Dead, She Was Beautiful Read online

  “One thing I got to remember,” he admonished himself, “is that I was hired to be here the night Hilda died. It wasn’t a coincidence.”

  Hagen decided that he had gone just about as far as he could go on the basis of the present evidence, so the logical move was to go collect some more. He had heard Dr. Hebb’s car pull away some time before, which indicated that Wayne Wishart was out of danger and presumably able to talk. Hagen thought that he and his new employer had a good deal to discuss.

  As he went back to the house he saw a light in the garage. He peeped through the window. Avis Gill was industriously searching the station wagon with the aid of a flashlight. Hagen didn’t bother to watch or to comment. He went into the house instead and sought the bedroom.

  Wayne Wishart was sitting up in bed. He looked pale and shaken, his pallor emphasized by his red hair. The sight of Hagen didn’t appear to cheer him up any. Mrs. Wishart looked unhappy too, but not about Hagen particularly. He gathered that the mother had been giving her son considerably more than a piece of her mind concerning his actions. A kind word would have been a more cheering note on which to re-enter the world, but Hagen thought that the present situation was probably typical. Mrs. Wishart would still be giving instructions to the undertaker as they threw the first shovelful of dirt in her face.

  She told him his place now. “Hagen, you’ll have to go. I thought you already had. Dr. Hebb says definitely no visitors.”

  “Quite right, too,” Hagen agreed. “Lucky for me I’m just an employee so the rule doesn’t apply.”

  Wishart said huskily, “What’s this? What’s he talking about?”

  “Oh, hasn’t your mother told you? I’m working for you now in my professional capacity.”

  Mrs. Wishart said, “I thought I’d better, Wayne. It seemed the only way to insure that he’d keep his mouth shut about—about what happened.”

  Wishart shrugged. “It makes no difference to me what he says. Go ahead, Hagen, you can tell everyone. Wayne Wishart tried to commit suicide. Go ahead, tell them—you’ll be quite a hero and get your name in the papers.”

  “I’ve already had my name in the papers, thanks.”

  “Well, it just doesn’t matter to me,” said Wishart indifferently. “One more thing won’t hurt.”

  “Wayne, don’t talk that way,” his mother admonished. “This isn’t like you, quitting when the going gets tough. Where’s your spunk?”

  Hagen doubted if Wishart had very much. Men with mothers like Rosemary Wishart usually didn’t. He said soothingly, “No use to look on the dark side. As far as I’m concerned, nothing happened tonight except that you hired me to look into Hilda’s death. Let’s forget everything else and talk about that.”

  “I don’t want to talk to you about anything,” said Wishart. “Please get out.”

  “It’s not that easy. We got things in common.” Hagen tossed the diary in Wishart’s lap. “Read any good books lately?”

  He didn’t think it was possible for Wishart, in his present condition, to pale further. But he did. His mother gasped. Wishart said softly, “So that’s where it was!”

  “That’s right,” agreed Hagen. He sat down on the foot of the bed and got out cigarettes and offered them around. No one accepted so he smoked alone. “And to save time, let me add that I’ve read it from cover to cover, except for a few dull spots. I presume you’ve done the same thing?”

  “Yes,” Wishart muttered, staring down at the book. He hadn’t touched it, recoiling almost as if it were alive. “Both Mother and I’ve read it.”

  “ Well, it’ll never make Book-of-the-Month Club but it has its points, as the man says.” Hagen blew out a smoke ring and regarded it pleasurably. “When did you find it?”

  “Today, when I was—going through Hilda’s things.” Wishart turned suddenly to the woman. “Get me a drink, will you? I feel like I’m coming apart at the seams.”

  “I don’t think I’d better,” she objected. “Perhaps Dr. Hebb—”

  Hagen said, “Oh, give the man a drink. He needs one. Maybe we all do. I got a bad taste in my mouth.” When Mrs. Wishart, still grumbling, had gone, he said, “Now what were you going to tell me?”

  “I didn’t want her to hear,” said Wishart, a trifle sheepishly, “because I promised her I wouldn’t tell. It was really she who found Hilda’s diary today. She was poking around Hilda’s bedroom.

