Show Red for Danger

by Frances Lockridge

  Chris had had only belief, as Heimrich, when he first listened to Forniss’s report from the Coast, had had only a hunch. He had a litde more now. One Dr.—the appellation belonged, it was evident, in quotation marks—Robert Wiley had, pressed, admitted acceptance of a somewhat irregular fee. For value received, he had agreed, eighteen months before, to say that Mrs. Gertrude Marley, formerly Mrs. Gertrude Waggoner, had been given treatments by him, and had been in a depression. The fee had been proffered in Paul Marley’s name.

  “Dr.” Wiley had defended himself, rather weakly. He had said that she might well have been; that most people he ran into in Hollywood were, from time to time. And he had no reason to suspect that Marley had had anything to do with his wife’s death, and didn’t now, and that he had done it to make things easier all around for everybody. The Hollywood police had, fortuitously, questioned him when they had something on him, or almost on him. A man who had been under analysis by Wiley for more than a year had unfortunately gone too late to a physician for examination and been operated on, also too late, for a brain tumor. The Hollywood police had hinted, a little darkly, of what could happen to men who practiced medicine without a license.

  Marley had provided the money for the irregular fee. Of that Wiley was quite certain. But the suggestion had actually been made, and the money actually handed over, by Peggy Belford—the reason given: Marley was too upset, too broken up, to do it himself.

  The hypothesis: Peggy Belford had either known certainly, or guessed shrewdly, that Marley had killed his wife. The further hypothesis: She had later tried to cash in on guess or knowledge.

  “Probably,” Chris said, in her young voice, “he thought with mother out of the way, Peggy would marry him. She probably told him she would. The little—” She did not finish that, whether again at a signal from George Latham Heimrich could not tell.

  “Also,” Latham said, in a quiet voice, “she may have used her knowledge to pressure him into giving her parts. I guess it doesn’t matter now, but we—all of us—a little underplayed that part of it. M. G. really had a thing about Peggy—a thing against her. I don’t know why. So, between the devil and the deep blue sea.”

  There was, it was apparent, no lack of motive. It was also just as well that Marley, in a trap he did not recognize, had talked too much. The Hollywood police were of no mind, even now, to try to prove that, and explain how, Marley had given his wife an overdose of Nembutal.

  Chris had fallen, inadvertently, into the trap set for Marley. (It is difficult to make an entirely selective trap.) Being told that Mrs. Faye—Heimrich closed his eyes briefly at the mention of Susan’s name—had seen something, Chris had gone to look for the something, believing it would inculpate her stepfather. What Susan had seen might be something a man would miss. “After all, I’m a woman too,” Chris said, with confidence.

  “A baby,” Latham said, softly. She did not appear to resent that. And Heimrich suspected this might be because, perhaps only within recent hours, it had ceased to be true. She was, he thought, in the process of laying aside childish things, including childish crushes. Which would no doubt be a relief to Francis Dale.

  She had run from the Collins house, down the path, to the scooter and away, because she had glimpsed Sergeant Forniss in the studio and thought him Marley and had had a chance to run. She had gone to Susan’s house because, as she was passing it, she saw the unit’s panel truck in the driveway.

  ‘’I thought, suppose he’s gone there, instead of to the house,” Chris said. “And went to see and—and he had. Trying to make Mrs. Faye think he was Francis. The rat.”

  “Yes,” Heimrich said. “There was supposed to have been—” He stopped. There was no use going into that.

  “She’s mad, you know,” Chris said. “Simply hopping. I mean angry mad.”

  “Now Miss Waggoner,” Heimrich said, since that was another thing there was, then, no use in going into. “You’ll remember what he said? Be prepared to testify?”

  “Always,” the girl said. “Any time, captain.”

  And he and Forniss would testify and Susan would. He did not doubt that; her anger would have nothing to do with that, whatever else it had to do with.

