I pushed a glassful of doctored tomato juice at her. “Drink this.” I watched her steadily. “Mrs Larson sent me up.”
That meant nothing to her at the moment. She struggled to a sitting position. She groaned and held her tousled head between her palms. Awake, her face took on hardness again. But I couldn’t help remembering what Mrs. Larson had said and I felt a new interest and feeling for Glory again.
She took the tomato juice and stared suspiciously at it. “The Larsons are the only ones in this bunch worth a damn,” she stated.
“Sure,” I agreed. “Where’s your negligee?”
“Closet,” she said. “Why the nursemaiding?” she asked.
I ignored that and got the negligee, a lovely, fluffy thing. It was nearly transparent and looked beautiful on her even as tousled as she was.
She still hadn’t drunk the tomato juice. I got a washrag and water from the bath and let her poke her eyes to clear them. Then I said, “Drink it down.”
She put her hand to her forehead. “I want a drink.”
“Not yet. Eat a bite first.”
“Hair of the dog,” she said. Her voice was still thick and fuzzy, her movements and reaction slow.
“Down with this first,” I said firmly.
She glared at me from bloodshot eyes but when I edged the glass to her lips she surprised me by taking it. She finished the tomato juice at a gulp, shuddered and lay back. I waited until it had begun to help her. Then I gave her an arm and we navigated to the bath where she brushed her teeth. She held on to the bowl with both hands and looked in the mirror above it.
“I’m a sight.”
“And you stay that way,” I told her. I kept my voice low because I had found she would as long as I did. “The place is lousy with cops. There’s one outside the door right now. You keep on suffering from a case of shock and they won’t bother you much.”
She held up her trembling hands. “I’ll keep on all right. But my hair!”
“I’ll do something with it,” I promised.
Together we got her into a pair of pale green satin lounging pajamas that would have paid my salary and income tax for a month. They were chiffon satin, exquisitely soft and clinging, and for a moment envy made me wonder if I hadn’t picked the wrong profession. I put away the negligee and Glory got back into bed.
She drank a cup of coffee and tried to pour another. Her hands weren’t manipulating too well so I finished the job for her and went for a towel to clean up the mess she had made. She sipped at the coffee but pushed away the rest of the food, toast, eggs and crisp bacon. I gave her a cigaret and started to work on her hair.
There is nothing unless it is sharing a bathroom that can make two women more confidential than fussing with each other’s hair. And since I was doing all the fussing in this case I hoped to get all of the confidences.
“My head hurts,” was her first offering.
I ran the comb through her beautifully dyed hair. “When I get this straightened it will feel better.”
She said thickly, “You’re solicitous as hell.”
“I was your nursemaid last night. I poured you into bed and dried you off. You’re my private property for a while.” I looked directly at her and grinned. “Besides, I’m beginning to like you.”
Glory was still foggy from the hangover, but she was sharp enough to say mockingly, “Besides, you want a good story.”
“It’s a fair trade, don’t you think?”
“Give me a drink,” she said. She put her hands to her head again. “It’s all raw inside,” she complained.
“I’ll get you a drink in a minute,” I promised her. I dropped the comb and worked in a tangle of hair over one ear. “First, I want to know …”
Footsteps on the stairs stopped me. I could hear voices, Tiffin’s and Jocko’s. I stood up quickly. Glory was in no shape yet to handle Tiffin. And I suddenly realized that she didn’t know how Delhart had died. Or, at least, she was not supposed to know it.
I said quickly, “Listen, Glory, you play the shocked and grieved girl friend. Don’t let them rag you into talking. Tiffin-he’s the Assistant Prosecuting Attorney—will try to tie you into it if he can. He’s so far from love and beauty he makes himself sick hating them.”
“Tie me in—to what?” she asked. Her eyes were steadily on mine, questioning. Either she really didn’t know or she was acting her part well.
I readied my hand to cover her mouth if she should decide to scream. “Delhart’s death,” I said bluntly, “was a plain case of murder.”
Glory didn’t scream. She didn’t even make a sound. She just grew rigid. Her eyes stayed wide open, staring with an awful look of seeing nothing. Her breathing was faster. That was all. I could hear the footsteps outside stop in front of the door. No words came through the panel but from the sounds I gathered Tiffin and Jocko were talking to the deputy. I was getting nervous but I didn’t take my eyes off Glory.
She stayed that way, not crying, not moving, not talking, just lying there as rigid as if she were stone. Finally I reached out and shook her by the shoulder. I could feel the tenseness ease itself out of her, and she raised her hands and hid her face in them.
Her voice came muffled through her fingers. “They’ll think I did it.”
“I’ll back you as much as I can,” I said. “I don’t think you did it.” I didn’t tell her why. There was no time at the moment for me to explain my idea that it would take a strong person to cut a man so horribly.
“Back me?” She lowered her hands and looked at me. Her face was twisted. Horror and fear. She was beginning to shake. News like that was hard to take on top of a hangover such as she had. “I don’t know why you should.”
I said, watching her carefully, “I like Little Swede too.”
What little color there was in her cheeks drained out completely. Even her lips went pale. She grabbed my wrist, her fingernails digging hard. “Do they know?”
“No,” I said. She began to shake again, hard, and I began to understand what she had meant. “Easy, now, easy,” I soothed her. “He wouldn’t do a thing like that. Not Tim.”
“He’s a wild man sometimes,” she said in a low voice. “Keep them from knowing.” I couldn’t tell whether she really had a bad case on Tim Larson or whether she was a superb actress. Her voice was filled with pleading anguish.
“Sure,” I said. I tried to take my arm loose from her fingers, but she held on harder.
“That louse Hilton thinks he knows,” she said. She darted a quick look at me. Someone rattled the doorknob. “Can I trust you?” she demanded.
“Not if I’m on a witness stand,” I admitted.
Someone pounded hard on the door. “Until then,” she said. “I have Hilton bottled up. But tell Tim to keep quiet. Please.”
“Sure,” I said again. I didn’t quite follow all of this. I wasn’t sure just why her affair with Tim Larson loomed so importantly in Delhart’s death. But it was a lead.
The pounding grew more insistent. I raised my voice. “Keep quiet out there.” I glanced down at Glory. Her bloodshot but still lovely eyes were wide with terror and shock and, I thought, a half dozen mingled emotions. Whatever control she had had over herself she was losing rapidly. It was a dirty trick but I took advantage of her. I said:
“Whose hat was it you saw?”
“I don’t know,” she said. She began to shudder at the recollection. I could sympathize with her on that. “An old gray felt hat floating on the water. Right—right by his feet.”
“It wasn’t dark when you—discovered him?” I pressed my questions rapidly, before Tiffin decided to batter in the door.
“Late twilight,” she said. She was answering me mechanically, as if her tongue was not connected with the mental upheaval I could see in her eyes. “I could barely see.”
I had her talking now; I didn’t want to stop. Tiffin called out, “You’ll have to open up in there!”
I ignored it. “Did you see anyone else?”
<
br /> Both our voices carried a whispered urgency, battling against the noise from outside. Tiffin’s oratorical voice seemed to make Glory more frightened. But she answered me. She told me a little of what I wanted to hear. “Yes,” she said. “A man, I think. Not big.” For a moment she showed defiance. “Not as big as Tim. Not nearly.”
“Frew? Willow?” I was bending over her, feeling rushed by that pounding that kept beating in waves into the room.
“It was dusk. I don’t know. Honest.”
Jocko Bedford added his voice to Tiffin’s. “Open up, Addy.”
That tore it. I couldn’t ignore Jocko. Not and expect any future favors from him. I called, “Let me get her decent.”
I counted to twenty, all the time arranging Glory in the bed. I pushed her down, punched the pillows, adjusted the covers. I whispered, “Don’t look so damned scared. You’re under shock.” She closed her eyes and fought for relaxation. She was doing wonderfully, considering her hangover, I thought. I went to the door.
I opened it and stood there, blocking them out. I said, “She’s had a bad shock and she’s grief stricken. You’ll have to get a doctor’s permission to examine her.”
Tiffin glared at me. Over his shoulder I could see Jocko, a half grin on his face. “Did you get a doctor’s permission?” Tiffin asked me acidly.
