He stared at me, his hard green eyes as blank as stones.
‘The same reason why you stayed in your room all day?’
‘I was working.’
‘When did you get back here?’
‘I went first to San Francisco. I had business up there.’
He took out a notebook.
‘Where did you stay?’
I told him.
‘I left on Thursday night and arrived back here at midnight,’ I said. ‘If you want confirmation of that you can check with the ticket collector at the station who knows me well, and with the taxi driver, Sol White, who drove me home.’
Keary wrote in his notebook, then with a grunt he heaved himself to his feet.
‘Well, okay, Mr. Halliday. This will take care of it. I don’t reckon to bother you again. I was just tying up the loose ends. After all, we know who killed her.’
I stared at him.
‘You know? Who killed her?’
‘Jinx Mandon. Who else do you imagine killed her?’
‘It could have been anyone, couldn’t it?’ I said, aware that my voice had suddenly turned husky.
‘What makes you think he did it?’
‘He’s a criminal with a record for violence. The cleaning woman told us these two were always quarrelling. Suddenly he blows and we find her dead. Who else would kill her? All we have to do is to catch him, rough him up a little and he’ll spill it. Then we pop him into the gas chamber. There’s nothing to it.’
‘To me that doesn’t prove he did it,’ I said.
‘Doesn’t it?’ He lifted his heavy shoulders in an indifferent shrug. ‘I like him for the job, and the jury will like him too.’
Nodding to me, he opened the door and went out.
II
So Rima was dead!
But I felt no relief, only remorse. I had been responsible for her death.
With her had died my past. I had now only to sit tight and do nothing to be free of the threat of arrest.
But suppose they caught Vasari! Suppose they sent him to the gas chamber for a murder I knew he hadn’t committed?
I knew he hadn’t murdered Rima. Wilbur had done it and I could prove he had done it, but to prove it I would have to tell the police the whole story, and then I would be put on trial for the Studio guard’s murder.
Was this nightmare never going to end?
I thought: You have saved yourself; to hell with Vasari! He is a criminal with a record for violence.
Why should you sacrifice yourself for him?
During the next six days the pressure of work and the rushed visits to the sanatorium to see Sarita so occupied my mind during the day that I was free of the tormenting thought that I had been responsible for Rima’s death. But at night, when I was alone in the dark, the picture of her lying in the pool of blood, her body covered with vicious stab wounds, haunted me.
I watched the newspapers for any news of the murder. It had started off as headline news, but quickly dwindled to a small paragraph on the back page. The papers said the police were still looking for Mandon who, they hoped, would help them in their inquiries, but, so far, there was no trace of him.
As one day followed the next, I began to be more hopeful. Maybe Vasari had got out of the country.
Maybe he would never be found.
I wondered what had happened to Wilbur. Several times I was tempted to call the Anderson Hotel in San Francisco to find out if he was back there, but I decided against it.
Sarita was still making progress. I went to the sanatorium every evening, and spent an hour talking to her, telling her about the bridge, what I had been doing, how I was managing without her.
Zimmerman said he felt confident now that she would be able to walk again, but it would take time.
He thought in another two weeks she could go home. She would have to have a nurse to take care of her, but he thought she would make quicker progress in her home than remaining at the sanatorium.
There was now no further news of the murder in any of the papers. I told myself that it was going to be all right. Vasari must have got out of the country. They were never going to find him.
Then, one evening on my return from the sanatorium, as I stopped my car outside my apartment block, I saw a large man leaning against the wall as if waiting for someone.
I recognised the big, heavy figure immediately: it was Detective Sergeant Keary.
I felt a rush of blood up my spine as I stared at him through the window of the car. My mouth turned dry and I had to fight off a panic-stricken urge to start the car again and drive away.
It was now three weeks since I had seen him and I had hoped I had seen the last of him. Yet here he was, obviously waiting for me.
I took my time getting out of the car, and by the time I reached him I had my panic under control.
‘Hello, sergeant,’ I said. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Waiting for you,’ he said curtly. ‘They told me you had gone to the hospital so I came around here.’
‘What do you want?’ I found it impossible to keep my voice steady. ‘What is it now?’
‘We’ll talk about that inside, Mr. Halliday. You lead the way, will you?’
I went up the steps, across the lobby to my apartment.
Keary followed me.
‘They tell me your wife has been pretty ill,’ he said, as we entered the lounge. ‘She better now?’
I threw my hat and raincoat on a chair and went over to the fireplace and faced him.
‘Yes, she is a lot better now, thank you,’ I said.
He selected the largest and most comfortable chair in the room and sat down. He took off his hat and laid it on the floor by his side. Then he started on the routine of unwrapping a piece of chewing gum.
‘When I last saw you, Mr. Halliday,’ he said, his eyes intent on the chewing gum, ‘you told me you didn’t know nor had you ever heard of Rima Marshall.’
I thrust my clenched fists into my trousers pockets. My heart was thudding so violently I was scared he would hear it.
‘That’s right,’ I said.
He looked up then, and the small green eyes stared fixedly at me.
‘I have reason to believe you were lying, Mr. Halliday, and that you did know the dead woman.’
‘What makes you think that?’ I said.
‘A photograph of the dead woman has been published in the papers. A man named Joe Masini, who owns the Calloway Hotel, has volunteered information. He is a friend of the Marshall woman. He says she had a meeting at his hotel with a man with a scar on his face and drooping right eyelid. She appeared to be frightened of this man, and she asked Masini to stop this man from following her when she left the hotel. The description of this man with the scar fits you, Mr. Halliday.’
I didn’t say anything.
Keary chewed slowly as he continued to stare at me.
‘The Marshall woman has a banking account in Santa Barba,’ he went on. ‘I checked it yesterday.
Two sums of ten thousand dollars were paid into her account over the period of the past six weeks. Both these amounts were drawn on your account. Do you still say you didn’t know this woman?’
I moved to a chair and sat down.
‘Yes, I knew her.’
‘Why did you give her all this money?’
