“Here’s where I become a sucker again. What is it, Smitty?”
“Go see Pamela. Try to keep an open mind like you do when we make a commercial investigation. Just this once, Jeff. You listened to me on the Wagner oil deal and I was right.”
“You win, Smitty. I’ll see her. Stick around until I get back.”
Pamela Bogart looked up and smiled when Jeff entered the Normandy bar. She slid closer to the inside of the bench in the booth she was occupying alone. Jeff ignored the invitation and sat opposite her.
“You don’t look like a person who has just shot and killed a man,” he opened the conversation curtly. “How did you get out so soon?”
“I haven’t killed anybody. Why shouldn’t they release me? Why should I kill a man I buy my jewelry from? My lawyer explained all that to—”
“So you took your lawyer down with you?”
“Naturally. Jeff, why must you be so hateful?”
“Because I don’t like murderers. You saw me examine that silver box. You knew I was looking for the maker’s mark. When Stevens called you and told you I had offered to buy information about the bullet, you lost no time in putting him out of the way. Probably he had been blackmailing you, anyway. Did you drop the gun you used into the harbor?”
“I didn’t have anything to do with it. I hardly know the man. Why should he make a silver bullet? Why silver?”
“To kill Corinne with. You should know. You ordered it made.”
“Jeff, I didn’t. I’ll admit I didn’t like Corinne. She was a prude, always so careful, so economical. But one doesn’t kill one’s sister for that sort of thing.”
“Maybe not. But a truckload of dough isn’t to be sneezed at. Your income increased fifty percent at her death.”
“You’re hateful, Jeff. But that’s not what I want to talk about. I’m frightened. I don’t want to get married. I’m afraid of marriage.”
Jeff leaned back in the booth and roared with laughter. “You’re afraid. But marriage has nothing to do with your fears.”
Pamela twisted the stem of the filled cocktail glass in slender fingers.
“Can’t you forget Myrna Dalton, Jeff? Didn’t you ever hear from her after you sent her the statement you made me write?”
Jeff didn’t answer. He rose to his feet and towered over the girl sitting opposite. The lids of his eyes dropped. A small muscle in his clamped jaw throbbed. He glared at Pamela Bogart.
“I’m warning you, Pam” – he spoke loudly in an even, harsh tone – “if I ever hear you mention Myrna Dalton’s name again, I’ll be tempted to kill you.”
Several men lounging against the bar looked toward the booth. The big bouncer came from behind the cashier’s cage and stood watching Jeff.
“You hung a pretty frame on me, Pam.”
“I don’t see what the fuss was all about,” Pam answered defiantly. “After all, Myrna was no saint, either.”
“You little liar!” Jeff didn’t lower his voice.
Pamela’s lips tightened, and the color drained from her face. She splashed the contents of her glass into Jeff’s face.
Jeff’s big hand slashed blindly across her mouth and the back of her head hit the booth with a thump.
Pamela screamed. “Mike Collins will kill you for that!”
“Why Mike?”
“Because he’s the man I’m going to marry! That’s why!”
“Listen, bud” – the bouncer spun Jeff around – “I’m gonna slug you for—”
All the pent-up hatred Jeff was feeling, all the frustrated urge to kill was in the blow he hung on the bouncer’s unguarded chin. The big man sagged, and Jeff walked unmolested out of the bar.
Back in the office, Smitty tried to pump him for the details of his meeting with Pamela. Jeff kept quiet. He leaned on his desk and attempted to concentrate on a long commercial report dealing with the acquiring of a string of air strips in the Brazilian jungles.
But his mind wandered to Mike Collins, trying to understand why Mike was going to marry Pamela after having been engaged to Corinne. Could it be money? Love? None of the conventional reasons seemed plausible.
The sharp ringing of the telephone was a death knell to further logical thinking.
“It’s Mike Collins,” Smitty said.
Jeff picked up the extension and nodded to Smitty to stay on the line.
“Jeff Hunter speaking. What can I do for you, Mike?”
“Pamela just phoned me. She’s been telling me a strange tale, Jeff.”
“I’m listening,” Jeff said grimly, and watched as Smitty took the words down in shorthand.
“She told me the police had questioned her about the killing of Stevens, that silversmith. Pam buys a lot of stuff from him.”
“Mike,” Jeff snapped, “did she tell you she had seen me in the Normandy bar?”
“No, she didn’t. But she did mention she had just left the bar, and was in her apartment. I wonder—”
“What are you wondering, Mike?”
“Whether she had asked you to come to dinner tonight and you had refused.”
“She didn’t ask me.”
“Jeff, she told me she’s frightened, that someone is after her. That they told the police she was in Stevens’ place just before he was killed.”
“Come to the point, Mike.”
“She asked me to try to persuade you to come to dinner this evening. I realize it’s almost five now, and cocktails will be served at six. I know it’s late to ask it, Jeff, but I wish you’d come. Pamela’s frightened. She said she’d feel safer if you were there. Won’t you come, Jeff?”
“No. Wendell Bogart very pointedly told me I was not wanted, that I was persona non grata for social occasions.”
“Don’t mind the old boy, Jeff. Pam said she’d take care of him, and he’d be glad to see you. His bark is worse than his bite.”
“Maybe so, but I don’t like barks, I’m staying away.”
“Jeff, I do want you to come. Is there anything I could do to make you change your mind? Pamela mentioned offering you a fee, but I realize that’s ridiculous. Isn’t there any way I can persuade you?”
Jeff didn’t answer. He read the slip of paper Smitty pushed across the desk to him, “Go.” He nodded to Smitty, leaned back in his chair and dropped his feet on the desk top.
“Mike, I’d like to tell you a little story. Before the war, I was engaged to Myrna Dalton. It was the only serious love affair of my life. I went to her home for a weekend house party, just before her unit sailed for England. The first night, most of the crowd were tired and went to bed early. Three other fellows and myself sat up in the library playing poker until near dawn.”
“I know how it is,” Mike said.
“We’d been drinking, but not too much. I was dead tired when I climbed into bed. There had been a long drive there, the lateness of the hour, and the strain of the card game. I must have gone to sleep the minute my head hit the pillow.”
“I should imagine you did.”
“Pamela Bogart was one of the party. She was the first to wake next morning, and she promoted some silly idea of dragging everyone out of bed and dumping them into the swimming pool. The girls bore down on each room in turn, making a game of it.”
“I’ve been through the same thing,” Mike sympathized.
“When the whole party pounced into my room, they found it strewn with feminine apparel. As an added touch, there was an extra pillow on the bed with the imprint of a head. Someone had sneaked into my room while I was asleep and planted the stuff. Myrna was badly cut up about it, wouldn’t listen to my explanation.”
“I can understand her feeling. But what are you driving at, Jeff?”
“Pamela Bogart was the girl who planted that evidence. She did it for pure meanness. I didn’t get any proof that she did it until much later.”
The line was silent for a long time. Then Mike’s voice came over the wire: