Richard Deming - No Pockets in a Shroud

“I’ve come for my report,” she announced, arranging herself in the center of my living room sofa. “Isn’t that how it’s done? I mean, aren’t I supposed to come after a progress report periodically? I never hired a detective before.” A mocking light twinkled deep in her eyes as she shrugged out of her fur jacket.

“What’s on your mind?” I asked. I began to mix two drinks.

Her brows raised. “I told you. A progress report.”

I handed her one of the glasses and leaned back next to her with my own. I didn’t say anything.

“I mean it,” she insisted. “I want a progress report.”

“Get your gun back from Inspector Day?” I asked.

“Of course. Before I came here yesterday.”

“Got it with you?”

Her forehead puckered and her tone doubted the necessity of my question. “I only carry it when I play. Why?”

“Just wondered. Who’s Margaret O’Conner?”

Setting her drink on the end table, she turned sidewise to face me. “I’m angry about that. Why did you tell the inspector I was married before?”

“Is it a secret?”

The question made her pause. “No... But I’m your client and if you hadn’t told him about Arthur, I wouldn’t have had to visit that cold morgue to look at bodies. Aren’t you supposed to protect clients from things like that?”

I grinned at her. “Who’s Margaret O’Conner?”

“I don’t know. I never saw her except at the morgue.” She shivered in recollection. “What has she to do with Louis’ death, anyway?”

“Nothing, probably, except in a negative sense. If she’s related to your ex-husband, it might tend to eliminate your present spouse as a suspect in the Bagnell case.”

She looked puzzled.

“It reasons like this,” I explained. “Only two things point to your husband as engineering Bagnell’s death: the general belief that they were gunning for each other and the fact that Byron obviously built himself an alibi for that night. The jealousy motive isn’t very strong, because there’s nothing to show he knew Bagnell was one of your interesting friends, and even if he did, you say he isn’t jealous.

“On the other hand, one thing definitely points away from your husband planning the killing. He knew you always played at El Patio on Monday and Wednesday. You say he still loves you and with five other nights to pick, he’d certainly not choose a night when you were there.”

She frowned, started to comment and changed her mind. I went on with my line of reasoning.

“So when it develops that a gal wearing the same name as your first husband fell in the river at almost the same time Bagnell got shot, there’s a strong possibility that Byron’s prepared alibi was to cover himself for her death, and Bagnell’s simultaneous assassination was coincidence.”

“But why would Byron have her killed?”

“You suspect he killed your first husband. Ever hear of blackmail?”

Her face lighted in comprehension. “But that would mean Byron had nothing to do with Louis.”

“I’ve been saying that for five minutes.”

She began to chew her lower lip and frown again, almost in disappointment.

“You don’t have to be mad,” I said. “I can’t help it that your husband doesn’t commit the crimes you’d like him, to.”

“Don’t be silly,” she said quickly, then added: “I still want my progress report.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

Her lips thrust forward in a pout. “I want to see if you’re working and earning all that money I gave you.”

I gave her a quick look, but she seemed serious. Her eyes were wide and determined and she leaned forward as though preparing to hang on my every word. I shrugged, set down my drink and recited rapidly:

“El Patio is built so the logical way for the murderer to get on the grounds was from the highway through a grove of trees. If he came any other way, he was nuts, because he’d have to climb a ten foot fence. There are fresh tire marks where a car parked half off the highway next to the grove of trees.

“Bagnell was playing with a blonde every Tuesday and Thursday.” I paused to give her a malicious grin, but her expression remained only interested. “The blonde’s husband found it out. He admits he was mad at both Bagnell and his wife and that he drove past El Patio about the time Bagnell was killed. But he says he didn’t stop and his tire treads don’t match the marks I found. Temporarily I’ve ruled him out as the killer. That’s as far as I got before I grew sleepy. Now what’s the real reason you’re here?”

She yawned and arched her body against the sofa back, causing the cloth to tauten across her overdeveloped bust. “I got lonesome.”

“Sure,” I said. “And you can’t resist me.”

“I don’t try. You resist me.”

She inclined her head slightly and dark hair rippled against my shoulder. When I looked down, her eyes were mocking.

“You’re the ugliest man I ever kissed,” she said.

I couldn’t see that this required any comment.

“But you’ve got a nice body,” she continued. “And something even more important. Something women notice.”

“Yeah?” I was conscious that my conversation definitely lacked drawing room brilliance.

“You have a virile look.”

I considered this, not exactly liking it, and gave her a puzzled frown. She laughed, and twisting toward me, placed a palm on either side of my face. Her lips came up, enveloped mine and suddenly turned greedy. She lifted her body toward me, clamped her arms around my neck and hung on as though she were drowning. I cooperated in the kiss, more out of curiosity than desire.

Eventually she drew back her head and looked up into my face. Her pupils had grown large and dark, her face wore a strained expression and smeared lipstick, mixed with perspiration, covered her upper lip. Almost inaudibly she asked: “What are you thinking?”

I said: “I’m thinking that I have a date in thirty minutes.”

Instantly she straightened away from me, her eyes suddenly furious.

“You dead lump!”

Rising, she flounced out of the room and I heard the bathroom door slam. I shrugged, went over to the mirror above my mantle, and used a handkerchief to remove lipstick from my face. In less than two minutes she was back with her makeup again in order.

Smiling as though nothing had happened, she said: “I’ll drop you off at your date.”

Eleanor’s car — she was “Eleanor” instead of “Mrs. Wade” since our momentary love scene — was a Zephyr convertible. She drove as though she were part of the car, and kept her eyes on the road.

As we turned on to the main highway she said: “I’m a fool. Why should I drive you to a date with another woman?”

“Why not?”

She frowned without moving her eyes from the concrete strip. “Do you think I throw myself in the arms of every man I meet?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly.

Her face flushed and her eyes angrily flicked sidewise, then returned to the road. “I happen to be slightly in love with you, you ugly ox!” Her chin set and she pressed down on the gas pedal. Neither of us spoke again until the car had swept up the broad drive of El Patio and come to a smooth stop below the bronze doors.

Then she said: “Old ladies, children and dogs. How does this blonde Italian qualify? As a child or a dog?”

“Don’t nag,” I said.

“Are you in love with her?”

“I’ve known her for years.”

“I didn’t ask that!”