The Fourth Wall

by Barbara Paul

  I was instantly awake. “Yes, Mr. Donaldson, what is it?”

  “Loren Keith’s house in Encino,” he said. “Burned to the ground tonight. Police are saying arson.”

  Ian was awake now and listening. “What time did the fire start?” I asked.

  I could hear papers shuffling on the other end of the line. “Firefighters were called shortly after one A.M., our time.” About three hours ago. “Nobody hurt, the house seemed to be empty. Neighbors say they haven’t seen the Keiths for some time now. Nobody knows where they are.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Donaldson, I’m in your debt. If ever there’s anything—”

  Mr. Donaldson was quick to collect a debt. I promised to arrange a phone interview with Ian for him and hung up.

  “I’ll get Leo,” said Ian.

  I looked up Hugh’s number and dialed. I was talking to his answering service when Ian came back with Leo.

  “Answering service?” said Leo. “That means he’s out of town.”

  “Not necessarily,” Ian said. “I subscribed to a twenty-four-hour service and left it on all night most of the time. He could be in his apartment right now, sound asleep.”

  “Then we’d better go see,” I said. “Let’s get dressed.”

  It was nearly eight before we got to Hugh’s apartment on East Thirty-seventh. The doorman was puffy-eyed and cantankerous and refused to ring Hugh’s apartment for us. “Never before eleven, he told me. He don’t like to be disturbed in the morning.”

  “Are you sure he’s up there?” Ian asked.

  “How would I know? I’m not the night man, I’m the day man. I don’t see ’em come in.”

  Ian pulled out his billfold. “This is an emergency,” he said as he passed over a folded bill.

  The doorman rang Hugh’s apartment. No answer.

  “Now what?” I asked.

  “We need reinforcements,” said Ian, looking around. “Where’s a phone?”

  We couldn’t see a phone booth, but at an angle across the street was a small restaurant. It was packed with people grabbing a quick bite before going to work. Leo and I stood inside the door while Ian called the detective agency he had consulted once before. We waited until a window booth became vacant where we could keep an eye on the entrance to Hugh’s apartment building.

  “Order big breakfasts,” Ian said as we sat down, “and eat slowly. I said we’d need two men, but they can’t get here for a couple of hours.”

  “Why two?” Leo wanted to know.

  “One to follow Hugh and one to check at the airport. We can’t do that ourselves. It would mean tracking down flight attendants and showing them Hugh’s picture—picture!”

  “Gene Ramsay’s office will have one,” I said.

  “I wonder,” said Leo. “Did he go to California to burn down Loren Keith’s house or to kill Dorothy? Maybe the arson was second choice.”

  “Maybe he didn’t go at all,” I said, trying hard not to jump to conclusions.

  “Yes, he did,” said Leo, without emphasis.

  “How can you be so sure?”

  He just shrugged.

  We managed to stretch our breakfast out almost an hour, and then ordered a second one. We were about to order a third when the two detectives showed up. We got into a taxi and sat there with the meter running while Ian explained to the detectives what they were to do.

  Then we went home to wait.

  Before the day was over the detectives had turned up two items of interest.

  First, that morning Hugh Odell had taken American Airlines Flight Number 2 out of Los Angeles at eight-thirty, arriving at Kennedy at four thirty-seven P.M. He had traveled under the name William H. MacNeal. The detective investigating didn’t have much luck at first. Then one of the stewardesses mentioned that the man in the photograph bore a slight resemblance to one of the passengers on Flight 2 who had a mustache and wore glasses. Once the detective had pencil-sketched in the glasses and mustache, he got positive identifications from both stewardesses.

  Second, Hugh Odell had been keeping a young man in an apartment on West End Avenue for the past two months.

  The young man’s name was Tony Fisher, and he had no idea who Hugh Odell was. He thought his lover was an insurance adjuster named Bill MacNeal; the detective was discreet enough not to enlighten him. Tony Fisher never went to the theater, never read the newspapers, never did much of anything except smoke pot and keep the stereo blaring day and night. There was no TV in the apartment—“Bill doesn’t like it.” The detective had described the young man as being “totally out of it.” Tony Fisher had no skills, no ambitions, no desire for anything in life except to be admired and waited on by his lover.

