Love Has No Alibi Page 8

  The orchestras were changing. Almost time for the dinner show. Ferguson glanced around the half-empty room. Obviously, he knew the place. He spotted us, and didn’t hesitate. He came over, and asked whether we wouldn’t join him for dinner. He had a nice manner, but it was a manner that wasn’t accustomed to having No said to it. So we said Yes. I was tickled, because it was Ferguson, but at the same time I wondered what Dana would think. We weren’t having much luck being alone these days.

  The head waiter appeared again as we approached the little wall table. John Ferguson said he wanted a larger one, at the ringside. We got a table right smack on the floor. Arthur and I ordered dry Martinis and inspected the menu. Arthur reacted as he always did when I brought him to the Caliente. His eyes bugged out at the price list. He ordered the cheapest item among the entrees. It was still expensive from the standpoint of a young M.D. who was interning at nothing a month.

  The music blared, and the scantily-clad chorus girls cavorted onto the small, polished floor. Arthur didn’t miss a trick. His capacity for enjoying things that other men took for granted was enormous. Ferguson regarded him gravely for a moment, then looked at me and smiled. I smiled, too. We were sharing Arthur’s fun. It made me like Ferguson even better than I had before.

  The girls trotted off and the emcee announced the singer. He placed the microphone for her. And just as she started, there came from the door the identifiable sound of scurrying that meant a celebrity was entering. The celebrity was Candy Livingston. Again she was accompanied by three people, but this time only two of them were men. One of the men was obviously attached to the coldly attractive girl whose arm he held.

  They conducted Miss Livingston to the table next to ours. They pushed things around and made a lot of noise. The singer kept on singing, but she wasn’t having much fun. She wasn’t getting much attention, either. She glared at Candy. Miss Livingston didn’t seem to mind.

  She sat down facing us. Then she got up immediately. She came over and held out her hand. She looked at my companions and I did the honors: “Miss Livingston, may I present Mr. Ferguson and Dr. Maybank?” She smiled at both and said, “This is ridiculous. We’ll make it one big happy family.”

  The singer continued to suffer while the waiters made a lot more noise shoving two tables together. Candy said something to the head man, and I guessed she was telling him that she wished to pay the freight. I wondered how Ferguson was taking it. He looked amused—nothing more. But Arthur Maybank was way up yonder where the air is thin. Sitting at the table with Candy Livingston! I could almost hear him thinking, “Oh, boy! It this something!’7

  Candy seemed somewhat less than fascinated by the show. She introduced her friends. Their party of four was now a party of seven, but they didn’t appear to be surprised. I had an idea that if you played around with Candy Livingston long enough you’d become accustomed to anything.

  Ricardo & Dana came on. Candy was saying something to me when the act commenced, but I pointedly didn’t answer. She gave me a quick look, but she took the hint and put the brakes on her conversation while the act was on. After the customary three numbers there was a lot of applause. Poised by the bandstand, I fancied that Dana caught a glimpse of me—and of Candy Livingston. I thought I saw a little frown on her forehead, but before I could be sure they were dancing again.

  As soon as they took their bows, Candy called the captain and ordered two more places set. She got up and said she’d be back in a minute. She disappeared through the door back of the bandstand. She returned in fifteen minutes with Ricardo and Dana in tow. It was my idea that Dana looked somewhat less than happy, but she brightened up when I introduced her to John Ferguson. She caught the name and the implication instantly, and started devoting herself to him. I gazed at her with admiration, thinking what a perfect wife she’d make for a rising young architect. When better office buildings were built, she’d help him build ’em.

  We ordered dinner and started to eat it. The table was pretty crowded, but nobody seemed to mind. I was having a good time, and Arthur Maybank was purring. He wasn’t case-hardened. Celebrities were a novelty to him. And here he was at the table with Dana Warren, Ricardo Sanchez and Candy Livingston. What more could a man ask for his memory book?

  I got most of my fun by watching him. I saw a girl staring at him from one of the wall tables. She caught his eye and smiled and nodded. Arthur nodded right back, but he looked rather vague. A few minutes later the performance was repeated.

