The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries

A Shower of Daggers by Edward D. Hoch

Susan Holt awoke with a start, wondering why her bed felt so hard. Then memory flooded back in a blinding instant of terror and she knew she was in a jail cell, accused of murder. She opened her eyes and saw a woman in the next holding cell staring at her through the bars. “You’re awake,” the woman said.

“What? Yes. Yes, I’m awake. What time is it, please?”

“Barely daylight. Quarter to seven.”

Susan groaned. She’d slept less than three hours and her mouth felt as if it was full of cobwebs. She glanced at the lidless toilet in one corner of the cell. “Do they give you anything to eat here?”

“Pretty soon now. They’ll bring something around seven o’clock. What you in for?”

“Murder, I guess. I haven’t been charged yet.” The other woman gave a low whistle of appreciation and Susan hastened to add, “I didn’t do it.”

“Have you called a lawyer?”

“Not exactly. I called someone who’ll get me a lawyer.” She had called Mike Brentnor, her coworker in promotions at Mayfield’s, Manhattan’s largest department store. He was hardly a friend, but in the middle of the night in a strange city she was feeling desperate. Considering that she’d awakened him from a sound sleep, he’d been both concerned and reassuring, promising to be on the first morning plane out of LaGuardia, a flight that would take less than an hour.

Presently a guard brought her a breakfast tray with some juice, coffee, and a hard roll. “You’ll be brought before the judge at ten o’clock,” he said, not unkindly. “Have you seen your lawyer yet?”

“No. I think someone’s on the way.”

Mike Brentnor arrived a few minutes before nine, looking just a bit flustered. He was slim and slyly handsome, around thirty, the sort of man Susan used to see by the dozen in Manhattan singles bars. She met with him now in one of the interrogation rooms. “I phoned Marx from the airport and he gave me the name of a good criminal lawyer up here,” he told her.

For an instant she was dismayed that he’d reported to their superior, but of course Saul Marx would have to know about it. She wouldn’t be flying back as planned this afternoon. She’d be in a jail cell in upstate New York. “What did he say?”

“That it must be a mistake. Who is this person you’re supposed to have killed?”

“Betty Quint. It’s a long story. I’d rather just go over it once when the lawyer’s here.”

“I left word at his office. They were going to try catching him at home so he could come directly here. Mayfield’s name carries some weight, I guess.”

“I’m glad of that!” The coffee had revived her and she was feeling a little more human.

“I’m pleased you phoned me, Susan. I heard you broke up with Russell and I can’t say I’m sorry about that. You know I’ve always had a fondness for you.”

“Fondness? Is that what you call it?” She decided to make things clear from the beginning. A night in a jail cell had intensified the anger she sometimes felt toward Brentnor, though she knew none of what had happened was his fault. “I phoned you because I didn’t want to wake Saul in the middle of the night, and yours was the only other Mayfield’s home phone number I had with me. I do appreciate your flying up here, but let’s not get the wrong idea.”

“All right,” he agreed, flushing at her harsh words. “Now tell me what-”

A guard came to announce that her lawyer had arrived. He bustled in looking like an upstate version of Mike Brentnor, though with more style. She had a sudden vision of him in a courtroom defending her on the murder charge.

“Hello, Miss Holt,” he said, holding out his hand. “I’m Irving Farber from the firm of Freeman and Farber. That’s my father in the firm name, not me.” A smile flashed across his face, then was gone. He was all business. “What happened here?”

“I’ve been arrested for murder is what happened,” Susan said, her anger rising again.

“Have you made a statement to the police?”

“I told them what happened. They questioned me for hours until I demanded a lawyer.”

“That’s good.” He took a yellow legal pad from his briefcase and started to make notes. “What about the assistant D.A.? Was he in to see you?”

She nodded. “After they photographed and fingerprinted me. I told him I wanted to phone a coworker to get me a lawyer. By that time all I wanted was some sleep.”

“All right, Susan. May I call you Susan? Suppose you tell me your story from the beginning.”

He glanced questioningly at Mike Brentnor and Susan said, “It’s all right if he stays. I have nothing to hide.”

“Let’s start at the beginning. What brought you to our city?”

Susan took a deep breath, as if she was about to dive into a swimming pool. “I work for Mayfield’s, the Manhattan department store. We’re opening our first location in western New York at your new shopping mall in Pembroke and I flew up to work out the details of some special promotions. Betty Quint was my contact here.”

