“Sheriff Lens knows, and the mayor soon will know. They can’t bring any charge against you, but it might be better if you left Northmont, moved back to Hartford.”
He studied my face for a long time. “Don’t you understand it’s something I had to do? Whether he lived or died was out of my hands.”
“Whether you stay or go is out of my hands, too,” I told him.
“All right,” he said at last. “I’ll take your advice.”
I left the booth and went back to join Annabel. I’d done all that I could.
A Shower of Daggers
Edward D. Hoch
Susan Holt awoke with a start, wondering why her bed felt so hard. Then memory flooded back in a blinding instant of terror and she knew she was in a jail cell, accused of murder. She opened her eyes and saw a woman in the next holding cell staring at her through the bars. “You’re awake,” the woman said.
“What? Yes. Yes, I’m awake. What time is it, please?”
“Barely daylight. Quarter to seven.”
Susan groaned. She’d slept less than three hours and her mouth felt as if it was full of cobwebs. She glanced at the lidless toilet in one corner of the cell. “Do they give you anything to eat here?”
“Pretty soon now. They’ll bring something around seven o’clock. What you in for?”
“Murder, I guess. I haven’t been charged yet.” The other woman gave a low whistle of appreciation and Susan hastened to add, “I didn’t do it.”
“Have you called a lawyer?”
“Not exactly. I called someone who’ll get me a lawyer.” She had called Mike Brentnor, her coworker in promotions at Mayfield’s, Manhattan’s largest department store. He was hardly a friend, but in the middle of the night in a strange city she was feeling desperate. Considering that she’d awakened him from a sound sleep, he’d been both concerned and reassuring, promising to be on the first morning plane out of LaGuardia, a flight that would take less than an hour.
Presently a guard brought her a breakfast tray with some juice, coffee, and a hard roll. “You’ll be brought before the judge at ten o’clock,” he said, not unkindly. “Have you seen your lawyer yet?”
“No. I think someone’s on the way.”
Mike Brentnor arrived a few minutes before nine, looking just a bit flustered. He was slim and slyly handsome, around thirty, the sort of man Susan used to see by the dozen in Manhattan singles bars. She met with him now in one of the interrogation rooms. “I phoned Marx from the airport and he gave me the name of a good criminal lawyer up here,” he told her.
For an instant she was dismayed that he’d reported to their superior, but of course Saul Marx would have to know about it. She wouldn’t be flying back as planned this afternoon. She’d be in a jail cell in upstate New York. “What did he say?”
“That it must be a mistake. Who is this person you’re supposed to have killed?”
“Betty Quint. It’s a long story. I’d rather just go over it once when the lawyer’s here.”
“I left word at his office. They were going to try catching him at home so he could come directly here. Mayfield’s name carries some weight, I guess.”
“I’m glad of that!” The coffee had revived her and she was feeling a little more human.
“I’m pleased you phoned me, Susan. I heard you broke up with Russell and I can’t say I’m sorry about that. You know I’ve always had a fondness for you.”
“Fondness? Is that what you call it?” She decided to make things clear from the beginning. A night in a jail cell had intensified the anger she sometimes felt toward Brentnor, though she knew none of what had happened was his fault. “I phoned you because I didn’t want to wake Saul in the middle of the night, and yours was the only other Mayfield’s home phone number I had with me. I do appreciate your flying up here, but let’s not get the wrong idea.”
“All right,” he agreed, flushing at her harsh words. “Now tell me what—”
A guard came to announce that her lawyer had arrived. He bustled in looking like an upstate version of Mike Brentnor, though with more style. She had a sudden vision of him in a courtroom defending her on the murder charge.
“Hello, Miss Holt,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Irving Farber from the firm of Freeman and Farber. That’s my father in the firm name, not me.” A smile flashed across his face, then was gone. He was all business. “What happened here?”
“I’ve been arrested for murder is what happened,” Susan said, her anger rising again.
“Have you made a statement to the police?”
“I told them what happened. They questioned me for hours until I demanded a lawyer.”
“That’s good.” He took a yellow legal pad from his briefcase and started to make notes. “What about the assistant D.A.? Was he in to see you?”
She nodded. “After they photographed and fingerprinted me. I told him I wanted to phone a coworker to get me a lawyer. By that time all I wanted was some sleep.”
“All right, Susan. May I call you Susan? Suppose you tell me your story from the beginning.”
He glanced questioningly at Mike Brentnor and Susan said, “It’s all right if he stays. I have nothing to hide.”
“Let’s start at the beginning. What brought you to our city?”
Susan took a deep breath, as if she was about to dive into a swimming pool. “I work for Mayfield’s, the Manhattan department store. We’re opening our first location in western New York at your new shopping mall in Pembroke and I flew up to work out the details of some special promotions. Betty Quint was my contact here.”
More notes. “How long had you known Miss Quint?”
“I’d met her once at our New York office about six months ago. She stayed overnight at my apartment. We’d been in constant touch by phone, fax, and E-mail since then. This is my first trip up here because there was no point in coming until the store was almost ready to open.”
“When does it open?”
“Next Tuesday. A week from today.”
“Go on. Describe everything that happened.”
