A Kiss Before Dying (11 page)

A jumpy orchestral introduction, nostalgically dated, burst from the radio and faded under the singing of a sugary, little-girl voice.

Smiling, Ellen went into the bathroom. The tiled walls rang with the sound of water pounding into the tub. She kicked off her slippers and hung her robe on a hook beside the door. She reached over and turned off the water. In the sudden silence, the wispy voice sifted in from the next room.

‘Hello?’ The voice was a woman’s.

‘Hello,’ Ellen said. ‘Is Dwight Powell there?’

‘No, he isn’t.’

‘When do you expect him back?’

‘I couldn’t say for sure. I know he works over at Folger’s between his classes and afterwards, but I don’t know to what time he works.’

‘Aren’t you his landlady?’

‘No. I’m her daughter-in-law come over to clean. Mrs Honig is in Iowa City with her foot. She cut it last week and it got infected. My husband had to take her to Iowa City.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry—’

‘If you have a message for Dwight, I can leave him a note.’

‘No, thanks. I have a class with him in a couple of hours so I’ll see him then. It wasn’t anything important.’

‘Okay. Goodbye.’

‘Goodbye.’

Ellen hung up. She certainly wasn’t going to wait to speak to the landlady. She was already more or less convinced that Powell was the man who had been going with Dorothy; checking with the landlady would only have been a sort of formality; verification could be obtained just as easily from Powell’s friends. Or from Powell himself.

She wondered what kind of place it was where he worked. Folger’s. It would have to be near the campus if he went there in free hours between classes. If it were a store of some sort, where he waited on customers …

She picked up the telephone book, turned to the F’s and skimmed through the listings.

It was between Twenty-eighth and Twenty-ninth Streets across the avenue from the campus; a squat brick structure with a long green sign stretched across its brow:
Folger Drugs
and in smaller letters
Prescriptions
and in still smaller letters
Fountain Service.
Ellen paused outside the glass door and smoothed her bangs. Drawing herself up as though making an entrance on to a stage, she pushed open the door and went in.

The fountain was on the left; mirrors, chrome, grey marble; fronted by a line of round-topped red leatherette stools. It was not yet noon so only a few people were seated at the forward end.

Dwight Powell was behind the counter, wearing a snug white mess jacket and a white cap which rode the waves of his fine blond hair like an overturned ship. His square-jawed face was lean and he had a moustache; a thin, carefully trimmed line of almost colourless hairs, visible only when the light gleamed on it; a feature which evidently had been added some time after the taking of the photograph which the Dean had shown. Powell was squirting whipped cream from a metal canister on to a gummy-looking sundae. There was a sullen set to his lips that made it clear he disliked his job.

Ellen walked towards the far end of the counter. As she passed Powell, who was placing the sundae before a customer, she sensed him glance up. She went on, eyes straight ahead, to the empty section. Taking off her coat, she folded it and put it with her purse on one of the row of empty stools. She seated herself on the next stool. With her hands flat on the cold marble, she examined her reflection in the mirrored wall opposite. Her hands left the marble, dropped to the bottom of her powder-blue sweater and pulled it down tight.

Powell approached along the gangway behind the counter. He put a glass of water and a paper napkin before her. His eyes were deep blue, the skin immediately below them grey-shadowed. ‘Yes, miss?’ he said in a low-pitched voice. His eyes met hers and then strayed downwards momentarily.

She looked at the mirrored wall, at the pictures of sandwiches fixed to it. The grill was directly opposite her. ‘A cheeseburger,’ she said, looking back at him. His eyes were on hers again. ‘And a cup of coffee.’

‘Cheeseburger and coffee,’ he said, and smiled. It was a stiff smile that vanished quickly, as though his facial muscles were unaccustomed to the exercise. He turned and opened a locker under the grill, taking out a patty of meat on a piece of waxed paper. Kicking the locker door shut, he slapped the meat on to the grill and peeled the waxed paper off its back. The meat sizzled. He took a hamburger roll from a bin next to the grill and began slicing it down the centre with a long knife. She watched his face in the mirror. He glanced up and smiled again. She returned the smile faintly; I am not interested, but I am not completely
un
-interested. He put the two halves of the roll face-down beside the hamburger and turned to Ellen. ‘Coffee now or later?’

‘Now, please.’

He produced a tan cup and saucer and a spoon from under the counter. He arranged them before her and then moved a few paces down the gangway, to return with a glass pot of coffee. He poured the steaming liquid slowly into her cup. ‘You go to Stoddard?’ he asked.

