Mourn the Hangman Read online

  He struck off along the sidewalk, taking giant strides in the darkness. He was on his way to see Manley Reeder. He had never hated him until now. Always before he had pitied him. Manley had loved Stella and had lost her. Blake had felt sorry for him. Blake had known what it would do to him ever to lose Stella. But now, all that was different. Blake had lost her now. There was no compassion in Blake any more. All he wanted to do was see Manley Reeder’s face, hear him talk, force him to talk, watch him spill his guts.

  He told himself: Reeder will talk. And if he killed her, nothing can save him. And when I’m through with you, Reeder, the police can have you.

  But not until then. As he strode into the bus station, he heard a siren wail in the night. Crying after the hurt and the dead. A lonely, empty sound.

  3

  MANLEY REEDER opened the door.

  It was a big house just off the bayshore. You could smell the bay from up here and you could smell the honeysuckle, too. There was a sick-sweet wall of it at the end of the wide veranda. The vines twined about the white railing and the white column. There was a wide swing hemmed in by the honeysuckle and old-fashioned wicker rocking chairs. Blake had come up the flower-bordered walk thinking this was a house from another age. It had belonged to Manley Reeder’s grandparents and there weren’t many houses left like it any more. Not even here in the old part of Tampa. It was somber, brown, two story with attic and scrolls and paint-peeled gables. Reeder lived here alone with only a servant since his divorce from Stella. But to Blake, that wasn’t the wonder at all. He couldn’t picture in his mind Stella’s living four years of her life in this dark place.

  Manley Reeder was an extremely handsome man of about thirty-five. He snapped on an overhead porch light when he finally answered Blake’s ring. He opened the heavy old oakwood door and stared at Blake through the screen. His oil-glistening blond hair was parted on the left side and brushed in even waves across his narrow head. His forehead was high, his pale cheeks hollow, his cleft chin almost pointed. His pale blue eyes narrowed at the sight of Blake. Reeder’s mouth twisted. “To what do I owe the horror of this visit, shamus?”

  Blake didn’t smile. He was aware of Reeder’s arrogant appraisal of his appearance. Reeder wasn’t missing the rain-splattered coat, the soggy trouser cuffs, the soaked shoes. “I want to talk to you,” Blake said.

  Reeder smiled disdainfully. “Do. I’d like to have you come in. The meeting of our minds should be charming. The men who have loved Stella Reeder. We should start a club. I could be a charter member.”

  The smile remained fixed on his handsome, long-nosed face. He let the sentence go unfinished, pretending to be busy admitting Blake to the musty-smelling corridor.

  Blake stepped inside. Reeder closed the door behind them and motioned toward the dimly lighted library with a nod of his blonde head. Blake looked around, trying to find something that might prove that Stella could have lived in this austere house. She’d have hated the black hall tree with its oval mirror, Blake was sure. The dark hallway ran the depth of the house. Stella was afraid of the dark. There was a dim light in the upstairs corridor, he noted, but the house had the look of darkness, the feel of silence. The darkness and the silence. How had Stella stood it at all?

  Reeder motioned Blake ahead of him into the book-lined library. Reeder went over to the hearth and stirred up the blaze with the fire tongs, then turned, the guttering light at his back.

  “Have a drink.” He motioned toward the side table. Blake hesitated and then poured himself a stiff one. Holding the glass in his fist, he drank.

  Reeder said stonily, “Very manly performance, Blake. Or didn’t you want to impress me with what a hell of a fellow you are?”

  Blake looked at him. “I don’t give a damn what you think.”

  “Don’t you? Haven’t you come because Stella is out somewhere and you don’t know where?”

  “I know where she is.”

  “You don’t have to be belligerent with me, Blake. I know what you’re going through. I learned to hate Stella because she put me through it — ”

  “You can stop hating her,” Blake said.

  Reeder laughed. “I won’t ever stop hating her. And neither will you, Blake, when you know her as I do.”

  “She’s dead,” Blake said coldly.

  Reeder went on smiling for a moment, opened his mouth to speak. Then he rocked on his heels as though he’d been struck in the chest. Blake could see the blood drain down from his pale face.

  “You’re lying,” Reeder whispered.

  “I’m not lying.”

