Wife or Death (19 page)

Denton walked over to the closet and pulled the door open. There was nothing in it; nothing. Not even hangers; the woman must have put them on the bed under the clothes.

He began opening bureau and dresser drawers.

Cleaned out!

Bridget White had left exactly one item, Angel's candy box of mementoes. But she had even stuck her nose into that. He had shut the box tightly; he found the lid half off.

He stepped back and looked around. The vanity, the tops of the dresser and bureau—all bare.

His first reaction had been a sort of irked amusement; now he felt the anger surging back. What crumbs people were! There was over two thousand dollars' worth in the coat pile alone: a brand-new three-quarter-length suède, an almost new cashmere, a pair of silver fox skins, a mink stole, two spring coats and her evening wrap. It's a good thing Angel hadn't got around to taking her three-thousand-dollar full-length mink coat out of cold storage, he thought; the woman would have taken that, too.

The hell with her. For being such a pig, she couldn't have anything. He rummaged around until he found the hangers, and began putting things back.

When he got to the boxes, curiosity made him look inside. The six hatboxes contained hats, but the big suitbox, which the White woman must have found empty, was crammed with handkerchiefs, scarves, stockings, gloves, an evening bag and several casual bags, Angel's sterling silver comb, brush and hand-mirror set, and an assortment of belts. Brother!

A shoebox was full of half-used lotions, creams, lipsticks and other cosmetic items. There were also four bottles of expensive perfume. Denton grinned, removed the perfume, closed the shoebox gently and set it aside. That would constitute Bridget White's “haul,” next morning, when he fired her.

Opening a tooled leather box, Denton became angry again. The damned human vacuum cleaner had tried to get away with the jewelry! What did she take him for, an imbecile? Most of the box's contents were relatively inexpensive costume pieces, but there were several good rings and brooches set with genuine gems.

The last box was the box of monogrammed stationery he had given Angel. The woman was even going to take that! He flung the box to the vanity bench in a fit of rage. It bounced on the bench, the lid flew off, and the paper and envelopes tumbled to the floor.

Swearing, Denton stooped to pick them up.

And that was how he found it.

One of the sheets had been written on. An envelope was clipped to it.

An unfinished letter in Angel's handwriting.

On one knee, Denton read it:

Darling—

Oh I can hardly wait till you get here for the hunting season! I'm so
happy
that you finally agreed to take me away from this horrible place!

You can just bet I'll be ready to go the very
second
you say the word.

If you

She had probably been interrupted—by someone ringing the doorbell, or even by Denton getting home—and had had to stop hurriedly. In all likelihood she had thrust the letter underneath the unused stationery, intending to finish it later. There was no point in trying to figure out why she had never finished it. Logic had been left out of Angel's makeup. He would not have been surprised to learn that she had simply forgotten it.

Denton's fingers were trembling as he pulled the envelope loose from the paper clip.

It was not from Angel's stationery. It was far better than that—an envelope addressed to her with a cancelled airmail stamp and a recent postmark. The envelope was empty; apparently she had clipped it to the letter for the sake of its return address.

The return address of the Trevor-United Studios in Hollywood, California!

Denton slipped the used envelope back under the clip, reattaching it to Angel's unfinished letter, and rose.

He had a singing sense of triumph, and a relief so pervasive that it left him weak and a little unsteady on his feet. Here was the evidence to back up his theory! She had been carrying on a long-distance love affair under his nose with Norman Wyatt.

He wondered how long the affair had been going on. Since the elopement had been discussed by mail before Wyatt's current visit to Ridgemore, their liaison must have been entered into during a previous visit. Norman Wyatt's visits to Ridgemore every few months were a practice of many years' standing; he could well have been carrying on a catch-as-catch-can affair with Angel ever since Denton had brought her into the community, her affairs with the other men serving merely to fill in the gaps between Wyatt's absences from town. It was even possible that one of the unidentified mementoes in Angel's keepsake box was from Wyatt.

Apparently Ralph Crosby had not been usurped by a new lover, after all. He had merely been shunted aside because of the return to town of an old one.

