Part 4

He turned as he waited, wondering if the woman he thought he had seen was watching him. When there was no acknowledgment beyond the door, his impatience prompted him to knock once more before he tried the knob.

When it turned easily he pushed into the lighted room saying: “Adler?” as he stopped and swung the door behind him. For another moment he thought the room was empty but a door, apparently giving on the lighted bathroom, was partly closed and he called again: “Hey, Adler!”

There was still no answer and, not understanding why this should be, he took another step, his troubled eyes busy, a sudden tension winding his nerves as instinct telegraphed its first sharp warning. It was this extra movement that brought a new angle of vision and finally told him that he was not alone.

A low chest obscured part of the still figure that was sprawled beyond it, but he could see the hips, the legs, the oddly twisted shoes which lay close together and parallel with the floor.

Unable yet to understand what had happened but certain now that something was horribly wrong, he called again, not knowing that he did so. Some inner compulsion that was both automatic and irresistible made him move again and then he saw it all, the dark-stained white shirt, the slanted neck with the face turned toward the wall, the widespread arms with the limp-fingered hands that curled inward.

He stood very still then, a cold and frightening emptiness inside him as he stared down at this man he had never seen before, and even then, as his mind struggled for some answer, he seemed to know that Sam Adler must be dead.

_5_

John Hayden was not aware of time as he stood tense and immobile, breath held and his heart beginning to pound. The recorded playing of some dance band came softly from the radio in a syncopated beat, and with his feet still anchored by the shock of his discovery, he swiveled his head and glanced slowly about the room.

It was, he saw at once, the sort of unit known as an efficiency. Without actually tabulating its contents, he was aware that the furniture was constructed of some blond wood and in a style that was more modern than traditional. The two beds, which were placed at right angles along two walls, had slipcovers and pillows to make them look like couches until they were ready for use. Opposite the partly opened bathroom door was a cubicle with a built-in dresser and some coat hangers on a metal rod, and the end of the room directly ahead of him contained a shallow kitchenette. Here there were cabinets and cupboards, a sink, a counter, an enameled unit that contained a small icebox and an even smaller electric range on top. From where he stood he could see two glasses and a bottle of gin, nearly empty now, bottles of soda, the pulpy halves of lemons from which the juice had been squeezed.

His unconscious inspection completed, he brought his glance back to the man on the floor and now he moved reluctantly toward him. The torso had been turned so that it rested partly on one side, and as he leaned down he saw the reason for the wide, dark stain that glistened moistly on the white shirt.

Because Adler’s back was away from him and not far from the wall it lay partly in shadow but he could see the wooden knife handle protruding from the ribs just to the left of the spine. The shape of that handle suggested that it was a kitchen knife and he thought it had probably come from the unit at the end of the room.

He remembered the description that had been given him by Doris Lamar and knew it fitted the sharp-featured face that now looked slack and gray and lifeless. The sleek, black hair needed cutting. There was a dark smudge of beard along the angle of one jaw and the nose, in profile, had a broad and flattened look. The hand that he finally reached for seemed surprisingly warm and limp, and he tried to concentrate now as he sought a pulse beat that never came.

He straightened slowly then, traces of shock still mingling with the confusion in his mind. He could feel the dampness in his palms and his breath came shallowly as he tried to put his thoughts in order. It took a while to relate Adler’s death to his own problems, and his first reaction was one of relief as he understood that the man no longer posed a threat to his happiness. The thought shamed him even as it came to him, but it did not last long. For he remembered other details now, and that fleeting sense of relief gave way at once to a fear that was real, genuine, and greatly disturbing.

This fear did not spring from any thought that he would be suspected or charged with murder, and he wasted no time speculating on the reason for Sam Adler’s death. The fear he felt came from remembered details that Marion had told him earlier. Adler had shown her a photograph of her first husband; he had shown her a second photograph of fingerprints that he insisted belonged to Ted Corbin. Therefore these photographs had to be on the body or somewhere in this room.

