The Long Night (7 page)

After she'd wet her lips and pushed back her hair, she said, “If you'll wait here, I'll tell Miss Van Buren . . . you did say your name was Bowman—didn't you?”

It wasn't a question; it was an exit line. It took her through the green satin drapes and away from me and the unpleasant things I represented. I wondered how much she knew of the life Judith Walker had lived before she'd taken a bath in straight rye.

And, while I wondered, I took a peek beyond the one-piece door. I didn't find anything of interest.

It was just an office. It had a metal desk and a miniature telephone switchboard and one of those stenographer's stools with a sprung back-rest that makes a dame sit up like she's asking you to see what big eyes she's got. The desk had a blotter, a fancy ball-pen stuck in a white plastic sphere, and a cream-coloured telephone. On the other side of the office there was a door marked:
Private
.

If I'd had time, I'd have gone snooping through there as well. But I didn't have time. A voice right behind me said, “Did you want to see me?”

She was an ash blonde with grey eyes and a full, pouting mouth and peaches-and-cream complexion. I guessed she'd be about twenty-three or twenty-four. None of the bloom had worn off yet. She had the look of one of those misted stills they frame outside movie theatres.

I liked her voice. It reminded me of cool, sweet cider on a hot summer's afternoon.

Against the background of green drapes, she seemed to shine with a light she carried around inside. If it was a trick she'd developed, it was a good trick. It made a guy admire her without getting ideas. That doesn't often happen to
me when I meet up with a wren who's got her face and figure.

After I'd stored away a mental picture to comfort me in my old age, I said, “Is there anywhere we can have a private talk, Miss Van Buren? I don't think you'd want——”

“Miss Gordon said you wanted to ask me some more questions about—Judith. Can't you ask them here?” The words had no offence in them. She made them sound almost like an apology. Then she added, “The only place is Mr. Kovak's office and he's already been disturbed such a lot this morning that . . . you do understand, don't you?”

“Yes,” I said, “I understand. But I don't think you do. I'm not a member of the police department.”

“No . . .?” A tiny, soft V formed between her well-defined brows and her eyes narrowed while she studied me down and up with a suddenly watchful look on her face. In that moment, she was a different person. But her voice was unchanged when she said, “I assumed from what Miss Gordon told me that you'd been sent by that man Cooke.”

“Your Miss Gordon evidently judges by appearances,” I I said. “Although, as it happens, Cooke knows I intended calling on you. It was he who gave me your name. He said you'd been a friend of Judith Walker.”

She stared down at her beautiful ankles and feet and smoothed her hands over her very smooth hips. The way she acted she wanted to be sure she was playing it safe before she opened her pretty red mouth.

When she looked up at me again, she said, “I'm getting a trifle confused, Mr. Bowman. If you aren't from the police, then why are you here?”

“To find out if you know any reason why Judith should've been murdered.”

“I don't know of any reason. I've already told the lieutenant that this morning.”

“So he says. But maybe he asked you the wrong questions.”

“It wouldn't have made any difference what he asked me. I've no idea why anyone should've wanted to do——” grey ghosts peered out at me from far back in her eyes and her hands had become restless “—to do such a terrible thing.”

“Didn't Judith ever hint there might be someone who . . .?”

“Not to me. And Lieutenant Cooke went over all this in great detail when he was here.” She went quite still and her brows puckered again. “Who are you, Mr. Bowman? What was Judith to you, anyway?”

“I'm a private detective,” I said. “If your friend hadn't—died last night, she was going to hire me to do a job of work for her . . . according to a letter she posted last night. Perhaps you'd care to read it, Miss Van Buren?”

Evidently Miss Van Buren had no objections. With one corner of her lower lip held between her nice white teeth, she took the envelope from me and removed the letter and read it quickly. Then she stared at my middle coat button like she was reading that, too.

Eventually, she flicked a swift, upward glance at my face and let go of her lip. She said, “This makes things even more bewildering. I wonder what she could've wanted you for?”

