What`s Better Than Money?

CHAPTER EIGHT

I

The next two days were days of hard work and tension. I was continually expecting either Rima to telephone or the Los Angeles police to walk in and arrest me. At least, Sarita was making excellent progress: the only bright spot in those two days.

Then on Thursday morning, as Ted Weston and I were preparing to go down to the bridge site, Clara came in to tell me Detective Sergeant Keary was here again to see me.

I told Weston to go on ahead, and I would follow as soon as I could. When he had gone, I told Clara to show Keary in.

I sat at my desk, tense and aware that my heart was beating too fast.

Keary came in.

As he closed the door, I said, ‘I can’t give you long, sergeant. I’m due at the bridge site. What is it this time?’

But he was a man no one could hustle. He settled his bulk in the armchair and pushed his hat to the back of his head. He then produced a pack of chewing gum and began to unwrap it.

‘This guy Mandon,’ he said. ‘We now learn he went under another name: Ed Vasari. Ever heard of that name, Mr. Halliday?’

I shook my head.

‘No. That name means nothing to me either.’

‘We’re still puzzled why your name and address should have been in his car, Mr. Halliday. We think even if you don’t know Mandon, he must have known you at some time or the other. We found out where he has been hiding: a small bungalow in Santa Barba. In the bungalow we found a copy of Life with your photograph in it. The photograph was ringed around in pencil. That, and the fact your name and address was in his car, suggests he either knew you or was interested in you, and we want to know why.’ He paused in his chewing to stare at me. ‘What do you think?’

‘It puzzles me as much as it puzzles you,’ I said.

‘You are sure you have never seen this man? Do you want another look at his photograph?’

‘It’s not necessary. I have never seen him before.’ He scratched his ear and frowned.

‘Like I said: a mystery. We don’t like mysteries, Mr. Halliday.’

I didn’t say anything.

‘Have you ever heard of a woman who calls herself Rima Marshall?’

Well, here it is, I thought. I was expecting the question but in spite of that I felt a sudden cold shrinking inside me.

I looked straight at him as I said, ‘No. I don’t know her either. Who is she?’

‘Mandon’s girl friend,’ Keary said. ‘They lived together in this bungalow.’

He chewed some more, his small eyes fixed in a blank stare at the ceiling.

After a long pause, I said sharply, ‘I told you I’m busy, sergeant. Is there anything else?’

He turned his head and his eyes locked with mine.

‘This woman has been murdered.’

My heart skipped a beat and then began to race. I know I changed colour.

‘Murdered?’ I managed to say. ‘Who has been murdered?’

The hard, probing eyes made a slight advance into my defences.

‘Rima Marshall. We showed Mandon’s photograph around and yesterday evening we found a woman who had been doing the cleaning. Imagine a punk like Mandon having a woman to do his cleaning! She recognised him. She told us about this Rima Marshall, and she gave us the address of the bungalow Mandon had been using for his hideout. We went there. Mandon had blown, but we found the woman.’

He shifted the gum around in his mouth. ‘Not one of the nicest looking corpses I have seen. She had been hacked to death with a knife. The Medical Officer told us she had thirty-three stab wounds: ten of them could have been fatal. On the table was this copy of Life with your photograph ringed around in pencil.’

I sat motionless, my hands in tight fists out of sight under the desk. So Wilbur had found her! And I was responsible! I felt cold sweat break out on my face.

‘We have a pretty sensational case on our hands,’ Keary went on. ‘We’re now wondering if she left this paper with your name and address on it in the car. She might have known you at one time or the other. Her name means nothing to you?’

‘No.’

He took an envelope from his pocket. From the envelope he took out a photograph and laid it on the desk.

‘Maybe you might recognise her.’

I looked at the photograph and then turned quickly away.

It was a horrible photograph.

Rima lay in a pool of blood on the floor. She was naked. Her body had been horribly cut, stabbed and mutilated.

‘You don’t recognise her?’ Keary asked in his tough cop voice.

‘No! I don’t know her! I don’t know Mandon! Is that clear?’ I said. ‘I can’t help you! Now will you please get out of here and let me get on with my work?’

