Untidy Murder

by Frances Lockridge

  “Dor!” Bill said. “Dor!”

  And now it was Bill Weigand who seemed younger than one could have dreamed. She had never heard his voice so young, Pam thought—so suddenly, so triumphantly, gay.

  The automatic in Dorian’s right hand began to sag down, until now it was pointing at the ground. Her eyes went wide. The man ahead of her seemed to see nothing of the people in front of him. He came through the door and would have walked on—it seemed he would have walked on indefinitely—but Mullins grabbed him. He held the little man, looking over his head.

  “Hello, Bill,” Dorian said in a strange voice, as if she spoke from far off. “Hello, Bill. I’ve been trying to find you. I brought you …”

  Bill’s arms were out for her, and she staggered. The gun clattered on the flagstones just outside the open window.

  “I brought you Mr. Piper,” she said, quite clearly, and pitched forward. Bill caught her and knelt with her, holding her close, talking into her hair. His voice was low, and Pam tried not to hear what he said. He seemed to be saying it over and over.

  Dorian half lay there in Bill’s arms, and her wide eyes looked up at him and then she said, “I’m not going to faint, Bill. I’m all right, Bill.” She smiled. “It was such a long time,” she said. “We went such a long way.”

  Bill’s head summoned Pam now, and she knelt beside them. Without turning her head, Dorian moved her eyes and looked at Pam and smiled.

  “Everybody’s here,” Dorian said. “I was so late. Is Jerry here?”

  “Yes,” Pam said. “Maybe you oughtn’t to talk.”

  “I brought Mr. Piper,” Dorian said, and now she looked up into Bill’s face again. “I thought you’d want him. He’s one of the ones—”

  “I know,” Bill said. “You’re all right now.”

  “There’s something the matter with him,” Dorian said. “He got hit somehow when the place burned up. You know?”

  “Yes, darling,” Bill said. “It’s all right.”

  “And Mr. Wilming didn’t just fall. He was killed. They thought I saw something. That was why.”

  “Don’t worry about it now,” Bill said. His voice was anxious. And then Dorian smiled and moved, so that now she supported most of her weight on a hand and arm reaching behind her.

  “They didn’t hurt me,” she said. “I’m all right, Bill. Just tired. They didn’t hurt me.” She smiled again. “They were afraid you wouldn’t like it,” she said. She sat up on the floor. She looked at herself. “My,” she said, “I look awful. All torn. Don’t I look awful?”

  “You look wonderful,” Bill said.

  “There was another one,” Dorian said, and she gestured toward Piper. “That’s Piper. He called the other one Farno. And there was some—some character, they said. There wasn’t any name. Farno was the boss. Farno—”

  Piper turned in Mullins’s grasp. Life came back behind his large black eyes; it came back into his heavy swarthy face.

  “Farno!” he said, in a voice which was almost a shout. “I’ll get that—” There were, Pam North thought, a good many things you could call another man, if you knew all the words and had no objection to using them. Mullins objected to the words being used. He smacked his hand hard over the little man’s mouth, stifling the words. He held his hand there and looked over the little man, and his face was embarrassed.

  “Jeez, Loot,” Mullins said, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t of let him.” He shook the little man. “Where the hell you think you are, bud?” he demanded, in a cop’s tones.

  “Let him talk, sergeant,” Bill Weigand said. Bill looked again at Dorian, and when she smiled in reassurance he stood up. Pam remained, twisting to sit on the floor beside Dorian, keeping a hand on Dorian’s slim shoulder—white through a rent in her dress.

  “Who hired you, Piper?” Weigand said. Mullins removed his hand.

  “That—” Piper started.

  Mullins put his hand back.

  “Apparently you don’t like Farno any more,” Bill said. “We don’t care about that. You can skip all that.” Bill looked at Piper. “All right, sergeant,” he said. “We’ll try again. Who hired you?”

  Mullins removed his hand.

  “Farno,” Piper said. “It was his racket, the—” He stopped of his own accord this time, when Bill shook his head. “Just Farno.”

  “Quit lying,” Mullins said. “We can knock it out of you.”

