“They were both Falsoners, and the argument must have grown hot. Also the drug was working on Jerome, and he had no will with which to fight it. He attacked her. The paper-knife was on the table, as Madeline had seen. He was a maniac. Sara was not one of your corner-huddling, screaming girls. She grabbed the paper-knife and let him have it. When he fell, she turned and ran.
“Having followed her as soon as I’d finished telephoning to Madeline, I was standing on Jerome’s front steps when she dashed out. I stopped her and she told me she’d killed her uncle. I made her wait there while I went in, to see if he was really dead. Then I took her home, explaining my presence at Jerome’s door by saying, in my boobish, awkward way, that I had been afraid she might do something reckless and had thought it best to keep an eye on her.
“Back in her apartment, she was all for giving herself up to the police. I pointed out the danger in that, arguing that, in debt, admittedly going to her uncle for money, being his heiress, she would most certainly be convicted of having murdered him so she would get the money. Her story of his attack, I persuaded her, would be laughed at as a flimsy yarn. Dazed, she wasn’t hard to convince. The next step was easy. The police would investigate her, even if they didn’t especially suspect her. I was, so far as we knew, the only person whose testimony could convict her. I was loyal enough, but wasn’t I the clumsiest liar in the world? Didn’t the mildest lie make me blush like an auctioneer’s flag? The way around that difficulty lay in what two of the books I had given her, and one of the plays we had seen, had shown: if I was her husband I couldn’t be made to testify against her. We were married the next morning, on a license I had been carrying for nearly a week.
“Well, there we were. I was married to her. She had a couple of million coming when her uncle’s affairs were straightened out. She couldn’t possibly, it seemed, escape arrest and conviction. Even if no one had seen her entering or leaving her uncle’s flat, everything still pointed to her guilt, and the foolish course I had persuaded her to follow would simply ruin her chance of pleading self-defence. If they hanged her, the two million would come to me. If she got a long term in prison, I’d have the handling of the money at least.”
Landow dropped and crushed his second cigarette and stared for a moment straight ahead into distance.
“Do you believe in God, or Providence, or Fate, or any of that, Rush?” he asked. “Well, some believe in one thing and some in another, but listen. Sara was never arrested, never even really suspected. It seems there was some sort of Finn or Swede who had had a run-in with Jerome and threatened him. I suppose he couldn’t account for his whereabouts the night of the killing, so he went into hiding when he heard of Jerome’s murder. The police suspicion settled on him. They looked Sara up, of course, but not very thoroughly. No one seems to have seen her in the street, and the people in her apartment house, having seen her come in at six o’clock with me, and not having seen her—or not remembering if they did—go out or in again, told the police she had been in all evening. The police were too much interested in the missing Finn, or whatever he was, to look any further into Sara’s affairs.
“So there we were again. I was married into the money, but I wasn’t fixed so I could hand Madeline her cut. Madeline said we’d let things run along as they were until the estate was settled up, and then we could tip Sara off to the police. But by the time the money was settled up there was another hitch. This one was my doing. I—I—well, I wanted to go on just as we were. Conscience had nothing to do with it, you understand? It was simply that—well—that living on with Sara was the only thing I wanted. I wasn’t even sorry for what I’d done, because if it hadn’t been for that I would never have had her.
“I don’t know whether I can make this clear to you, Rush, but even now I don’t regret any of it. If it could have been different—but it couldn’t. It had to be this way or none. And I’ve had those six months. I can see that I’ve been a chump. Sara was never for me. I got her by a crime and a trick, and while I held on to a silly hope that some day she’d—she’d look at me as I did at her, I knew in my heart all the time it was no use. There had been a man—your Millar. She’s free now that it’s out about my being married to Polly, and I hope she—I hope—Well, Madeline began to howl for action. I told Sara that Madeline had had a child by Jerome, and Sara agreed to settle some money on her. But that didn’t satisfy Madeline. It wasn’t sentiment with her. I mean, it wasn’t any feeling for me, it was just the money. She wanted every cent she could get, and she couldn’t get enough to satisfy her in a settlement of the kind Sara wanted to make.
