by Craig Rice
“You won’t get her out of this one,” Andy said, breathing heavily.
Mr. Brown ignored him. “She’s been married to a football hero, a movie star and a millionaire. The millionaire’s name was Addison. When she was of age, she changed her front name to Meri. When she divorced Addison, she went to court and had her last name changed to Adsmith. For sentimental reasons, she said. That’s her legal name, Meri Adsmith. She’s used the name Mrs. Gabrielle, she’s used a few others, because she likes to get away from it all.”
“She’s certainly gotten away from it all now,” the lazy-eyed man commented.
“She’s made parachute jumps, danced in a Broadway show, threatened to cross the Atlantic in a rowboat, and broken the bank twice in Las Vegas. I’ve trailed her around the world twice and you won’t find much on her in your newspaper’s files because part of my job was keeping her out of print.”
The young reporter was making notes fast.
“Our report on her,” Andy said coldly, “is that she’s twenty-four years old, born in Duluth, Minnesota, five foot eight inches tall, slender build, pale blonde hair.”
He went on, “As far as we know, she’s killed two men and she’s carrying a briefcase full of narcotics—at least, that’s the tip we got.” He spat on the floor. “And we don’t care how many millions she’s inherited.” His eyes were ugly. He looked at the private detective and said, “And you’d better get out of our nice clean police station. I don’t care if you’ve trailed her from Peru to the North Pole. Hello?” He picked up the phone.
“Yeah,” he said, making a note. “Yeah?” Finally, “Okay, thanks.”
He gave the tall, thin man a leering grin. “They just took her off a bus in Truckee, Nevada. That means we’ll have to fight out extradition. Unless you can persuade her to come back like a nice girl.”
Brown laughed. It wasn’t a nice laugh. He said, “I’ve done it before and I’ll do it again. Besides, I have a hunch you’ll never pin a thing on her.” He paused at the door to light a cigarette. “You can add this to your description. She’s a damned poor shot, even at close range.”
He slammed the door and left. There was a long and profane silence in the room.
“Funny thing, though, Andy,” the lazy-eyed man said. “After Espinoza and the guy on the beach were dead, and after she’d left, and before we got there, someone had searched that beach house like I’ve never seen a place searched before.” He rose, yawned and stretched. “Could be, someone is a good shot—and not even at close range.”
The spectacular story of Meri Adsmith’s escape from the Nevada police and her subsequent disappearance, stayed on page one. It was the story of a young, beautiful and adventurous heiress. Frank Espinoza was dead and nobody minded too much, except the insurance company who had to pay off his widow. But Meri Adsmith was news.
The two deputies from whom she had escaped while being transported from one jail to another were properly embarrassed and apologetic. It was an old trick and they shouldn’t have fallen for it. She had requested a stop at a filling station. They had waited outside for her. After a very long wait, they had knocked discreetly, then loudly, and finally broken in.
The small winodw had been pried open and Meri Adsmith had vanished into the Nevada night.
Yes, she’d had a purse, money and jewelry with her. No, no briefcase. There had been no briefcase on her when she had been found on the bus.
“But,” one of the deputies added reassuringly, “we’ll pick her up fast. She can’t go far in this country, on foot.”
They didn’t know Meri Adsmith.
Prying up the window hadn’t been easy. She bitterly regretted the suitcase left in the sheriff’s car, with its set of manicure tools. A nail file from her purse, and her fingernails, had to do. Getting through the window hadn’t been easy, either, high up and small as it was. Landing outside, she’d fallen, skinning her knees and elbows on the coarse gravel, and had crouched there for a moment, praying the sound of her fall hadn’t attracted attention.
When she felt it was safe, she ran blindly into the darkness, clutching her purse, running without sense of direction. Once she stumbled and fell and lay still for a moment until she felt she dared go on.
There were lights now from the sheriff’s car, there were voices shouting. Her escape had been discovered. It wouldn’t be long before a real pursuit would begin. She had to get up and keep going.
Sh pulled off her high-heeled shoes and stuffed them into the side-pockets of her coat. She longed to light a cigarette, and didn’t dare. She drew a long breath and started running again.
It was rough country. Stones wounded her stockinged feet, brush ripped skin from her arms. Once she threw herself on the ground. A coyote’s howl brought her to her feet again. After that, she didn’t pause until she felt safe from the sheriff’s car.
Now, where? She did light a cigarette then, took two puffs, and ground it out under her heel, disregarding the burn. In the distance she could see a faint light from a window; how near or how far she couldn’t tell.
A half hour, an hour, two hours later, she reached the source of the light. It was getting to be hard to tell time or distance now. Cold and hunger and utter weariness were the black cats pursuing her now.
It was a little homestead shanty. She crept up to it and peered through the window. A lighted lantern, a woman washing dishes.
Time for a bold move. Let them turn her in, if luck went against her! She felt through her pocketbook. Three one hundred dollar bills, two twenties, and—praise be—a safety pin. She pinned two hundred dollar bills to the inside of her brassiere, stuffed the rest back in her purse, walked up to the pine-board door and knocked boldly.
The woman who opened the door regarded her with suspicion, took a second look, and said, “My laws! Come in!”
She sniffed. There was the unmistakable odor of homemade corn liquor in the place. She looked at the woman, raw-boned, razor-sharp nose, little pig eyes, thin lips. She said, “I ran here—miles—do you have a drink in the house?”
“Laws, yes,” the woman said. Her eyes ran quickly over Meri’s clothes, ripped and soiled as they were, any woman could have guessed their cost. She pulled a mason jar from a shelf, poured a generous glass. “Car wreck?”
Meri shook her head, took a drink, managed not to choke on it. Almost before it was down, she could feel the warmth flowing through her veins. Take a chance, she said to herself, all that can happen to you is to lose. “Sheriff after me. Walked here from filling station—” she pointed.
The woman gasped. “That would be Jansen’s. You got here from there on foot? Laws, my laws!” She refilled the glass.
“Please,” Meri said, “could you sell me some clothes? Stockings, a dress of some kind, a coat, anything in the way of a hat. And could I bathe? I’ll pay you and I’ll leave you what I’ve got on.” She opened her purse, pulled out the two twenties and let the hundred dollar bill be seen.
“Laws, yes!” the woman said. She put water on to heat on the stove. “My clothes ain’t fitten you, but we’ll try ’em on.” She ran an appraising eye over Meri’s furs. “You wash yourself and we’ll fix up them scratches. I got a bottle of Dr. Sims’ Egyptian Snake Oil. Some hot food ain’t gonna hurt you, either.” She moved another kettle on the stove.
“And,” Meri said, “is there anyway I could get from here to a bus station? I’ll pay for it—”
The woman glanced down at the purse where the hundred dollar bill was as conspicuous as a fireman’s parade, and said, “My old man, Smitty, is out making a—delivery. If you don’t mind riding in a pick-up truck, he’ll take you clear into Reno.”
It was an hour before the pickup truck clattered to a stop beside the shanty. By that time Meri was bathed, rubbed with Dr. Sims’ Egyptian Snake Oil, fed with hot stew, and clothed in long cotton stockings, a knitted petticoat, a blue wool dress that reached nearly to her ankles, and an aged plaid coat. Her face was bare of makeup and her damp hair was half
hidden under a scarf.
“By the bye,” the woman said, caressing the fur on the coat Meri had discarded, “me, my name is Violet. And if my radio weren’t lying to me, your name is Adsmith.” She raised a gentling hand. “Never you mind. Friends is friends.” She went out into the yard.
A brief and not too noisy conference went on outside. Then the door banged open and Violet said, “This is Smitty, my old man.”
Meri opened a sleepy eye and said, “Makes best corn likker this side of the Mississippi.”
Smitty was an undersized, bald-headed man, with bow legs and a squint in one eye. He said, “Please da meetcha. Tanks for de complimentary. Learn a make it in Brooklyn.” He drew a breath. “Drive ya ta Reno. When eva ya ready.”
Meri opened the other eye and said, “I take it back. He makes the best corn likker both sides of the Mississippi.”
Smitty gulped down some stew, chased it with corn likker, and said, “Le’s go.”
