False colors

by Powell, Richard, 1908-1999

  I grabbed the lapels of his coat. "You're going to take that back."

  He smiled. "I could break your arm, Pete. I could kick your legs out from under you. Got any choice?"

  "Try them both. But make it fast."

  "You aren't proving anything by this, Pete. The question isn't whether you have the guts to take me on in a brawl. It's whether you have the guts to face a guy coming at you with a gun."

  "Pete," Nancy cried, tugging at my arm. "Please stop. Sheldon's right. Fighting him doesn't prove anything."

  I let go my grip on Sheldon, and stared at the girl. Her face looked white and solemn. Or maybe scornful. "He's right, is he?" I asked.

  "He's right about the two of you fighting."

  "What about the other thing he said?"

  "Don't put her on a spot like that," Sheldon said. "She's a good loyal kid, and she'll defend you. But I won't, Pete. Nancy's got to understand she can't count on you when the going gets rough."

  "The hell with your opinion," I said. "I'm interested in Nancy's."

  "I know you had a perfectly good reason for anything you did," she said. "Maybe you didn't even see me, or—"

  "What more can you ask?" Sheldon said. "She just gave you a nice excuse. Do you like that one, Pete, or do you want to see if you can come up with a better one?"

  I could come up with a better one. I could say I pushed Nancy to get her out of the line of fire. I could say I ran to draw Joe Molo away from her. But it wouldn't sound good. It would sound like an afterthought. And it's hard to be convincing when you claim you're a hero. Besides, I hadn't been one. I had been scared to death. When you came right down to it, Sheldon had a good point. I had run away from a guy with a gun, and Sheldon had run after him. It was that simple.

  "I don't feel like arguing," I said. "I'll just bow out and let Sheldon take over."

  "You can't," Nancy cried. "You've got to believe I trust you."

  "It isn't a matter of trust," I said. "It's a matter of who can handle this mess. Sheldon's got a right to know about it now. And maybe he ought to handle it. The pace is getting a little too fast for me. Good night, Nancy. I'll give you a ring."

  I turned and walked quickly away. Nancy called to me but I didn't stop. It had been silly to think that I could compete for her against Sheldon. Maybe I could keep her interested for a while by playing on her mother instinct or something, but that wasn't the way I wanted it. I walked for a block before taking a look over my shoulder. Sheldon and Nancy had just started down the street, so perhaps she had been watching me tramp away. She was a swell kid. I hoped that for once Sheldon was serious about a girl.

  Back at my apartment I tumbled into bed fast. I was tired and might have gone to sleep right away except for something I remembered. Earlier in the evening William had told me Nancy had stirred up a bit of trouble that I didn't know about. I tried to figure what it might be, but I didn't have anything to go on. Probably it was something minor, anyway, compared to the trouble I knew she had been getting into. I blanked it out of my mind and went to sleep.

  I should have stayed awake screaming murder.

  18.

  Somebody was shaking me. It was a timid shaking, and I growled and clung to sleep like an animal hanging onto food. There were sad twittering noises over my head. Then someone else grumbled, and gave my shoulder a bone-rattling shake.

  I opened my eyes and complained, "What are you going to do with that shoulder after you tear it off?"

  Two faces were hanging over me. One belonged to my assistant, Miss Krim. She looked as if the right word from me would send her flying, and I certainly hoped I could think of it. It took me a moment longer to identify the other face. It belonged to a man. He didn't look as if there were any right words to chase him away. I placed him finally as Detective Mc-Cann.

  "I told him and told him you mustn't be disturbed," Miss Krim wailed. "But he said he's a detective and had to talk to you."

  "I hope he has a clue to where I can find a quiet apartment," I said. "This place is worse than noon at Broad and Chestnut. What's the trouble, McCann?"

  "Maybe you ought to tell me," McCann said. "You're getting to be more an expert on trouble than I am." He turned to Miss Krim, and said, "Thanks, lady. I want to talk to him alone."

  She gazed at me sadly, as if she wanted to fix in her mind how I looked without handcuffs, and left the apartment.

