Mecca for Murder Read online

  “Not going to,” the county attorney’s man said. “I play fair, Drum. None of you saw the older Mrs. Tyler at the time of the killing. I have your statements, which you’ll sign. I have the dead girl’s note. What do I need material witnesses for?”

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “Be taking Mrs. Tyler down to Toano, though. For booking.” He filled a pipe from a white packet of Mixture 79 and got it working on two matches. He said,” “I hope you’re going to lay off, Drum.”

  “Why shouldn’t I?”

  “Well, you know. A peeper. You got your hooks into one of these people?”

  “I already told you. Miss Totah hired me just for the day.”

  “That ends it?”

  “One day, she said.” I didn’t tell him about the thousand dollars Davisa would pay me if I could keep her son in this country.

  I don’t know if he was satisfied or not. He let it pass, though, and waited contentedly with his pipe for the statements. Moses and the young driver brought them out in triplicate. We all signed. Davisa asked if she could call her lawyer now but the sheriff told her after the booking was proper. Two members of the Richmond team dropped the tail gate of the sheriff’s station wagon and put the body in there. Then Moses watched everyone climb into cars. Fawzia and I were the last to leave. Moses looked very forlorn standing in the circular driveway. Fawzia waved as I turned the De Soto on the gravel driveway and headed northwest for Richmond and Washington.

  We listened to a Richmond disk jockey and a news broadcast on the way to Richmond. We didn’t say anything. The night was dark and warm, without any stars. There was static on the radio, as if it were raining between Toano and Richmond. We ran into the rain just before Richmond, although we had seen the lightning for some time.

  We stopped for hamburgers and beer at a wagon. We climbed back into the car and soon drove along Broad Street, the wet pavement mirroring neon on either side of us. We hit Route 1 going north and the rain drummed and drummed on the De Soto’s canvas roof. Fawzia lit a cigarette with the dash lighter.

  “Why don’t you say what you’re thinking?” she asked. “A girl was killed there and I didn’t even bat an eyelash.”

  I lit a cigarette for myself and said, “A girl was killed there and you didn’t bat an eyelash.”

  “I wonder why Davisa killed her,” she said.

  “If Davisa killed her.”

  “What do you mean, if?”

  “Davisa denies it. She’ll be given a trial. The state will have to prove motive—”

  “Motive? The relationship between Davisa and Lyman is right out of a textbook in abnormal psychology.”

  “But you love the guy?”

  “I never said I loved him. I’m attracted to him.”

  We pulled out of lane and passed a semi-trailer which sprayed muddy rain on the windshield. Fawzia ground her cigarette out in the dashboard ashtray and said, “Well, I guess that’s it for you. If you drive me home when we get to Washington, I’ll write you a check. I’m glad you came with me, Chester. You think I was cold back there? Death meant nothing to me? It wasn’t like that at all. It was Davisa. I wouldn’t give Davisa the satisfaction. I wanted to show I could be as tough as she was. I couldn’t have done it if you weren’t with me. I would have broken down.”

  “That’s not it for me,” I said.

  “I don’t understand. What do you mean?”

  “Ever been on the Hajj before?”

  “No.”

  “It means a lot to a Moslem, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes. But I’m not very religious.”

  “I don’t get it.”

  “It’s something I owe my father. You see, my mother was an American and I spent almost half my life here. But I was brought up in ’Amman. My parents weren’t living together for many years. They’re both dead now. My mother didn’t have any religion, but my father was a devout Moslem. I guess I owe this pilgrimage to my father’s memory.”

  “You’re not going.”

  “I owe it to my father for another reason. Do you know anything about Moslem women, Chester? They—What did you say?”

  “Tell me the other reason.”

  “You said I wasn’t going. Didn’t you?”

  “Tell me the other reason.”

  “I went to college here in America. Then I went back to Jordan, but my father was a proud man. Religion got between us. The expected role of Moslem women got between us. I was supposed to wear a black cloak in all kinds of weather and never go out on the street unescorted. I was proud, too, but my father didn’t understand. He kept pushing me. There are only two kinds of women in an Arab country. There’s no in-between. He could push me only so far.”

