A Gambling Man

Chapter 57

The door to the room was standing open and it was empty, Archer could see. Hank and Tony apparently had flown the coop. He walked out to the terrace, found a seat, ordered a gimlet and a rack of olives and — because he hadn’t had his dinner yet — a roast beef sandwich with a side of potato salad. He drank and ate, and was lost in thought until he heard the voice.

“You don’t look so good, honey.”

He looked up to see it was the same waitress who had taken care of him and Kemper.

“Nah, I’m fine. Hey, you seen Kemper tonight?”

“I’m not that lucky.”

“You ever seen any other skirt here reel him in?”

“Not a one. And there wasn’t a lack of effort. Least it ain’t just me, right?”

“Right. Hey, you know Hank and Tony, Sawyer Armstrong’s bouncer boys?”

“Sure.”

“They’re here, right?”

“They were. Seen ’em leaving, oh, about an hour ago.”

“You ever try your chances with them?”

She planted a hand on her hip. “Hey, fellow, I’m not that desperate. And I like my guys with a little class. I mean, I don’t even think those goons can read. I got standards.”

Archer slipped her a buck and added a wink to it. “Thanks. And keep aiming higher. Who knows, you might just end up running General Motors one day.”

She tucked the dollar down her blouse. “What a comedian. You should try vaudeville.”

As she walked off, Archer checked his watch. He decided it was time to drive up the mountain again. And maybe bag two for the price of one.

The Bentley was gone, but the Triumph and the Phantom Rolls were out front. The door opened and the same servant appeared. He looked at Archer like he’d never seen him before.

“Are Mr. and Mrs. Kemper in?”

“Who shall I say is asking, sir?”

“It’s Archer. I was here before, with Willie Dash?”

“It is very late, Mr. Archer. I believe you should come back—”

“It’s all right, Chen, I’ll see Mr. Archer.” Beth Kemper had appeared next to her butler. “Follow me, Archer. You look like you could use a drink.”

And so, just like that, Archer followed her. He liked following her. He liked how she moved, like a panther slinking through the brush. It was inspiring, actually, simply how the lady walked. You couldn’t teach it, he knew. You could either do it or you couldn’t. And this lady could do it in spades. Just like Callahan.

She took him into one of the rooms he and Dash had passed on their previous visit. It was all marble and white and cold and, despite all that, interesting. He stared at a large figurine of a naked woman looking at something over Archer’s right shoulder.

He pointed his hat at it. “Does it cost more not to have clothes on?”

She sat beautifully on the couch, her bright red skirt fanning out and covering her legs all the way to her calves. The blouse above it was a creamy white. She looked like some sort of exotic flower in full bloom.

“In life it usually does, Archer, so why not in art? Would you like a drink? I’m going to have one.”

“You look very comfortable sitting there, so let me do the honors. Dry Manhattan do the trick?”

She smiled and waved her hand at the bar. He guessed they had a bar in every room, and wasn’t that just the stuff of everyone’s fantasies?

He poured and measured and jiggered his way through the concoctions. He presented the Dry Manhattan to her and took a seat facing the woman.

They raised the glasses to each other and took sips.

She said, “And what can I do for you so late at night?”

He dabbed a bit of vermouth off his lip. “I think your father might be mad at me, again.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Well, you know Hank and Tony gave me the once-over when your father learned that we had come up here to question you.”

“But I thought that was all forgotten and forgiven after we met at his house.”

“But then I was a bad boy a second time and gave them more reason to give me the treatment again.”

“And what exactly did you do now?”

“If I tell you, you’ll tell your father, right?”

“Not if you don’t want me to.”

A smile eased across Archer’s face. “Now that’s a good line, Beth. Although Willie doesn’t want me to call you Beth.”

She set her drink down, took out her cigarette case, tapped a smoke on the top of the coffee table, and lit up. “Why is that?”

“Something about different classes of people. You’re up here on the mountain and I’m down on Porter Street with the dirty rabble.”

“I don’t see it that way, Archer, I really don’t.”

