The elegant couple had found the back door, but I moved between them and the exit. ‘You can’t leave,’ I said. ‘There’s been a death, a violent one. The police will come and want to question us all.’
‘Not us,’ the man said. ‘We’re not involved. We can’t be here.’
When I saw his face full on I recognized him. He was Leo Maxwell, the playboy and rich industrialist’s son, who was excoriated in the newspapers when he was found ‘unfit’ for the armed forces despite being an avid tennis and polo player. And if my memory of the last society page I’d seen him in was correct, the woman he was with was another man’s wife. She must have interpreted my expression correctly, for she pulled her sable collar up to cover her face. ‘Please, Leo, let’s go,’ she said.
Maxwell elbowed me aside and I allowed them to leave. What else could I do? Now that I knew who the man was I could tell the police his name. The two of them swept past me and out the back door, letting in a blast of freezing air as they left.
Walt’s drinking buddy was the next person to go AWOL. He pulled on his coat and hat and half ran to the front door. ‘Walt, this is your fault! I don’t need this, I’m going home,’ he called out as he slammed the door behind him.
The blonde woman made no attempt to leave. But instead of watching the drama behind the bar unfold, she simply unwound her scarf and pulled her book out of her pocketbook. As if she planned to keep reading while the situation was resolved. She must have had no nerves at all.
I heard Joe’s voice and turned back. He had Al by the arm and was leading him out from behind the bar. ‘The man’s dead,’ he said to Al. ‘There’s nothing we can do for him. We have to call the police now.’
‘There’s so much blood,’ Al said, his voice breaking. ‘It couldn’t all be Floyd’s, could it?’
Walt dragged Cal out from behind the bar and shoved the panicked barkeep into the chair. The boy put both hands on his chest and seemed to be having trouble breathing. ‘It wasn’t me,’ he said, between gulps of air. ‘It wasn’t! I found him there when I opened up this evening!’
‘And you decided just to leave him?’ Walt asked. ‘That makes no sense.’
‘I didn’t know what to do,’ Cal said. ‘The man was one of our customers. I was going to call the police after the bar closed. I swear.’
‘Sure you were,’ Walt said, raising his fist.
‘Stop it,’ Joe said to him, grabbing his arm. ‘Stop bullying him. Can’t you see the state he’s in? Questioning him is up to the police.’
The blonde woman, who’d opened her book for all as if she was in her own home, looked up from her page. ‘Speaking of the police, has someone notified them?’ she asked. ‘Wouldn’t that be a good idea?’
‘The pay phone’s the only telephone we got. It’s on the wall behind the bar,’ Cal gasped out. No one seemed eager to go behind the bar where the dead man lay. And to my surprise neither Al nor Joe moved.
Of course, I thought, both men had accents. Not a good first impression when reporting a death to the DC Metropolitan Police. They were just as suspicious of foreigners as everyone else.
‘I’ll call them,’ I said.
‘Don’t, Louise,’ Joe said. ‘I’ll do it.’ But I was already behind the bar. I couldn’t help but see the body, but I wasn’t squeamish about it. Years of gutting fish at my parents’ fish camp had inured me to gore. Al was right, there was a great deal of blood. Only a very large, sharp knife could cause that kind of bleeding. And not with just one wound, either. The victim must have been stabbed several times. Before I looked away I noticed the dead man had black hair cut short and a nose that looked like it had been broken at least once. He wore overalls and scuffed shoes.
I raised the telephone receiver and realized I needed a nickel. My purse was back on the table along with what remained of my martini.
I turned to the men crowded around Cal, the barkeep. Al was fanning him with a dishtowel.
‘I need a nickel,’ I said.
Joe dug into his trouser pocket and tossed me a coin.
I caught it and dialed the operator. ‘I need the police,’ I said to her. ‘There’s been a murder. At the Baron Steuben Inn on Massachusetts Avenue, across from the old German embassy.’
It was a good thing there wasn’t another murder or a stickup in progress. It was twenty minutes before the police arrived. We spent most of it in silence. The blonde woman calmly turned the pages of The Robe. Al got Cal a glass of water, going into the bathroom near the back door to get it instead of behind the bar. Walt followed him, entering the bathroom after Al came out, then emerging with damp hair and tidy clothes – trying to look sober, I supposed. Joe tossed more logs on the fire until it roared. I gulped down the remains of my martini.
