Time Off for Murder (23 page)

  "Caught cold? Oh, you did. Your shoes are sopping. Don't get sick now, Johnny, please. When we've so much to do."

  Johnny Reese touched her hand. "That's what I did it for. To get a little sympathy. Don't worry about me. I'm strong as a horse."

  But at nine o'clock that evening, he called Miss Carner's apartment, and his voice was thick. "Guess where I am?"

  "At Headquarters."

  "Nope. In bed. With two aspirins and a hot lemonade waiting till I make this call. Must of caught a cold. Shouldn't go to the country. Too much fresh air. 'S bad for you."

  "Any fever?"

  "A little. Listen. I just had the Chief on the wire. He saw Rockey all right. And he got slapped right down. Rockey says to him: 'I ain't takin' no moider raps for nobody. I got my own troubles. I'm sitting in the can, taking it on the chin for a lot of suckers so the D.A. can get himself a reputation. But you can't pin no moider raps on me. I don't care whatcha found and whatcha know, you gotta convince a jury before you can tie a moider onto me. I don't know nothing and I ain't sayin' nothing.' The boss asks him does he know a cop named MacKinoy and he looks him square in the eye and he says: 'Me no speak English, Inspector.' And he asks him did he ever visit the Gordon dame, and he gives him the same answer: 'No speak English.' So that means he knew them both all right. And he asks him if it's a fact he spent the whole evening of the nineteenth with Vigo. And he says: 'If Gene says so.' And then he tells him the Knight girl has been found killed. And Rockey says: 'Now ain't that too bad. If she was one of my friends, I'd send a wreath.' And there's a cable went off to Stockholm police tonight. But we can't get to the steamship lines and the passport office till tomorrow. That's all, sister. Did I give you something to think about? See you tomorrow. Nighty-night."

  When Miss Carner hung up the receiver, the hawk-nosed gentleman who sat on her living room sofa, said stiffly: "I suppose it was that Reese guy."

  "You're right again, Chris"

  "Seeing a good deal of him, aren't you?"

  "Not enough for you to get worried."

  "I'm not worried."

  "Oh no, you're not. You just came down here tonight to see a man about a dog."

  "Practically." Chris Whittaker grinned. "I'll never be any good at keeping up a feud. By rights, after the way you walked out on me on a busy Saturday, I hadn't ought to ever speak to you again. But what do I do? I tell the boss you came down with the grippe and come around to prove to myself that I'm a liar. That's me all over. Just tell me you're sorry for what you did and you'll be back tomorrow."

  "Oh no. Grippe takes a long time. Days and days. I couldn't make a liar of you."

  "The store'll be sending flowers." 

  "It won't be necessary. At least I hope it won't."

The sealed walnut casket stood in the window bay, aloof and secretive. Reluctant sunlight threw the skeleton shadow of the rubber plant across a blanket of white gardenias, pillow of purple orchids, sheaves of roses, virginal pink and white. The air was heavy as cream with the odor of decaying blossoms.

  Sliding doors, between parlor and hall, parlor and dining room had been rolled back; the undertaker's folding chairs set in precise rows.

  Contempora, in its new spring tailleurs and silly hats, its white gloved hands decorously laced in laps, took up six rows.

  In the front row sat dowagers, with high-bridged noses and high-boned net collars, piebald sealskin capes drawn over aristocratic spines, creaking genteelly on the narrow chairs, sending forth waves of lavender and camphor and the pleasant tinkle of jet. Beside them, aged gallants leaned on gold-headed canes, twirled waxed mustaches, tugged at pepper and salt vandykes.

  "Where on earth did they come from? " Terry Cayle whispered to Mary Carner. "Out of the woodwork - or the wax-works?"

  "Hush! They're the family. Cousins. Bluebloods, darling!"

  At the foot of the staircase, Agnes Ramsgate watched the open front door, her eyes gleaming sullenly under the black scoop of an ancient felt cloche.

  People dribbled in: flat-footed plainclothesmen, pall-bearers in black morning coats, reporters, press cards in their hats; Miss Knight's erstwhile receptionist and clerk, Saxon Rorke in gray spats and black derby.

  Rorke greeted Agnes courteously. He saw Miss Carner, nodded to her, then made his way to the front row, rested his hat on his knees, his chin on his hand, contemplating the casket.

