Pushing Murder (14 page)

“Will it be a thousand dollars or more?”

“Much more. And possibly jewelry and—”

“Then that's grand larceny, and we can hold him for five or six days.”

“Good.” I lay back exhausted, my ankle throbbing. “I'll get the evidence you need by then. I don't know how, but I'll get it. I promised you the killer for Christmas, Captain, and isn't this Christmas Eve?” The way I felt, it could have been the Fourth of July.

“It sure is, and you've done a great job.” He took my hand. “I'll have that address covered right now. He may show up sooner than you think.”

“I doubt it. He won't have all the cash he wants till the store closes at noon.” I glanced at the captain quickly. Had I said too much? Had I ever mentioned Pushing Murder to him? Blast my poor befuddled head. I waited for him to say “What store?” but he was looking at me thoughtfully.

“You've been protecting somebody,” he said. “Is this the person he's ripping off?”

“Yes.”

“His wife?”

“Yes.”

He continued to study me. “You seem big on protecting people, Mrs. Gamadge. Is there anyone else he might get to if we miss him at his daughter's?”

I sat up again fast. If they miss him. We'd have Sal out, but were there two possible understudies waiting in the wings? I looked at Dan, and he said, “Those relatives of Janet Folsom's in Fairfield, Mrs. Vaughan and the priest.”

The captain looked surprised. “Dunlop knows them?”

“He sure does,” said Dan.

“Knows where they live?”

“Yup. And knows that they know what we know.”

“Can they be put on ice till we have him?”

“You bet they can!” I reached for the phone as it rang.

Dr. Cullen's voice said severely, “Mrs. Gamadge, I've just been talking to your son.”

“At this hour? I'm a little surprised that you'd call—”

“He called me.”

“Then he ought to be ashamed of himself.”

“He said you'd be awake and—his word—‘perking.'” Very severe now. “He knows, as I do, that you need rest if you're going home today, and you refused your medication. I've just called the hospital, and you're to get a shot. If you refuse it, I won't discharge you.

Click. Damn. I said, “Guys, they're going to sic a nurse on me with a needle.”

“Good idea,” said the captain. He walked to the door, smiled back at me, and went out, passing Sister Agnes.

I said, “Dan—quick—do you have Loretta Vaughan's number?” He produced his notebook. “Get her, and listen on the extension. Can you hold off one minute, Sister?”

“Not one minute—the way Dr. Cullen sounded.” Whammo! “And you might as well go back to your post, Mr. Schenck. She won't be talking to you for very long.”

Sister trotted out, and I commenced a determined effort to combat the stuff. “Dan, Loretta doesn't know who Liza is. Janet got her the job and insisted—”

He handed me the receiver, and Loretta's surprisingly unsleepy voice said hello.

“Loretta, this is Clara Gamadge. Awful hour to call you.”

“What's up?”

“I want you and Father Bob out of that house. We're closing in on you-know-who, and there's no telling—”

“You mean you've actually got the bastard?”

“No, but please God, today. If there's a slip, he might head for your place.”

“Good. I'll shoot him.”

“Loretta, be serious. Think of Father Bob.”

“Oh, he's gone.”

“Gone where?”

“To the monastery in Hazelton, New York. He goes there every Christmas.”

“Thank goodness. Then you're alone?”

“Yes. I gave Liza the week off.”

Liza. The name penetrated the haze that was beginning, ever so insidiously, to roll in. I said rapidly, “Here's what I want you to do: take the next train to New York, then a cab to my son's house in Brooklyn Heights.” What was I
doing?
Adding yet another bedraggled soul to that menage? “His address is—”

“Nonsense. I wouldn't dream of imposing. If you really think I should get out of here, I'll go to a hotel.”

“Good.” I fought bravely. “I'm going home—that is, to Henry's.” I thought of her alone in a hotel on Christmas. “Come see us tomorrow.”

“You wouldn't want me. I'll be stoned all day.”

“You can be stoned there.” My own stoning was happening fast now.

“Well, I might—hey! I have a great idea! Forget a hotel—I'll go to Liza's.”

Mother of God, had she really said that?

“She's always after me to come and see the place. I'll call her right now.”

