Date for Murder (15 page)

M
ARK
chose the billiard room for a reason he could not put into words at the time. Later he realized it was the feeling of solitude it gave, the withdrawn air that clung to it, separating it from the tragedy in the house upstairs.

He went into the front room and up to Idell. “Mind coming with me?”

Idell idly picked up a cue and clicked two billiard balls together. She said, “It seems peaceful here, doesn’t it? I don’t have to think of things so much.”

“I’m going straight to the point, Idell,” he said abruptly. “Do you know how much your brother owed Link?”

“No, really. But I’m sure it was a great deal, by the way he spoke.”

“It was forty thousand dollars,” Mark said.

“That much!” Her hand fluttered toward her breast in a little motion of surprise. “I never dreamed—”

Mark told her the full story. Her face grew white beneath the light makeup she wore. He could see the knot of fear pulsing in her throat again. He said, “You think Grant killed him, don’t you, Idell?” He made no effort to be gentle.

Her face lost its whiteness and flamed with sudden passion. Her eyes sent out sparks as she stared at him. “What makes you think—It’s awful to feel and not be sure,” she said in a half-whisper.

He put his hands on the billiard table and leaned forward. She lowered the cue; it formed a slight barrier between them. His face was intent; she appeared the slightest bit frightened as she stared into his eyes. “How many people know the name of the woman who caused your father’s death?”

Idell’s breath let itself out in a jerky gasp. “Mark! That isn’t true. It’s—well, it’s rotten!” Anger, sudden and tempestuous, blazed in her eyes.

He pressed the issue. It was one thing he needed to know. “It is true,” he said bluntly. He hated himself for this deliberate cruelty, but it was necessary. “Your father killed himself over a woman, Idell—a woman associated with this household. Think …”

“You’re contemptible,” she said, the anger blazing beyond control. Her hand flashed out and struck him before he could move to protect himself. He felt the sting of her sharp little knuckles against his nose, and when he raised a hand to touch that sensitive part warm blood dripped over his fingers.

Instantly she was all contrition. “I’m sorry …” she began.

Mark dabbed at his nose with his handkerchief. “I asked for it,” he said ruefully. “But I had to be sure, Idell. I had to know if you were trying to protect the Major even now. You really don’t know.” It was a statement. He told her as much as he knew, still bluntly, but in a more gentle voice.

She heard him out, her head held high, her cheeks flaming but no longer with anger. When he had finished, she said, “Your nose is bleeding awfully, Mark. There’s a lavatory down the hall.” She might have been discussing the weather.

He understood: she wanted to be alone, if only for a moment. He turned and followed the short hallway past the door to the furnace room and went through the lavatory door on the opposite side of the hall. It was a small room, furnished with a bowl and toilet and little else. A ventilator in the ceiling sucked warm air upward, and the conditioning unit forced cooler air in near his feet. There was one window, tightly closed, the shade drawn.

He bathed his nose, and the cold water stopped the bleeding quickly. He dropped the seat on the toilet and sat down, deciding it might be more decent to give her a few extra seconds to regain her composure. She was a wonder, he thought. His eyes wandered idly around the room, stopping at the window. He raised the shade to find where it led, and what its purpose could be. It opened, he saw, onto the flight of steps leading down from the patio to the door leading into the basement. He saw the sash lock was not on, but when he tried the window with light pressure it held tightly.

He was about ready to lower the shade when an incongruous note struck him. He looked again, and this time he was sure. Three fat-bellied flies lay dead on the sash, the sun from the west gleaming on their blue bodies. They were not shrivelled but seemed recently deceased. He felt like giggling. To consider a fly as deceased was the height of polite formality.

But he could not take his mind from them, even after dropping the shade. On impulse he raised it again, grasped the sash and exerted all of his strength. The lower sash gave and slid upward in silent protest. He noted the ease with which he could step from the toilet through the window and onto the steps outside. He closed the window and replaced the shade.

Idell was standing as he had left her. By the appearance of her shoulders, the relaxed lines of her body, he knew she had accepted the truth within herself and was reconciled. He spoke unhurriedly but with an odd sense of necessity in his voice.

“When was that lavatory cleaned last?”

Idell looked at him oddly. “Yesterday, I suppose. Catrina cleaned it every day.”

