“I have heard the whole sordid story,” Morgan said in his chilled manner. “I didn’t realize how rotten Wickett was until Edith told me everything.”
“After he was killed, huh?”
Morgan nodded briefly, his lips still a thin, cold line. “Yes. Now, Mr. Clane, I’ll have to ask you and—and the young lady—to leave. I’m very tired.”
“Too tired to tell me what you and Grando have in common? What a stink that will raise in the papers.”
Morgan stood up. For the first time Clane saw human warmth and anger in the man. “I’m sick of this political filth. Take your threats away, Clane.”
Clane grinned feebly. “Okay, Morgan. You won’t play, so I will. You went to see Grando because your charming daughter was mixed up with him, too. Oh, all for the cause, of course. She was getting data to help Poppa.” Clane took a deep breath, held it, and then expelled it noisily. He turned hard, dark eyes on Edith Morgan.
He went on, “What Edith did not tell you, Morgan, was that she had things a bit twisted. You knew Wickett. What kind of man was he?”
Morgan’s forehead furrowed. “I can’t see where this is leading.”
“Then don’t play,” Clane said brusquely. “I’ll tell you; Wickett was a business man. He may have been a heel and a lover of the ladies, but he was no fifth-rate bum. He had a position, he had prestige. My God, do you think he would lay himself open by concocting such a filthy mess as those pictures of your daughter? Those love letters? Do you, Morgan?”
“No, I …” Morgan stopped. Then he said, “Obviously, he did. The man had a mental quirk.”
“Nuts,” Clane said. He was looking at Edith again. “The brain wave behind those pictures came from Paul Grando—not Wickett.” He got to his feet, held out his hand to help Marilyn up. “Talk it over with Father, dear,” he said kindly. He and Marilyn walked quietly out.
Daylight was coming, dull and gray. The snow had stopped and had left a thin film of white everywhere. Clane looked and turned the collar of his coat up to his ears. He helped Marilyn into the car.
“Smart boy, Jim,” she said approvingly. “Where did you get the bright idea?”
“I deduced it,” he grunted. “Just after I deduced what kind of mind little Edith has. You were wrong, honey. She wouldn’t kill me. But she would try to get some sucker to do it for her. Big tears, quivering lip, the works. Her old man is wise but also so scared of what she might do. Grando is too old a hand to be bullied into it. My guess is that Edith will try the cops next. She hasn’t any use for me any more.”
Marilyn said slowly, “I couldn’t believe Wickett was that much of a heel.”
“Heel enough,” Clane said. “Now give me some dope on Watson.” He turned the car in the direction of the Regent Arms. “And hurry it, sugar. I’m due to be chased in a few hours. My pal Thorne—with assistance from the cops.”
“Watson,” she said obediently, “was a hard-luck guy. I didn’t know much about him except from gossip. He worked for Thorne and Castle before the paper folded, you know.”
“Big shot?”
“Top reporter,” she said. “Watson had a nose for news—really. He hit the skids when he went over to Wickett. He turned plug-horse. Earned his money and that’s about all. He took to guzzling, too—heavily, for a while.”
“His wife?”
Marilyn said gently, “She was one of those nice women who can’ take anything not in the family rut. She couldn’t stand Watson’s going to pieces and so she went to the hospital. Defense mechanism, I suppose.”
“When was this?” Clane demanded. “I thought she was in for an appendix or something.”
“No,” Marilyn said. “She’s resting—mentally. It’s been a year and a half. It’s a sanitarium. Watson was crazy about her. It was sort of pitiful. He’d come into the hotel looking haunted and sick. It was nearly a year before he got over the drinking. Then he stopped all at once. Nothing but beer. And he got better. His clothes looked newer again; he had a little better car; he ate in better places. Everyone gossiped about the change.”
“Was he broke, too, with all this?”
“Broke,” she said. “Drank it up. Then the sanitarium cost a small fortune. He scraped it up some way. Nothing but the best for Jane Watson.”
Clane said thoughtfully, “What kind of salary did he make?”
“Like the others, I suppose,” she said. “About fifty a week.”
Clane said, “And he took pictures too.”
