"It's Melissa Gregory, in case it's any of your business, you."
"Up to the time we heard this Melissa Gregory scream," Trent went on, paying no attention to her tone.
"Trying to alibi him, eh?" said Humphrey. "That just makes you an accessory, bub. And you've got a record, too, haven't you? I've seen your picture before."
"Sir," said one of the deputies.
Humphrey looked at him. "What do you want?"
"He's Handsome Lover Boy."
"What?"
"He's the guy in those cold cream ads."
"Well, I'll be damned," said Humphrey. "So you pose for ads when you're not prowling, eh?"
"Sir," said the deputy.
"Now what?"
"He's really married to that woman--that Heloise of Hollywood. It was in the papers--in the society news--a couple of years back. My wife read it to me."
"Hmmm," said Humphrey, staring at Trent. "Is that a fact? Are you really her husband?"
"Yes," said Trent tightly.
"Hmmm," said Humphrey. "Hmmm." He spun around suddenly and pointed at Doan. "Who hired you?"
"You'll find out," said Doan, "in due course."
"I'll find out right now!"
"My wife hired him," Trent said.
"To do what?"
"To watch me."
"Ah," said Humphrey. "And of course he's playing both ends against the middle as usual. He always does. When anyone hires him to watch someone else, he always runs around to the second party and tells them and then collects from each of them for watching the other. Don't you?"
"Sure," said Doan.
Melissa sat up on the couch. "Listen, you," she said loudly and clearly. "You were called here to investigate a masked prowler who attacked me. Are you going to do that, or are you going to get the hell out of my apartment?"
"Melissa!" Beulah Porter Cowys gasped.
"I mean it," said Melissa. "I'm serious. I've had my nose rubbed in this teak-headed Trent's nasty personal affairs until I'm good and sick of him and them."
"Doan is the prowler," Humphrey told her.
"He is not!"
"Well, then Trent is."
"He isn't, either!"
"How do you know--if the guy was masked?"
"Because he wasn't as tall as Trent nor as fat as Doan."
"You're just trying to make things difficult for me," Humphrey complained.
"I'll make them more difficult," said Doan. "There's a murdered man in an ashcan out in the alley in back."
"Ah-ha!" Humphrey gloated, rubbing his hands. "You heard that confession, all of you? You're witnesses. I've always hoped for a chance to peek at you in the gas chamber, Doan. Who'd you kill? You might as well tell the truth, because I won't believe what you say, anyway."
"I didn't kill anyone," said Doan. "The prowler did it on his way out."
Humphrey waved his hand. "A detail. I know you're the prowler. Who is the guy, and why did you knock him off?"
"His name is Frank Ames."
"Oh!" Melissa gasped.
"Frank," said Beulah Porter Cowys, swallowing with a little croaking sound. "Gee."
"Frank Ames," Trent repeated thoughtfully. "I met someone by that name at the faculty lunch... Isn't he a red-haired chap? English assistant?"
"That's the one," said Doan.
"Why did you murder him?" Humphrey demanded.
"I just got through telling you I didn't. The prowler did."
"Sure, sure," said Humphrey. "Don't quibble. Just tell me why it happened."
"I'm not sure why. Ames doesn't live here, but I think he must have been visiting someone in the building."
"M-me," said Melissa. "He took me to dinner and the m-movies."
"That's it," said Doan. "Which way did he bring you home--did he drive up the hill?"
"Yes."
Doan nodded at Humphrey. "Here's what happened, then. He swung his car around in a U-turn in the middle of the street. His headlights swung across that alley just as the prowler was coming out of the back areaway. Ames saw him. I think probably the prowler either had taken off or was taking off his mask. He wouldn't want to run around the streets with it on."
"You mean, Ames recognized you?" Humphrey asked.
"I think he must have recognized the prowler. Otherwise Ames wouldn't have gotten out of his car, and he did. His car is headed into the curb ten feet this way from the alley with the door still open. He jumped out and went to find out what the prowler was up to. If he hadn't known the prowler and recognized him, the prowler would just have batted him one like he did Melissa, instead of cutting his throat."
Humphrey nodded at two of the deputies. "Go take a look. See how much of this he's making up."
The two deputies ducked out the door.
Melissa was bent double. "It was my--my--my fault..."
Humphrey pounced. "What? What's that? Speak up."
"Shut up," said Beulah Porter Cowys. "Don't pay any attention to this fat boob, Melissa. Don't say anything at all if you don't want to."
Melissa said slowly, getting the words out with enormous effort: "He tried to ask me to marry him. He had many times--before. I liked him, but...this time I avoided--I slipped away. Oh, Beulah!"
Beulah Porter Cowys seized her competently by the shoulders. "Right in here, honey. Come on." She boosted Melissa to her feet and headed her for the bedroom.
"Wait, now!" Humphrey shouted. "About this prowler. What kind of a mask did he have on?"
"A stocking--a silk stocking. Black. Over his whole head."
"Whole head," said Humphrey. "Whole head...What about the hands? Did you see them?"
