“Please, the address!”
“Well, all right,” Freida said, a little miffed. She read off the address and Davis scribbled it quickly. He said good-bye, and hung up immediately. There was no time for checking plane schedules now. No time for finding out which plane Anne had caught out of Frisco, nor for finding out what time it had arrived in Vegas.
There was only time to tuck MacGregor’s .38 into the waistband of his trousers and then run like hell down to the street. He caught a cab and reeled off the address, and then sat on the edge of his seat while the lights of Vegas dimmed behind him.
When the cabbie pulled up in front of the clapboard structure, he gave him ten dollars and then leaped out of the taxi. He ran up the front steps, rang the doorbell, and heard footsteps approaching inside. A white-haired woman opened the door.
“Alice Radner,” Davis said. “Where?”
“Upstairs, but who...?”
Davis brushed past the woman and started up the flight of steps, not looking back. There was a door at the top of the stairwell. He rapped on it loudly. When he received no answer, he shouted, “I know you’re in there! Open the goddamn door!”
The door opened instantly.
“Come in,” a woman’s voice said.
She was tall, and redheaded, and beautiful, with a pale complexion and blue eyes set against the ivory of her skin. She stared at Davis solemnly. A .22 caliber pistol was steady in her hand.
“Where is she?” Davis asked, and stepped into the room. Anne was lying oh the bed, her hands tied behind her, a gag in her mouth. He made a move toward her just as a voice came from outside the closed door.
“Mrs. Radner?”
The landlady.
“Are you all right?”
“Yes, I’m fine, Mrs. Mulready. He’s a friend of mine. Everything’s all right, thanks.”
He heard her footsteps retreating. He turned to the redhead again. The .22 was still steady in her hand.
“It all seemed out of whack,” he said, “but I didn’t know just where. It all pointed to Tony Radner and Alice Trimble, but I couldn’t conceive of her as a murderess. Sure, I figured Tony led her into it. A woman in love can be talked into anything. But when I learned about Tony’s accident here, a new Alice Trimble took shape. Not the woman who was talked into anything, and not the woman who’d do anything for love. This new Alice Trimble was a cold-blooded killer.”
Davis saw Anne’s eyes widen.
“Tell me,” he said. “Was your sister a redhead?”
Anne nodded.
“I never thought to ask,” he said. “About her hair. I had her picture and I thought that was all I needed.”
There was a puzzled, apprehensive look of recognition in Anne’s eyes now. All at once, Davis realized he’d said, “Was your sister a redhead?” Past tense. Was.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and drew a deep breath. “Alice is dead.”
She flinched as if he’s struck her.
“Believe me,” he said, “I’m sorry. I...” He wiped his hand across his lips and then said, again, “I’m sorry, Anne.”
Tears sprang into her eyes. He went to her in spite of the .22 that was still pointed at him, ripped the gag from her mouth, and said again, “I’m sorry.”
She was shaking her head now. “I don’t understand,” she said.
“Alice left you on the sixth,” he said, “to meet Tony Radner, allegedly to marry him. She didn’t know about the trap that had been planned by Tony and Janet Carruthers, who wanted to be free of her husband more than anything else in the world. But not at the expense of cutting herself off without a cent.” He turned to the redheaded woman holding the gun. “Am I right so far, Janet? Or should I call you Mrs. Radner now?”
“Be my guest,” Janet said. “You’re doing fine so far.”
“Alice met Tony as scheduled on the day they were to be married. He probably suggested a drink in celebration, drugged her, and then took her directly to the airport. You met him there because she was being insured as Janet Carruthers, and your signature was necessary on the insurance policy. The beneficiaries were Mr. and Mrs. Anthony Radner. That’s who you are now, am I right?”
“Ever since the afternoon of the crash,” Janet said. “You’ve got it all right except for the drug, Mr. Davis. That would have been overdoing it a bit.”
“What’d Tony do, just get her too damned drunk to know what was going on?”
“Exactly. Her wedding day, you know. It wasn’t difficult.”
A sob caught in Anne’s throat. Davis glanced at her briefly and then said to Janet, “Did Tony know he was going to be driving into a pile of rocks?”
Janet smiled. “Poor Tony. No, I’m afraid he didn’t know. That part was all my idea. Even down to stripping the brakes. Tony never knew what hit him.”
“Neither did all the people on that DC-4. It was a long way to go for a lousy hunk of cash,” Davis said. “Was Tony insured, too?”
“Yes,” Janet said, “but not for much.” She smiled. “Enough, though.”
“I still don’t know how you hoped to swing it. You obviously sent for Anne because you were afraid someone would recognize you in Frisco. Hell, someone would have recognized you sooner or later, anyway.”
“In Mexico?” Janet asked. “Or South America? I doubt it. Two hundred thousand can buy a lot outside of this country, Mr. Davis. Plus what I’ll get on Tony’s death. I’ll manage nicely, don’t you worry,” she said, and smiled pleasantly, and leveled the gun at his head.
Davis smiled back.
“Go ahead,” he said. “Shoot. And then try to explain the shots to your landlady.”
“Oh, is that what you think?” Janet said, and walked to the dresser. She opened a drawer and came out with a long, narrow cylinder. The cylinder had holes punched into its sides, and Davis knew a silencer when he saw one. He saw her fitting the silencer to the end of the .22 and he saw the dull gleam in her eyes and knew it was time to move. He threw back his coat and reached for the .38 in his waistband.
The .22 went off with a sharp pouff and he felt instant pain when the small bullet ripped into his shoulder. But he’d already squeezed the trigger of the .38 and Janet’s arm jerked as his larger bullet tore into flesh and bone. Her fingers opened, and the silenced gun fell to the floor. He kicked it out of her reach.
Footsteps were rushing up the stairs. Outside the door, the landlady shouted, “What is it, Mrs. Radner? What is it?”
“Call the police!” Davis yelled through the closed door. “Now!”
“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Janet said. “This will kill my father.”
“Your father still has Nick,” Davis said. “And his porcelain.” He paused and looked directly into Janet’s eyes. “That’s all he ever had.”
Kiss Me, Dudley
When you start writing parodies of private eye stories, it’s time to stop writing them. By the time this story was published, in January of 1955, I had written the last of the Matt Cordell stories and was ready to give up on the subgenre. Not only was I finding it increasingly more difficult to justify a private citizen investigating murders, but Cordell presented the added problem of an investigator who wasn’t even licensed! Manhunt published this story under the Hunt Collins byline. It was a kiss-off to private eyes in general and Matt Cordell in particular.
She was cleaning fish by the kitchen sink when I climbed through the window, my .45 in my hand. She wore a low-cut apron, shadowed near the frilly top. When she saw me, her eyes went wide, and her lips parted, moist and full. I walked to the sink, and I picked up the fish by the tail, and I batted her over the eye with it