The Case of the Calendar Girl

Chapter One

George Ansley slowed his car, looking for Meridith Borden’s driveway.

A cold, steady drizzle soaked up the illumination from his headlights. The windshield wipers beat a mechanical protest against the moisture which clung to the windshield with oily tenacity. The warm interior of the car caused a fogging of the glass, which Ansley wiped off from time to time with his handkerchief.

Meridith Borden’s estate was separated from the highway by a high brick wall, surmounted with jagged fragments of broken glass embedded in cement.

Abruptly the wall flared inward in a sweeping curve, and the gravel driveway showed white in Ansley’s headlights. The heavy iron gates were open. Ansley swung the wheel and followed the curving driveway for perhaps a quarter of a mile until he came to the stately, old-fashioned mansion, relic of an age of solid respectability.

For a moment Ansley sat in the automobile after he had shut off the motor and the headlights. It was hard to bring himself to do what he had to do, but try as he might, he could think of no other alternative.

He left the car, climbed the stone steps to the porch and pressed a button which jangled musical chimes in the deep interior of the house.

A moment later the porch was suffused with brilliance, and Ansley felt he was undergoing thorough, careful scrutiny. Then the door was opened by Meridith Borden himself.

“Ansley?” Borden asked.

“That’s right,” Ansley said, shaking hands. “I’m sorry to disturb you at night. I wouldn’t have telephoned unless it had been a matter of considerable importance — at least to me.”

“That’s all right, quite all right,” Borden said. “Come on in. I’m here alone this evening. Servants all off... Come on in. Tell me what’s the trouble.”

Ansley followed Borden into a room which had been fixed up into a combination den and office. Borden indicated a comfortable chair, crossed over to a portable bar, said, “How about a drink?”

“I could use one,” Ansley admitted. “Scotch and soda, please.”

Borden filled glasses. He handed one to Ansley, clinked the ice in his drink, and stood by the bar, looking down at Ansley from a position of advantage. He was tall, thick-chested, alert, virile and arrogant. There was a contemptuous attitude underlying the veneer of rough and ready cordiality which he assumed. It showed in his eyes, in his face and, at times, in his manner.

Ansley said, “I’m going broke.”

“Too bad,” Borden commented, without the slightest trace of sympathy. “How come?”

“I have the contract on this new school job out on 94th Street,” Ansley said.

“Bid too cheap?” Borden inquired.

“My bid was all right.”

“Labor troubles?”

“No. Inspector troubles.”

“How come?”

“They’re riding me all the time. They’re making me tear out and replace work as fast as I put it in.”

“What’s the matter? Aren’t you following specifications?”

“Of course I’m following specifications, but it isn’t a question of specifications. It’s a question of underlying hostility, of pouncing on every little technicality to make me do work over, to hamper me, to hold up the job, to delay the work.”

Borden made clucking noises of sympathy. His eyes, hard and appraising, remained fixed on Ansley.

“I protested to the inspector,” Ansley said. “He told me, ‘Why don’t you get smart and see Meridith Borden?’ “

“I don’t think I like that,” Borden said.

Ansley paid no attention to the comment. “A friend of mine told me, ‘You damn fool. Go see Borden.’ And... well, here I am.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“Call off your dogs.”

“They’re not my dogs.”

“I didn’t mean it that way.”

“You said it that way.”

There was a moment of silence.

“How much are you going to make on the job?” Borden asked.

“If they’ll let me alone and let me follow specifications according to any reasonable interpretation, I’ll have a fifty-thousand-dollar profit.”

“Too bad you’re having trouble,” Borden said. “I’d want a set of the specifications and a statement by you as to the type of trouble you’ve been having. If I decide you are being unjustly treated, I’ll threaten a full-scale investigation. I don’t think you’ll have any more trouble. I’d need money, of course.”

“Of course,” Ansley said dryly.

“And,” Borden went on, “after we start working together you won’t have any trouble with the inspectors. Just make your stuff so it’s good construction, so that it’ll stand up, and that’s all you need to worry about. Don’t measure the placement of your structural steel with too much accuracy. Make your mix contain just enough concrete to do the job, and don’t worry about having absolutely uniform percentages.”

“That isn’t what I wanted,” Ansley said. “I only wanted to have a reasonable break.”

