The Devil's Stronghold

by Leslie Ford

  “Well,” she said. Her voice was small and jerky and tight. “I guess that’s what I asked for. I—well, I guess I won’t be seeing you either, Mrs. Latham. And I guess you’ll be sort of glad.”

  “No, Molly,” I said. “I won’t be glad.”

  “I guess you will. And I don’t blame you—I’d be glad myself. Goodbye, Mrs. Latham.”

  I heard her moccasins drag a little as she crossed the patio. The iron gate squeaked and clicked shut with a brittle sort of finality behind her. I stood there a moment. Then I took a deep breath. Then I sat down. Lucille Gannon’s thinking being twenty-two and staying twenty-two was success, seemed to me as bewildering and cockeyed an idea as anyone in his right mind ever advanced. If the choice between twenty-two and one hundred and twenty-two had been offered to me, then I would have settled for a cool, quiet tomb.

  Or I would have settled for something to eat. I looked at my watch. It was well over the hour Colonel Primrose had given himself and me. Whether I’d done anything stupider than usual in it I couldn’t say. It seemed to me I was the passive agent in any action that had gone on.

  I had the sudden idea that there was one thing I could do, namely talk this over with the maid, Rose, and that I could do what Mrs. Kersey had done. I could call and demand towels and a pitcher of ice cubes to bolster up my sagging jowls. But before I had a chance to, Colonel Primrose came.

  Time and distance have a curious relation to each other. Three thousand miles had somehow translated itself into three thousand time units. Even though it had only been four days since I’d seen him in Georgetown, I had the feeling that it had been a very long time. Until he walked in—and then I had the feeling that I’d never seen him at all, or at least was only seeing half of him. Sergeant Buck wasn’t there. It was a pure conditioned reflex that made my eye slip past him to the vacancy three steps behind, always before filled with the granite, lantern-jawed presence of his guard, philosopher, and friend.

  Chapter Eighteen: Tight spot

  “YOU LOOK LOST WITHOUT SERGEANT BUCK,” I said. “Why didn’t he come?”

  He looked taller too, now that his five-feet-eleven wasn’t dwarfed by the reducing contrast of his self-styled “functotum’s” six-feet-four of primeval glacial deposit. His black X-ray eyes were just as alive, however, and his smile as amused and affectionately tolerant. I don’t know why I put up with anybody who makes me feel like a half-witted setter puppy, unless I’m really like Lucille at heart and pleased with it. It’s probably very flattering. “Buck can’t come to Los Angeles.”

  “Don’t tell me there’s a woman with a sheriff. Or do, please. I can’t think of anything I’d like better to hear. Or is it just a sheriff?”

  Colonel Primrose smiled. “It’s his tenants. He owns a mile or so of these one-story sun-traps you see out here. He’s afraid if he sees them he’ll have to repair them or lower the rent. So he prefers to stay away.”

  I knew Sergeant Buck was well-to-do but I’d never known where it was he’d put away his take from skinning his fellows at various old Army games.

  “Anyway, he has work to do,” Colonel Primrose said. “Don’t tell me you miss him. Though I remember an Angora cat we had once that died of a broken heart when my father got rid of our English bull.”

  “I guess that’s it,” I said. “Though I thought I was just being polite asking. He’s no friend of mine.”

  “All right.” His face sobered, and he regarded me with a kind of detached summing-up deliberation. “What’s happening around here? I met Bill outside, taking cocktails to this Mrs. Kersey I’ve been hearing about. He’s never been one of my hearty admirers, which he inherits from his mother, no doubt, but he’s never been quite as abrupt as this before. Belligerent would be a better word. What’s the matter?”

  “He’s probably allergic to the human race at the moment,” I said. “I imagine he’ll get over it.”

  Colonel Primrose smiled politely and patiently. “I didn’t come out here for any nonsense, Mrs. Latham. It’s all right in Washington where I can have Buck keep an eye on you, or have Captain Lamb keep a prowl car alert along P Street. Out here it’s different. It’s bigger— everything’s a long distance from everything else. This place is God’s gift to anybody who wants to hit and run. They don’t have five unsolved murders in a row because the police are stupid or politicians. It’s the geographical setup, and the crazy lot of people that are attracted here along with the sane ones. You can’t predict what they’re going to do from minute to minute.”

