The Murder of a Fifth Columnist (11 page)

“—And you’d better go to bed,” I said. “Have you got something to make you sleep?”

She nodded. “Good-night. And thank you, Grace—thank you so much.”

The idea that Pete Hamilton was writing a newsletter designed to upset and terrify his country seemed to me so utterly ridiculous that I’d forgot all about the fact that Corliss Marshall was dead… until I got into the other room and saw the detective standing in the terrace window looking out curiously at the place where we’d found him. It came as a shock, and I glanced around at the sofa. His hat and coat and fringed muffler were gone. He was gone too, of course. I had a queer empty feeling inside me, realizing how gone he really was, and that I’d never open the paper again and be annoyed by the strident arrogant partisanship of “Marshalling the Facts.”

I hurried up the stairs. As I got half way up the buzzer of the telephone on the table sounded discreetly. It sounded again as I reached the top step. With Ruth Sherwood in the library the thing to do seemed obvious. I reached out and picked it up before it could buzz again and bring the detective dashing back. As I raised it to say “Hello” I heard a voice saying—and not very pleasantly—, “Why did you have that woman there tonight, Mrs.—”

It was so completely to my astonishment that my arm was too paralyzed to move before I heard Ruth Sherwood’s sharp, almost frantic whisper breaking him off—and then I couldn’t move.

“Stop it! The police will hear you!”

“The police?”

“—Corliss Marshall was murdered here tonight. I can’t talk to you now. I didn’t know you knew Alicia Wrenn. Goodbye.”

I put my finger quickly on the bar, holding it down while I slipped the phone back into place. I don’t think I ever got through a door and closed it behind me as fast as I did just then. I was completely flabbergasted. What possible right Kurt Hofmann had to speak to her that way about a guest at her table I didn’t know. It seemed to me the most insolent thing I’d ever heard in all my life.

And that wasn’t all. She’d said he’d come to her with a letter of introduction from a friend, and yet there was an assumption of familiarity in his demand that was unmistakable. It was in her reply too. It just wasn’t the way people who didn’t know, each other on any except formal terms would speak.

I started slowly along the corridor toward my apartment door. About half way there I saw the red down light of the elevator go on, and heard the whirr of the opening door. A man got out. My heart sank to the pit of my stomach. It was Colonel Primrose, and he was coming down the hall. I should have known he wouldn’t let me get off as easily as I had so far that evening. And I didn’t know what to do.—What if Barbara hadn’t gone to sleep? I thought anxiously. What if she was as bright as she looked, and knew something had happened, and was just waiting up to ask a lot of questions?

I got to the door, put the key in the lock, opened the door a little and waited, smiling as cordially as I could. I glanced at the mirror over the table in the foyer that had the water bottle on it, and relaxed a little. The bedroom door was closed. Then I noticed the brandy bottle still on the table where I’d left it. The cork was out and the glass was lying on its side about an inch from the edge, a dribble of brandy running down the inlaid mahogany apron. It was a complete graphic picture of disordered haste… and Colonel Primrose was almost to the door.

I reached in quickly, set the glass upright, jammed the cork in the bottle and turned just as he got to the door.

“I thought I’d seen the last of you tonight, Colonel Primrose,” I said—brightly, and loud enough so that if Barbara was up she’d hear me and lie low.

“I know it’s late,” he said. “But if you don’t mind-?”

“Not at all,” I lied cheerfully. “I’m glad to see you—do come in.”

I knew he was looking at the brandy bottle and the single glass.

“I’ve become a solitary drinker since you’ve gone,” I said.

He closed the door.

“I’ve missed you the last two weeks,” he said. He put his hat on the table and turned to look at me. “Lilac tells me you’ve rented your house to Bliss Thatcher, and you’re going away. And instead of my being able to talk to you, I’ve been up wasting my time talking to Sylvia Peele,”

“Really,” I said. I only hope I didn’t sound as sick as I felt just then. “What… what did she say?”

He shook his head.

“She was stunned. I didn’t realize she was fond of Corliss Marshall. I thought she disliked him intensely on account of Pete. She was in her bathrobe doing a piece about the party tonight for her column—mostly about Corliss—when I barged in. She tore it up and dropped it in the wastebasket. I really felt awfully sorry for her.”

We’d stood there in the foyer while he told me that.

