They had no further words for each other on the long trip to the apartment building that housed Pat Cullum. There Steve said curtly, “I’ll wait in the car.”
Tomkevic turned to stare at him for seconds before getting out and going up the walk. There was, Steve saw, no light visible in the windows of the girl’s apartment.
Tomkevic disappeared around the turn of the stairs, and Steve lighted a cigarette. In about a minute Tomkevic came down the steps again, but he didn’t come to the car. He went to an apartment on the first floor and rang the bell.
A few seconds of conversation and then Tomkevic and the man who had answered the door went up the steps together. Steve watched the windows of Pat Cullum’s apartment and saw the light go on.
Apprehension moved through him, and he watched the steps anxiously. A few minutes later Tomkevic and the man came down. The man went into his apartment, and Tomkevic came down to the car.
He didn’t get in. He stood on the curb and said woodenly, “We’ll wait here for the police. One of your lambs is dead, and this time I know it wasn’t an accident. She was murdered, stabbed to death.”
FIFTEEN
In a small and dreary room in the Hollywood station, Steve and Tomkevic waited for Sergeant Morrow. He worked out of Headquarters, but he had been called after Tomkevic had explained the connection between Hart Jameson’s death and Pat Cullum’s.
Steve had phoned Marcia. Dave and Dotty had still been there. Dave was on his way down to the station.
Tomkevic smoked a cigar and stared at the floor. He didn’t look at Steve. There had been very few words between them since their angry words in front of Jean D’Arcy’s apartment.
A detective came in to tell Tomkevic, “She’s been dead about ten hours, as close as we’re able to figure so far. Does that ring any bells with you?”
Tomkevic shook his head. “That would make it around one o’clock. I don’t know what any of them were doing at that time. How about her neighbors?”
“They’re being checked now.” He glanced at Steve and then moved closer to Tomkevic. He began to speak quietly, too quietly for Steve to hear.
Steve lighted a cigarette. He was not a heavy smoker, but he had been smoking constantly since the discovery of Pat Cullum’s death. His mouth was dry, his throat irritated.
The door opened and a uniformed man came in. Jean D’Arcy was with him. She looked exceptionally young and frightened, standing next to the big policeman, staring bewilderedly at Steve.
Steve rose and went over to ask her, “Would you like a lawyer, Jean? I’ll phone mine, if you want.”
The uniformed man said, “Let the little lady do her own thinking, mister. We’ll inform her of her rights.”
Jean said, “I don’t need a lawyer. I don’t need anything from you, Mr. Leander.”
The detective came over then. “Miss D’Arcy?”
She nodded.
“I want to talk to you and Mr. Tomkevic in another room.” He looked at Steve. “You wait here.” He turned to the uniformed man. “How about that Morton?”
“Ebey is looking for him now, Sergeant. He wasn’t home, hasn’t been home all day.”
Steve went back to sit on the hard chair near the window. Dave would be surprised to find his true love here when he arrived. Or perhaps he wouldn’t. Maybe Dave knew more about everything that had happened than anyone in this room.
They were all going out when Sergeant Morrow came in. Tomkevic talked with him for a moment at the door and then Tomkevic left with the others and Morrow came over to the small desk in one corner of the room.
He said, “Bring your chair over here, Mr. Leander.” He sat down behind the desk.
Steve brought the chair over and sat where he would be facing the officer.
Morrow glanced through some papers on his desk and then looked up at Steve. “You weren’t honest with me last time we talked, were you?”
“Yes. What makes you think I wasn’t, Sergeant?”
“We’ll get to that. Consider it from my angle. So far as we know, you were the last man to see Hart Jameson alive. Tonight you discover the body of this Cullum girl. What would you think, sitting where I am?”
“I don’t know, Sergeant. I didn’t discover the body of Miss Cullum. Mr. Tomkevic did.”
“You were along.”
Steve nodded.
“Why?”
Steve frowned. “Why not?”
“You’re a director, aren’t you? You’re not an investigator. At least you’re not licensed as an investigator.”
“Mr. Tomkevic thought I might be helpful to him. The death of Hart Jameson bothered me and I wanted to help.”
“Why should it bother you? We had about written it off as an accident.”
“Not about. You had written it off as an accident. Tomkevic wasn’t satisfied with that decision and he asked me to help him. I’m sure he’ll tell you I was a help.”
Sergeant Morrow asked, “And did you withhold from him, as you did from us, the real reason you went to see Hart Jameson on the night he died?”
“Withhold what?” Steve asked. “What do you think my real reason was for visiting him?”
“To try to talk him into faking an accident.”
Steve said heatedly, “That’s not true. Nothing could be further from the truth than that.”
Morrow’s smile was cynical. “You’d swear to that under oath?”
“I certainly would. Now, or in court.”
“You’ll probably get the chance. Well, an officer should be in here any minute to take your statement. You can go, after that.”
Steve nodded.
Morrow said, “I’m going easy on you, at the moment, because Mr. Tomkevic told me you’d been very helpful. But you’re not out of the woods by a long shot. Give it a lot of thought, Mr. Leander, and I’m sure you’ll realize complete frankness is your best course now.” Steve nodded again.
Dave arrived before the stenographer came in. He seemed nervous and his voice was high. “Where’s Jean?”
“I don’t know. She went to another room with Tomkevic and a detective. How did you know she was down here?”
“The desk sergeant told me.”
There was a silence, and then Dave asked, “Why did you go to see her tonight?”
“To find out why she lied about Morton. Your girl’s in trouble, Dave, and not because of me. She would have saved herself a lot of trouble, though, if she hadn’t lied to me.”
Dave’s chin came up. “I don’t believe she lied. I’m getting her a lawyer. They won’t push her around.”
“How did you know I went to see her tonight?”
Dave took a deep breath. “I phoned her from your house, right after you’d been there. You’re not a policeman, Steve, or an investigator.”
“I stayed with it longer than you did,” Steve said quietly. “What made you quit so suddenly, Dave?”
Dave started to say something and then stopped. He asked plaintively, “Why are we fighting? This is — embarrassing to me.”
“And to me,” Steve admitted. “But, Dave, tell your girl she’s making a mistake in trying to protect Morton. He’s not at all what she thinks he is. He tried to blackmail me last Thursday night.”
Dave stared, his mouth open. “Mitchell Morton …?”
“That’s right. He phoned to tell me he knew the girl who had been in Jameson’s apartment and she overheard what Jameson and I were talking about. And now he can’t be found. You tell Jean that.”
Dave shook his head wonderingly. “Why should she want to protect him? What did she lie about?”
“She claimed she went to Pasadena with Morton last Wednesday night. Tomkevic can almost prove she didn’t.”
“Wednesday night? That’s the night Jameson was killed.”
“Right.”
Dave said slowly, “I know she wasn’t with Morton. She had a date with me that night.”
“So. And a few minutes ago you said you wouldn’t believe she
’d lie. Do you now?”
Dave didn’t answer.
“And only to protect a man who’s not worth it,” Steve added. “You’d better find her and give her the word.”
An officer came in with a stenographer’s notebook as Dave went out. The detective who had been with Tomkevic came in a few minutes later.
Steve asked him, “Have you located Mitchell Morton?”
The detective shook his head. “Why?”
“He seems to be the key, doesn’t he? He even went out with Miss Cullum the other night, though I know they weren’t friends. Why would he date her?”
“Do you know they weren’t friends or is that just something you were told?”
“I was told that by Miss D’Arcy and by Morton himself.”
The detective smiled. “I’m sure you don’t believe everything that pair tell you. Let’s get on with the statement, Mr. Leander.”
Steve started with his visit to Jameson’s apartment and related all that seemed pertinent, omitting the information that he had first heard the rumor from Laura. The police already had the rumor, through Tomkevic; there was no point in involving Laura.
When he had finished, the detective told him, “Tomkevic will be around here for quite a while yet, but Mr. Sidney told me he’d take you home. He’s waiting in the hall.”
