Lotty would not speak to anyone. She was out on two hundred fifty thousand dollars’ bail, the money raised by Max, but she had gone directly to her apartment on Sheffield after two nights in County Jail without stopping to thank him. She would not talk to reporters, she remained silent during all conversations with the police, and she emphatically refused to speak to the private investigator who had been her close friend for many years.
Max, too, stayed behind an impregnable shield of silence. While Lotty went on indefinite leave, turning her practice over to a series of colleagues, Max continued to go to the hospital every day. But he, too, would not speak to reporters: he wouldn’t even say, “No comment.” He talked to the police only after they threatened to lock him up as a material witness, and then every word had to be pried from him as if his mouth were stone and speech Excalibur. For three days V. I. Warshawski left messages which he refused to return.
On Friday, when no word came from the detective, when no reporter popped up from a nearby urinal in the men’s room to try to trick him into speaking, when no more calls came from the state’s attorney, Max felt a measure of relaxation as he drove home. As soon as the trial was over he would resign, retire to London. If he could only keep going until then, everything would be — not all right, but bearable.
He used the remote release for the garage door and eased his car into the small space. As he got out he realized bitterly he’d been too optimistic in thinking he’d be left in peace. He hadn’t seen the woman sitting on the stoop leading from the garage to the kitchen when he drove in, only as she uncoiled herself at his approach.
“I’m glad you’re home — I was beginning to freeze out here.”
“How did you get into the garage, Victoria?”
The detective grinned in a way he usually found engaging.
Now it seemed merely predatory. “Trade secret, Max. I know you don’t want to see me, but I need to talk to you.”
He unlocked the door into the kitchen. “Why not just let yourself into the house if you were cold? If your scruples permit you into the garage, why not into the house?”
She bit her lip in momentary discomfort but said lightly, “I couldn’t manage my picklocks with my fingers this cold.”
The detective followed him into the house. Another tall monster; five foot eight, athletic, light on her feet behind him. Maybe American mothers put growth hormones or steroids in their children’s corn-flakes. He’d have to ask Lotty. His mind winced at the thought.
“I’ve talked to the police, of course,” the light alto continued behind him steadily, oblivious to his studied rudeness as he poured himself a cognac, took his shoes off, found his waiting slippers, and padded down the hall to the front door for his mail.
“I understand why they arrested Lotty — Caudwell had been doped with a whole bunch of Xanax and then strangled while he was sleeping it off. And, of course, she was back at the building Sunday night. She won’t say why, but one of the tenants ID’d her as the woman who showed up around ten at the service entrance when he was walking his dog. She won’t say if she talked to Caudwell, if he let her in, if he was still alive.”
Max tried to ignore her clear voice. When that proved impossible he tried to read a journal which had come in the mail.
“And those kids, they’re marvelous, aren’t they? Like something out of the Fabulous Furry Freak Brothers. They won’t talk to me but they gave a long interview to Murray Ryerson over at the Star.
“After Caudwell’s guests left, they went to a flick at the Chestnut Street Station, had a pizza afterwards, then took themselves dancing on Division Street. So they strolled in around two in the morning — confirmed by the doorman — saw the light on in the old man’s study. But they were feeling no pain and he kind of overre-acted — their term — if they were buzzed, so they didn’t stop in to say goodnight. It was only when they got up around noon and went in that they found him.”
V. I. had followed Max from the front hallway to the door of his study as she spoke. He stood there irresolutely, not wanting his private place desecrated with her insistent, air-hammer speech, and finally went on down the hall to a little-used living room. He sat stiffly on one of the brocade armchairs and looked at her remotely when she perched on the edge of its companion.
“The weak piece in the police story is the statue,” V.I. continued.
She eyed the Persian rug doubtfully and unzipped her boots, sticking them on the bricks in front of the fireplace.
“Everyone who was at the party agrees that Lotty was beside herself. By now the story has spread so far that people who weren’t even in the apartment when she looked at the statue swear they heard her threaten to kill him. But if that’s the case, what happened to the statue?”
Max gave a slight shrug to indicate total lack of interest in the topic.
V.I. plowed on doggedly. “Now some people think she might have given it to a friend or a relation to keep for her until her name is cleared at the trial. And these people think it would be either her Uncle Stefan here in Chicago, her brother Hugo in Montreal, or you.
So the Mounties searched Hugo’s place and are keeping an eye on his mail. And the Chicago cops are doing the same for Stefan. And I presume someone got a warrant and went through here, right?”
Max said nothing, but he felt his heart beating faster. Police in his house, searching his things? But wouldn’t they have to get his permission to enter? Or would they? Victoria would know, but he couldn’t bring himself to ask. She waited for a few minutes, but when he still wouldn’t speak, she plunged on. He could see it was becoming an effort for her to talk, but he wouldn’t help her.
“But I don’t agree with those people. Because I know that Lotty is innocent. And that’s why I’m here. Not like a bird of prey, as you think, using your misery for carrion. But to get you to help me. Lotty won’t speak to me, and if she’s that miserable I won’t force her to. But surely, Max, you won’t sit idly by and let her be railroaded for something she never did.”
Max looked away from her. He was surprised to find himself holding the brandy snifter and set it carefully on a table beside him.
“Max!” Her voice was shot with astonishment. “I don’t believe this. You actually think she killed Caudwell.”
Max flushed a little, but she’d finally stung him into a response.
“And you are God who sees all and knows she didn’t?”
“I see more than you do,” V.I. snapped. “I haven’t known Lotty as long as you have, but I know when she’s telling the truth.”
“So you are God.” Max bowed in heavy irony. “You see beyond the facts to the innermost souls of men and women.”
He expected another outburst from the young woman, but she gazed at him steadily without speaking. It was a look sympathetic enough that Max felt embarrassed by his sarcasm and burst out with what was on his mind.
“What else am I to think? She hasn’t said anything, but there’s no doubt that she returned to his apartment Sunday night.”
It was V.I.’s turn for sarcasm. “With a little vial of Xanax that she somehow induced him to swallow? And then strangled him for good measure? Come on, Max, you know Lotty: honesty follows her around like a cloud. If she’d killed Caudwell, she’d say something like, ‘Yes, I bashed the little vermin’s brains in.” Instead she’s not speaking at all.”