I didn’t answer that. After taking the time to think it over, I dropped it to go on to another angle. “Let me put it to you this way, Ross,” I said.
“Fire away.” He looked over at the loaf of pumpernickel calculatingly, evidently wondering whether or not to make another sandwich.
I said, “Harry Shulman has been killed and Les Zimmer narrowly escaped death. Do you believe it was done by extra-terrestrials?”
Ross picked up a small piece of bread that had dropped from his sandwich to his plate and crumbled it in his fingers. He shook his head negatively. “No, I don’t,” he said.
“All right, why don’t you? The only motive we seem to have is that these two were both suspicious of such aliens.”
“No,” he said, making an impatient gesture. Then: “Jeb, it’s all very fine gathering this evidence about extra-terrestrials. It’s fun considering the possibility of their existence; what they’d look like, what they’d think like, what they’d think of us, whether or not it would be possible to communicate with them — all the rest of it. The whole thing is interesting.
“But, Jeb, when it comes to cold-blooded murder — like the death of poor little Harry Shulman out there in my garden — I say no. Maybe I’m wrong, but I’d lay every cent I’ve got on a human killer, not an extra-terrestrial one.”
I finished off the last signs of sandwich and beer silently. I couldn’t think of anything else, off hand, to ask him. When they were gone I came to my feet with a sigh.
“You’re working,” I told him. “I’ll get along.”
He leaned back on the back legs of the chair and stuck his hands in the pockets of his shorts. “Don’t worry about that. I’m through for the day now. One bottle of beer I can get away with, but if I drink two, somehow or other the day’s shot. I won’t be able to write any more.”
I asked him, “There isn’t anything else you can think of that might help me, is there?”
“No. Afraid not.”
I took my list of names from my pocket and handed it to him. “Art Roget gave me a list of those present the other night. Do you think that any of them in particular could help me out?”
He ran his eyes down the list thoughtfully. Finally he looked up and said, “I don’t know what to tell you, Jeb. If you’re still working on the slant of alien life forms here on earth, I doubt if any of these people could tell you any more than Les Zimmer, or even I, could. If you’re thinking in terms of a human murderer, well, frankly, I can’t see why any of these would want to see Harry out of the way. Aside from their contact with him through the club, none of them had any connection with him, or any real interest in him. Not as far as I know, and I think I would know.”
I took the list back and stuck it in my pocket.
“Just one other thing,” I said. “Have you considered the possibility that Harry was killed by mistake? That someone else was intended to be the victim? Have you considered that possibly Harry inadvertently took your place?”
He looked up at me. “Sure, I’ve considered it, especially when the police could find no motive for Harry’s death. But how does that tie in with the attempt on Les? Did this mysterious person who thought he was killing me when he got Harry also think that I was sleeping in Les Zimmer’s bed last night?”
He tossed the idea off. “Besides, there isn’t any more motive for killing me than there is for either of the others. I’m just an unreconstructed vet who’s making an unsuccessful attempt to break into the writing game. I haven’t any enemies, not much money, I’m engaged to the woman I love and, as far as I know, nobody is trying to take her away from me.”
“Hold it there,” I grinned at him. “Maybe we’ve found a motive in this whole crazy case at last.”
Ross Maddigan grinned back, ruefully. “She’s wonderful, isn’t she?”
I told him yeah, and picked up my hat from where I’d tossed it in an empty chair.
We said goodbye and shook hands again — he seemed a regular demon for shaking hands — and I took off, out the front door this time instead of through the hedge. He stood at the entrance behind me, and called another cheery goodbye and an invitation to drop around any time.
A good joe.
• • •
At the end of the gravel walk I looked first at my watch and then at my list of names. Ross Maddigan hadn’t helped me much there. He hadn’t even been able to think of anyone worth talking to — neither could I.
There was a streetcar stop two blocks down. I started walking and trying to figure out the next step. It was late afternoon; half or more of the names I had would be at work. I looked at the list again and it hit me whom I wanted to see next.
James Maddigan would be at work. If I wanted to see Sandra, away from him, this would be the time of day to do it. I still couldn’t make her out. I couldn’t get the angle of her coming up to the office the day before. Ross Maddigan, yes; I could see why he’d want to be sure that the person who killed a friend in his garden was found and proven guilty. But Sandra? She’d admitted that she didn’t even know Harry Shulman, or at least not more than to say hello.
Obviously, Sandra was my next point of call. Besides, the address indicated that she was within a mile or so.
I wished that I hadn’t lapped up so much liquor so early in the day. It was beginning to die in me.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
I was prepared to find the James Maddigans living in a comfortable home, considering that Ross wasn’t exactly poverty-stricken and that both Sandra and her husband dressed as though they were to the manner born. But I wasn’t prepared for the ultra luxury of their hotel apartment.
An impeccably dressed jerk at the desk of the Marion Arms eyed me superciliously, asked for my name and pursed his lips before condescending to phone up to the Maddigan apartment.
Evidently Sandra Maddigan was at home and evidently she told him to hustle me through. The supercilious look blended into a leer which I didn’t get at the time.
