Murder in Luxury

by Hugh Pentecost

  "There is nothing, nothing, nothing, that I haven't told you," Val said. "Must I invent something to please you? For God's sake, Lieutenant!"

  The phone rang. I was standing right next to it and I picked it up before Keegan could say a yea or nay.

  "Mark Haskell here," I said.

  "Mark? It's Chambrun." His voice sounded tense. "Can you bring Mrs. Summers down to my office?"

  "No."

  "You're not alone?"

  "No."

  "Keegan?"

  "Yes. He's interrogating Valerie."

  "Mark, play it very cool," Chambrun said. "Keegan may turn out to be our man."

  "Whatman?"

  "The killer," Chambrun said. "If he is, he's way overboard, and you and Mrs. Summers are in big trouble. We'll get to you as soon as we can."

  The phone went dead. My hand felt frozen to the receiver when I tried to put it down.

  "Who was it?" Keegan asked.

  "Chambrun," I said.

  "What did he want?"

  My mouth felt dry. "An invitation to dinner for me and Mrs. Summers—when you're through," I said.

  He gave me a twisted little smile. "I hope you're not too damned hungry," he said, "Because I'm not anywhere near through."

  It was like somebody telling you the ice was too thin to support you when you're already out in the middle of the lake. I tried to remember Chambrun's exact words. "Keegan may turn out to be our man If he is, he's way overboard, and you and Mrs. Summers are in big trouble."

  I stood there by the phone, feeling as if my feet were nailed to the floor. I couldn't move, as I watched Keegan turn back to Valerie. He was a nice-looking, well-dressed, highly thought-of policeman. Hot tempered and aggressive, yes, but a killer? A man who had shot one of his own police officers? A man with a psychotic obsession to destroy Valerie Summers—or Valerie McCandless? What possible connection could there be between a highly rated homicide detective, member of an Irish family of respected cops, and a Midwestern housewife—or a Southwestern heiress? Surely Val had never seen or heard of Keegan before he came on the scene to handle a murder in her apartment two nights ago or she would have told us.

  I hadn't liked Keegan from the first moment I saw him. It was the instinctive reaction to a man who used his muscle and his power position to push you around.

  Jerry Dodd had called him a "sonofabitch" but given him high marks as a cop. Lieutenant Hardy had backed up that assessment.

  "Keegan may turn out to be our man"

  Coming from anyone but Chambrun I'd have laughed that off. Too far out. There were, though, a couple of little things. There was the lightning speed with which Keegan had produced his gun when he heard someone unexpected come into the penthouse. There was the warning look Detective Dawson had given me before he pulled out. "We'll get to you as soon as we can," Chambrun had said.

  What was stopping them? All they had to do was get on the elevator, come up to the roof, and walk in. I knew the answer almost as I asked myself the question. If Chambrun was right, Valerie and I were hostages in the hands of a crazy man!

  Keegan was sitting on the end of a stretcher table, looking down at Val, huddled in an armchair. He reached inside his jacket and took out that police special once more. He put it on the table, just an inch or two away from his right hand. He turned his head and gave me that tight, cold little smile of his. He didn't say anything, but he might just as well have told me that he knew I'd been warned.

  "I guess the time has come to stop playing games with you two," he said, focusing on Val.

  "I don't understand," Val said.

  "Chambrun told me on the phone," I said, "that Keegan may be the killer."

  "Not 'may be,'" Keegan said. "Can you understand, Mrs. Summers, how deeply and forever I hate your guts?"

  Her wide, violet eyes gave him a dazed looked. "I don't know you! I don't understand/' she said.

  "Haskell, get Chambrun on the phone again," Keegan said. "When you get him bring the phone to me."

  I hesitated and I saw his hand move toward the gun. I picked up the phone, asked for Chambrun, and heard Ruysdale's voice.

  "Mark here, Betsy," I said. "Keegan wants to talk to the Man."

  "Hold on," Ruysdale said.

  The phone has a long cord on it and I carried it down the table to Keegan. He took it, so I couldn't hear Chambrun's voice, couldn't speak to him.

