Dead, She Was Beautiful Page 5

“That paper he signed says different. Where is he?”

  “Wishart claims he never signed the paper. He says he’s never even seen you.”

  “Then he’s lying all the way,” said Hagen hotly. “Stack Wishart and me up face to face, Troge, and I’ll prove who’s telling the truth and who isn’t.”

  “I don’t think that will really be necessary,” said Troge. He swung sharply toward the man who had laughed. “What about it, Mr. Wishart—does what you said still go?”

  “It certainly does, Captain,” the man said. “I never saw him before in my life. And I think it’s quite obvious that he never saw me, either.”

  Troge spread his hands and looked at Hagen. “There it is.”

  Hagen was gaping at the red-haired man Troge had called Wishart, still not quite comprehending. Stammering a trifle, he said, “What’s going on here? This guy isn’t Wishart. I never saw him before. There’s a mistake somewhere.”

  “That’s the first true word he’s spoken,” said Wishart grimly.

  “But he’s not Wishart!” Hagen insisted. Floundering, he went on, “Wishart’s older, grey hair—when you see him you’ll …” He stopped, though no one had interrupted him, because it was obvious no one believed him.

  Wishart said, “I don’t see how he thought he could get away with it.” He was considerably younger than the man who had used his name, closer to Hagen’s own age. His tanned face, normally thin-featured, was drawn and haggard as though he hadn’t slept the night before. The green eyes that pierced Hagen were bitter and bloodshot. “He must be crazy.”

  Hagen said heavily, “Not crazy—just plain stupid, that’s me. I figured out that the rest of the set-up was phoney. I should have realized that Wishart was a ringer, too.” He looked at Troge. “Well, what happens now?”

  Troge said, “That depends. First, I’ll trot out a few facts to save time. As you know now, if you didn’t know it before, this gentleman is Wayne Wishart, the one and only. He not only wasn’t out at Oakmar yesterday morning, he wasn’t within a hundred miles of the place. L.A. checked him out on that score. The boys in the lab say that his signature doesn’t match the one on your retainer.”

  “I didn’t forge it, if that’s what you’re getting around to.”

  “That’s what I’m getting around to. We’ll know soon. The lab is checking a sample of your handwriting from your agency licence application.” Troge paused. “If you flunk this one, Hagen, there’s not going to be much room for doubt.”

  “It strikes me that there’s no doubt at all,” said Wayne Wishart, his voice quivering slightly. “What more do you need except his confession? Hilda’s dead, Captain! This isn’t any time for splitting hairs. I want some action!”

  “I can understand that, Mr. Wishart,” said Troge soothingly. “But when you arrest a man on suspicion of murder, you’ve got to be sure of your ground. Like building one of your houses—the foundation has got to be solid or the house won’t stand very long.”

  “But if the man is guilty—”

  “That’s the whole question.” Troge swung back to Hagen. “Well?”

  Hagen’s mind, which had been virtually paralysed by the surprise of meeting the real Wayne Wishart, was beginning to function again in a normal manner. It told him that he was in an incredibly bad spot. His position before was shaky enough; now it had collapsed. His alibi had been yanked out from under him and Hagen felt a glare of anger as he realized that the archer had intended it to be. Yet he fought down his temper. This was no time to lose his head. So far, Troge seemed determined to give him the benefit of the doubt but he knew this wouldn’t go on much longer. Somehow, from somewhere, it was up to Hagen to produce an answer. He said, “It seems to me that the most important thing right now is to find this other fellow who claimed to be Wishart.”

  “If there is such a fellow,” Troge agreed.

  “There is. And I’m pretty sure he’s still in town.” Hagen told of the peculiar circumstances at the railroad station—not so peculiar now, in the light of what had happened since—and went on to give a description of the phoney Wishart. Since he was trained in such matters, he was able to make an impressive job of it. He gave height, weight, facial characteristics, colour and cut of hair, and bearing. He imitated his tone of voice. He described his homburg, topcoat, suit, shirt and necktie. Hagen only withheld a couple of crucial details for his own use. He wanted a head start in order to redeem his reputation in the newspapers.

  “Sounds like a con operator all right,” said Troge when the description was apparently complete. “Nobody I know, though.”

  Hagen was glad to be taken seriously for once. Because of his lucidity, all of them except Wishart seemed a bit less sceptical. So for good measure, he threw in, “It could have been this impostor who I saw escaping after the killing. I didn’t see much of the running man but there weren’t any obvious discrepancies, length of stride, for example.”

  “Oh, don’t make the story too pat,” said Troge. “Leave yourself some loopholes in case you need them later.”

  “I already have,” replied Hagen, as if joking.

  “Smart boy. Now tell me, how did the fake Wishart get out to Oakmar?”

  “Taxi, he said. But maybe he was brought by someone else.” Hagen glanced at Wishart calculatingly. “Naturally, it’s downright foolish to picture Mr. Wishart hiring a man to impersonate himself.”

  “Yes,” said Troge. Then he told the other detective, “See if you can find anything in the record books,” and the man left the squad room. Troge turned next to Wishart. “That description mean anything to you?”

  “I don’t know anyone who looks like that. Neither did Hilda.”

  “Maybe you just weren’t aware of it,” said Hagen. “Hilda knew a lot of people, particularly men. From what your mother said last night, I got the idea you didn’t even know about me, Mr. Wishart.”

  Wishart flushed angrily but he spoke to Troge. “Captain, I don’t see how blackening my wife’s reputation is going to prove anything.”

  “I’m simply trying to show that such a person could exist, and Hilda know him, without your knowledge,” Hagen put in quickly. “I’m sorry if that comes under the head of blackening her reputation. But she’s dead and I’m trying not to be. Look at it from my angle. Here’s a man who masquerades as Wayne Wishart, who hires me to follow Wishart’s wife. Doesn’t it stand to reason that he had some connection with one of you? I’m betting it was Hilda.” He hesitated. “This isn’t going to be very sweet, Mr. Wishart, and I’ll apologize ahead of time. Three years ago I divorced Hilda because she was playing around with another man. Maybe history repeated itself.”

  Wishart said thinly, “I don’t believe a word of it. It’s very convenient that Hilda isn’t here to defend herself.”

  “I said maybe. But since it’s my neck, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. I never knew who the other man was—but it could have been the guy who hired me yesterday and then killed her.”

  Troge shook his head slowly. “Hagen, I got a better case than that right here. You’re just throwing up a smokescreen.”

  “Call it anything you like. But one fact you can’t get around is Hilda herself. How much do you know about her? How much do any of us know about her?” He swung toward Wishart. “You didn’t know she’d been married before. I’ll bet you didn’t even know she had a twin sister.”

  Wishart looked blank. “What on earth are you talking about? Hilda didn’t have any family at all. Her parents were dead and—”

  “Her sister was in my office this morning when you called, Troge. Her name is Dagne, Dagne Christy.” Hagen produced the business card and gave it to the police captain. He didn’t think it necessary to reveal the purpose of Dagne’s visit. “I’m not saying that it’s important, except as part of the picture. Hilda hid plenty behind that pretty face and I say that one of the things she hid was the reason she was murdered.”

  Wishart was studying Dagne’s card. He looked up to meet Troge’s qu
estioning gaze. He shook his head as if bewildered. “I don’t know what to say. Christy was Hilda’s maiden name, all right, but she never mentioned any sister to me.”

  “We’ll check it out,” Troge promised and put the card in his pocket. “Hagen, you talk real pretty. Don’t stop now.”

  “I’m about talked out,” Hagen admitted. “You want proof and I’m pretty short on everything except guesses. But if Hilda could have an ex-husband and a twin sister that nobody knew about, why couldn’t she have had an enemy too? Don’t ask me who—I haven’t seen her in three years. Ask the people who knew her better. Like her husband, or that secretary, Avis Gill. Where was she last night, by the way?”

  “That’s a good question,” agreed Troge. He looked across the room to the stenographer. “Where were you last night, Miss Gill?”

  “I went to a movie,” the woman replied without looking up.