“Loretta”—I got the words out—“don't go to Liza's.”

“Why not?”

I looked wildly at Dan as I shot over the falls.

*   *   *

Sal's face, wet and haggard, was bending over mine. Henry had her by the shoulders.

“Oh, Clara, Clara, Clara!”

“Sal, honey, I'm so sorry, so sorry.” I looked up at Henry. “When?”

“About an hour ago. Just before noon.” Henry pulled her gently up and eased her into a chair, which she hitched toward the bed, weeping convulsively. “Dan and I were across the street in a coffee shop. He came out with a suitcase. I went in to Sal, and Dan trailed him in a cab. He walked about five blocks and went into a car rental place. But when he came out, he didn't head uptown toward West End. He headed south. Dan got the license plate, but he lost him at the Holland Tunnel.”

17

Crushing disappointment did a job on my priorities. I should have been thinking of poor Sal as she sat crumpled by the bed, or of the anxiously waiting Liza. Instead, I was engulfed by rage and mortification.

Who had tipped him off—
who?

I thought of the fruitless police watch at West End Avenue and ground my teeth. Henry brought me to my senses. Taking Sal's hand, he said, “Come on, Sal, you're going to our place.”

But she only leaned forward and put her head on my bed. I was afraid she was on the point of collapse. I said, “Sal, honey, please go home with Henry. I'll be there myself very shortly.” Another grievance washed over me: “Why aren't I
out of here?
” I threw back the covers. “Henry, get my clothes from that closet before I go stark, staring mad!”

“Take it easy, Mom. There's procedure. You're not discharged till four o'clock.”

“Four! I was told noon!”

“But you slept through, so Dr. Cullen pushed it up. She wants to be sure you're—”

“What time is it now?” I asked wildly as a nurse came in with a lunch tray. The sight of it made me sick.

“It's about two, Mrs. Gamadge. You missed lunch.” She looked at my distraught visitor and almost shrugged; everybody was used to it—this room was a nuthouse. She deposited the tray and went out.

“Henry, I'll never forgive you for calling Dr. Cullen. I'd be out of here now if you hadn't—is that soup? Make Sal take some.”

But she shook her head violently without raising it. I said despairingly, “Why on earth didn't you take her straight home?”

“Because I told him I wanted to see you first.” Muffled voice from beneath the bowed head. Then it came up. “I had to tell you how sorry I am for causing you all this grief, Clara.”

“Don't be an idiot. Just let Henry—”

“Yes, I'll go.” She rose shakily. “But only if Henry promises to let me crawl in a corner of his attic or somewhere so I won't spoil Christmas for everybody. But first I have to call Larry in Baltimore—”

“Your son's in Baltimore?” I said.

She nodded. “With his wife's family.”

Henry said, “Now, that
would
be spoiling a Christmas for somebody.” He put his arm around her. “Ours is going to be just fine, and you're going to be part of it, so let your son enjoy his and call him Sunday.”

Greatly relieved, I took her hand. “Darling Sal, I know it's a platitude, but this too shall pass. You'll get over it and be happy again, you will, you will. Just tell me one thing, then beat it. How much did he get?”

Her eyes closed, and she swayed a little. “I'm not sure. A few thousand, maybe. We hadn't banked in a couple of days. He said we should keep—”

“Had you signed anything over to him?” Henry pulled her coat closed.

“No.” She swallowed. “After Christmas I planned … it was going to be a Christmas present.…” She gagged.

“Good!” I said briskly. “Now go. See you in just a couple of hours.”

“Bathroom first.” She went unsteadily into it.

Gratefully, I seized the moment. “Henry, does she know he killed Janet?”

He looked blank. “No. I mean—how would she?”

I groaned. “This blow is ‘Merry Christmas,' that blow will be ‘Happy New Year.'”

“By the way, Dan filled us in on what happened last night.”

I quaked. “What did he do about Loretta?”

“He told her to go to a hotel. He also told her who Liza is, and he told her to come over to Nice Ugly tomorrow. Good thing it has rubber walls.”

