What's Better Than Money (22 page)

“Don’t forget. . . anything we can do. . .”

“I won’t forget.”

Ten minutes later I walked into my office.

Clara, busy thumping a typewriter, paused and looked at me.

“It’s pretty good news,” I said, taking off my raincoat. “They think she’ll walk again. It’s going to take time, but they seem pretty confident.

“I’m so glad, Mr. Halliday.”

“Where’s this police officer?”

“He’s in your office. Mr. Weston had to go down to the site. He’s in there alone.”

I crossed the room, turned the handle of the door and entered.

A large, heavily built man sat at ease in one of the leather lounging chairs we had bought for important clients.

He had a typical cop face: red, fleshy and weather beaten with the usual small hard eyes and the rat-trap mouth. He had bulky shoulders and a bulky waistline, and his thinning hair was turning grey.

As he heaved himself to his feet, he said, “Mr. Halliday?”

“That’s right,” I said and closed the door. My hands were damp and my heart was thumping, but with a conscious effort I managed to keep my face expressionless.

“I’m Detective Sergeant Keary, Santa Barba City police.”

I went around my desk and sat down.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting, sergeant,” I said. “Sit down. What can I do for you?”

He sat down. The small green eyes worked over me.

“Just a routine investigation, Mr. Halliday. I’m hoping you can help us.”

This was so unexpected I was off balance for a moment. I was expecting to be arrested. I stared at him.

“Why, sure. What is it?”

“We are looking for a man known as Jinx Mandon. Does the name mean anything to you?”

A false alarm! A wave of relief ran over me. My tension relaxed.

“Jinx Mandon? Why, no.”

The small eyes continued to probe.

“Never heard of him?”

“No.”

He took out a pack of chewing gum, stripped off the wrapping paper and put the gum in his mouth. His movements were slow and deliberate. He rolled the wrapping paper into a small ball and dropped it into the ash tray on my desk. All the time he stared fixedly at me.

“What’s your home address, Mr. Halliday?”

I told him, wondering why he asked.

“What is all this about, anyway?” I said.

“Mandon is wanted for armed robbery.” Keary’s heavy jaws revolved on the gum. “Yesterday we picked up an abandoned car outside the Santa Barba railroad station. Mandon’s fingerprints were on the steering wheel. The car had been stolen from Los Angeles. In the compartment we found a scrap of paper on which was written your name and address.”

My heart gave a little kick against my side. Could Jinx Mandon be Ed Vasari? To cover my start of surprise, I opened the cigarette box on my desk, took out a cigarette and lit it.

“My name and address?” I said, desperately trying to sound casual. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple enough, isn’t it?” There was a sudden grating note in Keary’s voice. “A car used by a wanted criminal has your name and address in the glove compartment. There’s not much to understand about that. How do you account for it?”

I was recovering quickly.

“I don’t account for it,” I said. “I have never heard of this man.”

“Maybe you have seen him.”

He took from his pocket an envelope, and from the envelope a half plate glossy photograph which he flicked across the desk to me.

I was already braced as I looked at the photograph. It was Ed Vasari all right: there was no mistaking him.

“No,” I said. “I don’t know him.”

Keary reached across the desk, picked up the photograph, returned it to the envelope and the envelope back into his pocket. His heavy jaws revolved on the gum as he continued to stare at me.

“Then why did he have your name and address in the car?”

“I wouldn’t know. Maybe the owner of the car knows me. Who is he?”

“He doesn’t know you. We have already asked him.”

“Then I can’t help you, sergeant.”

He crossed one thick leg over the other, his jaws moving slowly and rhythmically on the gum.

“You’re building a bridge, aren’t you?” he asked, unexpectedly. “You had your picture in
Life
this week?”

“Yes. What has that to do with it?”

“Maybe Mandon got your name from the magazine. Was your address mentioned?”

“No.”

He shifted his bulk in the chair, frowning.

“Quite a mystery, isn’t it? I don’t like mysteries. They make a report untidy. You have no idea why Mandon should have had your name and address in his car?”

“None at all.”

He chewed for a moment or so, then shrugging his heavy shoulders he climbed to his feet.

