This Game of Murder

Chapter XVIII

It was nearly three a.m. when Marshall left police headquarters. In his despondency at the devastating effect he knew Herman Potts’ testimony would have on Betty’s defense, he was in no mood for sleep. Instead of turning toward home, he drove down Center Street in the direction of the dock, intending to park there and gaze over the water while he tried to think of some way to counteract Herman Potts’ story.

As he passed the newspaper office he had a sudden whim and turned left at the next corner to drive past Lydia’s apartment building. He had no intention of stopping, meaning only to drive by and glance at her darkened windows. But to his surprise, there was a light burning in her front room.

All at once he had an overwhelming desire to see her. At that time of night there were no news-hungry reporters around to observe whom he was visiting, he told himself, pulling over to the curb. He entered the building, mounted the stairs and softly rapped on her door.

A little time passed before Lydia’s voice whispered from the other side of the door, “Who is it?”

“Kirk,” he said, keeping his voice down so he wouldn’t be heard by other tenants.

He heard the lock turn and the door opened. Lydia was wearing a filmy black nightgown which showed the outline of her white body beneath it. She looked at him in surprise.

“I just happened to drive by and saw your light,” he said. “What are you doing up?”

She closed and locked the door behind him. “Having some warm milk. I thought it might make me sleep. What are you doing up?”

She didn’t offer him his customary peck of hello, he noted, wondering if she was a bit resentful about his recent avoidance of her.

He said, “I was called down to the police station.”

Slipping off his suit coat, he draped it over a chair and sat on the sofa. There was a nearly empty glass of milk on the cocktail table before the sofa.

“Has something happened?” she asked.

“Uh-huh. They caught the cat burglar tonight.”

Lydia came over to sit next to him, seating herself on the edge of the sofa, half facing him, her hands folded in her lap. “Who was it?”

“Herman Potts.”

She looked at him in astonishment. “That silly fellow who’s always sitting in front of City Hall?”

“Uh-huh. He made a complete confession. He wasn’t on Betty’s roof the night Bruce was shot.”

Lydia searched his face. “You think he was lying?”

“No. He wasn’t there.”

She was silent for a time. Presently she said, “You’re not beginning to think she actually is guilty, are you?”

“Are you?” he countered.

“No. Even if she is my rival, I can’t see her deliberately planning murder. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”

He gave her an amused smile. “You’re jumping the gun. I haven’t lost faith in her. I just have an entirely new theory of what happened that night.”

“Oh? What’s that?”

“I don’t want to talk about it until after I’ve seen somebody Monday, because if I’m wrong, my theory would make me look like a damn fool.”

“Then let’s hope you’re right,” she said. “Would you like a drink?”

He merely shook his head. Conversation temporarily lapsed as he gazed at her moodily, his mind on other things so that he was only half aware of her presence. Then it gradually registered on him that under the glare of the floor lamp immediately behind the sofa, her nightgown was almost completely transparent. He ran his gaze over the white swell of her breasts beneath the gauzy material until she flushed.

“You’ve seen them before,” she said. “Do you want me to put on a robe?”

“I was admiring, not disapproving,” he said, reaching out both hands to cup one firm cone in each.

Her hands raised from her lap in an instinctively protective gesture, then dropped back again. “The way you’ve been avoiding me, I thought perhaps you’d found some new toys to play with.”

“You know why I’ve been staying away. There aren’t any toys in town as pretty as these.” He rubbed his palms over her nipples.

She continued to sit stiff-backed, looking straight into his face, her hands still folded in her lap. He could feel the tips of her breasts begin to enlarge beneath the cloth as he continued his gentle massage. After a moment she leaned slightly forward to increase the pressure and an oddly strained expression appeared on her face.

She said, “I was going to make you beg when you finally came back after deserting me for over a week.”

“You were? Just for that I think I’ll make you beg.”

His massage became a trifle less gentle. She still sat unmoving, her body stiffly erect, but now her lips parted and the strain in her face became acute.

“Aren’t you going to do anything else?” she asked in a whisper.

“You can have anything you beg for,” he said.

“That’s not fair,” she protested. “I was going to make you do the begging.”

Grinning, he continued his rhythmic massage. Suddenly she emitted a little despairing cry, grabbed his wrists to spread his arms apart and threw herself against him. Her arms snaked about his neck and her lips searched for his. He drew his head back.

