You’re Lonely When You’re Dead

I

I knew Joe Betillo well by sight and reputation. He was a mortician and embalmer, coffin maker, abortionist and fixer of knife and bullet wounds with no questions asked, and owned a double-fronted shop in Coral Gables, the Dead-End district of Orchid City. The shop was at the far end of a cul-de-sac alley alongside Delmonico’s bar, which dominated the waterfront and faced the harbour.

Coral Gables, the farthest extension west of Orchid City, was a shack town that had grown up around the natural deep-water harbour where an industry of sponge and fish docks, turtle crawls and markets provided a living for the tough boys of the district. It was a tough spot where cops patrolled in twos, and a night seldom passed without someone getting a knife in his hide or his head broken by a beer bottle.

As I parked the car in the shadows, a few yards from the brightly lit entrance of Delmonico’s bar, the clock on the dashboard showed one-forty-five. A mechanical piano was going: thumping out tinny jazz. The waterfront was deserted. Even for Coral Gables, one-forty-five a.m. was bedtime.

I got out of the car and walked to the mouth of the alley leading to Betillo’s place. I could see through the bar windows a few stragglers lounging up at the bar, and a couple of girls in halters and shorts sitting at a table by the door, looking with exhausted eyes at the lights shining on the oily water in the harbour.

Keeping in the shadows I moved quietly down the alley that was as dark as a homburg hat and smelt of stale whisky, cats and rotting fish. I turned a sharp corner in the alley and came upon Betillo’s shop: a two-storeyed job made from salvaged lumber, bleached white by the sun and the wind, shabby and uncared for, and in total darkness. There was a five-foot fence adjoining the building, and after a quick look around to make sure no one was watching, I caught hold of the top of the fence and swung myself over.

I landed in a big yard full of timber, sawdust and wood shavings. Splashes of moonlight, broken by neighbouring roofs, provided light and shadows, and I hadn’t much fear I would be seen if anyone looked out of the windows.

I sneaked across the yard, keeping in the shadows, on the lookout for a window. I found one at the rear of the building within easy reach and fastened only by an inside slip catch. I levered the catch back, forced the blade of my knife between the sill and the frame and raised the window. It went up without noise. I took my time, pushing it up inch by inch until I had space enough to crawl through. I flicked on my flashlight to see where I was going. The round, bright beam lit up an unfurnished room, its floor covered with wood shavings and sawdust. I swung my leg over the sill and climbed quietly into the room.

A door by the window gave on to a passage, and at the end of the passage was a flight of stairs, and facing the stairs was another door. I took all this in with one brief glance and a flash or two of my light.

Before I moved out of the shelter of the room I was in I turned off my flashlight and stood listening. The shop and the apartment above was as quiet and as dark as a coal mine on a Sunday. I crept down the passage; using the light only when I had to, pushed open the door facing the stairs and peered into what seemed a big room, the far side of it stacked high with coffins. The first thing I noticed was the sweet sharp smell of formaldehyde, the stuff you pickle corpses in.

I slid into the room, closed the door and swung the beam of my light around the walls. There were about three dozen coffins stacked against the wall facing me: cheap, pinewood jobs that looked as if they had been knocked together in a hurry. Along the wall on my right were three better class ones: one a real humdinger in black ebony with silver handles. In the centre of the room was another even more gaudy effort in walnut with gold handles. In another corner of the room was a long marble slab with a deep sink close by where I guessed Betillo tidied up his corpses.

I poked around, lifting coffin lids, peering here and there, and feeling spooked, not knowing what I was looking for, but hoping I’d strike something. Eventually I did.

I had got around to the stack of coffins against the far wall: the cheap, pine jobs. The second of the three I looked into contained Anita Cerf.

I was half expecting to find her somewhere in the room, and had tensed my nerves for the shock of seeing that blood-framed face again. But in the hard, bright light of the torch she looked even more horrible than I had imagined. Betillo had embalmed her just as she was: he hadn’t attempted to tidy her up or fill in the hole in her forehead or even wash the blood from her face. The sight gave me a turn, and before I could control my jumping nerves, I dropped the coffin lid with a crash that sounded like a thunderclap in my ears.

I stood listening, my heart hammering and my mouth dry. Nothing happened. I was suddenly aware that I hadn’t a gun, and if I were caught here it would be easy enough for Betillo to stick a knife into me and sling me into the harbour, or if he didn’t want my body to be found, he could embalm me and keep me in one of his boxes for the next twenty years. The thought made me sweat, and I decided to get out quick and watch the joint from the alley until Kerman arrived with his gun.

As soon as I made this decision I couldn’t get out of the place fast enough. I tiptoed to the door. As I put my hand on the doorknob I felt it turn in my grasp. That sent my blood pressure up and my heart into my mouth. Someone out in the passage was coming in!

I snapped off my light, took three quick, silent steps back, away from the door, and waited. The room was now pitch dark, and the close, suffocating smell of the formaldehyde bothered me. I listened, holding my breath, peering into the darkness, waiting for something to happen.

