Turk was silent a moment. Then he said slowly, “Yes, I’m interested, all right. Very interested. I’d like to work with you, Dennis. I think we could do big things.”
“How are you fixed financially? The Quigleys would probably try to hold out for all they could get.”
“Susan and I have some money put away,” Turk said. “I’d have to borrow too, of course, but with what we have in our safe-deposit I think I could swing it. Let me think it over, Dennis. I like the idea very much. We could get together in the morning.”
“Fine, fine.” Champion sounded hearty.
But after he had hung up the smile faded from his face and he sat there in the silent house, his hand still gripping the telephone with a strangle hold.
“One way or another,” he said aloud, in a low voice, “I’ll have to take care of them. Before they take care of me.”
18
Ira Fenn had a blonde in one hand and a bottle in the other. He had picked them both up that evening. The blonde wasn’t interested.
“You said we’d go dancing somewhere,” she said complainingly.
“Sure we will. Have a drink first.”
“What do you think I am, anyhow? I don’t drink out of a bottle.”
Fenn peered consideringly at the bottle. “Why not? What’s wrong with that? I like to drink out of bottles.”
“Well, I like to dance. Come on, let’s go somewhere.”
Fenn looked through the windshield and across the dark beach to the flashing line of breakers booming in from the Pacific. Absently he touched his flat wallet. Damn Dennis Champion, he thought. Kicking him off that job of watching Karen just when he needed a job most. And just when it might have begun to get interesting, too. When there’s a murder, you never know what you may turn up that people will pay big for.
Beside him, the discontented blonde said, “Come on. This is no fun.”
“Let’s go up to my place,” Fenn suggested.
“Listen, you cheapskate! Either we go on some place and dance or you can take me back to the bus stop. One or the other. Make up your mind.”
Fenn tightened his arm around her. “Aw, honey—”
“Don’t you honey me.” She flung his arm away. He caught the bottle just in time.
“You want to be careful,” he said angrily. “That’s a full quart.”
“The hell with you,” she said. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Look, why don’t we just go up to my place and—”
The blonde leaned forward and reached to switch on the ignition key. The car hiccoughed to life, its noise half drowned by the long, shattering roar of an incoming breaker.
Fenn slapped her hand aside and switched the ignition off again. He peered at her intently in the darkness.
“That’s the way you want it?” he asked, his voice suddenly ugly. “Okay, baby. You asked for it.” He leaned forward and opened the door on her side, shoved it wide. “Go on, get out.”
“Now wait a minute! The bus stop’s three miles up the road!”
“That’s your tough luck, baby. Get going.”
She settled back in the seat. “I won’t do it. You’re going to drive me back. You—” She broke off with a gasp as Fenn sank his strong, bony fingers deep into her arm.
“I said get out!” He shoved so hard she found herself out of the car and stumbling in the deep sand before she could brace herself to resist. Her handbag fell and scattered its contents in the dark.
She said, half sobbing, “You lousy little—”
“Beat it, you tramp,” Fenn said, grinning at her toothily.
“Well, turn on your lights a minute so I can pick up my things.” She was stooping and fumbling in the sand.
“I said beat it. Go on, get out of here. I got news for you, baby. I’m a private detective. Didn’t know that, did you? Now get lost before I run you in for soliciting.”
The girl swore at him, still scrambling and fumbling among the dark hillocks. She found her coin-purse finally and gave the rest of the scattered things up for lost. Fenn, watching her, grinned in the phosphorescent reflections of the waves, his lips parted and glistening a little.
Just as she turned away he leaned suddenly on his automobile horn and sent a raucous blast ripping across the sand hills. The girl jumped convulsively. Fenn laughed at the top of his voice. He watched her hobbling off on her stilt-heels through the soft sand until she reached the road. He slipped sidewise so he could see her until she vanished beyond a hill.
Then he took another long pull at the bottle and got out of the car too. He thought about going after her. But it seemed like too much trouble. Besides, she was a big girl, and the arm into which he had sunk his fingers felt muscular. He decided she had been punished enough.
