Recipe for Homicide, page 21
Captain Kavlik barred the entrance to Warehouse No. 1. “Sorry, Miss Wall,” he said.
Barbara Wall may have been a small girl, but indignation added several inches to her stature, without detracting from her calm self-assurance. “Haven’t you posted your men at all the doors?” she demanded archly.
“Oh, yes,” Kavlik said, “but I’ve had new orders. I had to report this to the front office, you know. Routine.”
At this moment Mr. Quirk materialized from nowhere. “Captain,” he said. “Mr. Evans has instructed me to warn you that you are not to take orders from Miss Wall. Even when Miss Wall was a Barzac employee, she was not authorized to give orders to the Guard Force. As of this moment, she is not an employee. She resigned within the hour.”
“Let me go in, Captain. Please,” Barbara begged. “Mr. Quirk may not care if he has murder on his hands, but you want to sleep nights, Captain, I’m sure.”
While Kavlik was toying with the idea of lèse majesté, a process which seemed to affect the relationship of his lips to his false teeth, a police car screamed to a stop in front of the warehouse. Before its siren had growled into silence, two uniformed policemen jumped out with guns drawn.
“Where’s the trouble, Mac?” said the first policeman, to an obligato of more sirens rising to a crescendo in the near background.
“There’s no trouble,” said Mr. Quirk quickly. “You’ve been summoned by error.”
Mr. Quirk’s pronouncement was punctuated by the sound of a shot—a hollow detonation whose humming echo was lost in the spaces of the warehouse.
“What was that?” the policeman demanded.
“Probably a carton falling from the conveyor belt,” said Mr. Quirk, nervously watching the arrival of two more police cars. “It’s quite a drop, you know. Thirty feet, at least.”
“That was gunfire,” said the policeman. Max Ritter and Dr. Coffee got out of the second car. “You’re just in time, Lieutenant. The shooting’s started.”
“I’m sorry, Lieutenant,” said Mr. Quirk, “but unless you have a search warrant—”
“Go bake a cake,” said Ritter. “Henry, you take the door. Kavlik, you know the joint, so you’d better go in with us. Jordan—”
With no more than a dozen words, Ritter had deployed his forces, and the search was on. It was ended a few minutes later by a shout from Captain Kavlik.
People converged on the shout, scurrying through the ant runs between the cardboard pyramids—guards, policemen, warehousemen, sundry Barzac personnel. A circle formed about Dr. Coffee, as he worked in the light of Kavlik’s flash lamp.
Bart Remington elbowed his way through the perimeter. He stared first at Frances Froley, still sprawled on the cement floor, then at Gilmore, propped against a stack of cartons, his face streaked with blood.
“Where’d you come from, Remington?” Ritter demanded.
“From my office. I heard something had happened in the warehouse.…”?
“Get these two people across the street to the infirmary right away,” Dr. Coffee said.
“I’ll phone for stretchers,” Remington said.
“You stay right here, Remington,” Ritter said. “You, too, Quirk. Kavlik will get the stretchers.”
Barbara had edged through the little crowd until she stood next to Remington. She stared at him with hard, accusing eyes until he turned to look at her. “Where’s the letter, Bart?” she asked.
“What letter?”
“You were standing outside my office, Bart, while I was talking to Gil on the phone a little while ago.” Barbara spoke with a dry, lifeless voice. “The partition is thin, and the acoustics are good. You heard me relay Mrs. Froley’s message about the letter that was red hot, and you rushed over here to the warehouse before Gil could get here. You—you skunk!”
“Now Barbara, wait a minute—”
“We can’t wait, Remington.” Ritter snaked a pair of chain cuffs from his hip pocket. “You and me have got business downtown. The charge will be murder in the first degree—that’s Froley; conspiracy, aiding and abetting murder—that’s Peggy Bayliss; and assault with a deadly weapon with intent to commit murder—that’s Mrs. Froley and Gilmore. And if that ain’t enough, we’ve still got that dynamite and a few odds and ends. Then the Army might want—”
“You’ve got to let me call my attorney,” Remington mopped the perspiration from his white face. “It’s my constitutional right!”