  When he stopped I had a chance to say something that had been simmering at low heat from the minute he started.

  “So you didn’t come out here for any nonsense, Colonel. I didn’t come out here for any more lectures on how stupid I am, or how difficult, or—”

  “Not stupid, Mrs. Latham. Difficult, certainly—but it’s your contrary and quixotic inability to mind your own business that I object to. That’s all I object to, and when I marry you I’m going to put bars on the windows and—”

  “I should think that would settle one problem, then,” I said. “And I’ve been through too many scenes today to help play one. You can ask Bill what’s wrong with him. You can go back to Washington. The only thing you can’t do is badger me. I’m sick of it.”

  For some inexplicable reason I was suddenly on the point of tears, and I’m not a weeping woman. I suppose it was the wear and tear of a long day. Anyway, I should try it oftener. I’d forgotten what it felt like to be against tobacco-smelling worsted and have my head patted and hear a contrite male voice saying, “There, there. Forgive me, Grace. I didn’t mean to upset you, my dear.” It was all so absurd that I couldn’t help but laugh, and heaven knows, I needed to laugh, after the affairs of George Gannon and Viola Kersey, Eustace Sype and the Shavins, to say nothing of Lucille and the three torn and mangled young that I’d been coping with the last hour and a half.

  “I’m hungry,” I said. “If you’ll go sit down, I’ll wash my face.”

  “That’s like a woman—you think she’s weakened and all she wants is food.”

  He went and sat down, nevertheless, relieved, I suppose, that he wasn’t in for a full-blown typhoon. “I’ll order us something here. I want to talk to you… I still mean what I said.”

  I knew he also meant he wanted to see my son. There was one nice thing about him, however, Machiavellian though he might be. He didn’t pretend he wanted to dine alone with me on account of my yeux bleus. Of course if Sergeant Buck had been there we’d have met in the lobby. The sound of running water in an adjacent bathroom would have curdled Sergeant Buck’s heart.

  And I tried to think what I’d better tell him—Colonel Primrose, I mean. It depended a lot on what my son would say when he brought our food, and how much he already knew from having spent time with Captain Crawford at the Sheriff’s office. What Bill said in words, when he came, was not a great deal. The way he said it and the way he looked was revealing. And behind his amiable pretense of composure and utter detachment Colonel Primrose was as alert as a hound dog at a rabbit hole.

  I thought my son was just plain sore, rather than belligerent, and I thought he had every right to be. It made him rather more efficient as a waiter than he had been before. He brought the table and the food-warmer in and set them down. Only once, when he took my napkin by one corner and flicked it open and across my lap with a “Will there be anything else, madam?” did he give me anything in the least resembling a wink or a smile, and they were both exceedingly sardonic.

  “Where’s Sheep, Bill?” I asked.

  “I haven’t seen him. One of the fellows said he met Eustace in the lobby and went to his house with him.”

  “And Molly? I think you’re being a little too hard, maybe—”

  He stiffened abruptly and cut me off. “She’s gone to bed with a headache. Or that’s what Rose says. I tried to see her, but no soap. I guess she’ll do all right.”

  He picked up the food-warmer and started to the door.<
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  “It’s giving Lucille a big kick,” he said quietly. “She and Mrs. Kersey are just like that.” He held up two fingers to show how close.

  “Is she at Mrs. Kersey’s now?” the Colonel asked.

  “No, sir. She was, but she whipped off up the hill. But she’ll be back. They’ve moved another poor dope out here so she can have her room tonight. Well, I got to go. Are you paying the check, Colonel, or is Ma feeding you?”

  Colonel Primrose paid it.

  “I’ll let you off the tip, sir. I hope we don’t draw any more family or friends. And where’s old Iron Pants, sir?”

  “That isn’t polite, dear,” Mother said. “Sergeant Buck couldn’t come.”

