“Did you know Leslie Young had been invited to be present at the Hacienda del Torro last night?”
Dwight showed surprise at the question. “Indeed?” He glanced coldly at me. “I suppose that explains your attempt to impersonate him.”
“A point which may have a direct bearing on his murder is that he was warned by telephone at noon yesterday by an anonymous person not to keep the appointment. I want to know who might have been interested in keeping him away.”
Raymond Dwight’s face remained impassive as he realized the turn Burke’s questioning was taking.
“I’m sure I can’t help you there,” he said stiffly. Then: “Who invited him to the hacienda?”
“Miss O’Toole.”
He had the blank face of a professional gambler. Not a flicker of emotion disturbed it. But his eyes were keenly alert. “Exactly what do you want from me, Burke?”
“I want you to tell me the purpose of the meeting at the hacienda. That might give me a clue as to why someone wanted to be very sure Leslie Young was not present.”
“I am not at liberty to tell you.”
“You mean you won’t?”
“Bluntly, yes. I will go so far as to say it was a private matter and could not possibly have any bearing on the murder you’re investigating.”
“But the telephoned threat! What do you make of that?”
Dwight smiled thinly. “I’m not a detective, Mr. Burke. You’ll have to draw your own conclusions.”
Burke relaxed and stretched out his long frame. “Why is Rufus Hardiman a guest in your house?”
“He came here at my invitation.”
“Why did you invite him?”
Dwight’s dark face flushed. “Need I explain why I invite a friend to pay me a visit?”
“Oh. Is Hardiman a personal friend?” There was a peculiar inflection to Burke’s voice. I knew he was leading up to something but I’ll be damned if I could see what.
Dwight said: “Of course,” impatiently.
“A friend of long standing?”
“Why... yes.”
Burke blew an indolent puff of smoke toward the high ceiling. “That’s queer. Department of Justice agents in Washington answered my telegraphic query with a report this morning that questioning of Hardiman’s family and associates indicated that you and he were wholly unacquainted before he made this trip.”
I couldn’t suppress a start of surprise. There was Burke for you again. Always about two jumps ahead of me.
Dwight finished his whiskey and soda and set the glass down with a thump. “He is a friend of a friend, shall we say?”
Burke nodded approvingly. “That’s thinking fast. I’m beginning to understand how you built a fortune out of nothing in the oil game. However, I take the liberty of assuming that his presence here at your house has more significance than a mere social visit.”
“You assume a great deal, Mr. Burke.” There was an edge of roughness to Dwight’s voice.
“That’s one of my bad habits,” Burke told him equably. “In this case I base my assumption upon nothing more definite than the meeting you have arranged between Mr. Hardiman of the State Department and Senor Rodriguez of Mexico.”
That shot in the dark hit home. A bilious flush mottled the millionaire’s dark cheeks. “You’re welcome to your assumptions, of course.”
“Thank you.” From Burke’s tone I knew he was enjoying himself. “How far is Rodriguez empowered to go in negotiating a private agreement for your benefit?”
Dwight didn’t reply. Instead, he pushed an ivory call-button on the table. To the servant who came in response, he said harshly: “Show these men out.”
Jerry Burke relaxed a little more comfortably. “We can find our way out without a guide, thank you. We’re not leaving just yet.”
“I’ll have you thrown out,” Dwight blustered. “You can’t come here with your insinuations...”
“...that you are making a cat’s-paw out of Rufus Hardiman to negotiate a favorable personal settlement for yourself with the Mexican government?” Burke finished for him coolly. “But I am here, Mr. Dwight. And that isn’t an insinuation. It’s an accusation.”
I thought Raymond Dwight was going to have a crack at tossing Burke out unaided. That would have been worth seeing, but he got a grip on his anger and sank back in his chair.
The servant was still waiting at the door, undecided and frightened.
“Get out of here,” Dwight growled at him. “Bring the gardener and chauffeur with you if I ring again.”
The man backed away, mumbling: “Yes sir Mr. Dwight, but...”
“But what?” roared Dwight.
“I was to tell you, sir, that Miss O’Toole and her escort are here to see you, sir.”
Burke spoke before Dwight could answer. “Bring them in here.”
His voice held an inflexible quality which silenced any protest Dwight might have offered.
The man looked inquiringly at his employer, hurried away when Dwight nodded assent.
Things had been happening too fast for me to keep up with them. I was sitting on the edge of my chair, breathing fast and wondering how far Burke could carry his bluff. A queer shiver went down my spine when the servant announced Michaela O’Toole. I had a hunch there would really be fireworks when she came in.
11
The ensuing silence was awkward and strained. It was clear that Raymond Dwight was restraining his anger with difficulty. I suppose it had been a lot of years since he had been pushed around by any man. Jerry Burke certainly had a way about him. I had never admired him more than while watching him handle the oil man. Without the slightest bluster, he was so damned sure of himself that he was a difficult man to oppose.
We were all sitting there in strained attitudes when Michaela O’Toole and a male companion were ushered into the room. It was the man whom she had called Pasqual... the Mexican who had met us at the door and later herded Laura and me up to the locked bedroom.
Michaela wore a simple dark dress which enhanced rather than detracted from the vivid quality of her beauty. I don’t want to go poetic, but Michaela did bring something into a room. Standing quietly inside the sliding doors with a questioning look for Burke, eyebrows raised in surprise as she recognized me, she was clothed in a tangible aura of glamour which vitalized the atmosphere.
I turned my attention to Jerry Burke after one glance at Michaela. More than anything else, I wanted to see how he would react to her.
He stood up as Dwight went to her, his gaze gravely fixed on her face as he stood waiting for his host to bring her forward. He looked as stolid and unimpressed as though this was just an ordinary occasion. It wasn’t until she came close and unleashed the deep blue of her Irish-Indian eyes upon him that I saw a flicker of interest light his face.
Neither of them smiled as Dwight said bluntly: “This is a policeman who insists upon questioning you, Miss O’Toole,” and I had the feeling that they were measuring each other. In the silence my quickened perceptions seemed to catch a ringing sound as of two unsheathed blades clashing dangerously.
The moment was past and Burke was bowing stiffly. “I’m delighted to meet a friend of Leslie Young’s.”
If he expected to catch Michaela off-guard he had underestimated her. In her liquid voice with its undertone of Irish blarney, she replied:
“It is too bad to disappoint you, Mr. Policeman.”
“Are you going to tell me you didn’t know Leslie Young?”
“Why not?”
“You wrote him a note asking him to come to the Hacienda del Torro last night.”
She shrugged. “But yes.” The corners of her mouth were upcurved and I knew she was baiting Burke.