He stopped talking and wiped his face again. The little girl’s eyes moved up and down with the motions of his hand.
In the silence that followed I said: “Did Morny threaten you?”
He shook his head. “He said he wanted his money and he needed it and I had better get busy and dig it up. But he wasn’t threatening. He was very decent, really. In the circumstances.”
“Where was this?”
“At the Idle Valley Club, in his private office.”
“Was Eddie Prue there?”
The little girl tore her eyes away from his face and looked at me. Mrs. Murdock said thickly: “Who is Eddie Prue?”
“Morny’s bodyguard,” I said. “I didn’t waste all my time yesterday, Mrs. Murdock.” I looked at her son, waiting.
He said: “No, I didn’t see him. I know him by sight, of course. You would only have to see him once to remember him. But he wasn’t around yesterday.”
I said: “Is that all?”
He looked at his mother. She said harshly: “Isn’t it enough?”
“Maybe,” I said. “Where is the coin now?”
“Where would you expect it to be?” she snapped.
I almost told her, just to see her jump. But I managed to hold it in. I said: “That seems to take care of that, then.”
Mrs. Murdock said heavily: “Kiss your mother, son, and run along.”
He got up dutifully and went over and kissed her on the forehead. She patted his hand. He went out of the room with his head down and quietly shut the door. I said to Merle: “I think you had better have him dictate that to you just the way he told it and make a copy of it and get him to sign it.”
She looked startled. The old woman snarled:
“She certainly won’t do anything of the sort. Go back to your work, Merle. I wanted you to hear this. But if I ever again catch you violating my confidence, you know what will happen.”
The little girl stood up and smiled at her with shining eyes. “Oh yes, Mrs. Murdock. I never will. Never. You can trust me.
“I hope so,” the old dragon growled. “Get out.”
Merle went out softly.
Two big tears formed themselves in Mrs. Murdock’s eyes and slowly made their way down the elephant hide of her cheeks, reached the corners of her fleshy nose and slid down her lip. She scrabbled around for a handkerchief, wiped them off and then wiped her eyes. She put the handkerchief away, reached for her wine and said placidly:
“I’m very fond of my son, Mr. Marlowe. Very fond. This grieves me deeply. Do you think he will have to tell this story to the police?”
“I hope not,” I said. “He’d have a hell of a time getting them to believe it.”
Her mouth snapped open and her teeth glinted at me in the dim light. She closed her lips and pressed them tight. scowling at me with her head lowered.
“Just what do you mean by that?” she snapped.
“Just what I said. The story doesn’t ring true. It has a fabricated, over-simple sound. Did he make it up himself or did you think it up and teach it to him?”
“Mr. Marlowe,” she said in a deadly voice, “you are treading on very thin ice.”
I waved a hand. “Aren’t we all? All right, suppose it’s true. Morny will deny it, and we’ll be right back where we started. Morny will have to deny it, because otherwise it would tie him to a couple of murders.”
“Is there anything so unlikely about that being the exact situation?” she blared.
“Why would Morny, a man with backing, protection and some influence, tie himself to a couple of small murders in order to avoid tying himself to something trifling, like selling a pledge? It doesn’t make sense to me.”
She stared, saying nothing. I grinned at her, because for the first time she was going to like something I said.
“I found your daughter-in-law, Mrs. Murdock. It’s a little strange to me that your son, who seems so well under your control, didn’t tell you where she was.”
“I didn’t ask him,” she said in a curiously quiet voice, for her.
“She’s back where she started, singing with the band at the Idle Valley Club. I talked to her. She’s a pretty hard sort of girl in a way. She doesn’t like you very well. I don’t find it impossible to think that she took the coin all right, partly from spite. And I find it slightly less impossible to believe that Leslie knew it or found it out and cooked up that yarn to protect her. He says he’s very much in love with her.”
She smiled. It wasn’t a beautiful smile, being on slightly the wrong kind of face. But it was a smile.
“Yes,” she said gently. “Yes. Poor Leslie. He would do just that. And in that case—” she stopped and her smile widened until it was almost ecstatic, “in that case my dear daughter-in-law may be involved in murder.”
I watched her enjoying the idea for a quarter of a minute. “And you’d just love that,” I said.
She nodded, still smiling, getting the idea she liked before she got the rudeness in my voice. Then her face stiffened and her lips came together hard. Between them and her teeth she said:
“I don’t like your tone. I don’t like your tone at all.”
“I don’t blame you,” I said. “I don’t like it myself. I don’t like anything. I don’t like this house or you or the air of repression in the joint, or the squeezed down face of the little girl or that twerp of a son you have, or this case or the truth I’m not told about it and the lies I am told about it and—”
She started yelling then, noise out of a splotched furious face, eyes tossing with fury, sharp with hate:
“Get out! Get out of this house at once! Don’t delay one instant! Get out!”
I stood up and reached my hat off the carpet and said: “I’ll be glad to.”
I gave her a sort of a tired leer and picked my way to the door and opened it and went out. I shut it quietly, holding the knob with a stiff hand and clicking the lock gently into place.
