“Because no prints were on the handle. A dead man doesn’t get up and wipe his prints off the murder weapon.”
“I suppose not,” I said glumly, not seeing how the autopsy report had brought us any closer to finding Andy.
“We’re still working on it,” Hilton said. “Don’t worry.”
“No,” I said. Then I said goodbye and hung up. I tried the bed, but my pajamas seemed too tight, and the bed seemed too small, and the room seemed suffocatingly hot. I got up and walked into the living room, snapping on an end-table lamp. I debated putting on the Late Show, decided against it, and mixed myself a very stiff whiskey sour instead. I ate the cherry and chewed the slice of orange, and then I mixed another one, minus the fruit cocktail this time.
I was sitting down again, ready to drink myself to sleep dead blind when the doorbell chimes sounded.
I said, “Oh, hell,” and shoved myself up out of the chair. I walked to the door, and shouted, “Who is it?”
“Just me,” the voice answered softly. I’d have recognized that voice through the door of a bank vault. I opened the door on the smiling face and half-clothed body of Martha Findlay.
10.
“Hello, dearest,” she said, breezing past me into the foyer. I got a whiff of her breath, and the aroma wasn’t Eau de Cologne. It was more like Vat 69, and I’d have to demolish a good many whiskey sours before I came anywhere near Martha’s lofty position on cloud nine. She walked directly to the liquor cabinet, rooted around among the bottles for a while and came up with a full fifth of bourbon. She broke the seal expertly, poured a water glass half full and then plopped down onto the sofa.
“I’m happy as hell,” she announced.
“I can see that.”
“I put the little louse to bed early,” she explained, “and I’ve been pedaling from bar to bar.” She looked around fuzzily. “What bar is this, darling?”
“Why don’t you go home, Martha?” I said.
“Home? The party’s just started. Tomorrow’s Saturday. No goddamn show, no goddamn noses to wipe. Brother, this is my night to foul.”
“Howl.”
“Foul. I’m not that drunk.”
“What brought you here, Martha?”
Martha did a disappearing liquid act with the bourbon in her glass, and then filled the glass again. “You, darling,” she said.
“I know I’m irresistible, but...”
“You’re no more irresistible than any other jerk in town, except you own a typewriter. Even that doesn’t make you different than the rest.”
“What does?”
“You write Rocketeers.”
“I told you...”
“I’m not as stupid as I look, Jon,” Martha said.
“I never thought you looked stupid, Martha.”
“Are those pajamas you’re wearing?” she asked, as if noticing them for the first time.
“Yes.”
She lifted one eyebrow. “How cosy.”
“How.”
“I got to thinking, Jon. I sniffed around and found out why you were leasing the show. With Cynthia dead, you won’t have to leave it any more. You’ve been writing it since B.C., and you can go on writing it just the way you like.”
“I’m still leaving, I think.”
“You won’t leave. Rocketeers is in your blood. If you went over to Captain Jet, you wouldn’t be able to sleep nights.”
“I can’t sleep nights, now, anyway.”
Martha Findlay grinned recklessly. “Have you tried a hot water bottle?”
“I’ve got an electric blanket, thanks.”
She stood up suddenly, smoothing her skirt over her wide hips. “You’re being dumb, Jon, real dumb. I’m not exactly ready for the glue works.”
“No one said you were.”
“Damn right, no one said it. They’d have to be blind to say it.”
“Martha, why don’t you go home? I’ve got enough headaches without worrying about your son’s career.”
“You think I’m worrying about my son’s career? You think that’s it?”
“Well, you don’t leave much choice.”
“I’m worrying about one little number, and that number is pretty big, and that number is Martha Findlay. That’s who I’m worrying about. Look, Jon, let’s face it. I’ve got a lot of it now, all in trumps. I’m not going to have it forever, like the diamonds song says, and pretty soon that brat’ll grow up and take unto himself a spouse. That leaves Martha Findlay with a figure like a hippo, and a son with another woman to worry about. There’s nothing worse than a big girl who turns to fat, believe me.”
“You’re not turning yet,” I said, truthfully.
“I know. Give it time. That’s why I want Richie to hit the gravy train now, when I can still get something out of it. It’s been no picnic raising him alone, believe me. I’ll be damned if his wife is going to get all the dessert. Where’s that bourbon?”
She poured herself another glassful, trying to recapture the wearing-thin edge of her stupor. She swallowed that, and then poured and consumed another glassful, and I expected her to fall flat on her face. She didn’t. The two glasses hit her like a ton of nitro, and her eyes glazed, and her tongue thickened, but all she did was stagger towards me and throw her arms around my neck.
“That’s why you’re being silly, Jon baby. Very silly. That’s why you are.”
“Why, Martha?”
“Because all you got to do is give the show to Richie for two weeks or so, even a week or so, that’s all, Jon baby, that’s all. And then Martha Findlay shows her gratitude. Jon, I’m the most gratuitous girl in town.”
“I can imagine,” I said, holding back a smile.
“It’s no skin off your nose, and Jon honey, would I be grateful? I’ll be more grateful than you can possibly imagine, Jon sweetie.”
“Martha, go home. You’re loaded and you don’t know what the hell you’re offering.”
“I don’t, huh? I don’t, huh? I know damn well what I’m offering, Mr. Crane. Maybe you don’t know what I’m offering, huh? Hey, maybe that’s it.” Her hands roamed up the front of her blouse and stopped near the top button.
“Save that for when you’re home,” I said. “Come on, Martha let’s call it a night.”
“I think I’ll stay,” she said. “You need convincing.”
“I think you’ll go, honey.”
“I shoulda got married again,” she said morosely.
“You should have.”
“Like Cynthia. She was the smart one, all right.”
“Sure,” I said, “like Cynthia. Come on, honey.” I started steering her toward the door, and then she said, “Cynthia knew, by God, she knew it was best being married.”
“Sure,” I said. “Sure, sure.”
“And then she got killed. Damn shame, even if I didn’t like her.”
“That’s the way it goes,” I said. I was at the door now, with Martha’s elbow cupped in my hand. I started to unlock the door, and she whirled away from me.
“Is that right? Is it right she should get killed so close to her wedding?”
“What wedding?” I asked.
“Her wedding! For God’s sake, you stupid or something?”
“Yes, Martha, I’m stupid. Goodnight, doll.”
I opened the door, ready to shove her out in the hallway. She slammed the door shut and leaned against it, and then bent forward conspiratorially.
“She was gonna get married. Yes, Cynthia. Yes, little Cynthia. You didn’t know that, did you? You’re a bigshot writer, hut you didn’t know that.”
“No, I didn’t,” I said slowly. “Well, she was. So there.” Martha opened the door. “G’night, hard man. You’ll regret this someday.”