Exeunt Murderers

by Anthony Boucher

  “Yes, darling?”

  “You are … coming back?”

  “As soon as the panting pressure of my public permits. Nice ad lib alliteration? ’Bye, sweet.”

  The door closed. Fran sat, looking out through the walls of the drably familiar hotel room, through the heat waves of the Sacramento night, into a future that had always seemed unthinkable.

  Even the man from the Los Angeles Times, who was at once the most conservative and the most accurate reporter there, admitted that Steve Darrow was in top form. Of course you couldn’t quite use the wording, that this caucus was to goose the Republican administration into carrying out its promises for the long-overdue new Constitution; but the idea made a good story, especially with the details of the panels planned for tomorrow to prescribe precise constitutional definitions on such problems as Fair Employment, the rights of labor, and the claims of senior citizens.

  Then came the accustomed needling, and Steve really hit his stride.

  “Doesn’t your caucus pretty consistently veer toward the left?” the Times man asked.

  “Sure,” Steve said, grinning. “Look, boys: you know by now you’ll never find me on the right. And as for the center … The middle of the road in politics is like the white line down the middle of a highway; it’s a useful guide, but it’s too narrow to travel very far on.”

  The man from California’s one nominally liberal newspaper picked up the ball. “But haven’t a lot of the members of your caucus been investigated and condemned by the Un-Californian Committee?”

  Steve nodded affably. “Including me, as if you didn’t know when you asked it. Remember that term they used to damn people with during wartime loyalty investigations—‘premature anti-fascist’? Well, there was one brief period when anti-fascism was in style, but now it’s gone out with short skirts. And those of us who are still carrying on the fight, we get it in the neck from smug mugs like the Un-Californian Committee. We’re born out of time; I guess you might call us ‘posthumous anti-fascists.’”

  A Darrow conference was never dull. The liquor was always good, and here were two first-rate new wisecracks to enliven a basically sound news story. In one respect tonight had been disappointing; there’d been no major Darrow indiscretion. But the story was there, the charm was there, the bourbon and the Scotch were there, and the pressmen were glowing contentedly as Steve Darrow finally left them.

  He went along several bends of corridor and into room 529. It was about five minutes later that someone tapped on his door—a tall thin figure, wearing a trenchcoat in hottest Sacramento.

  In room 616 chaos had whelped a younger and less housebroken chaos. Time was crudely divided among plans for tomorrow’s panels, discussions of the probable motives and improbable ancestry of Steve Darrow, natural absences from the room, and attempts to maneuver a caucus alone with Peggy, with the inevitable result that no one was later able, when it became vitally necessary, to swear to any one’s whereabouts at a given moment.

  In room 221 the elderly Mrs. Varden stirred half-wakefully in the strange hotel bed. Mr. Varden murmured a soothing “Hush, Mother,” and rubbed his hand over the spot on her back that always brought sleep. Himself, he lay awake a little, wondering about tomorrow morning, partly because of the panel on farming and partly because of his uncertainty as to how well the new hired hand would attend to the milking in his absence.

  In room 732 Fran Michaels waited. She was happy that she had packed her best nightgown, and asked herself if she had had a subconscious motive in doing so. She loved the full-length mirror in the bathroom door, which had assured her that thirty-three years can leave remarkably little impress on a healthy body.

  Steve was giving a long conference. She hoped it was a good one; you never knew … She switched on the bed-light. She wanted to read; but neither the latest Queen anthology nor Ed Flynn’s memoirs of successful bossism seemed so suitable as she had expected them to be when she packed them. Then she remembered that hotel rooms always have a Bible.

  … I sleep, but my heart waketh, she read. It is the voice of my beloved that knocketh, saying, Open to me, my sister, my love, my dove, my undefiled …

  The telephone rang. She set down the open book and answered it.

  It was the voice of her beloved saying, “Sorry, my sweet. Something’s come up. Can’t possibly make it tonight.”

  She heard the click before she had found breath to speak.

