Love Has No Alibi
Page 15
I said, “I don’t know.”
“I got reason to think he was. If she liked you, that would be something else that wouldn’t make Ricardo happy.” He shook his head. “Jeez! feller, you sure got yourself in the middle of a mess, didn’t you?”
“Yes. But that isn’t what worries me. Fm concerned about Dana. If what happened tonight was an attempt on her life, it might happen again. There must be some sort of way to guard against that.”
Dana said, “I can’t believe Ricardo could hate me that much, or that I’d be so valuable to him as a dance partner. I can give you an alphabetical list of all his faults. But I can’t see him as the killer type.”
Max said dryly, “You’d be surprised, Ma am, what kind of folks can get a sudden itch to commit homicide.” He turned his attention to the luck piece again. “So he was sore when he found it was missing, huh?”
Dana said, “Yes,” and I said, “Miss Warren told me he seemed more upset than the loss of a luck piece could possibly explain.”
“And Ricardo commenced getting real ugly as of then?”
Dana nodded. Gold said, “Some guys is superstitious as hell.” He looked across at me. “This thing was found under the edge of the rug in your apartment, Douglas?”
“Yes. Under the couch.”
“You should of told me.” Gold’s voice was gently reproving. “It’s tough enough to go places even when we know everything. Having somebody hold out . . . well, that ain’t so good.”
“I’m sorry. But you understand why I did it.”
“I know. The scandal.”
“I was trying to find out if Ricardo had ever known Ethel Brower. If it turned out that he had, I’d have come to you with the whole story.”
“I’m a funny guy,” Max said. “I like to do my own thinking. How much do you know about this Agnes Sheridan?”
“Very little. Except that she worked as a nurse’s aide at the McKinley Hospital.”
“I liked her,” volunteered Dana. “She seemed like a thoroughly nice person.”
“She ever tell you anything about herself?”
“No. I gathered that she lived alone, that she had a comfortable income, and that she was a very patriotic person.”
Gold shrugged. “We oughn’t to have much trouble checking on her.” He walked to the door. He paused with his hand on the knob and said, “Thanks to both of you.”
“What do we do now?”
“How should I know. Whatever you like.”
“We can go?”
“Why not?” His lips spread in a broad grin. “But get this, Douglas: Next time you get hold of any information, give me a thought. You ain’t got any idea how much it helps.”
He stepped into the corridor, closing the door behind him. I stood up and put my arms around Dana. She said, “You don’t really think Ricardo did it, do you?”
“I don’t know what to think. I only know I’m afraid. I know I hate to have you go through things like this . . .”
She leaned back in my arms and stared hard at me. She said, in a tight little voice, “You’re afraid for me, aren’t you, Kirk?”
“Naturally.”
“And I’m afraid for you.” I looked puzzled, and she went on: “It all seems to center around you: the money in the bank, the dead girl in your apartment, someone trying to kill Arthur Maybank for no apparent reason except that he is your friend, the thing tonight—whether it was meant for Agnes or for me. It’s you I’m afraid for, Kirk . . . can’t you see that?”
I shook my head. I told her she was crazy, but I knew she wasn’t. I tried to quiet her. I held her close. I told her how much I loved her.
I finally succeeded in easing the tension. She started to cry. She cried like a little girl. Softly. And I stood there patting her and feeling rotten.
I got her quieted down. I sat uncomfortably while she went behind the screen and changed.
We left the dressing room together. Someone told us that the supper show had been called off.
The corridor looked normal. Even Agnes Sheridan had gone. They had taken her body to the morgue.
CHAPTER XXII
I TOOK DANA home, and said I was going downstairs for some cigarettes. I went to the nearest drugstore and bought a mild sedative—the sort you can get without a prescription. When I got back with it, Dana had undressed. All I could see was a housecoat and a pair of cute little mules.
I gave her the sedative. I offered to sleep on the couch, but she wasn’t having any. She insisted she’d be all right. I made her promise to telephone me in case she wasn’t.
I stuck around until she started to get drowsy. Then I kissed her good night and walked out, closing the door gently. I started across town on what I knew would be an unpleasant mission.
The accident room of the McKinley looked only a shade more unclean than it had on my first visit. The same girl found Arthur talking with a big, burly man who turned out to be the ambulance driver. He looked like the sort of lad who loved his job. Going through traffic and under red lights at fifty seemed to be just about what he had been designed for.
Arthur was on duty. He smiled when he saw me and walked forward with his hand out.
I told him about Agnes as gently as I could. I spared him the details. I said I believed that whoever had done it was really shooting at Dana. That left Agnes just as dead.
He took it pretty hard. His weak mouth trembled. I felt like a heel, as though I were personally responsible. He asked me a lot of questions, and about all I could do was to tell him I didn’t know the answers. I stayed until an accident call came in. Arthur went out with the ambulance driver. I told him to keep a grip on himself. Then I went home.
