Sinners and Shrouds

by Jonathan Latimer

  The joke, if it was a joke, crawled off in a corner to die unmourned. A petal fell off one of the roses like a yellow tear. Air going nowhere sighed outside the building. He lifted his glass to his lips, found somebody had already emptied it. He found he could see Mrs Palmer through the bottom. She looked like Ingrid Bergman.

  But when she spoke she sounded like Mrs Palmer. ‘I’m to believe all this?’

  ‘You can check most of it.’

  ‘I suppose.’ Her square-shaped fingernails, flesh tinted, played scales on the desk. ‘Have you any idea how the girl got Simon’s jewellery?’

  ‘I’d guess through Esther Baumholtz. He was in … liked her.’

  ‘He bought the jewellery in August 1936?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘The year we were married,’ she said reflectively. ‘He might have given her money, too.’

  ‘Saul Blair says she wouldn’t have taken it.’

  ‘He could be right, of course.’ The fingers stopped playing scales, gently pushed the old-fashioned glass forward. Clay got it, took it with his to the bar. He was starting to feel the whisky, but obviously Mrs Palmer wasn’t. Her voice, behind him, was steady. ‘And hardly consistent with the blackmail theory.’

  ‘Then you buy that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Her face, when he came with the drinks, seemed softer, almost friendly. Maybe the liquor was working. It certainly was on him. He wished he’d slugged her drink. She’d be a friend in a million. Thirty, no forty million. According to Dun & Bradstreet. He’d like them for friends, too.

  She was saying, ‘I think I should tell you of my two conversations with the girl.’

  ‘Two?’

  ‘One was in the office here. About three weeks ago. She told me then she was having trouble with someone in the organization.’

  ‘Not me. I didn’t even know her.’

  A suspicion of a smile plucked at the corners of the wide mouth. ‘I think it was someone even higher placed than you, Mr Clay.’ It was a smile. ‘Someone in authority. She wanted to know how I’d feel if the trouble came to a head. I had the impression, although she didn’t say so, that the someone had been threatening her with me. I told her, of course, that I’d stand by her no matter who was involved, if she were in the right. I’d do that for anyone.’

  ‘Low-placed reporters?’

  ‘Even low-placed reporters.’ Amusement coloured the husky voice. ‘I tried to find out who it was but she wouldn’t tell me. All she wanted, she said, was an assurance that I’d be impartial.’ She paused, her topaz eyes thoughtful. ‘I concluded she was being pushed into an affair or had been pushed into one and wanted out. By someone influential.’

  ‘Canning,’ said Clay. ‘Standish.’

  ‘Both deny it.’ She smiled reminiscently. ‘Vigorously.’

  ‘Including the mink stole?’

  ‘A platonic gesture.’

  ‘You don’t know Standish.’

  ‘“Satyriasis,”’ she quoted. ‘“An insatiable venereal appetite.”’

  Staring at the calm, high cheek-boned face that belonged in Czechoslovakia or Hungary, to a peasant or a princess but nowhere between, Clay decided she knew a lot more than he’d thought. Probably more than he did. Or Diffendorf. On anybody short of the killer. He was glad they were getting along. She was speaking again.

  ‘The second conversation was over the phone. The call we were discussing.’ Recollection flattened tawny eyebrows, put a V of flesh between them. ‘I won’t try to give her exact words. She was a trifle … incoherent. I gathered, though, that she was in danger, that she was frightened, badly frightened, and wanted to see me. I urged her to call the police but she said she was safe for the moment. She had, and that is where she mentioned you, Mr Clay, a temporary protector.’

  ‘I sure did a great job.’

  ‘She asked me if I’d be home at two-thirty Washington time. Apparently she had a certain plane in mind. I said I would.’

  ‘But no clue as to who she was afraid of?’

  She thought this over, the V deepening. ‘I don’t know,’ she said slowly. ‘Perhaps one thing. I suggested that instead of coming to Washington, she see Horace Widdecomb since he was in Chicago. And she said …’

  ‘Said what?’

  ‘She said no. Not Horace Widdecomb! It sounds queer now when I think about it. She was so emphatic.’

  ‘And besides, he wasn’t in Chicago.’

