Rook Takes Knight (The Howie Rook Mysteries)
Page 14
Deirdre was now holding hands with Charley Booth. The trainer—and now co-owner—of Carbon Copy was holding a conservative-type Stetson under his arm, and the expression on his face was grave. They came close enough to hear him saying “… and when this is over you come out and see him. He’s muscled up good. I got him entered in a router for maiden colts and geldings today, and shoulda been there to saddle him, only I thought I should—well, maybe show up here.”
Deirdre was managing a smile, but it was evident that at the moment she was not particularly interested in the career of Carbon Copy. She murmured something. “Now don’t you worry about a thing, honey.” Booth told her. “And you come down real soon and see us. I got a lot of things to talk to you about, like do we rest him up after this meet and then maybe take him to Hollywood Park—”
“Yes, Charley. Anything you say. But not right now!” Deirdre cut him off. The trainer let go of her hands, put on his hat, and strode away. And his face was a dead giveaway—another hapless man under Deirdre’s spell. Rook caught Finn’s arm. “Tail that guy, and stick with him. He didn’t come all the way into town just for the funeral.” The ex-cop nodded and slipped unobtrusively away.
Deirdre had seen Rook now, and started toward him impulsively. “Well, you got through it,” he said to her.
She was still dry-eyed, but her lips were trembling. “Don’t look at me that way!” she said. “I really did love John very much, in spite of everything. But when I cry, I cry alone!”
“Take it easy—” he began.
“I guess everyone here, except maybe a few of my personal friends, thinks I’m guilty. I never felt so many staring, unfriendly eyes …”
“Forget it. If my hunch is right, there was one person there who knows you’re innocent …”
Deirdre wasn’t listening. She shook hands with Ed Patch and then embraced Mary, who for once had nothing whatever to say. Then Deirdre took Rook’s one good arm. “Let’s get it over with!”
He led her in the direction of the Plymouth. On the way they passed the buxom blonde in the fur cape, the one who had cried after the ceremony. She had been lingering, staring toward the group around Deirdre, but now she turned and hurried off. Rook felt Deirdre start. “You know her?” he demanded.
“I—I think I do. Somebody called Bubbles—a part of John’s gay bachelor past, I guess. I never met her, but once I ran across an old snapshot when I was cleaning out some of John’s stuff, and he looked at it and laughed and said ‘There goes Bubbles, the Belle of Poverty Row,’ and tossed it into the fireplace. She was younger and more attractive in the snapshot.”
Rook was grasping at straws. Poverty Row—that means independent production, shoestring movies. Perhaps it would have been worth while to have Finn tail her … But no, the murderer was a man, at least everything pointed in that direction. They came to the car and Rook politely held the door for Deirdre, then got in behind the wheel. But just as he was about to start the motor here came Mary Patch hurrying toward them and clutching an overnight bag.
“Dee dear, you forgot your things!” she cried breathlessly.
“Just some of the bare essentials,” explained Deirdre. “In case.”
Rook sighed, then took the little bag and tossed it into the back seat. Deirdre would have a rude awakening if and when. The two sisters had evidently said everything they had to say to one another, for there was an awkward moment of silence. Rook broke it, perhaps unkindly, by leaning toward Mary and saying, “Mrs. Patch, you told the literal truth when you swore you hadn’t showed that photo to anybody but your husband?”
“Of course I did!”
“But why didn’t you tell us that you mailed copies to every one of Deirdre’s friends you could think of?”
“Howie!” cried Deirdre. “Of all the unkind things to say …” And then she stopped, seeing Mary’s face. In spite of the coolness of the September afternoon, she was suddenly perspiring. Her mouth opened, but she made no sound. No words were needed.
Rook put the car in gear and they drove away, out through the gates—the largest wrought-iron gates in the world, Rook had heard somewhere. They were never supposed to be closed—but within the hour other gates must close on the lovely woman who had trusted him. And it seemed there wasn’t one damn thing he could do about it.
