The Hamlet Trap (6 page)

She was content, satiated with good food and good wine, warm, and sleepy. Not only did she not eat often or properly when she was working hard, she also did not sleep on schedule. She tried to remember the past ten days, when and how long she had slept at a time. It was a blur. Not enough, she decided, yawning.

She was not sure how long she had been waiting for Peter when she realized that it was taking him too long. If Spotty had cornered him, she thought, she would be out here waiting forever. She gave him another minute or two, then got out of the car and ran to the stage door. She expected it to be closed and locked, but Peter had not pulled it to, and she pushed it open and went inside. There was a dim light on in the backstage area. It cast a feeble glow down the hallway to Uncle Ro's office, where she could see a brighter light outlining the partly open door. She went down the hall to the office and pushed that door open.

“Peter?” she called, and then she saw him, and she screamed.

NINE

Gus Chisolm had been
the chief of police for eleven years, and during that time there had been murder done, robberies, whatever mayhem people found to commit against other people and property. His first act when he arrived and saw a body was to call the sheriff's office. All murders were handled by that office. He was glad it was like that. Now he surveyed the office from the doorway glumly. Burglar caught in the act? More than likely. One of his men was at the door, another was checking the other entrances of the theater. A search would have to wait for more personnel. He went back to Spotty's room where Ginnie sat like a marble statue, with just about that much color in her face. She stared straight ahead, exactly as he had left her. She needed a doctor, he thought, and wished the officer he had sent out to find Ro Cavanaugh would hurry on with it before the sheriff's detective got there. He knew Steve Draker would want to question Ginnie right now, and to his eyes she was not fit to answer even one question.

On the table by her chair was the coffee that Spotty had poured for her, placed in her hands. Gus picked it up and said, “Ginnie, drink some of this. You'll have to answer a few questions.”

Obediently she took the cup and sipped from it and returned it to the table.

Gus sighed and pulled a straight chair around to face her and sat in it. “Ginnie, didn't you see anyone at all? Someone come out the door and run, maybe?”

“No.”

“Do you remember what happened?”

She nodded.

He wanted to shake her, to make her cry, faint, do something, to make her face stop looking as dead as Peter Ellis was. He parted her arm and stood up. Spotty was watching her with an expression of worry also. Gus motioned to him to step outside the small room.

“Do you know who her doctor is?”

“Jack Warnecke, more than likely. He's Ro's doctor, leastways.”

“I think we shouldn't wait for Ro. You'd better go to a phone and call him. Tell him what she's like, what happened here. Tell him to bring something for her.” So to hell with Draker, he thought. She needed something. He had known Ginnie first when she was a kid living with Ro, then since she had been back in town working in the theater. He never had seen her like this and he didn't like it. To hell with Draker.

Ro arrived before Draker. He came in with Walt Olien, who reported: “He was at Jake's Place with Jerry Alistair and a couple of other people. They drove over from the high school together.”

Gus returned to Spotty's room where Ro was holding Ginnie, looking almost as pale as she was.

“My God, my God,” he said over and over.

There were raindrops on Ro's shoulders and his shoes were wet, Gus saw. But anyone who entered the theater tonight would have wet feet. The alley was awash and a small lake was in front of the stage door. Ginnie was not responding in any way to Ro.

A deputy came to report that the theater was locked up tight, as was the shop out back. He had glanced in various rooms, but had not made a real search. Then Draker arrived with his crew and officially the case was out of Gus's hands.

Gus went with him to the office and waited while he looked over the scene. Peter Ellis was stretched out on the floor with the side of his head caved in from a heavy blow. There was an upset wooden chair that he must have hit on the way down; nothing else seemed out of order, except for a bronze statuette of a clown that was lying by the door jamb. It was covered with blood on one end. Gus told Draker what he knew about it, damn little. Steve Draker was a thin man of forty with an intense stare that Gus hated. He always looked like he was trying to see clear through you, he thought, when they returned to Spotty's room. He watched Draker make himself comfortable in a straight chair within touching distance of Ginnie. Ro still held her against his chest.

“I have to ask her a few questions,” Draker said. “Would you mind stepping over there.”

Ro was on his knees in front of Ginnie's chair. He moved to the side and sat on the arm, and held her around the shoulders.

