Call After Midnight, page 19
“Sometimes you know, though, just the same,” he said slowly. “Instinct, something.”
“I might not have left Fiora at all. It was just chance that she asked for milk.”
“I don’t know, Fiora was the type who likes attention. Seems to me anybody might guess that she’d want something or other. In any event, it was a chance that could have occurred. And did.”
“I shouldn’t have left her at all.”
“I’m very glad you did,” Cal said soberly. “Anybody who has got himself into a state of mind for murder isn’t likely to be very sensible. It was a lucky thing you did leave. Guns carry more than two bullets. Somebody goes berserk, shoots somebody, then shoots everybody else in sight. Sure, it’s not sensible. Murder is not sensible. The murderer might have got tired of waiting, nerves strung tight, scared and given it up—but he didn’t. Parenti acknowledges all this but he’s sticking to Peter as his prime suspect. There’s one point in Peter’s favor though, with Parenti. Blanche said that she was talking to Art at the time of the first shot and that Peter was in the library. Parenti questioned Art and Art said yes, Blanche phoned him and broke off and banged down the phone; he says he didn’t hear the shot or he’d have come to see what was the trouble. It does seem to give Peter an alibi for that first shot. Parenti acknowledges that but says there could be a trick. He won’t say what. But at the same time Parenti is sure that the first attempt which failed and the second which succeeded were made by the same person. There’s another thing that he told me; he’s got a smear of a fingerprint that he can’t identify. Said it was on the table beside Fiora’s bed as if somebody had leaned over to—well, to get a straight shot.”
The room was warm; Jenny felt cold. “They don’t have Mrs. Brown’s fingerprints.”
“That’s right! I forgot that. She wouldn’t let the policeman take them. Well—I’ll remind Parenti of that. Parenti has been fair, I’ll say that for him.”
He thought for a moment. “Jenny, you said, didn’t you, that Mrs. Brown couldn’t remember anything of importance in those letters of Fiora’s?”
“That’s what she said.”
“I think she’d remember. Still—I don’t like Mrs. Brown being alone out there tonight.”
Jenny put her hands flat on the leather arms of her chair. “You’re going out there.”
Cal sat down on the footstool beside her. “I think this attempt to get you to take those pills is a sign that our murderer has got cold feet. He’s in such a panic that he’s trying the easy way, to scare you silly first and then threaten. Another thing, murder is an amateur crime. An amateur makes mistakes. I think his first attempt to kill Fiora really was that; an outright attempt to kill her then and there, which went wrong. He blundered but then succeeded. He’s blundered about you. But I think now he’s on the run.”
“You keep saying he,” she said after a moment. “I think it was a woman’s voice over the phone—”
“You’re not sure. Now there’s no chance of finding that taxicab driver who warned you. But Parenti ought to know all this. Also I want to get hold of Dodson and make him talk.”
“Suppose he’s got some evidence that will hurt Peter?”
“It could be the other way. He might know something that will help Peter.”
“Dodson knew Fiora,” Jenny said slowly, “but—oh, Cal, how can we be sure? If Parenti questions him—”
“I’ll get hold of Dodson first.” A long peal sounded through the house. Cal rose. “That’s Peter.”
“It might be somebody else!”
“Only Peter knows I’m here. Jenny, I’ve got to ask you this. Are you going to marry Peter again?”
She had made up her mind to that, that morning. It seemed a very long time ago. “Yes. Not now—not for a long time—”
“But sometime? Then Peter was telling the truth when he said you’d settled it together?”
“No. No, he wasn’t. We haven’t settled it.”
There was another peal of the doorbell.
“What do you mean you haven’t settled it?”
“I’ve got to wait.”
Cal had so quietly and completely reverted to his character as a friend, and only that, that she could speak directly and did. “It’s as I told you, Cal. I feel as if I’m still Peter’s wife. I know that you understand.”
“Yes,” he said after a moment. “Oh yes.” He turned abruptly and went downstairs as the doorbell pealed impatiently several times.
She heard their voices on the stairs. Peter came in, looking tired. “So this is where you’ve been, Jenny. I went to your apartment as soon as it was dark. Nobody was at home. I didn’t know where to find you. Give me a drink, Cal. This has been a hellish day. I hid out in the club all day, didn’t talk to a soul. Sneaked out past the lounge after everybody had gone to dinner. I’ve about had it.” He sank down in a chair and rubbed his hands over his eyes.