Violet said good-bye to them at the truck. “Smitty, he’ll get you there fast. But you best figger to hang on. The twenty miles ’fore you hit the highway is rough, and he don’t figger to waste time. He don’t love cops more’n you.” She waved. “Good luck and I hope they don’t catch you and hang you.”
The ride that followed was like something left over from an old nightmare. On the stretch of unpaved road to the highway the truck bounced, bucked, swayed, threatened to fly. On the paved road, Smitty drove as though not only the state police, but the devil himself were in pursuit.
He spoke to her once, shouting over the roar of the motor. “Getcha nine-forty plane.” He pointed at the motor. “Hoppered ’er up m’self.” The truck swerved, and he put his hand back on the wheel just in time.
Twice they were stopped. In a half-doze, Meri heard Smitty explain to state police that he was rushing his wife’s sister to a hospital in Reno. Both times a light was flashed on Meri’s face, both times they were waved on.
It was nine-thirty when they reached the airport. Meri shook herself to full wakefulness, and unpinned the bills from her brassiere. She had to trust someone now. She handed them to Smitty. “Please buy my ticket for me. To Chicago.” She pulled the other bill from her purse, handed it to him, and said, “And thanks for the ride.”
He stuffed it in his pocket, took the other two in his hand and ran for the office. Meri closed her eyes and waited. In the distance she could hear plane engines warming up. He came back in moments with the tickets and change, counted it out, pennies, nickels, dimes and dollars. Seventy-one dollars and eighty-four cents. He put it in the purse her numbed hands refused to open.
A steward appeared from nowhere. Another steward was right behind him, pushing a wheel chair. “Mrs. Banning?”
Strong arms lifted her into the chair, other strong arms carried her into the plane. A pleasant-faced stewardess said, “Mrs. Banning, your brother-in-law arranged for a wheelchair at Chicago. Let me make you comfortable—”
She was eased into a reclining seat, a blanket was tucked around her. She closed her eyes gratefully. The sound of the motors readying for take-off was the most welcome sound she had ever heard.
Then the police boarded the plane. She could feel their presence even before she heard their voices and their explanation to the stewardess. She knew they were walking up the aisle, looking at every passenger. She kept her eyes closed.
Their eyes looked at her and went on.
“Not on this plane,” one of them said.
A moment later the motors roared and the plane moved. She thanked all the angels that Smitty was, in his way, a genius. Then she slept.
The wheelchair was waiting for her at the Chicago airport. It took her to the waiting room, through the waiting room to a taxi. “Do you want an ambulance, Mrs. Banning?” “No, thanks, a taxi will do.” Slower than the airport bus, but safer. “Henrotin hospital, please.”
Two minutes away from the airport she called to the driver, “Drop me at Marshall Field’s.”
Would the cabby remember her? It was another chance she had to take.
There wasn’t much money left. She went into Marshall Field’s basement, quickly selected a beige suit and topcoat, shoes, stockings, a hat.
A fast change in the third floor Ladies’ Room. The clothes she had worn on the last lap of her journey went into the trash can.
Makeup. Her hair combed. The new clothes. She examined herself in the mirror. No, this was not the woman who had been taken off the plane in a wheelchair.
But as she stepped out on the street she began to feel the little black cat behind her again. The little black cat whose name was Fear.
“Please, Maggie,” John J. Malone said. “I don’t want to talk to anybody.” He looked up unhappily. “I’m a tired man.”
“Just a hangover,” Maggie said, with no sympathy. “And this is a client. Heaven knows, we need one.”
Malone groaned. “Send her in.”
He looked up. She was lovely, she was beautifully dressed and she was white as paper.
“Mr. Malone,” she said, “I think I’m in a little trouble.”
He looked at her, then down at the front page of the newspaper he’d been reading.
“Miss Adsmith,” he said, “you are in trouble.”
He shoved her into a chair just before she fell.
“Mr. Malone—” she began breathlessly. Her face was now the color of the underside of an oyster.
“Sit still,” he ordered her, “and don’t talk.” He walked to the filing cabinet, pulled out the drawer marked, “Emergency” and pulled out a bottle of gin. After a moment of hesitation he put it back and took out the bottle of brandy he reserved for Important Occasions.
