Tell It To The Birds (6 page)

There was a picture of Harry Weber pointing to the toilet here the gunman had hidden. Lieutenant H. Jenson, Homicide spartment at Brent, had been called to the scene.

Anson put down the newspaper and ordered lunch. He was leased to find that he was hungry. The soreness of his stomach id faded and he was able to enjoy the rather heavy lunch the ;staurant provided.

The waiter who served him was full of the robbery and nson listened politely to what he had to say.

"They should never keep such sums in a place as isolated as at," the waiter said as he gave Anson his check. "It is asking >r trouble."

Anson agreed and left the restaurant. In the lobby, he ran to the two salesmen he had been drinking with the previous ght. They too had to discuss the robbery.

"Some thug passing through," one of them said. "It's my :t he wasn't a local man. He's miles away by now."

Anson agreed and went on to where he had parked his car. e made another call to renew a car insurance policy. As time as moving on, he drove out to the Barlowe house.

As he drove along the highway, he went over in his mind the rents of the previous night. He could see no reason why the >lice could possibly get on to him. Weber's description of the bber had been influenced by his shaken nerves. He said the an was heavily built and tall which Anson was not. He had :scribed the Swiss hat accurately but he had said the top-coat d been fawn coloured. Sanquist the dying cop, was too ill to i questioned.

On his way back to Pru Town after the robbery, Anson had }pped the car by a wooded thicket and had dumped the hat d topcoat. The robbery had netted him $3,670, more than he d hoped for.

He was still surprised that he was so calm about the whole affair: even the shooting of Sanquist left him unmoved.

As he drove onto the tarmac drive of the Barlowe houses, Meg came to the door.

He came towards her, smiling.

"Hello," he said. "Here I am again." She gave ground, standing aside. Although she returned his smile, her smile didn't reach her eyes. She looked pale and tense.

As he took off his topcoat and as she shut the front door, she said, "It was on the radio just now. The patrol officer ... the one who was shot ... he's - he's dead."

Anson walked into the sitting-room. He stood by the fire warming his cold hands. He watched her as she stood in the doorway, her cobalt blue eyes sick with fear.

"Didn't you hear what I said?" she demanded, her voice shrill. "He is dead."

Anson peered at her. Again he was surprised how calm he felt. The fool had asked for it. He could have lived but he had asked for it. Now there was no reason to turn back ... Barlowe would be next. The cop's death sealed Barlowe's fate.

"What's the matter?" he asked.

"You shot him, didn't you?"

He looked around the room. She really was a slut, he thought as he saw the used breakfast things on the table. One of them: Barlowe of course, had had eggs and bacon. The yoke encrusted plate, the smear of jam on the tablecloth, the used coffee cups by her typewriter disgusted him.

She stood watching him as he opened his briefcase and took out the gun. He wiped it carefully with his handkerchief and carrying it in his handkerchief, he put it in the wooden box he took from the drawer in the sideboard. He took five cartridges from his pocket, carefully wiped each one before putting them in the box.

"You've cleaned the gun?" she asked in a tight frightened voice.

"Of course."

"But you took six cartridges."

"Do you think he will miss one?" Anson asked, turning to ook at her.

She shuddered.

"So you did kill that man ..."

He took hold of her wrist and jerked her roughly to him.

"This is the beginning," he said, his hand sliding down the ength of her back. She stiffened and tried to pull away from urn, but he held her. "You said we would go ahead with this." lis grip tightened. "Kiss me," he said urgently. "You're in this ness with me. You can't escape from it now. Kiss me."

She hesitated, then closing her eyes, she relaxed against him. ^.s his lips met hers, he felt her shudder. Roughly he moved her round the settee, pushed her down so she lay on her back, taring up at him.

She shook her head wildly.

"No ... not now... John! No!"

Seeing his sudden change of expression, an expression that rightened her, she pressed the palms of her hands against her yes and shudderingly yielded to him.

"Tell me about yourself, Meg," Anson said some twenty linutes later. He was now sitting before the fire in the big habby armchair while Meg still lay upon the settee. "You lustn't mind if I seem curious. I want you to be careful how ou answer my questions. What I'm aiming to do is to make ure you don't land up in the gas chamber."

