The Dead Don’t Care

by Jonathan Latimer

  “If you were working here,” Crane asked, “who would you be going with?”

  “You’re pretty smart.”

  “You don’t have to be smart to figure that.”

  “Remembering Celeste, I guess not.”

  Mosquitoes had driven everyone in from the patio. The Bouchers, Miss Langley and the major were playing bridge. Miss Day who had been listening to Benny Goodman swing “Sing, Baby, Sing” on the radio, hailed them with a cry of joy. “Come on and dance,” she called. “I’ve got the hottest band.”

  Crane helped her kick away a rug from in front of the radio. He took hold of her, swung into a fox trot. Her back was cool and firm under his palm.

  “Nice music,” he said.

  She snuggled closer. “You said it.”

  Her flesh was solid. She didn’t have the slender, supple muscles of Imago Paraguay. She didn’t have the dancer’s perfect tempo, her intuitive anticipation of the steps, but she danced quite well. She was going to be heavy at thirty-five.

  “What did you find out?” she asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “From that fighter.”

  In a corner of the room, on a divan, Imago Paraguay and Essex were talking. Essex was saying something; Imago’s face was coldly composed.

  “How’d you know we were going to talk to Brown?”

  “Tom O’Malley asked me where his room was.”

  “We found out very little from him,” Crane said.

  Benny was taking a riff on the clarinet. The music became hot. Only drum and clarinet were playing.

  Crane cruised around the outside edge of the cleared space on the floor, whirling handsomely on the turns. “Brown thinks you’re dishing out the notes,” he informed her.

  There was no break in her tempo. “He would,” she said.

  “After all, there’s some reason. You’ve been with Essex all during the time he’s been getting the notes.”

  “Did Brown say that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, he’s right. I have.” She was leading him now, her arm muscles tense. “But that’s not why he wants to get me in trouble.”

  “No?”

  “No. He’s sore because I won’t give him a tumble.”

  “That would make a guy sore.”

  “You don’t have to be sarcastic.”

  “I’m not.”

  Imago Paraguay’s eyes were on him. They had no expression in them at all. Her face reminded him again of a perfectly tinted ivory mask. Essex was still talking to her. She seemed bored.

  Miss Day relaxed a trifle. “What else that bum say?” She let him lead.

  “He said you were at the Waldorf when the first note came.”

  “What of it?”

  “Essex told me you weren’t.”

  “He didn’t want to mix me in this business.”

  Benny Goodman’s band had taken up the straight melody again. The music was fuller, smoother, less wild. He danced half time.

  “That was gentlemanly,” he said.

  “But I don’t care,” she said.

  He accomplished a slow turn, using two two-steps.

  “If I was putting those notes around I wouldn’t put myself on the spot, would I?” she asked.

  “I guess not.”

  The music stopped and a fine mellow voice said there would be a brief interval for station announcements. O’Malley came up to them. Another fine mellow voice said, “You are listening to WQAM, Miami.”

  Miss Day said, “I’ll tell you who you ought to watch.”

  “Who?” Crane asked.

  “That dame over there.” She jerked a thumb at Imago Paraguay. “There’s something funny about her.” Her thumbnail was painted a blood red.

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, for one thing: what’s she doing here?”

  “What is she doing here?” demanded Crane.

  “I’m asking you.” Miss Day adjusted a shoulder strap, much to O’Malley’s disappointment. “She’s supposed to be Penn’s guest, but he’s scared of her.”

  “Everybody is,” said Crane.

  Carlos walked across the room to Essex. “Telephone, sir,” he said. “Will you take it in here?”

  Essex looked frightened. “I’ll take it in the hall.” He stood up, stared around the room uncertainly, then followed Carlos toward the hall.

  “Maybe it’s the ransom directions,” whispered Miss Day.

  O’Malley switched off the radio. The people at the bridge table stopped their game, craned their necks toward the hall. The major started to get up, then changed his mind. Miss Day and O’Malley followed Crane over to Imago Paraguay.

  There was a decanter of whisky, a chromium siphon and a silver bowl of cracked ice beside the divan. On the same table were tall glasses. “Will you have a drink?” Crane asked Imago Paraguay.

