The Poisoners

IV

The station wagon was waiting when we came downstairs. I opened the door and let Arthur Brown get in first. He was a little clumsy because of his bound hands. They were tied in front of him, with his jacket draped to hide the ropes.

Warfel had seemed to think it was sissy of me to want him tied, just as it was sentimental of me not to slit his throat on the spot. I wasn't really much of a guy, in Warfel's opinion. I worried about this like I worried about the opinion of the ducks in the pond I passed earlier in the evening, or even a little less. As a hunter of sorts, I have a lot of respect for ducks.

Arthur Brown looked like a professional boxer to me, and I don't play games with those. I know some trick stuff that'll handle the amateurs, but I wouldn't dream of trying it on a real pro fighter. If he came for me, I'd have to stop him with a gun, and I didn't want to, at least not yet.

"All right, Willy," 1 said, having learned the driver's name from Warfel. "Head back the way we came, slowly. If somebody pulls alongside and blows a horn, don't get excited. Just take it to the curb and stop it. I'm assuming it does have brakes."

"If they don't work, I'll open the door and drag my foot," said Willy, cutting out into traffic without a glance at the mirror. Three blocks later he said, "We've got company like you said. Do you want me to stop now?"

"They'll let you know when."

"I don't like this."

"Sure you do," I said. "Mr. Warfel said for you to do exactly what I told you. I heard him. Sure you like it, Willy. You're paid to like it."

"Okay, I like it."

We rode along for a while without conversation. I was aware of Arthur Brown, silent beside me. I'm a firm believer in racial equality, but that doesn't mean I kid myself that I'll ever know exactly what thoughts are going through the head of a member of another race. We may all be equal as hell, but that doesn't mean we necessarily think alike.

"What's your real name?" I asked.

"Arthur Brown," he said.

"Go to hell," I said. "There may be Arthur Browns- there undoubtedly are-but you're not one of them. Every time you hear the name, your nostrils flare like they'd caught a bad smell."

He said, "All right, so my name is Lionel McConnell. Can you see a Lionel McConnell in the ring, man? A black Lionel McConnell? Anyway, they told me I was Arthur Basher Brown, and if you know them, you know that who they tell you you are, that's who you are."

"Sure." After a while, I said, "Lionel McConnell. That's pretty damn fancy. Almost as fancy as Annette O'Leary." The man beside me didn't speak. I went on: "That was a nice kid you shot. We had plans for that girl, McConnell. You ought to be more careful whom you go firing guns at."

"I told you, it was a mistake. A case of mistaken identity."

"Sure. The streets of L.A. are just lousy with good-looking little redheads, one exactly like the next. You've got to beat them off with a club. What do you think we're going to do with you, McConnell?"

"Hell, man," he said, "it's obvious. You're either going to shoot me or talk me to death…"

He stopped. A car had pulled up on our left as we rolled down a wide boulevard. A horn made a brief, beeping sound. Willy glanced over his shoulder.

"Now?"

"Now," I said.

When we came to a stop, I helped the bound man out onto the sidewalk and escorted him to the big tan sedan that had pulled to the curb ahead. The rear door was open and a young woman in a neat gray suit stood beside it, surprising me a bit. I hadn't really been expecting a woman, although there are plenty in the business.

She wasn't one of ours, and neither was the driver or, for that matter, the car. We don't have enough manpower or money to cover the world in depth, or even the country, like some agencies. But there is a certain amount of interdepartmental cooperation, meaning that Mac had apparently done a favor for somebody in the past and now he was collecting a favor in return.

"Here he is," I said to the girl "Can you hold him for me, temporarily?"

"It can be arranged. Temporarily."

Her voice was curt. I glanced at her and decided that for some reason she didn't like men very much, particularly not a man named Helm, with errands to be run. She was another tall girl-the climate of California, difficult though it was to breathe, seemed to favor the long-stemmed variety-but in other respects there was little resemblance between this girl and the blonde in the shimmering blue pajamas.

This one was wearing horn-rimmed glasses and had her hair cut shorter than that of a good many men these long-haired days. It was crisp, glossy, and light-brown in color with a chestnut tinge-in other words, it was pretty nice hair that deserved a better deal. Her face was handsome rather than pretty or beautiful, with a high nose, strong cheekbones, and a big, contemptuous mouth. What she had to be contemptuous about, besides me, remained to be seen.

