Fortune is a Woman (56 page)

She flung herself into a chair and kicked off her shoes, rereading the newspaper article.
"An autopsy is being carried out, but a forensic report has already established beyond doubt that the remains are those of Mr. Harrison."

She flung the newspaper from her and leaned her head on the cushions, her eyes closed. Harry was dead and Buck had gone back to his own life, and she would go back to hers. Tomorrow she would ride her acres with Lysandra and tend her vines and chatter to Hattie as though nothing had happened. And that's the way it would be from now on.

***

She tossed and turned all night, it was impossible to sleep, there was just too much on her mind, Josh and Buck and Harry, and she was up and bathed and dressed by seven. She walked wearily downstairs to the morning room. The table was set for her solitary breakfast and the morning paper lay folded by her plate. She poured herself some coffee and opened it up and read the headlines about Harry again. Only this time they said "HARRY HARRISON―MURDER."

With her stomach churning, she read.
"Though his body
had been almost totally destroyed in the fire, the autopsy had been able to ascertain that Mr. Harrison had not died in the flames. He had died before the fire even started, of a fractured skull. The remains had been found facedown and the police confirmed that the injury could not have been sustained in a fall, but by a deliberate blow to the head. No suspects were being named at this time."

She flung down the paper and called Annie. "They say somebody killed Harry," she blurted. "Oh, Annie, who could it be?"

"Any one of a hundred people, I should think," Annie replied briskly. "I felt like it myself more than once. I guess he just pushed somebody too far and that was it. And I can't say I blame them."

Despite herself Francie laughed. "Did I ever tell you you were good for me?" she asked. "You always manage to put things in perspective."

Annie said, "Thanks for yesterday, Francie. I feel much happier knowing where Josh is, and about his last days. I've got a lot to thank the Mandarin for too."

Francie smiled. "I hear the doorbell. I hope it's not the reporters again. I'd better go."

She sipped her coffee, listening as Ah Fong padded across the hall to answer the door. She heard a man's voice and Ah Fong padded back again. "Miss Francie," he gasped, his voice shaking, "it's the police. Three of them, Miss Francie. They say they must see you. Right away, they said—"

"Very well," she replied, puzzled, "show them into my sitting room." She supposed they must want to ask questions about Harry since she was his only living relative, and she tidied her hair in the mirror and walked across the hall.

The three men turned to look at her, one uniformed police officer and two in plainclothes. They introduced themselves as Detective Inspector Walter Sinclair, Detective Sergeant Charlie Mulloy, and Officer Stieglitz of the San Francisco Police Department.

She asked them to be seated and the two detectives complied, but the police officer stood by the door and she looked at him surprised. She took a seat opposite the burly plainclothes detectives and asked, "I assume this is about my brother, Harry? How can I help you, gentlemen?"

Inspector Sinclair took a little notebook from his pocket. "Is it true, ma'am, that you are Miss Francesca Harrison? And that you are the sister of the deceased, Harmon Lloyd Harrison, Jr., commonly known as Harry Harrison?"

"Of course it's true," she replied, surprised. "You already know that."

"Just a formality, miss," Detective Mulloy said quickly.

"Miss Harrison, how would you describe relations between you and your brother?"

Francie glanced scornfully at him. "I hated my brother, everyone knows that. And he hated me. It's been well-documented in every newspaper in the county."

"It has been said," the inspector said, looking her straight in the eye, "that you blamed Mr. Harrison for the death of your son, Oliver, in the Lai Tsin warehouse fire some years ago."

"My opinions and my private life are my own," she retorted angrily. "And now would you mind telling me exactly
why
you are here?"

He cleared his throat, glancing down at his notes again and then back at her. "We have witnesses to the fact that you were heard to say you wanted to kill Harry Harrison for what he had done to your son."

She looked at his beefy red face and his narrow blue eyes and suddenly realized what he was getting at. "You can't seriously be suggesting that I had anything to do with my brother's death," she exclaimed.

The inspector cleared his throat again, glancing at Detective Mulloy. "Would you mind, ma'am, telling us where you were between the hours of eight and nine on Wednesday night?"