  Hagen stared at Troge.” You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” He had paid no more attention to the stenographer heretofore than to the desk on which Troge sat, accepting her as a piece of the furniture. He hadn’t recognized her from the evening before because he had seen her only from a distance and he had been occupied with Hilda.

  Avis Gill wasn’t the sort of woman who made a lasting impression, anyway. She was a small plump creature, somewhat pretty but with no real warmth, like a wax doll. Her hair was an undistinguished brown and her fixed smile didn’t extend to her eyes, which were brown also and slightly glassy. This glassiness gave away the contact lenses she wore. She fitted unobtrusively into her background, as much a part of the stark squad room as the luxurious Wishart mansion.

  Troge was relishing his discomfiture. He said, “Mr. Wishart brought Miss Gill with him. I’m not quite ready for a transcript yet, myself.”

  “I like a record of what goes on,” Wishart said defensively, to no one in particular. “Miss Gill goes everywhere with me.”

  “But she didn’t go to L.A. with you,” said Hagen quickly. “You were at home last night, Miss Gill. How come?”

  She said placidly, “That’s Mr. Wishart’s business.”

  “I thought she needed a rest,” said Wishart. “Miss Gill has been working awfully hard, especially with getting this Oakmar development under way.”

  Hagen wondered if there might be another reason that Wishart wasn’t telling. Avis Gill didn’t appear to be the type who ever needed a rest. But he had no real reason to challenge this so he said, “If you went to a movie last night, you’ve probably got your ticket stub. Care to dump out your purse?”

  “No,” she replied. “I mean—no, I don’t have a ticket stub because there wasn’t any ticket. It was a free showing over at the museum.” As she spoke, her fingers were busily recording her own words. “They had a film on Indian basket weaving, a documentary. I often attend them. I’m a patron of the museum. Mr. Wishart is on the board of directors, you know.”

  The telephone on the desk beside Troge rang and he answered it. Wishart said softly, “Hilda was so proud of that. She liked the museum …” He turned away abruptly and went to stare out the window at nothing.

  This was a side of Hilda’s nature that Hagen hadn’t known about. He couldn’t recall the last time he had visited the museum himself. He wasn’t even aware it had been reopened after being barred to visitors following a series of petty thefts, teenage vandalism. He tried to picture Hilda wandering among the archaeological displays and found it difficult. Yet he had said that none of them had really known her, himself perhaps least of all. He cleared his throat, wanting to say something comforting to Wishart.

  Wishart didn’t give him a chance. The moment Troge replaced the receiver, he swung around to the police captain. His voice was a little husky. “Do you mind if I go now? I think I’ve told you everything I know—and you can always get me when you need me. I didn’t sleep much last night and …”

  Troge nodded sympathetically. “No reason for you to hang around, Mr. Wishart. Or you, Miss Gill. There’s going to have to be an inquest, of course, but that’ll be in a day or so.”

  “Thanks.” Wishart jerked his head at his secretary, who rose and closed her notebook. He didn’t glance in Hagen’s direction. “And, please, if there’s anything I can do to help—for Hilda’s sake …”

  “I’ll let you know,” Troge promised. When the door closed behind them, he sighed. “Nice guy. He’s taking it pretty hard.”

  “He’ll get over it. There’s a lot of women anxious to sympathize with a million bucks.”

  “The trouble with you, Hagen, is that you’re a cynic.”

  “The trouble with me is that I was married to her, too. That’s the whole trouble with me.” Hagen hesitated. “I suppose it’s a foolish question—but can I go too?”

  “Why not?” His surprise was so apparent that Troge chuckled. “Maybe I just like to keep you off-balance, Hagen. Or maybe that was the lab on the phone to tell me that you didn’t sign that retainer, after all.”

  “Or maybe you know I really didn’t kill her.”

  “I don’t know anything. When I do, you’ll hear from me.

  Hagen left quickly, before Troge could change his mind. He had another reason for hurrying, and he reached the police parking lot just as Wayne Wishart was getting into his car, a Buick station wagon. Wishart swung around at his hail, then frowned as he saw who it was.