  I got up and squinted at my watch and saw it was a little after nine. "You were talking about me being an expert on trouble," I said. "My trouble is lack of sleep. What's yours?"

  "People that want to play detective. You were busy after I left you yesterday."

  "Lot of customers in the store. Everybody wants to be an artist nowadays."

  "You know what I mean, Meadows. You went to Shakespeare Village and talked to those Archbold people. Don't deny it. I was there later in the evening and they told me."

  "What did you expect?" I said. "Yesterday you tossed the name Mason Dawes at me as if you were throwing a knife. Naturally I got curious."

  "At the time I thought his name might startle something out of you. How did you dig up the Archbolds?"

  "After I couldn't find Dawes in any directoiy, I went to the Inquirer and asked one of the rewrite men if there were any

  clippings on him. The rewrite man was Eddie Talbot. You can check that if you want."

  "I don't have to," McCann said. "You're in the clear. The Archbolds said they never saw you before. What did you think of the Dawes suicide?"

  "The same thing you do. Murder."

  "Any idea who?"

  "The same guy who tried to strangle Kay Raymond. Why ask me that? You're the one who spotted the blue-green silk that was used on both of them."

  "I could use a name."

  "If I get a name I'm sure of, I'll give it to you."

  "Could the name you're not sure of be Nick Accardi?"

  "I'm sure he didn't do it."

  McCann said, "He was at the Rittenhouse Arms that night. I can prove it. He was out of jail before Dawes got hung, and as a matter of fact Nick had just started attending an art class Dawes taught. I showed the Archbolds a photo of Nick. They think he might have visited Dawes once or twice."

  "What's his motive for killing Dawes?"

  "I was hoping you might have an idea about that."

  I wanted to tell him about Lassiter but I didn't dare. Instead of figuring Lassiter did the job, McCann might twist things around and say that Lassiter hired Nick for the murder. And that didn't fit my picture of Nick at all. "I can't help you," I said.

  "Where is Nick Accardi hiding out?"

  "I don't know. And that's the truth."

  He nodded. "Okay. I'll buy that."

  His voice sounded strangely casual, and I said, "You don't seem very disappointed."

  "Oh, we'll pick him up sooner or later."

  I studied his face. He was acting too unconcerned. When a cop wants a guy for murder, there can't be anything more important than making the arrest. So if McCann was acting casual about the arrest, there could only be one reason. "You know

  where he is," I said. "Ten to one, you're having him picked up right now."

  His hand shot out and grabbed my arm. His pale eyes looked like hunks of broken glass. "So help me," he said, "I ought to run you in. You're too goddam smart."

  "All I did was figure it out from the way you were acting."

  "Yeah, I know. Well, I'm not having him picked up. I'm doing it myself right after I leave here. And if he's skipped, I'll charge you with tipping him off and blocking justice. You got that straight?"

  "But I told you I don't know where he is!"

  "I wouldn't walk out of here alone if I didn't believe you. But after I leave, don't get any more of your bright ideas. This is my case, see? I worked on it alone. I'm cracking it alone. So don't get in my way."

  "The only thing I want to get in," I complained, "is bed."

  "I wish I'd never got you up," he said bitterly, and tra
mped out of the apartment.

  After he left I couldn't have gone back to sleep unless somebody had worked on me with a blackjack. I washed and shaved and had a breakfast that tasted like boiled paper. Things were going very wrong, and I didn't have an idea what to do about it. I went downstairs and finally clumped through the shop toward my office.

  Miss Krim stopped me and said, "I hope you'll forgive me for letting that man upstairs. I couldn't make him wait. Was anything wrong?"

  "Nothing more than usual. Don't worry about it."

  "Anyway," she said, "I didn't make the same mistake twice. There's another man waiting in your office. He said he had to see you right away, too, but I wasn't going to let you be disturbed again."

  "Who is he?"

  "He said just tell you his name is William. He works for the Vernons. Did I do right to make him wait?"

  My stomach started dropping out from under me. William wouldn't have come over to borrow a couple of eggs for Nancy's

  breakfast. Something had happened at the Vernons' and it was bad and he had to tell me about it. Miss Krim had made him wait. She meant well, of course. "Yeah, sure," I muttered. "You did fine."