The mannish flannel suit she was wearing was no shorter in the skirt than it had to be, considering the current vogue for mini-garments. Even so, it was mostly jacket, displaying a considerable length of fine leg encased in dark stocking. Her figure was also pretty good, if somewhat more substantial than the one to which I'd recently been introduced by Frank Warfel. This wasn't an acrobatic dancer's figure, but I thought it would probably swim pretty well and swing a mean tennis racket if required. A white silk shirt and low-heeled black shoes completed the picture, along with a black purse of practical size, the flap of which was open, leaving the contents ready to hand. I'd caught a gleam of blue steel as she turned to face us. All in all, she was the image of the efficient lady agent. At least she was right in there trying.

I said, "Okay, he's yours. Temporarily. What about a quiet place to fire a gun? A fairly big gun?"

McConnell glanced at me briefly, his black face impassive. The girl frowned and didn't answer at once, looking from one to the other of us dubiously.

Then she said reluctantly, "I suppose that can be arranged, too, if it's absolutely necessary. I'll check."

"You check," I said. I hauled out the heavy Magnum revolver. "Here's the gun. Keep it safe for me. Him, too."

"How long? We do have other business to attend to besides yours, Mr. Helm." She hesitated, but went on before I could answer: "Incidentally, my name is Charlotte Devlin. In case you have to ask for me, or about me or something."

Her tone was still far from gracious. I realized that she disapproved of me not only because my lousy little errand was beneath her dignity, but also as a matter of principle. Well, our agency isn't the government's pride and joy, exactly. Even the C.I.A. boys, much as they're criticized in some quarters, are popularity kids compared to us. We're only consulted, as a rule, when people find themselves stuck with something they can't handle- or don't want to handle because it stinks too badly. In between the times they need us, they'd like to pretend we don't exist.

"Hello, Charlotte," I said. "Excuse me, I mean Miss Devlin. I won't be long. I've got a kind of hunch I want to check out; I'll be right back to take care of him properly. Just tell me where."

She told me. The driver never turned his head; maybe he disapproved of me, too. The girl got into the rear seat with her prisoner-well, my prisoner-and the sedan moved smoothly away from the curb.

I went back to the old station wagon and told Willy to take me back to the motel. You had to say this for his driving: it was consistent. I was happy to get out of the ancient heap intact. A blare of horns behind me, as I crossed the sidewalk, told me that Willy had taken off in his usual never-look-behind fashion. There was no accompanying crunch of metal. Maybe he was lucky, or somebody was.

I entered the motel grounds. It was a rambling hostelry clinging to a hillside, its different levels served by two intersecting lanes, or drives. The one at which Willy had deposited me was practically a tunnel running up between the buildings, dark and narrow. He could, of course, have dropped me around the corner at the office, under the lights, but I suppose if he had, he wouldn't have been Willy. Or perhaps he had some motive other than pure meanness for sending me up this gloomy passageway.

I slipped my hand into the pocket that still held the.38 Special. As I climbed the slope towards the better-lighted cross-drive above, something moved in the shadows ahead. I could make out three figures struggling. Two were apparently ganging up on the third, much smaller than either of them.

A girl's voice gasped: "Let me go! Oh, don't, you're hurting…Ahhhh!"

Her breathless little whimper of pain was followed by the sound of a blow. I saw the smallest of the shadowy figures fall as I pulled out my revolver and started warily to the rescue, looking around for signs of an ambush. Ladies in distress aren't taken at face value in my business, not by any agent concerned about his mission or his life.

V

It was a simple rescue as rescues go. I just stalked up there cautiously, displaying the gun and making some restrained noises indicating that I disapproved of what was going on. The two men, who had grabbed the fallen girl by the arms and were starting to drag her away between them, looked around guiltily. Seeing me, they released her and ran. I waited until they'd disappeared around the corner of the building and a little longer.

Nothing moved. The girl just crouched where she'd been dropped. I could make out that she had rather long hair, which was a point in her favor according to my personal scoring system. On the other hand, she was wearing some kind of a pants outfit, which counted a couple of points against her, unless she could produce a valid excuse like a horse or a pair of skis. I went up to her, holding the gun ready.