“You’ll get it,” Borden promised. “Mail me a retainer of two thousand dollars tomorrow, pay five thousand from the next two progress payments you get, and give me five per cent of the final payment. Then we’ll talk things over on the next job. I understand you’re planning to bid on the overhead crossing on Telephone Avenue?”

“I’ve thought about it. I’d like to get cleaned up on this job and get my money out of it first.”

“Okay. See me about that overhead crossing before you put in your bid. We’ll talk it over. I can help you. A good public relations man who knows the ropes can do a lot on jobs of this kind.”

“I’m satisfied he can,” Ansley said bitterly.

“I wish you’d seen me before you took that school job,” Borden went on. “There might have been more in it for both of us. You didn’t have any public relations expert to represent your interests in connection with the bidding?”

“No. Why should I need a public relations expert just to submit a bid?”

Borden shrugged his shoulders. The gesture was eloquent.

Ansley finished his drink. “I’m sorry that I had to bother you at this hour of the night, but the inspector found two places in the wall where he claimed the steel was incorrectly spaced. It didn’t amount to more than a quarter of an inch, but he demanded I conform to specifications. I can’t tear out the whole wall, and to try to cut and patch now would be prohibitive.”

Borden said, “See that inspector tomorrow and tell him to take another measurement. I think the steel’s all right. The rods may have been bent a little off center. Quit worrying about it. Tomorrow’s a new day.”

Ansley put down the drink, got up, hesitated, then said, “Well, I guess I’ll be getting on.”

“I’m glad you dropped in, Ansley,” Borden said, “and I’ll take care of you to the best of my ability. I feel quite certain you won’t have any more trouble with the inspectors. They don’t like adverse publicity any better than anyone else, and, after all, I’m a public relations expert.”

Borden laughed and moved to accompany Ansley to the door.

“I can find my way out all right,” Ansley said.

“No, no, I’ll see you to the door. I’m all alone here tonight. Sorry.” He escorted Ansley to the door, said good night, and Ansley went down the steps into the cold rain.

He knew that his trouble with the inspectors was over, but he knew that the trouble with his self-respect had just begun.

They had told him at the start that it was foolish to try to build anything without getting in touch with Meridith Borden. Ansley had thought he could get by, by being scrupulously fair and conforming to the specifications. He was rapidly finding out how small a part fairness and specifications played in the kind of job he was getting into now.

Ansley sent his car crunching along the gravel driveway. His anger at himself and the conditions which had forced him to go to Meridith Borden made him resentful. He knew that he was driving too fast, knew that it wasn’t going to do him any good to try to hurry away from Meridith Borden’s palatial estate on the outskirts of the city, I knew that it wasn’t going to do him any good to try to get away from himself. He had lost something important in that interview; a part of him that he couldn’t afford to lose, but he had yielded to the inexorable pressure of economic necessity.

Ansley swung the wheel around the last curve in the driveway and slowed for the main highway as he saw the iron gates.

It was at that moment that he saw the headlights on the road swinging toward him.

Apparently the driver of the oncoming car intended to turn in at the gate, and was cutting the corner before realizing a car was coming. The smooth, black surface of the road was slippery with an oily coating from the first rain in weeks.

For a brief moment headlights blazed into Ansley’s windshield, then the other car swirled through the gate into a sickening, skidding turn. The rear fender of the car brushed against the bumper of Ansley’s car.

In vain Ansley tried to bring his car to a stop. He felt the jar of impact, saw the careening car tilt upward, swerve from the driveway. He heard a crash, dimly saw the hedge sway under the impact, heard another jarring sound and then silence.

Ansley braked his car to a stop just outside the gates. Without bothering to shut off the motor or dim the headlights, he scrambled out from behind the wheel, leaving the front left-hand door swinging wide open. He ran back through the soggy gravel to the gap in the hedge.

He could see the other car only as a dim, dark bulk. The motor was no longer running, the lights were off. He had the impression that the car was lying over on its side, but he couldn’t be certain. The machine had crashed through the hedge, but there remained enough broken twigs and jagged branches to make progress extremely difficult and hazardous.

“Is everyone all right?” Ansley asked, standing midway through the tangle of the jagged hedge.

There was no answer, only a dead silence.

Ansley’s eyes were gradually becoming more accustomed to the darkness. He plunged forward, pushing his way through the water-soaked leaves.