“You're Roman Cavanaugh?” Draker asked. Ro nodded. “The young lady looks perfectly calm to me. If you don't mind moving out of the way…”

“I do mind,” Ro said. “Can't you see that she's in shock? Her doctor's on his way now. I don't want you to bother her until the doctor says she's all right.”

“Miss Braden, do you feel able to answer questions?” Draker asked, turning his penetrating gaze on her. She nodded. “Good. What happened here tonight?”

“He's dead.”

“Yes. We know that. Why did he come here?”

“To bring my sketches.”

“Were you with him?”

“Yes.”

“Who killed him, Miss Braden?”

“I don't know.”

“But you said you were with him.”

She looked straight ahead without responding.

Ro tightened his grip on her shoulder. His face was darkening with rage. “Damn you,” he said. “This can wait for the doctor.”

“Mr. Cavanaugh, I have a job to do. Don't interfere, or I'll have you escorted out to wait. Miss Braden, did you see who hit Mr. Ellis?”

“No.”

“Where were you? Why didn't you see it happen?”

“I was in the car.”

Draker leaned forward. “Just tell me what happened. I don't want to draw it out of you a word at a time.”

“I came in and he was dead.”

“Why did he come in? Why didn't you bring in the sketches?”

“It was raining. He wore Gray's raincoat. He was closest to the stage door.”

“My God,” Ro suddenly said in a horrified voice. “What if she had come in first? That could have been her!”

There was a silence in the room for a minute. Gus heard Jack Warnecke's voice raised in argument with one of the sheriff's men. He stepped out of the room and walked the length of the hallway, saw Jack near the door where the argument was going on.

“Gus, will you tell this man I'm Ginnie's doctor? I demand to see her.”

“She's back this way,” Gus said. He did not know the name of the deputy who was standing in the way. Coolly he added, “I'll take the responsibility. Get out of the way.” The deputy hesitated for a moment, then moved, and Jack followed Gus.

“Miss Braden, why were you trying to close the office door when Spotty found you?” Draker asked, just as the two men entered. He scowled at Gus, his eyes very narrow and shadowed.

“I don't know,” Ginnie said in the same dead voice.

Jack went to her and held her wrist, looked at her eyes, backed off a step, and said, “That's all. I'm giving her a sedative. Ro, is there someone who can stay with her tonight?”

“I'll call Brenda. After we're through here, I'll go up to her house, too.”

“Good. I'll take her home now and wait for Brenda. Come along, Ginnie.”

She stood up.

“Just hold on a minute,” Draker said furiously. “I'm not through with her yet.”

“Yes, you are,” Jack said. “If you pursue questioning with her in this shape, I'll file a complaint, and if I have to I'll testify that nothing she says is reliable. She doesn't know what she's saying. Come on, Ginnie.”

“For God's sake!” Ro said to Draker, who had moved to block the way. “You know where she lives, where she'll be.”

Draker finally nodded. “I want to see her first thing in the morning. Alone.”

“With an attorney,” Ro snapped.

Jack led Ginnie out. She moved like an automaton.

Laura and Gray were in separate bedrooms. She stared at the ceiling dry-eyed and replayed again and again the furious scene that had led to her stamping out of the living room, to this room. It had been raining when she left the movie; that had started it, she thought now. A cold, miserable rain that had soaked her almost instantly. He had not been in the tavern when she got there. The jazz pianist had packed the place and she had not been able to get a table, or even a place at the bar. She had stood, cold, wet, more unhappy than she had been in years, in a mob of people she neither knew nor wanted to know. And finally he had come, almost as wet as she was. He had surveyed the crowded tavern bitterly.

“This is your idea of fun?”

“Let's go home. I'm freezing.”

“And miss the music? And have you complain I won't go anywhere with you? No way. I want a drink. Besides, it's raining.”

“I know it's raining, dammit! Look at me! I'm soaked! You had the car. You lost the umbrella. I didn't have a nice big black umbrella, or a poncho, or a raincoat. I want to go home. Give me the car keys. It's my car, remember?”

Silently he turned and stalked out; she followed. The rain was bitterly cold, relentless. Great puddles had formed in every dip. Her toes ached with cold and she was shivering too hard to drive. And she was crying. Only her tears felt warm on her cheeks, burned her eyes, the rest of her was freezing. Neither spoke when they reached the car in the parking lot and he opened her door, walked around to the driver's side, got in. He drove too fast for the terrible visibility. She hoped he would wreck the car, injure her, be sorry… Her tears came harder. The rain on the windshield was too much for the wipers to clear off, and between her own tears and the tears of the car she was blinded.

