After Midnight Page 6

  “Mrs. Aaronson,” Simon said, “the mere fact that a story is printed and circulated doesn’t make it true.”

  But Mrs. Aaronson wasn’t in the mood for moderation. “If Nancy Armitage told the story, you can bet your soul it’s true! There’s no more honest person on earth than that woman. My uncle couldn’t abide any nurse more than three months before we found her.”

  Reactions under stress were cruelly honest. Nancy Armitage was beginning to sound dependable and dull, and dependable, dull people didn’t make good liars. A good lie required imagination or malice. Simon masked his disappointment behind a show of professional detachment and asked at what time Nancy Armitage had come on duty Sunday night.

  “At seven—exactly,” Mrs. Aaronson said. “You can set your watch by Nancy Armitage.”

  “And at what time did she leave?”

  The one good thing about following a police investigation was that the witness had all of the answers at the tip of her mind.

  “At fifteen minutes past twelve,” she said. “I remember because it took longer to get away from the wedding reception than we thought it would. I told Kenneth—my husband—to drive Nancy home because it was so late, but she wouldn’t hear of it. ‘It’s going to rain,’ she said, ‘and I love to walk in the rain. It’s like being bathed by God.’”

  “Bathed by God,” Simon echoed.

  “Isn’t that a lovely thought? Nancy has such poetic ways of phrasing things. It’s a pity she had to be the one witness to murder. Poor dear, this must be a terrible ordeal for her.”

  Simon could think of no adequate way to follow that remark. He thanked Mrs. Aaronson for her trouble and walked back to the Jaguar. Safely out of sight of the house—women of Mrs. Aaronson’s fanatic loyalty resented doubters and would be watching from the window—he checked his wrist watch and then started the longer walk to Seacliff Drive. Nancy Armitage was a long-legged woman and probably of English ancestry. The English were among the few people on earth who still knew the art of walking for pleasure, and so Simon increased his gait, breathed deeply and tried to pretend that it was just after midnight with the smell of rain in the air and the wind rising saltily from the sea. Reaching the Warren house, Simon checked his watch again. It had taken exactly nine minutes to cover the distance from Cox Road to 2712 Seacliff Drive. Assuming that Nancy Armitage walked a bit slower—and he had the uneasy feeling that she could outmarch a battalion of Marines—she still might have reached the house at a time when Wanda Warren was murdering her husband. He looked up at the house. The draperies were still open at a wide picture window that would have blazed like a lighted stage for two battling lovers too intent on mutual malice to close them. And if Nancy Armitage did witness murder, what would she do? Reluctantly, Simon had to admit her confessed actions were completely normal.

  But now there was another phase of the walk to be completed. Seacliff Drive was directly above the sea, and there were wide gaps between many of the new houses so that Nancy Armitage would have had frequent views of the beach and surf below. As Simon resumed walking, he saw the door of the house occupied by Frank Lodge open and the disheveled tenant, still in pajamas and robe, step outside to get the morning paper. There was a moment of recognition and then Lodge stepped back inside and closed the door. Simon checked his watch again and proceeded to the house on Pacific View.

  It was of still another area and category of mind. Never a fine house, it hadn’t diminished in grandeur—it had merely grown old. The redwood siding was black from exposure to the sea air, and all of the windows were sedately curtained in bleached muslin and monk’s cloth. Simon found Mrs. Rainey working in a small rose garden overlooking the sea. She was a merry-faced old lady with snow-white hair who greeted him with the delighted air of one to whom anything still alive was an improvement.

  “Nancy Armitage isn’t in,” she announced brightly. “Went out early this morning. What is it you’re after—references? Nancy’s a fine girl! Quiet. Thoughtful. Prompt with the rent—”

  “And popular?” Simon suggested.

  “Popular?” Mrs. Rainey’s smile faded. She ceased a search for aphids that had continued thus far into the interview and gave Simon her undivided attention. “Who are you?” she asked. “One of those insurance snoops?”

  “No—” Simon began.

  “Or are you from one of those government committees? Because I won’t tell you a thing if you are! I hate snoops. You people are making a police state out of this country. We might as well be living in Russia.”

