11
HENDERSON, the Alderson butler and houseman, was wearing his daytime regalia—a linen jacket—when he opened the door in response to Murdock’s ring. Satisfied that his visitor was acceptable, he made his customary small bow and stepped back to open the door wider.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Murdock,” he said in his softvoiced way. “Mrs. Alderson is in the library. I think you know your way.”
Murdock thanked him and climbed to the second floor, turning right in the hall away from the drawing room. As he approached the doorway opposite the stairs to the floor above, Rita Alderson appeared, her smile vague and her dark-blue eyes speculative.
“Hello,” she said. “If you’re going to be as serious as you sounded over the phone, maybe we’d better go up to my rooms.”
Murdock followed her up the next flight, appreciating the curve of her calves but not dwelling on them. Again she turned right and he knew that this floor consisted of two suites, the one at the rear and overlooking the river belonging to Harriett Alderson while the front one was shared by Donald and Gloria. Rita occupied the top floor, rear, her suite consisting of a tiny sitting room and a bedroom beyond with connecting bath.
“Sit down,” she said when she had closed the door. “Could you use a drink?”
The offer surprised Murdock, but when he considered his mission he decided a drink might help. He said that would be very nice and Rita stepped to a highboy and took out a bottle of Scotch.
“My private stock,” she said. “For solitary drinking. There’s no ice up here,” she added. “Harriett wouldn’t approve of daytime tippling.”
She disappeared into the bedroom and Murdock could hear water running and the clink of glass. When she came back she held two old-fashioned glasses nearly full. She watched him over the rim of her drink as she tasted it and then she sat down on a chaise with a brocaded cover and spread her skirts.
She was wearing a navy wool dress, cut simply except for the rounded neckline which was, for her, attractively low, and now, because he liked this girl and found her long-lashed eyes disturbing, he was not sure just how to begin.
“I found out a few things since we talked yesterday afternoon,” he said finally.
“And you want to talk about them, is that it? Did Mr. Brady actually come and ask you to take some pictures for him?”
“Yes.”
“And what did you find out?”
“Not nearly enough,” Murdock said, and spoke of the things Brady had said. “I remembered a few things,” he added, “and a while ago I saw a letter he’d written to his daughter. That told me a little more.”
“I see.” She sipped her drink and put the glass on the small table beside her, picking up a silver cigarette box as she did so and waving him back as he started to rise to give her a fight. She used the table lighter and leaned back. “And did you come here because you think I can help, or because you think I’m involved, or because of some story you want for your paper?”
Murdock considered the questions and found himself on the defensive. With no single concrete objective in mind, he saw that it was going to be difficult to put his intentions into words. Before he could reply, she resumed the offensive.
“You want to find out who killed Mr. Brady, don’t you?”
“I intend to do what I can.”
“Because you liked him and he was an old friend of yours.… And what about me?” she said when he hesitated. “Am I a friend too?”
“You know you are.”
“Because of George.”
Murdock was honest about it as he recalled how George Alderson had first introduced him to Rita when they came down one week-end from Ogunquit.
“In the beginning, yes,” he said, his smile thoughtful. “After that you were on your own.”
“That’s a nice way of putting it,” she said, “and I’m not going to be coy with you. I liked you the first time I met you and when I got to know you—remember how we used to go out on the sloop, and the week-end the three of us sailed across Cape Cod Bay and through the canal and down Buzzard’s Bay to Woods Hole?—I found I liked you even more, though I couldn’t tell you why.”
She tapped ashes in a tray and said: “May be because you kept your hands to yourself and always treated me like the wife of a friend. I never had the feeling that you liked me just because I had a reasonably pretty face and a better than average figure. I mean, when you talked to me you talked to me not just as a woman but as a woman who interested you as a person, if you know what I mean. I don’t know what it is that makes women like you—I’m pretty sure most of them do—but I think it’s more than being just physically attractive, and you are; I think maybe it’s because you know how to talk to them. I’ll bet it’s just as easy for you to be nice to some tired chorus girl and make her feel important as it is to talk to some woman who really is important and wants to be impressed.”
The thought might have been more expertly phrased but it was one of the nicest things that had been said to Murdock in a long time, pleasing him secretly but at the same time warning him that he must not let the tribute influence his thinking. He said he was glad she felt that way but maybe she would have other ideas before he finished. Then, taking the bit in his teeth, he said:
“I came here because there are some things I’d like to know. Maybe you can help and maybe not, and maybe you don’t want to help. That’s all right too, Rita, because Brady was working for Harriett and what he found out may have been responsible for his death. The police think that someone in the family is involved and so do I.”
“Suppose I killed him,” she said, with surprising candor.
Murdock blinked at her, not knowing whether to smile or not but playing it straight.
“I don’t think that,” he said. “I’m going to be awfully sorry if you did.”
“But it wouldn’t make any difference? I mean you’d still tell the police.”
“You’d have a better chance with a jury than most women,” he said dryly. “But it’s a little silly, isn’t it? Bringing that up now. Why don’t you just work on that drink and let me ask the questions. Then you can decide whether you want to answer them or not. You grew up in California, didn’t you? Were you born there?”
