Laura (Femmes Fatales) Read online

  Shelby had borne up bravely during the ordeal at Headquarters. As his gentle Southern voice repeated the details of that tragic farewell, he showed clearly that he wished to spare his visitor the effort of sympathy.

  “So I put her in the taxi and gave the driver Waldo Lydecker’s address. Laura said, ‘Good-bye until Wednesday,’ and leaned out to kiss me. The next morning the police came to tell me that Bessie had found her body in the apartment. I wouldn’t believe it. Laura was in the country. That’s what she’d told me, and Laura had not lied to me before.”

  “We found the taxi-driver and checked with him,” Mark informed him. “As soon as they’d turned the corner, she said that he was not to go to Mr. Lydecker’s address, but to take her to Grand Central. She’d telephoned Mr. Lydecker earlier in the afternoon to break the dinner date. Have you any idea why she should have lied to you?”

  Cigarette smoke curled in flawless circles from Shelby’s flawless lips. “I don’t like to believe she lied to me. Why should she tell me she was dining with Waldo if she wasn’t?”

  “She lied twice, first in regard to dining with Mr. Lydecker, and second about leaving town that night.”

  “I can’t believe it. We were always so honest with each other.”

  Mark accepted the statement without comment. “We’ve interviewed the porters on duty Friday night at Grand Central and a couple remember her face.”

  “She always took the Friday night train.”

  “That’s the catch. The only porter who swears to a definite recollection of Laura on this particular night also asked if he’d have his picture in the newspapers. So we strike a dead-end there. She might have taken another taxi from the Forty-Second or Lexington Avenue exits.”

  “Why?” Shelby sighed. “Why should she have done such a ridiculous thing?”

  “If we knew, we might have a reasonable clue. Now as to your alibi, Mr. Carpenter . . .”

  Shelby groaned.

  “I won’t make you go through it again. I’ve got the details. You had dinner at the Myrtle Cafeteria on Forty-Second Street, you walked to Fifth Avenue, took a bus to a 146th Street, bought a twenty-five-cent seat for the concert . . .”

  Shelby pouted like a hurt child. “I’ve had some bad times, you know. When I’m alone I try to save money. I’m just getting on my feet again.”

  “There’s no shame in saving money,” Mark reminded him. “That’s the only reasonable explanation anyone’s given for anything so far. You walked home after the concert, eh? Quite a distance.”

  “The poor man’s exercise.” Shelby grinned feebly.

  Mark dropped the alibi, and with one of those characteristic swift thrusts, asked: “Why didn’t you get married before this? Why did the engagement last so long?”

  Shelby cleared his throat.

  “Money, wasn’t it?”

  A schoolboy flush ripened Shelby’s skin. He spoke bitterly. “When I went to work for Rose, Rowe and Sanders, I made thirty-five dollars a week. She was getting a hundred and seventy-five.” He hesitated, the color of his cheeks brightened to the tones of an overripe peach. “Not that I resented her success. She was so clever that I was awed and respectful. And I wanted her to make as much as she could; believe that, Mr. McPherson. But it’s hard on a man’s pride. I was brought up to think of women . . . differently.”

  “And what made you decide to marry?”

  Shelby brightened. “I’ve had a little success myself.”

  “But she was still holding a better job. What made you change your mind?”

  “There wasn’t so much discrepancy. My salary, if not munificent, was respectable. And I felt that I was advancing. Besides, I’d been catching up with my debts. A man doesn’t like to get married, you know, while he owes money.”

  “Except to the woman he’s marrying,” a shrill voice added.

  In the mirror’s gilt frame Mark saw the reflection of an advancing figure. She was small, robed in deepest mourning and carrying under her right arm a Pomeranian whose auburn coat matched her own bright hair. As she paused in the door with the marble statues and bronze figurines behind her, the gold frame giving margins to the portrait, she was like a picture done by one of Sargent’s imitators who had failed to carry over to the twentieth century the dignity of the nineteenth. Mark had seen her briefly at the inquest and had thought her young to be Laura’s aunt. Now he saw that she was well over fifty. The rigid perfection of her face was almost artificial, as if flesh-pink velvet were drawn over an iron frame.

