Call After Midnight (28 page)
“You can’t—you’ve got no evidence—”
“By the time we get through with your car out there, there’ll be evidence. We’ll find your gun, that’ll be evidence. Right now I’ve got a fingerprint and it’s yours.” He made an easy movement and like a trick of magic had a revolver in his hand. He looked at Peter and Cal, yet at the same time seemed to watch Art. “That fingerprint held us up. We couldn’t identify it. One of my boys failed to get fingerprints from everybody in the house; next day he got them all but he also got Furby’s fingerprints just because Furby was here then. My young fellow decided he’d made another mistake in getting Furby’s fingerprints so he just put those away. He had his day off, got back on duty tonight, found out I was trying to identify a strange print and made a clean breast of it. He also brought out your fingerprints, Furby.” Parenti mused and said gloomily, “But he’s hell on speeders. We get more speeders than murders. All right, Furby, come on.”
“Oh, he killed her,” Dodson said shrilly. “He did it. I’ll be your witness. I said that he was at home the night Mrs. Vleedam was killed and that Blanche Fair phoned to him, but she didn’t. He wasn’t there. She only pretended to talk to him. I’ll be your witness.”
Parenti said, “You’ll go to jail. Attempted extortion—blackmail—failure to report what you knew to be a murder tonight. Were you planning to blackmail Furby?”
Art said, “All right. It really doesn’t matter now. Nothing much matters. She made me do it.”
“How?” Cal said.
“Because she was so strong,” Art said in a kind of whisper, looking at nothing. “Stronger than I am. Oh, I know what you all think of me—good enough when he knows the answers but only Art Furby. Maybe I’m weak inside—but I’ve put up a good face. But Blanche saw through me. She knew she could make me do anything she wanted me to do. Ever since she came to work for me—I loved her, you see. She began to hint first, you know—just hints. If we could get rid of Fiora we’d both be better off. She said she’d got Peter where she wanted him. She said that he’d marry her if it weren’t for Fiora, and then she’d see to it that I got the recognition I deserve. She said I ought to be president of the company, not Cal. She said that if she married Peter nothing would change. It would be just the same with us, with Blanche and me, the way it’s been all this time. Nothing would change. And then she planned it—but at first as if she didn’t really mean it, just showing me how it
could
be done. But then—but then all at once I knew she did mean it and—well, I meant it, too. So I did it. I was scared, sure. I didn’t want to. But you don’t know how hard it is to murder anybody! I blundered the first time I tried it. I went home, glad I was out of it. But then later Blanche phoned—and said the police and the doctor had come and gone. She said she was here, in the library, using that phone and nobody could hear her. She said to look out for Jenny, wait till Jenny went to bed. She said she’d opened the back door.” He glanced scornfully at Dodson. “Waldo was asleep, didn’t hear me leave. I knew I had to come back and try again. I went up the back stairs and listened and waited. I was scared. I was about to leave in spite of Blanche when I heard Jenny go downstairs, and then Peter went downstairs—and then I heard Blanche and Cal in the hall so I waited again. But they came back and I—I put a stocking over my face and went into Fiora’s room and—did what Blanche told me to do. But then,” Art said bleakly, “it wasn’t enough. She said I had to get rid of Jenny. I tried—Blanche planned everything.”
“She got the sleeping pills and the empty bottles?” Cal asked.
