Lost Lady Read online

  He struck a pose, the big scene in a B picture. “What have you to say to that?”

  Marty answered. “I’d say, Halliday, that if you continue talking that way you’ll probably be selected as the man most likely to be knocked flat on his ass by a cop named Walsh.”

  “Well, what do you know?” Halliday smiled, and seemed not at all frightened. “I’m afraid, Lieutenant, that you’d experience quite some difficulty accomplishing that feat. Any time you’d like to try it, though …”

  Marty usually has himself under control, but a blind man could have seen that that control was slipping. So I took over.

  I said, “It won’t work, Halliday.”

  “What won’t?”

  “Your tactics. They’re a little too obvious. You come out of your corner swinging. That’s supposed to make us change our opinion of you. It’s supposed to keep us off balance. It doesn’t.”

  He said, “O’Leary, you’re much too smart to be a cop. With that much brain, you’re worth more than three-ninety a month.”

  I knew I wasn’t going to get too mad. I also knew that Marty had been trying to goose him, so I played along.

  “A lug like Halliday,” I said, directing my attention to Marty, “always thinks he’s God’s gift to the women. He keeps that belief alive because he can afford to buy what he can’t get for free.”

  It was working. Dean Halliday was getting plenty sore.

  “What’s more,” I continued, as though addressing a class, “an egoist of that type never knows when he’s being made a sucker of. Mr. Halliday, for instance, probably doesn’t know that Miss Laverne is using most of the money he gives her to support a pimp.”

  “That,” snapped Halliday, “is a goddamn lie.”

  “So? Suppose I told you that tonight I’ve had a nice long talk with the gentleman in question. We located him in Miss Laverne’s apartment. He was wearing pajamas that were much too large for him, so I suppose they were yours.”

  That was just a gratuitous touch. Vince Montero’s pajamas had fitted perfectly, but I figured it would make Halliday slightly maniacal, and I wasn’t far wrong.

  I could see him getting ready to boil over. I could also hear him warning himself not to. It was lots of fun. “Dolores …” he started, and then stopped.

  “I know how you feel, Halliday,” I said. “Maybe, if it turns out you’re broke, she’ll take you on as the assistant to the guy she’s got already. On you it would look good.”

  He sat down suddenly, controlling himself with an effort. “What are you planning to do?” he asked. “Are you going to arrest me?”

  Marty said no, we weren’t. We wanted a few answers, but smart cracks weren’t likely to get him anywhere. “How those answers sound will determine whether we snag you or not.”

  “And if I refuse to answer?”

  “That’s your constitutional right. Of course, we’d have to take you down to the station for interrogation.”

  “Strong-arm stuff?”

  “You’ve been seeing too many gangster movies, Halliday. We don’t play that way.”

  “I heard different.”

  “It’s popular to lie about the police. So if you’re afraid of being knocked around, forget it.”

  That touched him neatly. He said he wasn’t afraid of that or anything else.

  “O.K., then,” said Marty. “I’ll take it from there. First, how much does Dolores Laverne cost you a month?”

  “That’s none of your damn business!”

  “Here we go again,” Marty sighed. “O.K., so it’s none of our business. But you don’t get a gal like Dolores for peanuts. You’ll admit that the sum involved is, as the saying goes, substantial?”

  Halliday shrugged. “That’s obvious, I suppose.”

  “Yes,” Marty said. “And when Montero entered the picture she wanted even more from you. Maybe you were afraid that she’d leave you if you didn’t give her what she-asked. Maybe you got pretty desperate about it. You thought of your wife’s jewels, but when you went to look for them you found they weren’t there. Maybe you picked your wife up when she left here night before last with her sister. You hadn’t known in advance that Iris would be along, so you could have waited until she dropped Iris off at the Ambassador. You-knew she wore, or carried with her, personal jewelry with a retail value of approximately fifteen thousand. If you got hold of that, it would bring enough to keep Dolores satisfied for a while. Another thing: I never knew your wife, but from what I hear, she definitely wasn’t the motel type. There’s only one man I figure could have got her into a motel, and that would be her husband. By that time you might have found out she didn’t have the jewelry on her. There could have been a battle, and …” Marty shrugged and let it hang there.

