The long Saturday night, Page 3

  The weight in my chest was so heavy now I could hardly breathe. Her key turned in the kitchen door. Light came on in the kitchen, and I heard the old magic tapping of high heels as she came toward the front of the house. Then she was silhouetted in the doorway, suitcase in one hand and her purse under her arm as she groped for the switch. The lights came on.

  “Hello,” I said. “Welcome home.”

  She gasped. The suitcase fell to the floor, followed by her purse. Then her eyes blazed with anger. “What are you sitting there in the dark for? You scared me half to death!”

  She was very beautiful in anger, I thought—or any time, for that matter. She wore a slim dark suit and a white blouse, but she didn’t have her coat. Maybe she’d left it in the car; she was as careless of mink as another woman might be of a housecoat.

  “If this is your idea of a joke. . . .” Her voice trailed off uncertainly as I still said nothing. “What’s the matter? Aren’t you glad to see me?”

  “I want to know why you suddenly decided to come home,” I said.

  “Well, you wanted me to. But I must say, if this is the way you’re going to act. . . .”

  “I want to know why,” I repeated. She had come on into the room and started to peel off her gloves. She could make even that sexy and full of the promise of greater things to come. If she’d ever become a professional strip-teaser, I thought, she’d have the bald heads giving off wisps of steam by the time she started toying with the first zipper. It was obvious to her now that something was wrong, so I was about to get the good old laboratory-approved answer that answered everything. She gave me a sidelong glance. “Well! Do I have to have a reason?”

  “I just wondered,” I said, playing along with it.

  “Maybe it was talking to you this afternoon,” she murmured.

  There was just enough pause for me to pick up my cue and join the act. All I had to do was stand up, take two steps toward her, and we’d be in bed in ninety seconds flat. And the hell of it was that once I started there’d be no more possibility of turning back than of changing my mind halfway down about going over Niagara Falls. Maybe she was a liar, and a cheat, and capable of using sex with the precise calculation of a tournament bridge player executing a squeeze play, but she was good at it. I reached in my pocket for the cigarette lighter and began tossing it in my hand.

  She was still talking, probably to cover her bewilderment at this lack of response. “. . . Get so darned rumpled in a car.” She twitched at the skirt, which was only slightly rump-sprung—and that by one of the shapeliest behinds this side of a barbershop calendar—and checked the stocking seams. The stockings, it appeared then, had to be pulled up. This might have seemed rather pointless in view of the fact that as soon as it penetrated my thick skull her delights were available now on a help-yourself basis; rather than having to wait while she rubbed cold cream on her face and had a sandwich and a glass of milk, the stockings were supposed to wind up on the bedroom floor along with assorted slips, garter belts, and panties—except of course that the act itself involved a great deal of unconscious skirt-raising and the revelation of rounded and satiny expanses of thigh above the tops of them. For her, this was admittedly crude, but maybe desperate situations called for desperate measures; when you had to probe the enemy across this type of terrain, you used only the battle-proven troops. She straightened, still talking, and gave me that half-pixie, half-inscrutable smile she does so well. “Does it seem awfully warm in here, or is it —is—?” Her voice faltered and trailed off to a stop. She’d seen the lighter.

  “Is it what?” I asked politely.

  She swallowed, licked her lips, and tried to go on, while her eyes grew wider and wider as they followed its course—up—down—up— “—is it just—just—?”

  “Just you?” I asked. “I never thought of that, but I’ll bet it is. And it’s damned flattering too. It isn’t often a husband gets this kind of testimonial.”

  She gasped. Her mouth dropped open, and a hand came up in front of it as if I were going to hit her from ten feet away. She backed up a step, her legs hit the sofa at the left of the dining room door, and she sat down. “I don’t know—don’t know what you mean.”

  “I mean its heart-warming as hell when a girl who’s shopped around over the neighborhood still feels an urge to come home for a good time. Unless, of course, you just dropped in to cash a check!” I began to break up in rage then. I stood up and started toward her.