“Oh”—Art lifted his head with a ghost of pride—” that was my idea. I thought sleeping pills would be the easiest way to kill Jenny—if I could get them down her somehow. I didn’t know exactly how. But it seemed a good idea to scare Jenny, break her nerve, make it look as if she’d been very depressed, so later on when I’d figured out a way to give them to her the police would think she’d committed suicide. Fiora hid the bottles in the guest room Blanche used and Blanche found them. Blanche helped with the bottles but didn’t think I had such a good idea. She kept asking how I was going to make Jenny take pills and—” The faint pride left his voice. “The fact is I hadn’t really got that planned. I was trusting to chance. A mistake. I guess Blanche never made mistakes. I was to do the killing. She said she didn’t care how. I tried. I thought first I’d use my gun again and then get rid of it, drop it in the Sound. Then I thought a rope would be better, just get Jenny alone and put it around her throat and—but that wouldn’t have looked like suicide. But I tell you it’s very hard to murder anybody! I failed all around. Blanche said so. But she didn’t know how it was—something stopped me every time. Blanche said I’d have to deliver the telegram the next day—there was an art student in the museum—Jenny got a new lock but then Blanche found the locksmith, got a duplicate key and gave it to me and I left more of the pills—and then I thought how I could scare Jenny into taking the pills herself. I phoned her and whispered and—but she wouldn’t and Blanche laughed at that tonight. She said I’d blundered at everything. She came tonight. She’d hired a car and driven herself. I’ve got to get rid of that car, too—” He gave a start and pushed his hands over his face. “No, no, it’s too late for that. Well, you see she said, if I didn’t get rid of Jenny, she would. I’d had enough of killing. I’m the wrong kind of man to do murder. I guess—I guess I’m a blunderer. So I warned Jenny. I had to. I wasn’t going to kill any more. Blanche said she had evidence about Fiora’s murder, evidence that would convict me. I don’t know whether she really had or not—but I had to free myself. Now nothing really matters though. I did love her—from the beginning. She was everything that I wasn’t. She was my—life,” he said, “but I couldn’t go on killing.”
So he had tried to warn her, Jenny thought. He had known that Blanche would never give up.
Art said, “Blanche said I’d botched everything—I guess I did. She said it would be easy to kill Jenny but it wasn’t.” He walked past them and out of the room as if he didn’t see any of them.
Parenti said, “You too,” and gave Dodson a shove with his revolver. There were sounds in the hall, voices, footsteps. Cal went out into the hall. Peter stood like a stone. Mrs. Brown said slowly, “He didn’t have a chance once Blanche got hold of him. She was ambitious. You should have known better, Peter.”
Peter didn’t seem to hear her. Cal came back. “Parenti says we can go back to town if you want to, Jenny.”
Peter looked up then.
Mrs. Brown rose. “You can’t have everything, Peter,” she said firmly. “Jenny’s got a right to live her own life.”
Peter drew himself up. “Why, certainly,” he said. “I’m not stopping her. I’ll be very lonely—”
“Not for long,” Mrs. Brown said rather distinctly.
Parenti and a young policeman came in. Parenti said to Peter, “We all make mistakes. It looked cut and dried, you and your former wife giving each other alibis. I guess,” he said handsomely, “I couldn’t see the forest for the trees.”
Peter said obscurely but as handsomely, “Not at all.”
Parenti addressed Cal. “The laboratory will need your car for a while. He’ll take you in to town.” He nodded at the young policeman.
“Are you sure you want to leave Peter?” Cal said to Jenny. His voice was cool and impersonal, his eyes very watchful.
But she had already left Peter, Jenny thought; she had run from his hands that would have held her, as fast as she could, to Cal. “Yes,” she said.
Peter stood on the steps and watched them leave. Skipper went with them; he bounded into the car and Peter said in his most stately way that Jenny could keep the dog if she wanted him. Victor turned up from somewhere, his hand under Peter’s elbow; he said, cheerfully, “Things will be okay, Mr. Vleedam.” Mrs. Brown came out, her flowered kimono brilliant, and stood at Peter’s other elbow. Somebody would always take care of Peter.
Skipper clambered into the front seat after a while and growled at toll gates and traffic as they neared the city. They were on the East Side Drive when the policeman. said over his shoulder, “Where now, Mr. Calendar?”
Cal roused from some deep thought. “I don’t exactly know,” he said. “But I’ve got an idea—oh, you mean my address. Cross here on Eighty-fifth Street—”
The sudden swerve threw Jenny against Cal, into his arms; he held her there.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 1964 by Mignon G. Eberhart
cover design by Heidi North
978-1-4532-5729-6
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