“He was good,” she said. “He sold a few to some magazine once. Trick shots.”
“Naturally,” Clane said. “Trick shots. A commendable self-sacrificing man, Watson. Didn’t you ever wonder where he got the dough to keep his wife in a sanitarium and start dressing himself?”
“Vaguely. Watson wasn’t our absorbing passion,” she answered.
Clane was silent until he turned and pulled up in front of the Regent Arms. He leaned over and kissed Marilyn. “Out you go, chicken,” he said. “I’m clicking now.”
“What do I do, sit and knit?”
“Stay home from work,” he said. “Tell them you broke a garter. I may need some help before the day is over, I’m thinking.”
TWENTY-SIX
Clane saw Betty Castle, a small figure far ahead. She wore slacks and a beret and a heavy cloth coat. When he caught up with her she was striding along with her hands deep in her coat pockets. She turned and he saw her face. It was streaked from tears and twisted from fear. Clane felt sorry for her but he forced the feeling aside.
He stopped the car and opened the door. She climbed in wordlessly. Clane drove until he reached the place where he and Edith Morgan had talked. He swung in there and cut the engine. He offered her a cigarette, wondering if his life was turning into one long cross-examination of women.
He said, I’m glad you came, Miss Castle. Does anyone know about it?”
No one,” she said unsteadily. Her features were tense, as though fright still held her. She took the cigarette and bent her head for the light he offered. Her eyes were a muddy brown and reflected nothing but her fear when she looked at Clane.
He said, “The elevator boy who took you and your father to seven kept the news to himself—about you, I mean. That was a break for me. Why didn’t you want it known?”
“The police would question me. They’ve done enough of that already. Besides …”
“Besides,” Clane said, “someone was paying you to keep your mouth shut.”
“No!”
Clane sighed. “I don’t care who it is—just yet. I want to know who you and your father saw on the seventh floor and why.”
Clane listened to her. She gave slowly at first, needing occasional reminders that he supplied. He was tired and a little disgusted with it all. She was neither pretty nor interesting. She was scared of him and scared of someone else. She vacillated between the two fears, not knowing which offered the worst consequences. When she gave up evading him, Clane found out all that he expected to within five minutes. He drove her to the edge of the park, thinking it over.
Castle had gone to his daughter to get the affidavits. She kept them in her safety deposit box at the bank. She had insisted on going with him because she knew what he might do. To protect him, she told Clane.
They went to the seventh floor, using the alley entrance and walking to the second floor where they took the elevator. They went in to see Mayor Pryor first. The mayor, resting at the hotel, refused to do business with Castle. He suggested that Castle see Ed Thorne. Castle left abruptly.
Then he saw Paul Grando. Grando literally threw him out of the room. Then he went to see Bob Morgan. Betty Castle had been surprised at this. Bob Morgan had made an appointment with Castle and he was there to keep it. Castle asked him who he was working for and Bob Morgan told him—Clane.
This surprised Clane. He said so. Betty Castle remarked that she was telling him what she had heard. He could do as he liked about it.
“And then what?�
� Clane prompted.
“Father said he would deal with you directly. He wouldn’t talk business with Bob. Bob got excited and said he was trying to ruin things for everybody. He called father horrible names: drunkard, bum, all sorts of things. I—I got angry then and yelled at Bob and then Mrs. Thorne walked in.”
“Who?”
“Mrs. Thorne, Natalie,” she said. “The door wasn’t locked, I guess, and she opened it and walked in.”
Clane whistled. “Jee-hasus! And then what?”
“Nothing,” Betty Castle said. “Father walked out past her and so did I. I went home. I was awfully scared. But she didn’t say a word about it to me.”
“And Bob?”
She smiled faintly. “I didn’t ask her about him,” she said.
“So that’s the last you saw of your father?”
“Yes,” she said dully. “That’s the last.” She wasn’t tearful and Clane was grateful for that.
There was nothing more to learn from her. She had no idea of what the affidavits and information had contained. Clane drove her to a boulevard and gave her taxi fare. Then he drove to the Regent Arms.
