Pushing Murder (16 page)

“An accident!” Sister looked horrified. “Of course—down that way—the second left—all the way to the end.”

Dan spun me around, and Mrs. Potter and her replacements and pins were a blur. We sped down the hall, Sister hurrying beside us saying something about the service elevator being unheated and I was to put my coat on now and she'd get hers and be right with us. She veered off, and Dan dumped my coat unceremoniously over my shoulders and said, “Here's what happened. This big, oafy kid came up to me and said what you'd told him to say, and we swapped the cash for the letter—I checked it first to be sure it was the real McCoy—and he started off and then turned around and said, ‘I need the can' and went back into the lobby. Santa was there, but I never suspected a thing till I saw his head whip around and stare at the kid—he was at the desk evidently asking where the men's room was. It hit me—I thought, my God, it's Dunlop. The kid started down the hall. I went after them and they both went into the men's room—it was around a corner and kind of out of the way. I waited at a phone slot—that's when I called you—and some guys and little kids come out laughing and then they were in there alone for a few seconds and then I hear a shot and Santa comes dashing out and takes off down the hall yelling, ‘Help! Murder!' and so forth and I go in and the kid is lying across the toilet, frisked—the cash is gone—and dead. So what do I do? I come running out myself yelling the same thing and now Dunlop sees me and tries to get to me but there's confusion and people are dragging on him and kids are crying and I make the elevator first and pray that the door closes and it does.” Dan looked over his shoulder. “It's a cinch he'll be up on the next one he can get.”

We were halfway down the corridor and the elevator sign gleamed red at the end. Both our heads seemed permanently fixed in a backward position. I gasped, “Dan, why did he have to kill that boy?”

“Oh, the kid undoubtedly put up a fight for the cash.” His eyes still on the end of the hall, he took a long, dirty envelope from his pocket. “Take a quick look at this. I have to admit I'm curious.”

So was I, but I looked at the thing with revulsion as Dan pounded on the
DOWN
button again. Since nothing more sinister than a procession of supper trays was approaching us, I swallowed distaste and took from the envelope several sheets of paper. No need for in-depth perusal; it was a blurry string of accusations, recriminations, and exclamation points. I raced through the contents and said, “Listen to the postscript. ‘I told him on the phone that his “wife's” shop was only a few blocks from St. Victor's Hospital, where my first husband died, and that whenever I was in the area I went to the chapel there to say a prayer for Lewis and for him. Isn't it pathetic of me, Clara, to still love him?'”

Dan and I looked at each other, he in exasperation, I in sorrow. Oh, let him be older—or a woman. Then he said, with another slam at the button, “We'll need a cab and there probably aren't any where this elevator arrives. You may be in for a chilly ride. Damn you,
come!
” This to the elevator. “You too, Sister, 'cause we ain't waitin' for you.”

And at that moment she rounded the corner, being helped into her coat by Santa Claus.

I stuffed the letter back in my pocketbook and dragged my eyes to the elevator light. Dan must have done the same because he breathed to the door, “Now!”

Sister called gaily, “You wouldn't have wanted to miss
this
visitor! He made a trip up just to see you!”

The elevator pinged, and the door opened. Dan shoved me in and pushed the button, but Santa's red arm shot out and stopped the door.

“After you, Sister.” He was chuckling. “Yes, this lady is a friend of mine, and I'm going to have some fun making her guess who I am.”

“Can you give her a hint, Santa?” Sister looked at me merrily as the elevator started to descend. “And incidentally, you make a great St. Nick, doesn't he?”

“Yes, he does.” I wasn't going to terrify or endanger this woman. “Let me think … the voice is familiar…” I looked up into the eyes of this terrible man, and they twinkled back at me over the snowy beard. “Have I known you long, Santa?”

“Long enough to know me well.” It was said almost quietly and chilled me.

I said, “This is my friend, Dan Schenck.”

Dan said, “Sorry I can't shake hands.” He thumped his cast on the handle of the chair. “I broke my wrist the other day. I was mugged.”

