Obit Delayed Read online

  By the time Mitch and Norma reached the street Ernie had collected quite a following. In addition to McMahon, Kendall Hoyt’s one-man prowl car had joined the party, and the three of them were having some very serious conversation that stopped abruptly when Mitch helped Norma into the coupé. It was a shame to spoil the boys’ fun, Mitch decided.

  “You needn’t wait up for us,” he called cheerfully. “I’m taking Mrs. Wales down to Mexicali for the evening.”

  “Souvenir-hunting?” Hoyt suggested.

  “Not exactly. Confidentially, she’s got her husband hidden out in a marijuana patch and we’re bringing him some clean socks.”

  A new topic of conversation was just what the party needed, and Mitch was grinning wickedly as he drove away.

  A border town collects crowds like a two-dollar window at the race track. It would have been worse on a Saturday night, but every night is Saturday to tourists and that was Mexicali’s specialty. It was a place where pink-faced men from the Middle West could get their first (and probably last) taste of tequila while their wives filled the back seat of the sedan with a lot of trinkets they’d never know what to do with when they got home. It was a place where the highway became a narrow, crowded street and the most essential part of an automobile was the horn.

  But Mitch wasn’t taking Norma sight-seeing. They weren’t going to take snapshots, buy souvenirs, or look for quaint eating-places, because the only place in Mexicali big enough and loud enough for Dave was a night club that belonged to Vince Costro even if his name wasn’t on the lease. “The place seems kind of empty tonight,” Mitch murmured, as they elbowed through the doorway. The floor show was just getting under way with a band that sounded like a boiler factory plus maracas, and the crowd at the entrance had just wandered in to see what all the noise was about. Once inside it was no trick to find a table, especially one off in the corner where they could watch everybody without being noticed.

  The table was small with a tiny lamp that pricked feebly at the darkness ringing the stage. “I should have brought my boy scout flash,” Mitch muttered. “They might at least provide flares to send up for a waiter.”

  “Let’s just sit and watch,” Norma suggested. “Do you really think Dave Singer might be here?”

  “It’s possible,” Mitch conceded, and she grew thoughtful. “From what you’ve told me about Singer and Costro and that woman, they sound like criminals,” she said. “I don’t understand how Virginia could have been mixed up with people like that.”

  “I thought you didn’t know her.”

  “I didn’t, but Frank did. She wasn’t like that. He said she liked running around and having fun with young kids—that’s one of the reasons they couldn’t get along. Frank just isn’t the bobby-sox type. It was silly, maybe, but hardly sinister.”

  “People change,” Mitch reminded. “In three years’ time they can change a lot. Which reminds me, I was going to ask you about that illness of Virginia’s. Maybe you can tell me—”

  When the band was playing Mitch had to yell to make himself heard, but when it suddenly stopped he felt a little foolish. Forms stirred in the darkness, and shadows with faces turned around to stare. “At least now somebody knows we’re here.” Mitch grinned. “Maybe we’ll attract a waiter.”

  “We’ve attracted something,” Norma observed, “but I’m not sure what.”

  Mitch looked up to see a wide grin at his elbow. Then the grin acquired a face and a form attired in a long tailed blouse and a jaunty beret. “Portrait of the lady, señor? In a few moments I can capture her beauty forever.”

  Such a pitch deserved consideration. And even if it hadn’t, there wasn’t much to be done when the young man pulled up an extra chair, set up his sketch pad on the table, and began measuring Norma’s face with an outthrust crayon.

  “How can you capture anybody’s beauty in the dark?” Mitch demanded, and the wide grin returned.

  “A beautiful lady, señor, gives off a radiance of her own. However, if you’re not using this—” A flick of the lamp shade brought Norma’s face out of the shadows. The light was kind. It brought out her eyes and softened her mouth until those tight little worry lines didn’t show at all. She started to protest, but the young man’s fingers were already flying over the sketch pad and it was just the kind of diversion needed to shake the ghost of a bad day. When a whispering tenor with a background of guitars took over on the bandstand even Mitch began to feel mellow.

