What's Better Than Money (23 page)

Was this nightmare never going to end?

I thought: You have saved yourself; to hell with Vasari! He is a criminal with a record for violence. Why should you sacrifice yourself for him?

During the next six days the pressure of work and the rushed visits to the sanatorium to see Sarita so occupied my mind during the day that I was free of the tormenting thought that I had been responsible for Rima’s death. But at night, when I was alone in the dark, the picture of her lying in the pool of blood, her body covered with vicious stab wounds, haunted me.

I watched the newspapers for any news of the murder. It had started off as headline news, but quickly dwindled to a small paragraph on the back page. The papers said the police were still looking for Mandon who, they hoped, would help them in their inquiries, but, so far, there was no trace of him.

As one day followed the next, I began to be more hopeful. Maybe Vasari had got out of the country. Maybe he would never be found.

I wondered what had happened to Wilbur. Several times I was tempted to call the Anderson Hotel in San Francisco to find out if he was back there, but I decided against it.

Sarita was still making progress. I went to the sanatorium every evening, and spent an hour talking to her, telling her about the bridge, what I had been doing, how I was managing without her.

Zimmerman said he felt confident now that she would be able to walk again, but it would take time. He thought in another two weeks she could go home. She would have to have a nurse to take care of her, but he thought she would make quicker progress in her home than remaining at the sanatorium.

There was now no further news of the murder in any of the papers. I told myself that it was going to be all right. Vasari must have got out of the country. They were never going to find him.

Then, one evening on my return from the sanatorium, as I stopped my car outside my apartment block, I saw a large man leaning against the wall as if waiting for someone.

I recognised the big, heavy figure immediately: it was Detective Sergeant Keary.

I felt a rush of blood up my spine as I stared at him through the window of the car. My mouth turned dry and I had to fight off a panic-stricken urge to start the car again and drive away.

It was now three weeks since I had seen him and I had hoped I had seen the last of him. Yet here he was, obviously waiting for me.

I took my time getting out of the car, and by the time I reached him I had my panic under control.

“Hello, sergeant,” I said. “What are you doing here?”

“Waiting for you,” he said curtly. “They told me you had gone to the hospital so I came around here.”

“What do you want?” I found it impossible to keep my voice steady. “What is it now?”

“We’ll talk about that inside, Mr. Halliday. You lead the way, will you?”

I went up the steps, across the lobby to my apartment.

Keary followed me.

“They tell me your wife has been pretty ill,” he said, as we entered the lounge. “She better now?”

I threw my hat and raincoat on a chair and went over to the fireplace and faced him.

“Yes, she is a lot better now, thank you,” I said.

He selected the largest and most comfortable chair in the room and sat down. He took off his hat and laid it on the floor by his side. Then he started on the routine of unwrapping a piece of chewing gum.

“When I last saw you, Mr. Halliday,” he said, his eyes intent on the chewing gum, “you told me you didn’t know nor had you ever heard of Rima Marshall.”

I thrust my clenched fists into my trousers pockets. My heart was thudding so violently I was scared he would hear it.

“That’s right,” I said.

He looked up then, and the small green eyes stared fixedly at me.

“I have reason to believe you were lying, Mr. Halliday, and that you did know the dead woman.”

“What makes you think that?” I said.

“A photograph of the dead woman has been published in the papers. A man named Joe Masini, who owns the Calloway Hotel, has volunteered information. He is a friend of the Marshall woman. He says she had a meeting at his hotel with a man with a scar on his face and drooping right eyelid. She appeared to be frightened of this man, and she asked Masini to stop this man from following her when she left the hotel. The description of this man with the scar fits you, Mr. Halliday.”

I didn’t say anything.

Keary chewed slowly as he continued to stare at me.

“The Marshall woman has a banking account in Santa Barba,” he went on. “I checked it yesterday. Two sums of ten thousand dollars were paid into her account over the period of the past six weeks. Both these amounts were drawn on your account. Do you still say you didn’t know this woman?”

I moved to a chair and sat down.

“Yes, I knew her.”

“Why did you give her all this money?”

“That’s rather obvious, isn’t it? She was blackmailing me.”

He shifted in his chair.

“Yeah, that’s the way I figured it. Why was she blackmailing you?”

“Does that matter? I didn’t kill her, and you know it.”

He chewed some more while he stared at me.

“You didn’t kill her, although blackmail is a good motive for murder. You didn’t kill her because you couldn’t have killed her. You were right here when she died. I’ve checked that.”

I waited, my breathing hard and fast.

“If you had told the truth in the first place, Mr. Halliday, you would have saved me a lot of work. You went to Santa Barba to meet this woman?”

“I went there to find her,” I said. “I was going to ask her for time to pay the next blackmail instalment. I needed the money to pay for my wife’s operation, but I didn’t find her. I was pressed for time. I tried twice, but each time I failed to find her.”

“What happened? Did you pay her?”

“No. She died before I had to pay her.”

“Pretty convenient for you, wasn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“Why was she blackmailing you?”

That was something I wasn’t going to tell him.

“The usual thing – I ran into her, had an association with her, she found out I was married, and threatened to tell my wife.”

He rubbed the end of his fleshy nose, his expression bored.

“She was asking big money for that kind of blackmail, wasn’t she?”

“She had me over a barrel. My wife was desperately ill. Any kind of a shock would have been fatal to her.”

He hunched his massive shoulders as he said, “You realise, Mr. Halliday, it is a serious business to tell lies in a murder investigation?”

“Yes, I realise that.”

“If you had admitted in the first place knowing this woman you would have saved me a hell of a lot of work.”

“An association with a woman like that is something no one likes to admit to,” I said.

“Yeah.” He scratched the side of his fleshy face. “Well, okay, I guess this takes care of it. You don’t have to worry any more about it. I’m not making a report. I’m just tying up the loose ends.”

It was my turn to stare at him. “You’re not making a report?”

“I’m in charge of this investigation.” He stretched out his long, thick legs. “I don’t see any reason to get a guy into trouble because he takes a roll in the hay.” His fleshy face suddenly relaxed into a grin: it wasn’t a pleasant grin: it was more a leer than a grin. “I wanted to be sure you had nothing to do with her death and I’m sure of it.” The leering grin widened. “You can count yourself lucky. I’m retiring at the end of the month. I might not be so soft with you if I wasn’t going out to grass. You might not think it to look at me but I’m nudging sixty and that’s the time for a man to retire.”

There was something about him I disliked. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but I was suspicious of him. He suddenly no longer seemed a cop. He was a man who had done his work, and was now in a vacuum. I hated having him in my apartment.

“No, I wouldn’t believe it, sergeant,” I said. “Well, thanks.”

“We use our discretion in blackmail cases.” He grinned again. “We get plenty of that. Guys making goddam fools of themselves with some whore and then getting into a mess. You’re lucky, Mr. Halliday, that Mandon stopped her mouth.”

“She was a blackmailer,” I said. “She could have been killed by any of her victims. Have you thought of that?”

“Mandon killed her. There’s no question about that.”

I very nearly told him about Wilbur, but I didn’t. If I brought Wilbur into it, the story of the Studio robbery and the shooting of the guard would have to come out, and then I would be fixed.

“Well, thanks again, sergeant.”

He heaved himself to his feet.

“That’s okay, Mr. Halliday. You’re not going to hear any more about this.” He looked at me, a half leer, half grin on his face. “Of course, if you’re all that grateful, maybe a small donation to the police sports fund might be in order: just a thought, Mr. Halliday, not even a suggestion.”

It was my turn to stare at him.

“Why, yes, of course.” I took out my wallet. “What would you suggest, sergeant?”

“Anything you like.” The small eyes were suddenly greedy. “Suppose we say a hundred bucks?”

I gave him twenty five-dollar bills.

“I’ll send you a receipt. The boys will certainly appreciate this.” The bills disappeared into his pocket. “Thanks, Mr. Halliday.”

I wasn’t that much of a mug.

“You don’t have to send me a receipt. I would rather not have it.”

The leering grin widened.

“Just as you like, Mr. Halliday. Well, anyway – thanks.”

I watched him go.

I had been lucky, almost too lucky.

But what if they caught Vasari?

Chapter NINE

I

The following afternoon, while I was working in the office, Clara came in to tell me Mr. Terrell was asking to see me.

For a moment or so I couldn’t place the name, then I remembered he was the owner of the cottage on Simeon’s Hill that Sarita had been so anxious to have, and that seemed a long way into the past.

I pushed aside the papers on my desk and told Clara to bring him in.

Terrell was a man around sixty three or four, heavily built and jovial: he looked like a benign, well red bishop.

“Mr. Halliday,” he said, as he shook hands, “I heard Sarita is coming out of hospital next week. I have a proposition that may interest you.”

I asked him to sit down.

“What’s the proposition, Mr. Terrell?”

“The sale of my place has fallen through. The buyer has found something nearer his work. My wife and I are off to Miami at the end of the week. I know Sarita had set her heart on our place. I’m going to suggest you take it over just as it stands at a nominal rent: say twenty dollars a week, until she gets better. Then if you like it, maybe you would reconsider buying it, but that’s up to you. My wife and I are very fond of Sarita, and we think it would give her a lot of pleasure to come straight from hospital to our place. How about it?”

For a moment I couldn’t believe my ears, then I started to my feet and grabbed his hand.

“It’s a wonderful idea! I can’t thank you enough! Of course, I’ll accept! But here’s what I would like to do. I’ll give you a cheque right now for ten thousand dollars and as soon as I get these operations and doctor’s bills out of my hair, I’ll pay you the balance. It’s a sale!”

And that’s how it was arranged.

I didn’t tell Sarita. I wanted to see her expression when the ambulance pulled up outside Terrell’s cottage.

Helen Mathison helped me to take our personal things to the cottage. We had six clear days to prepare the place before Sarita left the sanatorium. I was working long hours at the office, spending my nights at the cottage, but in spite of being so preoccupied, every now and then, I would think of Vasari and wonder. Every morning I scanned the newspapers to make sure he hadn’t been found, but there seemed to be no interest now in the murder. During the past days there had been no mention of it in the papers.

Finally the day came when Sarita was to leave the sanatorium. I took the afternoon off. Helen drove me out there and left me. I was to ride back with Sarita in the ambulance.

They brought her out in a stretcher. The nurse who was going to stay with us came with her.

Sarita smiled excitedly at me as they slid the stretcher into the ambulance. The nurse and driver sat in front, and I got in with her.

“Well, this is it!” I said as the ambulance moved off, and I took her hand. “You’re going to be fine from now on, my darling. You don’t know how I’ve been looking forward to taking you home.”

“I’ll soon be up and around, Jeff,” she said, squeezing my hand. “I’ll make you happy again.” She looked out of the window. “How good it is to see the streets again and the people.” Then after a while, she said, “But, Jeff, where are we going? This isn’t the way home. Has he lost his way?”

“This
is
the way home, Sarita,” I said. “Our new home. Can’t you guess?”

I had my reward then. The expression in her eyes as the ambulance began to climb Simeon’s Hill was something to see.

All my past days of tension, fear and worry were wiped out as she said in unsteady voice, “Oh, Jeff, darling! It can’t be true!”

The next few days were the happiest of my life. I had a lot of paper work to do so I didn’t go to the office. I worked at home, keeping in touch with Ted Watson and Clara on the telephone.

We made up a bed in the lounge for Sarita so she could be with me. She read or knitted while I worked, and every so often I would push aside my work and we would talk.

She was gaining strength every day, and on her fourth day home, Dr. Zimmerman who had come out to see her, said she could get into a wheel chair.

“She has made tremendous progress, Mr. Halliday,” he said as I walked with him to his car. “I thought once she was home she would pick up, but not as fast as this. I wouldn’t be surprised if in a few months, she won’t be walking.”

The next day the wheel chair arrived, and the nurse and I put Sarita into it.

“Now there’ll be no holding me,” Sarita said. “We must celebrate. Let’s ask Jack and the Mathisons to lunch. Let’s have a thanksgiving lunch.”