To Keep or Kill

Ten

He suddenly sensed her intimate, perfumed presence behind him. He didn’t turn. He was seated astraddle a chair by the window in her (his-? their-?) bedroom, exchanging stares with the watchdog.

The room had been filled with the clinging scent of her but this new thing was something fresh, something more personalized. He kept his back to her and looked out across the sun-drenched fields. His chin was in his hands.

She shocked him, twice.

She reached down and tenderly raked her long fingernails the length of his naked spine. And then, while the tingling was playing along his back, she bent over to kiss the back of his neck.

He jumped, upsetting the chair.

Betty screamed in delight. “Sissy!” she taunted.

He put the chair back on its feet and faced her. The wind created by the swift car had blown her auburn hair into a luxurious tangle about her head. The large black pupils were laughing at him deep within the green eyes.

She looked wonderful; wonderful and inviting.

But he said, “You go to hell.” There was no strength behind his words and they both realized it.

She wrinkled her nose. “You’ve been drinking.” Walking to the bedroom door she called into the kitchen, “Hilda! Draw two.” Presently the beaming Hilda appeared in the room with two freshly uncapped bottles of beer.

“We’ll have lunch in half an hour, Hilda.” Betty accepted the bottles and passed one to the detective.

“Yes, Miss Betty.” And she vanished into the kitchen.

Betty started the bottle to her lips, and paused.

“Did you want a glass, Jack?”

“No. You should know I drink from the bottle. And my name isn’t Jack.”

“It is now, Jack.”

He groaned. “We’re back to that again!”

“You aren’t going to be allowed to forget it. Well, what’ve you been doing? I’ve had a busy morning.”

“So have I. Busier than hell. Thinking.”

“Oh? That’s interesting.” She pulled up another chair. “Sit down, be comfortable. Now tell me all about it.”

“I suppose,” he commented dryly, “that that’s an order, too.”

“Oh, don’t be stuffy. Of course it isn’t. But I’d like to know what you’ve been doing. And then I’ll tell you what I’ve been doing.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“You said that.”

“I’ve been thinking about G-388,017. That’s Channy,” he added in explanation. She nodded, her eyes on his face. He continued. “Channy came upstairs to see me that morning and told me a story about wanting a divorce from his wife. He let me know that she was, uh... entertaining other men, and made it plain that I was to catch her in the act.”

“And you refused.”

“I refused. For what it was worth, I outlined my rather thin code of ethics. I’ve never gone in for that sort of work and I don’t intend to. I told him so. Sitting here, now, I realized that I told him exactly what he wanted to know. He wasn’t married — you said so. There wasn’t any woman for me to frame. He simply wanted to know what kind of a detective I was. Whether I was a straight guy or a louse.”

She nodded. “Don’t stop there.”

“If I turned out to be a louse, he would have looked elsewhere. But because I convinced him I was on the level, he decided on me. He would have come back to see me — shortly. I think there was something he wanted to tell me. I think he was in a jam and wanted my help in getting him out. But first, of course, he had to know if I could help him and keep my mouth shut about it afterwards — not bleed him for money.”

“I follow you. And then—?”

He focused his eyes on her. “I think you killed him because he was going to tell me about you.”

“O-h?” she murmured.

“Yes. And I’m ready to believe most of your story. I’m ready to believe that you — they — Channy and these others — had cooked up a plot to collect on insurance policies. You see, I once called upon a nice old lady who owned a cat and dog hospital. She was a very nice old lady who had never before heard the name Channy, except in the Old Country, of course. I believed her, right up until the moment I left her place.”

“And then...?”

“And then she said to me, ‘Good-bye, Mr. Horne. I’m sorry I couldn’t be more helpful.’”

“Is that unusual?”

“It is,” Horne answered, watching the girl narrowly, “when you have neglected to introduce yourself by name, have never before seen the nice old lady, and yet she knows your name.”

Her face was a mask. She said nothing.

“I’ve come to the conclusion,” Horne continued, watching her, “that someone else besides a redheaded girl has been keeping close tab on me. Someone who knew all about me before I called on her to find out if she knew a man named Channy.”

Betty said slowly, “You gave me a bad time yesterday.”

