I dropped Charlotte’s hand and ran for the house. The bartender was standing in the doorway as white as a sheet. He could hardly talk. He pointed up the stairs and I took them two at a time.
The first floor opened on the cloakroom, an affair as big as a small ballroom. The maid was huddled on the floor, out like a light. Beyond her was Myrna, a bullet hole clean through her chest. She still had her hands clutched futilely against her breasts as though to protect herself.
I felt her pulse. She was dead.
Downstairs the crowd was pounding across the lawn. I shouted to the bartender to shut the doors, then grabbed the phone and got the gatekeeper. I told him to close the gates and not let anyone out, hung up, and dashed downstairs. I picked out three men in overalls whom I had taken for gardeners and asked them who they were.
“Gardener,” one said. The other was a handyman on the estate and the third was his helper.
“Got any guns around here?” They nodded. “Six shot guns and a 30.30 in the library,” the handyman said.
“Then get ’em,” I ordered. “There’s been a murder upstairs and the killer is someplace on the grounds. Patrol the estate and shoot anybody you see trying to get away. Understand?”
The gardener started to argue, but when I pulled my badge on him, he and the others took off for the library, got the guns, returned a minute later and shot out the door.
The crowd was gathered in front. I stepped outside and held up my hand for silence. When I told them what had happened there were a few screams, a lot of nervous talk, and everyone in general had the jitters.
I held up my hand again. “For your own benefit you had better not try to leave. There are men posted with orders to shoot if anyone tries to run for it. If you are wise, you’ll find someone who was standing near by you during the game and have an alibi ready. Only don’t try to dummy one because it won’t work. Stay here on the porch where you can be reached at a moment’s notice.”
Charlotte came in the door, her face white, and asked, “Who was it, Mike?”
“Myrna. The kid has nothing to worry about any more. She’s dead. And I have the killer right under my nose someplace.”
“Can I do something, Mike?”
“Yeah. Get the Bellemy sisters and bring them to me.”
When she went for them I called for the bartender. Shaking like a leaf he came over to me. “Who came in here?”
“I don’ see nobody, boss. I see one girl come in. I never see her come out ’cause she’s daid upstairs.”
“Were you here all the time?”
“Yassuh. All de time. I watch for the folks to come in heah for a drink. Then I goes to the bar.”
“What about the back door?”
“It’s locked, boss. Only way is in through heah. Don’ nobody come in ’cept de girl. She’s daid.”
“Quit saying that over and over,” I stormed. “Just answer my questions. Did you leave here for a second?”
“Nosuh, boss, not hardly a second.”
“What’s not hardly?”
The kid looked scared. He was afraid to commit himself one way or another. “Come on, speak up.”
“I got me a drink once, boss. Just beer, that’s all. Don’t tell Miss Bellemy.”
“Damn,” I said. That minute was time enough to let a murderer in here.
“How quickly did you come back? Wait a minute. Go in there and get a beer. Let me see how long it took you.” The bartender shuffled off while I timed him. Fifteen seconds later he was back with a bottle in his hand.
“Did you do it that fast before? Think now. Did you drink it here or in there?”
“Here, boss,” he said simply, pointing to an empty bottle on the floor. I yelled to him not to move, then ran for the back of the house. The place was built in two sections, this part an addition to the other. The only way in was through the French windows to the bar and the back door, or the one connecting door to the other section. The windows were bolted. So was the back door. The twin doors between the two sections of the building were firmly in place and locked. I looked for other possible entries, but there were none. If that were so I could still have the killer trapped somewhere inside.
Quickly, I raced up the stairs. The maid was recovering and I helped her to her feet. She was pasty-faced and breathing hard, so I sat her down on the top step as Charlotte came in with the twins.
The maid was in no condition to answer questions. I shouted down to Charlotte to call Pat Chambers as fast as she could and get him up here. He could call the local cops later. Mary and Esther came up and took the maid out of my hands and half carried her downstairs to a chair.
I went into the murder room and closed the door after me. I didn’t worry about fingerprints. My killer never left any.
Myrna had on her blue coat, though I couldn’t see why. The night was far too warm for it. She lay in front of a full-length mirror, doubled up. I looked closely at the wound. Another .45. The killer’s gun. I was bent down on my knees looking for the bullet when I noticed the stuff on the rug. A white powder. Around it the nap of the carpet had been ruffled as though someone had tried to scoop it up. I took an envelope from my pocket and got some of the grains inside. I felt the body. It was still warm. But then, at this temperature, rigor mortis wouldn’t set in until late.
Myrna’s hands were clenched together so tightly I had difficulty working my fingers under hers. She had clawed at her coat trying to hold the wound, and fibers of wool were caught under her fingernails. She had died hard, but fast. Death was merciful.
