by Lionel White
Leavy stood up this time and reaching out put both hands on Allie's shoulders, almost as though to hold her back in the chair.
“No—no, nothing at all like that, Mrs. Neilsen,” hesaid. “You simply have to try to understand me. At this point, the police have a good case, a very good case. It doesn’t matter in the slightest what we think. It doesn’t matter that Mr. Neilsen can be completely without guilt. He looks guilty and the police feel that he is guilty and they have a great deal of substantial facts to back up their theory. We have to try to set up an equally strong set of facts to disprove it.”
“But then I should think learning the truth, what really happened that night, would...”
Leavy shook his head, fighting to keep the irritation out of his voice and his expression.
“The truth is meaningless unless you can get someone to believe it,” he said. “In order to believe Mr. Neilsen’s story, you’ll first have to produce a body. The body of a dead man. At the moment, the body the police are concerned with is that of a dead girl.”
Allie sank back in the chair. She didn’t interrupt again, but just sat and stared at him, her face white and her eyes wide as he continued to talk.
“No. The story is out. If it should come up in court, and it probably will, we shall have to figure some answer for it at the time. But in the meantime, the less that it is mentioned, the better. Our best bet, at this moment, is to firmly establish in the minds of the public—and don’t forget that the jury will be selected from that public—that your husband couldn’t have done the murder. That he just isn't that sort of person. That you and he are happily married, a normal young couple with a healthy, happy child. That he could have no possible motive for committing such a crime. As to his alibi and his activities at the time—well, we’ll work that out as the case develops.”
He hesitated and taking a white linen handkerchief from his breast pocket, carefully patted the bulging brow under his neatly parted white hair.
“And now, if you’d like, I suggest we leave the child with Mrs. Manning and you come with me. I shall try and arrange for you to see your husband. Will you be able to reach that aunt you talked about and cancel her visit?”
“I guess I can reach her,” Allie said.
Twenty minutes later they left the house together. A couple of the reporters waiting outside immediately climbed into a cab to trail Leavy’s chauffeur-driven limousine. The others remained outside the house.
Leavy would have to leave after taking her to the police station, but would arrange for a cab to take her back home.
Her conversation with the attorney had been difficult; the one she had with Len an hour later almost completely broke up Allie’s determined desire to maintain her control and not go to pieces.
They didn’t even let her kiss him.
The entire thing only lasted a few short minutes and perhaps it was just as well that it did. Sitting across from him and watching his face—the two of them were on opposite sides of a wide table and there was a glass partition between them so that they were unable to have any physical contact—Allie at once observed the dark blotches beneath Len’s bloodshot eyes and saw the tired, beaten look on his face. It took all of her control to keep from crying, but she managed a little half smile. His voice came to her through a small screened opening in the glass partition and it didn’t even sound like Len when he spoke.
For the first half of the interview, all they seemed to do was reassure each other that there was nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. Len kept asking after Billy and telling her, Allie, not to worry, that everything would be straightened out. And Allie kept telling him that she and Billy were fine and that there was nothing for him to worry about. But each was lying and each knew that the other was lying.
Each was aware that Len had already been indicted on a charge of first degree murder.
There was a guard in the room and he could hear every word each of them spoke, although he had an indifferent and disinterested look on his stolid face. Finally, after nervously looking over at the guard, Allie changed the tenor of her conversation.
“Len,” she said, “Len, they don’t believe your story. You know, about the wrong house and the dead man and all.”
He nodded at her through the glass, his eyes somber.
“I know, ” he said. “Nobody believes. No one at all, Allie. Not even my own lawyer or anyone.”
“Ifwe could only prove it,” Alliesaid. “Ifthere was only some way..."
Len shook his head.
“There’s no way,” he said. “As far as everyone but myself is concerned, it just didn’t happen.”
Allie looked up at him.
“I believe it, darling,” she said. “I believe anything and everything you have ever told me. I believe you and I love you.”
This time the tears did come and in spite of every ounce of will power she could exert, they trickled slowly down her cheeks.
“Baby,” Len said quickly. “Baby, don’t cry. Don’t—please don’t honey.”
“I’m not crying,’’ Allie said. She wiped at her face with a tiny handkerchief.
“As long as you believe in me,” Lensaid, “nothingcan happen. Everything will be all right. Somehow or other...”
They talked for another five or six minutes and then the guard told them their time was up.
Allie sat there while they led him out of the room. It wasn’t until the door closed behind him that she really cried.
Her eyes were red and swollen when Lieutenant Giddeon passed her in the hallway as she was leaving. She was hurrying, but he had enough time to see her and to recognize her. He followed her out of the building, catching up with her as she reached the sidewalk.
“One minute,” hesaid, quickly stepping to her side. “Just one minute, ifyou don’t mind, Mrs. Neilsen. I’d like to talk with you.”
Allie hesitated, looking up half blindly and not recognizing the policeman at first.
Moments later they were sitting alone in his private office. He’d sent down for containers of coffee and Allie was having coffee and a slice of toast, which he had also ordered and which he insisted that she eat.
Lieutenant Giddeon waited until she had finished with the toast and coffee before he spoke.