  I could only hear Keegan's end of the conversation. It went something like this: "Chambrun? You turn out to be a wise guy, friend.... I'd love to know how you found out, but we don't have time for that now Let me tell you how it is. Mrs. Summers is sitting about three feet away from me. I have a gun, as you must guess. Three feet is like shooting fish in a barrel Yes, I'll tell you what I want. I want the elevator that comes to the roof with no one on it. It can run automatically, can't it? ... I want the cops on the roof and on the fire stairs called off duty Ask your friend Hardy. There are a dozen men with authority to give that order When the coast is clear I will take Mrs. Summers onto the elevator and down to the garage in the basement Yes, the garage I want a car waiting, no one guarding, no one watching. You can stop me, of course, but if you try I will blow the lady's goddamned blonde head off her shoulders— Yes, I know it will take time to arrange all that. But not too much time, Chambrun. Not too much time You call me, here, when everything is set."

  He put down the phone and slid it back along the table toward me.

  "You just stay still and keep your mouth shut, Haskell," he said, "or they'll find you here, like they found the others, when Mrs. Summers and I have gone. Is there any bourbon whiskey in that cabinet?"

  I couldn't find a voice to answer. I just nodded.

  "Pour me a slug," Keegan said.

  I went over to the sideboard-bar, found some Early Times, poured about three ounces in an old-fashioned glass. The neck of the bottle rattled against the rim of the glass as I poured. He pointed to a spot on the table, just beside the gun. I carried the drink to him. Any decent American hero, I thought, would put down the drink, snatch the gun, and shoot him right between the eyes. I guess I'm not a decent American hero. He had me hypnotized with those bright black eyes of his. I put down the drink and backed away.

  "I'm sorry," I said to Valerie. "It was just not worth the risk."

  Keegan laughed. "You disappointed me, Haskell. I thought for sure you'd try."

  "When you know you're going to die," I said, "it isn't sensible to speed up the process. However, it would be nice to know why."

  "Mrs. Summers knows why," he said. He took a swallow of his drink. "Before she pays for what she's done I'm going to make her sweat, and sweat, and sweat—until it gets to be a bore. I thought it would be satisfying, Mrs. Summers, to see you arrested for murder, see you tried and convicted, and know that you'd spend the rest of your life in jail with those locked-up harpies clawing at you. Women in prison like to foul up the pretty newcomers. No way the McCandless money could buy you out. No more sex. Well, it will be quicker this way. But before I'm through with you, Valerie McCandless, you will be praying for me to put this gun to your head and pull the trigger."

  "What have I done to you?" Valerie whispered.

  "You destroyed everything that ever mattered to me," he said.

  "What is it they used to say on 'Mission Impossible'?" a hoarse voice asked from behind us. "This tape will self-destruct...'? You are a master at self-destruction, Lieutenant."

  FOUR

  I spun around. Keegan, gun in hand, faced the French windows. We were confronted by something like an apparition. I have heard Chambrun, in a gently affectionate mood, refer to Mrs. Victoria Haven as the Madwoman of Chaillot. Mrs. Haven was an everyday experience for me, striding across the lobby, Toto under her arm. To Valerie, who didn't know her, she must have looked like something out of a romantic childhood fiction. The henna-colored hair was piled up on her head with some sort of jeweled Spanish comb set at the back. Toto, her miserable, sneering little spaniel was tucked un
der one arm, and a woven straw bag, probably a shopping bag, dangled from the other. A bright-colored paisley shawl was draped over her shoulders, partly obscuring the glitter of rings, bracelets, and necklaces she was wearing. Behind her, framed in the doorway, were the tower lights of the city. A great stage director couldn't have designed a more dramatic entrance.

  Keegan's gun was pointed directly at her ample bosom. Toto, the black-and-white Japanese spaniel, gave him a nasty look and snarled at him.

  If Victoria Haven saw the gun she gave no sign of it. I wondered if vanity kept her from wearing glasses. She must be blind to wander into the room with that gun pointed directly at her. But wander in she did, plopped herself down on the couch, placed Toto on one of Chambrun's upholstered cushions, opened her straw carryall and from it produced a long ivory cigarette holder, a package of Camels, and an old Zippo lighter. Her gnarled fingers were remarkably agile as she fitted a cigarette into the holder, lighted it, and dropped the cigarettes and the lighter back into the straw bag. She gave us a kind of triumphant smile.

