“Look here,” he said, “are you telling me the truth about this?”
“Of course I am. What makes you think I’m not?”
“I don’t know,” he told her, “there’s something in your manner that doesn’t ring true. You’re not the sort to have hysterics and turn on the weeps. Even considering that you blundered into a room where a man had been murdered, you’re still too nervous, too hysterical. You act as though you were trying to keep me from finding out something.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. There’s no one you’re trying to shield, is there?”
She gasped, and said, “Why, what makes you think anything like that?”
“Oh, well,” he told her, pulling a wallet from his pocket and thrusting a bill into her hand, “skip it. You’ve got to get out of here. There’s a main boulevard a block down; we mustn’t be seen together. You walk on down there to the boulevard. I’ll follow along about half a block behind. Sooner or later, a cab will come along the boulevard. Flag it down. Take it to die Union Depot. Mix around with the crowd for a while, then pick up another cab and take it to your house. Forget what’s happened. Leave all the explaining to me. If anyone asks you where you went when you left my office, say you were going to see Frank Macon about an advertising appropriation. Say Macon wasn’t at his club.”
“But suppose he was?”
Moraine chuckled. “I happen to know that he wasn’t. He had a date with a young lady. I’ll ring him up in the morning and cuss him for not keeping his appointment, make him think that 1 thought we had an appointment with him. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
He stared searchingly at her eyes once more.
“Damn it,” he said, “that story of yours still doesn’t make sense.”
She started to cry.
“Oh, forget it,” he said, “and get started.”
She turned silently from him, forced her way against the wind, her skirt and coat whipping about her legs as she walked.
Moraine, his hands thrust into the side pockets of his overcoat, his hat brim pulled down low on his forehead, pushed along about half a block behind her. His forehead was puckered into frowning concentration.
Chapter Ten
Sam Moraine fought his way to consciousness through the deep oblivion of sleep. The insistent ringing of the extension telephone bell jarred him with the realization of impending duty. His hands were grouping for the instrument even before his numbed brain realized where he was or what was happening.
He spoke thickly into the transmitter, “Hello.”
Phil Duncan’s voice reached his ears, but for several seconds he couldn’t recognize it, could, in fact, hardly attach any significance to words which sounded in his ears as mere mechanical noises.
“... Hate to do this, Sam, but it’s important. I’ve got to see you right away. It’s for your own good as well as mine.”
Moraine’s mind tried to focus upon the subject in hand.
“Where are you now?”
“Right around the corner. We wanted to be certain you were home. Just come down and open the door when we ring. You won’t have to dress.”
“My God,” Moraine protested, “don’t you guys ever sleep? You use my office...”
He realized that he was talking to a dead line. Duncan, at the other end, had hung up the receiver.
Moraine jumped out of bed, kicked his feet into straw sandals, went to the bathroom, washed his mouth, scrubbed his face with cold water and sopped a cold towel on the back of his neck. The water felt good to him. He kicked off his pyjamas and flexed his muscles vigorously, getting the blood into circulation. He knew that he was going to need his wits about him.
He regarded his reflection in the mirror for a moment, then, with his fingers, tousled his hair. He put on his pyjamas and a bathrobe, and rubbed his knuckles across his eyes until he had brought a reddish look to the rims.
He left his bedroom and walked down the long corridor, down the winding staircase and stood at the front door, waiting.
He heard steps and opened the door.
Wind poured in.
Moraine blinked at the three men who hulked against the illumination of the porch light.
“Didn’t want you to get the servants up with the bell,” he said. “Come on in and follow me. We can talk in my bedroom. The heat’s all off. I’m cold.”
He turned his back, heard them file in behind him, and led the way up the stairs.
Moraine held open the door of his bedroom. The trio entered. Moraine closed the door. He grinned sleepily at Phil Duncan and at Barney Morden, then turned to face a tall, expressionless individual, garbed in black.
“Sam,” said Duncan, “shake hands with Frank Lott.”
Moraine extended a groping hand. The hand that gripped it was cold but firm. Long bony fingers wrapped themselves around Moraine’s hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” said Lott mechanically.
Moraine rubbed his hand to warm it, climbed into bed, pulled the covers up over himself and yawned prodigiously.
“What’s it all about?” he asked thickly.
Morden sat down on the side of the bed.
“Look here, Sam,” he said, “this thing isn’t a joke. It isn’t something you can play at — it’s serious. This is...”
“Just a minute, Barney,” Duncan said. “I’ll do the talking.”
Morden shrugged his shoulders and was silent.
Moraine, yawning again, said, “You fellows act as though you were making a professional call.”
“We are.”
Moraine sighed. “Well, damn it,” he said, “sit down — don’t stand there gawking around like a bunch of goofs. Close the window if it’s too drafty. There are some cigarettes over there in the case. If you birds think I’m going to offer you a drink at this hour of the morning, you’re nuts. You’ve got all the hospitality you’re going to get. Sit down and tell me what the hell it’s all about.”
Lott jack-knifed himself into a chair in slow dignity. Duncan sat on the arm of the chair, lit a cigarette and stared steadily at Moraine through the smoke.
“Sam,” he said, “we were in your office to-night.”
“I’ll say you were,” Moraine remarked, “and I hope to God you didn’t get me up at this hour of the morning in order to tell me that you were at my office. By the way, what time is it?”
“Around four o’clock,” Duncan said.
“Better close that window, Barney. There s a hell of a wind blowing through here. You fellows will get cold.”
Barney Morden hesitated a moment, then got up and pushed the window shut.
“You left your office in a hurry,” Duncan went on.
“I tried to. That goof with the empty pop-gun gave me a bad start. What did you do with him?”
“Locked him up.”
“Is he nuts, or what?”
“He thinks you broke up his home.”
“He’s a damned liar; I didn’t break up anything.”
“Just before you left the office,” Duncan said, “a woman called you on the telephone.” -
“Yeah, I guess so,” Moraine agreed, yawning again. “I wish you fellows would let a guy get some sleep. I’m so damn dopey I don’t half know what you’re talking about.”
Morden and Duncan exchanged glances.
“A call from a woman,” Duncan said.
“Damn it!” Moraine remarked. “I presume you’ll want to know what the call was about next.”
“We will,” Duncan said.
“You can go jump in the lake,” Moraine told him, grinning.
“The call,” Barney Morden said, “was from a woman, and she was excited. She seemed to be having hysterics. She screamed ‘Come out here,’ or something like that, and you could hear her all over the office.”