Not I, Said the Vixen

by Bill S. Ballinger

  Again I hesitated. The time element was important; it could favor the prosecution, especially if the newspapers kept playing up the story. “Yes,” I replied. It meant a lot of work, a great deal of rushing, extra nights of preparation, but it could be done. “The sooner, the better,” I added.

  “We’ll check, then call to give you the exact date,” Willard said.

  Slipping out a side door of Canfield’s office, I managed to evade the reporters who were waiting outside the main entrance.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  At ten-thirty, that same morning, Jack Barker returned to the apartment of Pauline Morrisey. Under his arm he carried a cardboard box. Pauline, who had been impatiently awaiting Barker’s appearance, was dressed and carefully made up for the factual morning light. She met him at the door and kissed him archly. Barker dutifully returned her kiss.

  Placing the box on a table, Barker removed a small gray metal box to which were affixed a dial, switch, and plastic ear plug at the end of a short length of wire. A long metal antenna, resembling a buggy whip, telescoped into the top of the receiver. “You can’t keep this turned on all the time,” he explained to Pauline, “only when you know somebody is upstairs in the apartment. Otherwise, it’ll burn out.”

  “I may not always be sure.”

  “Just use your common sense.” Barker held the small plastic plug to his ear, flipped on the switch, and turned the power control setting to a mark indicating a distance of fifty feet.

  “Where’d you get the set, honey?” asked Pauline.

  Barker stepped back from the receiver. “I know a guy who covers sports for a radio station,” he replied vaguely. He handed the ear plug to Pauline. “I’m going upstairs and plant the mike,” Barker explained. “When I get it placed, I’ll speak into it. You listen so you’ll be able to tell me how it sounds.”

  Nodding, Pauline gingerly took the earphone, placed it in her ear, and listened. “All I hear is some scratching.” she announced.

  “Keep listening.” Barker picked up the microphone, a round metal rod about six inches long and an inch in diameter. Leaving Pauline’s apartment, he cautiously climbed the stairs to 3-A. As the hallway was deserted, Barker selected a pass key from a ring containing a large borrowed assortment and gently inserted it in the lock. After numerous tries with other keys, the door to Ivy Lorents’ apartment eventually swung open.

  Entering, Barker glanced over the living room which centered around two velvet couches, several delicate occasional chairs, and a low marble-topped table. He decided that conversations in the room would probably take place near this central group, so he searched for a nearby location to conceal the mike. The microphone, powered by a tiny built-in transmitter, could work properly only when not obstructed by objects in front of it, or enclosing it.

  Overhead, an elaborate, wrought-iron chandelier with enameled birds and flowers hung from the ceiling. Barker searched the walls of the room to find the switch. Reaching the conclusion that the chandelier was strictly for the purpose of decoration, the reporter drew up a chair to stand on while he examined it further. Although there were tiny light bulbs in the ornate fixture, Barker could discover no wiring. Satisfied, he fixed the microphone into place, with black electrical tape, in such a manner that it was concealed by the metal embellishments. Replacing the chair in its original position, he sat down on the couch.

  Barker spoke in a normal tone of voice. “Can you hear me Pauline? Is it loud enough? Can you hear every word I say?” Rising, he walked to the door. Pulling it closed, but not locked, he returned to Pauline Morrisey’s apartment.

  Pauline, removing the plug from her ear, said, “I could hear you, but it wasn’t very loud.”

  Barker extended the antenna to its full length, and moved the receiver to a point directly beneath the microphone overhead. After adjusting the volume control to more power, he instructed her, “Listen again. This time, if it’s okay, pound on the wall.” The reporter returned to Ivy Lorents’ apartment and, seating himself, again spoke aloud. When, after a brief pause, he heard a faint thumping from beneath his feet, he left the apartment. This time, he pulled shut the door, locking it behind him.

  Pauline greeted him conspiratorially. “I could understand every word you said,” she told him. “Not awful loud… but real clear.”

  “Okay.” Barker threw off the power switch to the receiver. “Leave it tuned just the way it is.” He regarded the machine with angry anticipation. “Maybe,” he said, “this is going to wind March’s clock.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  After leaving the conference with Willard and Canfield, I discovered my shirt was sticking to my back. But not from the heat. A chill ran up my arms, across my shoulders, and branched up and down my spine. It was compounded in equal parts of my third-day jitters—and concern for Ivy Lorents. The jitters I could handle, but the growing doubt was something else. Willard must know something… he had to know something, or at least think he did… which I didn’t know. Only one person could tell me what that something was—Ivy Lorents.

  I stopped in a public phone booth to call Ivy at the Claymore. I told her I wanted to see her again. This proposed a problem. I hesitated to return to her hotel, because if the newspapermen should see me returning a second time, it would be a tip-off that Ivy was staying there. My own office was too open, too easy of access. Finally, I suggested she meet me at the College Club, to which I belong, although I seldom go there. It is private, has a doorman, and a small quiet library where we could talk. I gave her directions to have Vetter arrange for a cab to pick her up at the back entrance of the hotel.

  Arriving at the Club first, I waited for her at the door. When she arrived, she had her hair stiffly drawn back into a ponytail, and she was wearing dark glasses. In her hand, she carried a rolled up newspaper. It was only because I knew her that I quickly recognized her,

  At that time of day, the College Club is nearly deserted, and we had the library entirely to ourselves. We sat in a corner, by a parchment-shaded lamp emblazoned with college crests, and she handed me the morning paper. “Did you see this?” she asked. A great black headline announced: IVY MEETS $100 G BAIL.

  I waved it aside. I’d already seen it. I told her, “You should’ve been expecting it.”

  “Headlines seldom leave anyone with any dignity.”

  Ivy folded the paper and put it on the table. She was wearing a scarlet skirt and a matching sweater. In the shadows of the darkened room, she seemed to glow like a flame. Removing her glasses, she stared at me intently. For a moment I felt a stab of panic; my resolutions wavered. She asked, “Is something wrong? Do you have bad news?”

  Fortunately, a houseman came up and inquired if we wanted a drink. Ivy glanced at me, as if awaiting my decision. “You have something,” I told her. “Don’t mind me. It’s a little early in the year.” Smiling, she ordered a vodka collins. When it was served, she hardly tasted it, merely toying with the coolness of the glass.

  Finally she said, “You haven’t answered my question. Are you worried?”

  “I’ve been at the District Attorney’s office, this morning,” I told her. “Frankly, I don’t know what to say. They intend to go on with the prosecution. They’re smart—Canfield and Willard. They wouldn’t waste the time… effort… and… money… unless they were pretty sure. And that means they have information, facts about this case which I don’t have.” She had been listening attentively, and I now put it to her bluntly. “Have you been holding back any information which you should’ve told me?”

  “No. Last night I told you exactly what happened,” she replied gravely.

  For a moment, I felt very tired. I had a compulsion to reach over, lift her collins, and down it. Instead, I tried to explain. “This may sound stuffy… but you have to be honest with me. I’m not your judge, and not the jury. I make no decisions about your guilt or innocence… all I do is see that you get every single one of your rights as guaranteed by the law.”

  “But I am in
nocent,” she said softly.

  “Then I’ll do all that I can to prove it,” I assured her. “But you simply can’t hold anything back. Even details… petty as they may seem. Unimportant or not.” She nodded slightly, and it seemed to me that I was talking too much. But I plodded on, because what I had to say was important. It might be a matter of her life or death. “You see,” I continued, “I have to prepare what actually amounts to two cases. One to defend you. The other one… well, the one that Joe Willard will use. I have to anticipate what he will say, do… even think.” Then I added lamely, “And you’ll have to help me do it.”

  “I will,” she promised. Her eyes were still fixed on me.

  Abruptly, on a hunch, I asked her, “Do you have a driver’s license?”

  “Yes…?”

  “I’d like to see it.”

