“Sure. That’s where Mr. and Mrs. Case live. Old Man Runyon and his wife used to live there, too, but they’re both dead. He drowned a couple of years back and she had a heart attack a while later.”
“I guess you know the place,” the chief said. “Did you ever try to break in there?”
“Oh, no. I wouldn’t do that. Mrs. Case was always real nice to me. He’s all right, too, I guess, but I don’t like him as much as her.”
Marshall’s discouragement at the reply was mixed with surprise at his reference to Bruce Case. “What do you mean, you don’t like him as well as her? Don’t you know he’s dead?”
“Is he?” Herman asked with raised brows. “Nobody told me.”
Marshall looked at Meister and the burly chief said, “He can’t read, so he wouldn’t have seen it in the paper. He doesn’t even have first-grade intelligence. And nobody talks to him about anything serious. His folks don’t talk to him at all, except to give him orders, mostly to stay out of the way.”
Marshall tried once again, more out of desperation than hope. “Think hard, Herman. One Sunday night, or early Monday morning, a couple of weeks ago, weren’t you on the roof of the old Runyon place?”
Herman gave his head a definite shake. “No, sir, Mr. Marshall. Like I told you, I like Mrs. Case. I wouldn’t rob her.”
In a last-ditch effort, Marshall said, “Are you just saying that because you wouldn’t want her to know and think bad of you, Herman? Because if you are, she wouldn’t get mad. As a matter of fact it would help her if we could prove you were on her roof that night.”
“Well, I’d certainly like to help Mrs. Case,” Herman said. “She’s a nice lady. But I know she wouldn’t want me to lie. Once when she stopped to talk to me out front I was telling her about Mr. Koontz the hardware man saying he heard I was going to be drafted. She said it was a lie and it was very cruel of Mr. Koontz to lie like that. So I know she doesn’t like lies.”
The reporter let his shoulders sag wearily. That should tie up the prosecution’s case, he thought. Herman Potts would be absolutely convincing on the witness stand. All you had to do was look at his vacantly smiling face when he spoke and you knew he was no more capable of lying than a three-year-old child.
Chapter XVIII
It was nearly three a.m. when Marshall left police headquarters. In his despondency at the devastating effect he knew Herman Potts’ testimony would have on Betty’s defense, he was in no mood for sleep. Instead of turning toward home, he drove down Center Street in the direction of the dock, intending to park there and gaze over the water while he tried to think of some way to counteract Herman Potts’ story.
As he passed the newspaper office he had a sudden whim and turned left at the next corner to drive past Lydia’s apartment building. He had no intention of stopping, meaning only to drive by and glance at her darkened windows. But to his surprise, there was a light burning in her front room.
All at once he had an overwhelming desire to see her. At that time of night there were no news-hungry reporters around to observe whom he was visiting, he told himself, pulling over to the curb. He entered the building, mounted the stairs and softly rapped on her door.
A little time passed before Lydia’s voice whispered from the other side of the door, “Who is it?”
“Kirk,” he said, keeping his voice down so he wouldn’t be heard by other tenants.
He heard the lock turn and the door opened. Lydia was wearing a filmy black nightgown which showed the outline of her white body beneath it. She looked at him in surprise.
“I just happened to drive by and saw your light,” he said. “What are you doing up?”
She closed and locked the door behind him. “Having some warm milk. I thought it might make me sleep. What are you doing up?”
She didn’t offer him his customary peck of hello, he noted, wondering if she was a bit resentful about his recent avoidance of her.
He said, “I was called down to the police station.”
Slipping off his suit coat, he draped it over a chair and sat on the sofa. There was a nearly empty glass of milk on the cocktail table before the sofa.
“Has something happened?” she asked.
“Uh-huh. They caught the cat burglar tonight.”
Lydia came over to sit next to him, seating herself on the edge of the sofa, half facing him, her hands folded in her lap. “Who was it?”
“Herman Potts.”
She looked at him in astonishment. “That silly fellow who’s always sitting in front of City Hall?”
“Uh-huh. He made a complete confession. He wasn’t on Betty’s roof the night Bruce was shot.”
Lydia searched his face. “You think he was lying?”
“No. He wasn’t there.”
She was silent for a time. Presently she said, “You’re not beginning to think she actually is guilty, are you?”
“Are you?” he countered.
“No. Even if she is my rival, I can’t see her deliberately planning murder. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
He gave her an amused smile. “You’re jumping the gun. I haven’t lost faith in her. I just have an entirely new theory of what happened that night.”
“Oh? What’s that?”
“I don’t want to talk about it until after I’ve seen somebody Monday, because if I’m wrong, my theory would make me look like a damn fool.”
“Then let’s hope you’re right,” she said. “Would you like a drink?”
He merely shook his head. Conversation temporarily lapsed as he gazed at her moodily, his mind on other things so that he was only half aware of her presence. Then it gradually registered on him that under the glare of the floor lamp immediately behind the sofa, her nightgown was almost completely transparent. He ran his gaze over the white swell of her breasts beneath the gauzy material until she flushed.
“You’ve seen them before,” she said. “Do you want me to put on a robe?”
“I was admiring, not disapproving,” he said, reaching out both hands to cup one firm cone in each.
Her hands raised from her lap in an instinctively protective gesture, then dropped back again. “The way you’ve been avoiding me, I thought perhaps you’d found some new toys to play with.”
“You know why I’ve been staying away. There aren’t any toys in town as pretty as these.” He rubbed his palms over her nipples.
She continued to sit stiff-backed, looking straight into his face, her hands still folded in her lap. He could feel the tips of her breasts begin to enlarge beneath the cloth as he continued his gentle massage. After a moment she leaned slightly forward to increase the pressure and an oddly strained expression appeared on her face.
She said, “I was going to make you beg when you finally came back after deserting me for over a week.”
“You were? Just for that I think I’ll make you beg.”
His massage became a trifle less gentle. She still sat unmoving, her body stiffly erect, but now her lips parted and the strain in her face became acute.
“Aren’t you going to do anything else?” she asked in a whisper.
“You can have anything you beg for,” he said.
“That’s not fair,” she protested. “I was going to make you do the begging.”
Grinning, he continued his rhythmic massage. Suddenly she emitted a little despairing cry, grabbed his wrists to spread his arms apart and threw herself against him. Her arms snaked about his neck and her lips searched for his. He drew his head back.
“Beg,” he said.
“Oh, God, take me,” she moaned. “Please, Kirk. I can’t stand it another second.”
“Beg a little harder.”
“I’ll do anything you say,” she said. “But take me. Please!”