“What’s your name?”
“Ryan. Billy Ryan. There’s no law against little white lies. If there was a law against little white—”
“Did Dalloway make up his mind quite suddenly?”
“This morning. I got his plane reservations for him by phone—two seats through to New York.”
“Two?”
“Yes sir, he asked for two, I got him two.”
“What flight?”
“Thirty-seven. If it’s anything urgent, you should be able to catch him. The limousine that picks up our passengers for the airport just left a few minutes ago.”
“With Dalloway?”
“No sir. Mr. Dalloway left by himself in a cab.”
The airport was on the main highway ten miles north of the city. Because traffic was heavy, Greer drove with the siren open. Conversation was impossible and neither of the men attempted it until the airport was in sight and the siren expired with a whimper.
Greer spoke first. “This is a pretty stupid move for a smart guy like Dalloway. Running away is the surest way to get chased, as any cat knows.”
“Maybe he didn’t expect to be chased.”
“In that case we’ll give him a surprise.” He parked the car, and the two men walked toward the small, oval building that served the airline as ticket office, restaurant, and waiting room. There was no large passenger plane in sight, though a group of people was already waiting at the locked gate to go aboard. Among them was Dalloway wearing dark glasses and a hat pulled down low on his forehead, and carrying a briefcase in his ungloved hand.
Greer squinted. “See him?”
“Yes.”
“I don’t. Where?”
“Behind the fat woman in the green dress. I think he’s spotted us, too.”
From overhead came the distant drone of plane engines as Greer and Frank made their way through the lineup of people.
“Say, quit shoving,” the fat woman muttered. “Land, it’s just like in the last war, everybody lines up, everybody shoves, everybody—”
“Sorry, madam.” Greer thrust past her and faced Dalloway. “Going somewhere?”
“Yes.”
“I’d like to talk to you first.”
“Sorry,” Dalloway said calmly. “My plane’s leaving.”
“There’ll be other planes.”
“This happens to be the one I have a reservation on.”
“Better cancel it. You’ve just had a change of plan.”
“Have I?”
“Come on, Dalloway.”
The waiting room was deserted except for a small, black kitten which lay purring in the sun on a window ledge.
Dalloway sat down on one of the long wooden benches, his briefcase across his knees. He still appeared very calm and detached. Too calm, Frank thought, considering the irascible temper Dalloway had displayed in the past.
“Your decision to leave,” Greer said, “came pretty suddenly, didn’t it?”
“I am accustomed to making quick decisions and acting on them.”
“Tell me, Dalloway, who was the second plane ticket for?”
“When I’m going on a long journey I always buy two tickets. It ensures me privacy.”
“Kind of expensive, isn’t it?”
“I am willing to pay for certain small luxuries.”
“All right. Now let’s have the truth.”
Dalloway smiled. “As a matter of fact, the truth doesn’t sound much better.”
“Give it a whirl anyway.”
“Very well. I met a lady last night. In a bar. It was one of those things, mutual attraction and interests and all that. Unfortunately, when she sobered up this morning, the attraction was no longer mutual and she didn’t want to go east because it gets too cold in the wintertime.”
“And the lady’s name?”
“I wouldn’t want to injure her reputation, Captain.”
“You’re still in there pitching, Dalloway, but you’ve lost your control. You’re wild. You might even walk a run in.”
“I don’t understand baseball slang very well, but I gather you don’t believe me.”
“That’s good gathering. Now, try again. Who was the second plane ticket for?”
“It was bought,” Dalloway said, “for a lady who changed her mind.”
“Did you get your money back on the ticket?”
“No, I decided to keep it. For sentimental reasons.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“Sorry.” Dalloway was still smiling but his hand tightened on the briefcase he held in his lap. “Sorry, Captain, I can’t quite recall where I put it.”
“Mind if I look through your briefcase?”
“Certainly I mind. You have no right to search me or my property without a warrant.”
“I can get a warrant. That’s doing it the hard way, Dalloway, hard for you.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“While I’m getting a warrant, I’ll want to know where you are, and in order to know where you are I’ll have to book you. Know what I’d book you for?”
“No.”
“Suspicion of murder.”
“You’re crazy. I didn’t—murder anyone. I didn’t even know anyone was murdered.”
“New evidence has turned up in the case of Rose French.” It was a lie, but Greer told it with utter conviction as if he believed it himself.
“Evidence against whom?”
“You, for one.”
“Anyone else?”
“You don’t seem to be very worried about yourself, Dalloway. Who are you worried about?”
“No one.” Patches of purplish-red spread across Dalloway’s cheeks and the bridge of his nose. “I have no personal concern with this sordid affair. For a time I was curious about Rose’s death, and I suspected that the Goodfields were implicated. As Clyde here can tell you, I hired him to do some checking up in San Francisco. Nothing much came of it. I decided that my efforts were futile and I might just as well return home, since there was nothing further I could do.”
“Your part in this business sounds very noble and innocent. Which surprises me because I don’t figure you for a very noble or innocent man, Dalloway.”