  Ivy removed a billfold from her purse. From the billfold she took out the slip of paper and handed it to me. Curious, she watched while I examined it. On the face of her driver’s license, in a designated box, had been marked the notation: Must wear corrective lenses. I returned the license to her and remarked, “I didn’t know you had to wear glasses.”

  “Yes… but only to drive.”

  “You don’t wear them at any other time?”

  She shook her head. “Not if I can help it.”

  “Should you?” I asked.

  She paused, then replied. “I suppose, I should…”

  “Why don’t you?”

  Then she smiled. Perhaps it was amusement. “A common feminine failing. Vanity. I don’t look good in glasses.”

  I thought about her answer. Then I asked, “You’re very nearsighted aren’t you?”

  “Not as bad, perhaps, as you think. I manage without them very well.” Ivy appeared puzzled at my pursuit of the subject.

  I left my chair and crossed to the far side of the library. Diagonally across from me, Ivy remained seated. We were about twenty feet apart, and I stood in the light of a table lamp. Reaching into my pocket, I withdrew my hand. I held it up, the fingers cupped in a holding position. “Tell me what I’m holding,” I said to Ivy.

  She squinted her eyes, but told me promptly, “A piece of silver.”

  “What size is it?”

  Again her eyes narrowed. “It looks like a quarter.”

  “Do you want to change your mind?”

  “It could be a half-dollar,” she said. “It’s a little difficult to tell at this distance.”

  Shaking my head, I relaxed my fingers. “I’m not holding anything,” I told her. “Nothing. No coin at all.” I walked back slowly to where she was waiting, watching me silently. I sighed. “We’re going to have another talk.”

  Defensively, Ivy watched as I again seated myself. Her manner was restrained as she said, “I don’t see why it’s so important whether I wear glasses or not.” I didn’t say anything. She spread her hands, tentatively, in a gesture of confession. “No woman likes to admit she should wear glasses all the time.…”

  Her demonstration of feminine vanity almost touched me, but I told her bluntly, “You’re as nearsighted as a bat. Most women aren’t in the position you’re in. They can afford to pretend. You don’t seem to realize that you must tell me the truth… all of it!”

  Her attitude of defense vanished. “I apologize.” She was contrite. “You’re absolutely right… and I won’t do it again.”

  But I refused to be drawn away by her apology. I told her firmly, “It’s time we talked about facts. You’re charged with murder. The fact that you’re a woman, and the additional fact that you’re beautiful, doesn’t mean that you can’t lose the case.”

  “You don’t lose many cases, Cyrus.”

  She tried to smile. Ignoring her remark, I went on with calculated brutality. “If you’re found guilty, it’s up to the same jury to decide if you’ll be executed. Some attractive women have been executed in California, in the past. Not many, to be sure, but enough to prove that it’s another fact.”

  Ivy’s face was very pale. Her eyes were filled with fear. “Don’t talk like that….” she said in a low voice.

  It occurred to me that this was probably the first time that she had faced up to the possibility of being convicted. And what the consequences might be. Up to now, imprisonment, or death, had never been a reality. I steeled myself to continue. “In fairness to you, I must talk this way. Without knowing all the truth, I can’t make the best possible defense. And your life is worth the best.” Then, I added more gently, “As your defense attorney, I assume the responsibility of your life.”

  The great green eyes lowered slowly. “Yes… yes. I understand.…”

  “Do you?” I was silent for a moment, pulling my own thoughts together. “I suppose you think I’m belaboring the subject of your glasses,” I continued. “When I asked you about them, you evaded giving me a direct and honest reply. Possibly, you thought it was irrelevant…”

  “I did… I really did!” she exclaimed.

  Lighting a cigarette, I slumped further into my chair. I asked casually, “Were you wearing your glasses when you shot Arthea Simpson?”

  “No. I told you… I’d just gotten out of my shower.”

  “And you didn’t put them on again,” I added. When she shook her head, I went on. “How far is it… from the top of the two steps where you were, to where Arthea Simpson stood by the window?”

  She considered the question a moment. “It’s the entire length of the living room,” she told me, slowly, “and I think the room’s about thirty feet long.”