The elevator smoothed me up to the fourteenth floor, and I didn’t have to take the time to look about for Apartment 1400, because there was Sandra, coming down the hall toward me, her hands extended happily as though I were a husband just back from the wars. The elevator boy’s face was impassive. I wouldn’t lose any money betting that he’d been through this scene before.
“Jeb!” she gushed, “I’m so pleased to see you. I was afraid that you were angry with little Sandra.” She pouted, but I still didn’t like women who pout, not even when they had the lush, full mouth of a Sandra Maddigan.
She was wearing a colorful housecoat which couldn’t possibly have cost as much as you estimated. But for that matter, it seemed equally impossible that that many yards of cloth could do so much in the way of indicating what lay below.
She took me by the arm happily and walked me back to the apartment, bubbling along as we went. I didn’t get it.
The Maddigan apartment was about as far out of my class as you can get. Its terrace reached out above a clever patio below; its six or eight rooms ran off in all directions from the tremendous living room. The furniture was striking without being uncomfortable; modern without being Hollywoodish. Whoever had decorated the Maddigan apartment — and it could have been neither James nor Sandra — had been paid, but plenty.
I pursed my lips and whistled softly. “I thought science fiction fans were inclined to be along the proletarian side.”
She shrugged, pouting again, “Don’t be snobbish. If you have money, why not spend it?”
“Yeah,” I said, “why not?”
There must have been servants around somewhere, but I didn’t see them. When the clerk announced me, she had evidently been sitting on a couch reading. A book lay face down; nearby was a tray complete with a tall impressive-looking bottle, an ice bucket and a bottle of soda. I noted the title of the book, Male and Female, by Jack Woodford. I murmured inwardly, “Imagine a dame that looks like this having to read about it.” There was a double row of additional books
in a low bookcase to one side of the couch — detective and love novels.
She plumped down on the couch and patted the place beside her and immediately reached for the bottle.
I said suspiciously, “What’s that?”
“Metaxa,” she beamed. “Best brandy in the world, you know; comes from Greece. Do sit down, Jeb.” She expertly made drinks and I figured that either Greek brandy wasn’t as strong as cognac or that she was really socking it to us. I lowered myself gingerly to the couch beside her.
She went on, “It really should be taken straight, but when I get tied up in a book, I like to drink as I go along, and if you’re drinking straight you get tight too soon. Don’t you think?”
I wasn’t following her very well, but I said, “Yes.”
She handed me one of the tall glasses, sank back into the couch and said, “So you changed your mind.” I was beginning to wonder if she’d deliberately cultivated that pout to emphasize the sexiness of her lower lip.
“How was that?” I asked her.
“You’ve decided to work for me after all.”
“Not exactly, Mrs. Maddigan,” I said.
“Sandra.”
“All right, Sandra. I’ve got another client; I’m working on a different aspect of the case. I just thought I’d drop in and see if you could help me on one or two points.”
Sandra Maddigan took a sip of her drink, still eyeing me; I took a gulp of mine.
She reached over a well manicured hand and felt my arm. Her fingernails dug in. “Lord, it’s good to feel a man’s arm that has muscles in it for a change.” She leaned back against the couch. “It’s good to even talk to a man.”
I took another gulp of the Metaxa. It was strong enough to stand by itself. “Thanks,” I said. “Where’d you get the idea I was such a chunk of masculinity? Actually, I like my steaks medium well — ”
She looked me over again. “You wouldn’t be in the business you are unless you craved a real man’s life. Excitement, trouble, adventure.” She shivered. “Tell me about it; I’ve never known a detective before.”
“Tell you about the detective game? You wouldn’t believe me if I did. It’s not what you think; you’ve been reading novels, or maybe seeing William Powell in the movies.”
I’d got the answer I was looking for when I came up here to see Sandra. The day before I’d wondered why she had come to my office — the real reason, that is.
Now I knew. She’d never “met” a private detective before.
I reached over, picked up the bottle of Metaxa, and poured myself a quick shot. I took it down with a single, stiff-wristed motion, and got to my feet. She stared up at me in surprise.
“Listen,” I said thickly, “I’m supposed to be working. We’ll have to put this off until another time. I came here to ask a couple of questions; I already know the answer to one of them.”
Over her face chased surprise, impatience, chagrin and anger in a space of a few seconds. She snapped, “What questions? Do you mean you’re going to leave me like this?”
“Like what?” I said impatiently.
She flushed angrily behind what was left of her make-up, took up her glass and finished it off, and changed the subject. “What do you mean, questions?” Her voice was shaky.
I said, “You’re no more interested in science fiction than I am. What was your real reason for going to Ross’s party the other night?”
Her eyes blazed furiously.
Suddenly, without her speaking, I knew the answer to that one too. In my mind’s eye Ross’s wide-open, honest face swam into view. I recalled something I’d forgotten that night in the garden when Harry Shulman had died. I remembered a brief scene where Sandra stood close to him, her hand on Ross’s arm, and he looking red about the gills with embarrassment.
“All right, never mind the questions,” I told her, trying to keep disgust from my voice.
