Yellow Room (29 page)

The foreman of the jury put on his glasses and inspected it.

“Is it the State’s contention that the contents of this—er—holder were used in an attempt to destroy the body?”

“It is.”

The oilcan had its proper effect on the jury. It was a familiar thing. They used ones like it in their own kitchens, yet here was one which had been debased to a sickening purpose. The district attorney saw this and was contented, and because Greg’s attorneys knew fairly well what was going on, that—in effect—no holds were barred, they at last took an unusual step. They requested that Greg himself be allowed to appear.

Campbell stood for some time, the formal application in his hand. Then, sure of what he had, he agreed.

“The defendant has applied for permission to appear here,” he said to the jury. “If it is the will of this body to hear him we will produce him.”

The Grand Jury agreed, and Greg was duly warned by the foreman.

“This jury is willing to hear what you have to say. You have come here of your own free will. What you say will be at your own instance. Remember this, however. Everything you say will be recorded here, and may be used as evidence against you if we so decide.”

But Campbell was not so sure when Greg appeared. He impressed them, there was no doubt about it. His size, his good looks, his uniform and the ribbons he wore. He acknowledged at once that he had married the girl, under the influence of liquor and what he now thought might have been marijuana. When shown the ring, however, he denied ever buying it. He left the country after the marriage, sending her a thousand dollars and hoping never to see her again. Asked about the child, he said he understood there was one two years old. If so, it was not his. He had never known her until the night he met her, when she was introduced to him by somebody. “But there was a crowd. I don’t remember who it was.”

He stated flatly that he had been in New York the night of the murder. Unfortunately he had no alibi, but his attorneys were working on that. He had had a letter from the girl saying she was coming east to see his family. He had tried to head her off, but was too late. He had not come to Bayside at all until the Thursday after her death.

Asked if he had gone to see Lucy Norton at the hospital he denied it absolutely. As for why he had come to Crestview the night of the fire, he had come because his two sisters were alone there. No, he had not set fire to the hill. He had not known there was anything buried there.

He was pale and sweating when they finished with him. They took him back under guard to his police cell, and a kindly officer brought him some whisky.

“Understand those fellows ripped the guts right out of you,” he said.

“They made me look like a fool,” Greg said. “And act like a murderer,” he added bitterly.

Campbell was cheerful at the end, although his face was grave.

“Remember this,” he said impressively. “This woman—this mother—stood in his way. He was engaged to a young and lovely girl, of his own class. The preparations were made for this marriage, and then what happened? This woman who is now dead wrote to him. She intended to see his family, to claim what was rightfully hers. She was on her way east.

“He knew this would be fatal to his hopes. It is the State’s contention that, having missed her in New York, he went to Newport and there in all probability obtained his sister’s car; that in it he drove to Bayside, in some manner induced her to admit him to the house there, and there with intention and premeditation did her to death.”

There was more. Campbell gave himself a free rein, and when at last he stated that he had done his duty and depended on the jury to do the same, there was not much question as to the issue. Two hours after he had finished they brought in a true bill, and the next day Gregory Spencer was taken to court and arraigned for first-degree murder. He listened to the indictment as it was read, said “Not guilty” in a clear voice, and gazed still with the hurt look in his eyes to where Carol and Virginia were sitting in the courtroom.

Virginia gave him a brilliant smile…

Dane read all this in a Los Angeles paper. He had reached the Coast on Monday morning, having changed into civilian clothes on the way. Now it was Thursday, and so far he had drawn almost a complete blank. There was no chance of learning anything about the party at which Greg had met Marguerite, or who had constituted it. The town was filled with officers, coming and going.

Nor did his search for a previous marriage of the murdered girl help him any. He went to Tia Juana, without result. She could have married anyone, anywhere. Neither Arizona nor Nevada required tests or delays for licenses. And when he attempted in San Francisco to trace the telephone call which had notified the Wards that everything was okay, he found after long investigation that it had been made from a pay booth.

Two things he did get, through the Los Angeles police. The first was where Marguerite had bought her wedding ring and had it engraved. It was a small shop, and the jeweler was repairing a watch when he entered. He worked for a few minutes before he took the glass from his eye.

“Anything I can do for you?”

“I understand you sold a wedding ring to a young woman, and engraved it. The letters were ‘G to M’.”

The jeweler eyed him.

“Well, that’s my business,” he said shortly.

“I’d be glad if you could tell me the details.”

“Details? There weren’t any. She wanted it engraved while she waited. I don’t do things that way, but she had to catch a train. I did it. She paid me. That’s all.”

The other information was more valuable. Again through the police he located the young woman who was caring for Marguerite’s child.

On the Thursday he read that Greg had been indicted he took a taxi to an unfashionable part of town, and saw a neat white bungalow, with a small child, a boy, in a play pen in the yard. There was no one else in sight, and he walked over to the child.

“Hello, there,” he said. “What’s your name?”

The boy grinned, showing a partly toothless mouth, and holding out a toy to Dane.

“All alone, are you, son? Where’s your mother?”

She came out then, a pleasant-looking young woman. The police had given him her name, Mrs. Gates, and he smiled at her over the baby’s play pen.

“Fine child you have here,” he said pleasantly.

“Yes, isn’t he? And good, too.”

“You’re Mrs. Gates?”

“Mrs. Jarvis Gates. Yes.”

“I’d like to talk to you about—what’s the boy’s name?”

She stiffened.

“It’s Pete,” she said defiantly. “And I’ve been told not to talk to anybody.”

“I’m working on this case, Mrs. Gates. After all, since his mother had been killed—”

“I’m not talking. I may have to go east to the trial. I didn’t like her much, but all I can say is that if that man killed her I hope he gets what’s coming to him.”

It was sometime before he could persuade her into the house. She took the boy with her and held him, as if Dane might have designs on him. The bungalow was small but neat. The front door opened into a diminutive living room, and beyond that was a bedroom. Behind he surmised was a kitchen and not much else. Evidently there was no money to waste here, he decided, and produced fifty dollars in tens and fives from his wallet.

He did not give them to her, however. He placed them on a mission oak table at his elbow.

“I want to ask you some questions, Mrs. Gates. If you don’t care to answer them you don’t have to, of course. And I assure you Pete is safe, so long as you want to keep him.”

“I’ve had him for two years.” Her eyes filled with sudden tears. “If they try to take him away—”

“I’m sure nobody has any such intention.”

“We want to adopt him, my husband and I. We wanted to right along, but she wouldn’t let us. She said he was her ace in the hole, whatever that means.”

“I see,” Dane said. “How did you get him in the first place?”

Either the money or his assurance that she could keep the child loosened her tongue.

“I was in the hospital when he was born,” she said. “I had just lost my own baby, and she heard about it. Maybe you know what she was like. She didn’t want a baby around. She liked men and parties. She—well, she didn’t want to be bothered. Anyhow she said I could have the baby. She would pay a little to help take care of him, and she promised that someday we could adopt him.”

“She didn’t mention the boy’s father?”

“No. That’s why I thought—well, I thought maybe she wasn’t married. She’d used the name Barbour at the hospital, Marguerite Barbour. She didn’t care for the baby, you know.” She looked at Dane. “I mean, she was keeping him for some reason or other, but she didn’t pay any real attention to him. She didn’t even pay for him regularly.

“Then one day in the spring she came here. She was all dressed up, and she said she was going east before long. I remember what she wore, a black dress and a white hat, and a fox jacket. She said she’d paid five hundred dollars for it. And she had a bag with her initials on it, M.D.B. I asked her where she’d got all the money, but she just laughed at me.

“She said she wouldn’t be gone long, and that I’d hear from her soon. She was going to New York. She didn’t say why, but she owed me a lot for the baby’s keep, and she promised to send it as soon as she got there. But I didn’t get the money, and Jarvis had flu and was out of work. Then I saw about this murder, and the clothes and so on, so one day I just went to the police. I was afraid it might be her.”

