The web she weaves, p.33
The Web She Weaves, page 33
Also, he—Mitchel Brown, playwright, artist, apostle of compassion—he was no bourgeois to conform, cravenly fearing for his reputation if he were to do what is “not done.” Was he, being what he was, to put this human being into a jam with the Law, or even with her own husband? When this human being, for some human reason, had simply imbibed a little too much alcohol? He couldn’t do it.
Okay. He had been dragooned by his mood and by the perfidious desertion of Toby the bartender into acting the Samaritan. Why not be the good Samaritan, then? Give her a break.
This pleased him. It felt lucky to him. Give her a break. God knows we all need them, he thought piously.
So Mitch scribbled a note. Dear Mrs. Maxwell: Use my phone if you like. Or be my guest, as long as you need to be.
He signed it, went into his bedroom, got a light blanket, and spread it over her. She was snoring faintly. He studied her face a moment more. He put the note on the rug under her shoes where she would be sure to see it. Then he went into his bedroom, closed the door, and went to bed.
Mitchel Brown woke up on St. Patrick’s Day, early in the morning, absolutely ravenous. He had forgotten to eat anything. Now he remembered. New York! Catch plane! Pack!
He started for his kitchen and at the bedroom door remembered the lady. So he turned and put a robe on before emerging.
He needn’t have bothered. She was gone. Her shoes were gone. Her bag was gone. His note was gone. In fact, there was no trace of her at all.
He did not wonder whether he had been dreaming. So she had come to and fled. Hm, without even a “Thank you”? Oh, well, panic, he supposed. Ah, human frailty! Mitch shrugged. But he had things to do and not enough time to do them in.
He went into a spell of demon housekeeping, threw everything perishable out of his refrigerator, everything dirty into the laundry bag, everything wearable into his suitcase. He caught the plane by a whisker.
Once on it he began to suffer. He reread his manuscript in his mind’s eye and squirmed with doubt. He tried to nap and could not, and then, suddenly, he could … and then he was in New York and God was willing and his producer was still hot and eager …
Six weeks later Mitchel Brown, playwright, got off- the plane in Los Angeles. He had a play on Broadway. The verdict was comme ci, comme ça. Time, box office, word of mouth … personally he could bear no more. He wasn’t licked, but he knew he would be unless he got home and got to work on something else and that, soon.
He had been out of this world all this time, for when one has a play in rehearsal, earthquake, major catastrophe, declaration of war mean nothing. Nothing whatever.
He got to his apartment about five A.M. and kicked aside the pile of newspapers he had forgotten to stop. The place smelled stale and wasn’t really clean, but no matter. He opened all the windows, mixed himself a highball, and sat down with the last paper on the heap to catch up with the way the Western world had wagged since he had left it. International affairs he had glanced over, the last week in the East. Local affairs, of course, were completely unknown to him.
The latest murder, hm … Los Angeles papers are always hopeful that a murder is going to turn out to be a big one, so any and every murder gets off with a bang. This one didn’t look promising. A mere brawl, he judged. Would die down in a couple of days.
He skimmed the second page where all the older murders were followed up. He had missed two or three. Some woman knifed by an ex-husband. Some man shot in his own hall. Run-of-the-mill. Mitch yawned. He would get out his car, go somewhere for a decent meal, he decided. Tomorrow, back to the salt mines.
At 6:30 P.M. he walked into his favorite restaurant, ordered a drink, settled to contemplate the menu.
She came in quietly about ten minutes later and sat down by herself at a table directly across from Mitch. The first thing he noted, with the tail of his eye, was her shoes.
He had seen them before. Yes, and held them—held them in his hands.
His eyes traveled higher and there was Mrs. Julius Maxwell. (Natalie was her given name, he remembered.) It was not only Mrs. Julius Maxwell in the flesh, but Mrs. Julius Maxwell in the very same clothing she had worn before! The same green suit, the same pale blouse, and no hat. She was a lady, well groomed, prosperous, pretty and poised—and now perfectly sober.
Mitch kept his head cocked and his eyes on her, waiting for her to feel his stare and respond to it. Her eyes came to his in a moment, but they were cool and empty of recognition.
