False colors (11 page)

I made a startled movement. The knife feinted at me, pulled back. "Alive?"

"Yeah, alive. I don't figure that does me much good. You probably jumped her in the dark. I don't guess she could clear me. So I'm still framed for attempted murder."

"Take it easy a moment," I said desperately. "Let me think about this."

He was awfully close now. Almost in striking range. And I had to have a minute to think about his story. It didn't seem so screwy now. A couple of things fit into it. A man had telephoned Nick, not a woman. Nick had written down the address, so the place must be strange to him. Whoever telephoned him said to use the stairs, not the elevator, because Nick had printed the word stairs and underlined it. If the idea was to frame Nick, the fact that he sneaked up the stairway would make him look guilty. And that green-blue length of silk—would a violent guy like Nick use that for murder? He might choke somebody with his hands or beat them to a pulp or use a knife but—

"Thinking won't do you any good," Nick said. "You want to make a run for the door, or should I let you have it right here?"

"You just missed a murder charge! What do you want to walk into another for?"

"I'm not doing any ten to twenty years on this rap. I'd just as soon it was murder. It'll be worth it to get you."

"But you got the wrong guy," I gasped. "I was at your rooming house. Your landlady can tell you that. She told me about

the phone call that brought you here. How would I know about that if-"

"You ought to know about the call. You made it."

He was weaving outside my guard, waiting for an opening. His eyes were black as bullet holes in a target. "I know more than just about the call," I said quickly. "You had a pencil. You made notes on that oilcloth by the phone. You wrote down Rittenhouse Arms and printed the word stairs and underlined it and you wrote the apartment number, 6B. Then you asked the landlady if you could look out through her windows and see if the street was clear. How would I know all that if I made the call?"

The knife swayed gently back and forth, like a cobra waiting to strike. But his eyes blinked. They stopped looking so dull and cold. "That's pretty fancy," he said. "I always thought the dame who runs that joint was okay. But maybe you bought her off. Maybe she gave you a call right after I left. Maybe—"

A sound cut him short. A scream. It came out of Kay Raymond's throat in a blast that was like a knife twisting into your ears. She was on her feet, backing away from us, eyes big with horror. Then she turned and grabbed up a chair and sent it crashing through the front window without losing a beat of her scream.

The sound yanked Nick around like a puppet on a string. He stood there half-paralyzed. I went for the knife. I chopped down at his wrist with the edge of my palm and saw the knife spin in a quick bright arc that ended on the floor. I dove for it before he could move. The scream was still going on worse than ever. It felt like madness boiling in my head. I couldn't think very straight and maybe I was going to do the wrong thing but it might be worth a chance.

"Beat it!" I howled at Nick. "Get out! When the cops come you'll be sunk."

He stared at me, mouth sagging, as if he was hearing something crazier than the scream. I snapped the knife shut and threw it at him. He caught it, stood a moment longer, turned and ran out. Kay was still screaming. It was like an air raid

siren with its wires shorted. She would go on that way until she burned out her throat unless somebody stopped her. Downstairs in the lobby the desk clerk and elevator captain and everybody else would be running around trying to figure what was wrong. If Nick burst out of the fire stairs and tried to run across the lobby they'd probably grab him—unless I gave them something else to think about.

Kay was leaning out of the broken window sending her screech into the night. I yanked her away from it and threw her onto the couch and jumped to the telephone, "The desk!" I shouted into it. "Give me the desk! I'm up here in 6B. You got a woman having hysterics. Get up here fast." I kept jabbering into the phone, and turning to tell Kay to shut up and switching back to the frantic guy at the desk, and finally a mess of people came boiling into the place and I dropped the phone and sank into a chair.

For a few minutes nobody paid any attention to me and I could have walked out. It wouldn't have done much good, though. Kay had recognized me, and some of the people who had rushed in would remember my face. Besides, I wanted to hear Kay's story. I sat quietly and watched things. A doctor came in and began checking on Kay. Somebody from the apartment staff chased out the sightseers. A big man in a gray suit and black knit tie browsed around the place, picking up the blue-green length of silk and studying it. He seemed to disapprove of the color combination. Now and then he glanced at me.

He wandered over finally and said, "I believe you are the gentleman who telephoned?"

"That's right."

"May I have your name, sir? I'm on the security staff here."

"You mean you're the house detective?"

"We use the term security."

"My name is Peter Meadows. Go ahead and ask questions if you want."