There was a long, ghastly silence. The only sound I could hear was the dull thumping of my heart and the faint whisper of my controlled breathing. Then a board creaked close to me. Whoever it was who had come into the room must have had eyes like a cat. He was coming straight at me as if he could see me. The first warning I had of his nearness was a sudden increase of darkness as his form loomed up, and then before I could dodge, a pair of cold, hard hands shot out of the darkness and grabbed at my throat.

For a second or so I stood motionless, unable to do anything; fear, panic, cold feet, whatever you like to call it, paralysing me. Fingers dug into my neck, two thumbs sank into my windpipe. It was a savage, murderous grip that cut the air from my lungs and the blood from my head.

I controlled the instinctive urge to grab at my assailant’s wrists. From his grip he had wrists like steel, and I should be wasting precious time trying to break his hold, and I hadn’t a lot of time to waste. Already my head was feeling woozy and my lungs were yelling for air. I reached out and touched his chest gently, measuring the distance, then slammed in a right with everything I had. My fist sank into the arch of his ribs; his breath came out with a gurgling rush. The grip loosened on my throat, but before he could back away I uncorked another right to his body that sent him reeling into the darkness.

I touched the button on my flashlight. The beam hit Betillo as he came in a staggering rush towards me. His broad, flattish face was vicious with pain and animal fury. I ducked under a right swing that would have taken my head off if it had landed, dropped the flashlight and hit him on the side of his neck with a thump that sounded like a meat axe cutting into a side of beef. He lost balance and fell. I didn’t give him a chance to recover, and jumped him, landing with both feet on his chest, driving the wind out of him and crushing him flat. I sprawled on the floor beside him but he was fixed all right. I shoved away from him and got to my feet, snatching up the flashlight to look at him. He lay flat on his back, his body and legs squirming and thrashing as he tried to drag air into his flattened chest.

Leaning over him I grabbed hold of his long, oily hair and slammed his head on the floor. The thump shook the room. His eyes rolled back and he went limp.

The whole affair had taken about a half a minute of anima, furious fighting. Panting, I bent over him, making sure he was out. From the look of him he wouldn’t come round for hours, if he ever came round at all. I pulled open his coat, hoping to find a gun on him, but he wasn’t carrying one. I straightened, picked up my flashlight, wondering why Thayler hadn’t appeared on the scene. We had made enough noise to awaken the dead.

I went to the door, opened it and looked out into darkness. As I stepped into the passage the silence was suddenly broken by the choked bang of a gun. I ducked down, thinking someone was firing at me. Then three more shots went off, crashing through the house, deafening me Whoever it was shooting wasn’t firing at me. There was no gun-flash although the noise sounded close.

I crouched close to the wall, sweating and listening. I heard a door slam. Footsteps ran along a passage upstairs and another door slammed. Then silence.

II

I wasn’t anxious to go up the stairs. I had no idea what I was going to run into, and without a gun, I felt as defenceless as a snail without its shell. But it did occur to me that someone up there was getting killed, and maybe I should see if I could do anything about it; making a mental note to get my head examined when and if I got out of this jam.

I went up the stairs on hands and knees. Halfway up a cloud of gunsmoke drifted down to meet me. I kept on, making no noise, being as quick as I could without being reckless.

At the head of the stairs I took a chance and turned on my flashlight. I faced a short passage. Near where I crouched a door stood open, and in the light of the flash, gun-smoke drifted lazily into the passage.

No one took a pot shot at me, and I began to hope the guy who had done the shooting had vamoosed. But I still wasn’t taking any chances, and I listened, remaining on hands and knees, and after a moment or so I got used, to the sound of my heartbeats and the blood pounding in my ears and picked up another sound: the sound of breathing coming from the room where the shooting had been. At least I thought it was breathing, although it sounded more like a pair of bellows with a hole in them trying to operate, and then another sound came to me that sent a cold chill up my spine: the steady drip-drip-drip of water or something falling on the floor.

I stood up, braced myself and went to the door. The smell of cordite hit me as I entered the room. The breathing sound I had heard turned to a gasp and a rattle that made my hair stand on end. I flicked on the flashlight. The beam hit a scene I dream “about even now. One quick look brought my hand groping for the light switch; a moment later the room was flooded with harsh, white light.

The room was small, and the bed faced me. On the bed was a man wearing only pyjama trousers. From the waist up he was naked. Two big, 45 slug wounds decorated the middle of his white, hairy chest, and blood ran down his ribs in a shiny, maroon-coloured stream. A third slug had ripped open h’s jugular, and blood spurted from the wound in a terrifying scarlet jet, hitting the near wall and dripping on to the floor.

It took me a second or so to recognize the man on the bed. The blood-smeared, ghastly coloured face looked like something someone had cooked up for a horror show in a wax-work exhibition. But it was Thayler all right It couldn’t be anyone else but Thayler.

There was nothing I could do for him. It was a miracle he was still alive. Even if I could have sealed the artery I couldn’t do anything about the holes in his chest.

He lay very still and stared at me; his slate-grey eyes unafraid; life going out of him, splashing on the wall and dripping on to the floor.

‘Who did it?’ I asked, leaning over the bedrail. ‘Come on, you can still talk. Who did it?’