  “I don’t work for the government,” Simon said.

  “Then you must be one of those sociology snoops from the university. What is it you want to know this time? Do I fear death? Do I believe in hell? … You bet your life I do! Hell is what life is when snoops get through with a person!”

  “Mrs. Rainey,” Simon broke in, “—have you seen the morning paper?”

  “No, and I don’t want to see it. I have enough trouble with garden pests.”

  “But you have heard about the murder of Roger Warren?”

  “Yes, certainly. What has that to do with Nancy?”

  Simon repeated the story Nancy Armitage had told him the previous evening, and explained that she knew he was making an inquiry.

  “She said that you probably wouldn’t remember when she returned to the house Sunday night, but I thought you might remember when she went out. It must have been shortly before seven.”

  Mrs. Rainey listened intently and then gave a surprising answer.

  “Nancy didn’t go out Sunday night,” she said.

  “She didn’t? Are you sure?”

  “Positive. Nancy went out Sunday afternoon between bowling and the cartoon show on TV. That was between four-thirty and five o’clock. And you’re right, I don’t remember when she came back because my picture tube blew at ten-thirty and I went straight to bed. Couldn’t sleep a wink until the storm came up. It sounded like the late show, and I went right off.”

  “Between four-thirty and five,” Simon reflected. “Mrs. Rainey, you never did answer my first question. Does Nancy Armitage have many friends?”

  “Men friends, do you mean?”

  “Yes, I suppose I do,” Simon said.

  There was no merriment in Mrs. Rainey’s eyes now. “I’ve never known Nancy to have a male caller,” she said.

  “How long has she lived in your hourse?”

  “Almost two years. Of course, she does go out—”

  Simon looked across the rose garden. A French door—the frame painted blue and the glass portion screened with a tight mesh curtain—made a second entrance to the house. A small canopy hung over the doorway, and from it dangled a wire coat hanger that had to belong to Nancy Armitage.

  “What would it take to get me inside Miss Armitage’s room?” Simon asked.

  “A court order,” Mrs. Rainey said.

  “Let me put it another way. Nancy Armitage may be getting herself into a great deal of trouble. She leads a simple life. She doesn’t know what can happen in a courtroom. I want to help her.”

  “Why?” Mrs. Rainey demanded.

  “Because she’s done me a great favor. She came to me with evidence against one of my clients before going to the police. She didn’t have to do that. I think she’s sincere.”

  Mrs. Rainey hesitated, and in that hesitation Simon saw the oncoming signs of denial. He didn’t wait. He strode quickly across the garden and grasped the doorknob. His guess was right—Nancy Armitage was a trusting soul. The door opened easily on a large, light room with the windows overlooking the sea.

  “Mister, you can’t do that!” Mrs. Rainey cried.

  She was too late. Simon had entered the room. The furniture was old—but it had been good once and showed excellent care. One wall was lined with bookshelves filled with what were obviously well-read texts. Nancy Armitage seemed to be a scholar. There was no television in the room, but he did find a compact hi-fi and record player of recent vintage.

  “
I suppose Nancy Armitage collects Bach,” Simon mused.

  He raised the lid on the player. A disc was on the spindle. He couldn’t make out the title, so he switched on the mechanism and placed the needle. Nancy Armitage was a puzzle he had to solve. Anything that helped him find her pattern of thinking was important.

  He wasn’t prepared for what came from the player. It wasn’t Nancy. It was low, sensuous and primitive. It was strings like soft fingers playing on his spine. It was woodwinds in a haunting mating call underlined by a throbbing beat that made trusting, neat, scholarly and conscientious Nancy Armitage an enigma once more. He switched off the player and turned to Mrs. Rainey.

  “Does she play this often?” he asked.

  Mrs. Rainey didn’t like him any more. “I don’t listen at keyholes,” she said. “My room’s on the opposite side of the house, and I’m usually at the TV whenever Nancy’s at home.”

  Simon brightened. “Then you really wouldn’t know if she had a male caller, would you?”

  “She would have told me. I’m not prudish.”

