The Kissed Corpse (11 page)

He grinned that slow grin of his, then said: “I'm interested in the identity of the Senor Rodriguez Desta mentioned.”

“Dwight was talking with someone in another room when we first reached the
hacienda,
” I reminded him. “It could have been the unknown Senor Rodriguez.”

Burke was refilling his pipe, an expression of intense concentration on his face.

“I'm going to build up a hypothetical case and I want you to tear it to pieces if you can. It's evident that Dwight's daughter is more or less in her father's confidence. Suppose she was aware that Rufus Hardiman isn't simply vacationing here … that her father has brought pressure to bear in the right places in Washington and has persuaded the State Department to abandon their hands-off policy in regard to oil payments … that Hardiman is here in his official capacity to present a note demanding payment for expropriated property to an accredited representative of the Mexican Government … one Senor Rodriguez, shall we say? Secrecy is necessary because the demand for payment is being made only on Dwight's behalf … leaving the rest of the owners of seized property to hold the bag … so they arrange to meet secretly at the
Hacienda del Torro
.…”

“Aided and abetted by Michaela O'Toole?” I scoffed. “She's on the other side of the fence, Jerry. She would be doing her best to
prevent
such a meeting.”

“Exactly.” Burke's eyes were shining. “Through some hold on Rodriguez she plans to be present and stop it if she can. Needing help and knowing Leslie Young by reputation to hold views similar to hers, mightn't she invite him to join the conference? It would explain her rather strangely-phrased note. Young, not knowing what it's all about, might mention the note to Desta Dwight who would immediately realize the importance of keeping him away from the
hacienda
. She tries a telephone message … then an automatic. Remember, there is well over a hundred million dollars involved. Enough motive for a million murders.”

I was hanging on the ropes by that time, too confused by Burke's relentless logic to offer a single objection. Also, I suppose I was ready to grab at any straw that pointed away from Laura Yates. I said:

“You make it sound swell. All we need is to prove a few of those hunches.”

“We'll start right now,” he said as Raymond Dwight came back into the drawing room followed by a servant with a tray of glasses, whiskey, and a siphon.

When the man had set the tray down and withdrawn, Dwight mixed whiskey and soda in three glasses and gave us each one.

“I sent Mrs. Young home in my car to pack a bag and return,” he said casually. “It is naturally a strain on her to stay alone in that house with its unpleasant memories, so I've invited her to remain here as my house-guest for as long as she wishes.”

Personally, I thought they had their nerve … with Myra's husband not buried yet, but I guess a few million dollars make a man contemptuous of the conventions. Burke nodded as though it was a perfectly natural development, and said:

“There are several points you can clear up for me, Mr. Dwight.”

The financier settled himself with his glass. “I'm happy to cooperate, Burke. Though I don't see what possible help I can give you.”

“Did you know Leslie Young had been invited to be present at the
Hacienda del Torro
last night?”

Dwight showed surprise at the question. “Indeed?” He glanced coldly at me. “I suppose that explains your attempt to impersonate him.”

“A point which may have a direct bearing on his murder is that he was warned by telephone at noon yesterday by an anonymous person not to keep the appointment. I want to know who might have been interested in keeping him away.”

Raymond Dwight's face remained impassive as he realized the turn Burke's questioning was taking.

“I'm sure I can't help you there,” he said stiffly. Then: “Who invited him to the
hacienda?
”

“Miss O'Toole.”

He had the blank face of a professional gambler. Not a flicker of emotion disturbed it. But his eyes were keenly alert. “Exactly what do you want from me, Burke?”

“I want you to tell me the purpose of the meeting at the
hacienda
. That might give me a clue as to why someone wanted to be very sure Leslie Young was not present.”

“I am not at liberty to tell you.”

“You mean you won't?”

“Bluntly, yes. I will go so far as to say it was a private matter and could not possibly have any bearing on the murder you're investigating.”

“But the telephoned threat! What do you make of that?”

Dwight smiled thinly. “I'm not a detective, Mr. Burke. You'll have to draw your own conclusions.”

