This Game of Murder

by Deming, Richard

  She nodded.

  “We were sweethearts all through high school. We planned to be married as soon as we were both through college. I don’t suppose you’ve been here long enough to have heard what happened.”

  She shook her head. “No one ever mentioned it to me.”

  “It was quite a scandal at the time, but it was nine years old by the time you moved to town. And gossip doesn’t live that long, even in this town. Unfortunately we went to different schools. When Betty was a sophomore at Bryn Mawr, she met Bruce and got pregnant. So they had a runaway marriage. It threw me for a loop.”

  “And you’ve never quite recovered?”

  “Oh, I recovered. You can’t go on pining for another man’s wife forever. But it left me a little wary of women in general. I carried a torch for a long time.”

  “I see. And now the fire has rekindled?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s just because she’s in trouble and I feel the need to protect her. When she’s out of this jam I may decide that warmed-over love isn’t any more appetizing than warmed-over pancakes. Or it may turn out to be the real thing. The trouble is that all the while I’m stewing about Betty, I’m still as fond of you as I ever was. I told you I was all mixed up.”

  Lydia shifted her legs and he caught a momentary glimpse of white thigh. “What do you want me to tell you?” she asked.

  “Nothing. I didn’t come here for advice. I just want you to know exactly how things stand because I think you deserve to know. After all, we’ve been going together for two years.”

  “Yes,” she said wryly.

  “At times I’ve wondered if I was in love with you. Sometimes I’ve been sure of it. I’ve even thought about asking you to marry me. But I’ve been so damned gun shy ever since the jolt Betty gave me eleven years ago, I couldn’t quite bring myself to the point. Now if you want, you can tell me to go soak my head.” He drained his beer glass.

  “I won’t do that,” she said. “I appreciate your honesty in letting me know the exact situation. But I have no intention of meekly stepping aside.”

  “How do you mean, stepping aside?”

  “As you say, we’ve never discussed our emotional feelings for each other. You never brought the subject up, and I was raised to believe the man should make the first move. But since you have brought it up now, we may as well clear the air completely. I’ve been nuts about you practically since the day we met. I’d marry you in a minute, any time you asked me.”

  He smiled with embarrassment.

  “You don’t have to start feeling hemmed in,” she said dryly. “I wouldn’t even want you unless you really wanted me. It’s not a case of hoping to snare you by any means, fair or foul. That’s why I’ve never pushed. I don’t think, as many women do, that you develop a vested interest in a man simply because he’s taken up a certain amount of your time. I wouldn’t ever marry you if I thought your sole reason for asking me was that you felt obligated because you’ve used up two years of my life. I’ve enjoyed the two years as much as you have. And I was aware from the beginning that you were shy of marriage.”

  “You’re a rather unusual woman,” he said. “I’ve had women resent my not proposing because I took up two weeks of their time.”

  “I know I’m unusual. I’d be quite a catch. But it would have to be entirely your idea, because you’ll never get a prod from me. On the other hand I’m not a meek little mouse who instantly gives up when faced by competition. The minute you tell me Betty is your choice, you’ll be rid of me without a bit of trouble. But so long as I’m still in the running, I’ll fight to keep you every way I know how.”

  “Now you’re sounding a little more feminine.”

  “I am feminine. I’m just not feline. If you think I’m not jealous of Betty, you’re wrong. But I don’t hate her. I don’t even blame her for wanting you. Most any woman would. I have no intention of fighting with her. I’ll fight by trying to offer you more than she can. And I think I have at least one advantage there.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I doubt very much that she’s as good in bed as I am.” He laughed.

  “Well,” she said, “you have to admit I’m pretty talented.”

  “You were a rank amateur when we met,” he said. “I taught you everything you know. Even in the beginning you were pretty enthusiastic, as I remember, though.”

  “Would you like to refresh your memory?” she asked, shifting her legs again.

  He caught another flash of white inner thigh, this time all the way up. As he had suspected, she wasn’t wearing any panties.

