The cops shrugged, jerked their small prisoner to his feet and strolled out. Olsen turned in the doorway. “If he’s holdin’ out—”
“I don’t think he is,” the Chief said.
“Okay.” They eased out, and the Chief held his hands out to Mark, palms up.
“We might use him to identify the voice, but I have an idea our murderer was smart enough to disguise it pretty well,” Mark said.
“You think the murderer hired this guy, huh?”
“I think so, and when he discovered Idell was coming down in the car, it was too late to do anything. So he sat tight and figured another way to get Link.”
“Yeah, maybe,” the Chief said. “Yeah, that’s it all right. Let’s go up to that damned house again. These rich people are screwy as hell. They’re bumpin’ each other off like flies.”
Mark grinned. He stuffed his pipe while they walked to the car. Outside, the full force of the morning sun hit him, and he began to sweat. The Chief groaned and mopped his forehead with a soiled handkerchief. “Let’s take my car,” he said. “I got a cooler in it. Wait—I gotta call Doc.”
“When they got under way, Mark said, “What is this about Leona?”
“Dunno. Bayless called up. Henderson heard nothing all night. The Queen goes to wake the dame when she don’t come down for breakfast at nine-thirty. She raps hell out of the door and nothing happens. She goes in then. The door ain’t locked or nothing. There’s this Taylor dame, spread on the bed, naked as a peeled banana and her figure all ruined with a knife through her breast. There ain’t much blood ‘cause she did most of it inside, Bayless said.” He sighed. “That damned print man’ll cuss me for dragging him back here all the way.”
Mark said, “Maybe we won’t need him, Chief.”
The Chief turned his head in spite of the fact he was crossing the busy highway. “You got an idea, huh? Me, I got lots of ‘em. Farman is my answer still.”
“If I can figure a few things out, I’ll have an idea,” Mark said. “Let it ride until we get there.”
“They all know about it,” the Chief told him. “The Queen squealed like a sliced pig.”
They were silent until they rolled up to the house and went inside. It was cooler in there, and Mark felt grateful for the money that made such superb air-conditioning possible. They trailed into the front room. Bayless nodded worriedly. He had the family and servants in a group.
“I been questioning them,” he said. “It don’t make sense, Chief.” He sounded aggrieved.
“Okay,” the Chief said. “Doc’ll be here in a few minutes. Take him up.” He sat down and mopped his forehead. “Any idea what time she was killed?”
“Right on the dot,” the patrolman said. “It looks like a struggle went on. It’s tore up some in there. An’ the electric clock on the table by the bed was jerked loose from the socket. It stopped at four minutes after two.”
“Hell, that’s something.”
“Yeah,” Bayless said. “That’s the trouble. At two o’clock these guys—” he indicated Jeffers and Farman— “was playing bridge with these dames.” He indicated Maybelle and Idell.
“At two this morning?” the Chief asked. He looked at Idell.
She smiled wearily. Mark thought she looked utterly worn out, and there were shadows of tragedy in her dark eyes and in the darkness beneath them. “We were restless, I’m afraid. Clint and I were down here talking and decided on some bridge. We went upstairs to ask anyone if they wanted to play. Maybelle and Chunk were still awake, so they came down.”
“The others were asleep?” the Chief asked.
“I was,” Grant told him. “I didn’t even hear them come up.”
“Leona didn’t answer,” Idell said. “She was sleeping when I looked in. Uncle Frank was asleep.”
“Very much so,” he confirmed. “I use a sleeping potion, you know. I gave one to Leona, too.” He seemed as haggard as the rest, as worried and fearful and as utterly tired of all the mystery and tragedy that stalked on bloody feet through the house.
“What time you start this game?” the Chief asked.
“About twelve,” Idell told him.
“What time you break up?”
“At three,” she said.
Jeffers said, “You can prove it by Henderson. He sat up there, and every time anyone moved he took it down in his notebook.” He didn’t sound at all put out about it.
The Chief rose. “Let’s go up and see.”
Mark smiled at Idell and followed the Chief into the hall and upstairs. They paused on the landing. The chair Henderson had used, a straight-backed occasional chair, was still beside the stairs.
