It would be handled nice and cozy, in some little cocktail bar. Maybe he wouldn’t take a drink in the daytime, but she would anyway. The warmth of the liquor inside her would make her one up on him—it always sharpened her wits.
And she’d need ’em sharp. Of course she couldn’t deny even to herself that it had been a shock when she realized what she was mixed up with. But this thing was money in the bank if she played it right. She was still young enough, and with most of her looks. She could go out to California or somewhere, and maybe start up in business again. She might even get married. Maybe he would marry her, if she put on the pressure the right way.
She could handle him. Maybe she’d even keep him uncomfortable and guessing just at first. Because he needed paying back for letting her start out in the dark like that, on almost no notice at all. Maybe he’d been afraid that she wouldn’t play ball and carry out instructions if she knew the whole story, but he ought to have wised her up anyway. With all the heat that was on because of those Wanted flyers, those posters that covered the country.
By the time the No Smoking sign came on, and the hostess passed through the plane to see that landing belts were fastened, Flora had decided not to worry any more about what to say. She would have to ad lib when the time came.
The plane came down out of the overcast and stood on one wing, so that she could look down out of her window and see all Philadelphia. Then they were down, and she was walking across the runway, her face set in the warm, expectant smile she liked best.
But there was no sign of him at the gate, or in the waiting-room. No message at the desk for Mrs. Herbert Baker. Finally she picked up her bag—Harriet Bascom’s bag—at the baggage counter, and headed for a taxicab. The smile on her wide mouth had by that time altered into an extremely nasty pout. If he thought—
Then he fell into step beside her, just outside the doorway. Her face lighted, and she turned expectantly for a kiss, but he only took the bag out of her hand. “The car’s over here.”
“But—”
“Not here,” he said out of the side of his mouth. “You’re hot. That’s why I had you land here instead of coming on to New York.” He was hurrying so that she almost had to run to keep up with him.
They came to where the car was parked, and she peered inside and then turned blankly to face him, clutching at his arm. “Where’s Sugar? Why didn’t you bring her?”
“Never mind that. She’s all right. You can pick her up at the vet’s any time.”
He slammed the door, went around on the other side, and slid behind the wheel. They went out into the street doing forty in second.
“What’s got into you?” she demanded.
“Just that when I came down to pick up the dog that night there was somebody in the apartment. You know what that means, don’t you? I heard a lot of noise in the kitchenette, and somebody screaming. I scooped up the dog and just barely got out of there.”
Flora’s jaw dropped slackly. “But who could have been in there? I had that lock put on special. There’s only two keys and you got one and me the other.”
He shrugged. “That isn’t all. There was a big shamus staked outside the place all day yesterday. They pulled him off for some reason today, but I don’t like it. You’ve got to get far, far away.”
“What, and leave all my stuff? And those new clothes?”
“Maybe you won’t have to. They’ll keep, as long as the rent is paid. We can have somebody come in and pack them.”
She sighed. “Well, I could go out and stay with Big Reba in Santa Barbara. Only she’s probably suspicious enough already, because of my asking her to remail that letter to the Doghaven people.”
“Out of the country,” he insisted. “Mexico, maybe.”
Her little eyes, like bits of dirty glacier ice, grew littler still. “I’m not that hot, big boy. And we’re not in that much of a hurry. Stop at a bar somewhere, will you? We got to have a talk.”
“What about?”
“Oh, everything. I pulled it off for you, didn’t I? Working in the dark, too. But, dearie, not any more. Let’s have a friendly little drink and a nice talk about a new deal for Flower, huh?”
He drove on for a block or so, in silence. “At least wait until we get out of the city traffic.”
She had never seen him drive like this, winding in and out, beating the lights, with a constant eye out for traffic cops. A faint uneasiness began to possess her. “Where we going, if New York is so hot for me?”
“Just a place where you can stay quiet for a day or so, while I get hold of some money and make the arrangements.”
Flora thought about that for a while. This wasn’t going as she had planned in the plane, not at all. “Pull up somewhere,” she said. “I’m out of cigarettes.”
