The Dishonest Murderer (26 page)

“Maybe,” she said, “maybe it's—maybe we shouldn't. Because this way she'll—”

“No,” Phipps said. “We can't decide. Don't you see that? It isn't for us to—”

Pam North nodded. She again began to lift the girl, again felt, imagined, the almost inert resistance. What's the matter with Freddie? Pam thought. Why doesn't she help? Because of course we've got to do what we can. She just—just sits there!

There was something strange about Freddie Haven's expression. It was as if she were listening to something, listening to a faint voice, speaking from far off. Her expression was so strangely intent that Pam North found herself again hesitating.

“Mrs. Haven!” Pam said. “What
is
it!”

And then Freddie Haven spoke. It was as if Pam's question were a signal which she had been expecting.

“Wait,” she said. Her voice was strange, tense. She did not move, but she looked up at Howard Phipps. “How did you get in?” she said. “If you didn't have a key, how did you get in?”

XI

Sunday, 2:50 A.M. to 3:55 A.M.

Tomorrow, Jerry North thought, pressing the proper button in the self-operating elevator, I don't get up until the middle of the afternoon. Tomorrow, I don't set foot outside the apartment. Tomorrow—thank God for tomorrow. He shivered slightly, reminiscently. He could still feel the wind on the particularly wind-swept corner where he had waited for a taxicab, waited until a kind of numb hopelessness in his mind had matched the numbness of his body; waited until he had begun to tell himself that tomorrow they would find him there, one arm stretched out stiffly but no longer waving; find him a frozen monument to the taxi-hailing American male.

But it was over now. The day was over; if he could manage it, the whole thing was over. If Admiral Satterbee turned out to be a murderer, and hence unsuitable as an author, it would be merely too bad. If he had to kiss the advance goodbye, they would have to count it as—what had Pam said, sometime, long ago? “Water under the dam.” If somebody told him (he thought as the elevator stopped) that by going out once more tonight he could exonerate the admiral, save the advance, sell a hundred thousand copies of
Task Force,
he would be too indifferent even to laugh. He walked down the corridor toward the apartment house door. Already, in contented anticipation, he felt himself going to sleep.

He put his key into the lock, remembered with vague puzzlement his mood of some twenty-four hours earlier, and turned the key, so. He opened the door and said, softly, “Pam?” There was no answer, but he had hardly expected an answer. There were three cats, looking at him with sleepy reproach. They were in a pile on the sofa, one lying across the other two. They did not move, but the top one yawned.

Jerry North shed his overcoat. He spoke softly to the cats, who were too sleepy to answer him. He went, still softly, toward the bedroom, loosening his tie as he went. In five minutes, now—three minutes—he would stretch out, look for a moment at his sleeping wife, turn out the light she had left burning for him, feel the warmth creeping—

“Pam!” Jerry North said.
“Pam!
”

She was not in the bed, or in the room. She was not in the bathroom. It was impossible; it was inconceivable. She was not in the study, or in the kitchen.
“Pam!
” Jerry said again, even more loudly. He opened a closet door and closed it instantly. What would Pam be doing in a closet? At three o'clock in the morning?

Anxiety mounted in Jerry's mind. This time she had done it; this time she had really done it. She had got mixed up in something and they had come and carried her away; they had filled her full of chloral hydrate and—

“Pam!” Jerry said. “Pam!”

He was back in the living room by then. The cats were up, now. Something in his voice had excited them. They looked at him, blue eyes round and wakeful. “Where
is
she?” Jerry said. “Why can't you talk?” And then he saw a sheet of paper propped against a lamp. He almost ran for it.

“Thank God!” he said, as he read it. And then he put it down and, still loudly, but in another voice, he again invoked the Deity, not this time in a spirit of thankfulness. This time he sounded a good deal like Father Day.

He tightened his necktie. He picked up his overcoat and got into it, turning the collar up. He put on his hat. He went to the apartment house door.

“God!” Jerry North said, and went out into the corridor. The cats looked for a moment at the door, and then, sleepily, re-piled themselves.

“Right,” Bill Weigand said. He spoke quickly, but without surprise. “Blake?” He listened; again he said, “Right.”

