Murder Is Served (15 page)

The answer came very quickly, and she knew it came too quickly. But she could not stop herself; could not keep herself from saying, “No” hurriedly, defensively. She thought, spoken so, it became equivalent to “yes.” But the man behind the desk did not seem to notice this.

“Then why?” he said. “Why did you hide?” He looked at her, very straightly. “You did hide, didn't you? Try to keep away from the police? Because the natural thing would have been to go home, when you heard about your husband's death. Or to go to the restaurant. To try to—well, do anything you could to help. Don't you agree, Mrs. Mott? It was because you were afraid, wasn't it?”

“I suppose so,” she said again.

“Then—why? You weren't there, you say. You didn't kill him. Do you know who did? Is that it?”

“No.”

“Then—why? Why, Mrs. Mott?”

She had not expected it to come so quickly, or to come this way. She had thought she would have time. But now, although it was not entirely clear how it had happened, she was already trapped. She had thought there would be time; she had thought it would be, again, running from hole to hole, with fear mounting, hopelessly mounting, but always against it the faint half-hope of escape. She felt a kind of blackness closing about her, and tried to fight it off.

“Why were you afraid?” the man across the desk said, and his voice was insistent. “What was there to be afraid of? You weren't there. You didn't kill him. You don't know who killed him. Why? Why, Mrs. Mott?”

“I—” she said. “We were separated. We hadn't got along. I was afraid—”

“No,” the man behind the desk said. “Oh no, Mrs. Mott. That wouldn't make you afraid.”

She tried to think, she tried to pull it together. She took a deep breath, and thought that the deep breath in itself was a kind of confession.

“I don't know,” she said. “I really don't know. I—I was excited and upset. I just wanted time.” She met his eyes. “I wasn't really afraid,” she said. “I don't know why I said I was. I just wanted time.”

“For what? What did you need time for?”

She had run a little way, toward light she thought was shining through a chink. But there was no light there, really. Why? Why? Why? She hardly knew, for the moment, whether the man across the desk—the police lieutenant—was saying “Why?” or whether the word was forming itself over and over in her mind. She tried to remember; for an instant she could not even answer to herself. Then she remembered.

“Was it because you hated him?” Lieutenant Weigand said. “Was that why? You had threatened him?”

“No. Oh no!”

“But you did hate him?”

“I—no, I didn't hate him.”

“Do you know anybody who did?”

No, her mind said. Oh,
no!
“No,” she said.

“Did Mr. Carey?”

She had not expected that; she had not even been afraid of that. But now she was afraid.

“Of course not,” she said. “Mr. Carey hardly knew him.”

“No?” Weigand said. “No? Right. Because of you, then? Because of something Mott had done to you? That Carey knew about? That made him go after Mott?”

“No.”

“Carey is a friend of yours, isn't he? A—devoted friend?”

“We go around together. I—yes, of course we're friends.” (Oh Weldon! Oh, my dear!)

“More than friends? Was Carey jealous? Afraid you'd go back to Mott?”

“He knew I wouldn't.”

“Because he knew you were in love with him? With Carey?”

“I—I don't—” She did not finish. She could not make herself finish.

“Was that why you were afraid, Mrs. Mott? Afraid it was Mr. Carey who killed your husband?”

“No. I said I wasn't afraid.”

“You said both things,” Weigand told her. “That you were. That you weren't. But you were, of course.” He waited a moment. “Mrs. Mott,” he said, “you're not doing well. You know that, don't you? It's a little thing, surely. Why were you afraid? That's all I want to know.”

Bill Weigand waited. All I want to know—oh no, not by a lot. Not by half. Have I stumbled on something. Bill Weigand wondered. This about Carey? Were they both in it?

“Go on,” he said. “Why were you afraid?”

“I wasn't. I wanted time.”

She would stick to that, for the moment.

“Right,” he said. “You wanted time. You won't say what you wanted time for.” He shook his head. “I'm sorry about this, Mrs. Mott,” he said. “I supposed you could clear everything up, naturally. However—”

He waited a moment, watching her. She was afraid; she was very much afraid. And he had caught her off guard. But now, for the moment, she would stick on this issue. He shifted.