  There was still little breath in that healthy body as she fumbled her way into clothes. Her inadvertent eye caught the mirror, which now considered thirty-three an absurd understatement.

  It is at times like these that hooks and snaps and zippers go on strike against humanity’s exploitation. It is at times like these that stockings snag and shoelaces break. It is at times like these that a heart is a nuisance because it’s too big for your throat and you can’t swallow it whole.

  It was almost fifteen minutes later that Fran passed room 616 on her way down. She heard a thickened voice say, “Look, haven’t we discussed that sonofabitch long enough?” and she thought, “They haven’t any right to talk that way about Steve, not even after—”

  She knocked on room 529 and nothing happened. (I sought him, but I could not find him; I called him, but he gave me no answer.) The knob turned with her pressure (My beloved put in his hand by the hole of the door) and she walked in. The room was empty. The bed was undisturbed. (Behold his bed, which is Solomon’s; threescore valiant men are about it, of the valiant of Israel.)

  It was as she turned to leave that she noticed that the bathroom light was on, and opened the half-ajar door to reveal the bloodstreaming stuck pig that had been like a roe or a young hart.

  Lieutenant Liebermann, of the Sacramento Police, now dominated room 529. The body had been photographed and removed. The girl had been carried, still unconscious, back to her own room, where a police doctor watched her. The case seemed as simple a one as the efficient Liebermann had ever encountered; but now, for a double check, he was listening once more to the maid’s story.

  “The party across the hall checked out late tonight, see,” she was repeating, “and they wanted to rent the room again, so I had to do a special overtime job of cleaning, see. And I could see the door of this room all the time. I seen Mr. Darrow go in here—I remember him from when he was governor—and I sort of kept an eye on the door because you never know what these politicians are up to, I always say, and Marge, that’s the other maid on this floor, she and I always swap stories about—”

  “Yes,” Lieutenant Liebermann interposed hastily. “I remember about Marge. And even about the daughter that got ruined by the Senator, or was it the other way round? Now this time please stick to the essential details. You saw Darrow come in here, and you watched. Then what?”

  “Then comes this tall skinny man in the raincoat, see. I didn’t rightly see his face, but you won’t find many men with raincoats in Sacramento, not in this weather you won’t. The Governor—I mean, Mr. Darrow—lets him in and he stays maybe five minutes.”

  “You saw him leave?”

  “Sure thing.”

  “And you said you canght a glimpse of Mr. Darrow through the door as the man in the raincoat was leaving?”

  “I sure did.”

  “And then?”

  “And then nothing for maybe ten, fifteen minutes. Then that woman comes and walks in without so much as a by-your-leave. It didn’t surprise me none; I’ve heard things about her and the Governor and how they—”

  “Yes. And then?”

  “Then after a couple of minutes I hear a yell and a thud and I come in and find them both on the bathroom floor and blood all over everything.” Her eyes glittered; Marge would obviously have to go some to top this story.

  “A man’s yell or a woman’s?”

  “I don’t rightly know …”

  “And then you very properly called down to the desk clerk, who called us. Now you’re willing to swear that no one came or went between the
time you saw Mr. Darrow with the man in the raincoat and the time when the woman arrived?”

  “I’ll take my Bible oath.”

  Liebermann rose and began to pace softly about the room. Officer Curran led the woman out. When he returned, the Lieutenant was whistling “The Song of the Vagabonds.” That always meant things were all wrapped up.

  The phone jangled and Curran answered it. “Yeah. Yeah sure,” he grunted, and hung up. “Look, Lieutenant,” he said. “You’d better be getting over to the press in 504. They’re going nuts. And what’s worse …”

  Liebermann groaned. “Let me guess. The Inspector’s there with them.”

  “Yeah. And you know what he’ll pull. Solve the whole lay without a gander at the facts, and leave you out on a limb.”

  Liebermann’s whistling had faded out as he continued to pace. “Let him have his fun. I’m not shooting off to the press till everything’s absolutely clear … and damn it, Curran, there’s something here that isn’t kosher.”

