Time Off for Murder (29 page)

  "And that," said Mary Carner, "is exactly what I came to find out."

  Laverne Sullivan looked at her queerly. "I'm beginning to get the idea," she said. "I think this one will help you even more - tell you all you want to know. Bessie Jackson was the colored maid in Flo Gordon's house - a sweet-looking, simple girl, with an I.Q. in the lower eighties. She looked very gentle, very anxious to please. But when I took down her answers, I was flabbergasted. They were lurid. They puzzled me, but I had no way of knowing that they were more than the expressions of a tabloid reader's mind. They'll mean more to you than they did to me."

  In a score of words, Bessie Jackson, in the unwitting responses of her overburdened mind, had told the story of what had happened in the basement of fiftynine.

  To "White" she had answered, acceptably enough: "Black."

  "Home" made her think of "Mother."

  After "Work" she had named her vocation: "Maid."

  "Food" called forth "On the Table."

  And then the narrative had poured out: "Woman" - "Door"; "Kill" - "Shoot"; "Friend" - "False"; "Children" - "Cute"; "Pleasure" - "Dance" (these two, digressions into Bessie's private tastes); "Wrong" - "Place"; "Fear" - "The Big Shot"; "Police" - "Gun"; "Punishment" - "Electric Chair"; "People" - "Bloody"; "Hot" - "Furnace."

  "Bessie Jackson," said Mary, "gave you all the wrong answers. And me the right ones.
The false friend shot the woman at the door who had come to the
wrong place. The police gun was used. The people were bloody. They sought to
burn something in a hot furnace. The electric chair should be the punishment,
but the Big Shot is to be feared."

  "The Big Shot," Laverne repeated "You mean Rockey Nardello?"

  "No." Mary's face was grave. "Someone bigger than Rockey. Someone of whom even Rockey Nardello is afraid." She shook herself as though she sought to dislodge some clinging horror. "You don't suppose anyone knows where to find Bessie Jackson?" she asked.

  "Hardly. These girls float around. She may be on probation still. I can find out. I'll make you a copy of this list if you wish."

  Mary waited until Laverne had typed the list. She folded the sheet of paper, placed it in her purse. "I'm eternally grateful."

  "Glad to help. S'long. Take care of yourself."

  "I'll try."

  Elation quickened Mary's footsteps as she went out of the prison door. "Now," she thought, "I can go right down to Headquarters. The picture's complete. Now, there's no doubt. No doubt at all."

  As she turned toward Sixth Avenue, she saw the gleaming hood of a black Cadillac and a yellow license plate with two black digits. She swung on her heel. She began to run. A man's long stride came swiftly behind her. A hand gripped her elbow, tight as a vise. Saxon Rorke's silken voice said: "Don't hurry, my dear. I want to talk to you. I'm going to take you riding."

Mary had ceased struggling. She lay on the floor of the car, under a stifling robe of fur, the cloth of a gag pressing against her tongue; her wrists and ankles chafing under tight ropes. Only her eyes were free, to stare into the thin, yellow face of Li and the snout of the revolver in his hand and beyond him, out on sliding roof-tops, framed in a square of glass.

  She heard the rumble of trucks and busses, the motorized movement of the city. Beyond the windows, there was rescue. There was freedom. There was life. She could not summon it.

  It had happened swiftly. Rorke's hand, propelling her into the car. A second to turn a pleading face toward an uncurious passerby, to hear uncomprehending comment from the pavement: "Drunken lady. They're putting a drunken lady into that car." A thrust downward. Li's arms pinning her, binding her.

  Saxon Rorke's hand was steady on the wheel. He stopped for the traffic lights, shifted his gears, without haste, without excitement. The vibration of the car was a gentle massage under her shoulders.

  A longer pause, the driver's window opening, a voice saying: "Thank you, sir"; the jingle of a cash register, a rush of clammy cold, the car gaining speed, the echo of slithering tires, a curved tile wall, reflecting ceiling lights. "The Holland Tunnel," Mary told herself. "There are policemen in the Tunnel. Every few feet."

  Desperation gave her strength. She struggled to a sitting posture. Li's right hand forced her down. His left pressed the gun against her heart.