“There are some Camels in the glove compartment.”
Angrily she jerked it open. There were the cigarettes—and a full pint bottle.
“Oops, I struck oil!” Flora cried.
But he said, “I forgot that was there. You leave it alone!” so quickly that the formless little suspicion in the back of her mind died without ever reaching the surface.
“Why should I?” Again she was mistress of the situation, with the whip hand. She held the bottle well out of his reach.
“Because I say so. This is no time to have you getting tight.”
Flora almost laughed. “I’m tired and I’m cold. One won’t hurt me.”
“I said, ‘No!’”
She twisted the cap, not noticing how easily it came free. Then she tilted the bottle, as he made ineffectual efforts to stop her and drive at the same time. “Who’s giving orders?” Flora asked. “Look, big boy. I’ll lay it on the line. A wife can’t testify against her husband, right?”
“Right,” he said, looking pleased, as if she had suddenly told him a secret that he had always wanted to know.
She felt the reassuring warmth of the liquor within her. “Okay, I’ll go to Mexico or anywhere you say. But understand, it’s like this. You’ll have to come with me, legitimate too. Because one thing I’ve always wanted is a man of my own. And you got class. No matter what you do, no matter how many dumb dames you’ve—” She suddenly sat up a little straighter. “Say, this bonded stuff sure beats the blended—I’m floating. But sharp as a tack, big boy. We’re going to get married, and then we’ll go anywhere you say. What you think of that?”
“It’s an idea,” he admitted.
She tipped the bottle again, holding it a long time. “Great idea. Knew you’d see it m’way. Because you’re a reasonable man. Hot in here, isn’t it?” Her stubby pinkish-gray fingers with the long red nails pawed at the window-handle. “Stuffy, you must have heater on. But don’ think I’m getting looped.”
“Poor Flora,” he said, still looking ahead at the rolling highway.
“Because I’m not, see?” And she gave him what was meant to be a warning glare. But her face blanched, as if for a moment she saw through him, into the murky horror that was his mind. Suddenly all the armor was gone, all the courage and self-assurance that had been hers. She was naked and helpless, she was just foolish old Flora Quinn trapped in a speeding car with the only man in her life she couldn’t handle. She remembered the hornet and the fat little black spider, only she herself was the one with buzzing, impotent wings.
“No tricks, now,” her voice whispered, almost mechanically. “’m not looped, unerstan’?”
Her heavy head rolled loosely on her neck, and then fell back against the seat. She began to breathe heavily through her mouth.
“No, you’re not looped,” he said agreeably. And as she sagged against him he considerately cut the speed down to forty. There was no hurry now; the night was young. …
It was barely daylight next morning when Inspector Oscar Piper came back to the world of reality and realized that somebody was hammering heavily on his door. Still half asleep and groggy, he went down the stairs, bare shanks beneath his bathrobe, and then was suddenly surrounded by Jeeps D
avidson, Tad, and a joyous French poodle.
The girl caught his eye. “Then there’s no news.”
“Nothing. I tried to phone you, but you weren’t home.”
“I know. We drove all night. But anyway, Tad and I know that she’s all right—I mean, she isn’t losing her senses or anything. Because she solved our problem, but good. When I got home I found Tad there, in the bosom of my family. And think, he went just because of a hint Miss Withers gave him. She told him that in her opinion a young man shouldn’t ever fall in love unless he had had a chance to meet and know the girl’s family first. So he just up and went back there. I had to pry my sisters off him one by one, but he’s still mine!”
“Is that good?” murmured the Inspector to himself. “Anyway, come in and shut the door.” He drew the fragile bathrobe closer around him.
“You see,” Jeeps continued breathlessly, “it was all a silly misunderstanding between us. Tad and I were each trying to fool the other. I thought I had to impress him by letting on how I was the petted belle of Bagley’s Mills and my father was a judge and we lived in the biggest house in town. Well, Daddy did use to be a Justice of the Peace and the house is the biggest but it’s also the oldest and most run-down place in town too.”
