Lost Lady

by Octavus Roy Cohen

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Who the hell cares which one pulled the trigger? This thing says Iris Kent. There’s no such thing in this state as a murder accomplice. Even if Montero did the actual job, Iris would still be a principal.”

  Captain James asked a simple question. Real simple and real important.

  “Why,” he asked, “would the murderer want to kill you, Danny?”

  That brought me up short. To this moment I’d been stewing over the fact that Chuck Morrison was dead. I’d even given a thought to the fact that the corpse was supposed to be, me. Marty Walsh broke in, his voice crisp:

  “That’s what I’ve been thinking, Cap. There’s only one reason why they’d take a chance like this. Killing a cop would bring the whole department down around their ears.”

  He fished out a cigarette, lit it, took three furious puffs, and then tossed it into an ash tray, where it lay smoldering.

  “Here’s how it had to be: Somewhere along the line Danny got hold of something. He doesn’t know what it is, and I don’t know. But it’s something that points straight at the murderer. If we could find out what that thing is, we’d have our answer.”

  I said I didn’t give a damn what the thing was. I said Iris Kent had either killed Chuck Morrison or had framed it. I said she was a good enough suspect for me. I said that I was sick and tired of clues and evidence and argument and all that chicken stuff.

  Bert Lane spoke kindly but firmly. He said, “Look, Danny—you’re a cop. And never has it been more necessary for you keep on being one. Marty has hit on something good. Let’s do things about it.”

  I asked, rather sarcastically, whether it might not also be a good idea to arrest the person who had killed Chuck. The fact that they didn’t bawl me out brought me up short. These guys were friends; they were’ sorry for me. Every time they looked at me they were thinking that I was due to be where Chuck was now. It gave me an uncomfortable feeling, as though I were dead and people were passing by for a last look. I said I knew they had the dragnet out, I said I’d blown my top and was sorry, I said I realized there was nothing to do until they brought Iris in or notified us that she’d got home. I said I’d do my best to check in with their idea of going over all the evidence and seeing whether any piece of it might hit a spark. But I warned them in advance that I was all busted up inside and that I wouldn’t be thinking too clearly.

  They started, Marty carrying the ball. They went back to the beginning and made notes on a big yellow pad. The words kept rolling, but they didn’t mean a thing. They were never going to make me forget that I had sent Chuck to fill in for me and that he’d ended a wonderful life by giving it for a friend.

  Marty was checking things off. He went way back to the beginning. Words, words, words. He had records from the bank, the trustee of the Kent estate, the lawyer. He reminded us that Iris hadn’t been included in her parents’ will because she’d just been born, and the trip from which the parents never returned had been prompted by Mrs. Kent’s ill health.

  He explained that a trust had been set up by a will preceding their trip, leaving it all to Dorothy. It was to come to her when she was twenty-five years of age. In 1940 she had taken over the estate and promptly had done what she knew her parents intended, which was to create a new trust for one half the amount in favor of her sister, Iris. Iris was to get the principal when she was twenty-five. That was simple and natural and logical. It was what Mr. and Mrs. Kent would have done if they’d been there to do it.

  No matter how you sliced it, you couldn’t figure any money motive for Iris to have connived in the death of her sister. She’d come into an additional half a million, but what the hell did that amount to when you already had more than you needed?

  They checked over the record of Dorothy’s unfortunate marriage to Dean Halliday, his playboy achievements, his affair with Dolores Laverne, Dolores’ two-timing with Vince Montero.

  They took Robert Bayless to pieces. They had checked and double-checked on him. They couldn’t figure where he had anything to gain, because he was virtually certain to marry Iris eventually. Dorothy had apparently loved and trusted him. She had turned to him when she was worried, had entrusted her personal jewelry to him when she’d been about to meet whoever it was had killed her. That seemed to check Iris out too, on that deal, because certainly Dorothy wouldn’t have been afraid of her younger sister, no matter how much blackness there might have been in Iris’ heart.

  They talked about Dean Halliday, who had been their number one selection until the moment when he, too, had been killed. One tiny bit of tangible evidence, and they’d have snagged Halliday and been happy about it. So once again they got back to Iris.

  She had hated her brother-in-law, or at least had pretended to. She had accused him of Dorothy’s murder when nobody knew that Dorothy was dead.

  Then the motel. We thought we had the answer to that, but we couldn’t be absolutely sure. She’d been killed in the car, yes. But had a motel been in the offing anyway? Had Dorothy been having an affair with some man who hadn’t yet figured in the case? It wasn’t likely, but nothing was impossible.

  They reviewed the night of the Dean Halliday killing. All the logical suspects had been there, with a couple of dozen others tossed in for good measure. There had been drinking, there had been evidence that sex had reared its ugly head once or twice during the course of the festivities.

  Then the trip to Las Vegas, with myself as Iris’ special guest; her advance knowledge of the impending Laverne-Montero nuptials, the inescapable conclusion that a wife was not a competent witness against her husband in any case that did not involve personal danger to herself.

