King of Murder (10 page)

“Well, that's what it was like—insanity. I didn't mean to. I didn't plan to kill her. I don't even remember doing it.”

“How did it happen?”

Herculeah was relieved to see that Gilda had not actually picked up the knife, and had withdrawn her hand. Herculeah knew Gilda had murdered with that knife. Once it was in her hand, she wouldn't hesitate to use it again.

She had to keep her
talking.
Maybe Mathias King would come home. Maybe something would happen. She knew she could always dart around Gilda and beat her to the stairs, but she would have to leave the knife! With the fingerprints!

“She
was like a sister to you,” Herculeah said.

“Oh, yes. She was the older sister. She handed down her clothes to me. My mother was housekeeper there—did I mention that? I wore her cast-off clothes, and she never let me forget it. In front of our friends, she would say things like, ‘I always wore that blouse with the top buttons open. It showed off my gold chains.' ”

“She doesn't sound like much of a friend to me.”

“She was a very greedy girl. She had everything, but like so many greedy people, she wanted it all.”

“I don't understand people like that.”

“If I got a friend, Rebecca would move heaven and earth to get the friend away from me. And she had the money to do it. I thought when we went to high school that I would be free of her. She was going to an expensive private school, but at the last minute, it was decided that I would attend the private school, too—it was a gift from her parents. My mother wouldn't let me refuse—she said it would be ungrateful.”

Herculeah took a step backward, away from the table with the knife. Gilda followed, too intent on her story to notice she was being led away from her weapon.

“All my life it was like that. The first real happiness I had in life was at Magnolia Downs. I made real friends. I had a nickname for the first time in my life. I was Gilda. People liked me. I had my Tai Chi class.”

“But if you were so happy—”

Gilda interrupted. “I wasn't going to be happy for long.”

“Why? What happened?”

“On that day—the day of the murder—Rebecca asked to see me. She said she had a surprise.

“I went and she was in the library at her desk. Spread out before her were papers.

“‘Look,' she said. I walked around the desk and looked down.

“‘Isn't it wonderful!' she said. ‘I'm going to be at Magnolia Downs with you. I've bought the Magnolia suite. They're renovating it for me. It has a lovely living room.' She pointed to the picture of a beautiful, spacious room. She said, ‘I can have parties there, and—I was saving this for a surprise, but I have to tell you. It's too good to keep. I've been taking Tai Chi classes. I have a private teacher and I've caught on so quickly I'll be able to help you teach your classes.'

“And I remember nothing of the next few moments. I only know that I looked down and there was a knife in my hand and Rebecca had been stabbed—I had just stabbed her once—and she was dead.”

Herculeah took another measured step backward. She held her breath. Yes! Gilda followed.

“I ran out of the house. The knife was still in my hand, and I flung it aside. I got into my car and drove away. On the way home I lost control of the car and struck a tree. I wasn't wearing a seat belt—I was too upset—and my face struck the steering wheel. When I got back to the Downs I was in shock, trembling, incoherent—and bloody. I got a lot of sympathy for my accident, and the nurse checked me into the infirmary at once.”

“Did the police come?”

“No, it wasn't a serious accident.”

“I meant about the murder.”

“Rebecca's body wasn't discovered until Monday, when the maid arrived. From Friday till Monday I was in and out of consciousness. I kept calling her name—Rebecca, Rebecca. And they tried to reach her—everyone at the Downs knew she was my best friend—but of course they couldn't. I had such dreams that I actually believed the murder hadn't happened.”

“Until the police came.”

“Yes, I knew what I'd done then, and I expected I would be arrested. My prints were on the knife, but that was the strange thing. They didn't find the knife. I had thrown it on the lawn in full view of anyone who came up the walkway, but they didn't find it.”

“And they never found it.”

“No. If they had, I would have been arrested.”

“But your clothes! Her blood must have been on your clothes. Didn't the police ask about that?”

“By the time the police came to the Downs, the clothes had been washed, and all traces of blood—hers and mine—had disappeared.”

“That's quite a story,” Herculeah said. “You got away with murder.”

“Not yet I haven't. That's why I'm here.”

Herculeah's hair was beginning to frizzle. That meant the danger was real.

“I'm going to take the knife”—she glanced back to the table where it lay—“I'm going to wipe off my prints, and put it where it will be sure to be found.”

“Like where?” Herculeah asked.

She didn't like the look on Gilda's face. It was as if another person had taken over her body, her mind. Her eyes glowed with madness.

Like in my chest? Herculeah thought. Surely not.

“Then I will depart—alone—and your body will be found in Mathias King's Den of Iniquity, and he will be the prime suspect.”

Herculeah glanced aside. Now she was beside the last table. And there was the sacrificial dagger that Mathias King had hoped to embed in her chest.

“You're not going to stab me with that little letter opener,” Herculeah said with a loud, scornful laugh. Startled, Gilda turned to look at her. “Sure it worked last time, but your friend was unarmed. And I'm not unarmed. I've got a dagger.”

She picked up the sacrificial dagger and waved it in Gilda's face. Gilda's fevered eyes followed every movement.

When she goes for the dagger and tries to stab me, I'm throwing her to the floor, grabbing the murder knife, and I'm outta here, Herculeah thought.

“That is a better weapon,” Gilda said.

She came closer to Herculeah, and Herculeah could imagine this was how she had looked before stabbing her friend.

Gilda reached out, wrested the dagger from Herculeah, and with a cry of triumph, thrust it at Herculeah's chest. Herculeah was just ready to throw her to the ground when she heard a scream at the door. It sounded like Meat.

