Murder Up My Sleeve

8

Terry Clane turned his car into Grand Avenue and slowed to a scant ten miles an hour. Sou Ha, seated at his side, stared straight through the windscreen with expressionless eyes. She had said no word since leaving Juanita Mandra’s apartment.

Seeking to fit the events of the last hour into their proper place in the pattern of things, Terry was grateful for her silence. The Chinese, he knew, were like that. She had made her point and she was finished. Where a girl of his own race would have indulged in a chatter of speculation, or confronted him with a barrage of questions, Sou Ha would take refuge in the sanctity of her own thoughts, and leave him to do the same.

Ahead of them lay the weird intermarriage of the Occident and the Orient, which is San Francisco’s Chinatown. Neon signs blazoned Chinese characters in a crimson glare which turned the overhanging fog bank into wine. Plate-glass show windows, brilliantly lighted with electricity, displayed delicate embroideries which had been sewed by the flickering flames of peanut-oil lamps.

Terry slowed his car to a stop in front of one of these lighted windows. His eyes stared moodily at the silken display.

Sou Ha’s voice was soft in his ear. “You are thinking,” she said, “of the painter woman?”

He shook his head without shifting his eyes and said moodily, “To tell you the truth, Embroidered Halo, I was thinking of the topsy-turvy world in which we live. The women who go blind after a few years because they must work such long hours by poor light, making these embroideries which are sold to people who are too lazy to dam a pair of stockings.”

“It is the law of life,” she said with the finality of a fatalist.

Terry Clane said savagely, “It is not the law of life. It is the law of man. It’s a topsy-turvy scheme of things which has been built by piling error on error, one mistake at a time, until the completed pattern shows it’s lack of logic, yet is all so inextricably mingled, one mistake flowing so easily from another, that it is impossible to tell where the trouble lies. Mark you, Sou Ha, I myself have seen a Chinese woman seated on a Hong Kong sidewalk long after midnight, sewing these embroideries by the weak light of a street lamp. Two daughters lay beside her, stretched on the hard cement. One was a girl of eleven or twelve years old, the other about nine. Such light as came from the street lamp was weak and reddish. The woman was bent forward, straining her eyes to see the tiny stitches she was taking. She stopped from time to time, to wipe away the water which ran from her smarting eyes, using the germ-laden cloth of her coat sleeve. Within a few months she would be blind. Perhaps that bit of embroidery, which she sold for a few cents, is one of the pieces displayed in the luxury of that lighted window.”

Sou Ha’s warm fingers squeezed the back of Terry Clane’s hand. “I am glad, First Born, that you think of these things. But you cannot help the woman in China, and you can help your painter woman. Good night.”

She opened the door of the car, slid lightly to the pavement and was gone, almost instantly swallowed in the shuffling stream of humanity that flowed ceaselessly along the narrow sidewalks.

For a long moment Terry sat there, motionless, the slip-slop of Chinese shoes, the clanging bells of the cable cars, sing-song intonations of Cantonese conversation audible above the purring sound of his idling motor. Then he changed gear and depressed the accelerator.

He took precautions to make certain he was not followed, and went at once to the studio of Vera Matthews.

Alma Renton opened the door only after he had knocked twice and gently called her name. Her face was grey with fatigue. She had sought to discount this by the generous application of make-up. But an aura of weariness clinging to her skin made mockery of the crimson lips and rouged cheeks.

With a glad little cry she came to his arms and snuggled close to him.

“Oh, Terry, I’m so glad you’re back! The minutes have been fighting me, and have me licked.”

“You didn’t answer the telephone,” he said.

“I was afraid to, Terry. If it had been someone calling Vera, I didn’t want to explain who I was, and why I was here; and if it had been someone calling me... I couldn’t trust myself to talk. I mustn’t see anyone until...”

“Until what?” he asked, as she hesitated.

“Until Cynthia comes.”

“Cynthia,” he said, “went to the district attorney’s office.”

“I know,” she told him. “Sit down, Terry. There’s Scotch, soda, and ice on the table. Help yourself, but don’t give me any.”

“It might do you good,” he told her.

“No,” she said, “I tried it. I didn’t get any lift out of it.”

“That bad?” he asked, stretching out in a chair and dropping ice cubes into a glass.

She rested one hip on the flat arm of an easy chair, and watched him pour a small amount of amber liquid over the ice cubes, then water from the siphon.

“You don’t go in much for liquor, do you, Terry?”

He raised his eyebrows in silent interrogation.

“You’re using that drink just as a prop,” she said, “a stage setting you can have to fall back on. You have something important to say, and you don’t want me to realize how important it is. So you’ll sit and toy with that drink, slide the tips of your fingers up and down the moist glass, and make comments which are apparently casual, yet are filled with deadly importance.”

“Know me that well, Alma?” he asked.

