A Moment On the Edge : 100 Years of Crime Stories By Women

reputation.

The buccaneer type, ruthless and bold. Julius Maxwell — with money like a club in his hand. Going to make a fool out of Mitchel Brown.

Also, there was the little matter of justice. Or mercy.

Mitch felt his wings begin to rustle again.

He said to the woman, gently, “Would you care for something?

A highball?”

“I don’t drink,” said Natalie primly. Her lashes came down. Her tongue touched her lips.

Mitch Brown ran his tongue over his upper lip, very thoughtfully.

Julius Maxwell’s energy was barely contained in this place.

“Never mind the refreshments,” he said. “Get to it. This young man, whoever he is, spotted my wife and knew her from the publicity.

He knows I am a rich man. So he thought he’d try a big lie. For the sake of the nuisance value, he thought I’d pay something. Well, an opportunist,” said Julius with a nasty smile, “I can understand.”

“I doubt if you understand me,” said Mitch quietly. “I’m sure you don’t realize how old hat that Paris Exposition story is.”

“What has any Paris Exposition got to do with it?” snapped Julius.

“Now look here, Lieutenant Prince. Can I prosecute this man?”

“You can’t prove extortion,” said the lieutenant gloomily. “You should have let him take the money, with witnesses.”

“He couldn’t do that,” said Mitch, “because he knows the thought of money never crossed my mind.”

The lieutenant’s eyes closed all the way in great weariness. They opened again and it was apparent that he believed nothing and nobody, yet. “Want to get this straight. Now you say, Mr. Maxwell—”

Julius said, “I say that my wife was at home that evening and all night, as the servants also say, and as the authorities know. So this man is a liar. Who can say why? It is plain that he can’t bring anyone or anything to corroborate this yarn he is telling. The bartender denies it. And, if you ask me, the most ridiculous thing he says is his claim that he hasn’t read the newspapers for six weeks. Shows you the fantastic kind of mind he’s got.”

The lieutenant, without comment, turned to Mitch. “And you say—”

“I say,” said Mitch, “that I have been in New York City since the seventeenth of March, attending rehearsals of my play and its opening night.”

“A playwriter,” said Julius.

“A play wright,” corrected Mitch. “I guess you don’t know what that is. For one thing, it is a person committed to trying to understand human beings. Oddly enough, even you.” Mitch leaned over the table. “You are the bold buccaneer, so I’ve heard. You’ve pirated money out of the world and now you think money can buy whatever you want. Suppose I tell your story?”

Julius Maxwell now had a faint sneering smile, but Mitch noted that Natalie had her eyes open. Perhaps her ears were open too.

Mitch plunged on.

“Your wife drove down here and shot her ex,” he said brutally.

(Natalie did not even wince.) “Well, now…” Mitch’s imagination began to function, from long practice. “I suppose that Natalie felt bad enough, upset enough, maybe even sorry enough, to need a drink and to take too many drinks until she forgot her troubles.”

Natalie was looking at him. “But when she woke up in my apartment she ran — ran to her car which she must have had. Ran home. Ah, well, what else could she do?” Mitch mused aloud. “She had done this awful thing. Somebody would have to help her.”

(Was Natalie holding her breath?)

“Who would help her?” Mitch said sharply. “You would, Maxwell.

Why? I’ll tell you why. You are not the type to want any wife of yours and the accent is on yours—to die in a gas chamber for murder.

She’d done something stupid. You bawled her out, I imagine, for the stupidity of it. But you told her not to worry. She was yours, so you would fix it. Money can buy anything. She must do exactly as you say, and then she could forget it.” Mitch hesitated. “Did you think she could forget it?” he murmured.

Nobody moved or spoke, so Mitch went on. “Well, you got to work. You bribed the servants. Bribed Toby, here. And you checked all around and discovered that there was only one other person who could reveal that she really had no alibi. That was a playwright. Oh, you checked on me too. Sure you did. You knew very well where I was and what I was doing. You found out the day and the hour I was due back in Los Angeles.”

Lieutenant Prince snorted. “Sounds nuts,” he broke in. “You say he’s been bribing everybody? Why didn’t he bribe you?”

Mitch turned a glazed eye on him. “Trouble was, I hadn’t read the papers. I didn’t know that I knew. So how could he bribe me? He put me down for an idiot,” said Mitch. “For what sane person doesn’t read the paper for six weeks? And then he thought of a way.”

Mitch addressed himself to Maxwell. “You had some hireling watching my apartment. And you and Natalie were ready and waiting, and quite nearby.” Mitch sensed the policeman’s shrug coming and he added quickly, “Otherwise, how come the very first day I’m in town I run into Natalie, and Natalie in exactly the same clothes?”

“Who says they’re the same,” said Maxwell smoothly, “except you?”

“She came into the restaurant,” said Mitch, “alone.”

“Since I had a phone call to make…”

“Alone,” Mitch persisted, ignoring the interruption, “and why?

To encourage me to come over and speak to her. That’s why the same clothes — to make sure I’d recognize her again. After she pulls the blank on me, Maxwell moves in. You, knowing how deep you’ve bribed your defenses behind you, press me into the position of looking like an opportunist — possibly like an extortionist. ‘Brown’s a writer,’ you say to yourself. Which is ‘a nut,’ in your book. ‘Nobody is going to believe a word he says.’ You’ll discredit me. You’ll rig a little scene. You’ll call a real policeman for a witness.”

“Why?” croaked the lieutenant.

Mitch was startled. “Why what?”

“Why cook all this up and call me?”

“Simple,” Mitch said. “What if I had finally read the papers and recognized her name? What if I had come to you? What am I then?

A good citizen. Isn’t that so? This way, he’s made it look as if I came to them. Making me look like an opportunist. And he’s the good citizen who called you in.”

Air came out of the lieutenant, signifying nothing.

“What a wacky scheme!” Mitch said it first. (Damn it, it was wacky.

It wasn’t going to sound probable.) “How unrealistic you are!” he taunted desperately.

Maxwell sat there smugly. “You’ve got the imagination, all right,”

he said with a wry smile. “Wild one.”

Then the policeman surprised them both. “Wait a minute, Brown.

You’re saying that Maxwell knows his wife is the killer. That he’s acting as accessory after the fact? You mean to say that?”

Mitch hesitated.

Maxwell said, “He hasn’t thought it out. Listen, he is just spinning a yarn, Lieutenant. He was challenged to do it. He’s proving that he’s clever. And that he is — for fiction. Call it a good try.”

Mitch saw his way pointed out for him.

“Or, possibly,” said Maxwell after a moment, “he was only trying to pick up a good-looking woman.” Maxwell showed his teeth in a smile.

Mitch understood — he was being shown how to save face. It was very seductive. Not only that, he was