More notes. “How long had you known Miss Quint?”

“I’d met her once at our New York office about six months ago. She stayed overnight at my apartment. We’d been in constant touch by phone, fax, and E-mail since then. This is my first trip up here because there was no point in coming until the store was almost ready to open.”

“When does it open?”

“Next Tuesday. A week from today.”

“Go on. Describe everything that happened.”

I took the Monday afternoon flight up from LaGuardia (Susan continued), arriving at midafternoon. Betty met me at the airport and drove me to the new store. She was a friendly, uninhibited young woman of about my age, around thirty. Seeing her again confirmed my impression of her from our initial meeting at the New York store. She was a good worker, perfect for this store, but perhaps lacking the cool sophistication needed for the Manhattan retail scene. She liked jokes and didn’t mind attracting attention to herself. I wasn’t surprised when she mentioned she was active in a local theater group.

We toured the completed Mayfield’s store, where clerks were busy unpacking merchandise for the shelves and racks. Betty consulted her notebook frequently as she led the way through the store, pointing out special features of interest. A small café was already open for the employees and we took advantage of it for coffee and a snack.

“I’m so excited to be part of the Mayfield’s team!” Betty gushed. “Have you been with them long?”

“About nine years. Ever since college.”

“I thought Manhattan was very exciting when I was there in the spring.”

“It is, but most of my excitement has come from traveling for the store. I’ve been to Tokyo, Iceland, Switzerland, London, and all over America.”

“Do you meet lots of men on the job?”

“Not too many,” I said. “I told you about Russell.”

“Are you back living with him?”

“No.” I felt like saying it was none of her business. Instead, I shifted the conversation back to the new store. “Do you have anyone helping you on promotions?”

“Sadie Shepherd, she’s my secretary.” Her face brightened. “There she is now! I’ll introduce you.” She called out to a slender dark-haired woman in her twenties who was already headed in our direction. “Sadie, this is Susan Holt, the promotions coordinator at Mayfield’s flagship store in Manhattan.”

The young woman had a pleasant smile and seemed eager to please. “So glad to meet you! Betty told me about the great time she had in New York.”

“It was fun for me too. Perhaps you can come down and see our store sometime.”

“I’d love that,” Sadie said, then turned her attention briefly to Betty. “I wanted to catch you before you left. Here are a couple of phone messages.”

“Thanks, Sadie.” She glanced at them and slipped them into a pocket of her notebook. When we were alone again she turned back to me. “It would be great if you could stay and help me through next Tuesday’s opening.”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Betty. I have to fly back tomorrow afternoon. But we can go over lots of things while I’m here. If you’re free we can have dinner tonight. My expense account is fairly generous.”

“That would be great! We have a wonderful new French restaurant down by the harbor.”

“I’ll have to check in at my hotel first. I don’t want to inconvenience you. I should rent a car.”

“Why bother, for just one night? I’ll drive you to the hotel and then we can go to my place while I change.”

It wasn’t quite as simple as it sounded. Just as we pulled up at my hotel Betty received a call on her cell phone. She seemed annoyed at the caller, someone named Roger, and tried to get rid of him. “Look, I’m working right now, Roger. Sadie gave me your messages, but I was too busy to get back to you. Can’t we talk about this later?” She listened for a moment and then said, “I’m with someone from the New York office and we’ll be going back to my apartment.” When he said something else she uttered an obscenity and pushed the Off button on the phone.

I gave a grunt of approval. “Is Roger an old boyfriend?”

“Worse than that,” she said, but explained no further.

It took me a few minutes to check in and she accompanied me to my room.

“I just want to slip into a dress and we can be on our way,” I told her.

“It’s not a fancy place.”

“I’ve gotten a bit rumpled from traveling. I’ll only be a minute.”

She sat down on the bed. “Do you smoke?”

“Tried it. Gave it up.”

She’d opened her purse to take out a cigarette but then thought better of it. Meanwhile, I’d unzipped my overnight bag and removed this simple print dress I’d brought with me for early fall wear. I didn’t bother retreating to the bathroom for a modest change of clothes. We’d seen pretty much all of each other the night Betty stayed over at my Manhattan apartment. That was also the night she’d startled me by suggesting we stop for after-dinner drinks at the Plaza bar and then paying for them with a hundred-dollar bill.