  Shelby leaped. “Darling! You remarkable creature! How you’ve recovered! How can you be so beautiful, darling, when you’ve gone through such intolerable agonies?” He led her to the room’s most important chair.

  “I hope you find the fiend”—she addressed Mark but gave attention to her chiffon. “I hope you find him and scrouge his eyes out and drive hot nails through his body and boil him in oil.” Her vehemence spent, she tossed Mark her most enchanting smile.

  “Comfortable, darling?” Shelby inquired. “How about your fan? Would you like a cool drink?”

  Had the dog’s affection begun to bore her, she might have dismissed it with the same pretty indifference. To Mark she said: “Has Shelby told you the story of his romantic courtship? I hope he’s not left out of any of the thrilling episodes.”

  “Now, darling, what would Laura have said if she could hear you?”

  “She’d say I was a jealous bitch. And she’d be right. Except that I’m not jealous. I wouldn’t have you on a gold platter, darling.”

  “You musn’t mind Auntie Sue, Mr. McPherson. She’s prejudiced because I’m poor.”

  “Isn’t he cute?” cooed Auntie Sue, petting the dog.

  “I never asked Laura for money”—Shelby might have been taking an oath at an altar. “If she were here, she’d swear it, too. I never asked. She knew I was having a hard time and insisted, simply upon lending it to me. She always made money so easily, she said.”

  “She worked like a dog!” cried Laura’s aunt.

  The Pomeranian sniffed. Aunt Sue pressed its small nose to her cheek, then settled it upon her lap. Having achieved this enviable position, the Pomeranian looked upon the men smugly.

  “Do you know, Mrs. Treadwell, if your niece had any—” Mark produced the word uneasily “—enemies?”

  “Enemies!” the good lady shrieked. “Everyone adored her. Didn’t everyone adore her, Shelby? She had more friends than money.”

  “That,” Shelby added gravely, “was one of the finest things about her.”

  “Anyone who had troubles came to her,” Aunt Sue declaimed, quite in the manner of the immortal Bernhardt. “I warned her more than once. It’s when you put yourself out for people that you find yourself in trouble. Don’t you think that’s true, Mr. McPherson?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve probably not put myself out for enough people.” The posturing offended him; he had become curt.

  His annoyance failed to check the lady’s histrionic aspirations. “‘The evil that men do lives after them; the good is oft buried with their bones,’” she misquoted, and giggling lightly, added, “although her poor bones aren’t buried yet. But we must be truthful, even about the dead. It wasn’t money principally with Laura, it was people, if you know what I mean. She was always running around, doing favors, wasting her time and strength on people she scarcely knew. Remember that model, Shelby, the girl with the fancy name? Laura got me to give her my leopard coat. It wasn’t half worn out either. I could have got another winter out of it and spared my mink. Don’t you remember, Shelby?”

  Shelby had become infatuated with a bronze Diana who had been threatening for years to leap, with dog and stag, from her pedestal.

  Auntie Sue continued naughtily: “And Shelby’s job! Do you know how he got it, Mr. McPherson? He’d been selling washing machines—or was it casings for fran
kfurters, darling? Or was that the time when you earned thirty dollars a week writing letters for a school that taught people to be successful business executives?”

  Shelby turned defiantly from Diana. “What’s that to be ashamed of? When I met Laura, Mr. McPherson, I happened to be working as correspondent for the University of the Science of Finance. Laura saw some of my copy, realized that I was wasting a certain gift or flair, and with her usual generosity . . .”

  “Generosity wasn’t the half of it,” Auntie Sue interrupted.

  “She spoke to Mr. Rowe about me and a few months later, when there was a vacancy, he called me in. You can’t say I’ve been ungrateful”—he forgave Mrs. Treadwell with his gentle smile. “It was she, not I, who suggested that you forget it.”

  “Mustn’t be vicious, dear. You’ll be giving Mr. McPherson a lot of misleading ideas.” With the tenderness of a nurse Shelby rearranged Auntie Sue’s cushions, smiling and treating her malice like some secret malady.

