After Midnight (11 page)

It was midnight when Simon unlocked the front door, punched the chime button and let the gay notes of “Give My Regards to Broadway,” announce his return. Hannah’s light was visible from the driveway, and the chimes were one of the touches Simon had added to the mansion to brighten the dull declining years of a gallant lady.

He found her upstairs at the card table with a ream of yellow sheets spread out before her and a collection of ball point pens lined up like weapons in a gun rack.

“I’m writing my memoirs,” she announced.

“Are you sure the world is ready for them?” Simon asked.

“Definitely. I’ve made a list of all my best friends and am prepared to detail every bit of dirty gossip I ever heard about them. If it’s not dirty enough, I’ll improvise.”

“In four letter words,” Simon suggested.

“No. Four letter words are old hat. I intend to use three letter words. They’re much more suggestive. For instance: ‘He walked into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. He could see the beckoning outline of her nude body on the bed. He walked toward her and—’”

“Three dots?”

“Three spaces. Simon, I expect my readers to have
livid
imagination. I’m not going through this creative agony for children! … But, speaking of children, how did you make out with the Black Widow?”

Simon turned his back.

“No knives,” he said.

“Good! That one was close, Simon. I’m glad it’s over.”

She waited for comment. Her eyes were bright and penetrating, and when he didn’t answer she added:

“It is over, isn’t it?”

“All but a few details,” Simon said. “I’ll get the Drambouie.”

He went to the bar and poured the liqueur into the two long-stemmed crystal glasses, and when he returned to the table Hannah’s eyes were still leaping to conclusions that were only too apt to be right.

“What details?” she asked.

“I’m not sure,” he answered. “Where’s the evening paper?”

“I cancelled the subscription. I didn’t like the editorials.”

“Oh, fine! Now how do I get a list of ship sailings?”

“Ship sailings? Are you sending the widow out of the country?”

“It might not be a bad idea—but that’s not what I had in mind. Hannah—think. What happened today? Wanda Warren wasn’t indicted for the murder of her husband. That’s all. But her husband was murdered and consequently there is a murderer. A very disappointed murderer because a case that could have been tied up tight at that hearing is now wide open again.”

Hannah nibbled the end of her pen thoughtfully.

“‘I’ll gild the faces of the groom withal …’” she reflected. “Yes, I follow you, Simon, I may even be ahead of you. If Wanda is innocent, and I stress the if, she may be in danger. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? But what do you want with the ship sailings?”

“Motivation,” Simon said. “The first day I was inside the Warren house I heard Franzen say that Roger Warren lived beyond somebody else’s means. That started me thinking what any red-blooded defense attorney would think. If Roger lived beyond somebody else’s means, whose means did he live beyond? If I knew the answer to that question, I might know why he’s no longer among the living.”

“Explain,” Hannah said.

“I can’t—yet. The idea’s still in the embryo stage. But you were at the trial, Hannah. You heard the testimony. Why do you think Roger Warren wanted possession of that tennis trophy he’d won in his college days?”

“To use as a doorstop?”

Hannah wanted him to drop the whole matter—that’s why she was being so coy. But her words had the opposite effect from healing levity; instead, Simon lapsed into a deep silence that lasted until she cracked him on the shins with her cane.

“Doorstop,” he repeated. “The door does bang—but only when it’s closed from the outside. That’s it! Hannah, the story I concocted for the jury could be absolutely true! The door on the Warren house was banging because
somebody left that house when there was no one alive or awake who could close the door after him.”

“Or her?” Hannah suggested.

“Or her. And so, naturally, Wanda’s recall stops short of the murder because she was sleeping off a drunk in the bedroom when Roger was knifed.”

“Twelve good men and true on the jury have already bought that argument,” Hannah reminded him. “Why are you still trying to convince yourself? No, don’t answer that. I know. It’s simple chemistry.”

“Hannah, don’t be foolish,” Simon admonished.