“Can I use your phone?” she asked as I was freshening my makeup.

“Go ahead.” I motioned toward the nightstand.

She got an outside line and punched in a local number. When the party answered she started right in. “Roger phoned me awhile ago.” A pause and then, “Well, I don’t like it.”

I tried to keep busy with my make-up to avoid being too obvious about my eavesdropping. “I’m at the hotel now,” she said, “but I’ll be back to my apartment shortly. What’ll I do if he comes up and wants the money?”

She listened intently after that, finally said, “All right,” and hung up with a sigh.

“Is anything wrong?” I asked casually, finishing with my makeup.

“No, no. Just man trouble. You know how it is.”

We started out for her apartment but she was openly nervous, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror as if fearful of being followed. I wondered about that but asked no further questions, even when she seemed to double back on her route and take the long way through a number of narrow residential streets. “Less traffic this way,” she muttered, sensing my questioning gaze.

Presently we entered a neighborhood of large older homes, many of which had been split into apartments and needed ugly second – and third-floor fire escapes to comply with housing codes for multiple dwellings. Betty Quint parked in front of one of these. “Come on up. I want to take a quick shower and then we’ll be on our way.”

It was already after six and starting to get dark. Thick gray clouds had rolled in, threatening rain. She led the way to a side door which she quickly unlocked. I noticed there were two mailboxes, one with her name and the other with Mr & Mrs R. James Liction. “The landlord,” she said by way of explanation. “A retired couple. They live downstairs. Come on up.” She led the way to her second-floor apartment.

“It’s so large!” I marveled.

“I have the entire second floor,” she answered with pride. “These old houses are great bargains.” She dropped her things on the coffee table and walked to the front window, gazing down at the street. “Damn!”

“What’s the matter?”

“He’s down there in a car. I think we were followed.”

“Roger?”

“I’m going to shower,” she said, walking into the bedroom as she shed her outer garments. I hesitated to follow but then she called to me. “Here’s something you might like even if you did quit smoking.”

I walked into the bedroom and found her holding out a cigarette with crimped ends. “What is it, pot?” I asked.

“Sure! It’s good stuff. Helps you unwind after a day’s work.”

“No thanks. But go ahead if you want one.”

She shrugged and tossed the joint on the bedside table. “I don’t like to smoke alone.”

Wearing only a bra and panties she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, rummaging in a cabinet for a bath towel. “Come on in, Susan. Talk to me while I shower.” She handed me the towel to hold.

I sat on the closed toilet seat, feeling uncomfortable as she shed her underwear and tossed it into a laundry hamper. Then she felt the spray of water with her hand and stepped into the shower, pulling the curtain closed behind her. “Tell me about the Manhattan store,” she called out over the rush of water. “Is it true a homeless man lived there for days before he was discovered?”

“I’ve heard stories like that, but I-”

Betty Quint screamed, just once, chilling my spine. Then there was a thump as her body went down in the tub. “Betty!” I yanked open the shower curtain and stared at her body, drenched in the pounding spray of hot water.

She’d been stabbed once in the back with a slender dagger that still protruded from the bloody wound. A second, identical dagger lay in the tub near her foot. Otherwise the tub was empty.

I was alone in the steamy bathroom with her body.

Irving Farber scratched his nose and stared at Susan. “That story is impossible, you know. It couldn’t have happened the way you told it.”

“But it did!” she insisted. “I called 911 and the police were there within minutes.”

“And they arrested you.”

“Not right away. They questioned me for hours, trying to make me change my story. They accused me of all sorts of wild things, especially after they found the pot. I told them neither of us had smoked it but they kept pounding at it. One of the detectives suggested we’d been high on pot and made love to each other, and then I killed her to hush it up. That’s when I demanded a lawyer.”

Farber’s face was grim. “What was the detective’s name?”

“Sergeant Razerwell.”

He made a note of it. “Tell me, Susan, what’s your explanation for Betty Quint’s death?”

“I have none. I agree it’s impossible.”

“Did you touch anything in the apartment after you phoned the police?”

“No. I didn’t even turn off the shower. I couldn’t go back in there and see her again. I just sat in the bedroom and shivered until I had to open the door for the police.”

Farber glanced at Mike Brentnor. “Will the store go bail for her?”

The question startled him. “I – I don’t know. Depends on how much it is, I suppose.” He wasn’t about to admit he had no authority in the matter.

