Killer with a Key

CHAPTER 6

Walter Stewart straightened in his swivel chair at the sound of the tap-tap of high heels approaching the partly opened door of his office; his blunt-fingered, capable-looking hands rapidly shuffled the cardboard folders on his desk. He was a slender man in an untidy-looking, expensively cut dark suit; he had a lean, aggressive face, and his graying hair thinned out on top to a noticeable bald spot. He glanced up at the open door with studied casualness as Florence Richardson entered.

“You're staying on this evening, Mr. Stewart?”

Her voice was low-keyed-like her personality, he thought. And her appearance. Attractive enough, with the fresh, clear complexion contrasted with the prematurely gray hair, but the severely tailored suit and the glasses militated against the masculine head-turn in a crowd, the hallmark of the man's woman.

“A few moments only, Miss Richardson.” He nodded down at the opened folders in front of him. “I have a late dinner engagement, and I thought I might use the time profitably to update one or two of these programs.”

“If there's anything I can do-”

“Nothing, thanks. I'm just noodling, actually.”

“Well, if you're sure… you'll get the safe?”

“I won't forget. I'll take care of it.”

“I'll put the night latch on the outer door as I leave. Good night, Mr. Stewart.”

“Good night, Miss Richardson.” He sat and listened again to the tap-tap of her heels, diminishing now, and then the slight sound of the door. Capable girl-damn capable. He was lucky to have her. Kept the office running like a watch, and no fuss and feathers about it, either.

He pushed a folder absently along the side of his desk with a stiffened forefinger and leaned back lazily in his chair and folded his hands behind his head. He stared for a moment at the far wall with its framed certificates, an idle toe tapping idly on the inner well of the desk. He unclasped his hands and stood up restlessly, shoving the hands deeply into his pockets.

He wandered out into the outer office, from whose floor space his own partitioned-off, glassed-in privacy had been carved. It was quiet now in the office after the daylong tac-tac-tac of the machines. Approvingly he noted the neat, clean desk tops; he insisted upon a clean desk at quitting time. A six-girl office, Stewart, he reminded himself; do you remember when you used to wonder if you'd ever have a one-girl office? Or a place of your own at all? And not so long ago, either.

He glanced at the gold lettering on the heavily frosted glass of the outer door; it always reassured him to see it there. He was reading it backward from where he stood, of course, but then he really didn't need to read it at all. He'd carried those letters of gold in his heart for ten years before he ever got them up on glass. Walter Stewart, Insurance Broker. And directly beneath in smaller block print, we sell service. Neat, but not gaudy. Conservative insurance service for conservative clients. Too bad you couldn't put that up on the door, too.

He rested an elbow on a chest-high, olive green filing cabinet, and as an afterthought tested the top drawer. Locked, as it should be. Miss Richardson checked them personally each evening before she left; he'd never found her to be careless. Away from the office as much as he was, it was a relief not to have to be eternally concerned with the grinding function of the hour-by-hour small emergencies of office routine. Miss Richardson handled it all. He himself had no patience for such details; he begrudged the time spent in such fashion as a distraction from a broker's true metier. He Three sharp raps on the glass aroused him; he crossed to the gold-lettered door, opened it and stood aside. “Come in.”

A big man entered; he was dressed flamboyantly in a vividly checked sport coat and light-colored slacks. He wore an expensive panama with a too-wide brim, and he had a livid scar that slightly pulled down a corner of the heavy mouth. The face was a scarred full moon.

Walter Stewart led the way directly back to the inner office, and pulled the guest chair up beside his desk. The big man seated himself and removed a small notebook from an inside breast pocket which he passed across the desk to Walter Stewart, who thumbed casually through its closely written contents, then nodded. He opened the center drawer of his desk and took out a sealed white envelope; he leaned forward slightly to hand it to the big man, who slit the flap with a thumbnail, removed the small sheaf of bills, flipped them between thumb and forefinger as casually as Walter Stewart had thumbed the notebook, restored the bills to the envelope and the envelope to the inside breast pocket.

Not a word had been spoken during the almost ritualistic transfer, but as the big man made a movement to rise Walter Stewart raised a hand.

“One moment,” he said. His eyes followed the movement of his hands on the desk top as they faced two folders together on the blotter. He kept his eyes on the folders as he continued. “I find that I shan't need the service any longer.” He forced himself to look across the desk.