  “But she might be, Mrs. Rainey. Have you thought of that? On the opposite side of the house, you couldn’t see—”

  “I saw her Sunday!” Mrs. Rainey protested. “I was taking the sun in my deck chair. My TV’s a portable. I carried it outside. She went out alone.”

  There was more than one way to find out about a woman. Mrs. Rainey was already miserable over the invasion of her roomer’s privacy. He might as well give her blood pressure a real boost. He crossed to the wardrobe closet and shoved back the sliding door. Nancy Armitage’s clothing was hung neatly on the clothes pole: simple, tailored suits, street dresses, half a dozen freshly laundered uniforms and the gray raincoat she had worn to The Mansion. Everything was in good taste—quality but economical. Everything but one sleek, black dinner dress which Simon removed from the rack for closer scrutiny.

  “What are you doing?” Mrs. Rainey protested. “Young man, I’m about to call the police—”

  But Mrs. Rainey wasn’t about to do any such thing. Instead, she was about to become as enthralled as Simon as he examined the garment. It was low-cut, form-fitting and expensive. The label was from one of the finest shops in Marina Beach, and the perfume that still clung to the fabric sold for more by the ounce than Mrs. Rainey collected for a month’s rent.

  “My, my, my!” Simon said. “Miss Nightingale has fine feathers! I’d like to be her patient on the night calls she makes in this uniform!”

  SIX

  And so Nurse Armitage had another life after all. Simon looked to Mrs. Rainey for explanation.

  “I’ve never seen her wear that,” she insisted. “It’s not like Nancy! It’s just not her!”

  A woman could miss a great deal staring at a television tube so much. But Nancy Armitage didn’t have a set—only a hi-fi.

  “What about the record player?” Simon asked. “Is that Nancy?”

  He didn’t expect an answer. He resumed the search of the closet and found a pair of expensive dancing slippers tucked in among the sensible oxfords and walking brogues. They were new and showed little wear. In the bathroom he found the perfume to match the scent on the dinner dress, and a collection of good costume jewelry. Dangling one glittering earring before Mrs. Rainey’s eyes, he asked:

  “Have you seen Nancy Armitage wear these?”

  “Never,” she answered.

  Simon dropped the earring back into the jewelry tray.

  “Or the black dress, or the slippers, or the French perfume? No? But you did see Miss Armitage leave the house Sunday afternoon. What was she wearing then?”

  “Her raincoat,” Mrs. Rainey said.

  “Are you sure? The sun was shining. You told me yourself that you were sitting in the sun in the garden. Wasn’t it warm for a coat?”

  “Yes, but the forecast was for rain and it did rain later on.”

  “Even so, Miss Armitage could have carried her coat. Did she carry anything?”

  “Her purse—and the small bag she always carries when she goes out on special cases.”

  “Where does she keep that bag?”

  Mrs. Rainey was a woman of principle who still disapproved of the entire search.

  “You said that you wanted to help Nancy,” she protested. “I don’t see how going through her things can help. She pays her rent. She’s entitled to privacy.”

  But Simon could search faster” than Mrs. Rainey could protest He found the bag on the closet floor just under the shoe rack. It was about fourteen by eighteen inches and deep enough to contain a full wardrobe. He snapped open the lid. The bag was empty. There was no scent of medication, but there was the strong aroma of perfume. In a satin side pocket he found traces of face powder, two bobby pins and an eyebrow pencil.

  He didn’t ask Mrs. Rainey for an explanation. He replaced the bag and closed the closet door.

  “You’re absolutely right,” he said. “Miss Armitage is entitled to privacy. I suggest that we both forget I ever came into her room.”

  There was a local hospital record on Milton Merton, the Aaronsons’ invalided uncle. He was almost seventy-five, partially senile, crippled and only recently placed on sedation to ease the terminal stages of his disease. It didn’t seem likely that Nancy Armitage had worn her finery for his benefit, but at this point Simon wasn’t certain of anything. He left the Rainey home and proceeded to the patio coffee shop in City Hall. Here the architects had blended modern with Romanesque and, at a table in the outdoor area surrounded by fountains and mosaic walls, he found Dr. Braun waiting with a carafe of coffee and two cups.