"Questions?" he said, tilting an eyebrow. "Questions are for the police. Unfortunately, I believe it has been necessary to call

them. Miss Raymond indicated that someone tried to strangle her. I trust you plan to wait until they arrive."

"I'll stick around."

"The Rittenhouse Arms," he said, "appreciates your cooperation." He smiled and moved away, but not so far that he couldn't get to the door first if waiting started to bore me.

I walked over to the couch where Kay was lying. It might be nice to find out what she was going to tell the cops. Maybe she had seen the guy who attacked her. If so, I could tell a fairly straight story and wouldn't have to cover up for Nick. If she hadn't seen who jumped her, things might be awkward. She was stretched on the couch with her face matching the creamy-white rug and the long purple welt on her throat turning black. Her eyes were closed. The doctor had just finished checking her pulse.

"How's she doing?" I asked.

"Very well," he said. "A most healthy young woman. She'll have a sore throat but that's all."

"I'd like to ask her what happened."

"Good heavens, man, don't make her talk," he said. "It will be enough strain on her voice to talk to the police. Besides, she hasn't sorted out her impressions yet. The experience was a shock."

"How do you know she hasn't sorted out her impressions?"

He looked coldly at me and said, "Her picture of the event is blurred. For example, she has not quite decided where you fit in."

"You don't mean to say she's going to claim that I—"

"I don't mean to say anything," he snapped. "I am a doctor, not a detective. When she gets over the shock I am quite sure she will be able to tell a clear story."

He had turned slightly to talk to me, and his back was toward Kay. I happened to glance over his shoulder. Kay's eyes were open and she was watching me. As I caught her glance a tiny smile flickered over her lips. I didn't care for the smile. It made me think of a cat grinning at a saucer of cream.

"She's better now," I said. "I want to talk to her."

Kay snapped off the smile and closed her eyes before the doctor peered at her again. "Nonsense," he said. "I won't permit you to question her. There are still signs of shock."

There were signs of shock, all right, but I was the one who had them. Kay was cooking up something and it seemed likely that I wouldn't care for the recipe. I walked to the telephone and picked it up. The house detective walked over quickly. He pushed down the button and broke the connection.

"Just a moment, sir," he said. "Were you planning to use the telephone?"

"Is this thing I have in my hand a telephone? Well, so it is. I must be planning to use it, then."

"We prefer that no calls be made until the police arrive."

"Nobody objected to me using the phone when I called the desk to tell them what was wrong. Take your hand off that connection."

"The police will be upset."

"You'd better start worrying about me being upset. If this business gets in the papers, I wouldn't want to give the Ritten-house Arms a lot of bad publicity."

A house dick would have laughed in my face and yanked the phone away and shoved me into a chair. But this guy had to live up to being a security agent. He removed his hand from the connection button, and murmured, "You understand, my action meant nothing personal."

"Naturally. Now if you'll step across the room we'll all be happy. The Rittenhouse Arms wouldn't want you to eavesdrop."

The guy took a deep, counting-to-ten breath. He produced a smile that squeezed out like the last inch of toothpaste from a tube, and said, "I wouldn't tliink of trying to overhear, sir." He walked across the room.

I gave the Rittenhouse Arms operator the number of the phone at Nancy's house, and sweated out seven rings before William answered. "This is Peter Meadows," I said. "Lay off the quotes this time, William. This is serious. If she's there I've got to talk to her."

"Just a moment," he said.

I waited, and then Nancy's voice came over the wires. "I will listen to one sentence," she said. "It had better be good."

I picked my words carefully, and said, "I am in Kay Raymond's apartment in the Rittenhouse Arms and I am probably going to be arrested on a charge of trying to murder her. Is that good enough? Shall I say good-by now?"

"Oh please, Pete, don't!" she gasped. "Oh, I've been so mean and contrary and I'm so ashamed. How much can you tell me and what can I do to help?"

"Do you know what a habeas corpus is?"

"Sort of vaguely. It gets you out of jail like a hacksaw and a rope ladder, only it's legal."

"That's the idea. I need a lawyer. I know some around town but maybe all they're good for is breaking Aunt Minnie's will. Call up some of your friends and get me a real tough criminal lawyer."

"Yes, Pete. What else?"

"That painting of yours. It's under the desk pad in my office. Pick it up the first thing tomorrow. I don't want anybody else to walk away with it."

"Pete, can you tell me what's going on?"

