He got up and returned to the living room.
Elliot Carson was standing flat-footed in front of John, shaking his head ponderously from side to side while the younger man stared up at him with frightened eyes and insisted in a shaky voice:
“I had to do it, Elliot. It was self-defense. Priscilla will tell you. He knew his game was up, you see, and he came up here blustering and threatening both of us. He chased Priscilla into the bedroom threatening to break her neck and then mine, and I guess I went wild. Everything was red in front of me,” he went on vaguely. “I remember grabbing up the paper knife from that table near the door, and that's all I do remember. You've got to believe me!” he cried out in a thin, high-pitched voice. “You've got to help me out of this, Elliot. Think of Harriet and Letty. He's dead now and he deserved to die. But they mustn't ever know the truth. You'll have to fix it, Elliot.”
While he spoke, Priscilla moved quietly to Wayne's side and caught his hand in hers. She was breathing deeply and spasmodically, her gaze fastened on John's face, and squeezed Wayne's hand desperately, like a small frightened child seeking comfort from a parent.
“You see, it was Julius all the time,” she broke in swiftly when John finished. “I suspected it from things Hake said, but I never was sure whether he meant Mr. Hendrixon or you, Mr. Carson. I still didn't know this afternoon when John telephoned me to say it had happened—that Letty had been kidnaped.” She shuddered violently. “Think of a father doing that to his own daughter! God! If he'd known what I know about Hake Derr...”
“Not his own daughter,” Wayne said. “Letty was actually his stepdaughter.” He turned Priscilla about to face him and demanded, “Are you two saying that Julius admitted being in the plot with Derr?”
“Oh, yes.” Her green eyes were wide on his. “He knew Mr. Carson suspected when he asked to meet him here, and he got here first and came upstairs. John was with me and we were pretty sure by that time that he was the one, and he admitted it, all right. But he still wasn't giving up. He was going to kill both John and me, you see, and then go down and tell Mr. Carson that he had confronted us and John and I were in it together with Hake. And he thought Mr. Carson would help cover up for him and get him away and that maybe the police would think we had killed each other in a lovers' quarrel.”
“I'm afraid I just don't understand at all,” complained the attorney helplessly. “I suspected you, John, not Julius. You and this young lady together.”
“That's what he was banking on, I think,” said John dully.
Wayne still held Priscilla's hand tightly and his cold blue eyes probed into the bluish depths of hers, which just that afternoon had invited him to sink into them and drown deliciously. He said in a tight voice, “You've got one hell of a lot of explaining to do, Priscilla, before I'll buy any of this. How did you get into the picture in the beginning? You were Hake Derr's woman. Don't try to deny that.”
“Hethought I was his woman,” she said viciously. “I let him think so. I made him think it.” She drew in a deep breath and pulled her hand away from Wayne's. “If you knew how I loathed him—how I cringed when he touched me!”
Wayne said coldly, “Go on. And make it good.”
“Damn you, Morgan Wayne,” she stormed at him. “Get down off your pedestal. You're not the only person in this world who can believe in something. There are a few other human beings who hate what Hake Derr was doing as much as you do, and who have the guts to decide to do something about smashing it.” For a long instant her eyes blazed challengingly into his, then she swung about and strode across the room to stand beside John's chair.
When she turned and faced Wayne again, her chin was lifted proudly and her voice was calm. “Did you ever have a sister, Morgan Wayne? One whom you raised from childhood and who looked up to you as her mother?” Wayne said, “No,” very quietly.
“I did.” Her face twisted for a moment in a spasm of pain. “We lived in Detroit,” she went on tonelessly. “I sang in a night club there and supported us both, until Helen was sixteen.” She drew in a long breath and her hand went down to touch John Durtol's shoulder as though she drew strength from the contact.
