“Someone followed me to my house and attacked me. I want to know.…”
She giggled. Not hysterically, but with real mirth. “Do you think I’d do that? Attack you, I mean? Would you really make a girl go that far? I should think.…”
“Not the way you mean,” I said hastily. I tried to move my hand but her hot moist fingers held mine tightly, kneading the flesh beneath them with a feverish intensity of purpose that made me uncomfortably aware of her youth.
“If I ever attack you, you’ll know who did it. And I bet if you were to attack me.…”
“I’m not going to.” Her cheek was resting against my chest and I was looking over her head.
She moved and I looked down to see her lips drawn back tightly from sharp white teeth. There was something in her eyes that I had never seen in a woman’s eyes before. I was shaken and repelled … yet I felt something inside of me responding to the hot glitter that was in her gaze.
She was working herself up into another frenzy and I didn’t know how to cope with it.
I said: “So, you didn’t?”
“Didn’t what?” She expelled the words huskily through clenched teeth.
I stood up suddenly, lifting her in my arms. She came alive, writhing, to press the length of her body against me.
I held her away and started carrying her back to the house.
She kicked bare legs in the moonlight and started cursing me. I smothered the vicious phrases with my hand and carried her back into the drawing room that way, striding past a battery of amazed eyes and dumping her down into the chair where she had been previously. I turned away, wiping sweat from my face.
Michaela got up and went to Desta as I turned away. Though the Mexican girl couldn’t have been much older than Desta, there was a look of maternal solicitude on her features as she bent down and touched Desta’s arm; a grave madonna-like expression of understanding that radiated softly from her eyes.
“Come,” she said gently, “I will take you to your room.”
Desta rose submissively, like one who had no will of her own. Michaela linked the girl’s arm in hers, and spoke a low word to Pasqual that brought him to his feet and to the other side of Desta. Supporting her between them, they led the American girl from the room.
A long shuddering sigh came from Myra’s lips when they went out the door. In the moment of intense quiet following, Burke grinned briefly at me, then turned to her and asked:
“What about Hardiman?”
She stared at him a moment, then answered in a strained voice: “Raymond was half asleep and his room was dark. He said Mr. Hardiman had been there but left about half an hour ago.”
Burke crossed to the table and rang for a servant, a brooding look of worry on his face. When a man answered his ring he said brusquely:
“Have the butler get all the servants together in the hall where I can question them about Mr. Hardiman.”
The man nodded shakily and hurried out. Jelcoe edged forward and asked: “What’s this about Mr. Hardiman? Has he disappeared?”
“For the moment at least,” Burke admitted. He paused, chewing on the stem of his pipe. “Baker was slugged at his home and that telegram stolen from him. If Hardiman did the slugging …” Jerry paused with an expressive shrug of his heavy shoulders, then went on: “Exactly what did the telegram say, Jelcoe?”
Chief Jelcoe’s right eyelid twitched as he wrinkled his forehead in thought. “Just about what I told you over the phone. I glanced through it hurriedly and realized it was in reply to an inquiry you hadn’t seen fit to discuss with me so I thought perhaps it was private.”
Jerry paid no attention to the accusing tone Jelcoe used. He nodded and said: “Let’s go out and interview the servants. We’ve got to locate Hardiman.”
Myra Young jumped up from the divan and beat her hands together as they went out. “This is getting me down. It’s worse than a wake. Let’s have some music or something to snap us out of our dope.”
I mixed myself another drink while she went to an ornate console radio and pushed some buttons. A blast of static came out, then a blare of music. She tuned it down to a soft wailing of brasses and came swaying toward me with her arms outstretched, a set smile of determined gaiety on her face.
“How about a dance?”
I shook my head without saying anything, and she swayed away in rhythm with the music, snapping her fingers. Senor Rodriguez sat quietly in a chair in one corner, puffing on a small black cigar and watching Myra with about the same expression on his face that I might wear if I were suddenly confronted by a visitor from Mars.