Sandra’s face suddenly went soft again. She came to her feet and put her hand on my arm. “I’m so tired, Jeb; and really those awful policemen questioned me forever. How about calling it off until some other time? I might say something I shouldn’t; you wouldn’t want to take advantage of me.” Her mouth smiled, and raw sex peered out of her eyes.
“I don’t think I’d be up to that,” I murmured, looking around for my hat. I wondered vaguely why she didn’t want me to ask her any questions; I couldn’t think of anything she could possibly know that might be to the point. I was a helluva investigator, I was.
She saw me to the door, pouting again now. While I was putting on my hat, she reached up and felt my arm again. Her eyes narrowed sensually.
“You still look like quite a bit of man to me, and I still think being a detective must be a hard, tough racket.”
I put my forefinger under her chin, and dropped a quick peck of a kiss on her lips. “No tougher than landing a rich man for a husband, and then hanging on in spite of the fact that you can’t stand the sight of him.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
I could hear the phone ringing as I came down the corridor from the elevator the next morning. I zipped the key into the lock, to the extent I was capable of zipping, which wasn’t very much, and hurried open the door.
The phone started complaining shrilly again, so I picked it up and said, “Jeb Knight.”
A voice told me, “This is James Maddigan, Knight. Did you send in your report as yet?”
I said, “Yeah, it’s in the mail. Have you heard about what happened to Les Zimmer?”
Maddigan didn’t sound particularly interested, but he said, “Zimmer? No, what?”
I hesitated, then said, “It’d take too long to tell you over the phone. The report should be there in the morning delivery.”
“Very well,” he said. “Are you to attend the convention today?”
I’d forgotten that this was the first day of the science fiction convention. “Did you want me to?” I asked him.
He hesitated again. “Well, this is the last day that you’ll be working for Arthur Roget and me, but since you’re already at the task and have been remunerated for it, I think the convention might offer you as suitable an opportunity as any to further investigate this matter.”
“All right, you’re the boss,” I told him. “The convention it is. When and where does it start?”
“The local fan clubs have rented the auditorium of Sherman Halls. Are you familiar with its location?”
“Next to the Bigelow Hotel, isn’t it? Same management as the Bigelow, in fact.”
“That is correct. The convention is officially to begin at noon, but I imagine the fen are beginning to gather even now.”
There was a shadow at my door, a bulky shadow that I seemed to recognize.
I asked, “Are you going to be there, Mr. Maddigan?”
“Not today. The convention will continue four days in all. I shall have to be present at the office this initial one so that I may attend tomorrow and the ensuing days. I shall probably be there late tonight, however.”
“All right,” I told him, cutting it short; the knob was beginning to turn on the door. “I’ll see you later.”
We hung up, just as Sergeant Mike Quinn came in the door. Up to and including the unlit cigar in his face, he looked identically the same as he had the day before.
I sighed — perhaps it should be called a groan — and said, “Good morning, Sergeant.”
He grinned at me. “Now that’s a matter of opinion, Buster. I wonder if you’ll think so after you’ve seen the lieutenant.”
“What?” I protested. “Again?”
He nodded cheerfully. “Again. The lieutenant understands that you had a busy little time for yourself after you left headquarters yesterday.”
I got up in resignation and reached over for my hat. Dust on the windowsill had added a dirtier than usual tinge to the brim. I flicked it against my leg a couple of times before donning it. “You know,” I said petulantly, “theoretically I don’t have to come unless I’m under arre
st.”
“It’s a beautiful theory, but you’d be surprised how it works out in actual practice. Wanta try, Buster?”
I shook my head. “Let’s go.”
As I closed the door behind us, he said, “Who was that on the phone, your grandmother again?”
I nodded. I wasn’t up to the banter Quinn liked.
The same bored, expressionless cop sat in what could have been and probably was the same car that they’d picked me up in the day before. We climbed into the back and took off up Marion to East First and north on East First to Lafayette. The Justice Building hadn’t changed any in the past twenty-four hours either; we sped up its wide driveway to the rear, climbed out and worked our way up the steps to the second floor.
I made a feeble try at humor. “I’d hate for this to become a habit,” I told Quinn. “For one thing, that jet plane test-pilot you use for a driver — ”
He grunted, “That’s up to you, shamus.”
“Aw, no,” I protested in pain. “Not you too. Listen, I’ve been explaining all week that nobody ever calls anybody a shamus except in stories.”
“Talking about stories,” he muttered, “you better have a good one for the lieutenant. That’s in the way of advice; he ain’t in any too good a humor, Buster.”
“Not doing so well on the case, eh?”
He glowered at me. “That ain’t what I said.”
At the door lettered Lieutenant Davis, Homicide Detail, we knocked and walked in. Davis was sitting behind his desk as though he hadn’t moved since I saw him last. He still looked like a white grub who’d crawled out from under some log.
He took his feet down from off the desk blotter, stuck them where they belonged and stared at me unblinkingly.
I sighed, looked around for a chair, located one and pulled it over and sat down. I mustered as nonchalant a face as I could and waited for him to start in.
The Case of the Little Green Men Page 10