Instead, he walked down to the edge of the surf, carrying the bottle with him. Sand poured in over his shoe tops and he felt stiff and tired. His joints ached with the neuralgia that bothered him so often. The edges of the waves ran hissing up the sand at his feet. He drank thirstily from his bottle. While his eyes were closed, drinking, a wave ran higher than the rest and flowed quietly over his shoes, up around his ankles. He swore at the Pacific and skipped backward, too late.
Now he ought to change his socks, he thought. Go home to his dreary little apartment—oh, the hell with it. And the hell with his equally dreary office. The hell with everything.
He drank. He drank again. “I’m a big shot,” he said to the unheeding waves. “You know, I used to be with one of the biggest agencies in the business. No kidding. I used to be.” He shook the bottle.
“Plenty left,” he told himself consolingly, and turned back to the car. The going was heavy over the uneven sand. He sank into it with every step and his shoes were filled with sand and water by the time he got back. He paid no attention. He rolled up the windows of the car and settled himself comfortably inside, the bottle convenient.
“Alcoholic?” he asked the bottle. “Who says I’m an alcoholic? A lot of liars. Aw, the hell with them.”
He nursed at the bottle, hunting oblivion.
19
At ten the next morning Zucker telephoned Gray.
“Mike?” his familiar, growling voice said. “Why the hell haven’t you called me? I thought you were going to see the Champion woman yesterday.”
“I did see her,” Gray told him. “I saw Dennis Champion, too. Incidentally, they both deny that Karen ever saw Brand. I’m still trying to make up my mind what I really think. Is there anything new with you?”
“Well,” Zucker said, “remember that traffic ticket Dennis Champion got? We gave the arresting officer a batch of pictures with two of Champion among them. He identified only one—Champion wearing his glasses. All the officer remembered were the glasses and the moustache. But it was Champion’s car, all right.”
“What about the signature on the ticket?”
“A scrawl. Our handwriting men are going over it. I don’t see how it can prove much either way. We’ll know later, maybe. The fact is, Champion could have paid somebody to put on a false moustache and glasses and get a ticket with his car at the right time and distance to alibi him.”
Gray said, “There’s that private detective Fenn I told you about. Incidentally, Champion says he doesn’t know a thing about Fenn trying to bribe me on the hypothetical sanity hearing deal. My impression is Fenn would do just about anything for money if it isn’t too dangerous. You might check up on where Fenn was at the time of the Albano murder.”
“How about Champion as the killer?” Zucker persisted.
Gray said slowly, “The man’s pretty desperate, all right. He’s hanging onto everything he can. His confidence must be at pretty low ebb.”
“It ties in with the jealousy angle. Albano was dating his wife.”
“Sure,” Gray said. “For all Champion knows, Albano was sleeping with her. He’s violently jealous, no doubt about that.” Gray hesitated briefly. “For what it’s worth, I have a hunch that Champion’s been
suffering from psychic impotence. It would surprise me if he hadn’t, with the rest of the picture.”
“Impotent? How old would you say he is?”
“Not that old by a long shot. I’m talking about psychic impotence. Emotionally caused. If he thought Albano was supplanting him it would sure as hell step up his motivation to get rid of the man. But I’m guessing.”
Zucker said discontentedly, “We’ve got plenty of suspects. The trouble is, there’s not quite enough evidence against any one of them to make an arrest. By the way, your friend Perry Brand came in and made his statement.” Zucker chuckled. “He left out everything he told us about Karen Champion. Just claimed Albano was threatening him because he wouldn’t treat her. Said his time was too full to take on another patient—not a murmur about the homicidal-type angle he tried to sell us.”
“How about his alibi?”
“His nurse vouched for him. I wouldn’t vouch for the nurse, myself. But it’s Karen Champion’s word against his right now. We’re checking.”
“And the Quigleys?” Gray asked with interest.