“With Polly, it was that too, but maybe a little more. She’s fond of me, I think. I don’t know how she traced me here after she got out of the Wisconsin big house, but I can see how she figured things. I was married to a wealthy woman. If the woman died—shot by a bandit in a hold-up attempt—then I’d have money, and Polly would have both me and money. I haven’t seen her, wouldn’t know she was in Baltimore if you hadn’t told me, but that’s the way it would work out in her mind. The killing idea would have occurred just as easily to Madeline. I had told her I wouldn’t stand for pushing the game through on Sara. Madeline knew that if she went ahead on her own hook and hung the Falsoner murder on Sara I’d blow up the whole racket. But if Sara died, then I’d have the money and Madeline would draw her cut. So that was it.
“I didn’t know that until you told me, Rush. I don’t give a damn for your opinion of me, but it’s God’s truth that I didn’t know that either Polly or Madeline was trying to have Sara killed. Well, that’s about all. Were you shadowing me when I went to the hotel?”
“Yeah.”
“I thought so. That letter I wrote and sent home told just about what I’ve told you, spilled the whole story. I was going to run for it, leaving Sara in the clear. She’s clear, all right, but now I’ll have to face it. But I don’t want to see her again, Rush.”
“I wouldn’t think you would,” the detective agreed. “Not after making a killer of her.”
“But I didn’t,” Landow protested. “She isn’t. I forgot to tell you that, but I put it in the letter. Jerome Falsoner was not dead, not even dying, when I went past her into the flat. The knife was too high in his chest. I killed him, driving the knife into the same wound again, but downward. That’s what I went in for, to make sure he was finished!”
Alec Rush screwed up his savage bloodshot eyes, looked long into the confessed murderer’s face.
“That’s a lie,” he croaked at last, “but a decent one. Are you sure you want to stick to it? The truth will be enough to clear the girl, and maybe won’t swing you.”
“What difference does it make?” the younger man asked. “I’m a gone baby anyhow. And I might as well put Sara in the clear with herself as well as with the law. I’m caught to rights and another rap won’t hurt. I told you Madeline had brains. I was afraid of them. She’d have had something up her sleeve to spring on us—to ruin Sara with. She could out-smart me without trying. I couldn’t take any chances.”
He laughed into Alec Rush’s ugly face and, with a somewhat theatrical gesture, jerked one cuff an inch or two out of his coat-sleeve. The cuff was still damp with a maroon stain.
“I killed Madeline an hour ago,” said Henry Bangs, alias Hubert Landow.
ALL’S WELL THAT ENDS WELL, by C.J. Henderson
A Jack Hagee Story
There was a touch at my shoulder, like a sudden cold breeze on an August night. I stared forward, holding my drink with one hand, steadying myself with the other, hoping that August would go back to being dry and miserable and familiar and that the breeze would drift back to whatever memory of winter from which it had escaped.
It didn’t. It pulled at the edge of my arm again, pleading for notice. Whether I’d had to much to drink or not enough was academic. One or the other I was in the right mood to give in to my darker nature. I slid around on my stool, one hand taking care to make sure I didn’t spill myself onto the floor. The
breeze fluttered at the edge of my range, small and tense and brown—wide-eyed scared. He was a Jamaican, too thin, too tall—willowy, like a ballet dancer, but without the muscle or the speed. His hair had been tightened in some way that gave his head the appearance of being covered with hundreds of black, Goldilocks curls. He was Uptown, Society, Connections, and a few other things I don’t care for. He didn’t like where he was, or whatever was on his mind, or me, either. Well, neither did I.
It was destined to be one of those mornings.
“Yeah,” I growled. “Some reason I can’t drink in peace without upsetting you?”
“Oh, no, no, no. Gracious…please, ah,” he got hold of himself and started again. “You are Jack Hagee, the detective, no?”
“Nah,” I told him, “I’m just the urn, waiting for his ashes.”
The breeze stared at me, unblinking. I could tell I hadn’t made much of an impression with my humor. Losing my patience as quickly as my balance, I growled,
“What? What is it?! What’dya want from me now?”
