A low chuckle came from her red lips. “I told them I was Mrs. Eloise Pelham on my way to a city hospital to give birth to my first baby, and I pulled a fake faint that had them embarrassed for fear I was going to do it right there. They didn’t even make me get out of my car to check up on my silhouette, but gave me a motorcycle escort to the hospital and were awfully kind about the whole thing.”
There you are. What can you do with a woman like that?
“Why did you slip back to see Hardiman secretly?” I asked.
“I wanted to get his side of the thing. I thought he might break down and spill something important.”
“Did he?”
“No. He denied everything. But there was a gleam in his fishy eyes that boded ill for Dwight. Do you suppose Hardiman could have...”
I cut her off brusquely. “He says he stood there in the yard and watched you sneak in the side door and go up to Dwight’s room about the time murder was committed.”
“He lies.” She was coldly unemotional about it. “He stood there and watched me go down the slope to where I had parked my car.”
“If you left the house when you say you did... you wouldn’t have been caught by the police blockade. Dwight’s body wasn’t discovered for at least half an hour.”
She had an answer for that, too. “I had car trouble. A clogged gas line. I had to hail a passing motorist and get him to blow it out for me.”
“The Free Press phoned the house to ask if Dwight would verify the blackmail story. How did they get it if you didn’t steal the telegram from me after I was knocked out?”
“I imagine whoever took it from you must have given them the story,” she suggested, with a gleam of amusement in her eyes.
I gave her a cigarette and took one myself, lit them both with the same match. Leaning forward to get a light, she spotted the silver cross lying there where Burke had dropped it. Her eyes widened perceptibly and there was a swift rush of terror to her face. She pointed with a trembling forefinger and asked:
“Where... did that come from?”
I felt superior and upper-handish for the first time since walking in the door. I leaned back and puffed nonchalantly on my cigarette.
“You seem to recognize it?”
“Of course. There was a rough sketch of it on the note Michaela O’Toole wrote Leslie. It excited him strangely but he wouldn’t tell me what it meant to him.”
I held my breath, waiting to see if she would say anything to betray the fact that she knew about the same mark being found on Young’s cheek in death. It hadn’t been mentioned publicly and we thought no one knew about it except the authorities, Mrs. Young, and the murderer.
When she didn’t mention it I wanted to believe it was because she was unaware of it, but I couldn’t rid myself of the thought that she was a fast-thinking female and wasn’t likely to give herself away like that.
She was still looking down at the cross, and I finally answered her original question:
“It was found on Dwight’s body... left there by the murderer, I suppose.”
She looked at me with dilated eyes, and there was a sudden flash of understanding in them. She started to speak but checked herself before a word came out. I felt balked, thwarted. I sensed that she had hold of something important, the clue to everything, perhaps... and that she was going to hold out on me.
I felt desperately like slapping the truth out of her. Instead of that masterful course, I prompted her with a weak: “Well, what are you going to tell me about it?”
She wet her lips and smiled enigmatically. “It brings up an interesting speculation.” She held out her glass.
I poured her another drink. I didn’t take any more. I knew I needed all my faculties to cope with her.
As she drank, I asked her: “What did you do with Burke’s telegram from Washington?”
She looked at me innocently. “I told you I haven’t seen it.”
“And I don’t believe you. You can get yourself locked up for stunts like that.”
“I imagine Mr. Burke keeps a nice clean jail.” She leaned both her elbows on the table and cupped her chin in palms. “Are you going to swear out a warrant for my arrest?”
I tried to avoid her eyes but I couldn’t. There was a warm glow in their depths. The palms of my hands were clammy and my heart was pumping absurdly fast.
I said, “No,” and then suddenly I was standing up. I felt lightheaded. “But I can’t harbor you. Jerry would never forgive me if he found out you were here and I didn’t hold you.”
“In that case... why don’t you hold me?”
She was standing, too. She moved around the table and stood very close to me.
I don’t know much about women but I knew she wanted to be kissed.
Nip and Tuck sat there on their haunches with their ears tipped forward in surprise and (I think) approval.
19
Jerry Burke woke me the next morning, standing over me and shaking my shoulder. I stared up at him stupidly, blinking in the bright sunlight streaming in my east window. He was cleanly shaved and his eyes had a bright alertness that was disgusting so early in the morning. I sat up in bed and muttered:
“This is a hell of a time to come visiting.”
He sat down on the edge of my bed and grinned at me. “It’s a guilty conscience that’s keeping you abed, Asa. Harboring wanted women isn’t in your line.”
“I didn’t harbor her very lon...” I began, then broke off with a curse. “How do you know Laura was here?”
“A couple of my men picked her up as she drove away last night. I sent them here as soon as I got home.”
“But how... what made you think she’d come here?”
He laughed out loud with an exuberant cheerfulness that told me he felt the case was tightening up. “It was the one place I knew she’d come. That gal has designs on you, Asa, whether you know it or not.”
I worked up a good imitation of a yawn and avoided his probing eyes. “I suppose you’ve got her locked up in a cell next to Hardiman,” I grunted.
“Not yet,” he drawled. “Either she or Hardiman lied about her going into the house last night. I checked her story about passing the barricade with her story of expectant motherhood, and released her for the time being, at least. But I’ve got a good man tailing her and I can put my finger on her any time I want.”
I got up and went into the bathroom to splash cold water on my face. Coming back to get dressed, I asked:
“What are the latest developments? I suppose you’ve been up for hours and hours running down clues.”
He ticked them off on his fingers while I dressed: “No fingerprints found on the pistol. Ballistics positively identifies it as the gun used to kill both Leslie Young and Raymond Dwight. Confronted with it, Myra Young tentatively identified the pistol as the one given to her by Leslie... which she claims disappeared from the house immediately after Laura Yates’ last visit there. The serial number positively identifies it as one purchased by Leslie Young from a downtown sporting goods store. Laura Yates denies ever having seen it.”
The way he said that last line made it sound very much as though he suspected Laura might be lying. I blurted out:
“You’ve only got Myra’s word that she ever did.”
“True enough. But, so far as we know, Laura is the only one of the possible suspects who might have gotten hold of that gun. None of the rest of them had any chance to steal it from the Young home.”
“How about Dwight?” I asked belligerently. “He admitted keeping assignations with Young’s wife while he was away from home. He might have picked it up on one of his visits. If I were getting into deep water with a married woman, one of the first things I’d do would be to inquire about firearms around the house... and make some arrangement to get rid of a pistol in case the husband came home unexpectedly.”