The Ring of Truth

by George Harmon Coxe

  “He was out like a light,” she said flatly and with no suggestion of regret in her voice. “Dead to the world. He stayed that way.”

  “And you kept the gun for Ralph. You had to make the murder-suicide theory stand up. You knew about the fight. You probably couldn’t arrange it exactly as it happened but you most certainly did your best to precipitate it. You heard the threat. You heard what Estey said about the gun he had. Had you already made a date with him for a little get-together in the musicians’ room before you shot Flemming? Did you suggest that Ralph bring a pint?”

  He made himself continue. “That musicians’ room was ideal, wasn’t it? Ralph had a key to the place. No chance his body would be discovered until the next night. An anonymous call to the police about Flemming. So the time of death could be reasonably established while you were laundering some underwear at your place and washing your hair. And you left Flemming’s gun—did Ralph ever see it or did you ease up from behind him and pull the trigger when he wasn’t looking? You had to leave that gun, didn’t you? Just as you had to take that gun of Ralph’s with you.”

  He hesitated and the enormity of what she had done came back to him. He had to swallow against the sickness inside him, the revulsion in his mind.

  “Robert Tremaine I can understand. You didn’t know him. You kept it impersonal. He stood between you and what you’d been looking for all your life and a traffic accident to a drunk did not concern you. Flemming became a threat and—”

  “Flemming,” she interrupted, biting at the words, her mouth a thin red slash, “got just what he’d given to one or two other men. He had it coming. I didn’t feel a thing.”

  “But Estey was your friend. A failure in your eyes maybe—”

  “He could have made trouble. He knew some things about me. He was jealous. He would have told Donald. He was a pest and the way he was going he’d have wound up like Jack Teagarden—a better horn man than almost anybody-sick, alone, and dead in some motel room.”

  She stopped for a second or two. The muscles in her face worked and there was something in her eyes that may have been remorse; then it was gone and her voice was again flat and frigid.

  “I didn’t want to. Don’t you understand? I had to!” Standish let his breath out softly. There it was. As simple as that. In her coldly calculating mind, and having already decided to kill Flemming, she had to kill again. For her there was no other way.

  He gave a small unconscious shake of his head to dispel such imagery and now a new thought came to him. “What was the wig for?”

  “Because,” Tremaine broke in disconsolately, “I have a nosy landlord. Sheila said it wouldn’t do for people to know I was in love with her until it was time to get married. She said we ought to keep our affair a secret.”

  “And why,” Standish said, turning to Evelyn, “did you come here last night—and tonight?”

  “Because some of the things you told me yesterday scared me. It never occurred to me that Robert’s death was anything but an accident but what you said made me begin to wonder.” She glanced at Tremaine. “I wanted to know what you told Donald. I came back here tonight because Warren Choate said the police had talked to him late this afternoon about the stock sale last December. I wanted to find out what Donald did with that five thousand dollars in cash.”

  “You didn’t know about Sheila?”

  “Not actually.” She shook her head determinedly. “I may have suspected that he had a girl—”

  “I still don’t believe it,” Tremaine cut in, his voice heavy and perplexed. “I can’t.”

  “Well, maybe you’ll believe this,” Standish said, and explained what had happened the previous night. He spoke of the three shots and his prior talk with Sheila. “I guess I scared you too,” he said, seeing again the girl’s hard bright stare and rigid mouth.

  “You knew then that I was crowding Donald. You knew I knew he’d been seeing a mysterious brunette regularly. I told you about the chloral hydrate. You even said I was persistent and it worried you plenty. You were afraid when the pressure came that Donald would crack and come to you with his doubts and demand an explanation.

  “It had been raining,” he said thoughtfully and to no one in particular. “I saw when I got to my feet that the pavement where your car had been was wet. It would have been dry if the car had been there very long. I thought someone”—he looked at Tremaine—“probably you, had followed me to Hennessey’s and then on to my apartment.”

