The Amethyst Spectacles, page 14
“Oh, darling!” I said. It was so horrible. “But why on earth? What is it all about? And you said that Ray was already married?”
“That’s what’s interesting,” Patrick said. “Ray Thayer was married to Karen Chandler. Or her mother, if Bee’s initials are K.E.”
“What-t?”
Patrick nodded. “I suppose it was Karen. They were married in Bernalillo last September şth. That was the day Ray left Santa Maria and took Karen as far as Albuquerque on his way to Hollywood.”
“How on earth did you learn that?”
Patrick laughed. “Blementary, Baby. I had a look at the county records. Matter of routine. Like to find out what I can about my clients. Dorrie wasn’t presumed to be dead when I left you with Julia in her shop and went to do some sleuthing in the county clerk’s files. I was curious to know more about Ray’s will. It was very simple, left his entire estate to his fiancée, Karen Chandler. It was dated August 10th. I checked on the marriage licenses for the past two years as a matter of routine, too. Maybe it was mostly curiosity. It wasn’t likely that Karen and Ray would have taken out a license in Santa Maria, because it would not have remained a secret, but I looked just the same. No dice. My curiosity has been much aroused by Bee and Karen Chandler.”
“Darling—they’re all right. I’m sure.”
Patrick continued as though I hadn’t spoken. “’Suppose one of them did it?’ I kept asking myself. ‘Why? There has to be a motive. Maybe Karen was in love with. Ray Thayer? Why not? He seems to have been a right sort of guy.’”
“Also a Marine,” I said.
Patrick let it pass. “‘What do we know about it anyway? How can we tell?’ I kept wondering. So I checked the records for anything I could find in Santa Maria and in Santa Fe and Bernalillo—and there I found that a Thayer and a Chandler had got married last September 5th.”
“But how?”
“Telephoned the county clerks in both places. Told them I was the police. The information from Bernalillo, was kind of vague, so I popped down and had a look myself.”
“Did you fly?”
“It’s only thirty-five miles from Santa Fe. Quicker to drive.”
“You should have taken me!”
“If I had, you would have missed Edwina, and we wouldn’t know that she was planning to get a divorce, which may turn out to be useful information in this tangled business.”
“You win,” I said. He always did. “Oh, look at Scott’s window, Pat! That’s the one his bed is built in. It’s fixed so that if ever he has to stay in bed any length of time he will have the sunshine and the view. Let’s stop and talk with Scott, Pat. I’m sure he knows more than he lets on. He’s been pals with Bee and Karen and Ray Thayer, all of them, for so long. If he knows you’ve got the goods on Karen—I mean, there might be what they call extenuating circumstances—so that—I mean, if they were justified …”
“It’s too late, Jeanie.”
“It’s only a little past midnight, and he’s up. Please do stop, Pat!”
Patrick said, grimly, “It’s Ames I’d like to surprise with a midnight visit!”
But he turned off on the Silver River road and a little way along we ran into the short drive in front of Scott’s neat white house.
We parked, and, after we knocked, the light in the iron lantern above the blue door was snapped on, and Scott opened the door wearing a navy bathrobe, and on his feet felt slippers. He was reading War and Peace, and held his place with one finger. His blond hair was mussed and he looked a little shy at being caught déshabillé.
“Why, hello,” he said.
“Hello,” Patrick said. “Kind of late to drop in on you, Scott.”
“It was my idea, Scott,” I said. “We saw your light, and …”
“But come in,” Scott said, stepping back and opening the door wide.
“For only half a minute,” I said. There was a night chill in the air. I had left Pancho in the warm heated car, wrapped in a rug.
We stepped into the little hall, and Scott closed the door. The living room beyond was warm with lamplight. It was a large beautiful room, wood-paneled, with books and pictures and warmly colored old Indian rugs which gave it much life. With one bedroom, a bath, an ultra-modern kitchen, and the terrace, it comprised Scott’s house. The Venetian blinds in this room were closed.
“Sit down,” Scott said. “I’ll get you a drink.”