Jean was in the hall with Dave. Steve said, “We can’t all ride in that little bug of yours, can we?”
“I brought Dotty’s car,” Dave answered. “She took mine home from your house.” He smiled at Jean. “Aren’t you going to say it?”
She glanced at Dave and then looked steadily at Steve. “Dave thinks I owe you an apology. And I guess I do.”
“You don’t,” he said. “Loyalty is a rare but still admirable virtue.”
She continued to look at him steadily. “Even when it’s misplaced?”
“Especially then. It’s easy to ride with a winner. Let’s go home. I’m worn out.”
Dave chewed his lip and stared at Steve. “I guess you and I will have a loyalty test soon, too.”
Steve looked at him quizzically.
Dave nodded toward a closed door. “The way Tomkevic is shaping things up in there, all the fingers are pointing at Uncle Harry.”
“They always did,” Steve said dully. “Let’s go.”
As they rode along in Dotty’s convertible, Steve thought of Tomkevic. He had compared him mentally with Javert, but the man was changing into a different image. Tomkevic, despite his unctuous speeches, was less concerned with the law and justice than he was with saving his firm’s money.
Steve asked, “Did your uncle know Morton before I gave him that part?”
“I don’t think so. Why?”
“Tomkevic claimed he did.”
“Tomkevic has made a lot of claims. And he’s got reason to.”
“That’s what I’ve been thinking. Are you going to stay at your uncle’s tonight?”
“I doubt it. Did you want to talk with him?”
“I think both of us should talk with him. But he’s probably still sleeping. Well, I’ll phone him early in the morning. Or, if he’s awake when you go to pick up your car, have him phone me tonight. I’ll stay up for a while.”
Dave said, “If he’s awake, he’s probably still drunk. Tomorrow should be soon enough, don’t you think?”
“I suppose. Dave, tell him we don’t need the damned insurance money. Tell him we can get the money through John Abbot, and Harry will still be boss.”
Dave smiled wearily. “Okay, I’ll tell him. But you know damned well what he’ll tell me.”
Steve smiled and didn’t answer. Dave was right. Harry Bergdahl had grown up in a world where survival was a tricky business, where proffered friendships needed critical and cynical examination. Don’t do me any favors. That was the motto on Harry’s shield.
At home, Marcia said, “I’ve made some cocoa. You used to like cocoa after a bad day.”
He kissed her. “It’s been a good day and a bad evening. Did anyone call? Are we going to work tomorrow?”
“Harry called,” she said. “You’re not working. He said you shouldn’t call him back until tomorrow morning.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged. “He didn’t say. Steve, have the police learned anything?”
“I don’t know. They don’t confide in me.”
“Harry sounded drunk — drunk and frightened.”
“He’s probably both. Let’s get to the cocoa.”
She nodded. “And then you soak in a hot bath. And sleep late tomorrow.”
The hot bath helped. He lay in it, trying to blank his mind, trying to forget the picture Tomkevic’s words had triggered, the mental picture of Pat Cullum in her dark apartment, stabbed to death. He reached one wet hand up to touch his bitten ear. It was almost healed.
SIXTEEN
The morning Times had a new development in the murder since Steve had left the Hollywood station. Mitchell Morton had appeared of his own volition at Central Headquarters. He had brought two things with him: a new story and Leon Spangler.
Leon Spangler was the most expensive criminal lawyer in this town of expensive criminal lawyers, and he had never been known to work for charity. That fact was strange enough.
Morton’s new story was even stranger. In this new fantasy, he claimed that he had been on his way to see Jameson when he had seen Jameson drive off with a girl. It had been dark and he couldn’t be sure of the girl’s identity, but he had been almost sure that she was Pat Cullum. Jameson was obviously drunk and Morton had followed in his car, remembering the rumor he had heard about Jameson planning an accident.
