Time Off for Murder (7 page)

  "Cigar, sir?" Rorke reached for a humidor on another table.

  "No. Thanks. Too rich for my blood."

  "Cigarette?"

  "Don't smoke on duty," said Johnny Reese.

  "It's quite all right. I'll not report you. Really."

  The man's manner was as smooth as the silk of his robe. He went back to the fireplace, took up his pose again, while the dogs, inexplicably exhausted, went to sleep at his feet. "I have just been telling these ladies and gentlemen - I trust they will not mind repetition - all that I know about Miss Knight's disappearance."

  "How long have you known Phyllis?" Mary asked.

  Saxon Rorke reflected, chin on his hand, eyes narrowed. "Let's see…. I met her about five or six weeks ago. In Ashville. We were at the same hotel. We golfed together. I found her a most agreeable companion. An unusual type. Seriousminded, intellectual, yet feminine. She was a most unusual woman."

  Mary said sharply: "Was, Mister Rorke? Isn't she still?"

  A flicker of dismay crossed Saxon Rorke's face. "Of course," he said.

  "You mean," Miss Carner added, "if she's still alive."

  "That's it. Precisely. If she is still alive, she is a most unusual woman." He swung on his heel, away from them, stamped out the butt of his cigar, lit a fresh one. His hand trembled slightly. "It is difficult to talk about it," he said, turning back to the room. "She meant a great deal to me. I fear she is gone. I may as well he frank with you. I have reason to believe she has destroyed herself."

  The reporters were scribbling on their folded bundles of copy paper.

  "When I last talked with Phyllis Knight," Rorke went on, "on the morning of her disappearance - it was a telephone conversation - she seemed to be rather upset. Her father. She confided in me that she was very much depressed over her father's situation. (Have you met her father? A peculiar person, to put it mildly.) She had convinced herself that her father required all her care and attention, and she would never be free to marry as long as he lived. She had, I gathered, had a serious quarrel with him. I am inclined to believe that her father was disposed to favor the attentions of an earlier suitor of hers - a Mister Van Arsdale. Miss Knight had a luncheon appointment with Mister Van Arsdale on the day of her disappearance. Did you know that?"

  The reporters shook their heads negatively.

  "Then that's a new lead for you to follow up. She had planned to tell him that his suit was hopeless. 'I'm sending him away for good,' she told me. 'But I feel it's all so hopeless.' She had talked vaguely of suicide then. I tried to argue with her. Naturally I was not too successful. One can't always be effective on the telephone. I made an appointment to meet her at ten that evening at the Rushmore Grill. She agreed to come. She assured me she would be there."

  "Why so late?" Miss Carner asked.

  He shrugged. "I'm sure I don't know. She had other things to do, most likely. I waited for her until nearly eleven and when she did not appear I telephoned her house and the next day phoned her house and office again. It was I who persuaded her father to report her disappearance."

  "You were worried, huh?" Detective Reese demanded.

  "Of course. Wouldn't you worry when a woman who has spoken of suicide disappears?"

  "Sure would," said Johnny Reese. "I'd have the boats dragging the river."

  "Then you haven't heard from her at all? No letters, messages of any kind?" Miss Carner asked.

  Rorke shook his head.

  "But she had written to you before, had she not? Didn't you get a letter from her on the morning of her disappearance?" Miss Carner persisted. "One written on Tuesday night?"

  The reporters looked interested, Rorke puzzled.

  "No," he said. "I did not. Miss Knight was not in the habit of writing. I don't think I've had more than two or three brief notes from her in all the time of our acquaintance. Miss Knight was a lawyer." He smiled. "Evidently she had had too much experience with the consequences of putting one's feelings on paper."

  "But you loved the girl?" Detective Reese asked bluntly. "You're sure of that?"

  Saxon Rorke bit his lips. He said stiffly: "That's rather personal. I'd prefer not to discuss it." He walked toward the French windows, stood looking out, his hands behind him. The cigar in his fingers had an inch long ash, before he wheeled around again and said: "That's all, fellows. That's all I can tell you."

  "Thanks. You've told us plenty," the reporters chorused. "You've been swell." They crushed their cigarettes, drank the cold dregs of their highballs, got up, ready to leave. One of their number came forward. He seemed embarrassed. "One more question, Mister Rorke," he said. "I know it has no bearing. Just to satisfy own curiosity." His tone was apologetic. "Didn't I see you in Magistrates Court the day Rockey Nardello was arraigned?"

  Rorke wrinkled his forehead and his nose. "Nardello?" He spoke the name with distaste.

  The reporter backed away. "I thought you looked familiar. That's all. I thought I'd seen you in the court-room that day."

  "What day was it?"

  "In September. Right after Labor Day. I could check the date for you. Call my office." The man bent down for the telephone on a coffee table nearby.

  "Don't trouble." Rorke intercepted his hand. "It's not important. But now I begin to understand what the commotion was that day. I did have to go to a Magistrates Court back in September. No, gentlemen, I'm sorry to disappoint you. Nothing interesting. It was about the dogs. New York's no place to keep dogs. They had just returned from the country. Li took them to the Park. They couldn't seem to accustom themselves to the leash. Li thought it would do no harm if he let them run for a few moments. But it seems there's a law against that. It cost me two dollars per dog and a day in a steamy court-room to find that out. It's altogether possible it was I you saw. Sitting on a hard bench, stewing in my own juice."

  "Didn't try to fix the summons, eh, Mister Rorke?"

  Rorke smiled: "Now, boys. Interfere with justice? I?"

  "Excuse it, Mister Rorke."

  "Don't mention it."

  "O.K, break it up," a photographer interrupted. "I got work to do. How about a picture with your dogs?"

  "Like this?" Rorke ran his hands down his robe. "I should say not. You've got plenty of pictures of me in your offices."

  "Sure. But a new one. You waiting for news of Miss Knight. You know. The old heart interest."

  "You're a callous lot," Saxon Rorke began. But abruptly, he changed his tone and said: "I'll be glad to oblige if you wait until I change."

  "Stick around," Johnny Reese whispered to Mary.

  "Now, if you'll excuse me, gentlemen."

  The press relaxed into the chairs and sofas, lighted up again.

  A reporter wandered over to the radio that was built into a bookcase against the wall. He turned the dials. A symphony orchestra gave him the rippling brook of Beethoven's Sixth. He clicked it off, spun another knob.

  Voluble Spanish poured from the short wave band, the whine of trans-Atlantic static, and the disembodied gayety of a rhumba band.

  "Hey, cut that," one of his colleagues called. "This is a house of mourning."

  The reporter twirled another knob. The rasp of the police radio filled the room. "Cars 81 and 126. Go immediately to Columbus Avenue and Ninety-first Street. Man lying on the pavement."

  "Even on Sunday," the reporter said mournfully. "Never give the booze a rest. . . Tck…. Tck. Anybody got a scotch and soda that isn't working?"

  "Shut the damn thing off," Johnny Reese suggested peevishly. "One crime at a time."

  "One crime at a time, eh?" A newspaper girl jumped at Johnny's words. "Do you think a crime's been committed, officer?"

  Johnny Reese caught himself. He folded his lips. "I didn't say a word. Not one word."

  "Seriously, officer." The girl hung on Johnny Reese's coat lapel. "Are you working on the theory that there's been foul play?"

  "Sister," Johnny pushed her away, "your guess is as good as mine on Sundays. I'm gathering facts. I'm getting information. Same as you. And I ain't making statements. If you want a quote, go ask the Commissioner."

  Mary had wandered over to the French windows. She turned the casement handles. They were locked. She peered through the glass. "It's a handsome setup," she stated to the room behind her. "This would have been a nice change for Phyllis after that gloomy old house."

  Saxon Rorke's voice said over her shoulder. "And Phyllis never even saw it."

  Rorke had changed to a lounge suit of dark blue, with a faint red pin stripe, whose color was echoed by the tint of his striped shirt, his tie. In street clothes, he was even better looking than in negligee. A definitely impressive male.

  Mary said: "I've been admiring your place. The terrace is beautiful."

  "Would you like to see more of it?"

  "I'd love to." The reporters' faces verified her enthusiasm. "We all would."

  "There's nothing I'd like better," said Detective Reese.