“Anyway, your instincts were right the other night. I did follow you to that diner. Which meant I saw you and your father in the parking lot of the wharf. Which of course means I saw him come in on his boat from visiting that island that a company with your hubby’s fingerprints all over recently bought from the feds.”

Kemper sat back, tapped ash into an ashtray, and took a swallow of her Manhattan.

“You were a busy boy, then, although I have no idea what you’re talking about. I thought you were going to tell me you burned down one of my father’s olive trees.”

“So the island was owned by the feds. And now it’s not. It’s owned by your husband, apparently.”

“No, it’s damn well not.”

This didn’t come from Beth Kemper. It came from her husband. They both turned to see him standing in the doorway, his hat in hand. His necktie was undone, his shirt was wrinkled, his hair was disheveled, and he didn’t look like the sparkling golden boy at this precise moment in time.

Beth rose and said in a concerned voice, “Douglas, are you all right?” There was genuine concern in both her voice and expression.

“No, Beth, I’m not. I’m really not, honey.” He paused and looked at her. “I... I just need some... help.”

Douglas walked forward while Archer watched both of them closely.

Beth reached her arms out to him and Douglas did the same, and a moment later they were wound as tightly as wire on a coil. They stood like that for a full ten seconds before they stepped back from one another.

Wilma Darling was right — he does love his wife.

Douglas looked at Archer. “I have no interest in that island.”

“Paperwork filed in the town hall says otherwise. You’re listed as the chairman of the board.”

“Anyone can list anyone else.”

“Any idea who might have listed you?”

“No, no idea. What was the name of the company?”

“Stearman Enterprises.”

The Kempers exchanged nervous glances.

“Yeah,” said Archer. “That was the model of your mother’s plane. The Stearman 75. Someone’s being either ironic or downright cruel.”

She looked at Douglas. “Do you know anything about this? I want the truth!”

“No. I swear. I’m involved with no company by that name. And I... wouldn’t have named it that.”

“The money behind Alfred Drake, maybe?” suggested Archer.

“Maybe,” said Douglas doubtfully.

Archer shook his head. “Wrong. There is no money behind Drake other than his own. He’s getting swamped by the bucks you and your father-in-law are throwing at this election. He knows he’s going to lose.” He glanced at Beth before saying to Douglas, “Would you say your vision of Bay Town coincides with what Ben Smalls had in store?”

“I would say so, yes. I know what it’s like to be wealthy. But I also know what it’s like to be poor.”

“And Alfred Drake also admired him, or says he did.”

“I believe they were friends, yes.”

“And you were friends with Smalls, too, correct, Mrs. Kemper?”

Douglas said, “His father was partners with Sawyer. You two grew up together, and he was at that luncheon.”

“When my mother died,” said Beth, without looking at him. “But I met him other times, too. We were friends.”

“Now that’s interesting,” said Archer. “Would you like to tell us what those other times consisted of?”

“No, I wouldn’t,” she said heatedly, which answered the question for Archer pretty well.

Douglas fast-walked over to the bar and poured himself a bourbon on the rocks and swallowed half of it before he got back to his wife and looked at her in a way that surprised Archer. It wasn’t angry or hurt or full of bluster. It was a look of resignation, of hopelessness. They sat hip to hip in the same chair, one of her hands resting on his thigh, Archer noted, in a protective manner.

Douglas said, “I wish I knew more to tell you, Archer. But things are not adding up.”

“Sheen’s dying, for one,” noted Archer.

“I can’t understand who would want to hurt Wilson.”

“You want to hear my theory?”

They both settled their gazes on him.

“You actually told me yourself,” said Archer.

Douglas frowned. “You’re going to have to spell it out, Archer. My thoughts are not too clear right now.”

“One question. Have the police been by to see you?”

Douglas wiped his brow. “No. But I think that situation is about to change, from what I’ve heard. But tell me why someone would want to kill Wilson.”

“Your wife has an alibi for the time Ruby Fraser was killed. She was with friends for dinner. Now, that alibi needs to be verified, and it will be. But the thing is, as you told me, Wilson Sheen was your only alibi for the time Fraser was murdered. You had dinner with him and then a meeting during the time Fraser was killed. Which means you no longer have an alibi, because dead men can’t give them.”

