Hard Case Crime: The Vengeful Virgin (13 page)

But I was persistent. I went back and poured some more down, and that stayed. Only it didn’t do any good.

I went to bed, turned off the light. Like a shot, I was sitting up in bed. They would find the bloody blanket. The body would come up, floating, the hair swirling in the water of the canal under bright noon sunlight.

I turned the light on and sat there, smoking.

Miraglia would be questioning her now.

I got out of bed and started walking. I stood over the telephone and stared at it. If it rang, I would die.

Back in bed with pad and pencil, I listed everything, and tried to find mistakes we’d made, tried to figure where we’d really gone wrong. Finally I stopped that.

Shirley would be the first person questioned when Mayda Lamphier’s disappearance came to light.

I had to stop. They’d come and find me babbling.

“Him?” they’d say. “Oh, that was Jack Ruxton. Yeah, too bad. Used to run a TV and radio store. Yeah. Flipped his wig over a screwy teenage broad.”

I’ll get mine, I thought. I’ll get mine.

The money. That’s all that counted, all that meant anything. Money was something you could depend on. It was substantial, if you had enough of it. I would have enough. That money was what could keep me sane. The money could perform miracles.

All I had to do was get my hands on it.

That’s all.

Then I could forget.

The phone rang. I leaped at it.

“Jack?” she said. “Everything’s all right. I knew you’d want to know.”

For a second I couldn’t speak with the relief.

I said, “Where you calling from?”

“A place, on the way home. It’s all right. It’s a public phone booth, and there’s nobody around.”

“Are you all right?”

“I think so.”

“What the hell do you mean by that? You think so? If something’s wrong, for God’s sake, tell me.”

“Jack?”

“What?”

“Do you love me?”

“Certainly, I love you. You know I love you.”

She hesitated. “Then everything’s all right.”

My hand was sweating on the phone. I changed hands, and bit my teeth together hard. A goddamned cryptic woman. There was nothing in the world like a cryptic woman. My voice was hoarse. “Shirley?”

“I told you, everything’s all right. What more can I say?”

“Tell me what happened.”

“Nothing happened, Jack.”

“Did it go over? Did you tell your story all right?”

“Of course.”

“Well,
what happened?”

“You don’t have to shout, Jack. I can hear you.”

“I’m not shouting. I just want to know.”

“Well, Doctor Miraglia came in. He acted kind of put out—mad at himself, something like that. I mean, I think it was because he hated losing a patient. Victor in particular. He told me he’d been afraid something like this might happen.”

“How did he say that?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, did he act suspicious?”

“No. Not that I could tell. Why should he?”

“Forget it.”

She said, “He seemed terribly concerned over Victor dying, though. I mean, he acted really sorry. It seemed to hit him awfully hard—I mean, for a doctor. After all, doctors see a lot of that sort of thing.”

“Shirley. Exactly how do you mean? How did he act? What did he say? This is important, I think.”

“Well, I can’t say any more than I have. I told him the intercom system apparently wasn’t working. I said I was outside, and everything, just as we planned. So I must have missed hearing him call. I put on a—pretty good act. I think.”

“You didn’t overdo it.”

“No. I was careful. They took Victor away in the ambulance. Then Doctor Miraglia tried out the intercom, and agreed that was how it must have happened. He told me I mustn’t feel bad about it.”

“You’re trying to say something, Shirley. Goddamn it. Say it, whatever it is. Let it come out.”

“I’m scared.”

“Well, so am I. You don’t go around doing what we did every day in the week. You’ve got to stop being scared.”

“It’s not so much Victor. It’s Mayda.”

For a bright moment, in my mind’s eye, I saw Shirley ramming that carving knife into Mayda Lamphier’s back.

“Just don’t worry.” I said.

“You think I should report her missing, Jack? You think that might be the thing to do?”

“Will you forget her!”

“Yes. All right.”

“What else did Miraglia say?”

“To be honest, Jack—he acted as if it were his own father dying. That’s exactly how he acted.”

“Oh.”

“Somebody might come. I’d better go.”

