Time Off for Murder (27 page)

  "I'll be damned."

  "Such language from a lady!"

  "But when they asked for details, the thing fell apart, didn't it?"

  "Why no, that's the crazy part. It didn't. The Inspector hammered at him. He said: 'Now listen, Mister Knight. The department knows that Phyllis was killed by a bullet from Lieutenant MacKinoy's gun.' And the old man just lifted that mane he calls eye-brows and said, cool as a cucumber: 'Lieutenant MacKinoy was a good friend of mine. He did me a good turn.' And there's MacKinoy six feet under in the cemetery where he can't tell us yes or no."

  Mary shifted from foot to foot. "Then I'm wrong. My first reaction was that the old man had made a confession of wishes and hopes. Now I'm beginning to wonder. How about Agnes? What has she said?"

  "Her? Not a word. She's as screwy as the old man. When he was reading that thing, she stood alongside, wagging her head, saying 'yes, yes, yes,' to everything he said. She put up an awful holler when they took the old man away. Wanted to go along with him. Scared they're going to hurt him."

  "Where's she now?"

  "They got her downstairs. Talking to her like Dutch uncles."

  "Has she told them anything?"

  "Naw. All that's on her mind is how the old man is…." His words were thick with catarrh and disgust.

  "But Lyman Knight couldn't have murdered Flo Gordon, no matter what he may or may not have done to his own daughter."

  "Check and double check. But Gordon's murder could've had nothing to do with Phyllis Knight's. Ever think of that?"

  "No. I haven't. And I don't intend to start thinking it."

  "What's on your mind, sister?"

  "My hat."

  "Come on, now. That's no way to act. You're working with us, ain't you?"

  "No." She shook her head decisively. "I'm working alone. The department and I can't seem to get together."

  "Getting temperamental, aren't you?"

  "No, Johnny, I'm not. I've just gotten an idea. And I think the idea will work out best if I work alone."

  "Your friend Phyllis had the same idea, and see where she got."

  "I'm not going into any dark basements. You can be sure of that."

  "Where you going?"

  "That depends."

  "Won't talk, eh?"

  "You catch on fast."

  The door opened. An attendant came in. "There's a man outside," he announced. "He says the Inspector left word for him to come down here yesterday, but he was outa town. Name's Weinstein."

  "Swell." Miss Carner rose from her chair. "He's the neighbor. The tenant who went away for the weekend."

  "Send him in," Johnny Reese said. "I'll talk to him now."

  A suntanned young man, carrying a briefcase, came in briskly, greeted Johnny Reese: "Inspector Heinsheimer?"

  "Thanks for the compliment. I'm Detective Reese. This is Miss Carner. The Inspector's out just now. Didn't want to keep you waiting."

  "Very thoughtful of you. Took my lunch hour to run down here. Understand the Inspector wished to talk to me."

  "Very much," said Johnny Reese. "I tried to page you Saturday. Have a seat."

  The young man put his briefcase on the Inspector's desk. "In connection with that suicide in our building on Saturday, I suppose?"

  "Yessir. You were a tenant on the same floor?"

  "Correct."

  "The Inspector wants to know what you knew about the people who lived in 2C."

  Young Mister Weinstein thrust his lower lip forward dubiously. "Not much, I'm afraid. I've not been living in the house very long, you see. Just two months. I can't say I've ever seen the people from that apartment. None of them, except the man who went out early Saturday afternoon. Why, Detective Reese, what's this?"

  Johnny Reese had bent forward, had gripped the man's hand, was pumping it up and down. "I'm just saying 'welcome home.' I never met a guy I was so glad to see."

  "Now, now." Young Mr. Weinstein was pleased with himself. "Maybe I'm not going to turn out to be as much of a help as you think. You see, if I'd known anything was wrong, I'd have probably observed things more carefully. It wasn't till I saw the officer ringing the doorbell, that I realized something might be wrong. This is the way it was: My wife and I were dressing and packing to go away to Atlantic City for the weekend - I had till Monday night off - when we heard a shot. At least my wife thought it was a shot, but I said: 'Oh no, it can't be a shot. It's a backfire.' Trucks are always backfiring in these streets."