  I wanted to stop him, quick, before he referred to the Sergeant by any of the other names he and his brother use. He could even make a mistake and call the Colonel to his face some of the things they call him behind his back—The Military Mind being the least offensive of the lot. How are you and The Military Mind getting on, Ma? Going to push the fledglings out of the nest and give it to old Catchem and Hangem? But at the moment Bill was sticking to his formal “sir.” He was an unhappy and disillusioned young man, trying hard to cover it up, and sore, sore clear to the roots of his being. I didn’t like the hard pallor around his mouth or the way his eyes looked. I couldn’t tell whether his bitter resentment extended to include Eustace Sype, because I didn’t know what or how much Lucille Gannon had told him. As he hadn’t seen Sheep, he might not know Eustace’s part in any of it. Somehow, while I hoped Eustace could pour on enough oil of owl’s grease to heal their wounded spirits, I rather doubted it.

  “I’ll be back in half an hour—that time enough?” Colonel Primrose listened to the sound of his departing feet on the hall tiles, and put down his cocktail glass.

  “I’ve seen Crawford’s report,” he said. “Now, what is all this about Molly McShane and the two boys?”

  “Oh, nothing,” I said. “Except that they’re promoting her. They found her and decided to make a star out of her. It started as a gag, and they found themselves stuck with it. Now Mrs. Kersey, who seems to have a lot of money, is taking her off their hands.”

  “And they don’t like it?”

  “Apparently not.”

  He smiled at me. “All right. Skip it, if you like. Let’s get on to this girl who was killed. I read about your passage with Mrs. Kersey. There was a string, I take it?”

  “She said so at first. The autopsy agreed with her, I’m told. But you’ve read the report. Why ask me?”

  “I wondered if you’d thought of anything else, about the other testimony. I feel a little like Mycroft Holmes. There seem to me to be two glaringly simple points in the transcript that may have been overlooked, perhaps because they are so simple.”

  “What are they?” I asked.

  He shook his head. “I’m not Mycroft Holmes. I need more information, not knowing these people. It’s a curious situation. Crawford’s ostensibly trying to find out who killed this girl, of course. He’s more concerned with stopping somebody from trying again to kill Mrs. Kersey. Now, I don’t imagine you think there’s any sense in thinking Sheep Clarke would feel strongly enough—”

  “Sheep Clarke, or Bill,” I added for him. “The answer is no. They didn’t, at that time, know Mrs. Kersey had any connection with Molly, Colonel. I can assure you of that.”

  “Then who would you say—”

  “Would want to get rid of Mrs. Kersey? Practically everybody around, except Eustace Sype. He’s delighted she’s here. He says she has a lot of money and he’s going to have the pleasure of relieving her of a good deal of it. But how can they assume the girl is so secondary until they know who she is?”

  “They do know. They knew as soon as her picture came out in the noon papers.”

  “Oh,” I said. I hadn’t seen the noon papers, or the evening papers, for that matter. “Who is she? Who was she visiting here?”

  Colonel Primrose shook his head. “Nobody. She came here on a date and got stood up. She was an operator in a beauty parlor in Beverly Hills. The woman who manages it called the police, and went down and identified her. She had a date with an actor who’s shaking in his bottle-green slacks at this point for fear his name is going to come out. He’s doing a period picture and had to have his hair dyed and a permanent wave put in it. The girl did both jobs. His story is that he thought it would be a handsome thing to take her to dinner and give her a big thrill. She was all set up, according to her friends, bought a new dress and a bottle of fancy perfume, got the works at her own shop, and left to keep her date here at the hotel.”

  “And he didn’t show?”

  “He says he forgot it entirely. Perhaps he did, perhaps he never intended to keep it. Anyway, he spent the evening with one of his ex-wives and some friends at Mocambo. He’s absolutely in the clear. A columnist was there to prove it with pictures for the Sunday paper. He and the ex-wife are getting married again. Crawford says it’s taken a slight crimp in him, but what he’s chiefly worried about is keeping it out of the papers—as is his studio.”

  “And nobody worries much about the girl,” I said. “It was a dirty trick. If he’d shown up she wouldn’t have got tight and been wandering around—”

  “And Mrs. Kersey would have got it.”

  “But it probably wouldn’t have killed her. She’s got too much padding.”

  He bent his head down and around, the way he has to from an old wound in the other war, and looked at me, his black eyes contracting like an excited parrot’s.