"Gloves. Black shiny gloves."
"That's all," said Beulah Porter Cowys, shepherding Melissa into the bedroom and slamming the door.
"Who is that dame?" Humphrey asked. "The old scrawny one?"
"Beulah Porter Cowys," Trent told him.
"Where'd she come from?"
"She lives down the hall. She heard Melissa Gregory scream and came to see what was wrong."
"She did, did she?" said Humphrey. "Does she ever wear slacks?"
"No," said Doan.
"Yes," said Trent at the same time. He looked at Doan, startled. "What?"
Doan said wearily: "Humphrey is going off into another of his dreams. The prowler wasn't Beulah Porter Cowys because I was chasing the prowler."
"Oh, yeah?" said Humphrey. "It could have been her--with gloves to hide her nail polish and a stocking over her noggin to hide her long hair."
"Smoke another pipe," Doan advised.
"Okay, smarty," said Humphrey. "Did you see this prowler? I mean, did you pass a mirror on your way out?"
"No," said Doan, "but I can give you a handy item of information about him. He packs a gun as well as a knife. It's a .22, and it's an automatic, so it's probably a Colt Woodsman. He's very handy with it. If you'll look, you'll find three ejected shells on the other side of the street light north of the building."
"Now you're dreaming. Why would he want to pack a peashooter like a .22?"
"If you can shoot like he can, you don't need anything bigger." Beulah Porter Cowys came out of the bedroom. "You'll have to adjourn this bull session. Melissa is all shot to pieces. Scat."
"Not so fast," said Humphrey. "Just how well do you know Doan, eh?"
"Just as well as I want to," said Beulah Porter Cowys, "and that's hardly at all."
One of the uniformed deputies squeezed through the front door. "The body is there, sir, and so is the car. It's registered in Ames' name. But look what I found back of the seat."
In front of him, balanced like a tray, he was carrying a very large, thick book with a flossy hand-carved leather cover. The deputy was supporting it with the tips of his fingers. On the cover, stamped in gold, was the legend: THE PATHWAY TO PERFECTION--HELOISE OF HOLLYWOOD.
"I peeked in it," said the deputy. "It tells how to get rid of your wrinkles if you're an old dame and got lots."
"Hmmm," sa
id Humphrey. "Did your wife know Ames, Trent?"
"I don't think so," said Trent.
"She did," said Doan. "He was working for her."
"What?" said Beulah Porter Cowys incredulously. "Frank working for Heloise of Hollywood? You're just completely nuts!"
"Not this time," Doan told her. "She's getting together a new advertising campaign. It's going to be all about middle-aged women who had a big influence on history--had poems written to them and lakes named after them and wars started on account of them and all like that. Ames was doing the research for her."
"How do you know?" Beulah Porter Cowys demanded.
"Because Heloise told me so."
"Hmmm," said Humphrey. "Hmmmm. This case is beginning to develop some angles. Now suppose Ames was getting chummy with Trent's wife, and Trent found it out from Doan and hired Doan to hide in that alley and then lured Ames..."
"Here we go again," said Doan.
Humphrey ignored him. "Or suppose Doan told Heloise that her husband was getting chummy with this Melissa Gregory, and Heloise dropped in here to look around. Of course, Doan would cover for Heloise, because he could shake her down for plenty, and this Melissa would try to throw me off because she doesn't want any scandal. And Ames recognized Heloise and tried a little shaking down of his own, and Doan got mad about that..."
"Is this man crazy or something?" Trent demanded.
"He's certainly something," Doan agreed.
The telephone rang in the bedroom, and Humphrey and Beulah Porter Cowys made a simultaneous dash for it. Melissa was lying face down on the bed, her face buried in her arms. Beulah Porter Cowys leaned over her and grabbed the phone.
"Here!" Humphrey shouted. "Give me that! I warn you now--"
"Shut up," said Beulah Porter Cowys, kicking at him. "Get away...Hello...Yes...Is he a fat, pig-faced character with a big mouth?... Yes, he's here." She extended the telephone toward Humphrey. "It's for you."
"Hello!" Humphrey bellowed. "Who are--Who?... Yes, sir... Yes, sir... Yes, sir... T. Ballard Bestwyck and the mayor and the president of the Chamber of Commerce and the district attorney--all of them? But Doan doesn't know them... Yes, sir. I know they know you... Yes, sir... Yes, sir... But there's been a murder, and Doan is involved--Yes, sir... Yes, sir... At once, sir."
Humphrey handed the phone back to Beulah Porter Cowys. He looked a little wilted. He went back into the living room and stared at Doan with his shoulders hunched and his lower lip stuck out.
"Hello there, Humphrey," said Doan.
Humphrey grunted. "Take the cuffs off him," he said drearily.
The deputy who wasn't carrying the book unlocked the handcuffs.
"Give me my gun," Doan requested.
Humphrey nodded reluctantly, and the deputy handed over the Police Positive. Doan put it in his waistband.