  Curran tried to look bright. “I got it, Lieutenant. The Absence of the Weapon.” The words somehow came out capitalized, like in the textbook.

  The Lieutenant shook his head. “No; that pins it on the girl tighter than ever. If the weapon weren’t missing, it could be suicide—though God knows from what motive. But look: …” He moved lithely about the room to illustrate his points.

  “His throat was cut in the bathroom. That’s positive—no blood anywhere else except a little the maid dragged around. The bathroom window’s jammed tight. He didn’t leave that room; and there’s no place in it where he could have disposed of a weapon. Whereas the girl could’ve come back into the bedroom and simply tossed it out of the front window—it could be something as small and unfindable as a razor blade—and gone back to the bathroom for her big collapsing act. No, that part’s airtight.”

  Curran brooded. “I liked that dame’s looks … Down the drain?” he suggested suddenly.

  “Uh uh. The can’s at the other end of the bathroom from the washstand he collapsed over. He could’ve thrown something in; but he didn’t cross that distance to flush it. No, we can reconstruct it exactly. His throat was sliced right in front of that washstand. He felt himself bleeding to death and held on to the stand and opened the cabinet to get something to stop it. Too late: he pitches forward into the basin and then slumps down onto the floor. Trace all that from hand prints—but his feet never moved from that spot after the blood started spouting.”

  “Then what’s eating you, Lieutenant?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe I’m just like you; I liked the dame’s looks. Maybe it’s just that it seems too damned easy … Come on; let’s have us another look at that dame.”

  The little group in room 616 was very sober now—as sober as all the subcaucuses had become as one by one they were visited by the routine police checkup on people in the hotel who had known Steve Darrow.

  Peggy’s rouge clowned absurdly on her white cheeks, and even Dr. Lackland’s black skin strove toward pallor.

  “And now where to?” Tony Packard was muttering. “Where does a caucus go without a leader?”

  “Leader … !” There was a snarl in Joe Hagedorn’s voice.

  “But who?” the doctor said softly. “That policeman seemed to imply that Miss Michaels …”

  Peggy snorted. “It couldn’t be Fran. That’s crazy. Everybody but Steve’s always known she’s nuts about him.”

  “Then if not Miss Michaels …” The doctor left his observation unfinished.

  They were silent. Each was remembering their futile efforts at explaining to the officer just who had been where when. They sat and stared at each other, and the smoke-filled room grew cloudier with unspoken thoughts.

  “You can talk to her now,” the doctor said in room 732, and added in an undertone, “Amazing physical resiliency after such a shock.”

  “Shock’s one word for it,” Liebermann grunted drily. He sat beside the bed and contemplated Fran Michaels’ freshly-washed face, her full but taut lips, her expressionless eyes, with a sympathy which surprised him.

  “Hello,” she said. “He was dead already, wasn’t he?”

  He nodded. “Why did you do it?” he asked not ungently.

  “It doesn’t matter.” Her voice was flat. “Nothing matters now that …” She paused as the meaning of his question began to sink in. Slowly she drew herself up on the bed. “Why did I do it?” There was a little life returning to her eyes now as they regarded him steadily.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Michaels.” Damn it, he was, at that. “But we’ve got all the proof in the world. We know you did it. Now tell us why.”

  “I …” She stopped and began to laugh. The doctor moved toward the bed, but she waved him back. “Please. It isn’t hysteria. Honest, boys. It’s … it’s just so damned funny.” This was high laughter, nervous laughter, but with its release she seemed to be reintegrating herself. “Listen,” she said at last. “Please. I don’t care if you have got all the proof in the world. I loved Stephen Darrow—no, I love him. Whoever killed him … killed most of me, too. And whatever’s left of me has to find out … Can anybody give me a cigaret?”

  Gravely Lieutenant Liebermann extended his pack. He watched her fumble one out and held a match for her. He inspected the drifting smoke intently as he said, “I’d never have made my commission if I wasn’t generally able to know when people are lying to me. But if I’m right in believing you, then the physical facts of the case are flatly impossible.”

