After Midnight Read online

  “My stomach’s tied in knots,” she said. “It’s worse now than before the trial.”

  “Reaction,” Simon told her. “It’s perfectly natural.”

  “What will happen now? Will the police go looking for Roger’s murderer?”

  “Why don’t you worry about one problem at a time?” Simon said. “The most immediate problem is you. You need a rest.”

  She smiled wryly.

  “What do you suggest—a cruise on the Mediterranean? Maybe I could induce the commander to take me.”

  “In other words, you’re broke?”

  “The rent on the house is paid up until the first of the month, and there’s almost a hundred dollars in the joint checking account. And the Mercedes is in my name.”

  “Why?”

  She was startled by the question. “Why?” she echoed.

  “I didn’t know your husband,” Simon explained, “but a sports car is like a cowboy’s horse—the last thing he wants to relinquish.”

  “But that’s why,” she said. “Roger said if the car was in my name, it couldn’t be taken by creditors. Anyway, it’s what I plan to sell so I can pay you.”

  “Later,” Simon admonished. “Worry about that later. Your Calvinist background is showing and it embarrasses me. I usually have to sue to get paid.”

  When she had finished the third cup of coffee, he drove her home. It was long enough after the end of the trial for the curious to have come and departed, and the reporters who were probably scouring every hotel and motel in the vicinity would least expect to find Wanda Warren in the house on Seacliff Drive. He could sense her dread when they pulled into the driveway. She gave him the key and it was Simon who unlocked the front door and switched on the lights that illuminated the stairway up to the living room. The drapes were drawn and Lieutenant Franzen had thoughtfully stretched a strip of matching carpet over the bloodstains; but the memories were waiting and the tension seeped back into Wanda’s face. The question they had avoided for hours had to be voiced.

  “What happened?” Wanda asked. “I mean—that nurse, Nancy Armitage. Why didn’t she testify against me? Why did we win?”

  “Because she was lying,” Simon said. “I caught her in the lie and told her she would be liable to a perjury charge if she told her story in court.”

  “Then I’m not—then she didn’t see me kill Roger.”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “There was no witness?”

  “There was no witness.”

  She breathed easier. “Then it’s finished,” she said.

  It wasn’t, but this was no time to mention that. Brightly, Simon said:

  “All I’m worrying about now is what the police did with the gin and vermouth that used to be in the bar. The night air gives me a thirst.”

  He found the gin and vermouth where he had found it the first time, and then he found the switch for the hi-fi. In no time at all the house was warm and alive. He mixed the drinks while Wanda watched him from a stool across the bar. The trouble was still in her eyes when he slid her glass across the counter, and so he grabbed the handiest conversation peg and started talking.

  “I still wonder what your husband wanted with that tennis trophy,” he said. “It can’t have any value—except the sentimental. Was Roger a sentimental man, Mrs. Warren?”

  The martini Wanda so eagerly accepted had an almost instantaneous effect on a long neglected stomach. Her eyes brightened in remembrance.

  “I did ask him why he wanted it,” she recalled. “He said: ‘Every great man should leave something behind him.’”

  “Leave something behind? What did he mean?”

  “I don’t know. Roger talked that way sometimes. Out. Way out. Usually he wouldn’t answer at all if I asked questions about what he did, but I couldn’t help being curious when he took the trophy out of the tackle box.”

  Wanda’s glass was empty. Simon refilled it carefully while reflecting on what she had just told him.

  “The tackle box,” he echoed. “I thought the trophy came wrapped in paper and string.”

  Wanda shook her head gravely. “I know you did,” she said. “That’s what you said in the courtroom when Mr. Lodge was on the witness stand—but it wasn’t true. I wanted to correct you, but I didn’t have a chance.”

  “I’m glad of that,” Simon said.

  “Is it important?”

  Wanda was beginning to resemble a growing child waiting for her sleepers. But she absorbed the martinis with amazing ease, and something was beginning to prickle at the back of Simon’s neck.