  “So we have complications,” Braun said. “A reluctant witness to murder. Chalk up a victory to our Puritan heritage. Justice must be served.”

  “How did Mrs. Warren react?” Simon asked.

  Dr. Braun was a slightly built man with neat, black hair and the quiet manner of a well-trained shoe clerk. He filled both cups from the carafe, added a pellet of saccharine to his own, and said:

  “Negative, Mr. Drake.”

  “She didn’t remember any more about the night of the murder?”

  “No. I’m sure she didn’t. I watched her very carefully. But she didn’t deny the confession. She didn’t fight back. She didn’t even say: ‘That hussy is a publicity hungry liar!’”

  “And do you think she’s a publicity hungry liar?”

  “Unfair question, Mr. Drake. Nancy Armitage isn’t my patient and I don’t hazard guesses on anything so important as murder. But I do like a little show of self-defense. Passive resistance is one thing, but passive without resistance is stark chaos.”

  “Or guilt,” Simon suggested.

  Braun studied the cup of coffee before him as if it contained the mystic answer to all things.

  “At this point, despair is a better word,” he said. “Mrs. Warren is out of her depth. Her father idol failed and she’s such a dependent creature—and an emotional one—that when Roger Warren came along looking like a knight in white armor she eagerly traded the sawdust trail for orange blossoms. Changing classes isn’t easy in our—if you’ll pardon my sarcasm—’democratic’ society. Mrs. Warren would have been better off marrying the bakery boy.”

  “Dependent,” Roger reflected. “Was that why she married Roger Warren—for protection?”

  “I would imagine that nature had something to do with it,” Braun answered dryly.

  “But for protection—not status or money.”

  Simon became uncomfortably aware that Dr. Braun was staring at him in an almost professional manner. “Doctor,” he said quickly, “you must understand that cases aren’t won in the courtroom. If I’m to be of any use to Mrs. Warren, I have to win the case with her before taking it before a jury. She is my case.”

  Across the patio, a crowd had gathered at one of the exits to the parking area. Someone shouted, and Simon happily abandoned his self-explanation in favor of any diversion. There were more angry voices followed by a sharp shattering of glass. Simo
n stood up. Towering above the crowd was the military figure of Commander Warren—outraged. Dressed in a dark mourning suit but with his head bared to the sunlight, he faced a battery of newsmen with all the contempt of a super-dreadnought on collision course with the enemy.

  “No comment,” he roared, “and no pictures! McKay, get me out of here!”

  McKay was a huge, broad-shouldered man in faded blue jeans and a yachting cap who appeared to be the commander’s bodyguard. Everything happened too quickly for Simon to follow the play, but McKay haunched his shoulders, ducked his head and executed a battering ram technique that opened a path through to the coffee shop patio. Beyond that low wall lay the sanctuary of private enterprise which no representative of advertising-sponsored journalism dared violate. Once within the safety zone, Commander Warren pushed past McKay and strode toward the entrance to the indoor restaurant, but his eyes were too sharp and his temper too short to complete the escape route without stopping to gloat. He spotted Simon as he was easing back into his chair.

  “So,” the commander roared, “you’re the modern day Darrow who’s going to save my son’s murderer from the gas chamber! What do you say now, Mr. Drake?”

  “I say that we have to make the scene with a few legal formalities,” Simon answered.

  “Legal formalities! Haven’t you heard about Nancy Armitage’s testimony? My son’s wife is guilty, Mr. Drake. The nurse’s story proves that!”

  “If I were as sold on her story as you want me to think you are,” Simon said, “and if I were Roger Warren’s father, I’d be turning handsprings on the patio instead of smashing news photographers’ cameras. You don’t need a bodyguard, Commander. You need a press representative.”

  Commander Warren glared at Simon. For a few seconds he seemed to verge on asking McKay to play the heavy again, but somewhere in his nautical mind rang the warning bell of deep waters. The high intensity glare of the fanatic didn’t falter, but Commander Warren, pivoting in military style, executed one of the most graphic social snubs Simon had ever suffered. As the commander and McKay departed, Dr. Braun wryly remarked: