Murder Mistress

by Robert Colby

  “In the morning,” he said. “Go back to sleep, hon.”

  Slowly the lids fell and in a moment she was breathing in the steady rhythm of slumber.

  He doused the light and went over to the window. He looked up and down the dark street. It was empty of pedestrians or traffic. For a long time he stood there smoking.

  Then he went back to bed.

  SEVENTEEN

  “Yeah, this is Kingsley. What can I do for you?” On the phone the voice of the Blue Sail’s owner had a sound that was at once weary and amiable. Myra had long since gone to work and Scott was alone in the apartment.

  “My name is Daniels,” he said. “Friend of mine asked me to look up Roy Whalen. Know where I can find him?”

  “Can’t help you there, fella. He hasn’t been with me for quite awhile now. Told me he had a big offer back north.

  Jersey, I think he said. Supervisor with some construction outfit. Don’t ask me the name. He left me in a spot. Didn’t give me but a few days notice. Okay by me — if he got a good break.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, did he have any friends I might contact for his address? I’d like to drop him a line.”

  “Just one that I ever met. A Marty Bates. Dead now. Poor bastard got it in a smash-up.”

  “I read about it in the paper,” said Scott. “Damn shame. I understand he used to go out with Roy on your boat.”

  “Yup. Free ride. Took him as a favor to Roy. Listen, I don’t want to shut you off but I just pulled in from Bimini and I’m kind of busy getting my rig cleaned up so I can hit the sack.”

  “Won’t keep you but a minute or two more. When was the last time Roy and this Marty shipped out with you?”

  “Well, let’s see … got it. June. Towards the end of the month. Won’t forget that trip.”

  “How come?”

  “Oh, some local big-shot and his cookie got real chummy with Marty and Roy. Broke out a bottle, passed it around. Everyone got pretty sloppy. Except me and Whalen. I don’t go for this bottle fishing.”

  “Crazy,” said Scott. “A seventy-five-buck corkage charge when they could drink it at home for nothing.”

  “Sure. Well, this guy was loaded. Gave me a hundred. Peeled it off a fat roll. Listen, pal, I better sign off.”

  “Who was this guy with the roll?” Scott was suddenly interested.

  “He worked for some bank. Maybe owned it, for all I know.”

  “You don’t remember his name, do you?” Scott was now fascinated.

  “They’re all John Doe to me. Spelled d-o-u-g-h. Why? Thought you were looking for Roy.”

  “Roy and anyone who ever talked to him.”

  “He must owe you money.” “In a way. I wish to hell you could remember that guy’s name.”

  “You call back tomorrow and I could locate it for you. I keep a little reservation book. Name and phone number. In case I have to cancel in bad weather.”

  “You couldn’t get that name for me now, could you?”

  “Is it really important? Because listen, you’re talkin’ to one beat sailor. Book’s in the cabin and I’m down at the other end of the pier.”

  “It’s important. You get that name and I’ll send everyone I know to your boat for charter.”

  “Deal. Just hold on.”

  He was gone for what seemed like an eternity. Then, “Hello, Daniels? Here you are. No first name. Just the initial C-C. Scofield.”

  “Wow!”

  “Wow — how? You want the phone number?”

  “Sure do.” Scott plucked a pen from his shirt.

  “Beach 4-7-1-7-0. Got it?”

  “Got it. And many thanks.”

  “Don’t forget the Blue Sail.”

  “I’ll ride ‘er to hell and back myself. Wait, now. Something else. Did you say Scofield had a girl with him?”

  “Sweetest sack of cookies you ever saw.”

  “But no name?”

  “Jane D-o-u-g-h.”

  “What’d she look like?”

  “Tall job. Slender chassis, full-house upstairs. Black hair. Kind of hoity-toity — except when she’s loaded.”

  “How old?”

  “Oh, she’ll be looking back on twenty-five. Not far back, though.”

  “Name wasn’t Valerie, was it?”

  “Can’t say.”

  “Much obliged. You’ve got a bunch of free advertising.”

  “Deal. See ya, pal.”