Even though he was going fast and his lungs were drowning in blood he tried to speak. His mouth moved, his jaw twitched, but that was as far as he got. But he did manage to convey something to me. Slowly, and with an effort that mingled sweat with his blood, he lifted his hand and pointed. I followed the direction of the pointing finger and found myself looking at a cupboard.

‘Something in there?’ I said, stepped round the bed and jerked open the cupboard. There wasn’t much in it: a suit of clothes, a hat and a small suitcase. I looked over my shoulder at him. The grey eyes held mine, willing me to understand what he was trying to say.

‘In the suit?’ I asked, pulling out the suit from the cupboard.

The finger continued to point. I tossed out the hat and the suitcase and looked at him again. Still the finger continued to point at the cupboard which was, as far as I could see, now empty.

‘Hidden in there?’ I asked.

The eyes said yes, the hand dropped. The breathing was very slow and laboured. Red-tinged air-bubbles came through the two holes in his chest.

I turned back to the cupboard, shone the beam of my flash at the flooring and back panel, but could see nothing except dust and bits of fluff.

I took out my knife, opened the heaviest blade and began prising up the floorboards in the cupboard. As I worked I became aware that the laboured, wheezing breathing had stopped. I glanced over my shoulder. The face on the blood-soaked pillow had turned the colour of clay, the lean, heavy jaw sagged. The finger still pointed to the cupboard and the dead, blank eyes looked directly at me.

I levered up one of the floorboards and flashed the torch beam into the cavity. There was nothing bat dirt, a spider or two and the signs that a rat had once lived there. I straightened up, scowled at the cupboard, knowing I should get out, but certain Thayler had meant me to find something in there; something that might be the key to the whole of this mad, murderous business.

There was a cane-bottomed chair close by and I jerked it before the cupboard and stood on it so the upper shelf of the cupboard was level with my face. A panel of wood formed the back of the shelf, and I got my knife-blade under it and began to lever it out. It resisted my efforts, but I kept at it, feeling the blade bend under the leverage, careful not to put too much pressure on it, but making the pressure even and continuous. I had the panel on the move when I heard a faint noise that could have been the scraping of a boot on bare boards. Stepping down from the chair I sneaked to the door and listened. Hearing nothing I snapped off the overhead light, opened the door, and peeled into the dark passage. My heart was banging against my ribs, and I felt it miss a beat when I saw a flash of light on the wall by the foot of the stairs.

I crept out of the room and peered over the banisters. Someone was moving about in the passage below. Then another torch flashed on, and I caught a glimpse of a cop standing at the foot of the stairs looking up into the darkness.

‘Must be upstairs, Jack,’ a voice murmured. ‘No one around here.’

I didn’t wait to see or hear more, but went quickly and silently back into the room of death, shut the door softly and turned on the light again. There was a good strong bolt on the door and I pushed it home. I had about two minutes to find what I was looking for, and I returned to the cupboard, got my fingers in the gap I had made in the panel and heaved at it with all my strength. It moved, the nails coming away with a sharp, creaking sound. I heaved again, and the panel came away in my hand. I shone the torch into the cavity. Two things met my eyes: a Colt .45 automatic pistol equipped with what appeared to be a miniature telescopic sight and a leather-bound notebook I grabbed them up as a rap came on the door.

‘Open up!’ a voice called. ‘We know you’re in there. It’s the city police. Come on; open up!’

I shoved the gun in my hip pocket and the notebook in my coat pocket, slipped silently off the chair and went over to the window. I was scared stiff and had difficulty with my breathing, but I kept my head. If they caught me in here I would be in a hell of a jam.

As I pushed open the window one of the cops drove his shoulder against the door, but the bolt held.

‘Get down and around to the back,’ I heard him say. ‘He may try to get out of the window.’

The other cop went clattering down the stairs.

I was out on the windowsill by now. There was a sheer drop of about thirty feet into the yard. I couldn’t go that way, and besides the cop would be in the yard any second now. The roof guttering was just above my head. I caught hold of it, tested its strength. It seemed strong enough, and sweating in every pore I started hauling myself up on to the roof. For about four seconds I hung in space, then I got my heel in the gutter and heaved myself up. I felt the gutter bend under the strain, then a voice yelled from below. With a tremendous heave I rolled myself on to the gently sloping roof, crawled desperately for cover behind a chimney-stack. A gun went off and bits of brick stung the back of my neck. I gave a convulsive wriggle and put the stack behind me and the gun, and lay for a moment or so, trying to get my breath. I knew I hadn’t long before they’d be up here looking for me. The moonlight turned night into day. About twelve feet away I could see the flat roof of Delmonico’s bar, separated from Bertillo’s place by the alley.

‘He’s up on the roof, Jack,’ the cop yelled from below, ‘I’m coming up!’

I crawled to the far edge of the roof, stood up and measured the distance between the two roofs. I hadn’t any run back. It had to be a cold-blooded leap with the alley thirty feet below me.