“Keep the hole stopped,” he said. “We'll be along.” He put the telephone back in its cradle and stood up behind his desk.

“All right, Mullins,” he said. “On our way.”

“O.K, Loot,” Sergeant Mullins said. “I hope this is it.”

“How did you get in?” Freddie Haven repeated. She was still sitting on the floor beside the sofa; she looked up at Howard Phipps. But it did not seem to Pam North that she could be asking the question of Phipps.

“I told you,” Pam said. “The door was—”

“Not you,” Freddie said. “Howdie. You didn't have a key. How did you get in?”

Howard Phipps shook his head quickly; his eyebrows drew together.

“What do you mean?” he said. “You were with me. The doors were open.” He indicated Breese Burnley. “She left them open,” he said. “What do you mean?”

Freddie Haven shook her head.

“Not now,” she said. “Before. When Breese wasn't here. When Sergeant Blake and I were just leaving. You came in. How?”

Howard Phipps did not say anything. He put down the cup of coffee which he still held. His eyes narrowed. He shook his head again, as if he did not understand.

“One key,” Freddie said. “For downstairs and here. You know what I mean. You didn't ring. You just came. You must have had a key.”

“Look,” he said. “Have you gone crazy, Freddie? What does it matter? What're you getting at?”

“You didn't know where things were,” Freddie said, and it was almost as if she were talking to herself. “You even asked where the kitchen was. But—you had to have a key, didn't you, Howdie? To get in downstairs?”

“Oh,” Phipps said. He laughed, shortly. “I rang another bell,” he said. “Any bell. Somebody released the latch. What on earth, Freddie?”

But Freddie, still abstractedly, still as if she were listening to a voice from a distance, shook her head.

“You didn't know Breese wasn't here,” she said. “But you didn't ring this bell. Why didn't you, Howdie? And if you had a key, then—don't you see, Howdie? You would have known about the apartment. But you had to have a key to—” She stopped.

“For God's sake—” Howard Phipps began. But then he stopped speaking. His expression changed, slowly; his eyes grew very narrow.

“So what?” he said, after a long pause. He spoke in a low, level voice. “So what, Freddie?”

She shook her head. She was not looking at Howard Phipps now.

“And the perfume,” she said. “The perfume she wears. The one you wanted to know the name of. Was it because—because you wanted to find out if I'd noticed? When it was on your clothes? Was that it, Howard?”

There was a very long silence. It seemed to Pam North, still partly supporting the unconscious girl, that the silence would never end.

“Howard,” Freddie said, after the long silence, and now she looked at him again. “Why are you so anxious to have her drink the coffee? Because—
she's coming to without it, you know.
What's—what's in the coffee?
What's in the coffee, Howard?
”

Then Freddie Haven started to get up from the floor. And then Phipps spoke.

“Stay right there, Freddie,” he said, and his musical voice was soft again. The tenseness seemed to have gone out of it. He spoke as if he were inviting her to remain in some place of unusual comfort, urging her not to inconvenience herself for him, for anyone. “Stay right there.” He turned to Pam North. “You too,” he said. “Stay right where you are.” His eyes went back to Freddie Haven.

“Well, my dear,” he said, still in the same soft voice, “what makes you think there's anything in the coffee? Don't stop, Freddie. This would be a bad time to stop, don't you think?”

Why, Pam North thought, he talks as if—Why—that makes it all wrong! She looked, involuntarily, at Breese Burnley. Breese's eyes were open—wide open. Why, Pam thought, she's awake. And—she's afraid!

Mullins stopped the sedan against the curb. Smitty came out of a shadow, opened the door and got into the rear seat.

“Down the street,” he said. “On the other side. Motor's cold. Forty-six Chevvie, rental plates. Like you said, Lieutenant.”

Bill Weigand, sitting beside Mullins in the front seat, said, “Right.” He sounded rather pleased.

“Blake was right,” he said. “Who walks if he can ride? Nobody in it, of course?”

Smitty said, “Nope.”

“No,” Bill Weigand said. “The plans got changed, of course. With all the people around.”

“A break,” Mullins said. “For everybody.”