I didn’t know who he was or where he was from. I only knew I was tired and didn’t want to be bothered by anyone else’s problems. He answered:
“We need help.”
“Yeah. Who doesn’t?”
“Listen, my friend. This is a good thing. There is plenty of money in it for you. Plenty—all we have to do…”
It was the wrong time. I’d gone to the Holland bar to drink myself back into the abyss. I’d just come off a case which’d left me tired and nasty. It’d all been finished six weeks earlier, but I still felt grimy and used and not in the least friendly. The red lights started clicking in my brain, and suddenly, before the breeze or I knew what was happening, I was gripping his shirt front, dangling his meager frame with one hand, bouncing him off the wall with the other.
“Who cares?!” I screamed at him. “Who gives a good goddamn about you and your fucking problems? Leave me alone! You puking little shit—I ought to…”
And then, suddenly, my brain cleared as quickly as the tables around us. I glanced about the bar, looking at the people trapped against the walls by nothing more than their own fear. They’d overturned tables, spilled drinks, abandoned their coats, purses and dates, all in a mad rush to hide in the shadows. The bartender was coming for me, Louisville Slugger in hand. Not completely out of my mind yet, I dropped the breeze, holding my palms up to Matt, saying:
“I’m cool. This is bad enough. Let’s not you and me get into it as well.”
Matt wavered for a second and then blew his steam.
“You’re a good guy, Jack,” he admitted. “I like ya. But you’d better get your shit together. Go with this guy, will ya? Do some work. Earn some money. Pay your bills—mine first. You’ll feel better.”
Matt was right. I’d been moping around for weeks because of a feeling I’d been used. That never sits well with me. I had no proof…just the feeling. That always sits worse.
I turned to the breeze, checking out his nerves. He seemed to be calming down, but I still didn’t think he liked me much. Testing out my theory, I asked him, “You still want to hire a private eye?”
“My boss does.”
“And where’s he?”
“In your office.”
“Sure of himself, isn’t he?”
“Fairly. So, shall we go to the limo, or do you want to dance around the room and terrorize me some more first? Men do it all the time. When I’m ready for it, it makes me smile like the sun. Do you want me to smile like the sun for you?”
“Let’s hold off on registering our silver pattern.”
He shrugged.
“Whatever you say, big brutal white person.” Pushing off on one foot to get his hips in motion, the breeze fluttered out the front door, leaving his bruised dignity behind as if nothing had happened. My head was still spinning from having slammed him around, from too many drinks and too much self-pity. Anxious to see if I could make it to ‘the limo’ without throwing up I wobbled off toward the door. As I grabbed the front handle, I steadied myself on the jam, laughing inside in grim consolation at the fact that half the place was still on their feet.
Grateful to be one of them, I went out into the street. After all, it would’ve been a shame to miss seeing a limo pull up to my office. Especially with me in it.
* * * *
I came into my office with the breeze. The driver had stayed with the limo. Made sense in my neighborhood. The boss was sitting in my outer room, scratching at a steno pad. He stood up as we approached, extending his hand.
“Mr. Jack Hagee…p-pleased to meet ya. Your door is fine. Maurice here is a real craftsman and the door’s got a cheap lock.”
We shook hands. He kept yammering. “I used y-your phone for a while. All local calls. Maurice, g-give the man a fifty.”
The breeze peeled off a bill. I took it. Why not? My brain’d looked over all the angles around me on the way downtown and given up trying to get a handle on things. I’d figured meeting with the breeze’s boss would clear things up. I couldn’t have been more wrong. Willowy, smug, irritating Maurice had been a big enough mystery. His boss was a real puzzler. He was short and white and plain—a few years older than me, dressed in a neutral colored suit and a Hawaiian shirt, no tie, wearing black tennis shoes with red laces. His accent was tough to peg. It held a lot of New York, but it had traces of, and words from, a dozen other places, not all of them American. It also cracked and stuttered, making it a chore to listen to him talk. His face looked honest, though, so I figured I’d start asking some questions to see if I could find out what was going on.
“Okay—let’s get down to it. Shall we go in my office, Mister…?”
“Hubert. Call me Hubert—everyone does. Let me tell ya, we’ve got someone else s-stashed inside. Just d-don’t want you to be surprised.” Sitting in the dark in my inner office was another black man. Hubert introduced us.
“Jack Hagee…” came the stutter as the lights snapped on, “m-meet Andrew Taylor Lowe…and visi-versi.”
I shook hands with Lowe, my still clouded brain trying to force me to remember something. Before Lowe could talk, I said, “Look; let’s face a fact here—you’ve got a drunk on your hands.”
“A nasty one, too. Goodness,” added the breeze.
“Yeah,” I admitted. “Right. Anyway, I don’t know who you people are, and I don’t frankly much care. I’m going to heat up some coffee from yesterday afternoon that I don’t really suggest any of you drink. I am because I need to punish myself into behaving.”
“Sorta an unpleasant way of d-doin’ things; ain’t it?”
“Sort of guy I am.”
“My, my, my…” he cackled. “An astonishing remark, me lad.”
“I know what he means,” said Andrew Taylor Lowe. “As Dickinson said: ‘Anger as soon fed is dead; ’tis starving makes it fat.’ She was right, you know.”
I stopped for a second, listening. I had to shape up quick. The big boys were slumming again, shopping for muscle. Something was going on that was going to get dirty quick, and I was letting my stupid drunken ass get caught up in it. Damnit, I thought. Goddamnitheshitohellfuckingdamnit! Not again.
Mumbling some polite nonsense about needing my coffee and a cigarette it would only take a second clear the head understand better blahblahblahfuckingblah, I squeezed my brain clear, drying out the gin and the dope as best I could, refining the perceptions they both had to offer while pushing out the poisons. I studied the four I’d met so far. The driver was the quiet type—an efficient man behind the wheel—good, safe, quick, clean ride. He knew the streets—might have shoved in more than a few heads in his time—possibly dangerous. Possibly homicidal. Possibly. I opened the window for some air and to nonchalantly take his position. He was still with the limo. The rest of the street looked normal.
Maurice was a nobody—a hired gopher who made me want to roll my eyes…the kind of whimpy, whining artsie, strutting, 95 pound posturing homo that makes your s
hame for what men can become an unpalatable reminder you can taste like guilt. I figured if I could stomach him I could stomach the bilge I was boiling up in the pot on my hot plate.
Waiting for the coffee, though, I wished I could get a handle on what was going down. Fear was coming off Lowe like it does a second place man who loses the race halfway around the track and spends the rest of the meet trying to catch up. Knowing he won’t. Like a fighter who’s caught on that he’s going to go down, but who’d like to do it with some dignity. Or without dignity, at least without too much pain.
By the time I could pour the coffee, I was studying Hubert through the steam. He was the focal point of all the characters. The driver was Lowe’s man, Maurice was Hubert’s. Hubert was keeping Lowe alive. It was as simple as that. He’d read about me in the papers. I knew he had. He’d read about me in the papers and was looking to tie two stories together and accomplish a goal. Six weeks earlier, I’d been involved in a case the media briefly picked up on. A murdered rich man’s daughter’d come to me to find her daddy’s killer. I’d done it, too. I’d put together the pieces like a kid’s puzzle. Saved her life—twice. She saved mine killing the bad guy, who turned out to be her own brother. The case’d got me a bundle of publicity, and a number of clients. Friends of hers called me, some of them looking to sink their husbands in a divorce, some of them just wanting to scratch the balls of the big, bad plaything their fellow rich brat heiress’d introduced to the glittering side of New York City.
The reason I was so bitter was I felt I’d been used. I had the gnawing suspicion Lorraine had set me up—killed her father, manipulated her brother and his lover into trying to kill us so we could justifiably kill them, and thus get it all—the family name, property, business—the works. She’d said she’d come to me because I was new in town and that she could trust me not to be in anyone’s pocket like the police were. I felt she’d know if the police were bought or not, for I was sure she’d made a major investment in them herself, just to cover the scratchier details of her plan.
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