  “A male Rosemary Odell,” I said. “Good Lord.”

  “Opportunity, yes,” said Ian, “and he has a male lover. That does it, as far as I’m concerned. Hugh Odell was Michael Crown’s lover.”

  “Why were our detectives able to find all this when the police don’t seem to know?” Leo asked. “Odell hasn’t been arrested or even picked up for questioning, has he?”

  “They probably had no reason to check,” I said. “I doubt if the New York police know Loren’s house has been burned. They didn’t know anything about his blinding, not until I told that first investigator we had, what’s his name, Piperson. The only way they’ll find out is if someone in Los Angeles remembers getting a query about Loren earlier and takes it on himself to notify New York.”

  Or unless we tell them. But neither Ian or Leo suggested it, and I certainly wasn’t going to.

  “Yeah,” mused Leo, “and they wouldn’t know about this Fisher guy. Not if Odell’s been keeping him just a couple of months. He must be feeling safe, to set him up like that.”

  “I could kill,” said Ian quietly. “I’m sure I could. Hugh Odell I could kill with my bare hands.” His voice was calm and his face expressionless, betraying none of the agitation he must have been feeling. “But I’m not going to do it. I want that bastard to suffer. I want him to understand what it feels like, knowing someone is out to get you. I want him to feel fear, and pain, and loss. I want to strip him of everything. Everything.”

  “You know what you’re saying?” Leo asked. “You’re saying you’re going to kill this Tony Fisher.”

  Ian scowled. “No, that would make me no different from Odell. I don’t want to hurt anyone but Odell. Him, I want to hurt. God, I want to hurt him!”

  “We all do,” muttered Leo.

  The same thought struck both men at the same time, and they looked quickly at me. I nodded. “I’m in. If.”

  “If what?”

  “If we’re absolutely sure. I’m ninety-nine per cent convinced Hugh is the killer. But I don’t want to take any chance at all that we’re condemning the wrong man. I want to be sure.”

  “What more proof is there?” asked Ian. “He was in California when Keith’s house was burned—”

  “So were a lot of other people. Hugh could have had a legitimate reason for being there.”

  “In disguise? And with his asthma?” Ian shook his head. “Come on, Abby. Why would Hugh Odell be making a quick trip to California?”

  “Ask him,” said Leo.

  Ian and I looked at each other, and then Ian reached for the phone.

  No answering service this time; Hugh took the call. “Odell? This is Ian Cavanaugh. Where have you been? I tried to get you all day yesterday … Oh. I thought you might be out of town … I see. Well, I hope you’re feeling better … The reason I called, I’m making a TV movie in August, and there’s a part in it that’s just right for you … Yes, California, but it’ll be shot indoors … Not even with air conditioning? You wouldn’t be outside at all … Hell, Hugh, that’s too bad. It’s not a bad part at all … Oh, you’re welcome. Sorry we couldn’t work it out … Sure, I’ll tell her. Right.” He hung up. “Says he hasn’t been in California for twenty years and he’s not going now.”

  Leo looked at me quizzically.

  “H
e could still have another reason for lying,” I objected stubbornly. “I just don’t want us to make that mindless leap from injury to revenge the same way Hugh—the killer did.”

  “Hugh says tell you hello,” Ian said absently.

  “Okay, Abby,” said Leo, “what’ll it take to convince you?”

  “A confrontation.”

  The two men looked at me as if I’d suddenly lost my marbles. They both started protesting loudly; Ian’s stronger voice won out. “Abby, do you think he’s going to admit doing all these things just because we ask him nicely? He’ll never confess. Never.”

  “Confession is just a form of bragging,” I said, “and he must be feeling pretty pleased with himself by now. He’s feeling secure enough to keep a male lover, isn’t he? If we stage it right—”

  “It’ll never work,” Leo interrupted. “Three people pointing accusing fingers—”

  “Not three. Just one.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Ian. “And which one of us will it be, said the straight man.”

  “Me.”

  Both Ian and Leo smiled. My suggestion was so ridiculous it wasn’t worth discussing.