“A woman always knows the man she loves.”

“No,” he said slowly, “she doesn’t. That’s the hell of it.” He would have said something more, but she silenced him with a gesture and said, “That’s something else we’ve got to settle, Terry, but we mustn’t do it now. We won’t do it now, so you needn’t be frightened.”

“Frightened?” he asked, frowning and sliding the tips of his fingers up and down the moist glass. He checked himself abruptly as he realized what he was doing, and saw the amusement in her watching eyes.

She laughed throatily and said, “I’ll discuss that with you later. Terry, do you suppose anything has gone wrong with Cynthia? They’ve been holding her down there for hours.”

“You know what time she went there?” he asked, making the question very casual indeed.

“Approximately, yes,” she admitted.

“In other words, Alma, you and Cynthia knew that my apartment was being watched. When you were ready for Cynthia to tell her story, you had her come to call on me, knowing that she’d be picked up.”

Alma tried to keep her face expressionless, but Clane didn’t even bother to look at her. He stared moodily at the bubbles which shot upward from the drink in his glass, and went on in a low monotone, “Obviously, Cynthia had been carefully rehearsed in the story she was to tell the police. She left Mandra’s apartment at two o’clock in the morning, carrying Mandra’s portrait. In order to substantiate her alibi she’ll have to produce the portrait. Now why didn’t she leave it where she could produce it?”

“But she did,” Alma said, puzzled.

“Where?”

“It’s at my apartment.”

“At your apartment?”

“Yes.”

“You’re certain?”

“Of course I’m certain.”

“How did it get there?”

“By taxicab, silly.”

“In which case the police will trace it back to you here.”

“No. They won’t trace it, Terry. They can’t.”

“Why can’t they?”

“Because it wasn’t sent directly.”

Terry kept his eyes fastened on his drink. His voice was noncommittal. “Tell me about it,” he said.

“There’s nothing to tell. The portrait is at my apartment. That is, it was at my apartment. I presume it’s at police headquarters now. You see, Cynthia will tell her story, and the police will pick up the portrait. Then they’ll check her alibi. A young artist saw her on the stairs. They’ll ask him to identify her. If he’s truthful, he’ll do it — and that will be all there’ll be to it. Mandra was killed about three o’clock. Cynthia left there at two o’clock.”

“How does Levering figure in it?” Terry asked abruptly.

“He doesn’t — except as a friend.”

“What makes you so certain the police won’t trace the portrait to you here?”

“Because they can’t.”

“What reason will Cynthia give for having the portrait at your apartment?”

“The best in the world. She took the portrait to me because she was proud of it. She wanted me to see it... and asked me to touch it up a little.”

“And left it with you?”

“Temporarily, yes.”

Terry slid his fingers up and down his glass, and said, “The police searched your apartment early this morning. They found that your bed hadn’t been slept in. They would also have noted that Mandra’s portrait wasn’t in your apartment at that hour. They want to question you, so they’re watching your apartment, and have been, ever since early this morning. The police will know exactly when that portrait was delivered, and by whom it was delivered.”

She gave a quick, gasping intake of her breath.

“Hadn’t thought of that?” he asked.

She shook her head, her eyes holding the helpless expression of a trapped animal.

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Terry said. “Just how did the picture get there?”

“We took the canvas from the frame and rolled it up. George concealed it under his coat, I gave him the key to my apartment. He went in there, unfastened another canvas from its frame, and tacked on this portrait of Mandra. Then he slipped out.”

Terry shook his head. “Levering was taken to the office of the district attorney for questioning.”

“I know, Terry; but they let him go almost at once. He wasn’t there for more than fifteen minutes.”

“And you’ve heard from him since?”

“Yes.”

“How?”

“By telephone. I phoned his place two or three times. When he answered I asked him where he’d been. He told me what had happened. I told him to make certain he wasn’t being followed and to come over here. Then I gave him the portrait and told him what he was to do.”

Terry said slowly, “I don’t trust Levering.”

Alma said bitterly. “I know you don’t! It’s unfair. He’s loyal to Cynthia and me, and he’d be loyal to you if you’d let him.”

Terry shook his head. “I’m afraid you’ve been sold, Alma.”

“What do you mean, Terry?”

“Not over an hour ago,” he said, “I saw that portrait. It was in the apartment of a woman who claimed to be Mandra’s widow, a woman who hates both you and Cynthia, a woman who claims that Cynthia murdered Jacob Mandra.”

Alma came up to her feet, slowly, as a prisoner might arise at the sound of an executioner’s approaching steps.

“Terry!” she cried.

He nodded.

She came to him, dropped to the floor at his feet, wrapped her arms round his knees. “Terry,” she said, “I’m frightened.”

