Face to Face (12 page)

“Let's take this step by step, Mr. Hathaway. You could hardly wait to tell your pal John Tumelty, or Spotty, as you call him, about your good fortune, so you went to the place where he usually operated, in Central Park, and you did find him. Did you speak to him the moment you found him?”

“How could I? I come up the walk and I spot him stopping this young broad—lady. So I wait behind a bush till he's through.”

“He was begging a handout from a young lady. Do you see that young lady, Mr. Hathaway, in this courtroom?”

“Sure I do.”

“Oh, you do? Would you point her out to us, please?”

Mugger's cleansed forefinger pointed smack at Lorette Spanier.

“Let the record show,” said Frankell briskly, “that the witness indicated Miss Lorette Spanier, the defendant.” He was all confidence now. “Now I want you to pay close attention, Mr. Hathaway, and be very sure you answer with the exact truth. Did you, at the time you were in the bushes while Spotty was talking to Miss Spanier in Central Park—did you have occasion to glance at the watch the intoxicated man had given you?”

“You betcha.”

“Why did you look at the watch?”

“Why did I look at it? Say, I'd been looking at it all the way uptown to the park. I hadn't had a watch for so long I couldn't hardly believe I wasn't dreaming.”

“So when you looked at the watch while your pal Spotty was accosting Miss Spanier, you were doing so simply because of the novelty of it? The novelty of having a watch to look at after so many years?”

“You could say that,” said Mugger, nodding. “Yeah, that's it, all right. The novelty.”

“By the way, do you happen to know if the watch was set accurately?”

“Come again?”

“Was the watch telling the right time?”

“Was it! I checked it against the street clocks and the clocks in stores must have been a dozen times on my way up. What's the good having a watch if it don't give you the right time?”

“No good at all, Mr. Hathaway, I agree absolutely. So your watch was set to the right time, according to a dozen clocks you consulted on your walk uptown.” Frankell asked casually, “And what time did your watch tell you it was when you saw Spotty stop Miss Spanier for a handout?”

Mugger said promptly, “Twenty minutes to twelve on the schnozz.”

“Twenty minutes to twelve on the schnozz. You're sure of that, Mr. Hathaway?”

“Sure I'm sure. Ain't I just got through telling you? Twenty minutes to twelve.”

“This was twenty minutes to midnight?”

“I just said it.”

“On the night of Wednesday, December thirtieth last, the night before New Year's Eve—the night Glory Guild was murdered?”

“Yes, sir.”

“
In
Central Park?”

“In Central Park.”

Frankell turned and began to walk back toward the defense table. The expression on the district attorney's face seemed to stir his sympathy. He smiled sadly in the D.A.'s direction, as if to say, Sorry, old man,
mais c'est la guerre, n'est-ce pas
? But then he suddenly turned back to Mugger.

“Oh, one thing more. Did Miss Spanier—the young lady sitting over there—did she give Spotty anything after his pitch?”

“Yeah. After she walked away and I stepped out of the bushes and went over to Spotty, he showed me the quarter she give him, like it was a bonanza.” Mugger shook his head. “Poor old Spots. A lousy—a measly quarter, and me with half a C note in my jeans. I almost didn't have the heart to show it to him.”

“Did you happen to notice in which direction Miss Spanier walked after she left Spotty?”

“Sure, she walked west. It was on the cross-town walk, so she had to be headed for the West Side exit.”

“Thank
you
, Mr. Hathaway,” said Frankell tenderly. “Your witness,” he waved to the district attorney. Who rose from his chair slightly stooped over, as if he had a bellyache.

31

In the innocent orgy celebrating Lorette's acquittal, there was unanimous agreement that she was indeed the child of fortune. How she had come to forget about the derelict who had accosted her during her walk across the Park after leaving her aunt she could not say; it had simply left no impression on her. As Ellery reminded her, if it had not been for an openhanded drunk, a thunderstruck mugger, and a panhandling wino, Lorette would probably have wound up on the unpleasant side of the verdict. (He did not remind her that someone had permanently stopped the mouth of the wino to keep it from wagging in just such a courtroom—the same someone who had planted the Colt Detective in her Saks box. After all, it was a celebration.)

Even Curtis Perry Hathaway, who was included at Lorette's insistent invitation, and who was drinking Irish whisky with both hands, seemed affected. He still bore the scars of his cross-examination at the hands of the district attorney, who had swung wildly from both hips. But Mr. Hathaway had not yielded an inch; Horatius, Harry Burke had dubbed him. Mugger's pockets were full of newspaper clippings attesting to his importance; he looked exhausted, dazzled, full of the milk of
simpático
as well as Duggan's Dew, and totally unbelieving. It was the supreme moment of his life.

