Sinners and Shrouds

by Jonathan Latimer

  ‘I’d do it for you.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Talbot said. ‘That’s the goddam trouble.’ He straightened out his face, achieving a sort of wan composure and went to the door. ‘See you in cell 13,’ he said and vanished.

  Chapter 26

  BACK to Charley Adair’s black formica desk, arms resting on the edge of the air conditioner under the window that looked north over boulevards, distant park and the city’s shoreline, Clay let 60-degree air cool his face. Under his soaked shirt his heart throbbed from the 60 flights of metal steps he had climbed. His lungs hurt. There was a pain in his side. He was dizzy. He wished somebody would bring him a Tom Collins.

  He also wished it was last week. Saturday afternoon, even. If he had but known, as the lady detective writers said, he would not now be confronted with what lay just ahead. Nor for that matter with the face dimly reflected on the plate glass, a face a poltergeist would have hesitated to claim, twisted lips sucking air, eyes glazed like a dead halibut’s, skin blotched from blows, cuts and sundry contusions: the face of an insane toadstool.

  He moved forward so that the chill air hit his chest and shoulders. It wasn’t Saturday, though. It was Monday morning. He turned his head towards the electric clock on the desk. Half-past one Monday morning. Past the time for any turning back. He wondered what had happened to Andy Talbot. The paper should have been replated by now; somebody from circulation should be bringing copies to the key offices. He wondered if there was any other way he could have handled it. He wondered if Andy had managed it, if it would work. He wondered …

  Footsteps turned him cautiously. Charley Adair came into the office. He was wearing a white dinner jacket, midnight blue trousers, black patent leather pumps and a burgundy cummerbund and under his arm were tucked two papers. He didn’t notice Clay until he reached his desk, and even then it didn’t register all at once. He put the papers down, his expression slowly changing from puzzlement to arrogant outrage.

  Clay hit him while the change was going on, a roundhouse right deep on the left cheek. The blow spun Adair into the book-shelves, sat him on the floor. The Toltec stone face fell beside him. He pressed a palm against the cheek, stared up at Clay with eyes at once angry and apprehensive.

  ‘That,’ Clay said, ‘is for saying Red McKenzie plays the kazoo.’

  The remark, and possibly Clay’s appearance, drained the blood from Adair’s face. ‘What …’ he began, and then was silent. It was obvious he thought he was dealing with a madman. He brought the gloved hand of his false left arm around in front of him as though warding off a blow.

  Clay took hold of one of the papers on the desk, turned it so it was right side up. Even before he completed the turn he saw the ‘GHOST’ in the headline and felt hollow excitement in his stomach. He glanced at the story, still by-lined by Saul Blair, and read:

  A ghostly figure out of Oklahoma folklore—an outlaw long believed dead—early this morning became a suspect in the Globe slayings.

  This bizarre development came with the revelation that the killer had been wounded late yesterday attempting to re-enter the North Side studio where the body of his second victim still lay.

  Dead in the mysterious Sunday …

  It looked fine. Maybe even Saul would like it. And a fine cigar for Andy. Services above the call of duty. He became conscious of Adair watching him. Some of the colour had returned to his face but he didn’t look very happy. That was fine, too.

  Clay scowled, asked: ‘This paper, Charley. Where did you get it?’ Even to him, his voice sounded ominous.

  Adair licked his lips, raised the white glove higher.

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Why, the boy gave it to me … minute or two ago. By the elevator.’

  ‘Why did you beat me up, Charley?’

  ‘I … I thought …’

  ‘I know. Thought I killed the girl. Left her with me at the Minuet. Gentleman’s code wouldn’t let you tell. Just administered a sound thrashing. Very pukka.’

  Adair didn’t say anything.

  ‘Who’s champ of the thirty-first floor now?’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘Who doesn’t play the kazoo?’

  ‘Red McKenzie.’

  ‘You got anything you want to say?’

  ‘No.’

  Clay tossed the paper to him. ‘Amuse yourself.’ His legs ached and he sat on the edge of the desk.

  Adair pretended to read, covertly watching Clay around the paper. Then he stopped pretending. He bent over the page, eyes narrowing in concentration. His mouth, under the thin moustache, formed an O. He read the story through, then read the first paragraph again.

  Finally he lowered the paper. ‘If this is so,’ he said, ‘what are you doing here?’

  ‘Waiting.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  A freighter coming in from the lake whistled for the Michigan Avenue bridge. The thermostat shut off the air conditioner. The freighter whistled again.