“The Constitution,” said Dr. Coffee, “isn’t going to be much help in explaining away the blood on the tire-tool, or the pollen and poppy fragments we found in the trunk compartment of your shiny new Cadillac that you used to cart Froley’s body to the cannery from Gilmore’s garden, where you killed him.”
“Come on, Remington,” Ritter said.
XXVII
Gilmore was sitting up in bed, arguing. “If the X-rays don’t show any cracks in my skull,” he protested, “why can’t I go home?”
“You had a slight concussion,” Dr. Coffee replied. “You’re going to stay in the hospital until we’re sure no secondary symptoms will develop.”
“It’s a hell of a place to spend a vacation,” Gilmore said.
“You can have visitors,” Max Ritter said. “There’s one outside now. That dame from your soup foundry. Barbara Wall.”
“I don’t want to see her.”
“She’s easy on the eyes.”
“She sold me down the river.”
“Don’t be a dope,” the detective said. “She saved you from getting your fool brains spattered all over the floor of that warehouse. Am I right, Doc?”
Dr. Coffee nodded. “Miss Wall sent out the SOS that brought the rescue forces to the warehouse in time to interrupt Remington.”
“She sold me down the river,” Gilmore repeated. “Three times. In my league, three strikes is out.”
“Look, Gilmore,” Ritter pleaded. “As a special favor to me, will you see this dame? She won’t give up the letter because it’s addressed to you.”
“Oh yes. The letter I went to the warehouse to get from Frankie Froley, only Remington got there first. Did Barbara rig that one, too?”
“Miss Wall found the letter tucked between two cartons, not far from where Remington waylaid you,” Dr. Coffee said. “Obviously he intended to go back and get it later, after the dust had settled. Max wants to turn it over to the prosecutor with the rest of the evidence, so if you’d just co-operate.…”
“All right, let her come in,” Gilmore said.
He had never seen Barbara Wall embarrassed before. At least she seemed embarrassed as she walked to his bedside and looked at him shyly from under her upswept lashes. She had a package under her arm.
“I’ve come to throw myself on the mercy of the court,” Barbara said.
“What have you done now?” Gilmore demanded.
“The same old thing,” she said. “That story about you and your North African wife again.”
“That’s right. You did phone it to the Tribune.”
“I didn’t, Gil. But I take full blame for it, because I told the story to Bart Remington several weeks ago. It wasn’t very discreet, I know, but I guess I was peeved at you for ignoring me when I came back into your life. Besides, the thing is a matter of public record in New York and Reno. And then I never dreamed Remington wasn’t to be trusted.”
“Stop apologizing,” Gilmore said. “How did it get to the Tribune?”
“Bart Remington must have recorded every word I said. It was an old trick of his, with his wire recorder. He’d plant a microphone in the room while he was entertaining, and then amuse or embarrass his guests by playing back their small talk later. In my case he must have edited the wire so it made a coherent story. Then he called the Tribune and let my voice dictate the story.”
“Why?” Gilmore asked.
“Part of his campaign to drive Barzac shares down a few more points, I guess. And he used my voice to keep himself out of the picture. When the Tribune reporter began quoting my words back at me at the press conference this afternoon, I realized what had happened, and I immediately—”
“Okay, Barbie, you’re forgiven,” Gilmore said. “What about reading me the letter? This bandage cuts down on my vision.”
The letter from George Bayliss was a curious document.
“My dear Gilmore,” it began, “I am not quite sure why I feel I have to write to you. It may be because you are a man whom Peggy admired and respected so that in explaining to you that I was not directly responsible for Peggy’s death, I am coming as close as I can to explaining to Peggy. Or perhaps I am merely trying to justify myself to myself. At any rate, here is the whole tragic story, or at least my part of it, from the beginning.