“Sorry to hear it, Mr. Stewart.” There was no change, of expression on the heavy features; in the quiet office the voice was a rolling bass, ruggedly deep. “We're a little bit proud of our service. Is it something specific?”

“Not at all,” Walter Stewart said. He said it hastily. “It's the fact rather that circumstances have changed-” He paused; he didn't like the sound of the phrase. He tried again. “There eventually comes a time when it becomes necessary to reassess a given situation.”

“In other words, you feel you've outgrown us, Mr. Stewart.”

Walter Stewart restrained the impulsive reply on the tip of his tongue. He felt warmth invading his features, but he made himself speak calmly. “Such a statement implies ingratitude on my part. I neither feel nor wish to be made to feel ungrateful.”

“Look at it from our point of view.” The heavy voice rolled over Walter Stewart as the big man leaned back in his chair and ran his eye appraisingly from the comfortably furnished office in which they sat on out to the spacious exterior. “I've been making these little visits to you for about four years now, Mr. Stewart. Not always to this address; three different addresses, I believe. Each in turn a little more substantial, a little more fashionable. You've prospered; you've moved on and up. Do you remember the first address, Mr. Stewart?”

Walter Stewart did remember; he sat, silent. The big man waved a negligent hand about him. “I personally much prefer this address, and the circumstances it represents. I think you do, too. My associates and I like to feel that our service was of some material help to you in attaining the address and circumstances. You know the expense involved in maintaining our service; it is an expense which we can support only by a firm, equitable arrangement with our clients. You follow me, Mr. Stewart?”

Walter Stewart circled dry lips with his tongue. “I have always felt our arrangement to be equitable.”

“Exactly,” the heavy voice said, and waited. Walter Stewart sought for words. He was clever with words, but he could find none at the moment to avoid the direct question he had previously side-stepped. Despite himself his voice sharpened. “Do you take the attitude then that this arrangement is permanent?”

“A matter of terminology. I myself prefer the word 'Irrevocable'.”

“I refuse to concede-” Walter Stewart broke off suddenly. His blunt fingers drummed rapidly on the desk top. He looked up in sudden alarm as the big man rose, but there was a smile on the moon face. Or it could have been a smile except for the scar.

“You'll excuse me, I'm sure, Mr. Stewart. I have another appointment. I'd like to leave you with this thought. My associates and I dislike sounding arbitrary, but we feel that over the years our relationship has developed into something mutually profitable. We wouldn't like to see the status quo disturbed. We really wouldn't, believe me.” Thick fingers flirted with the too-wide brim of the panama as he settled it more firmly on his head. “See you next month, Mr. Stewart. As usual. Unless you call. And if I were you, I wouldn't call. Good night.”

Walter Stewart sat and listened to the tread of the heavy footsteps, cut off by the sound of the closing door. He drew a long breath, and stared down unseeingly at the blotter on his desk.

So now you know, Stewart. Now you know.

He sank back in his chair and closed his eyes, then leaned forward as he forced himself to open them again. What are you worried about? he asked himself impatiently. Nothing has changed. Not one single thing has changed.

Blackmail. He rolled it around on his tongue. He shrugged; sticks and stones may break your bones, Stewart, but names will never hurt you. You may be tied to the railroad track, but as the man very carefully pointed out you like the way you're living, too.

There's no difference, except that now you know that you bought the whirlwind.

And haven't you really always known?

Johnny sat bolt upright on the bed, startled from sleep by a thumping on his chest. His instinctively quick movement dislodged the scampering Sassy, who bounded down to the end of the bed and turned to wrinkle her nose at him disapprovingly. “You got to cut that out, baby doll; I might swing first and look later.”

He stretched and looked at the late afternoon sunlight beneath the three-quarters-drawn shade. Might as well get up and eat. He lay back and stared up at the ceiling. He'd get going in a minute; shower first, shave…

Sassy boarded his right leg, walked smoothly up the length of his body, and resettled herself on his chest, face-to-face. He looked down at the blue eyes and the serious little face. “You've sure taken over this quarter-deck, white stuff. Something tells me I've gone under new management.”

