The Judge Is Reversed (23 page)

Bill shook his head. Except to deny that she was Louise Rush, the sturdy woman had not said anything at all. She seemed, Bill told them, a little dazed. She had been booked as Louise Rush, alias Madeline Somers, and booked on a charge of felonious assault. “To start with,” Bill said, and nodded at Pam and smiled and said that she had been most helpful. “Astute of you to get knocked about,” he said, gravely. “Gave us a handle—a handle to hold her with.”

Pam said,
“You!”
She said, “I just went to look at a cat.” She said, finally, that she supposed the next thing he would say was that she had used her head. She rubbed the head she had used. She said, “Big as a goose egg.”

“All the same,” Bill Weigand said, “the point was what she thought, was afraid of. Not what was true. Thought you were closing in on her, was stampeded by her own fear; by her own knowledge of what she had to fear.”

“Of course,” Pam said, “to give myself credit—at the very end, she was right. Or partly right. I did think the cord answered the description. I did say, in effect, ‘Lookee! A bowline as I live and breathe!' So—She killed them both?”

“Right,” Bill said. “And, probably, a woman into the bargain—eighteen months or so ago, in Los Angeles. By pushing her down a flight of stairs. A woman named Madeline Somers. A woman whose place she had decided to take.”

He told them of that. He said that the Los Angeles police, and the insurance detectives also, would now have another and longer look at the circumstances surrounding the death of a youngish woman incorrectly identified as Louise Rush—
by
Louise Rush.

They, and the New York police, would dig back, now—now that they knew what they were digging for. Bill had no doubt that the process would take time; no doubt that it would be successful. “Nobody really covers a past,” he said. “Everybody leaves traces. No impersonation is worth a damn once it is suspected.” Also, he thought it highly likely that the woman in jail would crack. Because she was the type that panicked. She emotionally denied what she had no need to deny; she might, therefore, be expected emotionally to admit what she was not forced to admit. The two courses of action were of the same nature.

“Like,” Pam said, “denying she knew Ackerman. That he had been there.”

“Right,” Bill said. “Knowing Ackerman didn't convict her of anything. It was foolish to deny it—got her nowhere. And we won't, I imagine, have much difficulty in proving she did know him. For what it's worth. Another thing—you look at her, Pam, and say, in effect, ‘Look! A bowline!' and all she has to do is say, ‘So what? Thousands of people use bowlines.' Which is perfectly true. But instead—panic.”

“Conscience doth,” Pam said. “She found out that Madeline Somers was going to have money coming, decided to impersonate her and get the money? Killing her first, of course. Did she arrange to get friendly with Miss Somers because she knew Miss Somers had money coming? Or find it out afterward?”

“I haven't the faintest idea,” Bill told them both, and finished his drink and looked at it. Jerry North said, “O.K., loot,” and Pam said, “By the way, where is he?”

“Getting the digging under way,” Bill said. “Since he discovered your Gebhardt was helping a cat have kittens. In an apartment on Tenth Street.” He explained that briefly.

“Poor Mullins,” Pam said.

She returned to the main issue. She supposed that John Blanchard had found out about the impersonation and got killed for his knowledge. How? That Ackerman had found out about the first murder and got killed for that knowledge. How had he found out?

“Ackerman saw someone getting out of the elevator Sunday morning,” Bill said. “The woman, we can be pretty sure, he knew as Madeline Somers. He tried, probably, to put the bite on. Got to thinking it over, lost his nerve and called you, Jerry. Not in time, as it turned out. Probably, she—”

“There are,” Pam said, “a good many probablys, aren't there?”

Bill smiled, he nodded his head. He said there always were; that everything started, always, with “probably.” Except, of course, things seen—like assault on the person of one Pamela North.

As to how Blanchard found out—

Bill told of two letters among Blanchard's papers: Of a letter signed by Madeline Somers, authorizing expenditure for a tombstone; of a letter signed (or swirled) by Paul Flagler, handwriting expert, saying, in effect, that Blanchard had something there. Bill waited. Jerry considered; shook his head. Pam's eyes dimmed with thought. Then she said, “Oh, of course. But where were the other letters?”

