“And the phone number, officer. I feel that I simply must call my aunt right away or...”
“Jackson 4-1952.”
“Thank you, officer, thank you very much!”
He groaned and hung up.
Yes sir, if you want information on police matters, then go to the police! Very obliging people, the police. I don't know what I would do without them! Still grinning, I hung up and after a few seconds dialed Jackson 4-1952.
“Hello...” A toneless voice, peevish and edged with bitterness.
“Mrs. Foster?”
She admitted grudgingly that she was Mrs. Foster and that she had been Mrs. Venci's maid, then I identified myself as Captain Barlow of the police and that didn't do anything to sweeten her mood.
“Sir,” she snapped, “I have nothing more to say about that horrible... accident. I told the police all I know, everything.”
“Everything, Mrs. Foster?”
Now her tone was indignant, but she didn't seem to think it strange that a police officer would do his questioning over a telephone, and at this time of night. “Sir,” she snapped, biting into the word, “I'm sure I don't know what you mean!”
“No offense at all, Mrs. Foster,” I said soothingly, “and we realize that you have been through a lot, the shock and all. Of course we have your statement in our files, but I would appreciate it very much if you would tell it to me again, in your own words.”
“Is this absolutely necessary, Captain? Really, I was most thorough in my report to the police a mere few hours ago. Couldn't it wait until tomorrow, at least.”
“I'm afraid not, Mrs. Foster,” I said patiently. “This is an imposition on you, we realize it, and that is exactly the reason we decided not to call in person at this hour. I do hope you understand, Mrs. Foster, that police business must necessarily seem rather unusual at times to the citizen, but I assure you...”
“All right, Captain,” she relented. “I have been aroused and awakened, and now please let us be as brief as possible. Actually, I do not see that I can add to my original statement... however, it was around three this afternoon when Mrs. Venci called me upstairs and asked about the shopping. As it happens, I was just going out to do the day's shopping, but she asked me to wait. She was writing a letter, she said. She wanted to finish the letter and have me mail it on the way to the market.”
My heart missed a beat. The news story had not mentioned a letter.
“... Mrs. Foster,” I said, “did you mail this letter, as Mrs. Venci asked you to do?”
“Of course. It's all in my original statement.”
“Yes,” I said, feeling my muscles begin to tighten. “Yes, of course.”
“It's rather interesting,” she admitted grudgingly, “that you should call at this particular time, Captain. This afternoon your policemen were extremely curious about that letter, although I couldn't imagine why—and still can't, for that matter. They seemed anxious to know to whom the letter was addressed. I tried and tried to remember, but the name simply wouldn't come to me. Then, just as you called, a few moments ago, the strangest thing happened. The name came to me, Captain.”
I heard myself saying, It did, Mrs. Foster?”
“Yes. I remember glancing at the envelope, just to be sure that it was properly addressed for mailing. Keaslo. I feel quite sure that was the name.”
It rang no bell. The name of Keaslo meant absolutely nothing to me. I took a long, deep breath. Maybe I was getting myself worked up over nothing. I said, “How about the first name or the address? Do you remember them.”
“No, I'm afraid not, Captain. After all, it was just a glance, a mere precaution.”
“I understand, Mrs. Foster. But about the address, was it local or out of town delivery? Can you remember that?”
There was a moment of silence. Then, “Why, I believe it was a local address, one here in Lake City. But of course I can't be certain.”
“... Yes.” I heard a curious pounding, and then realized that it was my heart knocking against my ribs. “Yes, I understand. Well, probably it means nothing at all, Mrs. Foster. Thank you very much for your co-operation.”
“I should have called the police in any event, Captain,” she said. “After my remembering the name, I mean.”
“Oh, you needn't do that,” I said quickly. “After all, I do have the information now, I mean, and...” I didn't go on. I could feel her hanging there in a sort of thoughtful vacuum. Mrs. Foster, is something wrong?”
“... No, nothing is wrong, I was just thinking. Captain, I have the feeling that the letter was addressed to a woman. I don't remember the first name at all, but it is my impression that it was a woman's name.”
“A woman's name?”
... And then it hit me!
Keaslo. Kelso. They were similar—too much so to bear the weight of mere coincidence. “Mrs. Foster,” I said quickly, “I want you to give this serious thought. I want you to test your faculties of recall to the utmost. This woman's name, this name on the letter that you don't remember, was it Patricia?”
There was only an instant's hesitation. “Why, Captain, I do believe it was!”
I covered the mouthpiece and whistled softly. “Thank you, Mrs. Foster, thank you very much!”
“Is that all, Captain?” She sounded disappointed now, as though she wanted to keep talking. But that memory of hers was getting a little too good. I wanted it to stop right where it was.
I said, “That is all, Mrs. Foster. Good night.” And I hung up.
So Dorris Venci had written a letter to Pat; and then, being assured that the letter would be mailed, she had put a bullet in her temple. An interesting situation, to say the very least.
I dropped to a chair and sat there thinking about it for minutes. A breath of the breeze drifted into the front room and across my face—the night air seemed to hold an exceptional chill for that time of year.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THINGS LIKE THIS, I thought, are the things that can kill you. But how could I have predicted the actions of an eccentric mind like Dorris's? How could anyone have predicted them? Anybody else, acting on the same impulse, would have mailed the incriminating letter to the district attorney, or the police department, or maybe even to a newspaper or a citizens committee. But not Dorris. Oh no, she had to send the evidence directly to Pat, overlooking the scores of simpler and more direct possibilities.
I wondered about that for a long while. What had been her motive? Jealousy? Hatred? Shame? Probably an equal amount of all three. If her aim had been to destroy me completely she needed only to point a finger of accusation in my direction—the cops would have taken care of the rest. They would have identified me and that would have been the end of Roy Surratt.
It was bad enough as it was. If Pat got hold of that letter I was as good as dead. The way she had felt about Alex Burton, maybe she would try to kill me herself...
And then I relaxed. I could even smile. This, I thought, is where brains and audacity pay off, because Pat will never see the letter. She will never know that I stood behind the gun that fired the bullet that killed her Alex, because I am going to intercept that letter.
I was going to be at the mail box the next morning when the postman arrived, and I was going to get that letter, even if I had to kill somebody else; and that would be the last of my troubles from Dorris Venci.
I felt fine once again. After a moment I picked up the phone and called Pat. The receiver came off the hook almost immediately.
“This is your neighbor,” I said.
“Well! I was beginning to wonder if I'd hear from you.”
“I've been busy. It's been quite a day—to tell the truth, I'll be just as happy if I never have another one like it.”
“It couldn't have been too bad,” she said. “You sound pretty pleased with yourself.” Then she laughed. “I'll buy ou a drink—unless you're still pouting, that is.”