The Wayward Widow

by William Campbell Gault

  “Nicotine,” Paul said, “and arsenic. But Doc West would have caught that, wouldn’t he?”

  “Maybe. How else could he be murdered without a doctor getting wise to it?”

  “I understand he had a heart condition. He could have been shocked, some way, couldn’t he?”

  “Maybe. What was the nicotine and arsenic used for?”

  “The nicotine for the roses and the arsenic for snails and the garden.”

  “Wouldn’t you be in charge of that?” He nodded.

  “Did you miss any?” He shook his head. “And to tell you the truth, I watched it real close.”

  “Because you suspected Miss Destry might try something?”

  Again, Paul Martino looked at his wife. There was a silence, which she broke. “Not Paul so much. I told him to watch the poison. I lived in that house with that woman for nine years, Mr. Puma.”

  Paul grinned. “Honey, she wasn’t ever as bad as you thought her. No woman ever was.”

  I asked lightly, “She never made a pitch for you, did she, Paul?”

  “Hell, no,” he said. “And I wasn’t a bad-looking gent five or six years ago. Joe, that dame isn’t going to do any wooing among the lower classes. Any time she puts out, you can be damned sure she’s got a reason for it.”

  “How about this Hawley?” I asked. “Is he loaded?”

  “A phony,” Paul said. “He’s not getting in there. Anyway, he wasn’t before Mr. Greene died. Old Carol probably did a Dunn and Bradstreet on him and just used him for laughs after that. You have to remember that Greene wasn’t about to marry her, and Hawley was a handy man to take her out where she might meet somebody just as rich and single.”

  “Hawley seems kind of important to her now,” I said. “That’s the impression I got, anyway.”

  “Then there’s a reason,” he said. “Maybe he knows something that could hurt her.”

  “Mary Valdez got terminal pay,” I said. “How about you two?”

  Paul shook his head. “Mary left before he died, and Mr. Greene insisted on her getting the six months. We left after he died, and old man Winters never thought of terminal pay. That’s too modern for him.”

  “Outside of that, what do you think of Winters? Did you know him?”

  Paul shook his head again. “I’ve seen him at the house, but always as the servant. I guess he’s all right. Used to be quite a woman-chaser, I’ve heard.”

  “I’ve heard that to. That’s a sad line, isn’t it, about the saddest in the language?”

  He frowned. “What is?”

  “That a man used to be a woman-chaser. I hope I step off before they use the past tense on me.”

  Paul laughed and his wife sniffed and that’s the way I left them. I told them I’d be back if any other questions came to me, and they said that would be all right.

  Chapter Ten

  I ATE LUNCH DOWNTOWN in a lofty, ancient building that looked like adobe but probably wasn’t. It was now a cafeteria and a good one, complete with a string trio playing Spanish music. The Martinos hadn’t told me anything I hadn’t suspected, but their voicing of it had stimulated the old cerebrum regarding motivation for the murder of Dennis Greene. I had said to Doctor West that a man due to die in two hours might be killed in the first five minutes of it, but those had just been words and I had been trying ever since to imagine such a situation. I thought I had it now. A lead to it, at least. But going up against Carol Destry with accusations was a chore I had labored at yesterday to no avail. It didn’t figure that I’d be any more successful today. What then? A link in the motivation I might get from Winters, assuming I could get anything out of that old fox. I decided it was worth a try.

  • • •

  Winters had the same gentle smile on his refined face when I entered his office, but now I thought I noticed a new twinkle in his eye. Perhaps I was looking for it this time, because of his reputation. A man may lose his virility but never the twinkle the virile ones have.

  “We meet again,” he said rather hammily and waved me to a chair.

  “Against a background of new knowledge,” I added, and sat down.

  He sat down, studying me, saying nothing.

  “Miss Destry tells me you’re worried and fretful,” I said.

  He frowned. “Concerned would be a better word. Have you been inquiring about my reputation, Mr. Puma?”