“You may not have known that I was a member of the Communist Party—at least until this past week. Peggy knew, and it was one of the reasons for our separation. She might have gone on supporting me, if I had left the Party. But I made my choice, and although I have regretted it since many times, I doubt if the final outcome would have been different had I decided otherwise.
“About a week before Peggy’s death, I was called in by one of the top Party men in Chicago, actually the Midwest chief for our direct-action apparatus. He had received a report from Froley in Northbank that puzzled him. Froley reported that he had carried out Emile’s orders, and that the Army rations had been successfully poisoned according to instructions. My chief immediately suspected either a counter-espionage coup, or an agent-provocateur, inasmuch as no sabotage had been ordered in Northbank. Furthermore, none of our agents in the Midwest was using the name of Emile; the name was retired when Zina failed to deliver the book that you brought from Europe. So I was sent to Northbank to investigate.
“The defection of Zina had come to light by this time, and I thought the use of the name of Emile indicated that you your-self might be the agent-provocateur in the case. In any event, it was apparent that the investigation would keep me in Northbank for some time, so I signed on at Barzac in order to be able to frequent the plant without arousing suspicion. My first contact with Froley told me two things: That although ‘Emile’ might well be an agent-provocateur, he could also be someone with a grudge against Barzac, someone who knew Froley was a Party member and was using him; and also that Froley was in deadly fear of being caught. Froley was convinced that you were spying on him through his wife, and announced his intention of scaring you off, or, if that didn’t work, of worse. At this point, I called Peggy to warn you, not for your sake, Gilmore, because I wasn’t sure what your role was, but because I thought that Peggy might somehow get involved in this through you, and I still loved Peggy, believe it or not.
“That is why I first ransacked Peggy’s apartment, to make sure you had not planted Émile with her. I went through your place as a double check, although I was sure you would not keep the book in your possession. And I finally thought of Barbara, where I actually found it.…”
“Hey!" Gilmore interrupted, “Where the hell is that book? Is that package you’ve got there—?”
“Don’t be rude while I’m reading,” Barbara said. She went on: “I could find no clue to the identity of the ‘Emile’ who had ordered the poisoning. He communicated with Froley only by telephone. I listened to part of one conversation, if it could be called a conversation. Froley could not identify the voice, so I thought perhaps I could. It was impossible. The voice was of an unnaturally low pitch, as if it had been recorded, and the recording played back at reduced speed.
“I did not tell Froley that ‘Emile’ was not a bona-fide C.P. agent, and Froley had been in the Party long enough to realize that it was routine for a member not to know the identity of any but a very few comrades with whom he worked. But when Froley showed me the dynamite and fuses which he had been told to take home, I was convinced that he was being used not only as a tool but as the fall guy. When the axe fell, it was Froley who would be revealed as the arch-conspirator and dangerous saboteur with his house full of explosives.
“When Peggy died, Froley lost his head completely. He was mad with fear. He was determined to kill you before you could worm any secrets out of Frances. He was afraid Frances might betray him out of spite for his many infidelities. He went to your garage with several sticks of dynamite, and planned to booby-trap your car that night. You surprised him, however, and he ran.”
“And I grabbed him,” Gilmore interrupted. “That explains why my mother smelled camphor on my hands.”
Barbara resumed reading: “I then talked him into moving the dynamite to my room, where I helped him fuse the three sticks that were ultimately supposed to blow you up. When he went home, I removed the percussion caps, and packed the fuse-ends with damp earth—not for any humanitarian reasons, Gilmore, but because I was under instructions to prevent any further overt act. I couldn’t prevent Froley from installing the booby trap in your car during the funeral, but I knew it would not explode and I removed the evidence the first chance I got.
“Froley’s final orders from ‘Emile’ came Friday afternoon. He was to go to your house at ten o’clock, to wait for you to come home, and to strangle you. Evidently ‘Emile’ had decided Froley had served his purpose, and had best be eliminated before he was arrested and questioned. He seems to have known that the law was about to lay hands on Froley, and also that you would not be home at ten.”
