Night Call and Other Stories of Suspense

by Armstrong Charlotte

  The policeman sighed. “You want it from me? Okay. On the 16th of last March, late in the evening,” he droned, “a man named Joseph Carlisle was shot to death in his own front hall.” (Mitch, ears pricked up, remembered the paragraph he had seen just tonight.) “Lived in a canyon, Hollywood Hills,” the Lieutenant continued. “Winding road, lonely spot. Looked like somebody rang his bell, he answered, they talked in the hall. It was his own gun that he kept in a table there. Whoever shot him closed the front door, which locked it, and threw the gun in the shrubbery. Then beat it. Wasn’t seen—by anybody.”

  “And what has this got to do with Mrs. Maxwell?” Mitch asked.

  “Mrs. Maxwell used to be married to this Carlisle,” said the policeman. “We had to check her out. She has this alibi.”

  “I see,” said Mitch.

  “Mrs. Maxwell,” said Julius through his teeth, “was with me in our home in Santa Barbara that evening and all that night.”

  Mitch saw. He saw that either Maxwell was trying to save his wife from the embarrassment of suspicion or . . . that compassion was a fine thing but it can get a well-meaning person into trouble. And a few drinks might hit a murderess very hard and very fast. Mitch knew, that whatever else Maxwell said, he was lying in his teeth about this alibi. Because the woman, still sitting across this restaurant, was the very same woman whom Mitch Brown had taken in, had given a break.

  But nobody was giving Mitch Brown any break. And why all this nonsense about blackmail? Mitch, with his wings folded tight away, said to the Lieutenant, “Suppose I tell you my story.” And he did so, coldly, briefly.

  Afterward, Maxwell laughed. “You believe that? You believe that he would take a drunken woman home with him—and close the door?”

  In his breast Mitch Brown felt the smoulder of dislike burst into a flame of hatred.

  “No, no,” said Maxwell. “What must have happened was this. He spotted my wife here. Oh, he’d read the papers—don’t you believe that he hadn’t. He knew she had been married to Joe Carlisle. So, spur of the moment, he tried out his little lie. Might be some profit in it—who knows? Listen to this: when I asked him how much he wanted to keep this story to himself, he asked me how much it was worth.”

  Mitch chewed his lip. “You’ve got a bad ear for dialogue,” he said. “That is not exactly what I said. Nor is it the sense of what I said.”

  “Oh, oh,” said Maxwell, smiling.

  The Lieutenant was pursing noncommittal lips.

  Mitch spoke to him. “Who else gives Mrs. Maxwell her alibi?”

  “Servants,” said the lieutenant gloomily.

  “Servants?” said Mitch brightly.

  “It’s only natural,” the Lieutenant said, even more gloomily.

  “Right,” said Mitch Brown. “You mean it is probable that when a man and his wife are at home together only the servants will see them there. But it isn’t so probable that a stranger will take in a drunken woman, and leave her to heaven . . . . simply because he feels like giving a human being a break. So this is a study in probability, is it?”

  The Lieutenant’s mouth moved and Mitch said quickly, “But you want the facts, eh? Okay. The only thing for us to do is go and talk to the bartender.”

  “That seems to be it,” said the Lieutenant promptly. “Right.”

  Maxwell said, “Right. Wait for us.”

  He rose and went to fetch his wife. Mitch stood beside the Lieutenant. “Fingerprints?” he murmured. The Lieutenant shrugged. Under those weary eyelids, Mitch judged, the eyes were human. “She has a car? Was the car out?” The Lieutenant shrugged again. “Who else would shoot this Carlisle? Any enemies?”

  “Who hasn’t?” the Lieutenant said. “We better check with this bartender.”

  The four of them went in the Lieutenant’s car. The Parakeet Bar and Grill was doing well this evening. It looked brighter and more prosperous. Toby the bartender was there. “Hi, Mr. Brown,” he said, “Long time no see.”

  “I’ve been back East. Tell this man, Toby, what happened around one thirty on the morning of March 17th.”

  “Huh?” said Toby. The flesh of his cheeks seemed to go flatter. His eyes went duller. Suddenly Mitch knew what was going to happen.

  “You see this man or this lady in here between one, two o’clock in the morning last March 17th?” said the Lieutenant and added. “I’m Lieutenant Prince, L.A.P.D.”