  But I wasn’t ready to give up. “Think about it before you say no. If either of you husky men confronts Hugh, he’s not going to admit a thing. He’ll lie, and protest his innocence, keep up the act. He’s not going to want a showdown with either of you. But he wouldn’t be afraid of me. I’m no threat. With me, he’d be in control of the situation. It seems to me anyone who could take another person’s life must be arrogant beyond measure. I’m betting he’s ready to do a little bragging—especially if he’s convinced I already know the truth. He’ll want to show off a little. And I’d make a dandy audience.”

  “Abby, love,” said Ian, “if Hugh does admit anything, your life wouldn’t be worth a plugged nickel. Or hadn’t you thought of that?”

  “Oh, I’ve thought of it all right! I have no intention of playing sacrificial lamb. I’m not going into any meeting with Hugh Odell unless you two are close by.”

  “And how do we arrange that?”

  I waved my arms in exasperation. “I don’t know how we arrange it! I just now thought of it, for Pete’s sake. It’ll take planning, careful preparation.”

  “No,” said Ian firmly. “It’s too dangerous. I won’t permit it.”

  “You won’t permit it?” I said, irritated. “Where did that proprietary tone come from? I need your co-operation the same way I need Leo’s—but what I don’t need is your permission.”

  “Aw, c’mon, folks,” said Leo. “Don’t squabble now.”

  Ian turned to him. “Ten minutes to make up?” Leo nodded and left the room.

  “It’ll take you at least fifteen,” I said.

  But it didn’t. Leo came back in and sat down like a man ready to do business.

  “All right,” he said. “How do we get him?”

  6

  He was late.

  I was standing in one of the parking lots at Shea Stadium; Leo had suggested the place. The Mets were on the road and the place was virtually deserted. It was getting on toward eight o’clock and the grounds keepers and office staff had long since gone home. A half dozen cars were still scattered through the huge lot; one of them, a Chrysler, was rented. Inside the Chrysler Ian and Leo crouched down over a receiver set tuned to pick up anything spoken into the microphone I wore under the lapel of my jacket. Ian’s detectives had fixed us up without batting an eye. I would have felt ridiculous if I hadn’t been so scared.

  We needed a place where Hugh Odell would feel free to talk. My place was out, as were public bars and restaurants. There’d be no way to protect me in Hugh’s own apartment. We wanted a place where Hugh could be reasonably sure no one would overhear, no one would interrupt. And where we could be reasonably sure no one would interrupt us. Because if Hugh said what we thought he was going to say, we were going to make sure he knew first-hand the hell he’d put other people through.

  There was perhaps half an hour of daylight left. I was beginning to think Hugh wasn’t going to show when a cab roared into sight. It stopped near me and Hugh opened the door, motioned me to get in. I shook my head, no. Hugh paid off the driver and watched the cab leave.

  “Abby, what’s this all about?” he said as he walked toward me. “Why did you want me to meet you all the way out here?”

  “I have to talk to you, Hugh. I wanted to meet in … in an open place.” Uncertainty, a touch of fear—Ian had coached me carefully on the delivery of this line.

  Hugh looked at me oddly. “Well, I’m beat. Let’s sit down, at least. Over there.” He pointed to an old Fiat Spider with its top down. Hugh took the driver’s seat while I slid in the other side, trying not to read any symbolism into our relative positions.

  We’d prepared a story; I took the plunge. “A friend of mine arrived from California yesterday. I met her at Kennedy Airport—it was that American Airlines flight that gets in around four-thirty. I saw you, Hugh. You were among the passengers getting off that plane.”

  His eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

  “You were wearing a false mustache and glasses, but it was you. And you told Ian you hadn’t been in California for twenty years.”

  He wasn’t ready to commit himself yet, either to denial or admission.

  “But that’s not true,” I persisted. “You were in California yesterday morning—at the time Loren’s house was burned down.”

  “Loren’s house—you mean Loren Keith? Burned down?” So he’d decided on denial. “I didn’t know—Abby, you don’t think I had anything to do with that, do you?”

  “I want you to tell me you didn’t.”

