleven. About twenty minutes before I called you.”
Scanlon nodded. “And you’d be prepared to testify to that under oath?”
“Will I have to?”
“Probably. If it’s the truth, there’s no reason you shouldn’t, is there?”
“No-o, I guess not. It’s the truth, all right.”
Scanlon was silent for a moment, just watching her. Then he asked, “When you called Warren, did you identify yourself?”
“No,” she said.
“I see. Then how did he know it was you?”
“I guess he recognized my voice.”
“But when he broke into your room this morning, he didn’t say anything about that? He just tried to rape you?”
She hesitated. She wasn’t a very imaginative liar. “Well, he started tearing my clothes off—”
“Don’t you think it’s more likely he intended to kill you? Your testimony might convict him of murder.”
She brightened. “Yes, maybe that was it. I bet that’s why he grabbed me.”
“Probably. How long would you say he’d been in the room when he made this grab for you?”
“Maybe five minutes. Not much longer.”
“That’s a little odd, isn’t it? Why do you suppose he wasted so much time?”
You could see her realizing she’d made a mistake, after it was too late. “Well, I don’t know. Maybe it wasn’t that long.”
“Ummm. It was more like—three minutes, maybe?”
“Yeah. That was probably it. About three minutes.”
“I see. But that still seems like quite a while for a man to horse around with small talk when he’s going to kill a girl in an apartment house with people asleep just on the other side of the wall. You’d think he’d want to get the show on the road before you could scream. And, incidentally, why didn’t you? No—wait—at that time you didn’t know he intended to kill you. You just thought he was going to rape you.”
“Uh—yes. That was it.”
“Why? At that time, he still hadn’t grabbed you.”
“Well—I really didn’t know what he wanted.”
“But you must have wondered? I mean, there didn’t seem to be much chance he was looking for the bus station, or just wanted to borrow something to read. What did you talk about during this period? He must have said something.”
“Well, just some of his nutty stuff, I guess; he’s crazier’n a bedbug. And I was too scared to remember—”
“But what kind of nutty stuff? You must remember a word or two. Did he mention Junior Delevan?”
Her eyes avoided his as they began that characteristic circuit of the wall behind him, seeking some way out. She said nothing. I shot an oblique glance at George. He’d realized long since where this was heading, but his face expressed nothing but an intelligent professional interest.
“Well, did he?” Scanlon prodded.
“Well—”
“Did he?”
“I guess—maybe he did—”
“Why?”
“Well, how would I know?” she asked sullenly.
Scanlon’s cigar had gone out. He removed it from his mouth and regarded the wet end of it thoughtfully. “You run into some weird ones in this business, Doris, but this one may take the Scanlon Award for 1961. How are you going to account for a man breaking into the room of a pretty girl like you at three o’clock in the morning and tearing her clothes off just to talk about Junior Delevan?” Suddenly, without any warning at all, his flattened hand came down on top of the desk with a sound like a pistol shot and his voice lashed out. “What did he ask you about Delevan?”
That was all it took. She came apart like a cheap toy that’d been left out in the rain. In less than five minutes he had the whole conversation.
“Did Junior ever ask you what that shop took in on an average Saturday?” he demanded.
She was crying now. “Well, he might have. It was a long time ago.”
“Did he have a key to the place?”
“No,” she said. “I m-mean, I don’t know.”
“Did you have one?”
“No. Of course not. She lived there, so she always opened up.”
“Then how did Delevan get one?”
“He d-didn’t.”
“I think he did. There has to be some reason you never did tell us you suspected he was killed in the back of that shop, something that involves guilty knowledge on your part. Either you planned the burglary with him, or you had reason to believe he was going to do it himself. Maybe it was only the fact you didn’t want to have to admit you knew he had a key. Where’d he get it? Did you steal it for him?”
“No! I didn’t do any such thing.”
“Did he ever have a chance to get his hands on her keys?”
She hesitated fearfully. “Wh-what will they do to me?”
“I can’t make any promises, but probably nothing, if you tell us.”
“All right. But I didn’t have anything to do with it.”
“Just tell us.”
“It was one day when she was out somewhere and she’d left her keys on the showcase next to the cash register. Junior was there, talking to me, and then a customer came in. While I was waiting on her, I happened to look over where he was, and he’d taken out his chewing gum and was pressing one of the keys into it.”
“And when was this?” Scanlon asked.
“About two weeks before—before he was killed.”
“And you never did tell her—Frances Kinnan, I mean?”
She began to cry again. “I was afraid to. Junior could be real mean when he wanted to.”
Scanlon gestured wearily. “All right, you can go.”
She went out. He relit his cigar, and sighed. “We’ll never be able to prove a word of it.”
