by P. N. Elrod
“We won’t have to. My researches today were most rewarding….”
“You found out where he hangs his hat?”
“Not quite, but I’ve an idea on where to start. Care to come along?”
“Lead on, Macduff.”
Escott winced. “That’s ‘lay on’.”
“Sorry.”
“The misquote doesn’t bother me so much as your choice of play to misquote from.”
Escott was not even remotely a superstitious man—except when it came to the theater. His particular quirk had to do with Macbeth, and he never would say why. I apologized again, respecting the quirk, even if I didn’t understand it.
He shook his shoulders straight and drew in a deep breath. “Ah, well, perhaps our surroundings will cancel out any malign influences. We can hope so, at least.”
“Amen to that,” I said, and followed him out.
Not that I was taking his stuff too seriously, but I did insist on a quick stop back at the office to pick up his bulletproof vest and the Webley-Fosbery. Just in case. If we got close enough to interview Kyler, he’d probably be frisked and not allowed to keep it. On the other hand, if Kyler didn’t want to see us, we would very definitely need some protection. I still had Doreen’s automatic, but without bullets it wasn’t much more than a weight dragging in my pocket.
Escott stowed his gun into his shoulder holster. With his suit coat and overcoat on top, it was invisible, even to experienced eyes. Now I realized why he favored single-breasted styling; they look okay unbuttoned and he’d left things that way to be able to get at his gun more easily.
We were all set to go when the low rumble of a motor drew my attention to the outside. From either end of the front window, we peered through the slats of the blinds to the street below. A flashy new Packard had parked just in front of Escott’s Nash.
“It’s Pierce’s car,” I said. “Wonder what he wants?”
He shook his head and watched with interest as Griffin lurched from the Packard and crossed the sidewalk to our stairwell. For a big man he didn’t make much noise, even on those creaking boards. The door shook a bit as he knocked.
Escott let him in and offered a greeting.
“Mr. Pierce extends an urgent request that you come to his house immediately,” said Griffin. There was a hint of humor in his eyes. He was very aware of the artificially formal tone of the invitation.
“Did Mr. Pierce state the reason behind his urgency?”
“I am not at liberty to say, sir, but you may rely on the importance of it.”
Escott looked ready to toss the ball back again. It was entertaining, but I didn’t feel like standing around all night just to watch. “C’inon, Charles. We’ll follow in your car and take care of the other business afterward.”
He’d been all wound up to tackle Kyler, so it was tough going for him to have to switch his intentions so abruptly. His curiosity was up, tliough, and that helped. A minute later and we were on the road in the wake of the Packard.
I expected Pierce to have a big place and wasn’t disappointed. The grounds were well kept but informal enough so that the keeping wasn’t too obvious. His house was a big brick monster that must have been stacked together by a piecework crew. It had a couple of turrets with flags, gables, and extensions out of the main building that looked like additions made by the architect after he’d sobered up. Ugly as it was, it looked friendly, and there were warm lights showing in the windows.
Sebastian Pierce emerged from the front door before Escott could set the brake and signed for me to roll down my window.
“I don’t want the servants to know what’s up,” he said. “We’ll talk in the guest house around back.” Without waiting for a reply he trotted forward on his long legs and hastily slipped into the passenger side of the Packard. It was a very cold night and all he wore over his clothes was a bulky sweater.
Though much smaller than the main house and built of humble wood, the guest house was enough to do an average family proud. Its two stories were painted a fresh-looking white with dark trim. The porch light was on and a window shade upstairs twitched, indicating someone was waiting for us.
Pierce was out and striding up the walk as soon as his car stopped. Escott and I had caught some of his nervous energy and quickly crowded onto the porch. Griffin wasn’t moving as fast but managed to arrive just as Pierce unlocked the door and ushered us into a tiny parlor. An arched opening on our left led to a large living room, where he settled us by the fireplace. There was a good blaze going and Escott peeled off his gloves, gratefully extending his hands toward it.
