Something blue (16 page)

"Will Nan and Dick hve in the house?" Dorothy asked.

"Oh, I don't know," said Blanche, "whether they will at an/'

"You'd rather they didn't?"

Blanche lifted her chin. "This place is Bart's. I'd rather Bart—we—didn't give up any part of it." Blanche was not meek today.

"I can understand that," Dorothy said.

"You're not awfully pleased about this wedding, are you?" asked Blanche. (They were two females with their hair down.)

"No, I just wish they had waited."

"But you do know Dick never killed anybody?" Blanche sighed. "I'm so glad all that is out in the open."

"Were you fond of Dick? Ever?" Dorothy asked.

"Fond?" frowned Blanche. "I was fifteen years old."

Dorothy said sagely, "I guess there is no such word as 'fond' when you're fifteen years old. You can be awfully flattered if a famous wolf pays any attention."

"I think that's exactly so." They smiled at each other. "I just love Bart," Blanche said hke a child. "I think I was afraid of Dick, really."

"You're not afraid of him now?"

Blanche didn't answer. Dorothy was sitting on the edge of a big four-poster. She put her cheek against the tall mahogany post. "But McCauley is innocent, so Johnny says."

"Surely he doesn't say so, now?" Blanche showed surprise.

"The man must be obsessed then," Dorothy said, sadly.

"Obsessed?"

"McCauley himself, I mean. You know, Johnny talked to him."

"Oh, did he? In the prison?"

"Yes."

"It's sad," Blanche said.

Dorothy felt nervous and restless suddenly. "The "McCauley's lived here? Where did they stay?" she asked.

"The room you girls are in. Mother Bartee once told me. All three of them, I beheve."

"Three? That's right, there was a baby."

"Yes."

"Kate said she felt sorry for the baby." ("Her mama killed, her papa sent up, and not true, either." Dorothy remembered what Kate had said.)

"I'm sure," said Blanche, "that was very kind of Kate."

"What became of the baby?"

"We don't know."

''Don't knowr

"The aunt took her."

"Aunt?"

"His sister. What was her name? She was a little tiger. Dad says. I never saw her. I was away at boardingschool by the time she came back and raised all the fuss. They say she fought and fought. Oh yes, she took the baby. Can't think of her name. I know it began with an E."

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Dorothy's hand squeaked on the mahogany post. "What was the baby's name?'' she asked.

Blanche concentrated. "Mary."

Dorothy relaxed. "Why didn't the baby stay here?"

"Well, I believe Mother Bartee thought in terms of bad blood. Father a criminal, you know? Then, of course, the aunt was so determined. She was going to take the baby away and keep the whole thing from her."

"What do you mean?"

"The child wasn't ever to know what really happened to her parents. That's why we don't know where she is or anything about her."

"I see," said Dorothy. She felt another wave of nervousness. "Look, you must want to rest a while . . ."

"The truth is," said Blanche smiUng, "I had better wash some stockings. Thanks for all your help, Dorothy."

Dorothy hurried downstairs. Her breathing was upset. She tried Johnny's number again. Still no answer.

The house was very quiet. Ready. Waiting for a wedding.

Dorothy had forgotten Blanche, Bart, Dick, every Bartee. "Emily—" she whispered to the empty hall.

She snatched the phone book to hunt for a number.

"Miss Callahan? Do you remember two girls who came with Johnny Sims?"

"You must be the blonde." Kate recognized her voice.

"Yes. Please tell me. Do you remember Clinton Mc-Cauley's sister's name?"

"First name? Edith, I think it was."

"Oh. Well, can you remember what she looked like?"

"That's kinda hard. She was shorter than me. Kinda thin. I can't see her face no more."

"Then—tell me, how old was the baby?"

"About three. Clint was sure crazy about that baby.''

"After the trial, the aunt took her?"

"She sure did."

"Do you know where?"

"No, dear, I don't. Nobody does. See, she was going to change their names . . ."

"Oh, she was?"

"And, you know, disappear? Give the little kid a chance, she said. Poor little thing. Of course," Kate said, "I guess Clint would know where she is. The baby's own father."

Dorothy saw movement through the glass of the front doors. "Thank you very much," she said and hung up quickly. She moved away from the phone. She didn't know what to think-

Dick Bartee came in. "Hi, beautifull Where's Nan?"

"Asleep."

"Blanche?"