“If we knew that, we'd be a lot nearer knowing who killed her,” I said.

Carole stopped being bewildered and got puzzled instead. When she'd inspected the letter back and front and checked the postmark and given herself time to reconnoitre the trail ahead, she murmured, “I don't quite know what you mean.”

“It's simple enough,” I said. “Judith found out something about somebody and somebody preferred to have it go on being a secret. So somebody stopped Judith talking.”

“How can you be sure that's what happened?”

“It figures. When I went to school, two and two always made four.”

“But it would have to be something terrible to make——” She was having trouble with her hands again so she put them behind her. Then she walked slowly to the top of the staircase and stood looking down with her back towards me. If Judith had had the same million dollar walk, I wasn't surprised Kovak had paid her four C's a month.

I said, “It all depends. Some men kill to steal the secret of a bigger and better bomb, others to rid themselves of the surplus wife. And there's a whole lot of urgent motives in between.”

With a graceful movement she must've been perfecting since she left high school, she turned and looked at me. She said, “I'm sorry, Mr. Bowman, but I don't think I can help you at all. Judith and I were friends of a sort but she didn't confide in me to any extent. Outside business hours we saw very little of each other.”

“You don't know who her other friends were?”

“Not her men friends. She never talked about the men she went out with.”

“But she did have a man or two hanging around?”

“Naturally, Mr. Bowman. She wasn't exactly a cripple.”

“Anyone regular?”

“I couldn't say. . . .” Carole Van Buren hadn't perfected lying. To cover up, she added, “As I've told you, we hardly met at all outside business hours. Most times when I did see her in one of the nights spots, she was with a mixed party.”

“And the other times?”

“Well . . . I never paid much attention.”

“But you would remember if you'd seen her with the same guy on more than one occasion . . . wouldn't you?”

She admired her slim dainty feet with her head on a side and she didn't answer straight off. Without meeting my eyes, she said, “I suppose so . . . but I can't say I was ever very much interested. I lead my own life and she led hers. And one man looks much the same as another in a tuxedo.”

“You're a lucky girl,” I said. “At least . . . I hope so.”

“You—hope so?” She wasn't putting on an act. Now she was puzzled.

“Yes,” I said. “Judith was right out of luck because she knew a guy who was bad for her. He'll be bad for you, too, if he gets the idea you might put the finger on him. No matter how many dames he rubs out, they'll only burn him once. Better think it over.”

The ghosts in her wide grey eyes began to get a little bit mad. She came back to me and stood very close and stared up into my face. She said, “There's nothing for me to think over, Mr. Bowman. If I knew the answers to your questions, I'd tell you. But I don't. And I'm beginning to resent your persistence. Will you please go now?” The cider in her voice was a lot cooler and not nearly so sweet.

Later is always the same. There are two ways where it doesn't pay to rush a dame. “It's your own neck you're sticking out,” I said. “I hope nobody treats it the same as Judith Walker's.”

She smiled the way a woman smiles when she's all set to put the skids under a guy. She said, “Nobody will, Mr. Bowman. You can't frighten me. I don't know why Judith was murdered, but, whatever the motive, I'm sure it isn't the one you've suggested. I'm also sure the police are quite capable of handling the investigation without any assistance from you.” She liked that line. She'd been building up to it from the moment she'd thought she had my measure.

I said, “I'm not assisting anyone. That's one thing you and I have in common.”

“You're impertinent, Mr. Bowman.” She walked round me carefully like I had smallpox and she backed against the green drapes and felt for the join with one hand behind her. Anger improved her looks. Now she was less like a beautiful statue and more like a woman. I've never had a yen to get friendly with a statue.

“O.K.” I said. “So I'm impertinent. Does that excuse you of all responsibility?”

“Responsibility for what?”

“Don't you want Judith's killer to be found out?”

“Of course I do!” Almost in the same breath, she added, “But that doesn't mean I'll allow myself to be talked to this way by someone who has no authority. Just what is your interest in this affair, Mr. Bowman?”

“I represent Judith Walker,” I said.

“That doesn't make sense. Judith didn't have the chance to hire you. She——”

“—died too soon,” I said. “Which brings us back to the motive you were quite sure it wasn't. Why were you so sure?”

Carole didn't mind my lob shots but she wasn't happy when I sent over a full volley. She let that one go by. In a stiff voice, she said, “The truth is you're in this because you think there may be pickings. I've heard things about men in your kind of business.”

“And I've heard things about girls in your kind of business.” I knew I'd made a mistake in not leaving her to
cool off a couple of pages earlier. Playing Tom to her Tabby wasn't going to pay off any dividends. “Some day,” I told her, “we must get together and collaborate on a book—one of those revealing books. Meantime, would you tell Mister Ivor Kovak I wish to see him?”

When she'd had time to realise I was retiring from the field to regroup, she said, “Mr. Kovak can't see you.”

“How do you know?”

“He isn't available right now. I—I believe he's gone out.”

“I don't,” I said. “But, if I'm wrong, I'll apologise. And I'll wait patiently for his return.”

Any anger she might've felt didn't show any longer. Very calmly, she said, “You may have to wait a long time. Mr. Kovak was interviewed by the police this morning and he has no intention of discussing the subject further. His whole desire is to avoid getting himself involved in notoriety.”

“Do I blame him? And who's asking him to get himself involved in anything? Just you tell him I'd like a quiet chat and then you can go back to your modelling.” I let my eyes loose on a slow tour from her high, firm breasts past her slim waist and her tapering hips down to a pair of ankles that looked like they had no bones. When I'd climbed leisurely back up again checking points of outstanding interest on the way, I said, “It suits you better than acting the watch-dog. I guess Kovak is old enough to take care of himself.”

There isn't a dame alive or dead who has ever had any real objection to a guy looking at her that way. She might've said she didn't like it but it's given her a nice warm, satisfying feeling inside, nevertheless.

Carole Van Buren hated me because she liked to think I thought she had what it takes, even though she didn't want me to get the idea she'd ever give me the chance to take it. After her ice-cold grey eyes had told me just what kind of a louse I was, she said, “You may wait if you wish . . . but I can assure you that you're wasting your time.”

Then she tucked in her pouting lips and backed through the swaying green drapes quickly. Her high heels went thump-thump-thump-thump across a deep carpet and a door slapped shut and everything was quiet again. I lit a cigarette and waited.

Two or three minutes passed. And another two or three. The sewing machine was a distant rumble and the tiny voices gabbled on unintelligibly. They sounded like overlapping stations on a badly-tuned radio. I listened to them and smoked and wondered why it took Ivor Kovak so long to make up his mind.

Sooner or later, he knew he'd have to see me. He could refuse outright or he could stall, but he couldn't go on stalling . . . unless he hoped I'd get tired of waiting and give up . . . If I made myself awkward, he could have thrown me in the can . . . if he didn't mind creating a fuss . . . but he was trying to avoid notoriety . . . so he wouldn't make a fuss . . . he'd just go on stalling. . . .

Putting yourself in the other guy's place is all right when you've got some idea of the kind of character he is. I hadn't any ideas about Kovak. But I soon got some.

At the end of ten minutes the street door down in the tiled lobby hissed open and a patrolman came in. He looked up at me and hunched his shoulders and pulled down the corners of his mouth. Then he came heavily up the stairs with his arms swinging.

All the way up he was watching me. When he reached the top he stopped and slid his thumbs into his belt and straightened so's to let his chest stick out. He said, “You waiting for someone, bud?” He had a lean face with deep-set eyes. His cheekbones were hard and shiny and he had a tough chin. He looked like he didn't expect trouble but he hoped he was wrong.

I said, “Why?”

He said, “Look, bud. . . .” He took his hands away from his belt and came nearer. Not too near: just near enough to crowd me in case I got the idea I could duck out through the green satin drapes. “I'll ask the questions,” he went on. “You don't belong here and you ain't wanted here. Do you go out nice and quiet or do I run you out?”