  ‘I suppose I should apologize,’ Adair said.

  Clay drummed on the desk with his fingernail. He felt as though he had swallowed a coiled spring. He became aware of the drumming and stopped it.

  ‘I should have had better sense,’ Adair said.

  The room was absolutely quiet. The water had ceased gurgling in the conditioner. The freighter had the bridge. There was no sound at all from the city below.

  Adair said, ‘I might have at least …’ 202

  The shots sounded like paper bags being popped. There were three of them, evenly spaced, and Clay was in the marble-walled corridor before the muffled echo of the third had died. He ran past the private elevator, slid around the left angle to the other corridor, slid around the right angle to the open doorway of the reception-room, got traction on the rug and ran into the inner office.

  Back of the huge kidney-shaped desk, her face expressionless, sat Mrs Palmer. The Luger was still in her hand, the muzzle drooping over the desk, and she was staring at something lying in front of the broken coffee table between the two chintz couches. She didn’t move as Clay circled the something, came to her, bent over the desk and took the Luger. She didn’t move as Charley Adair appeared in the doorway, exclaimed, ‘Cornelia!’ and was abruptly shouldered aside by Lieutenant Diffendorf and I. P. Geisel. She was so rigid that she didn’t seem to be breathing.

  The men stared at her for a moment and then, almost in unison, they turned to stare at the bundle by the coffee table. In it was wrapped a man, face down on the carpet and almost completely covered by what they saw was a nun’s black habit. The cowl, flipped up, held the head loosely like a sack about to disgorge a coconut, and below the skirt one tan and white saddle shoe protruded. By the cowl lay a crumpled Globe Home edition and by that, open blade gleaming wickedly, was a Boy Scout knife.

  Diffendorf was the first to move. He bent over the body, drew back the cowl and in a flat voice said, ‘Widdecomb.’

  ‘The Hooded Nun!’ Charley Adair exclaimed.

  I. P. Geisel edged closer to the coffee table, asked: ‘Dead?’

  ‘Very.’ Diffendorf knelt, began to feel the cloth with the palms of his hands. After a moment he grunted and pulled up the habit exposing the blood-soaked front of Widdecomb’s linen coat. He undid the coat and the shirt under it, twisted both so that part of the dead man’s left shoulder and upper arm came into view. On the arm, between elbow and shoulder, was a bandage of gauze and adhesive tape. A faint circle of pink tinted the gauze.

  ‘Our baby, all right,’ Diffendorf said.

  He put coat and shirt back in place, pulled down the habit and stood up. ‘Put that damn thing away,’ he said to Clay.

  Surprised, Clay saw he was still holding the Luger. He put it on the desk by Mrs Palmer, noticing that she had started to breathe. She was breathing hard. She was also trembling.

  ‘Now,’ said Lieutenant Diffendorf. ‘Who plugged him?’

  Mrs Palmer’s voice, when she finally spoke, was so faint t
hey could barely hear it. ‘I did …’ Involuntarily, her eyes went to the corpse, clung to it in a mixture of fright, horror and fascination. ‘He came at me saying, “Betrayer … betrayer …”’ She got the eyes away, shook her head in bewilderment. ‘I didn’t betray him. I didn’t know anything about him.’

  ‘That was me,’ Clay said.

  It took almost an hour to tidy things up. Many persons came and went, their faces sober, their voices hushed. So many, in fact, that Clay became confused as to both cast and continuity. Some men came and took photographs. An expert from Ballistics went away with the Luger. A physician from the Coroner’s office certified the body was dead. Standish and Canning rushed in, their eyes wild. Mrs Palmer told them how to play the story. They rushed out. The Coroner’s physician unwrapped the bandage on the dead man’s arm, said, ‘Flesh wound. Bullet.’ An Assistant State’s Attorney asked if he could have some statements. Nobody paid any attention. Some men took the body away. Diffendorf picked up the knife. A reporter from the Sun got as far as the inner office door, was ejected. Clay called Miss Dewhurst, talked with her for a while. She didn’t know where Mr Bundy was. I. P. Geisel stood beside Mrs Palmer while she made a statement. It was merely an elaboration of what she had said before. She had been alone in her office waiting for I. P. Geisel and Lieutenant Diffendorf. Widdecomb had appeared in the doorway wearing the nun’s costume. She had known at once that he was insane. He had stood in the doorway holding the newspaper in one hand, the knife in the other, and gibbering, ‘Betrayer … betrayer …’ and then had started for her. I. P. Geisel interpolated it was a fortunate thing Widdecomb had paused in the doorway because it had given Mrs Palmer time to take the Luger out of her desk. Mrs Palmer added it was fortunate her husband had taught her to shoot. Everybody agreed. It was very fortunate. Clay went over his story a second time. Lieutenant Diffendorf showed the Assistant State’s Attorney the papers Clay had given him; the airline passenger lists, the note from Laura Peterkins and the letter to Mary Trevor from Warden Griscomb. The Assistant State’s Attorney said it was the damnedest case he had ever heard of. Everybody agreed. Sergeant Storm poked his head through the door, scowled regretfully at Clay and went away. So did Charley Adair. So did a couple of detectives who had been just standing around anyway.