“Well,” Bill said. “Almost everybody, Mullins. We hope. Anything else, Smitty?”

“Well,” Smitty said, “while I was calling in. I had to go down to the corner. A cab came along here. Sounded like it was just starting up. Ten-fifteen minutes later, another cab and a dame this time. I was down by this car, but it looked like a little dame. She went in.”

Bill Weigand said, “Hmmm.” Mullins looked at him.

“Listen, Loot,” Mullins said. “You wanna bet it wasn't—”

“No,” Bill Weigand said. “But how the hell, Sergeant? And—what for? Unless—” He did not finish. A taxicab pulled up in front of the police car and a man got out, hurriedly. He started across the sidewalk.

“Hey,” Bill Weigand said. “Wait a minute.”

The man stopped, turned toward the car questioningly.

“Well,” Mullins said, “I wanted to bet.”

“Jerry,” Bill Weigand said. “Come here.” Jerry North came to the car.

“She got away,” Jerry said. He nodded toward the house. “She's in there,” he said. His voice was quick, excited. “I'm going—”

“Wait,” Bill said. “Pam'll be all right. It's under control. What was it? Just—just a brain wave?”

“I don't think so,” Jerry said. “Her note wasn't very clear, of course. I'd guess Mrs. Haven called her. Is Mrs. Haven in there?” He nodded again toward the house.

“Not that I—” Bill began, and stopped himself. “Damn!” he said, and began to get out of the car. There was surprise in his voice.

“Under control, you said,” Jerry North told him, and Jerry's voice sounded angry. “And you didn't know about Mrs. Haven. To say nothing of—”

“Skip it,” Bill said. “It's still under control. Only—well, there seem to be complications. Stay here.”

He started to move up the street.

“Not me,” Jerry said, and went after him. Bill Weigand stopped, started to speak, and shrugged. “Right,” he said. “Come on.” They went on together; Bill led them into an areaway on the east side of the house. It was narrow, walled by the house on one side, by the blank façade of a towering apartment building on the other. It was like walking into the bottom of a glacier
crevasse.
It was also almost as cold. The wind was not to be outwitted; balked of direct attack, it blew down on them from above. They found a fire escape on their left and began to go up it.

“I don't pretend I know what it means,” Freddie Haven said. She still sat on the floor; she looked up at Howard Phipps. Her voice was quiet. “It doesn't prove anything, I guess. Except that you haven't been telling the truth.”

“About?” Phipps said. He sounded merely interested.

“You and Breese,” Freddie said. “You had a key to this place. You—you had her scent on your clothes. She was with you this afternoon. You pretended—are you in love with her?—is that—?”

“No,” Pam said. She was surprised to hear her own voice. “That's important. But, what
is
in the coffee, Mr. Phipps. Because that's the really important thing, isn't it? The coffee when she was coming to anyway.”

“There's nothing in the coffee,” Phipps said.

“Then it's very simple,” Pam said. “Simple as anything. Drink it, Mr. Phipps. Just drink it yourself.” She paused. “There's nothing hard about drinking a cup of coffee,” she said. “Is there, Mr. Phipps?”

He looked at her without speaking. She waited, but he still did not speak.

“Of course,” she said, “this other. About the key and everything. That could all just be—well, reticence, couldn't it? And not telling on a lady? So it's all very simple if you just drink the coffee.”

“Suppose I don't?” Phipps said. “Then what, Mrs. North?”

“Then it isn't simple,” Pam said. “Because then there's something in the coffee. Because nobody dislikes coffee that much. I mean, if it were castor oil, or something, then why should you? Just to prove a point. But there's nothing hard about coffee. You see that.”

He looked at her. It came over Pam North, frighteningly, that he did see that. Oh, she thought, I've done it again. I—I should have waited. Because it isn't Breese at all. And, since it isn't Breese it's—oh! It's dangerous, Pam North thought. Because he'll still have the gun. Then—

But he did not seem to have a gun. He merely stood, looking down at the three women. There was nothing apparently dangerous about him. He did not even frown, or look excited.

“Why should there be anything in the coffee?” he asked, as if he wanted to know. “What do you mean? Freddie? Mrs. North?”