  “So long.”

  Scott sat looking at the phone for a long time. Then he dialed the station. “That you, Millie?”

  “Sure is. Sounds like Scott Daniels. Thought you were on vacation.”

  “Of a kind. Strange kind. Millie, are you busy?”

  “So-so.”

  “Will you do me a favor?”

  “Try, Scott.”

  “I want you to fake a call for me.”

  “Why, Scott!”

  “Play it straight, it’s important. Can you set up a three-way on the switchboard so I can listen?”

  “Easy.”

  “All right. Call Beach 4-7-1-7-0 and….”

  “Beach 4-7-1-7-0?”

  “Yes. Now I just want to see who’s there, if anyone. When the party comes on, pretend you made a goof, any excuse to keep the person talking a few seconds. I’ll be listening, but not breathing. Okay?”

  “Okay. Such intrigue! But I won’t tell your wife.”

  She dialed and he heard it ring, three, four times. Then a female voice. “Hello.”

  “Long distance operator,” said Millie blandly. “I have a call for Mr. George Johnston.”

  “Well, I’m sorry, but you must have the wrong number.”

  “Isn’t this Beach 2-7-1-7-0?”

  “No. This is Beach 4.”

  Click. And she was gone. But the voice was young and throaty with overtones of pseudo-culture. He was almost certain it was Valerie.

  “Well done, Millie. You’re on me for a double-deck hamburger and coffee.”

  “I’ll remind you. Got a call now. ‘Bye, Scott.”

  He got up and and began to pace the room. If ever he needed a drink … He went out to the kitchen and opened a bottle of beer. He gulped half a glass, then lit another cigarette from the stub in his mouth. He looked at his watch.

  Twenty-five of eleven. Bill Hoag had the night-trick but he should be awake by now.

  He went back into the bedroom and made a grab for the directory, thumbing through. Once more he dialed.

  “Scott Daniels, Bill. You don’t sound sleepy. Did I blow reveille?”

  “Been up an hour. Wonder I can sleep at all with these kids wrecking the joint. What’s on your mind, buddy?”

  “You wanna make sergeant? In say a week’s time.”

  “Sure. And the next week captain. You feeling all right?”

  “Perfectly sane. I’m dead serious. Now if you personally were to arrest some characters involved in the stick-up of the Second National Bank of Miami, wouldn’t that be worth sergeant?”

  “It sure would be worth it. I might even get it. Don’t crap me now. What would you know about the Second National heist?”

  “Not quite everything — but almost. And I want the reward. I might skim off a thousand for some help, though. You wanna talk about it?”

  “Damn right! If you’re not shoveling it.”

  “Your place or mine?”

  “I better come over there. Too much racket here. Now listen, Scott — I’m in no mood. Are you on the level?”

  “I mean it, Bill.”

  “Gimme about half an hour at the most.”

  “Okay. See you.”

  He went out to the kitchen and killed the rest of the beer. He couldn’t sit still. He kept pacing from room to room. Smoking furiously, he began to go over the facts as he knew them, one by one. After an age, the doorbell rang.

  He went to answer.

  EIGHTEEN

  Shortly after one o’clock, Scott Daniels entered the bank by way of the Commerce Exchange Building.
He remained in the Second National less than thirty seconds, just long enough to make one sneaky observation. Clay Scofield was definitely at his desk. For what Scott had in mind it would be a very bad thing if he were not. Further, Scofield would not be leaving again. Scott had called just after noon and the vice president was out to lunch.

  In ten minutes Scott was driving over MacArthur Causeway, searching Bayview Drive. It looked as if Scofield had set a trap which was going to snap shut — right around his own neck. And until then, Scott could certainly handle the surveillance of one female by himself.

  It had not been as difficult as Scott imagined to convince Hoag that this was not merely the pipe dream of an amateur sleuth. Hoag, a lanky raw-boned man with careful eyes in a craggy face, had listened with riveted attention, interrupting with staccato bursts of speech.