  Mrs Palmer, seated back of the desk, sighed. ‘He was Simon’s friend,’ she said wearily. Crow’s-feet framed her smoky eyes; tiny wrinkles pulled down the corners of her mouth. She looked tired and ill, but still beautiful.

  ‘Dr Bernstein?’ I. P. Geisel asked solicitously. ‘Hadn’t I better call him?’

  Mrs Palmer shook her head slowly. ‘A drink, maybe.’

  Clay mixed four drinks at the recessed bar. He gave a Scotch over ice to Mrs Palmer, Scotch and soda to I. P. Geisel and Lieutenant Diffendorf, both of whom were standing by the door, apparently undecided whether to stay or leave, and kept the last Scotch and soda for himself.

  Mrs Palmer, watching him, said, ‘I’m not sure I exactly approve of what you did, Mr Clay.’ She tasted her drink. ‘Why didn’t you come to me with the information?’

  ‘Or me?’ Diffendorf asked.

  ‘Rubber soles,’ Clay said.

  They stared at him.

  ‘If I had ’em,’ he said, ‘I wouldn’t have slipped in the corridor.’

  ‘Slipped …?’ said I. P. Geisel.

  Clay nodded. ‘And if I hadn’t slipped, I wouldn’t have to explain why I didn’t go to Mrs Palmer.’ He smiled crookedly at her. ‘Or why she really killed Widdecomb.’

  Chapter 27

  ‘SHE almost threw me,’ Clay told the men. ‘Sitting back of her desk like a plaster saint when I came in. Did throw me until I got thinking a few minutes ago.’

  Speechless, untouched whiskies in frozen hands, I. P. Geisel and Diffendorf eyed him incredulously. Mrs Palmer’s face remained blank. What he was saying apparently hadn’t registered.

  ‘Thinking about how she started to pant after we were all here. A hundred in nine flat. That’s what it took to shoot Widdecomb, open up his Boy Scout knife, slide on the nun’s costume and get back to the desk before anyone came.’

  Mrs Palmer shook her head in bewilderment. ‘Have you lost your mind?’ I. P. Geisel demanded. Diffendorf cleared his throat, frowning. Mrs Palmer asked, ‘Do you really believe I did all that?’ I. P. Geisel started to speak again, but Diffendorf cut in. ‘Let him talk a little.’

  ‘Slander,’ I. P. Geisel warned. ‘Severe penalties.’

  ‘I agree with the lieutenant,’ said Mrs Palmer.

  While I. P. Geisel was muttering something that ended, ‘… irregular!’ Clay turned to Diffendorf.

  ‘One thing first,’ he said. ‘I didn’t figure on Widdecomb being killed. I thought the story would scare him, stir up a row between him and Mrs Palmer. Smoke out some counter-accusations I could tune in on.’

  I. P. Geisel began, ‘I refuse to dignify …’ and was silenced by the lieutenant’s upraised pipe.

  ‘If he’s got ideas,’ Diffendorf said quietly, ‘this is the best place to hear ’em.’ He put the pipe in his mouth. ‘Now, what about Widdecomb?’

  ‘To get to him,’ Clay said, ‘I’m going to have to start way back. With the girl.’

  ‘I thought you wrote all that in the story.’

  ‘I did. Except for the convent at Bethany.’

  ‘Poor farm, you mean,’ said Diffendorf.

  ‘Poor farm and convent,’ Clay said. ‘Convent of the Good Shepherd. That’s where, in 1952, Mary Trevor finally found her mother.’

  ‘She found her mother in a convent?’ Mrs Palmer asked in a surprised voice.