“Who’s your boss?”

“Saul Marx.”

Irving Farber glanced at his watch. “Is he in the office by now? It’s nearly ten.”

“He should be.”

“Get on the phone and ask him about bail. Meanwhile, I’ll talk to the assistant D.A. and find out how much they’ll be wanting.”

“Is there a chance I’ll get out of here?” Susan asked, her hopes soaring at the thought of it.

“Depends on the D.A. ‘s office. Don’t get your hopes up.” He put the yellow pad in his attaché case and snapped it shut.

Susan glanced at her watch. “I’m supposed to be in court in ten minutes.”

“They’ll come for you when they’re ready. Sometimes these things are a bit loose. If they don’t get you there, it’s their fault, not yours.”

The attorney and Mike Brentnor departed, leaving Susan to wonder just where she stood. She’d investigated a few murders in the past, during her travels for Mayfield’s, but she’d never been accused of committing one herself. The killing of Betty Quint while she was alone in the shower seemed so impossible that, paradoxically, Susan felt the solution must be a simple thing she could easily discover once she was free.

Presently one of the guards came for her. “Am I going before the judge?” she asked.

“Not yet. They want to question you some more.”

Susan was immediately on guard. “My attorney-”

“He’s been notified.”

She was ushered into one of the interrogation rooms, where she sat down at the bare table to wait. Presently the door opened and a stocky red-haired man she’d never seen before entered. He was carrying a briefcase and Irving Farber was right behind him. “Good morning, Miss Holt,” the redhead said, flashing a smile that was quickly gone. “I’m Adam Dullea, US Secret Service.” He flashed an ID that looked like miniature currency with its finely engraved borders.

Susan panicked, imagining some labyrinthian plot against the president. What had she gotten herself into? “What do you want?”

“I just have a few questions regarding your relationship with Betty Quint.” He opened his briefcase and took out a clear plastic envelope with a hundred-dollar bill inside. “Have you ever seen one of these?”

“A hundred dollars? I guess I’ve seen a few.”

“Did Betty Quint ever show you one?”

“No.” Then she remembered something. “She came to New York for a meeting about six months ago. We went out for dinner and drinks later and I remember she paid for the drinks with a hundred-dollar bill. I was a bit startled, but some people like to use big bills when they travel.”

“This one is counterfeit,” he said.

Susan peered at it more closely. It looked fine to her. “What’s its connection with Betty?”

“She passed it at a local restaurant. There’ve been a few other incidents too. We’ve had her under surveillance.”

“Is it true you can do these on a good color copier?” she asked.

“Not of this quality. We think it was printed overseas.”

“How-”

“I’m asking the questions, Miss Holt. Did Betty Quint ever show you or give you a hundred-dollar bill?”

“Just that one time when she paid for the drinks. And she gave it to the waiter, not to me.”

“I understand from your statement to the police that she received a phone call from someone named Roger while driving you to your hotel.”

“That’s correct.”

“Did she identify him further?”

“Not to me, no.”

“And she made a call from your hotel room?”

“Yes. I’m sure you could trace that. Most hotels keep a record of phone charges for billing purposes.”

Adam Dullea looked at her sadly. “The call was made to the local Mayfield’s store, Miss Holt.”

That surprised Susan and she must have shown it. “We’d just left there. Why would she -?”

He took a deep breath. “Look, Miss Holt, we’re inclined to accept your story for the moment, and so are the local police. If you had killed her, you would certainly have come up with a better story than you did – a burglar on the fire escape or a prowler under the bed, for example. Also, your coworker Mike Brentnor has informed the police that you’ve been helpful with other murder cases in the past. You’ll be released on your own recognizance, but you’re to remain in the city for at least forty-eight hours pending another court apperance on Thursday, when charges may be dismissed. Is that agreeable?”

“I suppose it’ll have to be.” What were they doing, giving her two days to find the real killer?

The Secret Service agent departed and Farber smiled encouragement. “Come on, Susan. You’re on your way out of here.”

In the courtroom it went exactly as predicted. The preliminary hearing was adjourned until Thursday morning at ten and she was released on her own recognizance. Mike Brentnor was waiting in the back of the courtroom. “Let’s go celebrate!”

“I’ve nothing to celebrate, Mike. A woman’s been murdered and I’m the only one who could have killed her.”

