Murder for the Bride

by John D. MacDonald

  She took another sip of the coffee. “Say, you make good coffee!”

  “That’s a typical bachelor trait.”

  “Don’t be so smug. The toast was burned.”

  “Carbon is good for you. But to get back. I don’t like that search of Haussmann’s body.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t think the body could have been found by accident. And that means that maybe there was a witness to the whole thing, somebody who stayed in the shadows and didn’t much care who won. I came right here from the alley. I didn’t even think of being followed. Damn it, Jill, I could have brought some unpleasant people to camp on your doorstep. I was careless. They could have tagged me back here, then gone back and stripped Haussmann of anything he was carrying. That business of the shoes, it sounds like what was done to Laura’s shoes. Heels ripped off and soles peeled open. And that would mean that in addition to me and Siddman and the federal people, the ones who killed Laura were also hunting for Haussmann. It’s a wonder that alley wasn’t a mob scene out of De Mille. It also means that they haven’t found what they want yet.”

  As she started to speak, the sky opened like the bottom of a bucket and the roar of rain drowned her words. We scrambled around and closed the key windows.

  Chapter Twelve

  By four o’clock, when the sun came blearily through the thinning clouds to steam down on a sodden world, Jill had not yet returned from what she had called a “flying trip” to the newsroom to find out what was new.

  I remembered how cute she had looked when she had turned to wave back at me as she went down the hall in her transparent rain cape, the hood covering her dark hair. I began to worry. Half a dozen times I went to the phone without lifting it from the cradle. Finally I dialed the Star News and asked for her.

  “She was here for a while, but she left,” the man said.

  I did some more pacing. At a quarter to five I turned on the radio to catch the local news.

  The sleek, greased voice of the local newscaster stopped the breath in my throat. “Warning to all citizens of New Orleans. This broadcast is being made at the request of police headquarters. Dillon Bryant, ex-employee of Trans-Americas Oil, is believed to be at large in the city. He has been charged with the murder of Elizabeth Morin, the shop clerk whose body was found in the apartment of another employee of Trans-Americas Oil. Fingerprints at the scene of the crime were compared with Bryant’s prints in the files of Trans-Americas, and found to be identical. Samuel Spencer, head of the local office of Trans-Americas, admitted to the authorities that Bryant had demanded the key to the death apartment. A man answering Bryant’s description was seen in the neighborhood of the apartment at the approximate time of the murder, and it is believed that Bryant may still have the apartment key in his possession.

  “Early this morning a man was brutally murdered in an alley in the Quarter. He has not yet been identified. It was obvious that he put up a desperate fight. Two fingerprints of the assailant were obtained, one from the door of the room the murdered man had occupied under the name of Smith, the other from the lid of a trash can. The murdered man had been struck with the lid before being knifed. The fingerprints proved to have been made by Bryant. There is no known motive for the killing.

  “Bryant is described as being six foot one, weight approximately one hundred and ninety pounds. Dark eyes, swarthy complexion. Black hair cut short. He is physically powerful and known to be dangerous. Please report the whereabouts of any man answering this description to the police at once. And now for other news in and around the city. The Mayor today announced that …”

  I turned it off. If the radio carried it, the papers would carry it. And if I was found, Jill would have no excuse. None whatever. A large-size jam for Jill.

  I couldn’t imagine what the object was. Certainly Barney Zeck would know that I hadn’t killed that girl. And the Jones boys would know. It was a trick of some sort. And I remembered spots on the front of Siddman’s suit. His backward jump hadn’t been quite fast enough. The knife would have his prints on it. I hadn’t touched the knife.

  There was an alternative idea. Suppose somebody wanted to tie the package up very neatly. I was one hell of a handy piece of string. Too bad they couldn’t use me as the fall guy for Laura too.

  The apartment began to turn into a sort of prison. Finally I phoned Tram Widdmar at his office. He was in.

  “Tram? This is Dil.”

  “Jesus, man! Where are you?” he boomed. “Has everybody gone crazy all of a sudden? Or have you really turned killer? Where the hell are you?”

  “Never mind that. You know Lieutenant Zeck, don’t you?”

  “Sure, I know Barney.”

  “Well, swing your weight around a little. Get hold of him. Make him tell you what kind of deal they’re trying to rig on me. I’ll phone you back later and get the story from you.”

  “If you show your face on the street, Dil, some trigger-happy character will probably shoot you down. Seen the papers? They got an old picture out of Sam’s files and blew it up big.”

  “Oh, fine,” I said bitterly.

  “Boy, why don’t you see if you can get out to the house? My people won’t talk. And nobody will come around with any warrants. Besides, they already searched the place.” His big laugh hurt my ear.

  “It’s an idea,” I said.

  “Hell, what are friends for, boy?”

  “I’ll let you know,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to try it until after dark, anyway.”

  A little after five I smoked my last cigarette. They never seem half as essential as they do after you run out. I prowled around, hunting for more. None in the kitchen or the living room. I tried the bedroom. I had yanked open the third bureau drawer, the lowest one, when suddenly I saw a half pack right in plain sight beside a box of powder on top of the bureau. I grabbed it and lit one. As I exhaled, I bent down to close the drawer. Under the edge of a sheer negligee, carefully folded, I saw the edge of a manila file folder. A typed title was pasted on the visible edge of the folder. It said, “Notes on Structure.”

  Structure of what? A thing like that can bother you. I’m a nosy type. And on minor matters, my conscience doesn’t seem to operate. So I took out the folder. I sat on the bed and opened it. The notes were typed.

  I Bilateral structure indicated:

  A. Surface organization. Known sympathizers, Corn-front organizations, student groups, pinks.

  B. Subsurface structure. Cellular structure; i.e., classic espionage. Ports, industrial centers—high priority. Personnel careful avoid any contact with A above. Suspect consider people in A dupes. Most probably DPs, smuggled aliens, Adept sabotage, channeling of info. Probably many technical.

  II Control mechanism (largely guesswork):

  A. One person, highly respected, in position to receive orders without suspicion and transmit to

  B. Co-ordinator of surface organization, who is less important than

  C. Co-ordinator of subsurface cellular organization.

  III Summary of structure:

  A, above, is key. Must have money, power, mobility, access to communications. Must stay clear of any contact with surface organization, thus contact with surface co-ordinator must be cleverly handled. A—the man above suspicion—is keystone of arch. Essential to co-ordinated functioning.

  There was more of it. A lot more of it. Enough so I began to understand why Jill showed no special shock when I mentioned who the “Morin” girl had worked for. I remembered Jill’s remarkable work in ferreting out the smuggling game. I knew what I held in my hand. It was her own private project. Heaven only knew the working hours that had gone into it.

  On the last page I found a note. A short note. It was in the form of a question. “Is Dil marrying subsurface operative? Believe too flamboyant. Uses mostly little gray people. Laura anything but gray. Turncoat? Possibly. Then party dangerous.”

  The last three words meant almost nothing. The party was dangerous. Well, the party had pr
oved dangerous to Laura. They had sent an operative after her and the operative had killed her. How dangerous can the party get?

  I put the folder back in the drawer, careful to replace it as it was. And now I had even better cause for worry. Jill was messing with clever people. The odds were against anyone’s being able to investigate without that investigation’s being sensed, and resented. If “they” had seen me come to Jill from that bloody alley, and if they had become conscious that Jill’s tilted nose was aimed at their affairs, then they might add two and two, get seven, and do something about it. Something drastic.

  At a few minutes past six the door opened. I went down the hall at a run and caught her by both arms as she shut the door behind her. I shook her and she dropped her cape.

  “Dil! What on earth?”

  “Flying trip, eh? Great flying trip!”

  “For goodness’ sake, stop growling at me. And stop hurting my arms.”

  I released her and picked up the cape. “You could have phoned,” I said haughtily.

  “I thought of it, and then decided you were too smart to answer if it did ring.”

  “That argument has a little merit, maybe.”

  She stamped her foot. “You’re beginning to make me feel like a high-school girl who stayed out too late.”

  We walked toward the living room. “I was worried. Very worried,” I said.

  She gave me an oblique look. “You should be worried.” She handed me the Star News, a Sunday extra, a very rare item. I opened it up. The guy on the front page looked like a criminal. Me.

  I sat down with the paper. Essentially it was the same as what had come over the radio, with the addition of a few unpretty details about both murders, and a generous hint that I was a homicidal maniac.

  She took two new packs of cigarettes out of her purse and put them on the coffee table. “I had a chat with Barney, Dil.”

  I threw the paper aside. “That’ll save me calling Tram back.”

  “You phoned Tram? Did you tell him where you were?”

  “No. I half promised I’d be his house guest. I better take the heat off you. Can you drive me out there after dark?”

  “I left the car in front. But you’re safe here, Dil. Really you are.”

  “Even from Barney? What did he say?”

  “He was odd. Very subdued. He gave me some hard looks out of those pale eyes of his. He said that if you, by any chance, should show up here, I better shoo you away fast. So I grinned at him and asked him how he could be so certain you weren’t here already. It seemed like a good remark to make at the time.”

  “How did he take it?”

  “He smiled back. A weak smile, sort of. He said that for the sake of my reputation, I better chase you out. He baffled me. I had the feeling he wanted to tell me more, but had promised not to, or something. Look, Dil. Tell me one thing. The truth and nothing but the truth. Did Laura give you anything to keep for her?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Did she give you any presents?”

  “There wasn’t much time for that. Oh, here. This little rabbit. She made me wait on the sidewalk while she went into a jewelry shop, that big one near the corner of Iberville and Dauphine, and bought this rabbit for me.”

  Jill took it casually, looked at it, and handed it back. “No, that doesn’t fit,” she sighed. “Oh, damn! I wish this all made more sense. I think it would probably be all right if you went out and stayed with Tram. It isn’t really necessary, though.”

  “You mean you can lock that bedroom door?”

  “You have a nasty knack of making me blush like a fool. There’s no key to that lock, or it would have been locked last night.”

  She changed from her heat-wilted clothes while I made drinks. She got back into the blue linen sun suit. We sat and an awkward silence grew between us. I glanced at her. She was looking out across the small court.