  She must, he thought, feel this anger—this cold anger—because she had been used as bait. As secondary bait, which perhaps she did not fully realize. Under protection which—

  Heimrich’s mind stopped in its tracks. Which it was quite possible she did not know about. She had not waited to be told. And there did not seem to be any reason—except faith, which obviously she lacked—why she should guess that Trooper Crowley was on hand as bodyguard. Poor Crowley. And damn the dog.

  For a second time he dialed the familiar number. “Hello,” she said, coldly, far away. “Susan—” he said. And was hung up on.

  Heimrich is slow to anger. But equanimity can be carried to extremes. He dialed once more. This time the telephone rang unanswered. Then Merton Heimrich lost his temper.

  He needed a shave. He did not wait to shave. He needed coffee—at least coffee. He did not wait for coffee. He is a man who treats motor cars with gentleness, with respect. His car was jerked angrily out of its parking space, reversed with a snap which shook it. He drives with care on highways, and uses a siren only in emergencies. When another car looked like challenging him at The Corners Heimrich’s siren snarled. And Heimrich, through the windshield, glared.

  Loose gravel spat back under the car’s churning wheels on the steep driveway to Susan’s house. Susan was sitting on the terrace, on the chaise. A coffee cup was on a table beside her and she was smoking a cigarette. She looked up once, and looked away again, and did not move.

  Heimrich went across the terrace with the fury and suddenness of a line squall. He stopped and stood over and glared down. She did not look at him—lay long and quiet on the chaise, motionless, incredibly distant

  “What do you mean hanging up on me?” Heimrich said—said very loudly. “What’s the idea of hanging up on me?” She said nothing. “Answer me!” Heimrich said, his voice rough.

  “Please go away,” she said, in a voice from far off—from some distant cold of boredom. “Just go away. As far as you can go.”

  And, as if that ended it, she reached out toward the coffee cup on the table beside her.

  The movement might have been a signal. She had no time to move farther; no time to touch the cup she reached toward. She seemed suddenly, inexplicably, to be flying through the air, her wrists hurting. She landed on her feet, hard against the bulk of this—who was this man? This man who had been so gentle—so too—

  He took her by the shoulders. He shook her back and forth. Her head waggled uncomfortably. She looked at a solid face she had never seen before; into eyes she had never seen before.

  “D-d-d-on’t!” she said, the word shaken out of her. “You’re hurting me.”

  “What’s the matter with you?” he said, great anger in his voice. But he did stop shaking her. “What the hell’s the matter with you?”

  “You’ll break my neck,” she said. “Is that what you want?”

  But he was no longer shaking her. Her neck wasn’t broken. The only thing broken—the thing shattered—was her conception of this big, now violent, man. A bump on a log? A man who thought she would break?

  “What do you mean hanging up on me?” he said again and shook her again, but this time more lightly.

  “Bait,” she said. “That’s what you used me for. Bait. Something to be—used.”

  “You’re crazy,” Heimrich said. “What are you trying to do to us?”

  It didn’t make sense. It made the only sense there was in any of this.

  He held her off at arm’s length and glared at her. He said, violently, “Well?”

  “You saved my life once,” she said. “All right. You saved it once. So you thought that gave you a right to throw it away.”

  “You don’t make sense,” he said. But suddenly he took his hands from her shoulders. “You were
n’t to be—risked. It—I didn’t plan it that way. You know that. You damn well know that.”

  “Why should I?” she said. “Tell me that. Why should I?”

  “If you don’t know that,” Heimrich said, “what do you know? Sure—things can slip. Always have. Always will. You want a glass case? Cotton wool?”

  “You—you’re a clod,” she said. “A clod!”

  Which, also, didn’t mean anything.

  “I wasn’t afraid,” she said. “You think it was just that? Angry— you think I’m angry?”

  “You,” Heimrich said, “are damned right I do. Blowing up—no, freezing up—without finding anything out. Without knowing anything.”

  “Enough,” she said. “I know enough. You didn’t care. Didn’t give a damn. I was—anything. An—an egg for an omelet. So, that’s your way. That’s your job. Now will you—will you get out of here? Just get—”

  “Shut up!” Heimrich said. “Shut up!”