Well, of course, he thought. How would she know me? She never saw me. He glanced away, feeling amused, then glanced back. Natalie Maxwell was ordering. She sat back, relaxed, and her gaze slipped past him again, returned briefly to note his interest, then went away, indicating none on her part.
Mitch could not help feeling that this was not fair. He got up and crossed to her. “How do you do, Mrs. Maxwell?” he said pleasantly. “I am glad you are feeling better.”
“I beg your pardon?” she said. He remembered that he had heard her say this, and only this, once before.
“I’m Mitchel Brown.” He waited, smiling down at her.
“I don’t believe …” she murmured in genteel puzzlement. She had a nice straight nose and, although she was looking up at him, she seemed to be looking down that nose.
“I’m sure you remember the name,” Mitch said. “It was the sixteenth of March. No, it was Saint Patrick’s Day in the morning, actually.”
“I don’t quite …”
Was she stupid or what? Mitch said, with a bit of a sting in the tone, “Did you have much of a hangover?”
“I’m very sorry,” she said with a little exasperated laugh, “but I really don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Oh, come now, Natalie,” said Mitch, beginning to feel miffed, “it was my apartment.”
“What?” she said.
“My apartment that you passed out in—here in Los Angeles.”
“I am afraid you are making a mistake,” she said distantly.
Mitch did not think so.
“Aren’t you Mrs. Julius Maxwell?”
“Yes, I am.”
“From Santa Barbara?”
“Why, yes, I am.” She was frowning a little.
“Then the apartment you woke up in, on Saint Patrick’s Day in the morning, was my apartment,” said Mitch huffily, “and why the amnesia?”
“What is this?” said a male voice.
Mitch swiveled his head and knew at once that here was Mr. Julius Maxwell. He saw a medium-sized, taut-muscled, middle-aged man with a thatch of salt-and-pepper hair and fierce black eyes under heavy black brows. Everything about this man blazoned aggression and possession. He reeked of push and power, of I and Mine.
Mitchel Brown, playwright, artist, and apostle of compassion, drew his own forces together, as if he folded in some wings.
“Julius,” said the blond woman, “this man knows my name. He keeps talking about Saint Patrick’s Day in the morning.”
“Oh, he does?” said her husband.
“He says I was in his apartment, here in Los Angeles.”
To Mitch Brown came a notion that would explain all this. Obviously, Natalie’s husband had never found out where Natalie had been that night. So Natalie had to pretend she didn’t know Mitch, because she knew, as he did not, that Julius Maxwell was nearby and would appear. But something in the woman’s manner did not quite fit this theory. She didn’t seem to be concerned enough. She looked straight ahead and her bewilderment was perfunctory.
Still, he thought he should be gallant. “I must have made a mistake,” he said. “But the resemblance is remarkable. Perhaps you have a double, ma’am?”
He thought this was handsome of him and that it gave her a way out.
“A double?” said Julius Maxwell nastily. “Who uses my wife’s name?”
Well, of course, if the man was going to be intelligent about it, that tore it. “Sorry,” said Mitch lightly.
“Sit down and tell me about it,” said Maxwell commandingly. “Mr… . er … ?”
“Brown,” said Mitch shortly. He was of a mind to turn on his heel and go away. But he glanced at Natalie. She had opened her handbag and found her compact. This stuck him as either offensively nonchalant or pathetically trusting. Or what? Curiosity rose in Mitch—and he sat down.
“Why, I happened into a bar where a lady had had too much to drink,” he said, as if this were nothing unusual. “I volunteered to put her in a taxi but there was no taxi. I wound up leaving her passed out on my sofa. In the morning she was gone. That’s all there is to the story.”
“This was on Saint Patrick’s Day?” said Maxwell intently.
“In the small hours. In the morning.”
“Then the lady was not my wife. My wife was with me in Santa Barbara at our home that night.”
“With you?” said Mitch carefully, feeling a bit of shock.
“Certainly.” Maxwell’s tone was belligerent.
Mitch was beginning to wonder. The woman had powdered her nose and sat looking as if she couldn’t care less. “Not simply in the same building,” Mitch inquired, “as you may have assumed?”
