He helps her aboard and then goes back to his loving wife, Alice. They hop the next plane for Vegas, and when the bomb explodes they’re far, far away. They get the news from the papers, file claim, and come into two hundred thousand bucks.
Just like falling off Pier 8.
Except that it begins to get sour about there. Except that maybe Alice Trimble likes the big time now. Two hundred G’s is a nice little pile. Why share it?
So Tony Radner meets with an accident. If he’s not insured, the two hundred grand is still Alice’s. If he is insured there’s more for her.
The little girl has made her debut. The shy, awkward thing has emerged.
Portrait of a killer.
Davis went back to the newsstand, bought copies of all the local newspapers and then went back to the hotel.
When he was in his room, he called room service and asked for a tall scotch, easy on the ice. He took off his shoes and threw himself on the bed.
The drink came, and he went back to the bed again.
The easy part was over, of course. The hard part was still ahead. He still had to tell Anne about it, and he’d give his right arm not to have that task ahead of him. Alice Trimble? The police would find her. She’d probably left Vegas the moment Radner piled up the Pontiac. She was an amateur, and it wouldn’t be too hard to find her. But telling Anne, that was the difficult thing.
Davis sat upright, took a long swallow of the scotch, and then swung his stockinged feet to the floor. He walked to the pile of newspapers on the dresser, picked them up, and carried them back to the bed.
He thumbed through the first one until he found the item about Radner’s accident. It was a small notice, and it was basically the same as the one he’d read. It did add that Alice Trimble was on her honeymoon, and that she had come from San Francisco where she lived with her sister.
He leafed through the second newspaper, scanning the story quickly. Again, basically the same facts. Radner had taken the car for a spin. Alice hadn’t gone along because of a headache. The accident had been attributed to faulty brakes, and there was speculation that Alice might have grounds for suit, if she cared to press charges, against the dealer who’d sold them the car.
The third newspaper really did a bang-up job. They treated the accident as a human-interest piece, playing up the newly-wed angle. They gave it the tearful head, ‘FATE CHEATS BRIDE,’ and then went on to wring the incident dry. There was also a picture of Alice Trimble leaving the coroner’s office. She was raising her hand to cover her face when the picture had been taken. It was a good shot, close up, clear. The caption read: Tearful Alice Radner, leaving the coroner’s office after identifying the body of her husband, Anthony Radner.
Davis did not notice any tears on Alice Trimble’s face.
He looked at the photograph again.
He sat erect and took a long gulp of his scotch, and then he brought the newspaper closer to his face and stared at the picture for a long time.
And he suddenly remembered something important he’d forgotten to ask Anne about her sister. Something damned important. So important he nearly broke his neck getting to the phone.
He asked long distance for Anne’s number, and then let the phone ring for fifteen minutes before he gave up. He remembered the alternative number she’d given him then, the one belonging to Freida, the girl next door. He fished the scrap of paper out of his wallet, studying the number in Anne’s handwriting, recalling their conversation in the restaurant. He got long distance to work again, and the phone was picked up on the fourth ring.
‘Hello?’
‘Hello, Freida?’
‘Yes’?’
‘My name is Milt Davis. You don’t know me, but Anne said I could leave a message here if...’
‘Oh, yes. Anne’s told me all about you, Mr. Davis.’
“Well, good, good. I just tried to phone her, and there was no answer. I wonder if you know where I can reach her?’
‘Why, yes,’ Freida said. ‘She’s in Las Vegas.’
‘What!’
‘Yes. Her brother-in-law was killed in a car crash there. She...’
‘You mean she’s here? Now?’
‘Well, I suppose so. She caught a plane early this evening. Yes. I’m sure she’s there by now. Her sister called, you see. Alice. She called and asked Anne to come right away. Terrible thing, her husband getting killed like...’
‘Oh, Christ!’ Davis said. He thought for a moment and then asked, ‘Did she say where I could reach her?’
‘Yes. Just a moment.’
Freida put the phone down with a clatter, and Davis waited impatiently. By the time she returned, he was ready to start chewing the mouthpiece.
‘What’s the address?’ he asked.
‘It’s outside of Las Vegas. A rooming house. Alice and Tony were lucky to get such a nice...”
‘Please, the address!’
‘Well, all right,’ Freida said, a little miffed. She read off the address and Davis scribbled it quickly. He said goodbye, and hung up immediately. There was no time for checking plane schedules now. No time for finding out which plane Anne had caught out of Frisco, nor for finding out what time it had arrived in Vegas.
There was only time to tuck MacGregor’s .38 into the waistband of his trousers and then run like hell down to the street. He caught a cab and reeled off the address, and then sat on the edge of his seat while the lights of Vegas dimmed behind him.
When the cabbie pulled up in front of the clapboard structure, he gave him a fiver and then leaped out of the car. He ran up the front steps and pulled the door pull, listening to steps approaching inside. A white-haired woman opened the door, and Davis said, ‘Alice Radner. Where?’
‘Upstairs, but who...?’
Davis shoved the woman aside and started up the flight of steps, not looking back. There was a door at the top of the stairwell, and he rapped on it loudly. When he received no answer, he shouted, ‘I know you’re in there! Open the goddamn door!’
The door opened instantly, and Davis found himself looking into the bore of a .22.
‘Come in,’ a woman’s voice said softly.
‘Where is she?’ she asked.
‘I’m afraid I had to tie her and gag her. She raised a bit of a fuss when she got here.’
He stepped into the room, and she closed the door behind him. Anne was lying on the bed, her hands tied behind her, a scarf stuffed in her mouth. He made a move toward her and the voice came from the doorway, cool and crisp.
‘Leave her alone.’
‘Why?’ Davis said. ‘It’s all over now, anyway.’
She smiled, but there was no mirth in her eyes. ‘You should have stayed out of it. From the very beginning.’
‘Everybody’s been telling me that,’ Davis said. ‘Right from go.’
‘You should have paid more attention to them, Mr. Davis. All this might have been avoided then.’
‘All what?’
She did not answer. She opened the door again, and called, ‘It’s all right, Mrs. Mulready. He’s a friend of mine.’ Then she slammed the door and bolted it.
‘That takes care of her,’ she said, the .22 steady in her hand. She was a beautiful woman with a pale complexion and blue eyes set against the ivory of her skin. She stared at Davis solemnly.
‘It all seemed out of whack,’ Davis said, ‘but I didn’t know just where. It all pointed to Tony Radner and Alice Trimble, but I couldn’t conceive of her as a murderess. Sure, I figured Tony led her into it. A woman in love can be talked into anything. But when I learned about Tony’s accident here, a new Alice Trimble took shape. Not the gal who was talked into anything, and not the gal who’d do anything for love. This new Alice Trimble was a coldblooded killer, murderess who...”