What's Better Than Money (24 page)

So we threw a party.

There was turkey and champagne, and after lunch, when the nurse had insisted that Sarita should go back to bed for a rest and after the Mathisons had gone, Jack and I sat outside on the terrace, overlooking the river, where in the distance we could see the men working on the bridge while we finished our cigars.

We were both feeling relaxed and good. We talked of this and that, then as Jack got lazily to his feet, he said, “So they finally caught the Santa Barba killer. I was beginning to think they would never get to him.”

I felt as if a mailed fist had slammed a punch under my heart. For a moment or so I couldn’t even speak, then I said, “What was that?”

He was stretching and yawning in the hot sunshine, and he said indifferently, “You know: the guy who killed the woman in the bungalow. They cornered him in a New York night club. There was a gun battle and he got hurt. They say he won’t live. I picked it up on the car radio as I came out here.”

Somehow I kept my face expressionless. Somehow I kept my voice steady.

“Is that a fact?” I said. It didn’t sound like me speaking. “Well, that’s his bad luck. I guess I’ll get back to the grindstone. It’s been swell having you, Jack.”

“Thanks for the lunch.” He put his hand on my arm. “And just for the record, Jeff: I’m terribly glad Sarita pulled through. She’s a wonderful girl, and you’re a damn lucky guy.”

I watched him drive down the hill in his black and white Thunderbird.

A damn lucky guy!

“I was shaking, and there was sweat on my face.

So they had finally caught Vasari!

There was a gun fight, and he got hurt. They say he won’t live.

That would be lucky too – too lucky.

I had to know the details.

I told the nurse I was going down town. She said Sarita was sleeping, and she would stay around.

I drove fast to the nearest news stand. I bought a paper, but there was no news of Vasari’s arrest. I might have known I would have to wait for the final night edition.

I drove over to the office. My mind was aflame with panic.

Would he die? If he didn’t die he would go for trial for a murder I knew he hadn’t committed. I couldn’t let him go to the gas chamber.

There was work waiting for me in the office but I found it almost impossible to concentrate. I had an interview with a contractor, and my mind wandered so badly I saw he was looking at me, puzzled. I apologised.

“My wife’s just out of hospital,” I said. “We’ve been celebrating. I guess I’ve had too much champagne.”

Later, Ted Watson came in from the bridge site. He was carrying an evening paper which he dropped on the desk. I was still working with the contractor. The sight of that paper blew my concentration sky high.

We were getting out figures, and I began to make so many mistakes, the contractor said sharply, “Look, Mr. Halliday, let’s call this off. That champagne certainly must have been dynamite. Suppose I call around tomorrow?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’m sorry, but I have a hell of a head. Yes, let’s make it tomorrow. . .”

As soon as he had gone, I leaned over and grabbed the paper.

“May I borrow this, Ted?”

“Sure, Mr. Halliday, help yourself.”

On the front page was a photograph of Vasari and a pretty dark girl who didn’t look more than eighteen years of age. He had his arm around her and was smiling at her.

The caption under the photograph read:
Jinx Mandon marries torch singer on the day of his capture.

The account of Vasari’s capture was scrappy.

While celebrating his marriage with Pauline Terry, a night club singer, at the Hole in the Corner Club, Vasari had been recognised by a detective who happened to be in the club at the time. When the detective had approached the table where Vasari and his wife were dining, Vasari had pulled a gun. The detective had shot him before he had had a chance of firing. Dangerously wounded, Vasari had been rushed to hospital. Doctors were now fighting to save his life.

That was all, but it was enough. I couldn’t do any more work. I told Weston I was going home, but I didn’t go directly home. I went to a nearby bar and drank two double Scotches.

The doctors were now fighting to save his life.

The irony of it! They were trying to save his life so that he could be executed! Why couldn’t they let him die?

What was I going to do?

If he lived, I would have to come forward. I had now no excuse not to. Sarita was no longer helpless. Soon she would be walking again.

Maybe he wouldn’t live. There was nothing I could do now but to wait. If he died, then I would be out of this mess for good.

But if he lived. . .

