Girl Running

by Lawrence Lariar

  I started upstairs, taking the steps in pairs. On the landing, a broad square hall. To the right, the entrance to the living room. They were in there now. I recognized Tomaselli’s voice. Then Loretta added a few words. They were speaking English.

  And still another voice was answering them.

  “But it’s impossible.” It was a young voice, feminine and soft. “Nobody’s been here.”

  “All day?” Tomaselli asked.

  “I’m positive, darling.”

  “He had me worried.”

  “A faker,” laughed Loretta.

  I walked in on the line.

  “You’re wrong, Loretta,” I said. “I wasn’t faking. You see, I came on schedule.”

  “Nom de dieu,” breathed Loretta.

  They faced me in a little knot, three people in a foolish quandary. Tomaselli was caught with his guard down. He only stared and scowled. Loretta had an arm around the girl, was trying to comfort her. The girl was young and beautiful, but with a pale and sickly pallor that made her big black eyes seem much too large for her head. But there was an indefinable appeal to this doll, a quality close to the spiritual. It came through immediately. I felt it in the quick, tense pause before my next line.

  “Judy Martin,” I said, and held out my hand. “I’m glad the chase is over now.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Rue Garancière

  “You were smart,” I told Tomaselli. “But you tipped your hand when you sent your fat relative after me.”

  Vince was taking it with good grace. The first emotional heaves had died away. He was a gentleman, a good loser, a man who could adjust himself to any defeat. We sat in the big living room. We drank good wine. Judy’s initial nervousness had disappeared under the watchful attention of Loretta. Judy drank nothing. She twisted a handkerchief in her lean hands and listened.

  “How did you know he was my cousin?” Tomaselli asked.

  “The police. There was an old cop who remembered him. Your cousin gave it a good try. His friend Henri almost gassed me to death. Henri should stay away from garlic.”

  “He didn’t hurt you?”

  “Nothing but cuts and bruises.”

  “He was told to use no force,” Tomaselli said apologetically. “I simply wanted to make you an offer, Conacher. I wanted to buy you off your search for Judy.”

  “Why?”

  “Judy does not wish to be found,” Loretta said. “It is as simple as that.”

  “Simple?” I laughed. “Tell me more.”

  “My offer still goes,” Tomaselli said seriously. “And I’ll add more money to buy you off.”

  “Why?” I asked again.

  There was a long silence. They exchanged meaningful glances. Tomaselli crossed the room to sit at Judy’s side. He put a protective arm around her. She seemed to rally a bit at his touch. She turned her beautiful eyes his way and gave him her heart. In the pause, they were an obvious couple. They were in love, these two, in deep and in strong. Nobody else lived in this room for them.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Tell him,” Loretta said. “Monsieur Conacher is a man of the softest heart. He is a good man, I tell you.”

  “Judy does not wish her sister to find her,” said Tomaselli. “You must understand that Judy left home a long time ago to forget her sister. There was always bad blood between them, an impossible situation, much jealousy and evil on the part of Peggy. When it became intolerable, Judy fled to Paris. There is a name for such sisterly rivalry—a sibling hatred. Judy found no way to make her sister love her. That was why she came here to study art.”

  There was pain in the explanation for Judy Martin. She broke down a little, weeping softly on his shoulder. Loretta eyed me with a quiet pleading. She was suffering along with them, waiting for me to end the painful session.

  “I’ll buy it,” I said. “But you’ve got to give it to me all the way, Tomaselli.”

  “I’ve told you the truth, Conacher.”

  “You’ve told me half of it.”

  “Half?”

  “Judy took herself out of circulation long before Peggy began her search. I think I know why. Want me to tell you? Or will you give me the other half?”