“Jenny’s had rather a day, too,” Cal said. “Help yourself to a drink, Peter. You know where it is. I’m going out to your house.”
Peter’s head jerked up. “Tonight?”
Jenny said, “I’m going too.”
“All right,” Cal said coolly, “I’ll phone for my car.” He went out.
Peter went to a cabinet, opened it, and poured himself a drink. “Well, if you’re both going out there, I’ll go too. What did Cal mean by saying you’d had a day?”
Peter, of course, still knew nothing of a messenger who was no messenger, a series of pill bottles that haunted her. And Jenny still had not asked Cal if there were reasons which Cal had not explained to her why Peter shouldn’t be told.
Peter sank down into a chair and drank, and before she could decide what if anything to say Cal came back, with a topcoat over his arm. “Here, Jenny, it’s turned cooler. You’d better wrap yourself up in this coat of mine. I’ll get your bag.”
Peter frowned. “Your bag? What’s he talking about?”
Cal was running upstairs. Jenny said, “I stayed here one night. There’s a dressing case of mine here. I suppose Cal means we’ll have to stay at your house tonight.”
“I shouldn’t think either of you would go near that damned place again. I’m going to get rid of it if I have to give it away. Not that I think anybody will take it.” A car tooted lightly outside as Cal came in with Jenny’s bag in his hand.
“That’s the boy from the garage,” he said. “Ready?”
Peter lingered to finish his drink.
They came out into the spring night; it was cooler, yet still sultry from the heat of the day. The car stood at the curb. They sat close together in the front seat, with the light from the ashtray Peter opened casting a little light on their faces. Instead of going straight across to the East Side Drive, however, Cal turned downtown at the first corner. Peter said, “Where are you going?”
“To pick up Blanche.”
“Blanche!” Peter’s arm, pressed against Jenny’s, gave a little jerk. He leaned forward to peer at Cal, past Jenny.
“Just a notion,” Cal said imperturbably. “Any objections?”
“No point to it,” Peter said. “Do as you please.”
Cal would do as he pleased anyway, Jenny thought. They pulled up before an imposing apartment house and Peter, nearest the curb, said, “I’ll get her,” and slid out. The doorman had already come hurriedly to open the door. “Good evening, Mr. Vleedam.” Peter said something and went into the apartment house.
“Why, he knows Peter,” Jenny said.
“Obviously,” Cal said. “I expect he knows everybody who knows Blanche.” Cal leaned across her to speak to the doorman.
The doorman caught his gesture and came hurriedly forward again. “Yes, sir?”
“Has Mr. Furby been here tonight?”
“What’s that name again, sir?”
“Furby. Arthur Furby.”
The doorman thought and shook his head. “I don’t think I know anybody by that name, sir. Maybe the day man—I’m only on duty at night.”
“Thanks. It doesn’t matter.”
“So it wasn’t Art,” Jenny said. “I mean, it wasn’t Blanche.”
“If I understand you—”
“You understand perfectly.”
“I’m not sure that it’s conclusive evidence.”
She said after a moment, “No, it doesn’t mean a thing. The doorman happened to remember Peter but he might have—oh, forgotten Art. Besides, what difference does it make? Cal, there’s something I want to ask you before Peter comes back. Why don’t you want Peter to know about the pills and my key and—”
“I’m going to tell him now.”
Peter came back across the sidewalk and the doorman sprang to open the door again. “She’s not there,” Peter said. “Hasn’t been there all day. At least that’s what the elevator man says. She must have been at the office. Her maid doesn’t answer the bell. Probably her day off. Why do you want to take Blanche out there, Cal?”
Cal stared ahead of him for a moment. “I don’t really know,” he said at last. “But I—somehow I think we’d better hurry.”
The car shot away from the curb. Peter said, “Hurry? Why? What’s on your mind, Cal?”
Again for a long time Cal didn’t answer. Then he said, “I think I’m afraid because Mrs. Brown is out there alone—”
“Afraid for her!” Peter gave a laugh which wasn’t quite a laugh. “If anybody tackles Mrs. Brown he’d better, look out for himself.”
“I think we’ll get there as fast as we can, just the same,” Cal said.
Mrs. Brown and her letters, Jenny thought—no, no, Fiora’s letters, but possible danger to Mrs. Brown.