Zucker chuckled. “There’s a cold-blooded pair. They went right off to their business when we turned them loose. A little standoffish with each other; but business comes first. They’re a team. Looks as if they aren’t going to let a little thing like adultery stand in the way of making money. I bet the Quigley woman told her husband she was going to bed with Albano for business reasons, and that made it all right.”
“He wasn’t putting on an act?”
“Who knows? It didn’t look like it. In a way, it louses up our idea that he beat Albano’s brains out when he discovered the facts about his wife. There again, we need more evidence. And Albano did tomcat around a lot. Quite a few husbands didn’t like him. We’re checking on that angle, too. It may turn out somebody from out-of-town was just settling a debt with Albano, after all.”
Gray said, “Well, I’ve got a patient coming in. Keep in touch, Harry. And I think it might be a good idea to check on Fenn while you’re at it. Okay?”
He hung up and opened the outer door to admit Karen Champion.
At about the same time, Wesley Turk let himself in at his front door with hands that shook so hard he could scarcely make the key work.
From the bedroom Susan Turk called out in surprise, “Wes? Is that you?”
“It’s me,” he said in a tight voice. “Come out here, Susan. I want to talk to you.”
Something about his tone must have warned her, for she said at once, in a much fainter voice, “I don’t feel very good this morning, Wes. You come in here.”
He crossed to the bedroom door and stood looking down at her. She had gone back to bed with the morning paper and coffee. Her hairnet was still tied in a bow over aluminum curlers, and behind the glasses her eyes looked up at him, enormous in the pointed face.
“What’s wrong, Wes?” She searched his expression anxiously. “What are you doing home in the middle of the morning? What’s happened?”
“I went to the bank as soon as it opened,” he told her. “I needed some of the money in the safe-deposit box. I needed all the money.” He crossed the room and sat down on the edge of the bed, reaching for her hand. “Sue, for God’s sake, what happened to it? There’s only a thousand left!”
“There must be more than that,” she said faintly.
“Susan, what became of it? Why didn’t you tell me you were—”
“Wes, not now,” she said, her voice very weak. “My head—”
“Susan, there isn’t a damned thing wrong with you. The doctors all say you’re in perfect physical shape. Now you’re going to sit up here and tell me what you’ve done with nearly twenty thousand dollars, before I—before I—” He broke off, his hand closing around her wrist.
She watched him alertly. A pulse had begun to hammer in his temple and his other hand rose and closed into a fist, hovered in mid-air. For a moment she held her breath, trembling with excited anticipation.
Abruptly Turk dropped his fist, released her arm, stood up with a sudden, jerky motion. He swayed on his feet for an instant, looking down at her with his face dark and congested. Then he turned quickly and walked to the door. He leaned on the doorframe and breathed in short, harsh gasps.
“My God,” he said in a shaken voice. “I almost hit you…. I—I feel sick. I think I’m going to vomit.”
He turned away abruptly and went down the hall to the bathroom, walking fast.
When he came back he looked much paler, and he had himself under fair control. He sat down on the bed again and took Susan’s hand in his. His palm was clammy, but his voice sounded determinedly calm.
“I want to talk to you,” he said. “I want you to know just where we stand. Dennis Champion called me last night. He offered me the chance of a lifetime. He’s willing to take me in as a full partner if the Quigleys will sell. It could mean the making of us, Susan. But I’ll have to put up the money to buy the Quigleys out. I was going to raise what I could on some of our securities.” He paused, breathing hard. “Then I looked in the safe-deposit box—”
Susan laid a fluttering hand on her pink lace bosom. “Wes, now please! Please don’t upset me! I—I feel all smothery, Wes—”
He shut his eyes and drew a deep breath. Then in a voice of determined control he said, “Will you please, for God’s sake, tell me what you did with the money?”
She said defensively, “There must be plenty left, Wes. I couldn’t have used it all.”