“Henry, how can you ever—”

“It's like old times, actually. Remember when Dad would bring in forlorn creatures he was protecting?” I nodded mutely. “Paula's arrived, and she's baking up a storm. Sadd and Dan will be here at four to escort you home. Hope you don't mind a cab.”

“A dog cart would be heaven.”

“Meanwhile, Dan is standing by to deliver Sal if we get lucky and Dunlop is picked up. And Tina wants to know if she should go up to West End Ave. and fetch Liza.”

Oh, Lord, oh, Lord. I rolled over miserably. “How can we? She doesn't know … I have a wild hope he may show up there yet. I simply can't believe that Liza … You know, he might have taken a circuitous route for safety's sake, mightn't he?”

I looked imploringly at my son, and he nodded. “Sure he might. For safety's sake or”—he zipped his parka—“for whatever reason. By the way, Sadd's on his way here now. You shouldn't be alone.”

I stared at him. “Why would that creep Dunlop come here? He's scot-free, dammit.”

Henry leaned down and kissed me. “All I know is I won't rest till you're ensconced at Nice Ugly with all the other displaced persons.”

Sal came out of the bathroom. I blew her a kiss, she waved wanly, and they left.

I looked at my watch. Two thirty. I swung my legs out of the bed and pulled on my robe. So help me, I'd be dressed and sitting on my suitcase at the door the way we were at boarding school when it was time to go home for vacation. A very young aide came in and looked at my tray.

“You haven't eaten a thing.”

“No.” I reached for the walker. “I'm on a hunger strike till I get out of here.”

She looked shocked, and I realized the remark was smart-alecky. I smiled. “I'm not hungry. And I'm leaving shortly. I'm saving myself for my daughter's strudel.”

I kept smiling, and she picked up the tray and said, “Well, Merry Christmas if I don't see you again.”

“Same to you, dear.”

She left, and I hobbled to the closet. Another boarding school memory swept over me. You wore the uniform for weeks and months, “home clothes” being stored away in a central closet, and now it was time for them again and you hurried there and got out your pretty dress, your pretty coat, and yes, your pretty hat—I smiled at that thought—and you dressed eagerly and paraded a bit.…

Almost as eagerly, I took from the closet what Tina had brought. Underwear, plaid skirt, and what was this? A lovely, brand-new turtleneck sweater! But it looked too small. Then again, maybe not—everybody said I'd lost weight. It just might … I was positively giggling as I took out the dressy white coat I'd worn to the party at Pushing Murder. I threw it over my arm, and it spread open, displaying an ugly tear and stain from my fall.

I was back on that sidewalk in front of the store, hearing the siren.

The phone rang. Slightly disoriented, I got to it.

“This is Liza, Mrs. Gamadge, and I'm so scared. Dad hasn't come, and this awful guy was just here.”

Why was I cold? Because I'd discarded my robe in my eagerness to dress. I said, “What awful guy?” and crawled back into bed.

“He was just a kid—maybe eighteen or twenty—but he was a real punk and he said Dad owed him money for hanging around your floor of the hospital last night. And then he said Dad still owed him for another job and had told him to come here today and he'd pay him.” She was gasping. “And the other job—the other job—”

“Try to keep calm, dear.” Oh, how I hated that man. “The other job?”

“He said he'd stolen something for Dad, and I said I didn't believe it, so he showed it to me. It was a letter addressed to you. Oh, Mrs. Gamadge, what's it all about?”

My head was spinning. “It's about murder, you poor, poor kid.”

“Oh, God, oh, God. Did you know all this last night?”

“Yes, but I was hoping it wouldn't touch you—yet. Take heart, Liza.” I was running out of phrases of consolation. “You'll have lots of love and support. Did this guy by any chance”—but I knew the answer—“give you the letter?”

“No, I didn't have nearly enough money. He said Dad had given him three hundred dollars and owed him another three hundred plus fifty for last night. He said he'd be back in an hour and Dad better be here or he'd take the letter to you. I won't let him in when he comes back, but oh, Mrs. Gamadge—”

Oh, Mrs. Gamadge, you lucky woman. Of course he had to have that letter. It was his fatal connection with the murdered woman, the statement of his bigamous marriage to her. It would become the driving force in our pursuit of him that he knew we would never abandon.