After Midnight

by Nielsen, Helen

  “I know all about the commander,” Simon said. “He’s part of our war surplus problem—peerless under fire and completely unadaptable to peacetime. He doesn’t worry me.”

  “Then worry about your client. Her own father disowns her. She has a lousy record—”

  “A child’s record,” Simon reminded her.

  “Children kill.”

  “So I’ve heard. But you’re looking at the dark side, Hannah. Now try to see the case the way I see it. Wanda Warren is a lovely girl—young, naïve, swept off her feet by a handsome young man who does something no one has ever done for her before—he makes her feel important. She marries him and is swept into a world too big and too sophisticated for her background. She’s terrified. The commander resents Roger’s insolence in marrying without his permission and cuts off the boy’s allowance. Maybe he’s trying to make a man of him, but his timing is wrong. Left without money, Roger isn’t easy to live with and he was the knight in white armor who rescued the fairy princess from the dark tower. What does the poor child do but take to the bottle?”

  “The poor child!” Hannah shrieked. “She’s not that pretty, Simon, and you’re not that young!”

  Simon slowly sipped his Drambouie. Hannah could do many things, but the one thing she couldn’t do was offend him.

  “No,” Simon confessed, “but some of the members of the jury may be. The evidence is purely circumstantial—most of it only gossip.”

  “Is the bloodstained pillow gossip?”

  “The front door was open,” Simon replied. “Anyone could have walked in and put the knife on Wanda’s pillow.”

  “And what about the bloodstains under her nails?”

  “She’s admitted picking up the knife after Cranston awakened her. She had to wash the blood from her hands later. Naturally, she didn’t think to clean under her nails.”

  Hannah closed her eyes. She leaned back in her chair looking very wise and owlish:

  If he do bleed,

  I’ll gild the faces of the groom withal,

  For it must seem their guilt.

  She pronounced the words with delicious venom, then opened her eyes and fixed them on Simon’s.

  Simon absorbed the seed of thought and smiled.

  “Excellent,” he said. “If I find it necessary, I can suggest that neighborhood gossip made Mrs. Warren a natural suspect. Lodge’s story verifies that. We know that Wanda and Roger quarreled the night of his death. We know that Wanda got the knife and gave it to Roger. Thompson will stress the fact that Lodge heard only two voices, but I have a favorite spy in City Hall who reports that the autopsy report can’t fix the time of death within three hours, and so I shall direct the jury’s thought right back to that open door. Anyone could have entered the house and stabbed Roger after Wanda went to bed and planted the knife on her pillow.”

  “Motive?” Hannah suggested.

  “The Warrens lived high. Seacliff Drive is a very hot district for housebreaking. In the six months it’s been open for occupation, there have been no less than seventeen reports of interrupted attempts and eight completed burglaries.”

  “What about the little widow’s mental blackout?”

  “That’s beginning to give way—bit by bit,” Simon said. “Amnesia can be caused by shock. As the shock of Roger’s death heals, she will remember more and more. I talked to Dr. Braun after I left Wanda today. He suggested hypnosis or even narcosis, but I don’t think that will be necessary.”

  “Unless there’s something she wants to forget,” Hannah said.

  “A defense mechanism? That’s possible, but I’m willing to let sleeping dogs lie. I’ll stick to my original premise: if Wanda Warren had killed her husband, drunk or sober, she wouldn’t have placed the bloodstained knife on his pillow. She wouldn’t have gone to bed at all. The police would have picked her up somewhere in the city wandering about in a much worse state of shock than she’s in now, or else she would have been scraped off some light post with a bent Mercedes shroud. Hannah, you are the one and only love of my life. I respect you. When the chips are down what do we really know? What do we follow? What do we fall back on for guidance?”

  “Experience,” Hannah said.

  It was the wrong answer.

  “Damn it, no!” Simon thundered. “If all man had to go on was experience the poor devil would never discover anything new. We follow our hearts, Hannah. We follow our intuition. Mine tells me that Wanda Warren is innocent.”