A projecting snag caught the leg of Ansley’s trousers, tripped him, threw him forward. He heard ripping cloth, felt a sharp pain along his shin. Then, as he threw out his hands to protect himself, his right hand was snagged by the sharp projection of a broken branch. The ground was sloping sharply, and Ansley found himself with his head lower than his feet. It was with difficulty that he got to his knees, and then once more to a standing position.

The car was directly in front of him now, only some twenty feet away. By this time he could see plainly that the car was resting on the right-hand side of the top.

“Hello,” Ansley called. “Is everybody all right?”

Again there was no answer.

“Is anybody hurt?” Ansley asked.

The night silence was broken only by the gurgling noises of liquids draining from the car. There was the harsh odor of raw gasoline.

Ansley knew he didn’t dare to strike a match. He remembered then, belatedly, that he kept a small flashlight in the glove compartment of his car. He ran back, floundering through the hedge, opened the glove compartment of his car and returned with the flashlight.

This light, carried for emergencies, had been in the glove compartment for a long time. The battery was all but dead. The bulb furnished a fitful reddish glow which Ansley knew wouldn’t last long. In order to save the battery, he switched out the light and again floundered through the broken hedge in the dark. He approached the car, saw that one of the doors was swinging partially open. He thrust his arm inside the car and turned on the flashlight.

There was no one inside.

Ansley moved around the front of the car, holding the flashlight in front of him. What should have been a beam of bright light was now only a small cone of faint illumination. It was, however, sufficient to show the girl’s feet and ankles, feet which were eloquently motionless.

Ansley hurried around so that he could see the rest of the form which lay huddled there on the wet grass.

She had evidently been thrown to the ground and had skidded forward. The legs were smooth, shapely and well rounded. The momentum of the young woman’s slide had left her legs exposed to the thighs, her skirts rumpled into a twisted ball. Ansley raised the flashlight, saw one arm twisted up and over the face, and then the light failed completely.

Instinctively, and without thinking, Ansley threw the useless flashlight from him, bent over the young woman’s body and in the darkness groped for her wrist.

He found a pulse, a faint but regular heartbeat.

Ansley straightened and started groping his way across to the gravel driveway, only to find that the hedge barred his progress. He moved along parallel with the hedge, raised his voice and shouted, “Help!” at the top of his lungs.

The soggy darkness swallowed up the cry, and Ansley, annoyed at the thick hedge which kept him from the open gravel driveway, lowered his shoulder and prepared to crash through the intertwined branches.

It was then he heard the faint, moaning call from behind him.

Ansley paused and listened. This time he heard a tremulous cry of “Help! Help!”

Once more Ansley turned and groped his way back through the darkness to the overturned car.

The young woman was sitting up now, a vague figure in the darkness. Ansley could see the blurred white oval of her face, her two hands and the lighter outline of flesh above her stockings.

“Are you hurt?” Ansley asked.

By way of answer she instinctively pulled down her skirt.

“Where am I?” she asked.

“Are you hurt?”

“I don’t know.”

“Let’s find out,” Ansley said, dropping down beside her. “Any broken bones?”

“Who... who are you?”

“I was driving the car that you... ran into.”

“Oh.”

“Tell me, are you all right? Try moving your arms, your legs.”

“I’ve moved my arms,” she said. “My... my legs... Yes, I’m all right. Help me up, will you, please?”

She extended a hand and Ansley took it. After two abortive attempts, she managed to get to her feet. She stood, wobbling for a moment, then swayed against him. Ansley supported her with an arm around her waist, a hand under her armpit on the other side. “Take it easy,” he said.

“Where... where am I?”

“You were just turning in at the driveway of the Meridith Borden estate when you apparently lost control of your car,” Ansley said, choosing his words carefully, not wishing to accuse the shaken young woman of having hit him, but carefully avoiding any admission that his car had hit hers.

“Oh, yes,” she said, “I remember now... There was something in the road ahead, a dead cat or something. I didn’t know what it was. I swerved the car slightly and then all of a sudden I was dizzy, going around and around. I saw headlights and then there was a crash. I felt myself going over, and the next thing I knew, I was sitting here in the grass. I’m... I’m all right now. My head is clearing rapidly.”

“Were you alone?” Ansley asked.

“Yes.”

“Do you have anything in the car?”

“Nothing except my purse. I’ll get that. Do you have a flashlight?”

“No. I had one that was just about completely rundown. I was able to get a few minutes’ light from the thing before the battery ran down completely.”

“Do you have a match?”

“Don’t strike a match,” Ansley warned. “There’s gasoline draining out of the motor somewhere, or out of the gas tank.”

