The Long Night (16 page)

“Then where was he the night Judith got a belt wrapped round her neck?”

For maybe half a minute, maybe more, Carole Van Buren stared up into my eyes like she could see through me. She still looked like any guy's idea of a honey but she wasn't quite so peaches-and-cream. Her pouting mouth was pallid under the lipstick.

I said, “You can tell me, sweetheart. Believe it or not, I'm quite a big boy.”

She shook her head. Without answering, she turned and pushed open the door and went in. The light came on. With her back towards me, she said, “ I'll tell you . . . you won't be satisfied until I do. Come in and shut the door and—I'll tell you.”

If it was an act, it was a very good act. She looked miserable and she sounded miserable. And, when an ash blonde with lines that make poetry is miserable, I'm Joe Shmoe. I guess she could've sold me the Brooklyn Bridge right then. After all, any of us is entitled to make one little mistake. If Kovak happened to have been hers, who was I to condemn her?

Which is how an attractive dish always gets away with it. I often wonder how I'd have felt if she hadn't sleek hair of the palest gold and a soft, full mouth and grey eyes so deep a guy could drown in them. That's not counting a figure that counted for plenty.

So I went in. When I'd closed the door I waited until she'd taken off her coat and lit a cigarette without offering me one. Then I waited some more. Eventually I said, “You can't stall all night . . . and you can skip the embarrassment. I lost my modesty about the time Pauline Gordon lost her
chastity. Where was Mister Ivor Kovak the night Pauline had her mouth shut with a faceful of automobile?”

She struggled with that one for an awkward few seconds before she said, “If I remember correctly, he went home early—that night. But surely you don't think . . .” She looked at her cigarette and her pretty shoes and the pattern of the wallpaper and everywhere else but at me. She seemed to find it difficult to look straight at me.

I didn't find it difficult to look at her. I like looking at a dame with smooth gold hair and smoky grey eyes and a complexion like an ad for toilet soap. Especially when the package is wrapped in a slim, black velvet dress with long sleeves and a collar that buttons high up on the neck. Pity I always meet the kind I like after some other guy has met her first.

When she did finally give me the kind of glance Red Riding Hood gave the wolf, I said, “Never mind what I think or don't think. So far as you remember, he went home early that night. Now, let's hear where he went the previous night—the night Judith Walker was murdered.”

“He——” She bit her lip and studied her shoes again. Almost inaudibly, she said, “Isn't it enough if I tell you he wasn't anywhere near Judith's apartment?”

“There were also a million other places where he wasn't. I'm only interested in where he was.”

“So that you can run and tell Mrs. Kovak . . . isn't that it? How much is she paying you?”

“Mrs. Kovak doesn't even know I exist——”

“I'll give you double what you're getting from her if you'll drop all these inquiries.”

“Twice nothing is a poor bribe,” I said.

She played with one of her cuffs for a while, clicking the fastener open and closed and twisting her wrist like it felt stiff. Then she said, “I'd like to think I could believe you.”

“What difference would that make? Your opinion of me or mine of you won't alter what happened when Kovak spent the night here with you.”

“Nothing happened! If you were prepared to listen, I could explain. . . .” She put a hand to her face and turned away. Maybe she didn't like the way I was looking at her.

I said, “If it will amuse you,
go
ahead and explain. But I'm no member of the Purity League. It's no business of
mine how or why you came to fall from grace. Of course, if I were asked. . . .”

In a bitter voice, she said, “Well? What would you say if you were asked?”

“Next time, don't let your weak moment be with a married man,” I said.

Over her shoulder, she stared at me. When her furious eyes had travelled from the part in my hair to the rain spots on my shoes and back up again, she said, “You have a filthy mind. There has never been anything like that between Ivor Kovak and me.”