  “I guess the air is pretty well cleared,” he said with a grin.

  Instantly she was on her feet and had pulled her sweater off over her head. She gave her head a shake to cause her tousled dark hair to fall back in place and arched her back provocatively. Her breasts were even larger than Betty’s, but as firm and upright as a young girl’s. Merely his gazing at them caused their dark tips to begin to swell and harden.

  Kicking off her shoes, she stepped out of her skirt and dropped it across the chair she had been sitting in. She had been wearing no stockings, so she was now completely naked. Trotting to the bedroom door, she reached around the corner to switch on the overhead light and looked back at him.

  “Last one in is a pussy-cat,” she said, turning to disappear into the room.

  He left his clothing in the front room. She was waiting for him on the bed when he entered the bedroom. Her arms were about his neck before he was fully settled alongside of her and her lips were moistly pressed against his.

  Without preliminaries their bodies joined together in a savage embrace which went on and on in mounting fury until both reached such a peak of agonizing ecstasy that they strove wildly for release. It came to them simultaneously just short of their limit to endure such excruciating rapture without their passing beyond the limit into unconsciousness.

  They lay limply in each other arms, unmoving, for a long time.

  Finally she said against his lips, “What happened? That was the best ever.”

  “I don’t know,” he said. “It just happened.”

  “I think I know,” she said dreamily.

  “What?”

  “I finally told you I love you. It must have released some last bit of inhibition that prevented me ever before from completely surrendering to you.”

  “My God!” he said in mock alarm. “You mean it’s always going to be that frenzied from now on?”

  “You loved it,” she said, gently kissing his lips. “I told you I was going to fight. This is the best way I know how.”

  Drawing her head onto his shoulder, he said, “Just don’t fight so hard that you kill me in the process.”

  She snuggled against him. “Maybe I ought to add something to that long dissertation of mine.”

  “What’s that?”

  “When I said that as so long as I’m still in the running, I’ll continue to fight, I meant within limits. I don’t perpetually expect to remain one of your harem. Within a reasonable length of time you’re going to have to make up your mind one way or the other.”

  “I know it,” he said, kissing the end of her nose. “Betty wouldn’t put up with a harem either, I’m sure. Will you give me a month?”

  “I’ll give you two, if it takes that long. Even three. But as long as we’re being completely frank, I just want you to know there’s a limit to even my patience.”

  Neither of them mentioned the possibility that Betty might soon be permanently out of the running by receiving a life sentence or the electric chair. He was sure the thought must have occurred to her, and he appreciated her sense of fair play in keeping it to herself. As for him, he refused to imagine any outcome but Betty’s eventual vindication.

  Later that night, in his own bed, he thought back over the evening. He felt better for having brought everything out in the open with Lydia, but it hadn’t resolved his basic problem. He no longer had a sense of guilt, but he was ev
en more mixed up about which woman he was in love with.

  Chapter XI

  On Wednesday morning Marshall stopped by to see Chief Meister. The state police crime lab had reported that the rope fragment found on the roof had definitely come from the coil in the garage, the chief said, and the district attorney was ready to move. He showed Marshall a warrant for Betty’s arrest on a charge of first-degree homicide and told him it would be served immediately after the funeral.

  A preliminary hearing was set for nine o’clock the next morning.

  Marshall contemplated phoning Betty to warn her what was in store for her, then decided against it. A warning would accomplish nothing, but it would upset her during the funeral, and as long as the arrest was inevitable anyway, he saw no point in making her brood about it before it took place. Instead, when he left police headquarters, he dropped in at Henry Quillan’s law office. He found the lawyer alone.

  “Did you know Betty is going to be arrested right after the funeral?” he asked Quillan.

  The lawyer nodded. “Arn Ross told me. He’s really quite co-operative until he gets into court.”

  “Does Betty know?”

