The Devil Loves Me

7

The tall, sleek man with the rawhide suitcase stepped out of the elevator, waved aside the bellhop who assailed him, and walked to the desk.

“Rourke,” he told the desk clerk. “I’m checking out.”

While the clerk was looking up the bill Mr. Rourke stood with his back to the lobby fingering the rawhide case nervously. His uneasiness seemed incongruous with his casual brown tweeds and his air of authority.

“Three days. Fifteen dollars. Plus two telephone calls makes it fifteen dollars and twenty cents. Thank you very much, Mr. Rourke. Everything satisfactory?”

“Fine,” Mr. Rourke said. “Call my car, will you?”

He put on his hat and pulled it down over his eyes. While he was waiting for his car a man came to the desk and asked for a single room with bath. His name was Williams, he told the clerk.

Mr. Rourke did not turn his head at this information but his mouth moved:

“You damn fool, Williams.”

Dennis Williams told the clerk that 507 would be fine and that he would pay in advance as his luggage hadn’t arrived yet. While he was signing his name in the register Mr. Williams’ mouth also moved:

“Follow me up.” He walked toward the elevators.

Mr. Rourke went out to his car, put his bag inside, and drove off. He drove three blocks along Front Street and parked his car in a parking lot. Ten minutes later he was mounting the steps to the fifth floor of the Royal York, cursing the climb and Mr. Williams. When the door of 507 opened Mr. Rourke repeated his original observation:

“You damn fool, Williams. You’re probably being trailed.”

“I shook him,” Dennis said. “Oh, it’s all right, George. Your skin is safe. How about mine?”

George took off his hat and flung it across the room onto the bed. He sat down in the chair beside the desk and frowned at Dennis.

“Well. What’s up?”

“Stevens has been killed,” Dennis said.

“When?”

“Last night.”

Mr. Rourke looked pensive. “Why all the fuss? We don’t lose anything.”

“But... but it’s murder, I tell you!”

“I’m surprised Duncan has lived this long,” Mr. Rourke murmured philosophically.

“Don’t be so sure of yourself, George. He left behind a letter to you!”

Mr. Rourke didn’t move, but the skin on his face seemed to tighten. “What was in it?”

Dennis told him.

“Unfinished, eh?” Mr. Rourke said. “That means no envelope. Bloody luck, the letter, but it could be worse.”

Dennis smiled bitterly. “The hell it could. I’m halfway to the gallows already.”

“You’ll be all right if you say nothing. And I mean nothing! Don’t even discuss the weather. Unless” — Mr. Rourke smiled grimly — “you killed Duncan yourself.”

Dennis jumped out of his chair. “Don’t be crazy! Why in hell should I kill him?”

“Why did he leave the letter, Williams? Because he didn’t trust you. Well, I don’t trust you very much myself. It wouldn’t surprise me to hear you’d killed Duncan, collected the stuff, and were planning a vacation in South America. With my wife, incidentally.”

“Your ex-wife,” Dennis said. “Besides, you know me, George. I wouldn’t stoop to a thing like that.”

“My God,” Mr. Rourke said. “Shut up and let me think.”

He thought for some time. Then he said, “How many this time?”

“Fifty. He said it used up most of his cash. He said he was getting sick of the whole business anyway, there wasn’t enough in it.”

“Where is it?”

“I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me anyway.”

“You’d better go back and dig it up.”

Dennis knocked the chair away violently. “I’m not going back! I’ve made my statement. The police said I could go back to Montreal if I promised to come back when they asked me to.”

Mr. Rourke remained calm. “You’re going back to that house, Williams. We can’t afford to have it found. If you keep your mouth shut and if the stuff isn’t found, we’re safe. So you’ll go back to the house and find out where Duncan put it. Or if someone murdered Duncan to get it, you’re going to find out where the murderer put it and bring it to me. It’s 25 per cent for you if you can do it. If you can’t it’s the penitentiary.”

“I can’t go back!” Dennis cried. “What excuse could I give for going back now that they’ve let me go?”

“Tell them you feel you want to stay until the investigation is finished. Tell them you’re such an honest, upright young man that you want to do your bit to make the truth prevail. Or tell them — and perhaps this is best — that your place is at Dinah’s side in this time of distress.”

“I can’t go back,” Dennis repeated.

“You’re going. You’ll keep in touch with me, of course, by telephone. And for God’s sake use your head when you telephone. Go to a pay station and see that you’re not followed.”

Dennis sat down again, looking worried. “How long have you been in Toronto, George?”