Under other circumstances there would have been no hesitation on Hayden’s part. His life had been well ordered and he had an inbred respect for the law that came from a proper background. The thing to do was to call the police immediately and let them take it from there. This was what the sensible part of his mind told him, but the things that had happened to him in the past two or three hours had shaken him mentally, morally, and emotionally.

Nothing that had happened to him before had equipped him to handle such a situation, but he was certain that the first thing the police would do would be to search the room. When they found those photographs they would eventually uncover the very things that he had been trying to protect. By digging into the past they would eventually know why Sam Adler had come here and what he had been trying to do. All this added up to a fine motive for murder, and the thought of what could happen induced a sense of panic that could have distorted his thinking.

Still undecided and torn between two conflicting demands, he backed away and made a slow, deliberate tour of the room. He moved to the kitchenette and saw again the gin and the bottles and glasses and the squeezed lemons. He continued on to the lighted bathroom and pushed the door open with his elbow. As he stepped inside he was at once aware of the distinctive odor that lingered in the air. It was a perfumed smell, not strong but definite; it also had a quality that he did not think had come from the plastic bottle of after-shave lotion which stood beside the razor and toilet kit on the glass shelf above the bowl. This was a more perfumed smell, more feminine, and as he backed from the room he remembered again the woman he had thought he had seen in the darkness of the quadrangle.

The thought did not linger because by now he knew what had to be done. In the light of what happened later, there were times when he doubted the wisdom of his decision, but he did not stop to consider whether he was acting wisely; he was motivated by those inner fears and emotions that revolved about himself and Marion and the threat Sam Adler had made to their future together.

Adler had shown Marion two photographs. They must therefore be somewhere in the room now. Without them the police could find no link between Adler and the past. A likely place to keep them would be a man’s wallet, and while he shrank from any contact with the lifeless figure he started toward it, only to stop when he saw the sport coat draped over the back of a chair.

He tried the outside pockets first but found only a pack of cigarettes and paper matches and two sticks of gum. But the inner pockets revealed a coat-type wallet of worn pigskin and he quickly found the two glossy prints in the center fold. He saw that they were about three inches by four, one showing the prints of four fingers of a right hand, the other a well-focused snapshot of a bareheaded man in coveralls. He took a moment to study this one and realize that his wife’s impression had been correct. The background did indeed suggest a filling station and there was some insignia on the breast pocket of the coveralls the man wore.

When he had first begun to call on Marion there had been a cabinet photograph of her first husband in her apartment. This had disappeared after their engagement, but he was as convinced now as she had been that this was an unposed snapshot of Ted Corbin. That he seemed older-looking and leaner than the remembered man in the other photograph seemed to bear out Adler’s contention that the picture had been taken recently.

A quick inspection of the inner pocket of the wallet revealed no other pictures, but he did find a Social Security card and two driver’s licenses. One had been issued in New York State and gave a Flushing address. When he saw that this was an old license he turned to the other, which gave a Conti Street address in Mobile, Alabama. He copied this address in a small notebook before he replaced the wallet, and now a new and urgent thought came to him that was at once discouraging.

If there were photographic prints there had to be negatives. If these were found they would be equally damaging. With this thought in mind he began a quick but thorough search of the room. He made himself bend over the body and pat the hip pockets. He searched the suitcase and the small blue flight bag. He went through the pockets of the gray suit that hung in the alcove and did the same thing to the blue topcoat. The drawers in the chest and the built-in vanity held nothing to interest him, and when he finally ran out of places to look, he was forced to accept the fact that there were no negatives in the room.

But if there were prints there _had_ to be negatives. So where were they?

He repeated the question aloud, a sense of frustration growing in him until he realized that time could be important and he was wasting it. He did not think he had been here long, and as he stepped to the door he told himself that no one could prove he had been here tonight. Or could they?

“How about fingerprints?” he said, half aloud.

What had he touched that might betray him? Not the bathroom door because he had opened that with his elbow. The drawer pulls? No, they were too small. The wallet was something else again and he removed it, rubbed it with his handkerchief, and replaced it gingerly. That left only the outer doorknob, and as he reached for it, handkerchief in hand, one more thought came to nag him.