“Until the night Judith Walker* died. And why worry, anyway? I won't tell. I just wanted to confirm that he couldn't have been in her apartment because he——”

“—because he was here,” Carole said. She turned round slowly and clasped her arms around herself tightly like she was holding herself in. Her face was taut. “I don't think I care very much now whether you tell or not, whether people will believe me or not. He was here; he didn't leave this apartment until after four o'clock in the morning. But——” her hands moved up to her shoulders and she took a long, uneven breath “—it wasn't either his fault or mine . . . unless you want to blame me for inviting him in. And I didn't see any harm in it at the time.”

“Forget about blame,” I said. “I'm just an onlooker. What makes me curious is that you admit you invited him into your apartment, and that he remained here until after four a.m., and yet you say there was nothing between you. What were you doing? Playing gin rummy?”

My popularity with Miss Carole Van Buren reached a record low. It must've been difficult for her to make such a pretty face look so mean. If I'd been a thought-reader, I guess I'd have dropped dead.

When I went on living, she said, “Evidently you've already made up your mind so there's no use my saying any more. I think you had better go now.”

“O.K.,” I said. “But you're being a trifle hasty. If it means anything to you, I've still got an open mind. And I'm still very curious . . . like to go on with your story and I'll promise not to ask rude questions?”

The grey ice in her eyes melted slightly. She used the tip
of a very pink tongue to wet her very red lips and the old glow began to shine from her. I didn't blame Ivor Kovak: I didn't blame him one little bit. When she looked at me that way, I could even forget there had ever been an Ivor Kovak.

And I guess she knew it, too. A dame always knows—especially the kind of dame who wears black velvet like a sleek and beautiful animal wears its fur.

In a small voice, she said, “I know you won't believe me but . . . I don't expect anybody else will, either. Still——” she cupped her face in her hands and sighed again “—it's the truth nevertheless . . . even if I'll never find out why she did it.”

I said, “Why who did what?”

“Judith . . . she must've been crazy. I've done nothing but try to think of a motive ever since, but there isn't one. It could hardly have been meant as a joke. . . .”

Down below, the street door slammed. Footsteps walked lightly along the lobby and dry hinges creaked and the footsteps went heel-and-toe across a stretch of linoleum. Then another door banged shut. After that, there was close silence again with the noises of the outside world flowing around the old house and rolling on and the rain hissing on the roof like a wire brush on a tight drum.

“Look,” I said. “Start where you invited Kovak in. I always follow a story better when I come in at the beginning.”

Like she was bringing her mind back a long way, Carole said, “That wasn't the beginning . . . it couldn't have been. I'll tell you just what happened; maybe you'll be able to explain it.”

Her voice was sweet cider once more. She seemed to have forgotten that I was the guy with the filthy mind. And I wasn't going to remind her. She was nice to listen to when she talked to me this way. The pity was she was talking about a flabby slob called Kovak while I kept thinking about a girl who had ended up in a state like no girl should ever know.

I propped myself against the door and lit a cigarette and kept my eyes on Carole Van Buren's lovely face and my thoughts on a nylon nightdress and a thin, green belt.

When she saw me relax, Carole sat down and lay back in
a stuffed chair and crossed her legs. Which wasn't fair. Legs like hers demanded anybody's complete attention. Maybe she knew that, maybe she didn't. But she must've known that a tight velvet skirt rides up.

Soon's she saw me gawp at the exposure, she tucked her feet in and linked her fingers around one knee and pretended I hadn't been looking. She said, “We got back late and it was a nasty night so I didn't think he was asking anything out of the way when he suggested that he came in for a night cap. His wife was away from home for a few days and——”

“Where was this place you got back late from?”

“A midnight fashion parade. Mr. Kovak had asked me to attend because he didn't think he'd manage to make it.”

“But he did manage?”

“Yes. He was there when I arrived. We saw the show through together and——”

“—and that meant he had to see you home . . . m-m-m?”

She frowned very prettily—at the inference, not at me. Then she said, “ I don't believe he arranged it that way. And he behaved quite all right on the journey.”

“Has he always behaved quite all right?”

“Yes. Of course he has . . . but——” She twiddled her fingers and chewed at her pouting lower lip and looked doubtful.

