But she could’ve been wrong . . . or lying. A tramp like Pauline Gordon would lie Malenkov into the U.S. Senate if it paid off a dividend. Supposing she had lied. . . .
Supposing Ivor (Hotpants) Kovak had been playing around with Judith . . . and she’d begun to ask for more than four hundred a month . . . or she’d sing a song to Mrs. (Notsohot) Kovak . . . who maybe owned a very big slice of the Fifth Avenue business . . . and could toss Mister out on his ear. . . . That was a thought.
And supposing Carole knew that her boss and Judith had been like that . . . did she believe he’d shut Judith’s mouth for keeps? Was that what she’d threatened him with? Or just that she’d spill the beans to his wife if he stepped out of line?
None of which even tried to explain why I’d been framed for Judith’s killing. Nothing explained that—or almost nothing. But there was time for explanations, plenty of time . . . so long as King Gilmore didn’t discover I was back in town.
One thing I could learn and that was why Kovak had had such a shock when I asked him where he’d been the night Judith Walker died. And why he’d refused to see me. And why the beautiful Miss Van Buren hadn’t wanted him to answer any of my questions.
Whatever he knew, my idea was that she knew, too. And maybe she’d tell me . . . if I used the right approach. The only way to find out was to ask.
I went along the street to the brownstone house with the lighted ball above the steps. As I went into the lobby, I could hear her sharp heels going upstairs. I went upstairs, too.
Chapter XIV
Strychnine is More Permanent
IT WAS an old house with high ceilings and big solid doors and an air of times gone by. The lighting fixture in the ground floor hall hung from the centre of an ornamental circle of raised plaster. Nymphs and cherubs grinned vacantly down from the cornice. Polished linoleum flanked the narrow carpet and the stair treads were edged with strips of worn brass. Except for the installation of electric light, I guessed the place hadn’t changed much in the past fifty years.
The carpet hadn’t any underfelt and Carole’s heels made a string of small thumping sounds travelling away from me on the floor above. By the time I was half-way up, the rhythmic bump-bump-bump-bump-bump came to a stop. I heard the clasp of a handbag snap shut . . . the clink of keys . . . the rattle of a key entering a lock . . . and then nothing.
All around me, there was no sound. The old house was suddenly very quiet like I was alone . . . as though nobody lived in it any more . . . as though nobody had ever lived in it. Somewhere above me, Carole Van Buren had been swallowed up by the silence that only the sound of her heels had broken . . . like a new version of the Indian Rope Trick.
My shoes sounded loud on the brass stair-treads. I felt as if I were bearing with me some of the noise of the outside world and losing a portion of it with every step I took. Behind me the quiet closed in as I went on up.
In the light of a low-power lamp on the first floor the wrought-iron handrail cast stripes of light and shade across the wall beside me. It was the only lamp that was burning. When I reached the top I saw that somebody had forgotten to switch on the other one farther along the hallway.
Carole could’ve switched it on if she’d wanted; the switch was on the wall alongside her door. But she evidently had enough light to see who had followed her upstairs.
She was standing quite still with her back to the door. Her face was a pale blur against the dark woodwork. She didn’t move at all as I walked towards her.
When I was only a dozen paces off, she said, “Oh . . . I thought——” She sounded no more than faintly surprised.
I said, “You thought Ivor Kovak had come back to try again . . . after he’d got over his scare. Disappointed?”
She put the back of her hand to her red mouth while she studied me carefully. Then she said, “So you were outside listening. . . .” With no inflection in her voice, she added, “I remember your name now; it’s Bowman. Apparently you believe in trying again, too. What is it you want?”
“To take up where we left off the other day,” I said. “Without any patrolmen interrupting this time.”
“You’re wasting your smart talk on me. I’ve——” she felt for the doorknob and shook her head “—nothing more to say. I’ve already told you all I know about Judith Walker.”
“All you know?” I asked. “What about her regular fella—that guy who looked much the same as any other guy in a tuxedo? The guy Judith ditched when he was sent to the pen?”