  I was listening closely. Marty knew damned well that Dorothy Halliday hadn’t been killed in that motel, but he was laying it out different for Dean Halliday.

  Halliday said, “Oh, for Christ’s sake! Do you always run off at the mouth like that?”

  “Yeah. I been taking treatment for it for years. By the way, have you got a pistol?”

  Halliday said yes, and told him about the .22 and the .38. Marty asked if he could see them, and Halliday took us upstairs.

  That upstairs was quite a layout. There was a three-room suite with two baths stretching the long way of the house, occupying all one side of the hall. The front corner bedroom, he explained, had been Dorothy’s; the back corner bedroom was his. In the middle was an upstairs sitting room. A cabinet was set in one of the walls, and it was filled with expensive guns.

  It had two glass doors, and was unlocked. Halliday pointed out the .22 High Standard, then picked up the .38 revolver and handed it to Marty.

  Walsh handled it gingerly. He peeped at the chambers and smelled the barrel. “One shell fired,” he commented. “Could have been recently. Say a couple of days ago. It’ll be interesting to check this against the bullet that killed your wife.”

  “Now,” said Halliday, “you have gone crazy. Would I be dope enough to shoot my own wife with my own gun and then return it to my own sitting room without cleaning it and without replacing the used cartridge? Would I?”

  “Yep. You’re the kind of guy who would think that’d be smart. You’d figure we’d think you couldn’t be that stupid.”

  “You cops got an angle for everything, haven’t you?”

  “Besides,” continued Marty, “if you decided to lose the gun, you could figure that wouldn’t look so good. So you do this other thing.”

  “What’ll I do—write out a confession, or do you want to dictate it?”

  I said, “Do you ever carry a gun, Halliday?”

  “I’ve carried one, yes.”

  “Got a permit?”

  “No. The gun is registered, but I haven’t any permit to carry it.” He was only telling us things we could find out for ourselves.

  There was an electric clock on one of the bookshelves. It showed ten minutes after four o’clock. That was late and we were tired. We’d got about as far as we could that night, so Marty announced that we might as well be shoving off.

  Halliday went downstairs with us. We gathered in the den. Robert Bayless and Iris Kent were still sitting side by side. She looked as though she wouldn’t get any sleep unless somebody slipped her a Seconal.

  Marty did the talking. He said we hadn’t arrived at any definite conclusions (which was an understatement) and that he and I might drop by the next day sometime. He suggested that all of them remain within our jurisdiction, or else notify us of any move they intended to make. We said there’d be no one left at the house (which was only half true, because I knew they had planned to stake the place unobtrusively) and then he reminded them that if anyone got the impulse to take off secretly, it wouldn’t be difficult to pick him up. He seemed to be elaborating it more than was indicated, but I gave him credit for having a purpose. He had Iris find him an old shoebox and he put the gun in that. He also rewrapped the jewelry and the little
gold thimble and slipped the package into his coat pocket.

  All four of us went back to the station. Latest reports from the stake-out at Dolores Laverne’s apartment were that Montero had left shortly after we did. Dolores was probably right there.

  We got busy with a couple of the girls in Records and made out official reports. Marty said he’d pick me up at Hollywood the next day—this same day, actually—at around two p.m. and we’d drive back to the Halliday home.

  I said that would be fine. I got into my own car and drove to my apartment.

  Chuck Morrison was up and around, bright and shiny as a new penny. He said he had figured I’d be drifting in soon, so he’d started to prepare breakfast.

  It was good. Bacon cooked just the way I like it; eggs, sunny side up; crisp toast, coffee. I ate like a wolf, and while I ate I talked.