He nodded gravely, making no attempt to reassure her with words in which neither could have had any confidence. “Let’s figure what happened,” he said. “There are two possibilities. Either Levering blundered, or after the police took the portrait they gave it to Mandra’s widow.”

“Thanks, Terry, for eliminating the possibility that Levering deliberately double-crossed us.”

They sat for several seconds in thoughtful silence.

“If Levering blundered, the police will soon be here,” he said. “Are you prepared for that, Alma?”

“Yes. I’m prepared for anything so far as I’m concerned. It’s Cynthia I’m worried about. I can take it. I’m not so certain about Cynthia. She’s just a kid, Terry.”

“No, Alma,” he said slowly, “she isn’t a kid. She’s a woman. She’s only three years younger than you are.”

“I know, Terry, but in spite of all that, she’s still a kid. Life hasn’t licked her yet.”

Terry’s eyes were serious. “You can’t stand between Cynthia and life. It won’t work.”

She looked up at him. “Terry,” she said, “life licked me. I don’t want it to lick Cynthia.”

“How did life lick you, Alma?”

“I don’t know. I guess that’s something one never knows. It’s not as though you could come to grips with life in a decisive battle. You can’t. Life undermines your defenses, a little at a time, as insidious as decay eating into a tooth, and the first thing you know, you’re beaten without even knowing there’s been a battle.”

He shook his head, the tips of his fingers gently smoothing the hair at her temples. “Perhaps,” he told her, “you paid too great a price for success.”

“What makes you think that?” she asked.

“Everyone does,” he told her, stroking her hair. “That is, everyone who concentrates on being successful. You see, Alma, life is a keenly competitive game. No matter what goal you strive to attain, there are millions who are also striving towards that same goal. Of those millions, there are hundreds of thousands who have more than average aptitude. It isn’t, therefore, so much a question of ability as adaptability. Those who win are the ones who are willing to make sacrifices that the others are not.”

“Do you mean that I should have been content to just drift through life?”

“No,” he told her, “it isn’t that, Alma. It goes farther back than that. It’s a question of the goal you picked.”

She looked up, caught and held his eyes. “Terry,” she said, “tell me all of it. I want to know. Life has licked me. Life has licked almost everyone I know; but it hasn’t licked you. I’ve tried to keep it from licking Cynthia — and now I’ve failed. She’s like a kitten chasing a piece of crumpled paper round the room. I’ve loved to sit and watch her. She’s had a complete disregard for the consequences of life, and I’ve wanted to keep her that way.

“You know, Terry, whenever you see a person who laughs his way through life, you can bank on it there’s someone in the background who’s taking the shocks, usually a mother or a father who’s too indulgent, or, as in Cynthia’s case, a sister.

“Cynthia’s always been getting into scrapes, and I’ve always been getting her out. And now she’s got into a scrape that... Well, I’m afraid I can’t get her out.”

“That bad?” he asked again.

She nodded, and for several silent seconds sat with her head resting on his knees. Then she said, “Go on, Terry, tell me how you’ve managed to keep all your spontaneity. You refuse to take life seriously, and yet, somehow, you respect it, as one respects a powerful adversary. You don’t underestimate it and you don’t worry about it. You’re still an adventurer — more so than when you went away.”

“Perhaps, Alma,” he said, slowly, “the trouble lies in selecting a goal. You wanted to be a successful painter. You wanted your success to be financial. You entered a keenly competitive field. You had a talent amounting almost to genius, but there were lots of others who had talent. You reached your goal because you made sacrifices. It’s the same way with the young doctors and the young lawyers, the young business men, everyone, in fact, who enters a keenly competitive struggle. The reason I haven’t sacrificed is because I’m not trying to achieve the same goal everyone else is.

“It’s difficult to explain so you’ll understand it, Alma. I heard of some ruins in a remote part of China, where there were gold and gems to be had for the taking. But a man could only get into the country if he went as a neophyte and attached himself to a certain monastery. So I went as a neophyte. I had no real intention of doing any studying. I only wanted to get the gems and get out.”

“Were the gems there?” she asked, her eyes wide with interest.

He nodded.

“And you brought some out?”

He shook his head.

“Why?”

“I don’t know,” he told her. “That is, I do know, but that’s what’s so difficult to explain. I became interested in a theory of life.”

“Something they taught you in the monastery?”

“Yes.”

“What was it, Terry?”

“It had to do with what we were talking about just now,” he said. “It’s the thing one picks in life as the measure of success. Everything in life is relative. Financial success is relative. That which is big enough to be really desired is only for the favored few. To be one of that charmed circle, one must either be smiled upon by luck or willing to outstrip his competitors by paying life a greater price.

“But if one puts a financial goal out of his mind and chooses only to develop his own individuality, he finds that he has no outside competitors. His struggle comes from within, rather than from without. And, incidentally, as he achieves some measure of success, he finds that he’s not only increased his enjoyment of life but he finds that financial success is usually thrown in for good measure.”

“But how about me?” she asked.

“Money,” he said, “is a false God. People worship it and it betrays them. They fight for it, get it, and in the getting of it, become selfish and arrogant. They lose health and happiness getting wealth, and then it mocks them. It’s like giving gold to a starving man in the desert. He can’t eat it, nor...”

He broke off as a vague noise of feet in the corridor resolved itself into the ominous pound of authoritative steps.

“I’m afraid, Alma, the police have tracked that portrait,” he said, almost casually.

The spots of make-up on her face flared into garish brilliance as her skin went dead-white.

“Terry!” she asked in a whisper, “what shall I say?”

His arm circled her waist as peremptory knuckles pounded on the door. “Say nothing,” he told her cheerfully, “but say it as loquaciously as possible.”

Her quivering lips sought his, clung hungrily as another knock banged on the panels of the outer door.

“Coming!” Terry called, crushing her to him in one last quick embrace; then, freeing her, he opened the door, to confront Inspector Malloy, flanked by two plain-clothes officers.

“Well, well, well!” Malloy exclaimed, unsuccessfully trying to conceal his irritation, “fancy meeting you here! You certainly do get around.”

“Come in,” Clane invited. “There are ice cubes, Scotch, and soda over there on the sideboard. Alma will get you some glasses... Oh, by the way, I guess you haven’t met her. Miss Renton, may I present Inspector Malloy?”

Malloy’s fingers groped for his hat brim, removed it. “Glad to know you,” he said. “Come in, boys.” The two plain-clothes men didn’t take off their hats.

Terry said, “Perhaps, Inspector, you’d like to know how I happened to stumble on to Miss Renton here.”

Malloy said breezily, “Oh, that’s all right, Clane, quite all right. So far as I’m concerned, I don’t care, but, of course, the district attorney might want to know. He’s rather cold-blooded about business matters, you know. Didn’t he tell you he was looking for Miss Renton, that she wasn’t at her apartment, and her bed hadn’t been slept in? And didn’t you tell him you didn’t have the slightest idea...?”

“As a matter of fact,” Terry interrupted smoothly, “it was that very statement which gave me my clue. Knowing that she wasn’t in any of her usual haunts, I happened to remember that Vera Matthews had left town on a vacation, that she’d probably asked Alma to drop in and look after her plants and things.

“And, of course, Alma, being a painter, and the studio here being equipped with everything, it was only natural that she’d dabble around here with a few odds and ends. You see, Alma is successful and popular, and, in creative work, success and popularity make rather a bad combination. So Alma was taking advantage of an opportunity to get away from her friends. She hadn’t seen the papers, and of course, didn’t know anything about Mandra’s death, and didn’t have the faintest idea that the police were looking for her. When I told her just now what had happened, and that the district attorney was looking for her, she was thunder-struck. She was just starting for the telephone to call him when...”

“She speaks English, doesn’t she?” Malloy interrupted, his veneer of good humor cracking under the pressure of inward irritation.

“Why certainly,” Clane said.

“Well, then,” Malloy snapped, “we can get along without an interpreter. I’m sorry to interrupt your tête-a-tête, Clane, but it just happens that the district attorney has rather definite ideas about what he wants, and one of the things he wants right now is Miss Alma Renton, and one of the things neither of us wants is to have the interview colored by your pleasing personality. So we’ll excuse you right now.”

He nodded to one of the men, who held the door open for Terry.

Terry picked up his hat and said with dignity, “I appreciate your position, Inspector, but let me assure you that Miss Renton has nothing to conceal. Cynthia, as you know, had painted a portrait of Jacob Mandra, and it was only natural...”

Inspector Malloy’s heavy hand clapped down on Clane’s shoulder. He was once more his boisterously genial self as his booming voice drowned Clane’s remarks. “Not at all, Clane, my boy, not at all! Don’t worry about it in the least! Miss Renton is absolutely all right. The district attorney only wanted to ask her a few questions. Don’t try to explain, because there’s nothing to explain.”

And Clane found himself spun round by Inspector Malloy’s arm, felt the weight of Malloy’s broad shoulders pushing him towards the door.

“Awfully sorry to interrupt your chat, Clane, but this is business, and you know how business is. You can talk with her any time when the district attorney gets finished, but he’s waiting for her now, and we don’t want to keep him waiting.”

And Clane found himself propelled out into the corridor. He turned long enough to smile a reassuring good-bye to Alma, and then his view was blocked by one of the plainclothes men who reached for the knob and swung the door. Inspector Malloy’s voice reached Terry’s ears through the diminishing crack in the door. “The first thing I said when the district attorney told me to bring you in, Miss Renton, was that it was just too bad...”

The slam of the door shut off the rest of Inspector Malloy’s speech.