  “No, sir,” said Toby. “I know Mr. Brown, of course. He comes in now and again, see? Lives around here. A writer, he is. But I don’t remember I ever seen this lady before.”

  “What about Brown? Was he in here that night or that morning?”

  “I don’t think so,” said Toby. “That’s the night, now that I think back—yeah, my kid was sick and I shut the place up earlier than usual. Ask my wife,” said Toby the bartender with the fixed righteous gaze of the liar.

  Lieutenant Prince turned his long face, his sad eyelids, on Mitch Brown.

  Mitch Brown was grinning. “Oh, no!” he said. “Not the old Paris Exposition gag!” He leaned on the bar and emitted silent laughter.

  “What are you talking about?” Lieutenant Prince said sourly. “You give me corroboration for this story you’re telling. Who can tell me about it? Who saw you and this lady that night?”

  “Nobody. Nobody,” said Mitch genially. “The streets were empty. Nobody was around. Well! I wouldn’t have believed it! The old Paris Exposition gag!”

  The Lieutenant made an exasperated sound.

  Mitch said gaily, “Don’t you remember that one? There’s this girl and her mother. They go to a Paris hotel. Separate rooms. Girl wakes up in the morning, no mother. Nobody ever saw any mother. No mother’s name on the register. No room’s got the mother’s number. Wait. No—that wasn’t it. There was a room, but the wallpaper was different.

  Julius Maxwell said, “A writer”—as if that explained everything.

  “Why don’t we all sit down,’ said Mitch cheerfully, “and tell each other stories?”

  His suggestion was accepted. Natalie Maxwell slipped into a booth first; she was blonde, expensive, protected . . . and numb. (Is she doped up with tranquilizers or what? Mitch wondered.) Her husband sat on her right and the policeman sat on her left. Mitch slid in the other side of the Law and faced his adversary.

  Mitch Brown’s mood was by no means as jaunty as his words had implied. He didn’t like the idea of being the victim of the old Paris Exposition gag. But he was not rattled or panicky. On the contrary, his mind began to reconnoiter the enemy. Julius Maxwell, flamboyantly successful—Mitch savored the flavor of the man’s reputation. The buccaneer type, ruthless and bold. Julius Maxwell—with money like a club in his hand. Going to make a fool out of Mitchel Brown. Also, there was the little matter of justice. Or mercy.

  Mitch felt his wings begin to rustle again.

  He said to the woman, gently, “Would you care for something?

  A highball?”

  “I don’t drink,” said Natalie primly. Her lashes came down. Her tongue touched her lips.

  Mitch Brown ran his tongue over his upper lip, very thoughtfully.

  Julius Maxwell’s energy was barely contained in this place. “Never mind the refreshments,” he said. “Get to it. This young man, whoever he is, spotted my wife and knew her from the publicity. He knows I am a rich man. So he thought he’d try a big lie. For the sake of the nuisance value, he thought I’d pay something. Well, an opportunist,” said Julius with a nasty smile, “I can understand.”

  “I doubt if you understand me,” said Mitch quietly. “I’m sure you don’t realize how old hat that Paris Exposition story is.”

  “What has any Paris Exposition got to do with it?” snapped Julius. “Now look here, Lieutenant Prince. Can I prosecute this man?”

  “You can’t prove extortion,” said the Lieutenant gloomily. “You should have let him take the money, with witnesses.”

  “He couldn’t do that,” said Mitch, “because he knows the thou
ght of money never crossed my mind.”

  The Lieutenant’s eyes closed all the way in great weariness. They opened again and it was apparent that he believed nothing and nobody, yet. “Want to get this straight. Now you say, Mr. Maxwell—”

  Julius said, “I say that my wife was at home that evening and all night, as the servants also say, and as the authorities know. So this man is a liar. Who can say why? It is plain that he can’t bring anyone or anything to corroborate this yarn he is telling. The bartender denies it. And, if you ask me, the most ridiculous thing he says is his claim that he hasn’t read the newspapers for six weeks. Shows you the fantastic kind of mind he’s got.”

  The Lieutenant, without comment, turned to Mitch. “And you say—”

  “I say,” said Mitch, “that I have been in New York City since the 17th of March, attending rehearsals of my play and its opening night.”

  “A playwriter,” said Julius.