  His jaw worked in amazement—and then he drew back from me, his face a mixture of hurt and anger. I watched his chest move up and down as he took deeper and deeper breaths. When he spoke, he wasn’t looking at me. “You really think I could do a thing like that, Abby? Is that what you really think of me?”

  I almost apologized. Either this man was the most convincing liar in the world or I had him all wrong. “I saw you at the airport,” I insisted. “Why did you lie to Ian? Why were you in California?”

  He stared at me with such dislike that I began to squirm under his scrutiny. “Abby, all I can tell you is that you are mistaken. You did not see me at the airport yesterday morning because I wasn’t there. Nor was I in California.” Up to now he’d been speaking in a tight, controlled voice. But then—without warning—he blew up. “Goddammit! Who the hell do you think you are! Accusing me! Me! Because that’s what you’re doing, you, you—you’re accusing me of being the one who, who set fire to, who … Do you think I bombed Cavanaugh’s house? Or put acid in the cold cream? Abby—do you think I killed Rosemary?”

  His anger was so strong my resolution almost wilted. What if we did have him wrong? But we’d expected him to deny it.

  Time for the second volley. “There’s something else,” I said. “I know you’re homosexual.”

  He looked as if I’d spit in his face. But he recovered fast: he reached out and grabbed one of my breasts, roughly. “Shall I show you how homosexual I am?”

  I knocked his hand away. “I’m sure you can swing both ways when you have to. All that fawning over Rosemary—that was just an act, wasn’t it? You didn’t care for her at all—she was just something you could use. Hugh, I think you were Michael Crown’s lover.”

  For a moment I thought he was going to hit me. But he calmed down and let some time pass. Then he said, in that too-reasonable voice one adopts when speaking to someone who’s not quite rational, “Abby, we’re all under stress. That’s the only excuse I can make for you. Maybe someday I’ll be able to forgive you for this. But you’re wrong, dead wrong. I was not in California yesterday morning, I am not homosexual—”

  “I know about Tony Fisher.”

  He turned ghost-white—and that I knew wasn’t an act. A jet whined by, an abrasive intrusion into a suddenly quiet world. “Who’s Tony Fisher?
” Hugh said automatically.

  “Oh, Hugh, why do you keep lying? I know about the apartment on West End Avenue, I know you lied about your name. Tony Fisher may never have heard of Hugh Odell, but he knows you. He knows an insurance adjuster named Bill MacNeal.”

  The anger and resentment suddenly drained out of Hugh, as if someone had pulled a plug. The tension was gone from his body as he turned his head, casually gazing around the parking lot like a bored tourist tired of looking at the scenery. He actually chuckled as he fished but an inhaler and used it. “My, you’ve been a busy little bitch, haven’t you? What else do you know? I can just see you sneaking around, spying, nosing into matters that don’t concern you. Is that how you get material for your plays? What else do you know?”

  “I know you’ve killed eight people,” I said leadenly.

  “Really? I make it only seven. How do you get eight?”

  “Only seven? Oh, I beg your pardon,” I said sarcastically. “I count eight. Jake Steiner, Ian Cavanaugh’s wife and daughter, the guard Ian had hired, the old woman who lived next door to them, Rosemary, Preston Scott, and Alfred Heath.”

  “Ah, that’s where you got off. I didn’t kill Alfred Heath.”

  “You didn’t?”

  “Scott, yes. Ask me how. Excess potassium, that’s how. Can’t be traced because there’s already potassium in the body. Good, hah? But Heath died in a traffic accident. I had nothing to do with it. But it was Heath’s death that made me rethink my plan.”

  “What do you mean?” I knew what he meant.

  “I mean, you stupid woman, that originally I’d set out to kill you all, all you murderers on the governing committee. Remember that year I was in Switzerland? I spent that whole year thinking, deciding to get even with you for what you did. You waited until I was out of town and then you called Michael in and—”

  “Hugh, no one knew you were lovers, how could—”

  “But it wasn’t right,” he went on, unhearing. “Preston Scott never knew he was being punished. But I was so keyed up about pulling off a successful murder that I didn’t realize it at the time. Then I heard Heath was killed in a traffic accident. I felt let down. Disappointed. I should have been elated—but it wasn’t right, something was missing. I had to make you understand. I wanted to see you hurting.”