Pushing Murder (13 page)

I was cold. No robe for my perambulation. “Hark! The Herald Angels” had dissolved into “Away in a Manger.” I crept back to my own manger, got into it, snapped out my reading light, and closed my eyes on the darkness. Presently I knew the door had opened because the light from the hall struck across my eyelids.

A girl's voice said, “Are you asleep, Mrs. Gamadge?”

“No.”

“I'm sorry it's so late, but they did say visiting hours are till nine. I'm Liza Halcombe, Mrs. Vaughan's secretary.”

I was proud of my calm voice. “The light switch is right there by the door, Liza.”

“I won't stay long. I'm sure you're tired.” Even in the harsh, overhead glare she was delightful-looking, with brown hair, big eyes, a green, suede coat reaching to boot tops. But I felt it was imperative that I either breathe naturally again or take certain precautionary measures like yelling for help.

I said, “Are you alone?”

“Yes, I am.”

Relief, but not total. “Does anyone know you're here?”

“No. Why?”

“Oh, I'm just one of those old folks who worries about young people being out alone in New York at night. Sit down, Liza. I'm so glad you came. I know Mrs. Vaughan thinks the world of you. No, I'm not a bit tired. I guess I'm too happy. I'm going home tomorrow.”

“Oh, that's great. For Christmas. Did you have an operation?” She sat, pretty and relaxed in the plastic chair.

“No, an accident. I broke my ankle.”

“Oh.” She looked away a little. “Actually, I've come to ask your advice about something … somebody. Mrs. Vaughan said you and your husband used to help people with problems and you still do.”

If she says it, I thought, I'm going to need the brandy in that closet. She said it. “It's—it's my father. I'm afraid he has a problem, maybe a serious one.”

I have never had hysterics in my life—the real thing, that is, with all the trimmings—and for an instant I thought my time had come. Only compassion for this girl and the thought of the brandy enabled me to say—I hope calmly—“Liza, I'm sure that working for Mrs. Vaughan has given you a horror of alcohol”—she shuddered—“but sometimes older people like myself do need a stimulant.”

“Oh, please don't think—”

“So would you mind—there's brandy on that closet shelf. The doctor said I should take an occasional medicinal sip.”

“Yes, of course.” She stood up. “Is this plastic glass okay?”

“Fine.”

“Maybe I should come back.”

“Oh, mercy, no.”

She handed me the bottle. Now, it's one thing to be offered a glass; it's another to be handed a bottle. I felt like an old toper as I poured less than I wanted and put the bottle on the table lest I contaminate her further by handing it back. I said, “I certainly want to hear about your father, but first I'd like to know about you. How long have you been working for Mrs. Vaughan?”

“Since my mother died two years ago. She had cancer. I was living with her at the time…”

Liza talked on about those last sad days, and I nodded and sipped. I had the sensation of being seated before a jigsaw puzzle, sorting pieces of blue sky, green trees, and pink flowers, and now suddenly discovering a chunk with a face on it.

“… and Mrs. Folsom was always so good to us. She found Mom that job in Bridgeport and paid for my tuition at business school. But she never knew that Dad came to see us. She told Mom she shouldn't see him again ever. She felt that since my parents were never married—are you sure I'm not tiring you?”

“I'm sure.” It's difficult to sip brandy while holding one's breath, but I managed. “How often did your dad come see you?”

“Not very often.” Liza crossed one chic boot over the other. “Sometimes it would be years. He's one of those guys who just can't seem to settle down. And I know he's had some run-ins with the law and he's quite a womanizer. Mom and I had no illusions. We knew all his faults.”

All, poor child? Not quite all.

“And she used to give him money, and that kind of made me sore. But she really loved him, and I guess I do too. If you knew him, you'd understand. He's very charismatic.”

The derivation of the word flashed on me, and it was my turn to shudder.

Liza went on. “I felt really guilty when Mrs. Folsom recommended me for the job with Mrs. Vaughan. She said not to tell her who I was because one of Dad's escapades had to do with a children's home Mrs. Folsom started and Mrs. Vaughan might remember him. Mom worked at the home, so I guess I was part of that escapade.” She smiled. “It was called St. Elizabeth's, and that's how I got my name. But I grew up adoring Liza Minnelli, so I made it that.”