  Reeder took a step toward him. Face muscles rigid, he stared at Blake. “She’s not dead,” he said numbly. He turned his back to Blake, his shoulders sagging. He reached out to steady himself against the ornate library desk. He spoke over his shoulder. “What happened, Blake?”

  “Somebody killed her.”

  “How?”

  “They — beat her to death with — a lamp from her vanity dresser.”

  “When, Blake? When did it happen?”

  “I don’t know. I came home. She was already dead.”

  Reeder heeled around then. Blake watched his fingers tighten on the desk edge, turning white. He could feel Reader’s grief in the chilled room. Reeder will get over it, he thought, but I can’t get over it. There’ll never be anything for me but Stella and the way she died and the man who killed her — and my hands about his throat.

  Reeder slumped into the chair behind his desk. His blue eyes were cold with hatred. “Is that why you came to see me?” Reeder said. “You think I did it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Reeder’s lips pulled away from his teeth. “What did you want to ask me? Ask me and get out.”

  Blake looked at him. The man was grief struck. The hell with his grief, Blake thought. There’s my grief. Somewhere there’s the man who killed Stella. Maybe there. Across that prissy desk. “I hope you won’t lie to me,” Blake said. “I’ll beat the truth out of you if you do.”

  Reeder leaned forward, looking up at Blake across the desk. “I’m telling you again. Ask me what you want and get out. Make it fast, Blake.”

  “Were you over there today? Were you in Gulf City today?”

  Reeder looked up at him. He nodded slowly. “Yes.”

  “Did you see her? Did you see Stella?”

  “I went over there to see her.” He laughed harshly. “I may as well tell you I spent a great deal of money on Stella just before she divorced me. I felt she owed it to me. It wasn’t the money. It was the principle.”

  Blake was breathing across his open mouth. “It was your hatred,” he muttered.

  Reeder’s mouth moved into a contemptuous smile. “All right, it was my hatred. If she is going to be so happy with you, why should I pay for it?”

  Blake stepped toward the desk. “Did you see her?”

  “You might as well stand where you are, shamus. You can’t frighten me. What in God’s name could your fists do to me? Stella has done all the hurt that can ever be inflicted on me, Blake, and she did it a long time ago.”

  “I want to know if you saw her?”

  Reeder laughed at him. “You want to know if I killed her, don’t you? That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?”

  “How long did you stay over in Gulf City?”

  “There’s no use asking me any more. I’m not going to tell you. I don’t want you to find out who killed Stella. That’s the kind of revenge that pleases me. You and Stella. So damned happy. I hope you never find who killed her. Never know the truth about why she died.”

  Blake stared at him. “Are you crazy? Why shouldn’t Stella and I have been happy? What did it have to do with you? You and Stella were divorced before I even met her.”

  Reeder smiled thinly. “I lost Stella. I hated her. Now you’ve lost her. That’s good enough for me.” He clenched his pale fists. “You want the truth about her, Blake? I met her during the war. I was a lieutenant in the Air Corps. I was
stationed in Alabama. She’d once won a beauty contest and half the men in the camp were in love with her. We became engaged. A week before we were to be married, she ran off with another officer on Saturday. She came back on Monday. She didn’t even ask if I wanted to break the engagement. She just sent the ring back. I stayed away until Wednesday. That doesn’t seem very long to you, does it, Blake? Well, every hour had sixty long minutes in it. I was sick and crazy. I went to her and begged her to marry me. She said she didn’t love me. I told her I knew it would be different after we were married. It was different, Blake. A hell of a lot different. It was worse. She began to drink. I suspected her of running around. I hired detectives. They could never prove it. But she wouldn’t stay home. I learned to hate her. I sent her to a hospital when her drinking got out of hand. They cured her of drinking, but she wouldn’t come back to me.” A savage smile of pleasure worked across Reeder’s lips. “I don’t leave you much, do I, Blake?” He nodded with grim satisfaction. “That’s the way I want it. That’s why I hope you never find the man who killed her. It matters to you. You’re a tough guy. And you want vengeance. Well, I hope you. never find him. This proves to me that Stella wasn’t happy with you — or faithful to you. I hope you live with that the rest of your life.”

  “I’ll find him,” Blake said.

  “You still want to find him? After what I’ve told you?”

  “What you’ve told me proves you’re a creep. All I know is that Stella and I were in love. So Stella had dates before you were married. Is that unheard of? Other girls have done it. So she started drinking after you were married? Maybe living with a jerk like you did that to her. I know what she was to me. That’s all that matters. I’ll find him. God help him when I do. God help you if I find out you did it.”