  “It all fits,” he said finally. “This Scofield must have tipped them on the delivery for a slice of that big green pie. There’s just one rub. It takes more than a hatful of probabilities to haul in vice presidents of banks. You know the score. And I know it. But we need evidence that you can hold right here in your mitt. Now if we could take Scofield and his woman in on any decent charge at all, then we could sweat them down. I need to get in that Bayview place and look around. And it seems like you’re going to be my excuse. Because obviously the bastard is laying for you.”

  Hoag had loaned Scott his own private weapon, a stubby .32 revolver, telling him not to use it except in the most extreme emergency.

  According to Hoag, a policeman was on duty twenty-four hours a day. And with a catch in view coveted by the whole department, Hoag wanted to make the arrest without the aid of fellow officers. For this much he would take credit, all other awards tangible and intangible, except a thousand dollars, going to Scott.

  The plan had been set. From four o’clock onward, Hoag, driving an unmarked police car, would be parked in sight of the Bayview address. It was naturally assumed that Scofield would arrive before the appointed hour and some small fact might be learned by watching him.

  Promptly at five o’clock when Scott arrived, and while Scofield’s attention was drawn to him, Hoag would take a circuitous route on foot and approach the house from the rear. He would then hide himself in a position where he could, if not see, at least hear. For it was a day of molten heat and certainly widows must be left open. In the event of a climactic situation, Scott was to raise his voice in severe protest, his words acting as a cue. However, Scott himself would be armed and ready.

  Whatever the situation, Hoag would be prepared. He had most efficient and silent devices for opening doors and cutting window glass. And if the very unexpected occurred, there was always the police radio.

  Hoag was a cop of the widest experience and Daniels had congratulated himself that he had not tried to be a hero and make any brave captures himself. He was not so foolish as to be unafraid of desperate people, however cloaked in the raiment of the non-professional criminal.

  In spite of this, he was not without the necessary guts to do a small job on his own initiative. And no sooner had Hoag left him than a startling thought struck him. Scofield must have come to the conclusion that since Scott would recognize Valerie the minute he laid eyes on her and be alarmed, it would be wise to have her in hiding. She might even be sent to some other place before the meeting and possibly escape altogether.

  And where was Roy Whalen if he was the second of the two gunmen? Likely he never went north and would therefore be available to help Scofield with his trap. In which case the odds might not be so good.

  Scott had tried frantically to reach the detective, but Hoag could not be found. So at the moment he was on his way to make a cautious check of the Bayview address to see if there was evidence of anyone at home. Then, from his car, he would keep watch until Hoag arrived and report his findings. To phone the number again would be risky. If Valerie answered, a second fake call would place her on guard immediately.

  He found Bayview Drive after a short delay because Scofield had neglected to tell him the name of the isle upon which the street was located. But after doubling back and inquiring at a gas station, he found it easily enough. Winding over that pleasant, innocuous-seeming drive with its handsome bower of palms and costly dwellings, he was somewhat surprised to find that 3728 was the most unassuming of them all. Scofield had more property than house.

  He slid by without changing speed and caught the picture out of the corner of his eye. No car in front of the house or near it, carport empty. A feeling, without real basis in fact, of desertion. But surely if someone other than Valerie were there, a car would be present.

  Valerie McLean. Who in God’s name was she? From what corner of life and the world did she come?”

  He swung around the next block, turned and parked so that he had a good oblique view of the house. He sat smoking, trying to decide on the next step. He looked at his watch. Quarter of two. And two hours and fifteen minutes to Bill Hoag.

  He studied the grounds. A hedge of hibiscus some seven feet tall at the sides, open at front and rear. An abundance of scrub palms and vegetation, an immense poinciana tree. Plenty of concealment if the approach was right. Neighboring house on the right side, his side, shuttered. More than half the houses shuttered. Gone north for the hot months.

  No one came or went and after a short time, he became unbearably restless in the heat of the car. If even Valerie wasn’t there…. Bad. But sweet possibility for inspection.