“You say you didn't hate your husband, Mrs. Mott?” he said. He waited for the inevitable “Of course not.” It came.

“You wrote a paper at Dyckman Thursday?” he said. “An examination paper?”

He watched her eyes, her very long, very beautiful eyes. They fixed for an instant, as the mind behind them tried to set itself for this new thing.

“Yes,” she said. The pause had been only momentary.

“About hatred,” he said. “About hating your husband. Wasn't that it?”

“Not Tony,” she said. “Not anyone. It was—just general. Part of the course. I imagined how it would feel and—well, just made it up.”

She seems surer about that, Bill thought. It could be true. Or—she could be getting back on balance. That wasn't what he wanted.

“Right,” he said. “It was all abstract, theoretical. It—”

“You can read it,” she said. “It wasn't about Tony. You can ask Professor Leonard.”

Oh no, pretty lady, Bill Weigand thought. Too quick there. That was a mistake, Mrs. Peggy Mott.

“Can I?” he said. “You think I can?”

“Of course.”

“Then you don't know the paper was stolen? You don't know that somebody tried to kill Leonard? So we couldn't talk to him?”

He watched her eyes; saw them fix again. But this time he was not so sure.

“Oh
no!”
she said. “
No!”

“Somebody stole the paper,” Weigand said. “Somebody stabbed Leonard.”

She believed it, all right—if she had not already known it. And it seemed to Bill Weigand, watching her, that there was more fear now in her eyes—in the blankness of her eyes—in the way her hands twisted together—than there had been at any time before. And Bill Weigand was surprised to find that this made him a little regretful, as if he had, unconsciously, been wishing she could get herself out of it. It must be merely because it was O'Malley who was so sure, Bill thought; he would have to watch that tendency in himself.

“I don't know anything about it,” she said. The strain was in her voice.

“Who does?” Weigand said. “Who else? Think, Mrs. Mott. Who else would have any reason?”

He watched that hit her. He waited. Her voice was very low, now, when she answered.

“I don't know,” she said. “I—I don't understand.”

It wasn't good, Bill thought.

“You're not helping us, Mrs. Mott,” he said. “You want to help us, don't you? However you felt about your husband?”

“I didn't take the paper,” she said. “I—I didn't hurt Mr. Leonard. Is he—is he going to be all right?”

“Perhaps,” Bill told her. He shook his head. “Don't you see where it puts us, Mrs. Mott?” he asked, and his voice was reasonable, enquiring. “You can't suggest anyone else, or any reason for anyone else. But if you did express hatred for your husband in the paper—you may not have named him, of course, but it must have been clear—then you would want to get the paper, wouldn't you? Want to fix it so we couldn't talk to Leonard, who'd read it?” He shook his head. “How would you explain it, Mrs. Mott?”

“I didn't,” she said. “That's all I know. I don't know who did.”

“Carey? Your friend Carey?”

“No. Oh, no!”

“Who?”

“I tell you—I tell you I don't know!”

Bill Weigand shook his head again.

“I can't believe that, Mrs. Mott,” he said. “I'm sorry. However—”

She was not looking at him, now. She was looking down at her hands, twisting in her lap. She gave the odd expression that she was really looking carefully at her hands. She's afraid her eyes will give her away, Bill thought. It was about time.

“Now,” he said, “you say you weren't at your husband's office today? Not there at the time he was killed?”

She did not look up. She merely nodded. Weigand stood up, he moved around the desk and half sat on it, looking down at her.

“Now, Mrs. Mott,” he said. “I'm going to have to tell you that—”

And then the telephone rang. Bill Weigand was nearest, and scooped it up. He listened, speaking little, and his face set; he looked down at the girl sitting in front of him, and his eyes and his face were hard. Then, into the telephone, he said, “Right. We were late.”

He recradled the telephone and sat for an instant looking down at the girl. She did not look up at first; then she did, and fear came into her eyes anew as she saw his face. It ought to, Bill Weigand thought; you ought to be afraid, Mrs. Mott.