  "Nasty habit," she said, and blew a perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling. "Well, let's see, where are we?"

  I daresay that was one of the very few times in his life that Matthew Keegan had been caught completely by surprise.

  "This is police business, Mrs. Haven," he said. "I must ask you to leave."

  "Oh, nonsense, Lieutenant," the old woman said. "We all know it isn't police business, don't we?" She reached down in the straw bag and produced some knitting. The wool was a garish scarlet color. It was a sock, set up on steel needles. She began to knit, not looking at what she was doing, obviously quite expert. "I learned to knit socks a long time ago," she said. "It was 1917 or 1918, I think. Just toward the end of World War One. It was supposed to be the patriotic thing to do, for our gallant doughboys overseas. I used to knit everywhere; in public restaurants, on the streetcars, backstage at the nightclub where I was performing. I thought the whole world would see that I was a person of character." She paused, took the cigarette holder out of her mouth, and didn't quite make the ashtray on the end table beside her. She gave Valerie a pleasant smile. "I used to knit socks for your father, my dear. He was in love with me, you know, so he had to wear them, something the doughboys were not compelled to do. I've often wondered if that may have been the beginning of what led to our breakup.''

  "Mrs. Haven," Keegan shouted at her.

  "Oh, dear, I'm just rambling on, aren't I?" Toto growled, startled by the loudness of Keegan's voice. "Naughty Toto," she said. "Mr. Keegan used to be a policeman, and policemen know how to deal with naughty little dogs."

  "I am a policeman, Mrs. Haven," Keegan said, "and I want you out of here on the double."

  "Oh dear me, Mr. Keegan," she said, "you stopped being a policeman quite a little while ago. Pierre called me a few minutes back, you know. I was to evacuate my premises, by way of the fire stairs, and get the hell off the roof! No," and the needles clicked on, "I don't like to be given orders, even by Pierre, who is an old and trusted friend. He told me that you were the killer and that you were holding Mark and this lovely young woman hostage. Well, I've never been held hostage by a handsome Irishman, Mr. Keegan, so I thought I'd join the party." She gave him a dazzling smile.

  I could almost hear the wheels turning in Keegan's head. His gun was aimed straight at her. Just a little squeeze on the trigger and that would be that. I couldn't guess what his plans for Valerie were—a trip somewhere in a car to where he would have her all by himself. Mrs. Haven was a nuisance, and it didn't matter how many more murders he undertook. The roof may have been destroyed by the police, who were no longer his men but his enemies, but it was certain they weren't very far away. The sound of a shot would imply to them that there was nothing to wait for, no reason to hang back. They would move in.

  "You do know this is a gun I'm aiming at you, Mrs. Haven," he said.

  "Of course I know it's a gun. I grew up with guns, Mr. Keegan."

  "You do know that all I have to do is squeeze the trigger and that's the end of living for you?"

  "I'm in my eighty-first year, Mr. Keegan. I've long ago adjusted to coming to the end of the line," Mrs. Haven said. She smiled at Valerie. "Your father taught me to use a gun sixty years ago, girl. He was a marvelous marksman. He could hit a ten-cent piece at fifty paces. Shooting from the hip, no aiming."

  Keegan took a step toward the sofa. Instantly Toto was off his cushion, bouncing up and down like a rubber toy, shrieking his outrage. The little dog's reaction was so violent that Keegan actually made a small backward move.

  "Now, now, Toto," Mrs. Haven said. "Manners!"

  Toto sat back down on the cushion, snuffling and growling.

  "Let's see, where was I?" Mrs. Haven said, the steel needles clicking away. "Ah yes, your father and his marksmanship. Your name is Valerie, isn't it?"

  Val nodded. I think we all, even Keegan, must have looked like kids watching a magician perform his miracles on the vaudeville stage. Nothing that related to reality seemed to penetrate Mrs. Haven. The movement of those needles was magic. It had to be magic that prevented her from seeing a gun that was pointed straight at the center of her smiling face.

  "I shouldn't have to ask you your name, my dear," Mrs. Haven said to Val. "For twenty-odd years you were a large part of a once-a-month letter to me from your father. Let's see, you had a buckskin cow pony named Gilly?" Val nodded. "And a Dalmatian dog named Spot? I don't remember his ever mentioning guns in relation to you. He never taught you how to use one?"