  I hurried into the office. William was balanced on the edge of a chair as if afraid he was taking a liberty by sitting down. He looked gray and tired, and there were purple half-moons under his eyes. He jumped up when he saw me.

  "Hello, William," I said. "Sorry you had to wait. What's wrong?"

  He peered into his hat like an old magician trying to remember how to do the rabbit trick. "I hardly know how to start," he said.

  "Did something go wrong last night? After Nancy came home with Sheldon Thorp? He did bring her, didn't he?"

  "Oh, yes. And he stayed for at least an hour talking to her. It was nearly four o'clock when he left. I stayed up all that time. I shouldn't say this, but I don't think Mr. Thorp should be left alone with a young lady late at night."

  "Did he try anything?"

  "No, sir. What I want to tell you has nothing to do with Mr. Thorp. I hope you can understand my position. I feel badly about carrying tales out of the house. I never did it before. But with Miss Nancy's parents away, I have nobody to turn to but you."

  "Go ahead. You're doing the right thing."

  He took out a handkerchief and wiped his forehead. Then he felt in the pocket again and brought out a sealed envelope. "I almost forgot this," he said. "It's the envelope you gave me last night. Perhaps you would like to destroy it."

  I took it and stuffed it in my pocket, and waited for him to goon.

  "Mr. Meadows, do you remember me telling you last night that Miss Nancy was in one more bit of trouble, and that she had asked me to keep it from you?"

  "I remember."

  He took a deep breath. "There's someone staying at the

  Vernon residence," he said. "Miss Nancy didn't want you to know about it. He has been staying there since dinnertime last night."

  I swallowed, and the sound squeaked loudly in my dry throat. "Would you call it staying, or hiding?"

  "I'm afraid I should call it hiding."

  "It can't be Nick Accardi," I said hoarsely. "It can't. He wouldn't put her in a jam like that. It's not Nick, is it?"

  "Yes, sir. It is."

  I yanked out my watch. It had been an hour since McCann left me. If he had been headed for the Vernon house, he would have arrived fifty minutes ago. He had seemed very sure he knew Nick's hide-out. But if Nick had only been there overnight, McCann might be wrong. "Talk fast," I said. "Why did Nick come around last night?"

  "He'd been shot, Mr. Meadows. In the left arm. It wasn't serious but it needed to be cleaned and bandaged. He was afraid to go to a doctor or hospital for fear they'd call the police. He only wanted to get it bandaged and to leave, but Miss Nancy wouldn't let him go."

  "How did he get shot?"

  "He was walking along a street in South Philadelphia. Someone shot at him from a car."

  "Did he say anything about cops trailing him?"

  "Not then, Mr. Meadows. But later last night, while Miss Nancy was away, he insisted on going out. He wanted to see somebody at the Rittenhouse Arms. When he came back he was out of breath, as if he'd been running. And he asked me to take a look down the street to see if anybody had followed him."

  Things were getting clear. Sickeningly clear. Nick had gone to the Rittenhouse Arms to try to talk to Kay Raymond. Somebody on the staff spotted him and trailed him back to the Vernon house, and this morning tipped off McCann. No wonder McCann had been upset when I guessed he was on his way to grab Nick. I could have wrecked his plans with a quick phone call, if I had taken one more guess. It was too late now. All I

  could do was go around and see if there were any pieces to pick up.

  "Do the Vernons have a family lawyer?" I said. "And do you know him?"

  "Yes, Mr. Meadows. I know him."

  "Go see him right away. Tell him Nancy's been harboring an ex-convict the police are after. The cops may have arrested both of them within the last hour. Got it?"

  He blinked a couple of times. "I wish I had told you sooner."

  "I could have figured it out myself," I muttered. "But it would have taken headwork. All I've been doing with my head lately is making dents in pillows."

