The Scandal - Murder Mysteries Boxed Set. Mary Roberts Rinehart
gasped and went pale.
"No. For God's sake, Mr. Forsythe! Why should I? Collier was a nuisance but I liked the missus. What makes you say a thing like that?"
"Where were you when it happened?"
"I'd been out. I was just coming in when the third floor hobbled down the stairs. Scared to death, he was."
"Did you go up and look?"
"Not me, Mr. Forsythe. It wasn't my business, not with a gun loose in that apartment. I called the police."
"What about the Kerrs, on the first floor?"
"They'd had a crowd in the night before. They said they were both asleep. Went to bed early."
"The shots didn't waken them?"
"They said something did. They didn't know what it was until they heard the police siren. They showed up then, all right."
Forsythe inspected the man. Whatever he was hiding, Forsythe thought it had nothing to do with the shootings. But he was still not satisfied.
"I'll check your story with Mr. Jamison," he said, and to Hellinger's obvious relief went up the stairs again.
On the third floor he rang the bell two or three times before it was answered. Then Jamison in pajamas opened the door a few inches. It was evidently on a chain.
"What the hell is it?" he demanded. "If you're police, I've told you all I know."
"I'm not police, Mr. Jamison. Don't you remember me?"
"Ah, Mr. Wade, aren't you? I'm not well, so I can't ask you in. What is it you want?"
He looked like a man who had had a shock. His color was bad, and Forsythe felt sorry for him.
"I don't want to bother you," he said. "You heard the shots, didn't you? Were they close together?"
"I guess so. Why?"
"I'm Mrs. Collier's lawyer. Naturally I'm interested. I imagine a suicide might wait a bit before—well, finishing the job."
Jamison attempted a pallid smile.
"I wouldn't know," he said. "I've never tried it."
He attempted to close the door, but Forsythe held it firmly.
"Just a moment," he said. "What happened when you finally got downstairs to raise the alarm?"
"I found Mike Hellinger coming in. He lives in the basement, and he was starting for it when I caught him. Now if you'll excuse me—"
Forsythe had released his hold on the door. Now it was closed, politely but firmly, and Forsythe made his way to the street. There was apparently nothing he could do for the time being. The thought of his own house, however, was revolting. He did not want to talk to Margery. He needed to think, to get out somewhere and try to arrange what few facts he had. He realized too that he was not conditioned to murder. He had never had a criminal case in his life. Like many young lawyers today, he found his practice largely a matter of taxes.
Yet he had certain data which might be important. For one thing, he felt sure Anne's determination to make a will was involved, but how? The only beneficiary was to be her small son, unless there was something in her contract he did not know about. He found a phone booth and called Martha Simmons, but no one answered, and at last he hung up in disgust. She had probably seen the morning paper, and was at home suffering from shock. Her home number, however, was not in the book.
Out on the pavement again he stood in a sort of desperation. It was useless to go back to the hospital, although the thought of Anne lying there hurt and defenseless was almost more than he could bear. Then he remembered the aunt. Eliza Warrington would have been in her confidence. She might know something. And obviously, when she called she had not heard the news.
He looked at his watch. It was still only eleven o'clock and Danbury was not too far away. Also it was not New York. It would not be hard to find her.
But Margery would worry. She read the morning paper carefully. He called her from the garage, and her voice sounded strained.
"Did she do it, Wade?"
"The police think she did."
"Is she—is she badly hurt?"
"She has a fair chance. That's all I know. Listen, Margery, there's something I don't understand about this. Hell, I don't understand any of it. Anyhow I'm taking the car and going to the aunt in Danbury."
"Where the boy is?"
"Where the boy is," he said grimly. "Her name's Eliza Warrington, and she has a phone. Call me if anything turns up."
He never remembered the details of that trip. He liked to drive, although he seldom used the convertible except for country weekends or a golf game. That day, however, he drove with his foot hard down on the gas and an increasing sense of urgency he could not explain.
It was not until he turned off the Merritt Parkway that he realized he was being followed. A small black sedan kept behind him, always at a discreet distance, but try as he would he could not shake it off. Either Close really suspected him, after all, or he had finally thought of Eliza Warrington's telephone call and was sending a man to talk to her. In an attempt to see who was in the car he reached a curve and turned off onto a side road.
The sedan shot by, and to his utter amazement a woman was driving it. Not only that. The woman was Martha Simmons. As she passed him he saw she was driving with a set white face, and pushing the car to its limit.
In Danbury he lost her, however. Either he was luckier than she, or she had stopped for some purpose. In any event there was no sign of her when he located Eliza Warrington. She lived in a comfortable white frame house on the edge of town, and she herself answered the door. She was a smallish gray-haired woman with a pleasant tranquil face, although she looked puzzled when she saw him.
"Good morning," she said. "Or is it afternoon? I lose my sense of time when Billy's not here."
He stared at her blankly.
"The boy's not here?"
"Why, no," she said, surprised. "Is there anything wrong? He's not sick, is he?"
"Do you know where he is?"
She made a small unhappy gesture.
"Perhaps you'd better come inside. I've been a little worried, but what could I do?"
She led him into a neat sitting room with a wood fire, with a row of tin soldiers on the window sill and a blue-gray Persian cat on the hearth. She sat down in a rocking chair while he took a straight one, conscious of her keen eyes appraising him. He was relieved to see the morning paper still folded on a table, as though she had not yet read it.
"Just what is all this about Billy?" she said. "Why do you want to know about him?"
"I'm a lawyer, Miss Warrington. My name's Forsythe, and Mrs. Collier consulted me recently about a will. I'm afraid I am bringing you bad news. You see, she's in a hospital, rather badly hurt."
She stared at him, her small body rigid.
"Are you trying to tell me she's dying?"
"No," he said. "She has a very good chance, they tell me."
"Did that devil hurt her?"
"It's rather worse than that, Miss Warrington. Fred Collier is dead. I hoped you might be able to tell me something about him. Perhaps Anne has talked to you."
She did not speak. She merely stared at him with blank, incredulous eyes.
"Dead?" she said. "And you say Anne is in a hospital? Then where is Billy?"
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