The Case of the Calendar Girl

Chapter Seven

The loud-speaker on Lt. Tragg’s car crackled.

“Calling Car XX-Special. Calling Car XX-Special.”

Tragg picked up the mouthpiece, said, “Car XX-Special, Lt. Tragg.”

The voice replied, “Go to telephone booth and call Communications. Repeat, telephone booth, call Communications. Information party desired now available.”

“Will call,” Tragg said, and dropped the transmitter back on the hook.

He grinned at Mason and said, “That means they’ve located something. They don’t want it put out on the general communications system. They —

“Tragg glanced swiftly behind him and swung the car into a service station where a telephone booth was located at the back of the lot.

“Sit here and hold the fort, Perry,” he said. “If a call comes in for XX-Special, just pick up the receiver and state that Lt. Tragg is calling Communications on a telephone circuit and any message can be sent to him there.”

Tragg hurried into the phone booth, and Mason could see him talking, then taking notes.

Tragg hung up the phone, returned to the car, grinned at Mason. “All right, we have our party.”

“You’re sure it’s the one we want?” Mason asked.

“Hell, no!” Tragg said. “The way we work we’re not sure of anything. We just run down leads, that’s all. We run down a hundred leads and finally get the one we want. Sometimes the one we want is the second one we run down, sometimes it’s the one hundredth. Sometimes we run down a hundred leads and don’t get anything. This looks pretty live. A woman about thirty years old, height, five-feet-four, weight, 115 to 120, called for a taxi to go to the Ancordia Apartments last night. She gave the name of Miss Harper. We chased down the number of the cab, found that he took her to the Dormain Apartments in Mesa Vista, and that’s where we’re going now.”

“About a chance in a hundred?” Mason asked.

“Make it one in ten,” Tragg said. “But I have an idea it’ll pay off. Remember the police system is to cover leads. We ring doorbells. We cover a hundred different leads to find the one we want, but we have a hundred people we can put on the job if we have to. And don’t ever discount the efficiency of that system, Mason. It pays off. We may look pretty damned stupid when we’re running down one of the leads that takes us up a blind alley, but sooner or later we’ll get on the right trail.”

Tragg piloted the car through the city traffic with a deft sureness that marks the professional driver.

“You’re out in traffic a lot,” Mason said. “Have any accidents?”

“Hell, no!” Tragg told him. “The taxpayers don’t like to have their cars smashed up.”

“How do you avoid them?”

“By avoiding them.”

“How?”

“You keep alert. You watch the other guy. Accidents are caused by people being discourteous, paying too little attention to what they’re doing, and not watching the other guy.

“When I’ve got a car, I know damn well I’m not going to hit somebody. It’s the other man who’s going to hit me; therefore, the other man is the guy I watch. This is a cinch. But remember that we get leads we have to run down on bad nights, holidays, rush-hour traffic... And the really bad hours are around one to four o’clock in the morning. The man who’s had a few drinks and knows he’s had a few drinks is pretty apt to be driving cautiously. In fact, the traffic boys pick up a lot of those fellows because they’re driving too slowly and too cautiously.

“The boy that’s really dangerous is the guy who’s been whooping it up until two or three o’clock in the morning, and then when he starts home, he’s so drunk he doesn’t realize he’s drunk. About that time he gets a feeling of great superiority and feels that if he can only go through an intersection fast enough, nobody can get halfway across the intersection before he’s all the way through it. It sounds like swell reasoning when you’re drunk, at least that’s what they tell me.”

Tragg chuckled a few times, drove to Mesa Vista, then drove steadily along one of the main streets, turned to the left, then to the right and slowed his car.

“You know where every apartment house in the county is located?” Mason asked.

“Damned near,” Tragg said. “I’ve been on this job a long time. You’d better come up with me.”

Tragg picked up the transmitter, said, “Car XX-Special, out of contact for a short time and parked at the location of the last lead I received on the telephone. Will report in when I get back in circulation.”

The voice on the loud-speaker said, “Car XX-Special, out until report.”

“Come on,” Tragg said to Mason.

The Dormain Apartments had a rather pretentious front and a swinging door to the lobby. A clerk looked up as Mason and Lt. Tragg entered the lobby, looked down, then suddenly did a double take.

Tragg walked over to the desk. “You have a Harper here?” he asked.

“We have two Harpers. Which one did you want?”

“A woman,” Tragg said. “Around thirty; height, five-feet-four; weight, maybe 120 pounds.”

“That would be Loretta Nann Harper. I’ll give her a ring.”