  “Tha-ank you.” Her smile showed her very small, very even teeth. “I will.”

  “Make it four,” said O’Malley.

  Crane put three fingers of whisky in four of the glasses. He smelled of one of them. The whisky was scotch.

  Imago said to Miss Day, “It is exciting, is it not?”

  Miss Day said, “I’ll take the races any day.”

  Crane put in the ice, added charged water. He handed a glass to Imago, another to Miss Day, gave O’Malley his choice of the remaining two.

  “Here’s how,” he said.

  They were drinking when Essex came back into the room. “Just the police,” he told the bridge players. “Wanted to know if I’d heard anything.”

  He walked over to the divan and Miss Day gave him her glass. “You need it, baby,” she said.

  “Where’s Lamphier?” Crane asked.

  “He went upstairs to lie down,” Essex said. He was unnaturally pale; almost a greenish white. “He’s done up.” He took a long drink of the whisky.

  “He should be,” O’Malley said. “No sleep since night before last.”

  “And very little then,” said Crane, remembering the pursuit of the flamingo.

  “I think I’ll lie down on the couch in the library,” Essex said. “Then I’ll be handy if anyone wants me.”

  “You ought to take a nap,” said Miss Day.

  “I can’t sleep.”

  “I have some sleeping powders,” said Imago Paraguay. “They are excellent. I take two capsules every night before I turn off my light.”

  Boucher, at the bridge table, laid down four cards, said, “That’s game and rubber.” He and the major appeared to have been reconciled.

  “Sleeping powders give me a headache,” said Essex. “Besides, I don’t want to sleep.”

  Miss Day asked Imago, “Aren’t you afraid you’ll get a habit from taking them?”

  “I ha-ave already.”

  They were adding up the score at the bridge table. Crane kept an eye on the major. He didn’t want him to get away.

  Essex asked, “But don’t they give you a headache?”

  “Never,” said Imago Paraguay.

  Crane started to move toward the bridge table. Image asked him, “You ha-ave not forgotten our date?”

  “Of course not,” said Crane.

  He caught the major in the hall. “I’d like to speak with you,” he said.

  “What about?”

  “It’s a private matter.”

  The major scowled at him. “Come to my room, then.” Without waiting for Crane he turned and went up the stairs.

  Chapter XII

  AT QUARTER TO TWO O’Malley came into their suite. He was surprised to see Crane. “Thought you’d gone to bed,” he said. There was lipstick on the bosom of his shirt.

  Crane was lying on his bed. He had taken off his coat and shoes. “I wish I had,” he said. There was a half-filled bottle of Dewar’s White Label and a glass on a table beside the bed. He had been reading a copy of Black Mask.

  O’Malley removed his coat, jerked off his black tie. “I’m going swimming.”


  Crane sat up in bed. “You’re drunk.”

  “No, Miss Day and I are going.”

  “In this thunderstorm?”

  “Hell, the thunder’s thirty miles off. The moon’s out.”

  Crane got off the bed, looked out the french windows. The moon was to the right, low on the horizon. It was just above a bank of milky clouds.

  “I’d go, too,” he said, “only I’ve got a date.”

  O’Malley brought his trunks out of the bathroom. “Who with?”

  “Imago.”

  “You better be careful she don’t stick you with that little dagger.”

  “It isn’t that kind of a date.” Crane stared at the path the moon made across the black water. “… At least I don’t think so.”

  “Jesus, these feel clammy!” O’Malley said, pulling on his trunks. “What did you find out from the major?”

  “Nothing. Exactly nothing.”

  “What was he usin’ the red ink for?”

  “To balance the estate’s books. He showed them to me.”

  “Was he tough?”

  “No more than usual.”

  “Is he clear?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Maybe we’ll get something on him later,” said O’Malley hopefully.

  There was a distant growl of thunder. The wind seemed to be fresher; it rustled the palms and started the french window swinging shut. Crane stopped it before it slammed, said, “You better get going or there will be a storm.”