There wasn’t any time to waste. If I was going to get out of this mess I had to jump, so I balanced myself on the edge of the roof and jumped. It flashed through my mind as I was in mid-air that I wasn’t going to make it, and I flung myself forward, hitting the opposite guttering with my chest and sliding back. My hands grabbing and searching for a hold gripped a concealed drain pipe running along the flat roof. I heaved myself up, and, gasping for breath, rolled on to the roof.

There were no chimney-stacks to hide behind on this roof, and the light of the moon picked me out as if a searchlight was playing on me. But not far away was a sky light, and I nipped over to it, heaved it up and without looking where I was going, lowered myself into darkness

For about half a minute I sat on the floor, drawing in great, heaving breaths, my legs feeling like rubber, and not caring where I was or what was going to happen next. Then, just as I decided to get up, a door opened right by me and a panel of light from a shaded amp in the room beyond fell on me.

I twisted around, ready to start fighting and looked up at a girl in a crumpled black nightie that was as transparent as a plate-glass window.

She was a tall, tired faced blonde, and she regarded me with sleepy curiosity.

‘Hello,’ she said. ‘Are you in trouble, honey?’

I dug up a grin.

‘Perhaps that’s a slight understatement. Sister, I’m full of trouble.’

She poked a knuckle in her eye and yawned.

‘Cops?’

‘Yeah, cops,’ I said, getting to my feet.

She stood aside.

‘You’d better come in. They’ll search the joint.’

I went past her into the room. It was a typical love nest. Delmonico’s catered for all tastes and vices The room was small and stuffy and skimpily furnished. A bed, a chest of drawers, a toilet basin and threadbare mat were the only luxuries the room could boast of.

‘What have you done, honey?’ the girl asked, s ting on the bed and yawning. She had very big white teeth and her mouth was a smear of lipstick. ‘I heard shooting. Was it you?’

‘I walked into it,’ I said. ‘The cops moved in just behind me. I had to get out quick.’

‘Was Betillo shot?’

‘Not him; some other guy.’ Seeing the disappointment on her face, I added, ‘Betillo run into a cracked head. He won’t be much use for some time.’

“That’s fine,’ she said. ‘I hate that heel.’

Outside in the passage there was a sudden soft thud.

‘Cops,’ I said softly. ‘Right out there, now.’

‘They’re crazy to stick their snouts in here,’ she said, moved across the room and swiftly and silently, bolted the door and then dug her thumb into a bell-push on the wall. ‘That’ll bring the bouncers up,’ she went on with a tight little smile. ‘Keep your shirt on, honey. You’ll soon be out of this.’

The door suddenly rattled.

A voice said, ‘Open up or I’ll shoot the lock in!’

I pulled the girl away from the door.

Heavy footsteps came pounding up the stairs. A voice yelled, ‘It’s cops! Hey, Joe! Buttons!’

One of the cops shouted, ‘Lay off! This ain’t anything to do with you! Keep back or you’ll get hurt.’

A gun went off and there was a yell. More feet pounded up the stairs. I yanked the sheets off the girl’s bed, knotted them together, ran over to the window. More gunfire. If I didn’t get a move on the riot squad would be out there to welcome me. I pulled out all that was left of my money and pushed he notes into the girl’s hands.

‘So long, sister,’ I said. ‘And thanks.’

One of the cops fired through the door. Someone along the passage opened up with what sounded like a Sten gun.

I had the window open by now.

‘Boy!’ the blonde exclaimed, excited. She was wide awake now. ‘I’m loving this! Mind how you break your neck.’

I knotted one end of the sheet, dropped the sheet out of the window, got out on the sill.

‘Shut the window on the knot,’ I said, ‘and make it snappy. I’ll buy you a drink one of these days.’

She closed the window as more gunfire rattled through the building, and waved to me through the pane.

I grabbed the sheet and went down fast. As I dropped to the ground a voice shouted, ‘Hey! You!’ And a shadow moved towards me.

I swung round as a hand grabbed at my shoulder. I wasn’t in a playful mood, and I brought my right fist up in an uppercut that caught the guy on the side of his jaw. He gave a choked grunt and slid forward, his hands clutching at my coat. I kicked him off and he dropped down on his hands and knees. He remained like that, groaning.

I ran down the alley to where I left my car.

III

It was getting on for three o’clock a.m. when I pulled up outside an apartment block on Hawthorne Avenue. The building was set back from the road, and in the forecourt a big bowl and fountain gave the place its only sign of distinction. It was a rabbit warren of apartments; all small, all squeezed together; and all expensive. I had been there before. Its only advantage was that it was soundproof, but even at that, I’d rather have lived in a tent.

Miss Bolus rented a two-room apartment on the ground floor, facing east. I decided I wouldn’t embarrass her by using the front entrance. The hall porter wouldn’t take too kindly to a call on an unattended young lady at this hour, so I walked across the lush lawn, past the bowl and fountain and along the cement path to the casement window that I knew led into her sitting room.

Her apartment was in darkness. The window, next to the casement, would be her bedroom, and I tapped gently on the windowpane. She couldn’t have been a heavy sleeper for I had only tapped about three times when I saw through a chink in the curtains a light flash up. I stepped back, pushed my hat off my forehead and groped for a cigarette. I was feeling tired and hot, and hoped there would be a drink in there for me. As I lit the cigarette, the curtains parted and Miss Bolus looked out at me. I could only see the outline of her head, but she could see my face in the light of the match. I grinned at her.

