The Ring of Truth

by George Harmon Coxe

  “Except your reputation.”

  “But I do think,” he added, ignoring the interruption, “that Ballard ought to know about this. Will you walk down to that filling station and call him?”

  “Well—all right,” Mary said with some reluctance. “But what do I say?”

  “Tell him where I am. Tell him I have a lead that he might want to look into. If he comes to Tremaine’s and asks for me I don’t think he’ll be breaking any regulations.”

  Mary did not like it; her voice said so. “And what will you be doing?”

  Standish was not quite sure as he moved off in the darkness without bothering to reply. He had an idea he could get more information out of Tremaine than Ballard could officially, and having come this far practically alone, he had to try. He told himself this as he stood on the second-floor landing and knocked on Tremaine’s door, then knocked again, while the tension began to build slowly inside him.

  It was a good five seconds before there was a reply, and then a man’s voice said: “Who is it?”

  “Dr. Standish.”

  Another few seconds went by. Finally a lock clicked and the door opened about a foot, framing Tremaine’s bespectacled face.

  “I’m sorry, Doctor,” he said in his formal way. “I have company.”

  “I know. That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

  Standish was moving as he spoke, putting his weight against the door swiftly and with precision, forcing the smaller man back, then pushing into the room.

  He saw the woman sitting in the easy chair by the window as the door slammed behind him. Then Tremaine, in slacks and sport shirt but impeccably groomed as always, darted in front of him, the jaw hard now and the mouth white with rage.

  “You can’t come in here like this,” he yelled. “Not even the police can come in here without a warrant. Either you leave at once or I’ll call them now.”

  “Why don’t you? That might be a good idea.”

  Standish spoke quietly and it was apparent that he meant what he said. He was not looking at Tremaine. He had not looked at him since he had entered. Instead his attention had focused on Evelyn Tremaine. Her coat had been thrown back. The dark glasses and the scarf were in her lap. The sleek black hair glistened in the lamplight and the dark eyes were intent and challenging.

  Donald Tremaine put a hand on Standish’s shoulder and pulled forcefully, half turning him. The anger was still gripping the smaller man and he stood spread-legged, fists at his side. For a second or two he seemed about to swing and then the moment passed.

  “What do you want?” he demanded.

  “For one thing,” Standish said, “I’d like to ask Mrs. Tremaine a couple of questions.”

  “How did you know she was here? If you’ve been following her—”

  The woman cut him off. “Let it go, Donald. I think I’d like to hear the questions.”

  Standish straightened his coat collar. He was reasonably sure of his ground now but he wanted confirmation.

  “Do you dye your hair, Mrs. Tremaine?”

  “I do not.”

  “You haven’t had any recent permanent either, have you?”

  “Not since I was a teen-ager. How do you know?”

  “I picked up a strand when I was at your place yesterday,” Standish lied, having no intention of involving Lou Cheney. “I had an expert examine it. He said no dye, no permanent. You were here last night. This afternoon I asked you a question. I’ll ask it again. I’d like the truth because the clock is beginning to run out on all of you.”

  “In what way?”

  “The police have changed their minds. They’re convinced now that the Flemming-Estey case was not murder and suicide but a very clever plot. They agree that there could be only one reason for such a plot—that Flemming was hired to run down your husband in a deliberate murder attempt.”

  Behind him Tremaine was protesting in outraged tones but the woman did not bat an eye. “What was your question?”

  “I asked if you’d been here to see Donald regularly, prior to last night. You said no.”

  “Because it happens to be the truth.”

  This time Standish believed her. He took a small breath, not liking what he had to do but knowing no other way. With one eye on Tremaine he moved quickly to the inner hall, continuing to a sizable bedroom with twin beds, a maple chest and dresser. There was an adjoining bath and a closed door apparently giving on a closet.

  Once again as he started forward Tremaine ducked in front of him, his bespectacled face white and stiff, his voice raging.

  “God damn you, Standish!” he said. “I told you to get out.”