"I breezed into Kay's apartment just after somebody tried to strangle her. When she came to, she saw me and screamed, and I think she's going to pin it on me. Either she thinks I did it, or she wants to teach me a lesson."

There was a small liquid sound that could have been a gulp. "What," she said in a faint voice, "were you doing in her apartment?"

"It's a long story."

"It... it wouldn't bore me."

"I don't have time to tell you. The cops will be here any moment. Besides, someone may be listening in, through the switchboard."

"It's all my fault," Nancy wailed. "I left all those nasty messages for you today and probably I drove you into that woman's arms."

"As far as I'm concerned she hasn't got arms," I said irritably.

"All she has are long sharp fingernails, and I want no part of them."

"I will be very understanding about it, Pete."

"Quit proving I'm guilty and get me a guy who can prove I'm not, will you?"

"Y-yes, Pete. Just one question. If I had been home today when you called, none of this would have happened, would it?"

I found myself breathing heavily. "Probably not," I said. "But right now I might be in your house, calling Kay to get me a lawyer. If you see what I mean."

"If you had choked me," she said, sniffling, "it would have been no more than I deserved. Good-by, Pete. I'll do my best."

I went back to my chair. It had been a maddening talk, but Nancy couldn't be blamed for jumping to conclusions. It really wasn't much of a jump, just a slight hop. In the past twenty-four hours I had built up a reputation as a guy who got violent with women. Anybody who knew me would sooner believe that a clam has teeth, but Nancy didn't know me very well and any jury that tried me wouldn't know me at all. So, if Kay Raymond put the finger on me, I was due for trouble. Of course there was the Nick Accardi angle as a possible alibi. I gave that story a dry run in my head, and it didn't sound very convincing. So maybe that wouldn't help me.

I had just finished trying to figure how much was ten years with time off for good behavior, when the cops arrived. There were two of them in uniform, and a tired looking detective. He didn't look vigorous enough even to find out who killed Cock Robin.

"McCann," he said. "Detective Bureau. Looking for a Miss Raymond."

"Right over here," the doctor said. "This is Miss Raymond."

McCann walked over to the couch as if his feet hurt him, and pulled out a thick notebook and licked the end of a pencil. "I got to ask some questions, Miss Raymond, if you can talk."

Kay said something in a whisper, and I moved closer so I could hear.

"Sure, I understand, Miss Raymond," McCann said. "I'll try to skip the routine stuff. What happened to you?"

Kay whispered, "I'm not quite sure yet. It's still a little confused in my mind. I was walking past the door that opens into the outside hall and I had a feeling that it was not quite closed. But it often sticks on the rug when you close it, so I wasn't scared. I started to turn around. But some horrible thing suddenly tightened around my throat and I tried to scream and things went dark. I don't know whether they stayed dark for a second or minutes. The next thing I knew I was screaming, and there was a blur in front of me and it turned into a man."

Her whisper was quite faint and I was leaning over the detective's shoulder to hear. He turned, stared at me. "Who are you?" he said indignantly.

"I think I'm the blur," I said.

"What a nerve you got, listening in!" McCann said. "Hey, Joe, take this guy back in the bedroom and hold him there."

One of the cops grabbed my arm and led me to the bedroom. After we entered he shut the door and looked around and whistled. The room was done in silver and crimson, like a package wrapped for Christmas. The windows were draped with red velvet and the wallpaper was silver gray and the big ornate bed had a crimson spread and satin sheets. It was a pretty good French Empire effect, and it made an odd contrast with the harsh modern mood of the living room. If you judged Kay Raymond by the way she decorated her apartment, she didn't know whether she wanted to be sentimental or savage.

"Gee," the cop said, fingering the sheets, "these are real smooth. What is this stuff?"

"Satin," I said.

"What a bed this is I Is it comfortable?"

"Look, Mac, I was never in this room before."

"I don't blame you for watching what you say. But I ain't the detective on this job. You don't have to worry about me."

"I still was never in this room before."

"So okay," he growled. "So you don't wanna talk. I can take a hint."

He dragged a chair in front of the door and sat down grimly on it to play the front half of cops and stranglers. I sat on the edge of the bed. As a matter of fact it was comfortable. I took off my shoes and stretched out on it. The cop scowled at me, and looked as if he wished he knew a law against what I was doing.

Half an hour went by before McCann came into the room. He peered down at me from bleached gray eyes, and said, "First you hang over my shoulder while I'm getting Miss Raymond's story and now you lie around like you own the joint. What the hell kind of a suspect are you?"