She waved me to the casement window and moved away. The curtain swung back into place.

As I stepped to the casement, I felt a drop of rain on my face. For the past ten minutes, heavy clouds had been piling up in the sky. It looked as if it were coming on for a wet spell. I wasn’t sorry. The close, brittle heat didn’t suit me. The casement window swung open as it began to rain in earnest.

‘Hello,’ I said. ‘It’s raining.’

‘Did you wake me up to tell me that?’ she asked, holding the casement door against her side, and looking at me in the light that flowed over her shoulder from the standard lamp in the sitting room.

‘That and other things. Can I come in? I could do with a drink.’

She stood aside.

‘When I heard you tapping I thought it was burglars,’ she said. ‘I think I was dreaming about burglars.’

I went into the small room that was comfortable enough, but the furniture was too modern for my taste. I sat down in a chair shaped like the letter S, pitched my hat on the nearby divan, yawned and looked at her approvingly.

She was wearing an oyster-coloured silk wrap over a pale blue, crepe-de-Chine nightdress. Her small feet were thrust into fur-lined moccasins, and her flame-coloured hair was tied back with a piece of blue ribbon. She looked very wide awake, her make-up was surprisingly fresh, and there was a look of restrained surprise and perhaps angled in her chinky, green eyes.

‘Never mind the burglars,’ I said. ‘How about a drink? ‘What have you got?’

She moved past me to the sideboard.

‘I think I’m going to be very angry with you,’ she said. ‘You’ve never seen me angry, have you?’

‘I don’t think I have. Why be angry?’

She poured out a big whisky, added Whiterock and handed me the glass.

‘I don’t like being woken up suddenly like this. I think you’re taking too much for granted.’

I sampled the Scotch. It was very good.

‘Yeah, maybe I am,’ I said and set the glass on the table with a little sigh. ‘But this isn’t a social call. I’m here on business: business that can’t wait until tomorrow.’

She sat on the arm of the settee, crossed one slim leg over the other and looked at me inquiringly.

‘What business?’

I took a drag on my cigarette, blew a cloud of smoke to the ceiling.

‘Lee Thayler was shot about an hour ago’ I said ‘Two bullets in the middle of his chest, and the third cut open an artery.’

There was a long, long pause. The silence was broken only by the occasional whirring grunt of the refrigerator in the kitchenette next door.

I looked at her. She was still; her arms folded across her breasts, her eyes expressionless, her mouth set She wasn’t a good card-player for nothing. She didn’t give anything away.

‘Who shot him?’ she asked, after the silence had gone on a little too long.

‘The same killer who wiped out Dana, Leadbetter and Anita,’ I said. ‘You’ve been a little secretive, haven’t you? I didn’t know you and Anita were old pals, nor that you and Thayler were bedfellows.’

‘That’s ancient history,’ she said with a casual shrug. ‘How did you find out?’

‘I ran into a character named Nick Nedick. He showed me a picture of Thayler. You were in it.’

‘You know, I think I’ll make some coffee,’ she said, and got off the arm of the settee. ‘I supposed you’re going to ask a lot of questions now?’

‘Go ahead and make it’ I leaned forward and flicked on the electric fire. ‘We may as well talk now as later’. You don’t seem to care much that Thayler’s dead.’

‘Why should I? We were washed up, and I’ve forgotten he ever existed.’

I heard her go into the kitchenette and I leaned back in the chair. The .45 dug into my hip so I pulled it out and looked at it the telescopic sight intrigued me. I aimed the gun at a blue vase on the overmantel and peered through the sight. I couldn’t see anything. I examined the sight more closely, wondering what it was. Although it looked like a telescopic sight it didn’t function as one. It was something I had never seen before on a gun. But right now I was a little tired, and I had other things on my mind, so I laid the gun on the table beside me and put my hat on it. I’d get Clegg to look at it: G egg knew all about guns and poisons and bloodstains. He was a pretty good man to know.

I heard a sudden, stifled sound that brought my head around and I stared towards the kitchenette door: the stifled sound of a woman crying.

I slid out of the chair and crossed the room without making any noise and peered around the half-open door.

Miss Bolus was standing by the electric percolator; her face in her hands.

‘You go and sit by the fire,’ I said. ‘I’ll make the coffee.’

She started, dashed the tears away with the back of her hand and turned away from me.

‘I’ll make it,’ she said in a muffled voice. ‘For God’s sake leave me alone.’

I took hold of her arm and pushed her into the sitting room.

‘Sit by the fire.’

It took me about a couple of minutes to make the coffee, and when I re-entered the room, she had lit a cigarette and was standing before the fire, her face half-turned from me. I set down the tray.

‘Will you have it black?’ I asked.

‘Yes.’

I poured a cup, laced it with whisky and put it on the overmantel near her. Then I sat down and poured myself a cup.

