stickier. The police were mad.
He lay back on the bed and explored with his hands the two dark spots just below his breastbone, so tender to the touch that the digging of the kitten's paws had awakened him. The twin souvenir of his early-morning encounter with Lorraine Barnes' heels had not only discolored but had swollen slightly. A fraction higher or lower, and she would really have sanded his engine.
Lorraine Barnes-now there was an all-purpose woman for you. Killed a husband of her own, according to Mike Larsen. Definitely not the delicate type in the clinches, yet with a distinct feminine appeal. Insistent upon doing her own snooping around four murders. And that savatte kick-where could she have learned that?
He stirred restlessly, leaned up on an elbow and reached for a cigarette from the pack on the table. He sucked in on the smoke and exhaled noisily as he lay down again. Sooner or later, Killain, he briefed himself, you're going to have to make up your mind about Lorraine Barnes. She may be Vic's Wife, but the more you look at it she's about the only qualified entrant left in this murder derby, and the record says she's capable of it.
A motive? That was a little tougher. If Robert Sanders had been reneging on a romantic attachment she could have wanted him hung out to dry. She had a lot of pride. But the police seemed to have done nothing with that angle, which only went to show their sources of information might not be as good as Mike Larsen's. So- Sanders, possibly. But Ellen, and the Perry girl, and Russo? He felt that Lorraine Barnes was capable of very nearly anything in the white heat of anger, but the cold-blooded elimination of three more people-even though it could hardly have been planned that way originally-had a calculated touch to it that seemed foreign to her.
Still, on opportunity she rated high. By her own admission she had been close to Robert Sanders when he was killed. No one knew where she had been when Ellen Saxon was killed. She had not been at her apartment-or anywhere else that could be accounted for-when Roberta Perry was killed. And there were those clothes, so closely matching the description of the things worn by the killer. She had been out in the rain last night when Ed Russo caught the black pills. Four murders-and she had an alibi for none of them. But did you always have an alibi when you needed one, especially living alone?
He sat up on the edge of the bed. Well, boy, you've thought yourself full circle. Did she or didn't she? You're not likely to find out from her; you made hardly a dent in her head-on. Although if Cuneo hadn't shown He circled his drawn-up knees with his arms. Robert Sanders, Ellen Saxon, Roberta Perry, Ed Russo. Every one of them connected in one way or another with that public relations office. Some of them connected personally apparently not at all. That public relations office… Johnny stared thoughtfully at the far wall. Have you been missing a bet, Killain? There's at least one other person closely connected with the tight little group of deceased. The widow Sanders. Yet the police seemed to have no interest in her at all; her alibis must have been sheet steel.
Her husband and three of her employees. She'd been with Ed Russo last night just before he died. The widow Sanders…
He slid from the bed and reached for his clothes. He thought of Lieutenant Dameron and shrugged. Cross that bridge when you come to it, Killain. The back of your hand to Joe Dameron, anyway.
He walked to the window and drew back the shade for a look outside. A little hazy. He closed the window against the chance of more rain. In the phone book he looked up the agency address and headed for the street. In the cab on the way over he tried to decide on an approach that would get him in to see the widow Sanders. He discarded two or three notions and finally gave it up; he'd think of something when the time came.
The agency offices were impressive; he looked around at the walnut paneling and the limed oak desk in the receptionist's corner behind the little wooden fence before he spoke to the girl seated at the desk. “My name's Killain, and I'd like to see Mrs. Sanders. If she's busy I'll wait.”
He had waited only five minutes when the girl beckoned to him. “Through that door and the third door on the right, sir.”
The third door on the right was frosted all the way to the top and was completely unmarked. He knocked once and turned the knob. The tall blonde he had seen on the mezzanine with Ed Russo last night sat behind a desk overflowing with papers and half-filled ash trays. His first really good look at her disclosed clear, tanned skin and a healthy outdoors look, a little surprising in the executive type. Her linen suit stayed crisp-looking, even in the heat. The eyes were blue and direct; the mouth was firm, with a shade too much chin below it for prettiness. It was a strong face, and she did not boggle at his inspection.
“Mrs. Sanders, my name's Killain,” Johnny said. He took a deep breath and waited for the next line to appear on the prompter's card.
“Helen Sanders,” the tall woman amended absently. The blue eyes took him in inch by inch. “Killain. I don't seem to know the name, but don't I know- Of course; you're from the hotel.” She smiled, a frank, open smile. “And you came to see me. That's rather remarkable, since I had already told someone to see you in the morning.”
“See me, ma'am?”
“Exactly.” The blue eyes retraced him, this time in quarter inches. “You've been at the hotel ten years, give or take a few months. I'm told that you exercise authority over and above what might reasonably be asked of you and exercise it well. Did you ever think of making a change?”
“What kind of a change, ma'am?”
“Mr. Killain-”
“The name is Johnny, ma'am,” he interrupted her.
“Johnny, then. You'll forgive me, I hope, if I'm a little abrupt.” Again the frank smile. “It's a habit of mine. I'm a businesswoman, not a sentimentalist. Ed Russo told me about you, and I checked you with another source. The public stenographer's office at the hotel is mine, Johnny. My money supported it, and Ed Russo ran it for me. I need a man to take Ed Russo's place, a man with a little raw intelligence, nerve and drive. Would you like to be that man?”
Johnny removed his cigarettes from his shirt pocket, shook one free and placed it in his mouth. As an afterthought he rose and offered one to the woman behind the desk; she accepted, and he lighted it for her. He sat down again and tried to keep his voice noncommittal. “I'd have thought Russo's attitude toward me might be a little negative.”
Helen Sanders smiled again. “It was. So was the attitude of the other party I checked. I was told-even warned- not to make this offer to you.” The smile widened; she had a really nice smile, Johnny decided. “I felt I had to decide for myself. The right man over there is worth a good deal to me, the wrong man is worthless.”
“Does Tim Connor fit into the picture over there, Mrs. Sanders?”
“You've met Tim? I'll put it this way-Tim Connor was an independent contractor taken on by Ed for specific jobs. I personally feel that Connor was one of Ed's major mistakes.”
“And here I thought Connor was a wheel.”
“In his own circles, possibly; I can tell you explicitly that as far as the operation over there was concerned, far from being a wheel, Tim Connor was a very small gear.”
Johnny settled back in his chair. “So you've warmed me up. Roll the cameras.”
“Fair enough. The public stenographer bit is a blind, of course. The main purpose of that office is to serve as a briefing center for the people assigned to the special jobs which come out of my office here.” Helen Sanders looked down momentarily at the glowing tip of her cigarette. “The girl there now will have to go, incidentally. I made it a practice not to interfere with Ed's pets, but she attracts entirely too much attention.”
“You still haven't said anything,” Johnny pointed out when she paused.
The voice was crisp. “I say I'll pay two hundred a week and expenses to a man who can follow specific directives and who can procure the people to carry them out.”
“That's a good week's pay. Anything illegal?”
“There shouldn't be. Ed was inclined to trim his sails a little too closely in that respect. When you have a mind as devious as mine, illegality becomes an unnecessary luxury.”
He considered the clear blue eyes in the candid face. “I haven't heard anything yet I can hang a nail on, Mrs. Sanders.”
“I'm sure you're giving me credit for a little common sense. Before I reach the point of no return with you I want a reaction. I think you understand me. You asked if it was illegal, and I said no. If you asked if it was ethical, I might feel it necessary to tell you that a clear two hundred a week buys up a few ethics. My late husband had ethics. I prefer a bank account.”
This woman left no snagged threads at all; Johnny made one more try. “How about a for instance on a directive, Mrs. Sanders?”