But he wasn’t a man to be bullied. He settled himself more firmly in his chair as he said, ‘This is a murder case, Mr. Halliday. It’s your bad luck that in some way you are connected with it. Have you ever been to Santa Barba?’

I very nearly said I hadn’t, but realised in time that I might easily have been recognised in the town, and to deny being there could get me into serious trouble.

‘Yes, I have,’ I said. ‘What of it?’

He was all cop now, leaning forward, his chin thrust out.

‘When was that?’

‘A couple of weeks ago.’

‘Can you get it nearer than that?’

‘I was there on May 21st and again on June 15th.’

He looked slightly disappointed.

‘Yeah. We’ve already checked. You stayed at the Shore Hotel.’

I waited, thankful I hadn’t been caught in a lie.

‘Can you explain, Mr. Halliday,’ he went on, ‘why a man in your position should stay at a joint like the Shore Hotel? Any particular reason?’

‘I just don’t happen to be fussy where I stay,’ I said. ‘It was the first hotel I came to so I stayed there.’

‘Why did you go to Santa Barba?’

‘Why all these questions? What business is it of yours where I stay and why?’

‘This is a murder case,’ he said. ‘I ask the questions: you answer them.’

Shrugging, I said, ‘I had a lot of figures to prepare. I couldn’t get any peace here what with the telephone and the contractors disturbing me so I went to Santa Barba. I thought the change of air would do me good.’

Keary rubbed the end of his fleshy nose with the back of his hand.

‘What made you book in under the name of Masters?’

I was ready for that one. My mind was now working a shade faster than his.

‘When you have a photograph in Life, sergeant, you acquire a certain amount of notoriety. I was anxious not to be disturbed by the Press so I booked in under my mother’s maiden name.’

He stared at me, his hard green eyes as blank as stones.

‘The same reason why you stayed in your room all day?’

‘I was working.’

‘When did you get back here?’

‘I went first to San Francisco. I had business up there.’

He took out a notebook.

‘Where did you stay?’

I told him.

‘I left on Thursday night and arrived back here at midnight,’ I said. ‘If you want confirmation of that you can check with the ticket collector at the station who knows me well, and with the taxi driver, Sol White, who drove me home.’

Keary wrote in his notebook, then with a grunt he heaved himself to his feet.

‘Well, okay, Mr. Halliday. This will take care of it. I don’t reckon to bother you again. I was just tying up the loose ends. After all, we know who killed her.’

I stared at him.

‘You know? Who killed her?’

‘Jinx Mandon. Who else do you imagine killed her?’

‘It could have been anyone, couldn’t it?’ I said, aware that my voice had suddenly turned husky.

‘What makes you think he did it?’

‘He’s a criminal with a record for violence. The cleaning woman told us these two were always quarrelling. Suddenly he blows and we find her dead. Who else would kill her? All we have to do is to catch him, rough him up a little and he’ll spill it. Then we pop him into the gas chamber. There’s nothing to it.’

‘To me that doesn’t prove he did it,’ I said.

‘Doesn’t it?’ He lifted his heavy shoulders in an indifferent shrug. ‘I like him for the job, and the jury will like him too.’

Nodding to me, he opened the door and went out.

II

So Rima was dead!

But I felt no relief, only remorse. I had been responsible for her death.

With her had died my past. I had now only to sit tight and do nothing to be free of the threat of arrest.

But suppose they caught Vasari! Suppose they sent him to the gas chamber for a murder I knew he hadn’t committed?

I knew he hadn’t murdered Rima. Wilbur had done it and I could prove he had done it, but to prove it I would have to tell the police the whole story, and then I would be put on trial for the Studio guard’s murder.

Was this nightmare never going to end?

I thought: You have saved yourself; to hell with Vasari! He is a criminal with a record for violence.

Why should you sacrifice yourself for him?

During the next six days the pressure of work and the rushed visits to the sanatorium to see Sarita so occupied my mind during the day that I was free of the tormenting thought that I had been responsible for Rima’s death. But at night, when I was alone in the dark, the picture of her lying in the pool of blood, her body covered with vicious stab wounds, haunted me.