  “Not specifically,” I said. “A number of people have volunteered the information that you were quite a ladies’ man in your time.” I thought he colored. His head went back a little. “The phrase I resent the most in that statement was the implication that my time was past.”

  I chuckled. “I’m sure you’ve kept up. I’m sure you don’t call for them in a Marmon.”

  He smiled thinly. “To get back to your original remark, my concern has to do with the doubt that seems to have been raised lately about the manner of Mr. Greene’s death.”

  “That figures. Go on.” His eyes bored into me. “I trust you don’t feel that I’ve become emotionally involved with Miss Destry?”

  “I never gave it more than a passing thought,” I consoled him. “Though I’m sure she has considered it. You’re undoubtedly wealthy, and Miss Destry is not age-conscious.”

  He opened his mouth and stared at me. “I can do without the impertinence.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s a natural attitude of mine, not based on malice.”

  He paused for a moment before continuing. “I became concerned about this recent revelation, because I felt I had co-operated perhaps a little too much with Mr. Darbo in his documentation of the claim that Mr. Greene fully intended that Miss Destry should share in the estate. Mr. Greene and I were rather intimate and he had told me privately many times of his plans for Miss Destry.”

  “I see. Actually then, there would be no reason for her to think she wouldn’t profit from his death?”

  “That was prejudicially worded,” he said stiffly.

  “All right, I’ll word it this way: She had shown she had patience by living with him for fifteen years. She could assume he would reward her in his will. He was due to die soon. She would have absolutely no reason to murder him, would she?”

  It was quiet in the office. He stared at me in shock. Dimly I heard the sound of a typewriter from the outer office.

  “Murder?” he asked hoarsely. “Miss Destry? You can’t be serious, Mr. Puma!”

  “About murder,” I told him, “I’m always serious. Was there any indication, shortly before his death, that Mr. Greene had in any way changed his opinion of Miss Destry?”

  “None,” he said firmly. “At any rate, no change that he voiced to me.”

  “Okay,” I said. “I guess I can believe everything a man of your reputation would tell me, sir. Thanks.” I rose.

  He said, “I assure you I would withhold nothing that might reveal truth, Mr. Puma. My reputation is the most important thing to me in this world.”

  “Not quite,” I said. “Both of us know what the most important thing is. That’s one place where you and I are in complete agreement.”

  “And what is that, sir?” he asked me.

  “Women,” I told him, and smiled a good-by. Outside, some overcast had come in from the sea and the sun was blanketed. The day was gloomier and it matched my mood. I was a lot closer to the truth regarding the death of Dennis Greene than I had been on arriving in town, but to what purpose could I put the knowledge? Knowledge alone is never enough; courts demand proof. And many juries aren’t even convinced by proof. Proof, like beauty, is in the eye of the beholder.

  So what did I have but the knowledge in my own mind that Miss Destry was implicated in murder? So where could I head for but Halcyon Heights? I wish now I had picked a different time.

  Because as I came around the second of the big curves that climbed to the Greene estate, I saw the three cars parked just off the road on the high grass.

  One was Lenny’s Merc and one was Hawley’s Aston-Martin and the third wa
s Don Malcolm’s slick T-bird. Lenny and Hawley weren’t in their cars; they were standing next to Don who was still in his.

  The scene looked like it held some belligerence and it was really none of my business. Except that Don was my friend and he might be in trouble. My Plymouth joined its illustrious contemporaries at the side of the road and I walked back.

  Don was looking white and scared, though not quite as scared after he saw me. Lenny and his Uncle Dave didn’t look scared at all when they saw me, but that was an error in judgment.

  Hawley said, “Little private conference, Puma. Run along.”

  I ignored him. I said to Don, “Trouble, kid?” He looked at me and gulped, neither nodding nor shaking his head, nor saying anything. Lenny said, “Beat it, crumb.” I looked at him and said calmly, “One more word out of you, gutless, and I’ll take your skinny body up in my two impressive hands and break your spine over my knee. Now, shut your silly mouth!”

  Hawley smiled and said, “Talk to me that way, Puma.”