Gilmore interrupted again. “Of course he knew! He was in Evans’s office when you and I made a date for dinner, Barbie.”
Barbara continued reading: “At the time, I didn’t know that ‘Emile’s’ summons was a death warrant for Froley. I thought that ‘Emile’ had adopted the Froley thesis of Gilmore-is-a-spy and therefore Gilmore must go. It was at this point that I made a decision of my own.
“I’d become a Communist for the same reason that you got to be a Democrat or a Republican or whatever you are. It was a matter of domestic politics. I believed the Party stood for a better way of life for me and people like me. It was against the things I hated: Government by lobby; power deriving from money, instead of from ability or experience or the will of the people; race prejudice; monopoly for personal profit; exploitation of the have-nots. It had seemed to me a human and humane political philosophy.
“And then, gradually, communism changed—or I changed. The Party’s interest in domestic issues dwindled to those it could use to exploit its own ends. And the ends were no longer the ends I wanted. I was no longer working for greater happiness for the greater number, the welfare of the little man, or the liberty of the oppressed. I was a conspirator for a foreign power that practised the very oppression I hated. There was no more humanity in anything we did. It was all discipline, unreasoning obedience, mechanical, unquestioning carrying out of instructions from above.
“A rather stupid little man who thought he was carrying out Party orders because they happened to coincide with the Party line, unwittingly killed Peggy, the only woman I have ever loved. And I, carrying out instructions from above, could not attend Peggy’s funeral because I had to prevent the rather stupid little man from doing something else which was not desired by his superiors. So when I found that the same man, still under the impression that he was taking Party orders, prepared to kill you, I came to a decision: ‘To hell with dialectic materialism. I’m going to be a human being again.’
“So I got hold of Frances Froley—”
“Say!” Gilmore broke in. “How’s Frankie doing, in all this?”
“Fine,” said Dr. Coffee. “She’ll be back to the carrots in a day or two. Meanwhile she’s having the time of her life. She’s surrounded by reporters and photographers.”
“So I got hold of Frances Froley,” Barbara continued reading. “I knew that she was terrified of her husband, who had been getting more surly and threatening every day; and that she looked upon you, Gilmore, as a sort of god who could somehow solve all her problems. I didn’t share ‘Emile’s’ knowledge that you wouldn’t be home at ten o’clock, so I primed Frances to keep you away from home from ten o’clock on, for as long as she could manage it. After that, I had planned to meet you with her and to tell you what I am now forced to write, because things went wrong. I wanted you to know these things, because once I got back to Chicago, nobody knows what might happen.
“I decided to go to Chicago and turn in my card, because there was no other way that seemed right under the circum-stances. I thought of running to the F.B.I., but that wouldn’t have been right for me either, because part of the responsibility for this, even for Peggy’s death, was mine. I played ball with these men for years, and I want them to know that I am quitting, that I no longer think as they think, and will no longer act as they want me to act.
“I’m also going back to help Zina, if I can, although I’m afraid I’m too late for that. Zina was in Chicago last I heard, but it looks very much as though she has paid in full for whatever she did to you.
“I am entrusting this letter to Frances Froley with full confidence that she will get it to your hands. Frankie is very much for Frankie, which means that she is on your side. She realized that Froley was about to go down for the last time, even before I prompted her. She looks on you, therefore, as a symbol of security in the future. After all, you got her in the newsreels.
“Enclosed you will find the key to self-checking locker R-370 at the Northbank airport. It contains your copy of Émile. Do with it as you see fit.”
“Hey!” interrupted Gilmore. “Where’s that key?”
“At the airport,” Barbara said. “I opened the locker in the presence of the airport manager and two policemen.” She took the package from her lap and tossed it to the bed. “Here’s your Émile,” she said.
“Call Stapp,” Gilmore said. “Get me the F.B.I. right away.”