  He glanced at the girl and continued with quiet bitterness. “I couldn’t see the obvious answer. You were too good for me. You were the only one who knew where I kept my car. You had a helper in the checkroom—Madge, you said— so you could easily duck out. You got your coat, and the bag with the gun, and stuffed some man’s hat under the coat; someone you knew was not about to leave for a while. You told Madge you’d be back in a few minutes. You’d killed twice with Flemming’s gun. Why not once more if you could stop me while you still had time?”

  Tremaine interrupted again. He seemed not to have been listening and he spoke to Sheila, his bespectacled eyes sick. “What are you going to do, Sheila?”

  “Do?” The girl considered the question, smooth brow wrinkling now and some flick of the eye suggesting that the problem had not yet occurred to her. She glanced at Evelyn and at Standish. She maneuvered the strap of her handbag over her left arm. She draped the coat on top of it and came slowly to her feet. When the wig and dark glasses fell from her lap, she kicked the wig aside and, careful to keep the gun level, stooped to retrieve the glasses.

  “I’ll tell you,” she said finally. “If I thought you were with me, if I was sure I could count on you, I’d take these two”— she waved the gun—“out of here and get rid of them. It could be done. We could get away with it. We could have what we want the rest of our fives.”

  “I am with you, Sheila,” Tremaine said, “but not that way. You killed my brother, not yourself but you arranged it—”

  “To help you,” she said coldly. “To make something out of you. I did you a favor. Before that you were a nothing going nowhere. A two-bit job and no future. You hated him anyway. You said so.”

  “I know. What you did to Flemming and Estey is done. You have no chance at all unless you try to get away. Maybe I do owe you something. Give me the gun and I’ll help you get out of here.”

  For an instant the narrowed eyes were incredulous. “You must be crazy.”

  Evelyn Tremaine stood up. When she spoke her voice was forceful and clipped.

  “I agree. Let her alone, Donald. Stay out of it.”

  “No.” Tremaine shook his head stubbornly and his jaw was set. “If I’m to blame for some of this I’ll take the responsibility, but I want that gun. There’s going to be no more killing.”

  Tremaine took a slow and deliberate step forward and Standish tried to stop him. “Don’t be a fool!” he said.

  Tremaine did not seem to hear. He had eyes only for the girl and when his chin came up he seemed to stretch taller, his face gray and traces of shock beginning to show through. He was still ten feet away but he had his hand out.

  “Give it to me, Sheila. It’s the only way. I said I’d help, and I will.”

  “No!”

  She stiffened and the gun, which had been pointed at Standish, shifted to Tremaine. She watched him take another careful step and now the mouth flattened and the green eyes had a wild and glassy look that was no longer quite sane.

  “No. I’m getting out of here.”

  “Donald!” It was Evelyn Tremaine and her voice was ragged. “Let her go.”

  “Yes,” Tremaine said. “But not with that gun. I mean it, Sheila.”

  And suddenly the tension that had been working on Standish wound tightly inside him and a chill ran up his spine. He knew somehow that the girl would never surrender the gun. To her Tremaine remained a threat and she was no longer rational. She said as much in the next instant. She tried to back up but a table got in her way. She
seemed to brace herself, half screaming now, threatening him because she seemed aware, as Standish was, that Tremaine had somehow set a goal for himself and had no intention of stopping.

  Standish felt his scalp tighten and the perspiration was drying coldly on his spine. He added his warning to Evelyn’s, not knowing what he said but trying to get Tremaine’s attention. He was on his feet now, beside the arm of the divan, and as he glanced round he saw the pillow. He started to reach for it surreptitiously even as he shouted a final warning. He saw Tremaine keep moving, hands still outstretched, saw the trigger finger tighten as he recognized the brutal resolution that filmed the girl’s bright and desperate gaze.

  He had one corner of the pillow in his fingers, knowing there was no more time, and at the same instant the knock came at the door, sounding loud and imperative, a shocking sound in the otherwise quiet room. It startled everyone and for one brief moment all movement ceased.