I was about ready to call the police again when we heard the familiar siren squeal of a DC Metropolitan Police car and the crunch of its wheels on ice as it pulled to a stop outside the bar. Through the front window we saw another draw up behind it.
Al opened the door. In limped an older man wearing a heavy coat and a dilapidated fedora, his face hidden by the scarf he’d wrapped around his neck up to his eyes. He leaned heavily on a cane. A uniformed policeman, equally bundled up, walked behind him carrying a black briefcase. Two more policemen with their revolvers drawn followed behind them. I could hear a frightened sound from Cal, a sort of gulp and exclamation combined.
The plainclothes policeman and I met each other’s eyes. I knew him immediately. He looked older and a little beat up, with more lines in his face. And he hadn’t shaved today, either.
‘Well, Mrs Pearlie,’ he said. ‘Fancy meeting you again. At a crime scene, too. Just like old times.’
It was Detective Sergeant Harvey Royal. I knew him from a drowning incident that involved an OSS employee some months ago. An incident I couldn’t discuss, of course.
Royal unwound his scarf and the policeman at his side quickly pulled out a chair so he could sit down.
‘Sergeant Royal,’ I said, stretching out my hand to shake his. ‘I’d say it was good to see you again, except …’ and I glanced at the bar.
‘Except for the corpse?’ he asked, allowing himself a brief smile.
He addressed the entire group. ‘I’m Detective Sergeant Harvey Royal of the DC Metropolitan Police.’ He nodded toward the policeman with the briefcase. ‘This is Officer Dickenson. He accompanies me everywhere because my lieutenant, who can barely shave, thinks I am too decrepit to manage on my own.’
Royal turned in his chair to speak to the policemen behind him. ‘You may holster your revolvers,’ he said. ‘Staines, you watch the front door. Morrison, find the back door. Make sure it’s secured and wait there. OK,’ he continued, ‘show me the corpse.’
‘It’s behind the bar,’ Al said. ‘Around here.’
Using his cane and with his right hand firmly gripping the seat of his chair, Royal pushed himself to his feet and limped behind the bar, followed by Dickenson. He stared silently at the corpse for a time, then grabbed at Dickenson’s hand for support as he lowered himself behind the bar out of our sight. He seemed to stay down there forever, but then we saw Dickenson struggle to raise him to his feet. Once upright Royal leaned heavily on the counter, breathing hard.
‘It had to be him,’ Walt said, pointing toward Cal. ‘He said he found the body just before he had to open the bar and was too scared to do anything about it. Who would do that? He’s been serving us all night with that bloody thing keeping him company.’
‘No,’ Cal said, ‘no! I swear I didn’t kill him!’
Royal glared at Walt and limped out from behind the bar. ‘I’ll do the police work here, thank you.’ He looked Cal up and down. ‘You don’t look strong enough to shove a knife that deep into a body,’ he said.
Cal looked like he’d been drowning and someone had just thrown him a rope. ‘I’m weak from the flu, too,’ he said. ‘I just got out of bed today because the boss said he’d fire me if I didn’t come to work.’
‘Sit down; you look like you’re about to fall over. For that matter you all might as well take the weight off for a few minutes,’ Royal said, pulling his notebook out of his pocket. Like characters in one of Mrs Christie’s stage plays gathering in the drawing room, we all took our original seats.
‘Mrs Pearlie, would you tell me what happened when the body was discovered?’
‘Why her?’ Walt asked. ‘I was the one who found him.’
‘Because I know Mrs Pearlie,’ Sergeant Royal said. ‘I know her to be truthful and pithy in her speech. Pithiness being the most important quality. And she’s not blotto.’
After I started to speak Royal interrupted me. ‘You and your friend were the last in this unfortunate little group to arrive?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘And your name?’ he said, looking at Joe.
‘Joseph Prager,’ Joe answered.
Royal raised an eyebrow at the sound of Joe’s accent. Joe answered his implicit question. ‘I’m a Czech with a British passport. I teach Slavic languages at George Washington University. I used to room at the same boarding house as Mrs Pearlie.’