Francie stared at him. They were asking for her alibi, just the way they did in gangster movies, and on Wednesday night she had been with Buck Wingate in Annie's penthouse and she could never tell them that. But if she told them she was home alone, here in her own house, they would suspect her of Harry's murder.

She thought quickly and said, "I—I was at Aysgarth's Arms. I spent the evening with my friend, Annie Aysgarth."

The two detectives exchanged significant glances and Mulloy said, "I already checked the staff on duty that night at Aysgarth's, ma'am. There are witnesses to the fact that Miss Aysgarth was around most of that night, first in the Dales Lounge and afterward in the dining room. She stayed late and dined alone and later she was seen talking to guests in the lobby."

His eyes met Francie's frozen gaze as he stood up and said quietly, "I'm afraid, ma'am, it is my duty to arrest you on suspicion of the murder of your brother, Harmon Lloyd Harrison, Jr."

Francie looked numbly at him and then she said, "It's not true. I didn't kill Harry. I only lied to you because I knew if I told you I was home alone you would think I could have done it. This is all a mistake."

"If you'd like to put on your coat, miss, we'll take you down to the precinct and talk about it there." He nodded to the uniformed police officer. "Escort Miss Harrison upstairs to get her things, Stieglitz," he said, and Francie knew she was their prisoner.

She walked slowly upstairs to her room, too numb to think straight. She put on a dark-plum coat and a matching hat, pulling the little spotted veil over her eyes as she walked back to the door. Stieglitz followed her back down the stairs, past the frightened cook and the wailing Chinese maids and Ah Fong, who said with tears in his eyes, "I get Miss Aysgarth, Miss Francie. I call her for you right now. She always knows what to do."

Detective Mulloy opened the door and Francie stepped out into a barrage of flashbulbs. She stared at them, startled, and then the detectives gripped her arms and hurried her into the waiting police car and drove her away.

CHAPTER 42

Friday, October 6th

Buck had left the hotel early on Thursday morning. He was at Stanford University, where he had just given a talk, when he heard the news about the fire, and in Sacramento when he heard that Harry was dead. Later he was shocked by the report that said Harry had been murdered.

It was late Friday evening when he returned to San Francisco. He had planned on returning to Washington first thing in the morning. There was no reason to stay, his work was done. He'd had a hard day with stops at more than a dozen large and small towns. He'd shaken hands with local dignitaries as well as with "real people." He'd barely had time to snatch a bite and when he walked into his suite at Aysgarth's all he wanted was a shower and bed.

"Is that you, darling?" Maryanne called from her room and he wondered wearily for the thousandth time who she thought it was. She emerged looking immaculate in a dark-green dress, her blond hair waved sleekly across her well-shaped head, and she was smiling at him.

"Poor darling," she said soothingly, "I know you must be exhausted. Let me fix you a drink." She went to the table and poured him a whiskey with one ice cube, the way he liked it. He sank tiredly into the chair and she sat opposite him on the sofa, swinging her foot gently, still smiling.

"I thought we might have supper up here," she said. "Just something light. I know you're too tired to cope with much."

"If you like," he said, uncaring, absently watching her foot swing to and fro. "What's happened to your shoe?" he said suddenly. "It looks worn at the toe."

Maryanne glanced down at her black suede pumps and her face turned pink. She had just thrown the shoes into the closet after she had come back from Harry's and she'd slipped them on now without even looking. "Damn," she said standing up and hurrying to her room to change them, "they are dusty, aren't they? I'll have the valet clean them tonight."

"What happened to Harry?" Buck asked suddenly.

"Harry? Oh, isn't it shocking? The poor man got burned up in his own house and now they think it's murder." She hesitated; she realized he didn't know Francie had been arrested and she wondered whether to tell him, but decided against it. They were leaving first thing in the morning. She knew he was too tired to turn on the radio and if she kept the newspapers away from him with luck he wouldn't find out about it until they were safely back in Washington.

"I suppose," Buck said, staring reflectively into his drink, "that Harry was the kind of man a lot of people would be happy to see dead."