“Yeah.”

Her voice was pleading. “Say you love me.”

I told her I loved her.

“I want to see you so badly,” she said.

“Me too,” I said. And at that moment I meant it. Alone, I faced the longest night of my life.

It was in the papers the next day. Victor Spondell had died of heart failure, brought on by a long-time respiratory ailment. Surviving was his adopted daughter, Miss Shirley Angela. There was a brief summary of his background.

There was nothing about Mayda Lamphier.

Well, I began to know what this business means when they talk about a criminal returning to the scene of the crime. It was one hell of a pull. I wanted to go out there to the canal, and just see if everything was all right. Just stand there and stare at the spot where the car was, and where she was. Just to reassure myself.

I didn’t go. But that pull was hard.

I wanted to see Shirley plenty bad. I didn’t like the way she’d sounded over the phone. I couldn’t call her, I couldn’t go near her place. I had to wait.

I knew it was too early for her to start checking on the money. Or, was it? How did an innocent person act? Would they go right down to the bank and put in their claim for the money? Or would they wait for what they call a “proper” length of time?

It was all I thought about. In the midst of the turmoil, it was the money that was bright and shining.

I didn’t hang around the store much that day. I couldn’t think right. I kept having the urge to go up to somebody and say, “Well, for gosh sakes, look here. That Victor Spondell kicked off. What you think of that?”

Nobody mentioned his dying. Naturally. Who was Victor Spondell to them? He was nothing. But just let it come out
how
he died, and the whole town would shake itself apart.

Shirley didn’t call. I went home and sat by the phone, but there was no word about anything. I didn’t sleep. I just lay there in bed with the light on and stared at the ceiling, smoking one cigarette after the other.

I tried to think of Rio, but even that wasn’t any good anymore. Nothing was any good.

There was no word for two days. Then, in the morning paper:

MYSTERIOUS DEATH OF WOMAN

Canal Holds Tragic Secret

Tangled about the steering post and wheel of a sporty convertible, a young woman died last night, trapped under the murky waters of the old Black-land Canal, one mile east of this city. Authorities are concerned over the discovery by two fishermen of the as yet unidentified body. The car was a convertible Pontiac of late vintage, registered under the name Henry C. Lamphier, this city. Mr.
Lamphier will be located. Anyone having a clue as to the possible identification of the woman should immediately telephone Police Headquarters, the Sheriff’s Department, or the Florida State Highway Patrol.

Since this newspaper was going to press when the item was disclosed, it is possible that by the time you read this, the body will have been identified through the automobile’s registration.

Two fishermen (both names withheld by request) were spearing along the mossy banks of the century-old canal late last night, in a skiff, when they made the somewhat macabre discovery. One said, “The less I am reminded of this, the better. It was a terrible thing. I never want to go spearing again.” Police are concerned over the manner in which the woman’s body was entangled with the car. They believe there is the possibility of foul play. Taking into consideration the fact that....

I didn’t exactly stop reading. My hands crumpled the paper into a wad, then shredded it, and for some reason all I could see in my mind was Shirley taunting Victor Spondell, as he died. I knew it was only a question of time before they knew who the “unidentified woman” was. They probably knew now.

Shirley, standing over Victor Spondell, laughing at him, because I knew she had felt nothing over his death. Not really. It had been removal of pain, of fierce pain, and inside her was nothing but angry composure over his death.

Mayda was another thing. They would go to her, question her. I didn’t know what to do. But I began to know that she had to get to the bank, and get her hands on that money. At the same time I realized, as I’d thought before, that it might not look right, taking any of it so soon. If things went right, then we wouldn’t have to go near that money.

If.

What an unholy word.

Somehow I had to get hold of myself. Now was the time when being calm counted. There was no real reason to fly apart. Nobody had accused Shirley or me of anything. There was no reason even to cast a suspicious glance our way, if you looked at it the way the law would look at it.

An old man who had been on the tricky edge of death for a long time had finally died. At the same time, a woman had died in a car accident. They would backtrack and there would be the gas station attendant to verify the fact that she had been driving while drunk.

