Lionel White - Invitation to Violence

“Who is this?” Sue said. “This is Vincent’s sister. Who’s calling him, please?”

Quickly the detective leaned over and took the telephone from her and put the receiver to his ear. He listened for a second or two and then spoke in a high, disguised voice.

“Vince talking,” he said.

He waited a moment or two and then spoke again. “This is Vince,” he said. “Who’s this?”

There was a sharp sound of a click at the other end of the wire and in a moment Wilson hung up the receiver in disgust.

He turned once more to the girl.

“Better get your clothes on,” he said. “There’s a man down at Headquarters wants to talk to you. Detective Lieutenant Hopper-of Homicide.”

Sue slowly nodded and stood up. She looked sick.

“I suppose I can go inside and get dressed?” she said.

Detective Wilson nodded.

“Sure, kid,” he said. “Go right ahead. And don’t take it so hard. Maybe nothing happened at all. Maybe your brother wasn’t mixed up in anything and just stayed out over night.”

He watched her as she crossed the room and entered the bedroom.

Yeah, maybe. But he didn’t believe it. Didn’t believe it at all.

And neither did Sue Dunne believe it.

The house, sitting well back on the half-acre plot, was in one of the older sections of town. It was surrounded by large shade trees and a high privet hedge protected it from the street in front and the neighbors on each side and the rear. It was one of the first split-level houses built, having been constructed to fit the natural slope of the land rather than conform to a popular building fashion. As a result, the three levels conformed with the landscaping naturally, allowing the garage level and basement to follow the contours of the driveway, which came in on the right side as one entered the grounds.

A flagstone walk led from a break in the hedge to the front door, which opened onto the second floor.

Originally the house had been designed for a doctor who planned to practice out of his home. Entering a central hallway, a visitor was confronted by a wide arch, which had been curtained off, and doors on each side. The door to the left led downstairs into the garage and basement; the door on the right led into the main residential part of the house, which consisted of half the second floor and all of the third. The archway itself led into what had originally been planned as the doctor’s offices.

When the present owners had purchased the house, they had converted the office section into a separate small apartment. This consisted of a living room, a small bedroom, a bath and a tiny kitchenette. These were the quarters which Gerald Hanna had rented and in which he lived. He paid only a nominal rent as the family which owned the house had been friends of his mother and leased out the apartment more as a personal favor then because of any desire for extra income.

The Sandersons, his mother’s friends, were an elderly couple whose children had long ago married and left to establish homes of their own. Carl Sanderson was a retired bank executive and he and his wife spent a good deal of time traveling. At present they were in Bermuda, where they usually spent the spring and part of the summer. They were only too glad to have Gerald as a tenant, liking the idea of someone around the place while they were away.

Gerald had the run of the house, but by preference stayed pretty much to his own quarters. He did, however, keep an eye on things. He saw to it that the gardener, hired for a few days each month, kept the lawn and the hedges trimmed and he also made a point of seeing that the Sandersons’ car was maintained in running condition. He checked to see that the tires didn’t become deflated from standing idle or the battery run down. There was no telling when the Sandersons might suddenly decide to return and he made it a point to be sure everything would be ready in case they did. In this fashion he partly made up for the low rent which he paid for his own quarters.

The converted doctor’s offices made a pleasant and convenient bachelor’s apartment; would in fact have been satisfactory for a childless couple. Maryjane Swiftwater, however, on the single occasion when she had visited Gerald, had found it hopelessly inadequate when he had casually suggested that it might make their immediate marriage possible. He hadn’t argued; for some odd reason he himself found the idea of sharing the apartment with a wife-or at least with Maryjane-slightly unattractive.

When Gerald returned in the early hours of the morning he had, for one of the few times in his life, neglected to set his alarm clock. As a result he awakened late, or at least late for him. It was well after seven-thirty when he slowly woke up and the sun was already streaming through the sheer curtains of his bedroom window, which faced to the east.

For a moment or two, as he opened his eyes and stretched, the events of the previous night were erased from his mind. He started to leap from the bed, remembering only that he had to hurry if he was to arrive in Connecticut as he had planned. And then, halfway to the bathroom, he stopped dead in his tracks. Connecticut? No, it wasn’t to Connecticut that he was going this Saturday.

He turned to the dresser where he had placed the jewels and he was unable to resist the temptation to pull open the drawer and check on them. There they were in all of their loveliness.

His eyes went to the clock as he checked the time. It had been more than five hours since he had left the scene of the robbery and the shooting. He breathed a sigh of sudden relief. He began to feel a little safer. No one could have obtained the number of his car; certainly not one of the policemen who had been lying in the street. They would have checked it and found him by now for sure. His calculated risk was beginning to pay off.

He took his time showering and shaving, having put a pot of coffee on to boil first. And then he dressed, getting into a pair of slacks and an open-necked shirt and putting on a pair of tennis shoes. He fried two eggs and several slices of bacon and made himself a couple of pieces of toast. He ate a leisurely breakfast and took time to clean up after he had finished. Then he returned to the bedroom, made up the bed and put away the clothes he had been wearing the previous evening.

The pattern of Gerald Hanna’s thinking may have undergone a radical change, but the habits of a lifetime failed to desert him.

At eight forty-five he put in his call to Maryjane. He had his story all ready, his alibi for not coming up for the week end.

It was probably the quality of her voice that caused him to do what he did. Somehow or other, he was unable to help himself. There was something about the way she framed the question, something in the tone of her voice as she said, “And just why aren’t you coming, Gerald?” that made him say what he did. He couldn’t resist it.

“Because I damned well don’t want to,” Gerald said, and then, quite unconsciously, he laughed. He could hear the gasp at the other end of the wire.

Gerald carefully put the receiver back on the hook. He felt fine, just perfect. It was something he’d been wanting to say to Maryjane for a long, long time now.

Gerald left the telephone and at once went downstairs to the basement where his car sat next to that of the Sandersons’ in the double garage. He didn’t open the garage doors, but instead turned on the overhead light. He started the engine in his car and then pressed the button, lowering the convertible top. He minutely inspected the car for bloodstains. He found no trace of his unwelcome passenger of the previous night.

He realized almost at once what must have happened. The bullet must have struck the man somewhere in either the back of his head or his neck. The bullet had either completely passed through and gone out the windshield, or had struck a bone and stayed buried in the body. What little blood there was had probably dripped down the inside of the leather jacket.