phoned me awhile ago.” A pause and then, “Well, I don’t like it.”
I tried to keep busy with my make-up to avoid being too obvious about my eavesdropping. “I’m at the hotel now,” she said, “but I’ll be back to my apartment shortly. What’ll I do if he comes up and wants the money?”
She listened intently after that, finally said, “All right,” and hung up with a sigh.
“Is anything wrong?” I asked casually, finishing with my makeup.
“No, no. Just man trouble. You know how it is.”
We started out for her apartment but she was openly nervous, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror as if fearful of being followed. I wondered about that but asked no further questions, even when she seemed to double back on her route and take the long way through a number of narrow residential streets. “Less traffic this way,” she muttered, sensing my questioning gaze.
Presently we entered a neighborhood of large older homes, many of which had been split into apartments and needed ugly second – and third-floor fire escapes to comply with housing codes for multiple dwellings. Betty Quint parked in front of one of these. “Come on up. I want to take a quick shower and then we’ll be on our way.”
It was already after six and starting to get dark. Thick gray clouds had rolled in, threatening rain. She led the way to a side door which she quickly unlocked. I noticed there were two mailboxes, one with her name and the other with Mr & Mrs R. James Liction. “The landlord,” she said by way of explanation. “A retired couple. They live downstairs. Come on up.” She led the way to her second-floor apartment.
“It’s so large!” I marveled.
“I have the entire second floor,” she answered with pride. “These old houses are great bargains.” She dropped her things on the coffee table and walked to the front window, gazing down at the street. “Damn!”
“What’s the matter?”
“He’s down there in a car. I think we were followed.”
“Roger?”
“I’m going to shower,” she said, walking into the bedroom as she shed her outer garments. I hesitated to follow but then she called to me. “Here’s something you might like even if you did quit smoking.”
I walked into the bedroom and found her holding out a cigarette with crimped ends. “What is it, pot?” I asked.
“Sure! It’s good stuff. Helps you unwind after a day’s work.”
“No thanks. But go ahead if you want one.”
She shrugged and tossed the joint on the bedside table. “I don’t like to smoke alone.”
Wearing only a bra and panties she went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, rummaging in a cabinet for a bath towel. “Come on in, Susan. Talk to me while I shower.” She handed me the towel to hold.
I sat on the closed toilet seat, feeling uncomfortable as she shed her underwear and tossed it into a laundry hamper. Then she felt the spray of water with her hand and stepped into the shower, pulling the curtain closed behind her. “Tell me about the Manhattan store,” she called out over the rush of water. “Is it true a homeless man lived there for days before he was discovered?”
“I’ve heard stories like that, but I-”
Betty Quint screamed, just once, chilling my spine. Then there was a thump as her body went down in the tub. “Betty!” I yanked open the shower curtain and stared at her body, drenched in the pounding spray of hot water.
She’d been stabbed once in the back with a slender dagger that still protruded from the bloody wound. A second, identical dagger lay in the tub near her foot. Otherwise the tub was empty.
I was alone in the steamy bathroom with her body.
Irving Farber scratched his nose and stared at Susan. “That story is impossible, you know. It couldn’t have happened the way you told it.”
“But it did!” she insisted. “I called 911 and the police were there within minutes.”
“And they arrested you.”
“Not right away. They questioned me for hours, trying to make me change my story. They accused me of all sorts of wild things, especially after they found the pot. I told them neither of us had smoked it but they kept pounding at it. One of the detectives suggested we’d been high on pot and made love to each other, and then I killed her to hush it up. That’s when I demanded a lawyer.”
Farber’s face was grim. “What was the detective’s name?”
“Sergeant Razerwell.”
He made a note of it. “Tell me, Susan, what’s your explanation for Betty Quint’s death?”
“I have none. I agree it’s impossible.”
“Did you touch anything in the apartment after you phoned the police?”
“No. I didn’t even turn off the shower. I couldn’t go back in there and see her again. I just sat in the bedroom and shivered until I had to open the door for the police.”
Farber glanced at Mike Brentnor. “Will the store go bail for her?”
The question startled him. “I – I don’t know. Depends on how much it is, I suppose.” He wasn’t about to admit he had no authority in the matter.
“Who’s your boss?”
“Saul Marx.”
Irving Farber glanced at his watch. “Is he in the office by now? It’s nearly ten.”
“He should be.”
“Get on the phone and ask him about bail. Meanwhile, I’ll talk to the assistant D.A. and find out how much they’ll be wanting.”
“Is there a chance I’ll get out of here?” Susan asked, her hopes soaring at the thought of it.
“Depends on the D.A. ‘s office. Don’t get your hopes up.” He put the yellow pad in his attache case and snapped it shut.
Susan glanced at her watch. “I’m supposed to be in court in ten minutes.”
“They’ll come for you when they’re ready. Sometimes these things are a bit loose. If they don’t get you there, it’s their fault, not yours.”
The attorney and Mike Brentnor departed, leaving Susan to wonder just where she stood. She’d investigated a few murders in the past, during her travels for Mayfield’s, but she’d never been accused of committing one herself. The killing of Betty Quint while she was alone in the shower seemed so impossible that, paradoxically, Susan felt the solution must be a simple thing she could easily discover once she was free.
Presently one of the guards came for her. “Am I going before the judge?” she asked.
“Not yet. They want to question you some more.”
Susan was immediately on guard. “My attorney-”
“He’s been notified.”
She was ushered into one of the interrogation rooms, where she sat down at the bare table to wait. Presently the door opened and a stocky red-haired man she’d never seen before entered. He was carrying a briefcase and Irving Farber was right behind him. “Good morning, Miss Holt,” the redhead said, flashing a smile that was quickly gone. “I’m Adam Dullea, US Secret Service.” He flashed an ID that looked like miniature currency with its finely engraved borders.
Susan panicked, imagining some labyrinthian plot against the president. What had she gotten herself into? “What do you want?”
“I just have a few questions regarding your relationship with Betty Quint.” He opened his briefcase and took out a clear plastic envelope with a hundred-dollar bill inside. “Have you ever seen one of these?”
“A hundred dollars? I guess I’ve seen a few.”
“Did Betty Quint ever show you one?”
“No.” Then she remembered something. “She came to New York for a meeting about six months ago. We went out for dinner and drinks later and I remember she paid for the drinks with a hundred-dollar bill. I was a bit startled, but some people like to use big bills when they travel.”
“This one is counterfeit,” he said.
Susan peered at it more closely. It looked fine to her. “What’s its connection with Betty?”
“She passed it at a local restaurant. There’ve been a few other incidents too. We’ve had her under surveillance.”