  Henrietta Wickliffe leaned over Mary's chair, breathed down her neck: "Is that the fiancé?"

  "It's Rorke."

  "Phyllis knew how to pick them. Will there be court mourning or can a girl try right away?"

  "Ghoul! If you're robbing graves, here's Van Arsdale, the collar man."

  Henrietta Wickliffe turned up her nose at the short, pudgy, baldish man, with rimless spectacles on a moon-face, who walked gravely to the casket, bowed his head, covered his eyes with a gray-gloved hand. A sympathetic susurrus drifted against his back, but Miss Wickliffe murmured: "Nothing doing. He's bread and butter. Give me the crepes suzettes."

  The young receptionist from Phyllis' erstwhile office stopped beside Miss Carner's chair. "You're the detective, aren't you?" she said. "You were right. There
was
something to worry about."

  "Where's Mister Struthers?" Mary asked her.

  "Haven't seen him since we closed the office. Well, what do you know! Here's our homicide case."

  A girl in a shabby green coat, collared with malodorous rabbit, had stumbled into the parlor. She was a large girl, flat-nose flour white, blobs of rouge on broad cheek bones. She teetered in the doorway, her blue eyes circling the room. As they reached the window bay where the casket stood, they retreated, round and dulled with fear.

  Mary stepped to the girl's side. "You're Sophie, aren't you?"

  The girl inclined her head in a slight nod of affirmation.

  Mary extended her hand. The girl touched it with icy fingers.

  "Don't be afraid," Mary said gently. "Come in. You've a right to be here. Phyllis was your friend. Sit with me." She linked her arm in Sophie's, drew her down into a chair. The girl pulled her hat low over her forehead, her coat collar higher about her chin. Mary could see the poor creature's knees knocking together.

  "Family reunion," Mary thought. "Rorke. Van Arsdale. Sophie Duda and Contempora. The reporters. Everybody but Struthers and Peterson. And Johnny Reese…. His cold. I should have telephoned him. I'll call right after the funeral."

  The undertaker's men closed the front doors. Chatter dwindled, leaving a residue of creaking chairs, rustling garments. Heads turned toward the hall. Lyman Knight moved slowly down the staircase, clinging to the arm of his housekeeper, the two black clad figures, dramatic against the turkey red carpet. Lyman Knight's eyes were lustreless, his hair disordered. Agnes settled him gently in an armchair at the back of the room.

  "Dearly beloved," the clergyman began. "We are assembled here to say our last farewells to one cut down untimely, one who now stands before the merciful seat of judgment."

  At Mary Carner's side, Sophie Duda sobbed in bubbling gurgles.

  The room grew stifling. The minister's voice droned: "I shall fear no evil, for Thou art with me. Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me…. I shall dwell in the house of the Lord forever…."

  Agnes buttoned Lyman Knight into his overcoat. Wilfred Van Arsdale took the old man's arm, led him toward the steps. Newspaper cameras winked in their faces.

  Laverne Sullivan moved toward Mary." My nose shiny?" she whispered. "I feel queer about powdering my nose here." She lowered her lips to Mary's ear. "Who's your girl friend?"

  Mary got up, moved a few paces off. "Don't you know?" The girl had sagged down in her chair, soaked in sorrow. "That's the Duda girl. Phyllis' homicide client. Wasn't she in your jail?"

  "No. She was tried up in Bronx County. Not Manhattan. I'd like to have known her. Infanticide, wasn't it? She'd be an interesting psychological to do."

  "An interesting psychological? Oh yes…. You know them all, don't you? Look, Laverne. I've got to talk to you. I've just realized. Do you remember the day of the luncheon? The time Phyllis didn't show up? There'd been a raid the night before on the house next to the place where Phyllis was found. Flo Gordon's house."

  "Flo Gordon!" Laverne Sullivan puckered her beautiful brow. "Of course I remember. I'll never forget her. She was the one who smoked cigars…. What's the matter with you, Carner? Are you crazy? Why are you shaking my hand like that?"

  "Gratitude, my pet. You don't know what you've done for me. Is Flo still in jail?"

  "Not Flo. Of course not. She only had thirty days." Laverne laughed. "Almost time for her to be back. Why the sudden interest? What's Flo Gordon in your life?"