  The silence blossomed again. I was watching Loretta, her face loaded with motherly affection for both of them. In the corner of the room a painter’s easel sat close to the long window. On the walls, hung in a haphazard arrangement, were many paintings. They were Judy’s art, all of them bright with color, all of them drawn with a freshness and vigor her old blue period lacked. There was a large picture, a view from this window into the street, a colorful theme. The room was painted in dim and misted shades. But the street sang with life, a symbol of the artist’s hope and courage. Judy’s painting reflected something new in her, something burning and vibrant.

  “Tell him,” Loretta said. “He will understand.”

  “Judy was sick,” said Tomaselli. “She found herself becoming an alcoholic, an illness she could not understand for a long time.”

  “Until I met you, darling,” said Judy softly. “Vince and I fell in love, don’t you see? He convinced me to try for a cure. Because of him, I came here. It wasn’t easy. It took a long time. But he had confidence in me. I’m being psychoanalyzed now. Everything is beginning to open up for me, a new world, because I’m finding myself.”

  Once unleashed, she emptied her heart for me. She spoke softly, trying for calm. The hidden fires were banked in her. I could understand Tomaselli’s love. This was a girl who was worth fighting for. Her basic qualities must have been obvious, even in her wilder days. She would have charmed them all, every man who crossed her path. And Doug Fowler? He must have come back for her with honest motives. He would have treasured any keepsake he shared with her, even a small blue slice of ribbon, even a theatre ticket stub.

  I said: “Did Doug Folger know your address?”

  “He’s the only one. Doug is an old friend.”

  I caught the quick fear in Tomaselli’s eyes. There would be no purpose in telling her about Folger. Loretta crossed the room to pour more wine for me. “Please,” she whispered. “Do not tell her, mon ami.” She squeezed my hand meaningfully. I returned the pressure.

  “You still don’t want your sister to know where you are?” I asked.

  “Not now,” she said, suddenly tense again. “I’m not ready for her.”

  “Ready?”

  “You don’t understand. I’m afraid of my sister.”

  “You never want to see her?”

  “Later,” whispered Judy. “When I’ve found myself. Peggy is bad for me now. Last year, when I knew she was here in Paris, I almost gave up trying. It’s a crazy thing, but she’s all mixed up in my trouble, don’t you see? Half of me loves her. Half of me owes her sisterly affection. That was why I phoned her to tell her to go away. I didn’t want to hurt her. But I couldn’t tell her the real fear. How could I tell her she frightened me?”

  The panic built in her. She moved in a quick reflex of sudden fear. She broke away from Tomaselli, who followed her with a troubled eye. She went to the window, pulling the drapes tight. For a long minute she stood there, her fingers clutching the cloth, her eyes shut against the street. She was fighting a strange, deep-rooted fight with herself. Tomaselli went to her, his arms around her.

  Loretta stayed with me.

  “You will do as she says, mon ami? You can understand her trouble?”

  “I’ll play it your way, baby.”

  “You are a good man, Steve.”

  Tomaselli joined us, concerned about Judy. “She’s tired,” he said. “Perhaps we’d better give her a sleeping tablet. It will quiet her. This has been a shocking time for her.”

  “A good idea, Vincent,” Loretta said. “Come, let us put her to bed. You will excuse us, Steve? Drink some more wine.”

>   They went to Judy and took her to the door. I watched them cross the hall to her bedroom. For a brief moment Judy turned her big eyes my way. She said nothing. She only smiled for me. It was a quick thing but it lit her face and made me feel good. She needed no words to thank me. She wrapped me up in a simple gesture, a nod. Then she was gone.

  I skipped to the couch. Loretta’s handbag was sitting where I needed it. She carried the usual woman’s load of trifles, but my fingers passed them by, hunting for one item only. I found it, an ancient key, under her compact. I stuffed it away.

  Tomaselli came out first, all, bounce and good nature. He poured more wine for me. He showed off Judy’s paintings, explaining the variations of her style, her new point of view.

  “You can’t imagine how far she’s come,” he said. “It’s all here, in her paintings. In the beginning her work was troubled and dull. These light colors show the change in her. She’s no longer afraid.”

