Роберт Беллем - Pulp Frictions

The doctor’s back was half to me, but I could see the side of his face, and he was weighing the possibilities. At length he turned — and the whiteness was gone from his cheeks. He was the calm, dignified physician who had entered the room a few minutes before.

‘You confuse me, Mr Williams.’ Again those long, delicate fingers swept over his face. ‘And I do not know exactly how to answer you — your accusation can hardly be ignored. I am hesitant — undecided whether I should simply show you the door and let the police take care of the whole muddle.’ He paused a moment — then, ‘I am willing to discuss the matter further. You have seen the girl and she has spoken to you. May I understand just what she had told you? Certainly she has had trouble — and we must make allowances. You have discovered Bernie’s secret and you wish to be paid for silence.’

And I just laughed that one off. But if he wanted the cards laid on the table I’d lay them for him. And I did. I told him I had seen the girl. I told him that I knew she had smuggled in rocks. I told him how Nick had died, and I told him of the piece of paper in Nick’s hand. And he listened to the evidence like a learned judge.

‘You have made quite a case against me, Mr Williams.’ He smiled. ‘But it seems to rest on facts that are weak. If the police had found that licence number I would have something to explain, perhaps. And if the girl was to tell her story again I would have something to explain. But since the police did not find the paper and the girl does not come forward to tell her story, things are rather awkward.

‘Bernie committed a wrong. I have helped her hide it. Another held her secret. Blackmail has been paid — and then she ran away. That is my story to you and my story to the police. Not a pleasant one — I admit I have been foolish.’

‘And you deny that the girl is here or that you know where she is?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘And if I wish to search the house?’

He frowned slightly, and then:

‘I do not think that under the circumstances I would deny you that. And I think that I shall tell you a few facts. Perhaps, then, you will believe that I have been wronged. Bernie is weak of character. I believe that when her mother died she was without funds and in Italy. A young Italian whom she met offered her passage in return for smuggling in diamonds. We will give her credit for wishing to see her mother before she died. Her secret was discovered. A man followed her to this country and blackmailed her. She confided in me. I advised seeking lawyers — but, no. She paid, and I assisted her. At least I could hold their demands in check by threatening to tell the police. Personally, I had little to fear. Somehow, Bernie got the illusion that I was helping them. But — there, you do not believe me. She ran away. I have not seen her since. And the car, which number you have, she took with her.’

Bull? Probably. But he had one advantage over me. My threats were useless. If I went to the police, what would become of the girl? Her smuggling didn’t amount to near-beer. I could straighten that out. But this doctor knew where the girl was and was keeping her a prisoner. What then? The thing behind it all was big enough for him to go in for murder. Since you can’t electrocute a man more than once, why should he hesitate about shoving Bernie over? She’d make a tough witness against him. Still, my game wasn’t to roast this duck; my game was to save the girl.

It was in my mind to shove a rod into his mouth and threaten to blow him off if he didn’t tell me where the girl was. But it couldn’t work out that way. Somehow I had the impression that I was sitting on a keg of dynamite and a couple of kids were playing around the fuse with matches. And there was his invitation to search the house. Was Bernie there? No! If I thought she was I’d have searched the house, even though I believed he might have a half-dozen gunmen parked above. But it wouldn’t help Bernie any to have me walk upstairs and get my roof shot off at the top step.

No — I thought it better to fall in with his humour and try to trip him. I’d turn a back flip and take the attitude that after all maybe he was a very wronged man. And I did.

‘I only know what I’m told, doctor,’ I said brusquely. ‘You can’t blame me for investigating the girl’s story — especially since she disappeared. Now — her mother is dead; did you happen to meet this mother as the attending physician?’

And that was a crack he hadn’t expected. I scored again. His face did a few quick colours, but he answered without hesitating.

‘I was called in by her physician.’

‘And his name?’ I pulled out a little pad, like a stage detective.

‘Doctor Robinfall.’ His eyes were narrowing.

‘And who signed the death certificate?’

‘Enough!’ And now there was no mistaking his attitude. He was rattled; his poise was gone; his long fingers shook. He was a murderer and a crook; it was all written on his evil face. I hadn’t had much doubt before, but now I was sure. Oh, I envied the Central Office detective then. The time was right for a signed confession. A police officer’s duty is to the law, and he wouldn’t need to worry about the girl. My duty was to the girl, and I had to worry about her.

I followed him as he staggered to the hall. And I gave him the final blow as he stood trembling and pointing at the big front door. There was murder in his heart and in his face — but I watched his hands and advised him once to keep his right further from his pocket. He was a loathsome, slimy thing — fear, stark terror, in his face. I had guessed his secret — his first crime, that would connect him with all the others. Protected as a doctor, he had killed Bernie’s mother.

‘What are you going to do — what are you going to do?’ he kept saying over and over as we stood by the door.

‘You must produce the girl at my office at six o’clock tonight.’

‘And... what of me?’

‘If she is safe — and things are satisfactory, you’ll have twenty-four hours for a get-away.’

‘She’ll die — die — die,’ he slobbered like a jibbering idiot, ‘if you — you get the police.’

But I only smiled over at him.

‘At six o’clock,’ I told him, as I backed out the door.

‘And if I don’t?’

‘I’ll get an order to exhume the body of her mother.’ And as I finished, the door closed. But his white face, with the hollow cheeks and the sunken eyes, still stared through the glass. You’ve got to admit that the old head sometimes works, as well as lead. But I didn’t strut, and I didn’t pat myself on the back. I’d await results.

Now, my methods are open to criticism, and perhaps some may think I should have stuck to this bird and made him lead me to the girl. And I thought of that, weighed the possibilities, and decided against it. For he was not the only one in this game. There were the two swarthy gentlemen with the trick names, one of whom had croaked Nick. Surely they would have something to say about the girl being turned loose. One of them had committed murder — both of them were in the game deep enough to fry at Sing Sing. Where the dead body would be evidence enough against the doctor, the live Bernie would be evidence against them.

Besides, there was always the possibility of a trap. Of course the girl was not in the house. Doctor Maderia wouldn’t know that the girl had never told me his name nor address. He would be expecting me, but he wasn’t expecting what I’d bring up about the girl’s mother. That was luck. He’d killed her and planned to milk the daughter’s bank account dry. It was a pretty game — worthy of a lad with more guts than Doctor Maderia. When the show-down came he blew up. He thought only of himself. My only interest was the girl. The doctor would give his little playmates a story that might bring results.