Too, now that she was forever free of the charge of murder, cracks had become visible in Lorette's British armor. She was laughing immoderately, chattering away with everyone within earshot; but her unplucked brows were drawn together as if she were in pain, or seeing badly, her blue eyes were mere slits, as if the light hurt them, and the cups of her nostrils looked like unglazed china. It would take very little, Ellery thought, to break her down and start those amazing eyes flowing. At the same time there was a new hardness about her mouth. The childish pout was gone. Instant maturity, he thought. She had gone into this an adolescent and come out of it a woman. And he sighed.

“You look as if you've swallowed a bad oyster,” Harry Burke remarked to him a little later. “What's the trouble, chum?”

“Face,” Ellery grumbled.

“Whose?” asked Burke, looking around.

“I don't know, Harry.
That's
the trouble.”

“Oh.”

Whose face had GeeGee Guild meant?

32

“Something's the matter.” Burke said to her.

“It's nothing, Harry.” Roberta said. “Really.”

“You can't fool me, duck. Not any more. It's Lorette, isn't it?”

“Well …”

“You ought to slow up a bit, Bert. On the Armando business, I mean. You can't keep mothering her. Seems dangerously near resenting it.”

“Oh, Harry, I don't want to talk about it! The whole thing has me on the verge of throwing up. Please. Put your arms around me.”

Lorette had diplomatically gone to bed—at least she had retired to her bedroom—and they were alone in the cathedral vastness of the penthouse living room.

With Roberta in his arms, Burke closed his eyes. She felt so warm and
right.
The whole world had a rightness these days that not even the periodic sight on the premises of Carlos Armando's dark, pitted face could upset. Why had he wasted all these bachelor years?

Roberta settled herself more deeply into his arms, snuggling like a tired child.

“Harry, I didn't know a man could feel so good,” she murmured. “I'm so downright grateful.”

“Grateful?”

“It's the only word. I wish …”

“Yes, Bertie?”

“Nothing.”

“You can't begin a sentence like that and leave it dangling! Wish what?”

“Oh, that you'd come along years ago, if you must know.”

“You do, luvvie?”

“I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it. You make me feel—I don't know—the way a woman ought to feel, I suppose. Not …”

“Not what?”

“Never mind.”

“The way Armando made you feel when you were in love with him?”

She sat up then, fiercely pushing him away. “Don't ever say that to me again, Harry Burke. Ever! I was a ninny. Worse than a ninny. I look back on it now and it seems as if it happened to somebody else. All of it. It did happen to somebody else. I'm not the same person I was then.” Her voice trembled. “And you've made the difference, Harry. Don't—see how shameless I am!—don't ever stop making the difference.”

“I won't,” Burke said, softly; and this time when they kissed there was no nonsense about lust feelings or lips surprised into tenderness. It was the kiss of rightness, ordained by the nature of things, and Burke knew he was hooked. They were both hooked. And it was marvelous.

33

“Then it is serious.” Ellery said a few days later.

Burke arched his sandy brows across the luncheon table.

“You and Roberta West.”

The Scotsman looked uncomfortable. “You do keep after a man. What's your line of reasoning this time?”

“Your last excuse for not winging home was that you felt a responsibility for Lorette Spanier. Lorette's out of the woods, and you linger. If it isn't Lorette, it has to be little Robby. Does she know it yet? How long does a thing like this take you Scots?”

“We're a canny tribe,” Burke said, pink-cheeked. “A generally monogamous breed. That sort of thing takes time. Yes, it's serious, chappie, and be damned to you.”

“Does Roberta know it yet?”

“I think she does.”

“You think! What do you two talk about, anyway?”

“There are some things, Horatio, that are simply none of your affair.” Burke seemed anxious to change the subject. “Anything new on the case?”

“Nothing.”

“Then you've abandoned ship?”

“The hell you say. That face business haunts my bed. By the way, what's this I hear about Lorette and Carlos Armando?” The gossip columns were ripe with hints, and Ellery had not seen Lorette since the night of the celebration.

“It's incredible,” Burke said angrily. “The bugger has the gall of a brass monkey, or do I have it mixed up? Women mystify me. You'd think Lorette would see through him. She's a practical girl! But apparently she's as helpless as the rest of the geese when he turns on the charm.”

“You have to be born with it,” Ellery said. “Well, I'm sorry to hear it. Armando's record should speak for itself.”

“To you and me and the rest of male humanity,” Burke snapped. “To these women it's a foreign language.”

“No way to disillusion her?”