  The scene took on a theatric quality. Mark saw Shelby through the woman’s eyes, clothed in the charm he had donned, like a bright domino, for the woman’s pleasure. The ripe color, the chiseled features, the clear, long-lashed eyes had been created, his manner said, for her particular enjoyment. Through it all Mark felt that this was not a new exhibition. He had seen it somewhere before. So irritated by faltering memory that he had to strain harshness from his voice, he told them he was through with them for the day, and rose to go.

  Shelby rose, too. “I’ll go out for a bit of air. If you think you can get along without me for a while.”

  “Of course, darling. It’s been wicked of me to take up so much of your time.” Shelby’s feeble sarcasm had softened the lady. White, faded, ruby-tipped hands rested on his dark sleeve. “I’ll never forget how kind you’ve been.”

  Shelby forgave magnanimously. He put himself at her disposal as if he were already Laura’s husband, the man of the family whose duty it was to serve a sorrowing woman in this hour of grief.

  Like a penitent mistress returning to her lover, she cooed at Shelby. “With all your faults, you’ve got manners, darling. That’s more than most men have nowadays. I’m sorry I’ve been so bad-tempered.”

  He kissed her forehead.

  As they left the house, Shelby turned to Mark. “Don’t take Mrs. Treadwell too seriously. Her bark is worse than her bite. It’s only that she’d disapproved of my marrying her niece, and now she’s got to stand by her opinions.”

  “What she disapproved of,” Mark observed, “was Laura’s marrying you.”

  Shelby smiled ruefully. “We ought all to be a little more decent now, oughtn’t we? After all! Probably Auntie Sue is sorry she hurt poor Laura by constantly criticizing me, and now she’s too proud to say so. That’s why she had to take it out on me this morning.”

  They stood in the burning sunlight. Both were anxious to get away, yet both hesitated. The scene was unfinished, Mark had not learned enough, Shelby had not told all he wanted Mark to know.

  When, after a brief pause devoted to a final struggle with his limping memory, Mark cleared his throat, Shelby started as if he had been roused from the remoteness of a dream. Both smiled mechanically.

  “Tell me,” Mark commanded, “where have I seen you before?”

  Shelby couldn’t imagine. “But I’ve been around. Parties and all that. One sees people at bars and restaurants. Sometimes a stranger’s face is more familiar than your best friend’s.”

  Mark shook his head. “Cocktail bars aren’t in my line.”

  “You’ll remember when you’re thinking of something else. That’s how it always is.” Then, without changing his tone, Shelby added, “You know, Mr. McPherson, that I was beneficiary of Laura’s insurance, don’t you?”

  Mark nodded.

  “I wanted to tell you myself. Otherwise you might think . . . well . . . it’s only natural in your work to—” Shelby chose the word tactfully “—suspect every motive. Laura carried an annuity, you know, and there was a twenty-five-thousand-dollar death benefit. She’d had it in her sister’s name, but after we decided to get married she insisted upon making it out to me.”

  “I’ll remember that you told me,” Mark promised.

  Shelby offered his hand. Mark took it. They hesitated while the sun smote their uncovered heads.

  “I hope you don’t think I’m completely a heel, Mr. McPherson,” Shelby said ruefully. “I never liked borrowing from a woman.”

  Chapter 4

  When, at precisely twelve minutes past four by the ormolu clock on my mantel, the telephone interrupted, I was deep in the Sunday papers. Laura had become a Manhattan legend. Scarlet-minded headline artists had named her tragedy The Bachelor Girl Murder and one example of Sunday edition belles-lettres was tantalizingly titled Seek Romeo in East Side Love-Killing. By the necromancy of modern journalism, a gracious young woman had been transformed into a dangerous siren who practiced her wiles in that fascinating neighborhood where Park Avenue meets Bohemia. Her generous way of life had become an uninterrupted orgy of drunkenness, lust, and deceit, as titillating to the masses as it was profitable to the publishers. At this very hour, I reflected as I lumbered to the telephone, men were bandying her name in pool parlors and women shouting her secrets from tenement windows.

