13
The screaming was over by the time we reached the house and were running up the stairway, but we were led by the sound of scuffling and loud voices to a front bedroom where Desta Dwight was struggling in Burke’s arms to get at Myra, who was collapsed on the floor. Dwight and Marvin Moore were also there, and everyone was talking loudly and at the same time.
Desta was pretty drunk. She writhed in Burke’s grip, spitting out non-juvenile epithets at the sobbing widow whose white dress no longer looked jaunty.
Raymond Dwight was gently lifting Myra up from the floor, while Marvin sagged against a bedpost in an alcoholic stupor.
Burke pushed Desta back into a chair and clapped a big hand over her mouth. The stopping of her shrill voice let us hear Dwight saying solicitously to Myra:
“It’s all right, dear. Everything’s going to be all right. If anyone gets thrown out of this house it will be Desta, not you.”
Myra sagged against him, sobbing. There were three ugly red marks on her cheek where Desta had slapped her, and one sleeve of her dress was torn.
Standing in the doorway with me taking it all in, Laura giggled as Burke jerked his hand away from Desta’s mouth with an oath. Blood smeared his palm where she had bitten him.
The girl’s hysteria had left her and she was in that cold unreasoning stage of drunkenness in which a vagrant idea becomes an obsession.
Her obsession-of-the-moment was a violently murderous hatred of Myra Young.
“I’m not going to stand for it. I’ll kill you first. Moving into my room just because it connects with Pops’! No bitch is going to put me out of my own room. Why don’t you move in with Pops and be done with it?” Desta’s voice was controlled but her eyes were crazy.
Dwight tenderly laid Myra back on the bed, then whirled on his daughter: “Shut your mouth, Desta. You’ve caused enough trouble...”
“Not as much as I’m going to cause.” She stood up and Burke stepped back, watching her narrowly.
“I know what’s been going on around here. You haven’t been fooling me. I’m through keeping quiet and when I tell what I know...”
Raymond Dwight moved swiftly for so heavy a man. Before anyone could stop him, he was across the room and his big hand struck his daughter a sweeping blow in the mouth. She sank back limply with a gurgle of fright.
Burke shouldered Dwight aside and stood over the girl. “Go on and tell us what you know,” he commanded. “I’ll see that no one touches you.”
A look of cunning came over Desta’s face. She shook her head, seemingly sobered by her father’s slap. “I don’t know what I was going to say. I guess I just went sort of crazy when I found Pops installing that woman in my room without a word to me. I’m sorry I... caused so much trouble. If I could have a drink...” She looked around hopefully.
With a snort of anger the oil man turned his back on his daughter and went back to Myra. Passing Marvin, he gave the youth a shove toward the door. “Get Desta out of here... and the rest of you might clear out, too.”
Burke walked over to us with a grim smile on his face. “That seems to ring down the curtain. I think I could use a drink.”
Marvin had hold of Desta’s arm and was urging her outside as we three went down the hall together. Laura’s eyes were very bright but her forehead was puckered with a frown.
“It doesn’t make sense,” she said hopelessly. “I would have sworn Myra was in love with her husband.”
“It hasn’t taken her long to get over it if she was,” Burke said, sardonically. “She’s making no bones about moving right in to the front bedroom connecting with Dwight’s.”
The butler, two men-servants and a maid were grouped at the foot of the stairs, looking up fearfully.
Burke paused and said: “If any of you mix the Dwight girl another drink tonight, make it plenty light.” He paused while they all nodded, then went on: “Where are the Mexican guests?”
“They’re having a cocktail with Mr. Hardiman on the side lawn, sir,” the butler replied.
“We’ll join them. Bring out some more cocktails, and the rest of you go on about your affairs. Everything’s all right upstairs.”
We went out the front door and around on the flagged walk to the spot where we had first seen Desta and Marvin. It was that period of half-darkness when the last lingering light of day seems reluctant to give way to night. There were colored electric bulbs strung between the trees but it wasn’t dark enough for them to give off much light.
Michaela and Hardiman were seated at a round metal table. In a cushioned chair a little back of them, Pasqual seemed more than ever the alert watchdog. A lowtoned conversation between man and girl ceased as Burke went up to them. Laura’s hand on my arm guided me to a garden seat ten feet away where we could see and hear everything.
Stopping at the table, Burke said: “You folks seem to take attempted murder right in your stride.”
The tall man stood up. He said coldly: “I don’t believe I’ve met you.”
“I’m Jerry Burke, in charge of a murder investigation. You’re Hardiman, of course, of the State Department.”
Hardiman inclined his head. “Miss O’Toole has just been telling me how a local newspaper has chosen to misinterpret my presence in El Paso.”
“The Free Press has a habit of misinterpreting my presence here,” Burke said wearily. He sat down without waiting for an invitation. After a slight moment of hesitation, Hardiman also sat down. Michaela watched Burke with her head tilted a little, but did not say anything.
“Dwight has sent his car in for Senor Rodriguez,” Burke told them. “When the Senor arrives I’m going to demand that all of you lay your cards on the table before me where I can count them.”
“By what authority do you make such a demand?” Hardiman asked him.
Burke’s fist struck the metal top of the table angrily. “I’m tired of getting the run-around. I’m only interested in murder. I’ve assured Dwight I shan’t dig into any other angle. If you’re using your official influence to force a settlement from the Mexican government in Dwight’s favor... that’s your dirty linen. No doubt he promised you a big enough cut to make it worth your while. My business is...”
“That is a libelous accusation, Mr. Burke. I’ll ask you to make a full retraction.”
The two men glared at each other in the dim light. Hardiman, coldly austere; Burke, hunched forward, his heavy jaw uncompromisingly squared.
A servant came with a tray of cocktails. Burke relaxed and took one. The man brought the tray to us, and Laura took an Old-fashioned while I selected a Side-car from the assortment he offered.
Burke filled his pipe and leaned back to sip his drink. Hardiman didn’t relax. He continued to lean forward stiffly:
“I’m waiting for your retraction.”
Burke sighed. “I’ve told you I’m not interested in anything except murder. What you and Rodriguez do or don’t do is your own affair... except as it concerns Leslie Young’s death.”
“You haven’t intimated what possible connection you suspect there may be, Mr. Burke.”
Burke motioned to Michaela. “Ask her.”
“What does the man mean?” Hardiman demanded of the Mexican girl.
Michaela shrugged her shoulders with Latin expressiveness. She spoke for the first time since Burke had joined them.
“I will tell you nothing.”
Laura’s elbow nudged me. “There’ll be fireworks for sure if your friend ever mixes with that gal.”
The American diplomat’s fingertips were drumming on the table. “It appears to me you are taking a great deal for granted, Mr. Burke.”
“You have to in my business.” His voice remained unperturbed. “Do you know why Miss O’Toole invited Leslie Young to the hacienda the same night she was expecting you and Dwight?”