  Of course, it could have been as Iris contended—that in her own screwy, distorted way of thinking, she was sorry for Dolores Laverne, who had just had her boy friend shot from under her. You could figure any of them, you could figure all, or you could figure any combination.

  I really wasn’t listening any more. I knew everything they were saying, everything they were going to say. It was too much theory for me, and I was still in a mood where I wanted action. I wanted them to start bringing in people, although I knew that when they did they wouldn’t let me do the sort of interrogating I wanted to do.

  They were killing time, getting nowhere. Then the telephone rang. Marty Walsh picked it up, and I knew right away they had something. While he was talking, a car drove up. A pair of officers brought in Montero and Dolores.

  Marty put down the telephone. His voice was tight. He said, “That was one of the boys staking at Iris Kent’s house. He says Iris just came back in her own car—alone. A few minutes later Bayless joined her. They’re inside.” He got up and tightened his belt. “Let’s go.”

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Just before we left the station, Marty asked Bert Lane to keep our two guests separated, so they couldn’t do any talking. No interrogating was to be done.

  I went with Marty in the homicide car; Elsie Barker and the other homicide man followed in one of our divisional crates. There wasn’t any hurry, so Marty drove carefully, observing all traffic lights and stop signs, slowing at crosswalks, doing everything possible to allow me to get myself under control.

  He was gentle as an old lady and profane as an old man. He said he understood exactly how I felt, and that if he were in my spot he’d feel the same. But he made it plain that I wouldn’t be doing anybody, including myself and Chuck Morrison, any good by jumping at conclusions or by swinging into action without thinking it over carefully. He said the test of a good cop was how he acted when the pressure was on, and that this was a fine time to prove something to myself about myself.

  It was a pep talk, pure and simple. I knew it was a pep talk, and therefore not to be taken too seriously. But it had its effect. I had some semblance of a grip on myself by the time we swung off Los Feliz Boulevard and started probing into the tree-lined vastness of Valleycrest Drive.

  As we approached the big house with the curving fr
ont driveway, I noticed something different. Not the police and press cars, not the officers on duty, not the reporters and photographers who were clamoring to get in. That was strictly according to pattern. What was wrong was this: The patio in back of the Halliday house was brilliantly illuminated.

  Marty hopped out and said a few tactful words to the press boys. He gave orders that none of them were to be allowed into the grounds. He said they’d get their stories and pictures in plenty of time, and he appealed to a white-haired veteran of the press corps to try to keep the boys in line. They were pretty decent about it.

  The two lads who had been staking the place in front came up to report. They said no one except Iris and Bayless had entered the house and that no one at all had left.

  They said that just a few minutes previously the lights I noticed had flared on. They had checked with the two officers at the rear-of the place and were told that a man and a woman, presumably Iris and Bayless, had gone from the big house into the playhouse, and that immediately thereafter the lights had come on over the swimming pool and tennis court. That made everything slightly brighter than midday.

  We circled the house slowly, looking at the windows as we did so. I noticed that the windows of Iris’ suite were dark. There were lights downstairs in the entrance hall, the living room, and in the serving pantry.

  Just as we would have stepped into the light, Marty put a hand on my arm. He said, “Don’t show yourself, Danny.”

  I asked why.

  “Because if Iris is out there she may still be thinking you’re dead. Remember, she didn’t think she was shooting at Chuck. Provided, of course, that she did the shooting.”

  I got his point and stayed in the shadows. He and his partner from downtown walked out into the light. The windows of the playhouse were closed. The door was partly open—not far enough to see inside, but sufficiently far to get the idea that we were being watched.

  Marty walked to the far end of the swimming pool, which put him about twenty-five feet from the door to the playhouse. He spoke quietly, but in the still night air his voice carried.

  “Bayless,” he called.

  There was a moment’s pause, and then the voice of Robert Bayless answered. All it said was “Yes?” with a rising inflection.

  “Is Iris Kent in there with you?”

  “No.”

  Marty showed marvelous restraint. He said, “No use lying, kid. We know better.”

  There was another pause, this time slightly longer, as though there might be a conference going on inside. Then Bayless called, “What do you want with Iris?”

  “I’d like to talk to her.”

  “About what?”

  “Certain things.”

  Pause. Bayless again: “There’s nothing to talk about.”

  “Look,” said Marty quietly, “let’s quit kidding. There’s plenty to talk about. If she doesn’t want to come out, how about letting us chat with you?”

  The door opened just far enough to let Bayless step into view. It closed again, all but about two inches.

  He looked smaller than I remembered him, maybe because the background was so big and bright. He seemed nervous and tense. His face showed that he was keyed high. His voice wasn’t quite steady. He stood close to the door and said, “What do you want, Lieutenant?”

  Walsh said, “There’s been another murder, Bayless.”

  The other man didn’t say anything. He just stood there, waiting.

  “We know the new murder is connected with the deaths of Mr. and Mrs. Halliday. We believe Iris might give us some information.”

  Bayless said tensely, “She doesn’t know anything about any murder. Not about this one tonight or either of the other two.”

  “We think different.”