  “In a minute,” I told him. I looked at Don. “Can you keep the mosquito out of my hair while I talk to Hawley, or should I backhand him to death?”

  Don said, “I can take care of him and he knows it. They claim I told you something I wasn’t supposed to, Joe.”

  “I can guess what that is,” I said. ‘Which one threw the rock through Miss Destry’s front window?”

  Hawley said quickly, “When are you going to start talking to me, Puma?”

  “Now,” I said, and turned to face him. “I’ve checked you, brown-nose. You’re a toadie and you’ve got muscles in your head and a big yellow streak down your back. I hope to have you in jail before the end of the week.”

  “You — ” he said, and his right hand moved up. It was about a foot from my jaw when I caught him in the mouth, with my left. I could just have well popped him on the button, but I wanted to mark him a little first. It seemed important at the time.

  The bastard pulled a cutie, then, one I would never expect from an idiot athlete, with their standards of fair play and all. He caught me in the shins with a heavy shoe.

  That brought it down to my level and relieved my conscience. Frankly, I was a little leary of him in a fair, gentlemanly fight. I stepped on his foot and put the top of my head into his teeth. I wrestled him toward the car and managed to get my left hand on his throat. I drew the right back — and Lenny grabbed my arm.

  I turned to give Lenny some attention as Don climbed out of his car on the other side. And while Lenny diverted me, Hawley threw the big right hand.

  It was on target and I went down, my brain rattling. In my whirling vision, I saw Don going after Lenny and Hawley coming for me. He was coming for me through the air, his knees aimed at my chest. I was too dazed to crawl; I tried to roll. One knee caught me in the side, but I was lucky. His other knee hit the grass, and there was a rock in the grass and he yelled in pain as he hit. I rolled some more, hoping the bad knee would give me a moment’s respite.

  I was on my knees and still shaky by the time he got up and came my way again, limping. His foot went back, and I could guess he would aim a big kick at my vulnerable face.

  But he made a mistake. He drew back the foot of the leg that hadn’t been injured and that put all his weight on his bad knee. The leg crumpled as I crawled toward him.

  He rolled and managed to get to his feet. My brain was clearing fast. I got up before he could come for me, and we circled, looking for an opening.

  Behind me, I could hear Lenny cursing, but not a word from Don. I couldn’t afford to look around to see how they were doing.

  Then, once again, Smiling Dave Hawley threw the right hand, and this time I didn’t try to mark him. I put the left inside the arc of his right and put my weight into it.

  It caught him flush and he went down, cold as an ice cube. He hadn’t been down two seconds before a skinny body went hurtling past me and the boy named Lenny finally came to rest on the body of his unconscious uncle.

  I turned to see Donald MacGregor Malcolm, Jr. licking the bleeding knuckles of his bony and patrician right hand: He grinned at me weakly.

  “I’m glad we didn’t lose,” I said. “I feel sick enough as a winner. You know, that idiot athlete almost did it? I’d never be able to live down the shame of that.”

  He took a deep breath and went over to lean against his car.

  I followed him over. “What was their beef with you?” He flushed. “The night before last, Lenny and I watched your motel and saw Mrs. Greene come in. Then, last night, Lenny and Juan must have been watching, and Lenny phoned me to tell me to come over and watch the fun. They were going to call the police and tell them Mrs. Greene was there.”

  “So you phoned me and they found out?”

  “Lenny must have guessed. When he asked me today, I didn’t deny it. Then his uncle came along and Lenny flagged him down, and about ten seconds after that, you came along.”

  “And what were you doing up here?”

  “I live up here, three houses above Greene’s.

  “I see. And did one of you kids throw that rock through the window, the rock that scared Miss Destry?”

  Don stared at me, saying nothing.

  “If you’ve some adolescent antipathy about informing,” I told him sternly, “now would be a time to grow up. There’s a murder involved in this, possibly two murders.”

  “I’m not sure,” he said finally, “but I think Lenny threw that rock through her window. And I think she asked him to do it.”