“There must be some explanation, Mr. Halliday. You think about it. Maybe you’ll remember something. If you do, give me a call. We want this guy, and we’re going to get him. There may be a hook-up between you and him you have forgotten.”

“No chance of that,” I said, getting up. “I don’t know him and I’ve never seen him.”

“Well, okay. Thanks for your time.” He started towards the door, then paused. “Quite a bridge you’re building.”

“Yes.”

“Is that right it’ll cost six million bucks?”

“Yes.”

He stared at me, his small eyes probing again.

“Pretty nice going, if you can get it,” he said. “Well, so long, Mr. Halliday.”

He nodded and went away.

I felt cold sweat on my face as I watched the door close silently after him.

Chapter EIGHT

I

The next two days were days of hard work and tension. I was continually expecting either Rima to telephone or the Los Angeles police to walk in and arrest me. At least, Sarita was making excellent progress: the only bright spot in those two days.

Then on Thursday morning, as Ted Weston and I were preparing to go down to the bridge site, Clara came in to tell me Detective Sergeant Keary was here again to see me.

I told Weston to go on ahead, and I would follow as soon as I could. When he had gone, I told Clara to show Keary in.

I sat at my desk, tense and aware that my heart was beating too fast.

Keary came in.

As he closed the door, I said, “I can’t give you long, sergeant. I’m due at the bridge site. What is it this time?”

But he was a man no one could hustle. He settled his bulk in the armchair and pushed his hat to the back of his head. He then produced a pack of chewing gum and began to unwrap it.

“This guy Mandon,” he said. “We now learn he went under another name: Ed Vasari. Ever heard of that name, Mr. Halliday?”

I shook my head.

“No. That name means nothing to me either.”

“We’re still puzzled why your name and address should have been in his car, Mr. Halliday. We think even if you don’t know Mandon, he must have known you at some time or the other. We found out where he has been hiding: a small bungalow in Santa Barba. In the bungalow we found a copy of
Life
with your photograph in it. The photograph was ringed around in pencil. That, and the fact your name and address was in his car, suggests he either knew you or was interested in you, and we want to know why.” He paused in his chewing to stare at me. “What do you think?”

“It puzzles me as much as it puzzles you,” I said.

“You are sure you have never seen this man? Do you want another look at his photograph?”

“It’s not necessary. I have never seen him before.” He scratched his ear and frowned.

“Like I said: a mystery. We don’t like mysteries, Mr. Halliday.”

I didn’t say anything.

“Have you ever heard of a woman who calls herself Rima Marshall?”

Well, here it is, I thought. I was expecting the question but in spite of that I felt a sudden cold shrinking inside me.

I looked straight at him as I said, “No. I don’t know her either. Who is she?”

“Mandon’s girl friend,” Keary said. “They lived together in this bungalow.”

He chewed some more, his small eyes fixed in a blank stare at the ceiling.

After a long pause, I said sharply, “I told you I’m busy, sergeant. Is there anything else?”

He turned his head and his eyes locked with mine.

“This woman has been murdered.”

My heart skipped a beat and then began to race. I know I changed colour.

“Murdered?” I managed to say. “Who has been murdered?”

The hard, probing eyes made a slight advance into my defences.

“Rima Marshall. We showed Mandon’s photograph around and yesterday evening we found a woman who had been doing the cleaning. Imagine a punk like Mandon having a woman to do his cleaning! She recognised him. She told us about this Rima Marshall, and she gave us the address of the bungalow Mandon had been using for his hideout. We went there. Mandon had blown, but we found the woman.” He shifted the gum around in his mouth. “Not one of the nicest looking corpses I have seen. She had been hacked to death with a knife. The Medical Officer told us she had thirty-three stab wounds: ten of them could have been fatal. On the table was this copy of
Life
with your photograph ringed around in pencil.”

I sat motionless, my hands in tight fists out of sight under the desk. So Wilbur had found her! And I was responsible! I felt cold sweat break out on my face.

“We have a pretty sensational case on our hands,” Keary went on. “We’re now wondering if she left this paper with your name and address on it in the car. She might have known you at one time or the other. Her name means nothing to you?”