Then, with a gesture of his head, he summoned Mullins and went toward the door, with Mullins after him. In the room outside, Bill jerked his head back toward the door of his office.

“She stays there,” he said. “And get one of the girls with her. She might—”

He did not finish, being already through the door to the corridor. He was moving very fast. He's sore, Mullins thought. The Loot's sore as hell, this time.

It was only when they were out in the corridor, going toward the street, that Bill Weigand told Mullins what had happened. Then Mullins swore.

Police cars were tucked against the curb in front of a tall, narrow apartment house on Central Park West. Mullins tucked the squad car in among them, switched off its blinking red lights. There were two large, long apartments on each floor of the house and there was no trouble in finding the right one. The door was open, light streamed out, the foyer and the living-room seemed crowded. A uniformed patrolman on duty at the outer door did not know Bill Weigand and Mullins; Mullins made the introduction curt. The precinct detective lieutenant knew Bill and, seeing him, seemed relieved. The precinct lieutenant was round and comfortable, free of ambition and of jealousy.

“Yours?” he asked Bill, and there was a note of hope in his voice.

“Right,” Bill said. “I'm afraid so, George.”

“The boys are working out on it,” George said. “The M.E.'s been.”

“And?”

“Dead,” George told him. “Dead for hours.”

“Literally?”

“So the doc says. Let's see, now it's eleven forty-five.” He looked at his watch again. “Forty-six,” he said. “The doc looked at her—oh, say fifteen minutes ago. He said he'd guess. You know 'em.”

Bill knew them.

“Nothing definite, wait 'til we cut it up, when did she eat—that sort of thing. Then he guessed. Dead at least five hours, probably not more than six and a half. Gives a nice wide hole to duck into, of course. For the M.E.”

“Before six-thirty, then,” Bill said. “Not before five. Right.”

“Looks as if she was dressing to go out somewhere,” George said. “Not that that helps a lot.”

A flash bulb went off in the room beyond the living-room; another bulb went off. George O'Hanlon said that ought to be about the size of it. They went toward the other room and police photographers were packing their camera cases.

Elaine Britton had fallen back on the satin cover of her bed when she was stabbed below the left breast. Blood had soaked the thin negligee she had worn, had soaked the satin coverlet, had soaked into the bed. It appeared that she had been standing beside the bed, had fallen when she was struck and had died where she fell. There was no expression on the face; the pretty mouth was open, and the round eyes stared up at nothing on the ceiling. She was even thinner than Bill Weigand had thought when he talked to her that afternoon.

“No knife?” Bill said to Lieutenant O'Hanlon. “But it was a knife?”

“That's right,” O'Hanlon said. “Pulled out and taken along. But it was a knife all right. See what I mean about her getting ready to go out?”

He motioned toward the bed. Near the foot, a black evening dress lay flat on the pale yellow satin, lay as if it had been placed there carefully. The blood had not quite reached it.

Bill Weigand did not touch the woman's body. There was no need; it had been touched enough, would be touched more. There was fresh make-up on the face which had been pretty, fresh red on the lips. The reddened lips were startling, unreal, against the face, now. The blond hair was disordered against the yellow satin. But she had fallen backward and the front part of the hair did not seem to have been disturbed. Bill thought she had finished arranging it when she was stabbed to death. There would have been final touches, little rearrangements, after she put on the black dress.

An evening dress, but not at five o'clock. The later hour became the more probable. She was dressing, starting to dress. She had been to the beauty shop that afternoon; undoubtedly had her hair done; there would have been little for her to do except freshen make-up. (He looked at the slender body. Why had she needed to walk up walls? But now it didn't matter.) She had been dressing, or perhaps lying down, resting, before she dressed. Presumably she had been expecting somebody to pick her up; she had been wearing the thin negligee or, when someone came—the murderer came—she had put it on. She had gone to the door—Or had she left the door unlatched, and merely called, “Come in” when someone rang the bell. (Come in and kill me.)

“Was the door locked when she was found?” he asked O'Hanlon. O'Hanlon nodded. “By the way,” Bill said, “who found her?”