Tragg slid a leather folder on the desk, opened it to show a gold, numbered badge. “Police officers,” he said. “Don’t ring, we’ll go on up. What’s the number?”

“It’s 409. I trust there’s nothing—”

“Just want to interview a witness,” Tragg said. “Forget about it.”

He nodded to Mason and they went to the elevator.

“I repeat,” Mason said, “being a police officer has its advantages.”

“Yeah,” Tragg said. “You ought to follow me around for a while and then you’d change your tune. Think of when you get on the witness stand and some smart lawyer is walking all over you, asking you how the guy was dressed, what color socks he had on, whether he wore a tiepin, how many buttons on his vest, and every time you say you don’t know, the guy sneers at you and says, ‘You’re a police officer, aren’t you? You’re on the public payrolls. As an officer you’re supposed to have a special aptitude for noticing details, aren’t you?’ ”

Mason grinned. “Well, you may have something there.”

“May have is right,” Tragg said. “The guy just throws questions at you and sneers at you and tosses you insults, and the jurors just sit there and grin, getting a great kick out of seeing some lawyer make a monkey out of a dumb cop.”

The elevator, which had been on an upper floor, slid to a stop. Tragg and Mason got in. Tragg pushed the fourth-floor button and they were silent until the cage slid smoothly to a stop.

Tragg oriented himself on the numbers, walked down the corridor, knocked on the door of 409.

There was no answer.

Tragg knocked again.

There was a gentle swishing sound of motion from the other side of the door. The door opened a few inches and was held in position by a chain.

The young woman on the inside bent over slightly so that her body could not be seen, only the eyes, nose and forehead.

“Who is it, please?”

Tragg once more displayed his badge. “Lt. Tragg, Homicide,” he said. “We’d just like to talk with you a minute.”

“I... I’m dressing.”

“Are you decent?”

“Well, yes.”

“Okay, let us in.”

She hesitated a moment, then released the catch of the safety chain and opened the door. “I meant... that is... I’m getting ready to dress to go out. I’ve just had lunch and—”

“Then you haven’t been out yet,” Tragg said.

“Not yet.”

Mason followed Tragg into the apartment. It consisted of a luxuriously furnished sitting room. Through an open bedroom door, sunlight streaming into the room through a fire escape made a barred pattern on an unmade bed. Another partially opened door gave a glimpse of a bathroom, and there was a powder room on the other side of the sitting room.

A swinging door opened into a kitchen, and the aroma of coffee came to their nostrils.

Tragg said, “Nice place you have here.”

“I like it.”

“Live here alone?”

“If it’s any of your business, yes.”

“Lots of room.”

“I hate to be cramped.”

Tragg said, “We’re trying to find a young woman who was at the Ancordia Apartments last night, say around nine-forty-five to ten o’clock. We thought perhaps you could help us.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Can you?”

“I don’t know.”

“Were you there?”

“I...”

“Well?” Tragg said as she hesitated.

“Is it particularly important, one way or another?”

“Uh-huh.”

“May I ask why?”

Tragg said, “I’d prefer to have you answer my questions first, ma’am. Why did you give the name of Beatrice Cornell when George Ansley let you out in front of the apartment house?”

“Does he say I did that?”

“Did you?” Tragg asked.

“Really, Mister — Lieutenant — I’d like to find out why you’re asking these questions.”

“To get information,” Tragg said. “We’re investigating a crime. Now, you can answer these questions very simply, and then I’ll be in a position to ask you about the automobile accident.”

“What accident?”

“The accident where you were pitched out of the car at Meridith Borden’s place, the accident where you grabbed the other young woman by the ankles and dragged her away from the car, then slid down onto the ground and started calling for help.”

Loretta Harper bit her lip, frowned, said, “Sit down, Lt. Tragg. And this is...?”

“Mr. Mason,” the lawyer said, bowing.

“I... I hope you can keep my name out of this, Lieutenant.”

“Well, you’d better tell us about it. How did it happen you were driving a stolen car?”

“I was driving a stolen car!” she exclaimed with such vehement emphasis on the I that Tragg cocked a quizzical eyebrow.

“Weren’t you?” he asked.

“Heavens, no! Dawn Manning was driving the car, and she was driving like a crazy person.”

“How did it happen you were with her?”

“She forced me to get into the car.”

“How?”

“With a gun.”

“That’s kidnaping.”

“Of course, it is. I was so mad at her I could have killed her.”

“Well, go ahead,” Tragg said. “What happened?”

“She accused me of playing around with her ex-husband.”

“Were you?” Tragg asked.