“So that lets her out, of course, doesn’t it?” I said.

He nodded. “Except this business about Pete. That’s going to be a blow. I like Sylvia. She’s had a tough row to hoe. And you know, it’s occurred to me several times that she’s the one woman I know who wouldn’t stop at murder to save somebody she really loved.”

We moved across the foyer to the sitting room.

“I’m glad she is out of it, for—”

He stopped. “—What is it?”

I’d come to an abrupt halt in the middle of the doorway, my heart catapulting to the roof of my mouth.

Sylvia’s smoky gauze evening dress with Corliss Marshall’s blood over the bottom of it was lying across the arm of my sofa. Her bloodstained shoes were on the floor beside it. On the table was a note scrawled on a piece of paper she’d ripped off the pad by the telephone.

“What is it, my dear?” Colonel Primrose asked again.

“Just the… way I’ve left my clothes strewed about,” I answered. “You’d better turn around before you see something a bachelor shouldn’t.”

“A fairly experienced bachelor, Mrs. Latham?”

“You get a bottle of Scotch off the closet shelf out there,” I said. “I’ll pick up a little.”

“You need Lilac—or somebody—to look after you.” He turned back to the foyer, and I made a dive for the note and grabbed for Sylvia’s dress and shoes. He was coming back, looking at the label on the bottle—to see if it was potable, I suppose.

“You’ll find ice and soda in the icebox,” I said, passing him to put the dress in the closet. I was getting away with it, I thought—until he spoke.

“Mrs. Latham,” he said placidly. “Bring that dress over here.”

I came back slowly. He took the dress out of my hand and held it up, took the shoes and looked at them. Then he looked at me.

“Where is the note that was on that table?”

I opened my hand. He picked up the crumpled wad of paper in it and unwadded it. I read it upside down in his hand.

“I’m taking your green dress. Hide these for me till morning. The child is horribly upset.”

Colonel Primrose looked at me silently for a moment. Then he took a step towards me and put both hands on my shoulders.

“What child, Mrs. Latham? Whose dress is this? Who wrote this?”

I didn’t answer. I was too sick to do anything but stand there looking unhappily down at the floor.

“Look,” he said soberly. “You’re playing a dangerous game. You never seem to realize that murder’s a savage business. Someday you’re going to try to shield the wrong person—and I may not be here to take care of you. Can’t you understand that?”

“Sergeant Buck would be pleased, anyway,” I said— womanishly, because I knew I was completely wrong.

“I wouldn’t. Now tell me what all this means.”

I shook my head. I couldn’t just say, “That’s Sylvia’s dress.” Nor could I say, “The upset child’s in the next room, having probably cried herself to sleep.” I couldn’t, possibly.

He picked the dress up again and looked at it.

“This is an expensive job, isn’t it?”

I nodded. I guess he meant what he’d said about being experienced, because he turned the rose satin slip inside out without a moment’s hesitation to where the label was tacked on the side seam. And there it was, and there was nothing I could do about it. The name of the Fifth Avenue shop was woven in the white tab, and under it was “S. Peele,” and the date and model number.

He looked at me silently for a moment, and let the skirt fall back into place, his eyes resting on the stiff foul stain on the bottom. Then he picked up her shoe and turned it over slowly. The sole was dark brown where blood had soaked into the leather and dried.

“When did she leave here? Before I talked to you or after?”

“After,” I said.

“And who is the child?”

“Look, Colonel,” I began, “—the child has nothing to do with—”

“Corliss Marshall has been murdered,” he said evenly. “Where is she?”

“She’s in there, in bed.”

He got up and waited for me to go ahead of him. I went into the foyer and put my hand on the door knob. “I wish you wouldn’t do this,” I said.

“Corliss Marshall,” he repeated, with a sort of iron patience, “has been murdered, Mrs. Latham. I’ll wait here.”

I opened the door, switched on the light, and stared blankly around. The room was empty. The bedspread was folded neatly on the chair, but no one had slept in the bed. The girl’s suitcase and dressing case were gone too. There wasn’t a sign she’d been in the room.

Colonel Primrose was at my side in an instant.

“She’s gone,” I whispered. “The poor little kid.”

“Who
is
she, Mrs. Latham?” he said sharply.