I began to feel sad. Very sad.

Now Liza leaned forward earnestly. “I haven't seen Dad since Mrs. Folsom's terrible murder, but I've talked to him on the phone and he seems upset. I have this awful feeling he may be connected with it somehow. On the other hand”—her face brightened, and I thought how quickly love welcomes hope—“it could be because he's splitting up with his current lady friend.” She stopped and looked down at her boots. Just “lady friend,” eh? Typical Dwight deception; much less heinous breaking up with one of those. Liza looked back at me. “I'm not exactly sure where they live, but I think it's in this area because he said he'd like to come to my place for Christmas. He'll be there tomorrow afternoon, he said.”

I began to feel glad. Very, very glad.

“Where do you live, Liza?”

“Two seventy-four West End Avenue. I could never afford it except Mrs. Vaughan helps with the rent. I wanted to put her name on the buzzer with mine, but she wouldn't let me. She's been great. She gave me a nice big check and told me to take all Christmas week off. I could buy Dad a nice present, but he'd probably rather have the money. No, on second thought”—this happy chatter was unbearable—“he sounded rather flush. You know what he said? He'd like to take me on a cruise over New Year's.”

I began to feel mad. Very mad.

“So maybe there isn't a problem, Mrs. Gamadge, and I'm just imagining things.”

“No, Liza, you aren't.”

I put my glass down in order to look away from her startled face.

“What do you mean?”

A brisk voice from the door said, “Visiting hours are over in ten minutes.” Liza stood up uncertainly. I put out my hand, and she took it, and I drew her to the bed. I said, “Sit down here, dear. I never keep hospital rules. They'll be happy to throw me out of here tomorrow.”

She was on the edge of the bed, her eyes wide and frightened. “Please—tell me.”

“Tell
me
something first. You must have mentioned to your father that you drove Mrs. Vaughan and Father Folsom here to the hospital.”

Bewilderment. “Sure. I was telling him what I'd been doing. He always asks. What's that got to do with anything?”

“And you're sure he doesn't know you're here now?”

Annoyance. “No—I told you. Look, Mrs. Gamadge, if you're going to keep asking me all this stuff and not tell me—”

“I'm through asking, Liza. And I'm sorry. It's just very difficult for me to tell you…” I ground to a halt in anguish.

Anger. “Tell me what, for God's sake?”

I couldn't say it. I
could not
say it. I could not send this girl out into the night alone with the knowledge that her father … And now I proceeded to make it worse. I said, “Promise me something. Promise you won't tell your father you've seen me.”

“Don't worry.” The bright young voice had gone shrill. She walked to the door. “You know what I think? I think you're a big fake. You see yourself as a red-hot problem solver, and all you are is an old lady who drinks brandy and has delusions of—of—grandeur. Keep going, Mrs. Gamadge, and you'll be right out there with Loretta Vaughan in la-la land.”

“Liza—wait!” Could I recoup? “I want—that is—I have a confession to make.”

She leaned against the wall by the door in a martyr's stance. Lord help me, this had to be good, the kind of “confession” she'd understand. I started slowly and humbly, groping …

“You're right—I guess I am kind of crazy-sounding, but not because of the brandy. Because of something—er—else that I hope you won't think is crazy and maybe you'll understand.” I had it! “It's because of your father's lady friend. I know her.”

16

Liza pushed herself away from the wall and walked back to the bed. She said, “Then you must know Dad too.”

“I've met him. You're right—he's very attractive. My friend is distraught because she doesn't want to break off with him.”

Liza frowned. “You mean he's walking out?”

“Yes.”

“Figures.” Her frown deepened.

“That's why I didn't want you to tell him you'd seen me.” This has to be exactly right, Clara. “It might make him”—I got out the preposterous word—“uncomfortable.… And I feel awful for her.”

To my enormous relief, she nodded sympathetically. Thank God she was young and love was all.

“You're very considerate.” She touched my hand. “I'm sorry if I—”

“Please, not another word; I was handling it badly.” I was also breathing again.

