Murder Mistress

by Robert Colby

  “It took you a long time,” she said.

  “Not so long. A few days.”

  “How you must have worked at it,” she said, still unmoving. “And how clever you must have been.”

  “I had luck here and there. Or I might never have found you.”

  “How clever,” she said again. “And how foolish.”

  “Foolish?”

  “Why couldn’t you tend to your own silly life and let others live theirs the way they have to live it?”

  “Have to?”

  “Have to. We do what we have to do.” Her voice broke and trembled on the edge of breaking. “I feel sorry for you,” she said.

  “For me?”

  She nodded. “And for me, and for — for everyone.”

  She made no sense at all. “Where were you just now?” he said. “I know the house was empty. Where did you come from?”

  “In the front door,” she said, her voice gaining control.

  “And before that?”

  “Does it matter?” “Are you alone?” His hand went back to the pocket.

  “You don’t see anyone else, do you?”

  “It’s the ones I don’t see that worry me.”

  “If I wasn’t alone, you would have known it before now.”

  “Just the same, we’ll look around,” he said, and this time the gun came out of his pocket.

  She looked at the gun with small interest. “How thoughtful to be always prepared.”

  “Just walk ahead of me and make the tour, Valerie.”

  Behind her, he went from room to room. He looked outside, front and back.

  “Now,” he said. “We’ll start with the other bedroom and we’ll take everything out of the drawers and closets. You’ll do the work, I’ll watch.”

  With a shrug, she preceded him. As they went from room to room, she silently opened the emptied drawers and closets just as he ordered. Her attitude was stoic, resigned. He found nothing incriminating in any corner of the house. They returned to the living room and he sat down facing her with the gun restored to his pocket.

  “Well,” he said. “I didn’t really expect to find the money. But I did expect to find some little thing. It’s over, Valerie. Completely over. Why don’t you just tell me?”

  “I never seem to know when a thing is over,” she said. “That’s my trouble. Would you mind giving me a hint as to what got you started on all this?”

  “I was watching in the mirror when you opened the suitcase. Very few honest people can get that much cash together.”

  “I see. Very stupid of me. But I was so upset.” She laughed without humor. “In a way, I paid you five hundred dollars to hunt me down.”

  “Oh, I’ll return it,” he said. “But not to you. What happened to Roy Whalen, Valerie?”

  Her face underwent the first real change.

  “Don’t look so startled. I have most of the facts. He and Marty Bates did it together. With Scofield’s help, of course. Isn’t that right?” “I only listen.”

  “You don’t seem the type for this, Valerie. What are you all about? I’m really curious.”

  “You know what they say about curiosity, don’t you?” The question came from another part of the room and the voice which asked it was distinctly male.

  Clayton Scofield stood in the archway of the dining alcove. The round cold mouth of the .45 in his fist dared Scott to move for his own gun. He didn’t.

  “Oh, thank God!” sighed Valerie. “I thought you’d never get here.”

  “Your call caught me with a customer waiting. I had to lend him some money to get rid of him. He was a very bad risk.”

  She got up and went towards him.

  “No,” he said. “Don’t get in my way.”

  She paused. “He’s got a gun,” she said.

  “Is that so? Stand up, Daniels. And step away from the chair.”

  He obeyed.

  “Get the gun, Valerie. Walk around him and reach from behind. That’s it.”

  Fingers groped and found the .32. She delivered it and it disappeared in Scofield’s pocket.

  “Sit down again, Daniels,” Scofield ordered.

  “How did you know I was here, Valerie?” asked Scott from the chair. His own voice sounded immensely calm while his palms were fear-damp.

  “Luck,” she said with a wry smile. “I was bored and I had gone for a walk. I was just rounding a corner and there you were getting out of the car. I ducked back and watched until you were out of sight. Then I went in and called Clay. While I was talking to him, I heard the back window crash and I went out the front door.”

  “I told you to stay outside and wait for me,” said Scofield. “You were taking a chance.”

  “I wanted to keep him busy,” she said. “I was afraid he’d leave.” “Well,” Scofield said, “this doesn’t change anything. It only convinces me he’s a very bad boy to have around.”

  “He knows much more than we dreamed,” said Valerie. “He knows about Marty. And he knows about Roy, too.”

  “Nonsense!” said Scofield. “If he knew you killed Roy he would have brought the police with him.”

  “Oh God, oh God,” she moaned. “He didn’t know Roy was dead, just that he helped.”

  “What difference does it make?” snapped Scofield. “He already knew one thing too many.”

  “The police know, too,” said Scott in the shocked, near whisper which was all he could muster. “Don’t try anything with me, Scofield. They know I’m here and they’re watching this house.”

  “Save your breath,” said Scofield. “I’m familiar with how the police operate. When they have anything, they move right in and make an arrest. Is that his Ford around the corner, Valerie?”

  “Yes. The gray one.”

  “Let’s have the keys, Daniels.”

  He hesitated.

  “Come on, come on!”

  He got up, found the keys and began to walk forward with them.

  “No you don’t,” said Scofield. “Throw them. None of your boy-scout ideas will work with me. Just remember that.”

