The long Saturday night

  They already had the motive. The girl had given them that.

  The telephone started to ring again.

  . . . and so, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, having already killed his wife’s lover, he learned from her hotel in New Orleans that she was on her way home, waylaid her in the living room . . . where she dropped her suitcase, fled in terror to the bedroom and, in a last and futile attempt to save her life, bolted the door . . .

  . . . I give you this andiron . . . these monstrous photographs . . . who but a man inflamed to madness by the goadings of a cancerous and unreasoning jealousy. . . .

  I had to do something.

  Yes, what? I heard my voice saying it aloud, and then that nervous giggle again, warning me how near I was to breaking up completely into hysteria.

  Maybe if I got out of this room where her scream was still ringing in my ears I could think. But it wasn’t a scream, I told myself; it was only the telephone. I went down the hall with it ringing behind me in the bedroom and ahead of me in the living room, as if I were running wildly and forever just to stay in one place on a treadmill in some ultramodern Hell filled with shrilling telephones all trying to drive me over the brink into madness. Then in a moment of lucidity, like a sun-filled hole in a drifting curtain of fog, it occurred to me that if I answered it the damned thing would stop. But as I came into the living room it stopped anyway. I went on to the kitchen, only half conscious of what I was doing, and from force of habit poured a cup of coffee from the percolator which had shut itself off now. I was raising it to my lips when I saw her face again, and dropped the whole thing, cup, saucer, and all, into the sink. I turned on the tap and let the water run. Splashing among the fragments of china, while I cupped trembling hands and caught some to wash my face. I didn’t know why. Maybe I thought it would clear my head. I dried my face on a dish towel, dropped it on the edge of the sink, and sat down at the breakfast table to fumble for a cigarette.

  Mother of God! Darrow come back from the grave couldn’t save me.

  Fragments of thought went whirling through my mind, too jumbled and disconnected to make sense or form any recognizable pattern. It had to be Mulholland. No one else had even known she was home. He had seen the glove, and knew all the time the suitcase was hers. Then he must have killed Roberts, and she was mixed up in it some way—No, I thought then, it didn’t have to be Mulholland; it could still be anybody. She’d let the man into the house, so it followed she could also have called him and told him she was home, the minute I was out the door.

  And what had she really been doing in New Orleans? What had she needed all that money for? I sprang up and ran back to the bedroom, looking wildly around for her purse; there might be something in it, some kind of information. How did I know she was even in New Orleans today, or last night? She hadn’t got back to the hotel to check out until sometime between five-thirty and seven P.M.; she could even have been here in Carthage. I spotted her purse on the bed beside the two suitcases, pulled it open, and began pawing through the litter women carry around with them—lipstick, comb, mirror, car keys, tissues, handkerchief. There was nothing here. Wait— receipted hotel bill, with her credit card number. December to January 5th. That was right. I opened her billfold. It held two fives, and three ones.

  She’d had six hundred in cash when she left here, and presumably had cashed a check for five hundred today, she’d sold stocks worth six thousand, she’d paid the hotel bill by credit card, and she had thirteen dollars. Good God. Then I remembered she hadn’t been wearing her coat when she came in, one of those light shades of mink that had cost around four thousand. I ran back to the kitchen, yanked open the door to the garage, and looked in the Mercedes. There was no coat in it.

  I came back to the living room and stood by the desk, staring blankly at the slip from the broker’s office, still dazed and only half conscious of what I was doing. What did it all mean? What had she done with it? Then my head cleared a little, and I wondered savagely what difference it made. The question was what I was going to do. Call the police? Run? Call George, and tell him? Then I went rigid with fear. Tires crunched on the gravel in front. I heard a car door slam, and then footsteps on the porch. The doorbell sounded. It rang again before I could even move. Sweat broke out on my face as I tiptoed to one of the front windows, parted the drapes a fraction of an inch, and peered out. It was a police car, the red light flashing in the darkness.