Marion knew he was coming here but he felt certain he could trust her to say the right thing. But how about Roger Denham? Denham knew he was coming. If questioned, Denham would naturally say so. True, Denham could be cautioned not to give the facts as he knew them, but that might imply guilt and he did not want to be under that sort of obligation to the lawyer. Then, even as he considered the problem, a solution came to him.

The door had been unlocked when he came. All he had to do now was to release the safety catch, thereby locking it. Whoever discovered the body would have to admit that the door was locked from outside and this was exactly what he would tell the police if they ever questioned him.

“I’ll admit I came to see Adler,” he’d say to them. “I knocked and no one answered. I tried the door. It was locked. I figured he was out. There was no way of knowing when he’d be back, so I went home.”

Still with the handkerchief in his hand, he inched the door open, fixed the lock, and mentally crossed his fingers as he prepared to leave. If someone saw him now it would be too bad, but it was a chance he had to take, so he sucked in his breath and went out quickly, closing the door behind him.

The darkness seemed complete after the lighted room but he stepped close to the side of the car with the New York license plates and stood in a half-crouch until his eyes adjusted themselves. He could see nothing, hear nothing but the muted sounds of the radio. Because he did not dare walk the length of the quadrangle and expose himself to the lights of the office and the motel sign, he moved the other way, peering for an opening in the hedge at the rear and finding one, then circling around the far side of the building until he reached the elm, which cast its inky shadow over his car.

He coasted into his garage a few minutes later and came to a stop beside the station wagon. He turned out his headlights and stepped to the floor and then he had to grope in the darkness for the switch that activated the overhead bulb. In doing so he stumbled, and as he put out a hand to steady himself his fingers found the hood of the station wagon. It was then that he became aware of the warmth of the metal and, not quite believing his senses or understanding how this could be, he moved forward, his hand finding the ornamental grille in front of the radiator.

By then he was sure. There could be no mistaking the heat in the radiator and he stayed where he was as his mind raced on, disturbed and strangely frightened by his discovery and the knowledge that Marion had used the car, and recently.

But how recently? And for what purpose?

He tried to tell himself that this was not unusual, that there was some simple and innocent explanation. A trip to the drugstore for a prescription or some toiletry or a late newspaper. This, he knew, had happened before, but even as he acknowledged the possibility he remembered again the woman he had seen so briefly at the motel, the distinctive odor of perfume in the lighted bathroom. To arrest such unwanted imagery he glanced at his watch and was surprised to see that it was still only ten minutes after nine.

This, he told himself as he pulled down the overhead door and turned toward the breezeway, was all to the good, and as he crossed the area to the darkened kitchen he outlined the tentative timetable which began with his prompt arrival at Roger Denham’s place at eight o’clock.

He had been there no more than a half hour, if that. Another ten minutes, say eight-forty, had brought him to Jerry’s Tavern. Five minutes with his brandy would put him at Sam Adler’s door at eight-forty-five or a minute later. Since it was about a ten-minute drive from the tavern here, he must have been at the motel no more than twelve or fourteen minutes.

And he not only had the two pictures; he had not been seen. So what should he do about Marion? Ask her where she’d been or pretend he did not know she had been gone? This, he knew at once, would be best, and he was determined to stick with the decision as he entered the kitchen and locked the door behind him.

_6_

He did not stop in the kitchen but continued on into the lighted living room, expecting to find his wife in her chair and wondering just what he was going to say to her. Then, even as he brought some discipline to his thoughts, he realized that the effort was wasted. The room was empty and the only light came from a floor lamp by the wing chair.

For a second or two as he stood there he felt a welcome sense of relief, but it did not last when he remembered the station wagon and its warm radiator. Because he knew she must be home he moved quietly to the inner hall. From there he could see the open door of their bedroom and the darkness beyond. Still moving soundlessly, he reached the doorway and peered inside. There was enough light behind him to reveal the elongated mound her body made under the covers and the dark hair spread upon the pillow.