  “Farno’s all I know,” Piper said. “It was his racket. And he left us to get burned up, me and the girl. Figured on grabbing off—” He stopped abruptly.

  “Grabbing off what?”

  “I wouldn’t know.”

  Mullins shook him.

  “Whatever he was gonna shake out of this character,” Piper said. “The money we was gonna get away on. Only he fixed it for me and the girl to get burned up.” He hesitated. “Only it could’ve been the girl herself, maybe,” he said. He shook his head. “I guess it was Farno,” he said. He appeared to be talking to himself.

  Bill Weigand looked at Dorian and raised his eyebrows. She shook her head.

  “At first he seemed to think it was something I’d done,” she said. “This Farno part is new. He’s been groggy ever since. Was it … some sort of trap?”

  Bill nodded.

  “Actually,” he said, “I suppose Farno could have set it.” His eyebrows drew together for a moment. “Did he seem to have been there before, Dor? To know his way around?”

  Dorian shook her head. She hadn’t, she said, had much chance to judge.

  “They locked me up in the attic,” she said. She thought. “They didn’t think of the attic at once. I don’t think either of them knew the place well.” She paused a moment. “Farno was the leader,” she said, “for what it’s worth. I’m not sure that this one”—she nodded at Piper—“knew very much about any of it. He might not have known who hired them. Farno might not have told him.” She looked at Piper. “He’s stupid,” she said. “Even when he isn’t this way. Farno’s a little brighter.”

  “I’ll get that bastard,” Piper said.

  “Shut up, Piper,” Bill said, almost automatically. Piper looked at him. Piper’s eyes were large and black—and disturbed. For a moment Bill seemed to be studying him.

  “Do you know anybody here?” he said. “Do you know her?” Bill’s head indicated Pam North, who looked mildly astonished. Piper looked at her. He looked back at Weigand. “Never saw her,” Piper said.

  Bill nodded. He indicated Jerry North with his head. Piper looked at Jerry, and again back at Weigand. This time he only shook his head.

  “This man?” Bill said, and now he indicated Donald Helms. Piper was obedient. He looked at Helms. He shook his head first this time, and then looked at Weigand. He said, “Nope.” Bill nodded, as if he had expected the answer. “Let him go,” he told Mullins. “He won’t run, will you, Piper? Get the other two out here.”

  Mullins said “O.K., Loot,” and let Piper go. Piper started to sit down on the floor. “Stand up, bud,” Mullins said. Piper stood up. Mullins looked at him doubtfully and went across the room. He had been gone only a moment when Buford Stanton came in. He stopped inside the door and looked at the group. “What the hell?” he said.

  “Do you know this man?” Weigand said to Piper. Piper turned and looked at Stanton. He looked at him carefully and turned back. “Never saw him,” he said. He seemed to be entirely incurious.

  “Thanks, Stanton,” Bill said. “That’s all for the moment.”

  “What the hell?” Stanton said again. He looked from one to the other and nobody answered him. He turned abruptly and almost collided with Beatrice Helms, coming in. “They’re playing games now,” Stanton said. He looked back at them. “Parlor games,” he said. “In my parlor.” Then he went out.

  “Piper,” Weigand said, “do you know this lady?”

  Beatrice Helms walked across the room and stood in front of the swarthy little man. He looked at her.

  “Nope,” he said. He lo
oked at Weigand. “What’s the racket?” he said.

  Bill paid no attention to him. He nodded to Mrs. Helms, who looked quickly at her husband. Donald Helms smiled at her, and she turned and went out. After a moment Mullins came back.

  “O.K.?” he said. “O.K., Loot?”

  “Right,” Bill said. He gestured toward Piper. “Park him some place where he’ll keep,” he said. He considered. “Handcuff him to something,” he said. “Then come back.”

  Mullins said, “O.K., Loot,” and took Piper out.

  “Now, Mr. Helms,” Weigand said, “I take it you never saw this man Piper before?” Helms shook his head. “Right,” Bill said. He told Helms to sit down. He said there were a few questions.

  “For the record, were you ever in Wilming’s house? The one that burned—not his apartment.”