That meant she could not have done it that day! “Did anyone use this room today?” Mark asked. He felt excitement warm him. He was on the trail to the final goal. His mind buzzed with unanswered and seemingly unanswerable questions.

“Not to my knowledge,” she said. “I’m sure they haven’t. Things have been pretty badly bawled up and—”

“Of course,” he said. “Don’t think about them.” He tried another angle. “Why should there be flies in the lavatory then?”

“Flies? I don’t understand what you’re driving at,” she said. “There are no flies in the house. Not unless someone forgets and opens a window.”

“That’s it,” he said. “When someone opens a window.”

“But not in there,” she said. “The conditioning ventilation takes care of air circulation.” He caught a note in her voice that suggested she was soothing a slightly moronic child.

He grinned suddenly. “You know, I think I have it.” He turned abruptly from Idell and sprinted up the stairs. He found the Chief in the living room, looking done in.

Mark said, “Chief, can I talk to you?” When the Chief walked over to him, he said, “Look, I think I’ve got it.”

“What?”

“I’m not sure,” Mark said. “Have Bayless bring Myra here, will you, right away? And call Henderson and tell him I’ll be down. I want to ask him some things. And let me use your car.”

The Chief sensed Mark’s excitement. “Keys are in it,” he said. “Look, what you got, huh?”

“I’d rather not say until I’m sure,” Mark said. His agitation was visible now. “God, if I’m right. It’s simple. So damned simple we couldn’t see it. There are just a few things—I think I have them!”

Mark strode out, and Bayless was less than a dozen steps behind. They roared down the driveway almost together, and Mark waited at the tracks for Bayless to cross ahead of him. Then he drove toward the Palm Springs highway; a block off lay Henderson’s house.

The patrolman was in pajamas and blinking sleepily when he let Mark in the door. Mark sat down, ignoring clothes sprawled over the room. “Sorry to wake you, but there are some things that might be important. One thing, mostly.”

“Hell, Mark,” he said, “I got all day to sleep.”

Mark said, “You didn’t go to sleep last night, did you?”

“No.” Henderson seemed to take no affront.

“Did you hear anything—say around two o’clock? Anything at all from upstairs?”

Henderson went to his blue shirt and fished in the pocket. He drew out a small notebook. He thumbed it and then stopped at a page. He ran a finger down the lines and yawned sleepily. “Two o’clock. Yeah, here it is. Two-two. Taylor locked her door.”

“That’s it!” Mark said. “What else?”

“Note here—let’s see. Yeah, she went to the can. Flushed the toilet. At two-ten she unlocked the door. Say, that’s funny.”

Mark got up, grinning. “The hell it is, that’s murder!”

“What do you mean?”

“She was stabbed last night, Hendy. And she was asleep all the time. The old man gave her some sleeping powders to take. She couldn’t have awakened. It was the killer who was in her room at that time.” He paused. “You didn’t see anyone leave the living room while they were playing bridge? You heard nothing else at that time?”

“Not a damned thing,” Henderson assured him. He consulted the book to make sure and then shook his head. “Not a damned thing,” he repeated.

Mark said, “Thanks,” and walked outside almost quickly. The sun blasted at him, but he paid it no attention. He jammed his foot on the starter of the car and roared around the corner, making the two blocks to Myra’s house in record-breaking time. He parked the car and went up to the porch. As he expected, the door wasn’t locked. He went inside and directly to the kitchen. He stopped there and mumbled to himself. Then with a nod he began to search. He found what he sought in the refrigerator, a small white box with packages of powder inside. On top it said, “Sleep remedy. Take one to two hours before bedtime.” It bore a prescription number. On the seal was the name of an Indio Pharmacy. That should check easily enough. Grinning, he stuck the box in his pocket and went back to the front room.

He searched all the wastebaskets thoroughly, but they were all empty. The house had been tidily cleaned and swept since he had last been in it. Myra’s seductive perfume lingered, though, and he remembered the night. It had been worth it, as far as he was concerned. In the bedroom he took a box of her face powder and from the bath a sample of her body powder, wrapped in a sheet of toilet tissue.

He found what he was searching for in the back yard. In the open-faced incinerator, among a pile of papers waiting to be burned, he found charred ashes. He grunted as he saw them, turned and went back to the car.

They were in the living room when he arrived. Myra was looking angrily at the Chief. The others seemed more or less relaxed. Myra stared at Mark when he came in.

