by T. W. Emory
“I just hope that gal who saw us coming in doesn’t make problems for us with the police,” I said.
“What are the chances, old top? Let’s analyze it. We’ve got a man-hungry woman living in an apartment house of mostly females, who happens to see two men callers dressed in raincoats, with one wearing a slouch hat to cover an obvious disfigurement and the other looking like the ravager of her dreams. I’d say we’re home free.”
“Shut up, Walter.”
We headed for a phone booth. I called the police and gave them an anonymous tip and felt cheesy doing it. I always did.
To put some distance between us and the murder scene, I drove a few miles away before I pulled over so we could safely examine the items in the envelope. It contained a couple of news clippings and several eight-by-ten glossies.
I whistled softly as we fanned out the eye-popping photographs on the seat between us like so many playing cards. The pictures were the poorly lit and crude work of an amateur using a good camera. The antics and faces of the players were so clear, it moved us both to poetry.
“Lewd, rude, and nude,” said Walter.
I added a rhyme from my army days. “Laid, relaid, and parlayed.”
There were two sets of pictures: one of Christine Johanson and the other of Meredith Lane. All the shots were taken in the same bedroom, and showed them as enthusiastic party girls with different men at separate times. Judging from the clothes discarded by the girls and their varying hairdos, each had had two partners on completely different occasions. Some of the shots were of the girls and their respective admirers engaged in half-naked preambles to the sex act. Other shots were of the participants in nature’s garb getting right down to business.
“Pretty raw stuff. Every one of these was snapped from the same angle,” I said. “The cameraman was probably screened off and perched in a fixed hiding spot.”
Walter was shuffling through the stack again, examining each shot with a clinical air. “These definitely make the women in those old French postcards seem like virtuous schoolgirls,” he said. “If I didn’t recognize two of these men, I’d think that these were stag pictures made to be sold covertly.”
“Who do you make out, Walter?”
He pointed to one dallying with Meredith. “That’s Ralph Colbourn. Local industrialist.”
He pointed at another man frolicking with Christine. “Hugh … Hugh something. Hugh Rundquist. That’s the name. Rundquist. I’ve seen both these men in the newspaper over the years. Prosperous men. Society pillars, old socks. Members of Seattle’s four hundred, don’t you know. Were you aware, Gunnar, that it was a New York socialite named Ward McAllister, who is said to have come up with the original four hundred in the 1890s when—”
I stopped him and told him about the toothpick.
“Ah, then it’s very likely that the black-hearted Mr. de Carter is also our shutterbug,” he said.
I agreed.
We almost forgot about the two news clippings. The articles had been mostly cut away, but each showed a clear photo of Addison Darcy.
“Kind of odd, don’t you think, Walter? The connection sort of jumps out at you, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. I would say that Mr. Darcy was probably their next victim.”
I held up a news clipping in each hand.
“And these were part of the briefings.”
“Yes. So it would seem.”
I headed us for home.
We discussed how it was that a couple of seemingly sweet young women could get caught up in such a sordid blackmail scheme.
“They were young but maybe not all that sweet,” I said.
“Yes. Still, I imagine it was a progressive thing,” Walter said. “They probably started off flirting with specific male customers. They accepted social invitations, and one thing just led to another.”
“Yeah, but Walter, that’s an awful slope to let yourself slide down.”
“Admittedly. However, I’d guess that they were probably pushed sometime before that, Gunnar. Likely Mr. de Carter seduced these young women. Perhaps he raped them. Someone did tell you he abused women. It’s also possible that Miss Johanson and Miss Lane were themselves initially blackmailed with compromising photos. Maybe they were even in love with Mr. de Carter. Who knows what tied them to him? There’s several possibilities. Somehow he gained influence over them, and became a puppeteer procurer. In any event, these pictures don’t lie. Those girls were most … er, cooperative.”
“Yeah, until something went very wrong.”
“A labor strike perhaps?”
“Bingo. Meredith might have had seniority. Her new furniture indicates some sort of windfall. Maybe Christine insisted on a bigger cut.”
“So, Miss Johanson accused Mr. de Carter of cheating her. They met and he ended the labor dispute.”
“Looks that way.”
A few things seemed clear. Guy de Carter had good reason to lie about Dirk. After murdering Christine, he’d probably scouted out Dirk’s apartment, found the kid sleeping off his drunk, and planted the bloody shoes and gun. It also made sense that it was de Carter who tried to run me down. Failing that, he ventilated my office.
“At least now you know who to be on guard against, old thing.”
“Yeah, but now that Meredith’s dead and he didn’t find what she’d stashed, maybe he feels a little safer. Maybe he thinks he’s in the clear.”
“You may be right. By themselves, these photos and clippings don’t really point to Mr. de Carter.”
“Uh-huh. But what I can’t figure is why would de Carter try to kill Addison Darcy?”
“Maybe Mr. Darcy wouldn’t pay the hush money. Maybe he threatened to go to the authorities.”
“I don’t think so, Walter. He was cozying up to Christine the very day she was killed. You’d think if he was being blackmailed he’d have steered clear of those girls and that store.”
“You’ve got me there, Gunnar.”
