Where There’s Smoke

Chapter Twenty-Seven Confessions of a Bride

Shaner emerged from behind the tapestry screen shielding the PBX operator in the Riveredge lobby. He made an umpire’s sweeping gesture of the flat palm. “She’s safe at home, coach.”

“She better be.” Pedley thumbed the UP button. “If you haven’t tended your sheep this time, you’re a dead Bo Peep.”

“This afternoon was one of those mishaps which’d never occur again in a thousand. No harm done, was there?”

“Oh, no. The babe merely went to a safe deposit during that half-hour she was out of your sight. I wouldn’t be surprised if she got away with the prize hunk of evidence I’ve been running myself ragged about.”

“It’s positively the last time I ever trust a mouse! The word of a Shaner.”

“Ah — you’ll get hoodwinked every hour on the hour the rest of your life. Has she had callers?”

“Terence the Ross was up for maybe an hour, just after you called. He’s biting his fingernails when he goes up, an’ purring with pleasure when he comes down. Figure that out on your horoscope!”

“She has a way with males. Feeds ’em catnip. Rubs their ears.”

“Not bad, either.” Shaner grinned.

Leila answered the buzzer herself. She had done a complete switch from the oomph getup; this was the sweet, home-girl type.

The tight-fitting blue-and-white checkered dress was becoming, he admitted; it showed as much of her figure and more of her legs than the boudoir outfit. The only incongruous touch was the emerald-studded wrist watch on her wrist; it didn’t quite give the domestic flavor.

“We’re all alone,” she began. “I let Netta have the night with her friends in Harlem — But I can mix you a drink, if you’d care for one.”

No mention of Bill Conover, though she must be aware of the alarm out for him! No inquiry about Kim Wasson, who was supposed to be dying at Saint Vincent’s! No comment about Hal Kelsey; certainly Ross must have told her about the band leader’s death! Only a suggestion about a drink!

“Not right now.” He saw it lying under the bisque-shaded lamp on the center table, as if that were where it belonged and had merely been returned to its proper place! It was rich mahogany in color; the ornate clasp and lock were dull gold.

He went to it, picked it up, hefted it. A marvelous example of Florentine craftsmanship; the design on the top was of Leda and the Swan, done in deep tooling. The thing was probably a museum piece, but Pedley didn’t appreciate it. It was empty.

“So you got this little beauty back!” He undid the clasp; the interior was lined with rose brocade.

“Terry brought it back. Just a little while ago.”

“Just like that?”

“He happened to be looking through Ned’s things at the club — my brother was a member of the Olympiad, too, he used the handball courts once in a blue moon — and there in his locker, under a dirty old sweat shirt, was my case!”

“That’s luck for you.” Pedley looked at the bottom of the case. There was nothing beyond the maker’s mark: Tomaso Garloli, Firenze. “Where are the contents?”

“You wouldn’t be interested in them, really.”

“I certainly would, if they’re photos of the Body Beautiful.” She’d have had time to hide whatever had been in it. But she hadn’t been out of the apartment since she brought the case back here; unless she’d ditched the contents en route from the bank to the Riveredge, they’d still be here somewhere. “Do I have to dig ’em up, myself?”

“You can’t!”

“I’ll have a slight go at it.” He started across the sunken living-room, sizing up possible hiding places. She was undisturbed.

Well, there were the other rooms. He didn’t relish the idea of searching her bedroom, but if there weren’t any alternative—

He crossed in front of the fireplace, paused with his head cocked on one side, like a terrier listening. Only, Pedley was smelling.

Queer odor, somewhere. Couldn’t be incense, could it? Maybe she’d been putting some of those metallic salts on the logs to make colored flames. If she’d been doing that, after what happened at Horatio Street last night, she must be made of glacier ice.

No — it was burning paper! The unmistakable acridity of sulphur and sizing! He went back to the fireplace, saw the pages burning.

“A book, hah?” The leaves had been torn out in bunches, tossed in the fire. Four-fifths of the paper had been consumed; on the remaining fifth he could sec handwriting, broad, back-slanting letters.

If he should douse the fire with water, trying to save the part that hadn’t yet been consumed, the pages would contract and the charred cellulose would crumble to ashes. “What’s so important about it?”

“It was my diary. The things I wrote in it weren’t meant for other people to read. You understand.”

“Hell I do.” He went to the phone. “Charming? This is the marshal. Let me talk to that Shaner… Shaner?”

“You need protection, coach?”

“Grab that three-gallon from the wall rack in the stair well, bring it up here. Shake the lead out of your seat.”

Leila ran toward the fireplace. He caught her on the hearth, held her by the wrists.

She glanced over her shoulder at greedy tongues of flame eating their way slowly across the pages; the top page of each handful burning faster than those underneath, curling up tighter like crumpled carbon paper until the page beneath it got going.

“You’re a cad, sir!” She smiled, quite unconcerned.

