In a short time, Lydia notified me that she hadn’t been able to contact Knox. She had left a message for him to call back. By the time I managed to wangle a court order granting me permission to examine the premises—Ivy’s apartment was still locked by the police—it was noon.
Often I’ve found that a client will speak more freely if I can get him away from his usual surroundings. As the day was turning out to be quite warm, I thought it a good idea to suggest to Ivy Lorents that we drive down to Balboa where a friend of mine owns a beach house. A chance to sun on the sand, a swim, might do her some good; I knew it would help me. When I spoke to her at the Claymore, she readily agreed.
“Unfortunately, though,” she added, “I don’t have any swimsuit. Most of my clothes are still in my apartment.”
As I already had a court order granting entry, I saw no reason not to stretch it somewhat to cover this occasion. I suggested that she take a taxi to the Silver Sands, get any small personal belongings she wanted. She was to remain inside the apartment until I arrived, and then we would leave from there. Just before we hung up the phone, I mentioned that I wanted to talk to Robert Knox, but had been unable to reach him.
“Oh?” After a moment she asked, “Was it about those… anonymous calls?”
“Yes. I’d like to get him to confirm them as quickly as I can.”
“Sometimes Robert is rather difficult to locate…”
“I’ll have my office keep trying,” I told her.
A few hours later we were on the beach. It was just past three o’clock and the sun was still high and hot. Ivy wore a knitted white swimsuit which contrasted with her soft golden tan. We lay there, the blue water swirling and frothing just beyond our feet. She rested on an elbow, and sifted sand between her fingers. My suggestion, apparently, had been a good one—as she seemed quite relaxed. As if reading my thoughts, she said, “I’m glad we came. It’s a lovely day…”
Rolling over on my stomach, I reached for a package of cigarettes. Shaking grains of sand from it, I lit one. “I’ll admit it was a good idea,” I agreed, “but I also had a reason. Sometimes it’s easier to talk… away from everyday scenes.”
“Talk… talk…” Ivy watched me lazily.
“We have a great deal more to do,” I told her. “We go to trial in about a month. I have a feeling that Joe Willard is planning some not very pleasant surprises.”
“Joe Willard? He’s the District Attorney?”
“Willard is the Assistant District Attorney. The regular D.A., particularly in large cities, seldom conducts a trial,” I explained. “He appoints one of his assistants to do it.”
“Well… isn’t that good? For me, I mean. If the regular one isn’t going to do it?”
I told her that Willard was one of the best prosecuting attorneys in California. Then I added, “He must believe that you deliberately killed Arthea Simpson—for a reason. What is his reason, Ivy?”
After the last of the sand had slipped through her fingers, she replied, “I don’t know…”
There it was again—the void, the vacuum. And yet, if Ivy honestly didn’t know, it was my responsibility to fill it up; to find it. It was possible that a motive, or a reason which could be construed as a motive, was there and Ivy didn’t recognize it. I decided to use a different approach. Keeping my tone light, I told her conversationally, “We’re in this together, and I know absolutely nothing about you. Not even where you were born.”
Drawing up her long slender legs, she dusted the sand from them. I thought I detected a shaft of amusement as she glanced at me. Then, almost indifferently, she replied. “In Pennsylvania. But I lived… was raised in Paterson, New Jersey. That’s across the Hudson from New York.”
“How old are you, Ivy?”
“Twenty-three.” She continued with her autobiography, wandering occasionally. Her father worked for an oil company; she had one brother—Tommy; they both had been deserted by her mother while still very young children and had lived with their father who was well-to-do.
“Isn’t your family planning to help you?” I asked.
She was very quiet for a moment, her shadow dark beside her. I thought a touch of sadness crossed her face, but I couldn’t be sure. Her voice was entirely normal when she told me, “You see… Daddy… my father was angry when I dropped out of college and started to model. He was even worse when I decided to come to Hollywood. From that day—he’s never helped me.” She paused thoughtfully, and shook her head. “And my mother… I don’t know her… I don’t know where she is.”
“Your brother? Tommy?”
“He’s in Europe.”
“Would you like me to try to get in touch with them?”
“No!” She shook her head firmly. “Don’t do it!” Her voice was edged with stubbornness.
“All right,” I agreed, and Ivy relaxed. She seemed to withdraw into her own thoughts. Finally I said, “You’ve been out here for a year. How many jobs have you had in pictures?”
“Three. Not large parts, but they had a few lines.”
“How long did you work on each picture?”
“About a week.”
“And you were paid around… a hundred and twenty-five dollars a day?”
“A hundred and fifty,” she corrected me.
I made a calculation. “So in a year, in Hollywood, you’ve earned approximately twenty-two hundred and fifty dollars.”
“That’s right.”
“How much rent do you pay for your apartment?”
“Three hundred a month.”
“You’ve paid over half again as much money for rent as you made all year,” I pointed out.
She shifted her position in the sand. “I don’t see anything so wrong about that,” she replied defensively.
“And do you own your furniture?”