“God knows Roberta's trying. As a matter of fact,” and the Scotsman banged the dottle from his pipe, “it's beginning to come between the girls. I've tried to get Bert to take it a bit easy, but Armando is a thing with her. She detests him, and she can't bear to see Lorette getting involved.”

Ellery heard from Burke about the blowup between Lorette and Roberta West the following week. Their fight over Armando had reached the moment of truth.

“Look, darling,” Roberta had said. “It
is
none of my business, but I can't stand seeing you sucked in by that—that human quicksand.”

“Roberta,” Lorette had said, chin up. “I'd rather not discuss Carlos with you anymore.”

“But someone has to pound some sense into you! Letting him send you flowers, date you, hang around here till all hours—don't you realize what you're getting yourself into?”

“Roberta—”

“No, I'm going to say it. Lorette, you're being silly. You've no experience of men, and Carlos's got pelts like yours hanging on his belt by the dozen. He isn't even being clever about it with you. Can't you see that all he wants is the money he didn't get after he married your Aunt Glory?”

Lorette's temper had surged in like surf. But she had made an effort, and half turned away, clenching her little hands. “And can't you stop trying to run my life?”

“But I'm
not
, darling. I'm only trying to keep you out of the clutches of one of the world's ace heels. Who happens to be a murderer, besides.”

“Carlos murdered no one!”

“He masterminded it, Lorette. He's guiltier than she is. Whoever she is.”

“I don't believe it!”

“Do you think I'd lie about it?”

“Perhaps you would!”

“Why should I? I've told you over and over how Carlos tried to get me to do it for him—”

Lorette had faced her then, her perky nose the color of pearl. “Roberta, I've changed my mind about you. I didn't believe you were that sort, but now I see that you are. You envy me. You're eaten up with it.”

“Me? Envious of you?”

“Of the money Aunt Glory left me. And of Carlos's interest in me!”

“You're out of your everloving mind, darling. I'm glad about your good luck. And, as for Carlos's attentions, I'd rather be chased by a shark; I'd be a lot safer. And so would you.”

“You
admitted
you were gone on him—”

“That was before I found out what he is. Anyway, that horrible chapter in my life is finished, thank God. If you must know, Lorette, I'm in love with Harry Burke, and I'm sure Harry's in love with me. I couldn't care less about that hand-slobbering monster—”

“That's enough, Roberta.” Lorette was shaking. “If you can't keep from slandering Carlos …”

She stopped.

“You were going to say that you want me to leave, weren't you?” Roberta asked quietly.

“I said if you can't keep—”

“I know what you said, Lorette. I'll move out the minute I can find a place. Unless you'd rather I did it today—right now?”

The two girls had glared at each other. Finally Lorette had said in her chilliest British voice, “It isn't necessary to do it today. But, under the circumstances, I do think it would be better if we broke off this arrangement as soon as convenient.”

“I'll be out of here by tomorrow morning.”

And Roberta was. She moved into a Y, and Harry Burke helped her find an apartment. It was a dark one-and-a-half roomer on York Avenue, in a rundown building, with bars on the street-level window and a bathroom washbowl that had half its porcelain chipped off and a crack through which the water dripped. There was a bar on the corner of the block from which men reeled at all hours.

“It's a stinking hole, Bertie,” Burke said crossly. “I can't imagine why you took it. If you'd listen to reason—”

“You mean take money from you?”

“Well, what's wrong with that?”

“Everything, Harry, although you're a dear to offer it.”

He looked helpless and furious.

“It's not so bad,” Roberta said softly, “and at least it's furnished. Anyway, I can't afford anything better. And I'd much rather live here than in Lorette's penthouse watching that animal pull her down with him.”

“But it's a rough neighborhood!”

“Lorette's place,” said Roberta, “is loads rougher.”

So she moved in with her few belongings, and Harry Burke became her private security guard. He may have made his self-appointment harder than the job actually was—there were plenty of other people living in the building who could not afford higher rents, and they seemed to survive the hazards of the neighborhood—but one night Burke collared a dish-haired youth in a shiny black jacket and jackboots as the boy crouched at Roberta's window, peeping hotly through the bars and the crack in the drapes at the undressing girl. The Scot did not call the police. He took the boy's switchblade away, kicked him in the tail, and warned him as he fled that the building was off limits to beats, kooks, deviates, perverts in all classifications, and just plain mischief-hunters, and to be sure to tell his friends. After that, Burke felt better. He even fixed the unreliable front door lock at his own expense, saying to Roberta, “That ought to kill the myth that Scots are tight with their money.” Roberta kissed him rather more warmly than his 49¢ expenditure warranted; so he bought heaven for three and six, which even in Scotland would have been held a bargain.