‘My gilded lily said it was a poacher.’
‘I know. They all said it was, but I wasn’t sold on the idea.’
‘You thought it was the wife?’ I said, looking at him.
He shrugged.
‘I work on motives. She had a hell of a motive. She was twenty-two years younger than he was. They couldn’t have had anything in common. Before she married him she was a model and lived in a two room apartment. She came in for most of his money. Maybe she got impatient. You’ve seen her, haven’t you? She isn’t the type to be bossed around, and Van Blake could be like that. She’d want to handle the money herself, as she’s handling it now. I liked her for the job.’
‘But she was in Paris when he was shot!’
‘Yeah; a sweet alibi, wasn’t it? I’m not saying she shot him, but she could have planned it with someone’s help.’
‘Was there another man in her life?’
‘She saw a lot of Royce. A guy with his background must kill sooner or later. I liked him for the job too. When she got control of the estate, she sold the club to Royce. He had always wanted it, but Van Blake wouldn’t part or else his price was too high. That was a nice motive. She might have bribed Royce with the club to get rid of Van Blake.’
‘Did he have an alibi too?’
Bradley laughed mirthlessly.
‘I’ll s say! It was cast iron. He was in New York playing poker with three of the most respectable men in town: one of them was a judge. They swore he was with them all the time. I don’t say he did it himself, but Juan Ortez or any of his thugs could have done it on his say-so.’
‘You didn’t get anywhere on that angle?’
‘No. As soon as I began to poke around, Doonan pulled me off the case and tossed me off the force. Doonan happens to be a great friend of Mrs. Van Blake. He thinks she is a sweet, lovely girl.’
‘What made the newspapers go for the poacher angle?’
‘Mrs. Van Blake had that all tied up. Her story was that a couple of weeks before the murder, Van Blake caught a poacher in the wood. She named the poacher: a guy who lived a few miles from the estate on the Frisco Road. His name was Ted Dillon. We knew him. He was a tough customer, lived on his own, only worked when he had to and had been in trouble off and on for stealing and fighting. He was the ideal guy to pick on. She said her husband horsewhipped him, and she was positive Dillon had come back to even the score. The papers liked the idea, and they liked it still more when we couldn’t find Dillon. Doonan liked the idea too, but it looked too much of a plant to me. Van Blake couldn’t have handled Dillon alone. Anyway, we hunted for Dillon. We found traces of his flight. He was seen around the time of the killing riding his motor-cycle away from the back entrance to Van Blake’s estate: at least, a man on his machine, wearing a crash helmet and goggles was seen, and the witness swore it was Dillon. A crash helmet and goggles make a good disguise, but no one bothered to consider that angle except me. We finally found his motor-cycle. It was in a shed near the harbour, but we never found Dillon.’
‘Did this guy on the motor-cycle have a gun with him?’
Bradley shook his head.
‘We found the gun later in the wood, and we traced it. It had been stolen a couple of months ago from Abe Boreman, the local banker. He and four friends had gone out shooting. They left their guns and bag in the cars when they had lunch at a hotel. When they returned to the cars, the gun was missing.’ He looked over at me. ‘Hamilton Royce was one of the party. He left the restaurant during lunch to make a phone call. He could have gone to Boreman’s car, taken the gun and hidden it in the boot of his own car. Work it out for yourself.’
‘So what did you do?’
‘I started to check Mrs. Van Blake’s alibi. I asked her for her passport. There’s no doubt she went to France on the day she said she did. The passport proved it. That was as far as I got. She must have called Doonan and told him I had been asking questions. Before I knew it, I was retired and through. They never found Dillon and they’ve never cracked the case.’
‘So you think Mrs. Van Blake persuaded Royce to have her husband knocked off. Is that it?’
‘That’s my theory and I still like it.’
‘But you haven’t any proof?’
‘No. The motive’s there. Royce could have stolen the gun, but that’s all except a hunch, and my hunches are usually right.’
‘Any idea what could have happened to Dillon?’
‘Your guess is as good as mine. I’d say he was at the bottom of the sea now in a cement overcoat, but that’s only my guess.’
‘Well, thanks, Captain, for telling me. I guess you’re right. I’m hanged if I can see how this murder hooks up with my case. If I could only hook Fay Benson with Van Blake. Suppose, while Mrs. Van Blake was in Paris, Van Blake got Fay over for the night? It’s been done before and it’ll be done again. She might have seen the killing, got scared and bolted. That might be the reason why she took another name. The killer — your pal Royce — traced her to Welden and knocked her off. I don’t say it happened like that, but that’s the kind of hook up I’m looking for.’
‘Forget it; you’re wasting your time. Van Blake wasn’t that kind of man. Get it out of your mind; it’ll only confuse you.’
I shrugged.
‘Maybe you’re right. Well, I’ll be moving along. I’ve still things to do.’ I got to my feet. ‘I’ll keep in touch.’
He went with me to the front door; before opening it, he turned off the light.
‘Watch your step, son,’ he cautioned. ‘If ever you want a good bolt hole go to Sam Benn. He runs a bar on Maddox Street and he’ll keep you under cover if you mention my name. You may need to duck out of sight in a hurry.’
‘I hope not,’ I said, and stepped into the dark, warm night.
II
The night was still young. There seemed to me no point in returning to the hotel where the cops could pick up my trail. I decided to have a few more hours to myself before I went to bed.
On the way back to the centre of the town, I decided I was now ready to have a talk with Mrs. Van Blake if she would have a talk with me, which I doubted. Time was running out for me, and I wouldn’t be staying much longer in this plush city. There was still a lot of ground to cover.
I found a telephone booth, dialled her number and waited expectantly.
After a few moments a man’s voice said, ‘This is Mrs. Van Blake’s residence.’
That would make him the butler, and to judge from the deep, fruity tone, an imported English butler at that.
‘This is Mr. Sladen of Welden calling,’ I said. ‘Put me through to Mrs. Van Blake if you please.’
‘Will you hold the line?’ the voice said and there was silence.
Time stood still, and then as I was beginning to wonder if he had forgotten me, Cornelia Van Blake came on the line.
‘Yes?’ she said. ‘Who is that?’
‘My name’s Sladen,’ I said, ‘I am a writer. Could I bother you for some information? It’s to do with a girl you met in Paris last year.’
There was a pause. I imagined I could hear her quick breathing, but I could have been wrong.
‘Information? What girl?’ The voice was as cool and as crisp as a refrigerated lettuce and as impersonal.
‘Could I see you? I could be over in twenty minutes.’
‘Why, no...’ She stopped short as if a sudden thought had dropped into her mind. ‘Well, I suppose you could,’ she went on. ‘I can’t give you very long.’