Sister looked shocked. “I didn't know that's how it happened, Mr. Schenck! You know, sometimes I'm positively ashamed of New York.” The elevator stopped, the door opened, and there was a blast of wind and snow, and the sight of police cars, lights flashing through the early dusk. Sister continued her lament. “Will you look at this? What on earth do you suppose that accident could have been?”

Dan pushed me clear of the elevator, and I said, “Sister, I won't have you come a step farther. I have two fine escorts. Please go back to your floor.”

“But somebody should—we're supposed to—” the poor thing was shivering, torn between duty and the temperature “—and your car must be way around—”

Dan said, “We're taking a cab. Maybe Santa will be kind enough to round one up.”

My heart leaped. How could he refuse to go in search of one with Sister present? If I could just keep her still debating … But Dunlop's voice was jovial and firm. “No way are you taking a cab. My car is right over there. I parked around back on purpose so the kids wouldn't see me get out. Mrs. Gamadge is right, Sister. We'll take good care of her.” He reached for my pocketbook and bag. “Here, give me those.”

But I clung to them and he didn't dare wrestle with me in the nun's presence. She was still hesitating. I said hopelessly, “Please go, Sister, and thanks again for everything.”

I held out my hand to her and felt something separate from my wet palm. It fell to the ground, and Sister picked it up. She said delightedly, “A scapular!”

I was motionless. Dan was motionless. The only moving thing seemed to be the snow. Dunlop said politely, “What's a scapular?”

“Something like a medal, you might say.” Sister examined it smiling. “People don't wear them much anymore. St. Benedict! I haven't seen a St. Benedict scapular in years!”

I said, cold to the bone, “It belonged to a friend of mine who died. Please keep it, Sister.”

“Oh, but I shouldn't—”

“Really—it should go to someone who will appreciate it.”

She looked up beaming. “Then it shall go to another saint—St. Nicholas!” She stood on tiptoe and hung it about Dunlop's neck. “There! St. Benedict will bless you for bringing joy to children. Good-bye.”

She stepped back into the elevator, and the door closed. I looked at Dunlop incensed. I said, “Give me that!”

“We'll swap. Give me the letter.”

“How dare you let that thing touch you!” My teeth were chattering. “You know who it belonged to!”

“Of course I do. She never took it off.”

Dan said, “Mrs. Gamadge doesn't have the letter. I do.”

Dunlop looked from one to the other of us. “I don't believe you.”

Dan shrugged. “That's your problem. And what a shame. You've disposed of your perfectly good mugger. You'll have to take it yourself.”

“I intend to.” Dunlop scanned the lot through the driving snow, then he moved a few steps, his hands in his roomy, fur-trimmed pockets. “I don't have to tell you that this costume is a great place to stash a weapon. Just wheel the lady over to that blue Dodge, and we'll hop in. You can give me the letter then or on the road. Rotten day for a drive, but if you insist.”

Dan said, “We're not budging.”

“Yes, we are, Dan. I'm cold.” I stood up. “Push the chair up against the wall.” I was shaking with rage and fright. “Now, let me hang on to you.”

Dunlop attempted to support my other side but I pushed him away and clung to Dan, hobbling through the wet snow. The wind was icy but not as icy as my heart. I looked up at the tall figure walking beside me, the image of the saint reposing on his flowing beard. Obscene. He caught my glance, touched the thing smilingly, and said, “I told you—you can have it.”

It was maddening to see police cars everywhere. There were honks as drivers waved to Santa and he waved back. I was afraid Dan might risk a break, and the same thought must have occurred to Dunlop. He said, “Don't try anything, Schenck. It would be a shame if Clara didn't get home for Christmas. Here we are. Put her in the front seat.”

He stood, one hand still in his pocket, brushing snow from the windshield. Dan deposited me groaning on the seat, said, “Watch that leg,” and lifted it gently in, leaning over me as he did so. He whispered, “Redmond's here.”

He closed the door on my gasp, and Dunlop motioned him into the back. As Dunlop circled the car, I managed
“Where?”

“Directly across from us. Look anywhere else.”

“How? How?”

“License plate probably.”