“People with small minds usually get a great many surprises in their lifetime.”
“Okay, Dalloway.” Greer’s voice was tight with rage. “Give me another surprise. Hand me that briefcase.”
“I won’t hand it to you. If you want it, take it by force. Clyde will be a witness.”
“Please leave me out of it,” Frank said uncomfortably.
“You wanted to be in on everything,” Greer snapped. “You’re in. Don’t squawk about it.”
“I don’t like to be a witness to anything illegal.”
“You’re not going to be a witness, Clyde. Take Dalloway’s briefcase and open it.”
“For crying in—”
“Now.”
Frank reached out and took the briefcase from Dalloway’s lap, handling it cautiously as if it was full of snakes.
The big plane was coming down for a landing like a giant bird with tired wings. Dalloway turned and watched it bitterly as if the plane intended to leave without him, to desert him as Rose had, and Lora had. He said, “Open the case, Clyde. It’s not locked. The Captain here wants to be surprised and I think he will be. Tell me, Captain, what do you expect, a shipment of counterfeit money?— a cache of heroin?—smuggled diamonds?”
“I’m not expecting anything,” Greer replied flatly.
“Then you’ll certainly be surprised.”
“Try me.”
Frank opened the briefcase and removed the contents item by item, setting each item carefully on the bench beside him: two current magazines, a Los Angeles Tim
es, a toothbrush and tube of paste in a special travel case, a clean white shirt, a pint of bourbon unopened, and a brown paper bag, the top folded down and sealed with scotch tape. The bag was fairly heavy and there was a sharp clink of metal when Frank put it down on the bench.
“Please accept the paper bag, Captain,” Dalloway said, “with my compliments.”
“What is it, a homemade bomb?”
“A homemade bomb. Yes. Yes, that’s what it is, in a way. I didn’t make it myself. It was handed to me for safekeeping. I was quite wrong, of course, to accept the responsibility, I see that now. But at the time I thought that I could perhaps take the money and send it back to its rightful owners without incriminating myself or anyone else.”
“What money, and whose?”
“I don’t know who it belongs to, but the amount is three thousand dollars and some silver.” Dalloway rubbed one of his cheekbones where the blood vessels had broken, leaving the skin tattooed with tiny purplish crosses. “I am not prepared to say anything more at the present time.”
“So you don’t know who the money belongs to?”
“No. I intended to find out, as I told you. I assumed—I suspected that there might be some—well, some slight illegality as to its source.”
“How slight?” Greer emphasized the word sardonically.
“I don’t know.”
“Then I’ll tell you, Mr. Dalloway. For that three thousand dollars a sick old woman was kidnapped.”
“No. My God, no, I don’t believe—it can’t be, can’t—”
“Drugged and taken out of her bed and held for ransom. The ransom was paid early this morning, but the woman is still missing.”
“This is terrible, a terrible thing.” Dalloway held a handkerchief against his trembling mouth. “Who—who was the woman?”
“For a man who was attempting to skip town with the ransom money, you’re acting very innocent.”
“I am innocent.”
“You didn’t know about the kidnapping, you don’t know who the victim is. I’ll bet you don’t even know how you happened to get hold of that ransom money. Maybe a tall, dark stranger handed it to you on the street. Or maybe you got it from that lady you met in the bar last night?”
Dalloway had regained some of his control. He said quietly, “I’d prefer not to answer any more questions until I see a lawyer.”
“Your preferences don’t weigh very heavy with me. Where’s Mrs. Goodfield?”
“I don’t know.”
“Where’s Ada Murphy?”
“I have no idea. I’m not familiar with the name.”
“Are you familiar with the face?”
“I—well, she might be someone I’ve seen around town somewhere and don’t know by name.”
“I think you know her,” Greer said, “very intimately. I think you helped her with her crazy scheme, took charge of the ransom money and arranged for two seats on flight thirty-seven going east. The second plane ticket was for Murphy.”
“You’re telling me, not asking.”
“I’m not asking because the answer’s so obvious.”
“Not to me. I don’t recall any Ada Murphy among my acquaintances.”
“Try refreshing your memory.” Greer took from his billfold the picture of Murphy gazing into the store window. In the imposed snapshot Murphy’s characteristics stood out with sharp distinction. Her posture was arrogant, her face determined, as if she had spotted in the store window an object that she wanted and meant to have at any cost. “Recognize her, Dalloway?”
“No,” Dalloway whispered, and then, realizing that his voice was barely audible he cleared his throat and said again, “No.”
“She’s not the lady you picked up in a bar last night? And she didn’t give you this three thousand dollars to keep for her or split with her?”
“No.”
“You’re a liar, aren’t you, Dalloway?”
“No. I want a lawyer.”
“You’re not even a good liar. A good liar has sense enough to admit facts that can be proven. I can prove this woman’s identity.”
“Not through me.”
“No. In spite of you.”
“I want a lawyer.”
“Your needle’s stuck,” Greer said. “Besides, I don’t carry a supply of lawyers in my pocket like Lifesavers. Come on, Dalloway, have another look at this picture. Here, take it right in your hand and study it. Has she changed much since you’ve seen her? Put on a little weight, maybe?—showing her age a little more? How old is she now, Dalloway? How many years since you left Boulder Junction?”
Slowly, wordlessly, Dalloway crushed the snapshot in his fist and threw it over his shoulder. It struck the window sharply and fell on the floor like a stunned insect.
“How many years since you left Boulder Junction, Dalloway?”
There was no answer.
“It must have been tough for you being both a mother and a father to a girl like Lora. You have my sympathy.”
“I wouldn’t touch it with a ten-foot pole,” Dalloway said. “You—”
“Watch your language, mister, or you’re going to have to depend on your age to get you out of here in one piece.”
Dalloway repeated the words with deliberate emphasis.
“I warn you, Dalloway.”
“You talk a good fight.”
Frank stepped between the two men. “Take it easy. There’s a lady coming.”
The lady, a platinum blonde wearing enormous jeweled sunglasses, teetered into the waiting room on four-inch heels. She was obviously in a hurry, but the high heels and the sunglasses held her back; she couldn’t balance herself properly and she couldn’t see too well in the gloom of the waiting room after the bright sunlight outside. She hesitated, peered with nervous uncertainty at the three men and then made her way with little running steps toward the exit door.
Greer reached the door before she did. “Wait a minute, please.”
“Just what do you think you’re doing? Get out of my way. That’s my plane. I’m late.”
“You’re later than you think, Murphy.”
“My name’s Johnston.”
“The wig is becoming, but a little theatrical. Where did you get it—from Rose?”
“Let me out of here.”
“You’ll get out but not through that door.”
“You can’t stop me.”
“Try me.”
But she didn’t try. Instead, she reached up, slowly, and took off the jeweled sunglasses. She looked first at Greer, then at Frank, and finally at Dalloway.
It was Dalloway she addressed. “You lousy stool pigeon.”
Dalloway got up and walked toward her in an easy, sauntering way as if he was going to greet an old friend. “What did you call me, my dear?”
“I suppose you’ve blabbed everything.”
“What did you call me?”
“You heard me. Surely you’re not deaf as well as cripp—”
The word was never finished because the flat of his hand struck her across the cheek. The force of the blow staggered her but she didn’t fall, didn’t cry out. Only the gradual reddening of her cheek indicated that anything had happened.
“Would you care to repeat the epithet, Lora?”
“I don’t mind,” she said with a little shrug. “You’re a lousy stool pigeon.”
Dalloway struck her again. This time Greer tried to stop him but he wasn’t fast enough. Lora fell against the door. Still she made no outcry, gave no indication of the blow. It was as if he had lost his power to hurt her and she derived a certain pleasure from having him try and seeing him hurt himself instead.
She picked herself up. Her wig had slipped a little so she took it off entirely, yanked it away from her real hair with a spill of bobby pins and tossed it o
n the floor.
Dalloway watched her. His face had gone livid and he was swaying slightly as if on the verge of collapse.
“Think how tough you could get if you had two arms,” Lora said. “As it is you merely bore me.”
Dalloway covered his eyes with his one hand. “What did I do, what have I ever done to deserve you?”
“You not only deserve me, you made me. I am your little girl, strictly your product. Maybe I should have it tattooed across my back—Made by Haley Dalloway.”
“I can’t—Lora—”
“Let’s not get maudlin. Things are bad enough.” She turned to Greer. “I suppose you’re going to arrest me.”
Greer nodded.
“Him, too?”
“Yes.”
“What’s the charge? Against me, I mean.”
“Kidnapping. Extortion. Felonious assault. Forcible entry. And maybe murder.”
“I haven’t done any of those things, not really.”
“Really enough for me,” Greer said. “Shall we go?”
“I don’t seem to have a choice right now. But I’m not worried. None of those charges will stick.”
“We’ll see.”
“If I committed a murder, where’s the body? If I kidnapped anyone, where’s the victim? If I extorted money, where is it?”
“In your father’s briefcase.”
“That’s his briefcase, not mine. Really, Sergeant—”
“Captain.”
“Sergeant, Captain, what’s the difference? You’re just a cop.”
“I’ll try to show you the difference someday.”
“Lora, for God’s sake,” Dalloway interrupted. “Don’t antagonize him.”
Lora looked very surprised at the notion that she could antagonize anyone. “I’m not.”
“Cooperate with him. Whatever you’ve done, admit it. Tell him what he wants to know.”
“Such as?”
“Such as,” Greer said, “where’s Mrs. Goodfield?”
She answered without hesitation. “I don’t know. I haven’t seen her for some time.”
“What time?”
“Oh, about noon yesterday or a little after.”
“What happened?”
“Nothing happened. She had a grouch on and didn’t want to talk.”
Rose's Last Summer Page 18