Murder Is Served (17 page)

Bill Weigand looked at the girl, who was looking at him. Her expression had changed; it was as if she had been able to read through the back of the note Stein had handed him. If she had been about to give it up when Stein came in, she wasn't now. For a moment, Bill Weigand held the slip of paper, looked from it to the girl, to Stein, hesitated.

“Right,” he said; then, “let's have him in.”

“I thought you might,” Stein said. He went out. Weldon Carey came in; he was hatless and his black hair was violent—violent as his face. He wore a dark overcoat with the collar turned up. He was furious at all of them, and he went first to the girl. She had turned as he entered, started to get up, relaxed in the chair again as he crossed the room toward her. His movements had an odd, violent thrust to them.

“All right,” he said, and his voice was angry, too. “All right. What've they done to you?”

The girl merely shook her head.

“Bloody cops,” Carey said. “I told you. Didn't I?” He turned on Weigand. “You,” he said. “Can't you leave her alone?”

Bill Weigand leaned back in his chair. He met Carey's angry eyes.

“No,” he said. “How can we?” His voice was level, uninflected. “She killed her husband, Mr. Carey. Don't you know that?”

“Prove it,” Carey told him. “She wasn't there.”

“You know that?”

“I—you're damn right. I know it. Because I—”

Weigand was shaking his head; he was almost laughing. He told Carey not to be heroic, not to be a damn fool.

“Heroic hell,” Carey said. “Neither of us was there.”

“Oh yes,” Weigand said. “She was. She was about to tell me so, Mr. Carey. Weren't you, Mrs. Mott?”

Carey turned from Weigand. He glared down at the girl. She looked up at him, and then, as if she had reached a decision, she shook her head.

“No,” she said. “It's no good, Weldon. They know I was there. Somebody—” She hesitated and looked at Weigand. “Somebody saw me,” she said. “Elaine, they say. She said she saw me. And—” She stopped and looked again at Bill Weigand.

“And Elaine Britton was killed this afternoon,” Weigand said. He was leaning back, his eyes half-closed, waiting. He did not amplify it, or need to. Carey was at the desk, opposite Weigand, both hands gripping the desk, leaning forward. He thrust himself at Weigand.

“Not Peg!” he said. He was almost shouting in the little room. “You can't make it Peg!”

“I didn't make it anybody,” Bill said. He motioned toward the girl. “She made it. She's a killer, Carey.” He nodded. “Not to look at,” he said, “but she's a killer. She was there.”

Carey continued to lean toward Bill Weigand, trying to beat him down with his eyes. Bill merely nodded, slowly.

Then, with an abrupt movement, Carey went back to the girl. He put his hands on her shoulders and looked down at her, and she turned her face up to him.

“Tell him, Peg,” Carey said.

Bill Weigand did not say anything. He merely waited. The girl looked at him.

“I was there,” she said, and spoke clearly, methodically. “He was dead when I got there. He telephoned me to come at noon, and when I got there he was dead. Across his desk. I don't know anything else.”

“He didn't telephone you,” Weigand said. He shook his head. “I told you we find out. He didn't make any call, you see. There's a switchboard, Mrs. Mott. When do you say he called you?”

“About eleven.”

It was no good, Bill told her. Mott had been in his office from about ten-thirty on. He had made no telephone calls; he had received two.

“You telephoned him,” Weigand said. “Told him you had to see him. Went to kill.”

“No.”

“He could have gone out,” Carey said. “Gone out and called. Don't you know that? He didn't have to go through the reception-room. Didn't you know that?”

Bill Weigand let himself look interested. He said he had known it.

“And,” he said, “apparently you know the place, Mr. Carey. You've been there? To see Mott?”

The girl started to speak, but did not; it was pressure from Carey's hands on her shoulders that stopped her, Bill thought.

“Suppose I was?” Carey said. His tone challenged.

“I'd be interested,” Bill said, and his tone was matter-of-fact. “Today, Mr. Carey? About noon?” Bill shook his head. “I told you not to be heroic,” he said. “Come off it, Mr. Carey.”

“Not today,” Carey said. “Get it through your thick cop's skull it wasn't either of us. Or can't you?”

Bill Weigand merely smiled and shook his head.

“Twice I was there,” Carey said. “About a month—six weeks—ago with Peg. To see if he wouldn't get some sense; quit pushing us around. And last week.”

“Why last week?”