Swift fear came into her eyes. She wet her lips before she said, “Who told you about Clive? He didn’t have anything to do with—what happened.”
I said, “Funny you should say didn’t instead of couldn’t. Makes me think maybe brother Clive was back in circulation before . . . oh, so that’s it. Where is he now?”
She shrugged. When she’d thought of a couple of alternative answers, discarded them both, and returned to the first one she’d been going to give me, she said, “I don’t know. I haven’t seen him since he was released.”
“If he’s on parole, the police will know how to lay their hands on him.”
“They’ve no reason to want him. He hasn’t done anything wrong.”
“Wouldn’t you say murder was wrong? Everybody else does.”
Her face went pale and the fear in her eyes was now too great to hide. In an unsteady voice, she said, “Clive wouldn’t do a thing like that. He was in love with Judith. He always hoped she would go back to him when he came out.”
“But two years is a long time. How do you think he felt when he found out she’d got herself another guy?”
“He’d have been prepared for it. I’ve tried to tell him what she was more than once.”
“Which means you didn’t altogether fancy Judith as a sister-in-law,” I said. “But last time we met, you told me you and she were friends of a sort. Was it the sort that fills a guy’s mind with poison until he becomes a killer through jealousy?”
Carole’s mouth opened like I’d prodded her where no gentleman should. She looked like she was sorry she hadn’t a knife to prod me with. When she’d got her breath back, she said tightly, “You’ve no right to say that. I didn’t tell him anything he wouldn’t have found out in time for himself. And he wasn’t jealous, anyway. He still wanted her if she’d have him.”
“And that made you very happy . . . didn’t it? One of these days, the law might get round to asking you how much you might’ve wanted to see Judith Walker dead. What will you say then?”
She stared at me blankly as though the thought had taken her completely by surprise. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t afraid now, either. Her fear had all been for her brother. After a long moment, she said, “ You don’t really believe I killed her to protect Clive. I know you don’t.”
“Who said you did it to protect Clive? Who said you did it at all? But you might know the name of the party who wanted her out of the way even more than you did.”
“That’s crazy! How would I . . . oh, I see.” She took a deep breath and shivered. “And now we’re back to Ivor Kovak again,” she said. “All this talk was just to soften me up . . . wasn’t it? You must be getting well paid. . . .”
“No one’s paying me to find out who killed her,” I said. “I’m doing this for free. And I intend to go doing it until I get me a tenant for the armchair up at the Tombs . . . whoever it turns out to be.”
“It won’t be Kovak,” Carole said flatly. “He didn’t do it. Even if I’m sure of nothing else, I’m sure of that.”
“Then where was he the night Judith got a belt wrapped round her neck?”
For maybe half a minute, maybe more, Carole Van Buren stared up into my eyes like she could see through me. She still looked like any guy’s idea of a honey but she wasn’t quite so peaches-and-cream. Her pouting mouth was pallid under the lipstick.
I said, “You can tell me, sweetheart. Believe it or not, I’m quite a big boy.”
She shook her head. Without
answering, she turned and pushed open the door and went in. The light came on. With her back towards me, she said, “ I’ll tell you . . . you won’t be satisfied until I do. Come in and shut the door and—I’ll tell you.”
If it was an act, it was a very good act. She looked miserable and she sounded miserable. And, when an ash blonde with lines that make poetry is miserable, I’m Joe Shmoe. I guess she could’ve sold me the Brooklyn Bridge right then. After all, any of us is entitled to make one little mistake. If Kovak happened to have been hers, who was I to condemn her?
Which is how an attractive dish always gets away with it. I often wonder how I’d have felt if she hadn’t sleek hair of the palest gold and a soft, full mouth and grey eyes so deep a guy could drown in them. That’s not counting a figure that counted for plenty.