"I don't know yet how you got all that big noise to front for you," Humphrey told him bitterly, "but, oh, you just wait. There'll come a day. And in the meantime--"
Humphrey spun around suddenly and kicked viciously at the spot where Carstairs had been sitting an instant before. Carstairs wasn't there now. Humphrey's foot went through the space he had been occupying and hit the wall hard.
"Oooh-woooo!" Humphrey bellowed.
Carstairs looked out from behind Doan's chair and regarded him with an air of polite inquiry.
Melissa appeared in the bedroom doorway, holding on to both sides of it for support. "You get out of my apartment--all of you!"
Humphrey was standing on one foot, holding the other with both hands. "Now wait a minute. I've got to look for clues--"
"Get out of here!"
Eric Trent said, "I don't think you should stay alone--"
"Shut up, you! Get out!"
Beulah Porter Cowys said, "I'll stay with--"
"Beulah, no! I don't want anyone here! I Just want everyone to leave me alone! Now, go away! Go home! All of you! Get out!"
"Let me leave Carstairs here," Doan said. "He won't bother you, and he won't let anyone in you don't want in."
"All right, all right, all right!"
Doan pointed his finger at Carstairs. "You stay. Do you hear? No one comes in unless she says so."
Carstairs was leaning against the wall again, dozing. He didn't open his eyes.
Trent said: "I still don't think--"
"Get out, get out, get out!" Melissa screamed.
She ran at them and pushed and shoved indiscriminately. They all bumbled and stumbled out into the hall, and she slammed the door and locked it and then propped a chair under the knob.
She sighed shakily, then. Her knees didn't feel like they belonged to her. She went into the bedroom, dragging her heels, and began to undress.
She was unhooking her brassiere when there was a sudden loud and juicy plop from the direction of the kitchen. Melissa stiffened rigidly, feeling her heart inflate like a balloon, and then she whirled around and ran through the living room to the kitchen doorway. She snapped on the light.
The refrigerator door was wide open, and on the floor in front of it there was a large glass bowl of potato salad, wrong side up. Carstairs was regarding this last phenomenon with an air of incredulous amazement.
"You--you!" Melissa shouted. "You thief! You food robber!"
She slashed at him with the brassiere. He dodged that with negligent ease. Melissa's knees gave out entirely, and she sat down and began to bawl, pounding the floor with her fists. Carstairs stared at her, aghast at this unseemly display of emotion, and then stalked into the living room, picking up his feet queasily.
After awhile, Melissa's sobs tapered off in to whimpering sniffles. She got up wearily and picked up the potato salad and wiped the floor.
Shutting the refrigerator door, she went back into the living room. Carstairs was nowhere in sight. Melissa went into the bedroom.
"You!" she shrieked. "Get off that bed! You're not going to sleep--Get off! Get out!"
Carstairs retreated into the living room.
"On the floor!" Melissa shouted. "That's where you're going to sleep! Lie down!"
Carstairs bent his legs slightly and then let himself go and hit the floor hard enough to rattle the windowpanes. He rolled over on his side and commenced to snore instantly.
"Oh," said Melissa. "Oh, dear."
* * *
Melissa slept without the hindrance of pajamas or nightgowns or other such impedimenta, and consequently she was in the best condition possible to get the full benefit of Carstairs' nose when he placed it precisely between her shoulder blades. She came out of the dim, pleasant shadows of her private dream world in one hair-raising leap.
"What--what--what--"she gabbled, sitting up and kicking frantically at the covers.
Carstairs backed away from the bed. The sun was pushing bright, inquisitive fingers through the half-closed slats of the Venetian blinds.
"You!" said Melissa. "I'll break every bone--Oooooh!" She felt the side of her face in a gently experimental way. Her jaw was hot and puffed and sore. It felt awful. Her mouth didn't taste at all good, either.
"Oh--oh--oh," said Melissa miserably. She dug at her eyes with her fists and then squinted painfully at the little Spanish clock. "Ten minutes of seven! What do you mean by waking me up at the crack of dawn, you stupid brainless monstrosity?" Carstairs continued to regard her with an air of urgency. "What's wrong with you?" Melissa demanded. Carstairs lifted one forefoot and then the other in a painfully anxious way.
"Oh!" said Melissa. "You want to go, don't you! And the door downstairs is closed... Oh, damn! All right, all right. Wait until I get dressed."
She went into the bathroom and looked in the mirror and nearly frightened herself to death. Her cheek was inflated ludicrously, and along the lower side it was beginning to exhibit an interesting tinge of purple.
Carstairs whiffled from near the front door. "All right," said Melissa, hurrying.
She put on some slacks and moccasins and a sweater and swiped at her hair with
a comb and then went out into the living room. Carstairs was standing with his knees bent and his nose pressed against the front door.
Melissa opened it for him, and Carstairs shot down the hall and raised rumbling echoes on the stairs. He was waiting unwillingly at the front door of the building when Melissa got there. She opened the door for him. Carstairs slipped through and dove gratefully into the shrubbery that circled the building.
The Essential Works of Norbert Davis Page 28