“Beg,” he said.

“Oh, God, take me,” she moaned. “Please, Kirk. I can’t stand it another second.”

“Beg a little harder.”

“I’ll do anything you say,” she said. “But take me. Please!”

Putting his arms about her waist, he drew her against him and fastened his lips over hers. As their tongues touched, her body stiffened, she emitted a little gasp and she alternately went limp and stiffened several times in a spasmlike manner.

“See what you did?” she said against his neck in a reproachful voice. “It’s been too long, and then you teased me too much. The reason I couldn’t sleep is because I was thinking about you. Why didn’t you grab me the minute you walked in the door?”

“You’ll be ready again before I get your nightgown off,” he told her, slipping one arm beneath her knees and coming to his feet with her cradled against his chest.

Carrying her into the bedroom, he flicked on the light switch with one elbow, unceremoniously tossed her into the corner of the bed and began to strip off his clothing. She lay still, gazing at him until he came over to stand looking down at her.

“You intend to keep on that nightgown?” he asked.

“You said you’d take it off,” she said in a whisper.

A moment later the garment was rolled into a ball and he had tossed it across the room. She pressed her bare body against his.

“Please don’t tease me any more,” she begged.

It happened several times more, but not because he was teasing her. When the final simultaneous spasm occurred, she continued to hold him tightly against her.

“Every time it’s like a brand-new experience,” she said dreamily. “Do you think people ever get tired of this?”

He kissed the end of her nose. “The day I get tired, I’ll enter a Trappist monastery. The hell with the out-of-town reporters.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not staying away to protect your good name any longer. If they make a thing of it, let them. I’m not designed for a celibate life.”

“Me either,” she said, rubbing herself against him. “Why don’t you stay the rest of the night?”

He did stay until six-thirty a.m. He got home while his parents were still sleeping and fell into his own bed. As it was Sunday and he didn’t have to get up, he slept until noon.

After dinner Marshall sat on the front porch with his father while he described what had occurred at police headquarters in the middle of the night. It was obvious to both of them that the cat burglar’s capture would have to be run as a front-page story the next day. Typically, Jonas made no mention of how he thought it should be handled. That would wait until Monday morning in his office.

“What do you suppose they’ll do with the poor devil now?” Jonas asked. “Try him or salt him away in the state mental hospital?’

“I don’t see how they could try him,” his son said. “He fits the definition of legal insanity. He doesn’t know right from wrong and he certainly doesn’t realize the nature of his acts.”

“Well, he’ll probably be as well off at Gowanda as he was in front of the City Hall. He’ll find people to talk to there. This certainly isn’t going to help Betty’s case. Do you think she still has a chance?”

Marshall looked at him. “Are you beginning to suspect she’s guilty?”

It was a few moments before his father answered. Finally he said, “If she were a total stranger I’m afraid I would have to believe she was. But loyalty is as marked a trait in the Marshall family as their notorious pig-headedness. And I’ve always been particularly fond of Betty. Are you still a bit in love with her after all these years?”

“I wish it were that simple. I can’t decide whether I’m in love with her or Lydia.”

Jonas raised his eyebrows. “You do have a problem,” he said, but he offered no advice.

They lapsed into silence, Marshall brooding over what he could do to improve Betty’s situation in some way, the older man also occupied with his own thoughts. Presently Marshall stirred restlessly and rose from his chair.

“I think I’ll take a wild stab by going to see Gail Thomas,” he announced.

Jonas looked up at him. “What do you think that will accomplish?”

“Nothing, probably. But I feel impelled to do something to try to help Betty. I have a sort of cockeyed theory I intend to follow up tomorrow, but meantime I can’t just sit. I’ll see you at dinnertime.”

He was dressed in just a sport shirt and slacks, but he didn’t bother to go inside for a jacket. Summer dress in Runyon City was informal even on Sunday afternoons, and you seldom saw a suit coat before nightfall in warm weather. He descended the porch steps, walked up the driveway to the double garage, swung the door upward and climbed into his car.

As he backed out of the driveway, his father called, “Will you be back in time for cocktails?”

“I wouldn’t let you die of thirst,” Marshall called back. “And I wouldn’t want you to strain your back lifting those heavy bottles yourself.”