“Got here yesterday. Better make it snappy, Williams. I’m driving back to Montreal now.”

“What do I do about this room?”

“Leave it,” Mr. Rourke said softly. “Leave it, my dear Williams. You can’t take it with you.”

He picked up his hat from the bed and put it on. With a last warning look at Dennis he opened the door and stepped out into the hall. Going down the back stairs he collided with an extremely tall young man who was coming up.

The tall young man said, “Sorry. Very sorry indeed, I’m sure.” He sounded drunk. He began to brush off Mr. Rourke’s coat, mumbling elaborate apologies.

“I’m in a hurry,” Mr. Rourke said.

“You want a drink,” the tall man said. “You’re a man after my own heart, always hurrying and always hurrying for a drink. You make sense. I like you.”

Mr. Rourke slipped past the young man and started to descend the stairs again. It took him ten minutes to find the parking lot where he had left his car.

“Cream-colored Oldsmobile coupe,” he told the attendant.

The attendant looked at him sharply and said, “Oh yeah? What number?”

Mr. Rourke told him the number.

The attendant said “Yeah?” again and scratched the side of his head. “Damn funny. That car left a couple of minutes ago. Tall guy. Knew the number so I thought it was his.”

Mr. Rourke cursed softly but skillfully under his breath.

“Gosh, I’m sorry,” the attendant said. “I’m new here. I’ll report it to the police right away.”

But Mr. Rourke put out his hand and held him back. “Don’t do that. It’s my kid brother. He’s always pulling stuff like this. I’ll find him myself.”

He walked away rapidly toward the Union Station. He was nearly there when he heard a horn tooting behind him and turned to see a cream-colored coupe drawing up to the curb. The man at the wheel looked familiar and the car even more familiar.

“What in hell?” Mr. Rourke said.

“Hop in,” the young man said. “I’m not drunk. Your life is as safe in my hands as it ever will be.”

He opened the door of the car. Mr. Rourke glanced up and down the street and got in.

“What’s the game?” he said.

The young man grinned. “Hunt the button. You’re cast as the button, Revel.”

“The name is Rourke.”

“Oh, come,” the man said, “you needn’t be ashamed of Revel for a name. After all, my name is Prye, and Revel’s a lot nicer than that.”

“So you’re Prye,” Mr. Revel said softly.

“That’s right.”

“And you’ve been looking for me, Dr. Prye?”

“Not hard, Mr. Revel, not hard. You weren’t very well hidden. And you use the telephone most indiscriminately. Shall we drive out to the Shanes’?”

“What do you want?” Revel said.

“A talk.”

“Talk here if you have to. I’m on my way back to Montreal.”

“On the other hand, I’m at the wheel of the car,” Prye said pleasantly. “Inspector Sands wants to see you. I told him I’d try and arrange a meeting. It was very simple to follow Dennis. He looks so furtive you can’t miss.”

“I don’t want to see Dinah,” Revel said.

Prye let in the clutch and pulled away from the curb. “You probably won’t if she sees you first. You can call a policeman if you like, Revel, and have me arrested.”

“Oh no,” Revel said politely, “I am not a vindictive man. Besides, it’s a good opportunity to catch up on my sleep.”

He took off his hat, laid it on the seat, leaned back, and went to sleep. Mr. Revel was, at times, a philosopher.

He was awakened by the jolt of the car as it stopped and Prye’s voice saying, “You’ve got either a good conscience or no conscience, Revel.”

Revel got out of the car, yawning, and put on his hat. He looked toward the house, expecting to see a crowd of curiosity-seekers, but there was nobody visible at all.

“Where’s my public?” he asked Prye with a thin smile.

“The police keep a thumb on the reporters in this city,” Prye said. “As for the neighbors, this is a well-bred section of the city. People may peer out of windows but they don’t show themselves.”

Revel followed him up the flagstone walk. Prye pointed. “He was lying here. See the blood?”

“I am not,” Revel said carefully, “as a rule interested in blood. I have a tender stomach.”

Jackson let them in. He stared at Revel with interest, but there was no sign of recognition in his eyes.

“You wouldn’t remember Jackson, Mr. Revel,” Prye said. “He’s after your time.”

Jackson said, “Welcome on the doormat, sir.”

Revel glanced at him warily. If he’s a servant, he thought, I’m a bishop with five wives. Aloud he said, “Hello, Jackson. My bag’s in the car if I’m invited to stay.”

There was a soft gasp from the top of the staircase. The three men looked up and saw Jane clinging to the banister. She was dressed in a green chiffon negligee and she looked, Prye decided, like trailing ivy growing over the staircase.