I took the Monday afternoon flight up from LaGuardia (Susan continued), arriving at midafternoon. Betty met me at the airport and drove me to the new store. She was a friendly, uninhibited young woman of about my age, around thirty. Seeing her again confirmed my impression of her from our initial meeting at the New York store. She was a good worker, perfect for this store, but perhaps lacking the cool sophistication needed for the Manhattan retail scene. She liked jokes and didn’t mind attracting attention to herself. I wasn’t surprised when she mentioned she was active in a local theater group.
We toured the completed Mayfield’s store, where clerks were busy unpacking merchandise for the shelves and racks. Betty consulted her notebook frequently as she led the way through the store, pointing out special features of interest. A small café was already open for the employees and we took advantage of it for coffee and a snack.
“I’m so excited to be part of the Mayfield’s team!” Betty gushed. “Have you been with them long?”
“About nine years. Ever since college.”
“I thought Manhattan was very exciting when I was there in the spring.”
“It is, but most of my excitement has come from traveling for the store. I’ve been to Tokyo, Iceland, Switzerland, London, and all over America.”
“Do you meet lots of men on the job?”
“Not too many,” I said. “I told you about Russell.”
“Are you back living with him?”
“No.” I felt like saying it was none of her business. Instead, I shifted the conversation back to the new store. “Do you have anyone helping you on promotions?”
“Sadie Shepherd, she’s my secretary.” Her face brightened. “There she is now! I’ll introduce you.” She called out to a slender dark-haired woman in her twenties who was already headed in our direction. “Sadie, this is Susan Holt, the promotions coordinator at Mayfield’s flagship store in Manhat
tan.”
The young woman had a pleasant smile and seemed eager to please. “So glad to meet you! Betty told me about the great time she had in New York.”
“It was fun for me too. Perhaps you can come down and see our store sometime.”
“I’d love that,” Sadie said, then turned her attention briefly to Betty. “I wanted to catch you before you left. Here are a couple of phone messages.”
“Thanks, Sadie.” She glanced at them and slipped them into a pocket of her notebook. When we were alone again she turned back to me. “It would be great if you could stay and help me through next Tuesday’s opening.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Betty. I have to fly back tomorrow afternoon. But we can go over lots of things while I’m here. If you’re free we can have dinner tonight. My expense account is fairly generous.”
“That would be great! We have a wonderful new French restaurant down by the harbor.”
“I’ll have to check in at my hotel first. I don’t want to inconvenience you. I should rent a car.”
“Why bother, for just one night? I’ll drive you to the hotel and then we can go to my place while I change.”
It wasn’t quite as simple as it sounded. Just as we pulled up at my hotel Betty received a call on her cell phone. She seemed annoyed at the caller, someone named Roger, and tried to get rid of him. “Look, I’m working right now, Roger. Sadie gave me your messages, but I was too busy to get back to you. Can’t we talk about this later?” She listened for a moment and then said, “I’m with someone from the New York office and we’ll be going back to my apartment.” When he said something else she uttered an obscenity and pushed the Off button on the phone.
I gave a grunt of approval. “Is Roger an old boyfriend?”
“Worse than that,” she said, but explained no further.
It took me a few minutes to check in and she accompanied me to my room.
“I just want to slip into a dress and we can be on our way,” I told her.
“It’s not a fancy place.”
“I’ve gotten a bit rumpled from traveling. I’ll only be a minute.”
She sat down on the bed. “Do you smoke?”
“Tried it. Gave it up.”
She’d opened her purse to take out a cigarette but then thought better of it. Meanwhile, I’d unzipped my overnight bag and removed this simple print dress I’d brought with me for early fall wear. I didn’t bother retreating to the bathroom for a modest change of clothes. We’d seen pretty much all of each other the night Betty stayed over at my Manhattan apartment. That was also the night she’d startled me by suggesting we stop for after-dinner drinks at the Plaza bar and then paying for them with a hundred-dollar bill.
“Can I use your phone?” she asked as I was freshening my makeup.
“Go ahead.” I motioned toward the nightstand.
She got an outside line and punched in a local number. When the party answered she started right in. “Roger phoned me awhile ago.” A pause and then, “Well, I don’t like it.”
I tried to keep busy with my make-up to avoid being too obvious about my eavesdropping. “I’m at the hotel now,” she said, “but I’ll be back to my apartment shortly. What’ll I do if he comes up and wants the money?”
She listened intently after that, finally said, “All right,” and hung up with a sigh.
“Is anything wrong?” I asked casually, finishing with my makeup.
“No, no. Just man trouble. You know how it is.”
We started out for her apartment but she was openly nervous, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror as if fearful of being followed. I wondered about that but asked no further questions, even when she seemed to double back on her route and take the long way through a number of narrow residential streets. “Less traffic this way,” she muttered, sensing my questioning gaze.
Presently we entered a neighborhood of large older homes, many of which had been split into apartments and needed ugly second – and third-floor fire escapes to comply with housing codes for multiple dwellings. Betty Quint parked in front of one of these. “Come on up. I want to take a quick shower and then we’ll be on our way.”