“And you’re mistaken—” he pulled her toward the hall door — “if you think I’m not going to read what’s on those pages. Just because they’ve burned won’t mean they’re illegible.”

“Why must you frighten an innocent maid?” She was still playing at melodrama.

“Put those charred pages under the ultraviolet — we’ll read ’em easy as you read your fan mail.” He opened the door.

It took a second for his meaning to sink in. Then her eyes blazed; she struggled frantically toward the fireplace.

He had to grip her around the waist; hold her tightly against him.

They bumped into a side table, knocked it over, fell on top of it.

Shaner found them wrestling around on the floor.

“You don’t need this extinguisher personally, do you, coach?”

“Close the damper — in the chimney.” The marshal’s face was crimson. “Shoot against — back of fireplace. Want to save — papers that are burned. Don’t mess up — the burned leaves.”

When Leila heard the hissing of the extinguisher, she quieted down.

Pedley stood up, pulled her to her feet, held onto one of her wrists.

“You like to play rough, we’ll play rough,” he growled.

“Why do you want to pry into a girl’s diary?”

“You lied to me about how you got it and what was in it. I’ll take six, two and even right now it’s not a diary.”

“It is so.” She smoothed down her dress as well as she could with one hand.

“I’m not concerned with what’s written on those pages. It’s why they made somebody kill your brother and try to do the same thing to your arranger. If you feel like adding Hal Kelsey to the total, I won’t contradict you.”

She stopped trying to pull away; leaned close to him, gazing up under lowered lashes.

“Send that other man away,” she whispered, “and I’ll tell you, honestly, why I don’t want anyone to read the — diary.”

“You have no secrets from Shaner, anyway. He’s been delving into your private life for nearly twenty-four hours. Speak freely—”

“I will not!” She leaned against him. “I won’t talk about it in front of him!”

“Don’t believe that safety-in-numbers gag? All right, Shaner—”

“I been in the department fifteen years, skipper — this is the fastest ‘stop’ I ever made. She’s out cold. The fire, I mean.”

“Fine. Hop out to the kitchen. Get the biggest pan you can find; a roaster’d be the nuts — if it has a top on it.”

“I’m way ahead of you.” Shaner couldn’t forebear an appraisal of Leila with her dress pulled down over one bare shoulder, her hair disarranged, her cheeks flushed.

Pedley called after him, “Bring a flapjack turner. Be one in the drawer somewhere.” He nodded at the singer. “Go into your number.”

“Well—” She had to make one more dramatic gesture, darting a glance from one side to the other as if to be certain there was no one within earshot. “I’m married to Lieutenant Conover!”

“What is this? Confessions of a Young Bride?”

“Mm, hm.” She didn’t seem a bit reluctant. “Not the ordinary kind.”

Shaner bustled back with an aluminum roaster and a long nickeled spatula. “This’ll do it. Just the burned papers, coach?”

“Yair. You can leave the andirons.”

Leila wouldn’t continue until the deputy had finished transferring the bits of charred paper to the roasting pan.

“Ashes to ashes, coach. Some of the pieces crumbled. But I saved most of ’em.”

“Handle with care, from here in. Take ’em down to Broome Street. Tell the sarge I want every last word he can get out of ’em.”

“Can I wrap myself in the arms of morphium, after that?”

“Hit the hay hard’s you please. But don’t bust up those pages.”

Shaner carried the roaster away like a proud father holding his first baby, closed the door behind him. Leila wrenched her wrist free from the marshal’s relaxed grip. “If that’s the way you’re going to treat my confidence, I won’t tell you anything.”

“You’d still be smart to tell all. It’ll be up to me to say who sees what the lab-boys find on those pages.”

She strode back and forth in front of the fireplace, struggling to reach a decision.

“Dammit! I guess I’ll have to trust you.”

“You’re making slow headway.”

“I was married before. But nobody knows that.”

“Not even Conover?”

“No. My first husband left me. I never knew where he went. I don’t know where he is now — or if he’s still alive.”

“Divorce?”

“Yes. I got one of those Mexican things. I don’t know whether it’s legal or not. I don’t know if I’m actually married to Bill, or if I’m a bigamist — or what.”

He shook his head, morosely. “No soap.”

“You don’t believe me?”

“Nothing in what you’ve told me to cause this procession of arson and murder. Maybe some of your fairy tale is true. Might be all true, far’s it goes. Doesn’t go far enough. Isn’t important enough. What’s the rest of it?”

“That’s absolutely all there is.”

“If that’s your story, you’re going to be badly stuck with it. Because I’m putting you under arrest. Now.”

She backed away from him, eyes wide with fear. She wasn’t staring directly at him, but over his shoulder.

There was no mistaking the prickle at the back of his neck, now. It wasn’t imagination.

“Move the point of that knife down a little, Lieutenant. Or is it a razor?”