Obit Delayed (14 page)

OPIUM—enough to give the whole Southland dreams, and it had been inside a vacant-eyed doll all this time! This was no small loss Vince Costro could write off to operating-expenses; this was cause for murder in any man’s town. And now it was going back in the doll again, stuffing and all, over and above The Duchess’s protests. Sure, you turned in a find like this to the narcotic squad. You reported a murder to homicide, too—remember? It was Mitch’s turn to deliver an ultimatum, and he was much too grim to be ignored.

“Do you remember that rope you were talking about?” he remarked. “Well, I think we’ve got about enough.”

The Duchess reflected. “I don’t get it,” she said. “I gather that Mickey picked up this loaded doll in Mexicali, but how did it wind up in his mother’s parlor?”

“Virginia gave it to her.”

“Gave it to her! When it’s worth a fortune?”

That was the catch—maybe even the key. Had Virginia known what was in the doll and palmed it off on Mrs. Degan for safekeeping? Or was she really the innocent, good-time gal Mickey could have used for a foil? No genuine cynic would have hesitated over an answer, but Mitch wasn’t aware of that at the moment. He was too busy getting the coupe rolling again.

Back through town he drove, slowly, like the problems grinding through his mind; across Main Street, past Pinky’s place (dark at this hour), and still farther until they turned onto B Street. Halfway down the block Mitch began applying the brakes for a slow stop. There was a liquor store on the corner ahead but he wasn’t going quite that far. Measuring the distance against the memory of a photograph, he finally parked about fifty feet from the intersection and cut the motor. After that it was awfully quiet for a few minutes until The Duchess got nervous.

“Now what do we do,” she demanded crossly, “rob a bank?”

“A liquor store,” Mitch corrected.

“Mitch Gorman!”

She made a dive for his coat sleeve, but Mitch was already halfway out of the car. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate her attitude—after all, she was sitting there with a lap full of federal offenses—but for something as critical as this a photograph just wasn’t enough. He wanted to see the scene the way Kendall Hoyt had seen it when he came rushing around that corner to answer a screaming burglar alarm.

The town had gone to bed early, as usual, and there wasn’t another car on the street. Down at the intersection a tall street lamp made feeble protest against the darkness, and that’s where Mitch was going, pacing slowly all the way. He studied the route as he paced. The liquor store was in a two-story building and the first doorway he passed led to the flat upstairs. The next shadowy aperture was the recessed entrance to the store—dark except for one bulb burning far in the rear—and beyond that was a wide display window fronting on both sides of the corner. At the corner Mitch stopped and looked back. What light did hit the coupe from this distance was reflected against the windshield; he couldn’t see The Duchess at all.

Now it was Mickey Degan’s car at the curb and Virginia waiting for his return. It was Mickey at the store entrance examining the lock—a new pane of glass already replaced the one he’d shattered. Mitch moved in closer for a better look, and he was much too intent on trying to make those ragged edges neat to take any note of what was happening in the street behind him. He didn’t see the approaching sedan until a spotlight reached out and stabbed him in the back.

“Hey, what’s going on here?” bellowed a baritone behind the spot, and Mitch whirled about to blink at the light. He could almost hear The Duchess groan. The law was all they needed at a time like this.

But on this beat the law had a familiar face. “It’s only me,” Mitch remarked, as Kendall Hoyt climbed out of the police car. “I’m trying to plan how not to rob a liquor store.”

Hoyt hesitated, one hand hovering close to that gun butt, and then he relaxed and switched off the spot. “At it again,” he chided. “Are you going to make this thing your life’s work?”

“I might. Say, I’m glad you came along. You can be a big help.” Mitch moved back to the corner where Hoyt had nosed in the sedan and took a trial position. Then he moved a few feet and squinted at that doorway. “Just where were you standing when you shot Degan?” he asked.

“I wasn’t standing,” Hoyt snapped. “I was running.”

“That’s right. From around the corner, wasn’t it? Let’s re-enact the whole thing. I’ll take Mickey’s place at the store and run for my car when I hear you coming.”

Many a sale had been made by fast talking and Hoyt was curious—that was the ally Mitch counted on. “I haven’t got time to play games!” he growled, but by this time a little persistent shoving had him halfway around the corner anyway. The rest was easy. “Give me time to get in position,” Mitch said. “I’ll light out when I hear you coming.”