XII
DEIRDRE HAD SUBSIDED IN a corner of the seat, evidently deep in her own thoughts and not wanting to talk, as they drove downtown. Rook was busy paying attention to his necessarily one-armed driving and to the rear-view mirror, for a gray sedan was hovering on their tail. Wilt Mays wasn’t taking any chances, then.
Then Deirdre said suddenly, “I didn’t know! You’ve got to believe that! I see now that Mary must have got hold of my address book and mailed those photos at random—she’s always been determined to interfere in my life. She must have imagined that when they saw it, somebody would—”
“Would kill your husband?”
“No—but she could have thought that one of them or all of them would put pressure on me to go ahead with the divorce.”
“A reasonable person would. But we’re dealing with somebody who doesn’t react as you’d expect.” They were now approaching the parking lot, almost empty at this hour except for Agnews’ Cadillac over in the corner.
“You’ll have to tell me how to behave, Howie. You see, I was never arrested before.”
“Hal will brief you when we get to his office. And he’ll be present during any interrogation. Just don’t volunteer anything.”
“It all sounds so—so grim!” Deirdre whispered. “I keep thinking it’s just a silly dream and I’ll wake up any minute.” He couldn’t think of any good answer to that unoriginal but understandable remark, so he kept silent. Somehow managing the overnight bag as well as his own briefcase, he led Deirdre out and around and into the Law Building, pausing to nod politely at the two plainclothes men in the gray sedan now parked outside and waiting. Up they went in the creaky elevator, down the long hall toward the Agnews suite.
The little attorney himself met them at the door. He was the picture of confidence—which to Rook, who knew him, was a bad omen indeed. “Everything is going to be all right, so relax now. This way, Dee.” Agnews ushered the client into his pseudo-Gothic private office, planted her in one of the least uncomfortable chairs, and handed her a paper cup of coffee laced with brandy.
“The condemned woman drank a hearty meal,” Deirdre tried to say lightly. But her smile wasn’t functioning.
“Excuse us a moment.” And Agnews drew Rook into the next room. “Howie, your face!” he found it necessary to say. “I had no idea—”
“Never mind the Purple Heart. Here’s the blowups you wanted. Now let me get this straight. If you do decide to spring the photo on Mays as a last resort, I’m to release the others to the papers?”
“Yes—at least to the Tribune. Together with a story, slanting everything Dee’s way as much as you can and making her the martyr. You know, color it compassionate. You get anything else?”
“Nothing from Sacramento that helps. Of course, there’s the possible attempt on my life last night—which Mays probably won’t believe. And somebody sneaking into my apartment and making off with a Luger.”
“You report it to the cops?”
“Certainly. But it doesn’t point the finger at anyone in particular. I sent Mike Finn to tail Booth, the horse trainer.”
“Charteris wasn’t killed over a four-legged flea-bag!”
“Maybe not. But Carbon Copy’s grandsire sold for $250,000. Colts of the Bull Lea strain mature late, so Booth might have something with a half interest in a possibility like that. And for all we know, he could have designs on Deirdre and the Charteris dough!”
“Howie, I’ve got to have something more definite than that to take the heat off our client! No other leads?”
Rook told him about Mary Patch and the photos. “And there was a blond dame who was crying at the funeral. Deirdre thought it might be a
discarded mistress of her husband who used to be in show business. Maybe there’s some way to check her out—I could call Evelyn Potter, who’s been with Inside Filmdom for years, or Tony Keyes, who used to be a studio photographer—”
“Call anybody you like if you’re determined to chase rainbows. But write that story. Use the IBM over there if you like. There’s coffee in the pot and beer in the fridge. I’ve got to go back and tell poor Dee some of the facts of life—like how she can’t take her overnight bag full of feminine fripperies, and her handbag and such, into County Jail.”
