Huddleston 178 170 205-211 360-401 415-420—50,000.
None of that meant anything to me. I put the paper into the same pocket with the gun, moved on to the sliding doors. They were securely locked, with one of those twist latches that are supposed to be impossible to force from outside. Adjacent was a wide dormer-style window split into vertical halves that fastened in the center, so you could open them inward on a hot day to let in the sea breeze. The halves were also locked—a simple bar-type catch on one that flipped over and fit inside a bracket on the other—and there was more of the wrought-iron burglar-proofing bolted over them on the outside.
I stood at the glass doors, looking out. From there you had an impressive view down a long rocky slope to where the Pacific roiled up foam in a secluded cove, framed on both sides by skyscraping redwoods. But it wasn't the view that had my attention; it was what looked to be a strip of film about three inches in length that was caught on a railing splinter off to one side and fluttering in the wind. I debated whether or not to unlatch the doors and go out there for a closer look. I was still debating when somebody came clumping up onto the front porch.
The noise brought me around. The front door was still open, and I watched it fill up with six feet of a youngish flaxen-haired guy dressed in tennis whites and carrying a covered racket. He said, "What's going on here? Who are you?" Then he got to where he could see the body on the rug, and Lauren Speers unconscious in the chair, and he said, "Christ!" in an awed voice.
Right away, to avoid trouble, I told him my name, my profession, and the fact that I had come here to see Lauren Speers on a business matter, only to stumble on a homicide instead. He was Joe Craig, he said, one of Xanadu's tennis professionals, and he had come over from his own staff cottage nearby to pick up Speers for a three o'clock tennis appointment. He seemed stunned, confused; his eyes kept shifting away from me to the body.
There was a telephone on another burl table beside the couch. I went to it and rang up the resort office. And spent five minutes and a lot of breath explaining three times to three different people that there had been a shooting in Number 41 and somebody was dead. None of the three wanted to believe it. A killing in Xanadu? Things like that just didn't happen. The first one referred me to the second and the second to the third; the third, who said he was Resident Director Mitchell, maintained his disbelief for a good two minutes before a kind of horrified indignation took over and he promised to notify the county police right away.
Craig had gone over to Lauren Speers and was down on one knee beside her, chafing one of her hands without result. "Maybe we should take her outside," he said. "Let her have some air."
That was a good idea. I helped him get her up out of the chair, and as we hauled her across to the door I asked him, "Do you know the dead woman?"
"God, yes. Bernice Dolan, Ms. Speers' secretary. Did Ms. Speers do that to her? Shoot her like that?"
"So it would seem." On the porch we put her onto a wrought-iron chaise longue and Craig went after her hand again. "There's nobody else here, the balcony doors and all the windows are locked from the inside, and I was down on the path with a clear look at the front door when it happened."
He shook his head. "I knew they weren't getting along," he said, "but I never thought it would lead to anything like this."
"How did you know they weren't getting along?"
"Bernice told me. We dated a couple of times—nothing serious." Another headshake. "I can't believe she's dead."
"What was the trouble between them?"
"Well, Ms. Speers is writing a book—or rather, dictating one. All about some of the important people she's known and some of the things she's been mixed up in in the past. And full of scandalous material, apparently. She'd got her hands on all sorts of letters and documents and she quoted some of them at length. Bernice'd had editorial experience in New York and kept telling her she couldn't do that because some of the material was criminal and most of it was libelous. But that didn't matter to Ms. Speers; she said she was going to publish it anyway. They were always arguing about it."
"Why didn't she just fire Bernice?"
"I guess she was afraid Bernice would go to some of the people mentioned in the book, out of spite or something, and stir up trouble that'd affect publication."
"Were their arguments ever violent?"
"I think so. Bernice was afraid of her. She'd have quit herself if she hadn't needed the money."
But even if Lauren Speers was prone to violence, I thought, why would she shoot her secretary no more than two minutes after returning from an after-lunch drive? That was how long it had been between the time I saw her go inside and the time the gun went off: two minutes maximum.
Craig's hand-chafing was finally beginning to have an effect. La Speers made a low moaning sound, her eyelids fluttered and slid up, and she winced. Her stare was glassy and blank for three or four seconds; the pupils looked as if they were afloat in bloody milk. Then memory seemed to come back to her and her eyes focused, her body jerked as if an electrical current had passed through it.
"Oh my God!" she said. "Bernice!"
"Easy," Craig said. "It's all over now, Mrs. Speers."
"Joe? What are you doing here?"
"Our tennis date, remember?"
"I don't remember anything. Oh God, my head . . ." Then she saw me standing there. "Who're you?"
We got it established who I was and more or less why I was present. She did not seem to care; she pushed herself off the chaise longue before I was done talking and went inside. She was none too steady on her feet, but when Craig tried to take her arm she smacked his hand away. One long look at the body produced a shudder and sent her rushing into the kitchen. I heard the banging of cupboard doors and the clink of glassware, and a few seconds later she came back with a cut-glass decanter in her right hand and an empty tumbler in her left. The decanter was full of something colorless that was probably gin.
I went over as she started to pour and took both decanter and tumbler away from her. "No more liquor. You've had plenty."