“I can find it,” she said. “At least I hope I can.”

“Can I get it for you? Can I—?”

“No,” she said, “I’ll get it.”

She stooped, crawled through the open door, and once more Ansley saw the rounded flesh above her stocking tops as she struggled back, getting out through the door feet first.

“Get it?” Ansley asked.

“I got it,” she said. “Heavens! I’ll bet I was a spectacle that time.”

Ansley said, “It’s dark. Thank heavens you’re not hurt. The first thing for us to do is to get you where you want to go, and then we’ll send a tow car out and notify Borden.”

“I’ll take care of that,” she said hastily. “Don’t bother about it. And don’t worry about the accident. It wasn’t your fault. I think it was just one of those unavoidable things. Your car isn’t damaged, is it?”

“I didn’t look,” Ansley said, “but I don’t think so. The way it felt you just grazed my bumper.”

“Let’s go take a look,” she said.

“Do you have anything in there besides your purse?”

“That’s all. There’s a raincoat in there somewhere, but that can wait until the tow car shows up.”

“Can I get it for you?”

“No, I know about where it is.”

“It’s dark,” Ansley said.

She said, “Yes, but I think I can find it.”

She wiggled her way into the car again, came out pulling a coat after her and said, “Okay, let’s go.”

“Now, we’re supposed to do something about this, I think,” Ansley said, as he led the way through the hedge. “I think we’re supposed to make a report or something.”

“Oh, sure, we’re supposed to check one another’s driving licenses and all that. We’ll have time to talk that over while you’re driving me into town. You are headed toward the city, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Well, that’s fine.”

“I’ll take you anywhere you want to go,” Ansley said.

“Do you know the Ancordia Apartments?”

“No, I’m not familiar with them.”

“Well, turn off — I’ll show you. Just go on in on the freeway.”

“All right,” Ansley said. “I’ll take a look at my car, but I’m quite certain there’s no damage done.”

Ansley looked at his car, found a dented fender and a scrape of paint on the bumper.

“No damage to my car,” he said.

“Do I just hop in?” she asked.

Ansley laughed and held the door open. “Hop in,” he invited.

Ansley had a chance to size the young woman up as the light in the interior of the car disclosed reddish hair, even, regular features, dark brownish eyes, a firm chin and a good figure.

“We may as well get acquainted,” she said, laughing. “I’m Beatrice Cornell. I live in the Ancordia Apartments. My friends call me Bee for short.”

“George Ansley,” he told her. “A struggling contractor trying to get by.”

“And,” she observed, taking out a notebook, “I suppose, in order to comply with the amenities of the situation, I’ve got to have the license number of your automobile.”

“JYJ 113,” he told her.

“Mine is CVX 266. I’m all covered by insurance and I suppose you are.”

He nodded.

“Then we can forget the legal aspects of the situation and discuss the personal. Can you tell me exactly what happened?”

“Not very well,” he said. “I was just coming out of the driveway. You were coming along the road, and I thought you were turning in at the driveway.”

She shook her head. “I was trying to avoid this thing in the road, a clod of earth, a dead cat or something. The car swung out all right around the obstruction, whatever it was, and then when I started to straighten, I couldn’t. I saw your headlights right ahead of me. Then they pin-wheeled off to one side, then I was rolling over, and that’s the last I remember... Can you go on from there?”

“I got out of my car and ran through the hedge to see if there had been any damage,” Ansley said, “and you were out like a light. Evidently you’d hit the ground feet first and skidded along on the damp grass.”

“You had a flashlight?”

“I had a worn-out flashlight. The batteries didn’t last long.”

She glanced at him archly. “And a good thing, too — from my point of view,” she said.

“Unfortunately, I couldn’t see much,” he told her.

She laughed. “Oh, well, legs are standard equipment anyway, and, thanks to the wet grass, I didn’t lose any skin, although I feel a little muddy in places.”

Ansley took out his wallet, handed it to her, and said, “My driving license is in the cellophane compartment there. Copy the number and the address.”

“Oh, that isn’t at all necessary,” she said. “After all, that’s a formality reserved for strangers who intend to sue each other. I hope we’ll be friends.”

“Believe me,” Ansley said, “I can’t tell you how relieved I am that you’re not hurt.”

“I’m all right. No doubt I’ll be a little sore tomorrow.”

“You’re sure that’s all it is?”

