The Poisoners mh-13

by Donald Hamilton

  She turned slowly to look at me. After a moment she gave a little toss of her head to get the long straggling hair out of her eyes. She wiped her eyes and nose with the back of her hand, childishly. We faced each other in silence, taking stock of each other in the light.

  What she saw, I suppose, was a skinny, elongated gent wearing slacks that needed pressing after a hard day, a sports coat with a bulge in the pocket, and a suspicious expression. What I saw was a smallish girl with hazel eyes in an oval, small-featured face that was now rather tearstained and dirty. Her disordered hair reached well down her shoulders and was that reddish shade of coppery gold that's almost always artificial, but it's a pretty color anyway.

  As I've indicated, I kind of favor long-haired girls over girls who are so closely clipped or carefully pinned up or tightly curled, as to leave nothing blowing in the wind. On the other hand, given a choice, I'll pick the ones in skirts over the ones in pants any day-or night-in the week.

  This one was wearing a ducky little pale green suit of thin wool, with sharply creased flaring trousers. There was also an immaculate white turtle-necked sweater or jersey. The suit itself wasn't quite immaculate, having picked up some smudges from the driveway. The jacket had got pulled awry. Automatically, under my regard, she made as if to straighten it, but checked herself, glancing down distastefully at her hands, which were too grimy from the pavement to be allowed to make contact with her clothing. She looked at me once more.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean…

  "What didn't you mean?" I asked when she stopped.

  "Back there," she said. "I didn't recognize you in the dark, Mr. Helm. I guess… I guess all I could see was the gun."

  "How do you know my name?"

  "I was in the hospital waiting room this afternoon when you came in. I heard you tell the nurse who you were and whom you wanted to see. I was… I was waiting outside, here, to talk with you, just now, when those men grabbed me…" She shivered. "If you hadn't come along, they'd have taken me away and killed me."

  "Who wants you dead?" I asked. She didn't answer immediately, and I said, "You mentioned somebody named Frankie out there. Would that be Frank Warfel?"

  "Y-yes. Do you know him?"

  "We've met," I said. "Just barely. What's your name?" She hesitated. "I'm Beverly Blame," she said, but after a moment she went on quickly. "Well, for Hollywood purposes I'm Beverly Blame. Can you see Mary Sokolnicek on a movie marquee, Mr. Helm?"

  "What were you waiting to talk with me about, Mary-Beverly?"

  "It's about… about the girl you went to see, the redhead, the one who got hurt. I… I wanted to find out I mean, can you tell me how badly… Oh, hell, I mean how is she?"

  "She's dead," I said.

  Beverly Blame stared at me for a moment without moving. Then she stepped back blindly and sank down on the bed, still looking wide-eyed at my face.

  "Dead?" She licked her lips. "But I thought, since she'd hung on so long, that she had a pretty good chance of…

  "She's dead," I said. "She never had a chance, not really. Not with two.44 slugs in her. What's it to you, Mary-Beverly? How well did you know her?"

  "I hardly knew her at all. I just…" The disheveled little girl on the bed licked her lips once more. "I just killed her," she whispered.

  There was a long silence in the room-well, as much silence as you ever get in a big city like Los Angeles. The girl was probably so used to it she didn't even hear it, but having just spent a couple of weeks in a relatively small town, I was aware of the unceasing roar of traffic outside.

  I said softly, "That's a damn popular murder, sweetheart. Everybody seems to want a piece of it. I was just talking with a man called Arthur Brown who claims he killed Annette O'Leary."

  "You know The Basher?"

  "Introductions courtesy of Frank Warfel," I said. "It's too complicated to explain, but Brown claims he shot Annette by mistake. How did you shoot her and what was your motive?"

  "Oh, I didn't actually shoot her, Mr. Helm!" Beverly sounded shocked by the idea. "Heavens, I don't know anything about guns! I just… just sent her to her death. Instead of me. That's how The Basher came to make his mistake, don't you understand?"

  "Not exactly," I said. "Tell me."