  "To make sure I've not got Phyllis hidden in a closet, eh?" Rorke punched Johnny Reese playfully in the stomach. "I know you lads. Come on." He waved to the photographer. "You, too. The pictures can wait. I'm rather proud of this place. No, not on the terrace today, please, the wind's sharp. All right, if you don't mind the cold. I've no secrets. There." He pressed a safety catch in a handle, held the French windows open for them. "Mind if I don't go out with you? My throat's a bit scratchy."

  The dogs leaped over the sill, frisked along the redtiled walk, raised hind legs against the boxwood.

  The wind was bitter. Hedge and reporters shivered. The dry stalks of geraniums huddled, brown with frost, in their boxes. The furled, striped awnings, the chaises longues of chromium and leather, the little tables, pushed back against the house wall, spoke poignantly of the vanished charms of summer. Only the row of evergreens, before a bean pole fence at the far end of the roof, seemed bright and alive. There was a door in the fence, locked with heavy padlocks Its top was sharply spiked, its poles wired together.

  It was so cold that they came in quickly. "I'm sorry I couldn't go out with you," Rorke said. "Point things out. The fence you saw is the end of my little oasis. Other people live in the house, you know. They had an unpleasant habit of dropping in, until I put up the fence. One does want privacy. Now, let's go."

  Shoes sank ankle-deep into the gray carpets of a dining room, walled with glass brick and ice-blue paper, furnished with white table and white chairs, flame red leather upholstered.

  "A very simple place," Saxon Rorke apologized.

"Just a shack," Johnny Reese suggested. "But it's home and you like it."

  The reporters merely gaped. Dumb with awe, they trailed Rorke into a bedroom which was a decorator's dream: smooth wallpaper of softest gray, mauve gauze at the windows, a spread of royal purple velvet on a colossal bed, striking slashes of magenta and chartreuse in upholstery and overdrapes.

  "Mister Rorke." Detective Reese turned from the window curtain which he had been studying with frowning intentness. "Do you find you need double windows up here?"

  Rorke answered: "Of course. Unbreakable. And locks. Not for the wind. For the insurance companies. Li's not so young. His kitchen's a distance. Those beasts of mine. They're no watch-dogs. Just playmates. Make friends with everyone." He shook a finger at them.

  "Hm. You'd ought to get yourself a - what's the word?" Johnny Reese flicked the leaves of his notebook.

  "A Cerberus," Miss Carner helped.

  Rorke opened a closet door. Stacked on hangers, like a clothing store display, hung business suits, of infinite variety and pattern, sports attire, dinner jackets and tail coats.

  "Gees," Johnny Reese whistled. "Me with this and one other home in the closet. It's swell to be rich."

  Rorke laughed. "You haven't seen anything yet. Here's my bathroom."

  The room was a mirror, walls and ceiling of shimmering glass, reflecting a tub like a Roman bath and the gawking figures of the visiting press.

  "I can't stand it," a reporter moaned. "I thought they only did this in Hollywood."

  Rorke's laughter was pleasant. It was obvious that their admiration gratified him. "I can't take it with me. I might as well spend it…. All right, boys and girls, now you've seen it all. Take your pictures and let's call it a day."

  "We'll run along." Detective Reese drew Miss Carner's arm in his. "We've taken up enough of your time."

  Rorke extended his hand. "Glad to have met you. Hope I've been of some assistance. Please keep in touch with me. Let me know any developments. Please do. May I have your name? Your shield number? You, too, young lady. Oh, you're not at headquarters? A private investigator? I'd like your phone number so that I can keep in touch with you. Have you my phone number? Better take it down. It's not listed. Let me know the minute you hear anything. You can call me any hour of the day or night."

  "Thank you, sir. I hope we'll find her alive."

  Saxon Rorke passed his hand over his forehead. He seemed for the first time very weary. "That is almost too much to hope."

  Back in the detective's car, Mary Carner asked: "How does anybody get that rich?"

  "How would I know?" Detective Reese frowned. "Not by chasing crooks. Must of had the right papa. Got dough. Spends dough. An office in Wall Street. If he's getting rich out of that then those guys that are hollering about Roosevelt are just plain liars. All I know is his mug is always in the papers and he plays in the big time. Even the Commissioner once had his picture took with him."