I didn’t blame the Mexican for looking at her like that. There was something macabre about her dancing. I had a feeling that she wasn’t letting herself think … that she was afraid to be quiet with her thoughts … that she was driven by some inner compulsion to put on this act for us.
Burke and Jelcoe came back into the room. Jerry came to the table to mix himself a drink, and Jelcoe stood just inside the door, watching Myra, with his Adam’s Apple bobbing up and down.
I asked Jerry if he’d had any luck, and he grimaced and said: “I don’t know. The butler is positive that Hardiman’s telephone call was from Laura Yates … that he went outside to meet Laura on the side lawn half an hour ago. He hasn’t been seen since.”
Out of the corners of my eyes I watched Myra sway up to Jelcoe and undulate invitingly before him. He backed away from her in flabbergasted fright, and I began wondering if her sanity had snapped under the strain.
I plopped more soda into my glass, and at that instant Myra screamed. She was standing in the middle of the floor staring at us wildly, both hands held up for silence:
“What? Oh my God! what was that?”
“What was what?” Burke and Jelcoe sprang forward and I froze with my glass half-way to my mouth.
“I … thought I heard something. Didn’t you hear it? A … it sounded like … a shot. Sort of faint and muffled.”
“You must have heard my shot of soda,” I said, for it was at that instant I had seen her stop and listen.
Burke shook his head, looking from Jelcoe to me. “I didn’t hear anything. But that blasted radio is making so much noise.…”
“I’m sure I did,” she broke in shrilly. “I … I’m sure!”
He turned away from her and made it to the door in long strides. Jelcoe and I trotted after him, caught up with him as he went up the stairway. Blank silence cloaked the upper floor of the house.
The butler came panting up the stairs after us as we reached the top. Burke whirled on him and asked: “Which is Dwight’s suite?”
“Right here, Sir.” Morrow was trembling and his face ashen. He stepped past us and turned the knob of a door opening into a living room dimly illuminated by light streaming through an open inside door.
Burke stepped past him, calling, “Dwight!” as the butler pushed a wall switch. Brilliant light flooded the room, and we saw the squatty figure of Raymond Dwight lying on his side on a leather couch across the room.
The stubby fingers of his left hand trailed down against the floor and he seemed to be relaxed in peaceful slumber, but I knew he was dead before I crossed to Burke’s side and looked down at the small, powder-marked hole in his forehead.
We all whirled about at the sound of rushing water from the bathroom where the light had come from, and Jelcoe sprinted toward the open door on his toes, drawing a Police .38 as he ran.
He stopped as the tall figure of a man stepped into the lighted doorway. It was Rufus Hardiman … and he faced us with a saturnine smile on his ascetic face.
It was a smile of triumph. Of supreme, exultant triumph. He glanced down at Jelcoe’s pistol and shook his head slowly. “You don’t need that,” he protested. “Really, you don’t. You can do anything you wish with me … now.”
Burke took three slow steps toward them, a frown of great annoyance and indecision on his face. “What did you just flush down the sewer?”
“Th
at … you will never know.” Rufus Hardiman folded his arms and moved aside to let Burke enter the bathroom.
Jelcoe kept Hardiman covered until Jerry came out with half a dozen tiny scraps of paper in his hand and nodded to the chief. “Go over him for a pistol. And be careful. A .25 doesn’t take up much room.”
A dry chuckle came out of Hardiman’s throat and he lifted his hands high, coatsleeves sliding down from bony wrists. “Go over me by all means. I’m not a gunman, you know.”
Burke stepped over and stood by me while Jelcoe energetically searched the diplomat for a weapon.
“He certainly doesn’t seem to be worried about getting caught red-handed,” I said, low-voiced; and Burke shook his head. He went past me then and looked down at the stiffening body of our erstwhile host.
The room was large and rectangular with French doors opening out onto the balcony. An open door beyond the foot of the leather couch led into a bedroom.
Jelcoe’s disappointed voice brought us both around toward him. “No gun on this fellow. He must have ditched it with the other stuff.”
