Death Demands an Audience

by Helen Reilly

  The reply was from the chief of police of Walnut Springs. He had located and interviewed George Booth, Franklin Borrow’s onetime college mate and fraternity brother. McKee ran his eyes over the verbosities, picking out the salient features.

  Booth was a prominent rancher in that part of Texas. He hadn’t seen Borrow for a long time but he remembered their college association very clearly. There were a lot of inconsequential anecdotes of bygone days set forth in the Texas chief’s long-winded phrases. A paragraph embedded in the middle of them caught the Scotsman’s attention. Booth had labored it, rather. McKee read:

  Booth recalls that something serious happened to Borrow between his sophomore and junior years at Yale. When he left New Haven in June of 1912 he was as cheerful a lad as you would want to see. When he returned in the fall he was completely changed, Booth says. He drank and gambled and cut classes and generally made a mess of the whole semester. Asked as to what he attributed this, Booth said he didn’t know. All he did know was that Borrow had worked that summer as a waiter at the Eldorado Hotel, a resort in the mountains beyond Denver owned by a Yale man and at that time quite a fashionable place.

  There was a good deal more of detail but nothing more on what had happened to cause this change in Borrow. The Texas chief’s message ran on. McKee put the typewritten sheets down. It wasn’t much. But then there was so very little anywhere. He went to the phone and called Shearer back.

  “How quickly can you pack, Lieutenant?”

  “In whatever time you say, Inspector.”

  “O.K. Get your bag. Get your clearance and take the first plane west out of North Beach that you can grab a seat on. You may have to change at Chicago. Get to Denver as fast as you can and locate the Eldorado Hotel mentioned in the Walnut Springs report, if it’s still in existence. Find out all you can about what Franklin Borrow did there in the summer of 1912. It’s a tough one but do the best you can. Keep in touch by wire.”

  McKee began dictating a memorandum for the commissioner. He was in the middle of it when Detective Niles came in. Niles said,

  “Tom Beard’s watching Jones now, Inspector. He’s in the tavern having a couple of beers and playing poker dice with the bartender. I thought while I had the chance I’d report to you on him.”

  “Shoot,” McKee said.

  “Jones slept here last night, as you know. Down there in that room at the far end of the hall. We couldn’t check on just what time he got here but we do know he was in town by around half-past-five yesterday. This morning he got up at nine, had his breakfast in the restaurant beyond the drugstore and at around half-past ten he took a stroll up the street to the big stone church. He didn’t go in, he just stood around outside and watched the people leaving after the service was over.”

  “Did he speak to anyone?” McKee asked.

  “No, he just looked at the men and women and kids coming out and then he walked to the stationery store and bought himself a cigar. He read the papers in the lobby and when the tavern opened he went in and had lunch and knocked over a couple. From the tavern do you know where he went? He went for a country walk. Yeah, he made a complete circle of the Cambridge estate.”

  McKee made no comment. Niles said,

  “I wasn’t surprised and I guess you’re not either, Inspector. Ever since he hit town he’s been asking questions about the Cambridge family. Anyhow, he gets up there to the road in front of Gregory Cambridge’s house and picks him a seat on top of a stone wall under some pine branches near the driveway. He lit a cigarette, he lit one after another. By and large,” Niles calculated, “he stays there about three quarters of an hour.

  “Nothing much happens. First Mr and Mrs Cambridge drive out in the big car and then the young girl and her boy friend take off in the roadster. I’m waiting. But after they’re gone Jones doesn’t make any attempt to go near the house. Not at all. He cuts around to the Leslie Cambridge house.

  “Same process there. He lies low, giving the place the once over. There wasn’t nothing special to see. Leslie Cambridge took the dog out for a little walk. That was about all. And then Jones came back to town and went into the tavern where he is now.”

  McKee considered the activities of the little man who had been one of Franklin Borrow’s helpers in Garth and Campbell’s in silence for a moment. Jones’s procedure from the time he went back into the display department at four-three on the afternoon of Borrow’s death until the time he actually left was still an enigma. He said thoughtfully, “These questions of Jones’ about the Cambridges, any particular slant to them?”