So I went in. When I’d closed the door I waited until she’d taken off her coat and lit a cigarette without offering me one. Then I waited some more. Eventually I said, “You can’t stall all night . . . and you can skip the embarrassment. I lost my modesty about the time Pauline Gordon lost her chastity. Where was Mister Ivor Kovak the night Pauline had her mouth shut with a faceful of automobile?”
She struggled with that one for an awkward few seconds before she said, “If I remember correctly, he went home early—that night. But surely you don’t think . . .” She looked at her cigarette and her pretty shoes and the pattern of the wallpaper and everywhere else but at me. She seemed to find it difficult to look straight at me.
I didn’t find it difficult to look at her. I like looking at a dame with smooth gold hair and smoky grey eyes and a complexion like an ad for toilet soap. Especially when the package is wrapped in a slim, black velvet dress with long sleeves and a collar that buttons high up on the neck. Pity I always meet the kind I like after some other guy has met her first.
When she did finally give me the kind of glance Red Riding Hood gave the wolf, I said, “Never mind what I think or don’t think. So far as you remember, he went home early that night. Now, let’s hear where he went the previous night—the night Judith Walker was murdered.”
“He——” She bit her lip and studied her shoes again. Almost inaudibly, she said, “Isn’t it enough if I tell you he wasn’t anywhere near Judith’s apartment?”
“There were also a million other places where he wasn’t. I’m only interested in where he was.”
“So that you can run and tell Mrs. Kovak . . . isn’t that it? How much is she paying you?”
“Mrs. Kovak doesn’t even know I exist——”
“I’ll give you double what you’re getting from her if you’ll drop all these inquiries.”
“Twice nothing is a poor bribe,” I said.
She played with one of her cuffs for a while, clicking the fastener open and closed and twisting her wrist like it felt stiff. Then she said, “I’d like to think I could believe you.”
“What difference would that make? Your opinion of me or mine of you won’t alter what happened when Kovak spent the night here with you.”
“Nothing happened! If you were prepared to listen, I could explain. . . .” She put a hand to her face and turned away. Maybe she didn’t like the way I was looking at her.
I said, “If it will amuse you, go ahead and explain. But I’m no member of the Purity League. It’s no business of mine how or why you came to fall from grace. Of course, if I were asked. . . .”
In a bitter voice, she said, “Well? What would you say if you were asked?”
“Next time, don’t let your weak moment be with a married man,” I said.
Over her shoulder, she stared at me. When her furious eyes had travelled from the part in my hair to the rain spots on my shoes and back up again, she said, “You have a filthy mind. There has never been anything like that between Ivor Kovak and me.”
“Until the night Judith Walker* died. And why worry, anyway? I won’t tell. I just wanted to confirm that he couldn’t have been in her apartment because he——”
“—because he was here,” Carole said. She turned round slowly and clasped her arms around herself tightly like she was holding herself in. Her face was taut. “I don’t think I care very much now whether you tell or not, whether people will believe me or not. He was here; he didn’t leave this apartment until after four o’clock in the morning. But——” her hands moved up to her shoulders and she took a long, uneven breath “—it wasn’t either his fault or mine . . . unless you want to blame me for inviting him in. And I didn’t see any harm in it at the time.”
“Forget about blame,” I said. “I’m just an onlooker. What makes me curious is that you admit you invited him into your apartment, and that he remained here until after four a.m., and yet you say there was nothing between you. What were you doing? Playing gin rummy?”
My popularity with Miss Carole Van Buren reached a record low. It must’ve been difficult for her to make such a pretty face look so mean. If I’d been a thought-reader, I guess I’d have dropped dead.
When I went on living, she said, “Evidently you’ve already made up your mind so there’s no use my saying any more. I think you had better go now.”
“O.K.,” I said. “But you’re being a trifle hasty. If it means anything to you, I’ve still got an open mind. And I’m still very curious . . . like to go on with your story and I’ll promise not to ask rude questions?”
The grey ice in her eyes melted slightly. She used the tip of a very pink tongue to wet her very red lips and the old glow began to shine from her. I didn’t blame Ivor Kovak: I didn’t blame him one little bit. When she looked at me that way, I could even forget there had ever been an Ivor Kovak.