“I’ve been taking care of her,” I said. “I’m a practical nurse. Now go away.”
Tiffin’s face went yellow with his rage. “I’ll put you away. You get out of here, Adeline!”
“All right,” I said sweetly. But I didn’t move. “It will look swell in the papers when it comes out that the Assistant Prosecuting Attorney bullies a sick woman. Really swell.” I stepped aside. “Come on in. After all, I need a good story.”
Jocko chuckled openly. “Better let it rest, Tiff.”
“No, by God! This woman can’t bluff me. She’s hiding the Martin girl so she can get her story first.”
Perceptive, wasn’t he? “If that were the case,” I said calmly, “I’d have it by now. Don’t make a fool of yourself. Glory Martin isn’t in any shape to be questioned, let alone bullied by you.”
“Come on, Tiff,” Jocko urged.
And Tiffin nearly caused me to faint by descending to wheedling! “Just a few questions, Adeline. Surely she can answer a few simple questions.”
I glanced back at Glory. She lay with her eyes closed as if she were too weary to be interested in our argument. One hand trailed off the edge of the bed, her fingertips brushing the rug.
“With me watching you,” I told him.
He jumped into his opening with both feet. “You’ll get no more consideration than any other reporter.”
I hoped Tiffin wouldn’t remember my photographic memory. I said, “I have no notebook handy. I’m not here as a reporter. And I won’t let you bully her.”
He glowered poisonously at me, but he yielded. “All right.”
He and Jocko came in and shut the door. They used the vanity bench and Glory’s boudoir chair to sit on. Jocko looked ludicrous in the pale green chair with the ruffles frothing around him. Keeping back an impulse to laugh, I sat on the far side of the bed and took Glory’s hand in what I hoped was a professional manner.
She opened her eyes languidly. I tucked the covers protectingly about her neck. It would do no good to let Tiffin see her in those luscious pajamas. He wasn’t the kind to react, except venomously.
“Now, Miss Martin,” he said soothingly, “we want to ask a few questions. We realize the shock this has been to you, of course, so we won’t make it hard on you. But our duty, you know …”
He let his beautiful voice roll out like a tear-jerking bit of organ music. He smiled as winningly as he could with that face.
“I’ll try,” Glory murmured.
“Yes, surely. Now just what was your relationship with Mr. Delhart?”
Glory surprised me by achieving a look of wide-eyed innocence. “Relationship?” she asked in a weak voice. “I was his ward, if that’s what you mean.” She sighed and her eyes dampened. It was beautifully done. “Carson was like a father to me.”
Tiffin and Jocko had trouble swallowing that. I did myself. It really jolted Tiffin. He began to breathe through his mouth. “You mean he was your legal guardian?”
“Oh, yes,” Glory said. She began to cry a little.
“I see,” Tiffin said hastily. “I was led to understand …” I looked angrily at him and Jocko moved his foot just enough to clip Tiffin’s shin. Tiffin swallowed the rest of his sentence.
“Now,” he said with false briskness, “If you’ll just tell us what you saw and did last evening, Miss Martin …”
Glory jerked convulsively, buried her face in her hands and began to sob wildly. I stood up and glared at Tiffin. “You tactless idiot,” I said indignantly. “I told you she was ill. Jocko, drag him out of here, will you?”
Jocko looked dubiously at Glory and then at me. Then he stood up. “Come on, Tiff.”
“I’ll see if I can quiet her,” I said virtuously.
Tiffin rose and moved toward the door. “We’ll see you down stairs in ten minutes, Adeline. And you aren’t sick!”
XI
WHEN THE DOOR was shut and the sound of footsteps had faded I touched Glory. She looked up. Her smile was scornful. “Men are saps,” she announced.
I almost laughed. “You did fine. Is it true—this ward business?”
“Yes,” she said. She seemed indifferent about it. She was more interested in holding her head. “I need a drink.”
“I suppose you’re a chief suspect on grounds of inheritance,” I cheerfully said. “Did you ever see his will?”
“No,” she pressed the heels of her hands to her forehead. “There’s a full pint in the lower dresser drawer.” She groaned convincingly.