  Niles said, “Just who was who and which was which and did they have much money and stuff like that.”

  The inspector said, “All right, Niles. You’d better get some sleep. They’re holding a couple of beds for us in the state-police barracks. Report back at midnight.”

  Niles went out. Kent paused to say, fingers suspended over the keys, “This guy Jones is a queer fish, Inspector. He must know we’re up here. He’s a nervy duck, busting right in in spite of us.”

  The Scotsman crossed long legs one over the other and picked up his pen. He said slowly:

  “Jones’ fear of us is outweighed by something much more compelling. I don’t know what it is at this stage. That’s why

  I don’t want to pick him up. And yet ” He broke off

  short, stared through the dusky window at the somnolent quiet of the Sunday afternoon that enveloped the small snowy country town. The bank diagonally opposite the ramshackle hotel was already draped in black in deference to its principal stockholder. Darkness was coming over the hills. Another night was about to draw down. The Scotsman’s brooding gaze was narrowed, cornered. He hadn’t finished his sentence.

  Kent said, “And yet—what, Inspector?”

  McKee said, “A crime, twin crimes, without a motive. I don’t like it, Kent, I don’t like any part of it.” He turned back to his report with a brusque movement.

  Half an hour later, after a trip to the post office up the street where he deposited two bulky envelopes, one addressed to Police Commissioner Carey and one to the district attorney’s office, McKee paused at the foot of the stairs inside the dingy, garishly lighted lobby of the hotel, with its usual row of leather chairs facing the street and its dusty plush hangings.

  Judith Borrow was just coming in. Bright color burned in her slim dark face, painting the oval cheeks a delicate rose. The same green toque was set rakishly askew on dark-windblown curls. She had evidently been for a walk after her ordeal of the morning. Twice during that time she had been questioned again by Captain Rasmussen and the county prosecutor.

  She walked toward McKee, the short swinging skirts of the narrow-waisted military coat with the square shoulders flicking the calves of her shapely legs. She went past him, nodded curtly and mounted the stairs. There was a sullen tension in her whole carriage and bearing.

  The inspector was on his way to his own room when rapid footsteps sounded behind him. He turned. Michael Savage was striding toward the girl’s room. He didn’t see the Scotsman in the shadows of the battered corridor. The second-floor lights had not been turned on. Savage advanced to the girl’s closed door, knocked on it.

  “Judith,” he said softly. “Judith, let me in.”

  The door opened and Savage disappeared. McKee slipped into his own room. He crossed the floor to the intervening room, the room next to Judith Borrow’s, came to a halt in front of the thin plank of flimsy wood that separated them. Kent sidled up beside him. The two men listened. Practically every word of the conversation in the room beyond was audible.

  The girl was invisible but McKee could envisage the slim figure drawn erect as Judith Borrow demanded of Savage: “What do you want? Why did you come here? I’ve been bothered enough as it is today. I’d like a little rest, a little peace and quiet.”

  “Judith, don’t.” Savage had thrown aside the insouciance, the cool aloofness with which he had dealt with the inspector and the other members of the force. His
voice had deepened. There was passion in it, genuine fire.

  “No, Michael. It’s no use.” If the girl had weakened she gave no sign of it.

  “Judith,” Savage cut in, “of course there’s a use, there must be.” He paused. “You know I love you.”

  “Why do you have to say that, Michael? Do you feel you have to?”

  “I don’t have to. I want to,” Savage replied. “I love you and you know I love you and you told me you loved me. And you still love me. What are you trying to run away from?”

  “Michael, Michael ” There was a depth of feeling in the girl’s tone that contrasted sharply with her previous brittle attitude. The next instant she shifted back. “I’m not trying to run away from anything. It’s you-- ”

  "I?"

  “Yes, you."

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not blind, Michael,” the girl said. “And I’m not deaf. There have been a lot of things going on during the last two or three weeks. You and my father for instance. You talked a lot together, and every time I’d come into the room you’d stop. What were you saying to Father that you didn’t want me to hear?”

