Softly in the Night, page 17
“It feels lousy, honey,” I said. “Real lousy.... I’ll call you soon.”
I left before she could say any more. I drove to Beverly Hills and stopped at the big white house. The maid came to the door.
“I know it’s a bad hour, in the middle of the day,” I said, “but would you ask Mrs. Cantwell if she can see me?”
“Of course, Mr. March,” the maid said. “Will you wait in here?” She showed me into the room where I’d waited each time I’d had a date with Pamela.
I waited and in a couple of minutes the maid was back. “She’s in the study upstairs. Shall I show you the way?” “I think I remember,” I said. “I’ll find it.”
I walked up the stairs and turned to the study. I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
She was there, looking much as she had the first time I’d seen her. She was wearing a bright red robe and looked as if she’d just gotten out of bed. She was incredibly lovely.
“Milo,” she said. “This is a wonderful surprise. I thought I’d hear from you last night and then I gave up when I didn’t.”
“I got back too late last night,” I said, “and this is the first free moment I’ve had today. Sorry.”
“It’s all right—now that you re here. Will you have a drink?"
“You know me. The answer is always yes.”
She went over to the small bar and started fixing the two drinks. I looked around the room. It was the first time I’d ever really looked at it. The walls were lined with books from floor to ceiling. There was a small desk and chair. There was a beautiful Chinese screen in one comer, fanned out so that you could see only half of the window. The other chairs in the room were all comfortable and designed for contemplation. My gaze went back to her as she came across the room with the drinks.
I took mine and waited for her to sit down. Then I took the chair across from her.
“To the widow Cantwell,” I said, lifting my glass. “Please,” she said. “That’s a horrible expression. Besides, I thought you were determined to prove that I'm not a widow.”
“I wanted to talk to you,” I said. “That’s why I barged in like this. I want to talk about Richard Cantwell-successful businessman, gay blade with the ladies, smooth operator, and gold-plated bastard—as you’ve said.”
“All right, Milo,” she said.
“Did you know he gambled?” I asked.
“No.”
‘Well, he did. Heavily. In the last year and a half he : lost about a million dollars over the tables in Las Vegas, i It was a million dollars he didn’t have personally. So he ‘ started stealing from the company, from himself, to ;| cover the losses. That didn’t quite do it. So, then, on the strength of his company’s business, he borrowed a halfmillion from a bank. He set up a phoney inventory to 1 cover the money if anyone got curious.”
“That’s terrible,” she said. “But then the thefts must be covered by insurance, aren’t they?”
“The company has insurance,” I said. “Also, a year ago, Richard Cantwell who had been playing the field met a girl who was hard to get. He even bought a night club to get her and that didn’t work. But finally he did ; get her—when she thought she loved him. And by that time I think he believed he loved her. But he was in a bad way. He had a successful business from which he had stolen a million dollars. Maybe it was his own money, but if nothing else, the Internal Revenue boys would view the whole thing with jaundiced eyes. He also had treated his wife very badly, and she certainly wouldn’t let him off easily if he went to her and suddenly said he wanted a divorce.”
“You mean he wanted to marry the girl?”
“I think he did. So he had a bright idea. He stole another five hundred thousand dollars from his business. Then he planned to have one of his houses burned down and it would seem that he and his wife had perished in the fire. That would mean one million, three hundred thousand dollars. Granting that he might have to give a half-million dollars to Harry Manfred for arranging the fire, it would still leave him with a tidy sum to start a new life with a new love somewhere.”
“I don’t understand,” she said. “How would he get the money?”
“I don’t know,” I admitted. “I’ve checked the foundation and I don’t think they were involved. But your husband must have had an idea. Or maybe he just trusted in the fact that he believed he always got what he wanted. In the meantime, he still had a half million in cash to hold him while he waited for the insurance money.”
“But how was he going to make people believe that he had died in the fire?”
“He went to Skid Row, near his office, and found a bum who was more or less like him physically. I don t know what story he used, but he got the bum to have his teeth fixed so that they would match his. The plan was that the bum and Richard Cantwell’s wife would die in the fire. It was a nice plan—but not too original.” “So that’s what happened?” she said. She shuddered “But how did the girl get there instead of me?”
“A few things went wrong with his plan,” I said. “For one thing, Richard Cantwell’s wife found out what was going on. I don’t know exactly how. Maybe she found his money. He had almost seven hundred thousand dollars in cash, and he had to keep it somewhere. He probably hid it in the house. Maybe she found it and maybe she noticed a few other peculiar things. I doubt if she figured it out all by herself. She had a friend—a very close friend—who had once worked with Richard Cantwell. He knew him very well—and hated him. He probably guessed what the plan was, and the two of them decided to let Cantwell work out his idea up to a point, and then they would make certain changes in it.”
I paused but she didn’t say anything. She just stared at me, her face pale and frozen.
"When this friend was thrown out by Cantwell,” I continued, “I think he ended up on Skid Row. He was more or less rescued from that by Richard Cantwell's wife. She supported him for the next few years. When they discovered Cantwell’s plan, they saw their chance to have a life together and do it with plenty of money. And they probably saw an ironic justice in the fact that Richard Cantwell and his mistress would die in the fire, instead of Cantwell’s wife and some nameless bum from Skid Row.