“No.”
“You were married out there—”
“And divorced,” she said. “After one pretty awful year. You’ve read about these women who are always getting knocked around by their husbands? I mean really beaten?”
“I’ve seen several of them.”
“Well, you’re looking at another.” She put her cigarette out and took another swallow of her drink. “I never knew my father,” she said. “He ran away when I was a child. I guess I was about ten when my mother married again and my stepfather lasted six years before he took off. I guess you couldn’t blame him. My mother was—”
She broke off and made a face. “But that’s not important, is it? I managed to finish high school and got a job as a carhop and I married Joe Carr before I was eighteen. He was only twenty-one, and I must have been out of my mind because it couldn’t have been worse. He was a runner for a bookie and when he had been drinking—sometimes I think he worked out on me just to keep in practice—he had to prove how tough he was. He was arrested twice for assault in one year and the second time I got a divorce.
“I never saw him after that,” she said. “Which was the one good break I had. I worked in San Diego for a while, but I always wanted to get into the movies—most girls out there do who aren’t downright homely—and I came back to Hollywood again. After I’d registered I did get a few jobs as an extra and I was working as a waitress in a place where I could get time off when anything came up. I got to meet a few people and one, a sort of assistant assistant director, finally got me a screen test. I guess the test was all right,” she said, “but I couldn’t act. They told me to get some experience and come back again, so I started working with a little theater group.… Didn’t George ever tell you any of
this?” she asked abruptly.
“All he said was that you’d been married before and that you and another girl came east on a bus,” Murdock said.
“That’s right,” she said, and chuckled softly, as though remembering some long-forgotten incident that was amusing. “A director down at Laguna said he could get us a summer job in Maine if we could find a way to get east, so we came. And that was the summer George had his boat up there for a month and after I met him I didn’t want to be an actress any more. I never thought it could happen after I met Harriett—she never did like me; she thinks I’m common—but George was in love with me.”
“Yes,” Murdock said. “He was.”
He watched her finish her drink and put the glass aside, knowing what Harriett meant but not agreeing with her. There was something about the girl that told him that she had not been born a lady. She lacked the grace and brittleness of those who had been moulded by wealth and position and the proper finishing schools. Both her background and her education left something to be desired and there were times when she seemed unsure of herself, but she was not common by Murdock’s standards.
The word that came to him was young. Even though she was twenty-four and had more experience in some phases of fife than most women ever have, she still seemed young to him; young and vital and friendly and trying very hard since her marriage to five down the rough edges of her past. It was one of the reasons why he liked her and what he said next did not come easy.
“I don’t think George ever knew it but you didn’t really love him, did you?”
She looked right at him then, her lips parted and her eyes bewildered. That she answered honestly was probably due to her inability to contain her surprise.
“How did you know?” she asked in a voice he could hardly hear. “I thought I did when I married him,” she said when he did not reply. “Really I did. I’d never known anyone quite like him. I couldn’t believe anyone like that would ever want to marry me. I was sure I did.”
She frowned and her tone grew indignant. “I did love him in a way,” she said, “because he was kind and good and fun to be with. I did the things he liked. I knew how to please him. I was a good wife and I made him happy.”
“Yes,” Murdock said. “I think you did. The only reason I mentioned it at all is because I’m wondering what you’re going to do about Jerry.”
“What about Jerry?” she asked, her glance suddenly narrowing.
“He was in love with you before the accident, wasn’t he?”
She stood up suddenly, knocking over her glass. She picked it up and banged it on the table. She took three aimless steps, turned, and came back.
“What kind of talk is that?” she demanded, her voice shrill. “Just what do you mean?”
Murdock eyed her steadily, waiting, the feeling growing that he had been right. He could not tell her why he was interested in Jerry, but he had to find out what he could while he could.
“I don’t blame you for being sore,” he said. “I’ll take off if you say so. I don’t think you were ever disloyal to George,” he said. “I don’t think Jerry could have got to first base so long as you were married. But I used to notice how he’d look at you and I think he’s jealous now. I think he’s worried about you and your half brother.”
“Barry?” Her eyes opened again and were suddenly uncertain as she sat down on the chaise. “Why?”
Murdock went on quickly as her resentment evaporated. “Brady was interested in Barry too,” he said. “He phoned Kirby from San Francisco and asked Kirby to do some checking.” He paused and said: “Kirby says Denham hasn’t turned a wheel in the last three weeks and yet he always has money to go to the track and spend his nights at the Club Saville.”
“What about it?”
“Kirby says you’ve been seeing Denham pretty often—going to his hotel and having dinner with him.”
“Why shouldn’t I?” she flared. “He’s my half brother.”
“Jerry’s been watching him too. He knows about those times you’ve been with him,” Murdock said, stretching the truth a bit. “And why should Jerry do that unless he’s jealous? Why should he be jealous unless he’s in love with you?”
She rose again, her mouth stiff and the look in her eyes warning Murdock that he had about come to the end of the interview.