And I guess she knew it, too. A dame always knows—especially the kind of dame who wears black velvet like a sleek and beautiful animal wears its fur.
In a small voice, she said, “I know you won’t believe me but . . . I don’t expect anybody else will, either. Still——” she cupped her face in her hands and sighed again “—it’s the truth nevertheless . . . even if I’ll never find out why she did it.”
I said, “Why who did what?”
“Judith . . . she must’ve been crazy. I’ve done nothing but try to think of a motive ever since, but there isn’t one. It could hardly have been meant as a joke. . . .”
Down below, the street door slammed. Footsteps walked lightly along the lobby and dry hinges creaked and the footsteps went heel-and-toe across a stretch of linoleum. Then another door banged shut. After that, there was close silence again with the noises of the outside world flowing around the old house and rolling on and the rain hissing on the roof like a wire brush on a tight drum.
“Look,” I said. “Start where you invited Kovak in. I always follow a story better when I come in at the beginning.”
Like she was bringing her mind back a long way, Carole said, “That wasn’t the beginning . . . it couldn’t have been. I’ll tell you just what happened; maybe you’ll be able to explain it.”
Her voice was sweet cider once more. She seemed to have forgotten that I was the guy with the filthy mind. And I wasn’t going to remind her. She was nice to listen to when she talked to me this way. The pity was she was talking about a flabby slob called Kovak while I kept thinking about a girl who had ended up in a state like no girl should ever know.
I propped myself against the door and lit a cigarette and kept my eyes on Carole Van Buren’s lovely face and my thoughts on a nylon nightdress and a thin, green belt.
When she saw me relax, Carole sat down and lay back in a stuffed chair and crossed her legs. Which wasn’t fair. Legs like hers demanded anybody’s complete attention. Maybe she knew that, maybe she didn’t. But she must’ve known that a tight velvet skirt rides up.
Soon’s she saw me gawp at the exposure, she tucked her feet in and linked her fingers around one knee and pretended I hadn’t been looking. She said, “We got back late and it was a nasty night so I didn’t think he was asking anything out of the way when he suggested that he c
ame in for a night cap. His wife was away from home for a few days and——”
“Where was this place you got back late from?”
“A midnight fashion parade. Mr. Kovak had asked me to attend because he didn’t think he’d manage to make it.”
“But he did manage?”
“Yes. He was there when I arrived. We saw the show through together and——”
“—and that meant he had to see you home . . . m-m-m?”
She frowned very prettily—at the inference, not at me. Then she said, “ I don’t believe he arranged it that way. And he behaved quite all right on the journey.”
“Has he always behaved quite all right?”
“Yes. Of course he has . . . but——” She twiddled her fingers and chewed at her pouting lower lip and looked doubtful.
“But what?” I said. “Do you mean he’d have made a pass at you once or twice if he’d had the courage?”
“Something like that . . . but I feel terrible at saying it. Doesn’t seem right when——” She left it at that.
I knew what she meant. It was like killing a lamb for being only a lamb when it might’ve had the fun of being a sheep. I said, “How far had he had the nerve to go?”
“Just—to invite me to have dinner with him . . . a couple of times.”
“Did you go?”
“Only once. I didn’t like his attitude towards his wife.”
“How come?”
“He kept talking disparagingly about her and . . . he seemed to expect me to sympathise with him because he’d made a mistake in marrying her. I didn’t think it was the sort of thing he should’ve discussed with a stranger.”
“Maybe he hoped you wouldn’t remain a stranger,” I said. “What kind of proposition did he put up to you?”
With no trace of guile in her eyes, Carole said, “I never let him get that far. But he did say he wished he had met someone like me—before he met his wife. When I told him he wouldn’t have got anywhere without her as it was common knowledge he had built his business up with her money, he said she never stopped reminding him of it. She knew how it hurt him and that was why she did it . . . and a lot of other things I’d rather not have listened to.”
The Long Night Page 12