Morgan Wayne was on his way to the door before her flow of conversation ceased.
Chapter Nineteen
Morgan Wayne didn't have the faintest idea how this new bit of information fitted into the pattern, but he headed fast for Fifty-second Street when he got away from Elvira Manor.
If Marge was correct and John Durtol III was actually mixed up with the Gingham Girl, a whole new realm of interesting speculation was opened up. Was Priscilla the go-between who had brought Hake Derr into the Durtol picture? It was possible she had played the role unwittingly. It was also quite possible, Wayne assured himself grimly, that she brought the two men together purposefully. Nothing he learned about Priscilla Endicott would really surprise him. He didn't even discount the possibility that she was entangled in this affair from a motive as pure as his own; that she was using her body as a weapon to smash the drug traffic just as Wayne employed the two guns weighting down his jacket pockets.
He knew, down deep in his heart, that he hoped that explanation was true. There had been that about Priscilla Endicott when he first looked at her. She had something that made a manwant to believe she was basically decent.
At any rate, that strong intuitive feeling he had had as he first entered the Gingham Gardens early that evening was now intensified. The key to the whole situation was there. Tonight's affair had begun in the Gingham Gardens, and he felt it would end there. If Priscilla held the key, he would wrest it from her somehow.
He wrenched his musings away from her and brought them back to John Durtol III, Julius Hendrixon, and Elliot Carson. At the moment the only visible connection between any of the three with the underworld was John's infatuation with Priscilla—if the impatient virgin at John's apartment could be relied upon. But the perplexing thing about suspecting John was the fact that he already owned enough Durtol stock to enable him to gain control by consolidating with the other blocks of stock that had already been bought up—thus leaving him no real motive for arranging Letty's kidnaping to force his sister to sell her stock.
It seemed a foolish and unnecessary risk to Morgan Wayne. The whole affair could have been handled smoothly and with no risk at all if John Durtol III were actually the moving spirit in the plan. He didn't know yet, Wayne reminded himself, that John had even been aware of Hake Derr's existence. With a woman of Priscilla's undoubted talents for intrigue involved, it was entirely possible that neither man had known the other was enjoying her favors. But what a hell of an ill-assorted pair, Wayne thought irrationally, to have been selected by Priscilla for bedmates. A ruthless killer like Derr who confessed that his greatest pleasure came from using his knife on a woman, and the seemingly spineless heir to the Durtol fortune. It was inconceivable that she should have picked those two at random from all the men in New York whom she might have had simply by crooking her finger.
Certainly, neither of them suited her temperamentally. No matter how many questions there were in Wayne's mind as to Priscilla's real nature, he had absolutely no doubt that her passionate response to him that afternoon had been honest. A vision of her came to him as he drove through the night toward her, as she had been in his arms after their first kiss. Her face peaceful and with a strange look of content. The look of little-girl pleading in her wide eyes, the surprised and almost virginal look of ecstasy. The dreamy langour of her reply when he had asked her if she wanted to die: “I don't think I care. Take me in your arms.”
He drew in a great, shuddering breath as the memory came vividly to him.
No. That had been real. And it was impossible for Wayne to understand that same woman wanting either Hake Derr or John Durtol as she had wanted him that afternoon. The same womancouldn't. No matter how many facets there were to her nature, she couldn't give the same thing to either of those others that she had freely offered to Morgan Wayne.
So there had to be another explanation of her reasons for taking them to bed. Money? Could it be only that? That was her explanation, but the words hadn't rung true when she spoke them. That had been, of course, before he knew she was even acquainted with John Durtol III. It sounded more reasonable now that he knew. She had spoken of an impending deal that would put Derr up among the Rockefellers and the Morgans within a few years. It made a lot more sense if she were in the middle of the plot that was being engineered by Durtol and Derr. Playing ball with both of them, she might have looked on the proposition as a sure winner. And her midnight telephone call to John seemed to bear that out. With Derr's death, an immediate shifting of plans would be necessary, an immediate meeting of the remaining two principals to decide matters of policy.