Douglas swallowed the rest of his bourbon and collapsed back against the chair. “Right,” he said. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

Beth looked worriedly at him and then said to Archer, “What can be done?”

“I’m not sure. But I do know that your husband is being set up as a patsy to take the fall.”

“I never had anything to do with Ruby Fraser, I swear.”

Archer glanced at Beth. She had told him she didn’t know whether her husband was sleeping with the lady. But now, in her countenance, he only saw belief in Douglas’s words. She gripped his hand to show her support.

“Okay, I believe you,” said Archer.

“You do?”

“I’ve seen and heard of other ladies throwing themselves at you. No go on their part. Why would that be?” He looked at Beth. “Because he loves you.”

Beth looked at Douglas, and Archer saw a glimmer of tears there, from both of them.

“But you’re not out of the woods,” continued Archer. “Talk to me about the island.”

“I don’t know anything about — good Lord, what is that?”

A door could be heard banging open; there was a shout followed by mingled cries, and feet pounding fast toward where they were. Archer had risen, his hand moving to his .38. The Kempers stood, too, staring at the doorway, their arms around one another.

Archer quickly moved the hand away from the gun when he saw who was arriving at the party.

Chief Carl Pickett and four of his beefy coppers, looking all nice and shiny in their brass buttons, clipped hats, shoulder straps, big guns, and brash countenances.

Archer could see they were all excited, and he knew why. Rousting a poor slob was not a thrill; they probably did it every day. But slinging mud at the rich, carrying them out of their palaces, now that could get a man’s blood going.

Pickett eyed all of them there, and a grin spread over his face as he extracted a small stogie from his pocket and took a moment to light up.

“Well, well,” said Pickett as the three stood there staring at him.

“What do you want?” demanded Douglas. And it was clearly a demand.

Pickett strolled over to him. “Don’t go all high and mighty on me, Kemper. You might be married to the boss’s daughter, but that means shit to me.”

“I’m my own boss.”

“Whatever you say. But what I’ve come here to say is, you’re under arrest.”

“For what!”

“Do I really have to spell it out for you and upset the missus?”

“You’re damn right you do,” insisted Beth.

“Okay. You’re being arrested for the murders of Ruby Fraser and Wilson Sheen.”

“What would possibly be my motivation?”

“You were bedding Fraser, and Sheen found out and was blackmailing you for it,” replied Pickett. “That comes out, you’re not going to be the mayor of this town.”

“That’s absurd,” cried out Beth. “He was not sleeping with that woman.”

“Well, then, how did we find a pair of his cufflinks in her bedroom? Along with a shirt belonging to him that has blood on it, and that matches the blood type of the deceased woman? How did two witnesses swear on the Bible that they saw him in the company of Miss Fraser on the night she died? And that they had seen the two a week earlier in Mr. Kemper’s Rolls-Royce Phantom?” Pickett sidled up to Kemper and said in a low voice. “If you want to screw around with other women, you really need to do it in a low-down Ford.”

“And Sheen?” said Archer.

Pickett gave him a withering look. “What are you doing here, whatever your name is? Willie off in the bottle and sent the schoolboy to cover for him?”

“The name’s Archer. And what evidence do you have that Kemper killed Sheen?”

Pickett got so close that Archer could smell the cheap gin on the man’s breath. “Well, let me tell you, Archer, the autopsy on Sheen showed enough barbiturates in his stomach to make a horse go nighty-night. And Sheen and Kemper were seen having drinks at the club earlier that night. A perfect setup to slip the man a mickey and then come back later and kill him.”

“You’re crazy,” said Kemper. “I was having dinner with Wilson when Fraser was killed.”

“Sure, sure you were. Anybody else verify that?”

“No, we were at the office alone.”

“And he’s dead and can’t verify that. Right,” scoffed Pickett. “Of all the lame excuses.” He looked at his men. “Take him away.”

“I’ll call my father,” Beth said quickly, giving her husband a kiss on the cheek before he was handcuffed and led away.

Pickett said. “Not even Daddy will be able to get his little prince out of this jam, lady.”

And Archer thought he might just be right about that.