  ‘Well, in a way.’ Clay went on hurriedly to forestall further questions. ‘As I said in the story, after Mary learned from Esther Baumholtz that her father was Larry Trevor and from the warden at McAlester that he was dead, she began a search for her mother. Among other places the search led her to the poor farm at Bethany. Back-tracking, I suppose, on every possible lead. Anyhow, she went there. I told you how I got that by telephone. But what I didn’t tell you was that she found, as I did, that Larry’d had a girl at the convent next door. So she went there and showed the Mother Superior a name she’d copied from the marriage records for 1931 at Clear-creek, Oklahoma.’

  I. P. Geisel asked, ‘You know that she went to Clearcreek?’

  ‘No. But wouldn’t you? If you were looking for your mother and was told that’s where she married your father?’

  ‘Only a theory, then.’

  ‘One turned out pretty good for a fellow named Einstein,’ Diffendorf observed mildly.

  I. P. Geisel blinked and Clay went on:

  ‘The name she copied, the maiden name of Larry Trevor’s wife, was the same as that of a girl who’d run away from the convent in 1930 when Larry and his pals left the poor farm.’

  ‘You got the girl’s name?’ Diffendorf asked.

  ‘No. But I can get it. And I haven’t told you the important thing. The Mother Superior not only identified the name; she did something better. She told Mary who and where her mother was.’

  Mrs Palmer leaned over the desk, her expression at once interested and sceptical. ‘You spoke to the Mother Superior?’

  ‘No. She’s dead.’ Clay realized he wasn’t making the impression he’d expected, but he continued anyway. ‘One of the sisters told me about it. And from the convent Mary went to her mother, put the bite on her. The woman who had dumped her on a doorstep when she was a baby, never bothered about her while she was growing up. It was a real deep bite, but the mother sat for it.’

  ‘But why would she sit, if I understand your meaning?’ Mrs Palmer asked. ‘Even if Mary were her daughter?’

  ‘Forty million bucks.’

  Nobody seemed to get it.

  ‘For God’s sake!’ Clay said. ‘How many tag lines do I have to say?’ He scowled at Mrs Palmer. ‘When did you marry Simon Palmer?’

  ‘In 1936.’

  He swung around to the men. ‘Larry
Trevor didn’t die until 1950.’

  This did make an impression. Especially on I. P. Geisel. He looked as though a cigar had exploded between his teeth. ‘Are you trying to say Mrs Palmer …’ he spluttered.

  ‘Bigamy,’ Clay said. ‘Larry was never divorced. No papers were ever served on him in jail.’ He eyed the attorney. ‘What would happen to the Palmer estate if it was discovered it was being illegally held?’

  ‘Revert to the rightful heirs,’ I. P. Geisel replied automatically. ‘After an accounting.’

  ‘Forty million bucks,’ Clay said again. ‘Now do you see why she paid?’

  ‘Preposterous!’ A second cigar had exploded in I. P. Geisel’s face. ‘A nightmare …’

  ‘A nightmare,’ Mrs Palmer agreed. ‘But a fascinating one.’ She smiled at Clay. ‘Let me get this straight. You are accusing me of being Mary’s mother, of bigamy and of paying blackmail?’

  ‘And of Widdecomb’s murder.’

  By a supreme effort I. P. Geisel reassembled his features. But he forgot his voice. It came out a phlegmy croak. ‘Evidence … of these alleged blackmail payments, Clay?’

  ‘Of the initial one. In 1952. Sapphire-and-diamond jewellery. Cash.’

  ‘I thought you’d be getting around to that,’ said Mrs Palmer. ‘But didn’t we agree Simon gave the jewellery to Esther Baumholtz?’

  ‘And fifty thousand dollars, too?’

  Mrs Palmer shrugged. ‘It would have been like him. But of course I wouldn’t know.’ She inched her glass forward. ‘Could I have another drink, please?’

  Clay made it for her, deciding against one for himself. As he gave her the glass, she said, ‘The next step, I suppose, is to identify me as the Hooded Nun.’

  He eyed her uneasily. In the movies she would have been shattered by now, would have confessed or committed suicide or something. Instead she seemed to be amused. In a cool sort of way that promised retaliation later. He didn’t like it.

  ‘We can try it on for size,’ he said. ‘When you escaped from the convent …’

  ‘One moment,’ said I. P. Geisel. ‘I would advise you to continue using the third person.’