Patrick said, “Thanks, Scott, but we haven’t time to sit down, and …”
“And we’ve had too many drinks already,” I said. “We’ve been bingeing in Santa Fe.”
Scott laid the book on the hall table and stood with his hands in the pockets of his bathrobe and his feet a little apart.
“Tell him, Pat,” I said. “We must sound crazy.”
Patrick nodded. “I might as well,” he said. “It won’t be much of a secret by tomorrow. Well, apparently Karen Chandler killed both Ray and Dorrie Thayer, Scott.”
Scott’s mouth opened, and he swayed a little, and put a hand on the wall to steady himself.
I looked at Patrick, for I had expected him to start off by asking Scott if he knew that Karen and Ray had got married. It was part of his technique to ask abrupt questions. These more or less unhinged his victims, I suppose, so that they told more than they expected to before they got themselves in hand. But I could never get used to it.
Scott said, “If this is a joke, kids, I don’t seem to get it.”
“Sorry,” Patrick said gently. “I did it that way on purpose, Scott. I wanted to shock you, to make you realize straight off that things are ganging up against Karen. If she’s really guilty, the quicker we know it the better. If she isn’t …”
“She couldn’t be,” Scott said. He moved a step to the left and sat down on a chair, his eyes fastened on Patrick’s, appealing, incredulous, a little opaque, the way everybody’s get from shock. What was it you did in a shock case? Something warm on the stomach, or in it, maybe, or both?
“In that case, if you know anything that will help Karen, the sooner we know it the better,” Patrick said again.
“I don’t believe it,” Scott said, in a toneless voice.
“I’m sorry. The evidence is against her, Scott.”
Scott leaned forward. “But why?” A little life came into his eyes. Good. He was beginning to fight. “Why?”
“You knew, didn’t you, that Ray Thayer and Karen were married?”
Scott gaped, his mouth twitched, but he said nothing.
“In Bernalillo. Last September 5th,” Patrick said.
“I don’t believe it!” Scott snapped out.
“Ray didn’t tell you?”
“Certainly not!”
“It’s in the records. I saw their signatures myself,” Patrick said. “I don’t know Karen’s writing, but I took a sample of Thayer’s, and his signature, from his study when I went through it this morning. Yesterday morning, I mean.” I glanced at my watch. It was twenty-five minutes past midnight. “She signed herself K. E. Chandler. He signed himself William Thayer. They gave Hollywood as their address, which would be somewhat irregular, for Karen, I believe. I suppose they didn’t want any publicity.”
Scott said, “Karen was still in school. I suppose she would want to keep it secret, for the time.”
“Then you agree it was they?”
Scott said, and now his words came more naturally, “Ray’s real name was William. He never had the Ray legalized, but he used it at his bank, everywhere. That William makes me think you might be right, but the whole business knocks me for a loop. It doesn’t make sense. Suppose they did get married? Even so, why would Karen want to kill him when hr came back here with Dorrie? She was already in love with Hugh Kennicott. She never cared for Ray the way she does for Hugh. She ought to have been relieved, rather than outraged. She could easily have had the marriage annulled, couldn’t she, if they hadn’t lived together, and if Ray came back here with another woman? Which is another incredible thing! He was my best friend, yet he did these things, married Karen secretly and committed bigamy, and he didn’t tell me …”
“Did he have a chance?”
Scott said, “Well, maybe not. He never wrote letters. I only saw him once, alone, after he got back. He came here, he was terribly upset, but before he could get himself in hand and say anything much, Dorrie showed up, and he went away with her, back to his place. I didn’t see him again. They found him next morning in the canyon. If only he had talked to me—if I had insisted—if I had chucked her out when she barged in …”
“Well, these things happen,” Patrick said gently.
I sat down on an old carved chest which stood in the hall opposite the entrance, and Patrick, taking out his cigarettes, offered them, was refused because Scott didn’t smoke and I didn’t want one, lit his own, and sat down beside me and listened as Scott said, “But so much of it doesn’t make sense. Why did Karen waive her rights to his property, if they were married?”
“Kennicott has plenty, hasn’t he?” Patrick asked.