Burke relaxed and stretched out his long frame. “Why is Rufus Hardiman a guest in your house?”

“He came here at my invitation.”

“Why did you invite him?”

Dwight's dark face flushed. “Need I explain why I invite a friend to pay me a visit?”

“Oh. Is Hardiman a personal friend?” There was a peculiar inflection to Burke's voice. I knew he was leading up to something but I'll be damned if I could see what.

Dwight said: “Of course,” impatiently.

“A friend of long standing?”

“Why … yes.”

Burke blew an indolent puff of smoke toward the high ceiling. “That's queer. Department of Justice agents in Washington answered my telegraphic query with a report this morning that questioning of Hardiman's family and associates indicated that you and he were wholly unacquainted before he made this trip.”

I couldn't suppress a start of surprise. There was Burke for you again. Always about two jumps ahead of me.

Dwight finished his whiskey and soda and set the glass down with a thump. “He is a friend of a friend, shall we say?”

Burke nodded approvingly. “That's thinking fast. I'm beginning to understand how you built a fortune out of nothing in the oil game. However, I take the liberty of assuming that his presence here at your house has more significance than a mere social visit.”

“You assume a great deal, Mr. Burke.” There was an edge of roughness to Dwight's voice.

“That's one of my bad habits,” Burke told him equably. “In this case I base my assumption upon nothing more definite than the meeting you have arranged between Mr. Hardiman of the State Department and Senor Rodriguez of Mexico.”

That shot in the dark hit home. A bilious flush mottled the millionaire's dark cheeks. “You're welcome to your assumptions, of course.”

“Thank you.” From Burke's tone I knew he was enjoying himself. “How far is Rodriguez empowered to go in negotiating a private agreement for your benefit?”

Dwight didn't reply. Instead, he pushed an ivory call-button on the table. To the servant who came in response, he said harshly: “Show these men out.”

Jerry Burke relaxed a little more comfortably. “We can find our way out without a guide, thank you. We're not leaving just yet.”

“I'll have you thrown out,” Dwight blustered. “You can't come here with your insinuations.…”

“… that you are making a cat's-paw out of Rufus Hardiman to negotiate a favorable personal settlement for yourself with the Mexican government?” Burke finished for him coolly. “But I am here, Mr. Dwight. And that isn't an insinuation. It's an accusation.”

I thought Raymond Dwight was going to have a crack at tossing Burke out unaided. That would have been worth seeing, but he got a grip on his anger and sank back in his chair.

The servant was still waiting at the door, undecided and frightened.

“Get out of here,” Dwight growled at him. “Bring the gardener and chauffeur with you if I ring again.”

The man backed away, mumbling: “Yes sir Mr. Dwight, but …”

“But what?” roared Dwight.

“I was to tell you, sir, that Miss O'Toole and her escort are here to see you, sir.”

Burke spoke before Dwight could answer. “Bring them in here.”

His voice held an inflexible quality which silenced any protest Dwight might have offered.

The man looked inquiringly at his employer, hurried away when Dwight nodded assent.

Things had been happening too fast for me to keep up with them. I was sitting on the edge of my chair, breathing fast and wondering how far Burke could carry his bluff. A queer shiver went down my spine when the servant announced Michaela O'Toole. I had a hunch there would really be fireworks when she came in.

11

The ensuing silence was awkward and strained. It was clear that Raymond Dwight was restraining his anger with difficulty. I suppose it had been a lot of years since he had been pushed around by any man. Jerry Burke certainly had a way about him. I had never admired him more than while watching him handle the oil man. Without the slightest bluster, he was so damned sure of himself that he was a difficult man to oppose.

We were all sitting there in strained attitudes when Michaela O'Toole and a male companion were ushered into the room. It was the man whom she had called Pasqual … the Mexican who had met us at the door and later herded Laura and me up to the locked bedroom.

Michaela wore a simple dark dress which enhanced rather than detracted from the vivid quality of her beauty. I don't want to go poetic, but Michaela
did
bring something into a room. Standing quietly inside the sliding doors with a questioning look for Burke, eyebrows raised in surprise as she recognized me, she was clothed in a tangible aura of glamour which vitalized the atmosphere.

I turned my attention to Jerry Burke after one glance at Michaela. More than anything else, I wanted to see how he would react to her.

He stood up as Dwight went to her, his gaze gravely fixed on her face as he stood waiting for his host to bring her forward. He looked as stolid and unimpressed as though this was just an ordinary occasion. It wasn't until she came close and unleashed the deep blue of her Irish-Indian eyes upon him that I saw a flicker of interest light his face.

Neither of them smiled as Dwight said bluntly: “This is a policeman who insists upon questioning you, Miss O'Toole,” and I had the feeling that they were measuring each other. In the silence my quickened perceptions seemed to catch a ringing sound as of two unsheathed blades clashing dangerously.

The moment was past and Burke was bowing stiffly. “I'm delighted to meet a friend of Leslie Young's.”

If he expected to catch Michaela off-guard he had underestimated her. In her liquid voice with its undertone of Irish blarney, she replied:

“It is too bad to disappoint you, Mr. Policeman.”

“Are you going to tell me you didn't know Leslie Young?”

“Why not?”

“You wrote him a note asking him to come to the
Hacienda del Torro
last night.”

She shrugged. “But yes.” The corners of her mouth were upcurved and I knew she was baiting Burke.

The rest of us had been standing there like statues during the interchange, and Dwight suddenly took a hand:

“We may as well sit down,” he suggested gruffly. “And allow me to finish the introductions: Mr. Baker, Miss O'Toole … and he assures me that Baker is actually his name. Senor Pasqual Morales, Burke and Baker.”

Pasqual moved to Michaela's side and nodded to us jerkily. His beady black eyes flickered from Burke to me with definite menace. He had a folded newspaper gripped tightly in his right hand, and looked uncomfortable in an ill-fitting suit of blue serge, but his manner plainly indicated that he was determined not to be intimidated by us nor by the unaccustomed luxury of his surroundings.

We all sat down and Dwight rang for cracked ice and more glasses. Burke took a chair in front of Michaela and continued his questioning as though it hadn't been interrupted:

“Do you make a habit of writing letters to strange American men?”

“But no, Senor Policeman. You make the joke, no?”

“No,” Burke growled. “I want to know why you wrote Young that letter … if you didn't know him.”

Michaela had a way of opening her eyes wide with child-like simplicity. She used it effectively. “Must I give reasons for letters I write?”

It was parry and riposte, with no advantage to either verbal fencer. Burke shifted his attack:

“You know Young has been murdered?”

“The police told me last night when I called for them to come and take this man away.” She glanced at me with her wide eyes, then back at Burke.

“I have reason to believe your invitation to the
hacienda
was directly responsible for Young's death.” Burke hammered the words at her.

She merely looked surprised, but Dwight leaned forward and exclaimed:

“I think you should explain that insinuation, Burke.”

“I'm asking for explanations … not giving them,” Burke told him evenly, without taking his eyes from Michaela's face.

The servant came with a pitcher of cracked ice and two more glasses. Dwight's big hands shook as he mixed a drink for his guests from across the border.

“I'm still waiting for an answer,” Burke told Michaela.

She shrugged her shoulders insolently and black lashes came down to shield her eyes. “I think you will wait a long time, Senor Policeman.”

“Aren't you interested in helping me find the murderer of your father's old friend?”

That thrust brought Michaela's eyelashes up. You could almost see her readjusting her mental defences before she answered: “You are smart … for a policeman.”

“Thanks,” Burke acknowledged grimly. “Policemen aren't always as dumb as detective story writers would have you believe. I know some other things, too. For instance: Do you want to explain what you and your companion were doing up this canyon yesterday afternoon while Leslie Young was getting himself murdered?”

The silence was electric. Dwight's glass stopped halfway to his mouth. I sensed a furtive movement at my left and I glanced over at Pasqual in time to see his right hand gliding into his coat pocket. He leaned forward tensely, glaring at Burke.