James Chase - Lay Her Among the Lilies

“I’ll have it in the car. You and me are going to ‘Frisco.”

“Heeled?”

“Yeah. From now on I’m taking no chances. Got your rod?”

“I can get it.”

While he was getting it I put a call through to Paula.

“How is she?” I asked, when she came on the line.

“About the same. Dr. Mansell’s just been in. He’s given her a mild shot. He says it’ll take a long time to taper her off.”

“I’m on my way to see her father. If he’ll take her over it’ll let us out. You all right?”

She said she was.

“I’ll look in on my way back.” I said, and hung up.

Kerman and I rode in the elevator to the ground floor, crossed the sidewalk to the Buick.

“We’re going out to the Dream Ship tonight,” I said as I started the engine.

“Officially or unofficially?”

“Unofficially: just like they do on the movies. Maybe we’ll even have to swim out there.”

“Sharks and things, ugh?” Kerman said. “Maybe they’ll try to shoot us when we get aboard.”

“They certainly will if they see us.” I edged past a truck and went up Centre Avenue with a burst of speed that startled two taxi-drivers and a girl driving a Pontiac.

“That’ll be something to look forward to,” Kerman said gloomily. He sunk lower in his seat. “I simply can’t wait. Maybe I’d better make a will.”

“Have you anything to leave?” I asked, surprised, and braked hard as the red light went up.

“Some dirty post-cards and a stuffed rat,” Kerman said. “I’ll leave those to you.”

As the light changed to green, I said, “What’s the news? Find anything on Mrs. Salzer?”

Kerman lit a cigarette, dropped the match into the back seat of the Pontiac as it tried to nose past us.

“You bet. Watch your driving, this is going to knock you sideways. I’ve been digging all morning. Know who she is?”

I swung the car on to Fairview Boulevard.

“Tell me.”

“Macdonald Crosby’s second wife: Maureen’s mother.”

I swerved half across the road, missed a truck that was pounding along and minding its own business, and had the driver curse at me. I edged back to the near side.

“I told you to watch it,” Kerman said, and grinned. “Hot, isn’t it?”

“Go on : what else?”

“About twenty-three years ago she was a throat and ear specialist in San Francisco. Crosby met her when she treated Janet for a minor complaint. He married her. She kept her practice, over-worked, had a nervous breakdown and had to quit. Crosby and she didn’t hit it off. He caught her fooling with Salzer. He divorced her. When he moved to Orchid City, she moved too, to be near Maureen. Like it?”

“Well, it helps,” I said. We were now on the Los Angeles and San Francisco Highway, and I had my foot hard down on the gas pedal. “It explains quite a lot of things, but not everything. It accounts for why she took a hand in the game. Naturally she’d be anxious her daughter should keep all that money. But for the love of Mike! Imagine going to the lengths she’s gone to. It’s my bet she’s crazy.”

“Probably is,” Kerman said complacently. “They were cagey about her at the Medical Association. Said she had a nervous breakdown and wouldn’t enlarge on it. She chucked a dummy right in the middle of an operation. One nurse I talked to said if it hadn’t been for the anesthetist she would have cut the patient’s throat: as bad as that.”

“Salzer any money?”

“Not a bean.”

“I wonder who promoted the sanatorium: probably Crosby. She’s not going to get away with Nurse Gurney’s death. When the police find the body I’m going to tip Mifflin.”

“They may never find her,” Kerman said. He had a very low opinion of the Orchid City police.

“I’ll help them, after I’ve seen Maureen.”

We drove for the next ten minutes in silence while I did some heavy thinking.

Then Kerman said, “Aren’t we wasting time going to see old man Freedlander? Couldn’t we have telephoned?”

“You get bright ideas a little late, don’t you? He may not be anxious to have her back. A telephone conversation can be closed down too easily. I have a feeling he’ll need talking to.”

We crossed the Oakland Bay Bridge a few minutes after three o’clock, turned off 3rd into Montgomery Street, and left into California Street.

Freedlander’s place was halfway down on the right-hand side. It was one of those nondescript dwelling-houses: six storeys of rabbit warren, blaring radio and yelling children.

A party of kids came storming down the stone steps to welcome us. They did everything to the car except puncture the tyres and drop lighted matches into the petrol tank.

Kerman picked out the biggest and toughest of them and gave him half a buck.

“Keep your pals off this car and you’ll get the other half,” he said.

The boy hauled off and socked a kid around the ears to show his good faith. We left him booting another.

“Nice neighbourhood,” Kerman said, stroking his moustache with his thumb-nail.

We went up the steps and examined the two long rows of mail-boxes. Freedlander’s place was on the fifth floor: No. 25. There was no elevator, so we walked.

“It’s going to make me a happy day if he’s out,” Kerman panted as he paused on the fourth landing to mop his brow.

“You drink too much,” I said, and began to climb the stairs to the next floor.

We came to a long, dingy passage. Someone’s radio was playing jazz. It blasted like a hot breath the length and breadth of the passage.

A slatternly looking woman came out of a room near by. She had on a black straw hat that had seen its best days, and in one hand she clutched a string shopping-bag. She gave us a look full of inquisitive interest, and went on down the passage to the head of the stairs. She turned to stare again, and Kerman put his thumbs to his ears and waggled his fingers at her. She went on down the stairs with her nose in the air.

We walked along the passage to No. 25. There was no bell or knocker. As I lifted my hand to rap, a muffled bang sounded beyond the door: the sound a paper bag makes when you’ve blown it up and slapped it with your hand.

I had my gun out and my hand on the door handle before the sound had died away. I turned the handle and pushed. To my surprise the door opened. I looked into a fair-sized room: a living-room if you judged by the way it was furnished.

I could hear Kerman breathing heavily behind me. I took in the room with a quick glance. There was no one to see. Two doors led off the room, and both were closed.

“Think it was a gun?” Kerman murmured.

I nodded, stepped quietly into the room, motioning him to stay where he was. He stayed where he was. I crossed the room and listened outside the right-hand door, but the noise from the blaring radio killed any other sound.

Waving to Kerman to get out of sight, I turned the handle and set the door moving with a gentle push, and at the same time stepped aside and pressed myself against the wall. We both waited and listened, but nothing happened. Through the open door drifted the strong, acid smell of cordite. I edged forward to peer into the room.

Slap in the middle of the floor lay a man. His legs were curled up under him, and his hands were clenched into his chest. Blood came through his fingers, ran down his wrists and on to the floor. He was a man around sixty, and I guessed he was Freedlander. As I looked at him, he gave a choking sigh and his hands flopped on the floor.

I didn’t move. I knew the killer must be in there. He couldn’t have got away.

Kerman sneaked into the living-room behind me and flattened himself against the other side of the door. His heavy .45 looked like a cannon in his fist.