I suppose it didn’t matter now. “Her name’s Barbara Ship-ley,” I said. “She was a guest of Mrs. Sherwood’s. I’d better call her now and tell her she’s gone.”

He looked at me rather oddly—as well he might—turned and went back into the sitting room. I went to the telephone on the table and asked for Mrs. Sherwood’s apartment.

“This is Grace Latham, Ruth,” I said. “Barbara is gone.” I could hear the sharp catch of her breath at the other end. Then she said, “All right, Grace. I’m sure it’s all right.”

“There’s one other thing,” I went on. I knew he could hear me from the other room. “Colonel Primrose is here. He wants to know all about her. I told him you’d tell him—all I knew was that she was staying with you.”

There was a long silence before she said, “I understand. Thank you—so much.”

I went back into the sitting room. Colonel Primrose had gone to the kitchenette for ice and soda. He put them on the table and poured himself a short drink.

“You’re being very foolish, my dear—believe me,” he said. “I’ve known for a long time that you’re a completely lawless individual—but it’s possible to be lawless and still use your head. However, it doesn’t matter.—I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Before you go,” I said, “would you mind telling me why anyone thinks Pete Hamilton writes this ‘Truth Not Fiction’? And what’s so horrible about it if he does? Is it true it’s financed by one of the foreign propaganda agencies?”

He looked at me for a moment. “Who told you that?”

“Bliss Thatcher told Ruth Sherwood.”

There was a little flicker in his eyes. “That’s interesting.”

“But is it true?”

“Nobody knows,” he said deliberately. He hesitated. “We do know that since the ill-timed attempt to expose foreign activities in this country last November a number of them have gone underground and come up in various disguises. This may be one of them. It’s published in New York. The man who ostensibly pays for it is a well-known American citizen who thinks it’s wrong to take life of any sort. Won’t eat eggs because they’re potential chickens. It’s the belief of the Department of Justice that he’s been sold a bill of goods, but they don’t know who sold it to him.”

“And where does Pete come in?” I demanded.

“If you’ll stop being so belligerent, I’ll tell you,” he said patiently. “And just get it out of your head that anybody’s trying to sell Pete down the river. The man who told me about it first is one of the best friends Pete has in Washington—also the most useful and highly placed. He’d give his right eye to know Pete doesn’t write the thing. If he does write it, for another thing, this man’s ruined. He’s interested in a book about Washington that Pete plans to write, and he’s talked frankly to him.”

“You mean that sort of talk is what’s in ‘Truth Not Fiction’?”

Colonel Primrose nodded.

“Every correspondent in Washington is given secret background information, confidentially,” he said quietly. “Their standing as reporters depends on their sources—and their sources depend on the confidence that important people have in their integrity. Whoever writes ‘Truth Not Fiction’ has the sources, and he’s betraying them. He’s also betraying his country, at a very crucial moment.”

“I—I just
can’t
believe it’s Pete Hamilton,” I said.

He shrugged. “I can’t either. If I didn’t know the facts and the people I’d think it was a frame-up. I’ll tell you this— strictly off the record: whoever writes that newsletter has published stuff that so far as we know only Pete Hamilton has access to. I’m telling you that because I want you to understand Pete’s on the spot—and for reasons. Corliss’s murder is another part of it. And that’s why I want you to keep out. Murder means nothing to people who don’t believe in the dignity of the human being.”

“You sound like Kurt Hofmann,” I said.

He nodded rather grimly. “He ought to know.”

He picked up Sylvia’s dress and shoes.

“I’m not going to tell you not to phone Sylvia the minute I’m out, but I’m
asking
you not to. I’d appreciate a little cooperation at this point. And don’t look so stricken, my dear.”

He closed the door, and I stood there between conflicting loyalties. He knew, of course, that normally I couldn’t refuse a request where I could disobey an order. Still…

That was as far as I got. There was a rap on the door, and when I opened it he was standing there, with Sergeant Buck, no doubt materialized out of the fireproof concrete of the corridor floor, just behind him.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “I think it would be safer for you to call Sylvia and tell her. Do it now, please. I’ll wait.”

It was my old friend the Colonel in an unfamiliar guise. He wasn’t being amusingly paternal—he was as grim as I’d ever seen him. I went into the bedroom, picked up the phone and asked for Sylvia’s apartment. He stood calmly in the doorway watching me.