The kitten's eyes were tightly closed as she licked diligently at a paw; Johnny snapped his fingers at her, but she paid no attention. When she was satisfied with the condition of the paw she lifted her head and looked at him again. This time when he snapped she grabbed for the fingers. Mildly curious, he extended his arm behind the small head and snapped the fingers again. She was watching his face and made no movement.

Johnny began to get a feeling. “You little sinner, you're deaf.” He sat up halfway, holding her on his chest, experimenting. When she could see the snapping fingers Sassy went for them. When she couldn't there was no reaction.

He lifted her free from his chest at the expense of some skin as her claws hooked in instinctively. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed and put the kitten on the floor between his feet, faced away from him; the first four or five times he removed his hand from the small body she turned immediately to see what new game they were playing. He waited patiently until she wearied of turning and lay quietly with only the switching tail in motion. When he was sure she couldn't see him he picked up a shoe and let it fall heavily, and Sassy bounded up and switched ends in mid-air, coming down facing him.

“You just kiddin' around with me, sugarpuss? You heard that, all right. Or wait a minute. Do you hear it or do you get the vibration from the floor in your paws?”

He faced her about again, and when she was quiet clapped his hands together with a report that surprised even himself. The kitten never even quivered. He lifted a foot and jammed his bare heel down hard, and although the noise was only a light thud Sassy again performed her switched-ends ballet.

No doubt about it-the kitten was deaf. She was extremely sensitive to all vibrations-and even to air currents, he could see now that he was watching her closely. The small. questing nose was rarely still, and a breeze barely light enough to flutter a curtain's gauze at the window was sufficient to bring her head around inquiringly.

He reached down and picked her up again and put her back on his chest as he stretched out. “All right, baby doll. It's tough, but if you never had it you don't miss it. And nature's law of compensation seems to have you doing all right for yourself.”

Sassy reached a tentative paw toward his moving lips, and he took the paw in his hand. Immediately the tufted ears flattened; she half rolled on her side in an attempt to get at the holding hand with her other paw. He swept her off his chest down onto her back on the bed beside him and tickled the furry underbelly, and for an instant all four legs furiously resented this indignity before she stretched languidly and invited more.

Johnny laughed, played with her for another moment and then stuffed her under the sheet as he slid off the bed. He stood and watched her battle her way out, to emerge with fangs bared, ears cocked and tail thrashing. She glared about the bed for him, then in a kittenishly instantaneous change of mood collapsed flexibly upon herself as she energetically cleaned a hind leg.

Johnny picked up her saucers from the newspaper on the floor and rinsed them clean. He refilled them from the wax-papered cache and the milk carton in the refrigerator. The instant he stooped over the newspaper, saucers in hand, a white streak leaped from the bed and trotted over to him, white paws twinkling and tail aloft like a Saracen banner. He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower; he stood in a torrent of hot water and then of cold, and dashed out puffing and blowing. Halfway through his shave he remembered something and in his underwear went to the phone and gave the operator the number of Vic's apartment. “Lorraine? Johnny. Since you're home I don't know that I even need to ask, but how'd you make out with the boys?”

He caught her hesitation. “Where are you calling from, Johnny?”

“The hotel.”

“Do you think that's wise? Have you eaten yet?”

“Just on my way downstairs.”

“Why don't you come over and eat with me? It's too hot to fuss, but if a salad will tempt you-”

It was his turn to hesitate, but only for an instant. “Be there in thirty minutes.”

“Fine. I'll be expecting you.”

He stared down at the phone musingly as he replaced it. Just where did he stand with this woman? She was the wife of a good friend. By her own admission she wasn't a perfect wife. She had been tied up with Robert Sanders, professionally and-according to Mike Larsen-otherwise. She could have killed Robert Sanders. And whoever had killed Robert Sanders had more than likely killed Ellen Saxon. Johnny frowned down at his clenched hands; tonight he would clear out a little underbrush. The machete would probably draw a little blood, but so be it.

He finished shaving, whacked at his still damp hair a couple of times with the comb, dressed quickly, waved to the preoccupied Sassy and left the room. On the street the heat rose up and attacked him. He whistled for a cab; in the back seat the little breeze that they stirred up was a hot breeze. The city lay limp in the kiln.

Lorraine Barnes had the apartment door ajar when he came off the second floor landing; he knocked on the partly opened door.

“Come in,” she said from just inside.

He went in through the hall to the living room, where she was setting up collapsible little tables. “You look to see who you were inviting in?” he asked her, indicating the still open door in the hall.

“No.” She straightened, thoughtful. “I never even thought about it, since I knew you were coming-”

“I'd start thinking about it. There's no inoculation-”

“Sit down,” she interrupted firmly. “Food first, lectures later.” Johnny sat down, and she placed on the little table before him a platter piled high with potato salad, pineapple slices, hard-boiled eggs, lettuce, tomatoes, radishes, cucumbers, cold cuts and cheese. He blinked up at her. “Half of this is enough for the Mexican Army.”

“Eat.” A smaller tray with a tall glass, a pitcher of ice and a pitcher of tea was added to his table. “Speak up for what you don't see.”

For a short time the clink of cutlery and the tinkle of ice was the only sound in the room. When Johnny sank back with a repleted sigh Lorraine removed his tray. She had already removed her own. She lit two cigarettes and offered him one, and as he inhaled she sat down across from him again.

“I think I owe you an explanation, Johnny.” He had intended to give her no opportunity to speak first, but he realized that he had been outmaneuvered. The blue-gray eyes across the room were fixed upon him steadily. “Cards face up? All the way around?” He nodded, warily.

She crossed her legs deliberately and tugged her skirt down over her knees. “I hid a choice when I went down there this morning. I could tell them where I'd been last night, and in fact and inference explain Vic's presence in Ellen's room. I think they'd let him go if I did-soon, anyway. I didn't tell them, and I suppose you think I'm a first-class heel.”

He dragged hard on the cigarette. “It's your problem.” He couldn't keep the irritation from his voice.

“Granted. I'll handle it. Myself.” Twilight had stolen up to the apartment windows; he sat and watched the cigarette in the chair opposite glow more brightly as Lorraine Barnes continued. “There is a husband-and-wife relationship almost impossible to describe to an outsider. You're Vic's friend, so I'm trying. I'm also trying because I'd like your help.” The cigarette in her hand moved in a vague arc; the steady voice was expressionless. “Vic is not a passionate man. It has nothing to do with his age; he never has been. In our marriage there are really only two things I can give him: companionship, and his own self-respect. I've compromised the self-respect, but I don't intend for Vic to know it. Vic needs me, depends upon me; I'm his crutch against the world. And in turn I'm very grateful to him for being the sweet person that he is.” Above the smoldering cigarette her gaze was unwinking. “I wouldn't want you to think this an excuse or a rationalization, even. I'm simply trying to explain to you the position in which I find myself.”

He stirred uneasily in his chair. “So where does it leave you?”

“That depends on you. Do you think I killed Ellen, Johnny?”

He drew in his breath; this woman beat him to first one punch and then another. For the space of ten seconds he turned it over in his mind, and then he spoke deliberately. “I don't know. I doubt that a woman would have the strength; Ellen was no midget. On the other hand, you had opportunity as far as Sanders and Ellen both were concerned, so far as I know, and I have to think that whoever got Sanders got Ellen, too.” He was silent a moment. “I don't know about Sanders, but there's one way you can get yourself ninety-five per cent clean with me on Ellen. The police didn't put it out, but Ellen reached whoever killed her with her fingernails-reached them good. This morning when we went downtown you had on a high-necked dress. You've got another on now. I want a look. To the waist.”

She said nothing at all for a count of twenty, and when she did speak her voice was an octave lower. “If I didn't need you-” She said it between her teeth as she stood up.

“I'm in this thing, and I want out with as whole a skin as I can manage. Sit where you are.” She unfastened the three small mother-of-pearl buttons at the neck of her dress and in one long flowing motion stooped, caught up the hem of her skirt and pulled the dress off over her head. She had on a half-slip and a bra. In seconds she had the bra unhooked and off, and made one slow, complete pirouette. In the room's waning light her body glowed, and the only break from neck to waist in the ivory symphony were the dark-nippled, firmly jutting breasts.

She re-hooked the bra, face averted, picked up her dress and reversed it from its inside-out condition. She sounded a little breathless as she slipped it back over her head. “Satisfied?”

“Almost. I want to look at your scalp.”