  But this woman was Frank Wales’s wife. That didn’t make any more sense than the pair of mismates in that 1936 wedding picture, because Frank hadn’t found a gold mine and operating a motor court was no life of leisure. Mitch could picture Norma in plaid shirt and Levi’s, with her days full of laundry lists and a night life consisting solely of late tourists who couldn’t read the “No Vacancy” sign, and the thought made him melancholy. But it was security, a thing women prize highly. It was security—but not since Virginia lost her trophy in the finals.

  “How about a portrait of the gentleman for the lady?”

  The sketch artist worked too fast. Mitch was just getting interested in his reverie when the boy fired the question. He was already scratching a hen-track signature in the lower corner of the finished sheet.

  “The lady doesn’t want a portrait of the gentleman,” Mitch growled.

  “You haven’t asked her, señor.”

  “I know without asking. And you can drop that ‘señor’ business, Joe. Ruiz, isn’t it? Valley City High, class of ‘51.”

  The grin came back wider than ever. “Not so loud,” the boy cautioned, “you’ll ruin my business. I couldn’t get four bits for a sketch in Valley City.” Then he sobered and squinted at Mitch from across the shadowed table. “Now I know you,” he said. “You run that newspaper in Valley City that didn’t need a cartoonist last year.”

  “That’s right. What do I owe you?”

  “You don’t need a cartoonist again this year, I suppose?”

  “Right again.”

  “In that case—two dollars.”

  Mitch was reaching for his billfold when he caught hold of an idea. Ruiz hadn’t just wandered into the club. He must work the place regularly like the camera girls up north, and know the more colorful patrons by sight. “How would you like to try for five?” he suggested. “Do you know Dave Singer?”

  “I’ve seen him a few times,” Ruiz admitted.

  “Recently?”

  Ruiz was gathering up his equipment, but the bill in Mitch’s hand seemed to fascinate him. “What is all this about Singer?” he puzzled. “I haven’t seen him for weeks, but there’s a tanked-up blonde at the bar asking the same questions. You two should get together.”

  The suggestion alone was worth the five dollars.

  It had to be Rita. Rita had a weakness for both Dave Singer and liquor, and couldn’t seem to hold either one. She was putting up a losing battle with some horrible concoction in a frosted beaker when Mitch appropriated the next stool and invaded her solitude. “Mind if I buy the next round?” he suggested.

  The words were all right, but she seemed to resent the company. “Get lost!” she said.

  “Like Dave?” Mitch queried.

  “What makes you think Dave’s lost?”

  “He must be. You’re looking for him and I’m looking for him. Either he’s lost or we are.”

  Mitch wasn’t really prepared for the response to this observation. Rita’s mood changed abruptly. She tossed back her head, emitting a rather frightening sound that must have been laughter, and then grabbed his arm with an exuberance that almost jerked him off the bar stool. “You know,” she babbled into his collar, “you’re a very funny man. You’re cute, too.”

  “Thank you,” Mitch said. “It’s been a long time since anyone called me cute.”

  “That’s because you’re so unfriendly. Why don’t you be nice to Rita? Rita gets lonely!”

  “With Davey away, you mean.”

  “Davey!”

&n
bsp; Mitch had said the wrong thing—or the right one, depending on the point of view, because Rita immediately turned loose the grip on his arm and went back to work on the glass again. When she looked up another mood had taken over. She wore a vague smile and a look of cunning in her bloodshot eyes.

  “Still trying to pump me about Dave, aren’t you?” she said. “Still trying to find out what he was doing at Pinky’s.”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “I know what he was doing there—and I’m not telling you! Rita’s not opening her mouth!”

  “Then I guess I’m wasting my time,” Mitch conceded. “But at least I know he wasn’t there to see Virginia. You did tell me that much this afternoon.”

  “I did?” Rita frowned thoughtfully, but she was in no condition to remember details. “Well, maybe he wasn’t and maybe he was,” she murmured. “Davey always did like playing with dolls.”