  Sheila’s hand remained tight on the revolver but her head turned a fraction of an inch, her attention momentarily distracted. It was then that Standish spun the pillow toward the girl’s face and tried to follow it. He heard the first shot and then, so quickly that it must have been a reflex that yanked the trigger, the second.

  This shot, he knew, had hit the pillow. It seemed to jump in mid-air; then hang there. Before it fell he was on top of the girl, one arm clamping around her waist, the other twisting the hot gun from her hand.

  For a few frantic seconds she fought with him, wildly and without purpose. He half lifted her toward the chair, crushing her taut straining body to him, thrusting his hip into her stomach to keep her from kneeing him. He put the gun on the table to free his other hand and then, surprisingly, a sudden spasm seemed to hit her. Her body went slack and he had to support her for another step before he could lower her into the chair.

  He was breathing hard now, emotions still shaken as he turned to find Tremaine looking down at the small but spreading stain on the left arm of his sport shirt. This told him where the first shot had gone and now the knocking came again more insistently. Evelyn Tremaine, who had been standing white-faced and rigid, reacted first. With a quick breath and a resolute toss of her head, she strode over to open the door.

  Standish, watching her and half expecting Lieutenant Ballard, stared incredulously as Mary Hayward moved slowly across the threshold. He saw the wide-open gray eyes slide swiftly round the room and the trembling of her lower lip before she started toward him.

  “Paul,” she breathed. “Are you all right?” And then the words came tumbling out. “The lieutenant wasn’t in. They said he’d be back soon, that they would give him the message. I tried to be patient. I wanted to wait but it seemed as if you were up here forever. I got scared. I had to come. I had to know—”

  She ran out of breath and left the sentence dangling. Standish helped her.

  “It’s all right, Mary,” he said, his initial astonishment giving way to a curious feeling of warmth and pride and understanding. “It’s probably a good thing you knocked. We’re okay now—except for Mr. Tremaine. If you’ll go down and get my bag, we’ll patch him up.”

  “Donald!”

  Again it was the shocked and startled voice of Evelyn Tremaine. Something in its cadence made Standish wheel and then he knew why. For Tremaine, unnoticed until now, had picked up the revolver Standish had discarded. He held it in his good right hand and moved the muzzle up.

  Standish, with no further capacity for amazement, simply peered at the man. He tried to find some answer in the tired eyes and failed. After that anger asserted itself.

  “What the hell’s the matter with you?” he demanded. “What do you think you’re going to do with that?”

  “Nothing, I hope. . . . Sheila! Listen to me!”

  There was new authority in the tone and the girl lifted her head. Her cheeks were slack and colorless in that moment. The green eyes were stunned and uncomprehending, but he succeeded in getting her attention.

  “I said I’d help you, and I will. How much money do you have?”

  She still did not understand. She had to wet her lips and swallow. She fumbled ineffectively with her handbag.

  “I—I don’t know, Donald. With me do you mean? Not much.”

  “At home.”

  “Maybe four hundred in the dresser drawer.”

  Tremaine pointed with the gun toward the kneehole desk in the corner. “Go over there. Open the top left-hand drawer. In the back. There’s an envelope.” He watched her rise and start uncertainly toward the desk. “I like to keep some cash on hand,” he said to no one in particular.

  Standish realized now what Tremaine had in mind but he still did not understand it. He saw the girl locate the envelope. He watched her take out the fifty-dollar bills when Tremaine said: “Count it.”

  “Eight hundred,” she said, her voice still full of wonder.

  “With your four that’s twelve. Take it. Pack a small bag when you pick up your money. I can probably give you an hour’s head start. He glanced from face to face, eyes strangely steady and his words sardonic. “I don’t think the girls will bother me, and Standish—he’s a reasonable man, aren’t you, Doctor? You’re no cop. You have no authority, no obligation, no duty to perform—not at the risk of a bullet in the leg. As for this”—he looked at the blood stain on his sleeve, which had not spread very much—“I don’t think I’ll bleed to death in an hour.”