  “She didn’t want me to mention it. She wanted it to look like I was the one who found it, so she wouldn’t appear to be an old busybody.”

  “Now who’d think a thing like that? “said Hagen.

  “It’s not really important to anyone except her. But I thought I’d humour her.”

  “Let’s get back to the diary. What did you think about it?”

  Wishart shook his head as if it ached. “I don’t know. God, I couldn’t believe it. I still don’t. Hilda wasn’t … I don’t care what it says there. It must have been her idea of a joke.”

  “Great sense of humour,” agreed Hagen. “The only question is: who’s laughing? I’ll bet it isn’t Bruce.”

  Rosemary Wishart came back with two glasses, their bottoms barely awash with liquor. Hagen eyed his wryly but said nothing; after all, he was on duty. She remained standing while they drank. She said, “If you want to know what I think, I’m not surprised at all. I never did care for that woman.”

  “Be quiet,” said her son. “Be careful what you’re saying.”

  “Fiddlesticks. It’s no secret. I never trusted her and made no bones about it.” Mrs. Wishart tossed her head. “I won’t claim that I suspected she was a murderess, but I certainly wouldn’t put it past her.”

  “I don’t think it’s fair—when Hilda isn’t here to defend herself.”

  “We should consider ourselves lucky. You might have been next.”

  Hagen, listening to what seemed to be a normal wrangle between the two, had a pang of sympathy for the dead woman. An unstable husband, an antagonistic mother-in-law…. Despite what Hilda had said, her life in this house couldn’t have been a bed of roses. He kept this opinion to himself, however.

  Finally, he interrupted to say, “Well, that’s all water under the bridge. I’d like to bring the minutes up to date.” He examined the diary and looked at Wishart. “Where were you taking this tonight?”

  Wishart didn’t hesitate. “To the police. We had a little—discussion, mother and I, and we decided that it was too important not to go to the authorities. That’s where I was going.”

  “But you didn’t. Instead, you turned on the gas. Why?”

  “I don’t know that I can tell you,” Wishart said wearily. He looked off across the room, away from Hagen and also his mother who appeared to be as eager for an answer as anyone. “I really intended to go to the police, right up to the moment I got into the car. I have one of those electronic gadgets, you know, that opens and shuts the garage doors from the car. I remember I started the engine and was going to flip the control switch and then … well, I thought, what if I don’t? What if I just sit here until I go to sleep? I know it was the wrong thing to do but it seemed such an easy thing to do.”

  Because his tone sounded a trifle wistful, Hagen made his own stern. “I’m going to give it to you straight, Wishart. If you think what you tried to do tonight was either smart or easy, you’ve got another think coming. All you were doing was trying to duck out and let somebody else take the bumps. Now I know from experience that a man who really intends to kill himself can’t be stopped. I’ve seen men hang themselves with their shoelaces and open up their wrists with broken watch crystals, even when they were under twenty-four hour guard. They couldn’t be stopped. You can’t be stopped, by me or anybody else—except yourself. I hope you’ll smarten up. I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

  Wishart muttered, “I know you’re right.”

  “Bet your life, I’m right. If you kill yourself, everybody will hang Hilda’s murder on you, whether it’s true or not. I hope you think mo
re of your name and your family than that.”

  “Whether it’s true or not,” echoed Wishart. He looked surprised. “Hagen, if that means what it sounds like—well, it’s not so. I didn’t kill Hilda.”

  “Now you’re getting to sound like me,” said Hagen. “Believe me, buddy, I’m in a lot worse spot than you are, and you don’t find me in any smoke-filled garages, do you? Except to pull out guys who should know better.”

  Personally, Hagen thought he sounded like a self-righteous busybody but Wishart appeared too weak to resent it. He had a more intimate reason than the good of society for keeping this man alive. It was a good and simple motive: Hagen didn’t want to be blamed for Wishart’s murder too. And it could have looked like murder much too easily. Had he perished in the monoxide tonight, the police would have been extremely curious about Hagen’s proximity. One death at a time was plenty.