She said, “Oh. It’s— Isn’t it George?” Her voice was cold, as if she considered Revel’s presence a personal insult.

Revel ignored the tone. He went up the stairs to meet her, smiling.

“My dear Jane,” he said, stretching out his hands, “you have my deepest sympathy.”

Jane hesitated. The trace of suspicion vanished from her eyes and a tear rolled down her cheek.

“Oh, George!” she wailed plaintively.

Jackson moved discreetly toward the kitchen. Revel coaxed Jane down the stairs and held one arm around her while she wept copiously into his brown tweed coat. Revel was quite unmoved. His only emotion was a kind of wonder that anyone should cry over that ass Duncan. He was still standing absorbing tears when Dinah came into the hall. When she saw him she stopped short, her face white, her mouth tightened into a thin red line.

“Well,” she said in a brittle voice, “if it isn’t God’s gift to all the tarts in Montreal. And at it already, I see.”

Revel thrust Jane away from him. His face was flushed but his voice as steady and cool as Dinah’s.

“Hello, Dinah. Fancy meeting you here. It’s a small world.”

“Too damn small,” Dinah said. “What are you doing here?”

Revel said, “I was kidnaped. Sorry if I’ve ruined love’s young dream for you. How is Dennis, by the way?”

Jane stopped weeping and was listening hard. Prye was listening pretty hard himself. Dinah turned on him savagely.

“Did you invite him here, Paul?”

“Invite,” Revel said, “is understatement. I told you, Dinah, I had to come. I’ll leave as soon as the police let me.”

Dinah said, “If I thought it would make it any sooner I’d seduce the commissioner.”

Jane cried, “Oh!” in a shocked voice.

Prye took her arm and gave her a little push toward the drawing room. Over his shoulder he said, “The inspector’s in the library, Revel. When you and Dinah finish your tête-à-tête drop in and see him.”

“I’ve finished,” Dinah said.

Revel said nothing. She’s wearing her hair differently, he thought, and she’s too thin. I wonder if she’s on that damfool diet again.

“Sorry,” he said, and walked across the hall to the library and rapped. The inspector opened the door. Revel said, “I’m George Revel. Were you looking for me?”

The inspector showed no surprise. “I was. Come in, Mr. Revel. My name is Sands.”

They were both very polite and very careful.

Revel gave no indications of being nervous. He crossed the room and settled himself in the most comfortable chair. He lit a cigarette and through the smoke he studied Sands lazily. An odd little man, he decided, colorless, negative, the type who encourages you to talk by his very quietness, until you talk too much. I’ll have to warn Williams about this.

“Sorry to trouble you, Mr. Revel,” Sands said, “but you probably know what has happened.”

He wasn’t looking at Revel. His eyes were fixed on the wall beside Revel’s right shoulder. From there they wandered to Revel’s feet, shod in brown English brogues, and up to his tie of yellow-and-brown knitted silk. Revel shifted his feet and put his hand up to his tie. The two movements pleased the inspector.

Revel was not accustomed to silences in which his wardrobe was examined minutely from top to bottom. He cleared his throat nervously. “Yes. Prye told me Duncan Stevens has been killed.”

Sands said nothing.

“I’m sorry about it,” Revel went on. “I’d honestly like to help you find out who did it hut I’m afraid I can’t. I didn’t know Stevens very well.”

“How long have you been in Toronto, Mr. Revel?” Revel hesitated. “Three days. I come here frequently on business.”

“What is your business?”

“I’m a broker.”

“Stevens was a broker too. Quite a coincidence.”

Revel laughed. “Hardly a coincidence. Brokers are so common most of them are broke.”

Sands looked pointedly at Revel’s brown tweeds and said, “Unless they have — ah, other sources of income perhaps. Ever do any business with Stevens’ office?”

“Occasionally he’d recommend a client to me. I did the same for him. Other than that we had no business relations.”

“I understand you employ Dennis Williams?”

“I do. He’s a good man in his job. Personal relations department.”

The inspector looked bored and unconvinced. “Dear me,” he said with a slight smile, “I didn’t realize that brokers’ offices had personal relations departments. Of course so much of my work deals with crooks. Contact men, you know. Some of these confidence swindles are pretty clever. Aren’t they?”

“I don’t know,” Revel said. “I’ve never been swindled.”

“I can believe that,” Sands said mildly. “What did your personal relations representative have to say to you at the hotel?”

Revel ground out his cigarette in the ash tray. The action made him somewhat calmer. He couldn’t afford to lose his temper.