“I don’t want you drunk,” I said quietly. “You talk too much.”
“Just one or two.” She Wheedled me as if I were a man, batting her eyelashes and turning on a personality smile. I ignored the act but I did get her a drink. She was too saturated with alcohol to jerk her off it suddenly.
I brought her the pint. She drank from the bottle. Her hands were shaking so that I had to unscrew the cap for her. The neck of the bottle made a tinkling sound against her teeth as she put it to her lips.
“Go easy,” I said. “For Tim anyway.”
Glory lowered the bottle, made a face, and shuddered. “I don’t like the taste of the stuff,” she said. “And I promised him I’d taper off.” She took a second drink.
I got the bottle away from her, screwed the cap back on and went back to the dresser. The bottle was nearly half empty. If she wanted any more she would have to get up and get it herself.
“You don’t really think Little Swede killed him, do you?” I asked.
Glory lay back, waiting for the liquor to work on her. When I spoke she opened her eyes. “He needed killing,” she said. The hatred in her voice made me shudder. She closed her eyes again, but she was rigid. Thinking about it, I supposed. When she began to loosen up and relax I repeated my question.
She raised herself in bed now, cocky and sure with the effects of her two drinks. It amazed me to see what a change a couple of shots of whiskey could make in her.
“I know who killed him,” she said. She hummed a few bars of Gilbert and Sullivan. “Titwillow. Titwillow.”
“Why?” I demanded.
She looked at me, coy and amused at the same time. “Won’t tell,” she said. She lay back again and let her eyelids droop.
I went out then, wondering why I liked her. But I did.
I found Jocko and Tiffin in the study. On my way in I glanced toward the living room. The family was there, the Willows huddled on the big davenport looking unhappy over the whole situation. Frew stood at the bar though he didn’t seem to be drinking. Hilton stood by himself, across the room. He was staring at the floor, his features sharp with concentration. No one appeared to have seen me.
/> Tiffin and Jocko were studying notes. Tiffin looked sourly at me. I sat in a leather chair, lit a cigaret, and waited for him to begin. Through the closed French windows I could see Jeff Cook and a few other reporters looking enviously in. I waved to Jeff. He clasped his hands over his head and shook them like a prizefighter. Tiffin scowled.
“Now,” he said, “we’ll get your story, Adeline.”
“Simple,” I said. “I was with Mr. Hilton the first time and Matt Mulcahey the second time.”
“Not that,” he said irritably. He jabbed his finger at me, lawyer fashion. An expectant deputy was seated at a desk, taking notes. He followed Tiffin’s pointing finger with his eyes. Then he bent to his notebook as Tiffin swung his head and scowled.
“What did you come here for in the first place?”
Tiffin’s courtroom manner got under my skin. He was acting as if I were the defendant in this murder case. “To get an interview with Mr. Delhart,” I said. I gave him glare for glare and stabbed my finger at him. “And I had an appointment.”
Tiffin ignored my by-play. “Delhart didn’t give interviews!”
“He was going to this time.”
Tiffin stood up, pacing the floor and trying to look like an attorney before a jury. He swung around and pointed at me again. “You blackmailed him into it, Adeline! With what?”
I sat very quietly. So Tiffin knew about the scene by the river yesterday afternoon. But I wasn’t going to let this buck-toothed oaf trap me into anything. “My fatal charm,” I answered coyly.
Jocko chuckled and Tiffin turned even more sallow than normally. “Just what did you see yesterday afternoon—you know what I mean?”
“Outraged virtue,” I said. I was trying hard and managing to match a gentle voice against his oratory. “Belonging to Mr. Frew.”
“Now, Addy,” Jocko said, “tell us.”
“Then stop this fool from trying to make me out a sinful Sadie,” I said.
Tiffin coughed. “Tell us what happened,” he said more softly.
It would be hardly to my advantage to hold back information on that particular scene. Tiffin and Jocko were evidently well posted on it. So I told them as best I could, making a point of the quickness with which it happened to explain why I could not go into extravagant detail. I left out Titus Willow’s slithery attempts at flirtation. The story seemed to satisfy Jocko but not Tiffin.
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