‘Let’s put the cards on the table,’ I said. ‘It’ll mean nothing, but it’ll be a satisfactory way of clearing the mess up. You know a lot about this business — far more than I do. You’ve been working hand-in-glove with Thayler, haven’t you?’

‘What do you mean — it’ll mean nothing?’ she asked, her voice sharp.

‘Well, how can it? Whatever happens I have to keep Cerf covered. I’ve explained that to you. If I put my hand on the killer I’ll have to call Brandon in, and he’ll chop me for not calling him in before. It’s stalemate. Thayler killed Benny. All right, Thayler’s dead. Well, that’s something. But Thayler didn’t kill Dana. Even if I can’t touch the killer I still want to know who did it, and I think you can tell me who it is.’

‘Can’t you guess?’ she said a little scornfully.

I shook my head.

‘I could, but guessing is not the same as knowing. Thayler knew who the killer was — that’s why he was knocked off. Leadbetter also knew who the killer was — he was knocked off too. I think you know who the killer is. Suppose you tell me before you get knocked off too?’

She sat down, her coffee cup in her hand, opposite me, the table between us.

‘What makes you think I know?’ she asked.

‘A hunch. I think you and Thayler teamed up again after Anita was shot. I think he told you what I’m certain Anita told him.’

‘Well, all right. Now he’s dead, it doesn’t matter,’ she said, and dropped back against the chair. ‘I lied just now when I said he and I were washed up and I’d forgotten he ever existed. I loved him. I was crazy about him, and we were happy until that bitch came into our lives. No other girl except me would have had the nerve to go through that act of ours, and if I hadn’t loved him, and wanted him to get on and make a name for himself, I wouldn’t have done it. But I did it, and he got on, and he got talked about, and people came to see him. And then she had to come on the scene and spoiled it.’ She reached for a cigarette and lit it with an unsteady hand. ‘But as soon as she got him away from me she left him and married Cerf. I happened to be in Orchid City when Cerf brought her to live at his estate. I saw her one day. I made inquiries. I found out she had married him, and hadn’t divorced Lee. She bitched up my happiness, so I bitched up hers. I wrote an anonymous letter to Cerf and told him she was already married.’

I poured out more coffee, stirred whisky into it, lit another cigarette.

‘It’s a funny thing,’ I said, ‘but I wouldn’t have thought you were the type to write anonymous letters.’

‘Wouldn’t you?’ she said, a little breathlessly. ‘After what she had done to me? Well, I did, and I told Lee too, and he came to see Anita. By that time she had got tired of Cerf, and was playing around with Barclay. She was scared when she heard Lee was coming to see her, and she persuaded Bannister to hide her in the night club. Lee told me what had happened. He heard it from Anita before she died. The shooting of your girl, Dana Lewis, was a mistake.

‘Cerf confronted Anita with my letter. She tried to lie her way out of it, but he didn’t believe her. She thought he was going to kill her there and then, and she bolted out of the room and out of the house. That night she came to you, to find out if Cerf knew about Barclay. When she left you, she saw Cerf following her. She got scared and appealed to Dana for protection. Dana took her to her apartment. Cerf followed them and waited outside. Anita offered Dana her necklace if she would change clothes with her and draw Cerf away from the house so Anita could reach L’Etoile in safety. Dana agreed to do this. The two women changed clothes. Before leaving the apartment Dana hid the necklace under her mattress in case Anita changed her mind and took it when she left. Cerf shot Dana out on the dunes, thinking she was Anita. You’ve guessed that by now, haven’t you? It was Cerf who shot Leadbetter, who saw him taking Anita’s clothes off Dana’s body, and later tried to blackmail him.’

‘How the hell do you know all this?’ I said, sitting forward to stare at her.

‘Anita wrote Lee a letter when she was at the L’Etoile and told him; he told me. It was her idea for Lee to blackmail Cerf. She said the two of them could get all Cerf’s money if they played it right.’

‘And what did Thayler do?’

‘Lee always wanted money. He agreed.’ There was a bitter expression in the green eyes now. ‘You wondered why Dana’s coat and skirt were hidden in Barclay’s cupboard. Anita was wearing the suit. She went to Barclay’s because she always kept some clothes there. Barclay was away. She changed into her own clothes, leaving Dana’s suit in Barclay’s cupboard, and went on to L’Etoile. You found her there. Then Bannister flung her out. She had nowhere to go. Cerf was still looking for her, so she went to you. You were with Cerf. Maybe Cerf thought you knew too much and came to your place intending to shoot you, only he found Anita there. He shot her. Lee had been hunting for Anita, and had decided to see you and find out if you knew where she was. He arrived too late to stop Cerf killing Anita, but in the struggle, Cerf dropped his gun, but he escaped. While Lee was out at the back looking for him, you turned up. By then Lee thought up a plan to screw every dollar out of Cerf. He could do so now with ease because he had Cerf’s gun. It had Cerf’s initials on it, and it had killed Dana, Leadbetter and Anita. He knocked you out, took Anita in his car to Betillo’s and then phoned me to go over to your place and report on your movements.’ She broke off to stub out her cigarette, her mouth twisted into a jeering little smile. ‘There’s not much more to it. You can more or less guess the rest. Lee got into touch with Cerf and told him to start paying unless he wanted Anita’s body and the gun turned over to the police. Lee asked half a million to begin with, and the money was to be paid at once.’