  “You were the other kind?”

  “It doesn’t mean what you think it means. I was a belly dancer. I was pretty good, too. It almost broke his heart. That’s also why I owe him this pilgrimage. Now, what do you mean I’m not going?”

  “Do you think Davisa killed Suzanne?”

  “Of course I think so. What else can I think?”

  “Nothing, I guess. Davisa made a long-distance telephone call. To ’Amman, Jordan.”

  “Is that so? You went outside to eavesdrop, didn’t you?”

  “I’m a detective. She called someone in ’Amman, Jordan. I don’t know who it was, but he knew you and he knew Lyman Lee Tyler too.” I had Fawzia’s interest now. She leaned closer to me. Her hand touched my shoulder. “Davisa had a job for him to do.”

  “What kind of job?”

  “A job on you, Fawzia. Davisa wanted him to kill you.”

  Her hand clenched on my shoulder, then relaxed. She made a sound something like a sigh but broke it off with a nervous little laugh. “You don’t believe that,” she said. “Do you?”

  “I guess I do.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense. Why would Davisa shoot Suzanne on her own estate, almost within sight of you and me and Moses, and then make all these elaborate preparations for me?”

  “I never said I thought Davisa shot Suzanne.”

  “But—”

  “That’s exactly why I think she didn’t shoot her. But it isn’t my business. You are.”

  “Not after you take me home, I’m not.”

  “I won’t argue with you,” I Said. “I only want you to know what’s going on. Listen, they have nothing to lose. You think the trigger man will get caught, traipsing around Mecca with half a million pilgrims? You think they’ll connect Davisa with it, five thousand miles away?”

  “But what’s the motive?”

  “Now you’re joking. You told me the motive. That’s why you wanted me to come out here with you. Use your head.”

  The rain was harder now. We crawled along at twenty miles an hour and could barely see through the windshield. Fawzia’s hand still rested on my shoulder, warm but almost without weight.

  “I’m going,” she said.

  “I’m a lonely man,” I said. “I don’t tell this to everyone, but it’s the truth. I don’t usually take a vacation because I might miss somebody’s troubles and his fee, but I’m going to make an exception. There’s a place I know up in the—”

  “Is this a proposition, Mr. Drum?”

  “Sure,” I said. “I can’t afford a regular call girl and no one else would go with me.”

  “You’re sweet, Chester. But you’d have to kidnap me to keep me off that pilgrimage.”

  I smiled. I don’t get called sweet very often.

  “Stop the car for a minute, please, Chester.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Stop the car and you’ll see.”

  Half a mile down the road, we came to a night-closed gas station. I pulled in near the pumps. Fawzia leaned across the wheel and explored the dashboard until she found the headlight switch and the ignition key. She cut off both of them. The drumming of the rain was a comfortable sound because it was bone-dry inside the car. Fawzia squirmed around fluidly on the blue leather upholstery as
only an ex-belly dancer could.

  “Kiss me, Chester,” she said. “I’ve wanted you to kiss me ever since we left Tyler Acres. You’re the sweetest tough guy I ever met.”

  “Be quiet,” I said. “You’re playing hob with my reputation.”

  “Oh, to hell with your reputation.”

  Her head was under mine, at an interesting angle, a three-quarter profile. She had a lovely three-quarter profile. I kissed her. Her lips were soft and warm and would do whatever my lips wanted them to do, and then some. She was leaning half across my lap and half on the steering wheel. Her hands around my neck supported her. She drew herself up slowly as if she were chinning and her head came alongside mine. She put the tip of her tongue in my ear and came back for another kiss. It was a long kiss and when we finished we sat there saying things we didn’t mean against each other’s mouth. Then Fawzia pulled away from me and sat up, smoothing her blouse. Suddenly she looked angry.

  “I want a drink,” she said.

  I leaned across her knees and opened the glove compartment. There was a pint of rye in there with a couple of drinks gone. I took it out and unscrewed the cover and gave it to Fawzia. She tilted it and drank. She stopped only when her eyes began to tear. She handed me the bottle.

  “Better take one,” she said.

  I took one.

  I grinned at her. I still didn’t know what she wanted. I made a production of looking at my wristwatch and said, “It isn’t midnight yet. We’re still working on your fifty bucks, Cinderella.”

  “Just start driving.”

  The De Soto kicked over smoothly. We left the gravel of the closed service station and the tires made the noise tires will make on wet pavement. Fawzia took another drink. “You can help me,” she said.

  “How can I help you? I’m slow. You left me back there at the gas station.”

  “I’m a bitch. Call me a bitch.”

  “What the hell do you want for fifty bucks? A bodyguard, a psychiatrist, a lover and a father confessor?”

  “All right, forget it. Drop me anyplace in Washington. I’ll send you a check in the morning.”

  “You win,” I said. I didn’t know if she was drunk or not. “But do you mind telling me why?”

  “Sure. You’re sweet. And you’re tough and you’re capable. But that isn’t why I wanted to kiss you.”

  “No?”

  “I was fighting Limerock. I’m fighting him all the time. I was using you to fight him and it isn’t fair to do this.”

  “I thought you said it was just for kicks with Limerock.”

  “Every way but physically it’s just for kicks. He does something to me. I can’t help it. It’s biological. I kissed you. I closed my eyes and said this man is not Limerock. It was very nice, but you wouldn’t want to kiss me as part of an experiment, would you?”

  “Oh, for God’s sake, stop taking yourself so seriously. So you wanted to kiss me. I didn’t ask if you had any ulterior motive.”

  “Take another drink, Chester. And I want you to know I’m sorry.”

  “You take the drink, baby. You need it.”

  She talked about the weather the rest of the way into D.C. The rain slowed to a drizzle and then stopped. I put the top back in its boot and water ran off it and splashed down on us, more of it dripping down from the trees as we entered the outskirts of the city, and we both laughed. That was better.

  I took her to the Lancaster Arms, where her apartment was. I got out and walked her inside the lobby. She wobbled slightly. The Lancaster Arms had a large plate-glass, double-door entranceway flanked by glass brick. Inside, though, the management had been less ambitious. There were ersatz leather chairs, the ersatz leather concave over sagging springs. There was a large potted palm and a desk behind which sat a sleepy-looking young fellow with close-set eyes and a long, drooping nose. He did a histrionic double take when he saw us.

  He said, “See you for a minute, Miz Totah?”

  He saw her for a minute. As she came back toward me he shook his head and offered me a leer. Fawzia said, “You can’t come up with me.”

  “So mail me the check,” I said.

  Fawzia squeezed my hand. “I like you,” she said. “I really do.” She pecked at my cheeks with her lips, both cheeks, like a Frenchman giving medals and with about the same quantity of sex. She walked to the elevator and entered it and the gate rolled shut. I went over to the lad behind the desk.

  “What did you tell her?” I said.

  He showed me his empty palm. I showed him my fist and said, “What did you tell her?”

  “Fellow up there.”

  “In her apartment?”

  “Where else, the incinerator chute?”

  “You answer the questions,” I said. “I’ll make the jokes. In her apartment?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What fellow?”

  “Aw, lay off. Who are you, mister?”

  “I’m her long-lost husband,” I said.

  “The colonel.”

  “Colonel Tyler?”

  His head bobbed up and down on a skinny neck.

  “He come often?”

  “Often enough, pal.” He was more cheerful now. He thought he was making me squirm.

  I was going to ask him if the colonel stayed overnight, but I didn’t. I went outside into the wet-smelling air and drove home to my own apartment, which is between the Uline Ice Arena and the freight yards in a building which had started going to seed before F.D.R.’s first inaugural address, but which had managed to maintain the status quo since then.

  Sleep didn’t come in a hurry. I dreamed I was chasing Fawzia Totah in a white sheet through a crowd of lewdly leering men, all wearing white sheets. I didn’t catch her.

  Chapter Eight

  I let myself into my office in the Farrell Building early the next morning. I opened the window and sat on the edge of the desk, dabbing at the back of my head with a handkerchief. It was hot already. It was going to be hotter before the sun went down. I looked across the small room at the paint peeling off the plaster of the archway which led out to the waiting room. I could make out the Chester Drum—Confidential Investigations, the letters reversed, on the door. I thought of a lot of other men, nameless men, in offices similar to this, waiting through the oppressive, early-morning heat for the day’s business to unfold itself. If nothing came through the door by a quarter to ten I would lock up, give myself an E for effort, and drive into the Virginia mountains for a long weekend.

  He came through the door at a quarter to ten exactly. He was a big guy dressed in a wash-and-wear seersucker suit and a lightweight straw hat. He had a hard, out-thrusting jaw and a mouth that was a tight, thin line. His nose was prominent and had been knocked off center, probably by proximity to bare fists. His eyes were tired, cold and appraising. They looked a lot like the eyes I saw in the mirror when I shaved. Everything about him said cop.

  “Drum?” he said.

  “Come on in.”

  “Drum,” he said, “how would you like to earn a C-note for doing absolutely nothing the rest of this week and the first half of next?”

  “That would be very nice,” I said. “What are you doing, selling numbers?”

  “No, I mean it. Here.” He got a billfold from his breast pocket, counted out five sawbucks and dropped them on the desk.

  I picked them up, counted them ostentatiously, and put them in my desk drawer. I stood up and came around the desk. “Well, thank you,” I said. “It was very nice of you.” I went through the archway toward the door and opened it. “Well, so long.”

  He didn’t move. “You’re cool, Drum,” he said.

  “As a matter of fact, I’m hot. Damned hot. But thanks for the hundred. I promise not to do anything to earn it. Now beat it, will you?”

  He laughed. It was a technicolor laugh. His voice was gray, though, a dark, even gray. He said, “All right. Fun is fun, pal.”

  “Don’t tell me you’re an Indian-giver?”

  “For the last ti
me, Drum.”

  “For the last time, what? This is my office. I transact business here. I don’t have time for riddles. So beat it.”

  “You’ve got plenty of time for riddles in your business in the summertime. I know all about your business.”

  “Who are you?”

  “P.I.,” he said. “Just like you.”

  “I didn’t hear the name.”

  “It’s Lash. Lew Lash. Heard of me?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I heard of you. Want to split a fee?” I opened the desk drawer and took out the five sawbucks. I held them in my hand. I said, “I’m on a case.”

  “I know you’re on a case. It’s why I’m here.”

  I put the five sawbucks away again. “I’m listening.”

  “My client is Colonel Lyman Lee Tyler. He’s making it worth my while to see that nothing stops him from leaving the country next Tuesday. Any questions?”

  “Just one. Do you know how much I earn if he doesn’t leave the country?”

  “A grand. You’ll never earn it, Drum. But you get a sure hundred for doing nothing.”

  “Get lost,” I said.

  “You think I’m kidding?”

  “Hell, no, I don’t think you’re kidding. You already gave me the C-note for doing nothing. Win, lose, or draw, my client gives me one to match it, just for being in there. Two hundred bucks for doing absolutely nothing. I’ll bet you’re jealous.”

  “Don’t be a sap, Drum. If it comes to a fight, I’ve got the law on my side. What will you do, kidnap my client?”

  “Let me do my own worrying,” I said. “It was nice meeting you, Lash.”

  “Shoot, go ahead and keep the hundred. And call me Lew.”

  I leered at him. “Try and get it back.”

  “But if you keep it, that means you’re playing ball. Doesn’t it, brother rat?”

  “Drop up some time,” I said, “and we’ll swap shamus stories.” I went to the door with him.

  “Well, I’m in you a hundred bucks’ worth, Chester. I’ll see you.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “You want to earn the hundred back?”

  He was silent.

  “Answer one question,” I said. I took the money out again.