  “I wasn’t saying anything to your father, Judith.” Savage’s tone was tender. “He was saying something to me. You didn’t know it, Judith. He didn’t want you to know it. Your father had a serious heart condition. A doctor told him he hadn’t long to live. He was very worried about you, Judith, terribly worried. He knew he was going to die.”

  The girl flashed back, “But not the way he did. Not that way.”

  “No, not that way,” Savage agreed. “It was your future he was concerned with.”

  There was a pause. When the girl spoke again she was hard, braced. “I’ll take care of my own future. What do all these mysterious doings of yours in the last few days add up to? These Cambridges, if I may mention them. You knew this Ellen Cambridge, didn’t you? You went to school with her. Before Father died you used to spend a good deal of your time with him but since—since—I notice you spend most of it up here. What are you up to?”

  “Judith, did you have to ask that? Darling ”

  “Don’t darling me.”

  “Judith, love is trust. I love you and all I can ask is that you trust me.”

  “I’ll never trust anything any more.”

  “Don’t.”

  “Never mind the don’ts. Listen, Michael Savage, there are a lot of things to be explained. When I was up in Father’s house the night he was killed and the inspector was asking me questions he wanted to know if I had seen or heard anything before I was hit. I told him no. I said I didn’t. But, Michael, I did. You were there that night. Michael Savage, you let yourself in with the key you had. You were in my father’s house that night.”

  McKee and Kent waited for the reply. It was slow in coming. Finally Savage said calmly, coldly:

  “Yes, Judith. Yes, I was in the house in Fieldston that night.”

  The girl waited a moment and then burst forth, “Get out. Get out,” she cried.

  “Judith ”

  “Get out.”

  McKee and Kent heard Savage moving toward the door. “All right, Judith,” he said. “But I’m going to stay right here in this hotel. You don’t know what’s going to happen. You can’t tell. I love you and I don’t care what you say about it. Trust me, won’t you please, Judith?”

  “I never want to see you again.”

  The door closed. Michael Savage was gone. The inspector and Kent caught the sound of the girl pacing nervously up and down the floor for a minute or two. Then they heard her throw herself on the bed, sobbing bitterly.

  “Oh, Michael, Michael,” was all they could catch above the hysterical weeping.

  McKee and Kent walked back to the far room. Kent seemed a bit embarrassed at having been a fifth wheel in the intimacy of the exchange between the man and the woman. He tried to relieve his distress by saying, “That gaPs an actress all right. Maybe the guy ought to be a trouper too.”

  The Scotsman eyed him speculatively and, leaning with one elbow on the mantel, remarked to the other wall,

  “So, Michael Savage was in Franklin Borrow’s house in Fieldston that night. Very interesting, very interesting indeed.”

  It was completely dark when the inspector and Kent finished their clerical work in the shabby bedroom and started down for a bite to eat in the tavern. From the stairs the lobby looked even more gloomy than before. The few lamps in the irregular ceiling threw a pale and almost ghostly illumination over the empty chairs and the worn front desk where the clerk leaned morosely, chin on hands. The shadows were deep in the corners. McKee came to a halt.

  Near the foot of the stairs Jones was walking through the door that led from the tavern into the lobby. The little man in the dark overcoat with small eyes set far back in their sockets threw a quick glance around. He couldn’t see McKee and Kent. He was headed toward them when he veered.

  Over in the far corner of the lobby where the shadows converged into dimness and the plate-glass window met the fake walnut dado Judith Borrow stood looking vacantly out into the street. She was almost hidden by the elbow of the lobby’s corner. Was she trying to watch the street without being seen?

  Jones saw her as he crossed the floor. He halted, paused and then walked toward her. They were too far away for their words to be heard, but McKee got a definite pattern from their half-lit pantomime in the big dreary room. Jones said something with a motion of his head. The girl gestured vigorously. Jones appeared to say something again, this time with more emphasis. So did the girl. Then Jones turned on his heel and walked away. The' girl started after him, thought better of it, stopped and went back to her place near the window. Jones went out through the front door.

