by Basil Copper
He nodded again. ‘I was there. I’ll tell you all about it.’
*
‘What the hell was she doing on top of the wall?’ I said. Cheney drank his second cup of coffee and put down the cup heavily. ‘I can see it was stupid keeping quiet about it,’ he said, ‘but there’s been a lot of trouble with Carmen’s parents. And my own father told me to keep my mouth shut. I knew it wouldn’t be any good. These last weeks have been hell.’
‘Just take it slow and tell it from the beginning,’ I said. Cheney tapped the cup on the saucer in front of him; the chink sounded very loud in the silence of the kitchen. There was only the faint rapping of rain again on the windows.
‘You were right in your guess, Mr Faraday,’ he said in a dead voice. ‘Carmen and me did meet that Saturday. We were pretty fond of one another. But things were against us from the beginning. Carmen’s father hated my old man and he was prejudiced from way back. I never pretended to be a saint but I was sincere about her. And my old man wouldn’t wear it either. He’s a hard case and he gave me a rough time. What with one thing and another we had to keep our meetings under wraps. The only real friend we had was Carmen’s mother, but she’s not a strong character when it comes to standing up to Mr Benson.’
‘We met,’ I said. ‘I see what you mean.’ I waited for him to go on. He lit another cigarette with nervous fingers but some of the colour was coming back into his face.
‘I picked Carmen up in my car that afternoon,’ he went on. ‘We had a place where we met way out of town, where it was quiet and secluded. There’s very few people out there in winter-time anyway. She’d told her mother she was taking in a movie with a girlfriend. We rode around and then I parked near The Palisades. We were necking for a bit …’
He stopped momentarily.
‘You can skip that part,’ I said. ‘I was young once myself.’
‘Well, Mr Faraday,’ Cheney said, ‘Carmen was always a wild type of girl. Not wild in the bad sense, you understand. You wouldn’t realize it to look at her, but she had a streak of crazy good humour in her. We’d been sitting there for a while and she said she’d always wanted to see inside the old General’s grounds. He’s been rather a mystery man around town and there were all sorts of stories about his household, his bodyguard, and lately the dogs.’
‘So you decided to have a look inside,’ I said.
He drew hard on the cigarette. ‘Carmen did,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t very keen, but I didn’t want to chicken out in front of a girl. I parked the car way up the road out of sight. There was no-one about and we walked along the wall and after a bit found a gap and climbed into the grounds.’
He paused again and sat staring in front of him for so long that I figured he’d forgotten my presence. The thin fingers of rain kept tapping at the kitchen window.
‘Well, sir, we had a look around. It was all rather disappointing, really, and damned uninviting on a winter afternoon. We stayed for about ten minutes or so, chasing one another about, generally horsing around, you know the sort of thing. Then I was all for getting on out. We hadn’t made any noise or anything, but I always had the dogs at the back of my mind. But that wouldn’t do for Carmen. She had to fetch a ladder and climb up on top of the wall.’
He paused again and drew on the cigarette; a fire engine went by in the distance, its siren muffled in the rain. We waited until the high whine died, chopped off by the edges of the buildings.
‘Anyway, she had this crazy idea. She started to run across the top of the wall. She was laughing, the wind blowing in her hair and calling that she could beat me. I started to run to keep pace with her. Then she called out and fell off the wall. I ran back. I didn’t know what happened. I thought she was fooling at first. She was that sort of girl.’
‘You found she’d been shot?’ I said quietly.
Cheney nodded. ‘I was stunned. She didn’t move or call out again. There was blood all over the place. I thought at first she’d cut herself in falling. When I understood I figured she’d been shot by someone on the General’s staff. The word’s out all over town about their security precautions. Then I became confused and afraid. There was nothing I could do for Carmen; I thought of her parents and my own father and all the trouble there’d be.’
‘So you panicked?’ I said.
