Mike Ashley - The Mammoth Book of Perfect Crimes and Impossible Mysteries

“That would be great! We have a wonderful new French restaurant down by the harbor.”

“I’ll have to check in at my hotel first. I don’t want to inconvenience you. I should rent a car.”

“Why bother, for just one night? I’ll drive you to the hotel and then we can go to my place while I change.”

It wasn’t quite as simple as it sounded. Just as we pulled up at my hotel Betty received a call on her cell phone. She seemed annoyed at the caller, someone named Roger, and tried to get rid of him. “Look, I’m working right now, Roger. Sadie gave me your messages, but I was too busy to get back to you. Can’t we talk about this later?” She listened for a moment and then said, “I’m with someone from the New York office and we’ll be going back to my apartment.” When he said something else she uttered an obscenity and pushed the Off button on the phone.

I gave a grunt of approval. “Is Roger an old boyfriend?”

“Worse than that,” she said, but explained no further.

It took me a few minutes to check in and she accompanied me to my room.

“I just want to slip into a dress and we can be on our way,” I told her.

“It’s not a fancy place.”

“I’ve gotten a bit rumpled from traveling. I’ll only be a minute.”

She sat down on the bed. “Do you smoke?”

“Tried it. Gave it up.”

She’d opened her purse to take out a cigarette but then thought better of it. Meanwhile, I’d unzipped my overnight bag and removed this simple print dress I’d brought with me for early fall wear. I didn’t bother retreating to the bathroom for a modest change of clothes. We’d seen pretty much all of each other the night Betty stayed over at my Manhattan apartment. That was also the night she’d startled me by suggesting we stop for after-dinner drinks at the Plaza bar and then paying for them with a hundred-dollar bill.

“Can I use your phone?” she asked as I was freshening my makeup.

“Go ahead.” I motioned toward the nightstand.

She got an outside line and punched in a local number. When the party answered she started right in. “Roger phoned me awhile ago.” A pause and then, “Well, I don’t like it.”

I tried to keep busy with my make-up to avoid being too obvious about my eavesdropping. “I’m at the hotel now,” she said, “but I’ll be back to my apartment shortly. What’ll I do if he comes up and wants the money?”

She listened intently after that, finally said, “All right,” and hung up with a sigh.

“Is anything wrong?” I asked casually, finishing with my makeup.

“No, no. Just man trouble. You know how it is.”

We started out for her apartment but she was openly nervous, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror as if fearful of being followed. I wondered about that but asked no further questions, even when she seemed to double back on her route and take the long way through a number of narrow residential streets. “Less traffic this way,” she muttered, sensing my questioning gaze.

Presently we entered a neighborhood of large older homes, many of which had been split into apartments and needed ugly second – and third-floor fire escapes to comply with housing codes for multiple dwellings. Betty Quint parked in front of one of these. “Come on up. I want to take a quick shower and then we’ll be on our way.”

It was already after six and starting to get dark. Thick gray clouds had rolled in, threatening rain. She led the way to a side door which she quickly unlocked. I noticed there were two mailboxes, one with her name and the other with Mr & Mrs R. James Liction. “The landlord,” she said by way of explanation. “A retired couple. They live downstairs. Come on up.” She led the way to her second-floor apartment.

“It’s so large!” I marveled.

“I have the entire second floor,” she answered with pride. “These old houses are great bargains.” She dropped her things on the coffee table and walked to the front window, gazing down at the street. “Damn!”

“What’s the matter?”

“He’s down there in a car. I think we were followed.”

“Roger?”

“I’m going to shower,” she said, walking into the bedroom as she shed her outer garments. I hesitated to follow but then she called to me. “Here’s something you might like even if you did quit smoking.”

I walked into the bedroom and found her holding out a cigarette with crimped ends. “What is it, pot?” I asked.

“Sure! It’s good stuff. Helps you unwind after a day’s work.”

“No thanks. But go ahead if you want one.”

She shrugged and tossed the joint on the bedside table. “I don’t like to smoke alone.”

Wearing only a bra and panties she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, rummaging in a cabinet for a bath towel. “Come on in, Susan. Talk to me while I shower.” She handed me the towel to hold.

I sat on the closed toilet seat, feeling uncomfortable as she shed her underwear and tossed it into a laundry hamper. Then she felt the spray of water with her hand and stepped into the shower, pulling the curtain closed behind her. “Tell me about the Manhattan store,” she called out over the rush of water. “Is it true a homeless man lived there for days before he was discovered?”

“I’ve heard stories like that, but I-”

Betty Quint screamed, just once, chilling my spine. Then there was a thump as her body went down in the tub. “Betty!” I yanked open the shower curtain and stared at her body, drenched in the pounding spray of hot water.

She’d been stabbed once in the back with a slender dagger that still protruded from the bloody wound. A second, identical dagger lay in the tub near her foot. Otherwise the tub was empty.

I was alone in the steamy bathroom with her body.

Irving Farber scratched his nose and stared at Susan. “That story is impossible, you know. It couldn’t have happened the way you told it.”

“But it did!” she insisted. “I called 911 and the police were there within minutes.”

“And they arrested you.”

“Not right away. They questioned me for hours, trying to make me change my story. They accused me of all sorts of wild things, especially after they found the pot. I told them neither of us had smoked it but they kept pounding at it. One of the detectives suggested we’d been high on pot and made love to each other, and then I killed her to hush it up. That’s when I demanded a lawyer.”

Farber’s face was grim. “What was the detective’s name?”

“Sergeant Razerwell.”

He made a note of it. “Tell me, Susan, what’s your explanation for Betty Quint’s death?”

“I have none. I agree it’s impossible.”

“Did you touch anything in the apartment after you phoned the police?”

“No. I didn’t even turn off the shower. I couldn’t go back in there and see her again. I just sat in the bedroom and shivered until I had to open the door for the police.”

Farber glanced at Mike Brentnor. “Will the store go bail for her?”

The question startled him. “I – I don’t know. Depends on how much it is, I suppose.” He wasn’t about to admit he had no authority in the matter.

“Who’s your boss?”

“Saul Marx.”

Irving Farber glanced at his watch. “Is he in the office by now? It’s nearly ten.”

“He should be.”

“Get on the phone and ask him about bail. Meanwhile, I’ll talk to the assistant D.A. and find out how much they’ll be wanting.”

“Is there a chance I’ll get out of here?” Susan asked, her hopes soaring at the thought of it.

“Depends on the D.A. ‘s office. Don’t get your hopes up.” He put the yellow pad in his attaché case and snapped it shut.

Susan glanced at her watch. “I’m supposed to be in court in ten minutes.”