“But what?” I said. “Do you mean he'd have made a pass at you once or twice if he'd had the courage?”

“Something like that . . . but I feel terrible at saying it. Doesn't seem right when——” She left it at that.

I knew what she meant. It was like killing a lamb for being only a lamb when it might've had the fun of being a sheep. I said, “How far had he had the nerve to go?”

“Just—to invite me to have dinner with him . . . a couple of times.”

“Did you go?”

“Only once. I didn't like his attitude towards his wife.”

“How
come
?”

“He kept talking disparagingly about her and . . . he seemed to expect me to sympathise with him because he'd made a mistake in marrying her. I didn't think it was the sort of thing he should've discussed with a stranger.”

“Maybe he hoped you wouldn't remain a stranger,” I said. “What kind of proposition did he put up to you?”

With no trace of guile in her eyes, Carole said, “I never let him get that far. But he did say he wished he had met someone like me—before he met his wife. When I told him he wouldn't have got anywhere without her as it was common knowledge he had built his business up with her money, he said she never stopped reminding him of it. She knew how it hurt him and that was why she did it . . . and a lot of other things I'd rather not have listened to.”

“The old gag of the understood husband,” I said. “So you went out with him only once . . . what happened the night you invited him up here for a nightcap?”

She looked up sharply and her fingers went still. “I didn't invite him. He invited himself.”

“Same thing in the end. What happened?”

“I fixed him a whisky sour and——” she stared past me like she was trying to get everything exact in her own mind “—and a small straight rye for myself. We drank a toast to something or other—you know the kind of thing——”

“Sure. Go on,” I said.

“——and he swallowed his drink straight off. I didn't really want one so I only took a couple of sips. I thought at the time the rye tasted a trifle queer and somehow I was almost prepared for what happened . . . although that may sound silly to you.” She hesitated as if she wanted me to reassure her.

“I'll tell you later,” I said. “Go on.”

“Well. . . . He took a cigarette from the box there on that table and offered me one. It was while he was lighting them that he suddenly looked round for a chair and sat down like he was dizzy. Then while I stood watching him, he went very pale and his eyes rolled up . . . I was terrified . . . I couldn't even move when he made a funny noise and fell on the floor. For a moment I thought he'd had a heart attack and I wondered what people would think if he died in my apartment . . . it was wrong of me but that was the only thing I could think of. I must've stood staring down at him for at least a minute scared stiff even to touch him. . . .” She paused again and wet her lips and her troubled eyes came back to mine.

“Go on,” I said.

“When I managed to get a hold on myself, I knew he wasn't dead. He was breathing heavily through his mouth. . . . I got him on to his back and unfastened his collar and splashed a little water on his face . . . but I couldn't rouse him. He went on sleeping like he was in some kind of seizure. . . .”

“Until four o'clock in the morning,” I said.

“Yes. . . . After a while, I realised what had happened; and why I had felt dizzy, too. I checked the glass I'd been drinking from and the bottle of rye . . . they both had a funny smell.”

“What did you do with the stuff?”

“I've still got it—the bottle, I mean. I kept it in case. . . .” She got up and went over to a corner cabinet that looked like a radio cum phonograph cum cocktail bar. From a cupboard alongside the speaker she produced an almost untouched bottle of rye.

I'd seen the same brand before. The last time, I'd had a couple of pints of it poured over me while I lay sleeping off a love-tap somebody'd given me with a length of lead pipe. I said, “ How did you come to get yourself a bottle of doped rye?”

Carole shook her head. She looked from the bottle to me with bewilderment in her face. She said, “That's what I can't understand. Judith told me she won two bottles in a lottery. She gave me one and kept the other for herself.”

“When?”

“About—a week before she died,” Carole said.

When I was a kid, we used to play a game called “Passing the Parcel.” Every time the music stopped, whoever had hold of the parcel had to try to undo it. The fun was that inside the parcel there was another . . . and another . . . and another . . . until you reached the prize in the innermost parcel of all.