For no reason at all.
22
Steps gibbered along after me and my name was called and I kept on going until I was in the middle of the living room. Then I stopped and turned and let her catch up with me, out of breath, her eyes trying to pop through her glasses and her shining copper-blond hair catching funny little lights from the high windows.
“Mr. Marlowe? Please! Please don’t go away. She wants you. She really does!”
“I’ll be darned. You’ve got Sub-deb Bright on your mouth this morning. Looks all right too.”
She grabbed my sleeve. “Please!”
“The hell with her,” I said. “Tell her to jump in the lake. Marlowe can get sore too. Tell her to jump in two lakes, if one won’t hold her. Not clever, but quick.”
I looked down at the hand on my sleeve and patted it. She drew it away swiftly and her eyes looked shocked.
“Please, Mr. Marlowe. She’s in trouble. She needs you.”
“I’m in trouble too,” I growled. “I’m up to my ear flaps in trouble. What are you crying about?”
“Oh, I’m really very fond of her. I know she’s rough and blustery, but her heart is pure gold.”
“To hell with her heart too,” I said. “I don’t expect to get intimate enough with her for that to make any difference. She’s a fat-faced old liar. I’ve had enough of her. I think she’s in trouble all right, but I’m not in the excavating business. I have to get told things.”
“Oh, I’m sure if you would only be patient—”
I put my arm around her shoulders, without thinking. She jumped about three feet and her eyes blazed with panic.
We stood there staring at each other, making breath noises, me with my mouth open as it too frequently is, she with her lips pressed tight and her little pale nostrils quivering. Her face was as pale as the unhandy makeup would let it be.
“Look,” I said slowly, “did something happen to you when you were a little girl?”
She nodded, very quickly.
“A man scared you or something l
ike that?”
She nodded again. She took her lower lip between her little white teeth.
“And you’ve been like this ever since?”
She just stood there, looking white.
“Look,” I said, “I won’t do anything to you that will scare you. Not ever.”
Her eyes melted with tears.
“If I touched you,” I said, “it was just like touching a chair or a door. It didn’t mean anything. Is that clear?”
“Yes.” She got a word out at last. Panic still twitched in the depths of her eyes, behind the tears. “Yes.”
“That takes care of me,” I said. “I’m all adjusted. Nothing to worry about in me any more. Now take Leslie. He has his mind on other things. You know he’s all right—in the way we mean. Right?”
“Oh, yes,” she said. “Yes, indeed.” Leslie was aces. With her. With me he was a handful of bird gravel.
“Now take the old wine barrel,” I said. “She’s rough and she’s tough and she thinks she can eat walls and spit bricks, and she bawls you out, but she’s fundamentally decent to you, isn’t she?”
“Oh, she is, Mr. Marlowe. I was trying to tell you—”
“Sure. Now why don’t you get over it? Is he still around—this other one that hurt you?”
She put her hand to her mouth and gnawed the fleshy part at the base of the thumb, looking at me over it, as if it was a balcony.
“He’s dead,” she said. “He fell out of a—out of a—a window.”
I stopped her with my big right hand. “Oh, that guy. I heard about him. Forget it, can’t you?”
“No,” she said, shaking her head seriously behind the hand. “I can’t. I can’t seem to forget it at all. Mrs. Murdock is always telling me to forget it. She talks to me for the longest times telling me to forget it. But I just can’t.”
“It would be a darn sight better,” I snarled, “if she would keep her fat mouth shut about it for the longest times. She just keeps it alive.”
She looked surprised and rather hurt at that. “Oh, that isn’t all,” she said. “I was his secretary. She was his wife. He was her first husband. Naturally she doesn’t forget it either. How could she?”
I scratched my ear. That seemed sort of non-committal. There was nothing much in her expression now except that I didn’t really think she realized that I was there. I was a voice coming out of somewhere, but rather impersonal. Almost a voice in her own head.
Then I had one of my funny and often unreliable hunches. “Look,” I said, “is there someone you meet that has that effect on you? Some one person more than another?”
She looked all around the room. I looked with her. Nobody was under a chair or peeking at us through a door or a window.
“Why do I have to tell you?” she breathed.
“You don’t. It’s just how you feel about it.”
“Will you promise not to tell anybody—anybody in the whole world, not even Mrs. Murdock?”
“Her last of all,” I said. “I promise.”
She opened her mouth and put a funny little confiding smile on her face, and then it went wrong. Her throat froze up. She made a croaking noise. Her teeth actually rattled.
I wanted to give her a good hard squeeze but I was afraid to touch her. We stood. Nothing happened. We stood. I was about as much use as a hummingbird’s spare egg would have been.
Then she turned and ran. I heard her steps going along the halls. I heard a door close.
I went after her along the hall and reached the door. She was sobbing behind it. I stood there and listened to the sobbing.
There was nothing I could do about it. I wondered if there was anything anybody could do about it.
I went back to the glass porch and knocked on the door and opened it and put my head in. Mrs. Murdock sat just as I had left her. She didn’t seem to have moved at all.
