Читать книгу Kisses of Death - Henry Kane - Страница 11

EIGHT

THEY HAD told her.

Petrie told us.

They had told her and she had keeled. They had brought her brandy and she had sopped up a lot of it. Then Miss Trent had taken her to the bathroom and then helped her undress and she was now in bed. Miss Trent and Mr. Winkle were in the room with her.

“Where’s the notes and the pictures?” Wagner asked.

Petrie opened a drawer of a table. “Right here.”

“You show her any of this?”

“Of course not, sir.”

“Gimme.”

Petrie took a maroon-colored folder out of the drawer. It was a legal-type folder. Wagner tucked it under his arm and he looked like a lawyer. We marched through a corridor to the bedroom. The door was closed. Wagner knocked. Willie called, “Come in.”

She was seated in the bed with pillows plumped behind her. She was wearing white silk pajamas. Her face was washed, without makeup, and her hair was pulled back in a pony-tail. She held a large snifter glass of brandy in her hand. She was even more attractive without the makeup. She was flushed from the brandy and her eyes were wild.

Marla was seated near the bed. Marla also held a snifter glass of brandy. Willie was leaning against a dresser on top of which, aside from the usual toilet articles, was a tray with a bottle of brandy and one other glass. The whole damned room smelled of brandy and, somehow, smelled of woman.

“I’m in charge here,” Wagner said. “Detective-sergeant Wagner. You’re Mrs. Kiss, I take it?”

“Yes sir,” she said.

Wagner looked from her to Marla to Willie.

I said, “Miss Marla Trent, Mr. William Boyd Winkle.”

“What are they doing here?”

“Miss Trent and Mr. Winkle are the proprietors of Marla Trent Enterprises.”

“Oh, that Marla Trent,” said Wagner. “You’re a private detective, no?”

“Yes,” said Marla.

“You too?” he said to Willie.

“Yes,” said Willie.

“What the hell is this?” he said to me. “A convention?”

“Mrs. Kiss and I had some business at Miss Trent’s office,” I said. “We all came back here together.”

“Well, you’re all going to give me statements,” said Wagner.

“Only as to the externals,” Marla said. “All else is confidential.”

“Confidential my —” said Wagner. “You’ll give me full statements.”

“Just a minute, please,” Valerie Kiss said.

“Yeah?” said Wagner.

“I . . . I don’t want a scandal, please. I. . .”

“What in hell do you think a suicide is, lady? A PTA meeting?”

She gulped brandy. She said, “I mean . . . I’m perfectly willing to cooperate. There’s no reason to hide anything, any of this, as long as it doesn’t become public. I mean I don’t think anything that these people can tell you is anything I’m really ashamed of—”

Wagner’s tone softened. “Look, Mrs. Kiss, this is an open and shut suicide. We’re just as anxious as you to close the files on it. This is a big city with a lot of crime, and we don’t have the time to waste with scandals. All I want is information for the files, period. That’s my job. The faster I clean this up, the better I like it. This is no federal case. Plenty of guys kick themselves off. But these people are here, and since they’re here they’re a part of the case, and if they’re a part of the case, their statements belong in the file. Period.”

She looked toward me.

I said, “Sergeant Wagner isn’t one to blow up scandal.” I had my moment to warn her, and I warned her. “For instance, the Sergeant has certain notes that your husband has written. Two notes. One is general, one is personal. Your husband didn’t seal them, and we certainly can understand that, in his state of mind. The sergeant has read them both, but I’m certain he’ll only make public the general note. Am I right, Sergeant?”

“Damn right you’re right.”

Behind the sergeant’s back, Willie grinned and nodded. At least Willie understood. Willie had not majored in psychology for nothing.

Valerie Kiss said, “Then all of you may tell the sergeant whatever he wishes to know,” And she was back on the brandy.

“Okay, you three,” Wagner said. “One of my cops will take you down to the station house, and you’ll swear out your statements there.”