There was a note from Marilyn. She had gone to work, after all, and she would report hourly to him. Clane sat by the telephone. He wondered where Bob was and if Marilyn could tell him.
Her first call came at noon. She said, “Nothing yet.”
Clane said, “Thorne should have the cops hard on my tail by now.”
Her voice was low. “Any luck?”
“A little,” he admitted. “I’m roosting on dynamite. Where’s the kid?”
He heard her breath suck in loudly. “He was there when I left, Jim!”
Clane said tonelessly, “Gone now. Call me at one.” He dropped the phone. He hunted around the apartment and fixed himself a drink, sipping it as he walked the floor. He made a circuit of the living room rug ten times and then sat down. He knew the pattern by heart and his head was still empty.
At one o’clock the phone rang. Clane answered it on the first peal. Marilyn said, “Some news, Jim.” She hesitated a moment. Then, “Lieutenant Mullen had lunch with Thorne. They’ve locked your room up. There are two plain-clothesmen in the lobby. They’re putting you on the teletype, Jim.”
“Thorne lit the fuse,” Clane said cheerfully. “Anything else?”
“Nothing.”
“No news of the kid?”
“No, Jim.”
Clane said, “Don’t call any more. I’ll call you if there’s anything. And start looking sick. You may have to duck out of there pronto.”
“I feel sick,” she said.
Clane said, “Hang on, sugar,” and hung up. He went to the window and looked out. The sun had struggled weakly through the clouds. What little snow had fallen was beginning to melt and run into the gutters and along the sidewalks. Clane watched it a moment and then went for his hat and topcoat.
He went boldly to his car and drove as boldly toward the Hill. He thought they would be looking for him to duck out of town. He wondered how Mullen felt now, after letting him loose a few hours before. He grinned at the idea.
Turning into an alley, he parked the car in the rear of Thorne’s house. He went into the grounds by the back way, following the tracks he had made the morning he had left so abruptly. He rapped on the back door. It was opened a little way by Betty Castle.
Clane asked, “Mrs. Thorne at home?”
She nodded without speaking. The fright was still on her face. Clane said impatiently, “Who are you afraid of besides me?”
She swallowed. Then she said, “Nobody. I’m not afraid.”
Clane said, “Okay. I’ll see Natalie now.” He got inside the kitchen. She barred his way with her arms.
“She’s—she’s napping.”
Clane grinned sourly. “She has you scared sick, huh? Thanks, Betty. I’ll wake her up. I don’t mind.” He got as far as the kitchen door and turned. “Don’t call her and tell her I’m here or you will have something to be scared of.”
Hoping his glowering look achieved the effect he wanted, he went through the hall and as quietly as possible up the stairs. He remembered the location of Natalie’s room from Ed Thorne’s directions the night he had spent there. He made for it now. The door was shut. Clane put his ear to it. There was a low murmur of sound, but he could catch no words.
Then: “You dirty little heel!”
Clane turned the knob. The door opened and he walked in. He said, “Now isn’t this one for the book!”
Bob Morgan looked at Clane. He flushed, glanced at Natalie Thorne, and back to Clane again. Natalie stood partly facing Clane. She wore a negligee, a pair of mules that seemed to be mostly feathers, a careful job of make-up, and not much else. She wasn’t being careful of the way she held the negligee together.
Bob Morgan said hurriedly, “Jim, I figured it out. I got tired of horsing around and this morning while you were gone I thought it all through. I came here to get proof.”
Natalie Thorne reached up and slapped him. The negligee fell wide apart and she paid no attention. Clane said, “Close it up, Natalie. There aren’t any cash customers in this show.”
“Take your lousy stooge out of here,” she shouted. “I’m sick of punks coming around and trying to blackmail me. Get him out of here, Clane, or I’ll kill you both!”
Bob Morgan was ruefully rubbing the red spot on his cheek. Clane thought he did not seem particularly frightened. He said to Natalie, “You’re the only person who had a reason to kill everyone who has been killed. I made a sucker out of myself once, but not again. Shall I call the cops, Jim?”