‘Fine,’ Royal said. ‘Please continue, Mrs Pearlie.’
When I finished my story, Royal tapped the tabletop with his pencil. ‘Does anyone disagree with Mrs Pearlie on any of these particulars?’ he asked. No one answered. ‘Good,’ he said.
Royal looked over at the blonde woman sitting composedly under the dartboard. She had said nothing since he arrived, just sat patiently with her finger marking the place in her book where she’d stopped reading.
‘And your name is?’ he asked.
‘Mavis Forrester,’ she said.
‘Miss or Mrs? And your occupation, if any.’
‘I’m not married. I work in the circulation department at the Library of Congress.’
‘And you,’ he said, looking at Al.
‘I’m Al Becker.’
‘The dead man was a friend of yours?’
‘Not a close friend,’ Al answered. ‘His name was Floyd Stinson. We met each other here some months ago and have been playing chess most Saturday nights since.’
‘You have a German accent.’
‘I immigrated here after the last war.’
‘What do you do for a living?’
‘I work at the zoo. In the administrator’s office.’
For a few seconds the atmosphere in the bar lightened. The Washington zoo was one place in the capital city where one could go and forget the war. I spent many Sunday afternoons there. I’d never seen any exotic animals before, and was delighted by the giraffes, great cats and elephants. I found the great apes fascinating, even though I found their resemblance to human beings a bit discomfiting.
‘So, Mr Becker, what did your friend do for a living?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Really?’
‘We just played chess. He never mentioned work.’
‘Do you know where he lived? Or if he had a family?’
‘I know it seems odd, but we just played chess. The only other thing I know about him is that he lived around here. I mean, he walked here.’ Al paused, as if he’d had another thought he was deciding whether or not to share.
‘Spit it out,’ Royal said.
‘I’ve never seen him in work clothes before,’ Al answered. ‘I would have thought he did office work.’
Royal turned his attention to me. Thank goodness there was one person here he could trust.
‘Mrs Pearlie,’ Royal said, ‘you recognized one of the men who left the bar early as Leo Maxwell but you didn’t know his companion?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘I know who she is,’ Mavis Forrester spoke up. ‘Her name is Gloria Scott.’
Royal raised an eyebrow. ‘The Gloria Scott from the gossip columns?’
‘That’s the one,’ Mavis said. ‘She’s married to that Scott boy, the one whose family owns that huge ball bearing factory in Illinois, but she doesn’t let it interfere with her social life.’
‘And your friend,’ Royal said to Walt, ‘he left too.’
‘That was just Chippy,’ Walt said. ‘He spent six months in jail for selling ersatz gasoline coupons on the black market. He took off to avoid the police. He’s got nothing to do with this.’
‘Nonetheless,’ Royal said. ‘I need his name, address, and a telephone number where I can reach him. And all the rest of you, too. Give your information to Dickenson here.’ Royal handed his notebook off to the policeman. ‘Don’t talk to anyone, and I mean anyone, about this. That includes your families. I’ll find out if you do,’ he continued, ‘and you’ll regret it. I’ll get your official statements tomorrow.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Al said. ‘Aren’t you going to question us tonight? What about Floyd’s body? Where are the police photographers and the doctor?’
Royal massaged his knees. ‘Mr Becker,’ he said. ‘Your friend doesn’t need a doctor. He’s dead. After we examine the scene tomorrow his body will be transported to the police morgue and a doctor will examine him.’
‘You can’t just leave him here all night!’
‘I certainly can. It’s late and dangerously cold outside. It’s not necessary to bring our people out in this. Mr Stinson can wait until morning. I’m leaving Officers Staines and Morrison here to keep him company. You,’ he said to Cal. ‘You run this place?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Cal said.
‘Make sure the heat stays on so my officers can stay warm. How many keys to the doors do you have?’
Cal pulled a key ring out of his pocket. ‘I have one set,’ he said. ‘Front and back doors. The owner has another. He lives nearby, off Scott Circle.’
‘Give them to me,’ Royal said, reaching for the key ring. Cal handed them over.