  And then, having spoken, he swung. It was not an artful blow but it was unexpected and he gave it all he had. Standish saw it coming and had time to jerk his head, not quite enough, but enough to vitiate its force.

  As it was, the punch grazed his cheekbone and he went back a step, and Tremaine was after him swinging a left. The trouble was, Standish had done some boxing in college and Tremaine apparently had not, and now the left was neatly slipped and Standish was inside, trapping the arm and shifting his weight. He did not strike Tremaine; he merely spun him off his feet and dumped him against the edge of the nearest bed, from which he bounced to the floor.

  In that same instant he reached for the closet door and yanked and then he was face to face with the woman. The dark coat was over one arm, the handbag dangling from the other wrist. She still had the dark glasses on and the black bobbed hair did not fool him now. He recognized the simple dark dress with the white collar and somehow he felt no great surprise.

  “All right, Sheila,” he said. “Do you want to take the wig off or shall I?”

  All this took perhaps five seconds and during that time no one else spoke. Then Tremaine jumped up and gave vent to his feelings. He said he’d have Standish arrested; he’d have his license revoked. He said other things as Standish heard him out.

  “If I were you,” he said when it was all over, “I’d do some listening.”

  He had not taken his eyes from Sheila Keith and now he watched her take the glasses off and fold them. She removed the black wig with some care and shook out the ash-blond hair. The familiar smile which was her stock in trade was absent now and the green eyes were bright and hard in the set white face.

  Standish stepped back to let her move into the room and he saw that Evelyn Tremaine, apparently alerted by the sound of the commotion, was standing in the doorway to the bedroom. Her dark beauty had a strained look now and her glance moved to Tremaine and to Standish before settling on Sheila Keith.

  “So it’s you,” she said quietly.

  She turned and went back into the living room and Standish motioned Sheila Keith ahead of him. Tremaine, after a brief attack of speechlessness, found his voice when he came back to the front room.

  “I’d better call the police,” he said, heading toward the telephone as he spoke. He took two steps before Sheila Keith stopped him.

  “Wait a minute, Don!” Her voice was clipped, commanding. “Let him talk.”

  Tremaine hesitated, wavered, obeyed. Evelyn Tremaine had gone back to her chair. Sheila Keith took the matching one across from the fireplace, wig, glasses, and handbag in her lap. Standish perched on the arm of the divan and looked at Tremaine.

  “I guess you’re in love with her.”

  “Certainly I’m in love with her.”

  “That might explain your inquiries yesterday morning at the downtown airline’s office. Miami and Panama, wasn’t it? For a honeymoon?”

  “Suppose it was?”

  “When?”

  “None of your damn business.”

  “But you’ve been in love for quite a while, haven’t you? Since before your brother was killed? . . . Then why didn’t you marry her? Why wait? Or was it Sheila who did the stalling? Maybe, until that accident, you weren’t just what she had in mind for a husband. You didn’t have much of a job, you didn’t have much money. You couldn�
��t get any for two years until you had control of that trust fund.”

  “Or,” he added when there was no immediate reply, “was it because your brother, who apparently dominated you the same way your father did, might make trouble if he knew about you and Sheila?”

  The rage in Tremaine had passed. What anger remained now was under control and his resentment showed only in the pale patches along the cheekbone and in the overtones of his voice.

  “It’s still none of your business what I did or what Sheila did.”

  “Maybe” Standish said, “but unless you’ve got a very good story to tell the police you’ll probably face murder charges; at least, you’ll wind up as an accessory.”

  Tremaine leaned forward, jaw slack and widely staring. He seemed to have trouble answering and when the words came they were uncertain.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “You could be right,” Standish said, “but it’s time you found out.”

  He went on quickly then, his voice quiet, assured, and intent. He reminded Tremaine of their previous talk the evening before and the doubt he had expressed about Robert Tremaine’s accidental death. He outlined the theory again, adding that it was no longer theory but fact. Then quickly he said: “You got five thousand dollars in cash from Warren Choate three days before that accident.”