“Hi,” he said almost genially. “Relax, Myra. This is necessary.” He wagged a finger at the Chief, and he sidled over. Mark spoke in a low tone. The Chief nodded, and went to the telephone in the hallway.

He came back after a moment. “Yeah, he’s there. Just got in about ten minutes ago. He’s ready any time you want him.”

“Who is ready when you want him?” Idell asked.

Mark looked around the room. “Wop Conteri—in the Riverside jail.”

M
ARK
said in the puzzled silence, “There is no need for lengthy explanations. Among you are murderers, and they know who they are. Let’s review the case to refresh memories, shall we? “Link died at approximately six o’clock yesterday morning. His death was premeditated. His murderer went into his room before that time—probably around four—and filled some of the dates in his package with cyanide solution, using a hypodermic needle.” He paused and looked around. There was no reaction. Silence greeted his words. Idell looked puzzled. Grant, worried. Chunk Farman seemed nervous and entwined his fingers in his cousin’s, who sat silently, solemnly by. Jeffers sat on the other side of Maybelle and stared openly at Mark. Myra had a hard look to her sharp features.

“We found the dates and the needle buried in the ground,” Mark said. “Catrina saw the murderer bury them, and before she learned murder had been committed, accepted money to keep quiet. But before everyone was awakened and the murderer slipped out of his room to bury the evidence, that room was invaded by three persons.” He grinned at the Chief, who was watching him with an open mouth.

Mark looked toward Chunk Farman. “You carried Link to the pool and dropped him in—and roped him to the drain pipe, Farman.” It was a statement, not a question.

Chunk started to his feet, settled back. He shook his head stubbornly. He looked sullen. “No.”

Mark said, “You agree, Chief?”

The Chief grunted. “Hell, no. This guy had his hair wet, he was dressed, he brought dirt from around the sweet peas through the Major’s rooms and onto his own bathmat. Only his rugs got that dirt on ‘em. Get out of that, Farman. The microscope don’t lie.”

“And you turned the shower on to make an alibi?” Mark asked. “Whom were you protecting, Farman?”

The boy was breathing heavily now. He got to his feet again. “God damn it, what if I did? He was dead when I went in there. Damned good and dead!”

Mark said, “No harm done, Farman. It just played into the murderer’s hand, is all. Why did you go in there? To have a showdown? To demand an explanation of the reason Idell was going to marry him?”

“Partly.”

“We’ll let the rest go,” Mark said. “And you found him dead. You thought Idell had done it, didn’t you? And you tried to cover it up. The poisoning looks like drowning, and you thought you could pass it off as that—right?”

Farman looked helplessly at Idell, mutely pleading. She smiled tenderly at him. He said, “That’s right.”

Mark grunted. “Another party went in there before Farman did, some time before. Leona Taylor. She lies dead up there because of what she found. And a third party,” he added quietly. “A party who found that what he wanted had already been taken, and subsequently took steps. We see their result in this last—and final—killing.”

He looked around. All seemed interested now. Of them all Idell and Chunk Farman were the most relaxed. Chunk looked almost gratefully at Mark. She had a knot of fear still in her throat, a beating tense knot of fear.

“Last night,” Mark said, “Catrina’s murderer was sure she would not be able to keep her secret. And he did not want to pay blackmail forever. Catrina suspected what might have happened. She was nervous, frightened. She locked herself in her house—but the lock was picked. You all know the result. And how the murderer got to her was for some time a thing I could not understand.

“And last night, while everyone—almost everyone—had alibis, Leona Taylor was murdered for the thing she stole.”

Grant Manders stiffened and his tongue flecked out at his lips. Myra glared at Mark.

“That is another thing that didn’t occur to me until recently. But to clear this case of all misunderstanding, let’s go back into the past. We know, without mentioning names, that James Link had a hold over you all. He was blackmailing some of you and threatening others for gambling debts illegally accrued. He cheated you, Manders,” he said to Grant. “Those stocks were worthless.”

“I know it now,” Grant said. His face was white.

“If you’re accusing him—” Frank Manders said.

“I’m accusing no one—yet,” Mark told him. “But we have the records of Link’s actions. Consequently we had a very fine bunch of suspects. But to find the real reason, the underlying motive for his death, we must go back two months—to the time Major Manders committed suicide!”