Her eyes snapped at me, full of savagery. "You fat son of a bitch—how dare you! Give it back to me!"
"No," I said, thinking: fat son of a bitch. Yeah. I put my back to her and went down the hall into the bathroom. She came after me, calling me more names; clawed at my arm and hand while I emptied the gin into the washbasin. I yelled to Craig to get her off me and he came and did that.
There was blood on the back of my right hand where she'd scratched me. I washed it off, dabbed the scratch with iodine from the medicine cabinet. Speers was back on the chaise longue when I returned to the porch, Craig beside her looking nonplussed. She was shaking and she looked sick, shrunken, as if all her flesh had contracted inside her skin. But the fury was still alive in those green eyes: They kept right on ripping away at me.
I asked her, "What happened here today, Ms. Speers?"
"Go to hell," she said.
"Why did you kill your secretary?"
"Go to—What? My God, you don't think I did that?"
"It looks that way."
"But I didn't, I couldn't have . . ."
"You were drunk," I said. "Maybe that explains it."
"Of course I was drunk. But I don't kill people when I'm drunk. I go straight to bed and sleep it off."
"Except today, maybe."
"I told you, you bastard, I didn't kill her!"
"Look, lady," I said, "I'm tired of you calling me names. I don't like it and I don't want to listen to it anymore. Maybe you killed Bernice Dolan and maybe you didn't. If you didn't, then you'd better start acting like a human being. The way you've been carrying on, you look guilty as sin."
She opened her mouth, shut it again. Some of the heat faded out of her eyes. "I didn't do it," she said, much calmer, much more convincing.
"All right. What did happen?"
"I don't know. I heard the shot, I came out of the bedroom, and there she was all twisted and bloody, with the
gun on the floor.
"A twenty-five caliber automatic. Your gun?"
"Yes. My gun."
"Where do you usually keep it?"
"In the nightstand drawer in my bedroom."
"Did you take it out today for any reason?"
"Did Bernice have it when you got back?"
A blank look. "Got back?"
"From wherever it was you went this afternoon."
"Away from Xanadu? In my car?"
"Are you saying you don't remember?"
"Okay, I have memory lapses sometimes when I've been drinking. Blackouts—an hour or two. But I don't usually go out driving . . ." The misery in her voice made her sound vulnerable, almost pathetic. I still didn't like her much, but she was in a bad way—physically, emotionally, and circumstantially—and she needed all the help she could get. Beginning with me. Maybe. "I thought I came straight here after lunch. I remember starting back in the cars . . . but that's all. Nothing else until I heard the shot and found Bernice."
Out on the main path I heard the whirring of an oncoming cart. A short time later two middle-aged guys, both dressed in expensive summer suits, came running through the trees and up onto the porch. The taller of them, it developed, was Resident Director Mitchell; the other one was Xanadu's chief of security. The first thing they did was to go inside and gape at the body. When they came out again I explained what had happened as far as I knew it, and what I was doing in Xanadu in the first place. Speers did not react to the fact that I was here to serve her with a court summons. Death makes every other problem inconsequential.
She had begun to look even sicker; her skin had an unhealthy grayish tinge. When Mitchell and the security chief moved off the porch for a conference she got up and hurried into the cottage. I went in after her to make sure she didn't touch anything or go for another stash of gin. But it was the bathroom she wanted this time; five seconds after she shut the door, retching sounds filtered out through it.
I stepped into her bedroom and took a turn around it without putting my hands on any of its surfaces. The bed was rumpled and the rest of the room looked the same—scattered clothing, jars of cosmetics, bunches of dog-eared paperback books. There were also half a dozen framed photographs of well-groomed men, all of them signed with the word "love."
The retching noises had stopped when I came out and I could hear water running in the bathroom. I moved down to the other, smaller bedroom. Desk with an electric portable typewriter and a dictating machine on its top. No photographs and nothing else much on the furniture. No sign of a manuscript, either; that would be locked away somewhere, I thought.
The sliding closet door was ajar, so I put my head through the opening. The closet was empty except for two bulky suitcases. I nudged both with my foot and both seemed to be packed full.
Half a minute after I returned to the living room, Lauren Speers reappeared. When she saw me she ducked her head and said, "Don't look at me. I look like hell." But I looked at her anyway. I also blocked her way to the door.
With my handkerchief I took out the piece of notepaper I had found earlier and held it up where she could see what was written on it. "Do you have any idea what this is, Ms. Speers?" She started to reach for it but I said, "No, don't touch it. Just look."
She looked. "I never saw it before," she said.
"Is the handwriting familiar?"
"Yes. It's Bernice's."
"From the looks of it, she was left-handed."
"Yes, she was. If that matters."
"The three names here—are they familiar?"
"I think so. James Huddleston is the former state attorney general. Edward Boyer and Samuel Rykman are both prominent business people."
"Close friends of yours?"
Her mouth turned crooked. "Not anymore."
"Why is that?"
"Because they're bastards. And one is an out-and-out thief."
"Which one?"
She shook her head—there was a feral gleam in her eyes now—and started past me. I let her go. Then I put the paper away again and followed her onto the porch.