  It must have been a very happy mixture in that glass, because the second blast of laughter was even louder than the first. “Playing with dolls,” she howled. “Get me!” and since the barstools weren’t equipped with rockers the admonition seemed a good idea. Rita teetered wildly but a large masculine shoulder blocked her backward descent—a shoulder that wasn’t Mitch’s and hadn’t been standing behind her a moment ago. The discovery had a sobering effect. She whirled about, and then her hilarity suffered sudden death.

  Herbie Boyle’s presence did that to some people. It must have been the dead-fish expression in his eyes.

  “You had too much to drink,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Not much of a statement, surely. Nothing to make anyone turn sickly pale.

  “I didn’t say anything,” Rita whimpered. “I didn’t open my mouth.”

  “It’s open now!”

  Herbie’s hand moved too fast to be followed, but the red patch that suddenly appeared on Rita’s cheek was no birthmark. After that she didn’t make a sound. She just climbed down off the barstool and followed him out like a puppy on a leash, leaving Mitch something new to think about during that fruitless watch for Dave Singer.

  8

  THE HANDS OF THE BIG CLOCK over the desk were pointing straight up when Mitch and Norma returned to the El Rey Hotel. Everything seemed normal. Ernie’s sedan was no longer parked at the curbing, and all that remained of the law-enforcement convention was McMahon, armed with a comic book, who was holding down the softest chair in the lobby. He glanced at his watch as they appeared, shaking his head reproachfully.

  “I told you not to wait up,” Mitch scolded.

  “Oh, I don’t mind,” McMahon sighed, “I get paid for it. But there’s been a lady trying to get you on the phone for half an hour or so. I don’t think she’s so happy.”

  For a moment Mitch had the wild hope that it might be Rita wanting to warm up that cold shoulder. She might have resented having her face slapped and her drinks rationed, and remembered that Mitch Gorman was interested in her memoirs; but a visit to the desk dashed that hope. A call for Mr. Gorman? Oh, yes, several calls. The lady was most insistent— But at that moment the phone rang again, and Mitch learned for himself how insistent the lady was.

  “So you finally came back!” The Duchess stormed in his ear. “What a time to go cementing Latin-American relations—and with another man’s wife!”

  “How did you know where I was?” Mitch demanded.

  “I’ll tell you all about it when you get over here.”

  “But it’s late—”

  That brief pause on the other end of the wire could only be The Duchess counting ten. “Mitchell,” she said in a strained voice, “to coin a phrase, it’s later than you think!”

  When she put it that way he just couldn’t resist.

  The Duchess lived in a big house across town where the residents spent most of the time figuring ways to outsmart the internal revenue department; but it was only ten minutes from Main Street. Ten minutes and Mitch was sitting in her kitchen with a cup of freshly brewed coffee in one hand and his chin in the other.

  “Well, what is it?” he demanded. “What’s so important the crime reporter can’t wait until morning?”

  The Duchess was taking coffee like a wino hitting a new bottle. She had to refill her cup before answering.

  “Do you want the whole evening?” she asked.

  “Do I have a choice?”

  It was a foolish question.

  Carmen Atturbury (that’s what it said on her by-line) was a woman of action. She had wasted no time getting started on her end of the investigation, but the first try came a cropper. Pinky’s Quick Lunch—after all, who spent more time with Virginia than Pinky?—was locked up tight with a “Closed Tuesday” sign on the door. That left no alternative but to take Mitch’s advice and proceed to Mrs. Molina’s down at the edge of Mexican town. Next door to Virginia’s—that much she remembered, and everybody knew where to find the house Virginia Wales had died in. It crouched dark and ominous with its doors padlocked and its windows black.

  But Mrs. Molina’s door wasn’t padlocked, and all her windows were bright. Mamma Molina (“Call me Mamma,” she insisted. “Everybody does.”) liked plenty of light now that she was left all alone. Being a widow after forty years married was bad enough, but now with Virginia gone—

  “The old soul’s lonely,” The Duchess explained, “and all worked up over Virginia’s death. She talked an arm off me—even wanted me to help her get in touch with Virginia on the Ouija board!”