  Scott gave the keys a toss. Scofield caught them neatly in his left hand and dropped them in his pocket.

  “Back in the chair, Daniels.”

  Scott returned, said quickly, “Listen to me, Scofield. Listen carefully. At thirty-five minutes after ten this morning I called a cop by the name of Hoag, Detective William Hoag. I told him everything I know. He followed me up here. Right at this moment he’s out there somewhere, waiting for you to make a move. He had a radio car and he’s in touch with headquarters. The smartest thing for you to do is….”

  “The smart thing for you to do is shut your mouth,” said Scofield. “You have a dangerous tendency to make me nervous. You think I came this far just to let a small-time sonofabitch like you wreck everything I’ve done? Two other flunkies stood between me and a half million. You saw what happened to one of them.”

  Stall, stall! thought Scott. “And where’s the other one?” he said. “Where did you hide Roy Whalen?” If he got an answer to that question, his own fate was certain.

  Scofield scratched the lobe of an ear and studied him steadily over the gun. “You must have walked right past his grave,” he said. “He’s under our neighbor’s rock garden, nine feet down.”

  Valerie sat on the arm of a chair near him. At his words she dropped her head into cupped hands as if to hide her eyes from some agonizing memory. She looked up suddenly. “Clay,” she said. “Suppose he’s telling the truth. About the police.”

  “Shut up, shut up!” he barked. “Do you think I’m an idiot? I knew he was lying. When I didn’t see you outside I went around the block looking for you, and then over to the next street. There’s just one car in this area, his Ford. Empty. And no one on foot.”

  “But suppose he told his wife he was coming here.”

  “I did,” said Scott.

  Scofield ignored him. “You know what I said about that, Valerie. He never got here. I’ll
be terribly concerned about what happened to him.”

  Valerie lowered her head again and began to cry softly.

  “For God’s sake, stop that blubbering!” Scofield shouted.

  She looked up slowly. “It was different just talking about it, planning it,” she choked. “Roy was really self-defense. But this … I can’t do it, Clay. I won’t let you!”

  “You won’t let me? You’ll do just what you’re told!”

  “I won’t sign for the money in those boxes.” Her chin came up. “You’ll need my signature.”

  “You’re bluffing, Valerie. I know you. We’ll go up to Palm Beach in the morning and you’ll sign. And then I’ll take charge of the money.”

  She was silent.

  Looking from the barrel of the gun to Scofield’s face, Scott Daniels could see only one end to it. All his life he had fought with fear of one kind or another. But this was something else. The guts were sickened and the mind was sucked dry of pride and resistance by the blotting paper of self-preservation. Action was a thing of horse operas, our hero with a sarcastic smile on his face, tossing a lamp at the villian with perfect timing and accuracy, then rushing in to wrest away the big six-shooter. Stuff of the B-movies. He could think of no brave scheme with even a hundred-to-one chance. Hoag miles away somewhere. And Myra, unsuspecting. Myra, Myra….

  Scofield moved cautiously around him and got behind his chair. He felt the hard press of the barrel against the back of his head. His thoughts raced wildly. His mind was a slot machine spinning crazily on the last coin of chance, looking for the impossible jackpot of an idea.

  His eyes darted about — dining alcove to kitchen and back door — hallway to bath and two bedrooms … Valerie seated on the chair arm, her mouth falling open, eyes widening to enormous mirrors reflecting his death …

  “No!” she screamed.

  “Go into the bedroom and shut the door, Valerie.” Scofield’s voice with the tight quality of a surgeon about to perform an operation of rare consequence.

  “Clay, Clay! You’re not going to shoot him in cold blood?”

  “Don’t be foolish, Valerie. I’m merely going to put him to sleep. Quietly. But permanently. Now stay — or get out!”

  She ran from the room. The bedroom door slammed.

  The pressure of the barrel was released from his head and he understood. The big automatic was being reversed to bring the butt down on his head with bone-crushing force. In that instant of reversal, it was the time, the only time.

  He whirled, half stood, swung back and upward with all his might. The blow was blind and caught Scofield on the side of the head, but with great force. He reeled sideways, almost fell, recovered. He was holding the .45 by the barrel, but as Daniels charged, swiftly made the switch to his left hand and fired.

  The sound boomed and ricocheted off the walls. The bullet went wild, striking glass somewhere with a shattering impact. Scofield had fired, then jumped swiftly out of range of Daniels’ fists. He was still off-balance but bringing the gun to bear for a more careful shot.

  There was only one course left and Daniels took it without hesitation. He ran zig-zag to the nearest refuge, that hall with its open doors ten steps away.

  The second shot might have killed him, but he stumbled and fell headlong. The third shot ripped up flooring by his right shoulder. He was saved from the fourth as Valerie came gasping out of the bedroom into the line of fire.

  He heard Scofield shout to her on the run. But by this time, Daniels had scrambled on hands and knees to the nearest cover, the bathroom just beyond. He heaved the door shut and locked it. He squeezed against the wall in that tiny room and looked to the window. It was of opaque glass and large enough to pass a small boy but never a man of his size. There was no escape.

