Lost Lady

by Octavus Roy Cohen

  My next contribution was a woman’s dress. It was elaborate as hell and weighed more than you’d think it would. It was of a style that you laugh at when you see pictures. It must have represented something special, and it could have cost plenty, even in the days when it was new and things were cheap. I held it up in front of me and Marty chuckled.

  “Must have belonged to Gloria Kent, Dorothy and Iris’ mother,” he commented. “I wish my wife could see it.” While I was folding the dress and putting it back in old, yellowed tissue paper, he was thumbing through a snapshot album. I heard him chuckling.

  “Get a load of this,” he said, shoving the album under my nose. “Old Elsworth Kent was a lieutenant in the First World War. How’d you like to have worn a uniform like that?”

  There were three people in the picture: a man in uniform looking proud and martial, a pretty little woman, and a little girl. Underneath, written in white ink, was the inscription: “One week before leaving for France. April, 1917,” and beneath that the three names: “Elsworth, Gloria, Dorothy.”

  “Hey, Dorothy looks a lot like Iris in this picture, doesn’t she?” I said. “I didn’t think she looked much like her when we saw her at the motel.”

  “Well, hell, she’d been through a fatal experience,” Marty said. “That can age a girl. Besides, she was a lot older than Iris to begin with. Iris must have been an accident—to her parents and Dorothy both, maybe.”

  We dug up a bunch of ancient sheet music that would have delighted a collector’s heart. Most of the pieces we’d never heard of; others had been revived in recent years and were new again. “Glowworm,” “Shine on Harvest Moon,” “Because,” “Merry Widow Waltz”—things like that.

  I picked up something and gave a mild yippee. “A clue, Marty. Injuns have been around. Somebody’s been scalped.”

  Marty said it was a switch, the sort of thing women of Gloria Kent’s generation used to wear. “Probably made of real hair,” he observed sagely. “What a hell of a thing to keep.”

  Then we came across something that gave us a real laugh. It was an elaborately printed catalogue advertising a make of automobiles we’d heard of but didn’t actually remember. The whole line was pictured, and were they funny. “For a little more than three thousand dollars,” I told Marty, “you can get one of these things complete with Delco self-starting and lighting, demountable rims, and three-toned horn. What the devil would they keep this for?”

  We kept turning the pages, and then we discovered why the catalogue had been kept. It appeared that Mr. Elsworth Kent had been the proud owner of one of those snazzy gasoline buggies, demountable rims and all. It said so, right on one of the pages, and there was his picture sitting at the wheel as stiffly as though someone had shoved a poker up his rear end. There was a signed testimonial from Mr. Elsworth Kent announcing that this was his second car of that make, and declaring that he’d never drive any other. He was referred to as “the wealthy Wall Street broker and socialite.”

  We found a lot of lingerie, tenderly stored away and faintly fragrant of lavender. There were old cookbooks with certain favorite recipes marked with blue pencil, and about a dozen old children’s books.

  Marty said, “The governess—what’s her name?”

  “Virginia Klinger?”

  “Yeah. She must have packed all this junk when she brought the kids out here. It’s interesting, but we’re wasting time.”

  We put the stuff back and closed the trunk. We picked up our search of the attic where we’d left off. We looked everywhere and got nowhere. We didn’t find anything that we figured could possibly have interested Dean Halliday.

  The attic held too much rather than too little. Our knowledge of the Kent family was too sketchy for us to be able to evaluate anything. And because there were lots of other things to do, we gave it up as a bad job and went downstairs again.

  Iris was still sitting by the pool. She invited us to join her, and asked whether we’d like drinks. We said no. She looked as beat-up as though she’d been hit over the head with a hammer. Delayed reaction. She was taking it harder today than she had the previous night.

  She asked about legal formalities, and Marty explained to her about the inquest, which would probably be held the next day. The funeral, he said, could be any time after that. She asked whether we’d got anywhere on our investigation and we said no. We asked her whether there was anything she could suggest, or anything we could do for her, and she said no. That made two noes.