  “He sold some stock for me.”

  “Yes. But he said a check wasn’t good enough for you. He had to send down and have it cashed. . . . What did you do with it?” he pressed when Tremaine did not reply. “Who did you give it to?”

  Tremaine had been standing in front of the fireplace. Now he braced his shoulders against the edge of the mantelpiece and folded his arms. He stuck his chin out and his bespectacled gaze was steady and defiant.

  “Go to hell!”

  “You mean that’s none of my business either? You could be right about that,” Standish said. “But once the police find out about that transaction—and for all I know they already have—they’re going to make it their business. If you want to know what they’re going to say, I’ll tell you,” he added, and went on before he could be interrupted.

  “When they find out about Sheila—and you can be damn sure I’m going to tell them—and realize that you had a thing going here every Sunday or Monday night—the only nights she was free when you stop to think of it—they are going to say you planned that accident to your brother because it was the only way you could get Sheila. You were in love with her. You wanted to marry her. She wouldn’t have you with what you had but there was a trust fund that could be yours and your brother was holding out. You were going to get one half of the company insurance and one half of the personal insurance. Add it all up and it comes to more than a quarter of a million dollars.”

  He took a breath and said: “What else are they going to think? It fits. All of it. You had to get your brother out of the way—you probably hated him anyway—and you didn’t have the nerve to do it yourself because the police could pin too many motives on you. But somewhere along the line you found out about a guy named Jess Flemming. You knew his background. You knew he could be hired. You knew your brother’s habits, especially his drinking habits on Saturday nights. It wouldn’t be too tough to set up. For five thousand Flemming agreed to do the job, so you sold the stock—”

  Tremaine interrupted, a rising desperation in his tone. “But it’s not true. That’s not the way it happened.”

  “You’re going to have to tell the police why you needed that five thousand dollars. Why hold out on us? What are you afraid of? We can’t arrest you.”

  Evelyn Tremaine, who had been watching intently, shifted her legs and cleared her throat. “Why did you need that five thousand, Donald?”

  “Why?” Tremaine’s glance shifted behind the spectacles and came back. “For Sheila.”

  “You gave it to her?” Evelyn Tremaine said in slow astonishment. “Just like that?”

  “In cash?” Standish said.

  “She wanted cash.”

  “Why?”

  “To pay off a mortgage on her mother’s home. She supported her mother—out in Ohio. She said she couldn’t marry me with that mortgage over her head.”

  Standish let his breath out slowly. Something about the other’s manner, his almost naive sincerity, told him that this must be the truth. A moment later, and remembering what Marion Choate and Evelyn had told him, he understood why.

  “Ingenuous” was one of the words they had used to describe Tremaine. With women, they said, he had no experience. With this in mind it was easy to see how malleable and unsuspecting he might be when someone like Sheila Keith decided she wanted him. Sheila had been around. She had been married and there had no doubt been others since then.

  Her background in the entertainment business had given her a working understanding of what made most men tick. She had both the practice and the experience to please them when necessary. In the past months on her Sunday or Monday night visits, she had undoubtedly given Tremaine something he had never had before. He had apparently taken her physical attraction and cooperation for love and, glancing at him now, it seemed to Standish that Tremaine was still sold on the girl.

  “A mortgage?” he said. “Sheila told me her mother was dead but that’s something we can check. Now, let me tell you what I think she did with that five thousand. She gave it to Jess Flemming. Flemming was for hire if the price was right and the risk reasonable and”—he nodded toward the girl—“she knew it. She’d known him before. She knew all about him.”

  He said: “She wouldn’t many you while your brother was alive, would she? What did she tell you?” He expected no answer and continued quickly: “Whatever her excuse, she spent enough time here with you to know all about the insurance policies, and the double indemnity, and the trust fund that you wouldn’t get for two more years. She could add. With your brother dead she had what she wanted. For all I know she may have planned to have Mrs. Tremaine killed at the same time; that would make you even more desirable. If she did, Flemming missed Evelyn, and anyway it doesn’t matter now.”