It was only a few minutes after nine when Denton dialed Chief Spile's home number.

“Oh, Emma. Jim Denton. Augie in?”

“No, Jim. Tonight's the monthly meeting of the police chiefs and deputies at the sheriff's office. I don't expect him till God knows when. Want me to leave him a note to call you back?”

Denton reflected. “No, don't bother, Emma. Thanks.”

He sat musing for a long time. There was no point in trying to reach Augie Spile. What Emma and the other wives did not know was that “the monthly meeting of the police chiefs and deputies” merely convened at the sheriff's office; when the boys were gathered, they promptly took off in a fleet of cars for a pleasant little hideaway spot across the state line in Pennsylvania, where they could get congenially looped and play their monthly poker game.

Denton was not supposed to know about this little social conspiracy of the county's top lawmen; no one was; the conspirators were solemnly sworn to silence. So he could not very well telephone Chief Spile without putting Spile on the spot; and even if he did, Augie would not be in a receptive mood because of it.

No, for tonight the chief was out.

Sergeant Bob Harley, or Ned Bradshaw, whichever was on the desk at headquarters tonight? Denton shook his head. He doubted that either was well enough informed about the case; Augie Spile was pretty close-mouthed where his friends were involved. For the same reason the officers on patrol duty were out. This was going to be a delicate operation, he thought grimly.

The sheriff's office? They were all over in Pennsylvania tonight.

The more deeply he thought, the more obvious it became that his only recourse for immediate action was District Attorney Ralph Crosby. Denton laughed to himself. Crosby would be about as cooperative as a rabid police dog.

Denton's ultimate conclusion was that either the matter would have to wait until the next day, or he must do it all by himself.

He made for his bedroom.

George Guest had tried to do it all by himself, he thought, with a sorry result. But he wasn't George Guest. For one thing, he was armed with knowledge George hadn't had. For another, he was in good shape physically. He was pretty sure he could take flabby Norm Wyatt with his bare hands, if it came to that.

He had no intention of going up against a shotgun or a .30-.30 with his bare hands, however. In his bedroom he opened his bottom dresser-drawer. Had Augie taken it, along with the shotgun, in searching the house? He fished around and found it—his .38 caliber automatic, wrapned in a clean rag, and with it the loaded clip. Bless Augie! If he had ever had any doubts of Chief Spile's belief in his innocence, this wiped them away. The chief had lifted the shotgun to satisfy Crosby. The pistol, for which Denton had a permit, the big man had tactfully left behind.

Denton shoved the clip home, drew back the slide to set a shell in the chamber, flicked on the safety and tucked the automatic in his hip pocket. Then he went to the foyer closet, got his hat and coat, and made for the phone.

Ardis Wyatt answered.

“Norm home?”

“Oh, Jim. No, he and dad are up at the lodge. Anything important?”

“I can try another time,” Denton said easily, and hung up before Ardis Wyatt could ask more questions that would require more lies.

He was in the kitchen with his hand on the knob of the garage door when he remembered that he still had no car.

He went back to the telephone and dialed Mac's Taxi Service. The phone rang and rang. He hung up, waited, and dialed again. Still no answer. After two more attempts he looked up Tim MacPherson's home number.

Denton dialed it, wondering if Mrs. MacPherson was infected by epidemic Dentonitis. He decided to take no chances, and did not give his name.

“I've been trying to get a cab at the cab office, but there's no answer.”

“They're prob'ly all out on calls. One of them ought to be back any minute. They'll be checking with me. What address?”

“One twenty-four Elm.”

“Be ten, fifteen minutes.”

It was forty-five. The taxi outside brayed at 10:05. Denton, who had smoked eight cigarettes and drunk two generous Scotches on the rocks while he waited, climbed irritably in beside the driver. It was Mac himself.

“You sure took your time!”

“Busy,” Mac said. “Where to?”

“Out Ridge Road about five miles beyond the town limits. I'll tell you where to turn off.”

“That would be Zone C. Three dollars.”

“I know the fare! Move, will you?”

Mac moved.

