He took a full minute to make up his mind. "Go on home, Pine. But stay where I can find you when the time comes. No trips out of town."
I said bitterly, "There goes my vacation in Upper Mongolia!" I stood up, jammed my hat over the undamaged side of my head and went out the door.
A BUZZING in my ears pulled me up and out of dark depths. I opened my eyes after a while and looked at the ceiling. White calcimine, with a small dark spot near one corner where I killed a wasp the summer before. The buzzing stopped suddenly.
I turned my head on the pillow and looked through the slats of the Venetian blind. Still cloudy but I couldn't see any rain dropping past the glass. Right away I felt slightly better. I was tired of rain.
The buzzing started again. It seemed very loud now and I realized it wasn't in my head at all but coming from the door buzzer. I got up, staggering a little, said a bitter word, and went into the living room to open the door.
It was Lola North—Mrs. Lola Wirtz, rather. She blinked up at me and said, "My! What cute pajamas!" She looked cool and fresh and young, wearing a Pliofilm raincoat over a tailored blouse in pale yellow and a brown-and-white hound's-tooth suit that couldn't have been as expensive as it looked.
"Come in," I said, not being cordial about it. I closed the door and watched her draw up the two Venetian blinds and open a window before shrugging out of the raincoat and placing it on the radiator.
She turned around and gave me a pert grin. Not a care in the world. She said, "Not that you don't look impossibly virile in them, but why not get out of those pajamas and into some clothing? It's after one o'clock, you know. In the afternoon,"
166
"I was sleeping," I growled. "I had a bad night and my head hurts and I don't feel like entertaining lovely young women. I don't even feel like entertaining ugly old women."
"And grouchy, too!" Her smile faded. "You don't look good at that. Your eyes are all bloodshot and dark circles under them."
"I've got a hole in the back of my head, too. Do you know how to make coffee?"
"Of course."
"Then go make some."
She went into the kitchen. I spent fifteen minutes showering, shaving and brushing my teeth. The back of my head was still sore but nothing I wouldn't get over in time. I wondered how much time I had before somebody else tried to take a swing at the same spot.
Lola North had cups, saucers and a pot of coffee in the center of the breakfast table and was dropping bread into the toaster as I came into the kitchen. She gave me an approving glance. "That's better. Sit down while I go around being wifely."
The kiss she'd given me two nights before must have done more for her than it had for me. I found some brandy behind a can of pretzels in the pantry and poured a slug into my cup and coffee over that. I drank almost half without stopping, burning my tongue and gullet. But the warmth spread through me, and by the time I filled the cup a second time I was ready to talk.
"Anything special behind this call?" I asked. "Or is this your morning for good works in the parish?"
Her eyes were innocent over the rim of her cup. "I phoned your office around eleven. When nobody answered, I bet myself you were just lying around in bed. So I came over to find out."
"Uh-hunli. Now the real reason. Your casual air stinks."
"Why, Paul!"
"The real reason, hey?"
Abruptly she sobered. "Something has happened. Have you seen the afternoon papers?"
"In my sleep?"
"Of course; that was silly." The toaster popped, giving her a chance to avoid my eyes while she buttered two slices. "When we talked on the way home from that—that man's, you mentioned that a Myles Benbrook, here in Chicago, was a friend of Raymond's."
"I talk too much," I growled.
The knife clattered against the butter plate, and her eyes came up to mine. "Myles Benbrook was murdered last night, Paul. He was found shot to death beside a wrecked car out in the west end of town." She took a deep unsteady breath. "Paul, it was Raymond's car!"
"No! Pass the toast."
She was mad at me. "Aren't you listening? Don't you realize what this may mean?"
"Certainly I do." I took a slice of toast and bit gingerly into it. "It may mean your precious mild little old husband has run the score up to three corpses."
"Three? I "
"Sorry. I forgot Overmire kept the Wirtz angle out of the papers on number two. There was a cop stabbed to death early yesterday morning out on Sacramento. I was supposed to meet your husband out there, but he had to run along before I showed up. So's not to disappoint me entirely, he left me a fresh body. For laughs, I guess."