That was when Adam Dullea reappeared, his smile a bit more sincere this time. “Now that you’re released from custody, I wonder if we could talk.”

“About the murder?”

He nodded. “If you’ll excuse us, Mr Brentnor-”

Susan was happy to escape from Mike’s eager clutches. She allowed herself to be guided out of the courthouse and into Dullea’s car. “Where are we going?” she asked.

“Back to the scene of the crime. Isn’t that how these things are done?”

She laughed. “I’m no psychic, you know. I don’t pick up the killer’s thoughts or visions. Sometimes I notice things that others have missed.”

“That’s what I’m hoping for.”

This time as the car pulled up to the house a white-haired man came onto the front porch to greet them. He introduced himself as James Liction. “I own the place. You folks more police?”

Dullea showed his identification. “Secret Service. The victim was part of an ongoing investigation into counterfeit currency. Could I ask you if she paid her rent in cash?”

He shook his head. “Always a check, first of the month. My wife Mona was just saying what a nice tenant she was. Never any trouble. I can’t believe she was involved with counterfeiters.”

His wife a stocky woman who moved slowly, came out to join them. “Tell ’em about that suspicious-looking guy across the street, James.”

“Well, I already told Sergeant Razerwell.”

“Tell me too,” Dullea requested.

Liction shifted his gaze to Susan. “I happened to see the two of you drive in. After that a fellow parked across the street. He just sat there in his car for a long time. It was too dark to get a good look at him. When he heard the sirens coming he left quick.”

Susan remembered that Betty Quint had glanced out the front window and become upset when she saw the car. “We’re going to take another look upstairs,” Dullea told him.

James Liction shrugged. “Go ahead.” He and his wife went back inside.

The apartment was much the same as the day before, except that the door was sealed by yellow police crime-scene tape. Dullea pulled it away and used a key to enter. Inside Susan noticed signs that the drawers and closets had been searched by the police or Dullea’s people. “What are you looking for?” she asked. “More counterfeit money?”

He nodded. “A great deal of it. Before she went to work for your store, Quint was employed on the reservations desk of a major airline. Her boyfriend, a copilot on international flights, brought back several small packages of counterfeit money, all hundreds like this one. They’re often printed overseas and used as bulk payoffs for drugs.” He brought out the bill he’d shown her earlier, in its clear plastic envelope. He pointed to the lower right of the portrait where it read “Series 1996” in small print. “Notice anything wrong with it?”

She shook her head. “There’s Ben Franklin, looking the same as ever.”

“That’s what’s wrong. Beginning in 1996 the hundred-dollar bills changed significantly. The portrait is larger and off-center. There’s a new watermark and other safety features. Skillful as this job is, the counterfeiters made a fatal mistake in using the old design and dating it 1996. These bills couldn’t be passed in bulk overseas, where a suitcase full of drug money would be carefully examined by the seller, so they were smuggled into this country to be passed individually.”

“You think Susan’s boyfriend hid them here?”

“Yes.”

“And then killed her?”

Dullea shook his head. “His name was Lloyd Baker. He was found shot to death last week in the parking lot at Kennedy Airport.”

Susan sat down on the couch. “You think the same person killed Betty?”

“No, as a matter of fact, Baker’s killer is in custody. We were moving in on Betty Quint and obtaining a search warrant for this apartment. The easy answer is that she feared being caught with the counterfeit money and committed suicide.”

“She stabbed herself in the back? And where did she get the knife? She didn’t take it with her when she stepped into the shower. I was right there.”

“All right, then. If it wasn’t suicide, what happened?”

Susan recalled the scene vividly. “I don’t know. It was almost as if a shower of daggers hit her, instead of water.”

“Daggers? There was only one.”

Susan had gotten up and gone into the bathroom. She opened the cabinet that held the towels, then turned her attention to the shower itself. It was made of molded plastic, recessed into the wall. The plastic was solid and there was no clear sight line to the room’s only window, which had been closed in any event. The ceiling was smooth and unmarked, with the room’s only lights arranged on the wall above the mirror. The showerhead was normal. It had not dispensed daggers. The shower curtain was ordinary white opaque vinyl. “There were two daggers,” she called out to Dullea. “One in her back and another in the bottom of the tub.”

Susan turned on the water and couldn’t hear Dullea’s reply. Something caught her eye. She reached down and peeled it away from the bottom of the tub. It was a piece of Scotch tape, several inches long. Stuck fast near the drain, it had been all but invisible. “Look at this,” she called to him.