“I did?”

“You talked to her about a redheaded girl. You identified me. That brought everything to a head — last night.”

Horne sank back in the chair. So there it was.

“Who’s the remaining member?” he asked. “Tell me about Papa.”

She shook her head, avoiding his eyes.

“Where’d you pick up Channy?”

“Draft dodger. Oregon. He... he wanted to marry me. I hated him!”

“A draft dodger? He appeared in Boone in 1940. Frightened early, didn’t he? We hadn’t gone to war, yet. But his recent conduct is quite in character. He sat around for a number of years drawing a nice salary, doing nothing much. But it was something else again when he suddenly faced reality and had to kill someone. He found himself in a very disagreeable mess. Something of the same kind of a mess he ran away from in Oregon.”

“He had no guts,” Betty said disdainfully.

“No, he hadn’t. He visited me, thinking I could get him out of it. Why not? I’m handling the insurance account that is involved here. All he had to do was tip me off to what was coming. I think you killed him to keep him from talking. I think you’ve been lying.”

She sipped the beer and eyed him in amusement.

“You shouldn’t talk like that, Jack. I’m your Betty, remember?”

He didn’t answer that one, hoping the silence would provide the words he couldn’t bring to his lips.

“You are a stupid bunny, Jack. Here you are, face to face with a situation you cannot understand and cannot master. I’ve tried to explain it but you insist I’m lying because that conventional, rutted mind of yours refuses to accept a situation it has never before encountered. Now please believe me: I did not know Channy had been to see you. His death had already been decided before that, to save you for me.

“I decided that, and Papa and the old lady agreed, in payment of the hundred thousand dollars. Incidentally, I saw her this morning. Darling, did I catch hell!”

“So now what happens?” he asked casually.

“I don’t know. We’re waiting for Papa. I’ll... I’ll probably have to make up the difference between the forty-five your company will pay, and the hundred I promised them.”

“How?”

She shrugged. “I don’t know — yet. Perhaps in the other room—” The sentence trailed into nothingness. Horne wondered if he could fish for information about that room.

“What,” he inquired, “would have happened if Channy had told me everything? Before you reached him?”

Betty put down the beer and considered him soberly.

“I shouldn’t have liked that, Jack. You both would have died.”

“I don’t own an automobile,” he pointed out.

“You have a desk.” She paused to consider it. “You pull open the drawers. The lower, right-hand drawer, probably. You sometimes keep whiskey there. That would be awful, Jack!”

He opened his mouth and started to ask, what about a battery, a firing charge? Then closed his mouth abruptly. A small amount of knowledge concerning that bomb was public, but he knew it didn’t operate on the battery principle. And yet, in Channy’s car, it had. Could he be mistaken about the kind of bomb? But there had been the man from Chicago with a Geiger counter. Oh, what the hell. Let Wiedenbeck take care of that.

“What,” he asked, “if it hadn’t been necessary for Channy to die? What was his destined role in this?”

“He was to assume control of the animal hospital when the old lady died. She’s in her sixties.”

“Huh! I’ll bet she didn’t know that.”

“Of course not. Papa told her he was a contact man. Papa wouldn’t mention death to her.”

“Just what is the connection between your father and this woman?”

Betty smiled warmly at him. “It’s romantic. Papa stole her from her husband years ago. They ran away together.”

“And you,” Horne said cautiously, feeling his way, “are an offspring of this... this...” He floundered.

“They’re married!” she flung at him.

“You don’t treat her as a mother.”

Betty shrugged. “I don’t give a tinker’s damn for the old witch. But I like Papa.”

“Where is Papa?” he thrust in quickly.

Her eyes were troubled. “We don’t know. He... he hasn’t been in touch with us for several days.”

“Aren’t you worried? Maybe he took a run-out.”

“Not Papa!” she flared. “Papa wouldn’t do that to me.” She hesitated, then confessed, “The old lady said that, too.”

“Where did all this start? Mind telling me?”

“No, not at all. It’ll never do you any good. We’re going to have fun here!” she added warmly, eyes sparkling at him.

“Don’t change the subject.” He was beginning to have a bright and shining idea. “You’re rather new in this business. You make too many mistakes.”