  ‘Yes, that’s another queer thing. He was in my study when I came downstairs Sunday morning. He was the one who told me about the girl’s death.’

  Something besides whisky warmed Clay’s stomach. Horace Widdecomb! It was an unlikely name for a murderer, and he didn’t seem to be the type to be having an affair with a girl, but stranger things had happened. And there was still the blackmail angle to fall back on. He’d be a fine target. And the Boy Scout knife! I used to gut pigs. Lots of fun. Pigs or girls. Knives or scissors. Horace Widdecomb.

  He asked, ‘How long has he worked for you?’

  ‘Since 1937. Simon hired him in Fort Worth.’

  ‘What did he do before that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Somebody ought to talk to him.’

  ‘I intend to.’

  ‘I’d be glad to volunteer.’

  ‘You’ve done enough already.’

  Her face was a mask again. He asked, puzzled, ‘By that you mean you don’t believe my story?’

  ‘Curiously enough, I do.’

  He felt a surge of elation. Tried and found not guilty. Of murder, that was. Of course there were a few minor charges left. Disloyalty. Drunkenness. Insubordination. Easily overlooked, though.

  ‘This calls for a crink.’ He corrected himself. ‘A drink!’

  As he was reaching for her glass, she said, ‘Just one more thing, Mr Clay. What about Laura Peterkins?’

  The hand never got to the glass. It hung over the desk, a lonely thing belonging to nobody. ‘Laura Peterkins?’ he repeated inanely as though he had never heard of her.

  ‘What was it she had to tell you?’

  He got rid of the hand by putting it behind him, at the same time trying to decide what he should say. ‘I told Canning …’ he began.

  ‘I know. You told him she thought the man she talked to was Standish.’ She regarded him steadily, looking like the pictures he’d seen of Russian women judges. ‘But that wasn’t true, was it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What is true?’

  He felt like a man on a crumbling ice pack. There was no telling which way to jump. He jumped anyway. ‘I never talked to her at all.’

  ‘I didn’t think so.’ She relaxed, a friendly princess again. ‘I’m glad you decided not to lie.’

  ‘So am I.’

  He was so glad he went to the bar, poured himself a straight shot and downed it. The hollow feeling in his stomach vanished. He felt fine again. Dizzy, but fine.

  She was saying, ‘It will be interesting to find out what she has to say.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Laura.’ She held out her glass. ‘She and Mr Peterkins are having dinner with me.’ He touched her hand taking the glass. The skin was cool and smooth.

  ‘Probably say it was me.’ He discovered, going back to the bar, that the room had canted a little, causing an unsteadiness in his gait. ‘No help there.’ He took ice from the silver bucket. ‘Thing is, to clear me, have to find the murmurer.’ He glanced back at her over his shoulder. ‘Did I say murmurer?’ His head felt fuzzy.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I mean murtherer. Killer!’

  ‘I understood.’

  Drunk, he thought disgustedly. Drunk on four drinks. Or was it five? He poured Scotch in her glass, soda and no Scotch in his, went back to the desk. ‘You’ll help catch him?’

  She took her glass. ‘Of course.’

  ‘To detection,’ he said, raising the no-Scotch to his lips.

  She lifted her glass. ‘To detection.’ Her eyes were smi
ling. ‘And to your speedy release.’

  Steuben crystal banged against his teeth. ‘Release? Release!’ The glass sounded like a castanet. He lowered it. ‘Release from what?’

  ‘Come now, Mr Clay.’ She smiled indulgently. ‘You can’t have expected me to shelter you.’

  ‘You said you believed me.’

  ‘I do.’

  The fuzzy feeling left his head. ‘I don’t get it.’

  ‘Consider my position. I believe you, as I’ve said twice now. But if I let you go, and in the end you proved to be the murderer, I’d be an accessory after the fact.’

  ‘Not going to prove to be the murderer!’ It sounded hollow and too loud as he said it and he added, ‘Okay. So it’s a gamble. Be human. Take it.’

  She leaned over the desk. ‘I’m not human, Mr Clay. I’m an accurate, unbiased news story. I’m the market quotations, the baseball scores, the minutes of a P.T.A. meeting, a report from the United Nations. I’m ink, paper and type. A news service. A newspaper.’ For an instant her face was wistful. ‘As a woman, I might gamble. As a publisher, I can’t.’