  McKee and Kent dined comparatively well on a steak that was just a little too well done and a slice of real country mince pie. Sunday nights in taverns in small towns are lonely times for bartenders. This was no exception. Beside themselves there was only one other customer in the place and he left before McKee and Kent finished their coffee.

  The Scotsman was lighting a cigarette and leaning back when he paused and sat up sharply. His eyes fastened on a section of pavement obliquely across the street near the bank. Michael Savage and Jones were standing there together, talking earnestly.

  Later on that evening McKee paid another call on Captain Rasmussen and had another talk with Dolan, the county prosecutor. Pierson came in and McKee got word that Shearer had made the five-o’clock plane west from North Beach. Kent and Pierson left for their beds at the state-police barracks.

  McKee turned out the lights in his own room in the hotel at about half-past eleven. The town had long since gone to sleep. The streets were deserted, dark. Judith Borrow, Jones and Savage had retired to their rooms earlier.

  The Scotsman couldn’t get to sleep. The mattress was hard, the sheets coarse and the blankets scratchy. But it wasn’t these things that bothered him. It was the feeling that in spite of all he had done there was a killer loose, a killer (he didn’t attempt to deceive himself) who couldn’t be stopped by the routine precautions he had taken, a human being intent on death and yet more death if the necessity arose. The muted wail of the wind outside the partially opened window and the whispering tap of the branches against the roof of the old hotel didn’t help to lighten his mood.

  He dozed off fitfully to wake with a start. Somewhere in the silence of the night and within the inner silence of the rickety old hotel a door had opened and closed softly. The Scotsman lay where he was for a moment trying to orient himself.

  Then he got out of bed, threw a bathrobe over his shoulders and went to the door, pulled it wide open and looked out on dimness. A single bulb in a broken paper shade threw scanty light down on the worn carpeted hall, on the row of closed doors, on the head of the staircase.

  The Scotsman smelled the acrid odor before he heard the sound. The sound was the sharp crackle of fire. He leaped out into the middle of the corridor. Flames were s
weeping the dusty velvet curtains that shrouded the window beyond the stair well at the far end of the long narrow hallway.

  McKee realized that he had to act fast. As he raced toward the window the flames climbed higher. Another couple of minutes and the whole place would be a blazing bonfire. He reached the curtains, tore them from their pole, threw them to the floor and started beating and stamping on them. As he did so, and before the licking tongues were finally extinguished, he glanced sideways and saw it, the remnants of an isolated gob of cotton waste that had evidently separated itself from the main mass.

  Someone had deliberately tried to set the hotel on fire.

  CHAPTER 18

  NOONDAY TRAFFIC swirled and eddied in the main square of the country town. Standing on the corner in front of the newsstand Detective Niles watched the long black Cadillac with McKee inside it disappear across the bridge and over the hill. The inspector was on his way back to New York in answer to an urgent summons from District Attorney Dwyer, a summons which he obeyed reluctantly and only because it had been okayed by Commissioner Carey himself.

  For a town the size of Edgewood there was a good deal of activity. But then Niles remembered that it was Monday. Farmers were coming in from outlying sections, the small claims court was in session, the stores were well filled and the post office was busy.

  It was still very cold. The thermometer refused to go any higher than twelve. In spite of the watery sun Niles shouldered deeper into his coat. Lighting a cigarette, he watched Jones come out of the hotel.

  After a good look around the square Jones sauntered toward the corner and entered the drugstore. He was in no hurry, seemed to have plenty of time on his hands. Inside the store he strolled about, examining a razor display, buying a cigar and giving the books on the shelves of the lending library the once-over. He picked out two or three volumes, thumbed the pages, put them back again. His manner was furtive, watchful. Niles edged closer to the window.

  Jones was entering a telephone booth at the back of the store. He stayed in the booth for a while, came out, got some change at the tobacco counter and went back into the booth again.