“Not simply in the same building,” said Julius Maxwell, “and no assumption. She was with me, speaking to me, touching me, if you like.” His black eyes were hostile.
Oh, ho, thought Mitch, then you are a liar, too. Now what is all this? He did not care for this Maxwell at all.
“Perhaps I have mistaken her for another lady,” he said smoothly. “But isn’t it strange that she is wearing exactly the same clothes now that she was wearing on Saint Patrick’s Day?”
(Try that one on for size, Mitch thought smugly.)
Julius said ominously, “Do you know who I am?”
“I have heard your name,” said Mitch.
“You know that I am an influential man?”
“Oh, yes,” said Mitch pleasantly. “In fact, I can smell the money from here.”
“How much do you want to forget that you saw my wife in Los Angeles that night?”
Mitch’s brows went up.
“On Saint Patrick’s Day in the morning,” added Julius sneeringly.
Mitch felt his feathers ruffling, his temper flaring. “Why? What is it worth?” he said.
They locked gazes. It was ridiculous. Mitch felt as if he had strayed into a Class B movie. Then Maxwell rose from the table. “Excuse me.” He lashed Mitch with a sharp look which seemed to be saying, “Stay,” as if Mitch were a dog. Then he strode off.
Mitch, alone with the blond woman, said to her quickly, “What do you want me to do or say?”
He was looking at her hand, long-fingered, pink-nailed, limp on the table. It did not clench. It did not even move. “I don’t understand,” she said in a mechanical way.
“Okay,” said Mitch disgustedly. “I came here for dinner and I see no profit in this discussion, so please excuse me.”
He got up, crossed over to his own table, and ordered his meal.
Julius Maxwell returned in a few moments and stood looking at Mitch with a triumphant light in his eyes. Mitch waved the wand of reason over the very human activity of his own glands. It was necessary for Mitch’s self-respect that he dine here, as he had planned to do, and that he remain unperturbed by these strange people.
His steak had come when a man walked into the room and up to Maxwell’s table. There was an exchange of words. Julius rose. Both men came over to Mitch.
Julius said, “This is the fellow, Lieutenant.”
Mitch found that the stranger was slipping into the seat beside him and Julius was slipping in beside him on his other hand. He rejected a feeling of being trapped. “What’s all this?” he inquired mildly, patting his lips with his napkin.
“Name’s Prince,” said the stranger. “Los Angeles Police Department. Mr. Maxwell tells me you are saying something about Mrs. Maxwell’s being here in town on the night of the sixteenth of March and the morning of the seventeenth?” Mitch sipped from his water glass, watchful and wary. Julius Maxwell said, “This man was trying to blackmail me with a crazy story.”
“I was what!” Mitch exploded.
The police lieutenant, or whoever he was, had a long lean face, slightly crooked at the bottom, and he had very tired eyelids. He said, “Your story figured to destroy her alibi?”
“Her alibi for what?” Mitch leaned back.
“Oh, come off that, Brown,” said Julius Maxwell, “or whatever your name is. You knew my wife from having seen her picture in the newspaper.”
Mitch’s brain was racing. “I haven’t seen the papers for six weeks,” he said aggressively.
Julius Maxwell’s black eyes were bright with that triumphant shine. “Now that,” he said flatly, “is impossible.” “Oh, is it?” said Mitch rather gently. His role of apostle of compassion was fast fading out. Mitch was now a human clashing with another human and he knew he had to look out for himself. He could feel his wings retracting into his spine. “Alibi for what?” he insisted, looking at the policeman intently.
The policeman sighed. “You want it from me? Okay. On the sixteenth of last March, late in the evening,” he droned, “a man named Joseph Carlisle was shot to death in his own front hall.” (Mitch, ears pricked up, remembered the paragraph he had seen just tonight.) “Lived in a canyon, Hollywood Hills,” the Lieutenant continued. “Winding road, lonely spot. Looked like somebody rang his bell, he answered, they talked in the hall. It was his own gun that he kept in a table there. Whoever shot him closed the front door, which locked it, and threw the gun in the shrubbery. Then beat it. Wasn’t seen—by anybody.”