Liza pulled a green wool cap from her pocket. “I'm not going to ask who she is or where they are. I just feel real, real sorry for her.”

“So do I.”

“Is she young?”

“No. My age.”

“Oh, damn. The poor thing.” She touched my hand again. “Well, I'll say good night. Have a nice Christmas, and I hope I'll see you again sometime.”

So do I, Liza, if the time ever comes when you don't hate me too much. She went out with a little wave, and I found a pencil and wrote “274 West End” on the pad, then burst into tears, burying my face in the pillow to drown the sound of my grief. Even the good, gut feeling of success was curdled by my pity for this winning girl, and I wept as I thought of her going home to a rendezvous with shock and horror.

I pulled myself together and reached for the phone. I asked for an outside line, then for the police precinct, then for Captain Redmond. He wasn't there. I gave my name. Would he return the call as soon as possible? He'd know that it was important.

Then I lay staring at the wall. Cancel the conspiratorial gathering at Pushing Murder tomorrow. Just a vigilant presence in the vicinity to watch for Dwight's departure, then the dreadful enlightenment of Sal. She should be taken straight to Henry's. Please God, I'd be there myself by then. Next we would call her son, whom we had purposely left out of the proceedings for fear of too many cooks. Liza would also have to be rescued. Again, Nice Ugly seemed the best place. And Paula was arriving there with her family! And it was Christmas Eve! Two sets of parents, three revved-up kids, a pair of desolate, possibly prostrate guests, Sadd, the original Mr. Bah Humbug, and gimpy me. Tina would never speak to me again. I'd have to give her a really special present. Maybe a pretty suede coat … the kind Liza was wearing …

*   *   *

I must have slept in spite of my mental turmoil. A gentle but persistent voice kept saying my name. It sounded like Captain Redmond's, but I hadn't heard the phone ring. I opened my eyes, and he was dimly discernible standing by the bed. He was saying did I realize it wasn't easy to get to see a patient in the middle of the night and he hoped it was worth it. I said I did too and snapped on my reading light to discover Dan on the other side. I said, “Dan, I thought I told—”

“You were overruled. We agreed among ourselves that I'd stand by tonight. Who was the girl?”

“Liza Halcombe.”

“I had a hunch.”

“Dan,” I found myself gulping, “she doesn't know a thing, and she's handing him to us on a silver platter.”

“Yes, you were crying your eyes out, so I figured that. Then I heard you call the captain. I was pretty sure he'd come.”

“So he came,” said that gentleman impatiently. “So let's hear it.”

I drew a breath and reached for the pad. Feeble rays of light struggled through the window. It must be warmer. The snow was gone. I said, “Some time after noon today Janet Folsom's killer will walk into 274 West End Avenue. He's a big man in his sixties with blondish white hair, and he goes by the name Dwight Dunlop. He'll be carrying a lot of cash that he's just stolen and he'll—”

“Can you produce the person he's stolen it from?”

“I sure can. What precinct will they take him to?”

“West End Ave., you say? That would be the Twentieth Precinct.”

“Dan will bring her there. But Captain”—I sat up and seized his arm—“he
must not get past the street door of that building.
He'll be looking for the name Halcombe, and he mustn't touch that buzzer. Can I trust you for that? He must
not
—”

“Okay, okay. Who's Halcombe?”

“His daughter. She's expecting him, and the poor kid doesn't know a thing. Captain, do I have your solemn promise—”

“Solemn.” He pushed me gently back on the pillow, but I bounced up again. “Do you have any evidence that he did the murder as well as the theft?”

“No, but he has a record going back thirty years, he was a bigamist, his credentials are all fake—”

“Doesn't mean a thing.”

“Captain”—I knew I was shrill and irrational—“this man tried to kill me, did kill Janet Folsom, hired somebody to mug Dan—”

“We still have to prove that, Mrs. Gamadge,” said Dan. “The police can only prove the theft.”

“Correct,” said the captain.

“It may be correct, but it ain't
right,
” I muttered. “Okay.” I looked from one to the other in the now almost light room. “How long can you hold him for the theft?”