  Quillan shook his head. “I see no point in informing her. There’s nothing she could do about it except worry. I’ll be at the funeral, of course, so I’ll be present at the arrest. Everything’s under control.”

  Marshall felt a little better.

  Returning to the newspaper, he went into conference with his father. For once they agreed on a matter of policy.

  “I don’t see how we can avoid printing the story now,” Marshall said. “It’s going to be a matter of public record.”

  “We’d be criticized for suppressing news in order to protect an influential person,” Jonas agreed. “There’s no point in letting the Buffalo papers scoop us either. What time’s the funeral?”

  “One p.m.”

  “Then it should be over by two. Write up the story in advance so we can lock the forms at deadline time. Then we’ll hold the run of the front page until the arrest is actually made. You can phone in the minute it’s definite and we’ll be on the street a half-hour later.”

  As the reporter started to leave the office, his father said, “Son.”

  Marshall turned at the doorway. “Yes?”

  “Never mind,” Jonas said. “I was going to tell you to make it as easy on her as possible, but I guess you will without instructions.”

  By noon Marshall had the story on his father’s desk. He made it a straightforward account, with no suggestion of bias either toward Betty’s guilt or innocence. It began:

  Mrs. Elizabeth Case, 30, of Rexford Bay, was arrested at Memorial Park Cemetery at about two p.m. today, immediately after the funeral of her late husband, Bruce Case. The warrant charged first-degree murder of the above mentioned husband.

  Early last Monday morning police were called to the Case home by Mrs. Case. Bruce Case was dead of a gunshot wound and Mrs. Case explained that she had shot him in the darkness when she mistakenly took him for the notorious cat burglar who has recently been terrorizing the Rexford Bay area. Police initially listed the affair as a probable accidental shooting.

  Subsequent examinatian of certain evidence by the state police crime lab led to a reversal of this conclusion and to the suspect’s arrest today. A preliminary hearing will take place in City Court tomorrow morning, according to Police Chief Bernard Meister.

  From there the story tapered off to a biographical sketch of Betty, including her locally prominent ancestry. It concluded with a brief mention that she and Bruce had been married eleven years and had a ten-year-old son.

  The story covered everything the reading public would expect, he felt, yet avoided any hint of sensationalism. It was one of the hardest things he ever wrote, simple as it was, but he was satisfied with it when he finished. He knew it wouldn’t help Betty’s case, but he was sure it wouldn’t hurt her either.

  He got to the funeral parlor a little before one p.m. and took a seat in the rear. Betty was already seated in the front row between the Reeds, and Henry Quillan sat next to George Reed.

  There was no sign of young Bruce, Jr., Marshall was glad to note. Apparently Betty felt as he did about children being dragged to funerals, even the funeral of a parent. In this case it would have been additionally cruel to make the boy witness the arrest of his mother.

  Chief Barney Meister was also in the audience.

  When the ceremony was over, Betty came up the aisle on the arm of George Reed. She wasn’t collapsed against him in the manner most new widows leave a funeral. Her fingers only lightly clasped his elbow, her back was erect and her chin up. Her face was pale, but the clearness of her eyes showed that she had not allowed herself the hypocrisy of tears. She swept by with the air of a princess ignoring the hostile glares of a rebellious peasantry.

  Marshall slipped out immediately behind Henry Quillan and Audrey Reed, reaching the porch in time to see George Reed help Betty into the rear seat of the first car parked behind the hearse. Reed rounded the car to slide beneath the wheel as Quillan helped Audrey into the rear next to Betty, then climbed in front himself.

  Marshall didn’t go to the cemetery in the funeral cortege; instead he drove there in his own car and parked outside the gate. When the last of the funeral procession had passed through the gate, he saw that Barney Meister hadn’t ridden in one of the cars either. He came along in a police car driven by a uniformed officer. It turned into the cemetery grounds.

  The ceremony here was very brief. Fifteen minutes after the funeral procession drove in, cars began to leave. Glancing at his watch, Marshall saw it was only five of two.

