Sinful Woman Read online

  The Sheriff asked a number of questions of the doctor, checked the routine work that had been done by his men and Mr. Britten’s, asked the Coroner if there were questions he wanted to ask. The Coroner wanted more information from the young interne, and was pretty exact about rigor mortis, the extent of internal bleeding, and such things. He said he thought he would be ready for the inquest tonight, if the autopsy showed nothing to extend the inquiry. The Sheriff nodded to the undertaker. “O. K., you can move him. Hold him for autopsy and the police will instruct you. You can open any time, Tony.”

  Departure of the body cleared out quite a lot of vehicles out front, to say nothing of many uniforms inside. It gave Tony a chance to set his office to rights, and the undertaker’s truck was hardly out the gate before he had charwomen at work in there, and was busy himself, setting things in order. When the room was restored to its former condition the Sheriff asked: “Is Miss Shoreham here?”

  “I had the maid take her to the ladies’ room.”

  “Will you ask her to step in?”

  “Right away, Sheriff.”

  Her astonishment, when she saw him, was complete. He went over, took her hand, and led her to a chair. “You have a time remembering I’m sheriff of this county, don’t you?”

  “All I saw was police.”

  “They help. But it’s my case.”

  “I’m sorry about the lunch.”

  “I too. I was there waiting.”

  “I kept thinking about it, believe it or not.”

  She had let her hand stay in his, and now leaned her head against his arm with the trust of a weary child. “I guess I just wanted to be with somebody that loves me.”

  “You think I love you?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Well, you’re right.”

  He sat on the arm of her chair, and put his arm around her, and she caught it in her hand and held it close, and cradled her head against his coat. They sat that way a long time. Then he said: “What happened?”

  “I don’t know what happened. I was over by the stream, and I haven’t got it straight what they tried to tell me. They were rehearsing some kind of scene.”

  “They said you didn’t like it.”

  “It wasn’t that. It was them.”

  “I kind of wondered about that part.”

  “It didn’t make any difference how they did it, I wasn’t going to do the picture or have any more to do with them. They could just have well—never started their rehearsing.”

  She began to cry, and he knelt beside her and wiped her eyes with his big bandanna, and blew her nose.

  Then he got up, went to the window, stood for a long time looking over toward the mountain stream. When he spoke it was with the utmost casualness:

  “Who killed this man?”

  She stopped crying suddenly, and he turned around and looked at her. Then she said: “I did.”

  “Why?”

  She started to talk, and rehearsed the events of the morning. At the end she said: “I’m not ashamed of what I did, though I’m not proud of it. I love my sister more than I love anybody. She’s not responsible, and what he was about to do, what he would have done, was a shocking, horrible thing. I feel I did right. It was the only way out that I could see.”

  “What did your sister say about it?”

  “I don’t know if she knows it yet. I suppose she must, but I haven’t heard from her. While we were talking, Vicki thought I might go out there, where she was parked just outside the door here, and get her to come with me, and take her away from him. Or, I guess that’s what was in his mind. Anyway, he went to the door and told her to drive in and he’d meet her at the hotel, and she went.”

  “Why did Spiro make it accident?”

  “Hays office.”

  “That’s right. I forgot.”

  “If I get smeared, Spiro can’t release Sugar Hill Sugar. It cost him a million, and if it stays in the can he’s ruined.”

  “Now, I get it.”

  Presently he asked, “And why did you make it accident? They couldn’t lie to me, if you didn’t back them up.”

  “My sister.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “My sister loved this man, and I love her. There is nothing I won’t do to prevent her from ever finding out what I did. Don’t try to use what I’ve told you against me. I want you to know the truth, but if you try to convict me, I shall say I never told you any such thing, and they’ll believe me. I’m not one of the leading actresses of the world for nothing.”

  “Will they believe her?”

  “She knows nothing to tell.”

  “Do you remember the ending of that picture, The Glory of Edith Cavell? Where Cavell marched to the wall for something that was done by somebody else?”

  “Vaguely. Why?”