So would they find alcohol in her blood, if they performed an autopsy? I didn’t know. In all probability, Mayda Lamphier had been drinking to some extent before she came over and slammed into Shirley. Only she hadn’t been drinking much. Maybe it would be enough.

I went into the living room, still holding the wadded newspaper in my hand. It was late morning. I hadn’t slept. I felt like hell. I had to see her, talk with her, and I could think of no way. If I tried calling her, there was every chance somebody might be there, questioning her about Mayda.

The buzzer sounded.

I just stood there, staring at the door. The apartment seemed unduly quiet. I realized I was still holding the newspaper.

The buzzer sounded again. There was something lazy, and very patient about the sound of the buzzer.

I went over to my desk, tossed the crumpled newspaper into the wastepaper basket, then walked to the door and opened it.

It was Doctor Miraglia.

“Hi,” he said.

He stood there soberly. I tried to grin. It must have looked great, because a nerve was jumping in my face.

“I stopped around at your store,” he said. “But they told me you were, sleeping late these days.”

“Been hitting it hard,” I said. “Come on in, doctor.”

“Thanks.”

He stepped inside and I closed the door. He wore a suit today, a pale blue gabardine. A pale yellow shirt, the collar open, and without a tie. He was very calm as he turned to look at me, the rimless glasses glinting faintly against the smooth pink coloring of his flesh.

“You go right ahead with whatever you were doing,” he said in that mild voice. “I just wanted to talk with you for a few minutes. If you could spare the time.”

Miraglia was a man who would carefully finish his sentences.

“Sit down,” I told him. “Just getting ready to head for the store. But I’m in no hurry. That place is running me ragged lately.”

“I’ll bet.”

He went over and sat down on the couch in front of the windows at the front of the apartment. He looked extremely clean, and not a hair of his black mop was out of place. I came over and took a chair across from the couch.

The silence of the apartment was even more pronounced.

He sat there. He shook his head mildly.

He said, “I suppose you know why I’m here?”

“Can’t say that I do.”

He didn’t speak for a minute. He would come to the point in his own good time. And when I looked at him, all I could see were the bright opaque circles of the lenses of his glasses where they caught the light from across the room.

“Well,” he said. “You must have read about it in the papers.”

“I’ll bet you mean Spondell. That old guy?”

“Yes,” he said. “That’s who I mean.”

“I read about it, the other day. Died.” I leaned forward. “Doc,” I said. “I couldn’t figure why all the bother about that stuff they had me put in the house. Frankly, he looked pretty bad to me. I figured it would be a short time.”

“Yes.”

I leaned back. I had taken the wrong tack. I was so nervous it was all I could do to keep from jumping up and pacing the room. I had to sit here and talk with him, just as long as he felt like talking.

I put one elbow on the chair arm, and pointed a finger at Miraglia. Sometimes you could put them on the defensive that way, at least I’d done it to customers. “You know?” I said. “I couldn’t help but feel sorry for that poor kid—Miss Angela. It must have been rough on her.”

“His dying?”

“No. Taking care of him. I mean, young as she is, she should be out with kids her own age.”

“It was rough.”

I was blabbering. I should be sitting here listening to him tell me why he was here, not telling him things.

He faintly cleared his throat, looked around the room, then focused those damned lenses on me again. I wished I could see his eyes.

“I was rather attached to Victor,” Miraglia said. “He was just a patient, but sometimes patients become good friends. It was that way in this case. He was an arrogant old fool, who didn’t really believe he would die. I liked him.”

He paused and I didn’t speak.

He said, “Victor shouldn’t have died, Mr. Ruxton.”

“Shouldn’t have died?”

“He wasn’t due. Not really.” He shrugged, then said, “Of course, he did die. I even suppose I was afraid he might die. But it wasn’t entirely natural, his dying. It was really an accident, beyond his control.”

“How’s that?”

He didn’t speak for a moment. He sat there, rubbed the side of his jaw with the heel of his hand, and shook his head.