III

Date With Death

 

 

If it hadn't been for that bright idea of his of locking the door I could have walked out. I could have got away; he was twice my size but I was faster, I think. But he hadn't left me that choice.

I did the only thing left to do. I took the revolver out of my pocket. I said, "Don't go near that phone," and pulled back the hammer. The click, which sounded almost as loud as a shot in that still room, stopped him suddenly. He turned around slowly.

He licked his lips again. "I can make you turn around," I suggested, "and tap you with the butt of this. But I might hit too hard. I've never sapped anyone before. And I'd be afraid of hitting too easy. Any better ideas?"

He hesitated, then said, "There's a closet off the back room. Key's on the ring."

"Turn around and walk there, slowly."

He did and I followed him. He stepped inside and turned around facing me, his face rigid and white. I don't think he expected to live through his experience. He thought this was the payoff.

I closed the door, found the right key, and locked it. I called through the panel, "I'm going to stick around till Adrian gets back. It may be a long time. Don't get the idea of hammering on that door for a long time or I'll put bullets through it."

He didn't answer and I went back to the front of the room. I unlocked the front door and sat at the bar again. I drank the rest of my martini at a single gulp. I caught sight of my face in the mirror back of the bar and realized I'd better get calmed down and straightened out before Adrian came back, or before another customer came in.

I closed my eyes and took some deep breaths. Again I heard the far siren of a police car, but it wasn't coming this way; it died out in the distance.

I sat there and it seemed like a very long time. It seemed as though I'd been sitting there for hours. I looked at my watch and saw that it was twelve thirty-five. Adrian had left half an hour ago. He lived only three blocks away; he should be back before this unless he had misplaced the sketches he went back to get. Or possibly he'd had to go somewhere for gasoline for his car. Or something.

I wanted another drink, but I didn't want to chance going behind the bar. Someone might come in.

Someone did. A man, about fiftyish, and a woman of about thirty-five in a mink stole. I glanced at them as they came in, and then pretended to pay no attention to them.

They sat at the bar, the man two stools away from me and the woman on the other side. After a minute the man asked me, "Where's Mike?"

I jerked my thumb vaguely toward the back. "Back there," I said.

Maybe it was the sound of voices that gave him the idea, but he chose that moment to start thumping on the closet door. Not too loudly, and he didn't yell; I guess he was too scared for that. He was just thumping tentatively to see if he'd get any reaction.

I slid off the stool quickly and went into the back room. I stood in front of the closet door and called out, "Are you all right, Mike?"

The thumping quit. It was so quiet in that closet that I could hear the scrape of his clothes against the wall as he hugged one side of the closet and crouched down, hoping I'd miss if I fired shots through the wood.

I stood there a second as though listening to an answer and then went back into the tavern. I strolled back toward the stool I'd been sitting on.

I said casually, "Mike drank a bit too much; I think he's being sick. If you're friends of his why don't you help yourselves and leave the money on the ledge of the register?"

I didn't think they'd take the suggestion seriously and they didn't. The woman said, "Let's go to the place in the next block, Harvey."

The man nodded and said, "All right, dear."

He turned and looked at me a moment as though he wanted to ask a question. He wanted, I could guess, to ask what Mike was being sick at his stomach had to do with that thumping on a door back there, but decided not to ask. He was a mild-looking little man; he didn't want, I could see, to ask a question that just might lead to an answer he didn't like.

I met his eyes and his dropped first. He took the woman's elbow and helped her down off the bar stool and they went out.

I took a deep breath and went back to the closet door again. I called out, "Do that again, Mike, and it'll be the last time. Get me?"

There wasn't any answer, and I went back to the bar. I held my hand out in front of me and it was shaking badly. I put it down flat on the bar to steady it and looked at my wrist watch. Twelve forty-five. Adrian had been gone for forty minutes.

I thought, I'll count to a hundred slowly, and if he isn't here I'll phone his place. I turned around to face the door and started counting, as slowly as my patience would let me, probably about one count a second.