  ‘Then what?’

  ‘You’d best go to the police.’

  To hell with that, he thought. It was easy enough to sit there, give advice, Athena on Olympus or whatever mountain she sat on, when she didn’t have to take it. He demanded:

  ‘What do you think would have happened if I’d called the police when I found the body?’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘I’ll tell you. They would have found the bracelet in my pocket, the scissors in my apartment; they would have talked to Gwen, half a dozen other people, brought the elevator boy, the Little Club bartender, Mrs Bruce, the Minuet hat-check girl to identify me, and then they would have beat hell out of me until I confessed.’ He stared at her detached, almost uninterested face and went on angrily: ‘I confess easy, Mrs Palmer. Especially with a lemon squeezer attached to my testicles. That’s why I’m not going to the police until I have to!’

  ‘Things have changed since this morning.’

  ‘Because why? Because I’ve been around to stir them up. And there’s still stirring to be done.’

  ‘And stirrers,’ she said. ‘Your Mr Bundy. Your friend Nichols, when he’s freed. The Globe staff. I. P. Geisel. Me.’

  ‘Fine. But I’m going to stir to the last drop, too.’

  ‘But how can I let you go now?’

  ‘Easy. You never saw me.’

  ‘At least four people know I saw you.’

  ‘Okay. You saw me. We exchanged credentials, cut up a few jokes and I left.’

  She considered this. ‘I would certainly have asked you about being in the apartment when the girl called. That’s my only excuse for not having told the police.’ She shook her head. ‘No, Mr Clay. Jokes won’t do.’

  ‘They’ve got to do! Because I’m walking out of here. Now. And I might add, cold sober.’

  He put down his glass, had reached the door when she called softly, ‘Mr Clay. Come back.’

  It was a Luger and it looked as though it belonged in the motionless, capable hand. It had all a Luger’s standard features, the clip with wooden tabs for thumb and forefinger, the wooden handle cross-etched like tweed for better holding, the rounded trigger-guard, the blue-black metal barrel and the blue-black muzzle with the deadly bottomless hole.

  Slowly, he went back to the desk. Her eyes, smoky rather than topaz now, but gold flecked, watched him. A vein pulsed in her throat. ‘Not too close,’ she said. Her breasts, under the black suit, moved with her breathing. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s no other way.’

  Eyeing the Luger again, he saw the catch above her thumb’s second joint, on the recoil carriage, was down exposing the German lettering.

  ‘Gesichert,’ he read.

  ‘I know. It’s on safety. But don’t think for a second——’

  He dived, breasting the desk, and caught her wrist with both hands. His impetus carried him into her, swung her chair around, tumbled both of them on to the carpet. He rolled, hearing air whoosh from her lungs, and whip-cracked the pistol out of her hand. There was a sharp crash of glass, a tinkling noise and the window back of the desk suddenly had an eye. A second later from the twenty-ninth floor came the sound of the pistol striking the parapet. He got to his feet, steadying himself against the wall.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said mockingly. ‘But there’s no other way.’

  ‘You fool!’ She pulled her legs under her, not bothering to straighten her skirt. ‘You crazy fool!’ On one sheer stocking, from garter clasp to calf, was a run. Her flesh matched the beige nylon. ‘Can’t you see I’m trying to help you?’

  She stood up, back to him, and went around the chair to the desk. She pulled down a lever on the telephone call box, picked up the telephone, spoke into it quietly. ‘Operator.’

  From behind he caught her suit jacket, dragged her from the desk and swung her to one side. He felt the jacket’s buttons give, heard the rip of torn fabric. He bent over the desk and pushed the lever back in place.

  She was on her way to the door, head high, back straight, walking, not running. This time he hooked an arm around her waist, pivoted to put himself between her and the knob. Her stomach, bared from skirt to brassiere by the torn jacket, was like a boy’s, the muscle sheath firm and flat. ‘Look,’ he said. ‘Just give me five minutes head start …’

  She spun within the circle of his arm, brought her knee up into his groin. He grunted, yellow pain blinding his eyes, and she tore free of the arm, started back to the desk. He caught her by the shoulders with both hands, the pain making him rough. ‘God damn it!’ he began, shaking her. ‘God damn you!’ She tried to knee him a second time, but he blocked the thrust by turning. She clawed at him, her face wildly furious, feline, insane. Her nails seared his neck, a cheek, and when he closed with her she bit his arm through the sleeve of the linen coat. He brought an elbow up trying to fend her off, but she bent under it, bit again. He grappled with her, holding her close by neck and waist, and they began to turn slowly, alternately off balance, each straining against the other in an awkward parody of a dance. She was solid and strong, as strong as he was, and she smelled of English lavender.

  Her fist, striking upward, brought the pain back, caused him to lose his balance completely. Still clutching her, he fell across a corner of the cocktail table, shattering the plate glass top. The impact stunned him and she spun free. Glass crunched as he crawled from the table, started to get to his feet. She was already on her knees, but instead of going for the door she came for him, nails reaching for his eyes. He got her wrists in time, deflecting the clawing hands to either side of his head, but her body’s weight flattened him against the rug. She jerked an arm loose, ground knuckles into his lips, bringing blood to his mouth. He turned, pinning the other arm to the rug, and tried to swing her off. She stopped knuckling his mouth, bracing herself against the pressure of shoulder, hip and leg. For a moment nothing happened. Then, slowly, he began to shift her, feeling her body writhe in an agony of resistance. He slid her to the rug, forced a leg between hers for leverage, and rolled on top of her. He caught the free arm, pushed it and the other back over her head, let his weight rest on her. She struggled frantically, legs thrashing, hips swivelling, back arching, and then, abruptly, she quit fighting. She exhaled; a long sigh: her eyes fluttered, her body trembled, she moaned once and then lay still, breasts pressed against his chest, smoky eyes glowing, her face remote and mysterious.

  ‘You son of a bitch,’ she said huskily.

  He released her arms, got to his knees and then to his feet. She watched him, not moving, the breasts under the white brassière rising and falling evenly like the breasts of a sleeping woman. He crossed to the desk and jerked telephone and telephone wire from the control box. The movement hurt his groin. Walking stiffly, he crossed to her again, stood looking down at her. She looked back, her eyes large and luminous and blank. Under the eyes, turning the tawny skin the colour of skimmed milk
, were half circles of exhaustion; under the cheek bones were blue shadows. Her cherry-ripe lips were flaccid.

  He said hoarsely, ‘A rope?’

  She made a faint negative movement with her head.

  ‘Your stockings’ll have to do then.’

  ‘No.’ Her voice, deep in her throat, was muffled. ‘Five minutes. I promise.’ The words got clearer. ‘And then God help you!’

  Chapter 20

  THE reception room was empty but the door to the corridor, swinging on silent hinges, was closing slowly. Clay got to it just as it shut, pulled it open, got to the corridor just in time to see Horace Widdecomb, his apprehensive choir-boy face turned so far over one shoulder he seemed to be running backwards, vanish into Charley Adair’s office. Damn little lizard! he thought viciously. Getting an earful! He would have liked to go after him, but remembering the five minutes, he went on past the door to the elevator, pushed a thumb against the call button. To his startled amazement, the bronze doors came apart instantly, disclosing a statuesque, vaguely familiar looking blonde in a pink dress.

  ‘Sam!’ she exclaimed.

  He blinked at her.

  ‘Well, aren’t you going to speak to me?’

  ‘For God’s sake!’

  ‘You needn’t act as though I had leprosy.’

  ‘Alice, look,’ he said. ‘I’m in a terrible hurry.’ He stepped into the elevator. ‘If it’s something about the silver or something, I’ll call you later.’ He touched the button marked 1, the doors closed and they were in free fall.

  She said, ‘You’re not very polite. Suppose I don’t want to go down?’

  ‘Look,’ he began again and then said, ‘Jesus! You’ll never change, will you?’

  ‘And neither, apparently, will your language.’

  Like the tail of a meteor, a light slid down the figure column on the control panel: 21, 20, 19 …

  She said, ‘Even an ex-wife deserves some respect.’

  ‘If you’ll stand back, I’ll genuflect.’

  ‘You’re bitter.’

  …12, 11, 10, the light read.

  She said, ‘You know in your heart it was best for both of us.’

  ‘Sure.’