The Other Lady Vanishes

  “Whoever is behind this may have concluded Ormsby had become a problem. Or maybe Ormsby was no longer needed. There are other chemists in the world.”

  “Where do Zolanda and Thelma Leggett fit in?” Adelaide asked.

  “The drug business is a business like any other. In addition to a manufacturing facility it requires distributors and sales reps who know how to target a certain market, in this case a very exclusive market.”

  “Zolanda and Leggett had access to some of the most important people in Hollywood. Talk about an exclusive market.”

  “This is all speculation but things are starting to come together,” Jake said.

  “What do we do? Contact the FBI?”

  “No,” Jake said. “Not yet.”

  “You’re right. It’s too soon. We don’t have any proof. We’re leaping to conclusions, aren’t we? Maybe Thelma Leggett really did kill herself. The gun is still in her hand.”

  “Which is one of the reasons I don’t believe she took her own life,” Jake said. “She would have been sitting on the side of the bed when she pulled the trigger. The gun would have fallen from her hand and most likely landed on the floor or close to the edge of the mattress. She certainly wouldn’t have kept her grip on it as she fell onto her back.”

  Adelaide wanted to ask him how he could be so sure of that analysis, but this was not the time.

  “You said that was one of the reasons you don’t think this is suicide,” she said. “What else?”

  “The suitcase,” Jake said.

  They both looked at the grip sitting on the floor near the door.

  “What about it?” Adelaide asked.

  “It looks like Thelma was getting ready to leave. Why would she bother to pack her bag if she was about to kill herself?”

  “Maybe she never unpacked in the first place.”

  Jake shook his head. “She was here for a couple of days. There are dishes in the sink, a loaf of bread and some cheese on the counter, and that bottle of whiskey is empty.”

  “You’re right. At the very least, she would have opened the suitcase to take out a nightgown and a change of clothes.” Adelaide looked at the door. “She was on her way out of town, wasn’t she?”

  “I think she got scared and decided to run again. But the killer got here before she could escape.”

  “If we’re right, she didn’t put up much of a struggle.”

  “She probably didn’t have a chance.” Jake started opening and closing cupboards and drawers. “Most people do exactly as they’re told when someone aims a gun at them.”

  Adelaide looked at the empty whiskey bottle. “Most people are also highly suggestible when they are under the influence of Daydream.”

  “Don’t remind me.” Jake closed the last cupboard. “Nothing here. I’m going to take a look at her car. Maybe she left something in the trunk. While I’m doing that, check the suitcase and her handbag. Use a handkerchief. When we’ve finished searching the place, we’ll find a pay phone and call the cops to report the body. They’ll know we were in here but there’s no sense leaving any more fingerprints around than necessary.”

  “All right,” Adelaide said. She opened her handbag and extracted a neatly folded linen handkerchief. “What am I looking for?”

  “I have no idea. I just hope that we’ll know it when we see it.”

  Jake let himself outside, leaving the door open behind him.

  She crouched beside the suitcase and got it open. There was a jumble of clothes inside and some toiletries but no envelope containing a blackmailer’s secrets and no journal with a list of potential victims.

  She got up and went to the front door.

  “Looks like Leggett packed in a hurry,” she said. “But I didn’t see anything that looked like a clue. No tickets. No money. No papers. Definitely no blackmail secrets. How do you transport extortion secrets, anyway?”

  “Depends on the secrets.” Jake closed the trunk of the Ford and came back up the steps. “If I’m right about Madam Zolanda having collected blackmail materials for some time, she must have had a sizable stash. She probably also had a journal with names, dates, addresses, phone numbers, and incriminating details. There might have been photos and documents, as well. I’d say we’re looking for something the size of a small suitcase.”

  “Looks like whoever murdered Thelma now has that suitcase,” Adelaide said. “I’ll check her handbag.”

  She was about to head for the leather bag when she saw two oblong slips of paper in the shadows under the cot.

  “Who would leave money behind?” she asked.

  She went down on one knee and retrieved the two slips of paper.

  “Just cut-up newspapers,” she announced. “So much for finding a couple of dollar bills lying around at the scene of the crime.”

  “Let me see those,” Jake said.

  She got to her feet and gave him the papers. He examined them with a thoughtful expression.

  “This is very, very interesting,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “These papers were cut to precisely the same size and shape as dollar bills.”

  “I can tell that you don’t think that is a coincidence,” Adelaide said.

  “No. Got a hunch our blackmailer got conned.”

  “With just two pieces of paper? That doesn’t sound likely.”

  “There were probably a lot more of these,” Jake said. He surveyed the room. “I think the killer cleaned up the scene. A pile of fake dollar bills might have forced the cops to pay too much attention to what was supposed to pass as a suicide.”

  Adelaide went to the end table, opened the brown leather handbag, and surveyed the interior.

  “Just the usual things a woman keeps in a purse,” she reported. “A wallet, a compact, a lipstick, a comb, and a hankie.”

