Obit Delayed (11 page)

The boy didn’t hesitate; he knew this house well. Around at the rear was a screened kitchen, and it was no trouble at all to loosen a screen and crawl in. In fact, one screen was already loosened and hung crazily on one rusty hinge.

“You stay here,” the boy whispered to the pup, but then he changed his mind. There was something eerie about the dark house, especially when he thought of what had happened there a few nights earlier; besides, maybe Duke could find it. He must know where the woman had kept his collar. So in went the pup and the boy after him, into a pocket of darkness that gradually took on shapes and forms and doorways. The boy whipped a small flashlight out of his Levi’s and cupped one hand over the bulb. All day and all night the patrol cars had been crawling through the streets; he didn’t want them investigating now that he’d gone this far. After all, that collar was worth a dollar anyway, maybe more, and how would anybody know that he hadn’t paid for that license tag himself? Two dollars was a lot of money to rake up all at once.

He looked first in the kitchen, then the pantry, the living-room, and the hall closet. And then he looked in the bedroom.

The beam of the flashlight fell across the bed and stayed there for one awful moment. Then the boy emitted a yell that shook the flimsy walls, and leaped right through that loose screen as he fled the house.

IF KENDALL HOYT had found any takers for his bet he lost money, because Frank Wales was still alive when they found him. He shouldn’t have been. Any man who lost the blood now soaked into Virginia’s bed should have died long ago; but as long as a man breathed he was alive even if he didn’t know about it. There was a big business about moving him to the hospital. Three patrol cars were crowded into the narrow street by the time the ambulance arrived, and a sleepy-eyed crowd of spectators was milling about on the sidewalk. And off at a distance where he could watch without being seen, a small boy with enormous eyes beheld the furor he had unloosed.

After that came the ride to the hospital with sirens sounding; the hurried call at the El Rey, and finally Ernie Talbot, fatigue lining his flabby face, escorted a pale, frightened woman across the glaring foyer. It was the end of the three-day search for Frank Wales.

Through all the confusion and clamor Mitch slept like the dead. His aching body demanded sleep, and not all the sirens in hades could stop nature from doing her work. In the morning he was a new man and it was about time.

Somebody had to be a liar. That was Mitch’s waking thought. It could be Dave Singer or Costro; it could be Pinky or Frank Wales. Settling on Wales made things easy and didn’t put lumps on anybody’s head, but it left a lot of loose ends including one missing body and one completely unnecessary roughing up. Even if it made sense for Frank Wales to kill his ex-wife (and Mitch wasn’t conceding that much any more) it made no sense whatsoever for Rita to die unless she knew who should be doing Wales’s hiding for him. If Rita knew, Dave knew first. And that brought the argument right back to Pinky’s with Mitch being right in the first place. Somehow and in some manner he was going to prove that if it took the rest of his life! What was it Norma had said? “Can you think of anybody with a better reason for wanting Virginia dead?” That was the trick of it. First the why and then the who would follow.

This was the nature of Mitch’s contemplation as he shaved (carefully with that cut lip), dressed, and started for the office. It wasn’t until he switched on the car radio and picked up the news that his destination was changed.

Inside the general hospital a man was fighting for a life that probably wouldn’t be worth much even if he won. Outside on the steps and milling about the sidewalk, representatives of the press and public were waiting the outcome and maybe making a few bets on the side. Mitch had a pretty good idea of the kind of cold shoulder being served inside and went around to the ambulance entrance and up the ramp. It wasn’t difficult to find Frank Wales’s room with that armed guard on the door—Ernie wasn’t taking chances even of a half-dead man—but it wasn’t Wales Mitch had come to see. A passing nurse led the way to where Norma waited, having been previously informed that this was Mrs. Wales’s brother who had just flown in. If Norma Wales had a brother he would surely look as grim and weary as Mitch did after that encounter with Herbie Boyle’s pistol butt, and a brother at this moment was like a gift from heaven.

“I wanted to give your sister a sedative and have her sleep for a while,” the nurse explained. “But she wouldn’t hear of it. She’d be right in the room with Mr. Wales if the doctor allowed it.”

“How is Mr. Wales?” Mitch asked.

The pause preceding her reply told more than the words. “He’s holding his own. Of course, he’s still unconscious—” But now they had reached a door she was opening and Mitch had to interrupt. “Do you mind if I go in alone?” he asked. Under the circumstances it seemed highly advisable.