“She had absolutely no right to say the things she did. She and Frank are divorced and she doesn’t have any control over him. She certainly doesn’t let anyone have any control over her, I can tell you that much. She does exactly as she likes, and—”

“Who’s Frank?” Lt. Tragg asked.

“Frank Ferney, her ex-husband.”

“And her name?”

“Dawn Manning is her professional name.”

“What profession?”

“You should ask me! You’re an officer.”

“And how did you happen to get into this stolen car?”

“You’re certain it was stolen?”

“That’s right. A Cadillac, license number CVX 266. It was stolen last night.”

“I’ll bet she did that so no one could trace her.”

“Well, suppose you tell us about it,” Tragg said.

“I had a little dinner party last night, a foursome, people who were very intimate friends — a married couple.

“We ran out of cigarettes and ice cubes. I went out to get them and a few other supplies. My friends were watching television.

“It was sometime after eight o’clock, eight-forty-five perhaps. I had stopped to wait for a traffic signal. When the signal changed, I started to walk across, and this car swung right in front of me, blocking the way. It came to a stop. The right-hand door swung open and Dawn Manning said, ‘Get in.’ ”

“You know her?” Tragg asked.

“I’ve never met her, but I know her by sight.”

“She knows you?”

“Apparently.”

“What did she say?”

“She said, ‘Get in, Loretta, I want to talk with you.’ ”

“What did you do?”

“I hesitated and she said again, ‘I can’t stay here all night, I’m blocking traffic. Get in.’ ”

“Then what happened?”

“There was something in her voice that alarmed me. I started to pull back and then I saw the gun she was pointing at me. She was holding it right on a level with the seat. She said, with deadly earnestness, ‘I said get in, and I meant it. You and I are going to have a talk.’ ”

“So what did you do?”

“I got in. I thought perhaps that would be the best thing to do. I felt certain she was going to shoot if I refused to get in the car.”

“Then what?”

“She started to drive like mad. She was half-hysterical, pouring out a whole mess of things.”

“Such as what?”

“That Frank — that’s Frank Ferney, her ex-husband — had told her over a year ago that he’d gone to Reno and secured a divorce. Dawn said she had acted on the assumption she was free to remarry. Then she’d decided to check up on it, and an attorney had told her no such divorce had ever been granted, that Frank had admitted he’d never gone ahead to finish the divorce and wouldn’t do so unless he received a piece of money. He said some rich amateur photographer was giving Dawn a tumble.

“She was so mad about it I thought perhaps she’d shoot Frank and me, too. She said I’d been playing around with Frank and she was going to make us both sign a statement.”

“Did she say what would happen otherwise?”

“No, she didn’t say, but she had that gun.”

“Go on,” Tragg said. “Take it from there.”

“She was like a crazy woman. I think she was half-hysterical and jealous and upset and frightened. She drove the car like mad and when we came to Borden’s place she started to turn in, and, just as she did, saw apparently for the first time a car that was coming out. She slammed on the brakes on wet pavement just as she was making a turn. The tires skidded all over the pavement. We just barely hit the bumper of the other car and crashed through the hedge. I guess we turned completely around. It felt like it to me.

“The car crashed through a hedge and turned over. The doors on the front of the car flew open, or perhaps she opened the door on the driver’s side. I know I had opened the door on my side and I was thrown out. I skidded across the grass for a ways and sat up feeling pretty bruised and dazed. And then I saw the glow of a light of some kind and saw this man bending over a figure by the car.

“I had a glimpse in the weak light that was given by the flashlight of Dawn Manning lying there unconscious where she’d been thrown from the car and had skidded on the wet grass.”

“Go on,” Tragg said. “What happened?”

“Well, then this man seemed to be having trouble with the flashlight. It went out and he threw it into the darkness. I heard it from where I was crouching, dazed and shaken and wondering just what had happened, and whether she still had the gun.”

“Go on,” Tragg said.

“Well, I... I don’t feel very proud of this, Lieutenant, but it seemed to be the best thing at the moment, and... well, at a time like that you just have to think of yourself and for yourself.”

“Go on, go on, what did you do? Never mind the explanations or the alibis.”

“Well, I saw this young man running over toward the driveway to the house and I knew he was going to ask for help and all of that, and I just didn’t want to be mixed up in that sort of a mess. In fact, I can’t afford to have my name dragged into court or get a lot of newspaper notoriety.