  Saxon Rorke turned his head slightly. He said: "Don't do that. It makes Li nervous. Might make that gun go off. Pop. And it's all over. Just another backfire in the tunnel. But why hurry? You're not in any hurry to die, are you, my dear? It'll be pleasanter in the country. Really it will. With the blue sky and the trees. And time to say your prayers."

  He swung out of the Tunnel. There was daylight again, a pewter sky overhead. Mary could see the box-like tops of houses, hear the rattle of trucks on the cobblestones. And then the rivet-knotted lattice of a bridge, and tall, light stanchions, slicing the heavens, and the squares of power lines and the monotonous swish of passing cars.

  "We're in New Jersey," Mary told herself. "We're on the Pulaski skyway."

  A silver airplane circled the window's vision, vanished into the gray sky. And another plane, its motors humming. "We're passing Newark airport…I must notice things. I must remember the route." And then it came to her that remembering did not matter, since there was but one ending to the road she traveled now.

  "But he won't get away with it," she thought, triumphantly. "Johnny knows. Chris knows. I'll be gone but they'll get Rorke."

  The car was gaining speed. Tops of billboards, of garish neon signs above roadside taverns, trees, telegraph wires whizzed by the window. The swish of passing cars was less frequent. A concrete road flowed smoothly beneath the wheels.

  Saxon Rorke began to speak. His voice was suave, mellifluous. "Relax, my dear," he said. "We've a long way to go. Out where it's quiet and the woods are thick. And no one will find you. Extraordinary, isn't it? The clever detective always captures the criminal. That's the usual thing, isn't it? But today the clever criminal captures the not-so-bright detective. Quite a blow to your pride, I'm sure, Mary. I may call you Mary, mayn't I?

  "Oh you were very clever, my dear. Much too clever for your health. Not like the police. MacKinoy's their man. MacKinoy's gun did the trick. That's all they need to know. And a faithful correspondent sends them a postcard every day, to make certain they don't forget poor MacKinoy. Poor MacKinoy." Saxon Rorke laughed. "Poor, considerate thing. It was really very, very kind of him to have his gun so handy. Lying on the table. Waiting to be used. There's a lesson in that. Policemen shouldn't relax. Not even with their friends. Their very best friends…. And so decent of him not to mention names in those sad farewell notes of his. You wouldn't tell me, Mary, but your Inspector did.

  "Your over-sight, Li. You should have seen those letters first. We'll have to talk about that. He did have me worried. You remember that, don't you, my dear? The phone call, at my apartment? Your solicitude was so sweet. I'll treasure the memory. You distressed me a bit, when you spoke of someone named Peterson. But not too much. You see, I knew no Peterson, and so I was sure he didn't know me. And surely, if he had seen anything or recognized anyone, he'd have spoken up immediately. 'Why didn't he go to the Police at once, if he had seen Phyllis killed?' I asked myself. Either he knew nothing, or had his own reasons for keeping silent. And since he had locked up his own tongue, I didn't need to fret about him, did I?"

  Rain was spattering the windows of the car. Saxon Rorke stopped talking for a moment, bent forward to adjust his windshield cleaner.

  "It was too bad about the raid, wasn't it?" he went on. The monotonous swish of the long blades on the glass punctuated his words. "The meddlesome police. Another count against the Vice Squad. If they hadn't come along, everyone would have been spared such a lot of trouble. Dear Phyllis so neatly cremated. Not so much as a little finger left. And you can't try a man for murder without the
corpus
delicti,
can you, Mary? Ah, but I've learned. I know better this time. Another lady will disappear. And the lady will stay disappeared. And Saxon Rorke? He'll go on, business as usual, pleasures as usual. And the police never suspecting. They couldn't. They wouldn't. Rorke's too rich. He's too powerful. He's a friend of all the right people. That's the trick, my dear. Know the right people. That's power. A very important lesson to learn. But it won't do you any good any more. Too bad. Very much too bad for you.

  "And you so promising. A clever girl. But women have no right to be clever. It's dangerous for them. Gets them into trouble. Like your friend Phyllis. Very clever of you to notice that Phyllis didn't write down her date with me. Your surmise was right. There was no date or Phyllis would have written it down. She was so precise. Always so careful. But Phyllis couldn't have denied my statement, could she? Not even after her bright friend had noticed her omission. And searching my car. That was clever, too. Didn't you think I'd miss those cigars? Do you still have them, my dear? I could use one. No, don't trouble yourself to hunt for it. Li'll find them after a bit.

