Call After Midnight, page 7
“Those stairs that go up beside the pantry refrigerator? No.”
“Whoever shot the second Mrs. Vleedam could have stood on those stairs, hidden by the door and by the refrigerator door. The powder burns on her sleeve indicated a fairly close shot. Poor shot,” Captain Parenti put down the rabbit, “but a close one. Was your former husband on those back stairs just before Mrs. Vleedam was killed?”
“No! I’ve told you. We were together in the dining room when the shots were fired.”
He eyed a green jade ashtray. “There is a popular misconception, Mrs. Vleedam, that a wife cannot testify against her husband. The fact is that she cannot be forced to testify against her husband.”
“Testify?”
“In the event of a trial. But don’t think that this consideration is likely to be accorded a former wife, one who is legally not a wife at all. Fact is, I don’t know that I’ve heard of such a case. Still it has probably occurred.”
Trial, Jenny thought with horror; trial.
“And in a trial it seems to me that the prosecuting attorney would certainly suggest collusion.” He leaned forward, putting his elbows on his knees and looked at her directly. “Collusion. You claim an alibi for your former husband. He claims an alibi for you. Thus it might be said that you’ve both agreed to lie and protect each other.”
“But that is not true—”
“Mr. Calendar didn’t see you come up the stairs. He had heard Mrs. Vleedam scream. He had roused. He then heard the shots and ran to her room. Miss Fair heard the shots, came out into the hall. Neither of them remember seeing you or your former husband on the stairway.”
“We were there. Blanche collapsed, it was like a faint Cal was—I suppose he was in Fiora’s room by then.”
“How would another person, the murderer have got into the house?”
“Anybody can get into a house if he really wants to,” she said, quoting Cal.
“And anybody can get out of a house if he really wants to? Is that what you mean? How?”
“How—why, the back door—”
“You said you had bolted the back door.”
“I did but the murderer could have opened it from the inside.”
“You want me to believe that someone came secretly into the house and was here, hiding, when you went to the kitchen?”
“I don’t know.”
“It doesn’t sound very reasonable, does it? Somebody in the house, waiting for a chance to murder. Waiting for you to leave Mrs. Vleedam. That would be quite a chance for anybody to take.”
“I don’t know how it happened! But he must have entered the house and got away—” She leaned forward. “Was the back door still bolted when you—the police came?”
“I’m asking the questions. How do you suggest this murderer got away?”
“The—well, a window. The French doors, there. He could have gone out the front door, for that matter, and none of us would have known it. It was so horrible, confusing. I can’t tell you—”
“How could anyone have escaped Mrs. Vleedam’s room without being seen by one of you?”
She stared at him. “I don’t know. I—why, yes, I do know. There’s a double door across the corridor.”
He nodded. She went on quickly. “I’m sure it was closed at the time of the shots for when Cal ran toward Fiora’s room I heard both sides of it bang back against the walls. So whoever shot her had time—I’m sure he had time to run on around the corner in the back hall and down the back stairs.” She took a long breath and thought it over. “Yes, it must have been like that.”
“Is this the first time you have considered ways and means of escape for an intruder?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Haven’t you talked to anybody about it?”
“No. Was the back door still bolted when you came?”
He picked up the crystal rabbit again, flicked its flame off and on a few times and said, “No. The bolt was off—”
“You see!”
“You had plenty of time to unlock that door to make it look as if somebody had escaped that way.”
“I didn’t!”
“You say this invisible and remarkably silent person took the gun away with him.”
“He had to if you haven’t found the gun. That’s how we knew it was murder. Peter and Cal looked and there wasn’t any gun.”
“Why did your former husband get rid of the slug from that first shot that wounded Mrs. Vleedam?”
“Because he thought she had shot herself with his gun and that—that—”
“He would be accused of attempted murder? Why?”
He must have questioned Peter about that. She leaned forward: “You don’t understand. It was a dreadful shock. He didn’t even think of looking to see if his revolver had been fired. He lost his head, he said so. I understand that.”
“Then you understand more than I do,” he said shortly. His eyelids opened enough to permit her to catch a gleam of bright eyes. “You all tell exactly the same story.”
“It’s the truth,” she said wearily again.
“Exactly the same story. There’s got to be a motive for murder. There was no robbery. Now if, say, you and your former husband had decided to marry again—”
“We hadn’t. We didn’t.”
“—and if, say the second Mrs. Vleedam strongly opposed this—”
As she would have, Jenny thought in spite of herself; she had told her she would. She hoped Captain Parenti could not read her thoughts.
He went on, “—that’s what I would call a motive for her murder. You all tell the same story.” He put down the lighter and rose. “My job is to find out if all of you are lying and why. You can go back to the city any time you want to.”
“Go back—” she began in surprise and then sprang up. “Oh, I forgot to phone. My job!”
The police captain could move as swiftly as a fat little snake. He was instantly across the room where he opened a panel in the wall and disclosed a neat green telephone. “Here’s a phone. There’s another in the hall. There’s another in the kitchen, and one upstairs. Use this one. It’s a single line by the way, not an extension. You can say anything you want to say over it. I wonder why your former husband had a single line put in.”
She guessed the reason: Peter liked to talk to her whenever he chose but he wouldn’t have liked Fiora to lift some extension telephone and hear him, as she had once accidentally and fatally overheard him talking to Fiora. She said, “It’s new to me …Do you really mean it?”
“About going back to the city? Certainly. This is Saturday. We can’t have the inquest until Monday. I’ll have to ask you to come back for that. What’s the matter? Don’t you want to go home?”
“Why, I—” Defiance caught her. She said unexpectedly, “I’ll stay here as long as Peter needs me.”
“That’s what I thought,” he said and walked out of the room.
Chapter 7
SO IF IT HAD BEEN a trap she’d leaped straight into it. Prudence, she reflected suddenly, always came too late.
Well, she could still return to her own safe little apartment.
And leave Peter to face all the things he had to face, such as an accusation of murder?
The word collusion had a chilling power.
Nobody could ever tell what might happen, not when it was murder.
She’d telephone, as she had said she was going to do. She remembered to get a New York line and then dialed the number of Henri et Cie. Somebody was always in the workroom; she doubted if it ever really closed down, night or day. Henri himself answered though and he was in a state of frenzied French and English so mixed up that only her past experience provided clues to understanding. The point was that she was needed. Somebody had the flu, somebody had taken off for the weekend, he had no model, and a big client was flying in from Mexico that day for a private showing.
“I can’t come,” she said.
There was an explosion like fireworks. When it sputtered out she said, “I can’t come to work today, that’s all,” and hung up.
He would almost certainly fire her.
Still he might not. She reflected that Henri had a gift for publicity and her skin crawled. He would be quite capable of pointing her out, later, to clients, whispering that she was the Mrs. Vleedam—“The first wife, vous comprenez—in the house when the murder—oh, yes, the first Mrs. Vleedam—”
Blanche came in as she put down the telephone. “I saw the policeman leave. What did he say? Did he question you about your—your feelings,” Blanche said delicately, “regarding Peter?”
“Yes. Naturally. After what you told him.”
“I’m so sorry, Jenny. I don’t see how he got it out of me but then he’d have asked why you were here at all. Why you came. Perhaps I didn’t do much damage. I hope not.”
“I hope not, too,” Jenny said flatly.
“Did he tell you you could go back to the city?”
“Yes.”
“That’s what he said to me.” Blanche sat down wearily. “We’re like hooked fish. He knows he can reel us in any time he wants to. Jenny, who do you think shot her?”
“I don’t know. Obviously somebody from outside. I know it wasn’t Peter. I don’t see how it could possibly have been Cal or you—”
“Me!”
“And I didn’t kill her. Blanche, do you know whether she had any—oh, enemy? Somebody who would do that?”
“The police captain asked me that, too. No, I don’t know.”
“But you lived with Fiora. You’d have known—”
“I didn’t live all this time with Fiora. We lived together at first. Fiora didn’t have many jobs. I got a job immediately and stayed with it. I’m not boasting but as you know I did very well. Arthur kept raising my salary but I earned it. Fiora used to get some small parts in summer theaters or road companies. She was away much of the time. I decided I could afford a nice apartment and got one. After that I think Fiora rather drifted around but she would come to me for loans when she needed money. We always kept up a friendship but we didn’t share an apartment as we had at first—only then it was a room. But we kept in touch. That’s how I happened to suggest that Arthur ask her to dinner that time with Peter—”
“Yes, I know,” Jenny said shortly. “Did Fiora ever marry before she married Peter?”
Blanche’s green eyes widened. “No! That is, not that I know of. Oh, I’m sure she’d have told me. At least I think so. Besides, how could she have married Peter?”
“There’s always divorce,” Jenny said dryly.
“I think Fiora would have said something about it if she had married before she met Peter.”
“I suppose they’ve looked through Fiora’s room.”
“You mean papers. Letters. Oh, yes. Early this morning they were in there searching. When are you going back to town?”
Blanche’s authoritative manner roused again an incautious wave of defiance in Jenny. “I’ll stay here as long as Peter wants me.”
Blanche tinkled her bracelet. “Doesn’t it strike you that might look rather bad for Peter? Your being here in the house, his first wife? It might put him in a peculiar situation.”
“Well,” Jenny said, “I think the damage, if any, has already been done. On the other hand—yes, you may be right. I was thinking that Peter needs his friends.”
“Cal will stay. I’ll stay if he wants me.” She turned as Peter came into the room.
“Blanche,” he said, “if you don’t mind—I want to talk to Jenny.”
Blanche said, “Peter, I’m sorry that policeman got it out of me. I didn’t mean to tell him about you and Jenny. I mean, there in the kitchen just before Fiora was shot. But I was sure that your friend John Calendar had told him and we’d have to stick to the truth and—”
“Cal wouldn’t have told him. I wish you hadn’t.”
“I wish so, too—I couldn’t help it. You always think so much of Cal, Peter. I admire your loyalty.”
“Why not?” Peter looked puzzled.
“Oh, nothing.”
“You’d better explain.”
“Peter, truly I meant nothing. It only has seemed to me—perhaps I’m wrong—that Cal is jealous of you.”
“Cal?”
“Then I’m wrong,” Blanche said and smiled. “I had an unpleasant feeling that Cal wanted to get you out of the railroad altogether, so he’d be top boss. It’s nice to know that I’m wrong about that …Jenny is going back to town, Peter. I’ll leave you so you can talk.”
She walked gracefully out of the room. Peter stared after her, a little angry but also a little disturbed. Jenny said, “Cal is not jealous of you, Peter. He’s your best friend. Don’t let Blanche plant any seeds of distrust.”
Peter was as loyal to Blanche as to Cal. “Oh, she wouldn’t do that. I can trust Blanche. What’s this about your going back to town? You can’t go. I need you. You’re my alibi.”
“If it comes to that,” Jenny said a little dryly, “you are mine.”
“Yes, but that policeman talks about collusion. Are we protecting each other? What’s back of this? Asked me all sorts of questions—how long had it been since I’d seen you? Why did I send for you? Did I ever regret our divorce? Asked everything. Why, if he can do that, think what a prosecuting attorney can do.”
“I don’t think my presence here is going to do you any good.”
“What’s the matter with you, Jenny? You seem so different. I suppose you feel like paying me back for marrying Fiora. Revenge, is that it? I don’t blame you. All I want to do is make it up to you. I shouldn’t have treated you like that, Jenny—the divorce and all. I was sorry. I’ve been sorry ever since.”
“Don’t!” They were words she had wanted him to say but not here, not now.
Peter caught her hands hard. “You will stick by me, won’t you?”
She freed her hands. “Of course. If you mean about the alibi. Nobody can say we are both lying—”
“That’s exactly what that policeman did say!”
“But we know the truth, Peter.”
“A good prosecuting attorney can knock our story to pieces.”
“How?”
“Well, I don’t know how but he’ll make a good try.”
“Give the police time. It happened only last night They haven’t had time to—”
“They’ve grilled all of us already. Positively grilled us, especially me. If you don’t stick to me, Jenny, I mean about that alibi—”
“I’ll stick to that, of course. It’s the truth.”
“Yes but—Jenny I’ve been sorry! All the time! I’ve missed you so—”
“Don’t!” she said sharply.
Peter’s blue eyes turned icy. “You’ve turned against me.”
“No, no, I haven’t at all.”
He took a long breath and said steadily, “I want you back.”
Blanche said from the open door, “Cal is going back to town.”
Cal came in and Blanche followed him. Jenny wouldn’t look at Cal, who always saw too much.
But Cal said, “Do you want us to leave?”
Peter gave him a blank glance. “I’m talking to Jenny.”
“So I heard,” Cal said. “I couldn’t help overhearing. If you don’t mind my saying so, Peter, there are certain limits to decency.”
“What do you mean by that?” Peter said coldly.
“Oh, for God’s sake, Peter, you know perfectly well what I mean. Skip all these dramatics—”
“Dramatics?” Peter said coldly again.
“That’s what I said. Are you going back to town, Jenny? Because if so, I’ll take you.”
“I want you to stay,” Peter said flatly. “I beg you, Jenny—”
Cal shoved his own hands in his pockets and walked back to the door. “Make up your minds,” he said over his shoulder and disappeared.
Jenny started for the door. “I’ll have to come back for the inquest Monday—”
“The inquest,” Peter said with a kind of groan. He seized her shoulders and whirled her around to face him. “Please, Jenny, I meant everything I said. I don’t care who heard it—”
She detached herself. She almost ran upstairs. Cal was in his room, throwing things into his bag.
“I’ll be ready in five minutes,” Jenny said.
“I’ll get the car out.”
“Cal, aren’t you coming back?”
“Why should I?”
“What are we going to do about Peter?”
“What can we do?”
“He does need you. You’re his best friend.”
Cal rolled up a tweed coat.
“Cal, don’t roll that coat like that. Fold it,” Jenny said in a kind of nervous exasperation. “Here, I’ll do it.”
“Thank you, I’ve packed for myself many times. If you’re going back to town with me you’d better get your things together.” He turned to pick up his topcoat and added over his shoulder, “You’re not risking much. Peter will come running after you.”
“Cal!”
“I heard enough of that impassioned little conversation just now. I didn’t think you had it in you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I told you, I heard you. You want Peter back. Of course, it wasn’t just the time and place. But somehow I didn’t think you’d play hard to get. Not a nice expression but it’s not a nice—”
“I don’t! I didn’t!”
“You know best, of course,” Cal said. “I’m ready to go. Hurry up—if you’re really coming.”
A large red vase stood conveniently at hand on a table but Jenny resisted its invitation to mayhem and walked out of the room.
But then she thought, did I really sound like that? Playing hard to get?
She wondered just how much Cal and Blanche had heard. Peter’s voice had been loud and determined.
She stood for a moment looking around the guest room and thought of Fiora. Poor pretty Fiora who had boasted so childishly of her rich husband. “Go and look in my dressing room—three fur coats.”