“Yes.” Abruptly she removed the sunglasses, and her eyes were bright with anger. “I bought and paid for my furniture, and moved it out from the East when I came here. Furthermore, I have some money which I saved in New York. I was very highly paid for my magazine stuff.” She put on her glasses again, but didn’t lie back. “I know what you’re thinking, and it isn’t true!” she added.
Climbing to my feet, I brushed the sand from my trunks. “I’ll be back in a minute,” I told her calmly, and started for the house. In the refrigerator I found two bottles of Coke, opened them, and returned to the beach. Ivy was sitting where I had left her. Her arms were wrapped around her legs, knees drawn up beneath her chin, staring moodily at the water. I handed her one of the Cokes.
The taste of the stuff is disgusting to me, but at least it was cold, and I sipped on it while I pointed out to Ivy that my questions regarding her income had not been from prying curiosity. “I was wondering if Joe Willard will claim that you had borrowed money… perhaps a large sum… from Arthea Simpson. That could be… construed… as a motive.”
“It’s absurd!”
“Then, it’s no motive,” I told her, “but let’s talk about Arthea some more”
Ivy nodded, so I asked, “How well did you know her?”
“So-so…” she shrugged. “It’s odd, but I can hardly realize she’s dead. It’s as if it had happened between two strangers—and I’d just heard about it… somewhere.”
“When did you first meet Arthea?”
“I met her shortly after I arrived out here.”
“How often did you see her?”
Ivy, deep in thought, stamped the bottle into the sand, leaving imprints in a widening pattern. Finally, she said, “I didn’t know many people at first—she’d call me, and I’d go along in the crowd. But after I met Robert, I didn’t see her so much. Then, when Robert and I became engaged, I seldom saw her at all anymore.”
“Did Robert Knox ever meet Arthea?”
“Once or twice.”
“Did they like each other?”
“I don’t think Arthea cared one way or the other. Robert, however, didn’t like her.”
“Did h
e explain why?”
“Robert is very finicky sometimes,” she replied, slowly. “To Arthea it didn’t make any difference how she looked, I guess. Robert thought she looked… revolting.”
“Have you thought anymore about how Arthea could have gotten into your apartment?”
“Only… as we talked about it before. I must’ve left the door partly open.” Ivy poured the remaining drops from the bottle into the sand. And suddenly, it seemed to me, the rapport we had built had dissolved away, too. I stared at the beautiful, graceful figure beside me as I recalled Tim Nordeen’s speculation. It was a suspicion which I couldn’t contemplate. Ivy Lorents was simply too much of a woman to have been the lover of Arthea Simpson—and it was impossible for Ivy to even discuss the subject. Each time I approached it, as indirectly as I could, Ivy’s instincts sensed it—and rebelled.
Rising, I told her, “We’d better be starting back.” I helped her to her feet. For a few seconds, she supported herself lightly by a hand on my shoulder as she whisked the sand away from her body. I stood motionless, the touch of her racing through me more hotly than the beating sun.
Then she moved away, and started up the beach for the house.
I followed her.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Pauline Morrisey jangled her bracelets defensively, and spoke in a complaining voice, “But, sweetie, I tried to call you at your office. They said you were out.”
Barker impatiently paced the living room in Pauline’s apartment. “Aw, hell!” he told her. “Go on and tell me what happened.”
Pauline settled herself complacently. “I was just going through the lobby downstairs, when this taxi pulls up and a woman gets out. She was wearing dark glasses, but I recognized her… just like that!” Pauline snapped her fingers for effect. “I didn’t let on I knew who it was, and kept right on walking. Then I returned in a couple of minutes. The elevator was up on the third floor, so I knew she’d gone to her apartment. And I went up to mine…”
When Pauline paused for breath, Barker gestured impatiently. “For Christ’s sake get to the point. What happened?”
Pauline was crestfallen. She continued doggedly. “Well, I turned on the mike and listened. At first, I couldn’t tell what she was doing… it sounded far away, but I guess she was packing things, because when she left, she was carrying a little overnight bag, or something.” Barker nodded. “She came back in the living room, and I heard a series of clicks… and she started making a telephone call. To somebody named Robert Knox. But he wasn’t there. So… maybe, well… that’s all.” She looked at Barker, and asked lamely, “You don’t think it was important?”
A look of intense calculation had settled on Barker’s face. “There’s been some talk she used to go with young Knox,” he mused.
“Who’s he?” asked Pauline.
Barker ignored her question, as he turned and walked to where Pauline was seated. He sat down on the arm of her chair. “Listen,” he cajoled, “try to remember what Ivy Lorents said… every single word of it… when she called.”
“Is it important after all?” asked Pauline.
“It might be. Now think!”
Pauline wrinkled her forehead in concentration. “Well, first she asked for Mr. Knox. Then whoever it was, must’ve said he wasn’t there, because Ivy Lorents said it was very urgent. She also said something… like… she had to have Mr. Knox’s help again.”
Barker stopped her. “Are you sure she said that she needed his ‘help again’?”
Pauline nodded solemnly. “I’m sure of it.”
“Keep on,” Barker urged her.
