The long Saturday night Read online

  “Do you have any other information?”

  “Two items. We’re certain there wasn’t any other man involved. And equally certain somebody was having her tailed, at least part of the time.”

  “You mean followed? By a private detective?”

  “Yes. I told Warren about it yesterday. Later we found out for sure.”

  “Do you know the agency this detective works for?”

  “For himself. He’s a kind of fringe-area gumshoe named Paul Denman. That about wraps it up as far as we’re concerned. Warren has a balance due him from the money he paid us, and we’ll send you a check.”

  “Thank you very much.” She hung up.

  I stared hopelessly at the wall. Horses? It was insane. In the 18 months we’d been married she’d never mentioned horses, and she’d never gambled on anything except bridge at a tenth of a cent a point. But it didn’t matter; it obviously had nothing to do with her being killed, and the whole thing had been for nothing. No. There was Denman. When we found out who was having her followed, we might have the answer to everything. Barbara was dialing again.

  “Sheriff's office, Scanlon speaking.”

  “Mr. Scanlon, this is Barbara Ryan. I have something here that perhaps you should know about. I—uh—” She hesitated.

  “Yes, what is it?”

  “Well, it’s a telegram. And it seems to be from Mr. Warren.”

  “Warren?” he broke in. “Where’s it from?”

  “El Paso. Texas. But maybe I’d better read it to you.” She read it, and went on. “I couldn’t make any sense out of it at first, but when I called this Mr. Norman he turned out to be a private detective, and he said the telegram’s from Mr. Warren and that legally I’m obliged to turn it over to the police—”

  “Good for you, Mrs. Ryan. Hold on a minute.” I heard him giving orders to somebody in the room. “Get over to Warren’s office and pick up a telegram Mrs. Ryan’s got for us. And make it fast.” He came back on the line. “Now. What else did this Norman say?”

  She repeated the conversation, and asked, “What should I do if Mr. Warren does call?”

  “Give him the information, but don’t tell him we know anything about it. Keep him on the line as long as you can. We’ll alert the telephone company and the El Paso police.”

  “Well, all right,” she agreed reluctantly. “But I still feel like a Judas. He thought he could depend on me.”

  “Mrs. Ryan, get it through your head—Warren’s either the coldest-blooded murderer of this century, or a dangerous maniac in the last stages of paranoia. Take a look at it yourself—ten minutes after he beat his wife to death with an andiron, he was in my office accusing me of persecuting him, and demanding a lawyer to defend his constitutional rights. Personally, I just think he’d forgotten he’d killed her. He even told George Clement he didn’t know when she was coming home. And when Owens went out there to see why he didn’t answer the phone, he’d been asleep. Good God in Heaven—probably in the same room! He’s dangerous to himself and to everybody else, as long as he’s at large.”

  “You refuse to consider the possibility he could be innocent?”

  He sighed wearily. “Listen. Everybody’s innocent until he’s proved guilty, even a maniac. And I’m not trying the case, anyway; all I’m trying to do is grab him before he kills somebody else.”

  “But what about this information from Norman? Or even the fact that Mr. Warren hired him in the first place?” “

  “To investigate his wife, after he’d already killed her?”

  “No, no. I mean the fact that somebody else was having her followed, before she was killed. If you could find out who hired this man Denman—”

  There was pity in his voice. “You mean you don’t know?”

  “He couldn’t have.”

  “God knows how many detectives he’s hired. We’ll probably hear next he’s having me investigated. Or Roberts.”

  “All right, Mr. Scanlon, if you don’t want to look into this, I’m afraid I can’t cooperate with you. I’ll tell him—”

  “Hold it!” he broke in. “Don’t get yourself in trouble. Of course I’ll check it; that’s what I’m here for. I’ll ask the New Orleans police to question this Denman, but you know as well as I do it was Warren that hired him.”

  “I still say the whole thing’s a horrible mistake; I know Mrs. Warren was still alive after he left the house with Mulholland.”

  “It’s no good, Mrs. Ryan. You admit yourself you can’t place the time nearer than fifteen minutes; it was before he left, when he was bawling me out.”