  I got out of the shop and started for Delancey Place. It was one of those blue and gold May mornings. Rittenhouse Square was laced with sunlight, and a breeze was fingering the soft new leaves. The sun didn't seem to have any warmth in it, though. I kept shivering, and the air felt clammy on my face. What had happened was my fault. Last night Sheldon had tried to make me look bad. I let him get away with it, and then I gathered up my hurt feelings like spilled jewels and carried them home. I should have laughed at the guy and stayed in there scrapping. If I had gone back to the Vernon house with them I might have found out about Nick. William might have told me, or I might have caught a hint from the way Nancy acted. But no, I had to get my pride hurt, just as if I had something to be proud of.

  A black and white police car was parked in Nancy's block on Delancey Place. For a moment I thought it was at her house, but it was actually quite a distance beyond, and a policeman was ringing a doorbell half a dozen houses past the Vernon house. I walked up the steps to the Vernon doorway and rang the bell. The sound drifted back to me from inside the house. No other sound followed it. I lifted the old brass knocker and banged it a few times. Still nothing. I tried the door latch. It clicked under my thumb and the door opened.

  There was a million to one chance that nothing had happened yet. Nancy might have gone out for some reason. Nick wouldn't answer the door. If McCann came to the house with-

  out a search warrant and nobody answered his ring, he couldn't take a chance on breaking in. So maybe he had gone for a search warrant I didn't think much of the idea but it was worth checking. I went in and closed the door behind me and walked as far as the drawing room. Then I stopped.

  McCann wasn't going to crack the case after all. It had been a little too big for him. It was getting bigger all the time. McCann was lying on his back in the drawing room with his washed-out eyes staring up at the ceiling. On the front of his shirt die blood had had time to turn brown.

  19.

  In the hallway the big old clock made by William Ericke, Clockmakers Company of London, 1730, solemnly counted off my seconds the way it had counted McCann's a little while ago. Except for that, the house seemed to be very still. You couldn't tell, though. I set my jaw and groped under McCann's coat and then under his body. He had a revolver in a holster in his right rear pants pocket. I pulled it out. It was a short-barreled .38 Police Special. I broke it open. He was careful about weapons. Five of the chambers were loaded, but the one under the hammer was empty for extra safety. As a matter of fact McCann had been too careful. When somebody decided to shoot him, the .38 was in his pocket and only a pencil and his notebook were in his hands.

  I turned the cylinder so I could squeeze off all five shots before hi
tting the empty chamber. Then I began a quick search of the house. Every time I opened a door I braced myself for something I wouldn't like. On the third floor I found the bedroom where Nick must have slept. A discarded bandage was in the wastebasket. By the looks of it, his wound hadn't been bleeding much. Nancy's bedroom was on the second floor. Shelves on one

  wall held cups she had won in swimming and tennis and golf, and blue ribbons for horseback riding. Nothing was on one shelf but an old floppy doll. Stuck in the mirror was an eight-by-ten glossy photo, the kind newspapers use in making cuts. It showed Nancy and me looking at Accardi's paintings in Ritten-house Square.

  I went through the rest of the house, and didn't find anything. The back door was open, though. There was a small high-walled garden in the rear, and a heavy wooden door in the wall at the far end. The door was ajar. I looked through it. Beyond was Cypress Street, not much more than an alley but just wide enough for a car. I studied the pavement leading from the back door to the door in the garden wall. Some fresh looking scrapes marked the pavement. They could have been made by the backs of heels being dragged along it. That was only a guess. Anyway, it would have been possible to drag or carry a couple of people out this way to a car waiting in Cypress Street, without being seen. The wall was high enough to block off the view from the backs of neighboring houses.

  I returned to the house and went to the phone and hunted through my pockets. The blue-green silk was still in one of them. It made my skin cold to touch it. A couple more pieces of that silk might be used pretty soon. Finally I found the scrap of paper on which I had written Kay Raymond's phone number at Lassiter's. I dialed the number.

  The operator came on and said, "What number did you call, please?"

  I gave it to her.

  "One moment, please," she said. In a few moments she reported, "I am sorry, but that number has been disconnected."

  Her voice was calm and impersonal, and of course she had no way of knowing she had just told me Kay Raymond's time had run out. Kay had waited too long for proof that Lassiter was a murderer.