Oh, ho, thought Mitch, then you are a liar, too. Now what is all this? He did not care for this Maxwell at all.
“Perhaps I have mistaken her for another lady,” he said smoothly. “But isn’t it strange that she is wearing exactly the same clothes now that she was wearing on Saint Patrick’s Day?”
(Try that one on for size, Mitch thought smugly.)
Julius said ominously, “Do you know who I am?”
“I have heard your name,” said Mitch.
“You know that I am an influential man?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mitch pleasantly. “In fact, I can smell the money from here.”
“How much do you want to forget that you saw my wife in Los Angeles that night?”
Mitch’s brows went up.
“On Saint Patrick’s Day in the morning,” added Julius sneeringly.
Mitch felt his feathers ruffling, his temper flaring. “Why? What is it worth?” he said.
They locked gazes. It was ridiculous. Mitch felt as if he had strayed into a Class B movie. Then Maxwell rose from the table. “Excuse me.” He lashed Mitch with a sharp look which seemed to be saying, “Stay,” as if Mitch were a dog. Then he strode off.
Mitch, alone with the blond woman, said to her quickly, “What do you want me to do or say?”
He was looking at her hand, long-fingered, pink-nailed, limp on the table. It did not clench. It did not even move. “I don’t understand,” she said in a mechanical way.
“Okay,” said Mitch disgustedly. “I came here for dinner and I see no profit in this discussion, so please excuse me.”
He got up, crossed over to his own table, and ordered his meal.
Julius Maxwell returned in a few moments and stood looking at Mitch with a triumphant light in his eyes. Mitch waved the wand of reason over the very human activity of his own glands. It was necessary for Mitch’s self-respect that he dine here, as he had planned to do, and that he remain unperturbed by these strange people.
His steak had come when a man walked into the room and up to Maxwell’s table. There was an exchange of words. Julius rose. Both men came over to Mitch.
Julius said, “This is the fellow, Lieutenant.”
Mitch found that the stranger was slipping into the seat beside him and Julius was slipping in beside him on his other hand. He rejected a feeling of being trapped. “What’s all this?” he inquired mildly, patting his lips with his napkin.
“Name’s Prince,” said the stranger. “Los Angeles Police Department. Mr. Maxwell tells me you are saying something about Mrs. Maxwell’s being here in town on the night of the sixteenth of March and the morning of the seventeenth?”
Mitch sipped from his water glass, watchful and wary.
Julius Maxwell said, “This man was trying to blackmail me with a crazy story.”
“I was what!” Mitch exploded.
The police lieutenant, or whoever he was, had a long lean face, slightly crooked at the bottom, and he had very tired eyelids. He said, “Your story figured to destroy her alibi?”
“Her alibi for what?” Mitch leaned back.
“Oh, come off that, Brown,” said Julius Maxwell, “or whatever your name is. You knew my wife from having seen her picture in the newspaper.”
Mitch’s brain was racing. “I haven’t seen the papers for six weeks,” he said aggressively.
Julius Maxwell’s black eyes were bright with that triumphant shine. “Now that,” he said flatly, “is impossible.”
“Oh, is it?” said Mitch rather gently. His role of apostle of compassion was fast fading out. Mitch was now a human clashing with another human and he knew he had to look out for himself. He could feel his wings retracting into his spine. “Alibi for what?” he insisted, looking at the policeman intently.
The policeman sighed. “You want it from me? Okay. On the sixteenth of last March, late in the evening,” he droned, “a man named Joseph Carlisle was shot to death in his own front hall.” (Mitch, ears pricked up, remembered the paragraph he had seen just tonight.) “Lived in a canyon, Hollywood Hills,” the lieutenant continued. “Winding road, lonely spot. Looked like somebody rang his bell, he answered, they talked in the hall. It was his own
gun that he kept in a table there. Whoever shot him closed the front door, which locked it, and threw the gun in the shrubbery. Then beat it. Wasn’t seen—by anybody.”
“And what has this got to do with Mrs. Maxwell?” Mitch asked.
“Mrs. Maxwell used to be married to this Carlisle,” said the policeman. “We had to check her out. She has this alibi.”
“I see,” said Mitch.
“Mrs. Maxwell,” said Julius through his teeth, “was with me in our home in Santa Barbara that evening and all that night.”
Mitch saw. He saw that either Maxwell was trying to save his wife from the embarrassment of suspicion or…that compassion was a fine thing but it can get a well-meaning person into trouble. And a few drinks might hit a murderess very hard and very fast. Mitch knew, that whatever else Maxwell said, he was lying in his teeth about this alibi. Because the woman, still sitting across this restaurant, was the very same woman whom Mitch Brown had taken in, had given a break.
But nobody was giving Mitch Brown any break. And why all this nonsense about blackmail? Mitch, with his wings folded tight away, said to the lieutenant, “Suppose I tell you my story.” And he did so, coldly, briefly.
Afterward, Maxwell laughed. “You believe that? You believe that he would take a drunken woman home with him—and close the door?”
In his breast Mitch Brown felt the smolder of dislike burst into a flame of hatred.
“No, no,” said Maxwell. “What must have happened was this. He spotted my wife here. Oh, he’d read the papers—don’t you believe that he hadn’t. He knew she had been married to Joe Carlisle. So, spur of the moment, he tried out his little lie. Might be some profit in it—who knows? Listen to this: when I asked him how much he wanted to keep this story to himself, he asked me how much it was worth.”
Mitch chewed his lip. “You’ve got a bad ear for dialogue,” he said. “That is not exactly what I said. Nor is it the sense of what I said.”
“Oh, oh,” said Maxwell, smiling.
The lieutenant was pursing noncommittal lips.
Mitch spoke to him. “Who else gives Mrs. Maxwell her alibi?”
“Servants,” said the lieutenant gloomily.
“Servants?” said Mitch brightly.
“It’s only natural,” the lieutenant said, even more gloomily.
“Right,” said Mitch Brown. “You mean it is probable that when a man and his wife are at home together only the servants will see them there. But it isn’t so probable that a stranger will take in a drunken woman, and leave her to heaven…simply because he feels like giving a human being a break. So this is a study in probability, is it?”
The lieutenant’s mouth moved and Mitch said quickly, “But you want the facts, eh? Okay. The only thing for us to do is go and talk to the bartender.”
“That seems to be it,” said the lieutenant promptly. “Right.”
Maxwell said, “Right. Wait for us.”
He rose and went to fetch his wife. Mitch stood beside the lieutenant. “Fingerprints?” he murmured. The Lieutenant shrugged. Under those weary eyelids, Mitch judged, the eyes were human. “She has a car? Was the car out?” The lieutenant shrugged again. “Who else would shoot this Carlisle? Any enemies?”
“Who hasn’t?” the lieutenant said. “We better check with this bartender.”
The four of them went in the lieutenant’s car. The Parakeet Bar and Grill was doing well this evening. It looked brighter and more prosperous. Toby the bartender was there. “Hi, Mr. Brown,” he said. “Long time no see.”
“I’ve been back East. Tell this man, Toby, what happened around one thirty on the morning of March seventeenth.”
“Huh?” said Toby. The flesh of his cheeks seemed to go flatter. His eye went duller. Suddenly Mitch knew what was
going to happen.
“You see this man or this lady in here between one, two o’clock in the morning last March seventeenth?” said the lieutenant and added, “I’m Lieutenant Prince, LAPD.”
“No, sir,” said Toby. “I know Mr. Brown, of course. He comes in now and again, see? Lives around here. A writer, he is. But I don’t remember I ever seen this lady before.”
“What about Brown? Was he in here that night or that morning?”
“I don’t think so,” said Toby. “That’s the night, now that I think back—yeah, my kid was sick and I shut the place up earlier than usual. Ask my wife,” said Toby the bartender with the fixed righteous gaze of the liar.
Lieutenant Prince turned his long face, his sad eyelids, on Mitch Brown.
Mitch Brown was grinning. “Oh, no!” he said. “Not the old Paris Exposition gag!” He leaned on the bar and emitted silent laughter.
“What are you talking about?” Lieutenant Prince said sourly. “You give me corroboration for this story you’re telling. Who can tell me about it? Who saw you and this lady that night?”
“Nobody. Nobody,” said Mitch genially. “The streets were empty. Nobody was around. Well! I wouldn’t have believed it! The old Paris Exposition gag!”
The lieutenant made an exasperated sound.
Mitch said gaily, “Don’t you remember that one? There’s this girl and her mother. They go to a Paris hotel. Separate rooms. Girl wakes up in the morning, no mother. Nobody ever saw any mother. No mother’s name on the register. No room’s got the mother’s number. Wait. No—that wasn’t it. There was a room, but the wallpaper was different.”
Julius Maxwell said, “A writer”—as if that explained everything.
“Why don’t we all sit down,” said Mitch cheerfully, “and tell each other stories?”
His suggestion was accepted. Natalie Maxwell slipped into a booth first; she was blond, expensive, protected…and numb. (Is she doped up with tranquilizers or what? Mitch wondered.) Her husband sat on her right and the policeman sat on her left.
Mitch slid in the other side of the Law and faced his adversary.
Mitch Brown’s mood was by no means as jaunty as his words had implied. He didn’t like the idea of being the victim of the old Paris Exposition gag. But he was not rattled or panicky. On the contrary, his mind began to reconnoiter the enemy. Julius Maxwell, flamboyantly successful—Mitch savored the flavor of the man’s reputation. The buccaneer type, ruthless and bold. Julius Maxwell—with money like a club in his hand. Going to make a fool out of Mitchel Brown. Also, there was the little matter of justice. Or mercy.
Mitch felt his wings begin to rustle again.
He said to the woman, gently, “Would you care for something? A highball?”
“I don’t drink,” said Natalie primly. Her lashes came down. Her tongue touched her lips.
Mitch Brown ran his tongue over his upper lip, very thoughtfully.
Julius Maxwell’s energy was barely contained in this place. “Never mind the refreshments,” he said. “Get to it. This young man, whoever he is, spotted my wife and knew her from the publicity. He knows I am a rich man. So he thought he’d try a big lie. For the sake of the nuisance value, he thought I’d pay something. Well, an opportunist,” said Julius with a nasty smile, “I can understand.”
“I doubt if you understand me,” said Mitch quietly. “I’m sure you don’t realize how old hat that Paris Exposition story is.”
“What has any Paris Exposition got to do with it?” snapped Julius. “Now look here, Lieutenant Prince. Can I prosecute this man?”
“You can’t prove extortion,” said the lieutenant gloomily. “You should have let him take the money, with witnesses.”
“He couldn’t do that,” said Mitch, “because he knows the thought of money never crossed my mind.”
The lieutenant’s eyes closed all the way in great weariness. They opened again and it was apparent that he believed nothing and
nobody, yet. “Want to get this straight. Now you say, Mr. Maxwell—”
Julius said, “I say that my wife was at home that evening and all night, as the servants also say, and as the authorities know. So this man is a liar. Who can say why? It is plain that he can’t bring anyone or anything to corroborate this yarn he is telling. The bartender denies it. And, if you ask me, the most ridiculous thing he says is his claim that he hasn’t read the newspapers for six weeks. Shows you the fantastic kind of mind he’s got.”
The lieutenant, without comment, turned to Mitch. “And you say—”
“I say,” said Mitch, “that I have been in New York City since the seventeenth of March, attending rehearsals of my play and its opening night.”
“A playwriter,” said Julius.
“A playwright,” corrected Mitch. “I guess you don’t know what that is. For one thing, it is a person committed to trying to understand human beings. Oddly enough, even you.” Mitch leaned over the table. “You are the bold buccaneer, so I’ve heard. You’ve pirated money out of the world and now you think money can buy whatever you want. Suppose I tell your story?”
Julius Maxwell now had a faint sneering smile, but Mitch noted that Natalie had her eyes open. Perhaps her ears were open too. Mitch plunged on.
“Your wife drove down here and shot her ex,” he said brutally. (Natalie did not even wince.) “Well, now…” Mitch’s imagination began to function, from long practice. “I suppose that Natalie felt bad enough, upset enough, maybe even sorry enough, to need a drink and to take too many drinks until she forgot her troubles.” Natalie was looking at him. “But when she woke up in my apartment she ran—ran to her car which she must have had. Ran home. Ah, well, what else could she do?” Mitch mused aloud. “She had done this awful thing. Somebody would have to help her.”