  That was puzzling. What the devil were they talking about?

  “All right,” she said then. “I’ll do it.”

  “Good for you. You’ve been a lot of help.”

  “I do think, though, you should let me know what Denman says.”

  “I will.” He hung up.

  I heard the deputy come in and pick up the telegram. In the next two hours there were five telephone calls, three of them from newspapers wanting background information, one from a man who identified himself and said he thought I was innocent, and the last from a man who didn’t identify himself and said when I was caught and brought back I’d be lynched. She signaled on the intercom when she went out to lunch so I wouldn’t pick up the phone. It rang once while she was gone. When she returned, she came on down the passage toward the washroom and pushed open the side door. She slid a chair up close to the desk and sat down.

  “What was that about with Scanlon?” I asked.

  “I’ve only got a minute, but that’s what I wanted to explain. I tried to call you last night—I mean, night before last—to ask if you’d heard the story going around town that Roberts had been murdered instead of accidentally shooting himself. But the line was busy.”

  “What time?” I asked quickly.

  “That’s the trouble. All I’m certain of is that it was right around eleven-forty-five, between there and midnight. They say it was eleven-forty-five when you left the house with Mulholland, and that you’d been on the phone, talking to Scanlon. They think that’s what it was. God, if I’d only looked at the clock.”

  “There’s no doubt she called somebody, as soon as I was out the door.”

  “But why? To get herself killed?”

  “I don’t know,” I said helplessly. “I’m so fouled up now I’m not sure of my own name. Norman’s information was no help at all.”

  “Well, there’s still Denman. I wanted to tell you, if necessary you can talk back on the intercom. Evans and Turner aren’t here, and nobody can hear you from the street. I’m facing the other way, so they can’t see my lips move. If somebody comes in, I’ll cut the switch.”

  “Good girl. You’re wonderful.”

  She grinned sardonically. “I guess I’m a born cloak-and-dagger type. But it’s almost one; I’m going to call Doris Bentley.”

  She went out. I picked up the phone and waited tensely while she dialed.

  “Crown Theatre.”

  “Would you tell me what the feature is today, please?” Barbara asked.

  “Yes. It’s Gregory Peck in ‘The Bravados’.” My pulse leaped; I was certain it was the right voice.

  “And what time does it start, please?”

  “At one-thirty-five, just after the news and the cartoon.”

  “Thank you.”

  Barbara hung-up, and in a moment the intercom hummed. “What do you think?” she asked softly.

  I pressed the key and leaned close to the box. “She’s the girl; I’m sure of it.”

  “What now?”

  “I’m going to talk to her.”

  “How can you?”

  “We’ll wait till the picture starts and she’s not busy. Can you do an imitation of a long-lines operator?”

  “Sure. But, listen—if she reports it to Scanlon, he’ll know it’s a fake. The phone company’s watching all incoming calls.”

  “I don’t think she’ll report it, for the same r
eason she’s never identified herself. She’s not eager for publicity.”

  “Here’s hoping.”

  I waited nervously while a half hour dragged by. The chances were she’d refuse to admit she was the one unless I could scare her. She obviously didn’t want to be identified, either because she was mixed up in this thing herself, or from a natural disinclination to admit she’d been in Roberts’ apartment—which was the only way she could have found the lighter there. The intercom came on, and I heard Barbara dialing.

  “Crown Theatre.”

  “This is long distance. We have call for a Miss Doris Bentley. Is she there?”

  “Long distance?”

  “Yes. El Paso is calling. For Miss Bentley.”

  ‘This is Miss Bentley, but—”

  “Go ahead, please.”

  “Hello,” I said. “Hello, Doris?” I heard her gasp. “It took me a long time to remember where I’d heard your voice before.”

  “Who are you?” she demanded. “And what are you talking about?”

  “You know who I am, so let’s get down to cases. And don’t hang up on me, because if you do Scanlon’s going to pick you up. I’ve still got a friend or two there, and he might get a tip; you didn’t invent the anonymous telephone call.”

  “Just a moment, please,” she said sweetly. I heard her put down the phone, and then the rattle of coins from the change dispenser.