“And what has this got to do with Mrs. Maxwell?” Mitch asked.
“Mrs. Maxwell used to be married to this Carlisle,” said the policeman. “We had to check her out. She has this alibi.”
“I see,” said Mitch.
“Mrs. Maxwell,” said Julius through his teeth, “was with me in our home in Santa Barbara that evening and all that night.”
Mitch saw. He saw that either Maxwell was trying to save his wife from the embarrassment of suspicion or… that compassion was a fine thing but it can get a well-meaning person into trouble. And a few drinks might hit a murderess very hard and very fast. Mitch knew, that whatever else Maxwell said, he was lying in his teeth about this alibi. Because the woman, still sitting across this restaurant, was the very same woman whom Mitch Brown had taken in, had given a break.
But nobody was giving Mitch Brown any break. And why all this nonsense about blackmail? Mitch, with his wings folded tight away, said to the Lieutenant, “Suppose I tell you my story.” And he did so, coldly, briefly.
Afterward, Maxwell laughed. “You believe that? You believe that he would take a drunken woman home with him—and close the door?”
In his breast Mitch Brown felt the smoulder of dislike burst into a flame of hatred.
“No, no,” said Maxwell. “What must have happened was this. He spotted my wife here. Oh, he’d read the papers —don’t you believe that he hadn’t. He knew she had been married to Joe Carlisle. So, spur of the moment, he tried out his little lie. Might be some profit in it—who knows? Listen to this: when I asked him how much he wanted to keep this story to himself, he asked me how much it was worth.”
Mitch chewed his lip. “You’ve got a bad ear for dialogue,” he said. “That is not exactly what I said. Nor is it the sense of what I said.”
“Oh, oh,” said Maxwell, smiling.
The Lieutenant was pursing noncommittal lips.
Mitch spoke to him. “Who else gives Mrs. Maxwell her alibi?”
“Servants,” said the Lieutenant gloomily.
“Servants?” said Mitch brightly.
“It’s only natural,” the Lieutenant said, even more gloomily.
“Right,” said Mitch Brown. “You mean it is probable that when a man and his wife are at home together only the servants will see them there. But it isn’t so probable that a stranger will take in a drunken woman, and leave her to heaven … simply because he feels like giving a human being a break. So this is a study in probability, is it?”
The Lieutenant’s mouth moved and Mitch said quickly, “But you want the facts, eh? Okay. The only thing for us to do is go and talk to the bartender.”
“That seems to be it,” said the Lieutenant promptly. “Right.”
Maxwell said, “Right. Wait for us.”
He rose and went to fetch his wife. Mitch stood beside the Lieutenant. “Fingerprints?” he murmured. The Lieutenant shrugged. Under those weary eyelids, Mitch judged, the eyes were human. “She has a car? Was the car out?” The Lieutenant shrugged again. “Who else would shoot this Carlisle? Any enemies?”
“Who hasn’t?” the Lieutenant said. “We better check with this bartender.”
The four of them went in the Lieutenant’s car. The Parakeet Bar and Grill was doing well this evening. It looked brighter and more prosperous. Toby the bartender was there. “Hi, Mr. Brown,” he said. “Long time no see.”
“I’ve been back East. Tell this man, Toby, what happened around one thirty on the morning of March seventeenth.”
“Huh?” said Toby. The flesh of his cheeks seemed to go flatter. His eye went duller. Suddenly Mitch knew what was going to happen.
“You see this man or this lady in here between one, two o’clock in the morning last March seventeenth?” said the Lieutenant and added, “I’m Lieutenant Prince, L.A.P.D.”
“No, sir,” said Toby. “I know Mr. Brown, of course. He comes in now and again, see? Lives around here. A writer, he is. But I don’t remember I ever seen this lady before.”
“What about Brown? Was he in here that night or that morning?”
“I don’t think so,” said Toby. “That’s the night, now that I think back—yeah, my kid was sick and I shut the place up earlier than usual. Ask my wife,” said Toby the bartender with the fixed righteous gaze of the liar.
Lieutenant Prince turned his long face, his sad eyelids, on Mitch Brown.