“I really don’t know why you think I should have a pistol,” said Hardiman with cold austerity. “I am not a man of violence. I admit putting knockout drops in Dwight’s highball, and that I secured something of my own from his bedroom safe and destroyed it. I’m perfectly willing to pay whatever price the law may wish to exact for those acts.”
Burke was rubbing his chin, a habit he had when supremely annoyed, studying Hardiman with his chin down and his eyes up. Jelcoe sucked in his breath and started to reply to Hardiman, but Burke stepped into the breach before he could speak.
“Wait! Let me get this straight. You admit doping Dwight’s drink?”
“I do.” Hardiman was perfectly composed. “I’ve had the drops in my possession for days, awaiting an opportunity to administer them. My opportunity came when he brought me up to his suite this evening. I went to my room and gave them time to take full effect, then came back and secured certain documents from his safe … and destroyed them.”
Sweat stood out on my forehead as I gradually realized that Hardiman was implying that he didn’t know Raymond Dwight was dead. I glanced over my shoulder to reassure myself, and for a moment the position of the body gave the illusion of nothing more dreadful than drugged slumber. Then I remembered the pistol shot … the small hole in his forehead which I had seen with my own eyes.
Burke was asking: “Who else has been in here during the last few minutes?”
“No one.” Hardiman seemed very positive. “It took me at least ten minutes to work the combination on the safe … a few minutes more to tear up the documents and dispose of them.”
Burke said: “Come over here,” grimly, and went to stand beside the leather couch. Hardiman went to him with Jelcoe following, and stared down with what seemed to be blank amazement at the evidence of death.
“But I … I …” Hardiman took a step forward, one bony hand going to his throat as his Adam’s apple bobbed up and down uncontrollably. The color drained from his face, giving him a startlingly corpse-like appearance. “I … I didn’t know …” he whispered throatily. “He was lying like that when I returned and I thought, of course, that it was merely the effect of the drops. Someone must have … slipped in and shot him while I was in my room.”
Burke shook his head. “That won’t wash, Hardiman.” It seemed to me there was a note of pity in his voice. “We heard the shot and came up immediately … within a few minutes.”
Hardiman’s tall taut body suddenly went lax. He sank into a chair, shaken and unnerved. “You … heard the shot?” He wet his lips, put his glasses on, took them off. “Then … you know when he was killed?”
“Within a couple of minutes.”
Hardiman sat up straighter, with a certain measure of dignity. “Very well. I … didn’t realize you had heard the shot and would know when it happened. I … thought I could pretend I didn’t know he had been killed. The truth is, I was opening the bedroom safe when the shot was fired. I hurried in seconds too late to see the murderer. When I realized what had happened, I knew I had to get certain documents from the safe. I got them … and had only time to destroy them before you appeared.”
Burke didn’t appear to be paying the slightest attention to the diplomat’s halting recital. He was staring down at the body and when Hardiman ended he leaned down and gingerly lifted a small object from where it had been partially hidden by Dwight’s palm. Light was dully reflected from a small cross … with double cross-bars … of pounded silver.
A cross. Identical with the symbol sketched at the end of Michaela O’Toole’s letter, and the mark smeared upon Leslie Young’s dead cheek with a woman’s lipstick.
Jerry Burke held the curious cross before Hardiman’s eyes and asked harshly: “Where did this come from?”
Rufus Hardiman shook his head blankly. “I don’t know. I never saw it before.”
The door banged open suddenly, and Desta Dwight came barging in, followed closely by Marvin Moore, who stopped just inside the door and stared at Dwight’s body with bulging eyes.
Desta glided forward like a sleepwalker, staring solemnly at her father. I moved close to catch her if she keeled over, but I should have known she was made of sterner stuff. She stopped and looked down at the evidence of death as though it didn’t really mean anything to her, then nodded her head solemnly without speaking.
Her utter lack of emotion was ghastly and unreal. At a nod from Burke I took her arm and led her back to the door where Marvin was making a manful effort to be casual about it all. Pushing them both outside, I told the butler to keep everyone outside the death room until the police arrived, and turned back just as a telephone in the room birred softly.