To those who evidently did not know this, there was consternation. Grant gasped and turned pale. Clint Jeffers started, and the Farman pair looked pityingly at Idell. She touched Chunk’s hand and smiled at him.

“This is poppycock!” Frank Manders roared. “Major had nothing to do with this.”

“You yourself said once he did,” Mark said. “You said, ‘Link was killed because of the letter Major sent me.’ And it is partially true—but not quite. He was killed for another reason—because he was blackmailing. Leona was killed because she had your letter—she stole it from Link’s room, Mr. Manders.” Mark paused.

“I couldn’t quite figure how that letter could have been stolen last night,” Mark said after a moment. “The only person I could see other than the Major himself who wanted it badly was the party it mentioned—not by name but by inference—as the cause of his suicide. And I myself alibied that party all night.” He grimaced, and the Chief swallowed a chuckle. “I thought I alibied that party, but I found differently.” He reached into his pocket and took out the box of sleeping powders he had found.

“When I went to Myra’s house last night it was an hour after I got there that I fell asleep. And I had just waked up four hours before. And I slept hard. That isn’t like me. I couldn’t figure it out. Now I know why I felt like I had a hangover. Myra doped my first drink very cleverly—and gave the dope an hour to work.” He looked at Clint Jeffers now. “So that when the time came she might need an alibi to prove she was not here last night, she could use me. I was to swear she had not left the bed all night!”

Jeffers’ face whitened and he started for Mark; then he reddened and whirled on Myra, who was standing and glaring murderously. “You dirty, two-timing little rat,” he screamed at her. “You rotten little cheat!”

He does love her, Mark marvelled, and felt like ten kinds of a heel.

She flung her head. Mark said, “Tell your husband to sit down, Mrs. Jeffers, please.”

There was a gasp as he used her real name, and then the noise became pandemonium. Bayless, at a nod from the Chief, took Jeffers by the arm and led him, seething, to the chair he had occupied.

Mark said wearily, “Myra, we can prove that you were in his bed the night of the murder. There are samples of your powder taken from the sheets. I don’t know which, face or body powder, but I have samples of both here. They can be analyzed!” He gravely handed the samples to the Chief, who goggled at Mark.

Myra said spittingly, “What if I did? Damn it! He’s my husband, isn’t he?”

“Yes,” Mark said, “and if his father doesn’t find out you’re married, he’s a good catch, too. But not if he found out about the letter. So you went to Link’s room to get it—after you knew he was dead. But Leona had beat you to it. You suspected it was she. You knew she and Link were tied together, that she did half his blackmailing for him—so you had to get rid of her.”

Grant gasped. Mark knew what he was thinking. A sucker always feels like hell when he finds out he’s been taken by a good-looking woman.

“To do that, last night you phoned Clint, found he was playing bridge, and then got set for me. You knew I would be in—you had practically invited me in so many words—” He paused while Jeffers stopped simmering. “You doped my drink, fixed yourself an alibi, went up there, through his empty bedroom, through the bath connecting the rooms and into Leona’s room. You didn’t know it, but she was under the influence of sleeping powders, as I was. To lock the door—which Henderson heard and recorded—was the work of a second. To stab her, another. To make sure no one overheard and got suspicious, you flushed the toilet, making it seem like Leona was up and around. Then you made the place look like there’d been a struggle so there would be a reason for the clock to be disconnected and thus set the time for your alibi—and alibied almost everyone else, incidentally, but Grant Manders here who slept next door. Then you unlocked the door, went out the way you came and home again.

“You burned the paper in an ashtray and threw the ashes in the wastebasket. I found them with the other trash in the incinerator this morning.”

“You’ll never prove that,” she said. Her features were sharp points, now, her eyes glaring like bits of diamond bullets, ready to pierce him. He smiled at her.

“The other murders, of course, were not committed by Myra, but the first, at least, was engineered by her. I couldn’t quite understand how the second had been done until I found three dead flies on a bathroom window that opened below the ground into a stairwell.

“Mr. Manders, if you know the contents of that letter, could you give them to us now?”