"Blanche is upstairs, too. Your grandmother is resting.''

"Kind of the Enchanted Castle," he said, standing close. In the quiet of the big house, intuitions of many things began to pulse between them. Dorothy closed her eyes. "Dick," she said faintly, "please don't marry Nan tomorrow."

"Dear Dorothy," he said caressingly, in a moment. "But it is all arranged."

Her eyes flew open. She tested this man with every tendril for understanding she could send out of her brain or her heart. "Do you love Nan?"

His eyes shone. But they had no depth. "Sweet Dorothy." He touched her cheek with his forefinger, the hghtest tap. "Of course, I do. Why else would I be marrying her to-1 morrow?"

Dorothy, from some deep interior caution, now, willed ..her face to change, fo seem to awaken to a new thought. She put hands to her had. "OhI Dick, will you lend me your car?"

"But how can I?" he said. "Nan and I must go to the : doctor's office and then to the license place."

"Would Blanche? Would anybody?" Dorothy danced away.

"Why?" He pursued her.

Dorothy was into the guest-closet to snatch her coat.

"Where do you want to go?" he persisted.

She danced away and started for the stairs. "I'll ask Blanche. Oh, wait, here's Bart."

"What's up?" Bart said in his pleasant way. He smiled up at her where she stood on the third step.

"She wants a car," Dick said, '^but she won't tell why.''

"Take mine," Bart said, pulled out keys so promptly that it made a vote of confidence.

"I don't know what I've been thinking of all day," Dorothy cried. "Nan cant get married tomorrow." (She paused, on purpose. Without eyes, but with all her other senses, Dorothy inquired of Dick Bartee, his true reaction.) "I'm not

going to let her get married," cried Dorothy girlishly, "without a wedding present from me!"

She knew Dick Bartee now breathed, who had not been breathing.

"My purse," muttered Dorothy and flew up the stairs. (Now she knew there must be a terrible secretl She had to get to Johnny!)

Below, Bart turned. "That's right. Weddings mean presents. What would you like?"

Dick let out his breath in a sigh. "Oh, half the business will do."

"A bit difficult to tie in ribbons," Bart said genially. He went into the study. He sat down at his father's desk. When he was alone, his head bent into his hands.

Dorothy came flashing down again. "Oh, Dick, tell Blanche, will you please? If I don't make it back by dinner time, nobody worry?"

He didn't answer.

When she had gone, he went upstairs. Blanche was standing near the back bedroom door. "Who ran downstairs?"

"Dorothy."

"Everything is ready for tomorrow, I think." Blanche's manner was polite but not afraid. "Shall I call Nan for you?"

"What's wrong with Dorothy?" he asked her. Some animal sense had been touched to alarm.

"Nothing." Blanche was surprised.

"Yes, there is something."

"I suppose she tliinks the wedding is happening too soon. That's all I can imagine . . ."

'That's all?"

"Of course, Dorothy's confused about McCauley. That John Sims, you know. He believed some sob story McCauley told him. Of course, Dorothy did say—"

"McCauley told him?" Dick repeated.

"When John went to talk to him, I suppose John believed the man. That's been the whole trouble."

"Talked to him? To McCauley?"

"So Dorothy said. In the prison, of course."

Dick turned away.

"Nan may be napping," Blanche said. "Shall I see?"

"I'U wake her," Dick said.

'1t seems a shame to wake her."

"It will have to be done," he said, rather grimly.

Downstairs, Bart was on the telephone. "Mr. Harris? I believe my nephew was in to see you last week? About a rather laige loan? Could you tell me what security he was offering?"

"I don't think I can," said the voice. "Sorry. Ask him."

"I only wondered," said Bart smoothly, "whether he was proposing to raise money against his fiancee's inheritance, a month ago?"

Silence on the other end. The voice said finally, "Sorry, Mr. Baitee, but if I tell my cUent's business I'd soon have 1 no clients. You know that."

"Thank you," Bart said.

Late afternoon, Johnny's phone rang. It was Marshall. 'TL.ike I to talk to you," the lawyer said.

So Johnny went out to his car and drove to the lawyer's I office.

First, Marshall apologized again for nearly blowing Johnny

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I up.

Johnny brushed this off. He had thought of one more check [ to make. He said, "The night that Christy was killed, you ^ were at home, weren't you?"

"Right. Until McCauley caUed me from the jail."