  "No, Mrs. Haven," Val spoke with a kind of wonder. This fantastic old woman had been her father's mistress sixty years ago!

  "Jeb obviously changed with the years," Mrs. Haven said. "He set you down in a fortress and surrounded you with an army. He taught me to defend myself. There was a pistol range in the basement of his house. We spent hours there while he taught me to shoot with my right hand, my left hand, over my shoulder at someone coming at me from behind. I got to be damn good." She turned her smile on Keegan. "Do you suppose I'd still be any good, Keegan? Is shooting something you don't forget, like how to swim?"

  Keegan looked as if he couldn't believe what was happening. I suddenly realized what was happening. Victoria Haven was, ingeniously, using up time; time for Chambrun and the police to plan what their move would be. The needles clicked on and the talk rattled on, throwing Keegan just enough off stride so that he couldn't proceed with his own plan, whatever it was. I had an absurd impulse to applaud!

  "When you were born, Valerie, Jeb could use an army and a fortress to protect you," Mrs. Haven said. "You were his child. He could openly protect you. I was his lover, his bed-partner, back in 1920. He was married then to his first wife, Eloise. Rich men were expected to have mistresses back in those days, but they weren't supposed to be open about it. They used to say that a good marriage was made in heaven, but your father's marriages, except to your mother, Valerie, were made, you might say, on the Stock Exchange. Your father married three women, before your mother, all of whom were the daughters of big power figures in the world of giant corporations. Jeb needed those men and they needed Jeb. Loveless marriages helped to cement those business connections. I can tell you, though, Valerie, that if Jeb cared he could be a marvelous lover. I held onto him for two years, and I can say that there was nothing afterward that could touch him."

  "I think we've had about enough of your life history, Mrs. Haven," Keegan said. He turned to me. "Get Chambrun on the phone."

  "You know what it's like to marry for power, don't you, Keegan?" Mrs. Haven said, needles clicking away. "Your father-in-law was supposed to take you to the very top, wasn't he? If you hadn't blown your stack you'd be headed there today, wouldn't you?"

  I had moved the telephone down the stretcher table to where he could reach it, but he didn't seem to notice it. I picked up the receiver and asked the switchboard to get me Chambrun. Keegan reached out, took the receiver away from me, and put it down on the phone,
cutting off the call.

  "I wonder if you were as good a lover outside the bonds of matrimony as Jeb was?" Mrs. Haven asked him.

  " 'Just what the hell do you think you're babbling about?" Keegan demanded. Toto was up again on the cushion, snarling.

  Mrs. Haven touched the dog and he subsided. "I'm talking about you, Keegan, and what drives a good, competent Irish cop off his rocker. Haven't you wondered how Chambrun got onto the truth about you?"

  "It doesn't really matter any longer how," Keegan said. His bitterness was so intense I could almost feel his pain and anger.

  "It's extraordinary, isn't it?" Mrs. Haven said, "how the best laid plans of mice and men can be derailed by coincidence."

  The phone rang. Keegan picked it up. "Yes, Chambrun, I was trying to reach you Yes, I know you said it would take time, but not all night, pal

  I don't want to play games, Chambrun. I don't want to talk to any hostage-rescue team. I know all their routines. It would be a waste of time I have another hostage, by the way. That crazy old woman who lives across the roof from you just wandered in. Talk, talk, talk Yes, Mrs. Haven She gives me another card to play, if you don't start moving. ... If you can persuade her to get the hell out of here."

  He reached out and handed Mrs. Haven the phone, just missing having a finger taken off by angry Toto.

  "My dear Pierre," Mrs. Haven said into the phone, beaming at the three of us as though it was Christmas and we were all sharing in a call from a favorite uncle. "Yes, my dear, of course I'm here. Otherwise how could I be talking to you?...I know... I know... But you know how difficult it is for me not to be where the action is Yes, I know. He is, I'm afraid, a very disturbed young man I was about to tell him how you came to find out about him, but he seems to resist the idea. He must be curious, don't you think?''

  Keegan leaned forward and the barrel of his gun actually rested against the old woman's cheek. 'Tell him I expect him to have a car ready in twenty minutes. No more time."

  "Knowing that you're not deaf I suspect you heard