  He flipped his cigarette and got out of the car. He walked back a ways, then crossed the street. On this side, with an island of palms dividing the road, his approach would be screened. He moved forward, past the dangerous corner and out of sight. He cut left up the next block, a street removed. When he was in back of the house with the shutters, the neighboring one to 3728, he walked up someone’s drive to the rear of their house. He found himself on the edge of a swimming pool. A plump woman in bathing suit sunned herself on a reclining chair, eyes closed.

  She sat up, startled. He was going to retreat but changed his mind.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Guess I’m lost. Looking for Bayview Drive.”

  The small shadow of fear left her face and she smiled, pointing.

  “Next block, young man. Right over there.”

  “Thank you. Mind if I cut through your property? It’s just too hot to go around.”

  “Oh, that’s perfectly all right. You go right on.” With another brief show of teeth, she fell back and closed her eyes.

  He passed through to the shuttered house and from it to the hedge. He made a narrow opening and looked upon the backyard. Trees, outdoor furniture, a barbecue pit. No sign of anyone. He scanned the back windows. Blinds drawn on all of them, but something odd. He made a more careful study.

  There! One of the windows was broken. It was a large, three-section window of the awning type. More than half of the lower section was gone. It must have been a recent break, for a piece of cardboard was crudely fixed in the jagged opening.

  Never, thought Scott, would there be a better opportunity to search the house. Providing, of course, that it was empty. The money itself might be there. Or a clue to the hiding place. Any way you looked at it, there had to be some kind of usable evidence in that house. An unbelievable chance to find it.

  Yet, it was dangerous. It seemed absolutely necessary to be sure the house was vacant. But how? How! A guess wasn’t good enough.

  After a moment he got an idea, discarded it, came back to it. Why not? The window was already broken. Later he would pick up the glass and with the blind drawn, it wouldn’t be discovered for some time.

  He searched around the yard of the shuttered house and brought back several fair-sized stones from a rock garden. He made a sufficient opening in the hedge and drew back his hand. Again he hesitated. The hell with it. He had a gun and concealment. Small boys could be blamed for throwing rocks. He took careful aim. He hurled the stone. It fell short by a foot and struck cement with hardly a s
ound.

  A second try also missed. But on the third, the remaining fragment of glass exploded with a rewarding crash and tinkle that would be twice amplified within.

  He waited, watching from the screen of hedge, barely parted.

  Not a single blind disturbed. No one came to the door, And in that nervous house a whisper of disturbance would need investigating.

  He clocked off another couple of minutes and stepped through the hedge. Hand on the gun in his pocket, he crossed to the window and listened. Satisfied, he squeezed into the opening, pushed aside the blind and a section of torn screen, dropped to the kitchen floor.

  He tiptoed. On soundless feet, gun in hand, he moved from the dining area into the living room. Empty. Everywhere, slats of venetian blinds were slanted downward, giving light but privacy from the exterior. Tensely, he moved from a bedroom to a bath to another bedroom. He had been right.

  The house was empty.

  He put the gun in his pocket and returned to the kitchen. Quickly he cleaned up all but a few tiny shards of glass and dumped the fragments into a garbage can just outside the kitchen door. He went back to the one bedroom which looked in use.

  Double-bed with a yellow spread — neat. A couple of small chairs. A vanity, dresser and mirror, beige carpet wall-to-wall and … Where the carpet came out from under the bed by one of twin night tables, a large irregular stain, faded by much scrubbing. Blood? No time for speculation.

  He began to open drawers, finding only female garments in the vanity, male in the dresser. He went to one of two closets and discovered an array of dresses and shoes, fine quality. He was headed for the second when he had a strange feeling of presence in the room.

  He froze in stride and slowly turned his head. His gaze fastened on the doorway.

  Framed in the center with a curious look of placid watchfulness was Valerie McLean.

  She was dressed in slacks and a white jersey which followed snugly the lift and thrust of her breasts. She wore tennis sneakers. Though she was rigidly immobile, she leaned on the doorframe with apparent casualness.

  Slowly he let the gun sink back into his pocket and removed his hand. He didn’t know what to say except, “Hello, Valerie.”