Yesterday’s parting had been far from cordial and Mitch wasn’t expecting a warm reception. And in spite of the nurse’s warning he wasn’t expecting so distraught, so haggard, a Norma Wales as was waiting for him in that room. She stood by the windows staring down at the gray morning street and she didn’t seem to hear or see him until he spoke.

“Mrs. Wales,” he said. “I just heard about your husband. Are you all right?”

The words didn’t make much sense. At the moment Mitch couldn’t think of any that did. But the silence was getting a little heavy when she finally turned to him with those distant eyes.

“The newspapermen are waiting outside,” she said.

“I’m not here as a newspaperman,” Mitch answered. “I’m here as a friend.”

She had heard all of this before and it wasn’t going to be easy to sell it again. That’s why Mitch couldn’t afford unnecessary words. “I’ve come here for only one reason,” he said. “I want you to know that I don’t for one moment think your husband killed Virginia Wales.”

Norma wasn’t expecting that and neither was Mitch—not in so positive a voice. Her head came up slowly and the life crept back into her eyes. “You didn’t talk that way yesterday,” she reminded, but Mitch didn’t like to think about yesterday.

“I’ve had time to think things over,” he said. “I just can’t accept the idea that any man would travel all day—with plenty of time for consideration, mind you—just so he could savagely murder a woman he’d seen only once in three years. Yes, I’m remembering the letters. But rational people don’t commit murder over a family misunderstanding. There was no trouble between you and your husband and Virginia that couldn’t have been ironed out with a few words. That’s what you had in mind when you followed Frank here, isn’t it?”

Now she believed him. Now she could lose that forsaken feeling and know reason hadn’t left the world entirely. Mitch couldn’t offer her a solution but he could offer hope. “This may not be the time to ask favors,” he added. “But I need your help.”

“I don’t see—” she began.

“The letter. The letter your husband received from Virginia. When you saw him did he by any chance repeat what was written?”

Norma made an effort to remember and then shook her head.

“Then you don’t know the wording? You have no idea what it might have been that Virginia feared?”

It was obvious that she didn’t know, but Frank might. He might know without knowing that he knew, and that was one of the reasons Mitch had come—to make a proposition. She would be the first person to visit him when he regained consciousness. Would she ask him to try to recall the wording of the letter so she could pass the word to Mitch? “And he doesn’t have to make any statement without legal advice,” he reminded. “He doesn’t have to explain anything to anyone.”

“But what if Frank doesn’t—”

She couldn’t finish the statement but Mitch finished it for her. “If he doesn’t remember we’ll find the truth without it. There’s always a way if you keep plugging.”

At that moment Mitch couldn’t have defined that way to save his soul, but it was there. The answer was always there when you stopped doubting and took a stand. The letter was just an outside chance at best, but it gave Norma something to do with her mind and did quite a little for Mitch Gorman’s shattered ego. Now he could get on with the search for the hypothetical needle in the theoretical haystack.

It was only natural that the first thing Mitch saw when he reached the office was Peter Delafield, and that the first thing he heard was Peter’s excited voice. Peter hadn’t wasted his night sleeping. With a search going on he stayed close to headquarters and had been with the first group to reach Virginia’s house.

“How do you like that?” he was saying, as Mitch passed the counter gate. “Every cop in the city looking for Wales and all the time he’s holed in in that padlocked house! Ernie Talbot says he’s always heard of the criminal returning to the scene of the crime, but this is the first time he’s seen it happen!”

There was a simpler explanation, of course. Peter himself had come up with the information that Frank and Virginia had shared that house years before. Wales couldn’t have been in very good shape by the time he got that far, but instinct could have taken him there when strength and reason failed—just as a wounded animal crawls home to die. Mitch didn’t think Peter would appreciate the commentary so he kept it to himself.

“The amazing thing is that he’s still alive! He stopped two bullets and either one could have killed him. They probably will yet.”

Peter seemed almost regretful. But when Wales died so would the story. “Let me read about it,” Mitch said, snatching the hot copy Peter had been grinding out. Reading Peter was much easier than listening to him. “And when Miss Atturbury comes in tell her I want to see her. And nobody else!”

When The Duchess entered Mitch’s office he was still studying Peter’s story.

“You wanted me?” she asked, and he nodded absently.