  "But if you'll forgive me for mentioning it, you have your faults. You talk too much. Lower your voice when you make appointments, my dear. Speak softly. You thought you were being very clever when you moved out of your apartment last night. But you'd made a date, to see a certain person at a certain place at a definite time. And so I knew where to find you.

  "And that telegram you sent. You never came back home for the answer, did you? But, I did. I found your answer, under your door. It told me you were working alone. Woman's vanity, my pet. Else you'd not have been asking questions of small town police. You'd have let Inspector Heinsheimer do it. He has the channels of communication. But no, you had an idea - a hunch, let us call it. It was too good to share with anyone. You wanted to enjoy your little moment of triumph. Show up the stupid police."

  The billboards were fewer now, the neon signs far between. Only green of tree tops against the dark sky, the car wheels slithering faster on the concrete and the cool voice purring behind the wheel.

  "Why didn't you ask me where I came from and what my youth had been? I'd have told you. Oh yes, I have told you as pretty and adventurous a tale as you'd ever heard. It wouldn't have been the truth, of course. But much nicer than the truth. I've a reputation to sustain. Glamour boy. The elegant Saxon Rorke. Factory towns are ugly, my dear. And on the wrong side of the tracks, the landlords don't bother about the look of the houses or the condition of the plumbing. The name wasn't Rorke then, nor Saxon. Nobody back home has ever heard what became of little Tommy Lorimor after his parents died. Nobody's ever dreamed. Little Tommy who played with the Nardello kid, the shoemaker's son. The kid who was always in trouble. Got sent to the Reformatory. Not Tommy, of course. He was too smart for that. Let somebody else stick his neck out. Let somebody else take the rap. Rockey. Rockey was a foreigner. Odd how much oftener the police suspect foreigners. But little Tommy kept things going while Rockey was away. Tommy was a bright kid. At penmanship especially. Wonderful fingers. And very careful of them. Careful to keep them dry, keep them covered, leave no fingerprints. Those fingers were my fortune, my dear. They could duplicate anyone's writing. They kept me in food and lodging a long, long time. Until I discovered I had other talents, too. Executive ability, making friends and influencing people.

  "We built a business, Rockey and I. A business, did I say? An empire. My dear, you have no idea! The district attorney has no idea! My brain, my organizing ability. Rockey? Just a front and a gat.

  "But my hand never lost its skill. That back-hand of Phyllis' was so easy. Those letters did confuse you, didn't they? I knew they would. And a short drive on a pleasant autumn evening to mail them. That
was
a piece of business! Forgive me for bragging a little bit. After all, there's no fun in being clever if nobody knows about it. You feel that way, too, don't you, my dear?

  "Phyllis had written me. Once or twice. Some sentimental drool. She had become a bore. Ah me." His sigh had a mocking gayety. "I've always had a fatal fascination for women. I'll wager even you could have begun to like me just a little bit. Well, see who's here." The wheels whirred faster. "We've only been doing sixty. We'll show them seventy, eighty, ninety - anything they like."

  The wail of sirens, the putt-putt of straining motors came faintly to her ears, the sounds of motorcycle pursuit. Her heart leaped in hope.

  Saxon Rorke hunched over his wheel. "The sons of bitches!" he exploded. "We'll show 'em speed!"

  On the floor Mary Carner prayed: "Oh dear God, let them catch us. Oh dear God, send us a blowout."

  The tires screeched around a curve. And another. And another. The heavy car lurched drunkenly in a skid. Rorke swung the wheel and cursed as he righted the car. The pursuing motors were a faint throb in the far distance, growing fainter, and then louder, nearer again, on a level stretch. And then again the wide, crazy swirl on a curve, a scrunch over gravel, and thunder, splitting ear-drums and metal and earth and sky.

  Mary Carner woke to the vinegar and mouse-droppings stench of ether, the touch of a smooth, cool finger on her wrist, the rustle of a starched skirt, and Chris Whittaker's voice saying: "And you promised to watch out for her."

  She forced her eyelids open. Why, it was Chris out there in the fog. And there was Johnny Reese next to him, looking solemn. What were they doing here?

  Sensation groped back to the sway of a car, to the vibration of motors under her head, the slither of wheels. This place stood still. This was a room. There was a light near her head. It must be night.