“I think your first thought was right. Darcy was probably their next target, and had yet to visit their studio love nest. I’m guessing that initially Meredith thought Christine might have been killed by one of the men she’d duped. Maybe Meredith worried that she was to be next, and that’s why she suggested I check out some of the customers.”
“Hmm. Yes, a preemptive action. And perhaps later Miss Lane began to suspect Mr. de Carter, and she threatened to expose him.”
“Uh-huh. But whatever the case, Smilin’ Jack stopped smiling and silenced the girl before she gave up the goods.”
“So where are you off to now, old top?”
“I haven’t quite figured that out yet.”
We crossed the drawbridge leading into the Fremont district. The dilapidated houses and buildings made the area dreary under normal circumstances. Our findings and the wet weather made it more so.
We cruised toward Ballard, angling northwest on Leary Avenue. Raindrops the size of marbles battered the top of the Chevy. The pelting tattoo became a soothing distraction, however temporary. We drove in silence until we were a few blocks from Mrs. Berger’s.
“I just wish that woman hadn’t seen us on the stairs,” I said. “Maybe she’ll be gone when the police show up with their questions.”
“I’ve learned not to bank on small favors, old socks. You’d better drop me off at Hardy Lindholm’s. I’ll lay low for a while. Besides, I could do with a couple of dozen games of checkers.”
To Hardy’s it was.
I dropped Walter off at quarter to one. I drove to a drugstore on Market Street and used their payphone.
How to expose the guilty without hurting the innocent? Airing the story of the photos meant bad publicity for Fasciné Expressions—and that would mean trouble for both my client and Britt Anderson. I felt Britt deserved a heads up.
Fasciné Expressions was open for part of the day. I gave Britt’s office a ring.
“You sound cheerful,” I said when she answered.
She laughed. “As
ide from some sore muscles and a slight hitch in my girlish gait, I feel wonderful. What took you so long to call me?”
“I had to regain my stamina.”
“You weakling.”
I didn’t tell Britt about Meredith or about the envelope she’d been hiding, but I did want her opinion on what Walter and I had discovered. For now I just said I had something to show her that I believed was important, and asked if I could come right over.
Twenty minutes later I was knocking on her office door.
Britt looked smart in a teal blue office suit that matched her eyes as well as her high heels. A crisp blouse went with gray nylons, and her shoes had gold wrap-around ankle straps that tied in with her hair, watch, and earrings. She was a living, breathing, color-coordinated work of art. I was waved in and the door was shut.
“We’ll need some privacy,” I said.
She gave me a sly smile, pulled me close to her face by my lapels and gave me a tender kiss. “More privacy than this?” she asked.
“Nice. Very nice. But not what I meant, I’m afraid. With what I have to show you, it’s best if we aren’t interrupted and that you brace yourself.”
She gave me a curious look and then motioned for me to follow her.
“We’ll use Len’s office. He’s over on the peninsula for the weekend. He won’t mind.”
We entered Pearson’s office and Britt locked the door. I walked over to his desk, flicked on the desk lamp and placed the envelope down on the blotter. I pulled Pearson’s chair out for her and then slid a chair for me alongside her. I told her about Meredith.
Britt stared at me and put the back of her hand against her mouth. Her salmon-colored cheeks turned ashen. I thought she was going to cry, but she managed to keep it together. I reached for her hand and she clutched mine.
“I think Guy de Carter killed her,” I said.
With my free hand I picked up the envelope.
“I apologize for what you’re about to see, but I think it’s best that you know. I also believe it explains why Christine and Meredith were murdered.”
Letting go of her hand I took the photos out and quickly spread them on the desk in front of her. She made a small noise of surprise and gave me a questioning glance before she returned solemn eyes to the photos. I put my left palm on her shoulder and reached for her hand again.
She studied the pictures carefully, lips compressed, grimace lines between her golden brows.
“Wha … why?” she said. She looked at me and asked, “What does it mean, Gunnar? Not what they’re doing … I can see that. I mean, what’s the point of all this? Why photograph it?”
I kept my palm on her shoulder but freed my right hand from hers so I could collect the pictures. She helped me stuff them back in the envelope. I kept the news clippings out.
“The story that seems to go with these pictures is that Guy de Carter, Christine, and Meredith were in cahoots. The girls seduced wealthy customers—men of some prominence, probably hand-picked by de Carter. The girls took them to some hideaway where de Carter captured their escapades on film in order to extort hush money.”
“Blackmail.” Her voice broke a bit and the shaking of her head became a small shudder. “How horrible. How dreadful.” She didn’t cry but her eyes were moist. She started to become angry. “How dare they use the rest of us? And how dare they involve the store.”
I nodded. “Do me a favor,” I said. “Don’t tell anyone about these photos for a while. That includes the police. I wanted you to know before anyone else. Maybe there’s a way we can contain the scandal. I hate to suggest it, but another one or two of your girls could be involved in this racket. Think hard. Try and recall anything that informed hindsight might now see as suspicious.”
She shook her head slowly. “Gunnar, I didn’t even know Christine and Meredith were doing this. I … I would hope they were the only ones involved.”
“It would make things a lot simpler.”