“Are you sure you remember who I am?”

Now Mitch looked up and grinned. With The Duchess on deck he might get some co-operation. Nobody else seemed to think in such wild patterns as his mind was exploring this morning.

“Tell me,” he asked brightly, “why did Frank Wales kill his ex-wife?”

The Duchess blinked. “Why ask me? I’m on the other team, remember?”

“It’s a good question, don’t you think?” Mitch turned back to the story again and this time he wasn’t reading, he was just frowning at a lot of words. “All right, then, I’ll ask you another. How’s Angelina getting along at Pinky’s?”

By this time The Duchess was prepared for any switch and took it in her stride. “She hasn’t come up with anything yet,” she answered, “but I don’t think she’s happy with her job. Waiting tables and washing dishes is too much like home, and the tips, she tells me, are terrible.”

“Which is a pretty fair gage of Pinky’s trade,” Mitch suggested. “Now about that note Pinky paid off—did you actually see it?”

“I overheard a conversation about it while I was hanging around the bank.”

“That’s not enough. See it! We’ve got to be sure of these things.”

By this time The Duchess was staring openmouthed. She couldn’t guess what circumstance had transformed Mitch’s attitude over night, but she wasn’t beyond admiring the view.

“You said something yesterday about finding the ‘thing’ that Virginia had,” he recalled suddenly. “What sort of thing did you have in mind?”

“Did I say that?”

“You certainly did!”

The Duchess frowned over the idea. “I’ve often suspected that I talk too much. What would she have—evidence?”

“Evidence of what?”

“Don’t ask me, this is your brainstorm. What’s got into you, anyway? You look different.”

But Mitch wasn’t answering questions this morning; he was asking them. And no matter if the question was wild and improbable. When the chips were down there was no time to hesitate and worry whether a thing was right or not. Or whether an action would do any good or not. You got an idea and hung onto it because it was all you had.

“Do you remember the night you went to see Mrs. Molina and she mentioned the ‘noises’ bothering Virginia? To her noises might mean visitations from the spirit world, but to Virginia it could mean somebody trying to break into her house.” Mitch paused and let the idea take root. “And we know that house could be broken into because a small boy did it last night. Now I seem to be a unique character around here, but when I read about a small boy’s breaking into a place like that in the middle of the night I want to know why. Murder houses aren’t the natural habitat for small boys unless they’re coming a lot more rugged than in my time! Peter!”

The partitions weren’t going to last any time at all if Mitch used that tone of voice often. Peter was inside the doorway before the echo died away.

“Is this all there is to this piece?” Mitch demanded. Peter was a little shaken by his experience but not enough to cower. “All? What’s the matter, isn’t it enough?” he asked.

“For me—no. Tell me, who was it found Frank Wales last night?”

“The police—no, that kid.”

“What kid?”

Peter was rapidly becoming unhappy. Mitch could tell by the color of his ears. “It’s all there before you!” he snapped. “A boy broke into Virginia’s house and ran out screaming. The noise roused the neighbors and somebody called the police. That’s it. That’s the whole story.”

“I don’t see the boy’s name,” Mitch said.

“Of course you don’t! He didn’t stick around long enough to leave his name. I asked a couple of people who he was but they said he was running too fast to be recognized, and I sure wasn’t going to hang around trying to spot him with Wales on his way to the hospital.”

The trouble with Peter was that he was logical. Logical and right. And Peter wasn’t worrying about why Virginia Wales died, or what it was Dave Singer had been searching for in Pinky’s kitchen. Peter didn’t get it, but The Duchess did.

“Maybe I could chase down there for a follow-up,” she suggested. “It might make a good human-interest story.”

“Sure, do your follow-up!” Peter insisted. “Maybe you can work up a yarn on that dog, too. I’m going back to the hospital and wait for the news the public wants to read!”

“What dog?” Mitch demanded.

“The dog that was in the house when the police arrived. The same dog that raised so much Cain to get in when Virginia was killed was inside howling to get out when they found Wales. Let Miss Atturbury figure that out!”

Peter stomped off in a cloud of righteous indignation just as the light broke through. Virginia’s dog! In a minute The Duchess would remember what Mitch was remembering—that reference to Mamma Molina and a boy claiming a dog—but she’d be much too late. This was one time when Mitch wanted to do the leg work himself.