Meg moved uneasily.

"Why talk like that? You frighten me."

"It's better to be frightened by me than by Maddox," Anson lid. "When eventually you put in the claim for the insurance loney, Maddox will turn a searchlight on you. Even if you ave a cast iron alibi, be'll still be suspicious of you. Is there nything in your past he shouldn't know about?"

She frowned, not looking at him.

"No ... of course not!"

"You have no criminal record?"

She half sat up, her eyes angry.

"No!"

"You have never been in trouble with the police?"

She hesitated, then shrugging, she said, "Driving too fast... that's all."

"What did you do before you were married?"

"I was a receptionist at an hotel."

"What hotel?"

"The Connaught Anns in Los Angeles."

"Was it a respectable hotel? It wasn't a room by the hour and no questions asked?"

"Of course not!"

"Before that?"

Again she hesitated before saying, "I was a night club hostess."

Anson became alert.

"What did you do?"

"The usual thing; partnered men, persuaded them to buy drinks."

"Now watch this, Meg. Did you go home with them? You know what I mean."

"I didn't."

He studied her. Her eyes were now angry.

"Sure?"

"I tell you I didn't!" She was now sitting bolt upright. "Is this man going to ask me these kind of questions before he'll pay out?"

Anson shook his head.

"Oh, no. But if he doesn't like the look of your claim, he'll turn one of his smart investigators on to you. Without your knowing anything about it, he'll dig up your whole history. He'll then decide when he has your dossier in front of him if he'll fight your claim or not. If your dossier is bad, he'll fight you."

She lay back, her expression showing how worried she was.

"If I'd known it was going to be like this, I wouldn't have agreed to do it with you."

"There's still time to back out," Anson said. "You can't expect, to pick up fifty thousand dollars for nothing. You have nothing to worry about so long as you are telling the truth. What did you do before you became a night club hostess?"

"I lived with my mother," she said, not looking at him.

"You have been married nearly a year. This is vitally important, Meg. I must have the truth. While you have been Barlowe's wife, have you had a lover?"

"I've had you," Meg said and made a face at him.

"I don't mean me," Anson said, staring at her. "We've been careful, and we're going to remain careful. I mean someone else ... someone you haven't been so careful about."

"No ... there's been no one."

"Sure? If Maddox finds there has been someone, he'll go after him. There's nothing he likes better than to find out the wife of the insured husband who suddenly dies has a lover. He thrives on a situation like that."

"There's been no one."

"Would there be anyone who would know hpw you really feel about your husband? Anyone who might have overheard you quarrelling if you do quarrel? Anyone who might say you weren't happily married?"

She shook her head.

"No one ever comes here."

"Would your husband discuss you with anyone?"

She shook her head emphatically.

"No ... I'm sure of that."

Anson leaned back in the chair and thought for a long moment while Meg watched him.

"Okay," he said finally. "I think that covers it. You're sure you've told me the truth? You may not think so now, but all these questions are important. Once Maddox investigates you, and you can bet your life that's what he will do, you have to be above reproach. You are sure you have told me the truth?"

"Yes ... don't keep on and on! I have told you the truth!"

"Okay." He relaxed and took out a packet of cigarettes. He tossed her one and took one himself. As they lit up, he went on, "Now for the next step. Will your husband be home tomorrow night?"

"He's always home except on Mondays and Thursdays."

"I'll be here around eight thirty. Make sure you answer the door. I've got to get into this room if I'm to sell him. If he comes to the door, he may keep me on the doorstep and you don't sell insurance on a doorstep."

"Don't think you are going to have an easy time with Phil... you won't."

Anson got to his feet.

"Your job is to open the front door and let me in. I'll do the rest. Tomorrow night then."

She stood up.

"John ... I want to know ... did you shoot that policeman?"

Anson picked up his brief-case.

"I told you not to ask questions." He paused and looked directly at her. "I have the money to pay for the premium ...

that's all you need know."

He made no attempt to kiss her, but went out of the house and down the drive to his car.

