“More than ever, in fact.”
“Why more?”
“Because there’s been a death,” she said calmly. “Evelyn’s not going to stop now. I think Douglas’ death will actually spur her on, give her a sense of power.”
It was what Blackshear himself feared, but he hadn’t wanted to alarm her by saying so. “It could be.”
“Where did she get her information about Douglas?”
“From Terola himself, I guess.”
“You mean they could be together in some extortion racket?”
“Perhaps Terola intended it that way, but Evelyn needs deeper satisfactions than money can give.”
“But you think they were partners?”
“Yes. When I went to see Terola about her, he was pretty cagey. I got the impression he knew the girl a lot better than he admitted.”
“So if there’s any evidence against her, this man Terola would have it?”
“Evidence of what?”
“Anything that can be used to put her away some place. So far she’s done nothing actionable. In Douglas’ case she didn’t even tell a lie. She can’t be sued or sent to jail just for phoning Mother and telling her the truth. And yet, to a certain extent, she’s morally guilty of Douglas’ death. You’ve got to stop her, Paul, before she goes on.” She turned so that he couldn’t see her face. “I may be next.”
“Don’t be silly, Helen. She can’t call you, she doesn’t know your number. And if she comes to the door, don’t let her in.”
“She’ll think of some other way. I feel she’s — she’s waiting for me.”
“Where?”
“I don’t know.”
“Look, if you’re nervous about going over to your mother’s house, let me drive you.”
She shook her head. “I’d rather you went to see Terola. Tell him about Douglas, force him to talk, to give you information that can be used in court.”
“That’s a tall order, Helen. Even if he knows Evelyn like a book, he’s not going to read it aloud to me. He’d incriminate himself.”
“You can try, can’t you?”
“That’s about it. I can try.”
He waited while she went into the bedroom to dress for the street. When she came out she was wearing a dark gray woolen coat and an old-fashioned black felt hat with a broad brim turned down over her forehead. The outfit made her look as if she’d stepped out of the previous decade.
“Helen.”
“Yes?”
“Mind if I say something personal?”
“You usually do, whether I mind or not.”
“You need some new clothes.”
“Do I?” she said indifferently. “I never pay much attention to what I wear.”
“It’s time you started.”
“Why?”
“Because you and I will be going places together. All kinds of places.”
She smiled lightly, like a mother at the exaggerated plans of a small boy.
They took the lift downstairs and walked through the lobby together. Mr. Horner, the desk clerk and June Sullivan, the emaciated blonde at the switchboard, watched them with undisguised curiosity and exchanged small, ugly smiles as they paused at the swinging door that led to the street.
“My car’s a couple of blocks away. Sure you don’t want me to drive you over to your mother’s?”
“It isn’t necessary.”
“I’ll come there later to see you, if you like.”
“I’m afraid it won’t be a very cheerful household. Perhaps you’d better not.”
“Shall I call you a cab?”
“The doorman will.”
“All right. Good-bye, then.”
“Good-bye.”
Outside, on the busy street, Evelyn Merrick was waiting for her.
Chapter 11
The wind had blown the storm out to sea and the streets, which had been fairly quiet half an hour before, now came alive, as if the end of the rain was an all-clear signal for activities to resume immediately and simultaneously. People marched briskly up and down the sidewalks like ants patrolling after a storm, but on the road traffic came almost to a standstill. Cars moved slowly, if at all, defeated by their own numbers.
It took Blackshear ten minutes to get his car out of the parking lot and another thirty minutes to reach the long, narrow stucco building on Vine Street which served as Terola’s studio.
For the second time Blackshear read the black stenciling on the frosted-glass windows, but now the words had more sinister implications:
The office was exactly as it had been the previous afternoon except that someone had recently used the old brick fireplace. The remains of a fire were still smoking, and whatever had been burned had generated enough heat to make the room uncomfortably hot.
The heat drew out other odors, the smell of boiled-over coffee and of a sharp, musky perfume. The coffee smell came from Terola’s alcove, concealed from view by a pair of dirty flowered chintz curtains. The odor of perfume came from the girl seated behind, and almost hidden by, the old-fashioned rolltop desk. She was leaning back in the swivel chair at an awkward angle, and her eyes were closed. She appeared to be asleep.
Blackshear recognized her as Nola Rath, the young girl who’d been posing for one of Terola’s magazine layouts the preceding day. At that time her long black hair had been wet and she’d worn no make-up. Now her hair was compressed into a roll on top of her head and she had on a layer of cosmetics so thick it was like a mask. She looked years older.
He approached the desk, diffident and a little embarrassed, feeling that he was intruding on her privacy by watching her in her sleep.
“Miss Rath?”
Slowly, as if the movement hurt her, she opened her eyes. There was no recognition in them, of Blackshear, or of anything else. She seemed dazed.
“I’m sorry if I woke you up.”
“I wasn’t — asleep.” Her voice matched her eyes; it was flat and dull and expressionless. She held her hand to her throat as if the act of speaking, like the act of moving her eyelids, was painful to her.
“Are you feeling all right, Miss Rath?”
“All right.”
“Let me get you a glass of water.”
“No. No water.” She shifted her weight and the chair creaked under it. “You better get out of here.”
“I just came.”
“That don’t matter; you better go.”
“I’d like to see Mr. Terola, if I may. Is he in?”
“He’s not seeing anybody.”
“If he’s too busy right now, I’ll come back later.”
“He’s not busy.”
“Well, is he ill or something?”
“He’s not ill. He’s something. He’s very something.” She began to move her head back and forth. “I been sitting here. I don’t know what to do. I been sitting. I ought to get out of here. I can’t move.”
“Tell me what’s happened.”
She didn’t answer, but her eyes shifted towards the alcove. Blackshear crossed the room, drew back the curtains of the alcove and stepped inside.
Terola was lying on his back on the day bed with a pair of barbers’ shears stuck in the base of his throat. A soiled sheet and a blood-spattered pink blanket covered the lower half of his body; the upper half was clothed in an undershirt. On the table near the foot of the daybed the hot plate was still turned on and the coffee-pot had boiled dry. It looked as though Terola had got up, turned on the coffee, and then gone back to bed for a few more minutes. During those few minutes he’d had a visitor.
Whoever the visitor was, Terola had not been alarmed. There were, except for the blood, no signs of violence in the room, no evidence of a struggle. Terola’s hair was not even mussed; the same thin, parallel strands of gray crossed the top of his pate like railway ties. Either Terola had known the visitor well and been taken completely by surprise, or else he’d been killed in his sleep.