He came into the bathroom. “Tape. Where was it?”

“Stuck to the bottom of the bathtub. They could have overlooked it in their crime scene search.”

“What does it tell us?”

“I don’t know.” She stared around the bathroom. “You mentioned a search warrant. When were you planning to use it?”

“Last evening.”

Susan thought about it. “Someone named Roger phoned her in the car, before we arrived at my hotel.”

“I read that in your statement.”

“Maybe he was going to take the counterfeit money off her hands. With her boyfriend dead she’d need to do something.”

“You don’t just get a friend to deal in counterfeit.”

“Maybe it’s the same friend who was selling her pot. He might have been interested.”

“Roger?”

“Roger,” Susan agreed. “When she made the call from my hotel room she sounded a bit frightened of him. And she’d had other messages from him earlier. Maybe she was afraid he’d kill her for those counterfeit hundreds. Maybe he did kill her, but I’m damned if I know how.”

Susan still didn’t have a car of her own, and after Dullea left her off at the hotel she asked the room clerk where she could rent one. He directed her to a place just a few blocks away. As she was turning from the desk another thought struck her. “Do you keep a record of guests’ outgoing phone calls, with the numbers called?”

“Yes, ma’am, we do.”

“Could I see mine, please? I’ve mislaid a local number that I need.”

He brought it up on the computer and jotted it down for her. “This is the only call from your room.”

Susan glanced at it, a bit puzzled. “Yes, that’s the one. Thank you.” Dullea had told her that Betty Quint phoned Mayfield’s from her room, but the number at Mayfield’s new store ended in 6700. This number ended in 6743. Susan went up to her room and dialed it.

A woman’s voice answered with, “Store promotions.”

“Whose office is this?” she asked.

“I – it was Betty Quint’s office.”

“Sadie? Is this Sadie Shepherd?”

“Yes. Betty is-”

“I know. This is Susan Holt.”

“Oh! Miss Holt!”

Susan made a snap decision. “I’d like to speak with you after work today. Could we have a drink together?”

“I don’t know. I’m busy tonight.”

“I have to rent a car. What time do you finish up?”

“Usually five, but until the opening I can pretty much leave any time. Since Miss Quint’s death-”

“I’ll pick you up at five, Sadie. If you don’t want to go anywhere we can talk in the car.”

She was outside the store in a new Chevy when the young woman emerged, exactly on the hour. Sadie heard her beep the horn and headed over to join her in the front seat. “It’s good to see you again, Miss Holt. That was terrible news about poor Betty.”

“How do you think I felt, being right on the scene?” Susan left the motor off since Sadie had indicated she had no time for a drink.

“How did it happen?” the young woman asked.

“I was hoping you could tell me.”

Her face froze into a mask of ice. It could have been fright or defiance. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“How was Betty Quint killed in that shower, Sadie? You know, don’t you?”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I think you were responsible for her death.”

Sadie Shepherd exploded into fury. “That’s a damned lie! I know nothing about it!”

“Calm down and listen. This is what I know so far. Betty’s boyfriend was killed after smuggling a large quantity of counterfeit hundred-dollar bills into this country from overseas. They had a flaw in them that made it necessary to pass them individually rather than in bulk, where they’d be closely examined. After her boyfriend’s death, Betty tried to find a buyer for the money and she went to a man named Roger who was supplying her with pot and maybe other drugs. You two became friendly and she confided all of this to you. Somehow Roger frightened her, perhaps by demanding the counterfeit hundreds for less money than she wanted. He phoned her yesterday and made more threats. Back at my hotel, she phoned you at the store to tell you what was happening. She phoned her own direct number, but of course you answered. At the store yesterday you gave her some messages you’d taken in her absence, so I knew you answered her phone. Just as you did when I called that number earlier.”

“You think you know everything, don’t you? We didn’t become friendly only recently, as you say. We’ve been friends for two years, since we were in a local theater production together. She got me the job as her assistant at Mayfield’s. I liked her. She was lots of fun, always joking and doing crazy things.”

“What about her drug problem?”

“She smoked a little pot, sure, but nothing more than that.”

“Roger was her supplier?”

She nodded. “I told her not to go to him about the money, but she had all these hundreds and she was afraid to pass them herself. She’d tried a few here and in New York, but it made her too nervous.”