  “My God,” Hannah said, “you’re in love with the girl.”

  It was a startling thought.

  “Don’t be silly,” Simon said.

  “You must be in love with her. You’re not old enough to take a fatherly interest.”

  “I’m old enough to hate bullies,” Simon said. “I’m old enough to resent the way Lieutenant Franzen was tearing into the girl the day she was arrested. I’m old enough to resent Commander Warren taking out his disappointment as a father on a girl whose nature got in the way of her wisdom. I’m not a prude, Hannah, but when I see a lot of worldly-wise people ganging up on a kid who doesn’t know a habeas corpus from change of venue it strikes me as being a very special kind of pornography—hard core! I have no personal interest in the child whatsoever.”

  Simon finished off his declaration by swallowing all of the Drambouie in one gulp. He did wish, for the sake of his professional clarity of thought, that his subconscious didn’t keep picking up that flimsy knee length nightgown from the dressing room floor, but Hannah couldn’t possibly know about that. He looked at her and had the uncomfortable sensation that her X-ray eyes were photographing every thought, both formed and fetal, in his mind. And then the door chimes rang. They were beautifully toned chimes set to play the first phrase of “Give My Regards to Broadway.” The sound pealed through the plush and marble entry and drifted up the winding mahogany-railed staircase, and Simon gratefully left Hannah and her penetrating eyes, fully aware that she would re-deal her own poker hand the instant his back was turned.

  He went downstairs to the front door. Dr. Braun might have sent over a late report, or Thompson might be trying to settle for a lesser charge than murder one.

  He opened the door and faced a tall woman who wore a tailored gray raincoat with a hood. She was possibly thirty, plain, strong featured and with remarkably clear blue eyes. In a calm voice she explained that her name was Nancy Armitage. Her profession was nursing—outpatients, private. Her work caused her to keep unusual hours, and because of that she had something of importance about the Warren murder case to tell Simon Drake. Simon invited her to come into the house. As he closed the door behind her, he glanced upward and saw that Hannah had abandoned the card table for a listening post in the upper hall. She wasn’t about to miss anything.

  “I’ve been reading the newspapers for two days,” Nancy Armitage said. “I know I should have come to you sooner, but it’s my profession to save life—not to take it.”

  “What do you mean, Miss Armitage?” Simon asked.

  “The papers say the district attorney will ask for the death penalty if Mrs. Warren is indicted and found guilty.”

  “That’s very likely,” Simon admitted.

  “I don’t like to be the one—I mean, the papers also said that you were Mrs. Warren’s attorney. I thought it only fair to warn you before I go to the police.”

  Nancy Armitage stood in a small gray silence for a few moments and then quietly completed her statement.

  “Last night I walked home from a late shift assignment on Cox Road,” she said. “That’s in the old section just above Seacliff Drive. I passed by twenty-seven twelve Seacliff at a few minutes before twelve-thirty. The house was brightly lighted and the front door was open. I could hear violent quarreling inside the house. The draperies at the front window were open, and I could see a man and a woman screaming at one another. The wind was blowing and the front door banging so I couldn’t hear anything that was said, but I did see a woman pick up a long kitchen knife a
nd drive it into the man’s chest.

  “I’ve studied all the newsphotos carefully, Mr. Drake. That woman was Wanda Warren.”

  FIVE

  Simon hadn’t been torpedoed since the latter days of the Korean War. His original premise now lay scattered all over the red plush carpet, and something of the anger he had felt at Franzen’s insinuations about Wanda’s character was stirring up a volcano in his bloodstream. Nancy Armitage looked so harmless, too. She gave him a few second to fully absorb her words and then quietly added:

  “I’m going to the police now. It didn’t seem fair to see them without coming here first.”

  She started to turn back toward the door.

  “Wait!” Simon said. “You can’t do that!”

  “I can’t do what, Mr. Drake?” she asked.

  “You can’t walk in here with a story like that and then just walk out again!”