  I took a second look. The girl was a good deal older than Arthur—my guess was about thirty-three—but she could have been any age. She had a nice, olive skin and deep black eyes. Black hair was smartly done over a well-shaped head. She was as sleek and correct as something out of a fashion magazine. I said to Arthur, “Hi, Lothario—who’s the girl?”

  He flushed with embarrassment and pride. “I couldn’t spot her at first,” he said, “but I think I do—now.”

  “She seems to like you.”

  He shook his head shyly. “Maybe she’s impressed by the people I’m with.” He nodded as though to confirm his own beliefs. “That’s who she is. I got it now.”

  “Is it a secret?”

  “She’s a nurse’s aide at the McKinley. I’m sure of it.”

  “But not positive?”

  “We-e-ell, yes, I am. Sort of.”

  Ten minutes later I said, “She’s still giving you the eye, Arthur. Why not grab a dance for yourself?”

  “Oh, no! I don’t even know her name. And she isn’t alone.”

  “At least,” I said, “I’d go speak to her if I were you. Maybe she’d like her gentleman friend to be impressed.”

  It took a bit of arguing, but he went over while they were taking off the dinner plates and inquiring what we’d like for dessert.

  I saw him go to the wall table and speak to the girl. She put everything she had into the smile she gave him. He seated himself gingerly on a chair he captured from an adjoining table. I liked what was happening. For my money, this was Arthur Maybank’s night, and if he was having fun, so was I.

  A little while later he and the girl got up and started for the dance floor. He looked appalled by what was happening. I winked at him and that seemed to boost his morale.

  He didn’t dance badly. The vivid young lady with him sparkled at him all through the dance. Arthur looked beatifıc. Something new had been added—and he liked it.

  After a long while, they quit. He brought her to our table. He introduced her all around. She was Miss Agnes Sheridan. She seemed particularly delighted to meet Candy Livingston.

  We men were all standing up. We shook hands with her in turn. Ricardo, and then Candy’s young men, then me, and finally John Ferguson. We said the usual things in the usual way. John Ferguson smiled at Arthur. He said, “You get around, don’t you, Maybank?” It was a nice touch.

  Arthur took her back to her table, chatted a few moments and then left her. I started kidding him about his conquest, and he blushed. He said, “Aw, lay off, Kirk. She’s been a nurse’s aide at the McKinley for months and she never noticed me until she saw me with Miss Livingston.”

  “You’re too modest, Arthur. She might have been interested in Miss Livingston, but she likes you.”

  We had a lot of fun. We sat around and talked and danced occasionally, and drank wine. Arthur tried another session on the floor with Miss Sheridan. Whatever it was that was brewing there, seemed to be brewing fast.

  I dragged Arthur away before the supper show. He wanted to stay but I reminded him that he’d be on duty at seven the next morning. I also reminded myself that I was now an important architect and needed a clear head for heavy thinking. Candy wanted to know whether I’d give her a call, or whether she’d have to start acting like a hussy. As we shouldered our way out, Miss Agnes Sheridan smiled and waved at Arthur, and he waved back. I took him to the McKinley in a taxi. He said, “Kirk, I never had so much fun in my life. Never.”

  Thursday I worked. I got hold
of a lot of books and started reading. I absorbed a lot of dope about office buildings. A glittering opportunity had been laid in my lap and I didn’t propose to muff it.

  Friday was a busy day, too. I had a couple of conferences with a contractor who was doing an alteration job on a big apartment house. It was something I’d been handling before the Ferguson job turned up. When I finished with him, I telephoned Dana’s apartment. She was rehearsing again. She was always rehearsing. Dance teams work so smoothly on the floor. Since I’d met Dana, I’d found out why. They kill themselves acquiring that perfection.

  I went home and settled myself for another evening of research. I poured myself a drink and sat down with the evening paper. The bell rang and I let Arthur Maybank in. He started talking about inconsequential things, but I knew he had something on his mind.