  “Wonderful. She stays here alone?”

  “She won’t have it any other way. It was her first big victory, conquering the fear of being alone. It was her loneliness that drove her to drink.”

  I thought of another lonely woman out of the recent past. Was Velma Weston suffering from the same compulsion? Her alcoholic forgetfulness must have been self-inflicted. She had picked up bar friends and had drunk to forget them. She had buried her guilt in booze. Somebody who knew her background habits had used her to move in for the kill. Somebody who had butchered ruthlessly and might murder again.

  Loretta came back.

  “She is sleeping like a child,” she said. “We can leave now. I gave her two tablets. She will sleep deeply and well.”

  We walked to the corner together. Loretta still remembered our dinner date. It was after ten now. Would I be at her place before midnight?

  “Keep the pot hot,” I said.

  She lingered an extra moment before getting into the cab. She leaned in close to me and whispered, “Bonne chance, mon ami.” It was a quickly spoken line. Was there worry in it? Worry for me? I wondered whether she had second-guessed me, whether some womanly instinct told her of my next move.

  I was running down the Rue Garancière before the cab faded in the traffic up ahead.

  I headed toward a small café on the far corner. There would be a telephone there.

  I phoned Lester Garr. His butler answered, measuring me for rank. Mr. Garr was busy. Mr. Garr had a guest.

  I said: “Tear him away. This is important.”

  In the pause, I heard the sound of husky laughter. Larry was still with him. I recognized the timbre of his cackle. He was gagging it up for Garr. He had done his job well.

  Lester Garr seemed almost glad to hear from me.

  “Come on over,” he said. “Frick and I are having a gay time together.”

  “I’ve got interesting news for you, Garr.”

  “So? Good news, I hope?”

  “The best. You can relax for good. The flics are sure they’ve got Velma’s murderer.”

  “How wonderful,” he breathed, his voice lightening. “I appreciate your calling me, Conacher.”

  “Don’t thank me,” I laughed. “I’m hopping for joy, myself. I just made the locate on Judy Martin.”

  “Incredible! You should celebrate, my boy. Is she all right? Her health, I mean?”

  “Fine and dandy. Can you imagine how stupid we were? She was living right next door, under my nose. She’s at 689 Rue Garancière, right off the Luxembourg Gardens. Larry and I were drinking beer at the Rotonde, no more than a mile away. Tell him, about it. Tell him the hunt is over and I’m on my way home for a good night’s rest.”

  I hung up, my hand sweating the phone. It would be sweating from here on in, down the street again to Judy’s house and through her door for the big push.

  Then I took out Loretta’s key and stepped inside.

  CHAPTER 22

  Rue Garancière

  I stood in Judy’s lower hall listening to my corpuscles bounce. Nothing moved in the old house. Through the thick walls an occasional street sound whispered at my ears, muted and sighing. The tension sharpened my hearing. The tension caught me in the throat, forcing me to stand frozen until the pattern of this house’s acoustics came to me. It would be easy to place a foreign noise here. From upstairs in the big living room I would be able to hear an extra breath, a sudden sly movement.

  I crawled up the stairs, adjusting myself to catch the rhythm of my footfalls on the deep carpeting. Somebody would be walking this way soon. Somebody with a careful eye and an ear as good as mine. There were no loose boards in these stairs. I would have to listen for the door. I would have to wait for the metallic click of the latch.

  In the living room, behind the door, a small French chair hit my groping fingers. It would be best to sit here, within easy range of the big hall outside. Judy’s door was only a few steps away. There were no lights, no small glowing night guides alive now. I cursed the French for their nocturnal habits. The windows were shuttered against all outside air and light. I fought off the desperate urge to light a cigarette. But the smell of tobacco might queer me with a clever prowler.

  I played it safe. I sat there in the blackness letting my mind count off the feeble ticking of my wrist watch. The noise grew louder with time. A watch tick can make a clatter when no other sound hits your ear.

  And a doorknob turning, a latch clicking!

  Was somebody fiddling with the front door? My body leaned forward, caught up with the effort of listening. There was another noise now. Sliding? What would be sliding down there? It came to me suddenly that I was a damned fool. There were other ways into this place. The side alley? There would be a window somewhere.

  In the next second, I was sure of it. A faint rubbing noise filtered up the stairway. Cloth against wood? Whoever opened the window was on the way inside now, lifting and squirming to set foot in the hall. The silence told me nothing. Then my ears picked up a more meaningful sound.

  The stairway? He was coming up now.

  A vague blob of light lit the rug ahead of me, the dull beam of a tiny flashlight. It was a reflect from the ceiling. It would get stronger when it came into direct focus from the stair landing. Behind the shuffling footsteps I caught a new noise, the sucking and blowing of breath, softly.

  The light hit Judy’s door and hung there. Now the breathing came louder, just beyond my perch, no more than ten feet away. The spot crawled down and across the rug, over to the living room and deep inside. It played with the paintings near Judy’s easel. There was a throaty noise, half grunt, half sigh. The circle came back.

  He was opening her door when I came into the hall. He was standing there, the light beamed inside, a looming silhouette against the lit area ahead of him. The familiar shape of his figure brought the dryness back to my throat. I swallowed hard before I spoke.

  “Going somewhere, Larry?”

  The light came down and back. In the quick gesture, I could see something glitter in his right hand. He was carrying a knife. He put that hand behind his back. He closed the door to Judy’s room slowly.

  “She’s there, all right,” he said. “When Garr told me you found her I couldn’t believe it.”

  “So you came over to check?”

  “What else?” He took a step toward me, holding the light high, up in my eyes. He blinked at my instinctive reaction. I was beginning to walk backwards, into the living room.

  “With a knife?” I asked.

  “I always carry a switch-blade. Didn’t I ever tell you?”

  “To butcher little girls?”

  “Easy, chum.” He was chuckling now, the same cheap laughter he used to build his corny jokes. “You’re away over my head, Stevie boy.”

  “You killed Velma Weston,” I said.

  “Did I? Why?”

  “Because you
were afraid she’d remember you. If she could describe you in any way, you’d be a sitting duck for another murder.”

  “Oh, dear,” he chuckled. “I’m a bad man. Who else did I kill?”

  “Folger. When you took him out of his hotel room, he was crocked. But you thought you could get him to talk, to tell you where Judy Martin was. So you gave him the works. You always were a lover of torture. It was easy for you to slap him around. But Doug Folger refused to talk. And that was why you killed him.”

  He was listening to me stupidly. He was smiling. The original smiler with the knife. He held the little flashlight in a steady line, aimed at the rug, at my feet. In the semidarkness he licked his lip and grinned at me. I could almost hear the well-oiled gears of his mind at work on the next move. It would come soon. He would try for me in the darkness. The light would be too much for him, too embarrassing for the slaughter of a close friend.

  “You called me in from New York so that I could find Judy. It was a perfect pitch for you. You could throw your weight around with me on your side. You could get your information first-hand and then move in when I showed you the way. But you were worried about Velma. If she identified you, it would all end in a hurry. So you set the stage for killing her. You followed her to Bowker’s and then hung back. You conned Jastro into the big party after Garr’s. Jastro was the perfect fall guy for you. You planted Folger’s stuff in his closet. You dropped some of the bills to make it look like robbery. You had Jastro on ice, especially since he knew Velma. That was why you took them there and dropped him in the small room. What a picnic it was for you. It was a perfect frame, including the steak knife from Jastro’s dump.”

  “Clever boy,” he said. “But you bit, didn’t you?”

  “Almost.”

  “You lie.” He was stiffening under my forced calm. It would be more enjoyable for him only when I quivered and shook. “I had you fooled and you know it.”