by Jerry eBooks
Clifton leaped to his feet. “What the hell would I be seeing her for?”
“Perhaps to murder her.”
“If Mrs. Davis was putting on my play, why in the world should I want to murder her?”
“You didn’t know she was putting it on until I told you just now. Or did you know last night?”
“Of course I didn’t know!”
“Isn’t it true you are in love with a girl named Sherry Moore?”
Clifton seemed astounded. Then: “It’s a lie!” He amended: “I know her.”
“Quite well, too,” said West.
He picked up an old theater program and tossed it across the table to Clifton. Clifton didn’t look at it.
“I know. Sherry was once in one of Rhea Davis’ plays. Got fired. What of it?”
West met his gaze. “Nothing of it. Mrs. Davis went to the Blue Hour Glass an hour or so after leaving your theater, and shortly afterward you came in. It merely occurred to me that it was possible her appointment there was with you.”
“That place was the swankiest place at hand,” Clifton said. “No reason why I shouldn’t go there.”
“No,” said West, “no reason.” He turned to Sam Tulley. “Mrs. Davis didn’t visit you Monday, yet you seemed to have been invited. Perhaps you had the appointment with her in the Blue Hour Glass.”
The plump producer shook his head. “No. I was in Stamford all day. I was here to see Mrs. Davis last Thursday, then I spent the week-end in Connecticut.”
“Did she telephone you there?”
“Yes. She phoned my office and they gave her my number.”
Johnny West glanced at Mike Wiggam. “You had lunch with Mrs. Davis on Monday. I don’t suppose—”
Mike looked up soberly. “No,” he said. “I’ve never cared much for poisons.”
Grant came into the room. His thin face was pale.
“I say, Roy, my wife’s upset, but you don’t have to go quite that far to console her.”
Dorothy looked up. Roy had had his arm around Betty. He took it away, flushing.
“I—I—she’s pretty upset,” he said. “I—I’m sorry, sir.”
Betty stepped away, looked around a little blankly, then came to Grant.
FRANCES tittered, and the butler, O’Malley, and his wife exchanged looks.
Johnny West said: “I guess that’s all for now. You can go to bed.”
Dorothy hurried to her room, undressed, and went to bed.
She had thought she would sleep, but she could not. She thought of Rhea Davis, the drama and fire of Rhea Davis now gone to dust.
She tossed and turned on the bed, and hours passed. She didn’t know how many. But when she heard the lock click on her door she became rigid.
The hinges of the door creaked slightly. Blood pumped into her temples. She felt herself trembling. Her fingers gripped at the sheets. She heard the footsteps moving steadily across the room. A figure cast a shadow in front of the light from the window.
She screamed—shrilly. She kept screaming. She leaped for the side of the bed to get to the lights.
But the figure moved toward her. Cold hands gripped her arms and swung her about.
Then the hands were at her neck.
She struggled, but the fingers tightened. She felt her knees buckling, and consciousness fled . . .
Dorothy opened her eyes. The lights were on. She was lying across the bed. Frances was sitting there dipping a cloth into a basin of water. Clifton was on the other side of her. She could see Johnny West walking up and down the room.
Clifton’s eyes were desperately bright. “You okay, kid?”
She whispered: “I—I think so.”
Frances, her face pale, gulped, and said: “Boy, did you ever scream!”
“Shut up,” said Clifton, and to Dorothy: “A doctor’s coming. You were out about half an hour. The whole house is up. They were all in here for a while. Sam Tulley and Mike Wiggam went below to get a drink. They need it.”
“Yeah,” said Frances, “and the cook is so scared she’s all packed. Only the cops won’t let her leave. Mr. Smyth is—well, he is—”
Clifton snapped: “I said shut up.”
Frances picked up the basin and cloth and left the room.
“She’s frightened,” Dorothy whispered. “You shouldn’t have been so short.”
“I’m sick of the whole thing!” Clifton replied. “We didn’t ask for this. Bring us out here to kill us, that’s all. I’ll write about this some time. I’ll make monkeys out of their investigation.”
Johnny West was there. “Right now though you can take a powder, Mr. Dell. It’s necessary that I talk to Miss Noel alone.”
Dorothy sat up. “I’m all right, Clifton. Please go.”
He glanced at her, then turned and walked out. Dorothy put her hand to her head. There was an ache all through her, but tension had eased. Johnny West was lighting a cigarette. When he spoke his voice was soft.
“I want you to tell me what happened.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” she said. “I was lying here when he came in—then all of a sudden I was screaming and trying to get to the lights and he stopped me. He choked me.”
“You say he.”
“It felt like a man.”
“Can you be sure?”
“Well,” she said, “I think so.” She shook her head. “There was just a blur. A shadow.”
“Do you know why he came in here?” She looked up. “No.”
“Clifton Dell was the only person you knew before you came here?”
“Yes, the only one. But he—”
West broke in gently: “I want you to look around the room. See if everything looks the same to you. Or if something is missing.”
She put out her arm so that he could help her up. “It’s all right,” she said.
She was standing now, and looking up at him. He was looking around the room.
“Is there anything unusual?”
“The closet door!” she said.
SHE crossed the room, moving slowly.
Seeing the door open as it was brought something to her mind. She looked in and saw that all of her clothes were properly hung. Then she looked at the floor.
“The shoes,” she went on. “There was a pair of low-heeled walking shoes here this morning. They weren’t here when I moved in.”
“What kind of walking shoes?”
“A woman’s.”
“Didn’t you notice anything else about them?”
“Well, no. They’d been worn some. Two or three months, I’d say. No more. The heels looked new. They’d been walked on some, though not so much as the soles.”
“Did you notice the shoes Rhea Davis wore in New York on Monday?”
“No, I didn’t.”
He stooped and went through the closet. He searched the room. The shoes were gone. He walked out onto the small terrace, moved out of sight past the windows, then returned.
“Well, we’ve got something.” He flicked the cigarette out over the terrace. “The killer stole the shoes after Mrs. Davis’ death. Or possibly even before. But he had to get rid of them quickly. So he walked from Mrs. Davis’ room across this balcony, to your room. He dropped them into the closet. Innocent enough. He intended to return for them later. And did. See?”
“You mean that was what he wanted when he came in here?”
“Sure. Then you screamed. He got scared and choked you to shut you up. After that he grabbed the shoes and got out.”
Dorothy began: “But how could a pair of shoes—”
“Listen, do you want to go downstairs or something? I mean for coffee, or something to eat? It’s just possible the killer was forced to leave the shoes in Mrs. Davis’ room again because of the screaming and people in the hall. Either that or he dropped them over the side of the balcony. I’m going to check.”
He stepped back out and disappeared.
There was no reason why he shouldn’t leave her abruptly, but for a
moment there seemed to be an emptiness closing about Dorothy. Frances must have put her robe on her, because she was wearing it now. She went into the hall. There was only a dim light burning and she was a little frightened. Grant Smyth was coming up the steps, three at a time. He hesitated.
“You are feeling better, Miss Noel?”
“Considerably.”
“I’m so glad,” he said. “Really.” But she could tell that he was not thinking of her and that he was nervous. He fidgeted. “I say, have you seen my wife?”
“Betty? No.”
He patted her hand. “Of course. It merely occurred to me.” His voice wandered off.
She went on down the stairs, and walked through the study. Mike Wiggam was sitting here in a card game with Sam Tulley. She moved down the hall toward the kitchen, but there was an argument here—Mrs. O’Malley’s shrill voice, and the soothing tone of a policeman. Dorothy paused, and a room door opened. Frances peered out.
“Oh, it’s you.”
She flung back the door. Dorothy looked into the room. Frances had the lights on, and newspapers were spread across the bed. There was a pile of them at the foot of it.
