Jake realized as he listened to Martin’s flat casual voice, that subconsciously he hadn’t believed Noble; he hadn’t believed that May was dead. Now he felt the shock of Martin’s cold and final words as if he were receiving the news for the first time.
He stood with Martin in the gray morning light remembering that he had stood in the same place with May the day before, after Denise and Brian Riordan had gone. She had been cheerful as they said goodbye.
“She was a good friend, eh?” Martin said.
“I liked her. I hadn’t seen much of her for the last couple of years, but I — she was an honest, likeable person.” He stopped unable to think of words that were not empty or inane.
“Well, it’s a weird case,” Martin said.
“What do you mean?”
“Come on upstairs. You’ll see what I mean.”
Jake had know Martin for fifteen years, dating back to when he had covered police for the Herald-Messenger, and Martin had been a detective working out of the third division in South Chicago. He knew Martin to be patient, painstaking, and thorough, with a passion for orderly police work. Most important, he had imagination. He was not afraid to guess and play his hunches.
Martin stopped at the head of the stairs to let three photographers by, and then turned and went into May’s bedroom.
Jake followed him slowly.
The figure on the bed had nothing to do with May, Jake told himself. May was gone. This sprawled and staring thing with the black sash imbedded deeply in the flesh of its throat was something else.
Rationalizing didn’t help and Jake could feel perspiration starting on his face. She had been wearing a billowing, black lace negligee and high-heeled black mules. One leg was doubled back beneath her body and one slipper had fallen off and was lying on its side on the floor. The black silken sash about her throat was obviously the belt she had worn with the negligee.
“See what I mean?” Martin said.
Jake saw he wasn’t looking at the bed. He was looking beyond the bed. Following his eyes Jake saw that the pink-toned mirror above May’s dressing table had been marked with two large X’s drawn with bright red lipstick. Cologne and perfume bottles had been swept from the dresser top to the floor, and clothes had been pulled from the closets and strewn over the floor and furniture. It looked as if a madman had attacked the place.
“What do you make of that?” Martin said.
Jake shook his head. “You have any ideas?”
“Only guesses. The X’s could mean that the murderer was referring to a double-cross.” He glanced at Jake and smiled faintly. “Too pat, I think. Someone might have been looking for something, of course, or it could be that the murderer felt killing her wasn’t enough. You know, a form of mutilation.”
Jake remembered then that May had kept her diary in this room. She had shown it to him the night before last, at her party.
He glanced over to the coffee table and saw that the lacquered box in which she’d kept it was closed. Crossing the room, he opened the box and saw, without much surprise, that it was empty.
The record of May’s wartime gossip, and the activities of quite a few prominent men, including Dan Riordan, had disappeared.
Martin came over, looking interested. “What’re you looking for?”
Jake knew that Martin would eventually learn of the book May had been planning, and of Dan Riordan and other prominent men who weren’t happy about the idea.
So he told Martin everything he knew.
Martin nodded slowly. “We’ll look for that diary now. You’re working for Riordan. Maybe you know where he was this morning about four o’clock.”
“Haven’t any idea. You’re fairly sure of the time?”
“Fairly sure,” Martin said, as they walked to the door. “The body was discovered by a Mrs. Swenson, a cleaning woman who got here at six. She told us that she went out to mail some stuff that was in the hall, and when she came back and went upstairs she found her mistress dead.”
“Did she lock the door when she went out?”
“No, but there’s no chance that someone slipped in and did the job while she was away. The coroner definitely put it before four thirty, and after three.”
Downstairs Jake shook hands with Martin and was turning to leave when he saw two men coming up the steps.
The policeman on guard stopped them, and said, “Nobody goes in now.”
The man in the lead said, “Tell the officer in charge I’d like to see him.”
Martin walked to the doorway. “What can I do for you?” he said.
“Are you in charge?”
“Yes. Martin’s the name. Lieutenant Martin.”
The man said, “My name is Prior, Gregory Prior, chief of the legal staff of the Hampstead Committee. This is my assistant, Gil Coombs. I had an appointment with Miss Laval for ten o’clock this morning. Mr. Coombs heard on the radio that she had been murdered, so we came right out.”
“I see,” Martin said agreeably. “What kind of business did you have with her?”
Jake studied Prior with interest. This was the government agent making the initial investigation into Riordan’s books and contracts. He looked young for the job, about thirty-four or thirty-five, with thick brown hair, and a firm, intelligent face.
Prior said, “I can only tell you this much: Miss Laval called my assistant, Mr. Coombs, last night about twelve and told him that she wanted to get in touch with me. I called her back later. She said she had some information I might be interested in, and we made an appointment for ten this morning.”
“The information was in her diary, I think,” Martin said. “Is that right?”
Prior didn’t look surprised by Martin’s information. He said, “That’s what she told me on the phone.”
“The diary seems to be gone,” Martin said. “Anyway, it’s not in its usual place. I’m going to look around for it now, and you can join me if you like.”
“Thank you,” Prior said.
Two policemen came in with a stretcher and started up the stairs. Martin said, “I’ll be with you in a moment,” and went up after them.
Prior lit a cigarette and then glanced curiously at Jake. Jake said, “We’ll meet eventually, Mr. Prior, so why not now? My name is Jake Harrison.”
“Yes?” Prior said.
“I’m handling Dan Riordan’s public relations,” Jake said, and extended his hand.
“Oh,” Prior said. He didn’t offer to shake hands.
Jake put his hand into his breast pocket and brought out cigarettes. “I’m surprised that May had decided to turn over her dope on Riordan to you,” he said. “You know, she said she was going to use it in a book.”
“Well, she didn’t say anything about turning over the information,” Coombs said. He was a thin, middle-aged man with alert features. “She merely asked me to tell Prior she wanted to talk to him.”
“She didn’t say the information concerned Riordan,” Prior said.
Coombs said, “But we were hoping this might give us a lead to—”
Prior cleared his throat. “Hardly the place for that, Gil.”
Coombs colored and nodded. “Sorry,” he said.
“I hope you won’t think of me as the guy on the other team,” Jake said. He lit the cigarette he held in his hand and wondered to what extent he could soften up Prior. The man seemed sincere and earnest, and there was a chance he might be reasonable.
“Actually our jobs are pretty similar,” he went on. “You want to get the facts, and my job is to pass those facts along to the public, and to see that they don’t become distorted on the way. I’ll be glad to help you any way I can in regard to Riordan’s background, activities, and so forth. Frankly, I want your confidence and cooperation, because my job is not to defend Riordan, but to keep him from being libeled by the implications of this investigation.”