‘No, I don’t.’

He rested the coffee pot on the marble and with his free hand brought a jigger of cream up from under the counter.

‘You?’ Ellen asked.

He nodded.

Down the counter a spoon chinked against glass. Powell answered the call with the sullen compression returning to his lips.

He was back a minute later, picking up a spatula and turning the hamburger. He opened the locker again and took out a slice of American cheese which he put on top of the meat. They looked at each other in the mirror as he arranged the roll and a couple of slices of pickle on a plate. ‘You haven’t been in here before, have you,’ he said.

‘No. I’ve only been in Blue River a couple of days.’

‘Oh. Staying or passing through?’ He spoke slowly, like a circling hunter.

‘Staying. If I can find a job.’

‘As what?’

‘A secretary.’

He turned around, the spatula in one hand, the plate in the other. ‘That should be easy to find.’

‘Ha,’ she said.

There was a pause. ‘Where you from?’ he asked.

‘Des Moines.’

‘It should be easier to find a job there than it is here.’

She shook her head. ‘All the girls looking for jobs go to Des Moines.’

Turning back to the grill, he lifted the cheeseburger with the spatula and slid it on to the roll. He set the plate before her and produced a bottle of ketchup from below the counter. ‘You have relatives here?’

She shook her head. ‘Don’t know a soul in town. Except the woman at the employment agency.’

A spoon tapped glass again down the counter. ‘Damn,’ he muttered. ‘Maybe you want
my
job?’ He stalked away.

In a few minutes he returned. He began scraping the top of the grill with the edge of the spatula. ‘How’s the cheeseburger?’

‘Fine.’

‘You want something else? Some more coffee?’

‘No thanks.’

The grill was perfectly clean but he continued scraping it, watching Ellen in the mirror. She dabbed at her lips with the napkin. ‘Check, please,’ she said.

He turned, taking a pencil and a green pad from a clip on his belt. ‘Listen,’ he said, not looking up from his writing, ‘there’s a very good revival at the Paramount tonight.
Lost Horizon.
You want to see it?’

‘I—’

‘You said you didn’t know anybody in town.’

She seemed to debate for a moment. ‘All right,’ she said finally.

He looked up and smiled, this time effortlessly. ‘Swell. Where can I meet you?’

‘The New Washington House. In the lobby.’

‘Eight o’clock okay?’ He tore the check from the pad. ‘My name is Dwight,’ he said. ‘As in Eisenhower. Dwight Powell.’ He looked at her, waiting.

‘Mine is Evelyn Kittredge.’

‘Hi,’ he said, smiling. She flashed a broad smile in return. Something flickered over Powell’s face: surprise? – memory?

‘What’s wrong?’ Ellen asked. ‘Why do you look at me that way?’

‘Your smile,’ he said uneasily. ‘Exactly like a girl I used to know.’

There was a pause, then Ellen said decisively, ‘Joan Bacon or Bascomb or something. I’ve been in this town only two days and two people have told me I look like this Joan—’

‘No,’ Powell said, ‘this girl’s name was Dorothy.’ He folded the check. ‘Lunch is on me.’ He waved his arm, trying to attract the attention of the cashier up front. Craning his neck, he pointed to the check, to Ellen and to himself, and then tucked the check into his pocket. ‘All taken care of,’ he said.

Ellen was standing, putting on her coat. ‘Eight o’clock in the New Washington lobby,’ Powell reiterated. ‘Is that where you’re staying?’

‘Yes.’ She made herself smile, She could see his mind following the path; easy pickup, stranger in town, staying at a hotel. ‘Thanks for lunch.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

She picked up her purse.

‘See you tonight, Evelyn.’

‘Eight o’clock,’ she said. She turned and walked towards the front of the store, keeping her pace slow, feeling his eyes on her back. At the door she turned. He lifted a hand and smiled. She returned the gesture.

Outside, she found that her knees were shaking.

Ellen was in the lobby at 7.30, so that Powell would not have the occasion to ask the desk clerk to ring Miss Kittredge’s room. He arrived at five to eight, the thin line of his moustache glinting over an edgy smile. (Easy pickup, stranger in town …) He had ascertained that
Lost Horizon
went on at 8.06, so they took a cab to the theatre although it was only five blocks away. Midway through the picture Powell put his arm around Ellen, resting his hand on her shoulder. She kept seeing it from the corner of her eye, the hand that had caressed Dorothy’s body, had pushed powerfully … maybe …

The Municipal Building was three blocks from the theatre and less than two from the New Washington House. They passed it on their way back to the hotel. A few windows were lighted in the upper floors of the looming facade across the street. ‘Is that the tallest building in the city?’ Ellen asked, looking at Powell.

