“That’s no excuse! You should be ashamed of yourself, Victor. The statutory rape laws are specifically designed to protect minors.”
“The rape I’m accused of isn’t statutory.”
“Do you mean that you actually forced-—?”
“I didn’t! But that’s what I’m accused of. And you’d better hustle down here and get me off the hook before they lock up your prize I-spy and throw away the key.”
Putnam took a deep breath to restrain himself. “Suppose you tell me just exactly what happened, Mr. Victor.”
“I can’t over the phone,” I told him. “It’s a very complicated story . . .”
That it was. It all began that afternoon after my would-be bride left my hotel room. A cold shower un-stunned me, and an early dinner started my thought processes grinding again. A few Scotches at a bar around the corner from the hotel jogged them into high gear. Still, I was running strictly on questions. Like—
What was the connection between the spank-club my Russian double had visited with Hortense and the disappearance of the Cromwells? Did this Von Koerner figure into it? What about Gretchen, the over-endowed blonde the Russian had played games with in my name? Had she provided any leads to the whereabouts of the Cromwells? Had she steered him to the Swedish peekaboo parlor? If not, how had my murderous look-alike found the place? And having found it, why had he killed Hajstrom? What was the connection between Hajstrom and Ingrid? Had Hajstrom perhaps been looking for Cromwell on his own? Had Ingrid provided him with any leads? Why did he...? Why. did she...?Why did they...?
Why? Why? Why . . . ? Why was I born . . . ? Why am I living...?
I hit the brake, and my mind skidded to a halt. Some questions are just arrows of frustration pointing the way to the laughing academy. And others only time can answer. The ones about the spank-party and Von Koerner, and Gretchen all seemed to fall in the second category. That left me with Hajstrom and Ingrid. Being slightly dead, Hajstrom was in a lousy position to provide me with any answers. So I parked alongside of Ingrid and dropped in some change.
The phone booth was stuffy as I dialed. My ear buzzed three times before Helen Quentin answered. Why Helen Quentin? Well, I didn’t have Ingrid’s number, or her last name either for that matter—that’s why. Sometimes the long way around is the only way.
“Steve Victor here.” I identified myself.
“What do you want?” There was fear in Helen’s voice, which didn’t exactly make her sound glad to hear from me.
“I Want to get in touch with Ingrid. I thought you might be able to give me her last name and phone number.”
There was a long pause. Then—- “Why do you want that?” She sounded even more afraid, and I realized that she was probably bugged because she thought I might tell Ingrid about finding Phil with her the night before.
“Nothing to do with you.” I tried to reassure her. “It’s strictly business. I Want to ask her some questions about the ‘Friends of Sweden.’ It’s for O. R. G. Y. All very confidential.”
“I don’t think she’d want me to give you any information about her.”
“I don’t want you to give me any information about her. I just want you to tell me how to get in touch with her.”
“She might not like that, either.”
“There’s a lot of things she might not like if she knew about them.” I squeezed a little.
Helen thought that over. “You’re right,” she acknowledged finally. “Still I don’t think I should tell you those things. But,” she added hastily, “perhaps I can make some other arrangement that might satisfy you. That is if you’ll promise to be discreet about last night.”
“What arrangement?” When she didn’t answer, I added an assurance that I’d be suffering lockjaw where she and Phil were concerned.
“You can talk to Ingrid over here. At my place.”
“When?”
“Oh, say in an hour. She’s coming over to spend the evening with me.”
“Sans Phil,” I guessed.
“Right. And that’s something else you have to promise not to mention. Anyway, not to Phil. He’s very jealous where I’m concerned.”
“Tell me,” I said, “how do you figure to find the time to bury George?”
“Don’t be sarcastic. It’s unseemly -- particularly since you murdered him.”
“I did not murder him!”
“I saw you do it. Remember? Which reminds me, there’s something I’d very much like to ask you. Since I’m doing you this favor with Ingrid, will you promise to give me an honest answer?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Did my family put you up to murdering George?” Helen wanted to know.
“Not that I know of,” I told her. “But why do you ask? Didn’t they approve of Georgie-porgie?”
“No. They were convinced I married beneath us. Impoverished aristocracy, you know? And somehow Dad got wind of our little parties. He wrote me he was disowning me—which was a laugh, considering that he hasn’t got a red cent to deny me in his will. He’s also sore because of Pat. He wants her to come home. But she won’t go, and I don’t see any reason why I should make her. Do you?”
“Nope. I think your home’s a good, healthy heterosexual environment for any adolescent girl.”
“There you go being sarcastic again. And you didn’t give me a straight answer to my question, either. Was Dad behind George’s murder? I wouldn’t put it past him. He has the most warped concept of family honor you can imagine. Besides, if he didn’t put you up to it, who did? I can’t think of anyone else who’d want poor George killed.”
“My guess is it was an accident,” I told her. “George wasn’t meant to be murdered. He just couldn’t stand up under the gaff. I don’t think his death was planned.”
A “Your guess! Why do you put it that way? Who else would know why you murdered George if you don’t?”
“I told you, I didn’t murder him!”
“Oh! If you aren’t the most infuriating man! I don’t care what anybody does. We all make mistakes. None of us is perfect. But at least be man enough to own up to it. You don’t have to lie about it.”
“I’m not lying. I did not kill your husband. Period.”
“Oh, all right! Be a hypocrite! George may have had his faults, but at least be never lied!”
“I’ll see you and Ingrid in an hour,” I told her, ending the conversation.
I stopped back at my hotel for a quick shave before leaving for the Quentin home. As I was on my way out again, the desk clerk hailed me. There was a message for me. It was from Hortense. She had called to ask for my mother’s address so she could invite her to the wedding. “She said if you went out again, would you please leave it with me, sir,” the desk clerk told me politely. “The lady said she would call back later.”
“Tell her not to bother about the address,” I instructed him. “Tell her my mother won’t come in any case. She’s Orthodox.”
“Yes, sir. Orthodox, sir. Shall I mention any particular faith, sir?”
“Zoroastran. And you might add that she’s violently opposed to mixed marriages.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll tell the young lady when she calls, sir. And, sir—” He called as I started away from the desk.
“Yes?” I turned to look at him.
“Might I extend heartiest congratulations and best wishes from myself and the hotel management, sir?”
“Drop dead!” As I went through the lobby door, his jaw was still hanging open.
My own jaw was clenched with fury as I thought about the diabolical Russian who’d gotten me into this mess. All through the cab ride out to Helen Quentin’s house, I occupied my mind by inventing tortures for him. He was in the process of being drawn and quartered when the taxi discharged me at my destination.