  “Well,” I protested. “Everybody who falls down steps doesn’t die. They may break something, but they don’t necessarily die of it.”

  He looked at me rather oddly. “You’re right. Don’t you see that’s one of the interesting points about it? Nobody could count on her being killed. Either they were stupid, or not actually counting on it—or had some reason to think it would work. If she had a bad heart, for example.”

  “I don’t think she has a heart of any kind.”

  Colonel Primrose shook his head a little.

  “Let me give you some information,” he said. “It’s a mistake to think the police are fools, or lazier than the rest of us. People forget they have access to a lot of information. They know facts about people. For instance: they know Molly McShane is the daughter of Morris and Rose Shavin, who work here and for Eustace Sype. They know the Shavins were the last servants Mrs. Kersey had when she was Mrs. George Gannon. They know Gannon reported the theft of a diamond bracelet shortly after they left and the Gannons were divorced. He collected his half of the insurance. The insurance people hunted the Shavins down but couldn’t find the bracelet. Two months after Viola Gannon became Mrs. Kersey, she repaid the insurance company—Gannon’s half as well as hers. The deal she made with them was that Gannon shouldn’t be told about it. Kersey was a prominent man, they were glad to settle for cash and shut up. But you can see that a bungling, amateur attempt to injure Mrs. Kersey the day she arrived, when there was known to be a good deal of hard feeling as a result of the bracelet incident, puts the Shavins in a tight spot.”

  I could see it very well. Moreover, I could see that anything I said would put them in a tighter one.

  Chapter Nineteen: The diamond bracelet

  WHEN I DIDN’T SAY ANYTHING, Colonel Primrose looked at me with that urbane, patient, cat-amused-at-mouse smile.

  “Let’s continue, Mrs. Latham,” he said blandly. “Has it occurred to you that it might be very much to Mrs. Kersey’s interest to have the Shavins in a tight spot, and the tighter the better? Now, her story is that she’s anxious to help their daughter. Crawford’s impression of her is she’s about as likely to want to help anybody at all as a rattlesnake is to help a day-old robin. And so far Crawford’s been unable to detect any enthusiasm on the Shavins’ part to accept her help. They’ve been closemouthed about it, at any rate.”

  “I think they’ve accepted it, now,” I said.

  I thoug
ht he was a little surprised.

  “They have? When?”

  “I don’t know that. You’d have to ask them.”

  “She’s the night maid here, on duty now? Call her, will you, please?”

  I called her, reluctantly and with considerable protest. She came as reluctantly, but nowhere near as volubly protesting. In fact, Rose Shavin was grimly tight-lipped. I couldn’t tell whether it was fear or a deep-seated antagonism directed at me that made her so sullen and close-mouthed when she came in and found Colonel Primrose there and I explained who he was. She closed the door and stood in front of us, refusing the chair Colonel Primrose offered her. Then she looked at me, plainly taking it for granted I’d told him everything I knew and probably a lot I didn’t.

  “We never intended bothering you, madam,” she said at once. “Nobody thought to harm you or frighten you away. It was her we were after. My daughter made a mistake.”

  Colonel Primrose’s black eyes were sparkling at that, I knew, though I didn’t look at him. I could feel his satisfaction in the air.

  “We wanted her to let our little girl alone.”

  “And I understand you’ve changed your mind, Mrs. Shavin,” Colonel Primrose said.

  She turned from me to him. “Yes. We have.”

  “Why, may I ask?”

  “It’s best for our girl.”

  She used the term very differently from the way Sheep and Bill used it. When they called Molly “our girl” they were amused and affectionate and proud. Rose’s use of it had a ruthless and relentless quality, a kind of grim “Spare the rod and spoil the child.” I could understand her teaching Molly that duty and desire were categorical opposites.

  “Why do you think it is best?”

  “Because it is,” Rose said stubbornly. “We don’t think about anything else. We didn’t know Mrs. Kersey had money, we didn’t know what she wanted to do for Molly. Now we know, it’s all different. The boys have been kind, but they’ll get tired of giving out without any return. It’s a game with them. It’s serious with us. Molly has a right to be a star. She’s got it in her. We do what is best for her.”