  Finally I got it. He had a date with Agnes Sheridan for that night. He was broke and wanted to borrow twenty dollars. You’d have thought he was asking me for the United States mint.

  I tried to make it more than that, but he insisted that twenty was enough. He said he wouldn’t be embarrassed with Miss Sheridan because she knew what his job was. He was asking for twenty, he said, because he thought it would be fun to take her back to the Club Caliente. I caught it, all right. In the Caliente, Arthur knew people. He was a big shot.

  I said, “You’re sure making time, son.”

  “She’s awfully nice.”

  “Did you see her yesterday?”

  “Well, yes . . . I managed to. In fact, we had lunch together.”

  I grinned. “Better watch your step. You’re slipping.”

  He answered shyly, “I guess every man’s entitled to be a damn fool one time, isn’t he?”

  He went away. He had my twenty dollars and he was walking on air.

  Saturday night I got to the club early. I felt as though I hadn’t seen Dana since forever. I said, “This is a hell of a note: Just because I’m on the way to become a successful architect, I don’t see you any more.” I held her at arm’s length. “You’ve become infinitely more beautiful in the past three days, darling.”

  She said, “How’s the work going?”

  “Not too fast. But tonight I’m forgetting it. Let’s find a quiet place for dinner between shows and talk about us.”

  She thought that was a good idea. And then she said, “But I do wish you’d been in last night. Arthur was here with that Miss Sheridan, and she was cute.”

  “In what way?”

  “In every way. She either likes him or she’s giving a reasonable facsimile thereof. And he shows all the symptoms of a gent who has fallen hard.”

  “I’m not questioning his side of it,” I said. “But how about Miss Sheridan’s? Is she impressed by Arthur or by his friends?”

  “Both, I think. Maybe it was just the friends at first, but now he seems to have emerged as a personality.”

  “That’s not easy to imagine. He isn’t what you’d call colorful.”

  “That’s the nicest thing about him.”

  I said, “Did you speak to them?”

  “Of course. I sat at their table. So did Candy Livingston.”

  “So she was in again, eh?”

  “Yes, indeed. She seemed slightly heartbroken at not finding you here. How’s it getting along, by the way?”

  I said, “Be yourself, Beautiful. My relationship with Miss Livingston is strictly a night-club affair.”

  Dana looked at me oddly. She said, “Maybe.” Then she vanished into the corridor which led to her dressing room. I sat by myself, watched her act with the usual detached feeling that annoyed me, and waited while she changed into street clothes. When she joined me again, she was ready to go. Just as we started out, a page boy came up and wanted to know whether I was Mr. Douglas. I said I was, and he said, “Somebody wants you on the phone.”

  Dana and I followed the kid to the lobby, so that when I’d finished talking, we could escape quickly. It was already half past ten. I picked up the phone and Dana and I looked at each other. We hadn’t said a word, but each knew what the other was thinking. Fifty to one, it was Candy Livingston. But it wasn’t. It was a voice I’d never heard before: a woman’s voice. It was harsh, penetrating. It said, “Mr. Douglas?”

  “Yes.”

  “McKinley Hospital speaking. You’re a friend of Dr. Arthur Maybank, ain’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, maybe you better come over here.”

  I didn’t like the way she said it. I put my lips close against the mouthpiece and asked, “Is it important, Miss?”

  “I’ll say it is.” The voice held more than a trace of excitement. “Dr. Maybank has just been shot.”

  CHAPTER XI

  I WAS THINKING fast when I came out of the phone booth. To tell Dana or not to tell her, that was the question. I decided I’d better. She’d find out soon enough, anyway.

  She took it standing up. She drew in her breath sharply and her eyes got wide. She said, “Something else?” and I knew what she meant. I was thinking the same thing.

  We walked out of the club and stood on the curb while the doorman tried to flag a taxi. It was a tough job because the night was bad. What had been snow had turned to slush; what had been rain had become sleet. A freezing wind swept up from the river and chilled me all the way through.