Cal shot ahead so fast that he made it by a squeak through an orange warning light. Peter said, “Well take it easy. There’s no such rush as that.”
They were on the Drive, with lights from the shoreline reflecting themselves in glittering movements in the black river when Cal said, “Don’t you want to hear what happened today, Peter?”
“Happened?” Peter stirred. “Oh, yes, you were going to tell me something about Jenny.”
“Something about Jenny, yes,” Cal said and told it all. He didn’t miss anything; he had stored away every small detail.
Peter interrupted once with a little exclamation, again by saying, “Pills! That’s why Parenti asked me about pills. Fiora took them. I didn’t like it. So she’d hide them around in odd places so I wouldn’t know she was taking them.”
“Who besides you knew that?” Cal asked quickly.
“Nobody. That is, unless she told somebody.”
“Blanche?”
Peter thought about it. “Maybe. That doesn’t mean Blanche has been sneaking into Jenny’s apartment and leaving empty bottles around.”
“N-no,” Cal said. “It does mean that whoever did it had access to those hidden bottles. Or was supplied with them.”
“Well, go on. What else happened?” Peter said after a pause.
Cal went on. The Museum, the taxidriver, Waldo Dodson’s threat of blackmail, Mrs. Brown’s call upon Jenny and Fiora’s letters. Another bottle, this time full. A voice over the telephone. The locksmith and another missing key.
Peter was angry. “Why didn’t you tell me all this before now?” he said dangerously.
“Two reasons, really,” Cal said. “First, because you lied to me.”
“Never—” But Peter stirred uneasily.
“Oh yes. After your divorce I asked you where Jenny lived and what she was doing. I wanted to see her. You told me you didn’t know anything about her. That was a lie.”
“Well—well—why should you want to see Jenny?”
“Why shouldn’t I?” Cal said coolly.
“You could have looked in the phone book,” Peter said.
“Oh, I did,” Cal replied. “But you see I looked for her maiden name. It never occurred to me that she’d keep on using your name.”
“She did though,” Peter said. “And if you want to know why I lied, it’s—well it’s obvious, isn’t it? By that time, I knew I’d made a mistake, marrying Fiora. Well, it’s true, why shouldn’t I say so! I knew that Jenny—well, I didn’t want you taking Jenny away from me, that’s all. Is that so criminal?”
“You never want to give up anything altogether, do you, Peter?” Cal said, rather wearily. “The other reason I didn’t tell you about all this is that Fiora suspected you of trying to kill her.
And because deep in his heart Cal has suspected Peter, too, Jenny thought. So that was the reason for advising her not to tell Peter any of it; it was a reason Cal wouldn’t have dared offer Jenny.
Peter cried, “Fiora!”
“Why would she ask Jenny to stay with her that night? Why wouldn’t she have you stay with her, or Blanche?”
“She didn’t—she wouldn’t—she couldn’t have suspected me!” Peter said, drawing himself up. “But you did, didn’t you, Cal? So you wouldn’t tell me about Jenny and the pills and her key and—you thought I did all that!”
“I didn’t think so but I had to be sure,” Cal said flatly. “I thought if we kept it quiet, except for Parenti, it’d be easier to—”
“To trap me!” Peter burst out angrily. “And I thought you were my friend.”
“I’m Jenny’s friend, too,” Cal said briefly.
Peter peered at Jenny. “Why should anybody go after you, Jenny? Haven’t you any idea at all?”
That was not worth answering, Jenny thought wearily. Cal said, “I think our murderer’s getting scared—”
“Our murderer?” Peter said. “Do you mean that whoever this was, following Jenny around today is—Fiora’s murderer?”
“Don’t be such an ass,” Cal said shortly. “Who else would it be? Now then, what’s Dodson got on you?”
“Not a thing in the world,” Peter said airily.
Jenny knew Peter too well. It was too airy. It was the way Peter had spoken when she had her first, smallest suspicion that he was interested in Fiora.
Suppose, sometime, he met another Fiora. Or even a succession of Fiora’s. She had thought of everything but that. She tried to dismiss it but it persisted like a chill wind. She must have made some move to pull her coat around her, for Cal rolled up the window beside him. He said to Peter, “That’s good.” After a long pause he added thoughtfully, “It would be a very risky business to hire a murderer. Practically an invitation to blackmail.”
Peter was angry again. “I resent your implication!”
“What does Dodson know?”
“I tell you, there’s nothing! Oh—he might have seen me taking some woman to dinner or—”
“Who?”
“Nobody in particular! What right have you got to question me like this? I didn’t kill Fiora. I had nothing to do with it. Jenny can prove that.”
“Oh,” Cal said. The car leaped ahead faster, urgently, as if it knew there was something it had to stop.
Chapter 19
BUT WHEN THE HEADLIGHTS of the car swept along the curving driveway between dark masses of trees and shrubbery not a thing moved in the broad path of light. When they reached the steps the house lay before them, silent and dark.
Cal turned off the car lights and the engine. Jenny didn’t really want to get out of the car but she did, after Peter. The night was cloudy, with a wind that rustled the trees. Some flowering shrub had come into bloom in the unseasonably warm weather; there was a fragrance of that and of the sea.
Peter unlocked the front door and snapped on lights and somebody said in a piercing whisper, “Be quiet—”
Mrs. Brown in a violently flowered kimono and curlers emerged from the dining room. “Now you’ve spoiled everything,” she snapped. “Somebody has been trying to get into the house!”
There was something about Mrs. Brown which induced instantaneous belief. Cal said, “We’d better take a look.”
“I’ll get flashlights,” Peter said.
Mrs. Brown yanked at a curler which apparently was fastened too tightly; she got it loose and as Cal and Peter started out the door she said crossly, “It’s too late. You’ll not find anybody.”
With her usual faculty for hitting a nail on the head, Mrs. Brown was right. It was a cursory search at best. Presently Cal and Peter returned. Mrs. Brown said, “But there was somebody.”
Cal said, “Who?”
Peter said, “Why didn’t you call the police?”
“And scare her away! I was going to find out for sure but just then you came.”
“Her?” Cal said. “You mean Blanche.”
Mrs. Brown nodded once. “She heard me phone in my telegram to have the letters sent to me. At least she was in the hall here when I came out and I didn’t have the library door closed. I don’t think Blanche would miss anything like that.”
“You should have closed the door,” Peter said absently. “You can’t hear a thing when the door is closed. Well, if you have those letters you’d better give them to me.”
“Do you know about them, too?” Mrs. Brown said.
“Of course. Cal told me on the way out here. Where are they?”
Mrs. Brown pursed up her lips, debated and shook her head. “They belong to me. But I’ve read them. Every single one.” She made up her mind and sighed. “You’ll never give me an allowance now, Peter. But truth is truth. You did want to get rid of Fiora.”
“I didn’t! I didn’t kill her! This is preposterous—”
“I didn’t say you killed her. I really don’t think you did,” Mrs. Brown said judicially. “But why did Fiora keep saying that she’d never give you a divorce?”
“She—she always said that. It was a joke—”
“No,” said Mrs. Brown firmly, “no joke.”
“Well—well—all right, perhaps she guessed that I was still in love with Jenny and—Maybe she saw my telephone bills or something and—”
“Not Jenny,” Mrs. Brown said, “Blanche.”
“Really, Mrs. Brown,” Peter began indignantly and Mrs. Brown cut in. “Oh yes, I didn’t think of it until I read all the letters over again at the same time. First …” She put out a stubby hand and checked off items with her fingers. “You’ve not been at home as much as you should have been for the last few months. Fiora kept saying that you had to stay in town on business. Business!” She said with a shake of her curlers. Peter made a move to speak but she raised her voice over Peter’s. “Second, I began to realize that all at once Blanche was here often—too often. Fiora would write, ‘Blanche was here for the weekend.’ Or ‘I showed Blanche my new fur stole, it really burned her up.’ Or ‘Blanche drove out for dinner and spent the night.’ And once she said, ‘Wouldn’t Blanche like to be in my shoes. She’s green-eyed jealous.’ Those very words. And then she said, ‘No use in Blanche or anybody making a play for Peter, I’ll never give him a divorce.’ Oh, I didn’t pay much attention to it at the time. Now it’s different. Blanche and Fiora were always sort of jealous of each other but—Well,” Mrs. Brown said with a sigh, “now you’ll never give me a penny, Peter.” She turned to Cal, “But there’s nothing else in those letters. You can see them if you want to but I’d know—”