“No,” said Valerie Kiss.

Wagner said, “What’s now?”

“He stays.” She pointed to me.

“Why him?”

“I . . . I need somebody.”

It was a small compliment but it would help with the fee.

“Look, Lenny, I mean Sergeant Wagner,” I said. “We’ll all go together to make our statements. As long as Mrs. Kiss wants me here, I can’t see any objection to Miss Trent and Mr. Winkle also staying. We all may be able to help you, right here, right now, just in conversation, to fill in the blanks. Unless Mrs. Kiss has objection.”

“No objection,” she said and finished the brandy. She held the glass out to me. I took it, poured more brandy into it, and brought it back to her.

“Okay,” said Wagner. “So what’s the story?”

“All right, Mrs. Kiss?” I said.

“I . . . I’m depending on you,” she said.

Quickly I gave him Part One, and just as quickly Willie filled him in on Part Two. Valerie lay back with her eyes closed. Marla lit a cigarette and smoked. “Okay,” Wagner said, “that’s the background. It explains the personal note.” He opened the maroon folder and Valerie opened her eyes. He took out an envelope, seemed undecided as to what to do with it, then gave it to me. Written by hand was the scrawl: “To Whom It May Concern.” I handed it to Valerie Kiss. She handed me her glass. She opened the envelope and read the note. I drank her brandy. Then she returned the note and the envelope to me. I returned the empty glass to her and read the note:

To Whom It May Concern: I have taken my life because my life is no longer worth living. It is my wish that I be cremated at once, as soon as the authorities release what may be left of my body. I wish my ashes to be flown over the Atlantic and dropped into the sea. I wish this can be done on Sunday, a church day, a day of rest for mortals. May God forgive me and have mercy on my soul. Jonathan Kiss.

I gave the note to Marla. She read it and handed it up to Willie. Willie read it and gave it to Wagner. Wagner put it back into the folder and drew out a second envelope. This was a larger envelope, business size, and it was bulky. The routine was now set. He handed the envelope to me. I lay back the flap and withdrew the contents. There were sixty crisp one-hundred-dollar bills, and a lengthy letter. Now I looked at the envelope. He had written: “To My Wife.” I gave the envelope to Valerie, she gave it to Marla, Marla gave it to Willie, Willie gave it to Wagner, Wagner put it into the maroon folder. Then I gave the money to Valerie.

“What do I do with it?” she said.

“You keep it,” Wagner said.

She placed it on the nighttable. She held out her glass to me. I took it, filled it, drank off a third, gave it to her. Her fingers touched mine as she took it. I could have sworn I felt a pressure, but I’m a morbid type. I looked at her. Her lips quivered tight together, as though in a kiss, and then they lapped at the edge of the glass.

“You keep the money,” Wagner said. “The letter will explain.”

Sardonically Willie said, “You mean you’re not going to impound it?”

“Only the written material, and that temporary,” Wagner said. “And the pictures.”

Marla looked up. “There are pictures?” she inquired innocently.

“We’ll come to that,” Wagner said.

They were engaged with one another, as I looked toward Valerie. The glass was away from her lips, not far, and the huge brandy-gleaming brown eyes were on me. She had a full mouth, very red. Once again the glistening lips came forward, puckered, pouting, subtly quivering and then Wagner said, “Well, read it already.” I unfolded the sheet of paper and I sneaked a glance at Valerie. Her lips were back to the edge of the glass but her eyes, up tilted, were on me. I read the letter but I was not interested. I was interested in Valerie Kiss. I felt that she was interested in me. That was very sick and I knew it was very sick but it could have been healthy if she had a purpose. Maybe she had a purpose. I read the letter.