“Mrs. Neilsen,” hesaid, at last, “I don’t want you to think of me as an enemy.”
Allie looked up at him and in spite of herself, her lips formed a bitter smile.
“No?” she said. “No, Lieutenant? You are trying to put my husband into the electric chair, aren’t you, Lieutenant? Should I think of you as a friend?”
Now Mrs. Neilsen,” the lieutenant said. “Now Mrs. Neilsen, that's not quite true. I’m trying to put the man who killed the Julio girl in the electric chair. I m sure that even you, Mrs. Neilsen, are willing to admit the child was slain—brutally slain. And I think you will agree that the killer should be made to pay for his crime.”
“Then why don’t you find the killer?”
‘ ‘ That’s what we are trying to do, ” the lieutenant said. “At the moment we are holding your husband. We are holding him because he is unable to establish an alibi for the time of the crime, because we found him with his hands and face scratched and with blood on them. Because his hat and his glasses were found beside the body. Because he admittedly was drinking on the night of the murder and can give us no clear explanation of these various circumstances.”
Allie nodded, not in agreement, but merely as an indication that she was following him.
“I can’t explain about the hat and the glasses,” she said. “Neither can Len. He only knows that he lost them. And had been drinking. He even came in and told you about it. As for his alibi, he explained. He explained everything.”
“He told us a story. The same story he told you. But I am asking you, Mrs. Neilsen, what proof has he offered? For the moment, we may overlook the completely fantastic quality of that story. We can even overlook the unbelievable coincidence of two murders in t
he same place on the same night and so forth. But where is the proof? What house was your husband in? Don’t forget—it could have been the McNally house, assuming he went to the wrong place. And if he saw adead man—where is that man now? No, Mrs. Neilsen, he’ll have to do better than merely have a story. He’ 11 have to have some facts to back up that story.”
“Butyouarenotgivinghimachancetogetthosefacts!” Alliesaid. “You’ve already had him indicted for murder. You’re locking him in jail and keeping him there.”
“He has an attorney,” the lieutenant said. “One of the best in the country, as a matter of fact. I don’t like to say this, but your husband’s attorney is a man who has a reputation for getting his clients off; clients who all too often are actually guilty. In any case, I am sure that if your husband’s story is true, certainly I. Oscar Leavy will be able to find substantiation for it.”
"But... but Mr. Leavy doesn’t.Suddenly Allie stopped and bit back the words. What was she saying? Dear Lord, what was she about to say? That not even Len’s lawyer beEeved the story? How could she expect the policeman to believe it if Len’s own lawyer didn’t. How could she expect anyone to believe it?
“You were about to say, Mrs. Neilsen?”
“I was about to say that Mr. Leavy is doing everything he can.
“I’m sure he is. Frankly, I’ll tell you, Mrs. Neilsen. When I first met your husband, I liked him. He still seemed a little hungover at the time an e was n’t quite clear about things, but I liked him. I like you. You seem like an ideal couple. But right after your husband came and told me that story of being drunk and finding a dead man and all, right after, he went out and at once got drunk all over again. You tell me he almost never drinks. It just doesn’t make sense. Something had to be wrong.”
Allie looked at him and there was a frown on her face.
‘‘What is it you want from me?” she asked. “What do you want, anyway? Haven’t you done enough? Haven’t you...”
“I want to help you if I can,” the lieutenant said. “You’ll be talking to your husband now and then. I want you to ask him to tell us the truth.” He hesitated for a minute and looked at Allie with a curious and almost paternal expression.
“Perhaps I shouldn’t tell you this,” he said, “but an autopsy has been performed on the dead girl. She died of a vicious blow on the back of her head. There were finger marks on her throat and she had been partially choked. Her mouth was bruised and her clothes badly tom. But she hadn’t been raped and apparently no attempt had been made to abuse her—if you know what I mean?”
Allie looked at him and nodded.
“Obviously the motive wasn’t robbery. It couldn’t very well have been revenge or anything of that sort. She was merely attacked and killed. A silly, insane sort of crime. What I am getting at is this. Isn’t it just possible that your husband may have, in a temporary insane drunken condition...”
"No!” Allie almost screamed it. “No, no and no! Not ever. You don’t know Len, you don’t understand him. Len is completely sane. No matter how much he may have been drinking, he couldn’t possibly, ever, do anything like that.”
Lieutenant Giddeon still looked sympathetic, but he half shrugged.
“In that case,” he said, and then stopped. He didn’t quite know what to say. He started again.
“In that case, you must try to make him remember a little more about what he said really did happen. He must explain about the hat and the glasses and all the rest of it. He must remember and explain—and get some sort of concrete proof.”
Allie stood up.
“I think I’ll leave now,” she said.
‘ I’ll have a car take you home,” Lieutenant Giddeon said. “Mr. Leavy arranged for a cab, but I’ll have a police car take you back home so you won’t be annoyed by reporters or anyone.”
Chapter Eleven
Sometime during the lonely, bitter hours of that Monday night, as Allie lay wide-eyed and sleepless in the very center of the large double bed, the transition took place within her. Monday night was the worst one yet. The initial stages of shock had receded and she was at last awake to the ultimate tragedy of the situation.