  She paused when she saw the folded paper at the bottom of the handbag. A little rush of excitement splashed through her. She took out the paper and unfolded it.

  A split second later her excitement metamorphosed into shock.

  “What is it?” Jake asked.

  “A phone number,” she said, trying to keep her voice even.

  “Los Angeles? Burning Cove?”

  “No. I think it might be a San Francisco number. Douglas 4981.”

  “Sounds like you recognize it.”

  “It’s been a while since I had a reason to call this particular number, so I may be wrong. But I’m almost positive it’s Conrad Massey’s home number.”

  “Write down the number. We’ll call it later, after we deal with the police.”

  “Why are we going to call it?”

  “Because if Massey answers, we’ll know he’s home in San Francisco.”

  “And if he doesn’t answer, we’ll know he’s probably the man I saw in Burning Cove.”

  “Exactly,” Jake said.

  Chapter 35

  By the time they finished with the police, the fog that had been hovering offshore most of the day had begun to move inland. The winding coastal highway was rapidly being flooded with a gray mist.

  “I thought we’d have enough daylight for the drive back to Burning Cove,” Jake said. “But it will be dark soon and the fog is getting heavy. There aren’t any hotels around here. We’d better try to find an auto court for tonight.”

  Adelaide contemplated the scene through the windshield. She had been so consumed with thinking about their conversation with the local police that she had not been paying much attention to driving conditions. They were deteriorating rapidly.

  Jake had put up the top of the convertible, but the damp chill of the fog succeeded in penetrating the interior of the vehicle. Or maybe that was just her imagination, she thought. Regardless, it would be reckless to try to make the drive back to Burning Cove tonight.

  “I
agree we should stop for the night,” she said. “We don’t know this road, and even if we did, we’d have to drive so slowly it would take half the night to get back to Burning Cove. We passed an auto court on our way into town this morning.”

  “I remember. It should be coming up soon. Let’s hope they’ve still got a vacancy. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’re full, though. Anyone with common sense will be pulling off the road to avoid the fog.”

  “We could turn around. There might be a place in town where we can put up for the night.”

  But even as she made the suggestion, she realized she really did not want to return to the town where Thelma Leggett had been killed. The conversation with the police had gone reasonably well. Surprisingly, the detective in charge had not leaped to the conclusion that Leggett’s death was a suicide. He had questioned them in depth about their reasons for pursuing Leggett, and he had made them cool their heels at the station while he phoned the Burning Cove police department to confirm their identities. He had even gone the extra mile and verified their departure time from Burning Cove. That had been easy enough to do because they had stopped to fill up the gas tank before leaving town that morning. The attendant had recognized them and remembered servicing the car.

  The good news, Adelaide thought, was that she and Jake were not suspects in Thelma Leggett’s death. But that was the only good news so far. The San Francisco phone number she had copied was still burning a hole in her handbag.

  A sign advertising an upcoming gas station loomed in the mist.

  “There will probably be a pay phone there,” she said. “Let’s stop so that I can call that San Francisco number.”

  “I’m sure there will be a phone at the auto court,” Jake said.

  “Maybe. But if there isn’t one or if it’s out of order, I’ll have to wait until tomorrow to find out if Conrad is still in San Francisco. I need to know, Jake.”

  “All right,” Jake said. “Got to admit, I’m pretty damn curious myself.”

  He turned off the highway onto a side road and pulled into the closed gas station. A faded sign on the wall pointed to a telephone booth around the corner of the garage.

  Jake brought the car to a halt but he left the lights on and the motor running.

  “We need to hurry,” he said. “The fog is getting bad fast. Bring the flashlight.”

  Adelaide already had the glove box open. Jake’s gun was no longer inside. He was wearing it in a shoulder holster. She grabbed the flashlight and got out of the car. Jake climbed out from behind the wheel and joined her. He took the flashlight and switched it on.

  They walked around the corner of the building. The flashlight picked out the darkened phone booth a few feet away from the entrance of the closed garage.

  Jake opened the door of the booth and aimed the beam at the front of the telephone so that she could see the dial. She took the little notebook out of her purse and found the number.

  Jake handed her some coins. She dropped them into the slot and dialed the operator.

  “Long distance, please,” she said.

  “One moment. I’ll connect you,” the operator said.

  There was something reassuring about the very professional, very efficient, very competent female voice on the other end of the line. It was the voice of the modern era, Adelaide thought, the voice that was associated with the latest developments in communications technology. She liked the fact that it was a woman’s voice.

  The operator asked for some additional coins. Adelaide fumbled them into the slot.

  She was vaguely aware of the distant rumble of a car engine. Headlights glared in the fog. The vehicle turned off the highway and onto the farm road that went past the gas station. Jake turned to watch the car motor slowly down the side road, but he seemed to relax when the vehicle did not pause.

  “Just some farmer trying to get home before the conditions get worse,” he said.

  The wait for the long-distance operator to establish the connection seemed an eternity but Adelaide knew that it was probably no more than a minute and a half or two minutes. Finally the phone rang on the other end of the line. Once. Twice. Three times. At last someone picked up.

  “Douglass 4981.”

  The voice on the other end was that of a middle-aged woman. The housekeeper, Adelaide thought.

  “Long-distance calling for Mr. Massey,” the operator said.

  “Mr. Massey isn’t home,” the housekeeper said. “He’s away on business. May I take a message?”

  “Yes, I’ll leave a message,” Adelaide said quickly.

  “Go ahead,” the operator said.

  “It’s very important that I get in touch with Mr. Massey,” Adelaide said to the housekeeper. “Would you please tell me where he is?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know,” the housekeeper said. “He got a long-distance phone call from a woman the day before yesterday. He had me pack his suitcase and then he left. He said something about a business emergency. If you’ll give me your name—”

  “No, that won’t be necessary,” Adelaide said. “I’ve decided not to leave a message.”

  She hung up quickly.

  “I take it you were right?” Jake said. “The number belongs to Conrad Massey?”

  “Yes. The housekeeper said he’s away on business. She doesn’t know when he’ll be back. She said he left the day before yesterday, immediately after receiving a long-distance call.”

  “And yesterday afternoon he turned up in Burning Cove,” Jake said. “I think we can assume that the phone call he got was from Thelma Leggett. She probably offered to sell him information about your current whereabouts.”

  “Maybe he’s the one who murdered her.”

  “I’m not so sure,” Jake said. “We’ve got plenty of suspects to go around at the moment. Let’s get back on the road. We need to place another long-distance call but it can wait until we find an auto court.”

  “What other call do you want to make?”

  “The Rushbrook Sanitarium. It will be interesting to find out if Gill is also away on a business trip.”

  “Why don’t we call right now? The secretary will have gone home for the day but one of the night orderlies might answer.”

  “If we don’t get back on the road now, we’ll be spending the night in the car,” Jake said.

  He wrapped a strong, sure hand around her arm and eased her out of the phone booth.

  “The auto court is only a couple of miles from here,” Adelaide said.

  The low rumble of a slow-moving car made her glance toward the farm road. The beams of the headlights shot through the fog. The vehicle was coming from the rural area beyond the gas station, heading toward the highway.

  “I think that’s the same car that pulled off the road a few minutes ago,” Jake said.

  “The driver must have realized he took a wrong turn in the fog.”

  “Maybe.”

  Jake switched off the flashlight. The fogbound night enveloped them like a dark, incoming tide.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked.

  “Come with me,” he said.

  His hand tightened around her arm but he didn’t propel her toward the speedster. Instead he drew her in the opposite direction, deeper into the shadows, well out of range of the convertible’s headlights.

  The rumble of the approaching car was louder now. Adelaide watched as it turned off the farm road and pulled into the gas station. A dark-colored sedan rolled slowly toward Jake’s vehicle.

  Jake drew her a few more feet into the dense darkness, halted, and put his mouth close to her ear.

  “Don’t move,” he said. “Don’t say a word.”

  She went very still beside him. She could not see the figure behind the wheel of the other car but she saw what appeared to be the flame of a cigarette lighter. Something sparked and cau
ght fire.

  Not a cigarette, Adelaide realized.

  The shadowy figure behind the wheel of the sedan tossed what appeared to be a stick out the window. The flaming object was attached to it by a string or a cord.

  There was a soft thunk when the stick landed on the concrete and rolled under the speedster.

  The sedan roared out of the gas station, tires shrieking.

  Jake moved suddenly, pushing Adelaide against the side of the building. He crowded in close, crushing her against the wall.

  She heard a muffled oomph. An instant later the explosion ripped apart the night. Glass shattered.

  For a few seconds, Jake did not move. Finally he stepped back, freeing Adelaide. She realized he had been shielding her. They both turned to look at the convertible.

  At first Adelaide could not see anything. The vehicle’s headlights had been knocked out by the force of the blast. The engine had stopped.

  An unnatural silence descended. It did not last long.

  The fire roared out of the guts of the speedster. The wildly flaring light revealed the broken hulk of the car. Adelaide gazed at the scene in disbelief and then turned to Jake. The flames glinted on the gun in his hand. Until that moment she had not realized that he had taken the pistol out of the holster.

  “Dynamite?” she whispered.

  “Why not?” Jake said. His voice was flat and grim. “Very handy stuff. You can get it anywhere, especially in rural communities like this one. Farmers use it to clear fields.”

  “Whoever threw that stick of dynamite under your car must have assumed that we were—” She broke off. She did not want to finish the sentence.

  “Yes,” Jake said. “The lights were on and the engine was running. The driver of the sedan assumed that we were still in the car.”

  Chapter 36

  “Car broke down, eh?” The grizzled proprietor of the auto court peered at Jake over a pair of spectacles. “Bad night to end up hitchhiking. Not surprised no one stopped to pick you up. Only a fool would be out driving in this pea soup.”

  He’d introduced himself as Burt and he had seemed pleased to see a couple of customers walk through the door.