  “No,” Helms said. He did not amplify.

  “But you knew him very well?”

  Helms nodded.

  “I thought so,” he said. “I had for years. Bee and I both, you know.”

  Weigand nodded and Helms went on. By years he meant five or six. He had been painting, not getting along fast; he had had one show and sold nothing. But Paul Wilming, who was an art critic then, had liked some of the things he showed, had written that he liked them in the inconsiderable magazine for which he worked, had looked Helms up and told him he liked them. They had fallen into a kind of friendship when Helms married, the friendship had expanded to include Beatrice. Wilming was living with his mother then, in an apartment uptown—remotely uptown. So it had been natural for him to drop in on the Helmses, who lived in a small apartment downtown. The three of them fell into a habit of going around together.

  “He was considerably older,” Bill pointed out.

  “I know,” Helms said. “He was a kind of uncle. Then he got this job and made a place for me. And then I went into the Navy. Got a commission—j.g. Painted a few combat scenes. That sort of thing.”

  “Right,” Weigand said. “Did Wilming continue to—drop in? To see Mrs. Helms?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “And took her places, probably?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “She wrote you about this?”

  “Sure. Why not?”

  “You didn’t mind?”

  Helms looked at Weigand. He began to smile. Then, briefly, he laughed.

  “Very unconventional, lieutenant?” he said. He continued to smile. Then he shook his head. “No,” he said, “I didn’t mind, lieutenant.” He went on looking amused. “Try again, lieutenant,” he said.

  “Why?” Bill said, and his voice was unperturbed. “Your wife is attractive. Presumably Wilming was normal. Why do you want to persuade me it’s absurd to think you might have minded?”

  Helms’s eyes narrowed. He said Weigand sounded as if he meant it.

  “Right,” Bill said. “It’s a possibility.”

  Helms seemed to consider this, trying for an impartial attitude. Then he nodded.

  “Not knowing the people,” he said. “Abstractly, I suppose it is. But my wife didn’t fall in love with Paul, nor he with her. I’d have known.”

  “Oh yes,” Bill said. “I think so, Helms.”

  “Well,” Helms said, “I didn’t. There wasn’t anything to know. And if there had been, do you think I’d have killed him to stop it?”

  “Really,” Weigand said. “How would I know? You deny you did, I take it?”

  Helms merely looked at Weigand. He did not answer.

  “Right,” Bill said. “I take it you do. Now that that’s out of the way—I understand you had planned to come out here—out to his place, anyway—with Wilming? This weekend?”

  “Yes,” Helms said.

  “And Wilming changed the plans. Wanted you to come out ahead. Last night, that would have been. And he was going to join you today. Right?”

  “Yes.”

  “He gave you a key to the house, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “You still have it?”

  Helms fumbled in two pockets and brought a key out of a third. Weigand held out his hand and Helms tossed him the key.

  “But you didn’t use it?”

  Helms shook his head.

  “He gave it to me yesterday morning,” he said, “when he changed his mind. The rest of the day—until he—he was killed—I was in the office. After that your boys were around all afternoon. Last night Bee and I stayed at home and—well, talked about poor Paul, chiefly.”

  “Can you prove this?”

  Helms shrugged. About the key, no. About staying at home—possibly. Although he supposed his wife’s corroboration on that point wouldn’t be sufficient for the police. There was an implied question in this, and Weigand did not answer it.

  “You realize you were lucky,” he said. “If you had come out, the trap might have caught you.”

  “Depends on the kind of trap, doesn’t it?” Helms said. “I don’t know.” He took out a cigarette case and offered it to Bill Weigand. Weigand shook his head. Helms waved the case in an inviting circle to the others, had no sales, took a cigarette for himself and lighted it. “You know,” he said. “Would it have?”

  Bill shrugged. It might, he said. It would have depended on what Helms did in the house. What did Helms think he would have done?

  Helms shrugged. Opened windows, probably. Turned on lights. Started the refrigerator. Got himself a drink. “Then come over here.”

  “Right,” Bill said. “By the way, did Wilming give you any instructions? About the refrigerator, for example?”