  "Nothing in my life. But she may have been in Phyllis'. If Flo Gordon smokes cigars she may know how Phyllis died - or why."

  Laverne began: "If that's not a
non-sequitur,
I never met one!"

  Mary interrupted. "I'd like to see whatever records you have of the Gordon woman. And of the other girls in her house. Is it possible?"

  "I'm not supposed to, darling. They're confidential…. Of course, they could be subpoenaed. But," she reconsidered, "you're probably not going to write a piece for
True Story
about them…. I think it might be arranged. When will you be around?"

  Mary said: "I could come right over to the prison after the funeral."

  Laverne shook her head. "No can do. I'm tied up the rest of today."

  "Tomorrow then? In the morning?"

  "Make it about noon. I'll have the Flo Gordon record ready for you…. Mary, someone's trying to get your eye. . . The handsome man."

  Saxon Rorke touched Mary's arm.

  "Miss Carner."

  "Oh, Mister Rorke. How are you? You look better. Are you? Miss Sullivan, Mister Rorke."

  Saxon Rorke bowed. He gave Laverne a quick appraisal, but he drew Mary aside. "Are you going over to St. Marks for the burial? Can I drive you?"

  "It's hardly necessary," she demurred. "Just a few blocks east. And there was someone here I wanted to talk to. Thought I'd walk over with her." She looked around. Sophie Duda had melted away. Mary frowned. "I don't see her now."

  Saxon Rorke said: "You're the someone here I want to talk to. Please drive over with me."

  He held her elbow. A photographer tilted his camera toward them as they came down the steps together. "No. Please," Mary protested, but Saxon Rorke said: "I don't mind. It's their job." The camera clicked. They squirmed through the pavement crowd.

  Down near the corner, the long hood of Rorke's black Cadillac glistened.

  "It's quite a bus," Mary said. "Big as a hearse."

  Rorke looked displeased. "This is a pleasure car," he said stiffly. He let himself into the driver's seat, drew on his driving gloves. "I'm going to take the long way around. I want to talk to you."

  "I wanted to talk to you, too. There was something I meant to ask you about the other day at your apartment. When you took sick."

  He turned the ignition key. "What was that?" he asked.

  She hesitated. "Nothing terribly important. Just something that struck me as odd. Are you certain that Phyllis understood she was to meet you at the Rushmore Grill the night she disappeared? Was it a definite appointment?"

  He raised his brows. "Of course. Why, of course. Why do you ask?"

  She shook her head. "No special reason," she answered, tight-lipped.

  "What's wrong? Has anyone questioned that appointment?"

"No," she assured him. "No one has."

"Then, why . . ." His manner was importunate.

  She shook her head again. "Let's not talk about it. Have you seen Inspector Heinsheimer yet? He's been trying to reach you."

  "Spoke to him on the telephone early this morning. Promised him I'd be down right after the funeral. We've been out of town for the week-end. Li and I and the dogs. Doctor's suggestion. To take it easy after that attack on Saturday."

  He was driving in first speed down the Square, past the funeral cortege.

  "Quite a turnout," Mary observed. "Struthers was the only one missing."

  "Struthers?" He rolled the name on his tongue. "Struthers. Wasn't he the secretary? Did I hear somewhere that he was an ex-convict?"

  She nodded. "You're well-informed."

  "Not as well as I'd like to be." His gear-shift rasped into second, then slid into high speed. "Have the police been in touch with Struthers?"

  "Not yet. He's a little hard to find."

  "Wouldn't it be a good idea to locate him? Question him?"

  "Undoubtedly. The Department would appreciate any suggestions of where to find him. Do you know?"

  He shrugged. "I wish I could help them. I'm not much use, I'm afraid. I'd like to help. You know, I would. Has anything new developed? Any clues?"

  "Nothing definite."

  "Oh come, Miss Carner, you don't have to be so cagey with me. I'm sure you and the bright minds of the Department have gotten some leads over the weekend."

  She said: "The Inspector himself would have to tell you about them."

  He put his hand on her arm. "I can understand the need for discretion. But do you think it's quite fair to treat me this way? I've got an interest in this, too, you know. Phyllis was my fiancee."

  The huge car was ploughing eastward through narrow, congested Eighth Street.