‘I completely lost my head. I dragged her body over under the tree and covered it up with grass and bits of stick. Then I got the hell out as quickly as I could. I put the ladder back first and got away from the Diaz place the way we’d come in. Nobody saw me as far as I knew. I drove back to town. I was dead certain I hadn’t been spotted. That’s why I was so rattled when you said there’d been a witness. Though I knew it would come out in the end.’
He got up and went over to the sink and turned the tap on to his cigarette butt; he washed it down the sink and came back to the table.
‘I might have come out with it sooner,’ he said. ‘I lied to Sheriff Clark but I intended to see you after our talk at the pool hall. Except that my old man had found out. I came in pretty high one night and said a few things I shouldn’t. He wormed the story out of me; he said it was best to leave everything where it was. He threatened to tan the hide off me if I said anything.’
‘Did he?’ I said.
‘Believe me, Mr Faraday, I wanted to go to the police long ago, but I’d left it too late,’ he said. ‘What could I tell the Sheriff that wouldn’t leave me seriously implicated?’
‘You’re still seriously implicated,’ I told him. ‘And surely you had a duty to Carmen? For all we know this long delay may have made it impossible to trace the killer. All you’ve done is involve yourself in a heap of trouble.’
Cheney turned his haggard face towards me. He let his breath out in another long sigh. ‘Let’s get it over with,’ he said. ‘I’m ready any time you are.’
‘Ready for what, Newton?’ said a sneering voice from the door. The big man I’d met in the showroom was standing in the kitchen doorway. He just about filled it. I hadn’t heard him come up the stairway because of the low hiss of falling rain. But here he was, life-sized and twice as nasty. The dead ferret under his nose twitched and his little pig-eyes glinted meanly. He looked like he’d been drinking. Guess it ran in the family.
Cheney turned to me … ‘This is my father,’ he said as though apologizing.
‘I’m sorry about that,’ I told him. If I was trying to rile the old man up I certainly succeeded. The information had come as quite a surprise. The senior Cheney ignored me.
‘What’s this snooper doing here?’ he asked in a nasty voice.
‘I always drop in for a game of checkers about this time,’ I said pleasantly. ‘Your son’s got the makings of a first-class player. And it enlivens these wet winter evenings.’
‘What’s going on here?’ said Cheney thickly. His son got up unsteadily from the table. He blinked helplessly at me. He kept his face away from his father.
He swallowed once or twice and then managed to get out, ‘I’m sorry, dad. I got to do the right thing.’
‘Like hell you will,’ the big man screamed. He came into the room and kicked the door shut behind him. He waddled over towards me. Close up, he looked meaner and more repellent than ever. His fists were balled under the cuffs of his smart blue suit. Crimson patches showed on his thick jowls.
‘Just stand aside, Mr Cheney,’ I said quietly. ‘Your son’s got a date with Sheriff Clark.’
‘No-one’s leaving this room,’ he said with a suppressed growl of rage.
‘Don’t be stupid, dad,’ said the son with more spirit than I gave him credit for. ‘You know I got to go with Mr Faraday.’
‘Only one place this cheap shamus is going,’ the big man said. He was standing with his back half turned to me, speaking to his son. So I didn’t see till too late his clenched fist travelling up from his side at tremendous speed. Heavy with rings it came in a fast back-hander and caught me a glancing blow on the angle of the jaw. The kitchen spun on it
s axis and I tasted blood. A blackjack appeared in Cheney’s hand as if it had suddenly grown there; it whistled in the air. Newton Cheney fell against the wall as the kitchen table went over with a clatter. Bottles splintered on the tiled floor; I went in under the older Cheney’s flailing arm and put my fist into his belly, right up past the wrist, with all my strength.
He was like a bowl of mush here; the breath went out of his lungs, he gagged and his face turned green. The blackjack fell down on to the floor among the bottles. The side of his boot caught me in the groin but by then I had got my two clenched hands down on the bridge of his nose. His eyes glazed and blood spurted from his nostrils. He went down with a crash in the debris. He moaned once or twice but didn’t get up again. I hobbled to the wall and propped myself up. I fought for breath as Cheney went over and lifted his father.
‘I’m sorry I had to do that,’ I said.
