“Wait a minute, Sam. You’ll have to go down and swear to a complaint against this fellow.”
“I’m not swearing to any complaints,” Moraine announced. “What’s more, I have other things to do. I’m on my way. Good night.”
Morden started to say something, but, at a glance from Phil Duncan, remained silent.
Moraine swung back the still open door to the corridor. Just as he was closing it, he heard Dr. Hartwell saying, in an incredulous voice, “For God’s sake, isn’t he the one who’s been intimate with my wife?”
Moraine closed the door before he heard the answer. He took the elevator to the lobby, remembered what Duncan had said about a federal operative having been posted in front of the building. He flattened himself against the side of the building, looked out cautiously. No car was parked there.
Moraine stepped out, braced himself against the night wind, walked rapidly to the corner, turned to the right, walked half a block, and crossed the street.
No one was following him.
He signaled a cruising cab.
“Sixth Avenue and Maplehurst,” he said, “and drive like hell.”
Chapter Nine
The cab jolted across the tracks on Maplehurst. The cab driver turned to look inquiringly at Moraine.
“This is all right,” Moraine told him, and pushed coins into his hand.
“You want me to wait?” the driver asked dubiously.
Moraine shook his head, tugged at the catch on the door. As the door opened, the force of the wind almost jerked it from his hand. He gathered his coat about him and stepped out into the night.
The driver turned and groped for the edge of the door. He was unable to close it until Moraine leaned his weight against it.
“Hell of a night,” said the driver, and turned once more to stare curiously at Moraine’s wind-whipped figure. Then he slid the car into gear.
Moraine stared over to the left. A three-story house, set slightly back from the street, loomed as a hulk of darkness. An old-fashioned wrought-iron fence circled the place. He leaned against the force of the wind and started toward a gate which was dimly visible in the lights of the street lamp on the far corner.
Moraine surveyed the big mansion in puzzled scrutiny. Here and there, in adjoining houses, lights were visible. But the big house loomed against the murky night sky — three stories of darkness.
Moraine turned in at the gate and was groping his way along the path when he heard the sound of a quick intake of breath. A foot stumbled over an obstruction. He heard his name mentioned in a half-whisper. A slender form stepped toward him from the darkness, and Natalie Rice clung to his arm.
“What’s the matter?” he asked.
She clung to him, as a child, frightened in the darkness, might cling to a parent.
“Come on, you poor kid,” he said, “what is it?”
“I can’t tell you,” she half-sobbed. “We’ve got to get away from here.”
He shook her shoulders.
“Snap out of it,” he told her, and stepped back so that he could see the oval blur of her face in the darkness.
She lunged toward him, pressed her face against the lapel of his coat. He could feel her shiver.
Moraine glanced apprehensively up and down the stretch of walk which led toward the house, and could see no one.
He slid his right arm around the girl’s shoulders, pushed his fingers under her chin, pulled her face away from his coat.
“Now listen,” he said, “you’ve got to...”
He felt tears moistening the tips of his fingers.
“He’s dead!” she said. “Murdered!”
“Who is?” Moraine demanded.
“Dixon.”
“How do you know?”
“I was in the room.”
“When?”
“When I telephoned.”
“Who killed him?”
“I don’t know.”
“How long had he been dead?”
“I don’t know, just a little time, I think. It was awful!”
“How did you get in?”
She shuddered and clung tightly to him.
“P-p-p-please,” she sobbed, “can’t we g-g-g-get somewhere? I want to get away from this.”
He stood still, his arm around her waist, holding her tightly to him.
“Now listen,” he said, “snap out of it. You were in the room and the man was murdered. Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Did you leave anything there?”
“What do you mean?”
“Anything that you touched, a handkerchief, a purse, a cigarette case — anything?”
“I d-d-d-don’t know.”
“Well, let’s find out. Were you wearing gloves?”
“No.”
“Where’s your purse? Have you got it?”
“I g-g-g-guess so... No, I haven’t either!”
“Where did you leave it?”
“I d-d-don’t know.”
“Why didn’t you telephone the police?”
“Because I didn’t know what to do. I thought y-y-y-you’d know what you wanted to d-d-d-do.”
“Has there been any alarm? Does anyone know he’s murdered?”
“No.”
“Where have you been?”
“Here, w-w-w-waiting for you.”
“Quit that damn crying,” he told her. “Here, sit down.”
He spread his coat and sat down on the edge of the walk, pulled her down to his lap. She pillowed her head on his shoulder, clung to him frantically and sobbed desperately. After a few seconds, she heaved a long, tremulous sigh, sat up and groped around with her left hand, then said, “You’ve got to stake me to a handkerchief. I’m over it now. Hell of a thing to do.”
“That’s better,” he told her, pulling a handkerchief from his coat pocket. He watched her wipe away the tears and blow her nose. “You’re too efficient to give way to this kind of a spell.”
“I couldn’t help it,” she said, more calmly now. “I never wanted anyone as badly in my life as I did you. I thought you’d know what to do. I’ve never seen anything so ghastly.”
“What happened?”
“He was lying on the floor, dead.”
“How was he killed?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wasn’t there any weapon or anything?”
“The place was dark. I only got glimpses by lighting matches.”
“Where did you get the matches?”
“From my purse.”
“A box of matches or a folder.”
“No, a folder. One that came from the restaurant where I ate lunch.”
“Why did you have to strike matches?”
“Because the place was dark. The lights are all out.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know.”
“How did you get in?”
“The door was open.”
He frowned irritably.
“Now, listen,” he said, “begin at the beginning and give me this whole story. Put your lips over close to my ear, because I don’t want you shouting, and there’s so much wind I can’t hear unless you do. Now go ahead and tell me the story.”
She blew her nose once more, wiped her eyes, and apparently became conscious for the first time that she was seated on his lap.
She got to her feet. The wind whipped her skirt and she held it with her hand, wrapped it around her. She sat down beside Moraine, leaned forward and placed her lips close to his ear.
“I came out here in a cab. I went to the door and rang the bell. A butler came to the door. He was carrying a candle. The wind blew it out, but not until after he’d had a look at me and I’d had a look at him. I told him I was a newspaper reporter and that I had to see Mr. Dixon at once about some charges that had been made against him in connection with the Hartwell kidnapping.”
“What happened?”
“Well, the candle went out. The house seemed to be in darkness. The butler asked me if I’d mind standing in the reception corridor. He said something had happened to the lights. I came in. He closed the door and lit the candle again, and started up a flight of stairs. I knew Dixon wouldn’t want to see me. As a newspaper woman, I figured I could do the unexpected and get by with it, so I started tip-toeing up the stairs behind the butler. He turned his head once but couldn’t see me. He was carrying a candle, and I was behind him in the shadows.”