“Oh, I have been—many times. Some of the times were the happiest of my life. But this isn’t one of them, Simon. You’re bugged for a beautiful woman who frightens you because she just might be a husband killer—and no charm school recommends that kind of background for togetherness.”

Hannah pushed back her chair and came painfully to her feet. At such times, late at night, the years rolled in and almost overwhelmed her stubborn vitality—but never her elegance. She picked up the long-stemmed glass and drained the rest of the Drambouie, and then she looked down at Simon and winked.

“Don’t fall for your own gimmick,” she said, knowing perfectly well that it was already too late.

A trial both excited and exhausted Simon. It was nine o’clock before he opened his eyes and blinked at the sunlight streaming through the ceiling high windows that faced the sea. There was something indecent about so much light when a man was in a semiconscious condition and unable to defend himself. He drew up to a sitting position. His eyes adjusted to the glare. Simultaneously, he yanked the sheets up to his armpits. Hannah, handsomely swathed in an ivory satin robe with a mink collar, stood at the foot of the bed.

“Turn on your television,” she ordered.

“Please,” Simon begged, “not on an empty stomach!”

Hannah didn’t answer. She located the bedside switch and brought the little monster on the opposite wall into instant living color. The first face Simon saw was the handsome, arrogant profile of Commander Warren—barely cognizant of the eager newscaster interviewing him.

“… of course I’m not satisfied with the verdict!” he announced. “My son was murdered and I intend to find his killer even if the law isn’t interested in seeing justice done. That’s why I’m offering twenty-five thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest
and
the conviction of the murderer.”

Simon groaned.

“Turn it off,” he said.

“Wait,” Hannah cautioned. “He may mention you again.”

“Again?”

Hannah put a finger to her lips and Simon listened.

“I stress the conviction of the killer,” the commander repeated, moving close enough to the camera to completely eliminate his interrogator, “because what I’m after is evidence so conclusive that no unprincipled, opportunistic, self-aggrandizing lawyer can twist it into another acquittal!”

Hannah switched off the set.

“He didn’t even call me brilliant,” Simon said.

“Can’t we sue for libel or defamation of character?” Hannah asked.

“No, but we might send a check for the free publicity … twenty-five thousand dollars! The old boy’s really hurt, isn’t he? I wonder …”

Simon knotted the sheet about his waist and reached for the telephone. He dialed Wanda’s number, waited and then heard her say, wearily, “I’m sorry but Mrs. Warren can’t be disturbed—”

“Mrs. Warren is lousy at disguising her voice,” Simon interrupted. “Is your television on?”

It could have been interference on the line. It could even have been that the line was bugged and Franzen hadn’t had time to take the bug off. Then everything was quiet.

“Oh,” Wanda said, “it’s you, Mr. Drake. No, my TV is off. Should it be on?”

“No. I was just being cute. What I really want to know is what kind of night you had.”

“The night was fine,” Wanda said. “I took a pill. Two pills. But this morning the phone started ringing at dawn and it hasn’t stopped.”

“Cranks?”

“A few. Mostly reporters. Mr. Drake, I was offered ten thousand dollars for the story of my life—”

“Tell them you don’t know how it ends,” Simon said. “And stay in the house until you hear from me.”

“When—?”

Simon glanced at his watch.

“I have to make a short trip,” he said, “but I’ll drop by for a cocktail at five. Relax and look beautiful.”

Simon dropped the telephone back in the cradle and made a face at Hannah.

“All right, live dangerously,” Hannah said. “Maybe you’ll be the lucky one to get the commander’s twenty-five thousand dollars.

Charley Becker’s Cove was a sorry place at ten in the morning. The coffee counter opened officially at eight and caught a light trucker trade, but the cafe was too far out on the highway to draw a coffee break crowd. When Simon parked the Jaguar in the parking area, there was no one on the premises except Becker and a Negro cook. Simon ordered coffee and studied the horizon through the seaward windows. It was a clear day and the black hull of the commander’s yacht was clearly visible.