  But Wishart took his pious prating seriously. He nodded. He even managed a wavering smile. “You don’t have to worry about my trying that stunt again. You’re absolutely right, Hagen. I was an ass to let it affect me that way. Truthfully, though I hate to admit it, I was more upset about Oakmar and what’s going to happen to it than I was about Hilda.”

  “You don’t have to be afraid to admit that to me. If I had to choose between Hilda and Oakmar—”

  Mrs. Wishart broke in, “I don’t really understand what you’re so worried about anyway, Wayne. Just because a witch on wheels got herself murdered isn’t going to make any difference in Oakmar that I can see.” She gave a harsh chuckle. “Might even increase the value. I know people.”

  Hagen felt the same way. He thought that there was still more worrying Wayne Wishart than the man was willing to admit. He said, probing, “I’d like your ideas on this diary. To start with, what’s the year?”

  “I don’t know,” Wishart admitted. “I wondered too. I really knew so very little about Hilda “—his mother snorted—”and what I do know is scanty. We’d been married a year and she never talked about anything that went back over a year past that.”

  “That would be two years,” figured Hagen. “And three years ago she was married to me. So it’s simple. The diary covers the year following our divorce, when she dropped out of sight.” He sighed and got up. “Well, looks like a little legwork is indicated.”

  “What are you going to do with it?” asked Wishart in surprise. Hagen had picked up the diary.

  “Taking the torch from your failing hand.” Hagen patted the diary. “It goes to Troge in the morning.” He smiled at both of them. “Just to keep our stories straight, I’ll claim the credit for finding it—as your employee, naturally.”

  Wishart leaned forward in bed as if he were going to protest Hagen’s actions. But then he apparently thought better of it, bit his lip and frowned and said nothing. Hagen waited, wondering a little.

  They were interrupted by the appearance of Avis Gill. The secretary came in, her hands grimy. She said, “I’m sorry, Mr. Wishart, but I couldn’t find it any—” She broke off as she saw Hagen. “Oh.”

  “Never mind,” he said, and went to the door. As he passed Avis, he showed her the diary. “This is it.” In the doorway he turned as if in afterthought. “Oh, by the way, Wishart—when you see Jack, give him my regards.”

  From his position Hagen was able to see each face. Mrs. Wishart had no particular reaction. Avis was startled. She looked immediately at Wayne Wishart who was positively thunderstruck. He stammered, “I don’t understand—Jack who?”

  “Last name omitted,” Hagen said. “Seems to be catching. But all things shall be revealed. Goodnight.”

  He left the house unescorted and crossed the street to his car. But he didn’t drive off immediately. Instead, he lingered until the lights in the big house began to extinguish themselves one by one. Then Hagen got out and walked the length of the driveway to the garage. He removed the distributor head to the engine of each car and put them to one side where they might be found—but not without a search.

  Satisfied that no one in the Wishart household would leave via their own automobiles tonight, Hagen drove off. He stopped at the first service station he came to and used the pay telephone to call the city’s principal taxicab company. He was friendly with the dispatcher since Hagen’s services at one time had enabled the dispatcher to shed one wife and garner another. Hagen considered this a dubious favour but the dispatcher apparently did not.

  When he hung up, he thought he could relax. The dispatcher had promised that, should anyone at the Wishart house call a cab, a record of the trip and destination would be kept.

  “That takes care of one angle,” he muttered. He got in his car and drove off to take care of another.

  15

  DAGNE’S apartment windows were dark but he rang the bell anyway and stood with his finger jammed against it until at last he heard some movement from inside. Then the door was opened a crack and part of Dagne’s face peered out. She looked foggy with sleep but at the sight of him her blue eyes came to life. She opened the door wider but not wide enough to admit him.

  “Well, are you or aren’t you?” Hagen asked pleasantly. “If you aren’t, then say so and I can begin busting down the door. I’ve got to talk to you, Dagne.”

  She considered him hostilely. “Do you know what time it is, Hagen?”

  “My watch is busted. So are my arches from standing out here in the cold. Come on, let me in.”

  She did so reluctantly. In a caustic voice, she said, “I keep an extra key on the shade over the porchlight. I’m surprised you didn’t use it and walk right in.”