She looked. Mathias King and Meat arrived just in time to see the thrust.

Herculeah's face was turned to them, and Meat knew it was the last time he would ever look into those hauntingly beautiful gray eyes.

She uttered what he knew would be her last word. “Meat.”

“I still can't believe she's alive,” Meat told the room for the fourth time. “I mean, you see somebody get stabbed like that, they stay stabbed.” He turned back to Herculeah. “I still can't believe you're alive!”

“It was a fake dagger, Meat.” She had explained this a lot, too. “The blade went up in the hilt. That's why I suckered her into using it instead of the knife. I wanted to preserve the fingerprints. Also, I felt that if she'd killed with that knife once, she wouldn't hesitate to do it again.”

“I still can't believe you're alive.”

“Could we get on with this?” Chico Jones said. Herculeah had called her father, and he was here in his official capacity.

They were gathered in the living room at One Kings Row. Herculeah and Meat sat side by side on a sofa. Mathias King stood leaning against the back of the chair in front of the fire-place. He had a faint smile upon his face as if he was enjoying the whole thing immensely.

Chico Jones sat at a table, and on the other side of the table sat his sergeant, taking notes.

Rita Hayworth had been driven to the police station, where she would be charged with assault and, if the fingerprints on the knife turned out to be hers, with the murder of Rebecca Carwell.

“I think I've got most of it except for a few points.”

He looked up at Mathias King with his official expression. Chico Jones's stock in trade was
never
letting anyone know what he was thinking, but Herculeah could tell that Mathias King was not off the hook.

“Mr. King, how did you come to be in possession of the murder weapon?”

“The knife? I found it.”

“Where did you find it?”

“On the lawn of Rebecca Carwell's house.”

“And why had you gone to her house?”

“At her invitation. We had become friends. Originally, we had met at a magic show at the Downs—but Rebecca had invited me to her home many times. I liked the house and, from the first visit, intended to use it in the book.”

“And on the day of her murder you happened to find a bloody knife lying on the lawn?”

“Well, yes.”

“In the front yard.”

“Yes.”

“Dad, I just remembered something,” Herculeah interrupted. “When Gilda—Miss Hayworth—and I were going up the walk, at a certain point she glanced over at the lawn and stumbled. I know, I just
know
she was remembering the day she threw the knife there, because she looked pale and I said—”

“I'd like to get on with my questioning, Herculeah, if you don't mind.”

“But I felt that would be important. You see, if—”

“Herculeah.”

“Yes, Dad.”

Chico Jones sighed. “Now getting back to the knife. You saw it on the lawn?”

“Yes.”

“And you picked it up?”

“After wrapping it carefully in my scarf.”

“Why, Mr. King?”

“I thought it might turn out to be important. Also”—he gave a shrug—“I have a weakness for weapons. I cannot resist.”

“After you wrapped the knife—carefully in your scarf—did you then proceed up the steps to the house?”

“I did.”

“And?”

“I rang the bell, but no one came to the door.”

“Did that seem strange to you?”

“Yes, but—”

“But what?”

“Nothing. I thought she had gone out and that I would call her that evening. I did call that evening, but got no answer.”

“When did you learn of Miss Carwell's death?”

“I read about it in the paper.”

“And did you not, upon reading it in the paper, think perhaps the knife was of importance?”

“I guess I didn't make the connection.”

“Yes, he did, Dad,” Herculeah said, “because he told me that there was blood on the knife and—”

“I'll handle this, Herculeah.”

“Actually I think I did tell her that.”

Chico Jones turned his eyes back to Mathias King. “You tampered with evidence and obstructed justice, Mr. King, and I'm going to see that you're charged.”

“Should I call my lawyer?”

“I think you're going to need one. There may be additional charges after I speak with my daughter.”

Chico Jones turned to the sergeant, who was closing his notebook. “You have anything else, Sergeant?”

“No, sir.”

“Then I suggest we all go home. Herculeah, would you and Meat like a ride?”

“Yes.” They said the word together as if it was old times.

Herculeah and Meat got in the backseat of the car and sat side by side.

“Oh, I've got so much to tell you, Meat. I don't know where to begin. I'll start at Death's Door.”

She told about her visit with Uncle Neiman, then about her Tai Chi class, and then about the murder house.

When she got to the part about the tea party at One Kings Row, she happened to glance up and see that her father was watching her in the rearview mirror.

“Don't look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like I've done something criminal.”

“Have you done something criminal?”

“Well, if you're planning on accusing me of illegal entry, it won't stick. I had an invitation. The only thing you can possibly accuse me of is breaking and exiting, which I did.”

She turned back to Meat. “Now, where was I?” she said.

“You won't believe who called me,” Herculeah said to Meat. It was eleven o'clock, and she and Meat were having their evening phone conversation.

“Not the murderess.”

“No, Mathias King. He wanted to apologize for everything that happened. He explained that he'd had writer's block, and he felt that if he could see me on the sacrificial altar, it would cure him.”

“I'm still glad you didn't do it.”

“Me, too, but you know what? He said he had been writing all evening. He said just seeing the sacrificial dagger pierce my chest did the trick. Course it didn't actually pierce my chest.”

“It sure looked like it did.”

“And you still can't believe I'm alive.”

“That wasn't what I was going to say.” Actually, it had been exactly what he was going to say, but he thought quickly and came up with: “So what do you think this had to do with Hercules? All of your other cases involved one of the labors of Hercules—the Cretan Bull, the Many-Headed Hydra.”

“Well, remember when we were in Hidden Treasures and Mathias King was describing the murders in his book?”

“I remember.”