There was a loud commotion outside before anyone else could say anything. A shrill angry woman’s voice, and the gruff tones of Chief Jelcoe.
We all turned to look at the perspiring face of the chief of detectives as he came marching in the back door dragging the wriggling form of Desta Dwight with him.
“I missed this hell-cat and have been hunting her,” he panted. “Just found her hiding in the brush outside the back door.”
22
When he saw Desta, Burke said, “goddamn,” five times in rapid succession and with great feeling.
Jelcoe, meanwhile, was standing there staring stupidly around the room, his eyes darting from the lax figure of Myra Young on the couch, to the triumphant attitude of Laura, and then to the defiant Mexican girl. He drew in his breath sharply as he saw the tattooed cross.
“Just a little family gathering,” said Jerry Burke, intercepting Jelcoe’s gaze. He stood in front of Desta with spread legs and his hands on hips.
“All right. What are you doing here? What do you know about all this? Speak up!”
Her gaze went past him to rest malignantly on Michaela. “I followed her. I saw her slip away and head over here. Your cops were all guzzling beer, and asleep on the job. I wasn’t going to let her get away if I could help it. I think she killed Pops. I’ve been remembering that night when she took me to my room and I believe I heard a door open and close down the hall when she left my room. That’s when she did it.”
“All right. That’s what you think. Maybe she did.” Jelcoe’s eyelids went fluttering up at this admission but Burke disregarded him and went on to Desta:
“What do you know about her?” He gestured to Myra on the lounge behind him. “Which one of these wenches was here first and had the opportunity to carve her up?”
Desta’s eyes widened as she took in the details of Myra’s condition.
“I... I don’t know,” she hesitated. “I wasn’t very close behind Michaela. I heard them both inside here arguing when I came up to the back... and I hid outside to see what was going to happen.”
“Are you sure,” asked Michaela, “that it was not you who was here first and who slipped out to hide when you heard me coming?”
“I said I followed you,” Desta began, and Burke shut her up with a growled:
“I’ll ask the questions around here.”
“That’s right.” Jelcoe tightened his grip on Desta’s wrist and jerked her back.
Jerry Burke planted himself solidly in front of Michaela and said:
“Let’s start at the beginning. You’re from Yucatan and your father was Mike O’Toole... a friend of Leslie Young many years ago. You hadn’t met Young, but knew about him through your father. Right?”
Michaela O’Toole nodded with dignity. I don’t know how she managed it but she faced Burke with more poise than anyone in the room, though practically stripped to the waist.
“When I came on this journey to prevent the betrayal of my country by Raymond Dwight my father told me Leslie Young would help if I appealed to him in the name of the Sacred Cross. One who is not of Maya descent cannot be a blood member of our society, but many of the secrets were passed on to Leslie Young, who was thought worthy, and he was presented with the cross of silver as a token of trust. When I saw my task was difficult, I wrote the note to Leslie Young, marking upon it the symbol he would understand. That is all.” An intense silence held us as her sing-song voice was silent.
Burke broke it harshly: “All right. You wanted Young’s help. Why did you kill him?”
“I have told you I did not.”
“You told me you didn’t kill Dwight, too.”
“I have killed no one.”
“Then how did that silver cross get on his body?”
“I do not know,” Michaela responded disdainfully. “You should ask whoever killed him.”
Burke drew in a deep breath and muttered: “Thank God, something begins to make sense.” He turned slowly away from her, taking out his pipe. His fingers were steady as he tamped tobacco in the bowl.
The whole thing made less sense to me now than it had before. And as for poor Jelcoe, I think he thought we were all nuts. He just stood there, staring, with a funny look of blankness on his face.
When Burke got his pipe going he half-faced toward Laura Yates and asked casually:
“What communication did you have with Young the day he was killed?”
“He telephoned me about noon and arranged the afternoon meeting which I’ve already told you about.” Her voice was cold and flinty.
“And told you about the note he had received from Michaela?” Burke’s pipe went out and he puffed on it unsuccessfully.
Laura answered without the slightest hesitation: “He mentioned the note... yes. He knew I would be interested.”
“And described the symbol of the double-barred cross?”
“Yes.”
“So you went to the library and checked up on the hidden meaning of the symbol.” Burke walked slowly toward Laura, each word pounding out like a bludgeon: “You realized it was a whale of a story... too big to split with anyone. And by marking that symbol on his cheek with lipstick you saw a swell chance to get him out of the way and throw suspicion on the writer of the note. So you shot him through the head...”
“If you believe that,” Laura interrupted him icily, “You’re a bigger fool than I thought, Jerry Burke.”
Unexpectedly, he chuckled. “You don’t bluff worth a damn, do you? I was just trying to satisfy Asa’s suspicions.”
My face got red when Laura turned and glared at me.
Burke was sauntering over to Myra, who was still reclining on the lounge.
“I still want to ask you that one question, Mrs. Young. I’m quite sure I know who killed both your husband and Mr. Dwight, but you can help me prove it. Where did Leslie keep that box of curios he brought back from Mexico?”
“In the bedroo...” Her head jerked up suddenly. “What box do you mean?”
Burke shrugged. “I think the one in the bedroom will do.”
He turned away from the widow and went through a side door. We could hear him rummaging around, and he returned presently with a small box of polished ebony which he carried to the center table and turned upside down, spilling out a conglomeration of curious trifles which Young had brought back from the tropics.
Pawing through them, Burke nodded with satisfaction. “It isn’t here. That silver cross found on Dwight’s body wasn’t merely a duplicate of the one Young had... it was Young’s. Do you suppose Laura Yates stole it the same time she stole the pistol, Mrs. Young?”
“She didn’t have to steal it. He gave it to her! That’s how she got it. I remember now. Of course that was the same cross.”
“I’m sorry,” Burke said gently, “but I’m afraid that won’t do, Mrs. Young. You see, there’s that shot you spoke of hearing... just before we dashed up and found Dwight dead.”
He paused and there was intense silence in the room. Into that silence, he said softly: “I’m exceedingly curious about that shot you heard, Mrs. Young. Please try to remember exactly how it sounded... where it seemed to come from. It’s very important, I assure you.”
Myra Young sat rigid, staring at him. A queer pallor spread over her face as she made herself answer him:
“I’ve told you all I can remember. It was just a... a shot.”
Burke nodded cheerfully. “Don’t wear yourself out trying to remember. I think I know exactly what you heard. A sound which you heard above the radio, yet was heard by none of the rest of us in the room... nor, in fact, by any of the five living persons who were upstairs at the time. A ghostly sound, wasn’t it? The echo, shall we say, of the bullet fired by you into Dwight’s head a few minutes previously — while you were in his room pretending to hold a conversation with him.”