The thrust of the scissors had been deep and vicious and accurate. It was a woman’s weapon, a pair of scissors, but the hand that used it had a man’s strength.
In life Terola had been unprepossessing enough, in death he was monstrous. The eyes bulged like balls of glass, the fleshy mouth hung slack, the tongue, grayish pink and thick, lolled against the tobacco-stained teeth. Blackshear thought of Douglas and his youth and good looks, and he wondered what dark paths had led him to Terola.
Without touching anything, he returned to the girl in the office.
“Have you called the police?”
She blinked. “Police? No?”
“Did you kill Terola?”
“No. For God’s sake, no! He was my friend, he gave me a job when I was down and out, he treated me good, never slapped me around like some.”
“You found him the way he is now?”
“Yes, when I came to work.”
“When was that?”
“Fifteen, twenty minutes ago, I guess. Be here at noon, he said, only I always come a little early so’s I can get ready.”
“Was the door locked when you arrived?”
“No. Jack doesn’t — didn’t keep it locked unless he’s — unless he was out.”
“Did Terola always sleep at the office?”
“No. He and his mother and his brother have a little ranch out in the valley where they raise avocados, only Jack wasn’t stuck on the place, or the company either, I guess, so he often stayed here in town.” She pressed a handkerchief to her eyes. “Oh, God, I can’t believe he’s dead. He was going to do big things for me, he said. He said I had a great future, all I needed was some publicity. He promised he’d get me all the publicity I wanted.”
Blackshear was grim. “Well, he kept his promise.”
“Kept it? No, he didn’t. What do you mean?”
“You’ll get all the publicity you want, Miss Rath. Maybe more.”
Her reaction was not what he expected. “My God, that’s right. Say, there’ll be newspaper photographers and everything. The works. How do I look?”
“Great.”
“Gee, maybe I could even write an article for the Sunday papers about what a stinker Jack was, except to me. How’s that for an angle? Here is this bum Terola, who everybody hates his guts, only he puts himself out to be kind to a down and out orphan girl. How does that sound?”
“Are you an orphan, Miss Rath?”
“I could be,” she said with a cold little smile. “Depending on the stakes, I could be anything.”
“Including a liar.”
“Oh, that. Sure.”
“You didn’t phone the police, did you?”
She shrugged. “No. I will, though. As soon as you get out.”
“Why should I get out?”
“Because you’ll wreck everything for me. My future depends on this. It’s gotta be done right, see?”
“I don’t see.”
“Well, put it this way. Suppose I didn’t have so many clothes on, and suppose I run screaming into the street that I found a murdered man — get the picture?”
“Vividly.”
“Then you see how you’d gum things up by being here.” She stood up and leaned across the desk towards him. “I didn’t kill Jack and I won’t touch anything, I promise. Go away, will you, mister? I need a chance. A real chance.”
“And you think this is a real chance for you?”
“It’s got to be. I’ll never get another. Now will you go? Will you please go, mister?”
“After you call the police.”
She picked up the phone and dialed. While she waited for an answer, she began unbuttoning her dress.
Blackshear went out to his car. He would have liked to stay behind the wheel for a few minutes to witness Nola Rath’s performance, but he had a more important matter to attend to. Sometime during the morning Verna Clarvoe had set out to see Terola. Had she, in spite of her story to the contrary, seen him, talked to him? Or had she despaired of words as a weapon and used scissors instead? Perhaps other people had motives for killing Terola, but Verna’s was fundamental, for in her, love and hate had merged and exploded like two critical masses of uranium. In the explosion, Douglas had died. Perhaps Terola was the second victim of the chain reaction.
Chapter 12
A red-eyed maid answered the door.
Blackshear said, “May I see Mrs. Clarvoe, please?”
“She’s not seeing anybody. There’s been an accident.”
“Yes, I know. I have something urgent to tell Mrs. Clarvoe.”
“What’s more urgent than being allowed to be alone with your grief, I’d like to know.”
“What’s your name?”
“Mabel.”
“Mabel, I want you to tell Mrs. Clarvoe that Paul Blackshear is here on important business.”
“All right, but I warn you, she’s been carrying on something awful. When the hearse came to take him away, she screamed, such screaming I never did hear in all my born days. I thought she’d bust a blood vessel. She called someone on the telephone and kept shouting things about a girl named Evelyn. It was fierce.”
“Didn’t the doctor give her a sedative?”
“Some pills he gave her. Pills. Pills is a pretty poor substitute for a son.” She opened the door wider and Blackshear stepped into the hall. “I’ll go up and tell her. I don’t guarantee she’ll come down though. What can you expect, at a time like this?”
“Has Miss Clarvoe arrived yet?”
“Miss Clarvoe?”
“Douglas’ sister.”
“I didn’t even know he had a sister. Fancy that, no one mentioning a sister.”
“She should be arriving any minute now,” Blackshear said. “By the way, when she comes, you needn’t let on that she isn’t mentioned around here.”
“As if I’d do a thing like that. Will she be staying — I mean, sleeping and eating and so forth?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Well, it’s a queer household; make no mistake about that.”
“I won’t.”
“You can wait in the drawing-room, if you like.”
“I prefer the den.”
“I’ll show you...”
“I know the way, thanks.”
The den smelled of last night’s fire, and the morning rain. Someone had started to clean the room and been interrupted; a vacuum cleaner was propped against the divan, and a dust-cloth and a pile of unwashed ashtrays were sitting on a piano bench. The glass door that led out to the flagstone patio had been slid back and the November wind rustled across the floor and spiraled among the ashes in the fireplace.
Verna Clarvoe came in, her step slow and unsteady as if she was wading upstream in water too deep, against a current too strong. Her eyes were swollen almost shut, and there were scratches around her mouth as if she’d clawed herself in a fury of grief.
She spoke first. “Don’t say you’re sorry. Everyone says they’re sorry and it doesn’t matter, it doesn’t matter whether they’re sorry or not.” She slumped into a chair. “Don’t look at me. My eyes, they always get like this when I cry. I’ve forgotten where I put my drops. It’s so cold in here, so cold.”
Blackshear got up and closed the door. “I talked to Helen. She offered to come home.”
“Offered?”
“Yes, offered.” It was true enough. He hadn’t suggested it. “She should have been here half an hour ago.”
“She may have changed her mind.”