“Then come and look at it,” she said wearily and sat down. In ninety seconds he had satisfied himself that there were no more scratches or abrasions hidden beneath her hair than there had been beneath her clothing.

He returned to his chair, and his voice was abrupt. “I don't know why you want me on your side. I don't know what you've got in mind, but let me tell you something I've got in mind. I wouldn't want to find out later that you had a partner and that he had the scratches.”

She sounded honestly curious. “And if you did find it out?”

“We wouldn't need any police.” The sound of his voice hung in the room, fiat and deadly. “I'd break your back. His, too.”

“I wish I knew you better, Johnny. Anyone who can make a statement like that, which should sound merely theatrical, and make it so impressively lethal-”

He refused to be distracted. “Who killed Sanders, Lorraine?”

The face she turned to him was perfectly guileless. “I don't know. I didn't see him killed. I'm not sure I know anyone with a good motive for killing him.”

“Why were you over there near his place?”

He could see her jawline ridge itself prominently. “That's my business.”

“You said a minute ago you needed me,” he suggested softly. “I don't move very fast up a one-way street. I want to know what you know. Now, not when it's too late. Let's hear something.”

“You've heard all you're going to hear from me,” she replied positively.

He did not want an open rupture-yet. He went off at a tangent. “You know a guy named Ed Russo?”

“Russo? I don't believe so. Why?”

“He has an office over at the hotel. He's a slim, dark, slick-looking job, thin face, good clothes, quick way of moving. Was Ellen carrying a white kitten when you saw her last night?”

“Why, yes, she was. I remember it on her arm-”

Johnny nodded. “She had it at the hotel, too. This morning I overheard this Russo asking if a kitten had been delivered for him. I got curious and went upstairs and poured a little kerosene on him. He exploded all right, but not in a way that meant anything to me. Then in his desk I found a newspaper folded back to the Robert Sanders headline.”

Lorraine Barnes frowned. “Your general description… Does he wear a ruby ring?”

“Never noticed.”

“The rest of it sounds like a man named Winslow I see in and out of Mrs. Sanders' office all the time. Hair plastered down-”

“Tight,” Johnny agreed. “You know his first name?”

“I think it's Edward, though that doesn't sound-” She looked up at the ceiling. “Edmund. That's it. Edmund Winslow.”

“At my place he's Edmund Russo. He worked for Mrs. Sanders? Or was there something personal between them?”

“Something personal? I wouldn't think so.” Lorraine Barnes said it slowly; obviously the possibility had not occurred to her before. “And he did run around a bit with a girl in the office. Roberta Perry; everyone calls her Bobby. I know they've dated.”

“You got an address for this Perry girl?”

“It's in my address book. I'll get it for you before you go.”

“What about her? How would you size her up?”

“Well, a little on the shrewd side, I'd say. Attractive. Calculating is the word I want, I guess. I wouldn't think vicious.”

“She'd better be shrewd if she's taking on Russo.”

“You don't like him?”

“We've agreed to disagree.”

Her smile was surprising, the first real smile he had seen on the usually guarded face. “You said he exploded? I don't see any marks on you.”

“I must outweigh him seventy pounds.” The smile still lingered. “Years ago I found the application of strength and leverage a fascinating subject. You'd never think it to look at me, but I'm a phys-ed grad.” She looked at him steadily. “If we can't be partners, Johnny, how about an armed truce?”

“Why can't we be partners? Because I want to know too much? I want to find this guy.”

“I'm afraid you'll have to forgive me if I don't want you finding him at the expense of shattering the foundations of my life.”

“Look, Lorraine. I don't give a damn about your private life. I want to know what you know that'll help me get closer to this guy. I don't see why you're afraid-”

“I'll tell you why I'm afraid,” she interrupted firmly. “In the important area of the police I'm not yet involved in this thing. If I should tell you my suspicions, and you acted upon them without proof, we would both be involved with the police, and my entire purpose would be defeated. That's why I'm afraid.”

He stood up and turned to the door. “Good night, Lorraine.”

“Good night, Johnny. I'm sorry.”

On the stairs he paused; one of the reasons you'd just about scratched this woman from the derby, Killain, was because you thought she couldn't have the strength to kill Ellen. Now she's a phys-ed grad.

So where are the marks?

He shrugged and ran lightly down the stairs to the street.