“And suppose he is?” she said. “What’s wrong with that? Haven’t you ever heard of men marrying the widows of their brothers’ or best friends’—or the other way around? Is that so awful?”
Murdock agreed that it was not. He said he knew of such marriages and all of them had turned out well, possibly because both partners knew exactly what they were getting.
“I just wanted to get things straight in my mind,” he said. And then, as an afterthought: “If Jerry wanted to marry you he’d have to get his mother’s permission, wouldn’t he? Isn’t that the way his father’s will read? I mean if he expects to inherit anything.”
“We could wait,” she said. “The doctors have told Harriett she hasn’t more than two years to live and probably a lot less.”
“All right, Rita,” he said, aware that in this instance she spoke the truth. “And you’re sure you never knew anyone named Ruth Colby out in California?”
“Never.”
“Or Benjamin Danton?”
“No.”
“But you were married in Los Angeles.”
“I told you I was.”
“And where did you get your divorce?”
For just an instant there seemed to be a break in the self-contained assurance that had been both stubborn and defiant. Then she said: “The same place, why?”
Murdock did not answer that one but turned and went down the stairs, his dissatisfaction growing as he descended. Yet, by the time he had reached the sidewalk, he knew that his time had not been wasted. He had learned some things he had heretofore only suspected; the only trouble was that there was no way of knowing how much of what had been said was the truth and how much was not.
His car was parked across the street and he sat in it a moment, too occupied with his thoughts to press the starter. That was how he happened to notice the taxi stop in front of the Aldersons. When he saw Gloria get out and pay the driver he knew what he wanted to do.
A drugstore on Newbury Street provided a telephone booth, and when Henderson’s soft voice came to him he identified himself and asked if he could speak to Mrs. Donald Alderson. She came on the wire almost at once and he asked her if she could meet him somewhere for a drink. He said she could name the time and place, adding that he thought it was important.
“I’m afraid not, Kent,” she said. “The only thing that’s important to me now is a hot tub.”
“You’ve got plenty of time,” Murdock said. “You can still make the Ritz bar by five, and then we can talk about that Florida trip you took this spring.”
That brought on a long moment of silence. When the reply came there was a subtle change in the tone.
“Was your detective friend in Florida?”
“He just came from there.”
“All right,” she said. “It may be that I’ll need a drink. I’ll try to make it by five.”
12
MURDOCK was sitting at the bar nursing his first drink when Gloria Alderson came through the doorway. She saw him as he slid off his stool and he went to meet her, guiding her to a table next to the wall and asking if this would be all right.
When he had ordered her Scotch-and-soda he took a moment to study her and it came to him then that she and Rita had very little in common. For there was nothing unsure about Gloria. Even seeing her across the room two things would be at once apparent to most men: that she was a striking-looking woman with an exceptional figure, and that she was also expensive. It was not so much the quality of her clothes, which had been fashioned by experts—in the casual manner this time, with a pastel-green dress and a cashmere coat—or the size of her engagement ring or the sapphire-and-diamond cocktail ring on
her little finger; rather it was the way she carried herself and the manner with which her green eyes considered her surroundings. Perhaps because she came from the South there was a languorous quality about her that was at once apparent, but when Murdock examined the eyes and the shape of the generous mouth with its short upper lip, he knew there was some hidden vitality here that could make her a passionate woman when aroused.
“Well”—she lifted her glass, her glance amused—“shall we start the inquisition? What’s this about my Florida trip?”
Murdock gave her a prologue similar to the one he had given her sister-in-law, but from then on he had to bluff. The copies of the two hotel cards he had photographed for Brady had told him nothing but the names, and because he was not sure about the dates, he had to guess.
“You and Arthur Enders were at the same Miami Beach hotel at the same time,” he said. “Was that coincidence?”
“Hardly.” The small gleam of amusement remained and there was no embarrassment in her accented tone. “Arthur knew where I was going to be and he thought it might be fun to spend some time at the same hotel.… Why?” she asked calmly. “Does it prove anything? I mean, there were plenty of unattached men around; there always are.
“Can I help it,” she asked, “if Donald refuses to take me? I don’t propose to spend fifty-two weeks a year under Harriett’s watchful and disapproving eye. I have to get away, and I mean literally, or I’d go crazy. I told Donald so. I used to beg him to go with me but it’s never done much good. Business, he says, though I have an idea that it’s as much his mother as business. So when things get too difficult around the house I announce my plans and Donald is very sweet about it. He’s sorry he can’t go just then but he knows the trip will do me good, and have a good time and be sure to write.”
She tipped her head. “So that’s the way it’s been the last year or so, and when I take a trip you don’t think I live like a nun, do you? There’s always some man to take you to dinner or to the races; to dance with you or just lie on the beach. If I wanted to cheat—I mean, if that’s what I had in mind—I wouldn’t have to wait for Arthur. The advantage of being alone is that you can accept an invitation or not, as you like. Arthur’s fun. He does things well. I like him. Does that answer your question?”
Murder on Their Minds Page 10