Clane said, “Go back to the joint and wait, Bob.” He walked up to him, turning his back on Natalie. “The cops are after me,” he said in a low tone. “Thorne’s got the machinery rolling now. You haven’t got a chance bucking Ed Thorne.”
“He won’t think so much of her if I make my speech,” Bob Morgan said sullenly.
Clane grunted. “Thorne knows what his wife does—don’t kid yourself.”
“She killed them, Jim.”
“Watson, too?”
“Yes. He took those pictures of her—the one you told me about and others like them.”
“On Grando’s orders,” Clane told him. “Anyway, she’s not so modest that she’s afraid of a photo like that. Scram, kid.”
Bob Morgan protested, “Jim, I tell you …”
Clane leaned close to him. “I know it, but she needs rope to hang herself. Go back to the apartment. Call Marilyn. Find out what news she has. Stick until I come back.”
The boy nodded reluctantly, turned, and walked out. The back of his neck was red. When the door closed Clane went back to Natalie Thorne. She was standing in the same place. Her mouth was white with anger. She hadn’t closed her negligee.
Clane reached out and pulled the front of it together. “Surprise me gradually.” he said. He put a hand to her face, catching her cheeks with his thumb and his fingers. He pulled her toward him.
She twisted her head violently. “You lousy …”
Clane said, “Sh-h-h. This is the chance you’ve been waiting for, Natalie.” He pulled her head around, mashed his lips against her mouth. She took her lips from his long enough to say, “I should kill you, you bastard,” and then put her hands to his neck and held him tightly.
Clane finally stepped back. “That was a good rehearsal,” he said. He wished he could go into the bath and brush his teeth. “Now,” he added, “get dressed. Get packed.”
“Dressed? Packed? What for?”
“Got a drink?” Clane asked. He grinned wearily at her. He sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m blowing. I’m taking a chance, but I’ll help you get away with me.”
Natalie Thorne turned from a dressing table. She had a bottle in her hand. She walked deliberately to Clane and gave him the bottle. Then she stood back, her hands on her hips. “What should I do—bawl? I’m in no hurry to leave this burg.”
Clane looked at the bottle
. It was straight bourbon. He took off the cap and tilted the bottle. When he lowered it he said, “Thanks, Natalie. Thorne has had lunch with Mullen. He’s been seeing Pryor. He knows where you stand with Grando. And with the kid. He’s got the ball rolling now. He turned the heat on me and he’ll turn it on you.”
“Ed Thorne? You’re crazy!”
“Am I?” Clane asked. “He knows damned well I didn’t kill anyone. He knows I can prove it in time. He knows he can pin it on your nice round tail, too, and he’ll do it.”
Natalie Thorne whitened. She said, “Give me that bottle.” She took a drink. Then she said, “What do you mean, Clane?”
Clane said, “Ed Thorne killed three pople, sweetheart. To save his own neck he’ll sell even you down the river. Morgan is cleared. The kid’s confession won’t hold water, but it will make you look like Thorne wants you to—guilty as hell. Thorne is pushing his weight around. He has a game of his own going and he’s the whole team. He’s had you picked for his sucker from the start—and, baby, he’s playing it that way to the end.”
Natalie Thorne laughed. She said, “Brother, are you screwy! Paul Grando killed Wickett, he killed Watson, he killed Castle. Paul Grando—not Ed Thorne.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
Clane settled back on the bed. “Do you pack or don’t you?” he demanded. “I’m not having any Grando. You won’t either when they warm your pratt with an electric current.”
Natalie Thorne turned her back on him and opened a closet door. She talked to Clane while she put on street clothes. She said, “I’m going no place unless to see Ed. If you think you can hook him into being a murderer, you’re nuts. I know how Grando did it and why. If I have to, I’ll spill it to the cops.”
“It’s your neck,” Clane said indifferently.
“My neck, hell! Grando killed Wickett because he wanted to run the town. Wickett was using Grando for what he needed—and giving him no more than he had to. Grando wasn’t getting stronger sitting around town. Wickett stood in Paul’s way and he rubbed him.”
“Sure,” Clane said, admiring the deft way she put on her hose. “Sure. And he killed Watson because Watson was a good photographer.”
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