I watched the newspapers for any news of the murder. It had started off as headline news, but quickly dwindled to a small paragraph on the back page. The papers said the police were still looking for Mandon who, they hoped, would help them in their inquiries, but, so far, there was no trace of him.

As one day followed the next, I began to be more hopeful. Maybe Vasari had got out of the country.

Maybe he would never be found.

I wondered what had happened to Wilbur. Several times I was tempted to call the Anderson Hotel in San Francisco to find out if he was back there, but I decided against it.

Sarita was still making progress. I went to the sanatorium every evening, and spent an hour talking to her, telling her about the bridge, what I had been doing, how I was managing without her.

Zimmerman said he felt confident now that she would be able to walk again, but it would take time.

He thought in another two weeks she could go home. She would have to have a nurse to take care of her, but he thought she would make quicker progress in her home than remaining at the sanatorium.

There was now no further news of the murder in any of the papers. I told myself that it was going to be all right. Vasari must have got out of the country. They were never going to find him.

Then, one evening on my return from the sanatorium, as I stopped my car outside my apartment block, I saw a large man leaning against the wall as if waiting for someone.

I recognised the big, heavy figure immediately: it was Detective Sergeant Keary.

I felt a rush of blood up my spine as I stared at him through the window of the car. My mouth turned dry and I had to fight off a panic-stricken urge to start the car again and drive away.

It was now three weeks since I had seen him and I had hoped I had seen the last of him. Yet here he was, obviously waiting for me.

I took my time getting out of the car, and by the time I reached him I had my panic under control.

‘Hello, sergeant,’ I said. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘Waiting for you,’ he said curtly. ‘They told me you had gone to the hospital so I came around here.’

‘What do you want?’ I found it impossible to keep my voice steady. ‘What is it now?’

‘We’ll talk about that inside, Mr. Halliday. You lead the way, will you?’

I went up the steps, across the lobby to my apartment.

Keary followed me.

‘They tell me your wife has been pretty ill,’ he said, as we entered the lounge. ‘She better now?’

I threw my hat and raincoat on a chair and went over to the fireplace and faced him.

‘Yes, she is a lot better now, thank you,’ I said.

He selected the largest and most comfortable chair in the room and sat down. He took off his hat and laid it on the floor by his side. Then he started on the routine of unwrapping a piece of chewing gum.

‘When I last saw you, Mr. Halliday,’ he said, his eyes intent on the chewing gum, ‘you told me you didn’t know nor had you ever heard of Rima Marshall.’

I thrust my clenched fists into my trousers pockets. My heart was thudding so violently I was scared he would hear it.

‘That’s right,’ I said.

He looked up then, and the small green eyes stared fixedly at me.

‘I have reason to believe you were lying, Mr. Halliday, and that you did know the dead woman.’

‘What makes you think that?’ I said.

‘A photograph of the dead woman has been published in the papers. A man named Joe Masini, who owns the Calloway Hotel, has volunteered information. He is a friend of the Marshall woman. He says she had a meeting at his hotel with a man with a scar on his face and drooping right eyelid. She appeared to be frightened of this man, and she asked Masini to stop this man from following her when she left the hotel. The description of this man with the scar fits you, Mr. Halliday.’

I didn’t say anything.

Keary chewed slowly as he continued to stare at me.

‘The Marshall woman has a banking account in Santa Barba,’ he went on. ‘I checked it yesterday.

Two sums of ten thousand dollars were paid into her account over the period of the past six weeks. Both these amounts were drawn on your account. Do you still say you didn’t know this woman?’

I moved to a chair and sat down.

‘Yes, I knew her.’

‘Why did you give her all this money?’

‘That’s rather obvious, isn’t it? She was blackmailing me.’

He shifted in his chair.

‘Yeah, that’s the way I figured it. Why was she blackmailing you?’

‘Does that matter? I didn’t kill her, and you know it.’

He chewed some more while he stared at me.