“I got the jumps,” Frances explained. “I can’t sleep, I get newspaper moods when I’m blue. That ever happen to you? I save all the papers that come to the house—Mrs. Davis got the Times and Tribune—and when I get one of these moods I read and read until my eyes about fall out. Wacky, I guess.”
“No,” Dorothy said. “That’s a good idea.” She felt sorry for Frances, because she was so frightened that she was actually trembling, yet was trying to hide it. “The Times is a little heavy, though,” she went on. “Don’t you find that?”
“Yeah. Do I ever get sick of it! But I’ve got a Journal in there. Last Thursday’s. And one copy of the Mirror. I’m coming to those next.”
THE servants’ rooms were all off this hall, and Dorothy saw Johnny West, who was moving toward her. Clifton was right behind him.
“Here you are!” said West.
“Find the shoes?” she asked.
“No. But I was worried about where you were.”
Clifton moved in. “I’ll take care of her.”
West glanced over at him. “I was talking to her. Just talking. Do you understand?”
Grant Smyth swung into the hall. His lean face was almost haggard. “Has anybody seen Betty? She’s been missing for an hour.” He was looking at Frances. “Have you seen her?”
“I can read your face,” said Grant. “Tell me where she is!”
Frances nodded toward the door across the hall. Grant whirled about. He turned the knob of the door, pushed the door back.
Betty stood there. She was wearing her hat and coat. Roy stood deeper in the room garbed in uniform. There was a packed suitcase standing on the narrow cot. Betty’s eyes were dull with surprise, but the chauffeur was emotionless.
“I—I say, old man,” Grant Smyth whispered, “this—this isn’t cricket, really. Of course, Betty, you—you came to pay the man his salary. You—”
She didn’t hear a word. She said: “Roy and I are going away.”
V
THERE was the intensity of a terrible minute, and then it was over. Grant’s face was immobile, but his mouth gaped. Clifton put his arm around the tall Englishman’s thin shoulders, and said:
“She’s crazy, boy, that’s all. You need a drink.”
But Grant kept staring at Betty, slim and frightened, her face as blank as her husband’s.
West said: “You, Roy, get out of there.”
Roy moved into the hall ahead of West and out of sight. Betty turned from Grant and watched bleakly after Roy. Then she spoke, her voice was high-pitched.
“We love each other, Grant: I’m sorry.”
Grant opened his mouth to say something, but Clifton led him off after West and Roy, and Betty still stood there.
Betty said, loudly: “Have you a cigarette?”
Frances answered: “I have.” She got one and handed it to Betty, but it was obvious from the maid’s expression that she held nothing but contempt for Mrs. Davis’ daughter now. She presently went back to her newspaper. Dorothy walked down the hall with Betty.
They came into the living room. Grant was sitting here and Roy was standing, smoking furiously. Mike Wiggam and Sam Tulley had stopped their card game to watch. Clifton was standing at the French doors with his back to everyone else.
Johnny West was talking. “How long has this—this personal acquaintance with Mrs. Smyth been going on?” he said.
“I refuse to answer that,” Roy replied.
“Why?”
“It would only drag Betty’s name into—”
West snapped: “You refer to her as Mrs. Smyth! How long has she been in love with you?”
“Well, two weeks, I’d say.”
“How did it come about?”
Roy said: “I met her accidentally on the porch one night after everyone had gone to bed. I used to sit on the porch at night and smoke.”
“Did you meet her there again after that?”
“Three or four times. We just stood there enjoying the nights, and gradually—well, it’s not what you’re trying to make it out as being.”
“I can see that,” said West. “When did you first discuss your plans for going away?”
“Just a couple of days ago. Sunday, I think.”
“Sunday. Mrs. Davis was poisoned Monday.”
“That has nothing to do with it.” Roy’s cheek tips turned red.
“No. Of course not. But you were aware that so long as Mrs. Davis lived you could not go on with Betty.”
“That’s true.”
“So you killed—”
“That’s not true. Her death just came along. It cleared the way for Betty and myself.”