  And then, with no more warning than she had had when she suddenly flew up off the chaise, she flew forward, her body bruisingly against his. “Shut up!” Heimrich said, somewhat wildly, and her lips hurt, bruised by his lips. Her lips which had waited—

  She was, in an instant, again at arm’s length.

  “You hung up on me,” he said, and again, but this time much more gently, shook her. “I won’t have that You hear me? Not any way. Not any way at all!” He shook her again. “Not any way,” he said, once more, and glared down at her.

  “I—” she said.

  But she was back in his arms again; her lips silenced again. And—her arms were around him. Of all the things to happen. Why—this great bully. This— She clung to him. So he breaks my ribs, she thought, he breaks my ribs.

  He did not He picked her up. (But, she thought, I’m not that light Not all that light.) He carried her to the chaise and sat her down on it, but now he was gentle. He sat down beside her. He looked at her. He seemed surprised at her, and at himself.

  “Phew!” Susan Faye said, and then, briefly, he smiled.

  “All the same,” Merton Heimrich said, “you should have known there was—that there wasn’t any risk planned. That I thought I had everything—taken care of.”

  “Well,” she said.

  “And,” Heimrich said, “that I cared. So damn much that—” He shook his head. “You know,” he said, “for a moment there I thought I was going to hit you.” There was wonder in his tone.

  She put a slender hand over his square hand.

  “So did I,” she said. “So did I, dear.”

  “It’s a matter of trust,” he said. “That’s what—riled me up.”

  Which was, she thought, an inadequate way of putting it. But, perhaps not.

  “God knows,” he said, “I’m sorry things slipped. I—”

  It was then that Colonel pushed open the screen door of the house and came out and sat on the terrace and looked at them.

  “You,” Heimrich said, to Colonel. “You damn fool dog.”

  “Merton,” Susan Faye said, “I’m sorry I—I hung up. I won’t again. I’ll be very good and trust you and—and everything. But I do think that, now, you might tell me.” She paused. “If you want to,” she said. She couldn’t deny herself that. He looked at her, suspiciously. Her face confirmed his suspicions.

  “I don’t ask that,” he said. “Only that—that we both give each other the benefit of the doubt. Anyway, the chance.” He looked at her steadily, for some seconds. “Always,” he said, and she nodded her head.

  “So—” Heimrich said. “Crowley’s standing by and that dog of yours—”

  She listened. A little line of worry appeared between her wide-set eyes, at the same time a slight smile appeared on her lips—her bruised lips.

  “A damn fool thing,” Heimrich said. “But—all kinds of damn fool things happen. We pretend things are orderly, go according to plans. And then some damn fool thing—”

  “Poor Ray,” she said. “He’s all right?”

  “Well,” Heimrich said. “He’s all right. But—he had quite an evening.”

  “More? More than Colonel?”

  Heimrich smiled then.

  “It’s a little funny now,” he said. “Crowley had a bad time all around. You see, he came to just before we—Latham and I—went in and—well, he saw Forniss by the car, where he was waiting just in case. And didn’t recognize him, naturally enough. So he tried to come around behind him, planning to knock him off first—and—”

  He paused.

  “Well,” he said, “Charlie’s had a bit more experience and one thing and another. And there wasn’t time for explanations, if he didn’t want to be cracked with Crowley’s gun. So— Charlie had to knock him out.”

  She said, “Oh!”

  “As gently as possible,” Heimrich said. “But—altogether a bad night for young Crowley.”

  “The poor boy,” Susan said. “He—”

  But she wasn’t, so long as Raymond Crowley was all right, or going to be, really interested in Raymond Crowley. She looked at the solid man beside her, and looked with some wonder. How she could ever have thought—

  And then, looking at him more carefully, she saw, for the first time, how inexpressibly tired his face was—how drawn. No sleep, or little sleep, she thought. But that, she thought, wasn’t enough. Wasn’t all of it; not nearly all of it.