  O’Malley had on his beach robe and an orange and white towel was draped over his arm. “Will you be needing all that whisky?” he asked.

  “I guess not.” Crane filled the tumbler, gave the bottle to O’Malley. “Don’t let Essex catch you.”

  O’Malley grinned. “He’s dead to the world. He’s sleepin’ under blankets on the couch in the library.”

  Alone again, Crane glanced at his watch. It was nearly two. He sat on the bed and pulled on his shoes. He tied his black bow tie and put on his coat. He drank about a quarter of the glass of whisky, then had a water chaser out of the thermos by his bed. He felt pretty good.

  He left the rest of the liquor for a night cap and went out into the hall and found Imago’s door and knocked softly.

  After a moment the door opened. Imago Paraguay looked out at him. “Aah,” she said. “It’s you.” She was wearing, as far as he could see, only a sheer robe-de-nuit. Just her head, an arm, part of one shoulder was visible. Light from a rose-shaded lamp in the room tinted her skin.

  Crane spoke in a low voice. “You were going to tell me something?”

  “No. I ha-ave changed my mind.”

  “Oh. I thought you …”

  “I am sor-ry.”

  “Then nobody is threatening you?”

  “Nobody.”

  He started to turn away. “Then I guess I better——”

  “Wait.” Her fingers caught his left wrist. “You think I am … strange, do you not?”

  “Why, no.”

  She pulled him toward her, with both hands unfastened the buttons on his coat. “Yes, you do.” Her black hair smelled as though it had been washed in Lux.

  “Well, perhaps.…”

  “Yes?” She grasped his shoulders, kissed him on the lips. “Yes?” She kissed him again. Her pointed breasts, under the sheer silk, hurt his chest. Over her curved shoulder, under her transparent robe-de-nuit, he could see the graceful curve of her naked back. Violently she released him. “You still think …?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “No?” She tore open his silk shirt. “No?” She made a claw of her hand, drew it across his bare chest from nipple to nipple. Her nails hurt like hell. He looked down, saw blood ooze from four horizontal slashes on the tan skin.

  “You bitch,” he said. “You sweet little bitch.” He pushed her back into the room, closed the door. “I still don’t know, but I’m sure as hell going to find out.”

  Chapter XIII

  WHEN HE WOKE he was in bed and he did not know where until he touched the woman beside him. He touched her shoulder, but she did not move. She felt cool to his fingers and he pulled a silky sheet over her. Her skin had the fragrance, the texture of expensive soap.

  He sat up in bed, his nostrils clogged with the odor of sandal wood. Imago Paraguay. He smiled in the darkness. He was tired, but he felt it had been a memorable evening. He wondered how she felt about it. He wondered what time it was. He wondered if she was awake. He touched her tentatively, but she didn’t respond. He wasn’t surprised, recalling the sleeping capsule she had taken. He wished he had a drink.

  He remembered the whisky decanter he had seen on a table and switched on the light at the head of the bed. The yellow rays fell upon the dancer, outlined a rounded shoulder, the delicate V of her collarbone, the swell of breasts under the sheet. Her head was in shadow and the light didn’t wake her.

  He climbed out of bed and poured himself a drink. He looked around the room and saw his shirt, socks and underwear flung over a chair by the french windows. He saw Imago Paraguay’s black hair across a pillow, like a smudge of soot on snow. He looked at the electric clock on the table beside Imago and saw it was twenty minutes past four. He looked at Imago.…

  He had another drink and looked at Imago again. Her slender body was quiet under the sheet. Her shoulders were exquisite. He felt pretty good again and he wondered how deeply asleep she was. Could a person who had taken a sleeping capsule be easily aroused? Would she mind?

  Well, hell, there was only one way of finding out. He took a final drink of the scotch and crossed the room to the bed. He sat down beside her on the bed and waited, but she didn’t move. He bent over and kissed her shoulder. “Hi, babe,” he said. She didn’t move and he adjusted the light so that the lemon beam crossed her face. She was lying on her back and her ebony-black eyes were wide open. Her skin, usually pale ivory, was the color of claret wine. Startled, he touched her bare shoulder, then shook it violently. It didn’t do any good. She was dead.