  “It’s some kind of trick I don’t understand,” I said.

  “Charging you with the murders?”

  “Of course. But you’re better able to understand it than I am.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “You and your careful research. Adding two and two.”

  She stared at me. “You sound a little contemptuous, Dil. As though there were something nasty about the sort of prying I do.”

  “I didn’t mean to sound that way. You know, Jill, I’ve never told you this before, but I’ve always felt a little awed by you. You’ve always seemed so controlled, so self-contained. You know, I never saw you off base before, like when I brought you your breakfast.”

  “How perfectly absurd! Goodness, I never feel self-contained. I’m always rattled about something, or afraid of something. I never seem to make the right impression on people—the impression I want to make.”

  “Then you’ve got one hell of a good act, Jill.”

  “Better than I knew,” she said softly. “Refill?”

  I held out the empty glass. She didn’t meet my eyes as she took it. She carefully avoided touching my hand. As she walked away, I said, “And that yak about bathing suits. Did it mean anything? You spend a lot of time in a sun suit.”

  She turned and stared back at me, and I could sense the anger that stirred in her. “I do things because they’re difficult, Dil. I do things I don’t like to do as a form of self-discipline.”

  “Does having me here come under that heading?”

  “You make me so darn mad! You twist everything around, in that superior way of yours. And inside you’re laughing at me.”

  “With you, my lamb. Not at you.”

  The larder was low. I helped her inspect the cupboards. The meal we had was abundant enough, but a slightly odd assortment. After the dishes were done we sat in silence and watched night obscure the bronze boy. There was a smell of new rain in the air, and the stars came out only to wink for a few moments in the early night sky before the clouds covered them.

  “Any time now,” I said.

  I saw the pale outline of her face turn toward me. “At least you don’t have to pack, do you?”

  “Tram will have some things that will fit. These clothes feel like I’ll have to take them off with a trowel.”

  “I won’t go in with you, so there’s no point in changing, I guess. I’m ready when you are.”

  She turned on the floor lamp at the head of the couch and picked up her purse, and we went down the hallway to the wooden door that fronted on the sidewalk.

  “I’m forever grateful to you, Jill,” I said softly.

  “Don’t make such a thing out of it. When I kill my managing editor, you can hide me in your pocket.”

  She had her hand on the door latch. The light from the living room was faint. I took her wrist and pulled her hand away from the latch, turning her toward me. Her whole body stiffened. I slid my hand down around her fingers. They felt like ice. I put my other hand on her shoulder, and knew that she trembled. It was the clumsiest possible kiss, with our noses getting in the way, and her lips tightly compressed under mine. I realized what a mistake it was to make any attempt to step out of the brotherly role. She made me feel as if I were all hands and feet.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “I guess I’m no good, Dil. I’m not often kissed.”

  “I hope the next guy does a better job than that, anyway. Come on. Let’s roll.”

  After two blocks I said, “Hey! Wouldn’t it be a little embarrassing to be picked up?”

  She didn’t answer me. She sat on a seat cushion that kept her high enough so that she could lean forward and grasp the top of the wheel of the battered coupé. Somebody kept the motor in sweet shape for her. She gunned it up to each corner, took a quick stab at the brake, and wrenched hard, letting the wheel slip back through her hands as the coupé swayed back into line.

  I had to force myself to lean back and relax. She looked straight ahead and her lips were a firm, tight line. She barged across Canal, got on Tulane near Charity Hospital, and roared out Tulane, w
eaving through traffic, to the Airline Highway. The motor began to sing like a big bee.

  “Damn it, Jill, take it easy!”

  She didn’t answer me. She just depressed the foot throttle another fraction of an inch. She took the cutoff to Metairie Road and skidded the back wheels as she took the oblique onto Metairie. When we reached Tram’s, she waited until the last instant before braking and ducking into his drive. A few house lights were on.

  “Here you are,” she said coldly.

  That’s as far as I got. She left me looking at the twin red tail lights as she spun away. She left me rubbing my elbow where the window frame had rapped it smartly, wondering what was wrong with her.

  Sammy opened the door a few moments after I leaned on the bell. He peered out at me and his eyes grew wide and he took an involuntary half step backward. Then he pulled himself together and said, “Evening, Mr. Bryant Come in, suh. Mr. Widdmar, he’s out in the patio, suh.”

  “Thanks, Sammy.” I went through onto the central patio. Tram was a bulky shadow enfolded in a Barwa chair. Lights in the house proper picked up glints from the glassware on the tray table at his elbow.

  “The condemned man ate a hearty Scotch,” I said.

  “Mix your own, you felon,” Tram boomed. Sammy brought a second chair out and set it down with a soft scrape of aluminum on the patio tiles. I made my drink and sat down, feeling at ease for the first time in many days.

  “Hope I’m not intruding,” I said.

  “I’ve been sitting out here crying into the night. I had a nice tasty setup for this evening. Tall and demure and cautious and widowed and potentially hotter than Mammy’s pressure cooker. I had mood music all stacked on the machine. A duck-and-wild-rice dinner, with brandy to float on top of it. What do you think I built this house for? As a refuge for fugitives from justice, or as an adjunct to seduction?”