“So you were trailing him,” he said, smiling. “Williams is a bit naive. He thought he’d shaken the man.”

Sands coughed apologetically. “He did. I thoughtfully provided a man in a green suit to be shaken. And of course if you concentrate on shaking a green suit you miss anyone else who happens to be around.” He coughed again. “I’m afraid that your personal relations department has done little to aid Mr. Williams’ native intelligence. I wouldn’t dream of trying such an old dodge on you, Mr. Revel.”

“I had no idea the police were so subtle,” Revel said coolly.

“Answer the question. What did Mr. Williams say to you at the hotel?”

“Certainly. He was a little upset by the murder, you see. He knew I was in town because I had just telephoned him from the hotel. So he came down to see me. He seemed quite perturbed by a letter you’d found.”

“We found a letter, yes,” Sands said. “It was written by Stevens to you.”

“Was it?” Revel leaned forward, frowning. “That’s strange. I should hardly have thought Stevens would be writing to me. I suppose you’re sure it was to me?”

“Reasonably sure,” Sands replied.

“Perhaps if I saw the letter myself I could tell you definitely.”

“Later,” Sands said. Revel must know his full name isn’t on the letter, he thought. Suppose he sticks to his guns and swears the letter is not to him?

“It seems,” Sands went on, “as though Duncan Stevens had smuggled something across the border and brought it to this house for you or your agent to pick up.”

Revel said calmly, “That sounds like a serious accusation.”

“It Is.”

“I know nothing about it.”

“I hardly thought you would, Mr. Revel,” Sands said dryly. “It also seems likely to me that whoever murdered Stevens murdered him to get possession of whatever he had smuggled across.”

“What could it be, I wonder?” Revel said.

“Fifty brunettes.”

“Fifty brunettes!” Revel leaned back in his chair and began to laugh. There was relief as well as amusement in the laugh.

“Stevens’ phrase,” the inspector explained. “It might mean anything. I thought you’d be able to translate it for me.”

“Well, I can’t.” He paused. “Jewels, maybe. Say black pearls or something like that. But where would Stevens get fifty black pearls?”

So it isn’t jewels, Sands thought. Even Revel isn’t cool enough to supply me with the right answer immediately.

“Black opals, perhaps,” Sands said.

“Perhaps,” Revel agreed.

Sands patted his pocket. “I guess this letter that Stevens wrote isn’t for you, then.”

“It might be,” Revel said, “although I don’t see why Stevens should be writing to me.”

Sands looked at him appraisingly. A bright boy, he decided. He says he doesn’t think the letter was written to him but he admits it could have been in case we’re able to prove it was. I’ll have to strike at him through Williams. Williams will try to save his own hide.

“Mr. Williams is back,” he said.

“Is he?” Revel said. “Well, I can spare him a few days longer.”

“I was wondering if you could perhaps spare yourself a few days longer too, Mr. Revel. There is a lot I have to clear up and I think it would make it easier for me if you stayed here.”

“Anything to make it easier for you,” Revel said amiably. “Business is rotten anyway. Mind if I phone and let the office know?”

“Go ahead.”

Revel put his call through to Montreal, issued some instructions to his secretary, and hung up.

“May I return to the hotel now?” he asked.

“That won’t be necessary,” Sands replied. “I’ve spoken to Mrs. Shane and she will be glad to have you stay here. By the way, you usually stay at the Royal York when you’re in town, don’t you?”

“Usually.”

“Thanks. That’s all for now.”

Revel went out. Sands picked up the telephone and called the Royal York. The desk clerk informed him that no one called Revel had been registered there recently.

“Who has checked out within the past two hours?” Sands asked.

There was a rustling of paper at the other end of the line. “A Mr. and Mrs. Ponsonby of Washington, Oregon. Mr. Rourke of Montreal—”

“Rourke a tall, well-dressed man in brown tweeds, brown hat?”

“That’s him.”

“When did he arrive?”

“Thursday night.”

“Thanks.”

Sands remained at the desk for some time twisting his pen in his hands. His notebook was open in front of him.

There was no doubt that Duncan had written the letter to Revel. There was little doubt that if Revel denied it nothing could be done. George was a common name. A great number of people found the “Royal York more comfortable than anything at Kingston.” It could be a coincidence that Williams, who worked for Revel, should be staying at the Shanes’ at the same time as Duncan Stevens. Nor was it rare for an out-of-town businessman to register at a hotel under a false name, especially if the object of the visit was pleasure and not business.