“Mr. Drake,” Becker said, “I’m a fellow who likes to mind his own business, but I can’t help wondering why you’ve come back here. I told my story to the police. I told it to you. I told it to the jury at the trial. Now, so far as I’m concerned, the Warren murder case is closed.”

“The commander doesn’t think so,” Simon said.

“So I’ve heard,” Becker answered.

“Twenty-five thousand dollars is a lot of money,” Simon added. “Somebody may need it enough to make a try.”

“Like I need about half that much to clear title on this place. Believe me, if I knew one thing more than I already told, I’d be heading straight for that yacht right now.”

Simon drained his cup and placed a coin on the counter. “Which reminds me,” he said, “I want to rent a boat.”

Becker’s face had a kind of ingrown scowl faintly reminiscent of a pug dog.

“He’ll throw you overboard,” he warned.

“I can swim,” Simon said.

Simon rented a small green boat with one motor and made it across the shallows without mishap. Alongside the yacht, he hailed a deck hand and asked permission to board. The first face he saw was that of the mate, McKay. “I’m Simon Drake,” he called out, “and I’ve come to see Commander Warren about his son’s killer.”

The choice of words was effective. The landing ladder came down and Simon climbed up. Moments later, he was inside Commander Warren’s cabin. It was a changing world and there was vigorous debate as to whether the changes were good or bad, but in the presence of Commander Warren tradition had no competition. Mahogany paneled walls were hung with photographs of ships and navy personnel he had commanded through two wars. The desk was spartan clean—except for a silver framed photograph of a handsome young Annapolis undergrad. Roger Warren. Nobody else. Gray and haggard from the ordeal of the trial, the commander was nevertheless impeccably attired in gray flannels and a navy yachting jacket with a jaunty polka dot ascot scarf that belied his spirits.

He greeted Simon with characteristic bluntness.

“What have you come to tell me about my daughter-in-law?” he asked. “She has no claim to Roger’s estate. There isn’t any. I disinherited him legally. He gets exactly twenty-five dollars in my will. Tell your client she can sue for it when I die.”

“I didn’t come to see you about my client,” Simon said.

“I was told that you came to see me about my son’s killer.”

“I did. But Mrs. Warren wasn’t indicted—or don’t you have faith in American legal procedures?”

The commander took a narrow cigar from a humidor on his desk and snipped off the end.

“Don’t wave the flag at me, young man,” he said. “I’ve served my country long enough to know what can happen to the blindfolded lady when a clever lawyer goes into action. You gave a perfect demonstration of that when you tried to connect me with Nancy Armitage.”

Simon smiled. “That did touch a nerve, didn’t it?” he said.

“Now you’re doing it again!” the Commander cried. “I never laid eyes on that woman until she walked into Duane Thompson’s office with her story. Why did she withdraw it, Drake? Do you know?”

“My lips are sealed,” Simon said. “Maybe twenty-five thousand dollars will unlock hers.”

“So that’s it! I knew an offer of money would attract something. I didn’t think it would be you.”

“It doesn’t attract me,” Simon answered. “It puzzles me. I wonder why Commander Warren of the justly proud record and justly proud name is so anxious to keep scandal alive. It might be better to let sleeping dogs lie.”

Nobody bluffed Commander Warren. The cigar between his fingers was forgotten. He glared at Simon.

“Did my son’s wife send you here to say that?” he demanded. “What’s she got in mind now—blackmail? Oh, I admit she’s physically pleasing. I’m sure Roger didn’t marry her for her I.Q. All right, she’s still got her body. She can use it on another man the way she used it on Roger.”

“No wonder Mrs. Warren jumped ship!” Simon exploded. “Did it ever occur to you that a woman is a sensitive being like yourself? That she’s something more than a toy to have fun with or an incubator to perpetuate the species? No, I don’t think it has. If it had you might have made a man of your son instead of a spoiled brat!”