“Her boyfriend had hidden the counterfeit money with her?”

“Sure. He thought it was the safest place, but it didn’t keep him from getting killed.”

“Roger followed us back to her apartment last night. He was parked across the street.”

Sadie turned away. “I told her what to do on the phone earlier.”

“What was your advice?”

“I said if he was at the apartment she should manage to make her escape somehow. If he went after her, I’d go up there and take the money before he got it. She’d given me a duplicate key.”

“She made her escape all right, by getting killed. Did you go there last night?”

“God, no! When I heard about her death on the news I knew there’d be cops all over the place.”

“Where was the money hidden?” Susan asked.

“Inside a folded towel in the bathroom cabinet.”

“If it was still there, the police certainly found it. They were all over that bathroom.”

She touched the door handle. “Look, I’ve got to go. I’ve told you everything I know.”

“Not quite everything. Where can I find Roger?”

“I don’t know. He was just a name to me. Betty never told me anything about him.”

She left the car quickly, walking across the paved lot to her own little white Neon. Susan sat where she was until Sadie Shepherd had pulled out and vanished down the highway. She wanted to make certain she wasn’t being followed.

Back at her hotel she found the Secret Service waiting for her. Adam Dullea intercepted her on the way to the elevator. “You’re a tough one to keep up with. I leave you alone for a few hours and you’re off on your own.”

“I thought I had to clear myself by Thursday morning. I can’t do that sitting in a hotel room.”

“Where did you go?”

“You mean you didn’t have me followed?”

He laughed. “That was my job.”

Susan just stood there in the lobby, wondering how much she could safely tell him. Finally she said, “All right, come on up and I’ll tell you what I learned.”

In the room she opened the minibar and offered him a drink which he declined. “Maybe a Coke, if you’re having something.” She joined him in one and he said, “Your friend Brentnor’s been worried about you.”

“I should be so hard on Mike. He did fly right up here and help rescue me from a jail cell. I just always have the feeling he’s waiting for a chance to paw me.”

“Has he tried it before?”

“Once or twice. But he backs off when he sees I don’t like it.”

He sipped his drink. “Where were you this afternoon?”

“Out at the store. I still work for a living.”

“So do I. Who did you see there?”

“Betty’s assistant, a young woman named Sadie Shepherd.”

“Does she know anything about the killing?”

“Betty was an old friend. She told Sadie about the counterfeit money. She was afraid this Roger fellow wanted to take it without paying her price.”

“That’s about what we figured.”

“The money was hidden in the bathroom cabinet with her towels.”

“It was?” The news seemed to startle Dullea. “Sergeant Razer-well told me he personally searched the entire bathroom, including the toilet tank.”

Susan looked up. A sudden thought struck her. “What’s Razer-well’s first name?”

“Eric. Don’t let your imagination run wild.”

She brooded about it for a moment, then remembered something else. “While I was in her bathroom earlier, you said something about the dagger that killed her and I told you there were two daggers.”

He shook his head. “Only one.”

“There was a second dagger at the bottom of the tub.”

“No, just the weapon that killed her. It was still in her back.” She held her breath, eyes closed, and asked one more question.

“Were you parked across the street at the time of the murder, watching the apartment?”

“Sure. I told you we were going to use the search warrant last night. I had to make sure she didn’t remove the money before my men arrived. When the police came I drove away until I could find out what was going on.”

Susan opened her eyes and smiled. “Then I know how it was done.”

It was back to Betty Quint’s apartment once more. Darkness had settled in and a strong breeze was blowing a few dead leaves down the center of the street. White-haired James Liction opened the door in answer to their ring and seemed more resigned than surprised at seeing them. “What is it? You want to examine the apartment again?”

“I don’t think that’ll be necessary right now,” Susan told him. “I just want to ask you one question.”

“Well, you might as well come in. You too, Mr Dullea. Now what’s the question?”

The answer came before she had a chance to ask it. From the kitchen, his wife called out, “Who is it, Roger?”

“It’s just-” Liction began. Then he must have seen the expression on Susan’s face and realized what had happened. He tried to twist away as Dullea reached out to grab him.

When the Secret Service man had him under control, Mrs Liction came into the room. “Hey, what’s going on?”

“We just have a few questions for your husband, that’s all.”

She seemed resigned to it. “About the drugs, I suppose.”

“That and other things.”