As she ran down the young man said, “I didn’t think Jeeps would understand about my making all that dough in the Sphinx club I helped start in the hotel. So I made up that yarn about my rich uncle giving me the car. I don’t have any uncle, I don’t even have any folks. When I graduated from the Belanger Home for Orphan Boys up in Buffalo I took the founder’s name, and made it Thaddeus Belanger III just because I liked the way it sounded.”
The Inspector stifled a yawn. “Well, well. So—”
“So we’re back here to help find her!” Jeeps cried. “I just know that if we study that message she left, and the little black book—”
Piper was wide awake. “You haven’t been to Seventy-Fourth Street yet, then?”
Tad shook his head. “We came through the Hudson Tunnel, and stopped here on our way uptown. Jeeps thought you’d be the one to know if there was anything new.”
In spite of himself the Inspector began to catch a little of their enthusiasm. “Wait here,” he said, and went hastily up the stairs. He came down a few minutes later, struggling into his coat.
“Okay, let’s go,” he said. They raced uptown through the miraculously deserted streets of Manhattan, crossed the Park, and pulled up at last outside the brownstone building on 74th Street. As they came to the door of the second-floor rear apartment Piper suddenly stiffened, pointing. He was pointing at the crack in the door, but there was nothing there. The match-stub that he had left there yesterday morning had dropped out.
“Somebody inside,” he said, very softly. Jeeps handed him the key, and he turned it without making a sound. The door opened, an inch at a time—and then Talley twisted away from Tad Belanger and went romping inside, barking at the top of his voice.
Miss Hildegarde Withers was at home, though she still wore her hat and coat. She was sitting beside her cherished dining-room table, smiling happily as she watched two cigarettes burn themselves deep into the soft waxed finish. One was red with lip rouge at one end, the other plain.
She absently patted the head of the ecstatic dog, but barely gave the others a nod. “I’ll say hello later,” she said.
“Nothing is certain but death and taxes.”
—Benjamin Franklin
16
“THERE!” SIGHED MISS WITHERS AT LAST, in weary triumph. “That settles it. It was a minor point, but I had to be sure.” She turned to face them. “Well, don’t all stand there staring at me as if you thought I was out of my wits!”
“I didn’t really think so until now,” the Inspector told her.
“But the table top has to be refinished anyway. Can’t you see? I thought that Jeeps had been careless with a cigarette, but the one I discovered here Tuesday night was completely burned away to ashes. A cigarette with lipstick on the end burns down to the stain and goes out. So—some man was here in the apartment that morning while I was tied up over at the Grandee going through all those hotel records. He got in with a skeleton key, I presume. And he got so interested in what he found that he forgot about his cigarette. He was studying the black looseleaf notebook, of course—making notes on everything we knew about the missing women. Because those messages from all over the country had to sound genuine if they were to have the effect of forever putting an end to the investigation.”
Jeeps said, “Then Mr. Nemo dared to come here because he knew I worked in the morning—and that you were tied up at the Grandee!”
“Correct. I’m sorry, my dear, for misjudging you. Not only about the burned table. I was almost certain that you had been careless, and either given away our secrets to Tad or else let him have a chance to study the notebook—”
“But she never—” Tad broke in.
“I know. And you, young man, were not selling information to Mr. Nemo or blackmailing him either. How did you get hold of the money for the new car? Was it a crap game?”
Together they told her about the Sphinx club that had started among some of the bellboys, and how people had fallen over themselves to pay five dollars.
“Another chain-letter racket. Will that never stay dead? Dear, dear.”
Tad looked sheepish. “I know. Jeeps has been pointing some things out to me, for my own good. I’ve promised to make my living the hard way after this.”
“Let’s hope so.” Miss Withers was in the kitchen, measuring out coffee into the percolator.
“Look,” said the Inspector. “We may not have much time. Hildegarde, are you really all right? Have you any idea as to what’s been going on around here in the last thirty-six hours? Where have you been, and why didn’t you let somebody know?”