"All right," she whispered without looking up, "all right, you've got me. You've got your gun. You've got your orders from Frankie. What are you waiting for?"

Then she buried her face in her hands and began to sob. I dropped the revolver into my pocket, picked up the good-sized purse lying on the ground a few feet to one side, and slung it over my shoulder by the strap provided. I went back to the girl, lifted her gently, and led her up the passageway and across the intersecting drive to the building beyond. We climbed the stairs and made our way along the balcony to my room at the end.

I was beginning to feel a little disenchanted with the assignment. Except for Annette, who was no longer a participant, it had shaped up as a simple, rugged, masculine job of work. Now, suddenly, it had turned into a complicated coeducational caper involving not just one, not two, but three attractive females-well, I still hadn't got a good look at the latest addition to the cast of female characters, but she had an intriguing little figure and under the circumstances it seemed unlikely that she'd be here if she were ugly.

Please don't get me wrong. I like girls. I just don't like to have them coming at me, in the middle of a job at least, faster than I can count them.

My damsel in distress offered no resistance or protest. Nobody came out to ask any questions. There hadn't really been much noise to attract attention, just a scuffle, some gasps and whimpers, and a spoken word or two, not loud. I checked the door of my unit. I'd left a few indicators to tell if anybody had opened it in my absence. Apparently nobody had. I unlocked it, reached around to switch on the light, pushed the girl inside, and followed her, closing the door behind me.

She turned slowly to look at me. After a moment she gave a little toss of her head to get the long straggling hair out of her eyes. She wiped her eyes and nose with the back of her hand, childishly. We faced each other in silence, taking stock of each other in the light.

What she saw, I suppose, was a skinny, elongated gent wearing slacks that needed pressing after a hard day, a sports coat with a bulge in the pocket, and a suspicious expression. What I saw was a smallish girl with hazel eyes in an oval, small-featured face that was now rather tearstained and dirty. Her disordered hair reached well down her shoulders and was that reddish shade of coppery gold that's almost always artificial, but it's a pretty color anyway.

As I've indicated, I kind of favor long-haired girls over girls who are so closely clipped or carefully pinned up or tightly curled, as to leave nothing blowing in the wind. On the other hand, given a choice, I'll pick the ones in skirts over the ones in pants any day-or night-in the week.

This one was wearing a ducky little pale green suit of thin wool, with sharply creased flaring trousers. There was also an immaculate white turtle-necked sweater or jersey. The suit itself wasn't quite immaculate, having picked up some smudges from the driveway. The jacket had got pulled awry. Automatically, under my regard, she made as if to straighten it, but checked herself, glancing down distastefully at her hands, which were too grimy from the pavement to be allowed to make contact with her clothing. She looked at me once more.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't mean…

"What didn't you mean?" I asked when she stopped.

"Back there," she said. "I didn't recognize you in the dark, Mr. Helm. I guess… I guess all I could see was the gun."

"How do you know my name?"

"I was in the hospital waiting room this afternoon when you came in. I heard you tell the nurse who you were and whom you wanted to see. I was… I was waiting outside, here, to talk with you, just now, when those men grabbed me…" She shivered. "If you hadn't come along, they'd have taken me away and killed me."

"Who wants you dead?" I asked. She didn't answer immediately, and I said, "You mentioned somebody named Frankie out there. Would that be Frank Warfel?"

"Y-yes. Do you know him?"

"We've met," I said. "Just barely. What's your name?" She hesitated. "I'm Beverly Blame," she said, but after a moment she went on quickly. "Well, for Hollywood purposes I'm Beverly Blame. Can you see Mary Sokolnicek on a movie marquee, Mr. Helm?"

"What were you waiting to talk with me about, Mary-Beverly?"

"It's about… about the girl you went to see, the redhead, the one who got hurt. I… I wanted to find out I mean, can you tell me how badly… Oh, hell, I mean how is she?"

"She's dead," I said.

Beverly Blame stared at me for a moment without moving. Then she stepped back blindly and sank down on the bed, still looking wide-eyed at my face.