The security chief had planted himself on the cottage path to wait for the county police; Craig was down there with him. The Resident Director had disappeared somewhere, probably to go do something about protecting Xanadu's reputation. Nobody was paying any attention to me, so I went down and along a packed-earth path that skirted the far side of the cottage.
At the rear there were steps leading up onto the balcony. I climbed them and took a look at the strip of film I had noticed earlier, caught on a wood splinter through one of several small holes along its edge. It was the stiff and sturdy kind they use to make slides—the kind that wouldn't bend easily under a weight laid on it edgewise.
I paced around for a time, looking at this and that. Then I stood still and stared down at the ocean spray boiling over the rocks below, not really seeing it, looking at some things inside my head instead. I was still doing that when more cart noises sounded out front, two or three carts this time judging from the magnified whirring and whining. County cops, I thought. Nice timing, too.
When I came back around to the front, two uniformed patrolmen, a uniformed officer in captain's braid, a civilian carrying a doctor's satchel, and another civilian with photographic equipment and a field lab kit were being met by the security chief. I went over and joined them.
The captain, whose name was Orloff, asked me, "You're the private detective, is that right? The man who found the body?"
"That's right." I relinquished the .25 automatic, saying that I had only handled it by the barrel. Not that it would have mattered if I had taken it by the grip. If there were any fingerprints on it, they would belong to Lauren Speers.
"It was just after the shooting that you arrived?"
"Not exactly," I said, "I was in the vicinity before the shooting. I went inside after I heard the shot—not much more than a minute afterward."
"So you didn't actually see the woman shoot her secretary."
"No," I said. "But I wouldn't have seen that if I'd been inside when it happened. Ms. Speers didn't kill Bernice Dolan. The man right over there, Joe Craig, did that."
There was one of those sudden electric silences. Both Craig and Lauren Speers were near enough to hear what I had said; he stiffened and gaped at me and she came up out of her chair on the porch. Craig's face tried to arrange itself into an expression of disbelief, but he was not much of an actor; if this had been a Hollywood screen test, he would have flunked it hands down.
He said, "What the hell kind of crazy accusation is that?" Which was better—more conviction—but it still sounded false.
His guilt was not so obvious to Orloff or any of the others. They kept looking from Craig to me as if trying to decide who to believe. The security guy said, "How could Joe be guilty? The balcony door and all the windows are locked from the inside; you said so yourself. You also said there was no one else in the cottage except Ms. Speers and the dead woman when you entered."
"That's right," I said. "But Craig wasn't in the cottage when he shot the secretary. And everything wasn't locked up tight, either."
Craig said, "Don't listen to him, he doesn't know what he's saying -"
"The living room smells of gin," I said to the security guy. "You must have noticed that when you were in there. It smelled just the same when I first entered. But if you fire a handgun in a closed room you get the smell of cordite. No cordite odor means the gun was fired outside the room."
"That's true enough," Orloff said. "Go on."
"I'd been here less than ten minutes when Craig showed up," I said. "He claimed he'd come to keep a tennis date with Ms. Speers. But the parking lot attendant told me earlier that she drinks her lunch every day and then comes here to sleep it off until Happy Hour at four o'clock. People on that kind of heavy drinking schedule don't make dates to go play tennis at three o'clock.
"Craig said something else, too—much more damning. When I asked him if he knew the dead
woman he identified her as Bernice Dolan. Then he said, 'Did Ms. Speers do that to her? Shoot her like that?' But I didn't say anything about hearing a gunshot until later; and the way the body is crumpled on the rug, with one arm flung over the chest, all you can see is blood, not the type of wound. So how did he know she was shot? She could just as easily have been stabbed to death."
There was not much bravado left in Craig; you could almost see him wilting, like an uprooted weed drying in the sun. "I assumed she was shot," he said weakly, "I just assumed it."
Lauren Speers had come down off the porch and was staring at him. "Why?" she said. "For god's sake, why?"
He shook his head at her: But I said, "For money, that's why. A hundred thousand dollars in extortion payoffs, at least some of which figures to be in his own cottage right now."
That pushed Craig to the breaking point. He backpedaled a couple of steps and might have kept right on backing if one of the patrolmen hadn't grabbed his arm.
Lauren Speers said, "I don't understand. What extortion?"
"From those three men I asked you about a few minutes ago—Huddleston, Boyer, and Rykman. They figure prominently in the book you're writing, don't they? Large sections of it are devoted to them and contain material either scandalous or criminal?"
"How do you know about that?"
"Craig told me; he was trying to make it seem like you had a motive for killing Bernice. And you told me when you said those three men were bastards and one of them was an out-and-out thief. This little piece of paper took care of the rest." I fished it out of my coat pocket again and handed it to Orloff. "The first series of numbers after each name are page numbers—pages in the book manuscript on which the most damaging material about that person appears. The numbers after the dash are the amounts extorted from each man."
"Where did you get this?"
"It was on the floor between the couch and the coffee table. Right near where Ms. Speers' bag was. I think that's where it came from—out of the handbag."
She said, "How could it have been in my bag?"
"Bernice put it there. While she was out impersonating you this afternoon."
Sleuths Page 19