  “It’s not a story. It’s the truth.”

  “Then why did you wait so long to tell it? Why didn’t you call for help—go to the police—or just run like hell?”

  “I did run—at first,” she answered. “And then I went back for another look at the window. Everything was quiet. I could see a man sitting in a lounge chair with the back angled toward the street and I decided the whole thing was my imagination. I know that sounds strange to you, but I live alone—”

  She stopped, guiltily aware that she was making herself sound neurotic.

  “To be honest,” she added, “it was easier that way. We believe what we want to believe, don’t we?”

  “But you changed your mind,” Simon said.

  “I had to after two days of reading the newspapers. I’ve spent the last forty-eight hours trying to decide what to do.”

  Nancy Armitage hadn’t moved since entering the house. She stood militarily erect and never took her eyes from Simon’s face. But behind her, on the opposite wall to the staircase, a tall mahogany framed mirror reflected the eavesdropping Hannah leaning forward on her cane.

  “In heaven’s name—why?” she demanded.

  Nancy Armitage looked up, startled.

  “Oh, I thought we were alone,” she said.

  “It’s perfectly all right,” Simon insisted. “Miss Lee is my alter ego. She looks formidable, but she’s not dangerous.”

  “That,” Hannah said acidly, “is a fine thing to say about a lady no longer able to defend herself…. Speak up, girl. I asked a question. If you saw what you say you saw, why have you had such trouble deciding what to do about it?”

  “I don’t know Wanda Warren,” the nurse answered. “I don’t know what might have driven her to do what she did. And I don’t want to be one of those awful surprise witnesses I’ve read about in court trials. I want to give Mr. Drake’s client an even chance with the prosecution.”

  “And of course you don’t care anything about the limelight?” Hannah challenged.

  “Limelight?” Nancy Armitage paled. “I hope there won’t be any. I only wish there was someway I could do what I have to do without stepping into a courtroom. Mr. Drake, don’t you understand—?”

  “I’m trying to,” Simon said. “It would help if you gave me a little more information. What was the exact address of the patient you attended the night of Roger Warren’s death? Do you remember?”

  “Of course I remember. He’s one of my regular patients—Mr. Merton. Mr. Milton Merton. He’s quite elderly. He’s recuperating from a broken hip and a slight heart condition at the home of his nephew and wife, a Mr. and Mrs. Aaronson at 2937 Cox Road. I can write it down—”

  Nancy Armitage was a meticulous person. She carried a large black leather handbag which she now opened and from which she took a note pad and pencil. In a careful hand she wrote the name and address of her patient, ripped the page from the pad and handed it to Simon.

  “I suppoose you’ll want to check my story for yourself,” she added.

  “Ruthlessly,” Simon said.

  A vague smile touched Nancy Armitage’s lips. “I’m sure the Aaronsons will bear me out,” she said. “Usually, now that Mr. Merton is able to take a mild sedative and sleep the night through, I get away by ten-thirty or eleven, but the family had to attend a wedding reception that night and didn’t get back until after twelve.”

  “I should think someone would have offered to drive you home.”

  “Oh, they did, Mr. Drake! Mr. Aaronson insisted, but I wanted to walk. It’s depressing taking care of old people so much of the time. The wind was rising and the air smelled of rain. I like to walk in the rain.”

  “And how far did you walk, Miss Armitage?”

  “To my room. I live with a wonderful old lady, a Mrs. Rainey, in an old house on Pacific View—1906 Pacific View. I should have written that down, I suppose.”

  “I’ll remember it, Miss Armitage.”

  “I doubt if Mrs. Rainey will be able to verify the time I got home. She’s a great fan of the late movie on TV, and her room is on the opposite side of the house to mine.”

  Nancy Armitage stopped talking. For the first time she seemed to become aware of her surroundings. She looked at the mahogany framed mirror on the red brocade wall, at the staircase and at the huge crystal chandelier that hung high above their heads. Everything seemed to meet with her approval.

  “It is a lovely old house,” she said. “Everybody talks about what you’ve done with The Mansion, but few ever get inside the front door.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t have much time for entertaining,” Simon said.

  “You’re wise, Mr. Drake. If I had a castle like this, I’d close out the world, too…. But now I’ve finished what I came to do. I can go to the police in the morning with a clear conscience.”

  Nancy Armitage closed her purse and turned back to the door.

  “You didn’t walk all the way up here from Pacific View,” Simon said.

  “No, I didn’t. I have a cab waiting. Good night, Mr. Drake.”

  Nancy Armitage departed as quietly as she had arrived, leaving the debris of her torpedo behind her. Simon stood in the midst of it—temporarily stunned. It was the furious tapping of Hannah’s cane on the landing above that brought him back to reality.

  “She’s lying!” Hannah announced.

  “Motivation?” Simon asked.

  “She’s a publicity hound. Her story’s too noble, Simon. I hate noble people. A conscience is like a spoiled shild—it can be silenced.”

  “But not everyone has your enlightened viewpoint.” Simon mounted the stairs in a state of sober reflection. “Miss Armitage doesn’t strike me as being the kind of person who craves the limelight,” he mused. “If that’s what she wanted, she would have gone directly to the police instead of coming here to me. Do you know, Hannah, that’s the damnedest thing that’s ever happened to me!”

  “All right, let’s play it another way,” Hannah said. “Nurse Armitage is noble and pure and completely untouched by base motives—and what happens to your defense of Wanda Warren? Drop the case, Simon. There’s still time—and you have a perfectly legitimate reason for dropping it now!”

  But Simon was lost in thought again.

  “Pacific View—” he reflected.

  “Simon, think of all those lovely fat fees waiting for you. There’s the Fenton versus Fenton divorce, and the Lockridge merger. You didn’t make your fortune fighting on the side of the angels.”

  But Simon didn’t hear a word Hannah said.

  “I wonder why anyone walking from Cox Road to Pacific View would go by way of Seacliff Drive,” he said. “It must be at least six blocks out of the way.”

  Nancy Armitage kept her word. Simon was aware that she had gone to the police even before he breakfasted the following morning. As a precautionary measure, he had locked the wrought-iron gate at the driveway before retiring. When the eager members of the local press began to beat a path to his door, he merely disconnected the bell system and took a second cup of coffee. He had slept little. One conscience-stricken nu
rse on the doorstep didn’t make a good sedative. His first action after her departure had been to contact a private detective agency and start running a check back to her prenatal stage. The current period he could handle himself.

  He called Dr. Braun and asked him to observe Wanda’s reaction to the nurse’s confession. It was an objective view he required, and Nancy Armitage had shaken Simon to the soles of his hand-cobbled brogans. An eyewitness was the most unreliable source of evidence in the legal realm—but juries, and eyewitnesses themselves, didn’t know this. Whatever her motives, the nurse was trouble.

  There were still a few reporters at the front gate when Simon slid the Jaguar out the back way and descended from the Heights to the Aaronson residence on Cox Road. It was one of those intermediate houses that had been constructed somewhere between the repeal of prohibition and the enactment of wartime rationing: solid, substantial and uncluttered with cheap gimmicks to replace a lost appetite for good taste. Mrs. Aaronson answered the doorbell. She was a slender, tense young woman who obviously had been having a harassing morning.

  “I won’t talk to any more detectives,” she announced. “My uncle is a very sick man. He can’t stand all this excitement.”

  “What detectives have you talked to?” Simon asked.

  “A Lieutenant Franzen and his partner. I don’t like getting mixed up in this sort of thing. My husband has a fine position at the bank—”

  “I’m not a detective,” Simon explained. “I’m a lawyer. I represent Mrs. Warren.”

  “But she’s guilty!” the woman protested. “Nancy Armitage saw her kill Roger Warren! That’s what the lieutenant told us—and it’s in all the newspapers!”