“I’ve been working for Papa for a couple of years. Since I went over the hill.”

“And that was where?”

“In Riverside, California. She and a veterinarian named Ackerley ran a hospital there.”

“Ackerley is dead,” he said significantly.

She nodded. “He was a good joe until he got suspicious. Papa kept him for a straight front in the hospital.” She held the beer bottle up before her eyes and stared through it at the sunshine filling the window. “Poison, I think. He outgrew his usefulness.”

Horne jumped up.

“Why you cold... cold...”

“You tried to say that before,” she reminded him. “Cold bitch. So what? Sit down.”

He sat down. “And by and by things got hot in California and the outfit moved here. Right?” He questioned her softly. “How many would you say are leaving money to this doggie joint?”

“Two or three, perhaps. Not many. We can’t afford to excite the curiosity of the insurance company. Accidents, you know, bear looking into.”

“Accidents,” he echoed. “With your kind assistance.”

“An automobile smashup here, a kerosene stove explosion there,” she shrugged it away. “And juries still fall for the ‘I didn’t know it was loaded’ gag. Funny thing — most of the boobs didn’t know it was loaded. They fret and stew for weeks and months afterwards, tormenting themselves with that question. How did the bullet get in the gun? And they never find out.”

“Slick,” he said admiringly, in spite of himself. “Damned slick. People are so sure the gun isn’t loaded.”

“I’m pretty good,” she admitted modestly.

“Betty,” he asked quickly, “what happens to the money after it passes into the hospital’s account? Who splits with who?”

She looked at him, interestedly and warmly. “Jack, that’s the first time you’ve called me by name.”

“Never mind that. Answer my question.”

“Go to hell!” she retorted sharply. “Oh, Jack! Don’t make me say things like that. I want to love you.” She stopped, brightened considerably, and dug into her purse. “Look, baby doll. I’ve brought your mail.” She threw three letters at him.

He scooped them up, saw that two were addressed to him at the office and the third was the report he had mailed to the home office last night on the way home.

“Hey!” he exclaimed in surprise and alarm. “I mailed this one. In a street box.”

She grinned in delicious amusement. “I thought you’d take it that way. I have a key, darling. I got it out again.”

“You have a key to a mailbox?”

“I have the key to all the mailboxes. Every letter carrier has one. One key unlocks all the boxes in Boone. It comes in handy.”

He started to remark that was a prison offense, and didn’t, thinking how utterly foolish it would have sounded to her. Instead, he just stared at her.

She waited. “Well, aren’t you going to thank me? I want a kiss.”

He put his index finger to the back of his ear and touched it tenderly.

She jumped up and ran over to him. “I’m sorry, Jack. I really am. I had to do that.” Taking his face in her hands, she softly kissed the spot where she had hit him. He kept his eyes open.

“I was looking over your books,” he said some moments later.

“Were you? Do you like our house?”

“Ever stop to think of the jam you’ll be in if I get out of here?”

“If you get out,” she taunted, smiling.

His jaw stiffened. “Want to make a bet on it?” he asked softly, flexing his cheek muscles.

“Charles Horne! I know that expression! You’re just being stubborn.” She broke off to rummage in the purse, angrily. In her anger she had used his right name. He noted that and wondered about it. She brought a key ring from the depths of the purse and jerked off a single, flat key.

“Here—” she practically threw the key at him. He knew the kind of a key it was. “Take this. That key is to my safety deposit box in the Capitol City National Bank. It’s yours. Yes, I’m giving it to you.”

“But why?”

“Because in that box is everything of value I have, other than what is in this house. No one else can touch it. It’s yours; all yours. It’s yours to keep — if you get out of this house! There, that’s what I think of your wager, Charles Horne!”

“I’m broke,” he answered stupidly. “Stony broke. I can’t bet with you.”

Instantly the burning anger vanished and she was soft with smiles again, running her fingers over his hair.

“Never mind, Jack. The bet still stands. Everything in that deposit box against your nothing. Except what I have of you here now. Put the key in your pocket.”

He hesitated a moment and then pocketed the key.

“I want some shirts,” he said. “And a couple of books of poetry.”