Mitch ducked back around the corner, and he had to do some fancy sprinting to get down to the coupe, pass a quick directive to The Duchess, and make it back to that doorway before Hoyt appeared. His appearance was the signal to run for the coupe again, and this time the right-hand door stood open and The Duchess was nowhere in sight.

“What do we play now?” Hoyt taunted, as he joined Mitch at the car. “Cowboys and Indians?”

“Cops and smugglers,” Mitch corrected. “Did you see anybody leave this car as you were coming after me?”

Hoyt couldn’t actually see the smug smile on Mitch’s face, but he could hear it in his voice. Anything he said now would be wrong; he sensed that and said nothing.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are!” Mitch called.

There was a long line of black-mouthed doorways between that corner light and the next street lamp. Reluctantly, The Duchess emerged from her hiding-place, and as she approached the car Mitch could see the cause for her reluctance. She was still clutching that headless doll with both hands.

“You remember Miss Atturbury,” he said. “She’s a little tired just now from taking such a fast trot when you came around the corner.”

Hoyt’s glance traveled from the coupé to the shadows and back again. Using an officer to help undermine the department’s case seemed a bit unethical, and he reacted like a man paying the bill for something he hadn’t bought. “All right, you’ve proved your point,” he admitted grudgingly. “Virginia could have been in Mickey’s car—but that’s not saying that she was or that it’s important either way.”

“It’s important,” Mitch insisted.

“Not to me, it isn’t!”

Hoyt seemed to be all through talking. He spun on his heel and headed back toward the sedan; then he hesitated and came back slowly. “Listen, Mr. Gorman,” he said, “I know you’re an important man with that newspaper behind you. But you can still get into a lot of trouble messing around with things you don’t understand. If you’re withholding evidence—”

“Withholding!” Mitch echoed. “I’m trying to present evidence! I just showed you how Virginia got away from Mickey’s car without being seen.”

“Never mind about Virginia. I was thinking of Rita Royale. I dropped around to her apartment before I went on duty tonight.”

“She isn’t home,” Mitch said.

“That’s what I found out. And nobody’s seen her around since Tuesday. Tuesday a man called on her. Funny thing, Mr. Gorman, but the lady I talked to said that man was you.”

Mitch had seen a lot more pleasant sights than the glint in Kendall Hoyt’s eyes; and he could feel The Duchess tensing beside him. But there was still a lot of difference in making an open call in broad daylight, or sneaking in at night when the blinds were drawn and most people were pounding their pillows.

“That’s what comes of being famous,” Mitch remarked. “Rita probably had a lot of callers Tuesday.”

“That may be. But you’re the only one I heard about.”

There was no mistaking the implication in Hoyt’s words. Any minute now he was going to suggest coming down to the station for a discussion of Rita’s whereabouts and the state of her health—a discussion that could develop complications if anyone grew curious about The Duchess’s souvenir. But he hesitated a moment too long, and Mitch’s guardian angel came to the rescue in a big sedan.

Ernie Talbot couldn’t have arrived at a more opportune time. He roared up out of the darkness and braked to a quick stop in the center of the street. “Having trouble here?” he called, and then dropped the heavy tone as he recognized Mitch. “Hey, I’ve been looking for you! Don’t you ever stay home?”

A genuine guardian angel complete with a fat cherubic face. “You want me?” Mitch said eagerly. “What’s on your mind?”

“Sleep.” Ernie sighed. “At least eight hours of uninterrupted sleep, and that’s exactly what I’m going to work on the minute I get home. No, I don’t want you, but there’s a little lady over at the hospital who does.” He released the clutch and began to roll forward. “She’s got troubles, Mitchell,” he called back. “Better bring a clean handkerchief.”

Of course Mitch would be the last man in town to learn that Frank Wales had regained consciousness. All those eager watchers who had crowded about the hospital since dawn were gone now; the big story had broken and the whole thing was pretty much of a fizzle. Wales had the constitution of a prize steer. He was going to live, all right, at least for a little while, but what he had to say for himself could have been written in longhand on the head of a pin. That was the situation Mitch found when he reached the hospital.

Norma was in her husband’s room when he arrived. She came out into the hall to meet him for the simple reason that about six-foot-two of blue-clad authority was blocking the way in. “You’d think he was going to run away again,” she said bitterly. “I only wish that he could!”