“Sure.”

“You must have had something of a concussion,” Ansley said. “You certainly were out cold.”

“Probably hit the back of my head on the ground,” she said, “but it’s been hit before. I’ve done some skiing and swimming and what with one thing and another I’ve had my share of knocks.”

“Rather an active career,” Ansley said.

She laughed. “I’m an active woman. I like action... You said the property belonged to Meridith Borden?”

“Yes.”

“He’s a politician, isn’t he?”

“Public relations is the way he describes himself.”

“That’s just another way of saying lobbyist, isn’t it? I’ve read comments about him. Some people seem to think he’s a man with a cloven hoof.”

“I guess any person in politics has his share of enemies,” Ansley said noncommittally.

“Do you know him?”

“I’ve met him.”

“You were coming from there?”

“That’s right.”

“Oh, all right,” she said, laughing. “I didn’t want to pry into your private affairs. I was just making conversation.”

“I didn’t mean to be secretive,” he said.

“Perhaps you didn’t mean to be, but you are. I think you’re naturally secretive. Do you know, George, I’m getting just a little headache. If you don’t mind, I’m going to settle back and close my eyes.”

“Now, look here,” Ansley said, “you’re going to a doctor. You’ve had a concussion, and—”

“Don’t be silly!” she protested. “I don’t need a doctor. If I do, there’s a doctor who lives in the same apartment house. I’ll get him to give me a sedative. Now, don’t be a silly boy, just go ahead and drive me to the Ancordia and forget it.

“You turn on Lincoln Avenue and go to 8st Street, and then turn right and—”

“Oh, I know where it is now,” Ansley said. “I’ll take you there.”

She settled back against the cushions, closed her eyes.

After some five minutes Ansley eased the car to a stop in front of the Ancordia Apartments.

His passenger opened her eyes, seemed dazed for a moment, sighed sleepily, leaned over against him. Her chin came up as her head cradled against the side of his arm. Her lips were half-parted, her eyes were dreamy as she raised and lowered the lids.

“Well, here we are,” Ansley said.

“Here— Who...?”

“Look here,” Ansley said, bending over to look into her face, “are you quite all right?”

Her eyes opened then. For a moment they were fastened on his with a provocative smile. Her lips remained parted. Her chin tilted just a little more.

Ansley bent forward and kissed her.

She sighed tremulously; her warm lips clung to his, then suddenly, as though wakening from a dream, she stiffened, pushed him back and, for a moment, seemed indignant.

“I was asleep,” she said. “I—”

“I’m sorry,” Ansley said.

Abruptly she laughed. “Don’t be. I guess I led with my chin... I was half-asleep thinking of one of my boy friends.”

“I couldn’t resist the temptation,” Ansley said contritely. “I—”

“Don’t apologize. Men aren’t supposed to resist temptation. That’s in the feminine department. Am I going to see you again?”

“I’ll take you to your apartment,” Ansley said.

“Indeed you won’t,” she told him. “I’m quite all right.”

“No, no, I want to see you up.”

“Well, as far as the street door,” she compromised. “After all, you’re going to have to leave your car double-parked.”

Ansley hurried around the car to help her out, but she had the door open before he arrived. She gave him her hand, slid out from the seat, paused, said, “I’ll bet I’m mud from head to toe.”

She moved her skirt up along the nylon stocking with a gesture that seemed entirely natural and uninhibited, then suddenly laughed, let her skirt drop, and said, “I guess I’d better make that inspection in the privacy of my apartment.”

She ran lightly up the steps to the apartment, fumbled in her purse, said, “Oh, dear, I left my key at the office again. I’ll have to get one of my friends to let me in.”

She pushed on the button and a moment later a buzzer announced the latch was being released on the street door.

She opened the door for an inch or two, held it open with her foot, turned to Ansley and said, “I’m going to let you kiss me again, George. Either my dreams deceived me or you’re an expert. I’m fully awake now.”

Ansley swept her into his arms.

His kiss was long. Her response was practiced.

“I’m fully awake now, myself,” Ansley said, looking at her hungrily.

She smiled at him. “Mustn’t try to make too much progress the first night, George. I hope I see you again. Give me a ring. Bye now.” She slipped through the door.

Ansley stood for a moment watching the slowly closing door, hearing the click of the latch as the door closed.

He turned, retraced his steps to his automobile and sat for a moment behind the wheel, his forehead puckered in thought.