I got to seventy-nine before the door opened and someone came in. But it wasn't Adrian Carr. It was a policeman in uniform. This is the payoff, I thought, here and now. I'm not going to shoot it out with him. If he says, "Are you Wayne Dixon?" it means he came here for me because Adrian sent him. And if he does, I'll go along quietly. It was a thousand to one shot anyway, what I had in mind doing.

And if he says, "Where's Mike?" it'll probably mean that he met the two people who went out of here a few minutes ago and that they'd told him about that suspicious thumping on the door and the story I'd told about Mike being sick.

He asked, "Where's Mike?"

I jerked my thumb casually toward the back room. "Back there," I said.

He stopped halfway between the door and the bar. "Oh," he said. "Well, tell him his brother looked in, will you, fellow? I got to make the next call-box. Tell him I'll drop in again later."

He went out, and I started to breathe normally again. When I felt able to get down off the stool without falling, I did. And I quit worrying about taking further chances. I went around behind the bar and poured myself a stiff drink of bourbon. I drank it neat and felt the warmth of it trickle from my throat downward.

Then I went back to the phone and called Adrian Carr's number.

The phone rang twice and Adrian's voice answered.

"This is Wayne," I said. "What happened to you?"

"Oh, hello, darling," he said. "Where are you?" The "darling" was enough of a tipoff; Adrian didn't talk that way. If it hadn't been, the "Where are you?" was enough too. He knew where I was.

I asked softly into the transmitter, "Cops?"

"Well, I'm afraid I'm going to be late, dear," he said. "Do you want to wait for me there?"

"No," I said, urgently, "not here, Adrian. There's trouble at this end, too. But look, what the hell are you standing up for me for? Why don't you tell them the truth?"

"A couple of hundred reasons, which I can't explain now. I'll give them to you later. You want to go on to the party, then?"

"How long will you be tied up?" I asked him.

"Another hour, possibly. But it's an all-night party. It'll keep. Shall I pick you up somewhere?"

I said, "You're mad, Adrian. But there's a little all-night restaurant on Seventy-second, south side, west of the park. I'll be there. If you change your mind, send the cops for me instead."

"Fine. 'Bye, darling."

I put the receiver back and went over to the bar for one more stiff drink. I made plenty of noise getting it so that Mike would know I was still around and wait a while before he tried hammering again. Then I left, quietly, so he wouldn't know I was gone. I didn't want him loose yet.

I walked over to Central Park West and north to Seventy-second Street. I took a seat on one of the benches along the edge of the park, from which I could watch the door of the restaurant I'd told Adrian about. I lighted a cigarette and tried to look as though I'd just sat down to rest a minute.

It must have been an off night; they weren't doing much business. After I'd been watching ten minutes I saw a policeman stroll in and out again, but I knew he wouldn't have been looking for me. If there'd been a tip-off from Adrian, there'd have been more than one of them. Three or four, probably; Adrian would have told them I was armed.

I was on my third cigarette when I saw Adrian's car drive up and park in front of the restaurant. He seemed to be alone in the car and he got out of it alone and walked to the door. I saw him look in through the glass and hesitate when he didn't see me, but he didn't look around or make any signals. He went inside.

No other car had driven up. I crossed the street and went in. Adrian had taken one of the little tables for two along the side, facing the door. He'd hung up his hat and cape, and--in full dress--he looked as out of place in that little greasy spoon of a restaurant as a peacock in a chicken yard.

He looked up as I came in and called out, "Hi, Harry."

I sat down across from him. I asked, "What's the Harry stuff?"

"Well, I didn't want to call you by your right name. Suppose it's been on a broadcast or--"

"Adrian, the guy behind the counter there knows me by my right name. He's going to wonder."

Adrian stared at me wonderingly. "You mean you actually eat in a place like this?"