  We got into the car and drove off. I suggested that Marty pull over to the side of the road so we could smoke and talk. Then I told him of the theory Chuck Morrison had advanced. Of course, I didn’t mention Chuck, because I’d been out of line talking police business with anyone not on the department. I gave it as my own thought. I was apologetic and I said he didn’t have to take me seriously. It was just an idea.

  He surprised me by being interested. After a lot of thinking he said, “It’s full of bugs, sure. But it’s a new slant. Let’s keep thinking about it.”

  “How?”

  “Damned if I know. You learn new things and you try to fit them into various ideas. We’ll add this to the general tests. The chief virtue is that it could explain Dorothy Halliday’s odd actions the night she was killed. I’ve never been able to figure any reason why she’d get into a car with someone who might have even a remote intention of killing her. It would be different, though, if she had promoted the thing because she wanted to do the killing.” He looked me over. “You had a social session with Iris yesterday,” he said. “How do you figure her real feelings toward her brother-in-law?”

  “That’s a toughy,” I said. “She gives the impression of hating him, but it could be a cover.”

  “She sure moved fast accusing him the night he made the missing-person report, didn’t she?”

  “Yes. It seemed far-fetched then, and it seems the same way now. Unless—well, unless she had a reason.”

  “She and Halliday,” commented Marty, “could have been tearing it off pretty regular. She could have been strong for him. Then she could have got a hunch that he had killed Dorothy. That might make her hate him, and at the same time give her a guilt complex. Of course, she might be behind the eight ball herself. I can’t figure it. I don’t know enough yet.”

  “If there’s anything at all to this new idea, Marty, wouldn’t that check out Dolores and Montero?”

  “Could be. But that’s a big if. You got two entirely different approaches. One way, you got Halliday and Iris right in the middle. Maybe even this Bayless guy.”

  “Robert Bayless? You mean you honestly think he could have been having an affair with Iris?”

  “Look, Danny, I ain’t guessing who takes tumbles out of who. Frankly, I wouldn’t figure they’d be playing that way. But I’m counting Bayless in because he’s like a member of the family, and any member of that screwy outfit is worth thinking about.”

  “O.K., Marty. Suspect number one: Robert Bayless.”

  “Quit clowning, Danny. I’m just saying they’re all in on that angle: Bayless, Halliday, Iris, the cook, the maid —hell, for all I know, the gardener, too. Just keep it in mind that this is Hollywood, and in Hollywood anything can happen—and usually does.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Time has a habit of passing, and even on a deal like this, it didn’t change stride.

  There was an inquest. The verdict surprised practically nobody. It was decided that Dorothy Kent Halliday was dead, that she had been murdered, and that the identity of the murderer or murderers was unknown. It was interesting, but it did not noticeably advance our investigation.

  The funeral was quiet and simple. Few flowers, no ostentation. Marty and I went, but we stayed in the background, thinking maybe someone might show up who meant something. No one did.

  The maid and the cook were the only ones who wore black and the only ones who cried. Iris was dressed simply, and she stood through the brief services without showing any emotio
n. Robert Bayless was with her.

  Dean Halliday was there—he had to be—and he’d toned down his dressing amazingly: plain but expensive blue suit, white shirt, dark blue tie—and argyle socks. He probably didn’t own anything more somber. He had his own car, and after the thing was over he drove away without speaking to anyone.

  The investigation went slowly on. Marty and I did a lot of work and came up with nothing. I didn’t know just where to move. I was sitting in the office the third night after the funeral when the telephone rang and Bert Lane said it was for me. “A dame,” he volunteered.

  The minute I heard the voice I recognized Iris. She sounded just as though nothing had ever happened.

  “You’ve been neglecting me,” she said. “When are you going to want another swim?”

  I told her I’d been just about to call her up. As a matter of fact, I had been thinking about it, but was afraid it would sound phony as hell. She asked me if I’d come out the next day, same time, same place. I told her I’d be there.