‘And you’re going to tell me Cerf had, by now, the answer to blackmail,’ I said. ‘He went along tonight to Betillo’s and wiped Thayler out, is that it?’

She nodded and looked away.

‘I warned him Cerf was dangerous,’ she said, her voice suddenly stifled. She put her hand to her eyes. ‘But he was so sure of himself. He laughed at me.’

I got up suddenly, and without a word, walked quickly into her bedroom. I was in there less than ten seconds before she came to the bedroom door to stare at me.

‘What do you want in here?’ she asked sharply.

I looked around the room, ran my fingers through my hair, shook my head.

“You know, baby, my nerves must be bad. I could have sworn I heard someone in here. Didn’t you hear a footfall? A sound as if someone was creeping across the floor?’

Her eyes opened a trifle, and she looked a little nervously round the room. I jerked the window curtains aside. No one lurked behind them. I glanced out into the darkness. Rain splashed on the windows.

‘You’re trying to frighten me,’ she said, her voice shooting up two tones.

‘Only you and I know Cerf’s the killer,’ I said, going to her and looking down into her big green eyes. ‘And neither of us believe it do we?’

Her slim white hand rested on my sleeve.

‘It’s hard to believe,’ she said. ‘If Lee hadn’t told me I wouldn’t have believed it.’

‘Lee telling you doesn’t make me believe it,’ I said, and smiled at her. ‘I don’t kid myself I’m much of a detective, but take a look around. Look at the bed. You haven’t slept in it tonight. Why, the coverlet isn’t even off. Look over there where you’ve thrown the clothes you stripped off just before I tapped on the window.’ I lifted a shoe, held it out to her. ‘You hit him in the neck artery and he bled like hell. I guessed you’d have a little blood on you somewhere. Well, here it is on the side of your shoe.’

She touched her lips with the tip of her tongue.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she said crossly, and walked into the sitting room.

I followed her, swinging the shoe in my hand.

‘Don’t you?’ I said. ‘It’s plain enough to me. Substitute in your clever little story Gail Bolus for Jay Franklin Cerf and we shall be getting somewhere. It was you who shot Dana, thinking she was Anita. You who shot Leadbetter, who saw you strip Dana and threatened to expose you. You who shot Anita because you hated her and were determined to square accounts because she stole Thayler from you, and it was you who went round to Betillo’s tonight and shot Thayler because—’ I paused, then asked, ‘You tell me: why did you kill Thayler?’

IV

From the kitchenette there came the whirring grunt of the refrigerator. From the overmantel came the steady tick-tick-tick of the squat, oak-framed clock.

Miss Bolus breathed steadily; her breasts rose and fell under the thin silk wrap lightly and evenly and without emotion. Her hand was steady as she poured more coffee into her cup. She added sugar, stirred the coffee with the spoon. There was a vague, faraway expression on her face.

She said, ‘Are you serious?’

‘Up to now it’s been a beautiful act,’ I said, and sat opposite her, my hand near my hat. “Don’t let it turn corny, baby. The tears, the spontaneous story about Cerf, the calm way you followed me into the bedroom, knowing I’d see your bed hadn’t been slept in were all admirably done: so don’t let’s spoil it. Why did you kill Thayler?’

She looked at me then; her eyes very thoughtful.

‘I didn’t kill him,’ she said steadily. ‘I loved him. It was Cerf. I told you.’

‘I know what you told me, but unfortunately for you your old friend Thayler kept a diary. He made me a present of it before he died. I’ve read it, and what’s in it doesn’t hook up with what you’ve told me. He said Anita was scared of you, and she knew you were gunning for her. That’s why I came here. That’s why I looked your room over. I knew you had only just got back from Coral Gables. I wanted to check up to see if you had been in bed, and with all that blood around I knew you would have taken some of it away with you if you had been there.’ I touched the shoe that stood on the table. ‘Why did you kill him?’

She looked at me for a long moment of time, then laughed. It was a tinny, humourless sound.

‘So the bastard kept a diary,’ she said. ‘That’s funny.’

‘Yeah, diaries have an unpleasant habit of coming home to roost,’ I said.

She sipped her coffee, made a little grimace and set the cup on the table.

‘It’s cold,’ she said.

‘Look, let’s not beat about the bush or whatever it is one beats,’ I said a little tersely. ‘Tell me about Thayler.’

‘Well, the heel had it coming, and the opportunity was too good to miss. I was getting away with the other shootings, why not one more?’ she said carelessly. ‘I’m sorry about Dana,’ she went on. ‘If you had seen her out there in die shadows and the moonlight, dressed in Anita’s evening gown, you would have made the same mistake.’

‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘It’s too bad about Dana. I think I would fold my tent and silently steal away if it wasn’t for Dana. The others you plugged were a worthless lot. Dana wasn’t. I can’t let you get away with Dana’s killing.’

She shrugged.

‘There’s not much you can do about it,’ she said.

‘Well, there is,’ I told her. ‘There are two things I can do, I can take the law into my own hands or I can go to the police. I don’t feel like wringing your nice white neck. It’s a pity because it would save a lot of complications, but I have to live with my conscience, and my conscience wouldn’t like me to do that sort of thing. So it’ll have to be the police. It’ll mean I’ll probably get a few years as an accessory, but that can’t be helped.’

‘Cerf won’t like it,’ she reminded me, frowning.

‘That’s right, but he’s had it all his own way up to now. He’ll have to put up with it. Would you care to slip on some clothes before I phone Brandon? He’d probably haul you off to the station as you are, so you’d better dress.’

‘You wouldn’t be kidding?’ she asked, raising her eyebrows.

‘Not this time, baby. I’m past kidding You haven’t a lot to worry about. With your looks you’ll probably only get fifteen years.’

‘If that’s the way you feel about it,’ she said, and lifted her elegant shoulders. ‘Then I’d better change.’ She picked up her coffee-cup. ‘Could I have a little whisky in this? You may not believe it but I feel a little sick.’

I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

‘Help yourself,’ I said.

She threw the cup at me. I was half-expecting it, but she moved a shade faster than I thought it possible for anyone to move. By the time I had dashed the coffee out of my eyes she had the .45.

‘I asked for that,’ I said as calmly as I could. ‘I should have remembered you once did this kind of thing for a living.’

‘Yes,’ she said, and her eyes lit up so they looked like emeralds. ‘Get in there, and don’t ‘try anything funny. I’m as good a shot as ever Lee was, and I couldn’t miss you if I tried.’

I backed into her bedroom.

‘Over there by the wall and face the wall,’ she ordered. ‘One move out of you and you’ll get it. I’m going to change.’

She had picked the wrong spot for there was a dressing table close by and I could see her in the mirror. But that didn’t help me much. I was about six yards from her and the bed was between us. She had wiped out four people already; one more couldn’t make much difference to her dreams; if she had dreams, and I was beginning to doubt she had.

‘This scene has gone a little sour,’ I said, for something to say. ‘The detective always gets his girl. If you shoot me the story will have an immoral ending.’

She laughed.

‘I like immoral stories. Did you leave your car outside?’

‘Sure. Shall I give you the ignition key?’

She sat on a chair and pulled on stockings. The gun lay on the window ledge within easy reach. If it hadn’t been for the bed I would have taken a chance, but the bed made it very difficult.

‘I’ll get it later,’ she said. ‘Don’t move.’

She got up and began hunting through the drawers of her wardrobe. She held the gun in one hand now.

‘Where do you think you’re going?’ I asked her.

‘New York. Thanks to you the police will never even suspect me. I hope to make a new start in New York. A girl with my looks doesn’t have to worry a great deal. I think I told you that before.’

‘So you did.’ I was aware that I was beginning to sweat. Maybe it was turning warmer or I was turning yellow. It was not the kind of thing I cared to analyse in a situation like this.

She found a green silk vest, stepped into it and pulled it up over her hips under her nightdress. The time for act on would be when she pulled the nightdress over her head. I screwed up my nerves and tensed my muscles. She didn’t pull the nightdress over her head, but let it slip off her shoulders and stepped out of it. It was suicide, but better than being shot down in cold blood.

As she was on one leg, stepping out of the nightdress, I swung round, flung myself across the bed towards her, my heart in my mouth, and scared as stiff as a board.

She never blinked an eyelid, and stood still, a lovely little half-naked figure, her neatly made-up lips curved in a smile. The barrel of the .45, looking as big as the top of a beer tankard, shifted to cover me. I saw her finger turn white on the trigger. I scrambled madly towards her, throwing out my hands, but I was miles and miles away from her and hours and hours too late. The automatic burst into one continuous roar: the gunflash scorched my face. The first slug missed me, so did the second and third. By that time I had reached her and smashed the gun out of her hand. Then I came to an abrupt stop. She was down on the floor, a look of terror fixed on her face, her eyes open and blank, her mouth twisted out of shape and the front of her chest smashed in. Blood welled out of the hole in the centre of her chest, big enough to hold a baseball. I stood staring stupidly, not understanding, seeing her eyes roll back and set, and her hand flop heavily on the carpet.

Slowly I turned to look at the gun lying by her side. Smoke curled out of the telescopic sight. It took me a few moments to understand what that meant: it was a trick gun: a gun that killed the killer; a gun that fired backwards. Thayler’s last little joke. His gift to me, and the joke had turned sour.

I drew away from the stream of blood that filtered through the complicated pattern of the rug. The place was sound proof, and it was unlikely anyone had heard the shots, but I couldn’t afford to take any chances. I stepped into the sitting room, picked up my coffee-cup and saucer and the empty whisky glass and my hat. There were a couple of my cigarette-stubs to collect too. I looked around the room, trying to remember if I had touched anything. I wiped the surface of the table over with my handkerchief just to be on the safe side. Then I turned out the light, opened the casement door and looked into the half-light of the dawn. There was no one in sight. Rain fell steadily.

I went towards my car at a steady run.