It was already after six and starting to get dark. Thick gray clouds had rolled in, threatening rain. She led the way to a side door which she quickly unlocked. I noticed there were two mailboxes, one with her name and the other with Mr & Mrs R. James Liction. “The landlord,” she said by way of explanation. “A retired couple. They live downstairs. Come on up.” She led the way to her second-floor apartment.
“It’s so large!” I marveled.
“I have the entire second floor,” she answered with pride. “These old houses are great bargains.” She dropped her things on the coffee table and walked to the front window, gazing down at the street. “Damn!”
“What’s the matter?”
“He’s down there in a car. I think we were followed.”
“Roger?”
“I’m going to shower,” she said, walking into the bedroom as she shed her outer garments. I hesitated to follow but then she called to me. “Here’s something you might like even if you did quit smoking.”
I walked into the bedroom and found her holding out a cigarette with crimped ends. “What is it, pot?” I asked.
“Sure! It’s good stuff. Helps you unwind after a day’s work.”
“No thanks. But go ahead if you want one.”
She shrugged and tossed the joint on the bedside table. “I don’t like to smoke alone.”
Wearing only a bra and panties she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, rummaging in a cabinet for a bath towel. “Come on in, Susan. Talk to me while I shower.” She handed me the towel to hold.
I sat on the closed toilet seat, feeling uncomfortable as she shed her underwear and tossed it into a laundry hamper. Then she felt the spray of water with her hand and stepped into the shower, pulling the curtain closed behind her. “Tell me about the Manhattan store,” she called out over the rush of water. “Is it true a homeless man lived there for days before he was discovered?”
“I’ve heard stories like that, but I—”
Betty Quint screamed, just once, chilling my spine. Then there was a thump as her body went down in the tub. “Betty!” I yanked open the shower curtain and stared at her body, drenched in the pounding spray of hot water.
She’d been stabbed once in the back with a slender dagger that still protruded from the bloody wound. A second, identical dagger lay in the tub near her foot. Otherwise the tub was empty.
I was alone in the steamy bathroom with her body.
Irving Farber scratched his nose and stared at Susan. “That story is impossible, you know. It couldn’t have happened the way you told it.”
“But it did!” she insisted. “I called 911 and the police were there within minutes.”
“And they arrested you.”
“Not right away. They questioned me for hours, trying to make me change my story. They accused me of all sorts of wild things, especially after they found the pot. I told them neither of us had smoked it but they kept pounding at it. One of the detectives suggested we’d been high on pot and made love to each other, and then I killed her to hush it up. That’s when I demanded a lawyer.”
Farber’s face was grim. “What was the detective’s name?”
“Sergeant Razerwell.”
He made a note of it. “Tell me, Susan, what’s your explanation for Betty Quint’s death?”
“I have none. I agree it’s impossible.”
“Did you touch anything in the apartment after you phoned the police?”
“No. I didn’t even turn off the shower. I couldn’t go back in there and see her again. I just sat in the bedroom and shivered until I had to open the door for the police.”
Farber glanced at Mike Brentnor. “Will the store go bail for her?”
The question startled him. “I – I don’t know. Depends on how much it is, I suppose.” He wasn’t about to
admit he had no authority in the matter.
“Who’s your boss?”
“Saul Marx.”
Irving Farber glanced at his watch. “Is he in the office by now? It’s nearly ten.”
“He should be.”
“Get on the phone and ask him about bail. Meanwhile, I’ll talk to the assistant D.A. and find out how much they’ll be wanting.”
“Is there a chance I’ll get out of here?” Susan asked, her hopes soaring at the thought of it.
“Depends on the D.A. ‘s office. Don’t get your hopes up.” He put the yellow pad in his attaché case and snapped it shut.
Susan glanced at her watch. “I’m supposed to be in court in ten minutes.”
“They’ll come for you when they’re ready. Sometimes these things are a bit loose. If they don’t get you there, it’s their fault, not yours.”
The attorney and Mike Brentnor departed, leaving Susan to wonder just where she stood. She’d investigated a few murders in the past, during her travels for Mayfield’s, but she’d never been accused of committing one herself. The killing of Betty Quint while she was alone in the shower seemed so impossible that, paradoxically, Susan felt the solution must be a simple thing she could easily discover once she was free.
Presently one of the guards came for her. “Am I going before the judge?” she asked.
“Not yet. They want to question you some more.”
Susan was immediately on guard. “My attorney—”
“He’s been notified.”
She was ushered into one of the interrogation rooms, where she sat down at the bare table to wait. Presently the door opened and a stocky red-haired man she’d never seen before entered. He was carrying a briefcase and Irving Farber was right behind him. “Good morning, Miss Holt,” the redhead said, flashing a smile that was quickly gone. “I’m Adam Dullea, US Secret Service.” He flashed an ID that looked like miniature currency with its finely engraved borders.
Susan panicked, imagining some labyrinthian plot against the president. What had she gotten herself into? “What do you want?”
“I just have a few questions regarding your relationship with Betty Quint.” He opened his briefcase and took out a clear plastic envelope with a hundred-dollar bill inside. “Have you ever seen one of these?”
The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes & Impossible Mysteries Page 26