‘You didn’t kill her, although blackmail is a good motive for murder. You didn’t kill her because you couldn’t have killed her. You were right here when she died. I’ve checked that.’

I waited, my breathing hard and fast.

‘If you had told the truth in the first place, Mr. Halliday, you would have saved me a lot of work. You went to Santa Barba to meet this woman?’

‘I went there to find her,’ I said. ‘I was going to ask her for time to pay the next blackmail instalment.

I needed the money to pay for my wife’s operation, but I didn’t find her. I was pressed for time. I tried twice, but each time I failed to find her.’

‘What happened? Did you pay her?’

‘No. She died before I had to pay her.’

‘Pretty convenient for you, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why was she blackmailing you?’

That was something I wasn’t going to tell him.

‘The usual thing – I ran into her, had an association with her, she found out I was married, and threatened to tell my wife.’

He rubbed the end of his fleshy nose, his expression bored.

‘She was asking big money for that kind of blackmail, wasn’t she?’

‘She had me over a barrel. My wife was desperately ill. Any kind of a shock would have been fatal to her.’

He hunched his massive shoulders as he said, ‘You realise, Mr. Halliday, it is a serious business to tell lies in a murder investigation?’

‘Yes, I realise that.’

‘If you had admitted in the first place knowing this woman you would have saved me a hell of a lot of work.’

‘An association with a woman like that is something no one likes to admit to,’ I said.

‘Yeah.’ He scratched the side of his fleshy face. ‘Well, okay, I guess this takes care of it. You don’t have to worry any more about it. I’m not making a report. I’m just tying up the loose ends.’

It was my turn to stare at him. ‘You’re not making a report?’

‘I’m in charge of this investigation.’ He stretched out his long, thick legs. ‘I don’t see any reason to get a guy into trouble because he takes a roll in the hay.’ His fleshy face suddenly relaxed into a grin: it wasn’t a pleasant grin: it was more a leer than a grin. ‘I wanted to be sure you had nothing to do with her death and I’m sure of it.’ The leering grin widened. ‘You can count yourself lucky. I’m retiring at the end of the month. I might not be so soft with you if I wasn’t going out to grass. You might not think it to look at me but I’m nudging sixty and that’s the time for a man to retire.’

There was something about him I disliked. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I was suspicious of him.

He suddenly no longer seemed a cop. He was a man who had done his work, and was now in a vacuum.

I hated having him in my apartment.

‘No, I wouldn’t believe it, sergeant,’ I said. ‘Well, thanks.’

‘We use our discretion in blackmail cases.’ He grinned again. ‘We get plenty of that. Guys making goddam fools of themselves with some whore and then getting into a mess. You’re lucky, Mr. Halliday, that Mandon stopped her mouth.’

‘She was a blackmailer,’ I said. ‘She could have been killed by any of her victims. Have you thought of that?’

‘Mandon killed her. There’s no question about that.’

I very nearly told him about Wilbur, but I didn’t. If I brought Wilbur into it, the story of the Studio robbery and the shooting of the guard would have to come out, and then I would be fixed.

‘Well, thanks again, sergeant.’

He heaved himself to his feet.

‘That’s okay, Mr. Halliday. You’re not going to hear any more about this.’ He looked at me, a half leer, half grin on his face. ‘Of course, if you’re all that grateful, maybe a small donation to the police sports fund might be in order: just a thought, Mr. Halliday, not even a suggestion.’

It was my turn to stare at him.

‘Why, yes, of course.’ I took out my wallet. ‘What would you suggest, sergeant?’

‘Anything you like.’ The small eyes were suddenly greedy. ‘Suppose we say a hundred bucks?’

I gave him twenty five-dollar bills.

‘I’ll send you a receipt. The boys will certainly appreciate this.’ The bills disappeared into his pocket.

‘Thanks, Mr. Halliday.’

I wasn’t that much of a mug.

‘You don’t have to send me a receipt. I would rather not have it.’

The leering grin widened.

‘Just as you like, Mr. Halliday. Well, anyway – thanks.’

I watched him go.

I had been lucky, almost too lucky.

But what if they caught Vasari?