"Occasionally. At least as often as I eat at Lindy's. But forget the gastronomics. What's with the cops?"

"Dropped in just after I got home to pick up the sketches." He leaned forward across the table and dropped his voice. "Lola's body was found in the park at a little after midnight. She had identification on her. They went to your place and--"

"Wait," I said. "Here comes Jerry."

The waiter had finished serving his customers at the counter and was going to our table. He said, "Hi, Mr. Dixon. How are things?"

"Swell, Jerry. Two orders of ham and eggs and coffee."

I saw Adrian open his mouth to say something and I glared him into silence until Jerry, whistling, had gone to the grill back of the counter. Then he said petulantly, "Why did you order ham and eggs, Wayne? I can't eat--"

"I'll eat both orders," I told him. "I'm hungry. What about the cops? You said they'd gone to my place and that was as far as you got."

"They went to your place and you weren't there, so they're trying to locate you. They found an address book of yours and they've been checking among your friends."

"Mine?" I asked, "or Lola's?"

He looked at me blankly. "Why do you ask that? Yours, I presume. They had a little brown leather notebook about four by six--"

"Good," I interrupted him. That was my notebook; it had been lying on my desk near the telephone. I knew which names were in it and which weren't.

Adrian went on: "Mostly they were looking for you, through your friends. They asked me first if I'd seen you tonight and I said I hadn't. And then--"

"That's the bad part, Adrian," I told him. "After you left Mike's, Mike got onto me. I had to lock him up in a closet in his back room. He's out by now, and he'll tell the cops fast that I was in his place and that you were with me. They'll know you were lying when they were at your place. I should have told you that over the phone so you could have changed your story. I'm sorry, but you're going to have to do some fast talking the next time they call on you."

He waved that aside. He said, "I can talk fast. And I've got connections. I can't get away with murder, but I can get away with lying to the cops for a couple of hours--if I think up a good story why I lied to them. Can you give me one?"

I shook my head slowly. "Why did you lie to them, Adrian? I don't even know that."

"I'm not too sure myself," he said. "All right, then, don't worry about that. I'll figure an out for myself. What about you?"

I said, "I've got a hundred to one chance. It was a thousand to one when I figured it out--just before I met you. If I've got you on my side --for another hour or so anyway--that cuts it down to a hundred to one."

"Not very good odds."

"No," I admitted. "Not very good. I don't like them at all. But the alternative gives me less of a chance--no chance at all."

"You haven't an alibi?"

"Not a ghost of one. Damn it, Adrian, three people know we left home to take a walk in the park half an hour before I killed her. And a paraffin test will show I fired the gun. Adrian, barring a miracle, I'm strapped into that chair now."

"And what's the miracle?"

"I can't tell you, Adrian. It sounds silly, but--if you want to help, and God knows why you should--you'll just have to string along with me for the next hour or two. If you don't, that's okay. I don't blame you. I don't think I would, if I were in your shoes. If you don't, my chance goes back from one in a hundred to one in a thousand, but I'll carry on."

"What do you want me to do?"

"That's the sad part; I won't even tell you. Because if we're separating now, you'd better go right to the cops and tell 'em how you lied to them the first time. They'll know by now anyway, from Mike. And you're in deep enough; I don't want you to have to do any more lying for me by saying you don't know where I am."

Adrian sighed. "And what makes you think I wouldn't string along a little longer? Want me to write it out and sign it? You're not going to commit another murder, are you?"

"I don't think so."

"All right, then. What are we waiting for? Oh, the ham and eggs." He made a face.

I got up and said, "Forget the ham and eggs. I can eat ham and eggs in jail, maybe. Come on."

I dropped two dollar bills on the counter as I went past Jerry and said, "Forget the grub, Jerry. We just remembered something important." And I got out before he could say anything.

We got in Adrian's car and he started the engine and asked, "Where to?"

I said, "Carry on as though those cops hadn't dropped in on you. Just what we were planning to do before."