After a while Denton said, “Sorry I spoke to you that way, Mac. I'm kind of edgy these days. You may have heard.”

“It's okay, Mr. Denton.”

“You
have
heard, haven't you? All that juicy gossip?”

MacPherson kept his eyes on the road. “Sure. But I never pay no mind to them gawdam keeyowdling she-cats.”

Silence again. But when they reached the dirt road turnoff from Ridge Road, Mac unexpectedly cleared his throat. “We going to Mr. Wyatt's hunting lodge?”

Denton was startled. “Yes. Why?”

“Took another fare out here a while back. Middle of the night. Kind of funny, struck me. All dressed up in his Sunday best and carrying a suitcase like he meant to catch a bus.”

Denton tried to keep his voice casual. “When was this, Mac?”

The taxi man meditated. “About three Sundays back. Let's see. Yump. Sunday before Hallowe'en.”

Denton felt a tingle along his spine. The Hallowe'en Ball was always held on the Saturday preceding Hallowe'en. So the Sunday MacPherson referred to was the same morning Angel disappeared.

“Middle of the night, eh?” Denton laughed. “Just what time was it?”

“Oh, got him here around four forty-five A.M.—picked him up in town about four twenty-five. And not at his house, neither—I had to pick him up about a block away, on a street corner. Reason I'm telling you this, Mr. Denton,” the Scotsman drawled, “is he acted sneaky. Just purely whispered when he phoned me, like he didn't want nobody to hear him making the call.”

So he had friends in unexpected places. Tim MacPherson, of all people!

At the same time that he basked in the warmth of the discovery, Denton wondered why Norman Wyatt should have telephoned for a taxi when, in taking Ralph Crosby home that night, he had had his own car available.

“I don't have to tell you how much I appreciate this, Mac,” he said. “I know you're not in the habit of talking about your customers. Would you care to tell me who the man was? It was Norman Wyatt, wasn't it?”

“Mr. Wyatt?” the taxi man said. “Hell, no, Mr. Denton. His father-in-law.”

Gerald Trevor
.

23

Denton was severely jolted.

“Pull over on the shoulder a minute, Mac,” he said. They had nearly reached the lane leading up to the lodge.

MacPherson obeyed in silence. Denton fumbled for his cigarettes. The taxi man accepted one and pressed his dashboard lighter. He passed the lighter to Denton, and Denton passed it back.

“I have to think,” he said.

Mac settled back patiently. Denton smoked in agitated puffs.

So it had not been Norman Wyatt at all. All the time it had been old Trevor. What an act he had put on, the suave bastard!

It was easy to see now, Denton thought, where he had gone wrong. He had never seriously considered Ardis's father as the man because of his age. And yet, on reconsideration, a husband nearly seventy years old would hardly have dismayed Angel. Her sex life would never have been a problem; there would be younger men everywhere, drooling for a chance to shack up with her. At that the old boy was handsome, even distinguished-looking. Maybe he was potent sexually, too; his own daughter laughingly referred to his eye for the ladies.

What a blind idiot he had been!

Even had Gerald Trevor looked like the mummy of Rameses II, Denton now realized, Angel would have gone fishing for him. He was the one man of her acquaintance who could have made her dreams of glamorous success in show business come true. Had Norman Wyatt been the man, he would have been constrained by the same shackles that would cause him to murder her rather than run off with her.

Not so his father-in-law. Trevor was a long-time widower. He was absolute ruler of the Trevor-United Studios, accountable to no one in TV or movie circles for either his private or his public behavior.

And, not withstanding Angel's total lack of talent, he could have made her a star with a snap of his fingers.

Why the old man had killed her instead of going through with it was a question that could wait.

“Mac,” Denton said. “Was anyone at the lodge when you got here?”

“Don't know,” the taxi man said quietly. “Trevor had me let him out at the bottom of the lane. I didn't see lights, though I could just about make out the shapes of two cars parked up by the building.”

“Two cars?” Denton said, surprised. “You sure, Mac?”

“Unless my eyes were playing tricks on me.”

“Two cars.” Denton shrugged. “Well, it'll all come out in the wash. Let's get on up there.”