"Well, we certainly shan't be staying for the funeral," she said briskly. "I'm sorry about Harry, but I must get back to the children, I'm away from them far too much."

Surprised, he glanced at her. She saw the children as infrequently as he did and it was by her own choice. He finished his drink and went to take a shower and when he came back the room-service waiter was wheeling in a trolley. Maryanne disappeared quickly into her room. "Take care of things, will you, Buck," she called hurriedly.

"Good to see you, Senator." The man smiled while arranging the dishes. "Though I guess you must be real cut-up about your friend, Mr. Harrison."

"It's sad news," Buck agreed, signing the bill.

"I wonder, did Mrs. Wingate ever find her keys, sir?" he asked solicitously. "I sure looked everywhere for 'em that night, all along the corridor and the elevator, sir, but no sign of 'em."

"Her keys?"

"Well sure, yes sir. Wednesday night when she came in, she said she had lost them. It's all right though, you tell her not to worry. Mrs. Aysgarth always has plenty of spares. These things happen, don't they, sir?"

"I guess they do," Buck replied, wondering vaguely where Maryanne had gone on Wednesday night.

He tipped the waiter, said good night, and poured himself another drink, staring moodily out the window, wondering if Francie was home, and what she thought about her hated brother's death. She must be glad, he thought, even though she would tell herself it's a terrible way to feel. He thought about calling Annie to ask, but Maryanne came back into the room just then, and anyway he didn't have the right.

"Consomme," she said, lifting the lid of a tureen and inspecting it. "Roast quail for you and lobster salad for me. You look dreadful, darling. Come and eat, it smells good."

He sat opposite her, watching as she ate her salad, listening to her chatter of what they would do next week in Washington, of the parties where they had to appear and of the dinner she was giving for the British ambassador. The telephone rang and she stopped in mid-sentence.

"I'll get it," he said, walking across and picking it up.

"Sorry to disturb you, Senator Wingate," the voice on the phone said. "Detective Sergeant Mulloy here, sir. I'm sure you know about the fire at Mr. Harrison's? I'm sorry, Senator, I know he was a friend of yours and your wife's. In fact, that's what brings me here tonight sir. It's our job to sort through the ruins, searching for a reason for the fire, really, and for anything that might have been saved. Well, it turns out something rather valuable was found in the ashes, sir, and the butler identified it as belonging to your wife. It's a little powder compact with her initials on it. The servants said you and your wife had dined there Tuesday night, sir, and I guess she forgot it."

"Thank you," Buck said automatically.

"We cleaned it up a bit, of course, sir," the detective sergeant said. "I think you'll find it's all right. Even has the powder still inside. It's amazing how some things survive a fire and others don't, you'd be surprised what we find: toys, shoes, wristwatches.... It never ceases to amaze me.

"Yes," Buck agreed.

"I'll send it up then, Senator, and if you could just sign the receipt for me and send it back with the boy, I'd be very grateful."

"Don't bother," he said. "I'll come down and get it."

He could feel Maryanne's eyes on him as he walked to the door and he said, "There's someone who wants to see me downstairs."

"But your supper—"

The door closed behind him and she pursed her mouth angrily, wondering what was so important. Buck collected the compact from the officer and signed the receipt. He slipped it into his pocket and walked out into the street; he needed to be alone with his thoughts. He walked rapidly through the square along Geary and up Nob Hill. A crowd still lingered round the cordoned-off ruins of the Harrison house and he stopped and stared. He remembered how he had dined in that house just four nights ago; his hand closed over the little powder compact in his pocket and he ran his thumb over the ruby initials MBW, thinking, puzzled, of Maryanne. A picture of her came into his mind. She was sitting on the flowered chintz sofa in a peach peignoir and she was powdering her nose.
She had been using this compact.
It was the night he saw Francie again, the same night Harry's house had burned.
The night Harry Harrison had been murdered.

He gripped the little gold compact so hard it buckled. He saw in his mind the concerned face of the room waiter asking if Mrs. Wingate had found her keys; he had let her in, he said, on Wednesday night....

"Senator Wingate, sir?"

He turned quickly to look at the uniformed police officer. "Can I help you, sir?" the man asked.