“No.”

He took an envelope from his pocket. From the envelope he took out a photograph and laid it on the desk.

“Maybe you might recognise her.”

I looked at the photograph and then turned quickly away.

It was a horrible photograph.

Rima lay in a pool of blood on the floor. She was naked. Her body had been horribly cut, stabbed and mutilated.

“You don’t recognise her?” Keary asked in his tough cop voice.

“No! I don’t know her! I don’t know Mandon! Is that clear?” I said. “I can’t help you! Now will you please get out of here and let me get on with my work?”

But he wasn’t a man to be bullied. He settled himself more firmly in his chair as he said, “This is a murder case, Mr. Halliday. It’s your bad luck that in some way you are connected with it. Have you ever been to Santa Barba?”

I very nearly said I hadn’t, but realised in time that I might easily have been recognised in the town, and to deny being there could get me into serious trouble.

“Yes, I have,” I said. “What of it?”

He was all cop now, leaning forward, his chin thrust out.

“When was that?”

“A couple of weeks ago.”

“Can you get it nearer than that?”

“I was there on May 21st and again on June 15th.”

He looked slightly disappointed.

“Yeah. We’ve already checked. You stayed at the Shore Hotel.”

I waited, thankful I hadn’t been caught in a lie.

“Can you explain, Mr. Halliday,” he went on, “why a man in your position should stay at a joint like the Shore Hotel? Any particular reason?”

“I just don’t happen to be fussy where I stay,” I said. “It was the first hotel I came to so I stayed there.”

“Why did you go to Santa Barba?”

“Why all these questions? What business is it of yours where I stay and why?”

“This is a murder case,” he said. “I ask the questions: you answer them.”

Shrugging, I said, “I had a lot of figures to prepare. I couldn’t get any peace here what with the telephone and the contractors disturbing me so I went to Santa Barba. I thought the change of air would do me good.”

Keary rubbed the end of his fleshy nose with the back of his hand.

“What made you book in under the name of Masters?”

I was ready for that one. My mind was now working a shade faster than his.

“When you have a photograph in
Life,
sergeant, you acquire a certain amount of notoriety. I was anxious not to be disturbed by the Press so I booked in under my mother’s maiden name.”

He stared at me, his hard green eyes as blank as stones.

“The same reason why you stayed in your room all day?”

“I was working.”

“When did you get back here?”

“I went first to San Francisco. I had business up there.”

He took out a notebook.

“Where did you stay?”

I told him.

“I left on Thursday night and arrived back here at midnight,” I said. “If you want confirmation of that you can check with the ticket collector at the station who knows me well, and with the taxi driver, Sol White, who drove me home.”

Keary wrote in his notebook, then with a grunt he heaved himself to his feet.

“Well, okay, Mr. Halliday. This will take care of it. I don’t reckon to bother you again. I was just tying up the loose ends. After all, we know who killed her.”

I stared at him.

“You know? Who killed her?”

“Jinx Mandon. Who else do you imagine killed her?”

“It could have been anyone, couldn’t it?” I said, aware that my voice had suddenly turned husky. “What makes you think he did it?”

“He’s a criminal with a record for violence. The cleaning woman told us these two were always quarrelling. Suddenly he blows and we find her dead. Who else would kill her? All we have to do is to catch him, rough him up a little and he’ll spill it. Then we pop him into the gas chamber. There’s nothing to it.”

“To me that doesn’t prove he did it,” I said.

“Doesn’t it?” He lifted his heavy shoulders in an indifferent shrug. “I like him for the job, and the jury will like him too.”

Nodding to me, he opened the door and went out.

II

So Rima was dead!

But I felt no relief, only remorse. I had been responsible for her death.

With her had died my past. I had now only to sit tight and do nothing to be free of the threat of arrest.

But suppose they caught Vasari! Suppose they sent him to the gas chamber for a murder I knew he hadn’t committed?

I knew he hadn’t murdered Rima. Wilbur had done it and I could prove he had done it, but to prove it I would have to tell the police the whole story, and then I would be put on trial for the Studio guard’s murder.