“To tell him he'd better quit it,” Carey said. “To tell him if he didn't lay off I'd—” He stopped.

“Right,” Bill said. “Go on, Carey.”

“Hell,” Carey said. “Kick his teeth in. I don't remember the words.” He looked angrily at Bill. “And meant it,” he said. “Whatever I said. Only she—Peg—calmed me down. Said we'd get along whatever he did, that he wasn't worth the trouble. And you say she killed him!”

There was contempt in Carey's voice as he made the last statement. Bill Weigand did not appear to be impressed. He did not answer that.

“Pushing you around,” he said. “How, Mr. Carey?”

“Getting her fired,” Carey said, and stopped suddenly. “I'm making it easy for you,” he said. “So what? He had money in a lot of shows. A lot of guys thought he might put money in theirs. So he goes around and says—hell, I don't know what he says. That he'd appreciate it if Mrs. Mott didn't get parts.”

“Like that,” Bill said.

“Something like that,” Weldon Carey said. “He as good as told us that first time.”

“Why?”

“Why'd he tell us? I don't know.”

“Why did he do it?”

“Because she'd left him. To make her come back. How can you tell what makes a guy like Mott tick? A crummy heel who sits on his tail at a desk and gets to be a major while a bunch of guys are getting kicked apart. Better guys than—”

“Right,” Bill said. “Skip that. Whatever he was, he's dead.”

“He's a dead heel,” Carey said. “O.K.”

“Did he push you? Or just Mrs. Mott?”

“Both of us,” Carey said. “I had a play coming on last fall. All set, options signed, casting started. Why do you think it was dropped? Why do you think they held it until the end of November, and then dropped it? Kicking in with option money every month? Because Mott told them to.”

“You know that?” Weigand asked.

“Mott said it. He thought it was funny as hell. Said it would teach me to keep my hands off—the lousy bastard!” He looked at Bill Weigand and nodded. “Making it easy for you,” he said. “Don't think I don't see it. Motive, and all. But it's as much for me as for Peg, you know.”

“No,” Bill said. “I'm afraid not, Mr. Carey. She hated him, he annoyed you. She was—had been—involved emotionally. She'd involved you in it, and you'd lost out. And—she gets the money, Mr. Carey. And she was there. You had no motive to kill Mrs. Britton, to attack Leonard. And Mrs. Britton was killed, Leonard attacked. I don't think we want you, Carey.”

“You don't want either of us,” Carey said.

“I'm afraid I do, Mr. Carey,” Bill said. He stood up. “You go,” he said. “She—stays.”

“It won't stick,” Carey said. “You're a thick-skulled—” He let it trail off.

“If you want to do something, Mr. Carey, get her a lawyer,” Bill said. “She'll be arraigned Monday in homicide court. She'll need somebody. I told her that.”

“White of you,” Carey said, with bitterness. “Damned white of you.”

He turned suddenly to the girl, seemed to lift her out of the chair, held her in his arms with a kind of fury. Even his caresses are like blows, Bill Weigand thought. The poor, violent kid.

Carey let the girl go. He held her off and looked at her.

“You'll be all right, Peg,” he said. “You know that?”

She seemed dutiful, like a little girl.

“I'll be all right,” she said. “I'll be all right, Wel.”

Weigand doubted it. He said nothing. Carey released the girl fully, turned without saying anything more, and thrust himself out of the room. There were voices in the next room, Carey's loud, angry. Stein came to the door; he raised his eyebrows.

“Yes,” Weigand said. “Let him go. For now. And Stein—take Mrs. Mott to the precinct and have her booked. Suspicion of homicide. The precinct, not downtown.” He turned to the girl. “That'll keep the newspapers off you for a day,” he said. “Talk to your lawyer before you talk to them. Maybe he'll want you to plead; maybe the district attorney will take a plea. That's not up to me. Now, go with the sergeant, Mrs. Mott.”

Peggy Mott stood up, held her head up. She's almost as tall as Stein, Weigand thought. The poor kid. She's had it. How she's had it! She moved toward the door. Suddenly, poignantly, the grace of her movements reminded Bill Weigand of Dorian. Blackly, at that moment, he disliked his job.

He sat down, picked up the telephone and, after a moment, began to report to Inspector O'Malley at O'Malley's home. O'Malley was pleased; O'Malley approved.