  "What time was it?"

  "About - let me think - somewhere around a quarter after one. Maybe a few minutes after that. I'd just got in from the office and I was in a rush to change my clothes and get started. My wife had the bags all packed, you see. Well, we paid no attention to the shot after we heard it, and I went on dressing, and just as we were going out of our door, we saw a man closing the door of 2C."

  "Describe him," Johnny Reese commanded.

  "I'll do the best I can. I'm afraid it won't be very adequate. He was a smallish man, thin, in dark clothes, and a dark hat pulled low over his face - a rather wide black hat, sort of foreign looking. I'm afraid I couldn't see his face well. All I saw was the frame of horn-rimmed glasses and a pointed chin that seemed sort of yellowish."

  Mary Carner's eyes met the detective's. There was bewilderment in his face; fear in her's.

  He said: "Vigo don't wear glasses."

  Mary said: "It wasn't Vigo. He was with Marjorie. Go on, Mister Weinstein, please."

  Mister Weinstein went on. "He had a large suitcase and his hands were gloved. Just as he was about to turn around to go down the steps, my wife, who was inside, remembered that I hadn't shut off the ice-box, and she called me to come back into the apartment. And so he went down the steps ahead of us and we didn't see his face, nor which direction he went."

  "Women again," Johnny Reese wailed. "Always women. When we might've had a perfect description."

  "I'm sorry." Mister Weinstein picked up his briefcase. "It's all I can do for you. I'll be glad to repeat it to the Inspector - or anyone else you designate."

  Mary Carner came forward. "You've done a good deal for us," she said. "Much more than you realize."

  Johnny Reese stared at her. "I don't know what you're talking about," he complained.

  When the door had closed behind Weinstein, Johnny said, brusquely: "What's this all about? What were you so scared of?"

  "I can't tell you. Believe me, I can't tell you. It's so incredible that I can't talk about it. Not till I'm sure. Not till it's more than an idea."

  "Come off that stuff," he protested. "Be yourself. Gimme your hunch and we can dope it out together."

  "No dice. If I tell you and I'm wrong, I'll be a fool to the end of my days. If I'm right and I talk - if this person suspects we're interested in him - if he has the faintest notion - it will be too perilous. Our only chance of getting him lies in letting him believe he's perfectly safe. All I can tell you is we're dealing with someone who's resourceful, clever."

  "And you're gonna out-smart him?"

  "I can try."

  "Fat chance. Sister, don't be a goddamned fool. Tell Johnny."

  "Eventually."

  "Why not now?"

  She turned back on the door-sill. She waved her hand in farewell. She said gayly: "Keep the home fires burning."

  Miss Carner had a full afternoon. She called on a newspaper and she made a tour of garages.

  At the newspaper office she visited her friend, Jane Tennant, and she said: "Jane dear, I want a favor. You have a morgue here, haven't you?"

  "Of course. Every newspaper has. Ours is one of the best."

  "May I look up two names?"

  "You certainly may. Write them on this slip and I'll have the stuff brought in."

  Miss Tennant whistled when she read the names Mary had written. She said: "Can I know what this is all about?"

  "Not till I know myself."

  "Will it be something for us?"

  "Rather."

  "Do I get an exclusive?"

  Mary smiled wearily. "It may not be anything at all. But just in case it is, I never forget a favor."

  An office boy brought in two huge manila envelopes. "Here y'are." He spread them on Miss Tennant's desk.

  "Make yourself at home, Mary," the newspaper woman said. "If I can help, call me in."

  Two hours later, Mary Carner stuffed the piles of yellowed clippings back into their envelopes and wiped the dust from her fingers. Her back was very tired, her eyes heavy lidded.

  "Find what you wanted?" Jane Tennant asked.

  "Yes, thanks."

  "Anything else I can do?"

  "Yes. Direct me to the nearest telegraph office."

  Mary took a long while composing her message. She wrote it over and over, and dispatched it finally. And then she hailed a taxi-cab, and rode to the East side of Central Park.