  “There was only one dim light in the room. It was dark, and you couldn’t recognize her figure. You gave no warning, you didn’t cry out, you simply shot at the figure. Why, Ivy?”

  “Because I was so frightened! I was scared out of my wits!”

  “Would you ordinarily be that frightened? Wouldn’t you have felt safe… at least temporarily… with the revolver in your hands? Didn’t even a passing notion occur that perhaps a friend had come to see you? Or that Robert Knox might have returned unexpectedly?”

  “No. I didn’t think of anything. Besides Robert wouldn’t have returned… and he didn’t have a key…” She sat limply, her face dejected. Then she lifted her head, and a wan smile crossed her lips. “I think… I understand about the glasses, now,” she said. “You mean… without them… I couldn’t see?”

  “Partly that,” I agreed. “But the prosecution may interpret it differently. It may contend that you were very positive who it was, and for that reason your absence of glasses supports the contention.” I looked around for an ash tray. Ivy handed me one which had been placed next to her, and I snubbed out my cigarette. “If the prosecution finds out about your nearsightedness, they’re sure to bring up another question: How, at a distance of thirty feet, without glasses, you were able to hit Arthea Simpson three times in three shots?”

  I watched her as the faint smile disappeared. As if struggling to control her voice, she swallowed rapidly. Her head was lowered, and the light glinted on the black ponytail like the crest of a helmet. She barely spoke, “I don’t know. I just pointed it, and it went off—three times. I didn’t stop to think, I was too paralyzed with fear…Suddenly, she buried her face in her hands.

  But I persisted. “If you were paralyzed with fear… you had to fear something, Ivy. What was it you feared? Did you think it was a burglar to rob you? A sex maniac to rape you? Or a murderer to kill you?”

  Ivy’s head remained lowered, face buried. When she finally removed her hands, she didn’t look up. After another long pause, she said brokenly, “I guess… I must’ve thought of those phone calls.”

  “You haven’t mentioned any phone calls before,” I told her, keeping the surprise from my voice.

  “I know.” Her words dropped tonelessly. Tentatively she raised her head to look at me. “I’m not sure… I can’t remember that I did think about them. But… subconsciously… I must have.” She turned away her eyes. “I suppose I didn’t want t
o say anything about them. They give me the… creeps.” Her shoulders trembled as she reached out to pick up her drink. She sipped it nervously.

  Leaning forward, I told her, “You’d better tell me about the calls, now.”

  She turned slightly in her chair, drawing up her knees, tucking her legs beneath her. She patted down the scarlet skirt. “I started getting crazy… phone calls… real late at night.” Her voice trailed away.

  “How many times?”

  “I didn’t keep count. He’d call once a week, perhaps. It started over four months ago.”

  “Do you have an unlisted telephone?”

  “Yes. I don’t know how he got my number.”

  “Did he call you by name?”

  She thought about it. “I can’t be sure.”

  “Did you tell the police about it?”

  “No…”

  “You should have reported it… it would’ve helped you now. Why didn’t you?”

  Ivy shrugged in despair. “Because… it’d happened back in New York, too. When I was modeling, these… freaks… would call up. I told the police then, but there wasn’t much they could do… except tell me to change my number. Finally, I just got… so I’d hang up. And forget it!” She added, “But I couldn’t forget… not entirely.”

  “Did you ever see one of the men?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Is that the way you felt about the phone calls… this time in California?”

  “I suppose so. You see… I never really felt those men knew me. I sort of decided that they were psychos. Just plain, real nuts… off their rockers on the subject of sex. Probably they called numbers at random. Out of the phone book. And if a woman—any woman—answered, why, they’d start talking to her. Or sometimes, perhaps they’d even make up numbers… out of thin air… and call to see what happened.” Her tone was resigned. “So when it started happening again… out here in Hollywood… I went along with it!”

  “But the calls were in the back of your memory? The thought flashed to your mind… when you saw that dark figure… that it might be one of the men who had called you?”