  “I remember it very well. When she was before that court, telling her story, she looked a lot like you looked just now. You remember the court didn’t believe her?”

  “I never saw the court scene.”

  “You—what?”

  “Except for the shots I was in, the whole courtroom sequence was done in retakes and I never saw them.”

  “The court didn’t believe her, but shot her just the same to bust up her organization. She didn’t know it, but the man she was trying to save, the one that was more important than she was, was already dead. So the court shot her, knowing she hadn’t done what they were trying her for. The chief judge of the court hated it, and that was the most awful scene I ever saw in a movie, where you and him were facing each other there. He looked like he loved you as much as I do. It’s funny you don’t remember that.”

  “It begins to come back to me.”

  “I thought it would.”

  He considered, said: “I’m taking you back to your hotel, and for the time being I’m not putting you under arrest, and I’m not putting you under guard. I could, but I’m holding everything in this case till I talk to your sister.”

  “Now, I’ll tell you something. I love you, and I think you’re the only man I’ve ever loved. Don’t forget that, judge.”

  “I won’t. I’ll take you back to town.”

  They rode with him in Mr. Britten’s car. At the hotel, Mr. Britten suggested they enter through the kitchen and go up in the service elevator, as such a crowd of reporters, photographers, fans, and cops were visible inside, evidently waiting for her, that they might have trouble getting through. But when the Sheriff went up with her to her suite they found it empty. Sylvia, leaving him in the sitting room, went to her bedroom to phone the desk, and when she came back she looked frightened. “She’s not here.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She didn’t come back here.”

  “Did you send her back to California?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Then don’t worry, we’ll find her.”

  He went down in the service elevator again, climbed into the car. But when Mr. Britten learned of the dragnet that must now be put out to find the missing girl, he gave an exclamation. “I knew there was something funny about this. And that girl, I heard about her when I began talking to the gamblers, but they didn’t have a word to say about her.”

  “She’s daft.”

  “She’s—What?”

  “Not all there in the head. I doubt if they even saw her. From what Shoreham said to me, she just follows along, and waits in the car, and does what she’s told, and nobody pays any attention to her. Just the same, she’s driving around somewhere. I want her brought in, and Shoreham does.”

  “Did it strike you they were covering up?”

  “In what way?”

  “It all checks up, I guess, or will when we get our lab reports in. And it was just about the kind of cock-eyed thing that does happen. But, I had the feeling that every time I turned my back they were looking at each other.”

  “Did you figure on suicide?”

  “Yes, I did. There were powder burns, and that put
it within the ten-inch rule. And, I always said, if cops have made it a rule they won’t consider suicide from firearms unless there are powder burns, they ought always to consider suicide as a possibility when there are powder burns. And she got that divorce, and she’s a good-looking girl, and maybe he was stuck on her, and maybe he was tired of living. But why would they go to all that trouble to cover up?”

  “Account of her, maybe.”

  “They’re taking one awful chance.”

  “She’s worth big dough to them. And maybe she’s a little daft too. Maybe she’s the kind that would go and join the Lithuanian Red Cross or something, so he didn’t die in vain.”

  “You breaking it open?”

  “I don’t know. We got to find that girl.”

  Chapter Seven

  MR. GEORGE M. LAYTON, of the Southwest General Insurance Corporation of North America, sat in his mid-town office planning his afternoon, his manner suggesting the jut-jawed determination that a field marshal might show, counting his reserve of tanks. He proposed to call on six newly-arrived divorce seekers, named in the newspaper clippings that lay on his desk, and sell them, or try to sell them, Southwest General policies. This was something he did every day, but it wasn’t something to be approached perfunctorily, as just one more job of salesmanship. It involved, as he often told the luncheon club, of which he was a member, the most careful sort of planning, the most rigid attention to the probable peculiarities of the prospect, and even due regard for special conditions, such as weather. So he sat at his desk, a compact, red-haired, freckle-faced bundle of aggressiveness, dictating memoranda to Miss Jennifer, his secretary: the notes that would not only assist him in his sales talk, but form the basis of the “presentation” that Miss Jennifer would prepare, bind in imitation leather, and stamp with the prospect’s name, as the give-away for the second visit. He frowned slightly when the phone rang, but suspended dictation as she stepped into her anteroom to answer. “Home office calling, Mr. Layton.”

  “Home office?”

  “Well it’s Los Angeles. It must be—”

  “Put them on.”

  When the call went through he barked: “Contact! Southwest General of N. A.! Layton talking!”—this being his idea of a telephone gambit, as indicating on-the-job-ness, make-it-short-ism, and close-the-deal-ation. The voice at the other end, taking cue at once, barked back: “Contact! Greetings George M. Layton! R. P. Gans talking!”

  “Who did you say?”

  “Gans! Vice President for Claims!”

  “Oh, yes of course, Mr. Gans.”

  Mr. Layton’s voice, which had been so dark, firm, and confident a moment before, quavered a bit at such overwhelming eminence. Mr. Gans went on: “You got that Shoreham flash?”

  “You mean about the divorce?”

  “I mean about the murder!”

  “The—what?”

  “Baron Victor Adlerkreutz, that lug she’s been married to, has just been killed in what is described as a shooting accident in the Galloping Domino, a gambling resort about two miles from you, and you’re to get on that case at once. It so happens that we’re on that risk to the tune of one hundred thousand bucks, every cent of it payable to Sylvia Shoreham, and every cent of it due on a verdict of accident. Layton, when a man gets killed less than one year after taking out a thirty-thousand-dollar straight life policy, less than nine months after taking out a twenty-thousand-dollar endowment policy, and less than six months after taking out a fifty-thousand-dollar accident-and-health policy, it can’t be on the up-and-up! Layton, I don’t make any charges against the wife, but I say the beneficiary under these policies is automatically under suspicion! I don’t say she killed this man! I don’t say anything. But I’m telling you it’s worth one hundred thousand dollars to Southwest General that she doesn’t get away with any false claims! You’re to see that every bit of evidence we’re entitled to is put in the record, that the District Attorney is advised of the existence of these policies, that we get a special autopsy, and above all else that she be held and that the body be held until I arrive there. Have you got that?”

  “I have, sir.”

  “This means one hundred thousand dollars!”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “I’ll be there as soon as I get plane space.”

  “I’ll be expecting you, sir.”

  He hung up looking a little less aggressive than he had looked when he first shouted “Contact!” Miss Jennifer, who had kept her key up during the first part of the conversation, had scooted down to the street, and now came back with a newspaper. It had the accident all over its front page, with Sylvia’s picture prominently displayed, Vicki’s a little smaller, and Dmitri’s a tiny thing, but recognizable. Mr. Layton read, and Miss Jennifer read over his shoulder, making quick little inquiries to which he made rather uncomfortable replies. Soon she burst out: “Well of all the nerve!”

  “No, Gans is right. She—”

  “Sylvia Shoreham? Kill somebody? For a measly hundred thousand bucks? Why I bet she makes that on one picture. And besides what for? She had her divorce. She—”

  “We’re entitled to an investigation.”

  “You’re entitled to plenty of trouble if you go around accusing her of murder. Just because he sees an easy way to get out of paying her, that don’t say you’ve got to go and put your foot in it. You’ve got to live in this town, he hasn’t. And besides, who says you’re a claim agent? The last I heard of it you were a salesman, and—”

  “I’m head of this agency.”

  He said this with a certain amount of importance, but in fact it was the crux of the situation that now involved him. It was just a small, one-man agency, having no claim adjusters or special functionaries. As in this city it dealt mainly in life insurance, claims had usually been a simple matter, with Mr. Layton calling personally on the relict, bringing check and often coming away with an application for annuity. That he now, in connection with policies he had never even seen, as a result of a case that had broken with the unexpectedness of a cloudburst, should have to discharge duties that he had never once thought about, appealed somewhat to his vanity, but at the same time left a vacant feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  Within an hour, the vacant feeling had grown to a dreadful, vacuumlike ache. Treading wholly unfamiliar ground, carefully maintaining an outer show of on-the-job-ness, make-it-short-ism, and close-the-deal-ation, he called first at police headquarters and was shown into the office of Inspector Britten, who was immersed in a detective story and didn’t look up at his inquiry as to the status of the Shoreham case. “Why, we’re not handling it except for routine help, lab work and stuff like that. It’s a county case, so it’s in the hands of the sheriff.”