  She tried to get off the sofa and run. I threw her back, and pinned her there with a handful of blouse and bra. “What’s the matter?” I asked thickly. “Don’t you want to hear the news? Your boy friend is dead.”

  She twisted and beat at my wrist, her eyes crawling with fear. “Have you gone crazy? Let me go!”

  I leaned down in her face and shouted: “How long has this been going on?”

  She drew up both feet, put them in my stomach, and kicked out like an uncoiling spring. There was the strength of desperation in it. The blouse tore. I lurched backward to keep my balance, hit the coffee table with the backs of my legs, and sprawled on the floor just past the end of it. She shot past me into the hall. I scrambled to my feet and tore after her. In the darkness I miscalculated the turn beyond the den and crashed into the wall. She had too much lead on me now, and just before I reached the bedroom door I heard it slam and then the click as she threw the night latch.

  I crashed into it with my shoulder. It held. I hit it again, heard something start to give way, and the third time it flew open as the bolt tore off part of the door facing. I regained my balance, spun around, and groped for the light switch. She was nowhere in sight. Over to the left the door to the bath was closed. Just as I reached it, I heard the doorbell ringing in the front of the house. I twisted at the knob; it was locked. I backed up and hit it the way I had the other one, but nothing gave. I tried again; a throw rug skidded under my feet and I fell against the door with the point of my shoulder. My breath was whistling in my throat from rage and frustration. I kicked the rug out of the way and lunged at it again. She screamed. I was backing up to hit it once more when I finally became conscious that the doorbell was ringing continuously now. Some vestige of sanity returned. Whoever was out there would hear the uproar and call the police. “I’ll be back!” I shouted through the door, and strode down the hall. When I switched on the porch light and yanked open the front door, I saw it was Mulholland, the beefy, handsome face looking mean under the shadow of his hat.

  I was winded, and had to draw a breath before I could speak. “What do you want?”

  “You,” he said curtly.

  “What do you mean ‘you,’ you silly bastard?” I snapped. “If you’ve got some reason for leaning on that doorbell, let’s hear what it is.”

  “I’m taking you in. Scanlon wants you.”

  “What for?”

  “Maybe you’ll find out when you get there.”

  “Like hell. Ill find out now.”

  “Suit yourself.” There was an eager and very ugly light in the greenish eyes. “He told me to bring you in, but he didn’t say how. If you want to go in handcuffs, with a lump on your head, it’s all the same to me.”

  “We’ll see about that,” I said. “Is he there now?”

  “He’s there.”

  I turned abruptly and went down the hallway to the living room. He followed me and stood in the doorway. I dialed the sheriffs office, and while I was waiting I saw he was looking toward the dining-room door. About half the suitcase showed beyond the end of the sofa, though her purse was out of sight from where he stood. He stuck a cigarette in his mouth, popped a match with his thumbnail the way he’d probably seen some tough type do it in the movies, and favored me with a nasty smile. “You wouldn’t have been thinking of running out, would you?”

  I stared at him contemptuously without bothering to answer. It occurred to me he was probably itching for a chance to belt me one and that I wasn’t being very smart, but at the moment I was too f
ull of rage to care. Scanlon answered the phone.

  “Warren,” I said. “What’s this about wanting to see me?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What about?”

  “Some questions I want to ask you.”

  “All right. It probably hasn’t escaped your attention that I’ve lived in this town for 33 years, and there’s a good chance I could find the courthouse without help. When you want to see me, I’ve got a telephone. So you can tell this farcical jerk you sent out here—”

  “For crissake, if you’ve got to make a speech, could you do it tomorrow? Some of us would like to go home and get to bed.”

  “I’ll be down the first thing in the morning.”

  “I want to see you right now.” There was an ominous quietness in the way he said it.

  There was no use arguing. “All right,” I said savagely. “But next time don’t be so ambiguous. Send three men and surround the house.” I slammed down the receiver.