  When the family car in which Betty had ridden appeared, only the Reeds were in it. Both looked upset. The car turned in the direction of town.

  The police car came out last. Henry Quillan sat next to the uniformed driver and Betty was in back with Barney Meister.

  Marshall followed the car to police headquarters and waited until the occupants had gone inside. Then he pulled into a filling station across the street to use the phone.

  It wasn’t that he had expected anything to happen which would void the story he had written, such as a break attempt by Betty. But a good newspaperman doesn’t allow a story to go to press until he’s sure that what he has written has actually occurred. There could have been a collision on the way to headquarters. Betty might have collapsed and had to be rushed to a hospital. When you write a story in advance based on a presumption of what is going to happen, you have to follow up to make sure it has happened the way you wrote it.

  He dropped a coin, dialed the newspaper and asked for his father’s office.

  When Jonas answered, he said, “You can let it roll.”

  It was just two fifteen p.m., forty-five minutes after deadline. But everything but the front page had been printed, Marshall knew. The issue wouldn’t be more than fifteen minutes late.

  The Runyon City News deliberately withheld the story of Betty’s arrest from the wire services. But big-city papers customarily subscribed to all nearby local papers because smaller-town papers sometimes miss the newsworthiness of big stories. Buffalo was the closest big city, and Erie, Pennsylvania, was the next closest in the opposite direction. Both Buffalo papers and the one in Erie subscribed to the Runyon City News, so all three were aware of the arrest by that evening.

  As the case had promise of developing into a sensational murder trial, with a beautiful, wealthy and socially prominent woman as the defendant, all three papers sent reporters to cover the hearing. News coverage from that point on was now beyond the control of the local paper.

  City Judge Homer Gandy, a lean, bald-headed man of only about thirty-five presided. Betty, in a dark, conservative street dress, sat at the defense table with Henry Quillan. Arnold Ross was alone at the prosecution table.

  Though this was only a preliminary hearing, the court room was so jammed with spectators that there were standees at the rear. Marshall spott
ed George and Audrey Reed in the center of the room and wondered who was taking care of Bud. He moved forward to take his usual seat in the press section.

  At a preliminary hearing many of the usual courtroom formalities are waived, since it is not a trial. It’s purpose is merely to establish whether or not there is sufficient evidence to hold an accused person for the grand jury. There is no jury, and what it amounts to is that the prosecution attempts to convince the judge that there is sufficient evidence to warrant grand jury consideration of the charge; the defense attempts to convince him there isn’t and get the charge dismissed.

  The first witness for the prosecution was Barney Meister. After being sworn in and establishing that he was Runyon City’s chief of police, he testified that about two-thirty a.m. the previous Monday morning he had been awakened at home by a call from police headquarters informing him that there had been a shooting at the old Runyon place at Rexford Bay. He explained that he had left standing instructions with the desk to inform him of important police matters, no matter what time it was.

  “The desk man didn’t have any details,” he added. “He didn’t know who was shot and how bad, only that a woman had phoned in the report. I guess he assumed the matter should be classified as important more because of the address than the occurrance.”

  Marshall didn’t consider the comment very funny, but there was a titter from the audience. Judge Gandy rapped his gavel.

  The chief went on to explain that a police car had come by his home a few minutes later to drive him to the scene. There he had found Bruce Case lying dead of a gunshot wound, half in and half out of his wife’s bedroom door. He related what Betty had told him to how the shooting occurred.

  There was no objection from Henry Quillan to this as hearsay. Marshall guessed that the lawyer was glad to have it in the record, as it might save him from putting Betty on the stand at all, in case he decided not to.

  Meister continued by describing his examination of the premises, with the help of Patrolman Nat Thorpe, his taking of the cut-out portion of the screen and his later visit after daylight to find the fragment of rope tied to the air-vent pipe on the roof. He went on to tell of receiving the crime lab report the next day that the screen had been cut from the inside.