And there was Duncan’s car, found on Front Street conveniently near the Royal York. And Mr. Revel had arrived in Toronto on Thursday night.

Sands picked up the phone again and detailed a man to find out about Mr. Revel’s movements, about the correspondence he received, the visitors, the drinks and meals sent up to his room, and whether he had any dry cleaning done on Saturday night.

In a second call to the hotel Sands requested the manager to leave Mr. Rourke’s room as it was for the time being.

Then he telephoned his own office. Sergeant Darcy had located the cabdriver who took Duncan to 197 River Road from the Union Station. The cabdriver had provided a detailed description of the young man.

“Have you got him there?” Sands asked.

“Yes sir,” Darcy said.

“Put him on, will you?”

The cabdriver identified himself.

“You picked him up at the station?” Sands asked.

“Yes sir. I was meeting a train and I saw this guy and asked him did he want a cab. He didn’t say anything, just followed me out. He looked soused to me. Couldn’t walk very well. His clothes were dirty too. What’s more, when I helped him get into the cab—” He stopped suddenly.

“When you helped him into the cab what?” Sands said patiently.

“I... nothing.”

“You felt his pockets, perhaps?” Sands was not unacquainted with the ways of certain cabdrivers with drunks.

“I wasn’t going to do anything, honest. I just happened to feel something in his pocket that felt like a gun, a little gun. Well, and that’s all. I just drove him home.”

“You didn’t actually see the gun?”

“No sir, but it was a gun. I’m sure of that.”

“Did the passenger talk at all?”

“No sir.”

“All right. Make your statement to Darcy and sign it. I may see you later. Good-by.”

Sands rang the bell for Jackson. Jackson informed him that Mr. Williams was in the billiard room in the basement.

“Bring him up,” Sands said.

Jackson went down to the basement. The door of the billiard room was closed and he hesitated in front of it for a minute.

The cold, damp air of the cellar struck the back of his neck and it felt uncomfortable, the way it did when you got an overdue haircut in the winter, Jackson thought. He put his hand up to his neck. The skin was clammy.

There was no sound at all in the cellar. By God, Jackson thought, the house has died on me again.

He put his hand on the doorknob and turned it. When the door opened a gust of warm, dry air swept into his face. Someone had lit a fire in the fireplace. The flames were hissing quietly, filling the room with soft, evil whispers.

Evil, Jackson thought. I don’t believe in evil, but it’s here, pressing on my ears and eyes.

He grinned at himself then, and there was even something of evil in his own grin. He knew that from the way his face felt, stiff and frozen, so he stopped grinning and walked over to the fireplace rather angrily.

He had to stop those whispers.

He took the poker and stabbed at the live coals. They spat at him defiantly. He stabbed again, laughing aloud. They could spit at him, but he was the master.

He felt very brave and powerful. His muscles flexed and he poked at the coals again. He was driving out the devil and it was fun. He forgot all about Mr. Williams, tasting his new power, watching the coals glare at him, consuming themselves with their own impotent hatred.

The fire died. He put down the poker, ashamed, thinking, I guess I must be crazy. I’ve got to find Mr. Williams.

Then he saw that Mr. Williams had been watching all the time. He was sitting in an easy chair in the far comer of the room, staring at Jackson.

Jackson said, “Oh. Sorry, sir. I’m very sorry, sir.” His hands were trembling because he had made a fool of himself in front of Mr. Williams.

Mr. Williams didn’t say anything. He kept looking at Jackson with his cold, sardonic eyes.

“I didn’t know you were here, sir,” Jackson said. “I just thought I’d put the fire out. I’m a little afraid of leaving fires when there’s no one in the room, sir.”

Mr. Williams’ gaze said plainly: “Don’t kid me, Jackson. You were having fun. You’ve given yourself away, Jackson.”

Mr. Williams himself said nothing.

Jackson was getting angry. He thought: You needn’t be so stiff and formal with me, Williams. I went to Harvard and I know how you look in the mornings before you shave.

He walked to the door, jerking his coat straight.

Mr. Williams’ eyes did not follow him. They were still watching the fireplace unblinkingly. Jackson walked toward him slowly.

“Hey, Williams,” he said.

He saw then that Mr. Williams had three eyes, two ordinary eyes and a third eye in the middle of his forehead. When he got closer the third eye turned out to be a round black hole.

He stood there feeling sick, partly with relief that Mr. Williams was dead and had not seen him make a fool of himself. No one had. That was his secret. Mr. Williams was dead.

He went upstairs to tell Inspector Sands.