  “That,” he answered, “depends on what was in the package wrapped with paper and string.”

  “I don’t know,” she said.

  “But there was a package. Roger did ask you for a knife—”

  “I know that, Mr. Drake. But that was before he took the trophy out of the tackle box. I got the knife for him, and when I came back to the bar with it the trophy was standing—” She stared at the spot where Simon had first seen the odd bar adornment and pointed one finger “—there,” she said. “I asked what it was and what it was for, and he told me what I just told you that he told me, and then he got mad.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said I was a disgrace to him and now he would never get any money from the commander—and then he told me to go to bed. I did.”

  She became quiet then. Very quiet.

  “You remember,” Simon said.

  Modern science was wonderful. Psychiatrists could use hypnosis and drugs. The police could use lie detectors. But Simon Drake was beginning to penetrate the veil over Wanda’s mind with nothing more complicated than a pitcher of cool martinis.

  “Let’s try again,” he said. “Are you sure that you never saw what was in that package?”

  The pressure of the trial was over, and the martinis were relaxing. Simon waited for the breakthrough while frown lines deepened on Wanda’s forehead.

  “I don’t think so,” she said.

  “The wrappings might remind you. I hope this room hasn’t been cleaned.”

  “It hasn’t. It won’t be until I call the service. I subscribe—”

  Wanda never completed the explanation of her housekeeping arrangement. Simon found the wrapping paper and the cut string that had been on the top of the bar stuffed in a waste basket. He spread them out for her to examine. It was an unusually textured paper, flecked with fibers. The cord was an ordinary twine.

  He looked at Wanda questioningly.

  “No—I don’t remember,” she said. “I’m sure I wasn’t in the room when Roger opened the package. I was too angry and too tired. I went straight to bed.”

  “Was that particular Sunday the only time Roger brought home a package after his fishing trip?”

  “Yes, I’m sure it was. But why are you asking me all these questions? Was the package so important?”

  “The answer to that question depends on what was in it,” Simon said. “Did Roger take anything else from the yacht?”

  “How could I know?” she protested. “I didn’t search him—and I jumped ship, remember? I just hailed a passing rowboat—” She waved one thumb in a hitchhiker’s gesture and laughed, but it was a hollow laugh that went nowhere. Her glass was empty, and the shadow of a dead man lay between her and a life she would never know again. They had gone driving and drunk coffee and talked for hours, but it had come back to that, finally. It had to come back to that.

  The music from the hi-fi was gay and inanely inappropriate. Wanda pivoted slowly and let her eyes absorb everything in the quietly elegant apartment. A dream was ending.

  “Mrs. Warren,” Simon said, “one thing still bothers me. Your husband worked in a haberdashery. He earned a hundred dollars a week. Didn’t you ever wonder how you were able to live so well on his income?”

  She seemed completely sober.

  “No,” she said. “I wasn’t allowed to wonder. Roger said making the living was his business—that I hadn’t
married him to worry about money.”

  “Why did you marry him?”

  She completed the circle and turned back to Simon. “Because,” she said, “I thought he was Prince Charming and I was Sleeping Beauty.”

  The truth was usually that simple. Simon reached across the bar and took the martini glass from her hand.

  “You won’t need this crutch any longer,” he said. “Go to bed now.” Then he leaned forward and kissed her on the mouth.

  She started toward the bedroom, stopped and looked back at Simon.

  “Was that for professional services?” she asked.

  “No—for fun,” Simon said, “and for Hannah Lee.”

  “Hannah Lee?”

  “A very wise old lady who can make a mistake.”

  ELEVEN

  It was midnight when Simon unlocked the front door, punched the chime button and let the gay notes of “Give My Regards to Broadway,” announce his return. Hannah’s light was visible from the driveway, and the chimes were one of the touches Simon had added to the mansion to brighten the dull declining years of a gallant lady.