"Dead?" She licked her lips. "But I thought, since she'd hung on so long, that she had a pretty good chance of…

"She's dead," I said. "She never had a chance, not really. Not with two.44 slugs in her. What's it to you, Mary-Beverly? How well did you know her?"

"I hardly knew her at all. I just…" The disheveled little girl on the bed licked her lips once more. "I just killed her," she whispered.

There was a long silence in the room-well, as much silence as you ever get in a big city like Los Angeles. The girl was probably so used to it she didn't even hear it, but having just spent a couple of weeks in a relatively small town, I was aware of the unceasing roar of traffic outside.

I said softly, "That's a damn popular murder, sweetheart. Everybody seems to want a piece of it. I was just talking with a man called Arthur Brown who claims he killed Annette O'Leary."

"You know The Basher?"

"Introductions courtesy of Frank Warfel," I said. "It's too complicated to explain, but Brown claims he shot Annette by mistake. How did you shoot her and what was your motive?"

"Oh, I didn't actually shoot her, Mr. Helm!" Beverly sounded shocked by the idea. "Heavens, I don't know anything about guns! I just… just sent her to her death. Instead of me. That's how The Basher came to make his mistake, don't you understand?"

"Not exactly," I said. "Tell me."

She drew a long breath, sitting there. "Well," she said, "well, as you've probably gathered, I'm in trouble in this town, bad trouble. I was trying to get away. I'd done something, something they couldn't let me get away with. Like talking out of turn. Well, I hadn't done it yet. but I'd threatened to do it. Me and my big mouth."

"They?"

"Frank Warfel and the people behind him, who are even worse if it's possible. And you'd better believe it's possible." She paused a moment, and went on: "When things didn't go right for me in Hollywood-that fancy stage name never even made the screen credits, if you know what I mean-when things went bad, I got a job in a certain place… Well, never mind the gory details. Anyway, Frank saw me and liked me and took me out of there. For a while. A couple of years. Until he got tired of little girls and found himself a big girl for a change. He likes variety, Frankie does." Beverly frowned at the nylon carpet between her green suede shoes. "It wasn't.. wasn't easy work while it lasted, but it paid well, if you know what I mean, Mr. Helm."

"Sure," I said. "You said you were trying to get out of town."

"That's right." The girl's voice was dull. "When I got near home that day-my God, it was only yesterday!- after putting on my big mouth act for Mister Frank Warfel and his current sweetie-and what a slinky blonde boa constrictor-type she is!-when I got near home I spotted The Basher waiting across the street from my apartment building. That's when I realized that I'd, well, talked myself to death, getting mad and jealous like that. The word was out, and little Beverly might just as well cut her throat with a dull knife and save Frankie-boy the trouble. Only I wasn't going to make it that easy for him, so I turned the convertible around and headed it for the airport. I had a little money, enough for a ticket somewhere, and it was better than dying, or having my face smashed into something nobody could look at without puking, like one girl I knew who talked too much…"

She shivered. After a little, she giggled half-hysterically. "You never figure it could happen to you. Do you know what I mean? You've got it made: an apartment, a car, good clothes, furs, jewelry, a bank account, the works, and you think it's going to last forever. And then, suddenly, you're on the run with just the rags on your back and the few bucks in your purse and death right behind you… You've got to understand how it was, Mr. Helm! You've got to understand why I did it!"

"Tell me," I said.

"When I got to the terminal, I caught a glimpse of one of Frankie's other goons waiting there, and I knew they'd be all around the place. I knew I'd never make it, and then along came a kid off a plane and she wasn't too big and she had longish red hair kind of like mine. I remembered that Arthur Brown had never seen me. Frankie-boy doesn't like to mix his pleasure people with his business people any more than he has to. Of course I'd seen a few people in the time I'd been with him, and heard a few things, that's why he had to shut me up. I'd heard of The Basher and seen him perform in the ring, but we'd never actually met. And I had this this awful, bright idea how to get them all off my trail, and I bumped into this girl and made with the tears and the sob story…

"She fell for it?"