As soon as the sound of his car engine had died away, Meg ran to the telephone and hurriedly dialled a number. She listened to the ringing tone for a long time, but there was no answer.

The following night was warm and mild with a brilliant moon. As things turned out this was lucky for Anson.

Meg had warned him Barlowe would be difficult but he hadn't imagined he was going to be as difficult as he was. Like most weak-willed people, Barlowe was not only obstinate he was also rude.

Anson had no difficulty in getting in to the big sitting-room because Meg let him in, but when Barlowe jumped up from the armchair before the fire, an evening newspaper in his hand, Anson immediately felt the impact of hostility that came from the small ill-tempered looking man.

In spite of the hostility, Anson went smoothly into his usual sales talk, but he had scarcely begun, before Barlowe curtly cut him short.

"I'm not interested in insurance. I never have been and I never will be," he said. "You're wasting your time and mine. I'll be glad if you'll go."

Anson had smiled his friendly professional smile.

"I've come all the way from Brent, Mr. Barlowe, to see you. I would take it as a favour if you would listen to what I have to say. I..."

"I don't intend to listen!" Barlowe turned angrily to Meg who was standing in the doorway. "Why did you let him in?

You know I never talk to salesmen!"

He sat down and opening his paper, he hid himself behind it.

Anson and Meg exchanged glances. She lifted her shoulders as if to say "Well, I told you, didn't I?"

To Anson this was a challenge. He was one of the top salesmen of the National Fidelity's group of salesmen. Over the years, he had often met with the complete brush-off and had survived to make a sale.

He said to the newspaper, hiding Barlowe, "Of course if I am annoying you I'll go, but I was under the impression you were interested in taking out a life policy. In fact, I was told to call on you."

Barlowe lowered the newspaper and stared suspiciously at Anson.

"Told? What do you mean? Who told you?"

Anson made an apologetic gesture.

"Mr. Hammerstein," he said naming the general manager of Framley's store. He felt safe in using Hammerstein's name.

In his lowly position as salesman, Barlowe wasn't likely to have contact with a man in Hammerstein's position. "I sold him a life policy and he said it would be a good idea if I called on some members of his staff. He gave me your name."

Barlowe flushed red.

"Mr. Hammerstein gave you my name?"

"That's right," Anson said and smiled. "He seems to think a lot of you."

There was a pause, then Barlowe said in a milder tone, "I'm not interested. Anyway, thanks for calling."

"That's all right," Anson said. "I'm glad to have met you. I won't disturb you any longer."

Barlowe got hastily to his feet. He was now looking embarrassed.

"I didn't mean to seem rude," he said. "I wouldn't like you to think ... I mean ... well, one does get so pestered ..."

Anson's smile widened. This ill-tempered little man was now obviously scared word might get back to his boss that he had given Anson the brush-off.

"I know ... I know," he said. "Believe it or not some optimist the other day actually tried to sell me an insurance policy,"

and he laughed.

Barlowe laughed too. He was now losing his hostility and he moved forward as if to show Anson to the front door.

"I'll bet he didn't sell you anything," he said.

"And you wouldn't lose," Anson returned and laughed again.

Barlowe was now in the hall. With a quick wink at Meg, Anson joined him.

"I was admiring your garden," he said. "I would very much like to see it in daylight. As I drove up, my headlights showed me some of the finest roses I have ever seen."

Barlowe was about to open the front door; now he paused.

"Are you interested in gardening?"

"I'm crazy about it, but unfortunately I live in an apartment. My father had a cottage in Carmel. He grew roses, but they weren't in the same class as yours."

"Is that a fact?" Barlowe was now completely relaxed. "Would you like to see my garden?" His ill-tempered face softened. "I'll show it to you."

He opened a cupboard by the front door and Anson saw the cupboard contained a number of electrical switches.

Barlowe flicked them all down, then he opened the front door.

Anson moved forward, then paused.

The small garden had been transformed into a fairyland. Although he could see no sign of any lamps, the garden was now artistically and beautifully floodlit. It was as if the flowers themselves were producing their own lights. Even the fountain and the fish pond were bathed in blue and yellow lights.