Чарльз Кенни - This Is Murder

“How did he think you got me?”

“He didn’t go into details, but I gathered he thought I might have faked a good deal of the kidnapping business.”

“Why?”

“Because you’d been some place with me, or because we were trying to frame a murder charge on him. He wasn’t very definite.”

She pushed her way through the door now, disclosing a trim figure partially covered by scant silk. She seemed entirely unconscious of herself, but concentrated entirely upon the news Moraine had told her.

She ignored Moraine, and glanced pleadingly at Doris Bender. “You see, Dorry, I told you so. We’ve got to do something about Dick.”

Doris Bender said slowly and significantly, “Go get some clothes on, Ann.”

Ann Hartwell glanced down at her garment, hesitated for a moment; then slip-slopped back through the door, closing it behind her with a bang.

“Perhaps,” Moraine said casually, “I’d be less trouble to you if you’d quit using me for a fall guy and shoot square with me.”

She blinked her eyes, looked up at him, smiled, and cuddled over closer to him on the couch.

“Just what do you want?” she asked.

“I want to know things.”

“What things?”

“Everything.”

“Why?”

“Call it curiosity, if you want to.”

“I wouldn’t want to call it anything,” she said slowly. “But others might consider it was impertinence.”

“Call it impertinence, then,” Moraine said cheerfully.

“You’re a most impossible man.”

“Your boy-friend should have thought of that when he picked me for a sucker.”

“Please don’t keep calling him my boy-friend!” she said. “And please don’t refer to yourself as a sucker. He’s not my boy-friend and you’re not a sucker.”

“I didn’t say I was,” Moraine agreed cheerfully, “I said that your boy-friend picked me for one.”

She glanced at the doorway, then moved closer to him. Her hands rested upon his arm. She swayed close to him. Her eyes were warm and intimate.

“Please,” she said softly, “if you’re a gentleman...”

Her voice trailed off into silence. She was snuggling close to his arm. The back of his hand could feel the curve of her breast, the warmth of her body coming through the filmy negligee. Her eyes remained fastened on his.

The latch of the outer door clicked back. A man coughed.

Doris Bender flung Moraine’s arm from her as though it had been a snake. She jumped up from the lounge, pulling her negligee together.

Moraine looked inquiringly over his shoulder.

A man stood in the doorway. He was in the late forties. His face was slightly pallid and utterly without expression. There were dark circles beneath the eyes. His hands hung at his sides. He seemed very tense, waiting for something.

Doris Bender pulled at her negligee, ran toward him, her face wreathed in smiles.

“Carl!” she exclaimed.

It was not until she was within three feet of him that he made any motion. Then he pushed her open arms to one side, strode into the room and said, “Who the hell is this guy?”

Moraine who had taken a cigarette case from his pocket, extracted a cigarette, tapped it on his thumb. “Has anyone got a match?” he asked casually.

Doris Bender burst into voluble conversation:

“This is Sam Moraine,” she said. “He’s a friend of Phil Duncan, the district attorney. Mr. Moraine, this is Carl Thorne. You’ve probably heard Duncan mention him.”

She turned with a last despairing gesture to Thorne. “You’ve read about Mr. Moraine in the papers,” she said. “He paid over the ransom. He’s... he’s Ann Hartwell’s friend.”

For the first time since he had flung open the door, Carl Thorne’s muscles relaxed. He exhaled a deep sigh and said, “Oh, Ann’s friend, eh?”

Doris Bender nodded, her eyes pleading with Sam Moraine.

Carl Thorne’s right hand dropped to the side pocket of his blue serge coat. He pulled out a box of matches.

“Pleased to meet you,” he said, and scraped a match along the side of the box.

Moraine leaned forward to touch the end of the cigarette to the flame. Doris Bender swept past him, jerked open the door of the connecting room and called, “Ann, it’s all right, you didn’t need to run away. It was Carl Thorne we heard at the door.”

She stood in the doorway for a moment, then added hurriedly, “Come on out. Make it snappy.”

Ann Hartwell’s voice, from the inner room, said something in a hurried tone. The words were inaudible in the next room, but Doris Bender’s impatient words were distinctly audible. “Oh, forget it!” she said. “Don’t be so damned modest. Make it snappy.”

A moment later there was the rustle of silk, and Ann Hartwell billowed into the room, throwing a negligee about her shoulders. She had been crying.

“Hello, Ann,” Carl Thorne said.

She nodded to him.

“What’s the matter, kid?”

“Everything.”

“You’ve been crying.”

She nodded mutely.

Doris Bender circled her waist with an arm, said something in a whispered undertone and guided her toward Sam Moraine. She slid up against Moraine’s shoulder, stood there, ill at ease.

“Well,” Thorne said, “you don’t look so bad, considering what you’ve been through.”

He crossed over to Doris Bender, stared at her for a moment. “Why didn’t you let me know when you got that ransom note?” he asked.

“I did tell Mr. Duncan. He acted so funny, I thought I hadn’t better say anything at all to you. It seems the district attorney isn’t supposed to know if you’re going to pay ransom.”

He asked, “Did Phil Duncan pull that line on you?”

She glanced at Sam Moraine anxiously.

“I thought that was the way he felt.”

“Did you really pay ten grand?”

“Yes.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“Please,” she asked, “let’s wait before we go into this. We can do it later — when we’re alone.”

His voice was calmly persistent.

“Where did you get that ten grand?”

“A friend of Ann’s,” she said.

Thorne jerked his head toward Moraine.

“No,” she said, almost hysterically. “Let me mix you a drink, Carl. We can talk later.”

Carl Thorne sat down, extended his legs in front of him and pulled a cigarette case from his pocket.

“Okay,” he said.

He opened the cigarette case, made a gesture, extending it toward Ann Hartwell, and half-raised his eyebrows. She shook her head, placed her hand on Sam Moraine’s shoulder, looked at him with anxious, red-rimmed eyes.

“I’m sorry,” she said simply.

He nodded.

“Sorry for what?” Thorne inquired, then laughed, and said, “Oh, pardon me. I forgot. You see, Moraine, I’ve known Doris for a long time. I feel like a big brother to Ann.”

Ann Hartwell crossed to a chair and sat down on the edge. Moraine sat down on the chaise longue. Thorne turned to stare at Ann Hartwell.

“Listen, kid,” he said, “are you on the up-and-up with that snatching business?”

She nodded silently. His eyes stared at her with steady question.

“There’s something phoney about it somewhere,” he said.

“About what?” she asked.

“About the guys who pulled the job.”

“What about them?”

“That’s what I want to know.”

“Have... have the police caught them?”

“I don’t think so, but they’ve run down a couple of clews. The clews look phoney.”

Ann Hartwell lowered her eyes and said slowly, “I’m sorry I couldn’t have been of more help to the police.”

Carl Thorne kept staring at her.

“Was it a real snatch?” he asked.