  “He said to turn it on,” Helms said. “It was a gas refrig—” He stopped suddenly and his eyes widened. “Gas!” he said. He looked at Weigand, and his expression sought confirmation. “Was it the gas that did it?”

  Bill merely smiled, faintly. But the smile told enough.

  “My God!” Helms said. “It would have got me!” He looked at Weigand again. “How?” he said. “Did—was there something funny about the refrigerator?”

  “You don’t know, yourself?”

  Helms shook his head. He looked puzzled.

  “Hell,” he said, “it might have caught me. What do you mean?” Bill merely shook his head. “Look,” Helms said. “It was set for Wilming, you think?” Bill nodded.

  “It was his house,” Bill pointed out.

  “But—” Helms began. His eyes narrowed and he started over. “Suppose,” he said, “somebody found out I was walking into it, instead of Paul. Somebody who didn’t—” He stopped then, and his eyes grew still narrower. Bill gave him a chance to continue and, when he did not, continued for him.

  “Right,” Bill said. “You get the—a possibility, Mr. Helms. Somebody who didn’t want you killed, did want Wilming killed. Somebody who found out that you were going out ahead and realized he couldn’t wait if he didn’t want to get the wrong man. And so—pushed Wilming out the window. Thus getting rid of the man he wanted to get rid of and, indirectly, saving your life, since you wouldn’t go to Wilming’s with Wilming dead.”

  “I don’t—” Helms began.

  “Oh yes,” Bill said, “I think you do, Mr. Helms. Or can guess. Who might—”

  And then, abruptly, Bill Weigand was silenced. Pam North jumped convulsively and grabbed for Jerry’s hand. There was no doubt what the noise was. Somebody had fired a gun, twice, inside the house. The sound of the two shots was shattering in the house.

  10

  SATURDAY

  9:36 P.M. TO 11:10 P.M.

  Detective Sergeant Mullins was just coming back, alone, through the door when the shots filled the house with their sharp, angry crash. Bill Weigand was speaking and his voice stopped, the words hanging. Donald Helms had been leaning forward a little, and he stiffened in that posture; Pam North’s left hand reached toward Jerry and waited there. Jerry had been lifting a cocktail glass and it jumped in his hand as his hand jumped. Bill Weigand was half out of his chair with the first shot and the second found him there, still
going up. And Dorian had been sitting in a deep chair, her head against its back, her eyes half closed. Now she leaned forward, one of her shoulders showing white through the rent in her dress.

  For an instant after the second shot it was as if they had all been frozen so; frozen as a group is frozen by a photographer’s flash, arrested with eyes wide, mouths open, a look of baffled amazement on their faces. Then, before that instant had quite solidified, it dissolved, broke into motion. Mullins was turning back toward the door; Weigand was crossing the room toward him. And Jerry was on his feet. But Helms, after that first forward movement, did not move further and Pam North and Dorian did not leave their chairs. They were an audience for the sudden action; for the unhesitating movement of Bill Weigand across the room, right hand going up toward the holster under his left arm; for the momentary hesitancy in Jerry North’s movements, and then for his quick—almost running—progress after Bill. Before they were halfway across the room, Mullins was back through the door by which he had just entered.

  “What the hell goes?” Helms said. Now he half started up.

  “Stay there, Helms!” Bill Weigand called back, as if he had seen the movement without turning. “All of you—wait!” But this did not seem to apply to Jerry North, who did not stop.

  The door they went through, following Mullins, opened on a wide hall. As they went into it, Mullins came toward them from the left.

  “O.K. there,” he said. “I thought somebody’d got this Piper mug. Nope. Nobody there but this Piper. And he’s O.K.”

  Weigand was already running down the hall toward the right. For a moment there were windows on his left, and the solid wall of the living room on his right. Then a wing began to the left; he ran through an arch into a dining room with a low modern table. The room was empty, dimly lighted. But through a doorway on the side toward his left, hard white light flowed. Weigand went that way, with Mullins and Jerry North behind him. In the doorway Weigand stopped, and the gun he had taken from the holster went up.