Exactly the same reasoning, Wayne realized, that made the rush call from Carson to Hendrixon appear suspicious on the surface. There simply wasn't any use trying to guess at the truth at this point. If he found John Durtol III with Priscilla, he would get the truth out of the two of them. If John hadn't been there or had already gone back to Marge, he would have to work on Priscilla alone.
He had reached the nearest exit for Fifty-second Street when he arrived at the conclusion, and he forced himself to relax behind the wheel of the borrowed car as he turned eastward. It was almost two o'clock and the midtown street was practically empty of traffic. A few restaurants with late licenses still stood open, catering to the late drinkers who wouldn't leave until the final drink was poured.
Wayne didn't know whether the Gingham Gardens would be one of these or not as he approached. There was no spotlighted painting on the sidewalk to draw attention to the place, and the outer neon lights were turned off.
But as Wayne slid in to the curb directly in front, he saw a hazy glow of light emanating from the dim foyer that was down three steps from the sidewalk, and when he got out of the car the same doorman under his three-cornered headpiece of gingham strolled across the walk and repeated the same warning Wayne had heard earlier:
“No parking here, sir. You'll have to...”
The pattern repeated itself immutably. Wayne said pleasantly, “Watch my car, will you?” A second ten-dollar bill was swallowed up in the doorman's hand and he said, “Certainly, sir,” to Wayne's back as he went down the three steps.
There was a different girl at the check stand, and Wayne remembered that the blonde had said she'd be off in a couple of hours. This one was a pert little wren with short, fluffy hair that was obviously platinumed. Unlike her predecessor, she wore a tight gingham halter over almost nonexistent breasts, showing an expanse of flat stomach to a point well below her navel, and she had an eager smile of welcome that contrasted well with the frozen, tailored quality of the blonde's.
Like the other girl's, though, her eagerness faded from her smile when she saw that Wayne was hatless. Again the pattern repeated itself, for again Wayne was after information.
He smiled reassuringly as he went toward her, and explained, “It's not that I don't like check girls—I just don't like hats.” There was a folded five-dollar bill between his fingers as he leaned on her counter. She plucked it out in a matter-of-fact way and told him, “I wouldn't kick if all my customers felt that way.”
Wayne said casually, “Is Johnsey around?”
“Who?” She wrinkled her snub nose as she smoothed the bill over one palm.
“Durtol. John Durtol Third.” Wayne grinned engagingly as he spoke the full name. “One of the Gingham Gal's particular friends.”
“Gee, I dunno, mister.” She giggled maliciously. “First I heard she was particular.”
Wayne nodded casually as though it didn't matter, and sauntered inside.
The long bar was crowded now, and more than half the tables were occupied. The heavy smoke haze that hung over the room made his eyes smart so it was difficult to see clearly.
Wayne didn't bother to look for Willie Sutra because he knew exactly how hard he had hit him on his last trip. There was a fast-jiving man at the piano in the rear now, and no singer at the moment. No sign of Priscilla that Wayne could see as he stood near the end of the bar and studied the oc
cupants of the room with hooded eyes.
The same beefy bartender he had encountered on his first trip pushed in front of him on the other side of the bar and asked wearily, “What's yours, Mac?”
Wayne turned to look him full in the face, and shook his head slowly. “Just a cheapskate dropping in from the street for a look around.”
The bartender opened his mouth for an ill-natured retort, and then closed it suddenly as he recognized Wayne. He muttered something under his breath and turned away quickly.
Wayne dropped an elbow on the bar and looked the room over again. His eyes were becoming accustomed to the sting of the smoke now, and he paused in his slow survey to study the shoulders and back of the head of a man sitting alone at a table near the rear. He was thickly built and conservatively dressed, and past the lobe of his left ear Wayne could see half an inch of gray ash on the end of a cigar.
Morgan Wayne left the bar and began threading his way between the tables toward the man. He stopped beside the table and drew out a chair and sat down opposite Elliot Carson.