“I grabbed Dawn Manning by the ankles and started pulling. The grass was wet from the rain, and she slid along just as easily as though I had been dragging a big sled. I got her out of the way and put myself in the same position she’d been occupying. I pulled my skirts way up as though I’d skidded. Then I called out for help, and... well, this young man came back and I let him get a good look at my legs and then help me up. I got my purse, and in the dark wondered if I could have made a mistake and had Dawn’s purse instead of mine. So I stalled around, dove into the car for the second time after my raincoat, found a second purse, concealed it in the folds of the coat and got out.

“I told him that I had been driving the car. I didn’t want to have any trouble about it. I let him drive me into the city. I told him it was my car and kidded him along so he didn’t ask to see my driving license. I was desperately trying to think of some name I could give him, and then I remembered someone had told me about a telephone service given by Beatrice Cornell over at the Ancordia Apartments, so I just gave him her name. I knew it would be on the mailbox in case he wanted to check on it, and... well, I let him drive me there and let him think he was driving me home.

“He told me his name was Ansley and he was very, very nice. I let him kiss me good night, then I rang the bell of Beatrice Cornell’s apartment. She buzzed the lock on the door, I went in, sat in the lobby until Mr. Ansley drove off, then I telephoned for a taxicab and came back here to this apartment.”

“Then what?”

“That’s all.”

“Why did she drive to Meridith Borden’s place?”

“That’s where her husband works. Frank is associated in some capacity with Meridith Borden. She thought he was there. He wasn’t. Actually, he was the fourth guest at my dinner party. He’s my boy friend.”

“And you left her there in the grounds?” Tragg asked.

“Yes.”

“Unconscious?”

“Yes... I didn’t know what else to do. I had to look out for myself.”

Lt. Tragg frowned thoughtfully, fished a cigar from his pocket. “Mind if I smoke?” he asked.

“I’d love it,” Loretta Harper said.

The officer regarded her with quizzical appraisal. “Either you,” he said, “or this Manning woman is lying. I suppose you know that.”

“I can readily imagine it,” she said. “Any woman who will take chances on threatening another woman with a gun and pulling a kidnap stunt like that would naturally be expected to lie about it, wouldn’t she?”

“And you’ve got her purse?”

“Yes. I took both purses only because I wanted to be absolutely certain I didn’t leave mine behind. I couldn’t afford to be mixed up in the thing — and I’ll be frank with you, Lt. Tragg, Frank and I are... well, he’s my boy friend.”

“I’ll want her purse. Did you look in it?”

“Only just to be certain it was hers.”

Tragg scraped a match into flame and puffed the end of his cigar into a glowing red circle. “Okay,” he said, “let’s see it.”

She opened a drawer, took out a purse and handed it to Lt. Tragg, who started to open it and look inside, then changed his mind.

Mason said, “I’d like to fix the time element, Miss Harper. Can you tell me exactly when Dawn Manning picked you up?”

“Not the exact minute. I would say it was somewhere between eight-forty and — oh, say a few minutes before nine, right around there sometime.”

“And when you had the accident?”

“It must have been nine o’clock or a few minutes after that.”

“Then Ansley got out of his car and came running over to where Dawn Manning was lying?”

“That’s right.”

“And from that point on you were in his company until... well, suppose you tell us. Until about what time?”

“I would say I was with him there in the grounds until right around nine-twenty, and then he drove me to the Ancordia Apartments.”

“Do you think there’s any chance you’re mistaken about the time — about any of the times?”

“No. That is, my times are approximate only.”

“But you’ve fixed them as best you can?”

“Yes.”

Tragg’s eyes narrowed. “You know, Mason,” he said, “you’re trying to cross-examine this witness. You’re getting her story sewed up as much as possible.”

“I’m assuming she’s telling the truth,” Mason said.

“In that event, somebody else isn’t.”

“I have to make allowances for that also, Lieutenant.”

Tragg said to Loretta Harper, “I suppose you know that you violated the Motor Vehicle Act in not reporting an accident where a person was injured.”

“I don’t think I did,” she said. “I wasn’t driving the car.”

“And,” Tragg went on, “since an assault with a deadly weapon was made on you and you didn’t report that to the police, you concealed a felony.”

“I don’t care to prosecute for private reasons. And I don’t think the law compels me to go into court and file a complaint on which I wouldn’t prosecute.”

Tragg twisted the cigar around in his mouth. “Well,” he said, “you’re going to have to take a ride up to the D.A.’s office and talk things over a bit. Mason, this is where you came in.”

Mason grinned. “You mean this is where I go out.”

“The same thing,” Tragg said.

Mason shook hands with him. “Thanks, Lieutenant.”

“Don’t mention it,” Tragg said. And then added with a grin, “I’m sure I won’t!”