  Again it was Evelyn Tremaine who found words before the others. “You’re going to help her get away?” she said in sharp astonishment. “For God’s sake why?”

  “It will make you an accessory,” Standish said.

  “Not to murder. I don’t know what the penalty is for helping a suspect escape but I’m willing to risk it.”

  Evelyn tried again. “But don’t you know what she’s like now? Don’t you realize what she’s done?”

  “Yes. I’m not condoning what she did. I’m sick to death of the thought that she could be so cold and calculating and inhuman. I feel like throwing up. I probably will when this is over. . . . Why?” he added, coming now to his sister-in-law’s original question. “Maybe because I was in love with her for a while. Maybe because she made me feel I was someone for the first time in my life. Maybe I don’t even have a reason but I do know she’s the only woman who ever made me feel important, who made me feel like a man. I owe her something for that. . . . Get going, Sheila!” There was no further protest. It was as if the others were still under the influence of some lingering spell that only time could eradicate. Standish offered no argument because he knew it would be futile. He also began to get some understanding of what was in Tremaine’s mind. That he was, perhaps, somewhat irrational on his stand and that he would eventually realize this, was no longer important. He had given his reasons and right now they were sufficient unto him.

  Standish could see as the girl started to back toward the door that new color was showing in her cheeks. Some of the confidence was back and the green eyes were again calculating and watchful. She reached behind her to turn the knob. She started to say something, stopped, tried again.

  “Thanks, Donald. I’m sorry I hurt you.”

  “It isn’t important,” Tremaine said, his voice sounding flat, tired, and spent. “You probably won’t make it—and I’m not sure I care—but you’ve got an hour to give it a try.”

  She was gone then and for a few seconds the room was still. Tremaine moved to a straight-backed chair and sat down so he could watch the three of them. The palms of Standish’s hands were still damp and when he brought out a handkerchief to dry them he could feel the strain beginning to ease in his neck and shoulders. As he reached for cigarettes he asked Tremaine about the arm.

  “It’ll do,” the man said. He was holding it up now, the fingers shoulder-high. “It must have missed the bone.”

  “If it hadn’t you wouldn’t be moving it,” Standish said, and was about to continue when he heard the sudden sound of commotion somewhere outsid
e and below the room. For another second or so he did not know what caused it. Then he heard the muffled sound of a woman’s voice, high-pitched and furiously complaining. It seemed to come from the hallway and the floor below.

  Tremaine had already jumped to his feet, the bespectacled eyes darting from side to side in quick alarm. “What’s that?” he said sharply.

  The sounds were closer now, on the stairs it seemed. The woman was complaining in the same furious voice but now there were other voices, not distinct as yet but definitely male.

  Standish thought he knew the answer this time. He took a small breath and let it out, certain now that Ballard had at last responded to Mary Hayward’s telephone message. For the first time it began to dawn on him that Tremaine’s stubborn and foolhardy effort to get the gun from Sheila Keith so she could not use it again had been worthwhile after all. He was already at the door when the knock came. He saw the still struggling girl firmly supported between Lieutenant Ballard and Sergeant Cooney, and like that, half dragging and half carrying her, they entered the room.

  It was nearly two o’clock before matters were in hand and preliminary statements taken. The State’s Attorney had been consulted and it was agreed that the formal statements could wait until morning. Donald Tremaine’s wound had been a minor one, as he had suspected, and there was no charge against him pending further investigation. Finally only Standish and Mary were left in Ballard’s office as the lieutenant went over and closed the door. He found a half-filled bottle of whiskey in the lower drawer and brought out paper cups.

  “This,” he said happily, “is strictly against regulations.” He poured a spot of whiskey in each cup, added water from the cooler. “No ice,” he said, and then sat down, saluted with his cup, and drank gratefully.