  “You don’t know what they’ve turned up?”

  “I don’t know a thing, buddy.”

  Walking over to the courthouse, he entered the sheriff’s office, only to find that the Sheriff was out, and that the chief deputy “wouldn’t be in a position to make a statement about the case, as it’s entirely in Sheriff Lucas’s hands.”

  At the State’s Attorney’s office, he fared, at first anyway, a little better. As he had information, he was admitted to see Mr. Pease, the county prosecutor. That gentleman listened to the news of the three big policies, nodded, made a note. “Thanks very much, Mr. Layton. If we want further information from you, we’ll let you know.”

  “What do I do about an autopsy?”

  “I suppose the police are doing an autopsy, and if you’ll show them your credentials they’ll let you see their report.”

  “I mean a special autopsy.”

  “Have to get a court order for that.”

  Mr. Layton, who had no idea how to get a court order, or even a very clear idea what a court order was, said quickly: “I see.” Then, drawing a deep breath, he said: “Oh, and one other thing, Mr. Pease. We’re greatly concerned that she be held, and that the body be held, until the arrival of our representative from Los Angeles,
Mr. Gans, and—”

  “That who be held?”

  “The beneficiary under these policies, Miss Shoreham.”

  “Are you crazy?”

  “Well, I was instructed to—”

  “You ever been on a case like this before?”

  “No sir, not exactly, but—”

  “Then you’d better understand that neither you, nor Mr. Gans, nor the Southwest General, or any other corporation, insurance or otherwise, is telling this state whom to hold or whom not to hold or when to release a body. It would be very convenient for your company, no doubt, to escape payment under its policies by hanging something on Miss Shoreham, as anything they hung on her would probably relieve them of liability. But we’re not holding her, or the body, or anybody simply to accommodate you, or help your company beat a hundred-thousand-dollar rap. My suggestion to you and your special representative, Mr. Gans, is that you go a little slow in this case. A hundred thousand dollars probably looks pretty important to you, and I suppose to Mr. Gans. But I doubt if it does to her. Her reputation, though, might be a different matter, and you may find yourself in very serious trouble if you go around making wild charges against her.”

  “I wasn’t making charges. I just—”

  “You want her held?”

  “Well yes sir, but only—”

  “To be held she’s got to be charged.”

  Shriveled, Mr. Layton went out to a drugstore and called his office, only to find that Mr. Gans had left on the three o’clock plane and directed that hotel reservation be made for him. Mr. Layton didn’t walk over to the hotel. He slunk there. At the desk he made a reservation for C. C. Gans, Los Angeles, for one night and possibly two, single room and bath, and O. K.’d the price: $6. But before he could do this he had to wait, while the clerk held colloquy with a girl. She was a rather pretty girl, with bright black eyes, round chubby face, and trim little figure. She was pleasantly dressed, in a little spring suit, and might have been a secretary, except that she had some slight touch of the gangster’s moll about her that secretaries don’t commonly have. The clerk was quite annoyed by her. “For the tenth time, Miss, Miss Shoreham is not seeing visitors. I can’t ring her phone. She’s taking no calls except from the Sheriff’s office in case they find her sister, or from the sister herself, in case she calls. Now do I make this clear? You don’t seem to get it through your head that a terrible thing happened to her today. Every picture critic, movie reporter, fan magazine, City editor, and just plain fool in five states is trying to get through to her; they’ve already begun arriving in town hoping to see her in person, and she simply can’t see every fan that shows up here and wants to be sent up.”