Jameson, he related, had lost him momentarily on one of the curving streets in the area near the bluff. Then, as he swung around a turn, his headlights had picked up the picture of the Jaguar sliding over the edge of the cliff. And a girl was running along the sidewalk toward another car parked at the curb.
He had not been able to see the driver of the car, he claimed, nor the face of the girl. He had identified the car as an MG. Morton had parked, gone to the edge of the bluff and seen the crumpled car below.
He had been afraid to go to the police. He claimed he had been aware that there were “big-money interests” involved in the planned accident of Jameson, and at this stage in his acting career he could not afford to alienate them. Further than that, on advice of his expensive counsel, deponent said naught.
It was a ludicrously vulnerable story in many ways. It was a very weak story, but Spangler had permitted him to bring it in to the police. It was logical to guess that it was the strongest story Morton could devise out of those elements already known to the police.
Tomkevic had said that truth quite often came out of turbulence. The turbulence had swirled around Mitchell Morton, and there could be some truth, some necessary truth, in his statement.
He could easily have been the unidentified man the police had not been able to uncover. He could have seen Jameson’s car go over the cliff. Identifying the waiting car as an MG could be the truth or it could be a red herring. His uncertain identification of Miss Cullum was understandable. If the friends Miss Cullum had been with that night didn’t come forward to dispute this story, it would stand. If they did come forward, Morton had not made positive identification.
The statement could explain why he had gone out with Pat Cullum the other night. He could say he had hoped to get her drunk enough to admit she had been the occupant of Jameson’s car. With a man of Spangler’s cunning staging it for a jury, this could even be believable.
There would be no urgent reason to take Morton to court. His previous lies had not been told to police officers, and he had not told them under oath. Withholding information from the police was his only known crime. He was much more valuable to the police as a witness.
“He’s a goddamned liar,” Steve said.
Across the table from him, Marcia looked up, startled. “Who is?”
He handed her
the paper. When she had finished reading the account, she said hesitantly, “That — part about the MG — didn’t Dave bring this Cullum girl to Harry’s party?”
“That’s right. And Morton was at the party; he knew Dave had brought her. That’s what makes that bit look like a red herring to me.”
“But why should this Morton want to involve Dave?”
“Because Dave’s already involved to some degree. And that makes Morton’s lie more plausible.” He paused. “If it is a lie.
“How is Dave involved?” he continued. “He brought Pat Cullum to the party. Pat Cullum wore the same perfume as the girl in Jameson’s apartment. Dave is Harry’s nephew, and Harry took out the insurance policy. It’s a real involved deal Mr. Morton has hinted at.”
“And you don’t believe it?”
“Should I? Who told him I’d visited Jameson? How did he know the girl in the other room overheard us? Who are the big-money interests he’s so scared of?”
“Harry Bergdahl?” asked Marcia.
Steve smiled dryly. “Harry would be very pleased right now to be known as a big-money interest. Only he isn’t.”
Marcia said slowly, “This town is full of MG’s. There’s nothing unusual about them out here.”
“That’s right. And Dave has his alibi for that night: Jean D’Arcy. And she has Dave. That forced Morton to change his story and could be another reason why he identified the waiting car as an MG.”
Marcia poured herself another cup of coffee. She looked at the cup as she said, “Well, anyway, you’re not involved. Harry might be, but you’re not.”
“Look at me,” Steve commanded her.
She looked at him.
“I’m involved,” he said evenly. “Harry’s involved, so I’m involved. Because he took me from the ranks of the unemployed, and let us not forget that for even one second.”
“Nonsense,” she said. “He needed you. He never would have called you if he hadn’t needed you.”
“And I needed him even more,” Steve answered. “And maybe he needs me now. I’m going over to find out.”
Morton had lied. So had Dostel and Jean D’Arcy. Who else had lied? Rather than lie, Pat Cullum had refused to answer. Harry Bergdahl had admitted nothing tangible, but there had been no proof he had lied. Morton, Dostel, D’Arcy — they were amateurs, and lying badly was the mark of amateurs. Leon Spangler was no amateur. Who was paying his fee?
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