  She drew a long breath, sitting there. "Well," she said, "well, as you've probably gathered, I'm in trouble in this town, bad trouble. I was trying to get away. I'd done something, something they couldn't let me get away with. Like talking out of turn. Well, I hadn't done it yet. but I'd threatened to do it. Me and my big mouth."

  "They?"

  "Frank Warfel and the people behind him, who are even worse if it's possible. And you'd better believe it's possible." She paused a moment, and went on: "When things didn't go right for me in Hollywood-that fancy stage name never even made the screen credits, if you know what I mean-when things went bad, I got a job in a certain place… Well, never mind the gory details. Anyway, Frank saw me and liked me and took me out of there. For a while. A couple of years. Until he got tired of little girls and found himself a big girl for a change. He likes variety, Frankie does." Beverly frowned at the nylon carpet between her green suede shoes. "It wasn't.. wasn't easy work while it lasted, but it paid well, if you know what I mean, Mr. Helm."

  "Sure," I said. "You said you were trying to get out of town."

  "That's right." The girl's voice was dull. "When I got near home that day-my God, it was only yesterday!- after putting on my big mouth act for Mister Frank Warfel and his current sweetie-and what a slinky blonde boa constrictor-type she is!-when I got near home I spotted The Basher waiting across the street from my apartment building. That's when I realized that I'd, well, talked myself to death, getting mad and jealous like that. The word was out, and little Beverly might just as well cut her throat with a dull knife and save Frankie-boy the trouble. Only I wasn't going to make it that easy for him, so I turned the convertible around and headed it for the airport. I had a little money, enough for a ticket somewhere, and it was better than dying, or having my face smashed into something nobody could look at without puking, like one girl I knew who talked too much…"

  She shivered. After a little, she giggled half-hysterically. "You never figure it could happen to you. Do you know what I mean? You've got it made: an apartment, a car, good clothes, furs, jewelry, a bank account, the works, and you think it's going to last forever. And then, suddenly, you're on the run with just the rags on your back and the few bucks in your purse and death right behind you… You've got to understand how it was, Mr. Helm! You've got to understand why I did it!"

  "Tell me," I said.

  "When I got to the terminal, I caught a glimpse of one of Frankie's other goons waiting there, and I knew they'd be all around the place. I knew I'd never make it, and then along came a kid off a plane and she wasn't too big and she had longish red hair kind of like mine. I remembered that Arthur Brown had never seen me. Frankie-boy doesn't like to mix his pleasure people with his business people any more than he has to. Of course I'd seen a few people in the time I'd been with him, and heard a few things, that's why he had to shut me up. I'd heard of The Basher and seen him perform in the ring, but we'd never actually met. And I had this this awful, bright idea how to get them all off my trail, and I bumped into this girl and made with the tears and the sob story…

  "She fell for it?"

  Beverly drew a long breath. "Sure she fell for it, Mister. I'm a pretty good actress, if I say so myself. If it wasn't for studio politics… Well, never mind that! Anyway, I talked her into driving me home in the car she'd reserved at a rental agency. I got her to go in to pick up some things for me, things I didn't dare get myself because my estranged husband, a real maniac, was watching the place, waiting to make trouble if I showed. Something like that. I don't remember exactly what lies I used. I just made them up as I went along." The girl closed her eyes briefly and opened them again. "And she went in, a red-haired kid about my size, into my apartment building, and I saw The
Basher leave his doorway and go in after her. I got behind the wheel of the rental car and drove like hell away from there."

  In some respects, I reflected, it wasn't too unlikely a story. Annette O'Leary had been an inch or two taller than the girl sitting on the bed, and her hair had been a different, more natural, more carroty color, but a man waiting for a slim small redhead to enter a certain building wouldn't have been making such fine distinctions..

  I said, "Considering the trouble you went to, you don't seem to have got very far."

  Beverly was still staring at a spot between her shoes.

  "How could I?" she breathed. "What do you think I am, a monster? I must have been crazy with fear to do it in the first place, and then I had to know, don't you see? I had to know what I'd done to her. So… so I came back."