“Lord,” the Chief said, “if that’s so, then they all got alibis.”
“All but Grant,” Mark said thoughtfully.
“Hell!” the Chief said. “And he says she left the door open between!”
“And then there is Mr. Manders,” Mark suggested.
“Yeah. I’d like to take that cast off his leg to see if it’s still as bad as he says. He could have climbed down and around. Come in through Jeffers’ room, huh?”
“Maybe.” Mark was silent. “That’s everybody but Queen and Sing. Sing had no purpose that I can see, and Queen very little motive.”
The Chief said, “I thought it was that Farman guy. Unless we got two killers running loose.”
“We might have,” Mark said.
The Chief sighed wearily. “What about the Cartwright dame?” he asked. “Maybe she came prowling.”
Mark grinned. “I can alibi her, I’m afraid, Chief.”
The Chief looked at him and laughed. “Like that, huh? Learn anything?”
“Yeah,” Mark said, “I learned why Jeffers married her.”
“And why the Major went for her, huh?”
“That too—if it’s true.”
They went into the room. The door had been closed but not locked. Inside, it was very much like Link’s room, only reversed. The windows were closed and it was cool, but somehow the scent of blood and death was thick in Mark’s nostrils. Leona lay on the bed. Mark stared down at her for a long moment, his breath throbbing in his throat.
She had been beautiful. He could not remember having ever seen a body which came closer to perfection. As a strip-tease dancer, if her act could have been termed so badly, she must have been a grand success. Even in death she gave the feeling of perfect rhythm. Her legs were long and smooth muscled; there was not an ounce of superfluous flesh anywhere on her white body. Her breasts, judging from the unmarred one, were firm even with the collapse of life taking their movement of breathing from them. Her face, beneath its halo of hair now dull with the glorious lights gone from it, was soft and quiet in repose. Her eyelids were closed, and they looked violet, so thin and fragile were they. Her lashes were long and swept far down her cheeks. One hand trailed across the edge of the bed; the other lay crooked near her head. She looked peacefully, utterly asleep. But for that one marring thing, that one jarring note.
An ivory-handled nail file, the kind that go in dresser sets, was plunged to the hilt just below the center and to the right of her left breast. A small amount of blood had flowed from the wound, and had trailed a crimson line, now darkening brownish red across the perfection of her stomach. One foot was still hooked beneath the sheet, as if she had been sleeping half on top, half beneath the covering.
Mark said, “She was asleep when it happened. Look at her face. She didn’t do any struggling.”
“Look at the room,” the Chief said. Near the bed the floor and nighstand looked as if a cyclone had hit them. The rugs were wrinkled up as if by scuffling feet. The end table was turned so it leaned against the wall. The lamp was hanging by its cord. The electric clock lay face up on the floor, pulled from its socket. The water carafe had spilled, and water still puddled on the floor near the bed.
“And with all the racket this would have made, Henderson didn’t hear it?” Mark asked.
“He might have bee
n asleep.”
“But he wasn’t.” Mark lit his pipe and surveyed the scene. He went to the dresser and pointed to its top. “Here’s where the weapon came from. It’s one of a set here.” He strolled on, and stopped by the door that connected the room to Clinton Jeffers’. “Where in hell’s the key?” He tried the knob, utilizing his handkerchief. The door was locked.
“Maybe it’s on the other side,” the Chief suggested.
“Ever see connecting doors where the man had the key on his side?” Mark demanded.
“Maybe she wanted it that way,” the Chief grinned. “Remember the powder on his sheets?”
“That was Myra’s,” Mark said. “I’ll bet a double Scotch.”
“When, for gosh sakes?”
“The night of the murder. Check on powders if she won’t admit it.”
“Yeah. I guess. But what the hell about this?”
“Someone,” Mark said, “tried to make himself an alibi, or tried to create an alibi for someone.”
“You mean that clock could have been set for any time and jerked loose, huh?”
“And the struggle very quietly made. It’s amateurish,” Mark said. “This isn’t the really confusing touch of our killer. He’s slipping.”