  I heard Mark McPherson’s voice on the wire. “Mr. Lydecker, I was just wondering if you could help me. There are several questions I’d like to ask you.”

  “And what of the baseball game?” I inquired.

  Self-conscious laughter vibrated the diaphragm and tickled my ear. “It was too late. I’d have missed the first couple of innings. Can you come over?”

  “Where?”

  “The apartment. Miss Hunt’s place.”

  “I don’t want to come up there. It’s cruel of you to ask me.”

  “Sorry,” he said after a moment of cold silence. “Perhaps Shelby Carpenter can help me. I’ll try to get in touch with him.”

  “Never mind. I’ll come.”

  Ten minutes later I stood beside him in the bay window of Laura’s living room. East Sixty-Second Street had yielded to the spirit of carnival. Popcorn vendors and pushcart peddlers, sensing the profit in disaster, offered ice-cream sandwiches, pickles, and nickel franks to buzzards who battened on excitement. Sunday’s sweethearts had deserted the green pastures of Central Park to stroll arm-in-arm past her house, gaping at daisies which had been watered by the hands of a murder victim. Fathers pushed perambulators and mothers scolded the brats who tortured the cops who guarded the door of a house in which a bachelor girl had been slain.

  “Coney Island moved to the Platinum Belt,” I observed.

  Mark nodded. “Murder is the city’s best free entertainment. I hope it doesn’t bother you, Mr. Lydecker.”

  “Quite the contrary. It’s the odor of tuberoses and the timbre of organ music that depress me. Public festivity gives death a classic importance. No one would have enjoyed the spectacle more than Laura.”

  He sighed.

  “If she were here now, she’d open the windows, pluck daisies out of her window-boxes and strew the sidewalks. Then she’d send me down the stairs for a penny pickle.”

  Mark plucked a daisy and tore off the petals.

  “Laura loved dancing in the streets. She gave dollar bills to organ-grinders.”

  He shook his head. “You’d never think it, judging from the neighborhood.”

  “She also had a taste for privacy.”

  The house was one of a row of converted mansions, preserved in such fashion that Victorian architecture sacrificed none of its substantial elegance to twentieth-century chic. High stoops had given way to lacquerred doors three steps down; scrofulous daisies and rachitic geraniums bloomed in extraordinarily bright blue and green window-boxes; rents were exorbitant. Laura had lived here, she told me, because she enjoy
ed snubbing Park Avenue’s pretentious foyers. After a trying day in the office, she could neither face a superman in gilt braid nor discuss the weather with politely indifferent elevator boys. She had enjoyed opening the street door with a key and climbing the stairs to her remodeled third floor. It was this taste for privacy that led to her death, for there had been no one to ask at the door if Miss Hunt expected a visitor on the night the murderer came.

  “The doorbell rang,” Mark announced suddenly.

  “What?”

  “That’s how it must have happened. The doorbell rang. She was in the bedroom without clothes on. By the time she’d put on that silk thing and her slippers, he’d probably rung a second time. She went to the door and as she opened it, the shot was fired!”

  “How do you know all this?” I demanded.

  “She fell backward. The body lay there.”

  We both stared at the bare, polished floor. He had seen the body, the pale blue garment blood-stained and the blood running in rivulets to the edge of the green carpet.

  “The door downstairs had evidently been left unlocked. It was unlocked when Bessie came to work yesterday morning. Before she came upstairs, Bessie looked for the superintendent to bawl him out for his carelessness, but he’d taken his family down to Manhattan Beach for the week-end. The tenants of the first and second floors are away for the summer and there was no one else in the house. The houses on both sides are empty, too, at this time of year.”

  “Probably the murderer thought of that,” I observed.

  “The door might have been left open for him. She might have been expecting a caller.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “You knew her, Mr. Lydecker. Tell me, what kind of dame was she anyway?”

  “She was not the sort of woman you call a dame,” I retorted.

  “Okay. But what was she like?”

  “Look at this room. Does it reveal nothing of the person who planned and decorated it? Does it contain, for your eyes, the vulgar memories of a young woman who would lie to her fiancé, deceive her oldest friend, and sneak off to a rendezvous with a murderer?”