  “That’s the best lead I’ve had yet,” Mitch muttered. “Why didn’t you?”

  “We couldn’t. The boy came to steal the dog off the service porch, and I took my chance to get away before they stopped fighting.”

  The Duchess paused long enough to light a cigarette and inhale deeply. “You’re not making any sense, you know,” Mitch remarked.

  “Of course not!” she said. “I’m just telling you what happened.

  “Mrs. Molina had just gone to the kitchen for the Ouija when this kid slipped in through the back window and tried to make off with a puppy she had out on the porch. She caught him and they got into a terrific argument. From what I gathered, the dog had been Virginia’s and the boy was trying to claim it—”

  “What about Virginia’s illness?” Mitch reminded.

  “Oh, that! A pain in the belly, the old lady said. An operation. I checked at the hospital after making my escape, and regret to inform you that Virginia had her appendix out last fall.”

  The wise-old-owl expression on The Duchess’s face was entirely unnecessary. Mitch didn’t have to be reminded that his one and only theory had vanished. Virginia could have picked up the habit after her operation, but without proof it wasn’t going to do Frank Wales any good. And without a link to Virginia’s death, Dave Singer and Rita and Herbie Boyle could go about giving extemporaneous exhibitions all over the county.

  “Did Mrs. Molina say anything else?” he prodded.

  “Constantly.”

  “About Virginia, I mean.”

  “Only that she was such a lovely girl. So pretty, so popular, so many friends.”

  “What about enemies?”

  “I asked about that and the old lady gave me an eerie smile. Only the noises, she said. I tried to find out what she meant, and that’s when she went after the Ouija board. I ducked out while the main event was on.”

  It was more coffee The Duchess needed now. More coffee and time to frame her next episode. Her face was tired and haggard above a bright-orange blouse, and her hand shook a little with the cup. But Mitch couldn’t escape the feeling that she was enjoying herself immensely—and at his expense.

  “You didn’t drag me over here to tell me Virginia had her appendix out,” he said. “What is it? What have you come up with?”

  “Don’t get fidgety!” The Duchess snapped. “It’s my story and I’ll tell it my way!”

  It sounded easy to say she’d checked at the hospital and learned the truth about Virginia’s illness, but the general hos
pital at something like ten p.m. was no open fount of information. A less insistent character than The Duchess would have let the whole thing ride until morning; but this was murder with a man hunt thrown in for good measure, and she’d never had so much fun in her life. So she badgered nurses, cooled her heels and warmed her temper in waiting-rooms, buttonholed a doctor who had more important things to do, and finally came up with the case history of Virginia Wales. One try and one miss. Mitch Gorman would want to know about this.

  Mitch’s apartment was at the opposite end of town, and The Duchess wasn’t feeling too happy as she drove down Main Street for the second time. A peculiar old woman with a Ouija board and a terse hospital record weren’t much to show for a night’s effort, especially when you were looking for sinister clues and excitement. And look at this street! Dark and sleeping as if murder were just a word in the dictionary. Not a car on the street. Not a light showing except for the street lamps and that one dim bulb in Pinky’s kitchen.

  Suddenly The Duchess slammed on the brakes. A light in Pinky’s kitchen? There’d been no light there a few hours ago because Pinky was closed Tuesday and his door was locked. And even if he had been open, this was long past closing-time. She made a U turn and drove back to investigate.

  There was a service entrance running along the side of the restaurant that led to a narrow alley in the rear. The Duchess parked in front and walked back, moving quietly to pick up the furtive noises in the kitchen. It might be Pinky coming in to clean up for tomorrow, but why so late? If she could just pull herself up to that high kitchen window—

  “What did you kick over?” Mitch interrupted.

  “The garbage can. The light in the kitchen went out and somebody tore out of the back door like the devil was on his tail. We didn’t have time for introductions, but it was a man.”

  “Not Pinky?”

  “Naturally! Would he be prowling around in his own kitchen? This character drove off in a car he had parked in the alley. A wicked looking convertible that looked like a wasp and took off like a buzz bomb.”