Then Susan spoke. “I was going to ask you what the ‘R’ stood for in R. James Liction, the name on your mailbox. I thought maybe it was Roger. That’s what Betty Quint called you, wasn’t it?”

“I guess so,” he mumbled. “I might have sold her a little pot. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Are you growing it in the basement?” Dullea asked. “Some people do.”

“Can I call you Roger?” Susan asked, then went on. “Roger, we know Betty offered to sell you a quantity of counterfeit hundred-dollar bills from overseas. She was frightened that you might try to steal them from her.”

“I didn’t kill her,” Liction insisted. He could see where the conversation was leading. “I couldn’t have killed her. You were alone with her when it happened.”

“How did you know that?” Susan asked. “By looking in the bathroom window from your perch on the fire escape? Yes, I know there’s a fire escape outside that window even though I didn’t actually look at it. I saw the fire escape to the second floor when I drove up with Betty yesterday, and Mr Dullea here even commented on the unlikely prospect of a burglar coming through the bathroom window from the fire escape.”

Liction moistened his lips. “I think I want a lawyer.”

“You’ll get one,” Adam Dullea said, formally stating his rights. “First thing, we’re going to get Sergeant Razerwell down here to make the formal arrest. The murder is his job. I’m just interested in the money.”

Mrs Liction spoke from the doorway. “If we give you the money, will you forget about the killing?”

“Shut up, Mona!” he nearly screamed.

“You see,” Susan continued, “I made a big mistake. Betty had seen someone in a car across the street and that frightened her. I thought it was Roger, but she knew it was Mr Dullea here. She was caught between the two of them, with no way out. Maybe she’d even spotted you on the fire escape, Roger. Anyway, she decided to fake an attack on herself in the shower and escape by being taken to the hospital in an ambulance. She’d done some community theater work and had a fake dagger with one of those collapsible blades, the sort that ejects imitation blood when the blade retracts. It has adhesive to stick to the skin. While she was rummaging for a towel, she took the fake dagger and a real one and attached them to her body with Scotch tape, probably under her arm where I couldn’t see it. Her secretary Sadie said she was a great joker. Maybe she’d even pulled this stunt before.”

Dullea was shaking his head. “Are you saying she accidentally killed herself?”

“No, no! She meant to tell me she was wounded and to call an ambulance. Then she’d give herself a flesh wound with the real dagger before they arrived, and she’d be rushed to the hospital, escaping both Roger and the Secret Service. But after sticking the collapsing dagger to her back, she let herself fall in the shower and accidentally hit her head, knocking her out for a moment. The real dagger, still taped to her body, came loose and fell in the tub. I saw the daggers and thought she was dead. Roger here had heard her scream, and while I was phoning 911 he came in the window of the bathroom to get the package of money. He must have seen her hide it there earlier. She was beginning to stir in the tub and he stabbed her with the real dagger. He saw that the first one was a fake, so he pulled it off her back and took it with him, along with the money. He went back out the window and closed it behind him.”

“How long would that have taken?”

“Not more than thirty seconds, and any sounds would have been covered by the water from the shower, which I hadn’t turned off. I stayed out of the bathroom completely after I called the police.”

“What would she have told you and the doctors after the hoax was discovered?” Dullea asked.

Susan shrugged. “She’d have had a slight flesh wound to show the doctors, and she’d have thought up some story to explain the knife. She’d have told me it was meant to be a joke and it backfired. At least she’d be safe from both Roger and you. That was the important thing.”

Dullea allowed a brief nod of agreement. “How did you know it was Liction? That first initial wasn’t much evidence to go on.”

“There was something else. When Betty called Sadie from my hotel room, she said she was going back to her apartment and what should she do if Roger came up and demanded the money. She was saying that Roger lived downstairs, if I’d only known how to interpret her words. And once I knew Roger was so close, the method of murder wasn’t so hard to work out. One of the daggers had disappeared, and that meant someone had entered the bathroom before the police arrived. No one came through the door and the window was the only other entrance. If I hadn’t killed Betty, the person who entered through the window must have done it. Roger was too likely to be ignored.”

It was Mona Liction who returned with the package of counterfeit money while they waited for the police. “Here! Take it! I told him not to get involved in this. Take it and leave us alone.”

Adam Dullea reached out a hand as a police car pulled up in front. “I’ll take it, but I’m afraid we won’t be leaving you alone for quite some time.”