She bit her lips and bent her head. "I—I can't believe it. He was always so . . . gentle. So completely without violence. Aniat could have changed him this way?"
"How do I know ? Maybe greed, Mrs. Wirtz. May I call you Lola ? Greed born in him when you walked out because he was gentle and without violence—and therefore without money. You have to be a violent person to make money. I don't necessarily mean the stab-and-shoot kind of violence. I mean the kind that will let you kick other people aside to get your hands dipped in gold. Am I boring you ? I am me."
I picked up the pot and refilled my cup and hers. It had started to rain again; I could hear it at the windows.
I said, "It may be your husband hasn't killed anyone. I wouldn't say that except for one thing: the international crook Louie Antuni mentioned. You know, this Jafar Baijan character. The fact that he hasn't looked me up yet means either that he doesn't know I'm in the middle of the whole mess—which hardly seems likely—or he's decided I'm not important enough to bother with. If there is a Jafar Baijan at all."
She said with abrupt intensity, "We've got to find Raymond, Paul. We've got to find him immediately. If he hasn't killed anyone, he must go to the police and tell them so."
"And if he has?"
She only shook her head and looked away from me.
I said, "I went out to a place yesterday where he might be. No one was home, so I'm going out there again today. Would you like to come along?"
Her hand jumped out and caught one of mine, almost upsetting my cup. "Paul! You've found him ! Do you think he still has—?"
"Uh-hunh," I said, giving her a one-sided grin. "The manuscript, hey? Poor, dear Raymond. Surprising how much compassion twenty-five million bucks will buy, isn't it ?"
She couldn't meet my eyes. "You're wrong! I didn't mean "
"Sure you did. I'm a cynical old man, Mrs. Wirtz; try being anything else in my business."
"It's just that I don't want him victimized by "
The buzzer at the corridor door sounded briefly. Lola Wirtz and I sat there and looked at each other in the sudden silence.
"Who do you think it is?" she whispered, wide-eyed,
I got up. "Probably the vice squad. This will teach you a lesson about going to men's apartments."
I left her sitting there and went into the living room, opening the door just as the buzzer went off again. It was Lieutenant Overmire of the Homicide Detail, in a gray suit and bow tie, blue this time, and looking as fit and rested as I didn't.
He gave me a polite smile with no warmth in it and glanced past me into my living room. I blocked the opening and gave him the raised eybrow and said, "Was there something. Lieutenant?"
His gaze was fixed on something beyond my right shoulder. "That's a nice handbag on your table. Am I interrupting something?"
"Oh, come on in, for Chrlsakes!" I stepped aside and he went past me and took off his gray hat and rotated it gently between his fingers while his chill eyes took in the blue and beige couch, the blue tapestry of the easy chair, the bookcase, the pictures on the wall, the sand-colored carpeting. His eyes stopped when they reached Lola North standing in the kitchen doorway.
I said, "Miss North, this is Lieutenant Overmire, a Homicide detective."
He gave her a nicer smile than I had thought he carried in stock. "Sorry to break in this way, Miss North."
"No. I thought you might like to know that we've located Wirtz's hide-out."
The gasp was Lola North's. But my jaw was hanging too. "That's fine. Case all wrapped up now, hunh? Good work. Lieutenant."
He looked from me to her and back to me again, his eyes still chill and his expression not saying anything. "I'm afraid not. No. He left there two nights ago, it seems. I've had men combing the neighborhood where Tinney's body was found. This morning, after Benbrook was found to be mixed in the case, one of my men located his former secretary, a woman named Irene Taylor. It seems she was—very close to Benbrook and had been for years. He brought Wirtz there five days ago and left him to hide out in that house until the morning Tinney was killed. The Taylor woman claimed she didn't know Wirtz was a fugitive, and, of course, there's no way to check that now. She insists she hasn't seen either man during the past two days and has no idea where Wirtz is now. I think she's telling it straight: that Benbrook used her and that's all. She didn't seem particularly upset at news of his death, and that surprised me a little, considering what they'd meant to each other."
"More fun," I said meaninglessly.
The three of us stood there and looked at one another and said nothing. The silence was getting a little uncomfortable when Overmire said, "I thought you'd like to know. Pine. I'd hoped maybe telling you would jog your memory."