Beverly drew a long breath. "Sure she fell for it, Mister. I'm a pretty good actress, if I say so myself. If it wasn't for studio politics… Well, never mind that! Anyway, I talked her into driving me home in the car she'd reserved at a rental agency. I got her to go in to pick up some things for me, things I didn't dare get myself because my estranged husband, a real maniac, was watching the place, waiting to make trouble if I showed. Something like that. I don't remember exactly what lies I used. I just made them up as I went along." The girl closed her eyes briefly and opened them again. "And she went in, a red-haired kid about my size, into my apartment building, and I saw The Basher leave his doorway and go in after her. I got behind the wheel of the rental car and drove like hell away from there."

In some respects, I reflected, it wasn't too unlikely a story. Annette O'Leary had been an inch or two taller than the girl sitting on the bed, and her hair had been a different, more natural, more carroty color, but a man waiting for a slim small redhead to enter a certain building wouldn't have been making such fine distinctions..

I said, "Considering the trouble you went to, you don't seem to have got very far."

Beverly was still staring at a spot between her shoes.

"How could I?" she breathed. "What do you think I am, a monster? I must have been crazy with fear to do it in the first place, and then I had to know, don't you see? I had to know what I'd done to her. So… so I came back."

"How did you learn where Annette had been taken?"

"It wasn't hard. It just took some calling from a pay phone this morning, to find the right hospital, but they wouldn't give out any information. So I went there. I was afraid to call attention to myself by asking questions. I just sat where I could see and hear the people who came to the desk. Finally you came in and asked for her.. Was she a good friend of yours?"

"Pretty good," I said.

"I… I'm sorry," Beverly said. "That's pretty feeble, isn't it? But I am sorry."

"Sure." I went to my suitcase, on a stand by the wall, and took out a small bottle of spot remover. Returning, I put it into her hands. "Use that," I said. "We don't want people thinking you've been rolling in the alley, even if you have." I examined her purse. It was one of those capacious, elaborately carved, but rather flimsy specimens of Mexican leather work you can buy quite cheaply in any of the border towns, say nearby Tijuana. I opened it. It contained no weapons. I gave it to her. "A little soap and water, and a comb are also indicated," I said.

She was staring at the purse and solvent bottle as if not quite certain what they were for. "What… what are you going to do with me?" she asked.

"We're going to see some people," I said. "As soon as you're presentable, I'll call a cab."

She ran her tongue over her lips and spoke mechanically, "We don't need a cab. I've still got the rental car, her rental car. It's parked a couple of blocks the other side of the hospital."

"Your friends could have found it by now," I said. "I hate loud noises when I turn on the ignition. Or steering wheels that don't steer or brakes that don't brake. That door over there should be the bathroom. It was a little while ago. If it isn't now, come back and we'll try again."

I watched her go across the room. The door shut behind her. I waited, making a little bet with myself. Presently the door opened again, and I chalked up one wager won.

Now the red-gold hair was smooth and bright and the face and hands were clean. The current condition of the clothes could not be determined from where I stood since she wasn't wearing them. I mean, all she had on was a white brassiere and a pair of little white nylon pants. The total coverage was about that of a bikini, but the opacity was considerably less.

"I… I'm waiting for that stuff to dry," she said, standing there more or less nude. "It burns if it gets on you."

"Sure," I said. "Burns."

"I don't suppose you want to make love to me," she said. "I don't suppose you even want to touch me. After what I did."

It was a rather neat twist in an otherwise rather predictable gambit. It was supposed to make me take her in my arms and tell her she wasn't so terrible after all, after which-considering her costume or lack of it-nature would undoubtedly take its predictable course. The only trouble was, I wasn't in a receptive mood and I don't like playing games with it unnecessarily. There are times in this racket when you've got to fake a lot of emotions, including passion, but I couldn't see that this was one of them. I just stood there without saying anything. At last Beverly flushed slightly, and shrugged her bare shoulders.

"Well, it's all I have to offer now," she said. "For saving my life. Unless you want fifty-seven dollars and some change."

"Cut it out. When I want to get paid, I'll send you a bill." I regarded her coldly and went on. "That cleaning fluid evaporates pretty fast. I think you can safely get dressed again. I'll call a cab."

She turned away sharply. She didn't exactly slam the bathroom door behind her, but it didn't close as gently as it might have. I grinned and went over to use the phone.