  I told Chuck all about it. Theoretically I had no business doing that, but talking to Chuck is like talking to myself. He’s the swellest buddy a guy ever had, and I’d trust him from here to Christmas.

  I usually talked to Chuck when something bothered me. He had a brilliant mind, and I knew that someday he’d make a superlative lawyer. He thought in straight lines.

  We had finished breakfast by the time I finished. He was thinking hard.

  “I got one idea,” he said. “Even for me, it’s nuts. But it’s possible.”

  “Go ahead, Chuck.”

  “O.K. Here it is, and you can hang one on my jaw if it comes out as foolish as I think it will.” He started checking off on his fingers:

  “A, this Iris is a wild, sexy kid, to hear you tell it. B, Dean Halliday is big, handsome, and aware that he isn’t in too strong with his wife. C, biology is biology. D, Iris and Halliday have both gone out of the way to assure you that they hate each other. E, Iris is fond of a nice boy who is overboard about her, but she won’t marry him. Could be because she’s all tangled up with another guy. Seriously, not just sexually. Follow me?”

  I said thoughtfully, “I’m ahead of you. But I can’t say I’m buying it.”

  “I didn’t ask you to. It’s just a theory—a different theory from any you’ve been working on. Now just suppose there’s been a little shenanigans between Iris and Halliday. It isn’t pretty, but it’s nature. The way I figure, that’d be the one thing in the world that would really knock Dorothy Halliday for a loop. Not because she loved Halliday or gave a damn what he did, but because she wouldn’t want her little sister to get hurt. Shall I continue?”

  “Pray do.” I kept it light, but I was interested. This crazy roommate of mine might have hit on something.

  “So Dorothy decides that this has got to be stopped, no matter what the cost. She makes a date to meet her husband outside.”

  “Right there,” I broke in, “is where your theory falls on its face. Why should she meet him outside?”

  “Because,” stated Chuck, “under my dopey theory, Mrs. Dorothy Halliday has planned to kill her husband. There’s an idea that would explain a lot of things. She didn’t go out to get killed, she went out to kill somebody. Specifically, Dean Halliday. She tries it. He’s quick, and before the hassle is over, he has killed her. Under the circumstances, he’d have a tough time talking his way out. So from there on, he does everything you’ve figured he might do if he’d planned to kill her and actually had carried out his intention.” Chuck tilted his chair back, lighted a fresh cigarette, and blew smoke at the ceiling. “I’m not saying the idea doesn’t stink, Danny, but I do contend that it’s worth considering.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Marty Walsh was at the station when I got there the next afternoon, checking reports. Dolores Laverne had been questioned about Mrs. Halliday’s car and had denied any knowledge of how it had come to be parked behind her house. Marty said we’d better be getting over to Valleycrest Drive.

  “Anything special in mind?” I asked as we started off.

  “What do you think?”

  “The attic?”

  He nodded and said, “Sure. Iris mentioned that Halliday sometimes goes up there. Why? He’s not interested in Bayless’ model railroad and he doesn’t look like the kind who would have toys of his own. What’s up there that interests him? What’s he looking for?”

  “You give me the needle, Marty; I’ll find the haystack.”

  “Sure, Danny. Sure. It’s a long shot. Maybe too long a shot. But we can try.”

  Iris was sitting by the pool when we got there. She wasn’t in a bathing suit, so Marty didn’t get a glimpse of what I had seen. She looked like a hangover; plumb exhausted. She said Dean Halliday had gone out. We told her we wanted to look around—by ourselves. She took the hint and said she’d stay put in case we wanted her.

  We talked to the cook and the maid, and what we got out of them added up to zero. Just about what we’d gathered from the others in the house. We told them we had Iris’ permission to look around, and they could check with her if they cared to. They said they didn’t.

  We looked at the rooms on the other side of the hall from the master suite. In addition to what we figured was a guest room and bath, there was another suite. Iris’, of course. It wasn’t as big as the one across the hall, but she hadn’t done badly. Bedroom, dressing alcove with built-in dressing table, bath with tub and stall shower, and a sitting room. The people who built that house must have been queer for sitting.