“Here,” he said, handing the glass to her. He stopped himself on the verge of offering her a cigar and lit a cigarette for her instead. Malone, he told himself, you’re rattled.
“Did you, or didn’t you?” he asked.
She shook her head. The color was coming back in her face. “I did and I didn’t.”
The little lawyer sighed. “First thing, I’ve got to hide you out.” He frowned, then nodded. Helene was the answer. Yes, the lovely blonde heiress who had been involved with him on more than one murder case was exactly the right answer. He had her on the phone in a matter of minutes.
“Don’t ask any questions,” he told Helene. “Get dressed in something simple. Something you can change easily in a hurry. And how fast can you get down to my office?”
“I’m dressed in something simple right now,” she said, “And you know how I drive. See you in five minutes.”
Malone shuddered. He did know how Helene Justus drove.
“Anything else you want me to do?”
“Yes,” he said. “Go to jail. For murder.”
Helene said, “Wheel” and hung up.
“And now, my dear,” Malone said, “Take it easy and relax, but we may not have much time to talk.” He refilled her glass.
She nodded. “Malone, it is not easy to be a very rich woman and at the same time, have any fun. That’s why I have used a collection of names. Because I like to go places and not be pointed out as that rich Meri Adsmith.
“I like to go to prize fights, and go salmon fishing, and go to gambling houses, and sometimes just live quietly until I get bored.”
He nodded sympathetically. She looked very much like a helpless child.
“About a month ago, I rented a tiny beach house under the name of Mrs. Gabrielle. I was happy there. I could lie in the sun all day. In the evenings I could walk up the beach to a little bar, and chin with the bartender, and play pinball machines.”
She paused, frowned. “A few years ago the trustees hired a private detective to follow me around. A man named John Brown.” She looked up at Malone. “It can’t be his right name. There can’t be anybody really named John Brown.”
Malone sighed. He pointed to the telephone directory and said, “My dear child, in that directory alone there is a whole column of J
ohn Browns. Go on.”
“I didn’t mind him. He was very unobtrusive and never bothered me. But I always knew that wherever I went, he was always there. Then, I suddenly decided I wanted to fly down to Ensenada for a weekend. I did, and had a wonderful time.
“Coming back, I just missed the connecting plane. I decided to kill the time sitting in a bar.”
“And all this time Mr. Brown was right along?” Malone asked.
She nodded. “I hardly saw him, but I knew he was there. Anyway, I was sitting there when a stranger came up and introduced himself as Jack Barrone. He called me by my right name, Adsmith, and said he’d met me in Mexico City a few years before. I didn’t remember him, but you can’t remember everybody you meet. We talked, and had a drink, and suddenly he asked if I would do a favor for him. Since I was flying up to Santa Monica in a few hours, would I carry a briefcase up with me—it had to be delivered as soon as possible, because it was full of important legal documents.”
Malone said, “How did he know you were flying up in a few hours?”
She shook her head. “It never occurred to me to wonder. I just said, ‘Why sure.’ He gave me the address of the—lawyer, he said—he wanted it delivered to, and it turned out to be right on my way home. I said I’d drop it off on my way. He thanked me, gave me the briefcase and left.”
“And it never occurred to you to wonder what was in the briefcase?” Malone asked.
“No. It was just another briefcase and it was locked. I still had time to kill, so I went to a movie, and from there to the airport. When we landed, I took a cab out to the beach, the address was about two miles from where I lived, so I dismissed the cab and planned to walk home. I like to walk and it was a lovely night.”
“Never mind the weather conditions,” Malone said. “Go on fast.”
“I got there—” he face began to turn pale again, “—no one answered the door. It was late, and I was anxious. I didn’t know what to do. Then out on the sand I saw—it.”
Malone refilled her glass, fast. “It?”
“The body of the man who’d given me the briefcase. Jack Barrone. He’d been shot. He was covered with wet sand and blood. I got it all over my arms.” She shuddered. “I fell, and scratched my face. Then I began to get panicky. I got into the light, broke open the briefcase and saw what was in it.”