  She came back. “You wouldn’t dare! I’d tell him where you are.”

  “Try me and see. After all, they’re going to catch me sooner or later, so I haven’t got much to lose. But you have, haven’t you?”

  “What is it you want?”

  “The name of the other man.”

  “What other man?”

  “Listen—when you called me, you said Roberts wasn’t the only one. What’s his name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “All right. You’re asking for it.”

  “I tell you, I don’t know. All I know is there was one. It was when I was still working for her, before she married.”

  “How do you know there was?”

  “I just do,” she said sullenly.

  “I said how?”

  “I’ve got eyes, haven’t I? The stuck-up witch, she didn’t fool me—”

  “You really hated her, didn’t you?”

  “So what if I did?”

  “Why?”

  “That’s my business. And, anyway, she was the one got Roberts killed, wasn’t she?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “Now, there’s a hot one. That’s a real gas.”

  “Did you ever tell Roberts about this man?”

  “No.”

  “Because he didn’t exist, isn’t that right?”

  “All right, you have it your way. I still know what I know.”

  “Did Roberts ever ask you anything about her?”

  “No. Except once, I think he did ask me what her name was before she was married. And where she came from.”

  “Did he say why he asked?”

  “No.”

  “When was this?”

  “It was way last summer.”

  “Do you remember exactly?”

  “Why are you asking all these stupid questions? I think it was the first time we dated. In July, or June—I don’t know. Stop bothering me. I don’t want to talk about it any more.” The line went dead.

  The intercom came on, and Barbara asked, “What do you make of it?”

  “Not much. Maybe she’s lying about the other man.”

  “I’m not too sure; though she is bitter about something. It might be Roberts’ death, of course. But there’s still something odd about the way she held out on that one point—I mean, how she knew there was somebody else.”

  “And still doesn’t know who he is. Or says she doesn’t.”

  “Or who he was. I just remembered something while you were talking. Didn’t she used to date Junior Delevan?”

  I frowned. “Yes. Now I think of it, she did.”

  “I don’t know what that could have to do with this, but she does have bad luck with her boy friends.” The speaker went silent.

  Delevan was a wild, good-looking kid with a penchant for trouble; he’d been arrested several times for car theft while still in high school, and later had been convicted of burglary and given a suspended sentence. Then just about two years ago they’d found his body on the city dump one morning with the top of his head broken in. The police never found out who’d done it.

  As I recalled now, it was just before Frances and I were married, while she was still running the shop, but she couldn’t have had anything to do with him. She was twenty-five then, and he couldn’t have been over nineteen. She probably didn’t even know him, except she might have seen him with Doris a time or two.

  The intercom hummed. “Telegram,” she whispered. I grabbed the phone just as she started to dial.

  “Sheriff’s office, Mulholland.”

  “Could I speak to Mr. Scanlon, please? This is Mrs. Ryan.”

  “I think it could be arranged, honey; but wouldn’t I do?” You could see the smirk on the stupid bastard’s face. I wondered how it would look with a boot sticking out of it.

  “If you don’t mind,” she said coolly, “I’d rather speak to Mr. Scanlon.”

  “Right you are, sweetie.”

  When Scanlon came on the line, she said, “This is Barbara Ryan again. I’ve just received another telegram—”

  “From Warren?” he broke in.

  “No. It’s from Houston, Texas, and it is addressed to Mr. Warren. The text reads as follows: DAN ROBERTS BORN HOUSTON 1933, ORPHANED AT AGE TWELVE, RAISED BY OLDER BROTHER CLINTON ROBERTS OWNER DOWNTOWN SPORTING GOODS STORE STOP JOINED HOUSTON POLICE FORCE 1954 BECAME DETECTIVE VICE SQUAD 1957 SUSPENDED AND INDICTED FOR EXTORTION 1958 STOP DREW SUSPENDED SENTENCE STOP APRIL LAST YEAR BROTHER ADVANCED MONEY ESTABLISH HIMSELF IN BUSINESS ELSEWHERE GET NEW START AWAY FROM ASSOCIATIONS HERE STOP HAS NEVER BEEN IN FLORIDA UNLESS SINCE LAST APRIL STOP NO DANGEROUS ENEMIES BUT WITH KIND OF FRIENDS HE HAD HE DIDN’T NEED ANY SIGNED CATES.”

  “What do you suppose it means?” Barbara asked then.

  “I don’t know,” Scanlon replied wearily. “But I’m getting afraid to open my desk drawer for a cigar; a couple of Warren’s detectives might jump out in my face. We just heard from New Orleans.”

  “About Denman?”

  “Yes. He says he was hired by a man from here by the name of Joseph Randall.”

  “Randall? I don’t think I know anybody—”

  “Exactly.”

  “But didn’t he meet this Randall? Or doesn’t he have an address, or phone number?”

  “No. Randall called him by long distance and hired him to follow Mrs. Warren. Said he’d send him the retainer, which he did—in cash, through the mail. That was Monday. He called Denman Tuesday night and then again Wednesday night, for his report. We’re having the phone company check out the calls now, but they’ll turn out to be from a pay phone. It’s so damn characteristic of paranoia—you’ve got to be sly, and fool ‘em; everybody’s plotting against you.”

  “But it could have been somebody else. Naturally, he’d want to keep his identity secret—”

  He sighed. “Mrs. Ryan, did you ever hear of anybody hiring a detective to watch another man’s wife?”

  “Then why would Denman take the assignment under those circumstances?”

  “He has the reputation of not being too fussy about who hires him as long as he gets paid.”

  The last lead was gone now. I slumped over the desk with my head in my hands. I’d have been better off if I’d given myself up in the first place. Heels tapped in the passage, and the door opened softly. Barbara had her purse under her arm.

  She smiled. “A girl’s entitled to rebuild her face before the coffee break.” Seating herself by the desk, she slid a yellow envelope from the purse. “This just came, and I don’t think
I’ve got the nerve to read him another one this soon.”

  “Thanks.” I dropped in the chair behind the desk and tore it open.

  JOHN D. WARREN WARREN REALTY CARTHAGE ALABAMA:

  NO SUCH PERSON AS FRANCES KINNAN STOP HAVE CHECKED VITAL STATISTICS ORLANDO AND DADE COUNTY NO BIRTH NO MARRIAGE NO DIVORCE STOP UNHEARD OF AT UNIVERSITY OF MIAMI AND BURDINES STOP NO RECORD OF A LEON DUPRE NOR SHOP ANYWHERE MIAMI AREA NAMED LEONS STOP ADVISE FURTHER ACTION DESIRED

  CROSBY INVESTIGATIONS

  I read it, and silently passed it to her.

  8

  She read it.

  “Any ideas?” she asked at last.

  “One,” I said. “Quit, while I still know who I am.”

  “Maybe it’s not quite as hopeless as that,” she replied. “It seems to me you’ve pretty well established what was at the bottom of it. You have a man with a previous record of extortion, and a woman—” She hesitated, embarrassed.

  “It’s all right,” I said. “We’ve got no time to search for euphemisms; let’s call ‘em as they fall. A woman with something to hide, possibly a criminal record. Result: blackmail. But it still makes no sense.” I showed her the figures from the bank statements. “I’ll admit the pattern matches what Doris Bentley said—that Roberts first asked about her along in the summer. For the sake of argument we’ll assume he had some reason to suspect she wasn’t who she’d said she was. Then maybe he started checking, and found out what she was trying to cover up. So far, so good—it was in August the checks she wrote for cash suddenly took a jump. But look at the picayune amounts: $200 a month at most. And all the time she had $6000 of her own she didn’t touch—until this week when she threw it away on a bunch of glue-footed horses. That doesn’t sound very desperate to me. And, finally, she didn’t kill Roberts, anyway; she wasn’t even in the same state.”

  “No,” she said. “But aren’t you overlooking the possibility two people could have been paying blackmail? If Doris is right, she had a boy friend.”

  I looked at her thoughtfully. “Maybe you’ve got it! And that would account for Roberts’ income that Ernie couldn’t figure out. There’s no telling how much he was tapping this other party for.”