‘Yes,’ he said. His eyes were focused some twenty feet ahead on the sidewalk.

‘How high is it?’

‘Fourteen storeys.’ The direction of his gaze had not altered. Ellen thought: When you ask a person the height of something that’s in his presence, he instinctively turns to look at it, even if he already knows the answer. Unless he has some reason for not wanting to look at it.

They sat in a booth in the hotel’s black-walled, soft-pianoed cocktail lounge and drank whisky sours. Their conversation was intermittent, Ellen pushing it against the uphill slope of Powell’s slow deliberate speech. The taut buoyancy with which he had begun the evening had faded in passing the Municipal Building, had risen again on entering the hotel, and now was waning steadily the longer they sat in the red-upholstered booth.

They spoke about jobs. Powell disliked his. He had held it for two months and planned to quit as soon as he could find something better. He was saving his money for a summer study tour of Europe.

What was he studying? His major was English. What did he plan to do with it? He wasn’t sure. Advertising, maybe, or get into publishing. His plans for the future seemed sketchy.

They spoke about girls. ‘I’m sick of these college girls,’ he said. ‘Immature – they take everything too seriously.’ Ellen thought this was the beginning of a line, the one that leads straight to ‘You place too much importance on sex. As long as we like each other, what’s the harm in going to bed?’ It wasn’t, though. It seemed to be something that was troubling him. He weighed his words carefully, twisting the stem of the third cocktail glass between long restless fingers. ‘You get one of them on your neck,’ he said, the blue eyes clouded, ‘and you can’t get her off.’ He watched his hand. ‘Not without making a mess.’

Ellen closed her eyes, her hands damp on the slick black table top.

‘You can’t help feeling sorry for people like that,’ he went on, ‘but you’ve got to think of yourself first.’

‘People like what?’ she said, not opening her eyes.

‘People who throw themselves on other people.’ There was the loud snap of his hand hitting the table top. Ellen opened her eyes. He was taking cigarettes from a pack on the table, smiling. ‘The trouble with me is too many whisky sours,’ he said. His hand, holding a match to her cigarette, was unsteady. ‘Let’s talk about you.’

She made up a story about a secretarial school in Des Moines run by an elderly Frenchman who pitched spitballs at the girls when they weren’t looking. When it was finished Powell said, ‘Look, let’s get out of here.’

‘You mean go to another place?’ Ellen asked.

‘If you want to,’ he said unenthusiastically.

Ellen reached for the coat beside her. ‘If you don’t mind, I’d just as soon we didn’t. I was up very early this morning.’

‘Okay,’ Powell said. ‘I’ll escort you to your door.’ The edgy smile which had begun the evening made its return.

She stood with her back to the door of her room, the brass-tagged key in her hand. ‘Thank you very much,’ she said. ‘It really was a nice evening.’

His arm with both their coats over it went around her back. His lips came towards her and she turned away, catching the kiss on her cheek. ‘Don’t be coy,’ he said flatly. He caught her jaw in his hand and kissed her mouth hard.

‘Let’s go in – have a last cigarette,’ he said.

She shook her head.

‘Evvie—’ His hand was on her shoulder.

She shook her head again. ‘Honestly, I’m dead tired.’ It was a refusal, but the modest curling of her voice implied that things might be different some other night.

He kissed her a second time. She pushed his hand back up to her shoulder. ‘Please – someone might—’ Still holding her, he drew back a bit and smiled at her. She smiled back, trying to make it the same broad smile she had given him in the drugstore.

It worked. It was like touching a charged wire to an exposed nerve. The shadow flickered across his face.

He drew her close, both arms around her, his chin over her shoulder as if to avoid seeing her smile. ‘Do I still remind you of that girl?’ she asked. And then, ‘I’ll bet she was another girl you went out with just once.’

‘No,’ he said, ‘I went out with her for a long time.’ He pulled back. ‘Who says I’m going out with you just once? You doing anything tomorrow night?’

‘No.’

‘Same time, same place?’

‘If you’d like.’

