Nodding, I said, “Her name was Elizabeth Short.”
“I know,” Mrs. Manley said wearily. “I read the papers… Why don’t we sit in the kitchen? I have some coffee made. Just please be quiet-Robert, Jr., is sleeping, and believe me, you don’t want to wake him.”
She led the way through the sparsely but nicely appointed bungalow, venetian blinds throwing slashes of shadow across gleaming hardwood floors. A playpen scattered with stuffed toys sat amid a wine-colored angora mohair living room suite, and vaguely Spanish, mahogany-veneer furnishings-everything looked new, suggesting a young couple buying on the installment plan.
The kitchen was a compact, streamlined affair of white and two tones of blue; a scattering of the latest appliances lined the countertops, as did baby bottles. Another baby bottle warmed in a pan on the gas range, and a red telephone on the wall was like a splash of blood against the white tile. We sat at a white-trimmed blue plastic- and-chrome dinette set and sipped the coffee she provided.
“My name is Fowley,” the reporter said, his notepad out, “and this is Mr. Heller.”
“I’m Harriet Manley,” she said, sipping her coffee, her eyes wide and rather glazed-and, I noticed, slightly bloodshot. She had a lovely speaking voice, a warm alto, but-right now at least-her inflections were negligible, emotionless. “Bob is due home tonight. He and his boss, Mr. Palmer, are on their way back right now, from San Francisco… Did I say that already? I’m sorry.”
“Mrs. Manley,” Fowley asked, “what do you know about your husband and Elizabeth Short?”
“Bob phoned me from San Francisco this morning,” she said, in that same near-monotone. “He saw the story in the papers up there, and said he recognized the girl’s picture. Of course, I’d read about the, uh… read about it myself-it’s all over the front page.”
Fowley gave me a look that indicated he would take the notes, and I should ask the questions.
So I asked one: “What did Bob say about this girl?”
She was staring into her coffee. “He had given her a ride back from San Diego-just as a favor, he said. Nothing between them.”
“I see. And what did you say to this?”
“I’m… I’m ashamed to tell you.”
“Please.”
“… I asked him if he’d done it.”
“Done it?”
“If he’d killed that girl.”
“And what did he say?”
“He said, ‘Of course not, honey. Whatever made you think I did?’ ”
I searched for sarcasm in her tone but couldn’t find any. “And what did you say to that?”
She looked at me; it was like staring into the glass eyes of a doll. “Do I have to answer?”
“Of course not.”
Now her gaze returned to her coffee; her lips were trembling, just a little. “I said… because of your nervous trouble.”
“What nervous trouble was that?”
“Bob… Bob was discharged from the Army. What you call a ‘Section Eight.’ ”
I knew what that was, all right.
“Was he in combat?” Fowley asked, looking up from his notepad. “Did he have battlefield trauma-”
She was shaking her head. “No, not exactly. He was near combat, when he was overseas, on USO tours.”
Frowning, I asked, “USO tours?”
“Bob’s a musician-he was in the Army Air Corps band. Saxophone.”
“Really. Does he still work as a musician?”
“Sometimes. He’s in the union. He gets a call for a weekend job now and then: bars and nightclubs.”
So this guy was a traveling salesman and a weekend musician who played in bars. That a guy in those twin trades might pick up a little poontang here and there might come as no shock-unless you were, as I was, seated across from the striking beauty he was married to.
I asked, “What did your husband say when he called you from San Francisco?”
The full lips twitched in a nonsmile. “He said he figured the police would be around, sooner or later, and he didn’t want me hearing about this from anybody but him. I suggested he go talk to the authorities himself. I figured that would… look better.”
“You’re right,” I said. “What did your husband say to that?”
“He said he didn’t want to go looking for trouble. He had accounts to call on, and he was with his boss, and it would just be too embarrassing… He represents a pipe and clamp company, you know.”
Another easy joke to be found, had I been in the mood.
I asked, “How long have you and Bob been married?”
“Fifteen months. Robert, Jr., is four months old.”
Robert, Sr., was a hell of a guy.
“The day your husband drove back from San Diego with his passenger,” I said, tactfully, “that was last Thursday, just a week ago. Would you happen to remember what time he got home that night?”
She was already nodding. “He made it home for supper-probably six-thirty. We had some friends over, for bridge that evening-neighbors. I can give your their names.”
“Please,” Fowley said.
“Mr. and Mrs. Don Holmes,” she said, rather formally, and gave the particulars as the reporter scribbled.
Then I asked, “What about the next several days?”
“Bob was at home every day, working, calling buyers on the phone, until he left for San Francisco with Mr. Palmer-that was on Monday.”
If that were true, Manley had been out of town when the murder was most likely committed.
The phone’s shrill ring jolted all three of us. Harriet Manley was up like a shot, probably to make sure the thing didn’t jangle again and wake her baby.
“Hello,” she said.
Then her eyes tightened, and immediately softened.
“Hello, baby,” she said.
Fowley and I looked at each other: her other baby.
Covering the mouthpiece, eyes huge, the pretty housewife whispered, “It’s Bob… Do you want to talk to him?”
Shaking his head, Fowley patted the air, whispered back, “Better not tell him we’re here.”
Though her voice remained calm, her eyes danced; she obviously was torn, wondering whether to warn him.
“No, I’m fine… I love you, too… I believe you… I believe you… I believe you… I know you do… I know you do… I do, too… I miss you too… ’Bye.”
Hanging up the phone, she said, “He was calling from a pay phone, at a diner. He said he should be home by ten or eleven tonight… He has to stop at his boss’ place first. That’s where he left our car, before he and Mr. Palmer drove up to San Francisco.”
I asked, “Where does Mr. Palmer live?”
She was leaning against the counter, near the baby bottles. “Eagle Rock. I can give you the address, if you’d rather… rather pick him up there. Instead of here.”
“Would you like that, Mrs. Manley?”
“I think so.”
“Did Bob say anything else?”
“Yes. He said he loved me more than any man ever loved a wife.”
Her lip was quivering and I thought she might break down; but she did not. I believe she had made a decision that she would maintain her dignity in front of us.
Rising from the little plastic-and-chrome table, Fowley asked, “Would you happen to have any recent photos of your husband that we could borrow? For identification purposes?”
And publication purposes.
