“Yes, I suppose so,” she said.
“Been married?” I asked her.
“Yes. I told you that that first night I met you in Reno.”
“What happened to the marriage?” I asked.
She followed the design on the davenport with the tip of her forefinger. “It broke up. I’m a divorcee.”
“Why didn’t it work?”
“I don’t like to be owned. I think that people who have a truly creative temperament chafe at the idea of... of being possessed.
“I think that’s the reason actors and actresses can stand matrimony for only so long at a stretch. People talk about the immorality of Hollywood and it really isn’t immorality, Donald. It’s just something bigger than you are. It doesn’t keep you from falling in love, but after the love part gets to a point where you try to conform to conventional standards and you feel someone owns you, you start fighting, not against the person, but against the idea of being possessed.”
“Want to get married again?” I asked.
“Is this a proposal?” she asked me.
“No, it’s a question.”
“Not particularly. I think there are some people I could... well, sometimes I have symptoms of falling in love.”
I said, “You’re a great mark for a fortune hunter right now. How much property do you have?”
“That’s none of your damn business.”
“Keep it that way.”
“What way?”
“It’s none of anyone’s business how much you have. If you want my advice, put your property in securities, go back to New York and live on two hundred dollars a month. Make up your mind that, no matter what happens, you won’t spend more than two hundred dollars a month for anything.”
“Do you know I’ve been thinking of doing that very thing.”
“Think of it some more,” I told her. “And now I’m on my way. I’m busy.”
“I don’t see anything of you any more,” she pouted.
“I don’t see anything of myself,” I told her, “except for the few brief minutes I’m looking at my face in the mirror when I’m shaving in the morning.”
“After this case is over, will I see you some, Donald?”
“I don’t know.”
She laughed and said, “You’re worse than I am. You don’t want to be possessed. You don’t want anyone to have any strings on you.”
“You may be right,” I told her, “but right now I’m going to have to hit the hay because I have a hard day ahead of me.”
I yawned a couple of times, kissed her good night, got the hell out of there and called Barney Quinn on the phone.
Quinn’s voice was tense and urgent. I started to tell him that I’d picked up a live lead, but I never had the chance. “Look, Donald,” he said, “I’ve been trying to locate you all afternoon. How soon can you get down here?”
“Right away. Bertha and I have been out all day checking jurors.”
“Okay,” he said. “I couldn’t reach either of you. Bring Bertha.”
“That bad?” I asked.
“Worse,” he said.
I said, “I can tell you a little something about the other side of the case. They’re checking on the time element of that gas station.”
“What gas station? Oh, I get it. Well, that’s a minor matter now. Come on down.”
“It may take a little while to round up Bertha,” I said.
“Then you come on down, and let Bertha come later. This is important. All hell’s loose.”
Chapter 16
Bertha heaved, grunted, groaned and cussed when she got my call, but she was ready by the time I drove by and we made time to Santa Ana.
Quinn was locked in his office. There were circles under his eyes. The place was filled with cigarette smoke, the ash trays were cluttered up with half-smoked cigarettes. He was jittery.
Bertha strode across the office, heaved herself into a chair, said, “Young man, you’re making a goddam wreck out of yourself.”
“It’s the case that’s making a wreck out of me,” he said. “I’ve sent for Elizabeth Endicott. She should be here any moment. If it’s okay by you, I’ll wait and tell you the sad news after she gets here, then I won’t have to tell it twice.”
“Is it sad?” I asked.
“It’s sad,” he said, and crushed a half-smoked cigarette in the ash tray.
“I can add to it,” I told him.
“All right. Go ahead. We may as well catch it all at once. We—”
Knuckles sounded on the door.
Quinn strode across the office, opened the door, and Mrs. Endicott said, “Good evening, Barney.”
“Come on in, Betty,” he told her. “I’m sorry I had to call a night conference, but the fat’s in the fire.”
“What fat?” she asked. “And what fire?”
“Sit down,” Quinn said.
She dropped into a chair.
Quinn faced her. “You told me a great story,” he said, “about John Ansel being psychic, about knowing when he got in the house that you weren’t there, about having an idea that Karl Endicott was going to murder him. You said that when Karl stepped in the other room, John Ansel had a sudden feeling that Karl was getting ready to kill him and then plant a gun on him.”
“That’s the truth,” she said.
“Is that the truth?” he asked, “or is that the story that you thought should be told, and you’ve been drilling it into John Ansel so that he would tell it that way?”
Her face was without expression. “It’s the truth.”
“No, it isn’t the truth,” Quinn said. “It’s the story John told me the first couple of times, but we’re getting down to brass tacks now. He’s going to go on the witness stand, and when he goes on the witness stand he’s going to be cross-examined by a mighty smart district attorney.”
Elizabeth Endicott said, “John Ansel is truthful. His story is founded on fact.”
“Founded on fact, my eye!” Quinn blazed. “John went down to Citrus Grove intending to face Karl Endicott with the facts. He intended to kill Karl. He had a gun with him. Karl was the one who was psychic. Karl took one look at John and maneuvered him into the upstairs den, and then excused himself for a moment and went into the other room. It was a bedroom. You were in there.”
“I was?” she asked.
Quinn nodded. “You said one thing that was true in the story you told. John had been down in the jungle. He’d been living away from civilization. He’d been fighting a battle with life and death where his senses had to be alert.
“You were in that room. When Karl opened the door, the perfume that you use came to John’s nostrils. Then Karl closed the door. When he did that, he said something to you in a low voice.
“Suddenly John realized that you were Karl Endicott’s wife, that you’d been living with him as his wife. A feeling of revulsion possessed him. He started to become nauseated. The gun that he was holding in his hand he pitched out the window. It fell in the thick hedge. He felt he was going to be ill. He dashed out of the door and ran down the stairs, and out into the night air.”
Quinn quit talking, stood with his feet apart facing her, the accusation in his manner hitting her with almost a physical impact.
She didn’t cry. She waited. She looked at him steadily but she seemed to keep getting smaller.
Finally she said, “I told him he must never, never tell that story.”
Quinn said, “Ansel is a poor liar, when you start ripping into him. He doesn’t like conflict. I’d always accepted his story at face value, but we’re going to trial tomorrow, and he’s going to have to get on the stand. They’re going to rip him to pieces with cross-examination. So this morning I decided to cross-examine him myself just to see how he’d stand up.”