That was all. He left the fifty dollars on the table, smiled at the baby, and having got the name of the hospital concerned, took his waiting taxi and drove to it. Here at first he met with disappointment. The hospital did not disclose such information as he required. He would understand that now and then they had unmarried mothers. They had no right to disclose their names.

It required his calling the FBI before they permitted him to see their files, and the FBI in the shape of a cheerful ex-associate of his chose to be funny.

“Maternity hospital!” he said. “For God’s sake, Dane, what are you doing there? Having a baby?”

In the end he got the authority, however. The cards for two years before were placed at his disposal, and he ran rapidly through them. He found Elizabeth Gates, white, Protestant, age twenty-seven. Female infant dead on birth. And he found Marguerite Barbour, also Protestant, age twenty-six, male child, weight seven and a half pounds.

He went back to his hotel. The day was hot, and he took a cool bath before he looked at the papers. Greg had been indicted. He even rated the first page, along with the war news. Murder Charged Against Medal Holder. Grand Jury Finds True Bill Against Spencer. War Ace Indicted. It was not unexpected, but the headlines gave him a shock.

He obtained Marguerite’s former address from Mrs. Gates before he left. Now, because he felt that action—any action—was imperative, he drove there. It was a typical boardinghouse, with a pleasant little rotund woman in charge.

“Yes, she lived here,” she said. “I told the police all I knew. There’s no use going up to her room either. They searched it, and I have a nice schoolteacher in it now.”

“I don’t want to look at the room,” he said, to her evident relief. “I’d like to talk about Marguerite Barbour herself.”

She led him into a small neat parlor and sat down opposite him.

“I’ll tell you all I know,” she said. “I didn’t like her. I keep a respectable house, and she—well, I had my doubts about her. But when she came she was going to have a baby. The town was crowded already. I had a room, and I couldn’t turn her away. Anyhow she paid her rent regularly, which is more than I can say for some of them.”

“How did she pay the rent?”

She seemed surprised.

“On the first of the month.”

“How? In cash?”

“She paid by check.”

“Didn’t that strike you as unusual? If she was earning her living the way you think she was, she’d be likely to pay cash, wouldn’t she?”

The landlady flushed delicately.

“She’s dead,” she said. “I’m not saying any evil about her. Anyhow she had money of her own. She said it was an allowance from an uncle, but when I think of it that’s queer. No uncle has turned up since.”

“I see,” Dane said thoughtfully. “How did she get this allowance?”

“Every month, by mail. It was a postal money order. I know that, because she had to take her driver’s license for identification to get it cashed. She had a car, you know.”

“This uncle—did she ever say anything about him?”

“No. I think he came to see her once about two years ago. I wasn’t here, but the maid told me. She’s gone now—the maid, I mean—but she said he was a gentleman. Not the sort she mostly ran around with. Of course, I never let any of my girls take men to their rooms.”

Dane considered that.

“Old or young?” he asked.

“She didn’t say.”

“This sum of money every month—she might have been blackmailing somebody,” he suggested.

The landlady had never thought of that, although she “wouldn’t put it past her.” Asked as to where the letters came from she said she hadn’t noticed, but the last one had arrived about the first week of June. She thought it came from Maine. There had been none since.

As Dane limped out to his waiting cab he realized that his leg was bothering him again. He wondered if excitement did not make it worse, for under his veneer of cool impassivity he realized that he was excited. The dates, the clues all fitted. He needed only one fact to complete his evidence, and he got it by long-distance that night. But he was not happy. As the cab started he was more depressed than he had thought was possible when he began to see his way through a case.

I
T WAS MONDAY NIGHT
when he got out of the plane and saw Alex’s disapproving eye in the glare of the car’s headlights. The heat even at that hour was appalling, New England going through its brief but annual hot spell. It was like being plunged into a Turkish bath, and he said so as Alex stowed away his bag.

“Better over by the sea, sir,” Alex said dryly. “What you been doing to that leg?”