The other letters—the letters which must have been written by the real Madeline Somers, letters which presumably established her identity—those had, probably—“all right, beyond doubt”—been taken and destroyed by Louise Rush. After Blanchard, who had got Flagler's letter Saturday and at once summoned “Madeline Somers” to explain why the signature on her latest letter did not match other signatures, had showed them to her. After she had crushed Blanchard's skull with the base of a scratching post.

“Why not the tombstone letter?” Jerry said. “For that matter, the letter from Flagler?”

The “tombstone” letter, by itself, did her no harm. Actually, its existence was, with Blanchard out of the way, the final distribution of the Somers estate inevitably in other hands, of advantage to Louise Rush. It proved that Madeline Somers had been accepted as an heir. As to the Flagler letter—

Blanchard had filed it under “F,” Bill told them. She apparently didn't look under “F.” There would have been no reason for Blanchard to name Flagler. ‘A handwriting expert' was all he needed to say. He didn't have to prove what he said. What he said went, as far as she was concerned. When he needed Flagler would have been when he brought charges of attempted fraud.

It was with Flagler, incidentally, that Mullins was getting the digging under way. Flagler had, obviously, returned the questioned documents. Now—Bill interrupted himself. He said that there had been a point on which he had been decidedly slow on the uptake. The “tombstone” letter had been folded once for an envelope of one size, folded again for one of another. Therefore—obviously mailed twice. He had missed that, at first—

To get back. Flagler would not have the letters with the signatures which failed to match. But he would remember them, would be able to describe them. Once they were absolutely sure of that, could document that, they would try it on Louise Rush, alias Madeline Somers. It might be the wedge. If not—if not, something else would be. Something in the past, since nobody covers the—

“Bill!” Pam said. “There wouldn't have been
two
all-white Manxes. Nobody would stock two when they're not that popular and must be very expensive and—”

She was asked to wait a minute. She waited, politely. She was urged to continue, filling in as she went. She said, “Oh.” She said that Miss Rush-Somers, in explaining where she had been the previous afternoon, had said that she was out delivering an all-white Manx cat. “Instead of hanging poor Mr. Ackerman.” But—there was an all-white Manx still in residence at
the breeders' nook
.

“Well—” Bill said, in doubt.

“Cats like that aren't anonymous,” Pam said, firmly. “Rare. Registered. And—people keep records. She must have done herself, because the shop wasn't just what—what people call a cover. So—her own records. Two Manxes or only one? And catteries which breed Manxes and the cat associations and—oh, lots of things.”

This time, Bill Weigand said, “Umm-m.” Then he said, “Maybe.” Then, after further thought, he said, “Right, Pam.” He said that the duplication of white Manxes—

“With no tails at
all
.”

With no tails at
all
, would be looked into. Meanwhile—

“The cats,” Pam said. “Is somebody feeding them? All of them? The ones at the shop and Mr. Blanchard's and—”

She stopped, having run out of cats.

“Yes,” Bill said. “We're feeding the ones in the shop. May have to enter them in evidence, you know. As for the Blanchard cats—Graham Latham's adopting them. Driving in this evening. Seems he does like cats and—”

“Hilda?” Pam said. “And the wounded tennis player?”

Marriage license applied for in Los Angeles County. Mears playing in the Pacific Coast tournament. Through the first round. Called twice on foot faults, but not on crucial points.

“I do hope,” Pam North said, “that nothing drastic happens to
that
judge.”

Turn the page to continue reading from the Mr. and Mrs. North Mysteries

1

When Gardner Willings came into a room he came in largely. The size of the room mattered very little, nor did the density of its population. The Gold Room of the Hotel Dumont was reasonably large, and on this November afternoon it was filled with the thirsty. And, Pam North thought, the talkative. And why Gardner Willings?