“That’s not it,” Scott said. “Karen wouldn’t want the property for herself, but why would she let Dorrie get away with it? Karen would give it to the Red Cross or somebody, rather than let a—a creature like Dorrie wolf what Ray had worked for and saved.”
Obviously, that was something only Karen could answer. Or Bee.
“What about Mrs. Chandler?” Patrick asked, as if he had had the same idea I had.
“Bee? What do you mean, what about her?”
“Did she want the marriage between Karen and Ray?”
Scott said, “Bee would leave that to them. Bee wouldn’t force her ideas in that regard on anybody. Bee is a little hard to understand, I think, but I believe I understand her, and she’s the salt of the earth. Ethical as they come.”
“Do you think she would know that Karen had married Ray?”
Scott said slowly, “Yes, I think she would. I don’t think Karen keeps anything from Bee. I don’t know, of course, but they seem such pals, always. Bee liked Ray. There would be no reason for Karen keeping their marriage a secret from her mother.”
Patrick said, “Very ethical people are always going off the deep end, Scott. It probably gave Bee Chandler a big jolt when Ray Thayer came back with Dorrie, if she knew that he and Karen had got married.”
Scott said obstinately, “Well, you’ve got to show me. You say that apparently Karen killed them. What about the evidence? Murder has to be proved, doesn’t it?”
“Right. I’m afraid I can’t discuss the evidence till after I’ve talked with the sheriff. Were you familiar with Thayer’s files?”
“With the outside of them, of course.”
“I told you about their being upset?” Scott inclined his head, and Patrick said, “I’d like your opinion of Maurice Ames, Scott?”
Scott Davies looked very stubborn, and Patrick, ignoring it, said, “He’s a strange guy, isn’t he, Scott?” Scott did not answer and Patrick said, “Maybe Dorrie was right about his stealing something from the files? But what?” Scott shook his head. “And is he really sick, or is he putting it on?”
“I stopped in there this evening,” Scott said. “He looks sick to me.”
“Was the nurse on duty?”
“Yes. Maurice’s eyes were bandaged. He didn’t seem to know me. The nurse said he had listless periods that worried the doctor a lot.”
“You don’t think he’s pretending?”
“For God’s sake, why?”
Patrick grinned. “I’m asking you. He’s supposed to have sent for me today, twice, maybe oftener, as we’ve been away since shortly after four o’clock. I suppose I should have gone, but this other thing that took us to Santa Fe seemed more urgent. Ames doesn’t like Bee Chandler, does he, Scott?”
Scott squirmed, and said, “Well, maybe not. She isn’t his type of woman. Too brainy, for one thing.”
“She doesn’t know something about him he’d rather she didn’t know?”
“Not that I know of. Why?”
“I was wondering if he might frame her,” Patrick said.
“What for?”
“It’s just an idea,” Patrick said. “Maybe Dorrie was right. Maybe Maurice did hire somebody to steal something or other from her house. Maybe Ray had something he wanted.”
“Good Lord, Maurice has everything!” Scott exclaimed.
Patrick said, “Ames is the kind that always wants something else. That’s how he gets his fun. He acquires a thing, and that’s wonderful, but the excitement passes and he wants and goes after something else. Suppose Thayer had something Ames wanted. It would be easy for him to plant clues which would pin the blame on Bee. Or on Karen. It’s hard to think of a man his age trying to frame a young girl like Karen. He wouldn’t be so soft, though, about Bee, and, besides, he doesn’t like her.”
“He doesn’t like Karen much, either,” I said. “Remember how he picked on her at that party, Scott?”
“That’s superficial,” Scott said. “But he really dislikes Bee.”
Patrick said, “That’s a deep antipathy, I think, which may spring from nothing but that they are extremely antagonistic types.” The question was experimental. It got nowhere.
Scott said, “Look here, Pat. If anyone on earth should hate Maurice Ames, it should be me. He married the only girl I ever wanted and he never fails to remind me of it, and he takes a special malice in doing it, but, all the same, I like him, I respect him, and I can’t think he would be such a fool as to do murder. He snubbed Dorrie. So did Karen and Bee. So she griped against them. She’s like that. It doesn’t mean anything. She was a born troublemaker. Maybe she upset the files herself.”