“I just don’t know. This sort of thing makes me doubt my judgment. It makes me question what I believed was genuine. Does that make any sense?”
I told her it made perfect sense. What I didn’t say was that it was the running commentary on my life. I decided to tell her how I’d met Christine at the movies.
“The night before she was killed she’d broke it off with Dirk Engstrom. Her feelings were running high. She might have had a squabble with Guy de Carter after that. Whatever the case, de Carter was tailing her in a Packard. Maybe he was intimidating her. I helped her shake him and drove her home. My theory is that Christine pressured Guy for more of the take. Maybe she threatened him. The next day de Carter witnessed Dirk’s angry outburst in the store. That blowup was tailor-made for him. So, he met Christine and he killed her. Afterward he made it look like Dirk did it.”
Britt took in a slow, deep breath and released it as deliberately. “And so that’s why Guy de Carter tried to kill you … because you made him nervous. You’re a big threat to him.”
“That’s how it looks all right. My guess is that after the dust settled, Meredith figured out that de Carter killed Christine. She may have tried to squeeze him for more money—or threatened to expose him just to protect herself. It would explain why he killed her and tossed her place looking for this envelope.”
Britt was silent for a moment. Then she leaned her head on my chest and said, “But, why did he try and kill Addison Darcy?”
“I’m still trying to come up with the answer to that one. I hope to have it before the day is through.”
I switched off the desk lamp and asked to use Pearson’s telephone. I hadn’t asked for privacy, but Britt left the office while I made a call to the home of Detective Sergeant Frank Milland. His wife said he’d been called in to work.
I gave his station number a ring.
“Gunnar,” he said with a light-hearted lilt that sounded alien. “Just the man I wanted to talk to. Why don’t you hop in that Chevy of yours and drive on down here to Fourth and Yesler?”
“Frank, I know who killed the Johanson girl. I’m pretty sure he also tried to kill me and Addison Darcy.”
“Uh-huh. I’d love to have a nice long talk with you about it, Gunnar.” Milland’s voice was starting to sound like a brassy rumble. “I’d also like to know when your pal Lon Chaney started going around in broad daylight.”
“Lon Chaney? Who’s that?” Kirsti asked. It was an understandable interruption.
“Lon Chaney was a silent movie actor known for his portrayal of afflicted and grotesque characters. It was just Milland’s wisecrack way of referring to Walter.”
I let Milland’s crack slide. At least he hadn’t called Walter a freak. He obviously knew about Meredith’s murder and I said as much.
“Don’t get cute with me, Gunnar. I hate cute.” His voice was gravelly and he teetered on furious.
“I called it in anonymously, Frank.”
He moaned.
I didn’t say anything. Milland cleared his throat and tried to ratchet his tone back down to calm. “We’ve got a gal over at the Ivy Lane Apartments who described that carnival sideshow friend of yours to a tee. She said the guy he was with was a real dreamboat. I figure that beauty and beast combination could be no one else but you and Pangborn. So why not bring your pal in, too? We three. We’ll have us a fine chat.”
“Frank, we didn’t mess with the crime scene.” I felt a little twinge of guilt for lying to Milland, but it passed as quickly as it came.
“That’s good,” he said. “Real good.” He started to lose it again.
“The man you want is Guy de Carter.”
I told him about the toothpick.
“De Carter planted the shoes and the gun. He lied about Dirk threatening to kill Christine.”
“Get your butt down here right now.”
“I’ll have something more concrete for you before the day is through. I’ll be in touch.”
“Gunnar ….”
“Frank ….”
&n
bsp; “Gunnar?”
“Frank?”
“Gunnar!”
I hung up.
The least I could do was cast some suspicion on de Carter and maybe get him taken off the streets for a while. In the meantime I had a couple of things I wanted to find out before I turned the photos over to the police. I had to discover why Addison Darcy was a liability—why he warranted killing. De Carter had borrowed that Packard. But whose Packard?
Britt returned and locked the door again. She smiled and came over to me. She took my hand and led me to a davenport on the far side of the room.
We sat. She tucked her face near the dip at the base of my throat and leaned on my shoulder. My arm encircled the pliant curve of her back, my fingers poised against the nape of her neck. All I could hear was our breathing. All I could smell was the tantalizing scent of her hair. That went on for one long minute before we started getting even more comfortable.
With her mouth three inches from mine and her eyelids starting to droop, I grinned and said, “Are you still sure Len won’t mind our using his office?”
“Hush,” she said, fastening tender lips to mine.
For several minutes she forgot about Fasciné Expressions and treacherous employees and I blocked from my mind the police, Guy de Carter, and blackmail. We would have been well on our way to making the Bard’s beast with two backs, but I killed the mood by showing I was no longer in it when I said, “By now the police should have Guy de Carter in custody. Unless he’s keeping clear of his apartment, that is.”
I’d startled her. Our amour-divan became Len’s daveno once more.
“You should have said something,” she said. “Guy de Carter moved out of his apartment a week ago. I assumed you knew. He’s staying on a houseboat on Lake Union for the summer. He gave us the phone number and address in case we needed to get hold of him. The police won’t know to look for him there.”