Strait, this afternoon, was the gate into the Gold Room and, at it, behind a table, Miss Arby from the office sat guard. On the table, it was to be assumed, invited guests dropped their invitations and received, in exchange, smiles. It did not seem to Pam, as she looked between people and around people, that Gardner Willings had hesitated long enough to drop. Which was, she supposed, like Gardner Willings. He was his own ticket of admission to anything. At least, he wasn't wearing a sweater. A slight ripple occurred in the crowd as Gardner Willings, his red beard a plow, proceeded through it toward the bar.

“I'm so sorry,” Pamela North said. “It's so hard to hear anything, isn't it?”

The woman was quite tall. She was not, Pam thought, with sympathy, quite sure about the pink chiffon dress. Presumably she has a name and, Pam thought, it's skipped off my mind like a skittering stone off water. Somebody's wife, doubtless. Pam was slightly embarrassed by the thought. So, she added, am I. She said again that she was sorry, and added “so” for good measure.

“At home so much of the time,” Pink Chiffon said. “At least I'd think—not that Ned isn't a dear but all the same—”

Pam North's mind riffled itself hurriedly. The unexpected advent of Gardner Willings did not justify rudeness; not even if Willings, famously, brought rudeness with him. She must have been talking about something to Pink Chiffon. Something concerning Ned.

“Of course,” Pink Chiffon said, “he isn't like yours.” She looked down at Pam North rather, Pam thought, as one looks at the feeble-minded. “Ned, I mean,” Pink Chiffon said. “What I mean is, he doesn't
write
.”

Husbands, of course. Husbands who did not go to offices. Husbands who merely stayed at home and
wrote
. No—WROTE.

“Goodness,” Pam said. “Neither does mine, Mrs. Um-m-er.”

She was looked at blankly. At that, Pink Chiffon had, Pam thought in spite of herself, something of a head start.

Pink Chiffon said, “But—”

“Publishes,” Pam said. “He's—he's North Books. I mean—
this
is North Books.”

She started to gesture around the room. Her knuckles hit something hard, and with a ping. “I'm so sorry,” she said, to the waiter, who said, “Not at all, miss,” in a hopeless voice.

“I was told,” Pink Chiffon said, “that you were Mrs. Payne.”

“I'm so sorry,” Pam said, calling on her reserves of sorrow. “North. Mrs. Gerald.” She laughed what she trusted was a hostess's laugh, and thought it sounded a little hysterical. I could have stayed at home, Pam North thought. I could go home. I'll tell Jerry I've got a—

“So hard to keep track of so many—” Pam said and, behind her, heard, “Pamela!
Darling!
”

She turned, too quickly, and the drink she held—had, it seemed to her, been holding for hours—sloshed. Thank heaven not on Pink Chiffon. She said, “Hello, Alice,” to Alice Draycroft, and was conscious of inadequacy. “Darling,” Pam added, and knew she missed the lilt. Alice did not fade; Alice kept the lilt. “Mrs. Um-mer—”

“Cook.”

“Mrs. Cook. Miss Draycroft.”

“Darling,” Alice Draycroft said. “Such a
brawl
, isn't it?”

“Alice is an actress,” Pam said. She felt she owed Mrs. Cook, née Pink Chiffon, that. At least that. Get her off on the right foot. Get myself off—

“You haven't a drink,” Pam told Mrs. Cook, in a tone unexpectedly one of accusation. “I'll find a—”

An opening appeared and Pam took it. One learns self-preservation. One had better. “Over there,” she told a waiter, in passing. “The one in pink. Talking to the one in gray, with mink.”

She put her sloshed-out glass on a table, and took what might, with tolerance, be considered a martini from the waiter's tray. A tall, and very thin, and very dark-eyed youth in a white coat picked the used glass up and took it to a tray of other glasses, and lifted the tray to his shoulder. The shoulder of the white coat was dark from other trays. As he went off with it, he seemed to limp slightly.