“Who’s scaring the life out of that little girl?” I asked her.
“Get out of my house,” she said between her fat lips. I didn’t move. Then she laughed at me hoarsely. “Do you regard yourself as a clever man, Mr. Marlowe?”
“Well, I’m not dripping with it,” I said.
“Suppose you find out for yourself.”
“At your expense?”
She shrugged her heavy shoulders. “Possibly. It depends. Who knows?”
“You haven’t bought a thing,” I said. “I’m still going to have to talk to the police.”
“I haven’t bought anything,” she said, “and I haven’t paid for anything. Except the return of the coin. I’m satisfied to accept that for the money I have already given you. Now go away. You bore me. Unspeakably.”
I shut the door and went back. No sobbing behind the door. Very still. I went on.
I let myself out of the house. I stood there, listening to the sunshine burn the grass. A car started up in back and a gray Mercury came drifting along the drive at the side of the house. Mr. Leslie Murdock was driving it. When he saw me he stopped.
He got out of the car and walked quickly over to me. He was nicely dressed; cream colored gabardine now, all fresh clothes, slacks, black and white shoes, with polished black toes, a sport coat of very small black and white check, black and white handkerchief, cream shirt, no tie. He had a pair of green sunglasses on his nose.
He stood close to me and said in a low timid sort of voice: “I guess you think I’m an awful heel.”
“On account of that story you told about the doubloon?”
“Yes.”
“That didn’t affect my way of thinking about you in the least,” I said.
“Well—”
“Just what do you want me to say?”
He moved his smoothly tailored shoulders in a deprecatory shrug. His silly little reddish brown mustache glittered in the sun.
“I suppose I like to be liked,” he said.
“I’m sorry, Murdock. I like your being that devoted to your wife. If that’s what it is.”
“Oh. Didn’t you think I was telling the truth? I mean, did you think I was saying all that just to protect her?”
“There was that possibility.”
“I see.” He put a cigarette into the long black holder, which he took from behind his display handkerchief. “Well—I guess I can take it that you don’t like me.” The dim movement of his eyes was visible behind the green lenses, fish moving in a deep pool.
“It’s a silly subject,” I said. “And damned unimportant. To both of us.”
He put a match to the cigarette and inhaled. “I see,” he said quietly. “Pardon me for being crude enough to bring it up.”
He turned on his heel and walked back to his car and got in. I watched him drive away before I moved. Then I went over and patted the little painted Negro boy on the head a couple of times before I left.
“Son,” I said to him, “you’re the only person around this house that’s not nuts.”
23
The police loudspeaker box on the wall grunted and a voice said: “KGPL. Testing.” A click and it went dead.
Detective-Lieutenant Jesse Breeze stretched his arms high in the air and yawned and said: “Couple of hours late, ain’t you?”
I said: “Yes. But I left a message for you that I would be. I had to go to the dentist.”
“Sit down.”
He had a small littered desk across one corner of the room. He sat in the angle behind it, with a tall bare window to his left and a wall with a large calendar about eye height to his right. The days that had gone down to dust were crossed off carefully in soft black pencil, so that Breeze glancing at the calendar always knew exactly what day it was.
Spangler was sitting sideways at a smaller and much neater desk. It had a green blotter and an onyx pen set and a small brass calendar and an abalone shell full of ashes and matches and cigarette stubs. Spangler was flipping a handful of bank pens at the felt back of a seat cushion on end against the wall, like a Mexican knife thrower flipping knives at a target. He wasn’t getti
ng anywhere with it. The pens refused to stick.
The room had that remote, heartless, not quite dirty, not quite clean, not quite human smell that such rooms always have. Give a police department a brand new building and in three months all its rooms will smell like that. There must be something symbolic in it.
A New York police reporter wrote once that when you pass in beyond the green lights of a precinct station you pass clear out of this world, into a place beyond the law.
I sat down. Breeze got a cellophane-wrapped cigar out of his pocket and the routine with it started. I watched it detail by detail, unvarying, precise. He drew in smoke, shook his match out, laid it gently in the black glass ashtray, and said: “Hi, Spangler.”
Spangler turned his head and Breeze turned his head. They grinned at each other. Breeze poked the cigar at me.
“Watch him sweat,” he said.
Spangler had to move his feet to turn far enough around to watch me sweat. If I was sweating, I didn’t know it.
“You boys are as cute as a couple of lost golf balls,” I said. “How in the world do you do it?”
“Skip the wisecracks,” Breeze said. “Had a busy little morning?”
“Fair,” I said.
He was still grinning. Spangler was still grinning. Whatever it was Breeze was tasting he hated to swallow it. Finally he cleared his throat, straightened his big freckled face out, turned his head enough so that he was not looking at me but could still see me and said in a vague empty sort of voice:
“Hench confessed.”
Spangler swung clear around to look at me. He leaned forward on the edge of his chair and his lips were parted in an ecstatic half smile that was almost indecent.
I said: “What did you use on him—a pickax?”
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