I didn’t have much luck getting to sleep. When I finally dozed off, I didn’t enjoy it because my dreams were unpleasant. I woke at nine, drank some coffee, lighted a cigarette and retrieved my two morning papers from outside the door.
The killing of Agnes Sheridan made gusty reading, in spite of the fact that the reporters hadn’t had much to go on. They pulled out all the stops in describing the “exclusive” Club Caliente. I never had been able to figure what made a place like that exclusive unless it was the prices, but that’s the way it was invariably described.
Nobody knew anything about Agnes; they hadn’t had time to check on her. One account described her as a “vivid, vital, beautiful brunette,”which was pretty good going, considering.
The mystery angle was neat. No motive. No suspect. No gun. I could see that Lieutenant Max Gold of the homicide squad had told the reporters precisely what they’d find out anyway, and not another word.
Neither Dana nor Ricardo were mentioned, except as the stars of the de luxe show. Candy’s name wasn’t there. Neither was mine. It was a nice story. But when you had finished reading it you hadn’t read anything.
Shortly before nine-thirty, I telephoned the office and told them I wouldn’t be in. I kidded a little with the switchboard operator, but I don’t think I was as funny as Jack Benny.
I knew what I was going to do. It didn’t matter what it was, except that I felt the time had come for me to do something.
The more I thought, the more convinced I became that the bullet which had killed Agnes had been intended for Dana. I thought back over all the things that had happened, all the things that had been said, and one item stuck.
Max Gold had his eye on Candy Livingston. Max was a shrewd detective. He had been interested in Candy’s presence at the club the previous night. He had said that her kidnaping story was a phony. He suggested that she might have been connected with the hundred thousand dollars which somebody had stuck into my puny account at the bank.
That checked with a lot of other things. I didn’t know where Candy fitted in, but I felt certain she knew a lot she wasn’t telling. Maybe I was the guy who could induce her to talk. I’d be rough or affectionate or whatever the situation called for. I had a definite job. That job was to protect Dana from whatever might be threatening her.
I phoned Dana. She was out, too. I went to her apartment house and waited in the lobby. She came in about two o’clock in the afternoon. She looked pale and drawn. We went up to her apartment and started to fix up a little lunch.
She said, “I saw Ricardo this morning. He telephoned me.”
“And . . . ?”
“Kirk! I’m sure he had nothing to do with that shooting. And he’s terrified. The police questioned him for hours. He says it doesn’t matter how innocent he is, they’ve built up a strong circumstantial case against him. I’ve never before seen him frightened. It isn’t a pretty sight.”
I tried hard to be sorry for Ricardo, but wasn’t very successful. I was nervous about Dana meeting him. Of course, I believed that Ricardo was messed up in this thing, but Dana thought otherwise. So, naturally, she wouldn’t be afraid of him. There didn’t seem to be much I could do about it.
I left her when it came time to go to the club. I went to my place and did a lot of reading without absorbing anything. I was in bed by ten o’clock and asleep shortly after that. At three o’clock my telephone rang. I snapped on the reading lamp and said, “Hello.”
It was Candy Livingston, bright and chipper as you please. She said, “I just got home and found your message. What gives?”
I made a date to see her at one o’clock the next afternoon. She didn’t mention Agnes’s death. I couldn’t get anything over the telephone except that she was glad I had called her. I cut off and went back to sleep. I slept until ten o’clock.
The Wednesday morning papers had a brief mention of the Agnes Sheridan murder. No more than three sticks in length Still no gun. Still no suspect. Everything just the same.
I went to the barber shop and demanded the works. When I left there I was slicked down beautifully and smelled like a tuberose. I reached Candy’s apartment building five minutes late. Kirk Douglas, always socially correct. I was kidding myself along, but deep down inside I was nervous.
Candy answered my ring. I had anticipated a seductive negligee, but I didn’t get it. What I did get was a nifty little house dress which was quite revealing despite its studied simplicity. She didn’t look like the Candy Livingston of Cafe Society, but she was still blonde enough and gorgeous enough to knock your eye out.
She took my coat and hat and led me into the living room. The carpeting was so thick it tickled my ankles. At the end of the room two glass doors were open. The table had been set. Cocktails were already mixed. Candy said, “You’ll probably be surprised as hell when I tell you we’re alone. I let the servants go.”
“Tomorrow is Thursday,” I said. “They’d be off then anyway.”
The lunch was simple and lovely. So were we. Candy was lovely and I was simple. We moved into the living room for coffee. She shoved a humidor at me, remembered how much sugar I liked in my coffee, and seated herself beside me on the couch.
I fancied that I detected amusement in her eyes. She said, “To what do I owe the honor of this visit, Mr. Douglas?”
I tried to match her mood. I said, “Perhaps I couldn’t resist you any longer.”
“I’m not buying that. The brilliant young architect doesn’t prowl at midday without a reason.”
“Haven’t you ever been told that you’re reason enough?”