“Richard Cantwell had his plan set for Tuesday night. He was going to meet his wife at the Santa Monica house when she came back from vacation. Maybe he thought that he’d convinced her that they would start all over again. He would have the bum there the same night. He probably intended to see that they were both knocked out in some fashion, then he’d leave and let his hired arsonists do their work. He’d booked air passage to Las Vegas for the next morning under a different name. I’m not sure why Las Vegas—he certainly couldn’t go , near the tables—but it might have been because there’s so much traffic in and out of Las Vegas that he thought it would be easy to vanish from there.
“But Cantwell didn’t know that his wife and former partner were also busy with their plans. Somehow they found out who the arsonist was that Cantwell had hired. They approached him and outbid Cantwell, so he agreed to work for them. They had also discovered that Cantwell and his mistress were spending a lot of time at the Santa Monica house and were pretty certain they would be there over the week end—especially since wife would be in the mountains for the weekend. So that part was ready.
“To go back for a minute, when they first got the idea that Cantwell was planning something, I think they realized that he would have to provide a double to be found in the fire. The wife's friend was probably the one to realize that the logical place for a double to be found was on Skid Row—that haven for nameless and friendless men so near Cantwell’s offices. So he went back to Skid Row and kept a silent and unseen watch. When Cantwell did go there to find his man, the friend soon found out about it. He also found out that Cantwell took the bum to a dentist to have his teeth fixed, and stayed around until he learned where Cantwell took the bum. Then he came back to his normal life.
“They arranged with Harry Manfred to do his torch job on Sunday night. The wife was safely away in the country with a woman who could swear she was there all the time. They even had a near accident—which I suspect was arranged by the friend—so it might look as if her husband had tried to kill her. Everything went off as planned.
“Then an insurance investigator showed up. They realized that he might stumble onto something that would make him suspicious of Cantwell and that if he did, then he, too, might end up at Skid Row looking for that double. So the friend let his beard grow and once again started playing his role down there. Sure enough, I did show up and he was just helpful enough to let me find out that Cantwell had picked up a bum and had his teeth fixed to match Cantwell’s. But he didn’t help me find out where the bum had gone. He didn’t want me to find that out because he had visited the bum on Sunday, in his role as a fellow bum, and gotten drunk with him. But there was poison in the double’s liquor and he conveniently vanished from the scene—just as he would have if Cantwell’s scheme had gone through.
“Pretty, isn’t it? There is a villain, but it’s not Cantwell. My insurance company and I were to believe that he’d planned to kill his wife and a nameless man so he could collect the insurance, but that something had gone wrong and he’d failed to kill the wife. Since she was not part of the scheme, we can’t claim that she was party to the fraud and at the very least she’ll collect the fire insurance. And she might with luck collect the halfmillion on her husband. In the meantime, she has about seven hundred thousand dollars for pin money—the dough her husband took. The insurance company probably won't make good the stolen money, but she’ll still be sitting pretty with between one million, and one and a half million dollars. She has to pay Harry Manfred six hundred thousand, but she has seven hundred thousand left on which there will be no taxes. And she’ll still have a successful business which her lover can run. Some time later they can even get married.
“You know, it was a clever plan, honey. But not clever enough. There were holes in it. I’ll admit that I found most of them at the last minute and by accident, but the point is that I did find them.”
She finally found her voice. “What are you talking about?” she asked. .
“You know/’ I said wearily. “I think you and your friend also decided that you should be friendly with me so that you might be able to learn what I was doing, You entered into that role so enthusiastically that you even went to bed with me—did you tell him that? Did you tell him all the details? Or did you try to make him believe that you only pretended to enjoy yourself?”
Her face had gone paper white. She glanced nervously around the room. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out.
“I think,” I said, “that my barroom friend Hank— Henry Kray—is waiting back of that screen. Otherwise you would have shown more affection when I first came in. So why not invite him out?”
He came around the screen. He was clean-shaven and well-dressed. There was a gun in his hand. He gave her a brief venomous glance, then turned his full attention to me. “My benefactor,” he said bitterly. “He who ‘came like water, and like wind’ will go.”
“I’m glad to see that you’re in character,” I told him. * “I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t ; recited something from Omar. But I had expected: ‘The flower that once has blown for ever dies.’ ”
“There’s still time,” he said grimly.
“You know something else,” I said. “That seven hundred thousand dollars you have isn’t worth a dime.” “What do you mean?”
“It’s mostly stolen money, and the bank has the serial numbers of all the bills. You can’t spend them without their being identified as the money Richard Cantwell stole from his company and withdrew from his personal account.”
He glanced at her briefly again. “I told you he was dangerous. But he seems to have come here first. We can take care of it.”
“How?” she asked and she sounded close to tears.
“We can turn him over to Manfred. He’s getting enough money. Or I can take care of him myself. I might like that.”