The fact that she had gone to bed early was, in itself, not unusual. In the last couple of months there had been several times when she had retired soon after dinner and he understood the reason for this. On those occasions he would come into their darkened room and undress as quietly as he could. Sometimes she would be awake, or would waken, and he would slip into bed beside her and hold her until she fell asleep again. At other times, knowing that she was asleep and not wanting to disturb her, he would move down the hall to the guest bedroom. The fact that the light was already on here was her way of telling him that tonight she was inviting him to sleep alone, and he stood another moment, watching for some sign of movement and wondering whether she was asleep or whether she was afraid of the questions he might ask.

The thought brought with it a sense of frustration but it gave him little alternative and he went back to the kitchen and turned on the light. The dishes they had used for their soup and salad earlier had been rinsed and stacked on the counter and he now put them into the dishwasher. He thought about making a drink and knew he did not want one. But he wanted something and he compromised by getting a beer from the refrigerator. He took this into the living room, and when he had a cigarette going he eased into the chair, his somber gaze fixed but unseeing and his mouth set grimly as his mind began again to grapple with his problems.

He made no conscious effort to think; he simply could not help himself. He found himself wondering how long it would be before Sam Adler’s body was discovered. He wondered what course the police investigation would take, and as he recalled again the story of George Freeman’s fight with the stranger he found a new motive for Adler’s death. Freeman was the quiet type that no one seemed to know too well. That he was intensely jealous where Doris Lamar was concerned seemed obvious in the light of what had happened, but he realized now that there was no point in trying to imagine what Freeman might do under extreme provocation.

Once the investigation was under way, the police would be sure to learn about the relationship between Freeman and Doris Lamar and Sam Adler. But--and this thought jarred him--they might also learn from Doris that Adler had been asking questions about him. Suppose they came here to ask other questions. Suppose someone had seen Marion tonight when she was out in the station wagon. Suppose...

This line of reasoning angered him and he swore aloud. Such disloyalty shamed him and he told himself again that Marion could not have killed Adler; she could not kill anyone. She was a completely normal, well-adjusted, and sensible girl. She always had been. The fact that her pregnancy had given her some moments of emotional turbulence could not possibly have brought her to the point of violence. This is what he told himself and this is what he believed, and yet some obscure segment of his brain that he could not control persisted in asserting itself.

He could not forget the knife that had been thrust into Sam Adler’s back. It was, he felt sure, a kitchen knife of some sort, and the obvious assumption was that it had come from the kitchenette in Adler’s room. But he could not dismiss the thought that Adler had been stabbed in the back. It was hard for him to understand why a man would use this method unless the killing was premeditated. But to a woman a kitchen knife was a familiar object. Driven by fear or desperation or a moment of temporary insanity, a woman wanting to strike back and finding such a knife handy might use it.

He lost track of time as he sat there brooding, his beer forgotten and growing flat in the glass. In an effort to curb his imagination and to submerge his present doubts and fears, he forced his mind back into the past while he considered the girl he had married, not just as he knew her since they had been together, but before that, before Ted Corbin.

She had been brought up in Westchester in a family that was socially acceptable and soundly rooted. As Marion Haskell there was enough money for a good finishing school and a college education, even though the Haskells had never been wealthy. Her father worked in Wall Street and his speculations were not always too wise, so that when a heart attack took him a month or so before Marion was to graduate from Vassar, there was not a great deal left except the house, two small insurance policies payable to her and her brother, and a large one that went to her mother, who, for the past few years, had been living with her son in Texas.

Marion had gone to work for an advertising agency in New York immediately after graduation. She had been sharing an apartment with another girl when she met Ted Corbin, who was a friend of a friend of her roommate’s. Corbin was working as a paper salesman at the time, and the factors that caused the marriage to founder after three years were the very ones that attracted Marion to him in the first place.

That Corbin was a big, good-looking, and easygoing man was at once in his favor, but what intrigued her most was the fact that he was so different from the young men she had gone out with in the past. Mostly these were Ivy League youths whose standards, conduct, and ambitions were so similar to her own. The pattern was familiar to her and she enjoyed being with them; the affairs that she had with one or another from time to time were in a minor key, but always the language they shared was the same.