  Bert and the other boys were grinning and passing remarks when I put the phone down. I called Homicide and got Marty. I told him what had just happened and he liked it fine. He said he’d been trying to figure a new approach, something that would be police work and yet not look like it. I asked him whether he wanted to come along and he said definitely not; that would stamp the visit for what it was.

  “What do you figure her angle is this time, Marty?”

  “God knows. Maybe she’s worried and wants to find out if we’ve dug up anything new.”

  I was still thinking about that when I got to the big house on Valleycrest Drive the next day. The maid opened the door for me and said Miss Iris was out by the pool. On the way back I got a glimpse of Lorena, the cook.” She greeted me like an old friend. She told me Miss Iris was out by the pool. I began to get the idea that Miss Iris was out by the pool. She was.

  She was clad in the same nothing she’d had on when I’d first visited there. This time I knew her better, so I let my eyes rove. Everything they saw was interesting.

  “Like it?” she asked.

  “You’ve no idea.”

  “Oh, yes, I have. Now suppose you slip into the dressing room and come out with a little of your own epidermis exposed. I get a bang out of looking at you, too, you know.”

  I think I was blushing as I walked away, clutching my trunks. I didn’t even pause to admire the big playhouse with its split-log construction. I know I was embarrassed when I came out in my trunks. That sounds silly as hell, but it’s true. Iris caught it, and had fun.

  She had a beautiful little figure, and she knew it. She was willing for me to look at it all I wanted. “If I were ugly,” she confided, “I’d dress more modestly.”

  We indulged in a little idle chitchat, the customary preliminary sparring before young people of opposite sexes get down to the thing that’s uppermost in their minds.

  Ellen, the maid, appeared with a cocktail shaker and two glasses. We had a brief, invigorating swim, and then we sampled the cocktails. We stretched out on a big double beach mat, close together.

  We’d been this way before, way back yonder the first day I’d come swimming in this pool. We were wearing the same inadequate apologies for nakedness. The same sun was beating down on us, but whether it was hotter or I was, I couldn’t say for sure. All I knew positively was that I didn’t give a damn for anything in the world except the girl lying so close to me that our bodies touched.

  I slipped my left arm under her shoulders. I drew her to me and kissed her. Once again I felt her body adjusting itself snugly into mine as though it belonged there and nowhere else. My right hand moved. It touched the round, firm softness of her breast. Her lips opened and she gave a long, shuddering sigh. Inside of me a high-powered rocket took off and seemed about to explode.

  And this time it was I who said, “Please …” and I didn’t mean it the way she had meant it on that first occasion. I was trying to tell her that this was either too much or not enough. She held me tight, as though never to let me go. Then she suddenly pulled away and sat up.

  “Not now,” she said breathlessly. “Not here.” Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glowing.

  “When?” I asked hoarsely. “Where?”

  She said, “We can’t, Danny, not like this. Not while things are the way they are.”

  That did it. It didn’t reduce the fever in my blood or the ache of wanting her, but it did make me remember that I was a cop, that this was a murder case, that I was not privileged to lose either my heart or my head. She was staring at me oddly, and that started me to wondering again, started me to traveling once more in the same old circles.

  For the first time I found myself questioning the depth of her affection for her sister. We hadn’t mentioned Dorothy, but I got the impression that she wasn’t anything more than a long-gone memory. I didn’t know Iris well enough to figure whether it was a pose, or whether she was just naturally hardboiled. I could see her body—just about all of it—and her face, which was lovely. What was going on behind those big black eyes of hers was anybody’s guess. Whatever it was, there seemed to be too much of it. I thought, too, that if she was really this way, then maybe Chuck had something in his theory that she might have been two-timing her own sister with Dean Halliday; that her attitude of hating him could have been pretense. The idea repelled me, but there it was. My thinking even included Robert Bayless. That guy was really overboard about her, about the girl he imagined she was—or could be. If this was the real Iris, I felt sorry for Bayless.