  Up and down the side streets of the East Sixties, Miss Carner wandered that afternoon while the April sun swung lower in the sky. She was hunting a garage.

  At each place she stopped she told the same story: "I've just moved into the neighborhood. I'm looking for garage space. What facilities do you have?" That brought an invitation to look around.

  A grease-stained mechanic in a large garage on East Sixty-fourth Street withdrew his head and shoulders for an instant from under the hood of a shining Rolls Royce, answered her absent-mindedly. "Look around, lady. What make car you got?"

  "Sport roadster."

  "That'll be all right then. We're full up. If it was a big car, we mightn't be able to accommodate you."

  "Like this one."

  "Yeh. Or like that Cadillac."

  "Which Cadillac?" She tried to keep her voice casual.

  "That one. Know whose car that is?"

  She had seen that shimmering body before. She had seen those white tires, the yellow and black license plate with its impressive double digits. But she moved toward it now with an expression of naive delight.

  "That's a honey of a car."

  "You bet it is. Belongs to a honey of a guy. Saxon Rorke. Ever hear of him?"

  "No," she lied. "Who's he?"

  "Big Wall Street man. Rich as all hell. Big shot. See his plate."

  She bent down low over the rear wheel, ostensibly to read the license number.

The mechanic asked: "You nearsighted, lady?"

  She went around to the car door. She opened it. She slid behind the wheel. "He won't mind if I just sit in it a minute. I've never been in a buggy like this."

  "Better don't," the mechanic said. "He wouldn't like it. Hey, what you doing there?"

  Miss Carner had ducked down behind the wheel. Miss Carner was swiftly sweeping the floor of Saxon Rorke's automobile, examining the cushions of the front seat. Miss Carner pressed the button which opened a compartment in the instrument panel, abstracted three cigars, blue and white banded. Her head bobbed up. "I dropped my bag," she said sweetly to the garage mechanic. "What did you think I was doing there?"

  "Nothing. Only we're not supposed to let people into other people's cars. Against the rules."

  "I'm sorry."

  "Don't let on you was in his car, understand? I got to clean it."

  "You haven't cleaned it yet? It's almost evening."

  "That ain't my fault. It's the other guy's day off. And I been sweating my head off. These big babies take a lot of time. The night man was supposed to clean it, but he says Rorke didn't get in with it till almost six o'clock in the morning and he didn't have the time. Say, don't let that discourage you, miss. We'll give you good enough service. You'll be satisfied."

  "I am satisfied," she said sweetly.

***

Mary's apartment was fragrant with pot roast and pie. Sophie Duda smiled a broad faced welcome.

  "I was looking for you," she said. "I was wondering how soon you would be home. Somebody was just telephoning for you. Some man. He says he wants to talk to you. He says he wants to take you out to dinner. He says he's coming right up to take you out. And I have such a nice dinner all ready."

  "Did he leave his name?"

  "Oh yes. He give his name. His name is Rorke. Mister Saxon Rorke."

  "Rorke? Coming right up? He wants to take me out to dinner, does he? Oh no! Get your hat. Get your coat, Sophie."

  "The dinner," Sophie wailed. "The nice dinner I fix for you!"

  "Forget it. We're dining out tonight. And by ourselves. Take everything. We won't be home tonight."

The hotel room was too small and too hot. Steam pipes rattled in its walls and water flushed. The open transom brought in the noises of elevators going up and down, doors opening and closing, voices in prolonged farewells, drunken laughter.

  Mary Carner tossed. She rumpled her sheets; she threw off her blankets; she pulled them up again. Sophie, in the adjacent twin bed, snored rhythmically. "I'm not used to anyone in my room," Mary told herself. "That's what keeps me awake. That and the noise. And the heat…. I'm not nervous…I'm really not…. I'm not scared." Yet even as she denied fear, she grew certain of it.

  She slid out of bed, went over to the window. Twenty stories below, the city slumbered like a sprawling harridan asleep in her spangles, the lighted avenues glittering necklaces on a broad, black velvet bosom; vertical, illuminated skyscraper elevator shafts, like gilded bar-pins.