‘He asked for it,’ he said in a voice which sounded like he was enjoying it. The big man groaned again. Young Cheney went over to the sink and filled a bowl with cold water. He came back and slopped it in handfuls over his father’s face. The older Cheney swallowed water; his eyes opened. He blinked once or twice, then started to retch. Cheney helped his father up. I picked up the overturned table and a chair. Cheney set his father down on the chair. It seemed like a good time to be moving.
‘He’ll get over it,’ I said. ‘See you around.’
I went out and closed the door behind me. The rain felt good on my face. I went down the steps and along the road to my car. The water had drifted in through the leaky hood on to the front seat again. I sponged it off. I was just going to close the door when I heard running feet. Newton Cheney put his head in at the passenger door. He looked better than I’d seen him.
‘Let’s go,’ he said.
I drove quickly through town to the Benson place. If there was one spot I’d rather not be this afternoon this was it. But I’d told Clark. Young Cheney got out of the car and joined me in front of the fence. His face looked like wet putty. I put my hand on his shoulder.
‘Let me do the talking,’ I said.
We went slowly up the drive to the house. Mrs Benson was opening the front door before we got there.
Chapter 10
How Lucky Can You Get?
It was still only a quarter to nine when I got to Greenside Manor. I stopped at the end of the road and lit a cigarette. The thin rain whispered monotonously on the canvas roof of the Buick. It seemed like it had ever since this case began. They were still going over Cheney’s statement for the fifth time at Clark’s office when I left. I glanced at my watch again. The papers would have a carnival come the morning. I’d asked Clark to play my part down. I shouldn’t get much rest at the Pinetop otherwise.
When I finished the cigarette it was just on nine. I put in the gear and cruised on down the road. The house I wanted was a large bungalow set back among lawns and dark bushes. It was a cul-de-sac and I reversed around in the road at the end, against a steep bank and came on back. I ran the Buick in up the concrete drive and into a big plastic car-port next to the white convertible Patti Morgan had been driving earlier that afternoon.
The bungalow was really a two-storey building, for the big-windowed rooms set into the dormer roof made another floor. There were pots and boxes set about the place, which had once contained flowering shrubs and plants; just now they were filled with what looked like pieces of blackened stick. A thin mist was coming up as I went along the main path to the house. It would have been worth a fortune to Bela Lugosi.
I got out of the rain under a natural pine porch held up by futuristic steel pins set into the concrete walk; the front windows were shrouded in Venetian blinds, but a faint pink glow came from behind them. It looked warm and welcoming in the darkness and dampness of the night. In back something dripped on to metal. It made a melancholy tinkle in the dusk. All the other houses round about sat back behind their box hedges and their clipped ornamental trees and minded their own business.
I pushed a brass button set into one of the pine porch uprights and listened to a carillon play from far away. A lantern blinked in the roof above my head and lit up the porch and a four yard strip of lawn. I stood and studied the pebble glass set in the panes of the porch door. A shadow moved behind the layers of glass and the inner door opened. I could see it was Patti Morgan even at that distance. I held my box of candy and waited for her to open the main door.
‘Right on time,’ she said.
‘I’m never late where food’s involved,’ I said.
She grinned. ‘I can see you’re a born flatterer. Come on in.’
She looked a treat. She had on a severely tailored blue skirt which set off her figure in a way that should have legislation against it. High-heeled black velvet shoes emphasized her height. Her pale blue tailored shirt with the darker blue stripe re-echoed the skirt; she wore a plain gold circlet on her left wrist. Her hair shimmered and reflected the light as the porch bulbs caught the heavy buttercup-yellow mass.
I shut the outer door and heard it lock behind me. She flipped a switch as we went through and the porch light died. She locked the inner door after us too. The hall was all in biscuit brown, including the carpets; nothing broke the overall tone of the walls except for the series of pastels in heavy white frames which seemed to float out at you. The effect was effortless; but it denoted a lot of taste and a lot of money.