Dr. Nesbit bustled into the room, sighed when he looked at Leona and shook his head. “That is a pity,” he said.
“Yeah, ain’t it?” the Chief admitted.
Mark went out of the room and downstairs, leaving them there.
Chapter XXI
MARK chose the billiard room for a reason he could not put into words at the time. Later he realized it was the feeling of solitude it gave, the withdrawn air that clung to it, separating it from the tragedy in the house upstairs.
He went into the front room and up to Idell. “Mind coming with me?”
Idell idly picked up a cue and clicked two billiard balls together. She said, “It seems peaceful here, doesn’t it? I don’t have to think of things so much.”
“I’m going straight to the point, Idell,” he said abruptly. “Do you know how much your brother owed Link?”
“No, really. But I’m sure it was a great deal, by the way he spoke.”
“It was forty thousand dollars,” Mark said.
“That much!” Her hand fluttered toward her breast in a little motion of surprise. “I never dreamed—”
Mark told her the full story. Her face grew white beneath the light makeup she wore. He could see the knot of fear pulsing in her throat again. He said, “You think Grant killed him, don’t you, Idell?” He made no effort to be gentle.
Her face lost its whiteness and flamed with sudden passion. Her eyes sent out sparks as she stared at him. “What makes you think—It’s awful to feel and not be sure,” she said in a half-whisper.
He put his hands on the billiard table and leaned forward. She lowered the cue; it formed a slight barrier between them. His face was intent; she appeared the slightest bit frightened as she stared into his eyes. “How many people know the name of the woman who caused your father’s death?”
Idell’s breath let itself out in a jerky gasp. “Mark! That isn’t true. It’s—well, it’s rotten!” Anger, sudden and tempestuous, blazed in her eyes.
He pressed the issue. It was one thing he needed to know. “It is true,” he said bluntly. He hated himself for this deliberate cruelty, but it was necessary. “Your father killed himself over a woman, Idell—a woman associated with this household. Think …”
“You’re contemptible,” she said, the anger blazing beyond control. Her hand flashed out and struck him before he could move to protect himself. He felt the sting of her sharp little knuckles against his nose, and when he raised a hand to touch that sensitive part warm blood dripped over his fingers.
Instantly she was all contrition. “I’m sorry …” she began.
Mark dabbed at his nose with his handkerchief. “I asked for it,” he said ruefully. “But I had to be sure, Idell. I had to know if you were trying to protect the Major even now. You really don’t know.” It was a statement. He told her as much as he knew, still bluntly, but in a more gentle voice.
She heard him out, her head held high, her cheeks flaming but no longer with anger. When he had finished, she said, “Your nose is bleeding awfully, Mark. There’s a lavatory down the hall.” She might have been discussing the weather.
He understood: she wanted to be alone, if only for a moment. He turned and followed the short hallway past the door to the furnace room and went through the lavatory door on the opposite side of the hall. It was a small room, furnished with a bowl and toilet and little else. A ventilator in the ceiling sucked warm air upward, and the conditioning unit forced cooler air in near his feet. There was one window, tightly closed, the shade drawn.
He bathed his nose, and the cold water stopped the bleeding quickly. He dropped the seat on the toilet and sat down, deciding it might be more decent to give her a few extra seconds to regain her composure. She was a wonder, he thought. His eyes wandered idly around the room, stopping at the window. He raised the shade to find where it led, and what its purpose could be. It opened, he saw, onto the flight of steps leading down from the patio to the door leading into the basement. He saw the sash lock was not on, but when he tried the window with light pressure it held tightly.
He was about ready to lower the shade when an incongruous note struck him. He looked again, and this time he was sure. Three fat-bellied flies lay dead on the sash, the sun from the west gleaming on their blue bodies. They were not shrivelled but seemed recently deceased. He felt like giggling. To consider a fly as deceased was the height of polite formality.
But he could not take his mind from them, even after dropping the shade. On impulse he raised it again, grasped the sash and exerted all of his strength. The lower sash gave and slid upward in silent protest. He noted the ease with which he could step from the toilet through the window and onto the steps outside. He closed the window and replaced the shade.
