conversation. It will take only a moment.”
“You mean you recorded what Jean Dahl said?”
“Naturally,” Walter said. “Naturally.
“Now,” Walter said, “I think we are ready. I was not able to turn the machine on until a moment or two after the conversation had started.”
It was a very clear recording. Jean:…going to kill me. Max Shriber is going to kill me! Walter: My dear girl, you are either drunk or hysterical, or both. Why is Max going to kill you? Jean: Because I know he killed Anstruther. Walter: You are drunk. Definitely… Jean: Listen, baby, I’m in trouble. I was with Anstruther when they killed him. Walter: When they killed him? What are you talking about? Jean: I was with Anstruther that night. When the doorbell rang I picked up my stuff and went into the kitchen. While I was getting dressed in there I heard them talking. She came in first. There was an argument. Then he came in too. I’d recognize his voice anywhere. Max’s voice. She came first. And then in a few minutes Max came in and killed him. Walter: Who is she? Jean: You know damn wel… Walter: I assure you I have no idea what you are talking about. Jean: Whitney. Janis Whitney. I’d know her voice too. Whitney came into Anstruther’s room. Andy was very drunk. They argued about the book. Then Max came in and Max killed him. Walter: Max came in and killed him? Jean: In the middle of the argument the doorbell rang again and then Max came in and killed him. He shot him. He shot him with the rifle. Andy had been playing with the damn rifle all night. I couldn’t get it away from him. He was a crazy son of a bitch. Walter: You are absolutely sure Max killed him? Jean: I heard him. He said to give them the book or he would kill him. It was terrible. Andy was very drunk. He’d been swearing at Whitney. She kept asking him for the book and he kept telling her to go – herself. Walter: How picturesque. Jean: She wanted him to give her the money and he said he’d spent it all. He was very drunk and laughing and swearing. Then she found the money. He’d been throwing it around and laughing and tearing some of it up. He was crazy. He’d spent only a few hundred dollars. Then the doorbell rang again, and Whitney let Max in and Max killed him. I ran out the back door. I shoved the rest of my clothes in my case and ran out the back way. Walter: You got away? They didn’t see you? Jean: No. I mean, yes. I know damn well they didn’t see me. Or he’d have killed me too. Walter: And you’re sure it was Max who killed him? Jean: Yes. Max threatened him with the gun. Then Whitney began to scream. She kept screaming, “Don’t do it, Max. Don’t do it! You can’t risk it.” But he did it. He killed him. And now he’s going to kill me. Walter: I don’t understand. What makes you think that at this late date Max knows you were there listening to them? What makes you think he knows? Jean: I must have been crazy. I needed money. I was crazy. I went to Max and told him I knew all about it. I told him if he didn’t pay me I’d go to the police. Walter: How long ago was this? Jean: Two months ago. He said he’d give me ten thousand dollars. He gave me a thousand and he said he’d give me the rest in ten days. He gave me another thousand. And he kept stalling. He only gave me two thousand altogether. I should have gone to the police. He’s here now, and he’s going to kill me.
The sobbing voice record ended and we sat listening to the sound of the spool.
Walter raised his eyebrows. “You can see why such a story shakes my faith in my two partners. And the mystery of what Anstruther managed to do with one hundred thousand dollars in so short a time is rather neatly solved. The police verdict was that Anstruther had killed himself accidentally while cleaning his gun under the influence of alcohol. I’m sure it was not difficult for them to create such an impression.”
I felt sick and dizzy. “You really think Max killed Anstruther, and that Janis was a witness?”
“Of course I do. What else am I to think?” Walter snapped.
“For God’s sake,” I said, “let’s call the police. Let’s call the police right now.”
“Now, now, Richard. You mustn’t allow yourself to become all unstrung.”
“Unstrung!” Suddenly I heard myself shouting, “How can you sit there so calmly after hearing a thing like that?”
“My dear boy,” Walter said, “you forget that this is my third hearing. Once when the hysterical Miss Dahl was here to play the scene in person. Once, later in the evening, when I played the record back to set the details of the conversation well in my mind. And now, this is the third time. I assure you, the emotional impact decreases on frequent hearing.”
“Walter,” I said, “how could you let this happen? How could you let the police go out of here last night thinking she’d fallen down a flight of stairs?”
“Now, now,” Walter said again. “We must move cautiously, Richard. First and foremost we must think of our investment. The bringing to light of all these sordid details could only have a deleterious effect on the value of our property. Really, when you come to think of it, emotion and hysteria to one side, what actual harm has been done?”
“What harm has been done?” I was still yelling. “Two people have been murdered. Somebody, I’ll be goddamned if I can figure out who, has been swindled out of one hundred thousand dollars, and you don’t want to do anything because it might interfere with the biggest literary hoax in history.”
“Richard, I must ask you to lower your voice and try to consider this whole problem with calmness and logic. You say two people have been killed. Well, this is certainly true. But can you imagine two less valuable people? Speaking from a broad social point of view, I mean. A blackmailing call girl, and a once great author who would clearly have killed himself one way or another in the near future. The police are perfectly satisfied. They believe both Anstruther and Miss Dahl were victims of unfortunate accidents. Why should we create any further unpleasantness? I have thought it all over and have decided to take the broad view. Supposing my partner did kill Anstruther. If he were alive he would certainly make strenuous objections to the publication of his new book on the fairly reasonable grounds that it was a fraud. But he is not alive. So we can go ahead with the project.
“As for the balance of the hundred thousand dollars-after all, the money did in a sense belong to my two partners. They were only claiming what was rightly theirs. We are all back where we started from. With a million dollar property ready to be launched. Except we are five partners now. You and Jimmie have joined us.”
I still couldn’t grasp the situation.
“You mean you think Max Shriber killed Anstruther. And that Janis was a witness?”
“There is evidence to that effect.”
“And you plan to go on doing business with them?”
“Certainly.”
I sat down on the chair.
It couldn’t be. I couldn’t believe it.
“Let’s talk to Janis. Let’s talk to Max. The least you could do is hear what they’ve got to say. Where was Janis going this afternoon? After she had lunch with me?”
“I have no idea where she is. She might be almost anywhere.”
“Walter, we’ve got to talk to those two.”
Walter sighed. “Now I do believe you’re going to get yourself all worked up again. If I had realized that you were such an excitable person, I’m not at all sure, in spite of our long friendship, that I wouldn’t have taken The Winding Road to the Hills to another publisher.”
At this point something snapped.
I didn’t think. I didn’t say anything. I walked close to the chair where Walter was sitting and with a short, ferocious jerk, I threw my drink into his face.
One of the ice cubes cut his lip.
I turned rapidly and walked out, slamming the door behind me.
Jimmie was racing up the corridor toward me. As he reached me I hit him hard, knocking him to the floor.
Evidently Walter had pushed one of his bells. The heavy, sinister-looking butler followed Jimmie up the hall. He was breathing heavily. I got into the elevator and pushed a button as the butler started to follow me in. I shoved him out of the elevator and the door closed. I rode to the ground floor.
I did not run across the hall. I walked. I walked to the front door, opened it, walked down the marble steps. Then, on the curb, I turned back to look at the house. The front door was still ajar.
I hailed a cab and stepped into it.
“The Carlyle Hotel,” I said.
It seemed like the time had finally come to pay a call on Max Shriber.