“It cleared the way too for a lot of money, didn’t it?” roared West. “Betty was her mother’s only heir. You knew that, didn’t you?”
“I tell you—”
“No,” said West, “I’m telling you. You weren’t smooth enough. Betty reasoned that since her mother was dead there was nothing to hold you back longer. She insisted you pack and run away with her. She was impatient. She couldn’t understand how suspicion would point to you. That’s how come her bag was packed, not yours. You were trying to tell her that it was impossible to leave.”
“It’s a lie!”
The talk had been loud, and now Betty leaped to her feet.
“I’m giving all of my money to charity when I get it,” she sobbed. “Roy and I don’t want that.”
He glared at her.
West picked it up, said to Roy: “That wasn’t your idea at all, was it?”
“It was,” said Roy. “We discussed it.”
WEST turned to Betty.
“Did you? Did you discuss it?” She was blank for a minute. “No, I just thought of it—Ah, yes, yes, we discussed it.”
“Obviously,” West barked.
“Well, we did,” said Roy, “whether she remembers it or not. You’re not going to railroad me. Ask Mr. Smyth a few questions if you want a motive for Mrs. Davis’ murder. Ask him about the telephone call he received last month from London.”
“What telephone call?” said West. “Ask him. Go ahead!”
Grant spoke hoarsely. “He means about my father dying.”
“What else?”
“Without money,” Grant said. “He was wiped out. He committed suicide. I didn’t tell Betty or Mrs. Davis.”
“How did Roy find out?”
Grant shook his head. “I had to tell somebody. I trusted him.”
“You see,” said Roy, “his allowance was cut off.”
Grant said: “Shut up, Roy. I’ll kill you if you don’t shut up.”
Betty looked at Grant. “I’m so sorry,” she said.
West paced the room. He returned to Betty. “You’re really in love with—with him?” He nodded toward Roy. “Yes.”
He spoke loudly: “You unde
rstood that your mother would never permit you to run away with him? That she would bring you back even if you did run away?”
“Yes. I—”
“That’s enough. Have you any recollection of a pair of low-heeled walking shoes belonging to your mother?”
Betty said: “She owned several pairs.”
“You don’t remember anything unusual in connection with any of them.”
“No.”
“I do,” said Grant. “I found a pair in my closet Monday morning before she went to New York. I thought Frances put them there by mistake.”
“Isn’t your room at the opposite end of the hall?”
“Yes.”
“How long has Frances worked here?”
“Six months.”
“Didn’t it seem strange to you that she wouldn’t know the house better than to make a mistake like that?”
“Well, I—I say now, I really didn’t think about it in that way.”
“You have no idea how the shoes got in your closet?”
“No. They were wrapped up. I didn’t think much about it.”
West said: “You haven’t seen the shoes since?”
“No.”
“I’d like to find them,” said West. Mike Wiggam’s lean face was without expression. His dull eyes contrasted his dead and graying hair.
“Ah,” he said, “the clue of the shoes.” Sam Tulley said tritely: “This is a ghastly time for a joke, Wiggam.”
The telephone rang. West picked it up.
“Hello? Yes. Yes, she’s here.” He looked up. “For you, Dorothy.” Dorothy’s hands trembled on the receiver. “Hello,” she said. She heard Sherry’s voice and breathed easier.
“My God, but you’re in a jam out there, aren’t you?” said Sherry. “Quite.”
“Tough break, honey. But at least you’ll get your name in all the papers. Clifton didn’t kill her, did he? But I’m in somewhat of a situation myself.”
“What?”
“Well, there’s a guy here to see you. It’s just a matter of time till he finds out you’re in Mamaroneck. He’s traced you this far. He’s violent, and he claims he’s got a warrant from Michigan.”
“You mean—”
“Yeah. Your godfather. The guy you thought you killed. Henry Myers. You didn’t kill him. But he was in the hospital. And he’s got cops after you. I’ll do what I can, but—well, be on your guard.”