‘Ain’t you going to arrest him?’ Walt asked, nodding at Cal.
‘No, at least not tonight,’ Royal answered. ‘Where do you live, boy?’ he asked Cal.
Cal pointed at the ceiling. ‘Upstairs. I got a room here so I can keep an eye on things.’
‘How do you get up there? From inside the bar?’
‘No, sir. The stairs is outside.’
‘OK. In the morning you call the owner and tell him what’s happened. Tell him the bar will be closed for a couple of days. In the meantime you don’t go anywhere, hear me?’
‘I got to go out to eat,’ Cal said.
‘Then tell the patrolmen on duty where you’ll be and when you’ll be back. This place will be packed with police tomorrow. Stay out of their way.’
‘Yes, sir. Can I go now?’
‘Yeah, go on. Get out of here.’
With one swift movement Cal grabbed his coat and was out the door. We could hear him clatter up the steps and into his room overhead.
Royal levered himself up from his chair, groaning in pain. ‘Goddamn knees,’ he said.
We stood around him, wrapped in our coats and scarves, waiting to be dismissed.
‘It’s bitter cold out there,’ Royal said. ‘How are you all getting home?’
‘I got my truck,’ Walt said.
‘I have my car too,’ Al said. ‘I live way up Connecticut Avenue, across the Taft Bridge.’
‘I can walk,’ Mavis said.
‘How far do you have to go?’ Al asked her. ‘I could give you a lift.’
‘It’s just across the street and around the corner,’ Mavis said. ‘I am perfectly capable of walking it, even in winter. Good night, everyone. I cannot say it’s been an enjoyable evening.’ Al held the door open for her as she left.
‘She’s one tough broad,’ Dickenson muttered to himself under his breath.
‘You two go on,’ Royal said to Al and Walt. ‘I’ll wait here a couple of minutes to make sure you can get your vehicles started.’
The two men left, leaving Joe and me behind with the two policemen.
‘How will the two of you get home? Do you have a car?’ Royal asked me.
�
��I’d planned to hail a taxi on Thomas Circle after we had our drink,’ Joe said. ‘Now I’m worried we won’t find one at this hour.’
Just thinking about walking home in this weather so late at night made me feel weary.
‘Dickenson and I will drive you,’ Royal said to me. ‘I can’t have my witnesses frozen solid. Do you still live in the same boarding house?’
‘I do,’ I said, ‘and Joe’s apartment is just a block to the west.’
After Royal spoke to the two policemen staying behind to guard the bar, Joe and I retrieved our coats, hats, scarves and gloves from the vestibule and the four of us went outside.
The street was desolate. No one in his right mind would stir on a night like this. No sane cat, dog or mouse either, for that matter. The streetscape, lined with bars and cafés with apartments above them, appeared abandoned, like a ghost town. Every now and then I could see a second-floor window edged with a narrow band of light escaping around blackout curtains, but that was the only sign people lived here. My breath escaped from behind my scarf in a cloud of white fog, so thick I couldn’t see out of my glasses, and I gripped Joe’s arm. Sergeant Royal grasped a lamppost for support as he stepped off the curb, but it was so cold he had to struggle to free his glove.
Parked on the street was a Chevy pickup enveloped by a miniature blizzard caused by the heat of its idle engine meeting frigid air. We couldn’t see the driver through the fog. We couldn’t miss the car, though – it was painted aqua. Painted by hand, with a paint brush.
‘What the hell,’ Royal said. ‘Dickenson, find out who that fool is.’
Before Dickenson got halfway to the car the driver rolled down the window. It was Walt.
‘Just getting the motor warm,’ he said. ‘I should be good now.’ He rolled up his window; we heard the truck go into gear and he moved down the street.
‘I believe that truck is uglier than my car,’ Royal said.
‘No one has a vehicle uglier than that bucket of yours,’ Dickenson said.
After using Royal’s cigarette lighter to thaw the car door handles, the four of us climbed into a black sedan with the emblem of the DC Metropolitan Police painted on the car doors. Dickenson engaged the engine, but it stalled. After waiting a couple of minutes Dickenson turned the ignition key again, and the engine fired.
Louise's Lies Page 2