The sense of lostness, inspired to a certain extent by the mere physical absence of Len, from whom she had never been separated since the night of their wedding, gradually began to be replaced by something else. Even that vague, undefinable fear which had so paralyzed her, began to fade, overshadowed by the full realization of the scope of the tragedy which had suddenly blighted her home and her life.
In short, from a little girl who had been playing house with a nice young husband and a pretty baby boy, Allie Neilsen that night developed into a mature and grown woman, ready to bare her claws and fight for that which was her own.
Calmly and collectedly and without tears, Allie lay in her lonely bed, unable to sleep in spite of her bone-weary body, and carefully reviewed everything which had happened. Several significant facts began to make themselves obvious at once.
Len was not guilty. Of that there was no doubt in her mind.
Len was in deep and serious trouble and she, Allie herself, was in a large part responsible. If she hadn’t convinced Len to go to the police with the story about getting into the wrong house and finding the dead man, the police probably never would have picked him up as a suspect in the murder of Louisa Julio.
Len’s story was true. There had been another house, another bedroom and a man lying on a double bed with a bullet hole through the center of his forehead.
This, at least, was clear in Allies mind. And from these facts, her thoughts progressed in a logical fashion.
The police, and even Len’s own lawyer, disbelieved Len’s story of what had taken place that night. They also believed he was guilty of the girl’s murder. Consequently, neither the police nor Len’s defense attorney would make any particular effort to either verify his story or seek the actual killer.
Verifying Len’s story seemed almost impossible, but of that she could not be sure. No one was trying to verify the story.
Finding the real killer seemed equally impossible; but there again, how could anyone expect to find the killer if they were satisfied they already had their man?
Allie alone was the one person who believed in Len. It was up to her, then, to prove his innocence.
Long after midnight, Allie at last found sleep. By no stretch of the imagination could it be said that she had found peace. But the mere fact that she had decided to act, to play a definite part and take a definite stand, did much to relieve the terrible emotional tension under which she had been living these last few days. That—and the natural fatigue which resulted from missed meals and almost no sleep, did it. For Allie Neilsen was, after all, a normal, healthy young animal and the moment she had made up her mind to fight, her subconscious mind went along and agreed to give her the strength for the battle.
Allie slept until daybreak and then quickly got up and showered and prepared breakfast before Billy and Mrs. Manning were awake. As she ate alone in the dinette, she gradually mapped a campaign. She had to start somewhere and it seemed to her that the logical place would be at the scene of the crime— the crime that everyone knew about. Allie decided she would wait until eight o’clock and then pay the Kitteridges a visit.
Martha and Reginald Kitteridge were having tea and scones in the dining room—which had been converted from a bedroom that they didn’t need— shortly after eight o’clock when the back doorbell rang. For the first time in as long as either of them could remember, there was a trace of tension in the air. The Kitteridges had gone through many things together and, in their fashion, faced minor and major crises. But never before had there been tension. Another couple might argue, might bicker and nag or occasionally plague each other with recriminations—but not the Kitteridges. Their emotional life had been uniformly serene.
The unfortunate truth was, however, this morning, although no words had been spoken, there was a disturbance in the atmosphere. Martha K
itteridge knew, knew in her heart, that in some odd way her husband held her partly responsible for the terrible thing which had taken place. He had said nothing, but Martha knew. Martha, as always when it came to her husband, was quite right.
It can honestly be said that Reginald Parson Kitteridge, had, in his own way, been completely in love with and completely loyal to his wife during the many years of their marriage. To him, her every desire and wish had been law.
But the fact remains that over and above his feelings for his wife, one greater loyalty and passion ruled Reginald’s life. Like almost every other Englishman who was a member of his empire’s official family and represented that empire in the far outposts of the world, Reginald Kitteridge had an all-abiding and overwhelming respect for the dignity and position of the great country which he had served so long and faithfully. He may not have represented his nation with extraordinary brilliance, but there could never be any question about his loyalty and his exquisite sense of propriety.
Her Majesty’s Government was Reginald’s first mistress. Martha Kitteridge ran a close second, but a second. At the very moment the doorbell rang, Reginald was speaking.
“Simply can’t understand it, my dear, ” he said. “Absolutely confounds me. A paper like the New York Times mentioning the thing. And mentioning my name and official position in connection with it. Leaves me fairly appalled, it does. Terrible mistake taking the place out here.’’
He means, thought Martha, it was a terrible mistake in my taking the place out here. Of course Reginald was right so far as the New York Times was concerned. But after all...
“There’s someone at the back door,” Martha said. “I’d better get it, dear.”
“If it's one of those damnable journalists...”
But Martha was already on her way to the kitchen.
To Allie, it was obvious at once that the Kitteridges found her presence annoying, although it was equally obvious that the couple were far too well-mannered to do anything but invite her to share their breakfast and treat her with the utmost kindness. Allie had a fleeting moment of regret as Martha Kitteridge insisted she sit down and take a cup of tea with them.