“Any is too much!” His voice threatened to go out of control. He swallowed hard and said more calmly, “That was our nest egg, Susan. Even with the whole amount there, I’d have to borrow a lot more to swing this deal. A lot more. But as it is—”
She said quickly, “Wes, my heart—it’s getting that fluttery feeling again. I can’t stand being upset this way. I—”
“God damn it, Susan! Where’s the money?”
She shut her eyes tight. “I gave it to Dr. Brand,” she told him, the words blurting out very fast.
Turk was silent except for loud, uneven breathing. Finally, after a long pause, he said, “What for?”
“Treatments.”
“But I pay his God-damned bills every month!”
“These were special treatments, Wes. They were—oh, Wes, you know how miserable I felt until Dr. Brand started treating me! I’ve got this general nervous debility that nobody else could cure. But Dr. Brand’s been giving me these special treatments—they’re awfully expensive, Wes.”
“Twenty thousand dollars’ worth of treatments?” Turk echoed disbelievingly.
“Well—once or twice I’ve given him a little contribution for his clinic, too. He’s such a wonderful doctor, Wes. And now there’s this radioactive material he needs for me that’s terribly hard to get. But it can’t really have come to twenty thousand. Are you sure you counted—”
Turk said, “Oh, God!” and she fell silent, watching him fearfully. He sat looking at her, his face working. Finally he got to his feet. “Is there any of that whiskey left?” he asked.
She said, “Oh, Wes, not at this time of the morning!” But he went out of the room without paying any attention to her. He was gone a long time. When he came back he was still pale, but he seemed under much better control.
“It’s all right, Susan,” he said, standing in the doorway. “Don’t worry about it.” He swallowed hard. “I just wanted to know why you needed it, that’s all. It was as much your money as mine.”
“I had to, Wes.” Her voice was low. “I knew you wouldn’t think it was worth that much, but—I felt so terrible. I needed the treatments!” She put a hand to her face. “I know I’m not a very good wife to you, Wes.”
Turk said in a stiff voice, “I’m not kicking, Susan. I’ll see what I can do now.”
She sat with her face in her hand for a long minute. Then she said, “Wes?” He didn’t answer.
When she looked up, he had gone.
20
Karen Champion settled into her chair across from Gray and began to pull off her gloves. She was smiling uncertainly at him. The only sign of yesterday’s ordeal were the dark smudges under her eyes. That, and a subtle sense of strong tension in her. Antagonism, perhaps, ready to lash out at Gray when the first chance came.
He was trying to turn his mind to her, and not succeeding very well at first. The things Zucker had been saying still circled through Gray’s mind. Zucker hadn’t mentioned Karen as a possible suspect at all. Was the omission deliberate? And what about Joyce Quigley? If jealousy of Albano might have led Roger Quigley to murder, mightn’t jealousy over the Albano-Karen relationship have driven Joyce just as hard?
An idea even more disturbing floated briefly across his mind. Suppose Roger Quigley was the man. He was free now, at least for a time, but the motives of jealousy and hate would still be boiling in him. How safe was Joyce Quigley in the same house with her husband, if he had killed once already? He would like to mention that idea to Zucker.
Gray sighed and pulled himself back to the business at hand.
“How are you feeling this morning?” he asked Karen Champion.
“Much better. I sent the nurse away. I’m all right now. You know—I slept straight through till this morning. I haven’t slept so well in years. And I woke up without feeling afraid. I had no idea hypnosis could do so much. It was wonderful.”
“I’m very glad.”
She looked straight at him. “I said last night that I wanted to change. There is something wrong with me. I don’t know what it is. And it—it frightens me even to think about it.” She gave a confused little laugh. “What can I do about that?”
“We can talk about it,” Gray said. “You can stop any time you feel like stopping. Right now, let’s just say we’re exploring the ground. You may turn out to need some different kind of therapy from somebody with a different sort of training than I’ve had. All we can do now is try to find out where we stand.”
Michael Gray Novels Page 63