"Believe me. Lieutenant, I'm completely at sea."
"All right. You know where to find me. Good-by, Miss North, it was nice meeting you."
He went out, closing the door softly at his back. I sighed a big sigh and went back into the kitchen to my cooling coffee.
Lola North followed me in and sat down across from nie. "Does it mean anything, Paul ?"
"Quite a bit—none of it important. It means policemen are smart and have an organization, it means Wirtz is beyond finding until something stirs him up again, it means the lead I thought I had is as dead as Benbrook."
"What lead?"
"You heard the man. Miss North. What I told you just before he came in. The place I went out to yesterday was Irene Taylor's home. Sure enough, Wirtz had been there and is no longer. I'm right back where I was the day Bishop McManus hired me."
I drank some coffee moodily and looked out the kitchen window. The rain was still pouring it on. Another couple of days and we'd all be building arks.
"What are you going to do now, Paul?"
"Go down to my office and sit. I'm expecting a telegram" that won't help me at all, and I've got a book to finish. Then I'm going to sit there and think. It's time I did some of both."
"How late wmU you be there?"
"How do I know?" I looked at her blonde hair, at her beautiful blue eyes, at her troubled expression. "Days, maybe. Thinking has always been a chore for me. Somewhere in all this tangle is something I've missed and had no business missing. Once my fat head puts my fat hand on it the works will begin to unravel. But don't hold your breath until then."
"Could I come along with you ? I mean we could sit there and talk it over and over until you see what you're after."
"Nope." I drained my cup and got up. "But thanks anyway. Now where'd I put my hat ?"
I found it on the radiator in the bathroom and put on my
trench coat. Downstairs, I said, "I'm going to the Loop. Can I drop you somewhere ?"
"No, thank you." She sounded distant and a Httle hurt. "I'll manage. Could I call you at the office later ?"
"Do that."
I left her there and ran down the street, through the rain, to where the Plymouth waited.
It took longer than usual to get downtowi just as it always does when the streets are wet. The up[ stories of Loop skyscrapers were hidden by low-hanging clouds and a mixture of smoke and fog, and offices and display windows were lighted. There was a line of cars waiting to get into the parking lot and it was fifteen minutes before I could get rid of mine.
At three-ten I unlocked the inner office door. A yellow envelope lay on the floor under the letter drop and I scooped it up. A Western Union night letter from Los Angeles. The answer to my wire to Cliff Morrison. By this time probably not worth the paper it was pasted on.
I opened the blind and the window beyond that and sat down to learn about Raymond Wirtz.
RAYMOND FINLEY WIRTZ AGE 45 OWNS HOME 1217 HILLROSE WITH $4000 MORTGAGE. ASSISTANT PROFESSOR use AND WELL-KNOWN PALEOGRAPHER. SEPARATED FROM WIFE FORMER LOLA NORTH NOW LIVING IN GLEN-DALE. WIRTZ LEFT LA MAY 2 THIS YEAR DRIVING GRAY CHEVROLET CLUB COUPE 4I MODEL LICENSE 7F26-4I9 DESTINATION UNKNOWN. RETURN EXPECTED AS HOUSE IS NOT FOR SALE. NO POLICE RECORD AND NEIGHBORS REGARD HIM AS OKAY. MARRIAGE LASTED ONE YEAR. NO REPORT OF OTHER MAN AS REASON ALTHOUGH WIFE SAID TO BE TYPE WHO LIKED PARTIES AND NIGHTCLUBS WHILE WIRTZ WAS FIRESIDE AND SLIPPERS MAN. SHALL WE DIG INTO HER FOR YOU QUESTION MARK. COME TO SUNNY CALIFORNIA. BILL FOLLOWS. BE SURE YOU PAY IT.
CLIFF.
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Nothing in it but a better picture of Lola North Wirtz. Too old for her, she had said. But not too old for her to hunt him up when he was in trouble, her face and voice filled with compassion and her heart filled with dollar signs. That was her business and his, and no affair of mine.