Idell was standing as he had left her. By the appearance of her shoulders, the relaxed lines of her body, he knew she had accepted the truth within herself and was reconciled. He spoke unhurriedly but with an odd sense of necessity in his voice.
“When was that lavatory cleaned last?”
Idell looked at him oddly. “Yesterday, I suppose. Catrina cleaned it every day.”
That meant she could not have done it that day! “Did anyone use this room today?” Mark asked. He felt excitement warm him. He was on the trail to the final goal. His mind buzzed with unanswered and seemingly unanswerable questions.
“Not to my knowledge,” she said. “I’m sure they haven’t. Things have been pretty badly bawled up and—”
“Of course,” he said. “Don’t think about them.” He tried another angle. “Why should there be flies in the lavatory then?”
“Flies? I don’t understand what you’re driving at,” she said. “There are no flies in the house. Not unless someone forgets and opens a window.”
“That’s it,” he said. “When someone opens a window.”
“But not in there,” she said. “The conditioning ventilation takes care of air circulation.” He caught a note in her voice that suggested she was soothing a slightly moronic child.
He grinned suddenly. “You know, I think I have it.” He turned abruptly from Idell and sprinted up the stairs. He found the Chief in the living room, looking done in.
Mark said, “Chief, can I talk to you?” When the Chief walked over to him, he said, “Look, I think I’ve got it.”
“What?”
“I’m not sure,” Mark said. “Have Bayless bring Myra here, will you, right away? And call Henderson and tell him I’ll be down. I want to ask him some things. And let me use your car.”
The Chief sensed Mark’s excitement. “Keys are in it,” he said. “Look, what you got, huh?”
“I’d rather not say until I’m sure,” Mark said. His agitation was visible now. “God, if I’m right. I
t’s simple. So damned simple we couldn’t see it. There are just a few things—I think I have them!”
Mark strode out, and Bayless was less than a dozen steps behind. They roared down the driveway almost together, and Mark waited at the tracks for Bayless to cross ahead of him. Then he drove toward the Palm Springs highway; a block off lay Henderson’s house.
The patrolman was in pajamas and blinking sleepily when he let Mark in the door. Mark sat down, ignoring clothes sprawled over the room. “Sorry to wake you, but there are some things that might be important. One thing, mostly.”
“Hell, Mark,” he said, “I got all day to sleep.”
Mark said, “You didn’t go to sleep last night, did you?”
“No.” Henderson seemed to take no affront.
“Did you hear anything—say around two o’clock? Anything at all from upstairs?”
Henderson went to his blue shirt and fished in the pocket. He drew out a small notebook. He thumbed it and then stopped at a page. He ran a finger down the lines and yawned sleepily. “Two o’clock. Yeah, here it is. Two-two. Taylor locked her door.”
“That’s it!” Mark said. “What else?”
“Note here—let’s see. Yeah, she went to the can. Flushed the toilet. At two-ten she unlocked the door. Say, that’s funny.”
Mark got up, grinning. “The hell it is, that’s murder!”
“What do you mean?”
“She was stabbed last night, Hendy. And she was asleep all the time. The old man gave her some sleeping powders to take. She couldn’t have awakened. It was the killer who was in her room at that time.” He paused. “You didn’t see anyone leave the living room while they were playing bridge? You heard nothing else at that time?”
“Not a damned thing,” Henderson assured him. He consulted the book to make sure and then shook his head. “Not a damned thing,” he repeated.
Mark said, “Thanks,” and walked outside almost quickly. The sun blasted at him, but he paid it no attention. He jammed his foot on the starter of the car and roared around the corner, making the two blocks to Myra’s house in record-breaking time. He parked the car and went up to the porch. As he expected, the door wasn’t locked. He went inside and directly to the kitchen. He stopped there and mumbled to himself. Then with a nod he began to search. He found what he sought in the refrigerator, a small white box with packages of powder inside. On top it said, “Sleep remedy. Take one to two hours before bedtime.” It bore a prescription number. On the seal was the name of an Indio Pharmacy. That should check easily enough. Grinning, he stuck the box in his pocket and went back to the front room.
Date for Murder Page 15