  "How did you learn where Annette had been taken?"

  "It wasn't hard. It just took some calling from a pay phone this morning, to find the right hospital, but they wouldn't give out any information. So I went there. I was afraid to call attention to myself by asking questions. I just sat where I could see and hear the people who came to the desk. Finally you came in and asked for her.. Was she a good friend of yours?"

  "Pretty good," I said.

  "I… I'm sorry," Beverly said. "That's pretty feeble, isn't it? But I am sorry."

  "Sure." I went to my suitcase, on a stand by the wall, and took out a small bottle of spot remover. Returning, I put it into her hands. "Use that," I said. "We don't want people thinking you've been rolling in the alley, even if you have." I examined her purse. It was one of those capacious, elaborately carved, but rather flimsy specimens of Mexican leather work you can buy quite cheaply in any of the border towns, say nearby Tijuana. I opened it. It contained no weapons. I gave it to her. "A little soap and water, and a comb are also indicated," I said.

  She was staring at the purse and solvent bottle as if not quite certain what they were for. "What… what are you going to do with me?" she asked.

  "We're going to see some people," I said. "As soon as you're presentable, I'll call a cab."

  She ran her tongue over her lips and spoke mechanically, "We don't need a cab. I've still got the rental car, her rental car. It's parked a couple of blocks the other side of the hospital."

  "Your friends could have found it by now," I said. "I hate loud noises when I turn on the ignition. Or steering wheels that don't steer or brakes that don't brake. That door over there should be the bathroom. It was a little while ago. If it isn't now, come back and we'll try again."

  I watched her go across the room. The door shut behind her. I waited, making a little bet with myself. Presently the door opened again, and I chalked up one wager won.

  Now the red-gold hair was smooth and bright and the face and hands were clean. The current condition of the clothes could not be determined from where I stood since she wasn't wearing them. I mean, all she had on was a white brassiere and a pair of little white nylon pants. The total coverage was about that of a bikini, but the opacity was considerably less.

  "I… I'm waiting for that stuff to dry," she said, standing there more or less nude. "It burns if it gets on you."

  "Sure," I said. "Burns."

  "I don't suppose you want to make love to me," she said. "I don't suppose you even want to touch me. After what I did."

  It was a rather neat twist in an otherwise rather predictable gambit. It was supposed to make me take her in my arms and tell her she wasn't so terrible after all, after which-considering her costume or lack of it-nature would undoubtedly take its predictable course. The only trouble was, I wasn't in a receptive mood and I don't like playing games with it unnecessarily. There are times in this racket when you've got to fake a lot of emotions, including passion, but I couldn't see that this was one of them. I just stood there without saying anything. At last Beverly flushed slightly, and shrugged her bare shoulders.

  "Well, it's all I have to offer now," she said. "For saving my life. Unless you want fifty-seven dollars and some change."

  "Cut it out. When I want to get paid, I'll send you a bill." I regarded her coldly and went on. "That cleaning fluid evaporates pretty fast. I think you can safely get dressed again. I'll call a cab."

  She turned away sharply. She didn't exactly slam the bathroom door behind her, but it didn't close as gently as it might have. I grinned and went over to use the phone.

  VI

  Charlotte Devlin, complete with car, driver, and prisoner, was waiting outside the address she'd given mean address I figured didn't mean much to anybody or she wouldn't have disclosed it to an unsavory character like me. It was a run-down business block with a filling station on the corner. The public phone at the station was probably the main reason the place had been picked as a rendezvous. After all, I had asked her to do a little research for me.

  I paid off the taxi driver and helped Beverly out of the vehicle. She seemed a bit startled, looking towards the other car, to see a woman awaiting us. My female associate got out and came to meet us. She looked Beverly up and down coldly during the introduction ceremony. It could have been professional wariness, but more likely, I thought, it was just tall Miss Devlin's normal way of regarding all smaller and prettier women.

  "What now, Mr. Helm?" she asked.