“Didn’t she confide in you anything about her marriage with Thayer?” Scott looked blank. “Did she suspect him of the previous marriage?”
“If she did,” Scott said, “why didn’t she take the money when she got it and skip? That was what she wanted, or so I think.”
“Right.”
“I never could dope it out,” Scott said. “But I wouldn’t let her talk to me. I thought maybe Ray married her when he was drunk. Two or three times I’ve seen Ray drunk to the point of not knowing what he was doing. This is between ourselves, see? It happened when he was terribly tired. He drove himself terrifically sometimes. Then he would drink to relax. Maybe that’s what happened. Maybe he didn’t know what he was doing when he married Dorrie—then he came to his senses, and realized what he had done, and thought he could never make Karen understand—well, you figure it out, Pat. You’re the detective.”
“We must go, darling,” I said. “Scott doesn’t belong to the leisure class, like we do.”
“Don’t worry about that,” Scott said.
“I’ve got to stop and see Trask, too—if he’s back in Santa Maria,” Patrick said.
We had all risen. “He is back,” Scott said. “The rustlers got away, across the state line. Max Ottoway got back in town about five o’clock and when Trask rolled in an hour or so later Ottoway hollered to high heaven because the gang had got away. Wasn’t Trask’s fault. He wasn’t notified in time, but Ottoway means to pin the blame on him if he can. Jim’s too much of a local hero for Max Ottoway to shine the way he’d like.”
“My money’s on the sheriff,” I said.
“I hope you’re right, Jeanie. The Wild West ain’t what she used to be, though. Could you stop in the office in the morning, Pat?”
Patrick said, “Couldn’t you say it—now?”
Scott frowned, hesitated, and then he said, “I’ve got no right to tell you this, Pat, but maybe it will help Karen. Ray Thayer did talk with Bee Chandler. I think he may have told her what you need to know about his marrying Dorrie.”
“Thanks,” Patrick said.
Scott said, “Don’t tell her I told you. I want to tell her that myself when I see her. I don’t want her to think me a heel.”
“I won’t. Thanks a lot.”
Scott turned on the light over the door and stood under its glow till we got in the car. Then he turned off the light.
At the road Patrick turned to the right.
“Darling?” I demanded.
“Ames sent for me twice, Jeanie,” Patrick said. “Maybe I ought to drop around.”
“Is it Maurice you want to see?” I asked. “Or Bee Chandler?”
Chapter 15
We drove slowly, using the dimmers, following the white line of road past the Thayer place, so dingy from neglect, so shadowed with death.
We drove on, veering away from the river as the road swept left and curved up through the grassy juniper-dotted range country, where the strange night was stranger, the earth gray, the scattered pot-bellied evergreens black as ink.
Cattleguards rumbled as we crossed them. We drove on. Before crossing the last, at the entrance of the lane, Patrick turned off the lights and we crawled over the guard into the slim white perfect drive to the house.
“Why so mysterious?” I asked.
“Might be an advantage to surprise him.”
“And it might not!” I said, thinking it dangerous.
“Nothing to worry about,” Patrick said. “Only, you do as I say—remember!”
The house sprawled, pale and immense, without illumination, without life, under the clouded moon. It grew larger and taller with nearness. The slim poplars adorning the grounds looked fragile, the shrubbery calculated and dense.
We crept. Patrick cursed the essential rustle of the slowed-down motor. We arrived at the place where the road divided. One branch curved to the parking space at the front of the house. The other led to the back, and further along to the garages, the cowhands’ bunkhouse and the stables. We turned to the right, and when the double verandas came in full view, we saw the night lamp in the open doors of Maurice’s room, very dim, hardly distinguishable from the moonlight.
The French doors of his room stood open in the upper veranda. At the other end of the veranda Edwina’s bedroom doors were closed.
Patrick stopped the car near the verandas, at a point where the planting concealed it from the house.