Two crystal chandeliers hung against the dark grey ceiling of the hall. Patti Morgan walked me through into a living room which was as light as the hall had been discreet. The walls were pale, the carpet olive green. A few Swedish paper-shaded lamps were dotted about. The furniture was frail-looking but very solid Scandinavian of a light gold colour. The drapes at the French windows and the cushions and fittings of the divans were olive green too.
She smiled, giving me another view of those fine teeth. ‘I brought these for your mother,’ I said, giving her the box of candy.
‘Thanks, Mike.’ Her surprise was genuine. Then she covered her face with her cupped hands. A suppressed gurgle of laughter came out. I looked at her inquiringly.
‘No mother?’ I said. She nodded helplessly.
‘That means no father, either,’ I said.
She nodded again. I sat on one of the divans and put down my other packages. ‘Not that I’m complaining,’ I said, ‘But you did say you came up here just to see them.’
She had control of herself now. She smoothed down her skirt as she sat in a high-backed chair opposite me.
‘I forgot all about it this morning. They had to go up to Maine for a week to see relatives. But how sweet of you to think of mother. Do you think we might open them? They look delicious.’
A pink tongue protruded from her mouth as she tried the cellophane wrapping over the red silk bow on the box.
‘What mother doesn’t know about she won’t worry over,’ I said.
‘A very good maxim,’ she said. ‘But you’d better take your coat off. I’m afraid I’m not being a very good hostess.’
I took off my raincoat and she carried it outside to the hall.
‘Get yourself a drink,’ she called through the doorway. ‘There’s Scotch on the sideboard.’
I went over and started fiddling around among the glasses. I found a bottle of Old Kentucky on top of the sideboard and some nice crystal glasses in the cupboard. I poured out two generous slugs. The rain tapped at the windows with light brushing movements. Patti Morgan came back through into the living room dusting her hands.
‘Sorry, no ice here. We’ll have to go out in the kitchen. What have we here?’
‘Rich gifts from the Orient,’ I said.
‘Oh, Mike, you shouldn’t,’ she said, but I could see from the way her eyes sparkled that she liked it. It was only some odds and ends of fruit that I’d picked up on the way over; some out of season strawberries, asparagus tips, a bunch or two of grapes. She bit into one of the big blue grapes with very white teeth.
&nb
sp; ‘Delicious, Mike,’ she said. ‘You mustn’t spoil me.’
‘I always carry a pound of grapes for instant orgies,’ I told her.
She pulled at my ear with slim, well-manicured fingers.
‘The kitchen, chum,’ she said. ‘Bring the glasses.’
I looked around the room, contrasted the warmth and light and comfort with the conditions of the last few days, fingered the slight bump on my cheek, looked after Patti Morgan’s retreating nylons and followed her quickly into the kitchen. I’d never had it so good.
*
The kitchen was about two blocks long and only slightly less palatial than the Orchid Room on the United States. About halfway down, the working area turned into a dining-room with teak furniture, recessed lighting, sporting prints and expensive hand-painted plates clipped to the walls. At the very far end near the window was a large bar made of oiled teak. It had high stools with leather seats, like a genuine cocktail lounge.
Patti Morgan went over to a sink-unit that looked like the engine room of the U.S.S. Lexington and started washing the fruit. Copper-bottomed fry pans came in different sizes down the room, slung from hooks under the big, natural-grain wood cupboards.
‘Just ice, no water,’ she said, playing with stainless steel taps. I went over to the bar and around behind the glass-topped counter. Presently I found a large ice-chest disguised as a wooden shelf unit. I prized some cubes loose with what looked like a solid silver pick, put two cubes in each glass and carried the drinks down towards Patti. She’d put on a small white apron and was looking highly professional. She had all sorts of stuff laid out on top of one of the working surfaces. Pleasant aromas were making hints from the depths of the oven.
I handed her a glass and went and sat down on a combination ladder-stool over near the sink, where I could see what she was doing. She was making like busy with a small knife in one hand while she kept an eye on several things on the stove-top.
‘I didn’t know it was going to be an eight-course effort or I’d have worn my tuxedo,’ I said.