Mitch began to understand what Ernie meant about the handkerchief. Of all the tortuous waiting this day had been the worst, and now there was relief and weariness and fear all blended together in her eyes. “I told Frank what you said about not making a statement,” she added, “but he says there’s nothing he can say anyway.”

“Nothing?” Mitch echoed.

“Nothing more than what he told me yesterday—and he won’t say that much to the police.”

My husband is accused of murder and offers no defense—that’s what she was saying. If Wales was still worried about that foolish business of protecting his wife, Mitch wanted to set him straight. Besides, he was tired of knowing his protagonists second hand; Virginia piece-meal, a bit from her landlady, another bit from a dead boy’s mother, and Frank Wales only through the prejudiced eyes of his wife. He wanted to see this man for himself before sawing off that limb he was out on.

“Is he awake now?” he asked.

“He was when I left him.”

“Could I talk to him, do you think?”

Norma looked back at that sentry on the door, but Mitch had been thinking about that, too. “We’ll never know until we try,” he said, and carefully straightened his tie. It was one of the few ties Mitch possessed, and it was supposed to give him dignity since that was what most people expected from the profession he was borrowing.

The man on the door was a new recruit who didn’t know Mitch Gorman from the attorney general. The accused is entitled to legal advice, that was Mitch’s line and he sold it in an officious tone he’d never suspected was in his repertoire. The recruit wasn’t up to anything like that. He took one look at that graying crew cut and gave ground.

When the door opened Frank Wales opened his eyes. They were tired eyes, filled with pain and resignation, but when they rested on Norma it was like the footlights coming up for the overture. “This is Mr. Gorman,” she said, moving swiftly to the bedside. “He’s the man I told you about—the one who’s going to help us.”

The build-up gave Mitch a choking feeling; he hadn’t worn his shining armor in years. He moved in closer to get a good look at this man Wales, and what he saw made that guard on the door seem ridiculous. Frank Wales wasn’t going anywhere for quite some time. He’d been hunted, haunted, and riddled with lead until that big body was just an outline under the blanket, and the suns of forty summers had faded from his face. He tried to smile and Mitch winced.

“Mr. Wales,” Mitch had left his officious tone in the hallway, “I think I’ve heard most of your story from your wife, so I’m not going to tire you by asking for it again. There are just a few things I want to know. First of all, did you kill your ex-wife?”

He could sense Norma’s chin coming up, but his eyes never left Frank Wales.

“I did not,” he said quietly.

“Do you have any idea who might have killed her?”

“I wish to God I did!”

So much for the letter. If only Virginia had given a name to her fear! “Did she have any scrapes with the law?” Mitch suggested. “Was she ever mixed up in a crime?”

“Crime?” Wales struggled against the pillows but his strength was all gone. “Not Virginia,” he said. “She wasn’t that kind. She was a good kid.”

“But she was gullible. She could have kept company with the wrong people without knowing it.”

There was no denying that. Wales didn’t try. “She didn’t know how to be careful,” he admitted. “She couldn’t see any harm in anybody. Just so people were happy—just so they had a few laughs.” The past was getting all mixed up with the present and he wiped a hand across his face. “I know you want to help me, Mr. Gorman, but I just don’t know anything to tell you. Virginia was scared and needed help. It wasn’t like her to be scared. That’s why I had to come.”

Mitch wasn’t sure who those last words were for, himself or Norma. But Norma seemed to know. One hand reached out and tightened over her husband’s rough fingers.

“I thought maybe we could work something out. I couldn’t have her running off to nowhere with no money and no job.”

Being so interested in what Norma was doing with her hands caused Mitch to miss the significance of those words for a few moments. Then he got it. “No job?” he echoed. “She had a job.”

“Not when she left here, and she was leaving, all right. She said in the letter that she was leaving at the end of the week whether she heard from me or not.”

At the end of the week. For Virginia the work week ended Sunday night—and so did her life. Now Mitch began to get the idea. There must have been a lot of puzzled people when a police shakedown failed to find anything of interest in Mickey Degan’s car, but it wouldn’t take long to ask around and learn who Mickey had dated that night. And it wouldn’t take long to put two and two together. But the stuff wasn’t in Virginia’s house so they’d have to wait. Watch and wait for her to make the first move.