  Beverly had spotted the black man sitting in the car, guarded by the driver. She drew back against me fearfully, forgetting that she was mad at me. I pressed her arm in what I hoped was a reassuring way, holding her there.

  "Have you got a place lined up for target practice?" I asked Charlotte Devlin.

  She said, rather stiffly and disapprovingly, "Well, there's the pistol range we use, but I didn't think that was exactly what you had in mind, so I called around and learned that there are some deserted oil properties…

  "The pistol range will do fine, if the backstop will handle Magnum loads."

  Charlotte raised her eyebrows, looking relieved and at the same time annoyed-relieved that what I was going to do, with her assistance, was innocent enough to be done at a public firing range, and annoyed that I'd let her believe, or at least suspect, otherwise. I was aware that McConnell, listening in the car, had shifted position slightly. I couldn't see him clearly enough to know whether or not he looked relieved, too.

  I hoped he did. I'd wanted him more or less anticipating that I was either going to execute him or shoot his ears off to make him talk. As long as he was brooding about the tough time I might be giving him soon, he wouldn't be trying to figure out what other kind of shooting I might have in mind, and why.

  Helping Beverly into the front seat, I said to the taller girl: "Incidentally, you'd better tell your wheelman that some evasive action may be indicated. That taxi turned up just a little too conveniently. I have a hunch it was planted on me, and I'd prefer not to have certain people know where we're going. They might start wondering about things I'd rather not have them wondering about, yet…"

  It was a fairly long ride. The driver knew his stuff, however, and by the time we reached our destination there wasn't anybody behind us, but there had been. The driver got out to unlock a wire-mesh gate in a forbidding wire-mesh fence topped with barbed wire. Then he drove us past a shadowy building and spoke for the first time.

  "We've got up to a hundred yards available here, Mr. Helm," he said. "What range do you want to shoot at?"

  "Short," I said. "With silhouette targets if you've got them. I suppose there are lights."

  "Sure, it's rigged for night firing." He drove a little farther and stopped the car. "Here you are. The beginners' range. We like to make it easy for them to hit something. It's good for the morale. Just a minute while I unlock the switchbox."

  We sat there until the floodlights came on, illuminating the backstop, a high ridge of dirt out there, much too neat and level to have been formed by nature. The lights also picked out the roughly man-like and man-sized silhouettes lined up in front of the bank like two-dimensional soldiers at attention. I figured the ra
nge at twenty-five yards from the rearmost firing line, closest to the car; but the ground was also marked for shorter ranges.

  I was glad to see that the firing points weren't covered. It wasn't raining, we needed no protection, and the.44 makes quite enough noise without having it bounced back at you from any kind of a roof.

  "All right," I said. "Bring him along, Miss Devlin. Where's the cannon?"

  She handed it to me over the back of the seat. Checking the loads once more as I got out of the car, I regarded the weapon without fondness. I've never really understood the fascination of these outsized, overpowering weapons; yet it seems you can't sell a gun these days if it hasn't got Magnum in the title. This was the second job I'd had recently involving this kind of hopped-up hardware.

  Charlotte had backed out of the car, covering McConnell as he got out clumsily. We walked to the nearest firing point.

  "I'm going to untie him in a minute," I said to the tall girl. "Keep him covered. He's a confessed murderer, remember. He's got nothing to lose. Don't hesitate to shoot if he gives you the slightest excuse."

  She said stiffly, "I know my business, Mr. Helm. I hope you know yours."

  This was her way of saying, I suppose, that she wondered what the hell we were doing here. Well, it was a good question. I hoped the answer would become clear shortly.

  Having no spotting scope handy with which to check the targets, I walked down there and made sure there were no bullet holes in the one directly opposite, at least none that hadn't been covered with the patching tape they use-at better than a buck a crack for the target face alone, not to mention the backing, you can't throw away a whole silhouette every time somebody puts a few bullets through it. But these silhouettes must have been about ready for the discard or they wouldn't have been left out in the weather. Some of the patches were peeling off, but for my purpose it didn't matter greatly, and I went back to Lionel McConnell and untied him.