“That was three years ago, and Helen was developing a remarkable vocal talent and I scrimped and saved to get enough money to send her here to study with a good teacher. It took just three months in New York to ruin Helen. She was weak, I suppose. Too young to go away by herself and face the temptations here. She poured out the whole hellish story to me in a long letter she wrote and mailed just before she died. It could be duplicated by thousands of other stories if people only knew the truth,” she went on bitterly. “I've learned that since I've been here—since I met Hake Derr and began adding up the little things he let drop. First there were marijuana cigarettes—just for fun at a party where all the others smoked them and Helen didn't want to appear unsophisticated by refusing. Then a friend who furnished them to her for nothing when she was discouraged with her vocal progress and felt she needed a lift. Then heroin, of course, the next inevitable step. And selling herself to men for the price of the drug she had to have. But you know all of it. Helen was no different from thousands of others. Except she wasmy sister. They pulled her body out of the East River the day before her letter reached me. I came to New York with one thought in mind—to hunt down and destroy the highest man I could reach in the business of destroying girls like Helen.”
Wayne nodded somberly. He said, “You moved up fast once you reached New York.”
“I let nothing stop me,” she agreed just as somberly. “I left every scruple behind me in Detroit. I got an engagement here with Lon Ragle's band, and in six months I was the Gingham Girl. I owned the joint and was on my way up where I could attract Hake Derr eventually. Do you want to know exactly how I managedthat, Morgan Wayne?”
He said, “Yes.”
“Ben Orcutt owned the place.” She spoke without a tremor, much as though she were discussing something that did not touch her at all. “For a half interest, I traded him—myself. He was grossly fat and had a bad heart and I encouraged him to drink a great deal more than he should. So his heart suddenly stopped beating one night.”
“My dear young lady!” Elliott Carson was mopping sweat from his face as he listened. “That's an unwise admission to make. Practically a confession that you planned his death.”
“I suppose I did,” she told him indifferently, though her eyes still held Wayne's and it was with him that she pleaded for understanding. “I tell you I was determined that nothing should stop me. When I finally landed Hake Derr, I thought he was it. That I couldn't reach any higher. Then he began hinting about the grand coup he was planning, and I waited for bigger game. And tonight he came to me,” she ended evenly, nodding her head toward the bedroom. “Both he and Hake are dead now, and I hope to God the whole rotten racket will smash to earth with them. My only regret is that I didn't actually kill either one of them.”
“And all this time,” said Carson wonderingly, “you and John have been working together to get proof against Julius. Is that correct, John?”
“That's right.” He nodded eagerly.
“Why didn't you tell me any of this earlier?” Wayne demanded of Priscilla.
“I didn't dare. I still didn't know which side you were on. Hake didn't either, you know. He really thought you were trying to move in and take over his racket. I wanted to trust you this afternoon.” Her voice trembled and she moved toward him, holding out her hands, a sob creeping into her voice. “I was ready to trust you and tell you everything, I think. If you had stayed with me... when...” Her voice faltered and she swallowed hard, stopping directly in front of him and reminding him with tear-filled eyes of the moment when she had offered herself—when he had turned away brusquely and denied her.
Wayne put his hands on her trembling shoulders and drew her close to him gently. Over her head, which settled on his breast, he told Attorney Carson:
“I agree with John that this whole thing shou
ld be hushed up. God knows, he shouldn't have to suffer for Julius Hendrixon's death. Take him downstairs and buy him a drink, Carson. You and he wait there for me. I'll take care of everything here. Don't worry about publicity. I'll arrange things so the exact circumstances of Julius' death will never be known.”
He held Priscilla gently in his arms while the older man helped the younger to his feet and out the door. Wayne reached out to shut it behind him, then put his fingers beneath Priscilla's chin to lift her tear-wet face and kiss her lips gently.
Then he said, “What do I get in payment for helping you pull it off, darling?”
Chapter Twenty-one
Her eyes were closed as he spoke. She opened them very slowly and asked in a throaty whisper, “What do you mean, Morgan?”
