Jonathan Craig: The Case of the Petticoat Murder

“I suppose so.”

“How much has she told you about herself?” I asked.

“Very little.”

“I thought you said you were confidantes.”

“Yes, I know. But I'm afraid I confided a great deal more in her than she ever did in me.”

“She ever tell you about singing with dance bands out on the West Coast?”

“Why, no.”

“She ever mention anything about music or musicians?”

“I don't think so.” She looked at me puzzledly. “You know, that's very strange. I recall distinctly her telling me that she'd always wanted to make a trip to California some time. She said she was one of these people who have never been west of Jersey, and that she'd often wondered what the rest of the country was really like.”

“You know where she's from?”

“She always talks as if she had been born right here in New York.”

“You acquainted with her husband?”

“I wasn't aware she had one.”

“When Nadine rented you her apartment, did she just leave her door open for you, or give you her key, or what?”'

“Well, first I'd call her to see whether it was all right to come over. When I got there, she'd give me her key and leave.”

“You and your friend go there together?”

“No. We'd go separately.”

“And when you left, what then?”

“One or the other of us would have a certain place and a certain time to meet Nadine and return her key.”

“Where was this?”

“I didn't mean there was a specific place. It could be almost anywhere. What we'd do was agree on the place and time.”

“I see. Did you ever meet any of her other customers?”

“No.”

“All this is very important, Mrs. Pedrick.”

“I realize that.”

“You have any idea who any of these other people might be?”

“No.”

“How about Nadine's other friends or relatives? She ever mention them?”

“No.”

“That's not very likely,” I said. “Do you mean to tell me that, in all the time you knew her, she never once—”

“I'm telling you the truth,” she broke in. “I know how improbable that sounds. But that's the way it is.”

“You know a man named Marty? He's a friend of Nadine's.”

She pursed her lips. “Marty? No, I don't believe I do.”

“How about a man named Clifford?”

She thought about it for a while, then shook her head.

I glanced at my watch. So far, I'd learned why Nadine Ellison had had so-much company. But that was about all. I was getting nowhere, and getting there very slowly. It seemed to me that the time had come for a completely different approach.

“Nadine is dead, Mrs. Pedrick,” I said. “She's been murdered.”

It was as if I'd just called her the most insulting name I could think of. She cringed back from me, face working with shock, her eyes probing mine almost beseechingly; it was as if she half expected me to tell her I was sorry, that I hadn't really meant what I'd said at all.

“Nadine?” she whispered. “Nadine murdered?”

I didn't say anything. Somewhere across the city a siren suddenly keened into life, and I sat listening to it as it rose and fell, wondering vaguely what kind of squeal it was, what kind of trouble.

“Who—” Mrs. Pedrick began. Then she shook her head incredulously. “It just doesn't seem possible. Who killed her?”

“That's what I'm trying to find out,” I said. “But don't be too upset, Mrs. Pedrick. This particular talk is just routine.”

She sat very rigid, her palms pressed flat on the top of the desk. “It just doesn't seem possible,” she said again.

“I don't like to keep pushing the question,” I said, “but it has to be done. Do you have any ideas about who might have wanted her dead?”

Her shoulders seemed to have slumped a little. “No,” she said. “It's hard to imagine anyone even disliking her.”

“She ever say she was in any kind of trouble?”

“No, never.”

“She ever mention any threats on her life?”

“Good heavens, no. Why should anyone threaten a girl like Nadine?”

“I wish I knew. If I did, I might have a lot longer lead on who killed her.” I paused. “Think back very carefully now, Mrs. Pedrick. Can you recall anything at all that might have some connection with this homicide? Something you saw or overheard, for instance. Or maybe just something you had a feeling about. Anything.”

She didn't answer for such a long time that I felt it necessary to prompt her.

“Well?” I said.

“No — not unless you'd consider a prowler—”

“Prowler?”

“But this has been some time ago,” she said. “Do you think it's important?”

“I certainly do.”

“Well, it happened when I stayed all night at Nadine's. My friend—”

“You spent the entire night there?”

“Yes. Nadine was going off somewhere for the week end, and she said that, if my friend and I wanted to, we could stay all night.”

“Just a minute,” I said. “When was this?”

“About three weeks ago. No; it was about a month.”

“All right, go on.”

“Well, Eddie had to leave about three o'clock, but I stayed in bed. I don't know just how long it was after he left, but suddenly I woke up and saw this man. At first I thought it was Eddie. It was dark and I started to turn on the light and say something to him. But then I realized he had a flashlight and that he was much too broad-shouldered to be Eddie. I–I was so terrified I couldn't even scream.”

“What'd this man look like?”

“I couldn't see his face. All I could see was his outline. I guess I did make some kind of noise, though, because he suddenly whirled around and started toward the bed. He kept the flashlight right in my face, and from then on I couldn't see anything at all. The flashlight blinded me.”

“So what happened?”

“He kept the flashlight in my face and came right up to the bed. He had some kind of knife in his other hand, be-cause the flashlight glittered on it. And then he raised it up over his head and I realized he was going to—”

“What stopped him?”

“I don't know. I was just simply paralyzed. I kept hearing the scream somewhere down inside of me, but I couldn't get it out. It was horrible.”

“You mean he just raised this knife, or whatever it was, and then lowered it again and went away?”

“He must have stood there for about half a minute. He was — well, sort of talking to himself.”

“What did he say?”

“I don't know; he wasn't talking in English.”

“You know what language it was?”

“As best I could make out, I'd say it was Slavic.”

“Couldn't you narrow that down a little? Slavic covers a lot of territory.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “That's as close as I can come. I'm no authority on languages, Mr. Selby. And even if I had been, I wasn't exactly in the right frame of mind to do very much about sorting them out.” She paused. “I did get the impression that he was surprised and — I don't know how else to put it — disappointed about something. I kept wishing I could find my voice, so that I could tell him to go ahead and rob the apartment and let me alone.”

“Did it occur to you that the reason he was surprised and disappointed was that he had expected to find Nadine in that bed, and found you there instead?”

She stared at me blankly.

“He wasn't necessarily after loot,” I said. “He might have been there after Nadine.”

“You mean he might actually have come there to kill her?”

“It's possible.”

“My God! Think what would have happened if he hadn't put that flashlight on me!”

“It's something to think about, all right,” I said. “What'd he do after he stood there for a while? Just up and walk out?”