She cocked her head. “Poetry? Like those you’ve been buying?”

“Yeah. And don’t forget the shirts.”

“All right, darling. But I’d rather look at you the way you are. You give me cozy ideas.”

He cast about for a diverting subject. “Who falsified the record concerning Channy’s sick dog?”

“Oh, Jack! Must you always play detective? Relax and enjoy your new home. We’ll have fun here. Isn’t it nice?”

“Swell. Who gummed up the record file?”

She sighed in exasperation. “Oh, very well. Ackerley did it. Channy never had a dog; he was sent into Boone as a sort of advance agent in 1940. Two or three years later he opened the animal hospital for the old lady, who was preparing to leave Riverside. He took out a policy, naming the hospital as his beneficiary.

“Ackerley made out the false card and placed it in the file sometime recently. Before he died, I mean. And don’t think it didn’t foul us up when you discovered it!”

“That,” offered Horne, “must have been the exact reason for placing it there.”

“I wonder why he didn’t trust us?” she asked musingly.

“That’s a good question. After all, you never harmed the old gaffer except to poison him. Why didn’t he?” Horne grimaced. “Let me ask one: why did the old lady call Lainey to examine the files for me?”

“She never suspected a Channy card would be found there, ninny! By not having a Channy as a client, she could disclaim any further interest in him as the man who left her money.”

“She was certainly a good actress,” he admitted grudgingly. “The appearance of the card never fazed her.” He finished the bottle of beer and contemplated the girl. “Speaking of acting: how did you do it?”

“Do what, baby doll?”

“Tail me for a year without my getting wise? I thought I was smart. I hate to admit it, but I’ve never seen you.”

“But of course you have, darling! Dozens of times. Think back. Remember one winter evening in that little restaurant on Indiana Avenue? I dropped my purse and a handful of silver dollars rolled across the floor. You and a couple of other men helped me find them.”

“No, I don’t think — yes I do, too! That was you?”

She grinned delightedly and wrinkled her nose at him.

“But that girl didn’t have red hair. At least, I don’t think she did.”

“No, not showing, she didn’t. But there were other times.”

“Name one — a recent one. This week, for instance.”

“Ummm. Well, going downtown on the streetcar the morning after the explosion, you read the newspaper over my shoulder. And I read one over your shoulder, later, when you were standing by a lamppost on Main Street.”

His jaw slacked. “The girl with the pencil in her hair?”

“The same,” she laughed.

“But she was shorter...”

“For a detective, Jack, you’re awful damned dumb. High heels, no heels, clothing having vertical stripes, or broad checks and plaids, up, down.”

“I’ll never trust a woman again,” he exclaimed.

“You’ll have to trust me, darling. You’re going to live with me for a long time.”

The little sounds Hilda made while setting the table for lunch drifted into the bedroom. Horne held in his hand the three letters Betty had brought him from town.

“I wish to hell,” he said, “that you weren’t so thorough. I wish the boss could have read this.” He held up the one he had mailed the insurance company the previous evening.

Betty shook her head. “He doesn’t need it.”

“How did you get these two?”

“From your office, silly.”

“But how did you get in without anyone seeing you? Doctor Saari—”

“I waited until they went down the back stairs.”

“They?”

“The woman and the police sergeant. The one named Wiedenbeck. And then I slipped in and picked them off your desk.”

“Why were they going down the back stairs?” he asked in wonder.

“They intended to question the janitor about your telephone. It seems that it was tapped.”

His face changed. “Oh — they did? And what did they find out? Now don’t disappoint me, snoop. Surely you know that.”

“I do.” Her lips thinned into a line and she shifted in her chair. “He was able to tell them very little. He had been hit on the head. Knocked out, I imagine.”

“That janitor must have been getting close to you,” he snapped at her. “Where did you hide it?”

“Hide what?”

“Your phone. The one you used to listen in on my wire.”

She didn’t answer right away. Instead she settled deeper into the chair and folded her hands in her lap.

“Well?” he demanded.

“Behind the janitor’s supply room,” she said sullenly. “There was a small door opening into the tunnel under the street. All the cables are in there. I had a key...”

“You seem to have a lot of keys to a lot of doors, sweetheart. One of them will get you in trouble, someday. But why did you have to sock the janitor?”