  “What are you doing here?” he demanded. “I thought that—”

  “I didn’t break jail, if that’s what you mean. Troge is giving me enough rope, that’s all.” Hagen put his proposal bluntly, knowing no other way to handle it. “Listen, Mr. Wishart—no matter what you believe, I didn’t kill Hilda. I want to find out who did as much as you do, maybe even more. I need a client to give me an excuse to poke around and I thought that maybe you—”

  “You’re out of your mind,” said Wishart and he looked angry enough to strike Hagen. “I want nothing to do with you, except to see that you’re put where you belong. I just hope the police know what they’re doing. Now get out of my way.”

  There was a good deal more Hagen would have liked to say but Avis Gill had already flipped open her ubiquitous notebook. He shrugged and stepped back and watched Wishart drive out of the lot.

  “Well, you sure didn’t get much out of that,” Hagen told himself. He hadn’t—unless he counted the fifty dollars. He had intended to return the retaining fee to his client, but to a real client, not a stranger. Now, the way things were going, Hagen doubted if he would ever have that opportunity. Besides, the archer had probably got his money’s worth.

  7

  FROM the outside, the Nu-Way Figure Control Salon looked as discreet as a doctor’s offices. It was, in fact, located in a section of the city sometimes known as Pill Hill because of the preponderance of medical men. The modern stucco building was unmarred by advertising displays, its identity proclaimed only by an antique bronze plate near the door. Hagen had a hard time finding it.

  Inside, conservatism had been junked, the proprietors evidently going on the principle that any customer who once got inside the door was there for a purpose and wouldn’t be scared away by a little gaudiness. The thick carpet was a vivid burgundy and the wall-paper displayed a lush jungle motif and there were a number of posture chairs around the waiting room. The air was sweetly perfumed, probably to eliminate the odour of sweat, and music played softly from invisible speakers. It was a new experience to Hagen and didn’t fit his picture of the anteroom to what, after all, was actually a glorified gymnasium.

  There were no customers waiting, which wasn’t unusual since it was now nearly noon. The receptionist was also absent and though the door chime heralded his arrival, no one appeared to greet him. While he waited, Hagen snooped around the waiting room. Most of the magazines were addressed to Dagne but there were one or two subscriptions in the name of Larry Beldorian. Hagen presumed that this was the partner Dagne had mentioned.

  When it finally became apparent that his presence was
going to pass unnoticed, he tried the door that led to the rear of the building and, finding it unlocked, passed through. A corridor branched off in both directions, each branch containing a number of closed doors. But in one direction, Hagen could hear a man’s voice counting rhythmically so he went that way. The corridor terminated in a large high-ceilinged room with a hardwood floor and some exercising equipment, obviously the gym. Hagen peeked in at the uninspiring sight of a group of middle-aged women determinedly going through some ragged callisthenics at the command of a muscular Adonis in a skin-tight loin-cloth.

  He didn’t see Dagne among the group and his own presence was not noted, so Hagen went back the way he had come, pausing to rap softly on each door he passed. He was halfway down the other corridor and beginning to despair when Dagne answered his knock, inviting him to enter. He did so.

  The sign on the door told him that this was the diet consultation office, and the walls were hung with calorie charts, muscle diagrams and pictures of what the female form should ideally be. Dagne was standing on a chair, adding another poster to their number, and Hagen thought she herself was a better example than her charts. On tiptoe with arms upstretched, she reminded him of a pagan goddess.

  Her reaction on seeing him was down-to-earth, however. Her eyes frosted and she demanded, “How did you get in here?”

  “The usual way.”

  “Well, don’t slam it, going out.”

  Hagen closed the door instead. “For all you know, I might have come for a consultation about my diet.”

  “I don’t think you’d like what I’d prescribe for you,” said Dagne, descending from her pedestal. She wore a simple V-neck white blouse and a full navy-blue skirt, apparently her working clothes, that enhanced her handsomeness more than an elaborate ensemble. She faced Hagen squarely, her hands balled into small fists. “You threw me out of your office this morning. Now it’s my turn. Get out.”

  “I heard what you had to say first, remember. Let’s play fair.”

  “That’s so,” she said, considering him through narrowed eyes. Then, without any warning, she slapped Hagen viciously across the left side of his face. “Now we can start absolutely even. What do you want?”