I felt under the coat, and there in the folds of the cloth was the bullet, a .45. I had my killer here. All I had to do was find him. Why he should kill Myrna was beyond me. She was as far out of the case as I was. The motive. The motive. What the hell kind of a motive was it that ate into so many people? The people the killer reached out and touched had nothing to give. They were all so different.
Jack, yes. I could see where he’d got mixed up in murder, but Myrna, no. Look at Bobo. Nothing could make me believe he was part of the picture. Where was motive there? Dope, he had been delivering it. But the connection. He never lived long enough to tell where he got the package or to whom it was going.
I shut the door softly behind me out of respect for the dead. Esther Bellemy had the maid in a chair at the foot of the stairs trying to comfort her. Mary was pouring herself a stiff whisky, her hands trembling. This hit her hard, whereas Esther was well composed. Charlotte came in with a cold compress and held it against the maid’s head.
“Can she talk yet?” I asked Charlotte.
“Yes, I think so. Just be easy with her.”
I knelt in front of the maid and patted her hand. “Feel better?” She nodded. “Good, I just want to ask you a few questions, then you can lie down. Did you see anyone come or go?”
“No. I—I was in the back of the house cleaning up.”
“Did you hear a shot?”
Another negative.
I called over to the black man. “What about you, hear anything?”
“Nosuh, I don’ heah nuthin’”
If neither had heard the shot, then the silencer must still be on the .45. And if the killer had it around, we’d find it. That kind of a rig is too big to hide.
I went back to the maid. “Why did you go upstairs?”
“To straighten out the clothes. The women had left them all over the bed. That’s when I saw the b-body.” She buried her face in her hands and sobbed quietly.
“Now, one more thing, did you touch anything?”
“No, I fainted.”
“Put her to bed, Charlotte; see if you can find something to make her sleep. She’s pretty upset.”
Between Charlotte and Esther they half dragged the maid to bed. Mary Bellemy was pouring one drink after another in her. She wouldn’t be standing up much longer. I took the bartender aside. “I’m going upstairs. Don’t let anyone in or out unless I say so, you hear? You do and you’ll wind up in jail yours
elf.” I didn’t have to say anything else. He stammered out a reply that I didn’t get, then locked and bolted the front door.
My killer had to be somewhere around. He had to leave through the front door unless he went out an upstairs window. Everything else was locked up tightly. But except for the little bit of time the bartender was away from the door, someone was there. That time had been enough to let the killer in, but not enough to let him back out again. Not without being seen by the bartender, that is. If he had seen someone and had been told to keep his mouth shut, I would have known it. I could swear that he was telling the truth. Besides, my killer would have knocked him off as well, and as easily, rather than take the risk of exposure.
From the top of the stairs, the hall crossed like a T. Doors opened off the one side, and each proved to be a guest room. I tried the windows. Locked. I went up and down both ends of the T trying to find where the exit was. Each room I inspected and searched with my rod in my fist, waiting, hoping.
The murder room was the last room I tried. And that’s where the killer got out. The window slid up easily, and I looked down fifteen feet to a flagstone walk below. If he had jumped he wouldn’t be walking now. The drop was enough to break a leg, especially on those stones. Around the building and directly under the window ran a narrow ledge. It projected out about eight inches from the wall and was clean of dust or dirt on both sides of the window. I lit a match and looked for heel marks in the concrete of the ledge, but there were none. Not a mark. This was enough to drive me nuts.
Even the eight inches wasn’t enough to walk across on barefaced brick. I tried it. I got out on the ledge and tried first to walk along with my face to the wall, then with my back to it. In both cases I almost took a spill. It would take a real athlete to cross that. Someone who was part cat.
Inside the room, I pulled the window down and went back to the hall. At either end a window overlooked the grounds. I didn’t see it at first, but when I stuck my head out there was a fire-escape ladder built into the wall adjacent to the window. Oh, how pretty if it could be done. The killer strikes, then out the window to the ledge, and around to the fire escape. Now I had an acrobat on my hands. Swell, more headaches.
I went downstairs and took the bottle away from Mary in time to salvage a drink from the wreckage and ease her into a chair. She was dead drunk.
A half hour later I had still gotten nowhere when I heard the pounding of feet outside and told the bartender to open up.
Pat and his staff walked in escorted by some county police. How that guy could get around the red tape of city limitations and restrictions was beyond me. He went upstairs at once, listening as I gave him the details.
I finished as he was bent over the body. The county coroner bustled in, declared the girl officially dead and made out a report. “How long since she died?” Pat asked.
The coroner hemmed and hawed, then said, “Roughly, about two hours. This warm weather makes it difficult to place the time exactly. Tell better after an autopsy.”
Two hours was close enough. It had happened while I was out in the bushes with Mary Bellemy.
Pat asked me, “Everyone here?”
“Guess so. Better get a guest list from Esther and check up. I posted guards around the wall and at the gate.”