When they were in the living room, he handed her the keys. “You'll have to beg me to drive it in the future,” he said in a voice as hard as ice.

“I won't beg you for anything! I supported you! I quit my job for you! I drove you halfway around the world! When have I ever begged for anything, or even asked for anything? You just take and take and take. You use people and never even notice what you're doing!”

“That's what you think? That I used you? All you've done since we came here is bitch. Is that why? Because you think I was using you?”

“Well, didn't you? Don't you? And now I'm not as useful to you as I was. I can have my own car back. You're finished with it. Now the boss's niece can play my part, drive you here and there. Are you just waiting for Peter to leave before you move in on her? Do you think I can't see?”

“I think that,” he said flatly, “I'm going to bed.”

“So am I. In the other bedroom.”

“Good.”

“Damn you to hell! Just damn you to hell!”

The next morning she left before Gray was out of the shower. At the university she learned that Peter had been killed; it was all anyone was talking about. She closed her eyes to hide the instant relief that swept her. The doom she had sensed in ash land was not her doom, thank God. Very quickly her relief vanished and she thought of the terrible things she had said to Gray, and she thought, now Ginnie is really free.

Brenda had talked Ro into going home at two in the morning. There was no place for him to sleep, she had pointed out. She was taking the couch in the living room. Reluctantly he left after looking in on Ginnie, who was in a deep drugged sleep. He was back by eight, half an hour before Draker arrived with one of his deputies.

“How is she?” Draker asked.

“I don't know, calm anyway, still shocked, of course. She's in the kitchen.” Ro led him through the foyer, up the stairs to the kitchen where Ginnie was having coffee. Brenda had made breakfast for her, but it was untouched.

“Good morning, Miss Braden. I hope you're feeling better.”

She nodded.

“Good. Miss Gearhart, Mr. Cavanaugh, would you mind going into the living room.” Brenda left. Ro hesitated. “If she wants an attorney present, that's her right,” Draker said. “Do you, Miss Braden?”

“No.”

“Ginnie, if you want me, just call. I'll hear you.” Ro studied her face for an answer. She barely nodded, and he left the kitchen.

The deputy sat down at the table, out of Ginnie's range of sight, and opened a notebook.

“Miss Braden, I want to say first that I'm very sorry. I do sympathize. I found your note to your uncle saying you were going away with Mr. Ellis for a few days. Will you tell me about that?”

“I don't know where he wanted to go. To Whale's Head. I don't know where else.”

“Just tell me about your evening with Mr. Ellis, exactly what you did, when you went to the theater.”

She moistened her lips. She looked as if she had been sandbagged, he thought, still pale down to her lips, with the staring eyes that he had seen on others who hadn't yet quite faced what had happened. He waited patiently.

Haltingly she told him about dinner, about the sketches that she had to deliver, about Peter's talking her into taking them to the theater on their way to get his things at his apartment so they could get an early start today.

“So it was raining when you left the house here. Do you know what time it was?”

She shook her head.

In her toneless voice she described driving down Park to Pioneer, into the alley on the side of the theater. She stopped again.

“Did you see any lights on? Your uncle's office is on that side of the building. Were there lights?”

“I don't know. I didn't notice. The rain…”

“Okay. You drove to the stage door, then what?”

“Peter said he would have to get out at his place anyway, he might as well be the one to take the portfolio in. Gray's raincoat was in the back. He put it over his head, over the portfolio, and went in.

“How did he get in? Did he ring for Spotty?”

“He used my key.”

“Okay. Go on.”

“I turned off the wipers and headlights, and there was just the rain. After a while I went in and he was dead.”

“Let's take it a little slower, Miss Braden. He had your key. The door locks automatically when it closes. How did you get in?”

“It wasn't closed tight. Sometimes it doesn't and you have to push it. It just opened.”

After she cried, Draker thought, she'd be all right. She probably was still full of Jack Warnccke's dope, feeling nothing, her voice distant, her eyes not seeing much of anything. He got up and poured her cold coffee out, filled her cup again, and brought it back. “Take some of it,” he said and waited until she swallowed a mouthful or two. “Now, you pushed the door opened. What did you see?”