  It was too late to run. Even if I could get the garage door open without his hearing me, his car was blocking the drive. I could get out the back on foot, but where would I go? They’d run me down in an hour. I couldn’t see the man in front of the door, but it must be Mulholland. The bell rang again, three or four angry, insistent bursts, then a fist pounded on the panel. If I didn’t let him in, he’d break it down. I took a deep breath, trying to get air past the tightness in my chest, and walked down the hall.

  It was Len Owens, the night deputy. He looked faintly sheepish. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Warren—”

  My mouth opened. Nothing came out, so I closed it.

  “We had a call from Mrs. Ryan,” he went on. “She was pretty upset. She said she’d just been talking to you on the phone, and then called back a few minutes later and couldn’t get an answer.”

  I managed a smile, wondering if he could hear the noise my face made as it split. “I was—uh—lying down, and must have dozed off. I guess that was it. I must have been asleep.” Now that I had finally achieved speech, I couldn’t seem to shut myself off.

  “I guess everybody’s a little jumpy, with that thing about Roberts. Anyway, if you’d just call her back.” He started to turn away.

  You could tell him now, I thought. It’s only been a half hour. Oh, by the way—my wife’s just been murdered too. I mean—since you’re here, you might as well have a look. Sure.

  “Good night, Mr. Warren.” He stepped down off the porch and walked back toward the car.

  I’ve been meaning to call you, but what with one thing and another—you know how it is.

  “Good night.” I closed the door and collapsed against it like the heroine of a 1923 movie. The car drove off. I could never report it now.

  5

  She was apologetic. “I felt silly, sending the police to check, but when I called right back, twice—and after that terrible thing with Roberts—”

  “It’s all right,” I said. The numbness of shock was wearing off now and my mind was operating a little better. “I must have dropped off to sleep. What was it?”

  “Well, not important enough to cause all that uproar. But you asked me to call you back if I remembered any other girls Roberts had dated.”

  “You’ve thought of another one?”

  “No. Not yet. But I was going to suggest you try Ernie Sewell. He’s worked for Roberts ever since he opened the store, and probably knows him as well as anybody in town. Also, Roberts would be more likely to discuss his conquests with another man than he would with a new prospect. He was no high-school type.”

  I should have thought of Sewell myself. “Thanks. That’s a good idea. And there was something else I wanted to ask you. When Frances called me this afternoon, do you remember whether the operator actually said New Orleans, or just long distance?”

  Some people might have asked, “Why?” but not Barbara Ryan. She’d worked for me for over a year, but I was just now beginning to appreciate her. “I’m not sure now,” she said. “All I remember is that it was from a pay phone.”

  “Hold it! Are you sure of that?”

  “Yes. The line was open all the way, and I distinctly remember the operator telling her how much money to deposit.”

  I’m still lying here in bed— What was the object of a pointless falsehood like that? A pathological compulsion to lie? And where did the trumpet come in? Well, maybe it was a jukebox.

  “How much was it?” I asked.

  “Hmmm. Ninety cents, I think. Yes, that’s right.”

  Then it could have been New Or
leans. It was a cinch it wasn’t local. I yanked my thoughts back on the track. An idea was beginning to take form in my mind, but I was going to need help—help from somebody very smart and somebody I could trust. George would fill the bill on both counts, but I couldn’t ask him; his professional code of ethics wouldn’t allow him to be a party to anything unorthodox and probably illegal, even if he knew I was innocent. He’d simply tell me to call the police. Barbara could do it, if she would, and if I could figure out a way to keep from implicating her.

  “Listen,” I said, “I can’t explain now, but in the morning Scanlon is probably going to be asking you a lot of questions about me. Answer everything he asks, fully and truthfully, except don’t tell him I asked you or even mentioned it. Got it?”

  “Well, it sounds simple enough in an incomprehensible sort of way; I think I can swing it. Anything else?”

  “If he should ask if anything’s missing from the safe in the office, inventory it, and tell him. That’s all. And thanks a million, Barbara.”