“I had to get out of there in a hell of a hurry. That damned woman doctor told the sergeant your line was tapped. I heard her say so while he was listening on the line. They would have come downstairs and caught me.

“Well, when I crawled out of the tunnel the janitor heard me. He was in his office and mumbled something about rats. You should have seen his eyes pop when he saw me there.”

Horne took hope. The sergeant was on his trail, either before or after Doctor Saari told him about the tapped wire. Trouble was, not even a bloodhound could follow his trail through the rainstorm of the previous evening. Whatever in the world happened to that clumsy shadow that had followed him home? Had the crazy redhead...?

The crazy redhead asked bitingly, “Anything else, Paul Pry?”

“Is he a detective too? Funny name. Never heard of him. When did you tap my wire? I don’t have to ask why.”

“About a week ago. Never had occasion to use it until a few days ago.” She paused once more but he saw there was a further question on her lips. It struggled with the desire to be sullen, to pout. Curiosity won over.

“Jack...” softly. “Jack, what did that woman mean by saying fifty cents was the limit? And you said you’d walk out if it was a penny more?”

He exploded into laughter, reading the poorly concealed jealousy in her words. She was vaguely hurt.

“I’m broke, redhead.”

“Betty,” she corrected.

“Broke, Betty. I told the doctor I’d take her to lunch but made her promise not to spend more than fifty cents. A dollar was all I had.”

“O-h.” She whispered the sound in obvious relief.

He sobered instantly. “Now, Betty! Not the doctor.”

She flashed him a winning smile. “Let’s change the subject, shall we? Aren’t you going to read your mail?”

“Why bother?” He shrugged ironically. “I can’t answer it.” He stuffed the letters in his trouser pocket. “I want a shirt, size fifteen.”

“I’ll get one for you the next time I go to town. The sleeve length is 33 inches.”

“What the hell did you do? Look over my shoulder every time I bought something?”

“Yes, practically. I did pretty well, don’t you think?”

“You forgot the shirt.”

“No, I didn’t.” She giggled. The auburn hair danced. “I deliberately omitted it. I had hoped you wouldn’t mind. The less you wear the better I like it.”

“I... I’m trying to think of an answer for that one. Something about morals.”

“I have none, Jack. Wait until you see what I wear.”

Acutely uncomfortable, he changed the subject.

“Tell me something I already suspect; tell me, just so I can be sure. Did you ever mail an anonymous letter to me? To my office?”

“No.” She searched his face, puzzled. “And that is the truth. Why should I?”

“I didn’t think you did. But someone did. Remember last night when I jolted you by telling you something you didn’t know? Something that, with all your clever prying, you never discovered? Well, I can jolt you again.”

“I’m waiting...”

“All set? Someone mailed me a letter, warning me the telephone was tapped.”

She sucked in her breath, staring at him. He laughed; it gave him a lift having these little victories over her. Abruptly she got out of her chair to pace the floor of the bedroom. He watched her swinging back and forth, his head following the movements of her lithe body. It dawned on him that he had handed her a greater jolt than he suspected. The worry written on her face was genuine; it put furrows in her forehead, pulled down the corners of her eyes.

Stopping before him in mid-stride, she shot her hand out and grasped his shoulder, the skin clenched in her wiry fingers. He tried to squirm out from under them.

“Do you have this letter with you?”

“Nope; left it in the office.”

He was watching her eyes; with his words he saw the pupils suddenly contract into dangerous points. Her hand slipped from his shoulder. Palm open, it hung there in the air before his face, poised for a stinging slap. He tightened his facial muscles and waited for it. His fist was knotted; unashamed, he mentally searched for the soft spot on her stomach that would double her up like a folded sausage.

She must have guessed that. Her hand dropped and she backed away from him.

“Damn you, you stupid fool!” she gritted. “The cops have that letter now!”

He said nothing, watching her warily.

“If you weren’t such a damned sissy you’d lie once in a while — you could be lying about this. But you aren’t. What did that letter say? How was it worded? Where was it mailed? Tell me!” She stepped quickly to the door of the bedroom and screamed a single name, “Bumble!”