  How was I to know—she started to think, and checked herself. I did know, she thought. I just—just didn’t go to enough trouble. I didn’t know everything and never will and nobody ever does. (How amazingly strong he is!) But I should have known enough not—not to hang up on him. Give him so bad—

  “Darling,” Susan Faye said, “have you had any breakfast?”

  He came back, apparently from some distance. His face came together again. He shook his head.

  “No wonder,” Susan Faye said, and started to get up. “I’ll—”

  He held out both hands to her. She shook her head, lightly, smiling.

  “Breakfast,” she said, firmly. “Breakfast first.” He did not move to stop her. She took two steps toward the house—a slim young woman in a yellow summer dress, the morning light on her hair. She turned.

  “Merton,” Susan Faye said, “are you always going to be this grumpy before breakfast?”

  Never, Heimrich thought, had he heard words more exquisitely lyrical.

  “I like mine soft-boiled,” Heimrich said, with great tenderness.

  Turn the page to continue reading from the Captain Heimrich Mysteries

  I

  There is a time to do things thoughtfully, with a kind of tenderness, because they can never be done again. It is not necessary that the things done be of any special importance, but only that they have become familiar things, have formed themselves into a pattern. One of the things may be no more than an unhurried awakening.

  She woke first on the morning of the last day of March. It was not early; the light told her that, and told her that it was bright again. Tomorrow it will be early, she thought, because tomorrow will be the last day of it. Tomorrow will be a day to hurry; tomorrow a day to check drawers and shelves to see that nothing has been forgotten before, for the last time, we close a door on a familiar room and go out onto a terrace which has become our terrace, and down a flight of stairs and for the last time back the car out of the parking space and turn it toward the road.

  That will be tomorrow, she thought. Today is our last yesterday. She pushed the sheet back and the warm air moved gently on her body. I’ve got very brown, she thought; I’ve never been so brown before. The sound of the surf is soft today, she thought. Our last day will be a fine day.

  I will get out of bed without making any sound, she thought, and go to the window and look out between the blind-slats, without moving them, toward the ocean. The sun will sparkle on the ocean. And when I turn, although I shall have made no sound, he will be awake and be looking at me and I will be again surprised at the blueness of his eyes.
And be proud again.

  She made no sound, bare feet on carpet. She did not touch the blinds, so that they did not rattle, and the sunlight danced on the endless water. She turned and he was looking at her, and she smiled and thought, how blue his eyes are, and felt her body quicken.

  “Come here,” he said. She went there.

  “You make good coffee,” he told her, when it was time for coffee. “You have a way with eggs. You are very beautiful and I love you very much.”

  “Anybody,” she said, “can boil an egg.”

  “Almost nobody,” he said. “It is very difficult to boil an egg. What shall we do today?”

  “What we did yesterday,” she said. “What we did the day before. Only—each thing more slowly?”

  “Perhaps,” he said. “As it happens.”

  “It is,” she said, “as if this room were a kind of house. Our house. I want to—to pat it on the head. And pat the beach and—and everything. I want to say, ‘Nice room, nice beach, nice tennis court.’ I want to moon.”

  “By all means,” he said. “A good moon never hurt anybody.”

  “Honeymoon,” Susan Heimrich said, “is the stickiest word in the English language. It ought to have a better name. Because—” She stopped herself. “Anyway,” she said.

  He smiled. His smile did remarkable things to an otherwise square and somewhat formidable face.

  “You,” she said. “Wash the things while I shower.”

  M. L. Heimrich, captain, Bureau of Criminal Investigation, New York State Police, and a long way from home—except that now home traveled with him, and was a slender woman with rather high shoulders and a now very brown thinnish face—went to the small kitchen and washed the breakfast dishes. He heard the shower running and thought of pleasanter things.

  I’m really outsize, Merton Heimrich thought, when he had had his turn at the shower, and was regarding himself in bathing trunks. Lucky she doesn’t mind large animals. Whereupon, inevitably, he thought of a dog named Colonel. Which made him think—