  He found her upstairs at the card table with a ream of yellow sheets spread out before her and a collection of ball point pens lined up like weapons in a gun rack.

  “I’m writing my memoirs,” she announced.

  “Are you sure the world is ready for them?” Simon asked.

  “Definitely. I’ve made a list of all my best friends and am prepared to detail every bit of dirty gossip I ever heard about them. If it’s not dirty enough, I’ll improvise.”

  “In four letter words,” Simon suggested.

  “No. Four letter words are old hat. I intend to use three letter words. They’re much more suggestive. For instance: ‘He walked into the bedroom and closed the door behind him. He could see the beckoning outline of her nude body on the bed. He walked toward her and—’”

  “Three dots?”

  “Three spaces. Simon, I expect my readers to have livid imagination. I’m not going through this creative agony for children! … But, speaking of children, how did you make out with the Black Widow?”

  Simon turned his back.

  “No knives,” he said.

  “Good! That one was close, Simon. I’m glad it’s over.”

  She waited for comment. Her eyes were bright and penetrating, and when he didn’t answer she added:

  “It is over, isn’t it?”

  “All but a few details,” Simon said. “I’ll get the Drambouie.”

  He went to the bar and poured the liqueur into the two long-stemmed crystal glasses, and when he returned to the table Hannah’s eyes were still leaping to conclusions that were only too apt to be right.

  “What details?” she asked.

  “I’m not sure,” he answered. “Where’s the evening paper?”

  “I cancelled the subscription. I didn’t like the editorials.”

  “Oh, fine! Now how do I get a list of ship sailings?”

  “Ship sailings? Are you sending the widow out of the country?”

  “It might not be a bad idea—but that’s not what I had in mind. Hannah—think. What happened today? Wanda Warren wasn’t indicted for the murder of her husband. That’s all. But her husband was murdered and consequently there is a murderer. A very disappointed murderer because a case that could have been tied up tight at that hearing is now wide open again.”

  Hannah nibbled the end of her pen thoughtfully.

  “‘I’ll gild the faces of the groom withal …’” she reflected. “Yes, I follow you, Simon, I may even be ahead of you. If Wanda is innocent, and I stress the if, she may be in danger. That’s what you’re thinking, isn’t it? But what do you want with the ship sailings?”

  “Motivation,” Simon said. “The first day I was inside the Warren house I heard Franzen say that Roger Warren lived beyond somebody else’s means. That started me thinking what any red-blooded defense attorney would think. If Roger lived beyond somebody else’s means, whose means did he live beyond? If I knew the answer to that question, I might know why he’s no longer among the living.”

  “Explain,” Hannah said.

  “I can’t—yet. The idea’s still in the embryo stage. But you were at the trial, Hannah. You heard the testimony. Why do you think Roger Warren wanted possession of that tennis trophy he’d won in his college days?”

  “To use as a doorstop?”

  Hannah wanted him to drop the whole matter—that’s why she was being so coy. But her words had the opposite effect from healing levity; instead, Simon lapsed into a deep silence that lasted until she cracked him on the shins with her cane.

  “Doorstop,” he repeated. “The door does bang—but only when it’s closed from the outside. That’s it! Hannah, the story I concocted for the jury could be absolutely true! The door on the Warren house was banging because somebody left that house when there was no one alive or awake who could close the door after him.”

  “Or her?” Hannah suggested.

  “Or her. And so, naturally, Wanda’s recall stops short of the murder because she was sleeping off a drunk in the bedroom when Roger was knifed.”

  “Twelve good men and true on the jury have already bought that argument,” Hannah reminded him. “Why are you still trying to convince yourself? No, don’t answer that. I know. It’s simple chemistry.”

  “Hannah, don’t be foolish,” Simon admonished.

  “Oh, I have been—many times. Some of the times were the happiest of my life. But this isn’t one of them, Simon. You’re bugged for a beautiful woman who frightens you because she just might be a husband killer—and no charm school recommends that kind of background for togetherness.”