"You mean go to Dane Taggert's? What for?"

"What we were talking about in Mike's. You're looking for a Bluebeard for your play. You said I'd have to have Taggert's okay for the part, didn't you?"

Adrian killed the engine. He said, "Don't try to kid me you're interested in a part and a murder rap at the same time, Wayne. It doesn't make sense and the gag is wearing thin."

I said, "That's exactly what you told me a little over an hour ago--only about a different matter. You said then that the gag about my having killed Lola was wearing thin. It's got a little thicker since then. Hasn't it?"

"Yes, but--"

"But you want to know what I really have in mind. Just take my word for it that this gag might get thicker, too. I hope it will. But maybe it won't. If you don't want to play--and I've said already I won't blame you --I'll get out and trot along."

I opened the door of the car. Adrian sighed and said, "All right, all right. But look--how much of a hurry are you in to get there?"

"Only my life depends on it." Then I relented a little. "You didn't ask that; you asked how much of a hurry I'm in. None, as long as we get the role business settled before the cops get me. I can spare half an hour, if that's what you mean."

He started the car again. He drove across Central Park West and took the southeast fork inside the park; he cut east and then north to where there's a wide parking place near the lake. He parked the car and turned to me.

"Let's get one thing straight, Wayne," he said. "There's no gag left about that first gag? You did kill Lola?"

"Yes," I said.

"Then--are you sure you know what you're doing, boy? Let me give you some money, and get away from here before they catch you. I had another three hundred cash at home; I've got five hundred you can take now. Are your fingerprints on file?"

"No," I told him. "But what am I going to do? Get another chance at acting somewhere? I'm no good at anything else. No, Adrian. Thanks for your offer of the money, but I'm going to take my chances here."

"All right, then. I'll help with a lawyer. And it looks like I'm going to have to do some awfully fast talking--or I'll need one for myself too."

"Adrian," I said, "you're a good guy; that much I know. But why are you doing all this? Being a good guy or even a good friend--and we haven't seen an awful lot of each other recently at that --doesn't include taking chances like you're taking."

"Because--because Lola needed killing if any woman ever did. Because I don't blame you, boy. I--Sometimes I think I knew her better than you did, because you were blinded by being in love with her. I wasn't. I almost hated her, and yet--you don't mind my talking about this now, do you?--there was an attraction, a purely physical attrac--"

I said, "Stop. I'm afraid I do mind you talking about it. Let's skip anything that was, or ever was, between you and Lola. It doesn't matter now."

"All right, we'll speak of her abstractly. Wayne, you don't know, being blinded by loving her and being too close to her, what that woman was capable of, what she was under that beautiful exterior of hers. Or maybe you do at that. Maybe you found out tonight for the first time. Is that right?"

I said, "You're righter than you know, Adrian."

"Then--let's do this. Let's go to the best lawyer I know. Right now. We'll wake him up in the middle of the night. We'll talk it over with him and then you give yourself up, taking his advice on what to say and what not to say. If you're guilty, I doubt if he's going to be able to get you a habeas corpus, but he can--"

"No, Adrian," I said. "Listen, can you make a car backfire?"

"Can I-- Are you crazy?"

"Can you?"

"You'd have to disconnect the muffler or something, wouldn't you?"

"I don't think so, Adrian. Your engine's still running, isn't it? Try turning the ignition off and on and goosing the gas pedal at the same time. I mean it. Go ahead and try it. I want to know, for sure."

He turned and stared at me a moment in the dimness of the car, and then he leaned forward and turned the ignition key. There was a loud backfire.

"Couple more times," I said. "I want to see how close together you can space them, doing it on purpose that way."

"You want to draw the cops here?"

"I'll take a chance on that. You want me to give myself up anyway."

He tried it; the explosions were only about a second apart.

I said, "All right, let's go."

"To Taggert's? You're really going to follow through with that silly business of wanting the role in the Bluebeard play?"

"Yes."