“That’s the trouble with amateurs,” I said. “They never know when to quit. Well, at least let me have another drink before I die.” I held my glass out.
Automatically, like the well-bred hostess, she got up and came over to get my glass. As she took it from me, she was partly in between us.
“Pamela,” he said desperately.
But it was too late. I let my hand go with the glass and shoved her as hard as I could. She went staggering back into him. I didn’t wait to see the results. I hit the floor, rolling, pulling my gun from its holster. I ended up on my belly, facing him.
He was off balance and I had plenty of time. I took careful aim and put a bullet through his kneecap. He screamed once and flopped on the floor. The gun skidded away from his nerveless fingers. I got up and went over to pick up his gun. I looked down at him. He was crying with pain. His trouser leg was already dark with blood.
Suddenly she was pulling at me. “Do something! He’s bleeding. Oh, Milo, he might bleed to death!”
“Let him,” I said.
“No,” she said. It was almost a scream. “Don’t let him die. I’ll do anything you say.”
“No, Pamela,” he said between clenched teeth, but she wasn’t listening.
“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” I said. “I’ll call the police. When they get here you tell them how it was. Then they can take him to the hospital.”
“Yes, yes,” she said. ‘Til do anything. Just don’t let him die. I love him.”
I looked to see if he were going to protest again, but he’d fainted. I went over and picked up the phone. I called the police department and asked for Lieutenant Arnold.
“Milo March,” I said when he came on. “Are you busy?”
“Why?”
“If you’d care to drive out to the Cantwell house, you can wrap up the case.”
“You found Cantwell?”
“No,” I said. “I was wrong about that. It was Cantwell in the fire. Put there by his wife and her lover. The lover has a bullet hole through his right knee. She’s anxious for you to get here quickly, so she can tell you all about it and you’ll get him to a doctor.”
“I’ll be right there,” he said and hung up.
TEN
Lieutenant Arnold was there in less than twenty minutes. He listened while Pamela Cantwell sobbed out her story. It was pretty much as I’d outlined it. A police stenographer was taking it down as she talked. When she’d finished, I filled in the few things she’d left out. In the meantime, a policeman had administered first aid to Hank. Then the lieutenant took them away. I promised I’d be in Monday to make my statement formally. I left, too. I was tired.
I parked the car beside the hotel and headed for my bungalow. I was almost there when I saw there were lights inside. I slowed up and approached the windows instead of the door. I finally found one where the curtains weren’t completely closed. I shifted around, peering in. Then I saw a mass of red hair and a bare shoulder. I didn’t need to see more. It could be only one person. Torchy—and in pretty much the same condition as when I’d first seen her.
I retreated to the main building of the hotel and called the police again. I asked for Lieutenant Arnold. He was there.
“What the hell do you want now?” he demanded. “I’m just trying to clean up the mess you handed me before.” “Did she sign her statement?”
“Yeah. Is that the only reason you called?”
“No. I’ve got another one for you. If you want to come to my hotel to pick her up.”
“Her?”
“Her. But she was the torch on the job. For Harry Manfred. I think she’s ready to talk. Between her and Pamela Cantwell, you can really tie up Harry Manfred and that ought to be a feather in your cap.”
‘Til have to pick up somebody from the Santa Monica Police,” he said, “but I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
I went back to the bungalow and unlocked the door. I stepped inside. Torchy was there on the couch. Sans clothing. Only this time there wasn’t a gun in her hand. There was only a drink.
“Hello,” I said, closing the door behind me. “I think I’ve seen you somewhere before.”
“Milo,” she said, “can I stay here tonight? I’m afraid. If you let me stay, I’ll do what you want me to in the morning. I’ll tell all about Harry Manfred. But if I don’t stay here, I’m afraid he’ll have me killed.... And we can have our date.”
“It’s too late, Torchy,” I said gently. “The whole thing has been blown wide open. Maybe you can help yourself by talking, but it’s too late to be the star.” “Please,” she said.
“Besides, I’m tired of everybody making with my room like it was Penn Station. And I’m tired of everybody wanting to use me as a clay pigeon. And I’m just tired.” She just stared at me, her eyes big and round.
“You’ll be safe,” I said. “Manfred won’t be able to get to you. Now, put on your clothes.”
She got up, wordlessly, and obeyed. When she was dressed she sat down, almost primly, and waited. I smoked a cigarette and waited with her. I didn’t feel like talking.
Lieutenant Arnold made it in forty minutes, which was pretty good. There was a big, burly Santa Monica cop with him. I introduced them to Torchy and explained her role in the case. She just nodded when he looked at her. Then they started to take her away. Lieutenant Arnold stopped at the door and looked back at me.
“I suppose I should thank you,” he said sourly.
“Not at all,” I told him. “It’s all yours and you can take all the credit. I’ll get my thanks from my company—in the form of a check, which is the only thanks I like. Forget it.”
'‘When are you planning on leaving, March?”
“Right after the inquest.”
“Good,” he said. “You’re too quick with a trigger, March. I don’t like people like that in my jurisdiction. The next time you might shoot the wrong one.”