  Tremaine wet his bps. He shook his head, his eyes incredulous. “You were saying that Sheila hired Flemming to kill my brother?” he asked in hushed tones.

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. She gave you the con about the mortgage in Ohio and you got the five thousand for her. She gave it to Flemming and Flemming did the job. My testimony about your brother’s drunken condition helped get Flemming off. He took the money and went West. He had himself a time and bought a car and when he came back he started to pester Sheila.

  “In the beginning I think she convinced him that she was acting for someone else. Later, with his money about gone, I think he got suspicious. I think he may have followed her on one of her Sunday or Monday night visits. Once he found out about you it wouldn’t be hard to figure why Sheila wanted your brother killed accidentally. You had already collected and she was going to marry you when the time was right. But Flemming was on a spot to do some collecting himself. When he told her so, she knew she had to kill him or he’d bleed her to death. . . .”

  He stopped abruptly, held by some new change in Tremaine. The gaze had shifted and the bespectacled eyes had a funny expression. He said: “No, Sheila!” And there was something in the cadence of that voice that made the hairs on the back of Standish’s neck prickle coldly.

  He turned slowly. He looked at Sheila Keith. Then he saw the open handbag, the revolver pointed right at him. The sight of it jolted him and he forced his glance up while he swallowed and tried to discipline his mind.

  20

  DONALD TREMAINE had moved one step away from the mantelpiece and there he stopped. Evelyn had leaned forward in the chair, hands on arms, the sudden loss of color in her face the only sign that she was frightened. Standish was still watching the gun, seeing the tip-up action that Ballard had mentioned and knowing now that this was the old Harrington and Richardson model that Ralph Estey had once
owned. He started to speak and found he had to swallow first.

  “That’s Ralph’s gun, isn’t it? How did you get the other one, the one you used Monday night?”

  Sheila Keith was still seated, her weight forward and the wig and dark glasses forgotten. The skin was taut across the high cheekbones now, the small mouth thinly set, the shadowed eyes bright and dangerous.

  “Why don’t you tell me, Doctor?” she said. “You seem to have all the answers.”

  Standish found a reasonable assumption, but he took a moment to try to understand this woman. She had fooled him as she had fooled others with her fine figure and bright smile and sexual promise. It was all there if he’d had sense enough to put it together. The background she had given him, the initial drive, the determination, the selfish pursuit of her own goals, even the drama lessons that had better equipped her to play the part. What was it she had said when he had given her a ride the other morning? You have to learn to be tough. You do what you have to do and never mind who gets hurt.

  Her experience with men needed no comment and he recalled her account of her unhappy marriage. He remembered her matter-of-fact story of how, when she had left her husband, she had stripped the apartment and sold its contents. Estey, or any of his breed, was not enough for her but there was good material in Donald Tremaine. All he needed was money and she had found a way to get it for him.

  And Tremaine would not be too suspicious even if he knew of the attention she got from Estey and Flemming. The reason for this, it seemed, lay in the character of the man and the girl’s physical appeal, which few could ignore. With Sheila in his arms how could he doubt her? How easy to let her make the decisions, to promise her what she wanted, to wait however long she asked. There had always been women like this and men who danced attendance, but even as Standish understood how it must have been with Tremaine, he found the thought sickening and distasteful.

  “All right,” he said. “If I have to guess I’ll say you didn’t have a gun of your own. You needed one to carry out your plan. You knew Flemming had a gun and might even carry one. You already knew what you had to do and he probably jumped at the chance when you said you’d stop at his place for a drink or two. You knew about chloral hydrate and when it worked you cleaned and dried the glasses and put the whiskey away. You found the gun and used it. You didn’t forget the paper that contained the drug. You just missed the wastebasket when you threw it away and I happened to get curious about it.”