II

The next six days were nightmare days for me.

The press was quick to recognise the drama of the doctors’ fight to save Vasari’s life. There was a bulletin printed every day. One day the headline would read:
Gangster Sinking
, and I would relax a little. The next day it would be
Jinx Mandon lives on. Doctors hopeful.

On the sixth day, the headlines read:
Ninety-nine to one chance operation to save gangster’s life.

The paper stated that an operation by one of New York’s most eminent surgeons was to be performed on Mandon in a final effort to save his life. The surgeon, interviewed by the press, said that Mandon had only the slightest chance of survival. The operation was so delicate that it would attract the attention of the medical profession throughout the world.

It was while I was reading this that I heard Sarita say, “Jeff! I’ve spoken to you twice. What is it?”

I put down the paper.

“Sorry, darling. I was reading. What did you say?”

I had trouble in meeting her puzzled eyes.

“Is something wrong, Jeff?”

She was seated opposite me at the breakfast table in her wheel chair. We were alone. She looked well, and she was already restless to try to walk.

“Wrong? Why no, of course there’s nothing wrong.”

Her cool grey eyes searched my face.

“Are you sure, Jeff? You have been so nervy these past days. You worry me.”

“I’m sorry. I was preoccupied with the bridge. There’s a lot to think about.” I got to my feet. “I must get down to the office. I’ll be back about seven.”

I had a date with Jack at the bridge site. The first girder was to be put in place.

While we were waiting, Jack said, “Is there anything on your mind, Jeff? You’ve been looking like hell these last few days.”

“I guess I take all this a bit harder than you,” I said. “I’m really worked up about this bridge.”

“You don’t have to be. It’s working out like a charm.”

“Yes. Well, I guess I’m the worrying type.”

He saw the foreman was handling the girder clumsily, and with a muttered expletive, he left me and went down to where the men were working.

I would have to watch myself, I thought uneasily. The strain was beginning to show.

Two days later, it happened.

The headlines of the paper said Mandon’s operation had been successful and he was now out of danger. In another week he would be flown to Santa Barba jail. As soon as he was strong enough, he would go for trial for the murder of Rima Marshall.

I read the report in the evening paper that had been delivered to our home.

I felt physically sick.

This was it! Vasari had survived and now, unless I told the truth, he would stand trial and be executed.

I looked across at Sarita who was reading. The temptation to tell her the truth was strong, but my instincts warned me not to tell her.

I mustn’t wait any longer. Tomorrow I must go to Santa Barba and tell Keary the whole story. He must start the hunt for Wilbur right away.

“I forgot to tell you, Sarita,” I said as casually as I could. “I have to go to San Francisco tomorrow. I’ll be away a couple of days. It’s to do with this steel project.”

She looked up, startled.

“Tomorrow? Well, all right, Jeff, but isn’t it rather sudden?”

“We’re not getting delivery fast enough,” I lied. “Jack wants me to go. I’ve only just remembered.”

When she had gone to bed, I called Jack at his pent house apartment.

“I want to talk to Stovell,” I said. “I’m running up to San Francisco tomorrow. The steel isn’t coming through fast enough.”

“It isn’t?” Jack sounded surprised. “I thought they were doing pretty well. They’re sending it through as fast as I can handle it.”

“I want to talk to Stovell anyway. Ted can look after the office while I’m away.”

“Well, okay,” I could hear the puzzled note in his voice. “Suit yourself. There’s no big rush at your end now.”

That night as I lay in bed, I wondered what Keary would do when he heard my story. Would he arrest me or would he first check my story? Should I tell Sarita that she might not see me again when I left the next morning? Should I tell her the truth?

What a shock it would be to her if I were arrested and didn’t see her again. I knew I should tell her the truth, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it.

All night, I lay in the darkness, sweating it out, and when the dawn light came through the open window, I was still undecided what to do, but finally as I was dressing I decided to see the police first.

A little after four o’clock in the afternoon, I walked into the Santa Barba police station house.

A large, well fed police sergeant sat at a desk, chewing the end of his pen. He looked at me without interest and asked me what I wanted.

“Detective Sergeant Keary please.”

He took the pen out of his mouth, looked at it suspiciously and then laid it on the desk.

“Who shall I say?”

“My name is Jefferson Halliday. He knows me.”

His large hand hovered over the telephone, then as if he couldn’t be bothered, he shrugged and waved me to the corridor.

“Third door on the left. Help yourself.”

I walked down the corridor, paused outside the third door on the left and knocked.

Keary barked, “Come on in.”

I opened the door and walked in.

Keary was lolling in a desk chair, reading a newspaper. The room was small and cramped. There was just room for the desk, the desk chair and an upright chair. With me in the room, it became a squeeze.

He laid the newspaper down and leaned back in the chair so that it creaked. His small eyes widened at the sight of me.

“Well, well, it’s Mr. Halliday,” he said. “This is a surprise. Sit down. Welcome to Santa Barba.”

I sat down, facing him.

“You’re lucky to catch me, Mr. Halliday,” Keary said, producing the inevitable pack of chewing gum. “This is my last day of work I’m glad to say. I’ve been thirty-five years on the force and I reckon I’ve earned my rest. Not that it’s not going to be dull. A guy can’t do much on the lousy pension they pay you. I got a small house by the sea and a wife and I guess I’ll have to make do. How is the bridge getting along?”

“It’s all right,” I said.

“And your wife?”

“She’s doing fine.”

He put the chewing gum in his mouth and began to chew.

“Well, that’s good news.” He leaned his fat back against the chair back and his small hard eyes examined me speculatively. “You down here for any particular reason, Mr. Halliday?”

“Yes. I’ve come to tell you Mandon didn’t kill Rima Marshall.”

The small eyes widened a trifle.

“What makes you say that, Mr. Halliday?”

“She was killed by a man who calls himself Wilbur. He is a drug addict and is out on parole.”

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

“What makes you think he killed her?”

I drew is a long, deep breath.

“I know he did. It was through her he got a twenty year sentence. When he came out on parole, he was looking for her. He was going to kill her, but he couldn’t find her. I told him where she was. He went to the bungalow, found her and killed her. I had already telephoned Vasari, warning him the police were coming for him. When Wilbur arrived, Vasari had already gone.”

Keary picked up a pencil and began to tap with it on the desk. His hard, fleshy face was completely expressionless.

“Very interesting,” he said, “but I don’t quite follow it. How did you know this guy Wilbur?”

“It’s a long story,” I said. “Maybe I’d better begin at the beginning.”

He stared at me.

“Well, okay. I have plenty of time. What’s the story then?”

“This is a statement, sergeant, that will incriminate me,” I said. “It would save time if you got someone in to take it down.”

He rubbed his jaw, frowning.

“You sure you want to make a statement, Mr. Halliday?”

“Yes.”

“Well, okay.”

He pulled open a drawer on the desk and took out a small tape recorder. He put the recorder on the desk, plugged in the microphone which he turned in my direction. He pushed down the starting button and the reels began to revolve.

“Go right ahead, Mr. Halliday: let’s have this statement of yours.”

I talked to the small microphone. I gave the whole story: how I had first met Rima and had saved her life when Wilbur had attacked her: how she had fingered him to a twenty year sentence. I explained about her talent for singing, about my ambition to become an agent, how I had tried to get her cured, how we had broken into the Pacific Film Studios to steal the money for her cure.

He sat there, breathing heavily, staring down at the dusty top of his desk, listening, his eyes moving from time to time to the slowly revolving reels.

He did look up and stare at me for a brief moment when I came to the shooting of the guard, then he looked down again, his jaws clamping on the gum.

I told the microphone how I had gone home, started my studies again and finally had gone into partnership with Jack Osborn. I explained about the bridge, the photograph in
Life
and how Rima had come to Holland City and had blackmailed me. I told about Sarita’s accident and how I needed the money to save her.

“So I decided to kill this woman,” I said. “When I finally found her, I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I broke into the bungalow and found the gun that killed the Studio guard.” I took the gun from my pocket and put it on the desk. “This is it.”