  We had lunch. It was what the society editors usually describe as a “delectable collation,” or words to that effect. It was built around a crab-meat salad, and it was topped off with coffee laced with brandy.

  Today I wasn’t in any hurry. I was on the job, officially. I could kill all the time I wanted.

  It was about three o’clock that her whole manner changed. Suddenly, she wasn’t laughing; suddenly, there was something deeper than the surface, which apparently was all I’d been seeing up to now. She said, “I’ve got some interesting news for you. You’re working on this case, aren’t you?”

  “Your sister?” I pointed it deliberately. “In a way, yes.”

  “Our lawyer was here this morning,” she said. “He read Dorothy’s will to Dean and me.”

  “So?”

  “She left a few small specific bequests,” Iris went on, her voice flat. “They don’t amount to much. The residue of the estate, after expenses and taxes, is divided ninety per cent to me and ten per cent to my beloved brother-in-law.”

  I must have looked surprised. She caught the look and amplified what she had told me.

  “What it boils down to is this,” she said. “I thought Dorothy hated him. I thought she’d cut him off completely. I don’t care what she did with her money. I’ve got more than I could ever spend. But I hate the thought that Dean will get more than fifty thousand dollars.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Marty and I chewed that one over that night. “It’s got all kinds of possibilities,” he said. “If Dean Halliday knew about the terms of the will, he’d be eager to get the dough.”

  I said, “I can figure how Dolores Laverne would like it. If Halliday was strapped financially, she couldn’t have been getting her usual pay off. Halliday could have boasted to Laverne about how he’d someday inherit from his wife, maybe not even mentioning the amount. What I don’t see is this elaborate frame: Dorothy Halliday arranging to meet someone outside, leaving her personal jewelry with Robert Bayless, keeping her trap shut to Iris about where she was going.”

  “Could have been Dolores or Montero or both,” suggested Marty. “Maybe they said they had some dope on Halliday that would be grounds for divorce.”

  “Hell, Dorothy could have got that the easy way.”

  “We know that, sure. But did Dorothy know it?” He took a cigar out of his pocket, admired the band, whiffed it, and put it back in his pocket. “There you
got ‘em all,” he said. “Including Iris herself. You pays your money and you takes your cherce.”

  “We oughtn’t to check out Robert Bayless.”

  “We ain’t checking out anybody. But I can’t see where the will would affect him one way or the other. I also don’t see why he’d want Dorothy dead. As far as she was concerned, he was the fair-haired boy. He wanted to marry Iris in spite of all he knew about her, and she has said at least twice that she expected to marry him. Nothing could be much softer than that. So there’s the list.”

  I got up and started pacing the room. “One thing’s for sure, Marty. Dean Halliday must be riding high, wide, and handsome with that fifty grand coming in, and so is Dolores.”

  Marty shot a question at me. “There’s one thing I want to ask you, Danny. You and Iris Kent did a lot of talking today. You must have. Did you get any hint—any slightest suggestion—that she was fixing to throw Dean Halliday out of that house, or that he was about to move?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because that setup stinks. Iris tells us she loves her sister. She tells us Dean Halliday has murdered that sister and she tells it before anybody suspects it. She says she hates Halliday. So the sister is murdered, Iris takes over the house, there’s no apparent need to pretend any more— and what happens? She and Halliday go right on living there.”

  “It’s only been a few days.”

  “Granted, Sergeant O’Leary, granted. But it seems to me there’d have been some thought, some suggestion. Did she mention Halliday at all today?”

  “A couple of times. Not very flatteringly.”

  “But she ‘gave no hint about getting rid of him?”

  “No.”

  “Maybe that old idea of yours—the one about them two playing house—maybe it wasn’t as dumb as you are.”

  We kicked it around some more and the only place we got was right back where we started.

  Marty wanted to know what I’d be doing the next couple of days and I said I was supposed to be off, but I’d forget about that if he wanted me to. I told him I expected to do some more swimming at the joint on Valleycrest both days, but that was strictly pleasure.