  Hannah pushed back her chair and came painfully to her feet. At such times, late at night, the years rolled in and almost overwhelmed her stubborn vitality—but never her elegance. She picked up the long-stemmed glass and drained the rest of the Drambouie, and then she looked down at Simon and winked.

  “Don’t fall for your own gimmick,” she said, knowing perfectly well that it was already too late.

  A trial both excited and exhausted Simon. It was nine o’clock before he opened his eyes and blinked at the sunlight streaming through the ceiling high windows that faced the sea. There was something indecent about so much light when a man was in a semiconscious condition and unable to defend himself. He drew up to a sitting position. His eyes adjusted to the glare. Simultaneously, he yanked the sheets up to his armpits. Hannah, handsomely swathed in an ivory satin robe with a mink collar, stood at the foot of the bed.

  “Turn on your television,” she ordered.

  “Please,” Simon begged, “not on an empty stomach!”

  Hannah didn’t answer. She located the bedside switch and brought the little monster on the opposite wall into instant living color. The first face Simon saw was the handsome, arrogant profile of Commander Warren—barely cognizant of the eager newscaster interviewing him.

  “… of course I’m not satisfied with the verdict!” he announced. “My son was murdered and I intend to find his killer even if the law isn’t interested in seeing justice done. That’s why I’m offering twenty-five thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest and the conviction of the murderer.”

  Simon groaned.

  “Turn it off,” he said.

  “Wait,” Hannah cautioned. “He may mention you again.”

  “Again?”

  Hannah put a finger to her lips and Simon listened.

  “I stress the conviction of the killer,” the commander repeated, moving close enough to the camera to completely eliminate his interrogator, “because what I’m after is evidence so conclusive that no unprincipled, opportunistic, self-aggrandizing lawyer can twist it into another acquittal!”

  Hannah switched off the set.

  “He didn’t even call me brilliant,” Simon said.

  “Can’t we sue for libel or defamation of character?” Hannah asked.

  “No, but
we might send a check for the free publicity … twenty-five thousand dollars! The old boy’s really hurt, isn’t he? I wonder …”

  Simon knotted the sheet about his waist and reached for the telephone. He dialed Wanda’s number, waited and then heard her say, wearily, “I’m sorry but Mrs. Warren can’t be disturbed—”

  “Mrs. Warren is lousy at disguising her voice,” Simon interrupted. “Is your television on?”

  It could have been interference on the line. It could even have been that the line was bugged and Franzen hadn’t had time to take the bug off. Then everything was quiet.

  “Oh,” Wanda said, “it’s you, Mr. Drake. No, my TV is off. Should it be on?”

  “No. I was just being cute. What I really want to know is what kind of night you had.”

  “The night was fine,” Wanda said. “I took a pill. Two pills. But this morning the phone started ringing at dawn and it hasn’t stopped.”

  “Cranks?”

  “A few. Mostly reporters. Mr. Drake, I was offered ten thousand dollars for the story of my life—”

  “Tell them you don’t know how it ends,” Simon said. “And stay in the house until you hear from me.”

  “When—?”

  Simon glanced at his watch.

  “I have to make a short trip,” he said, “but I’ll drop by for a cocktail at five. Relax and look beautiful.”

  Simon dropped the telephone back in the cradle and made a face at Hannah.

  “All right, live dangerously,” Hannah said. “Maybe you’ll be the lucky one to get the commander’s twenty-five thousand dollars.

  Charley Becker’s Cove was a sorry place at ten in the morning. The coffee counter opened officially at eight and caught a light trucker trade, but the cafe was too far out on the highway to draw a coffee break crowd. When Simon parked the Jaguar in the parking area, there was no one on the premises except Becker and a Negro cook. Simon ordered coffee and studied the horizon through the seaward windows. It was a clear day and the black hull of the commander’s yacht was clearly visible.