He released her and turned to walk across the room and sink into the chair just vacated by John Durtol III. He lit a cigarette and lifted his eyebrows mockingly. “You're one hell of an actress, Priscilla. The big money might have come a little slower on the stage, but it would have lasted longer.”
She said, “I don't know what you mean.”
Wayne shrugged. “Don't you think I deserve something for letting Elliot Carson go out of here believing that John killed Julius—and believing that Julius was actually the villain in the piece instead of John?”
She swayed a trifle and wet her lips. “What makes you think a crazy thing like that?”
“I know it, my sweet. You did a fast and neat job of improvising after plunging that paper knife into Julius' throat. You couldn't let Carson know the truth, of course,” he went on reflectively. “He'd never have been willing to help cover up to saveyou from a charge of murder. But his own client and friend is a different matter. Do you and John have any idea of going on with your original plan after this all blows over?”
“Our—original plan?” For the first time a note of anxiety and doubt crept into Priscilla's voice.
“It was you and John all the way,” Wayne told her tiredly. “It had to be, you see. Julius simply doesn't fit. We're alone here, darling. Drop your crusading pose and forget the heart-rending sob story you told us about your sister. I like you better the other way. As you were this evening. As you really are. Mercenary and tough and ready to grab the main chance when it presents itself.”
“Why do you say Julius doesn't fit?” she demanded shakily. “What reason on earth have you to doubt me?”
“Because of what happened to a girl named Lois Elling. Someone had to finger her for Hake Derr. Someone who knew her name and that she was my secretary and that I had a date with her later. That has to be you, my sweet. You admitted that John telephoned you this afternoon after Lois called them about the kidnaping. None of the others could possibly have telephoned Hake Derr in time after I left their house. Carson rode in to the city with a police inspector, and he certainly didn't stop on the way to phone Derr. Julius went upstairs to his wife as soon as John left. That leaves John and you. Don't try to deny it. If you and I are going to have anything together in the future, we'll have to start out by telling the truth.”
She came toward him, her face lighting and her voice tremulously exultant. “Knowing all that, you were willing to cover up for me? You'll get rid ofhim in there and never tell that lawyer the truth?”
“I don't see why Carson needs to know.” Wayne smiled up at her reassuringly. “But I expect to be well repaid for that.”
She stood before him breathing deeply, excitement and desire lighting flames in her eyes. “Oh, God, Morgan Wayne,” she whispered. “I knew it this afternoon. Even when you walked out on me, I still knew it. But that damned woman! I was crazy with jealousy. You can't blame me for that. You were too, weren't you? You killed Hake tonight. I know you did. We're a team, sweetheart. We think alike. I want you now. I can't wait any longer.” She dropped to her knees beside him, pressing herself forward with face uplifted to him.
Wayne stood up. He said, “It's a goddamned shame what the electric chair will do to that lovely body of yours, Priscilla.”
For a breathless moment she shrank back on her heels away from him. Then she laughed and got slowly to her feet, deliberately ripping her gown and slip down the front and stepping out of the torn clothing.
“Don't even joke about it,” she implored him. “I'm yours. Don't you see? Look at me, Morgan Wayne. Put your arms around me.”
Wayne looked at her. He sighed for what might have been and turned away from her, advising flatly over his shoulder, “Better get some clothes on. I'm calling the police.”
“No! You don't mean it.” She was running across the room, stumbling and grabbing at him, pleading incoherently, groveling at his feet as he plodded on grimly to the telephone.
He looked down at her with his hand on the instrument, his blue eyes hooded and features strained and set. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He desired her at that moment as he had never desired another woman in his life. He said, “As God is my judge, Priscilla, I'm going to go through life hating myself for this. But I'd hate myself more every time I thought of Lois Elling if I didn't do it. You've been the direct cause of five deaths this evening,” he went on harshly. “Four of them didn't matter so much, but you'll have to pay for the fifth. Hell, you may not get the chair,” he went on angrily. “They may let you off with life.” Again he started to lift the receiver, but Priscilla was crouched against him like an animal, sobbing wildly and attempting to climb up his legs.