  She’d probably be gone when I got back. ‘Well, let her go, I thought numbly. What difference did it make now? It was obvious she was guilty, and there was nothing to be gained by any more fish-wife screaming at each other. Mulholland jerked his head. He went out the front. I threw on a topcoat, and hesitated, looking down the hallway toward the bedroom. Well, what was there to say? Goodbye? It’s been nice knowing you? I turned, followed him out, and closed the door.

  The county car was parked in the drive. Mulholland nodded curtly toward the front seat. I got in and lit a cigarette. The streets were deserted now, except for a few cars in front of Fuller’s Cafe, and the wet pavement was shiny and black under the lights. The ropes of tinsel swayed, glittering coldly in the dark thrust of the wind. Why had she done it? It hurt, and went on hurting, and the wound only added to the cold weight of anger inside me. I pushed her off me and tried to think. The girl must have called Scanlon; there didn’t seem to be any other explanation for this. And now that it seemed obvious her information was correct, I could be in serious trouble. A lot depended on whether or not she’d actually come forward and identified herself and produced the cigarette lighter; Scanlon wouldn’t put much faith in an anonymous telephone call. Or would he? At the moment, my opinion of the county police force was unprintable.

  The courthouse was dark now except for the sheriff’s offices and a couple of windows on one of the upper floors where the custodian was working. Mulholland parked in front, and I got out without waiting for him, strode up the steps, and shoved through the swinging, rubber-flapped doors. I could hear his heels in the corridor behind me as I turned in the doorway. The big room was empty, but just as I came in Scanlon emerged from his private office. The shotgun was still on the desk. He nodded toward a chair at the corner of it. “Sit down.”

  I dropped the topcoat on the desk at my left, and sat down. Mulholland sprawled in the swivel chair behind another desk with his legs stretched out, watching me with what looked like amused satisfaction. Well, I’d get to him in a minute.

  “I gather you had some reason for this?” I asked.

  Scanlon took a cigar from his shirt pocket and bit the end off it. “That’s right. I do.”

  “Good,” I said. “So maybe if it’s not classified information, I might even find out what it is.”

  Scanlon struck a match, holding it in front of his cigar while he went on staring at me. “I thought you’d heard. We’re investigating a murder.”

  “And what have I got to do with it?”

  “I didn’t say you had anything to do with it. But you were out there at the time he was killed, and I want to hear your story again.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ll ask the questions. Did Roberts tell you he was going hunting this morning?”

  “No.” Why had she done it? My insides twisted. Scanlon said something else. “What?” I asked.

  “But you recognized his car, when you parked at the end of the road, and knew he was in one of the blinds?”

  So that was it. “I’ve told you three times,” I said. “His car was not there when I parked. He came after I did.”

  It was obvious now the girl had called him. And also fairly obvious, on the other hand, that she hadn’t identified herself. So he had the motive he’d lacked, if he believed it and could prove it. But without proof, he couldn’t even mention it. Accusing another man’s wife of infidelity on the strength of a crank telephone call could be risky even for a law-enforcement officer. So all he could do was accept the unsupported word of this telephoning creep and hammer at me with some oblique line of attack, hoping to trip me up. I wondered suddenly how much of this great zeal was due to the fact he already had one unsolved murder galling him. I was being made a goat. Rage came up into my throat and threatened to choke me.

  I leaned forward over the desk. “Am I being accused of killing Roberts?”

  “You’re being questioned.”

  “Why?”

  “I’ve told you—”

  “You haven’t told me anything. And until I’m told why I’m under suspicion, you can shove it.”

  He pounded a hand on the desk and pointed the cigar in my face, the gray eyes as bleak as Arctic ice. “Let’s say you’re under suspicion because you happened to be living in the same century when Roberts was killed. That’s good enough for me, and it’s good enough for you. If you want to play tough, I’ll have you jugged as a material witness.”

  “Why don’t you accuse me of killing Junior Delevan, while you’re at it? It’s only been a couple of years, and maybe you could clean out all your old files.”

  “Never mind Delevan!” he snapped.

  “I also shot Cock Robin, and sank the Titanic—”

  “Shut up.”

  “Can I use your telephone?”

  He waved a hand toward the instrument. “Why?”