“Okay, come on downstairs.”
Pat herded the entire group of them into the main room in the other section of the building. He had them packed in like sardines. Esther gave him a guest list and he read off names. As each one heard his name called, he sat on the floor. The detectives watched closely to be sure none of them moved until they were supposed to. Half the group was seated when Pat called out “Harmon Wilder.”
No answer. He tried again, “Harmon Wilder.” Still no answer. My little friend had vanished. Pat nodded to a detective who moved to a phone. The manhunt was on.
Six names later Pat sang out, “Charles Sherman.” He called it three more times and no one answered. That was a name I hadn’t heard before. I walked over to Esther.
“Who is this Sherman?”
“Mr. Wilder’s assistant. He was here during the game. I saw him.”
“Well, he’s not here now.”
I relayed the information to Pat and another name went out to call cars and police stations. Pat read down the list; when he was done there were still twenty standees. Gate crashers. You find them everywhere. The total number crammed into that house was over two hundred and fifty persons.
Pat assigned a certain number to each detective and some to me. Because I had been on the scene he let me take all the servants, the twins, Charlotte, and ten others from the party. Pat took the gate crashers for himself. As soon as he gave out the list, he quieted the assembly and cleared his throat.
“Everyone present here is under suspicion for murder,” he said. “Naturally, I know that you all couldn’t have done it. You are to report to each of my men as your name is called. They will speak to you separately. What we want is your alibi, whom you were with at the game, or wherever you were”—he checked his watch—“two hours and fifty minutes ago. If you can vouch for someone standing near you, do it. By doing so you are only insuring your own alibi. I want the truth. Nothing else. We will catch you if you try falsifying your statements. That is all.”
I collected my group and took them out on the porch. The household help I disposed of first. They had all been together and spoke for one another. The ten new faces assured me that they had been with certain parties and I took their statements. Mary had been with me, so she was out. Esther had been beside the referee’s stand most of the time and this was corroborated by the rest. I shooed them away, Esther leading her still half-out sister. I saved Charlotte until last so we could have the porch together.
“Now you, kitten,” I said. “Where were you?”
“You have a nerve,” she said laughingly. “Right where you left me.”
“Aw, don’t get sore, baby, I was trapped.”
I kissed her and she said, “After that all is forgiven. Now I’ll tell you where I was. Part of the time I was sipping a Coke with a nice young gentleman named Fields, and part of the time exchanging witticisms with a rather elderly wolf. I don’t know his name, but he was one of those that weren’t on the list. He has a spade beard.”
I remembered him. I put down “spade beard,” no name. Charlotte stayed close to me as we walked back into the room. Pat was picking up the list as his men finished and cross-checking them to see if the stories held water. A couple had the names confused, but they were soon adjusted. When all were in we compared them.
Not a single one was without an alibi. And it didn’t seem sensible that Wilder and Sherman should have run off—they had been accounted for, too. Pat and I let out a steady stream of curses without stopping. When we got our breaths Pat instructed his men to get names and addresses of everyone present and told them to inform the guests that they had better stay within reaching distance or else.
He was right. It was practically an impossibility to hold that many people there at once. It looked like we were still following a hopeless trail.
Most of the cars left at once. Pat had a cop handing out the coats since he didn’t want anyone messing up the murder room. I went up with Charlotte to get hers. The cop pulled out her blue job with the white wolf collar and I helped her into it.
Mary was still out so I didn’t say good-bye to her. Esther was at the door downstairs, as calm as ever, seeing the guests out, even being nice to the ones that didn’t belong there.
I shook hands with her and told her I’d see her soon and Charlotte and I left. Instead of driving up, she had taken the train, so we both got into my car and started back.
Neither one of us spoke much. As the miles passed under my wheels I got madder and madder. The circle. It started with Jack and had ended with him. The killer finally got around to Myrna. It was crazy. The whole pattern was bugs. Now my motive was completely shot to hell. Myrna fitted in nowhere. I heard a sob besi
de me and caught Charlotte wiping tears from her eyes. That was easy to see. She had taken a liking to Myrna.
I put my arm around her and squeezed. This must seem like a nightmare to her. I was used to death sitting on my doorstep, she wasn’t. Maybe when the dragnet brought in Wilder and Sherman there would be an answer to something. People just don’t run away for nothing. The outsider. The answer to the question. Could either of them have been the outsider that belonged in the plot? Very possible. It seemed more possible now than ever. Manhunt. The things the cops were best at. Go get them. Don’t miss. If they try to run, kill the bastards. I don’t care if I don’t get them myself, so long as someone does. No glory. justice.
When I stopped in front of Charlotte’s place I had to stop thinking. I looked at my watch. Well after midnight. I opened the door for her.
The Mike Hammer Collection Volume 1 Page 18