  We didn’t see any attic stairs, so we figured we’d find them hidden behind a door. We opened a million doors, more or less, before we found what we wanted. Meanwhile we had got the idea that the Hallidays owned enough linens to stock a department store, enough blankets to cover an army, and more assorted coats and wraps of all sorts than I’d ever before seen in one residence. Any way you wanted to look at it, the place reeked of money.

  We snapped a switch at the foot of the attic steps. At the head of the steps there were two additional switches and we snapped those also, just for luck. We had plenty of light.

  It was a big attic. It covered all of the area of the house, and that was considerable. What I mean is that many attics are only partly finished. This one was floored all the way.

  Farthest away from the head of the stairs was the portion used for storing things. It was neat as a pin, but one look at it and Marty and I both realized that it’d be a year’s work to cover everything there. We could—and would—take it on a hit-or-miss basis and hope for the best.

  Just off to the right of the top of the stairway was the model railroad. I’ve never gone for that stuff, not since I was a kid (and then my folks couldn’t afford to give me anything but a little one, with enough track to make a figure 8), but I could see right away that this was adult stuff.

  Adjust your eyes so they’d see nothing but the railroad, and you’d swear it was real. Hills, valleys, farms, meadows, simulated streams, fences, cattle, miniature people. The track wound every which way, across the fields between fences, through tunnels, up and down gentle grades. There was a passenger station, a freight depot, a full railroad yard, and a roundhouse. There were sidings and all sorts of switches. On what was obviously the main line there was a sleek streamliner. Off in what was supposed to be the distance there was a big freight train being hauled by what looked like twin Deisels.

  Every engine, every car, every everything was built to scale. Against the wall at the other end there was a workbench with a complete outfit of tools, a half-assembled locomotive, a pile of catalogs, and drawings of various track layouts. There was a big control switchboard. I said, “Shall we play, Marty?”

  He hesitated, then shook his head. “I’d like to,” he confessed. “But we’re supposed to be working.”

  We went to the storage section. There we found all the sort of stuff that you’d expect to accumulate in an attic: trunks, boxes, piles of magazines, stacks of old books, discarded rugs and drapes, old or broken chairs and tables, lamps without shades and shades without lamps. Except that most of the things in this attic seemed to be of good quality, i
t wasn’t much different from any other attic.

  Marty took one side and I took the other. We poked and probed and got more and more confused by the minute. Not knowing what we were looking for, we couldn’t figure what was important and what wasn’t. We covered the same amount of ground and met by an old trunk.

  This one was really an oldie. There were other trunks, too, but they were the more modern wardrobe variety. There were also piles of luggage of the more expensive type. We settled on the old trunk merely because it was different.

  It wasn’t locked and we opened the lid. Beneath the lid was a tray you could lift out. Underneath the tray was a raft of stuff. It only took us a few seconds to see that most of the relics in this trunk dated way back—the sort of things you keep for sentimental reasons, not because they’re of any intrinsic value.

  It’s always fun digging into a trunk like that. There’s a laugh a minute, if you’re in the mood. We were, so we started pulling out things and kidding about them. We were kidding ourselves, too, because this didn’t look like pay dirt.

  I looked at an ancient collection of Victor records, souvenirs of the days before they had electric recording. Mostly classical and mostly vocal, but names you’d heard of: Caruso, Schumann-Heink, Cluck, Chaliapin—just about all of the top-flight old-timers.

  Marty came up with a stamp album. It was one of those kid things, and the stamps were pasted down, not hinged. There wasn’t a stamp in there newer than 1908, so we figured it had belonged to Elsworth Kent, the father of Dorothy and Iris, and it must have carried back to his boyhood and young manhood. Knowing as little about stamps as I did, I could still see that he hadn’t been much of a collector. He’d probably gone this far only because the other kids were doing it.