“Well, Oscar, I had a dream. I know you always say you would rather hear it rain on a tin roof than hear anyone tell his dreams, but anyway, the dream told me that the Ethel Brinker letter was a fake. It was prepared here, and sent out to Santa Barbara to be remailed, with the intention of drawing our attention in the wrong direction. But the initials RN after the signature were an unnecessary touch, and it seemed odd to me that anybody could own a dog like Talley here and not even refer to him by name in a letter about him. But the dream reminded me of something I had forgotten—that Ethel Brinker had told the man at the boarding-kennels that there was a rabies epidemic where she was going. The only one in the nation that week was at Miami Beach—and the letter was postmarked Santa Barbara, California.”
“Wait a minute,” Piper said. “The signature on the letter matched the ones on the dog’s papers.”
“Yes, Oscar. But I found out from the associate manager of the AKC that they send out blank registration forms and pedigrees to anyone who asks. Mr. Nemo had the original papers on Talley, which were among Ethel Brinker’s effects. He simply copied off the pedigree, wrote the name of the breeder on both pedigree and application, and then had someone—probably Flower Quinn—sign Ethel Brinker’s name three times. So they all matched. He probably knew that we didn’t have a genuine Brinker signature with which to make comparisons. But Talley was bred by Pillicoc Kennels, one of the largest in the country. The man at the AKC didn’t even have to look up the files to recognize that the name of the Pillicoc manager written on the pedigree and application form in the fake Brinker letter were clumsy forgeries.”
“Pillicoc,” murmured the Inspector. “Fink got it down as ‘Pollywog.’”
“Like many other criminals,” Miss Withers continued, as with Jeeps’s help she began to stir up a batch of muffins, “Mr. Nemo was all right until he had to call on an accomplice. Flora Quinn had gone to the auction at his request to bid on Harriet Bascom’s belongings, because he didn’t dare have other people pawing through them for fear of what might be there. Naturally she was the logical person to send on the grand tour. The moment he got the data from my notebook he summoned her�
�she had to leave without even having her breakfast or making provision for her Chihuahua. But off she went.”
“No,” Piper said. “Not unless she had a private jet-job. Flora Quinn couldn’t have faked those calls, it isn’t physically possible.”
“Isn’t it?” Miss Withers dropped bacon in the pan. “Well, I did it the day after, retracing her steps. I took an evening plane for Miami and bribed a porter to send a telegram signed ‘Alice Davidson’ for me next morning when the office opened. Then that same night I took a plane for Phoenix, Arizona, arriving in plenty of time next morning to make the phone call that supposedly was from Mae Carter, Mae with an e. Right back on a plane for Los Angeles where I went Flower one better by sending you a telegram signed Brinker, and then up to Sun Valley, Idaho, to close the books with the call from Atkins.”
“So that’s were you were!” Jeeps cried.
“Of course. The Inspector here would have known my voice, but he wasn’t around to receive my calls. And he didn’t know Flora’s voice, so he had nothing to go by. Southern accent indeed! When she got to Sun Valley she simply took out her teeth, and that changes anybody’s voice. Simple, isn’t it?”
“Wait a minute,” the Inspector said. “You actually went all over the country, sending in those second messages that canceled the first series?”
“But of course. To prove that it could be done. I had to jump back and forth from one airline to another—no one company could maintain the schedule. If I hadn’t proved it by actually doing it, you’d have said I was crazy when I told you.”
They were sitting down to the table now. But the Inspector still had no appetite for breakfast. “Hildegarde, I hate to tell you this. But there was some idea downtown—Well, to cut it short they were talking about putting you away for observation. Because of everything—the phone message about flowers and pollywogs, and what you said over the phone about flying, but dogs can’t fly—”
Her eyebrows went up. “But they can’t! The baggage compartments on most planes aren’t pressurized. Pets have to be carried there, and at high altitudes they would get serious anoxia. That was why I had to leave Talley behind, just as Flower Quinn had to leave her Mexican hairless.”
Four Lost Ladies (The Hildegarde Withers Mysteries) Page 20