Frank Manders, to Mark’s surprise, nodded, and rose. “I’m through fighting,” he said. “I see your point. I can only hope this will not get into the papers. I made a copy from memory the night the letter was stolen. It is almost exact, as exact as a man’s faulty memory can render it.” He cleared his throat and read from a sheet of white typing paper:

“Dear Frank: When you receive this I will have taken my life. Do not, I beg you, make this public. There has been too much of the name Manders in the papers already. At my age, Frank, I have found myself embroiled in as disgusting a mess as I can imagine. Once I thought myself a Lothario and incapable of succumbing too fully to a lady’s charms. But age has crept up on me, I find. For I have found a lady—and one much younger than I—whom I worship with every breath of my body. But I find that she does not love me. I have found that it is not love that makes her come quietly to my house late at night to sit with me, to comfort me as I yearn to be comforted. It is the age-old love she has—money. She takes mine and gives me nothing in exchange. Oh, yes, something. But I wanted more than passion, Frank. That I can buy on any corner….”

Frank saw Myra wince, and heard Clint strain to keep himself seated.

Major Manders continued:

“… I found too late that she was married, Frank. Married secretly to a young friend of Grant’s. The shock was enormous, I can tell you. And the truth came out when she refused to divorce him for me. Perhaps he is a better catch, eh? But that is beside the point. All of this has led to the one thing, the final thing in my life. Somehow a human thing so foul and so low as not to deserve the name man has found her secret—and mine. He has threatened, unless I pay tremendous sums, to expose my affair with her and her marriage to her husband. I cannot, will not permit blackmail to sap the funds which I have gathered for my son and daughter. And neither will I have the name Manders dragged across the nation’s tabloids to make a Roman Holiday for the press. This, then, Frank, is the only way out. I have convinced the doctors that my heart is acting up and is weak. This night I shall take too much sleeping potion and in the morning everything will be beautiful … Perhaps where I am going I can find that comfort which has eluded me since the first Idell died. I know she will meet me very soon … Take care of my children, your brother.”

Idell was crying softly. Maybelle slipped beside her and patted her softly. Chunk Farman looked straight ahead, his jaw clamped tight. Myra sneered at Mark.

“Well?” Her voice cut the silence like a rasping file.

“Just that Link was blackmailing you to keep Clint from knowing ot your affair, Myra. And blackmailing you and Clint to keep his father from knowing of your marriage. What a spot you found yourself in! If Clint found out about the letter, he would throw you out in no time. And Link had it! Link stole it from Mr. Manders.”

He coughed and settled back. “So there was but one thing for you to do. You had to convince Clint that Link would never give up. That with his money from his mother gone, he would not wait for payment—but would expose you both. That meant poverty. Clint would be totally disinherited. You had to make Clint think that was the only reason Link had to die! And you succeeded, Myra. Very well!”

Clint Jeffers was on his feet, glaring, his face angry, tense and white. “Are you intimating I killed Link? You utter damned fool!”

“I am,” Mark said cheerfully. “At your wife’s behest. You could have needled the dates when you carried Grant upstairs after he passed out. Myra came to your room—she was there when Link acted up in the hall. She went out to make sure and really to hunt for the letter—and didn’t find it. At nine o’clock you sneaked out by your balcony stairs and buried the needle and the dates which you had exchanged after Idell first went into the room. Catrina saw you, and you paid her to keep quiet. But you got worried. When Myra came that night you spoke to her of it. She fixed your alibi. Farman went upstairs to see Maybelle. You went into the bathroom, locked the door and went out the window, sneaked to the back, killed Catrina and came in the same way. Myra was there waiting to stall anyone who might come. You heard her talking, so you flushed the toilet and came out—an alibi.

“Your room, Jeffers, is one of the few that has a balcony and stairs leading outside. Grant’s has, yes, and so does Mr. Manders’. But he was crippled, and you aren’t. Grant was very drunk that first night. He woke up once—and found Leona not in her room. At that time she was stealing the letter. By listening and possibly by peeking, she knew what had happened.

“Throughout, Jeffers, every bit of evidence turned toward you but that which Farman made when he took the body. To you and to Myra. Your door opens. Leona hears it. But she hears you moving around inside a second later. That seems to prove you didn’t go out—or Myra didn’t. But only you two knew both of you were in that room. And what other man here would knowingly let Idell drive a car marked for a gangster’s bullet? Certainly not her brother or her uncle. Not Tony Farman who loves her. Only you, Jeffers, to whom she was a casual friend. You knew three days ahead of her arrival she was to drive Link’s car, and you didn’t bother to call off your hired killers.”