“Not by you, I haven’t.” She leaned toward me, her expression serious. “It’s about Monday night, isn’t it?”
“Yes.” I liked her directness. “That—and other things.”
She said, “Take your time. We’ve got until tomorrow morning.”
I said, “How well did you get to know Agnes Sheridan?”
“Not at all well. But I’m that sort of a person. Sudden intimacies. She seemed to like me, and I liked her. She was fun in her own intense sort of way. I enjoyed having her around.”
“Did you ever visit her?”
“Never.”
“She told you nothing about herself?”
“No. It wouldn’t have been easy, anyway. I’m no good at butting into other people’s affairs.”
I said casually, “You were in the powder room when she was shot, weren’t you?”
“Yes.” She looked at me peculiarly. “Why do you ask that?”
“I saw you pass our table. I presumed—”
“But you weren’t sure. You’re trying to ask whether I was in the corridor. Well, I wasn’t. I didn’t kill her.”
I said, “Wow! but you hit straight.”
“Why not? You came here to question me; just why, I don’t know. But since that’s on your mind, you may as well play it across the board.”
“You’re a nice person, Candy,” I said. “And you’re making a tough job simple. First: Have you any theory about who killed Agnes, or why?”
“No.”
“Okay. How do you feel about Dana?”
“I like her personally. And I’m jealous as hell.”
I said, “I know you were kidding that night at my place . . .”
“I wasn’t kidding. I’m in love with you.”
I felt silly. And embarrassed. I said, “I think Agnes was killed by accident.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I believe that whoever shot her meant to kill Dana.”
Candy’s eyes got big. “I still didn’t do it. I’m not that type.”
I was getting no less bewildered by the minute. The girl’s directness intrigued me. I decided I’d better take full advantage of my opportunity. I said, “I’ve been talking to Max Gold about you. He’s a lieutenant attached to the homicide squad of the New York police department.”
“So what?”
“He doesn’t hold you in very high esteem.”
“Is that supposed to make me miserable?”
“Gold claims that your story about being kidnaped was a fake. The way he expressed it was, ‘Her story stinks’.”
She smiled. “He sounds like a wise guy.”
“I believe he is. Really wise. Not just somebody who cracks that way.”
“In other words: You believe him.”
“I didn’t say that. I don’t know anything about it. I’m only asking.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m worried. A lot of things have been happening all around me that don’t make sense. I think you can supply some of the answers.” I looked straight at her. “Were you really kidnaped.”
“No.”
“But you were away . . .”
“It was one of those things. I told you frankly that I was wild. Too much money; too little supervision. I met a man and fell for him. There wasn’t anything new about that.” She broke off suddenly. “I’m a damn fool to be telling this to you.”
“Go ahead, please.”
“I went away with this man. It was fun at first. Until I discovered that he was a prime louse. He was also a blackmailer. I’m moderately notorious, but that was one escapade I didn’t care to see plastered all over the gossip pages. We cooked up the kidnaping story. It was designed as a face-saver for me. It was worth what it cost to get away from him.”
I said, “Would you be willing to tell me his name?”
She hesitated, then said, “You know the man already. He’s one of the cleverest confidence men in America. His name is John Ferguson.”
CHAPTER XXIII
I SAT THERE gawking. I had come for information, and Candy had handed me a portion that I couldn’t even begin to digest.
Ferguson! I hadn’t figured him in this. He hadn’t meant a thing to me other than a suave, distinguished-looking man who wanted to construct
a beautiful office building. He had selected a brilliant young architect to design something that would set a new style in office buildings. He built me up in my own estimation, and now he was letting me down by turning out to be a common crook. I had a brief, consoling remembrance of what the Big Boss had said: that my sketches and ideas were excellent; that even if Ferguson didn’t approve them, some other client would.
Candy’s sapphire eyes never left my face. She was enjoying the situation. She said, “Is it all clear to you now, Kirk?”
“It would be—if I could understand it.”
“Which part of it?”
I reached for a cigarette with fingers which were far from steady. She started talking again. “I usually take what I want,” she said quietly. “There was a time not so long ago when I wanted John Ferguson. His appearance fooled me. Underneath he’s just a cheap, tawdry heel.”
I was trying to fit the pieces together. I said, “I introduced you to him. You accepted the introduction.”
“What would you expect me to do? Say, ‘Oh, I’ve met Mr. Ferguson. I played house with him for quite a while, and then paid a half million dollars to get rid of him.’ ”
“I see your point.”
“I’m not ashamed of many things, Kirk. But I am ashamed of the Ferguson episode.” She toyed with an ebony-and-gold cigarette holder. “I’m quite a tramp, don’t you think?”
“No!” I was vehement about it. “I think you’re grand.”
“And you like me better than ever before. But you’ve still got your passion under control.”
I said, “I never was right bright.”
My mind was playing with something else. I smiled at her and asked permission to go ahead with my quizzing. She shrugged and said, “Why not? What have I got to lose?”