  “I want to call the American consul,” I said.

  I dialed George Clement’s house number. “Duke,” I said, when he answered. “Can you come down to the sheriffs office for a minute?”

  “Sure,” he said. “But what’s the trouble?”

  “For some reason that nobody’ll bother to explain, I seem to be suspected of murdering Dan Roberts—”

  “But that’s ridiculous—”

  “My impression exactly. And I’d like some legal advice.”

  “I’ve just gone to bed, but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  “Take your time. I can wait. And so can they.” I hung up.

  “You’re acting like a damned fool,” Scanlon snapped.

  “I am a damned fool,” I said. “I voted for you.”

  “You and Roberts pretty good friends?” he asked.

  “I wouldn’t say he was a close friend at all. He was an acquaintance. And a tenant.”

  “You ever have any trouble with him?”

  I’d already answered that once, and saw no point in going into it again. I lit a cigarette and leaned back in the chair. “I have nothing to say.”

  “You mean you won’t answer?”

  “I mean I won’t answer anything until I’ve been advised to by a lawyer. If you want to check that, ask me what time it is.”

  He slammed a hand on the desk. “You think I’m doing this for fun?”

  “That’s what puzzles me. I’d like to know myself.”

  We alternately glared and shouted at each other until George arrived in a little over ten minutes. He’s 51, six feet tall, ramrod straight, with graying hair and a clipped gray mustache. At first glance he always strikes you as a little on the stuffy side, or at least over-correct, but he unbends when he knows you and he’s a very astute lawyer and a deadly, if cautious, poker player. He’s a passionate big-game fisherman, makes several trips to Florida or the Bahamas each year, and has two mounted sails and a dolphin in his offices, which take up a good part of the second floor of the Duquesne building. Fleurelle, his wife, is very wealthy, and the acknowledged leader of everything social in town, though it is my private opinion s
he has more than a trace of dragon blood and that George is pretty well policed. She’s always regarded me as a roughneck.

  George smiled and nodded to the others. “Good evening, Sheriff. Mr. Mulholland.” He turned to me then. “Well, Hotspur, what seems to be the trouble?”

  “I’m not sure myself,” I said. “All I know is Scanlon sent this musical-comedy Gestapo agent to haul me out of bed—”

  Everybody erupted at once. Mulholland started to get up as if he were going to take a swing at me. Scanlon waved him off curtly. “Sit down!”

  “I’ve had a bellyful of this guy!” Mulholland snapped.

  “Who hasn’t?” Scanlon asked. “Anyway, there’s no use your hanging around any longer. You might as well go home.”

  “Sheriff,” George put in quietly, “maybe if I could speak to Duke alone for a moment—”

  Scanlon ground out his cigar, rattling the ashtray. “Hell, yes. If you could knock some sense into that pig head, maybe we’d get somewhere.”

  Mulholland shucked off his gunbelt and holster, dropped them in a desk drawer, stared coldly at me, and stalked out. George and I moved over to one of the desks at the far corner of the room. I felt better now that he was here, and wondered if part of my anger had been merely to cover up the fact I was scared. We lighted cigarettes, and he said, “All right, let’s have it.”

  I told him about the anonymous telephone call, and added, “So she probably called Scanlon too.”

  He nodded. “It seems likely. But he hasn’t actually said so?”

  “No. That’s what burns me. He wouldn’t dare admit he took any stock in a nut telephone call, but still he’d haul me down here and put me through the wringer. As far as I’m concerned, he can go to hell.”

  He shook his head with a wry smile. “Well, you’re consistent, anyway. So far, you haven’t done anything right.”

  “But, dammit, George—”

  “No, you listen to me a minute. The girl, of course, is obviously a mental case, but no police officer worth his salt ever ignores any lead that comes up, no matter how tenuous. So Scanlon is obliged to check out her tip if he possibly can, even though he knows there’s nothing to it. But instead of helping him eliminate it, so far you’ve done everything you could to convince him there might be some truth in it after all. Now stop acting like a wild boar with a toothache, or you will need a lawyer.”