I dug out the McGivern mystery novel and finished it over half a pack of cigarettes. The women in it were beautiful and the private eye was brilliant. I would have liked to be brilliant, too. I would even have liked to be reasonably intelligent. I put the book away.
I loosened my tie and got out of my coat. I walked up and down the floor. I sat down. I stood up again and went over to the window. Nothing out there that wasn't there yesterday and wouldn't be there tomorrow. I walked up and down the floor. I kicked the wastebasket, I wished I had a bottle in my bottom drawer. I lighted a cigarette and stared long and hard at the calendar girl.
I went out and bought a bottle.
The liquor bit into my intestines like it enjoyed the job. 1 put my heels on the desk blotter and thought over everything I'd done and heard and said from the minute I had first walked through those rectory doors.
Nothing came out of it. Looking at it from a strictly logical viewpoint, there was no mystery at all. Wirtz had come to Chicago to sell something, told a friend about it, and the friend went into action by killing two men, then getting killed himself by Wirtz. And somewhere Wirtz was hiding until memories cooled enough to let him stick his nose out as far as the rectory. Then he could turn the manuscript over to the Bishop, sell the Bishop on the idea that he, Wirtz, wasn't a killer but just the victim of a frame, then hide out long enough for the twenty-five million to come through. With I that kind of money he could hire lawyers who would go into
court and prove their client wouldn't have killed a boll weevil to save his cotton.
I thought of Connie Benbrook. I thought of Lola North Wirtz. I thought of Gypsy Rose Lee. Whatever had become of her ?
I walked the floor some more. I went to the bathroom down the hall. I came back and bought myself another drink.
Five-thirty, according to my wrist watch. I didn't believe it and put it against my ear. Still ticking, still spewing out wasted seconds.
I sat down and went through the whole case again. I got the same answer and a still stronger sense of futility. I had me another drink.
The phone rang. Lola North Wirtz was on the other end. "Have you got anything, Paul?" She sounded anxious.
"Leprosy. Go away."
"What's the matter with you? Are you all right?"
"No. Where are you ?"
"At home—the Lake Towers." She sounded expectant now.
"Stay there," I said and hung up.
Ten minutes later I went out for dinner.
When I came out of the restaurant the rain had stopped again. I walked north on Wabash Avenue, away from the office, then west on Randolph and into a movie without looking to see what was listed on the marquee. It turned out to
be something about dancing girls and a beautiful princess of the Far East and a handsome vagabond who sang about love. In color. I enjoyed every minute of it. The second feature was about a moody blind piano teacher who fell in love so hard he got his sight back and played his own symphony in Carnegie Hall and got Beethoven's old job as a reward. I could have sat through it twice. Just as long as it wasn't about a brilliant private detective.
I
i
HALO FOR SATAN 177
I came out at ten-fifteen. It was raining again. I went into a restaurant and read a morning paper while drinking four cups of coffee. I made up my mind to go back and get my car and go home and the hell with it.
At ten-fifty I was back in the office with my heels on the blotter and the bottle in my lap, starting all over again.
I tried to figure out how Wirtz had been able to follow Benbrook and me all the way out to where Benbrook was killed. It didn't make sense that he would send Benbrook to pick up the Chewy at the garage, then tail him to make sure he did a good job of it.
That got me to thinking about Benbrook. A businessman— at least a former businessman. Businessmen were usually methodical. Now w^hat?
I went back to that wild chase through Chicago streets. Where had Benbrook been going? To join Wirtz at a new hide-out; that seemed plain enough. But he'd spotted me before he could lead me there. My mistake was sticking too close to his heels when he turned off Kedzie at Addison. Benbrook hadn't wanted Addison; that's why he doubled back and caught me. Maybe the next street north was the one he had wanted. Benbrook was a methodical man. . . .
And right then is when I turned out to be a detective.
I put the bottle on the desk with great care and slowly lowered my feet to the floor. I began to dig through the pockets of my coat. Was this the suit I had worn yesterday afternoon? I couldn't remember.
It wasn't necessary to remember. A sheet of paper, folded twice, came out into the light. The list of names and addresses I had copied from those papers in Benbrook's private strongbox.
The Long escape Page 15