“Now where have they got to?” Pierce muttered, glaring at the empty room. Somewhere upstairs, a toilet flushed. He looked at the ceiling as though he could see through it and nodded with satisfaction. “Good. Excuse me and I’ll bring them down. They’re probably having a last-minute attack of nerves.”
He darted from the room, leaving us to look at each other. Griffin’s face was bland and not giving anything away. He removed his chauffeur’s hat and asked if he could take our coats. Escott shrugged out of his and I did the same. Griffin had just hung them in a closet when Pierce returned with company.
Marian came into the room, looking troubled and sulky, the picture of a kid who had been caught red-handed at the cookie jar. She wore a dark collegiate sweater over wide trousers and sturdy walking shoes that had seen some use. Her sable hair was pulled back and sported a demure black ribbon; all she needed to complete the effect was a pair of Harold Lloyd glasses. It was quite a contrast to the sleek, sophisticated girl who’d tried to suck my tonsils out last night.
“Is she his daughter?” murmured Escott.
“Uh-huh. Guard my back, would you?”
He made a small sound that might have been a laugh.
A second person reluctantly walked in, urged on by Pierce.
“Holy cats,” I whispered. “He’s been holding out on us.”
“Well, well,” said Escott, his tone conveying agreement and delight. “Miss Donovan, how nice to see you again.”
Kitty Donovan looked up from the section of carpet she’d been staring at. Her huge eyes went first to Escott, then to me. Her face crumpled, then seemed to swell from the pressure of all the emotion she was trying to keep in check. Then she broke down and burst into tears.
Escott quietly and eloquently sighed.
It was shaping into another long night.
7
PIERCE was right next to her and in the best position to offer a shoulder to cry on, or at least the middle of his chest, which was as high as she came on him. None of the rest of us leaped forward to take the job so he patted the back of her head and told her everything was all right and let her soak his sweater for a while.
Not knowing what else to do, I shoved my hands in my pockets and tried to look someplace else. The girl wasn’t crying just to cry. The gusting, ugly sounds that came from her were the raw stuff of honest grief. She was in pain and there was nothing anyone could do but let her get through it.
Escott gave them a wide berth as he stepped over to whisper something to Griffin. The big man nodded and left for the back of the house, returning with a flat bottle and a shot glass. He poured some amber liquid out and passed it to Pierce. Though teetotaling himself, he apparently didn’t believe in enforcing it onto others. He put the glass to Kitty’s lips and got her to drink. She choked, hiccuped, and settled a little. Her sobs became less frequent and softer, but she still hung on to Pierce. He steered her toward the sofa and they sat down together. When she groped in the pocket of her dress and pulled out a sodden handkerchief, Pierce took it away from her and replaced it with a dry one of his own.
She blew her nose a few times and said she was sorry.
“It’s all right, honey,” said Marian, echoing her father’s calming assurances. “You’ve been through the wringer. Nobody minds when a little water has to come out.”
Kitty responded with something unintelligible and blew
her nose again. Marian relieved Pierce of the shot glass and had Griffin refill it. Kitty finished her second drink more quickly and easily than the first, apparently welcoming its deadening effect.
“Would you gentlemen care for anything?” asked Griffin, lifting the bottle.
Escott declined. He wasn’t exactly a cop, but sometimes considered himself to be “on duty.” This was one of those times. As ever, I politely shook my head.
“At least some coffee, Griff,” said Pierce. “A nice, big pot and very strong.”
“Sinkers, too?”
“Yes, if we have them.”
Griffin left the glass and bottle within Pierce’s reach on a table and I presently heard him in the kitchen clattering around with things.
Escott sat on the edge of an easy chair opposite the sofa. “I’m very glad you sent for us, Mr. Pierce. What exactly is it that you require?”
“Some help, of course.”
“I’ll do what I can.”
Pierce gave out with a good-natured snort. “1 certainly hope so, or I’ll want that retainer back.”