“We've wrapped it up,” O'Malley said. “Nice going, Bill. Way I'd've done it myself. None of this fancy stuff; no Norths to make it screwy. Quick and simple.” He paused. “Tell you what,” he said, “I'll go down to headquarters and tell the newspaper boys myself, Bill. See that you get the credit. How's that?”

Not too good, Bill Weigand felt at the moment; not too probable, either. But he said, “Right, Inspector. I'll appreciate it.”

He put the telephone back in its cradle. All wrapped up; wrapped up and tied together. Quick and simple, and no Norths in it, or almost no Norths. It was odd that he felt, obscurely, dissatisfied, even uneasy. It must be, he thought, because Pam North wouldn't approve, and, after Pam had talked to Dorian, Dorian wouldn't approve either. Well, it was too bad, but there was nothing to do about it. O'Malley couldn't be wrong always; the quick and easy couldn't be wrong always. This one was so simple it hit you in the face. Pam North—even Dorian—would have to accept that.

He was uneasy, but he did not expect anything to happen. He did not expect Stein to come back, his eyes glazed, a bruise seeming to grow on the right side of his jaw as he stood in the door, and swayed a little. But Bill was on his feet, around the desk, before Stein could speak, was saying, “What the hell, Lennie?”

Detective Sergeant Stein's voice was stiff; it seemed to be an effort for him to speak.

“Jumped me,” he said. “This guy Carey—outside. I put the girl in a cab and was starting to get in and he jumped me. I was half in and he yanked me out and—” Stein motioned toward his jaw. “Knocked me flat,” he said. “Damn near out. He ran around the cab and grabbed the girl. She yelled something—‘No, Wel, no!—something like that but after she was out she ran all right. The hacker tried to follow and they ditched him. Then he came back and told the boys downstairs.
Then
he told them!” He looked at Weigand, and swayed a little. “I'm sorry as hell, Bill,” he said. “I certainly loused it up.”

Bill said, “O.K., fella,” to Leonard Stein. But it wasn't O.K. They would all get their tails burned for this, starting with Stein, not stopping with Stein. Quick and neat, wrapped up and tied in knots. That was Weldon Carey, that was them. Bill Weigand went back to his desk, used the telephone, curtly, starting the new chase. Then he telephoned O'Malley. “This is going to be fun,” he thought, as he waited for Mrs. O'Malley to call her husband. “This is going to be fun and games.”

It was.

8

S
UNDAY
,
1:15
A.M. TO
11:45
A.M.

One way to keep alive in the Pacific had been quite literally to act before you thought. You did not wait for opportunity to knock; you moved to seize before opportunity had time to lift a hand. You made mistakes, but you kept alive.

If anyone had told Weldon Carey two minutes before he grabbed Peg Mott away from the police that he was going to do anything so reckless, so ruinously quixotic, he would have laughed. Being bitter, his laughter would have been bitter, and hard. He would have said, “Not a chance,” have asked what kind of a sap he was supposed to be. He had not waited with any purpose outside the building which housed the Homicide Squad; he had merely walked out of the building and stood, in the darkness, huddled a little against the bitter wind, deciding which way to go and what to do. And then Peg had been brought out by the likable-looking detective he had seen inside, and the detective had, a great deal to Weldon Carey's surprise, beckoned to a taxicab down the block.

Sergeant Stein was, although Carey did not know it, acting in accordance with accepted, although not stipulated, practice. Peg Mott was not a dangerous prisoner; she was being taken on a special trip, not as a member of a group; squad cars, including the one Stein had used earlier, might have other uses. Although she was technically under arrest—or all but technically so; that would await formal booking at the precinct—she was not handcuffed, simply because Stein thought, as Weigand would have thought, that it was absurdly unnecessary. And Stein did not notice Carey, except as a figure in a shadow, braced against the wind, because in routine operations you did not plan against the preposterous. So Stein was quite unprepared for the preposterous when it occurred.

Carey watched the cab stop, watched Stein open the door, and did not move, did not even think of moving. He saw Stein, barely touching Peg's elbow, direct her into the cab, and still he did not move. Then, just at the instant Stein was stepping up, and hence was off balance, Carey moved without thinking about it at all. He grabbed Stein by a shoulder with his left hand, yanked and, at the same time, swung with his right. It was absurdly easy. He saw Stein stagger back, saw his knees begin to bend, and ran around the cab—to put it between him and the entrance to the building—wrenched the door open and hauled at Peg. The driver yelled before he moved, giving time.