“Now hold on!” He was out of his chair. Bumble appeared in the doorway, propelled by Hilda. Their faces were set, lips clenched. Bumble pushed past the redheaded girl and advanced towards him. He sat down quickly before the giant Negro could reach him. “Hold on!” he repeated. “Gimme time to answer, will you?”

Betty reached out to touch the Negro’s arm. Bumble stopped, his strangely colored eyes never leaving the sweating face of the detective.

“What about that letter?” she demanded savagely.

His answer tumbled out in a torrent of words. “There wasn’t anything to it. Honest. Just my telephone number typed on a sheet of paper. My own paper and written on my own typewriter. That’s all. It was mailed in Boone; night before last, I think, and picked up and canceled yesterday morning.”

Her eyes narrowed. “You must have a reason for pinning down the time like that?”

He nodded. “Channy was killed about sundown. I think he mailed me that letter on his way to the drugstore. It was picked up from a street box early the next morning.”

“Channy!”

“Yes. He knew you’d tapped my phone. He came to see me that morning to sound me out, as I’ve explained. He was satisfied with me. You see — he was standing outside my door, playing with his key ring when I first arrived at the office. He must have gone inside, looked around, typed the letter and had just let himself out again when I climbed the stairs. If he hadn’t planned to consult me that morning, he had to stay and bluff it through, then. So that evening he mailed it.”

Betty said hesitantly, “He knew it was tapped.”

Heavy silence enveloped the tableau in the bedroom, the three unfriendly faces studying his. Bumble would move first, he speculated. Bumble would leap for him; the two women would stand aside waiting for Bumble to finish him. One blow from the Negro’s fist and he was done for. He’d have to evade that somehow. He’d have to get to the insane redhead, use her as a shield.

But watch Hilda. She was undoubtedly armed. Somewhere in those voluminous folds of clothing would be a kitchen knife at the very least. Grab the girl — back up against the wall — force Bumble and Hilda into the bathroom; lock them in.

And make a run for the car before the imprisoned pair could batter their way to freedom. He tensed, the thoughts exciting his muscles.

They noted that.

Betty broke the tension in the room. She walked in front of the Negro and shoved on his chest. He backed towards the door.

“Are you going to behave, Jack?”

“I haven’t misbehaved,” he pointed out coldly. “You started this ruckus.”

Her eyes dropped. “I did, and I’m sorry. I apologize, Jack. Shall we forget it?”

He shrugged as though to suggest the occurrence were an everyday affair. Betty refused to meet his eyes. She turned to the pair of servants waking in the doorway and dismissed them with a wave of the hand. They returned to the kitchen, Hilda nudging Bumble along.

“Lunch will be ready in a few minutes, Jack.” Her voice sounded strange and strained. She was on the verge of tears. “Please go away. I want to clean up.”

He walked out shutting the bedroom door behind him.

A newspaper she had brought from town caught his eye. He scanned the headlines but there were no new developments there. Nothing had been printed about the men from Chicago or the examination of the crater. The Chief of Police made his usual bluff about an early arrest.

Buried near the bottom of the fifth page, below the daily horoscope, he found news.

The item stated briefly that a man registered at the Warth Hotel as W. Mason Robinson had been found unconscious in his room, apparently the victim of a beating. The man had been in the room for some time. The discovery of a trail of blood up the back stairs had led a bellboy to his door. Police advanced the theory he had met with foul play on the streets but had managed to reach his room before collapsing.

The beating had occurred from twenty-four to thirty-six hours earlier; the man was given an even chance of recovering. Visitors were not permitted at the hospital. That was all.

That was enough, quite enough, Horne reflected.

Robinson had been beaten on the street, all right. The miracle of it was that he had not been beaten to a pulp, that he had possessed the remaining strength and the tremendous will power to return to his hotel room. He must have had a compelling desire to return and hide in his hotel room.

Robinson hadn’t been very well protected, not nearly so well as had Horne in his upstairs office. Robinson had stood in the stairway at the street level and taken a much larger shock of the blast.

“Talk about poetic justice...” Horne murmured. “Any time the redhead wants to apologize for that sock on the head, I’ll tell her where her father is. Any time.”