Rook sat down at the big electric typewriter. These monsters always annoyed him a little—they had a way of taking the bit in their teeth and getting away from him. He typed a test pattern of “The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog …” But that was it. He couldn’t think of a good lead, at least not one that would help their client. And it was hard to write a story when the story was still going on …
Rook had ruined several sheets of copy paper when Hal Agnews came back. “Our client is as ready as she ever will be,” he announced. “And it’s close to six P.M., zero hour. But I think you’d better come with us—I may need reinforcements.”
Rook had no particular desire to march with them over to the D.A.’s office just to be a fifth wheel at the coming session and watch Hal in a fencing match with the Assistant D.A., and gruffly said as much. But Deirdre pushed past Agnews. “Please, Howie? I’ll feel safer …”
“Okay,” he said. Rook hated the sight and the sound and the smell of the Hall of Justice, almost as much as he hated funerals. But in the light of her imploring face he had no choice. So it was that with two escorts Mrs. Deirdre Charteris—soon to have at least brief fame in the nation’s press as “The Black Widow”—was escorted up First Street to the big square tomb of human hopes known as the Los Angeles County Hall of Justice. The vaulted marble interior, usually swarming with witnesses and relatives and bail-bondsmen and court attachés and brisk young attorneys, was practically deserted at this hour. At least this was true of the marble lobby itself—when they got up to the mezzanine and the D.A.’s vast complex it was a different story.
The press was here. There were reporters male and female, there were photographers with flash cameras and candid cameras, there was even a mobile TV-news unit. Once Rook had been one of them, now he thought of them as vultures descending upon a sick, lost lamb. But with this sort of thing Hal Agnews was in his element. With cheery words for those he knew, a warm smile for everybody, and a sharp elbow for the closest, he ran interference a step ahead of Deirdre and Rook. He knew the place—somehow he managed to by-pass the gate and the reception area, ducked in and out of and through several offices, mostly empty now, went through a connecting door and finally brought them to their destination: the inner sanctum. Rook closed the door and leaned against it. They had outrun the press, and for the moment foiled any hopes Wilt Mays might have had about being in on a photography session. And Agnews had been able to get between Deirdre and most of the lenses in the hall.
“This is the room they use as a front,” the attorney explained. “Mays would have brought us here eventually, so we’ll wait.”
It was a very short wait. In a few moments Wilton C. Mays, looking more than ever like a certain former Republican candidate for president or the groom on a wedding cake, came through the hall door, flanked by an assistant-assistant and two investigators. He and Agnews shook hands, a bit warily. “I knew you wouldn’t mind, Wilt, if we took a short cut. My client is allergic to cameras—we’d have been delayed out there and I did promise to have her here by six.”
“Thank you, Counselor, for being so prompt!” Mays was already ruffled.
“You mean I had a choice?” said the attorney.
There was the brief formality of getting everyone seated, and Mays pointedly did not introduce his aides. But he pointed a thumb at Rook. “What’s he doing here?”
“Mr. Rook is my staff investigator. He has some pertinent information, so I’d like to have him present,” Agnews said firmly.
“As you wish. I believe we’ve met before.”
“You know very well we’ve met before, and once or twice I’ve pulled some of your tail feathers!” said Rook—not quite aloud. He nodded only.
Deirdre, looking rigidly composed, sat on the edge of a chair. “Now to begin with, Mrs. Charteris, I want to ask you—” the Assistant D.A. opened up.
“Wait, Wilt!” Agnews wagged a finger. “How about advising my client of her legal rights?”
Caught off base, Mays began again. “Mrs. Charteris, you are under suspicion of homicide, the murder of your late husband, and you have a right to have an attorney present while being questioned …”
“And the right to say nothing at all,” Agnews added helpfully. “Our position, Wilt, is that my client is innocent and will answer any questions which I think might help to convince you of the same thing. She absolutely denies complicity or any knowledge of the murder. Is that right, Dee?”
“Yes.”