“Anyway, they must’ve said something for a minute, because there was a silence, then I heard Ivy say… ‘well, if he isn’t at the college, could he be at his attorneys’… Buyers and something and Monroe?’ Something like that… there was a string of names. But the maid must’ve said she didn’t know, or something, and said she’d have Mr. Knox call back, because the Lorents woman told her, ‘No… I’ll try to call again’”… Pauline lapsed into silence.
“Is that all?”
“Everything on the phone, because there was the sound of a door chime, and she hung up. I guess she went to the door, but I couldn’t hear what she said, and right after that, she went out.”
“Did you see who she went out with?”
Pauline shook her head. “Not very well. By the time I got back down to the lobby, they were quite a distance down the street. She was carrying this little bag, and the man with her was wearing real loud sport clothes…”
“March!” Barker explained. He fell back into his own thoughts. Finally, he said, “Dammit! I wish I’d heard the whole thing. There’s some kind of a tie-up with Robert Knox… and I’d like to know what it is!” He squeezed his eyes hard in thought. “If the Lorents dame is really thick with Knox… it’d help explain where the bond for her bail came from… and where she got the dough for Cyrus March’s fee…”
With a start, Barker realized that he had been staring, unseeing, at a large elaborate console standing against the wall. The heavy cabinet contained a television set, record player and radio. Pauline followed Barker’s stare. She asked, “Is there something on your mind?”
Barker motioned toward the machine, “Does that thing have a tape recorder, too?”
“Yes. It’s supposed to be used for taking favorite programs off the air.” She concluded plaintively, “But I never use it.”
Barker screwed his close-set eyes on the set. “Listen,” he said, “how about letting me rig up the tape recorder to the short-wave mike?” As his enthusiasm increased, his voice warmed. “Then, when anyone goes in there, snap on the switch, and we have a record of everything that’s said.”
Pauline’s enthusiasm was fanned by Barker’s. “Oh, yes. That’d be very smart!” she agreed.
“But,” Barker cautioned, “if you do hear anyone up there, and you turn on the recorder, be sure to keep trying to get me at the paper, anyway.”
“Oh, I will!”
Again glancing at the cabinet, Barker remarked kindly, “So after this, you won’t be responsible for having to remember anything.”
At first, Pauline was pleased. Then she wasn’t too sure that it had been a compliment, after all.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The day following our trip to the beach, I was out of the office most of the day. During my absence Robert Knox had called, and had left a message that he would call again. But he didn’t; not that day.
The next morning, I was busy with the material which Albert Taylor had finally managed to collect: transcripts of the police interrogation, Ivy’s statements, and a preliminary report of findings by the medical examiner. In addition, I had the laboratory photographs taken from different angles of the living room showing the position of the body, the location where the gun had fallen, and the detailed position and condition of the furniture in the room as it was first examined by the laboratory.
As I read, I scribbled on a yellow pad, condensing the technical material of the medical report… “S&W .32 caliber revolver. Smokeless powder. No powder marks on clothes. Three wounds—one penetrating from the back of right shoulder, one in front chest, rupturing left clavicle, one from front, cleaving lower left ventricle of the heart—cause of death.”
I paused to examine a photograph. It was a stark and graphic picture, taken under the flat light of a flash bulb, which showed the body of Arthea Simpson. She was lying face down on the floor, her feet nearest the window, her head and shoulders projecting in the direction of the center of the room.
Again leafing through the pages of the transcript, I found the section I wanted, and read the material again:
Question: (by Detective Howard Ringow) From the top of the two steps, you saw this figure outlined against the window. You couldn’t tell whether it was a man or a woman?
Answer: (by Ivy Lorents) That’s right. It was very dark in the room. I couldn’t see.
Q: Where did you get the gun?
/>
A: It was in the bureau right beside me.
Q: In a drawer?
A: Yes.
Q: You had to open the drawer to get it?
A: Yes. I opened it, then just grabbed up the gun and started shooting it.
Q: Didn’t you give any warning?
A: I was… too frightened to make a sound. I just shot. (Pause) I don’t think I could have called out.
Q: How many times did you shoot the gun?
A: I’m not sure. I can’t remember.
Q: Did you pull the trigger as fast as you could?
A: I must have… I just kept pulling the trigger.
Q: All right, Miss Lorents. After that, what happened?
A: Who… whoever it was, I don’t know who it was… fell down on the floor.
Q: You didn’t go near the person on the floor you had just shot, to see if you could help her?
A: No. I didn’t know it was a woman. I didn’t know what to do. I ran back… and locked myself in my bedroom.
Q: If you were so frightened, why didn’t you take the gun with you?
A: I guess… well, I must’ve dropped it. I didn’t think…
There was enough material in these questions and answers to give any defense attorney something to worry about. But there was another section which could turn out to be even more dangerous. I skipped to it, and studied it intently:
Question: (still by Detective Ringow) Well, now we know who the deceased is, maybe it’ll help clear this situation up.
Answer: (by Ivy Lorents) Who is she?
Q: You don’t know?
A: I told you… I never saw her face. I still haven’t seen it.
Q: (by Lieutenant Earl Overland) Her name was Arthea Simpson. You didn’t know her?
A: I have heard of her.
Q: (by Overland) Just heard of her? You never met her?
Not I, Said the Vixen Page 8