“That’s right,” I said. “Unless you catch the man that was in the apartment with Frances that night, the man who killed him. And for once you can look somewhere else. I was in Tampa, Florida.”
He gestured impatiently. “Hell, it hasn’t got anything to do with this, anyway.”
I banged my manacled hands on the desk. “Dammit, it has everything to do with it!”
“Oh, cut it out,” he snapped. “You killed Roberts because you thought he was having an affair with your wife. And you killed her for the same reason. All this guesswork about Delevan and where he was or wasn’t killed that night doesn’t change the facts in the slightest. You haven’t got a chance in the world, so why don’t you come clean and get it over with?”
It had all been for nothing, I thought. I wondered where Barbara was and what she was trying to do. Well, it really didn’t matter; nothing would help me. “Listen to me a minute,” I said wearily, knowing before I started it was futile. “I’ll try to explain it in words of one syllable. Roberts was blackmailing her. Not because of Delevan, because he didn’t know anything about that. But because of something else that happened before she ever came here; the thing, whatever it was, that made her change her name. If we ever find out who she really was, and who brought her here—”
“We know who she was,” he said.
I stared at him. “You do? How?”
“The F.B.I. identified her from that photograph you gave Norman. They’ve got quite a file on her.”
“Embezzlement?” I asked.
He shook his head. “No. I thought that myself, when I heard about the ponies, but it’s not that simple. As a matter of fact, in 25 years in this business, I don’t think I’ve ever seen a package quite like it. Her name’s Elena Mallory—or that was the one she started with; she’s added to it from time to time.”
I shot a glance at George. Other than well-bred curiosity, his face showed nothing at all. Maybe we were wrong, after all.
Scanlon went on. “She seems to be wanted, under various names and at various times since 1954, by the State of Nevada, the State of California, the Internal Revenue Service, the F.B.I., and the U.S. Immigration and Naturalization Service, for fraud, evasion of income tax, hit-and-run driving, manslaughter, illegal flight to escape prosecution, bigamy, and deportation as an undesirable alien. I suppose if she were still alive they’d have to cut cards for her.”
My gears became meshed at last. “Bigamy?”
“Yes. She” seems to have been a girl who was easily bored. As I get the picture, she was a Guatemalan citizen, of Irish and Spanish parentage, educated in the United States—that is, until she ran away from the last school they put her in and married some horse-trainer on the California racing circuit. He lost his license for giving stimulants to a horse—which he says she did—and later, without bothering to divorce him, she married, a Southern California used-car dealer who was pretty well-to-do, or was until she got her scoop into his bankroll and started heaving it into the pari-mutuel windows at Santa Anita and Hollywood Park. Then she wrote several thousand dollars worth of rubber checks at casinos at Las Vegas, and ran over and killed a man with her sports car, and took it on the lam. This last item was in October, 1958. They’ve been looking for her ever since, waiting for her to drop the other shoe; sooner or later she figured to be back in the headlines. She was reported to have been seen at a Florida horse track in December, 1958, but disappeared before they could get their hands on her. That would have been just a few weeks before she showed up here.”
That tied it all together, I thought—and we’d never prove a bit of it. He really must have hated her. He’d picked her up broke in Florida and set her up in the dress shop. Then in less than six months she’d ditched him and married me, sold the stock and fixtures, and kept the money herself, so all he’d got out of it was to put himself at the mercy of a reckless and irresponsible girl who might some day get him sent to prison for the death of Junior Delevan. With her record of unbuttoned and uninhibited behavior, there was no telling what she’d spill if the police ever caught up with her. And on top of that there was no doubt he’d had to keep paying Roberts off —through her—because she’d probably told him she’d already given Roberts everything she had. And then he learned from Denman she’d just dropped six or seven thousand dollars at the racetrack in New Orleans.
I looked at him now; he seemed perfectly at ease. Nothing would ever crack him. Well, Roberts was dead, and she was dead; he really didn’t have much to be afraid of. Except maybe turning put the light at night.
At least I had to try. “All right,” I said to Scanlon, “that accounts for Paul Denman. This man, whoever he was, knew the police would always be on the lookout for her around racetracks, so he hired Denman to follow her. And of course he found out it was exactly as he’d suspected; she was on another gambling binge, and sooner or later she’d be recognized and picked up. When she came home, he killed her. He even destroyed her photograph—the big one in the bedroom—to keep the newspapers from running it. Somebody might have recognized her. He didn’t know I had a small one in my wallet.”
Scanlon shook his head. “He couldn’t have killed her. Nobody knew she was home. Except you.”
The door opened then, and the Deputy on guard called but to Scanlon. “Mrs. Ryan’s out here. She says she’s got to see you or Mr. Clement.”
“What about?” Scanlon asked.
“She says some evidence.”
“All right. Let her in.”