“Very well,” said Mays. “We may as well keep this informal for the present, so I won’t call in the stenographer with the Stenotype as yet. Now first off, Mrs. Charteris, you have given conflicting statements to the police and to our investigators about your location and condition at the time of the death. You first said you were at home, and then you said that you’d taken sleeping pills and couldn’t have heard the phone—”
“My client was questioned in the morgue, beside her husband’s body,” put in Agnews. “There should be some allowances—”
“We have a witness who saw you driving home in your sports car around one A.M. In the light of that, would you care to make a new try?”
Agnews nodded, and Deirdre said, “I drove out to see a friend, but he wasn’t at home and I didn’t see any need to drag his name—”
“A Mr. Daniel Ruggles, of 1214 Adelaide Way?” Mays pressed. “Of your different stories, this is the one you want to stick with?”
“That’s the truth!” Deirdre said quickly.
“Well, in the other room we have a very helpful little machine that can tell whether anybody is lying or not. But we’ll discuss that later. Mrs. Charteris, was yours a happy marriage?”
“Yes—ninety percent of the time.”
“But you had had arguments, and you did contemplate divorce?”
“I don’t think she’ll answer that,” said Agnews.
“Well, then, did you ever consult a divorce attorney?”
Agnews shook his head, but Mays went blithely on. “Are you acquainted with a Mr. Harry Holtz?”
“Yes.”
“What grounds did you feel you had for a divorce?”
Rook tensed, but for some reason Agnews let this go by. “Why, the usual grounds,” Deirdre said. “No matter what the real reason is, aren’t the grounds always mental cruelty in California?”
If only she wouldn’t volunteer! Rook thought.
“Did your husband have any enemies that you knew about?”
“Why, no.” She wasn’t looking at Agnews now. “I suppose everybody has enemies—anyone who’s been in business and politics.”
“Did your husband ever receive any threatening phone calls or letters?”
“Why—why, I don’t know of any. Except there were some odd phone calls, at least up until a few weeks ago. Somebody would call and if I answered they’d just hold the line. I think it was a man …” She finally caught the attorney’s eye, and subsided.
“Can you think of anybody who might have a motive to kill your husband?”
Agnews cut in. “What is this, a fishing expedition? She is not going to answer that.”
“Well, then. Mrs. Charteris, how did you learn of your husband’s death?”
“Through a phone call.”
“From the police?”
“No, I called them about two A.M. I got to worrying.”
“You had a suspicion that something had happened to him?”
Mays assumed an expression of sympathy. “You were concerned about his welfare and safety, even though we happen to know that you were considering divorce and had even consulted an attorney about it?”
“Harry was a friend of the family, and—” She stopped, seeing that Hal Agnews was shaking his head wearily.
“You were familiar with the route your husband usually took with the dog on these midnight walks?” Mays went on.
“Yes.”
“Because you’d followed him, or had him followed?”
“Now wait a minute!” Agnews cut in. “This isn’t—”
But Deirdre insisted on answering, willy-nilly. “Because I went along with him a couple of times, before I found out that he preferred to be alone! His route wasn’t any particular secret!”
“Not from you, at any rate. Did you mention it to anyone else?”
“Of course not!” she answered too quickly. “Who would I mention it to?”
Mays smiled and consulted a note. “Perhaps Mr. Holtz, or Mr. Linsky, or Mr. Booth, or Mr. and Mrs. Patch, or Mr. Ruggles?” Rook didn’t care much for the way this was going, and he was fairly sure now that somebody actually had been listening in on Deirdre’s phone calls. But Hal Agnews remained stoically silent.
Wilt Mays was whispering with one of his aides, then turned back. “Did you do the shopping for the household, Mrs. Charteris?”
“Yes.” Deirdre said. “For groceries, anyway.”
“And you shopped at the supermarket on Montana?”
“No—we usually patronized Jurgensen’s in Westwood.”