Dunlop climbed in, started the car, and set the windshield wipers going. He said, “Keep your one good hand to yourself, Schenck, because I also have a good hand. It's in my right pocket snuggled up real close to Clara. Darn it, this thing scratches.” With his left hand he pulled off the beard and, glancing at me with a smile, he adjusted the scapular carefully on his chest. “Now”—he put his headlights on—“where shall Santa take you for a ride? I hope it doesn't have to be all the way to the North Pole.” He moved forward slowly. “Is anybody hungry besides me? Let's do the first drive-in. My treat. After all, 'tis the season to be—”

He broke off and leaned forward over the wheel, peering through the slushy windshield. The lights on the car across from us had gone on, and it was edging toward us. More headlights were flooding in through the rear window. Dunlop cursed and twisted the wheel violently to the left. As the car lurched, I heard him gag—suddenly, horribly—and his head pitched forward and struck the horn, one half of the scapular cord caught in the wheel, the other half tight around his neck. Like a flash Dan's good arm went out. He dragged Dunlop's head back against the seat and with his cast pinned the man's right hand to his side.

The image of St. Benedict dangled below the outraged, purpling face.

20

“Shades of Isadora Duncan!”

Sadd put two-year-old Andrea on the floor, brushed crumbs from his lap, and poked the fire.

I said, “But Isadora didn't deserve it, poor thing.”

Sadd and I had spent all of Christmas day—Sadd, in fact, all of Christmas Eve—asleep, staggering up only for a brief, mandatory appearance for exchange of presents that morning. Now it was late in the afternoon, and the young people were off skating along with Loretta Vaughan, who declared she'd won a medal for figure skating at the Fairfield Country Club in 1940.

Andrea had been wished upon us.

Only one survivor of the wreck had as yet been unable to face the day. Sal lay upstairs in a mercifully drugged sleep. It would be a while, her doctor had said, but this was a very strong woman.…

Andrea whined to be taken back on Sadd's lap, but he crossed his legs and said, “No, child, that's the end of my avuncular act. Go to your grandmother.”

Andrea tottered toward the Christmas tree, and I put out a deterring hand. She batted it and trotted back toward the fire. Sadd's foot went up before her, and she yelled. I pulled her onto my lap, and she writhed down. Sadd pushed a toy to her, and she kicked it. He stood up. “Where did you get this child, Clara? In an army and navy store?” He took her hand. “Come help me mix another drink.”

She trotted happily with him to the dry bar. The living room of Nice Ugly was a shambles, a wonderful après-Christmas shambles. I sat on the sofa with my leg propped up, the horror beginning to melt in the blessed glow of the fire.

Sadd said, “So was it the license plate?”

“That, plus the note Liza taped over her buzzer. The police took it with them.”

“But how did they know you were making such an unorthodox departure from the hospital?”

“It seems Captain Redmond phoned my room just as Dan was whisking me away. A nurse told him I was on my way down and via what route.”

Sadd had dumped a package of colorful cocktail straws on the rug, and Andrea was plopped beside them, entranced. I smiled as I looked at the expensive toys scattered about the room. Now he came back to his chair, gave me my drink, and sat down stretching.

I said, “Hasn't Loretta Vaughan been a terrific sport?”

“Why shouldn't she be?”

“Well, after all, there was a deception—”

“It was Janet Folsom's, you said, not the girl's—what's her name?”

“Liza.”

“Now, there's an example of the resiliency of youth. Devastated as she is by all this, she's still able to at least join the skating party.”

“Yes,” I said, perhaps wistfully, “the resiliency of youth.”

“Do you ever long to be young again, Clara?”

“Good Lord, no.”

“Me neither. No, actually, that should be ‘Nor do I.'”

We sat in silence, companionably old. The clock on the mantel, an antique carriage repeater that had belonged to Aunt Robbie and which Henry had begged for, struck five. The kids would be home soon. I stood up.

“I'm going up to check on Sal. Oh, dammit, Sadd, she just doesn't deserve this.”

“Well, there you touch on a subject that will baffle us all till Doomsday—the pain and suffering that's everyone's lot.” He poked the fire, and it blazed up beautifully. “I can only remind you of the inspired words of that great sixteenth-century saint, Camillus De Lellis.”

“What were they?”