  “I don’t care what you think. Right from the beginning you’ve tried to involve Iris in this. Now you think you’ve got her where she can’t prove herself innocent. Well, she has no intention of trying.”

  “You’re putting yourself on the spot,” warned Marty.

  “I don’t care where I am. I’m not going to stand by and watch Iris get pushed around.”

  “Nobody’s asking you to. We’re being reasonable. We suggest that you act the same way.”

  “I know how reasonable you are.” Robert Bayless’ voice rose higher. “You’re trying to make out a case against her. You want her out here, now, when she’s upset and unstrung, so you can fire questions at her. You’ve been on the verge of accusing her of murder before this. Now you’re ready to do it.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “Aaaah, quit it, Walsh. That calm manner of yours isn’t buying you anything. If you want Iris to talk, get her attorney here. Let him talk to her.”

  Walsh asked suddenly, “How did you get here, Bayless?”

  “Iris telephoned me. She heard the news on her car radio. She came home and telephoned me.”

  “What did she hear?”

  “You know what she heard.”

  Marty turned and beckoned to me. I knew what he had in mind and so I made it as good as possible.

  I walked slowly into the light. I took it easy, keeping my eyes on Robert Bayless.

  His reaction was astonishing. His jaw dropped, he trembled visibly. He passed one hand across his face and then looked at me again. I got almost even with Marty Walsh before I said, “Hello, Bayless.”

  He tried to speak, choked back the words, then tried again. His voice came out a croak. He said, “Danny O’Leary.”

  I nodded. “The same,” I said. “At your service.”

  “B-b-b-but,” he stammered, “she told me …” His voice trailed off.

  “Who told you?” That was Walsh, speaking sharply.

  Bayless continued to stare at me, saying nothing.

  “She told you,” emphasized Marty. “Iris Kent told you. What did she tell you, Bayless?”

  He shook his head dazedly, seeming to have trouble taking it in.

  Walsh kept throwing words at him. “I know what she told you, Bayless. I know why you’re so surprised. She told you that Danny O’Leary was dead. Maybe she told you she heard that on the air, Bayless, but she didn’t. Sure, there was a news broadcast about a dead body found in a car, but there wasn’t any name mentioned, Bayless. Not Danny O’Leary’s name or any other. So if she told you that Danny O’Leary was the victim, it was because she thought he was. And the only reason she could have thought that was because she had killed someone, believing that she was killing Danny.”

  He stopped talking. The silence was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. Bayless said, “So that’s what you want with Iris, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve got it all fixed against her, haven’t you? Your minds are all made up.”

  “You gave her away, Bayless. You merely confirmed what we already suspected. Now will you send her out?”

  The young man stood there. He wasn’t trembling any more. He seemed to acquire a new dignity. He said, “Look, Lieutenant, I can see how things are. You’ve made up your mind that Iris is a murderer. I know she’s not.”

  “Suppose we can prove she is?”

  “That wouldn’t make a bit of difference to me. You know how I feel about Iris. With me, anything she’s ever done, or ever might do, is right.”

  One second he was standing still. The next instant he had moved.

  He leaped backward through the door, into the playhouse. I distinctly heard the click of a lock and the sliding of a bolt. Almost instantly he appeared at one of the windows. He raised the sash.

  “Iris is in here,” he said, “but you’re not going to get her.”

  “What’s going to stop us?”

  “We are. We’ve got rifles with us, and ammunition.”

  Marty’s face was grim, but he didn’t raise his voice. He said conversationally, “You’re being a damned fool, kid. It’s a noble gesture, but it won’t get you anywhere. We’ve got a lot of men and a lot of time. That building you’r
e in isn’t any fortress. We’ll take you when we want to, and you’ll be behind the eight ball, too.’”

  Bayless said calmly, “You’ve figured that wrong, Walsh. You won’t take either of us. You know why? Because the minute it looks like you’re going to succeed, I’ll kill Iris and then kill myself. I’d rather both of us be dead than to see her convicted of murders she didn’t do.”

  Marty continued to argue with him. He didn’t get anywhere. Finally he turned and walked away from the playhouse. I walked with him. We stepped out of earshot, but still in the light. To me he said, “What do you think, Danny?”

  I picked my words carefully. “The guy’s got guts,” I said. “I think he’s giving it to you straight.”

  “You think he’d do what he threatens?”

  “Yes.”

  Marty said, “So do I. He’s one of those fanatical guys. He’s tight as a fiddle string. He doesn’t quite realize what he’s already done, either.”

  “Which is?”

  “He’s just the same as told us that Iris is guilty.”

  “No-o.” I was trying to think straight. “What he has told us is that he believes she is guilty. He also believes that if we take her, she’d be convicted. That would motivate what he’s doing.”

  Quite calmly Marty’shook two cigarettes out of a pack and handed me one. He held the match steadily for both of us, which was more than I could have done. He said, “You’ve been in that playhouse at least twice, haven’t you, Danny?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are there windows at the back?”

  “Yes. Just the same as the front, with one extra. What I mean is, where there’s a door in front, there’s a window in back.”

  Elsie Barker was standing near us, taking it all in. Marty spoke without looking at him.