  “Didn’t know it was there,” Hagen admitted. He looked around the living room—it was expensively furnished in Swedish modern style—and chose the sofa. Dagne was still standing. He patted the cushions. “At ease, honey. Smoke if you got ‘em.”

  She saw nothing halfway humorous in his presence. She was wearing a cream-white negligee of heavy silk with frothy lace at ankle and wrist. It, and the nightgown beneath it, translated a good deal that was flattering about her luscious figure. Dagne had the warm soft look that certain women achieve when awakened from sleep, a kitten charm that invites cuddling. It didn’t extend to her face, however. She regarded Hagen with refrigerated suspicion. “What exactly do you want, Hagen?”

  “Sit down and I’ll tell you.”

  “I can listen standing, thank you. I don’t want you to get too cosy.”

  He shifted around invitingly on the sofa. Then, since she merely stood and waited, he said, “Well, might as well get to it. Did you ever see this before?” He held up Hilda’s richly-bound diary.

  Dagne gave it an incurious glance. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Well, don’t you even want to know what it is?”

  “It looks like a book to me and I suppose that’s what it is.”

  “Yes, it’s a book but a special kind. It’s a diary. It belonged to your sister.”

  This stirred her. She forgot to hold up her guard of hostility and came forward, stretching out a hand for it. Hagen opened the book before he gave it to her. He opened to the page headed June 8, and waited for her reaction.

  He wasn’t disappointed. Dagne’s face, at first merely curious, slowly congealed as she read, and then as slowly began to dissolve. Her lips started to tremble, then Hagen saw her shoulders quiver and he sprang up. He caught her as she staggered and dropped the diary. It fell to the floor in a sprawl of pages. Hagen eased the girl to the sofa. She was shivering as if gripped by a chill.

  He said, “Then you didn’t know.”

  “ No,” she whispered and then rallied her voice with an effort. “It’s not so! That can’t be Hilda’s diary, it can’t be. I know that she wouldn’t do anything like … It must be a forgery!”

  “Why should it be?”

  “You think it’s a forgery, don’t you, Hagen?” She peered at him and gripped his hands tightly.

  “No,” he said gently. “I’m sorry, Dagne, but I think that for o
nce in her life Hilda was telling the truth.”

  “But that would mean—” Suddenly, she put her head down into her hands. “I won’t believe it! There wouldn’t be anything left. Hilda was headstrong, God knows, but she wasn’t—she wouldn’t …”

  Hagen put his arm around her bowed shoulders and held her protectively. “Dagne, there’s no such thing as a born killer. There are only people and circumstances. Put them together wrong and sometimes it adds to murder.”

  She didn’t reply or look at him and they sat there for a while in silence. Hagen didn’t mind their proximity a bit. Although respecting her grief, he could not share it, and so the moment was far from unpleasant for him. But finally Dagne raised her head. “What happens now, Hagen?”

  He shrugged.

  “I mean, does anyone else have to know?” She looked at the diary where it lay on the floor and then back to him, craftily. “It wouldn’t hurt anybody if we just kept it between ourselves, would it?”

  Hagen said slowly, “Dagne, it’s sort of ironic. Tonight you’re asking me to do the same thing you threw in my teeth this afternoon. Mislead the cops. But, believe me, it’s not because I want to pay you back that I’m going to have to say no.”

  She moved slowly away from him along the sofa, in command of herself again. In a half-coquettish, half-speculating tone she asked, “Isn’t there anything I might say—or do—that could make you change your mind?”

  “There are a number of things that might make it harder for me,” Hagen said, “but I don’t think there’s anything that would stop me.”

  “At least, you’re honest,” she admitted and gathered her negligee a trifle more modestly over her knees.

  Hagen grinned at her. “We’ve come a long way just to get you to concede that.” He picked up the diary and put it on the coffee table in front of them. As he did so, he glanced at his wrist watch. It was a few minutes past eleven. “Well, we’ve got time for a little group discussion about this thing, Dagne. I’m asking your help. Not for my own sake, though I’ll admit that’s what I’m principally concerned with at the moment, but for Hilda’s sake. I’ve got a strong hunch that this diary is the key to the whole thing, why she was murdered. Don’t ask me to prove it because it’s only a hunch right now.”