“What happened after Monday tells me, Ames,” I said.
“After Monday?” Ames looked at me, and then at Mrs. Radford. He picked up his glass, drank.
“Mrs. Radford made a deal, Ames,” I said. “A payoff to protect the killer. She wouldn’t have done that for anyone but Walter. Only Walter makes sense out of the rest of it.”
Ames squeezed his glass, said, “Gertrude?”
“Be quiet, George, for goodness’ sake,” Mrs. Radford said, and said to me, “What do you intend doing, Mr. Fortune?”
“My God, Gertrude!” Ames’s theatrical face was ten years older. “You really knew, and…” He drank. Whisky dribbled down his shirt front. “Do you know what they did? Walter and this Baron? Tell her, Fortune! The whole fantastic story!”
“Please, George,” she said. “I’m not the least interested.”
I watched her smooth and youthful face that had never asked herself a question she could not answer, and I believed her. She didn’t know how Weiss had been framed, and she didn’t care. How Weiss took the fall for Walter didn’t concern her, only that he did take it. Weiss was nothing, a zero, a convenience to be used for Radford-Ames survival. She did not care how Jonathan had died, or even that he was dead once it had happened. Jonathan, dead, did not matter. The family went on: a unit, a whole more than any single member.
She folded her frail hands. “Walter had a tragic accident. He acted foolishly afterward, yes, but he was frightened, and he knew that the authorities would not consider it the simple mistake it was. They would have persecuted him. He made a stupid arrangement, it seems, but I managed to correct that. Now, is this what you came to tell me, Mr. Fortune?”
“Among other things,” I said.
“Then you’ve told me. I see no reason to bother anyone else. Walter has been disturbed quite enough.”
“Is that all you have to tell me, Mrs. Radford?”
“Certainly. My late husband showed me how business functions. If you have some proof against Walter, tell me and we can discuss money and terms. If you have no proof, you can leave before I call our Chief of Police and have you arrested. You have no legal right to be here, I’ve investigated that. Do you have proof?”
“Jonathan’s death may have been an accident, I think it was,” I said. “The other three murders weren’t accidents.”
“Do you have proof, Mr. Fortune?”
Her pale eyes studied me, and what could I say? I had no proof yet. Ames came to my rescue for the moment. He set his third empty glass down, rubbed his pink, barbered face:
“Walter couldn’t have killed Baron, Fortune. That much I know.”
Mrs. Radford said, “Please tell him nothing, George.”
Ames ignored her. “Walter really was with me at the apartment on Wednesday night. He never left.”
“Did he make any telephone calls?” I asked.
“No, none. I remember because Deirdre made quite a few, and Walter was disturbed by that. He became angry at her calls.”
“George!” Mrs. Radford said. “You’re a fool!”
I finished my coffee, sat back in the chair. “Walter didn’t kill Baron or the other two, Mrs. Radford. You did.”
“Oh, don’t be ridiculous! If you try to prove that…”
“Not by pulling a trigger,” I said, “by making the deal you made on Monday night. You killed them as sure as if you had gone out and done it yourself. Your deal made it all happen.”
I heard Ames pouring another drink. I didn’t look at him. I was looking at Mrs. Radford. She didn’t even blink at me. She shook her head:
“When a man buys something, he is not concerned with what others do to deliver it to him,” she said firmly. “My late husband taught me that, too. I entered into an arrangement, I kept my side of the contract. I am in no way responsible for how others arranged to deliver their side. That is not my affair.”
Ames said, croaked, “What arrangement?”
I could tell by his voice that he had at least guessed. Before I could do anything else, the butler, MacLeod, appeared in the doorway. Walter was not with him, but Morgana Radford was. She looked like she had not changed her clothes since I had last seen her, but there was an odd gleam in her eyes.
“Where’s Walter?” I said to MacLeod.
Mrs. Radford waved me away. “Call the police, MacLeod. I have asked Mr. Fortune to leave; he has refused. Tell the Chief that I believe Mr. Fortune is armed.”
MacLeod looked at me, and left. I stood up. Mrs. Radford knew damn well I’d never use the pistol. Morgana Radford looked at her mother, but she spoke to me:
“Walter went out to find Deirdre. I told him.”
“Told him what, dear?” Mrs. Radford said.
“Where did he go?” I said.
Morgana didn’t seem to hear either of us. She told it her own way. “I know Walter’s been watching her. When Deirdre went out tonight, Walter wasn’t here, so I followed her. To that gambling house! She’s gone there alone before. I told Walter. An hour ago. He ran out. Now he’ll see her for what she is!”
The righteous, fanatical girl trembled where she stood with the rest of us watching her. There was something pitiful about her. She was going to save her golden little boy, destroy the evil witch, open Walter’s spellbound eyes.
“Don’t be juvenile, Morgana!” Mrs. Radford said. “I’m sure Deirdre knows just what she is doing. Walter is being foolish again.”
In a way Mrs. Radford was a lot like Sammy Weiss. For Weiss it would all work out fine as long as he did nothing; his luck would change. For Gertrude Radford all one had to do was pay for something, buy someone, and everything was accomplished as she wanted it.
I walked to the door.
“Mr. Fortune!” Mrs. Radford snapped. “You will not bother Walter or Deirdre.”
I looked back. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Radford. You’ve done enough damage. I don’t take your orders.”
“George!” she said. “Morgana, get MacLeod.”
She turned to each of them. Ames poured another drink and looked at the floor. Morgana just stared at her mother. Neither of them moved. After a moment, Ames turned his back to the old woman, and to me. There was no anger on Mrs. Radford’s smooth face, only amazement.
“Stop him,” she said. “What’s wrong with you? George?”
I left her and them. MacLeod did not appear to stop me. I went out to my car. I didn’t have any doubt about what gambling house Morgana Radford had meant.
26
The parking lot of the big brown house was full of cars and empty of people. I saw Deirdre Fallon’s red Fiat. I didn’t see Walter Radford’s Jaguar. The lot was dark and swept by the wind. A mist of dry snow blew like drifting sand across the open lot from mounds at the edges.
When I parked and got out, the scouring wind made sounds that played tricks with my nerves. I was a long way from my own backyard. Costa’s silver Bentley was parked in its private space around the corner from the front entrance. I went inside.
The rooms were all going full blast, the elegant marks losing their money as fast as in any garage-floor crap game, if with more comfort and gentility. I stayed far in the background, my duffle coat on my arm. I did not see Walter or Deirdre Fallon. I chewed my lip for a time, then headed for the telephone booth inside the front door. I put on my coat and slid into the booth.
Costa’s office number would be private, but the club should have a listed number. It did. I dialed and watched through the glass as a houseman ambled to a wall telephone. I asked for Costa. I saw the houseman hesitate. I gave my name and said it was urgent. He told me to wait. I watched him press a button, and my line went on hold. He pressed another button, and almost stood at attention as he spoke into the phone. He nodded, and my line went off hold.
“Hello, baby, what’s up?” Costa’s easy voice said.
“I want to talk to you.”
“You know where to find me.”
“No, somewhere a little more public. I’m at the railroad station. Just drive up slow; I’ll see you.”