The corners of Escort’s mouth briefly curled and he leaned forward, going to work with a benign expression.
“Good evening, Miss Pierce, Miss Donovan.”
Marian shot him a brief, meaningless smile and went to sit on the sofa next to Kitty. Kitty nodded and dropped her reddened eyes.
Pierce said, “I’ve convinced Kitty that she needs to talk with the police. But first I wanted her to tell you what happened so you can find out who did kill Stan. I’m hoping you’ll be able to get her off the hook.”
“Your confidence in me is most flattering, but I can make no promises.
“If you tried to at this point, you’d be going out the door right now.”
“Fair enough. Miss Donovan, would you please tell us all that you did last night?”
It was slow in coming. The girl was obviously uncomfortable with everyone looking at her. Pierce nodded encouragement and once in a while Marian patted her friend’s hand.
“Stan and I had a date,” she said in a flat, lifeless voice. “I was waiting for him at the Angel Grill. I was there extra early—”
“Why was that?” asked Escott.
“I had some displays to arrange at a department store and finished them sooner than I’d expected. I didn’t feel like going home just to go right out again, which was all I would have had time for, so 1 went straight to the Angel. While I was there one of his friends came over, a guy named Shorty.”
“Has he another name to go with that one?”
“Shorty was all Stan ever called him.”
“Describe him.”
“Well… he’s short,” she said unhelpfully.
I envied Escott’s patience. He tried another tack. “What sort of clothes does he wear?”
She was on firmer ground here. “Cheap and awful. They’re good enough for him to get by, but he doesn’t clean them. He had egg stains on his coat, and he smokes cigars—he just reeked from them.”
By working off of the girl’s emotional reaction to the man, he was able to get a fairly complete description. One detail led to the next. He produced a notebook and took it all down, then asked, “What did he want, Miss Donovan?”
“He was trying to tell me that Leadfoot Sam was looking for Stan.”
“Trying?”
“He didn’t just come out and say it, he kind of talked around it, hinting. I put him off and tried to ignore him, but he kept hanging around as though he wanted something, and kept hinting. I finally got the idea that Stan was in trouble and that I’d better let him know so he could avoid it. Stan wasn’t due for another thirty minutes and Shorty had scared me. He said that Leadfoot knew where Stan lived and might be waiting for him there. I couldn’t just sit around after hearing all that, so I left.”
“For the Boswell House?”
“Uh-huh. That’s when I ran into the two of you.”
He smiled to let her know all was forgiven. “Now, tell me exactly what happened after you left the hotel.”
“I went straight home. I thought Stan might go there, too. When Isaw his car on the street out front, I knew I’d guessed right, and went inside.”
“Was your door locked?”
“Yes. I unlocked it, went inside, and locked it behind me.”
“You were still nervous?”
“I was still scared.”
He nodded, not blaming her for that. “Did Mr. McAlister have a key to your door?”
She didn’t blush and said yes in an even tone.
“Is that the only way one can get into the building?”
“I think so.”
“No unlocked back doors?”
“I don’t know. You’d have to ask the manager.”
“Very well. What did you do after you were inside?”
“I called for him, but he didn’t answer. I thought he might be in the bathroom, but he wasn’t. I checked all over and then 1 went into the kitchen. I don’t remember much after walking in. I know I saw him, but that’s all. I know I saw him, but I don’t remember seeing him.”
“You were in shock, honey,” said Marian, squeezing her hand. “Don’t let it worry you. You’re better off not remembering.”
“But ít feels strange.”
Escott continued. “What is the next thing that you can recall?”
“Waking up in my room. I heard two men talking down the hall— you two. I was scared. I thought maybe you’d done it. All I wanted was to get out, so I took the fire escape and ran and ran. I just couldn’t stand it. I had to run.”
“That’s where I come in,” said Marian. “She drove over here to see me, but I hadn’t gotten home yet.”