  Fran almost smiled. “Impossible … Steve used to say that sometimes. He thought the governorship was impossible after they tried to smear him on that contract deal in Congress. Impossible—schmossible. I’m used to solving impossible things … for Steve. Why should I stop now?”

  “If you can solve this, Miss Michaels …” Liebermann shrugged. He lit a cigaret for himself, then quietly gave her the whole of the evidence.

  Steve Darrow would have recognized the alertness with which Fran pounced on the one essential detail. “The man in the raincoat! I guess the maid meant a trenchcoat?”

  “It does sound more likely.”

  “He’s important, isn’t he?”

  “I’ll admit I’d like to talk to him. But still—”

  “I think I know who he is, and I think I know how to find him. Can you give me an hour or two before you have to … do your duty?”

  “Not alone. Not possibly.” Fran’s lips were parting in protest as he added slowly, “But Officer Curran might …”

  Her eyes were fully agleam now, and her breath was light and rapid. “Then listen …”

  The only thoroughly contented people in the Hotel Legislator (aside perhaps from such solidly slumbering couples as the Vardens) were in 504. The press, to a man, was gleeful and gloating.

  “RED KILLS RED IN LOVE BRAWL,” the man from the local paper sighed blissfully. “Hey, won’t the Un-Califomian Committee have itself some fun? Two of their star red-hots in one murder case!”

  The Times man said practically, ‘It’ll put the lid on the Constitutional Caucus all right. Biggest damned scandal ever to hit California politics.”

  “But where’s your homicide Lieutenant?” the Chronicle complained. “When do we get the whole picture?”

  The Inspector sprawled heavily in the most comfortable chair, rejoicing internally in the fact that he belonged to the right wing of the Democratic Party. “You can practically make it up as you go, boys; it’s open and shut. But if you want Liebermann to tie the fancy knots on the package …”

  He turned ponderously as the door opened. “Hey, Liebie!” he called. “Get her booked yet?”

  Lieutenant Liebermann had some trouble clearing his throat. “I’m not making the arrest for another hour, Inspector,” he said, “if then.”

  He stood there and let the growling torrent pour over him. Maybe, he reminded himself, it had been a bright idea after all to start taking that extension course in law.

  “Look,
miss,” Curran protested as they left the Legislator’s bar, “I know the Lieutenant says it’d be good to find Trenchcoat because he saw him last and he can tell us was his mood like he might commit suicide, but so supposing it was? We proved he couldn’t have, not possibly.”

  Fran turned the corner and headed uptown away from the Capitol. “When Steve would get stuck on a long-range problem, I’d say lick the thing that’s closest first—then maybe the other straightens itself out. Right now the closest thing is Trenchcoat … I hope.”

  “And him you find with questions in bars?”

  The next bar interrupted Curran’s quest for an explanation. When they emerged from its air-cooled regions into the hot night, Fran resumed her footnotes. “I know only one guy that could be wearing a trenchcoat in this heat. He has some kind of blood deficiency and he always swears he’s freezing—I think some of it’s psychosomatic.” (Curran let that one pass.) “And,” Fran added, “he’s a contact man for the top people in the Republican administration.”

  “And he drinks these tonics because he’s sick?”

  “No, just because he likes to. But he does always drink gin and tonic water; it’s his only tipple. Most bars don’t have it; so he has to hunt. The Legislator bar said he went up this way …”

  Five bars later Officer Curran had the worst thirst he could remember ever possessing while on duty. He had never looked at so many bottles with a still dry gullet. The dame seemed not to worry; something burned in her that lit up better than alcohol.

  And it was then, in the bar of a small hotel, that the barkeep said, “Yeah. Served a gin and tonic to a guy in a trenchcoat about half an hour ago. Said something about he was registered here and never thought of looking for his pet drink here till last thing.”

  “Why couldn’t we just have checked hotel registers?” Curran asked as they went toward the desk.

  “He uses different names. He’s usually on errands which are kind of …” She broke off to question the clerk. The sleepy young man hesitated until Curran showed his badge. Then they were riding up to 317.