  “A playwright,” corrected Mitch. “I guess you don’t know what that is. For one thing, it is a person committed to trying to understand human beings. Oddly enough, even you.” Mitch leaned over the table. “You are the bold buccaneer, so I’ve heard. You’ve pirated money out of the world and now you think money can buy whatever you want. Suppose I tell your story?”

  Julius Maxwell now had a faint sneering smile, but Mitch noted that Natalie had her eyes open. Perhaps her ears were open too. Mitch plunged on.

  “Your wife drove down here and shot her ex,” he said brutally. (Natalie did not even wince.) “Well, now . . .” Mitch’s imagination began to function, from long practice. “I suppose that Natalie felt bad enough, upset enough, maybe even sorry enough, to need a drink and to take too many drinks until she forgot her troubles.” Natalie was looking at him. “But when she woke up in my apartment she ran—ran to her car which she must have had. Ran home. Ah, well, what else could she do?” Mitch mused aloud. “She had done this awful thing. Somebody would have to help her.”

  (Was Natalie holding her breath?)

  “Who would help her?” Mitch said sharply. “You would, Maxwell. Why? I’ll tell you why. You are not the type to want any wife of yours and the accent is on yours—to die in a gas chamber for murder. She’d done something stupid. You bawled her out, I imagine, for the stupidity of it. But you told her not to worry. She was yours, so you would fix it. Money can buy anything. She must do exactly as you say, and then she could forget it.” Mitch hesitated. “Did you think she could forget it?” he murmured.

  Nobody moved or spoke, so Mitch went on. “Well, you got to work. You bribed the servants. Bribed Toby, here. And you checked all around and discovered that there was only one other person who could reveal that she really had no alibi. That was a playwright. Oh, you checked on me too. Sure you did. You knew very well where I was and what

  I was doing. You found out the day and the hour I was due back in

  Los Angeles.”

  Lieutenant Prince snorted. “Sounds nuts,” he broke in. “You say he’s been bribing everybody? Why didn’t he bribe you?”

  Mitch turned a glazed eye on him. “Trouble was, I hadn’t read the papers. I didn’t know that I knew. So how could he bribe me? He put me down for an idiot,” said Mitch. “For what sane person doesn’t read the paper for six weeks? And then he thought of a way.”

  Mitch addressed himself to Maxwell. “You had some hireling watching my apartment. And you and Natalie were ready and waiting, and quite nearby.” Mitch sensed the policeman’s shrug coming and he added quickly, “Otherwise, how come the very first day I’m in town I run into Natalie, and Natalie in exactly the same clothes?”

  “Who says they’re the same?” said Maxwell smoothly, “except you?”

  “She came into the restaurant,” said Mitch, “alone.”

  “Since I had a phone call to make . . .”

  “Alone,” Mitch persisted, ignoring the interruption, “and why? To encourage me to come over and speak to her. That’s why the same clothes—to make sure I’d recognize her again. After she pulls the blank on me, Maxwell moves in. You, knowing how deep you’ve bribed your defenses behind you, press me into the position of looking like an opportunist—possibly like an extortionist. ‘Brown’s a writer,’ you say to yourself. Which is ‘a nut’, in your book. ‘Nobody is going to believe a word he says.’ You’ll discredit me. You’ll rig a little scene. You’ll call a real policeman for a witness.”

  “Why?” croaked the Lieutenant.

  Mitch was startled. “Why what?”

  “Why cook all this up and call me?”

  “Simple,” Mitch said. “What if I had finally read the papers and recognized her name? What if I had come to you? What am I then? A good citizen. Isn’t that so? This way, he’s made it look as if I came to them. Making me look like an opportunist. And he’s the good citizen who called you in.”

  Air came out of the Lieutenant, signifying nothing.

  “What a wacky scheme!” Mitch said it first. (Damn it, it was wacky. It wasn’t going to sound probable.) “How unrealistic you are!” he taunted desperately.

  Maxwell sat there smugly. “You’ve got the imagination, all right,” he said with a wry smile. “Wild one.”

  Then the policeman surprised them both. “Wait a minute, Brown. You’re saying that Maxwell knows his wife is the killer. That he’s acting as accessory after the fact? You mean to say that?”

  Mitch hesitated.