  The next shot told him that Scofield had figured the one part of that room where he would seek protection, the corner space near the sink. The bullet plowed in at an angle, struck the tile an inch above his head, bounced and zinged around the room to fall with a thud in the bathtub.

  There was now the sound of Scofield shouldering the door, the door shuddering and splintering. Silence. A harsh shout of distant command, followed by another shot, also distant and with less timbre. Then heavy feet on the approaching run and the two words, “Got him!”

  The silence which followed was broken only by the sobbing of Valerie McLean. Then a fist pounding on the door and a guttural male voice saying, “Okay, come outta there, buddy. Police officers. We got him!”

  Shaking violently, he opened the door and went out.

  One uniformed officer was bent over Scofield who lay flat on his back, a widening stain spreading over his stomach. He was not yet dead but apparently heaving his last few breaths. Weeping, Valerie stood looking down at him.

  The other officer, tall and young with a boyish face, watched Daniels come out of the bathroom with an expression of mingled shock and wariness. Then he holstered his service revolver, said, “Christ, oh, Christ. I wouldn’t have shot him. But he was bringin’ that goddam cannon up on me and I thought he might blow my head off. Who are you, bud?”

  “Scott Daniels,” he answered on a huge sigh. “Almighty God, but I’m glad to see you. Wouldn’t you know that Hoag would figure it out and come through. Hoag sent you, didn’t he?”

  “Hoag?” said the officer. “Who’s he?”

  “Detective Bill Hoag.”

  “Must be another precinct. Don’t know the man. We got a call from some jane over in back of here. Said a guy crossed through her property, acting kind of funny. Said she followed and watched him. Said she saw him bust a glass and break into this place. We would of been here sooner but she gets excited, gives us the wrong address and we’re two blocks away. Well, I got to phone in for an ambulance. Then we’ll all go down to the station. You and the missus can give us a full report.”

  “Sure,” said Scott, looking at Valerie who had turned toward him and was biting the back of her hand, “sure, we’ll be very glad to go down to the station and give you the whole story.”

  “Nothin’ to it,” said the officer. “The man was shot resisting arrest. Simple case of breaking and entering.”

  NINETEEN

  Scott Daniels gave the boy a coin and shut the door. He began to rip the flap of the telegram as he crossed the living room to Myra. It was two days later on a Sunday afternoon.

  The bank story, enshrining his name, had been headlined in the newspapers of the country coast to coast. “Telegram?” said Myra excitedly. “What is it?” “New York,” he said. “Hold on, I’m reading.” He finished, passed her the wire, bent over her chair to study it again.

  REPLY EARLIEST CAN DO GUEST SHOT SULLVAN PROGRAM SUNDAY NEXT. SUGGEST YOU RESIGN PRESENT JOB SHORT NOTICE AS HAVE SEVERAL FREE-LANCE CONTRACTS READY YOUR SIGNATURE PRACTICALLY NAME OWN PRICE. HAPPY HAVE YOU AND MYRA GUESTS OUR PLACE UPON ARRIVAL NEW YORK.

  WARMEST PERSONAL REGARDS MILT LUNDBERG

  “Oh, lord!” said Myra. “Isn’t that perfectly marvelous!” “Typical,” said Scott. “Absolutely typical. They all love you when you’re on top. All is forgiven, come home. No questions asked, just come and bring your shining, new, nationally-advertised-for-free name, and make us a bale of money. Warmest, absolutely guaranteed personal regards, Milt Lundberg.”

  “Well, of course it’s ironic and screamingly obvious,” said Myra. “But you’re not going to turn it down because you’re bitter, are you, dear?”

  “Hell, no. I’m going to capitalize on it. I’m damn well going to entrench myself with it. I wouldn’t turn it down any more than I turned down that reward.” He smiled. “As a matter of fact, I have a sneaking suspicion that in the back of my mind, it was what I meant when I said there was something more important than the money.”

  Myra nodded. “That and the one reason you’re still hiding from yourself.” “What reason?”

  “The wish to succeed at something big again without help from anyone. Why do you think you really went up to that ho
use ahead of time and alone?”

  “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “I don’t know myself as well as you do, hon.”

  “Well,” she said brightening. “We ought to celebrate! Tonight. Because tomorrow you’re back on the job.”

  “Okay. Some place cozy and intimate. Like the Fountain-bleu.”

  “Intimate like Grand Central,” said Myra. “But terribly gay and extravagant.”

  “And before dinner,” he continued, “a very dry, beautifully chilled martini. The first in over a year.”

  Myra frowned, her gamin face trying unsuccessfully to look stern. “Do you think you should do that, dear?”

  “I can’t see any harm. Every now and then, on special occasions. Although I really don’t think it’s important, one way or the other.”

  “In that case,” she said, “I just happen to have the mixings for a very dry martini right in the kitchen. One now and another before dinner.”

  She gave him a pat and with a tongue-in-cheek smile, flounced from the room.

  He watched her affectionately until she was out of sight.

  Then he picked up the telegram and went to call Western Union.

  Contents

  COPYRIGHT INFORMATION

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FIVE

  SIX

  SEVEN

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  Landmarks

  Cover

  Table of Contents