The ruddy-faced attorney was chewing on the butt of his Perfecto and toying with a highball glass. His lips thinned against the cigar a trifle and his eyes narrowed when he recognized Wayne. He cleared his throat and asked, “How did you get here?”
“Just walked in through the front door,” said Wayne. “Where's Hendrixon?”
Carson hesitated. He took the cigar out of his mouth and frowned at it, placed it very carefully in the center of an ash tray, and lifted his glass to sip the contents. When he put it down he asked with every appearance of honest puzzlement, “What are you up to, Wayne? Where do you fit into the picture?”
“I'm wondering the same thing about you, Carson.”
“But damn it, man, who are you? What are you doing here, for instance? And what gives you the idea I know where Julius is?”
“It seems a reasonable assumption,” said Wayne dryly, “since you phoned him to hurry into the city to meet you. And by the way, Carson, what took you away from the Hendrixon place in such a hurry tonight that you didn't take time to apologize to a lady for not visiting her bedroom before you beat it?”
The lawyer's ruddy complexion became mottled with patches of pallor. He wet his lips and said ponderously, “I haven't the faintest idea what you are alluding to.”
“Skip it,” said Wayne pleasantly. “I still want to know where Hendrixon is.”
Carson got out a linen handkerchief and mopped sweat from his forehead. “I do, too. He was to have met me here half an hour ago, as you seem to have—ah—surmised. He hasn't come yet, and frankly, I'm beginning to be worried.”
“Why here? And why the sudden urge to see him when you had just parted a few hours earlier?”
“Because I'm damnably worried, Wayne.” Carson picked up his cigar and puffed on it vigorously. “Your talk tonight about a plot to gain control of Durtol Drugs,” he went on slowly, “coupled with certain things I learned after I reached town, made an immediate conference with Julius imperative.”
“Do you often arrange your business conferences here?”
“Certainly not. But I knew I'd be tied up for a time and it wasn't certain exactly when I'd be able to make it. I thought it would be more pleasant for Julius to wait for me over a drink, so I suggested we meet here.”
“Now that you've got that off your chest, why not tell me the truth?”
Attorney Carson hesitated for a long time. Then he appeared to reach a decision. “Yes,” he agreed firmly. “I'm going to trust you, Wayne, and take you into my confidence.” He looked around furtively to see if anyone were listening, then leaned forward and asked in a low voice:
“Does the name of Hake Derr mean anything at all to you?”
Considering that Wayne had shoved a broken whisky bottle into Derr's face just a few hours previously, he remained remarkably impassive. He said, “I've heard of him.”
“Very well. Are you surprised to learn that I have good reason to suspect it was he who planned Letty Hendrixon's kidnaping this afternoon?”
“Not particularly, but I'd be interested to know how you arrived at that suspicion.”
“As you will recall, Inspector Hibbs is a personal friend of mine, and he drove back to the city with me. And by the way, Wayne,” the attorney went on with a frosty smile, “I don't know yet what sort of hypnosis you used on Hibbs to get his O.K. tonight, because he refused to discuss you or anything about you while we drove in together. But that isn't important. The important point is that when we reached the city the Inspector made a routine check at headquarters on my behalf and learned that two men were definitely suspected as Letty's actual kidnapers. One had been killed in some sort of fracas, it seems, and the whole affair is quite mysterious and muddled, but the important point is that both those men have been identified as hoodlums in the employ of Hake Derr.”
He paused to allow Wayne to express his surprise, and seemed disappointed when the other said nothing.
“Certainly you see the importance of that—ifyour theory of a plot to gain control of Durtol is correct. You say you've heard of Derr. Perhaps you don't know he is reputed to be one of the biggest individual importers of smuggled drugs in the city. Now do you see why the Inspector's information was important?”
“It caused you to suspect Derr of the plan to take over Durtol. Sure. I've known he was back of it for weeks. But I'm convinced there's someone else behindhim.”
“Mr. Wayne, you take the words right out of my mouth.” Carson was breathing heavily and he lowered his voice still more. “Perhaps you don't know that it's rumored about town that Hake Derr and the owner of this place are partners.”
“I know Derr has been sleeping upstairs with Priscilla Endicott for some time,” said Wayne indifferently. “What's that got to do with it?”
“A great deal, perhaps. Avery great deal, I'm afraid. You do appear to be exceedingly well informed,” Carson went on unctuously, “but there is one further item of information that I am positive you lack. As an attorney, I ordinarily wouldn't breathe a word about a personal and delicate matter of this sort, but I feel that circumstances will not permit me to remain silent longer.”
“Do you mean John Durtol's infatuation for Priscilla, which even supersedes his penchant for virgins?”
This time Carson was thoroughly taken aback. He pursed his lips worriedly and complained, “I don't know where you get all this information, Wayne. And, since you possess it, I don't understand why you haven't acted sooner. Don't you realize the implications of all this?”
Morgan Wayne shrugged his shoulders. “That John Durtol and Hake Derr got together over Priscilla's lovely body and cooked the whole thing up? Sure. That's why I'm here. Where is Priscilla, by the way?”
“I'm sure I don't know. I've never met her, you see, and wouldn't know her by sight.” The lawyer looked around the crowded room restlessly. “And I do wonder what's become of Julius. It isn't like him to be late and send no message.”
“What did you think to accomplish by coming here with Julius?” demanded Wayne.
“What's that? Why, I felt we should confront the woman with our suspicions. And this Derr person also, if he is present.”
“He won't be,” said Wayne dryly. “He kept an appointment tonight that was long overdue. I wonder if you know exactly what happened to Lois Elling tonight,” he added savagely and without warning, watching Carson narrowly as he spoke.
The lawyer blinked at him and repeated the name. “Lois... Elling?”
“My secretary,” Wayne told him softly.
“Oh, yes. I do remember now. The one who first telephoned Julius about Letty. Did something happen to her?” He spoke with disinterest, his eyes still roving about the room.
Wayne said, “She died.”
“Oh. How very sad.”
There were quick, light footsteps behind Wayne, then a remembered voice speaking throatily over his head to the lawyer:
“Mr. Carson! Come upstairs
at once. Something dreadful has happened.”
Wayne turned his head slowly and looked up into Priscilla Endicott's lovely face as the lawyer arose.
She gasped with surprise and caught her lower lip between her teeth as she recognized Wayne. For a long moment her eyes looked down into his and the color drained away from her face. Then she gained control of herself as swiftly as she had lost it, and said in a sibilant whisper:
“You, too, Morgan Wayne. John has just killed his brother-in-law in my bedroom.”
Chapter Twenty
Once again, Morgan Wayne climbed the narrow back stairway upward to Priscilla Endicott's apartment. Once again she preceded him on the stairway, her moving loins level with his face, the woman smell of her coming back strongly into his nostrils.
But this time another man climbed the stairway directly behind Wayne, and in the bedroom above they were awaited by two other men—one of them a corpse.
The door to Priscilla's apartment stood wide open, and bright light streamed out as they reached the top. John Durtol III sat limply in a deep chair at the far end of the room in front of chartreuse draperies. He was hunched far forward with elbows resting on his knees and his face buried in both hands. An almost empty highball glass stood on the floor beside him and he didn't look up as the trio entered the room in single file.
Wayne wasted only one glance at Durtol's dejected figure and went swiftly into the bedroom past Priscilla, who stood aside and threw him a frightened and imploring glance.
Julius Hendrixon lay on his back in the middle of the bedroom floor. There was a sharp silver paper knife in his throat, and lots of blood. His eyes were open and so was his mouth.
Wayne knelt beside him and touched one finger tentatively to the outer edge of the pool of blood on the floor. It had already started to coagulate, and he estimated that the knife must have been driven into Hendrixon's throat at least ten minutes previously. He rocked back on his heels and looked searchingly about the bedroom. There was nothing out of order, nothing different from the last time he had seen it except for the dead body.
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