  Maxwell said, “He hasn’t thought it out. Listen, he is just spinning a yarn, Lieutenant. He was challenged to do it. He’s proving that he’s clever. And that he is—for fiction. Call it a good try.”

  Mitch saw his way pointed out for him.

  “Or, possibly,” said Maxwell after a moment, “he was only trying to pick up a good-looking woman.” Maxwell showed his teeth in

  a smile.

  Mitch understood—he was being shown how to save face. It was very seductive. Not only that, he was aware that if he went along, the power, the money, the influence here, there, and everywhere, would work to Mitchel Brown’s commercial advantage.

  So he said slowly, “I know that he is a liar. I believe that he is an accessory after the fact. Yes, that’s what I mean to say.”

  Julius Maxwell’s face darkened. “Prove it,” he snapped. “Because if you just tell it, I will have legal recourse, and I will have your skin. I don’t sit still to be called a liar.”

  Mitch looked up and said with an air of pure detached curiosity, “What ever made you think that I would?”

  “Look, give me something,” said the Lieutenant with sudden anger, “give me something to go on.”

  Maxwell said contemptuously, “He can’t. It’s all moonshine.”

  Mitch was scrambling for something that would help him. “I never thought of a car,” he murmured. “But I should have guessed, from the shoes she wears, that she hadn’t walked here. I don’t suppose she has walked much since she married so much money.”

  Mitch knew that Maxwell was swelling up with rage, or simulated rage. But he thought that Natalie was listening. It came to him, with conviction, that in spite of everything she was a human being.

  So he looked at her and said, “Why did you leave this Joe Carlisle,

  I wonder? What kind of man was he? Did you quarrel? Did you hate him? How did he still have the power to hurt you that much?”

  She looked at him, lips parted, eyes bright, startled. Her husband was on the point of getting up and hitting someone, and Mitch knew whom.

  Lieutenant Prince said, “Sit down, Maxwell.” He said to Mitch, “And you, hold onto your tongue. Don’t analyze me any characters. Or emote me any motives. She’s got an alibi unless you can break it, and evidence is what the law requires.”

  “But what about my motive for lying?” Mitch demanded. “Money? That’s ridiculous!” He stopped, staring. Natalie Maxwell had opened her bag, taken out a lipstick. Murder, prison . . . she paints her mouth. Slander, blackmail . . . she paints her mouth. How
probable was that?

  “Give me proof,” the Lieutenant said angrily.

  “In a minute,” Mitch said, as his heart bounced upward. He leaned back. “Let me pursue the theme of money. I imagine Natalie’s got whatever money can buy. Her living is paid for. She has charge accounts.”

  Maxwell said, “Let’s go. He’s rambling now.”

  The Lieutenant began to push at Mitch’s thigh, nudging him out of the booth.

  “Know what I can prove?” Mitch said.

  “What?” said the Lieutenant.

  “That I was working in my apartment all that day and into the night on the 16th, 17th of March. Those walls are cardboard and I am a nuisance—well-known in the building.”

  “So you were working,” said the policeman. “What of it?”

  “I wasn’t in Santa Barbara,” said Mitch cheerfully. He reached over and plucked up Natalie’s handbag, the green one that matched the

  shoes.

  “Now just a minute,” Maxwell growled.

  “See if her check book is in there,” said Mitch, pushing the bag at the Lieutenant. “It’s a fat one. Her name’s printed on it, and all that: I don’t think she has much occasion to write checks. It may be the same one.”

  The Lieutenant had his hands on the bag, but he looked unenlightened.

  “Look at it. It’s evidence,” Mitch said.

  The Lieutenant’s hands moved and Maxwell said, “I’m not sure you have the right . . .” But the policeman’s weary lids came up, only briefly, and Maxwell was silent.

  The Lieutenant took out a check book. “It’s fat,” he said. “Starts February 21. What of it?”

  Mitch Brown leaned his head on the red leatherette and kept his eyes high. “Nobody on earth . . . unless Natalie remembers, which I doubt . . . but nobody else on earth can know what the balance on her check stubs was on Saint Patrick’s Day in the morning. Even her bank couldn’t know. But what if I know? How could I? Because I looked, while she was snoring on my sofa and I had to find out who she was and how I could help her and whether she needed any money.”

  The Lieutenant’s hand riffled the stubs. “Well?”