(Was Natalie holding her breath?)
“Who would help her?” Mitch said sharply. “You would, Maxwell. Why? I’ll tell you why. You are not the type to want any wife of yours and the accent is on yours—to die in a gas chamber for murder. She’d done something stupid. You bawled her out, I imagine, for the stupidity of it. But you told her not to worry. She was yours, so you would fix it. Money can buy anything. She must do exactly as you say, and then she could forget it.” Mitch hesitated. “Did you think she could forget it?” he murmured.
Nobody moved or spoke, so Mitch went on. “Well, you got to work. You bribed the servants. Bribed Toby, here. And you checked all around and discovered that there was only one other person who could reveal that she really had no alibi. That was a playwright. Oh, you checked on me too. Sure you did. You knew very well where I was and what I was doing. You found out the day and the hour I was due back in Los Angeles.”
Lieutenant Prince snorted. “Sounds nuts,” he broke in. “You say he’s been bribing everybody? Why didn’t he bribe you?”
Mitch turned a glazed eye on him. “Trouble was, I hadn’t read the papers. I didn’t know that I knew. So how could he bribe me? He put me down for an idiot,” said Mitch. “For what sane person doesn’t read the paper for six weeks? And then he thought of a way.”
Mitch addressed himself to Maxwell. “You had some hireling watching my apartment. And you and Natalie were ready and waiting, and quite nearby.” Mitch sensed the policeman’s shrug coming and he added quickly, “Otherwise, how come the very first day I’m in town I run into Natalie, and Natalie in exactly the same clothes?”
“Who says they’re the same,” said Maxwell smoothly, “except you?”
“She came into the restaurant,” said Mitch, “alone.”
“Since I had a phone call to make…”
“Alone,” Mitch persisted, ignoring the interruption, “and why? To encourage me to come over and speak to her. That’s why the same clothes—to make sure I’d recognize her again. After she
pulls the blank on me, Maxwell moves in. You, knowing how deep you’ve bribed your defenses behind you, press me into the position of looking like an opportunist—possibly like an
extortionist. ‘Brown’s a writer,’ you say to yourself. Which is ‘a nut,’ in your book. ‘Nobody is going to believe a word he says.’ You’ll discredit me. You’ll rig a little scene. You’ll call a real policeman for a witness.”
“Why?” croaked the lieutenant.
Mitch was startled. “Why what?”
“Why cook all this up and call me?”
“Simple,” Mitch said. “What if I had finally read the papers and recognized her name? What if I had come to you? What am I then? A good citizen. Isn’t that so? This way, he’s made it look as if I came to them. Making me look like an opportunist. And he’s the good citizen who called you in.”
Air came out of the lieutenant, signifying nothing.
“What a wacky scheme!” Mitch said it first. (Damn it, it was wacky. It wasn’t going to sound probable.) “How unrealistic you are!” he taunted desperately.
Maxwell sat there smugly. “You’ve got the imagination, all right,” he said with a wry smile. “Wild one.”
Then the policeman surprised them both. “Wait a minute, Brown. You’re saying that Maxwell knows his wife is the killer. That he’s acting as accessory after the fact? You mean to say that?”
Mitch hesitated.
Maxwell said, “He hasn’t thought it out. Listen, he is just spinning a yarn, Lieutenant. He was challenged to do it. He’s proving that he’s clever. And that he is—for fiction. Call it a good try.”
Mitch saw his way pointed out for him.
“Or, possibly,” said Maxwell after a moment, “he was only trying to pick up a good-looking woman.” Maxwell showed his teeth in a smile.
Mitch understood—he was being shown how to save face. It was very seductive. Not only that, he was aware that if he went along, the power, the money, the influence here, there, and
everywhere, would work to Mitchel Brown’s commercial advantage.
So he said slowly, “I know that he is a liar. I believe that he is an accessory after the fact. Yes, that’s what I mean to say.”
Julius Maxwell’s face darkened, “Prove it,” he snapped. “Because if you just tell it, I will have legal recourse, and I will have your skin. I don’t sit still to be called a liar.”
A Moment on the Edge:100 Years of Crime Stories by women Page 12