"He called you?" Johimy sat up. "When was that?"

"Oh, one-thirty. Close to. I went right down."

"Got up, did you? Went to see him?"

"Of course," said Marshall. "Although, I hadn't been to bed so I didn't have to get up."

"Wait," said Johimy. "Now, slowly. One-thirty a.m., and you were not in bed?"

"I'd got involved in a bogk," Marshall said. "My wife died many years ago. I sometimes don't sleep too well."

"You were reading?" gasped Johnny. "Not in the dark, then?"

"Hardly. What's the matter^'

"Where were you reading?"

"In my den."

"With the Hght on?"

"Of com-se."

"The door closed?"

"Door of my den? That's never closed."

Johnny said, "You'll swear to that?"

"Yes, I will. What's the matterr

"I think you just broke Dick Bartee's second-string alibi and broke it good."

So Johnny talked. A girl is awakened by sand on her windowpane. She sneaks downstairs in a dark house. Her father mustn't be aroused. She creeps out to the back porch. The boy shows her his watch. "Midnight," he says. Perhaps he says, "Only midnight, see?"

"But Blanche would have known if your den hghts were on?" Johnny demanded.

"She couldn't have missed them," Marshall said soberly. "Blanche—and quiet all these years."

"So Dick Bartee was not there at mignight!"

"My house wasn't dark until after one that night," said Marshall, "and I can swear to it."

So Johnny said, "He fooled her. If once, then possibly, twice." He talked about the breaking in to Kate's place.

Marshall said, "This . . . What are you going to do?"

"Call San Francisco."

Johnny called Copeland's house. Mr, Copeland, a woman's voice told him, was not in and could not be reached, and the woman didn't like it, at all, because they had a social engagement.

Johnny eased himself oflF the phone.

Marshall said, "Come home with me now, and we'll eat and kick it around. The legal side. What can you take to a judge? You've got no proof 1"

In San Francisco in a bar. Grimes said, "Sol She saw a man with a hat on, coming out of Padgett's room. Fhie! Good!"

Copeland said, "She saw that. We've got that. And the time, seven-thirty or close to. Trouble is, she did not see the man's face. She can't identify."

"Listen," Grimes said, "/'tt get together with the pohce. You get down to Hestia."

"Me?"

"Right. Whatever sheriff is going to have to move on a Bartee to arrest him, may need his hand held."

"Listen, you haven't got liim. You've got six blue petals,

three letters on a license plate, a hat, and a red-haired woman who didn't see his face."

"Well, it piles up," said Grimes cheerfully. "You get down there."

"I'll either fly first thing in the morning or drive tonight. What about you coming along?"

"I am a coward," Grimes said. "I don't want to be anywhere near this kiUer."

"What about Sims?"

"He's too close. Makes me nervous."

"You don't care how close I get?" grumbled Copeland. "I'd better call home."

"Oh, Charles," his young wife wailed, "you are not going off anywhere tonight. We have a bridge date."

"I can fly first thing in the morning, then," he said.

"Oh, why?" she pouted. "Why must you leave me? What's happened?"

He had never told her much. She was sensitive and so young and so excitable. He felt he should keep the seamy side away from her—so young, so fair. If she were to get the notion that he was going near a dangerous killer—Charles Copeland would protect her. "Some sad news to break," he said. "About a death. I must, dear. I'm sorry."

"Anyone I kiiow?" she gasped. Her voice pleaded fxn: it not to be anyone she knew, because death upset her.

Copeland didn't see why she must be told that Emily Padgett had been murdered. So he said truthfully, and yet deceptively, "The name is McCauley, Just don't think about it, dearest. I'U come right home. I' won't leave until-^moming."

CHAPTER 18

Johnny came dragging into the motel at about 8 p.m. "He and Marshall had found no solace in the story of the two pins. Marshall had told Johnny about the man Harris and

the loan. "Nan wasn't to get the money 'til she was twenty-one," Johnny said. "But I suppose her prospects . . ."

"I suppose so, too," Marshall had said.

Neither of them had any doubt that Dick was not only a killer but a fortune-hunter. They had no proof.

Johnny was unlocking the door of his room when Dorothy Padgett materialized suddenly at his side. "I've been waiting for hours!"

"Where did you come from?" he said wearily. "Wait, 'til I try a phone call, can you? Then, I've got things to tell you."