“No, no,” she moaned. “I can't rot away in a cell. I'd ratherdie. Do you hear me? Why should I live anyway if I can't have you? I swear before God you're the only man I ever loved. Ever wanted. You have to believe that, Morgan Wayne. That's why I told Hake to do it.”
She pulled herself to her feet and stood facing him with her features contorted and swollen. “No matter what happens to me, believe that. I don't mind dying so much if you'll just believe me.”
Wayne looked at her and said, “I do believe you.” He reached in his pocket and withdrew a short-barreled gun, offered it to her butt forward. “There's this alternative,” he told her gently, “because you see, my dear, I love you, too.”
Silence was heavy in the room. She gazed down at the offered gun, and then lifted misty eyes to his. She whispered unsteadily, “Will you kiss me once more?”
Wayne kissed her. Her lips were hot and pliable beneath his. She shuddered violently, and it was she who drew away from him. She took the gun from his hand without saying anything.
Wayne turned away from her and started toward the outer door. In a frightened and choked voice behind him, she asked, “How do you know I won't shoot you instead?”
He continued toward the door and threw savagely over his shoulder, “I won't have to look at myself in the mirror tomorrow if you do.”
He had his hand on the knob when a muffled explosion sounded behind him, the sound that is made when the muzzle of a revolver is thrust inside one's mouth before the trigger is pulled.
Wayne stood for a moment with his hand gripping the knob so tightly that the knuckles turned white. Then he opened the door and went out without looking back.
It would provide the police with a nice little puzzle in deduction, he thought wearily, when they made a ballistics test on the bullet that had killed Priscilla and discovered it matched the one that had killed one of Letty's kidnapers and also the one in The Barber's head.
He didn't think it mattered that John Durtol III was to go unsuspected of his weak part in the underworld plot to seize the drug company. Knowing Priscilla, Wayne was convinced she had been the driving force behind the affair, and that John was exceedingly unlikely to deviate again.
He went steadily down the stairs and found them seated together at a rear table with untasted drinks in front of them. They looked up at him with strained and expectant faces as he stopped beside the table, and Carson asked hoarsely, “Is everything all right?”
“Everything,” Wayne told him flatly, “is fixed. You two get out of h
ere and forget everything that happened tonight.”
He swung away and strode across the now almost empty room, past the little hat-check girl without seeing her, and up three steps to the sidewalk and the comparatively clean night air of New York.
The doorman saw him and hurried obsequiously to open the door of the Hudson for him, but Wayne turned away without speaking and plodded down the sidewalk. Let the Hudson remain standing there, he thought wearily, to provide the police with another inexplicable piece in the puzzle that wouldn't fit with any of the other pieces they had.
The sidewalks of midtown New York are lonely and deserted at four o'clock in the morning, and Morgan Wayne was the loneliest man who walked them as he left the Gingham Gardens behind and went blindly into the night.
An empty taxi came cruising along the street behind him, slowed and eased in invitingly to the curb when the headlights picked out the lone figure on the sidewalk.
Wayne started to wave the driver on, then shrugged and turned to open the door and get inside. It was useless to go on brooding over what was past. The Gingham Gardens and the Gingham Girl were behind him, and this was tomorrow. For a month, now, he had kept himself carefully out of sight, avoiding his former haunts and everyone who knew him, carrying on his quixotic one-man crusade to prevent control of a vast new source of narcotics passing into the hands of the underworld.
For a month he had been out of touch with the world, unavailable to anyone who might have wished to contact him. It was time, now, to re-establish those severed contacts.
Though it was now past four o'clock, the Forty-One Club would still be discreetly open to welcome those habitues known personally to the owner, and Wayne felt a certain eagerness taking possession of him as he gave the address to the driver. If he were needed elsewhere, if there had been important messages for him during the past month, they would be waiting for him at 41.
The Avenger Page 16