He kissed her cheek and held her close again. ‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘What do you mean?’ His words vibrated against her temple.

‘That girl. Why did you stop going with her?’ She tried to make it light, casual. ‘Maybe I can profit by her mistakes.’

‘Oh.’ There was a pause. Ellen stared at the cloth of his lapel, seeing the precise weaving of the slate-blue threads. ‘It was like I said downstairs – we got too involved. Had to break it off.’ She heard him take a deep breath. ‘She was very immature,’ he added.

After a moment, Ellen made a withdrawing movement. ‘I think I’d better—’

He kissed her again, a long one. She closed her eyes sickly.

Easing from his arms, she turned and put the key in the door without looking at him. ‘Tomorrow night at eight,’ he said. She had to turn around to take her coat, and there was no avoiding his eyes. ‘Goodnight, Evvie.’

She opened the door behind her and stepped back, forcing a smile to her lips. ‘Goodnight.’ She shut the door.

She was sitting motionlessly on the bed, the coat still in her hands, when the telephone rang five minutes later. It was Gant.

‘Keeping late hours, I see.’

She sighed. ‘Is it a relief to talk to you!’

‘Well!’ he said, stretching the word. ‘Well, well,
well
! I gather that my innocence has been clearly and conclusively established.’

‘Yes. Powell’s the one who was going with her. And I’m right about it not being suicide. I know I am. He keeps talking about girls who throw themselves on other people and take things too seriously and get involved and things like that.’ The words tumbled quickly, freed of the strain of guarded conversation.

‘Good Lord, your efficiency astounds me. Where did you get your information?’

‘From him.’

‘What?’

‘I picked him up in the drugstore where he works. I’m Evelyn Kittredge, unemployed secretary, of Des Moines, Iowa. I just tight-roped through the evening with him.’

There was a long silence from Gant’s end of the line. ‘Tell all,’ he said finally, wearily. ‘When do you plan to beat the written confession out of him?’

She told him of Powell’s sudden dejection when passing the Municipal Building, repeating as accurately as she could the remarks he had made under the influence of the doldrums and the whisky sours.

When Gant spoke again he was serious. ‘Listen, Ellen, this doesn’t sound like anything to play around with.’

‘Why? As long as he thinks I’m Evelyn Kittredge—’

‘How do you know he does? What if Dorothy showed him a picture of you?’

‘She had only one, and that was a very fuzzy group snapshot with our faces in the shade. If he did see it, it was almost a year ago. He couldn’t possibly recognize me. Besides, if he suspected who I am he wouldn’t have said the things he did.’

‘No, I guess he wouldn’t have,’ Gant admitted reluctantly.

‘What do you plan to do now?’

‘This afternoon I went down to the library and read all the newspaper reports of Dorothy’s death. There were a few details that were never mentioned, little things like the colour of her hat, and the fact that she was wearing gloves. I have another date with him tomorrow night. If I can get him talking about her “suicide” maybe he’ll drop one of those things that he couldn’t know unless he was with her.’

‘It wouldn’t be conclusive evidence,’ Gant said. ‘He could claim he was in the building at the time and he saw her after she—’

‘I’m not
looking
for conclusive evidence. All I want is something that will prevent the police from thinking that I’m just a crank with an overactive imagination. If I can prove he was anywhere near her at the time, it should be enough to start them digging.’

‘Well will you please tell me how the hell you expect to get him to talk in such detail without making him suspicious? He’s not an idiot, is he?’

‘I have to try,’ she argued. ‘What else is there to do?’

Gant thought for a moment. ‘I am the owner of an old ball-peen hammer,’ he said. ‘We could beat him over the head, drag him to the scene of the crime, and sweat it out of him.’

‘You see,’ Ellen said seriously, ‘there’s no other way to—’ Her voice faded.

‘Hello?’

‘I’m still here,’ she said.

‘What happened? I thought we were cut off.’

‘I was just thinking.’

‘Oh. Look, seriously – be careful, will you? And if it’s at all possible, call me tomorrow evening, just to let me know where you are and how things are going.’

‘Why?’

‘Just to be on the safe side.’

‘He thinks I’m Evelyn Kittredge.’

‘Well call me anyway. It can’t hurt. Besides, my hair greys easily.’

‘All right.’

‘Goodnight, Ellen.’

‘Goodnight, Gordon.’

She replaced the receiver and remained sitting on the bed, biting her lower lip and drumming her fingers the way she always did when she was toying with an idea.