“Then Miss Donovan talked to one of the servants?”
Kitty shook her head, probably more than she needed to, but the drinks were working on her now. “I didn’t dare. I took the back road in to the estate and put my car in the guest house garage. Then I came in here and tried to call Marian on the phone.”
“How did you get in?”
“I checked under the doormat for a key and got lucky.”
“What did you do when you could not reach Miss Pierce on the phone?”
“Nothing. That is, I couldn’t do anything. I had to sit in the dark or someone from the main house might look out and see the lights. It was cold. I couldn’t build a fire because of the smoke, and I was afraid to change the furnace setting. It’s only high enough to keep the water pipes from freezing. But I turned on the electric stove in the kitchen and left its door open and that helped. Then I found some blankets and wrapped up.”
Escott looked sympathetic. “So you stayed here until you could reach Miss Pierce?”
“All night.”
“It must have been most uncomfortable.”
“I don’t remember much of that, either. I had a little brandy and it went right to my head. I just fell asleep at the kitchen table.”
Considering the emotional strain and the fact that she’d missed dinner, it was no surprise, but I could almost see the sneer on the prosecutor’s face if she brought that story to court. Real damsels in distress were few and far between, even if they looked the part as Kitty did.
Griffin returned just then with a tray full of cups, milk, sugar, and the long-awaited coffee. A plate stacked with donuts was on one side of it and on the other was a smaller plate with a neatly made up sandwich. He put it all down on the coffee table and handed the sandwich plate directly to Kitty. She accepted it with some confusion.
“Eat,” he ordered in a stern voice. Wide-eyed because he was nothing if not impressive, the girl picked it up and took a bite. A second later she remembered to chew and swallow. Once the process was started, she had no trouble finishing.
The food almost turned it into a social occasion, and Escott had to wait as cups were filled and donuts were passed. I declined offers of both and hung back by the fireplace. My hands felt cold. They shouldn’t have, since I was fa
irly indifferent to anything but the most extreme temperatures now. Maybe it had to do with the question I would have to ask her. It wasn’t so much the question, but the method I’d need to use to get my answer.
“Not hungry?” Marian came to stand next to me, a coffee cup in one hand.
“I had dinner just before Griffin came for us.”
She looked me over. “I’ll bet you’re one of those men who eats like a horse and never shows it.”
“Maybe I am.” I was uneasy with the conversation. She seemed the type to insist I have something and take a refusal as an insult. A subject change was in order. “I understand you and Harry Summers made up.”
Her blue-eyed gaze was still fastened on me. The pure color was lovely, but hard and cold, like a mountain lake with ice in it. It had probably been a bad move to remind her about last night. “Yes, Harry and I are all lovey-dovey again.”
“I’m glad to hear it.”
A hostile line appeared in the set of her mouth, then softened. “So’s Harry. It was all his idea, after all.”
“He said he was crazy about you.”
“I know that. He only tells me so a hundred times a day.”
“You could do worse.”
“Like with you?” She smiled. It wasn’t an especially nice one.
“Like with Stan McAlister.”
She blinked, as though I’d smacked her on the nose.
“What did you tell him at the club?”
“Tell him? I don’t know what you mean.”
“Yes, you do. You were seen sitting at the same table and talking. He got up and left, then you did the same. What did you say?”
She blushed. Under her carefully applied face powder, it looked muddy rather than becoming. “Damn Daddy, anyway,” she whispered, her teeth exactly on edge.
“Never mind that. What did you say?”
She put down her coffee cup because her hands were shaking. She was plenty mad. “All I did was say that I met you and that I thought Daddy had hired you to follow me.”
“Why would that make Stan bolt the place?”
“It didn’t. He asked me a lot of questions about the talk you and I had, and then he said that you weren’t after me, but after him. That’s when he left. I’d wondered why at the time, but now I know he was afraid because of the bracelet he’d stolen. He must have realized the theft had been noticed and that you were there to find him.”