  A taxi swung into the curb and disgorged two men and a woman. I grabbed the taxi and said, “McKinley Hospital, and step on it, Bud.” We slid and lurched westward. I took Dana’s hand. It was almost as cold as mine.

  She asked, “Is he dead?”

  “I don’t know. That’s all the girl said: that he’d been shot.”

  She didn’t ask any more questions. We skidded on dirty snow through dirty streets. My mind flashed back to Wednesday night: Arthur Maybank having the time of his life, being somebody in a place where there were a lot of somebodies. Letting himself go over a woman. Taking her out last night with my twenty dollars. Stretched out now in his own hospital, victim of a shooting. That’s all I knew, but it was enough to make me feel ill.

  We stopped at the curb in front of the main entrance. I gave the driver a dollar bill and told him to keep the change. We went into the dingy lobby and spoke to the dingy girl at the receptionist’s desk. We told her we were friends of Dr. Arthur Maybank and wanted to see him. She jerked her head toward the old-fashioned iron grillwork of the elevator and forgot all about us. We went up to the fourth floor.

  It was better up there, but still not good. People walked around, some dressed as we were and some in white. This was a private room floor. So they were treating Arthur all right. I was glad.

  A girl approached us. She was slim and dark and had a clear olive complexion. Her black eyes looked frightened. She had on a little hat and a brown dress. The sheared beaver coat she wore was open. That’s how I could see the brown dress.

  Agnes Sheridan said, “I’m glad you’re here. I thought you might be at the club, Mr. Douglas. I suggested they phone you.”

  I said, “How bad is it?”

  “Not bad. But that isn’t the point. Somebody shot at him.”

  “When?”

  “Less than an hour ago. I had a date with him. I was in the little restaurant near the corner, and he was supposed to join me there for a cup of coffee and some doughnuts. When he didn’t show up, I came over to see what was detaining him. They told me what had happened.”

  “What did they tell you?”

  “That he had slipped his overcoat on over his whites and told the other interne he’d be back in a few minutes. He went across the parking space, and somebody fired at him from among the parked cars.”

  “Did they catch him?”

  “No.”

  “Has Arthur any idea . . .”

  “No. It just happened. He was unconscious, but only for a little while. He was hit in the arm. The resident surgeon says he’ll be up and around by tomorrow. But if somebody shot at him deliberately, they might try it again.”
>
  I said, “You’re really fond of him, aren’t you?”

  “I like him. He’s different from anybody I’ve ever met.”

  That made sense. There was a lot of emotion bottled up in this Sheridan woman. She was shaking now, and Dana put a hand on her arm to steady her. Agnes went right on talking, as though it made her feel better to get things off her chest.

  “They called the police. The cops talked to him as soon as he came down from the operating room. They left just a few minutes ago.”

  “Can we see him?”

  “I think so. I’ll ask the hall nurse.”

  She knew just where she was going. She’d been working at the McKinley quite a while as a nurse’s aide. She returned in a few seconds and led us into a room which was clean enough, provided you were too sick to care about details.

  Arthur smiled when we came in. It was a brave effort, but not too successful. This wasn’t the Arthur of Wednesday night. He looked sick and frightened. There was something behind his eyes that disturbed me, as though he knew that the end was not yet.

  Dana went over to the bed and said something nice. He took her hand and said, “Thanks.” There was real warmth in the smile he gave Agnes Sheridan.

  I asked him how he was feeling and he said, “Fine.” He told me it was nothing at all, just a flesh wound in the arm. He said he’d be on the job next day, as usual—or, at the latest, the day after that. He was trying to be the big brave boy, and he wasn’t getting away with it.

  I pulled up a chair. I asked him to tell me about it. He said, “There isn’t much to tell. I was walking across the parking lot. Something hit me. I couldn’t even swear I heard the shot. Next thing I knew they were rolling me into the operating room.”

  I smiled brightly. “Probably an accident.”

  “I’d like to think so. But I don’t.”

  Dana said, “Why would anybody want to shoot you?”

  “I can’t figure that one, either. It may have been some screwball who used to be a patient. Maybe someone who took a dislike to me.”