  “Miss Destry-?” He nodded. “Lenny never openly admitted it, but he kind of kidded around about it to Juan and me.”

  “And still, knowing that, you thought I might be involved in Elmer Duggan’s death? Wouldn’t Miss Destry be a more likely suspect?”

  “Sure. But you were working for her. Anyway, we thought you were. You were staying there.”

  “I had been fired by her before I ever met you kids.”

  “We didn’t know that. Anyway, I didn’t.”

  “I’ve got a hunch Lenny did, though. I’ve got a hunch Lenny Knows a lot of things he doesn’t tell you and Juan.”

  Don nodded agreement, saying nothing. He sucked at a knuckle and spit blood onto the dry grass.

  I said, “We’d better get out of here. One of the neighbors might have called the police.”

  He nodded again and looked at me questioningly. “Who do you think killed Elmer Duggan, Joe?”

  “I have no idea,” I said. “If we find out Mr. Greene was murdered and Miss Destry was in on it, we should find out who killed Elmer.” I looked at the pair still unconscious on the ground and back at Don. “Are you going to be all right? Are you scared?”

  “Of them? He shook his head. “If I learn anything, I’ll phone you. I want to help.”

  “All right. But be careful, boy. Be very careful.” The pair on the ground were stirring as Don took off. They were both on their feet by the time I started the Plymouth up the hill again. They were walking toward their cars as I went around the curve, out of sight.

  At the Greene home, Mrs. Trapp told me Miss Destry was in town, shopping, and was there any message?

  I told her there was none and was walking back to my car when a new Olds pulled in with Jack Darbo behind the wheel. He called to me as I was getting into my car.

  I waited for him. He didn’t look happy as he walked over toward me but he didn’t look angry either, as he had the last few times we’d met. He simply looked worried.

  He said, “I just left Winters’ office.”

  “What a coincidence,” I said. “So did I.”

  “I know. I saw you leave as I was parking. Joe, what are you trying to do?”

  “I’m trying to find a murderer,” I said. “To tell you the truth, your client is beginning to look more like one every hour.”

  He stared at me. “That’s strong and irresponsible language.”

  “I’m telling you what I think.” I said. “I don’t know what yo
u’ve got on Winters, or whether you have got anything on him, but there have been a hell of a lot of shenanigans going on around this house that you should be aware of, if you’re half as bright as you like to consider yourself.”

  “Take it easy,” he said. “Don’t get righteous with me, Joe Puma. I know your reputation and you know mine. And if you think you have something for the Grievance Committee of the Bar Association, I am here and now begging you to take it to them.”

  “Your career isn’t that important to me. But consider this — Miss Destry told me she fired the lawyer who preceded you because she thought he was too stuffy. In her lexicon, that could mean ethical.”

  He took a deep breath and continued to stare.

  “Think, think, think, think — ” I said, and left him with that sage advice.

  Maybe it wasn’t so sage. I had thought, thought, thought and thought, and where was I? Riding down a quiet residential road in my dusty Plymouth, that’s where I was, a bruised and aching man going nowhere.

  The road turned, circling the small lake at the bottom of the hill. This was on the Halcyon Country Club property and a foursome was coming along the fairway that bordered the lake. And off the side of the road here, a Continental was parked and a woman who looked like Mona Greene was out on the pier talking with a man who looked, from this distance, an awful lot like Chief Slauson.

  That could be; they were probably both members of the club. I wasn’t. I drove on toward the motel.

  I was still sore from my pugilistic exertion and my brain retained a few rattles. A hot shower and a jolt of bourbon made my body less sore and my brain less rattled.

  I sat down with the typewriter after that. I added today’s adventures to the rest and they totaled futility. Unless Mona Greene insisted on exhumation, we weren’t going to get anywhere. And even if she did, how far would we get?

  Doctor West might be in trouble with the County Medical Society, but arsenic wouldn’t prove murder. I wondered if that had been Chief Slauson Mona Greene was talking to on the pier. And I wondered if she was talking about her late husband with him.