My lovely wife, you are a cheap, contemptible whore. I loved you. I no longer love you. I detest you. I had contemplated murdering you, but what sense? You would be dead but I would be alive to suffer the torment of your guilt, and the guilt of my murdering you. I have thought about it for a long time, and this way is better. I am killing myself, but you have killed me. I am leaving you everything; let’s see if you can enjoy it. Let us see if you can live with horror, with the horror of knowing that you have murdered me, and let us see how long you can live with that horror. Yes, I am cruel, but no more cruel than you. I have implanted a cancer, let us see how long you can live with it. Within minutes from my writing this, I shall have flung myself out of the window. You have killed me. You live with that. I leave you torture, and I leave you my money, so that you can live with your torture. Let us see how long you can live with it. Let us see how long before you are old and ugly with guilt. Better you than me. Enjoy. I dare you. You are a cheat and a murderer now. Enjoy. I dare you. I know you. I know your mind. I am dead, but you have made me dead, and now yours will be a creeping deadness. I curse you with my last breath of life, and you will remember my curses. I know you, and the cancer is now in you. Enjoy. I dare you. Wherever I am, I await you, and when you come, I shall denounce you, and spit upon you. The money for my funeral arrangements is here contained, together with some pictures which, I trust, may amuse you more than they amused me. I remain always and forever in your memory, Jon.

This had been a smart man, a terrible man, terribly smart. A cheating wife is entitled to knuckles if she is caught, as is a cheating husband, if he is caught. But this was not knuckles, there was no comparison: this was purgatory. A cheating wife does not deserve the curse of purgatory, nor a cheating husband. Love is not forever and love can end, love can even be divided.

She could have told him; she could have left him; but that is criticism and criticism comes easy when applied to another. Righteousness is a sturdy stick but only in the hand of the wielder. Who in life has not cheated, physically or mentally, and what circumstances have prevented the mental cheating from developing into the physical cheating? There are so many circumstances, both for cheating and for refraining from cheating. There is fear, and there is the circumstance of children, position, status, or the circumstance of residual love for the one to be cheated upon, or sympathy, or liking, or compassion. Perhaps this had been a case of divided love. Or perhaps this woman had not had the heart to hurt the man. Or perhaps it had been a case of ended love but economic ties had bound her against an open break. Certainly she had been supporting the lover and just as certainly the husband had been supporting her: to break with one might have been to lose the other. Who can unlock a heart for secrets, who has the power to peer into a soul, who knows—without knowing—what motivates a transgression, and who can presume to sit in judgment? She was a cheater, and cheating is a crime, but the punishment must fit the crime, and this punishment was way out, fiendish, too much, maniacally exquisite. For one stupid beatific moment I was overwhelmed with an impulse to be a hero; not just for this drunken woman in the white pajamas, but for all women and all men, you and me included. I had an impulse to run, get out, destroy this letter which would destroy this woman. What could they do? Sue me? So I had flipped my wig; I had popped my cork; what difference would it make: nobody here had committed a crime. What could they do? I had lots of politician friends: there wouldn’t be a jail rap for this kind of idiocy. No jail rap, but they could lift my license. Suddenly I stopped being a hero. My license is my bread and butter, and when it comes to bread and butter, you know how it is. You damned well know how it is, all of you: the muck we go through and the bastards we pretend to respect, all because of bread and butter. Disgusting, isn’t it, boys and girls? Cringe, but duck it. Let it pass. Don’t give it another thought. Bread and butter is bread and butter. Everybody can’t be a hero, and the martyr is the hero’s hero. Forget it.

I did a fast cringe and passed the letter to Valerie Kiss.

Valerie Kiss passed the brandy to me and I drank thirstily.

She read it. She took a long time reading it. She was either a hell of an actress or she had a lot more class than any of us had given her credit for, because she handled it perfectly. She took a long time reading, but when she was finished she passed it to Marla without comment or change in facial expression, and then she lifted her hand to me for the brandy. I gave her what was left of it and this time I knew her fingers caressed mine. The lady had a yen or the lady had a purpose: either way, I had nothing to lose and a lot to gain because, very obviously, the lady was a hell of a lot of woman. Suddenly I lost all interest in Marla Trent. Temporarily, of course.