Burke moved to the stand swiftly and scooped up the receiver, said “Yes?” and listened for a moment with puckered brows.
Then he said: “I’m sorry, but it will be quite impossible for me to disturb Mr. Dwight at this time.”
Another pause, then: “I’m afraid I will have to be the judge of that. I assure you I have complete authority. Either tell me what you want or hang up.”
There was a longer wait while Burke listened intently. Jelcoe and Hardiman stood by silently. Finally, Burke spoke into the mouthpiece:
“No. I advise you not to print that item. I can assure you emphatically that Mr. Dwight will not verify it … nor will he be available to discuss the matter with you tonight or any other time.”
He hung up with a shrug. “The Free Press,” he said, watching Hardiman closely. “They have information that Raymond Dwight has a secret hold over Mr. Hardiman and is forcing Hardiman to use his official influence to make a private deal with Mexico for payment of Dwight’s oil claims. They hesitate to print the story without verification.”
Rufus Hardiman met Burke’s gaze with his chin lifted defiantly. “The story will never be verified … now.”
Jerry Burke nodded. “I had an idea that’s what you got rid of in the bathroom. I suspected all along that you hated the role you were playing.”
He hesitated, then picked up the telephone again and called police headquarters. With Homicide on the wire, he told them that Raymond Dwight had been murdered and ordered a detail out immediately; then directed that a guard be placed at the mouth of the canyon and at a spot above the Dwight house, with orders to allow no person to pass in either direction. He then hung up and nodded to Jelcoe:
“You can take charge of your experts when they arrive. I’m going to start checking the stories of every person in the house.”
The chief’s eyelids fluttered toward Hardiman. “Do you need to look any further?”
“I don’t know.” They both spoke as though they were discussing an absent person. “We’ll have to hold Hardiman, of course, until we see what develops.” He walked toward the door, adding: “Bring him down to the study. I want to get the rest of them rounded up.”
16
A group of servants was c
ongregated in a frightened huddle in the upstairs hall outside, while Michaela, Pasqual, and Senor Rodriguez stood together quietly near the head of the stairs.
Burke singled out the butler and asked: “Where are Miss Dwight and her friend?”
“Mr. Moore went with her to her room, sir. She was not quite herself, if I may say so.”
“I’ll want both of them in the study presently. And all of the servants. No one is to leave the house. The canyon road is blocked in both directions. What’s become of Mrs. Young?”
“She went back downstairs, I believe, sir.”
Burke nodded and went to the group of Mexicans who remained close together, silent and watchful. Pausing in front of them, Burke said:
“You, Senor Rodriguez, are the only one who doesn’t need to account for himself. You and you,” the stem of his pipe stabbed at Michaela and Pasqual in turn, “stayed upstairs after bringing Miss Dwight to her room. That puts you on the list of suspects. I’ll see you in the study first, Miss O’Toole.”
He went on down the stairs and Jelcoe followed with Hardiman, while the rest of them came stringing along slowly.
Passing the library with Burke, I glanced in through the open doors and saw Myra Young sitting alone on the divan staring vacantly at an empty cocktail glass in her hand. Her heavy features were relaxed and flaccid, as though she had been wound up too tight and her main-spring had parted under the strain of too much emotional stress.
Dwight’s private study adjoined the library. It was a small comfortable room, fitted with a round center table, a desk in one corner, deep chairs and smoking stands.
Jelcoe hesitated in the doorway with Hardiman, while Burke and I went in. I could almost see Jelcoe’s mouth watering at the hope of being in on the questioning, but he waited stiffly for orders in that subservient way of his that carried a sneer with it.
“Suppose you go into the library and wait there,” Burke said to the diplomat. “And you can bring Miss O’Toole in, Chief.”
Jelcoe hurried to get her while Jerry sank down into a deep chair and began loading his pipe. He looked worried and uncertain, and shook his head when I asked:
The Kissed Corpse Page 12