  His first thought was of flight. He’d be in a jam if anyone found him in the room. It would make a really fine scandal. He started for his clothes, then halted. The unnatural flush of Imago’s skin stirred his memory. He went back to the bed, knelt on the floor and put his nose to her cerise lips. There was a faint, bitter odor. It reminded him of almonds. Cyanide of potassium!

  His surprise made him forget his own danger. Beside her, on a small table, was a thermos bottle, a glass half filled with water and a small box of white card board. He smelled the thermos, then the glass. Both were odorless. He opened the box and took out three of the dozen or so capsules inside. He opened these and smelled the gray powder with which they were filled. It was odorless. The label on the box read VERONAL. He frowned and looked at the dead woman.

  Suicide? Would she kill herself to get him in a jam? He didn’t think so. He went to the door and found it was bolted on the inside. He looked out the french windows. From the balcony to the patio was an impossible jump. From the roof to the balcony was another long jump. No one could have come and gone that way. Back beside Imago’s bed he stared down at the body. He had an impulse to close the purple lids over the India-ink eyes, but he decided he’d better not touch her. It was a hell of a time to commit suicide, he thought, but how could anyone have gotten into the room to poison her?

  He fingered the box marked VERONAL. There were two small scars on the box, almost as if someone had started to cut it with a pair of scissors. He wondered if someone had slipped a cyanide capsule in with the veronal. That would be a way of murdering her, but not a very good one if the murderer was in a hurry. She might not come to the cyanide until the last two or three capsules; not for a week or so. No, suicide seemed the——

  There was a gentle knocking at the door.

  He stood absolutely motionless, holding his breath. His heart beat in his ears; his body was suddenly covered with goose flesh. He waited. At last he had to swallow to clear his throat so
he could breathe.

  The knocking was repeated. A low voice said, “Imago.”

  He recognized the voice as that of Miss Langley. He kept as quiet as he was able, breathing through his open mouth. He was frightened.

  “Imago,” said Miss Langley, knocking again. “Let me in.”

  There was a long pause.

  “All right,” said Miss Langley. “You’ll be sorry.”

  He could hear the departing swish of her nightgown.

  He found he was still grasping the box of veronal. He wiped it off with the sheet on the bed and, holding it with the cloth, put it back on the table. He pulled the sheet over Imago’s slender body. He knew he’d better get the hell out of there. He didn’t want to try to explain just what he was doing in the room.

  He went over to the chair and put on his silk shorts, his silk socks and patent-leather pumps, his shirts.… Where in the bloody hell were his trousers? He remembered putting them across the top of the chair. They were no longer there. He looked on the floor, under the bed, behind the table.… Could they be with his coat? He hurried to the green chaise longue on which he had thrown his coat. It was there, white and wrinkled, but there were no trousers. Violently he searched the closet, moving sandalwood-scented gowns, pawing hatboxes, feeling around shoes. He went through a chest of drawers in the small dressing room leading to the bathroom, looked on top of it, under it; peered around the bathroom. He lifted the sheet on the bed, raised the peach-colored blanket thrown over the foot, unfolded the silken bedcover. He looked back at the bare chair on which his clothes had hung.

  Another thought occurred to him. He darted to his coat, shoved his hand into the inside pocket. He sighed with relief. The nine thousand dollars was still there.

  But his trousers? He knew he had hung them across the chair. Some son of a bitch had stolen them. That meant Imago had been murdered. That meant someone had been in the room. He felt very indignant. A lot of respect criminals had for detectives in this part of the world!

  He put on his coat and took one last tour of the room. The door was locked from the inside. With Essex’ guards outside, he was confident no one could have reached the balcony from the roof or the patio. There was no other balcony near it. The bathroom window was locked from the inside. There was no window in the dressing room. He looked at the ceiling in the bedroom. It was calcimined white and there were only the four foot-square ventilators in the corners, just as in his room. There were absolutely no marks on the clean surface of the ceiling. He stared up at the ventilator over the bed. It would be impossible for anything larger than a monkey to come through that. Certainly nobody had come into the room through the ceiling.