  I hurried back to the bedroom. Avoiding the other side of the bed and being careful not to disturb anything I didn’t have to, I quickly changed into a dark suit, fresh shirt, and tie, and hauled one of my own suitcases out of the closet on this side, a tan leather two-suiter with my initials stamped on it. I threw in a suit, several shirts, changes of underwear, and the toilet kit with the spare electric razor, and just before I closed the bag it occurred to me a picture would help. The only photograph I’d ever been able to persuade her to have made was the wedding picture; it would have to do. I swung around to the dresser to pick it up, and stared blankly. It was gone.

  It was impossible. It’d been there just—I stopped, aware I couldn’t remember when I had seen it last. I was so accustomed to its being there, it might have been a week since I’d actually noticed it. Maybe Malvina had moved it. I yanked open drawers, and looked on the dressing table in the bath. It had vanished. She’d never liked it, so maybe she destroyed it, though I was certain I must have seen it since she left. I swore nervously. This was wasting precious time; I couldn’t stand here doddering like an old man. I had a small copy of the same photograph in my wallet; it would have to do. I slammed the suitcase shut, hit the light switch, and went down the hall. Grabbing the topcoat and a hat, I killed the rest of the lights, and slipped out the kitchen door into the garage.

  I tossed the bag into the Chevrolet, and eased up the big overhead door. The street was deserted and dark beyond the driveway. I backed out and closed the door. The only way to do it was as naturally as possible, I thought. This time of night it would be very easy to tell whether I was being followed, and especially by the police. The County cars and the two owned by the city police were all marked. I turned left one block before Clebourne, drove west on Taylor for three blocks, turned right on Fulton to come out into Clebourne just west of the office, the way I always drove to work. Clebourne Street is quite wide, and still has angle parking. I slid into a space in front of the office and got out. Three cars were parked in front of Fuller’s, just to my left, but none of them was a police car. The tinsel made a scaly, rustling sound in the wind as I stepped across the sidewalk and unlocked the door. There was nobody in sight along the sidewalk.

  The big fireproof safe was against the back wall, between the door leading into my office and the one going back to the washroom and the rear entrance on the alley, but a light was always left on it so it was in full view of the street. I walked straight back to it, fighting an impulse to look over my shoulder at the windows, knelt, and began turning the knob through the combination. The last tumbler fell in place. I pulled the door open, took out my keys, unlocked the steel door inside, and slid out the brown Manila folder I wanted. It contained something over $18,000 in matured Series E bonds, mostly 500-and 1000-dollar denominations. I closed the safe, spun the knob, and before I turned around I took out a cigarette and lit it. There was nobody in sight beyond the windows. I went out and locked the door.

  I was just backing the Chevrolet away from the curb when a police car came around the corner from Fulton behind me. For an instant I felt a quick stab of fear; then I saw it was only Cap Deets, the night patrolman, in one of the city cars. He waved, and went on past. My only danger at the moment was Scanlon, in case he was having me watched to see if I tried to leave town. Or Mulholland, I thought grimly, if he were the one who’d killed her. I drove on down Clebourne at a casual pace and turned right into Montrose as if I were going home. There was nobody behind me. Two blocks over I turned right again and was headed back parallel to Clebourne. When I reached the west end of town I cut back to Clebourne and the highway, checked the mirror once more, and breathed softly in release of tension as I bore down on the accelerator. When I passed the service-club signs at the city limits I was doing 70.

  * * *

  It was six-twenty and just growing light when I parked the car in a lot at the New Orleans airport. I was hollow-eyed with fatigue and the nervous strain of sustained highspeed driving with one eye cocked on the mirror for the Highway Patrol, but still keyed up mentally as I put the packet of bonds in the suitcase, locked the car, and carried the bag into the terminal. I had a cup of coffee at the lunchroom, asked the cashier for some change, and headed for a telephone booth, setting the suitcase down where I could watch it through the door.

  I dialed the long distance operator and put in a person-to-person call to Ernie Sewell. I didn’t know his number, but he lived on Springer Street, on the edge of town, in a small ranch-style house he and his wife were paying off. She worked for the county, in the Tax Assessor’s office. He was a serious-minded and hard-working young man of about 24 who’d been a track and basketball star in high school, and had been in charge of the sporting-goods department at Jennings Hardware before he went to work for Roberts.

  “Hello?” he said sleepily. “Oh. Mr. Warren? I thought the operator said New Orleans.”

  “She did,” I said. “I came down last night. I’m sorry to get you out of bed this early.”

  “It’s all right. Matter of fact, I was going to call you today. But I won’t bother you about it now, over long distance.”

  “Go ahead,” I said. “What is it?”

  “Well,” he replied hesitantly, “it’s about the store. I don’t want to sound like a ghoul, with Roberts not even buried yet, but somebody’s going to buy the stock and fixtures, probably one of those bankruptcy outfits. My idea is that since you own the building you’d rather have the store there than the vacant space. All I’ve got is a few hundred dollars saved up, but I thought maybe if you’d put in a word for me at the bank I might be able to swing it. Run right, that place could make money.”

  “You mean it didn’t? I thought Roberts was doing all right.”

  “Well, that’s the funny part of it; it seemed to make money, and maybe the books’ll show a big profit, but I wouldn’t want to try to get the loan under false pretenses. The truth is we didn’t move enough merchandise to make anything after he paid the rent and my salary. The potential’s there, all right, or I wouldn’t want it, but he just didn’t seem to have any interest in the place, and he wouldn’t give me any authority to speak of. For one thing, he’d never keep his stock up; he wouldn’t order anything until somebody asked for it, and then it’s too late—they’d just go to Jennings. And I couldn’t get him to advertise.”

  “I see,” I said, thinking of that Browning shotgun, and the Porsche, and a thousand-dollar membership in the Duck Club. “How’d he keep going?”

  “I don’t know, so help me, Mr. Warren. He never seemed to have any trouble meeting his bills, and he always had a good-sized balance at the bank. But I do know that if somebody took hold of that place who knew how to run a sporting-goods store and would stay home and run it, he could have Jennings looking at his hole card inside of three months. He hasn’t got anybody over there that knows anything about guns and fishing tackle.”

  “I know,” I said. “Then you think Roberts was doctorin
g his books, or had some other source of income?”

  “Well, I don’t know whether he was faking the books or not, but he sure seemed to be banking more money than we took in. I realize it’d be easier to get the loan if I didn’t say anything about this, but I don’t like to do business that way.”

  “I’ll see you get the loan,” I said. “But what about Roberts’ family? Have they located anybody yet?”

  “Yes. Mr. Scanlon and I went down to the store yesterday evening after supper and found a couple of letters with his brother’s address on them. He lives in Houston, Texas. Scanlon sent off a wire, and got one back in a couple of hours. The brother’s making arrangements to have the body shipped to Houston for the funeral. It’ll be a week or ten days, though, before he can get down here to pick up Roberts’ personal stuff and see about disposing of the store.”

  “Do you remember the brother’s address?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I do remember his name was Clinton, though. Clinton L. Roberts.”

  “You won’t open the store today, I suppose?”

  “No. Scanlon said we’d better close it until the brother gets here. All his stuff is there in the apartment in back. I turned the key over to him—Mr. Scanlon, I mean.”

  “I see. Well, here’s what I wanted to ask you, Ernie. Do you happen to know what girls Roberts ran around with mostly?”

  By now he was probably exploding with curiosity, but he was too polite to express it. “Well, there were a lot of ‘em, I guess, though he never talked about ‘em much. He was more interested in girls than he was in the store, that’s for sure. At different times I’ve seen him with Carol Holliday, and Mrs. Ryan that works for you, and Midge Carson. And let’s see—Doris Bentley, and Sue Prentiss. And probably some more I can’t think of at the moment.”

  Doris Bentley, I thought. She’d worked for Frances when she had the dress shop. It’d been a year and a half since I’d heard her voice on the telephone, but in those days she’d answer quite often when I’d call there for Frances. It could be—