  Reeder stood up. “You can get out now.”

  Blake motioned toward the telephone. “I’d like to call a cab.”

  Reeder smiled. “Let me do it for you.” He dialed a number, gave his address, replaced the receiver. “They’ll be here for you in a few minutes. I’m sorry, you’ll have to wait for it outside. On the sidewalk.”

  “That’s all right with me. You can go to hell, Reeder.”

  “I’ve been there for a long time, Blake. If you’ll just close the front door on your way out, please.”

  He went back to his desk. He was leaning over the telephone, dialing a number as Blake went out the front door. Blake shrugged. To hell with him.

  Blake let the front door click shut after him. He crossed the front porch. The sick-sweet smell of honeysuckle was stifling. He hurried down the steps and out along the walk to escape it. The cloying fragrance trailed after him like something unwholesome. It was as though Reeder walked beside him in the chilled darkness. God! No wonder Stella hit the bottle. Living with that creep.

  As Blake reached the walk, the front porch light was snapped off behind him. The rain had stopped. The wind was rising. The houses along the street were dark and silent. He began to walk up and down to keep warm. His hands began to shake from cold. He rammed them into his pockets and walked faster up and down before the dark old house. He began to shake, first in his chest, along his arms and then in his legs. The taxi came. Blake was trembling all over. His teeth were chattering. It took him two minutes to make the driver understand he wanted to be taken to the bus station.

  4

  BLAKE CROWDED into the Gulf City bus. He found a seat halfway back and huddled in it against the window. The shaking had subsided now and his teeth no longer chattered, but he was still cold. He wondered if he would ever be warm again.

  A stout man punched into the seat beside Blake. He smiled widely, showing yellowed false teeth. “Hello, mister,” he said to Blake. “My name’s Frazer. Salesman with Wall Papers. Wall Papers. Yes sir, lot of people think we sell wallpapers. But Mr. Wall owns the firm. We’re one of the biggest in the bay area. Though — ” his voice dropped confidentially, “don’t know how long we will be, the paper situation the way it is. Why it’s just about impossible to get paper, the world conditions being what they are. But it’s a mighty interesting business. You ever stop to think of all the different kinds of paper there are, mister?”

  “No,” Blake said. “No. I never did.”

  The stout man laughed. “Well, mighty few people ever do. Very few stop to think what paper means to us. Give ’em a little toilet tissue and the morning news and they’re content-”

  Blake closed his ears against the sound of the stout man’s loud voice. He had to think. Think. He wondered how in hell he could think with that man sounding off at his side. He stared out of the window at the lights of the town moving past him.

  With the salesman chattering in his ear, Blake thought about Manley Reeder. Manley admitted he had been in Gulf City. He had been hard hit when Blake told him that Stella was dead. But Manley had said he hoped Blake would never find the man who killed Stella. That could be his expressed desire for ceaseless vengeance against Blake. Or it could be that Manley Reeder knew a lot more than he would ever tell willingly. One thing was sure, Reeder hated his guts. Blake shuddered. And there was one more thing. Manley Reeder was ill. A sick man full of hate and bitterness, living alone in that dark house pervaded with the funereal scent of honeysuckle.

  I’ll find out about him, Blake vowed, I’ll know everything Manley Reeder did in Gulf City today. Then he shook his head. He was being a private snitch now. Stella had called him that and she had hated it and all it stood for. Just this one last time, Stella, Blake whispered soundlessly.

  The stout man was still talking when the bus pulled into the Gulf City terminal. He shook hands with Blake enthusiastically and then clambered forward, brushing people aside as he went along the aisle.

  Blake came off the bus behind a pudgy woman carrying a sleeping baby in her arms. The bus driver was talking to a flashy little twist He didn’t even turn to look at the woman and her baby. Blake caught her as she stumbled. She turned and smiled wearily at him. Blake nodded to her and looked up at the terminal clock. It was then twenty-seven minutes past midnight.

  As his gaze lowered, he saw that an outgoing bus was loading at the next ramp. He saw the harness cop first. He was standing with his hands on his hips watching each passenger go through the exit to the bus. Blake felt the tremors of premonition flicker across his belly like startled flies. The plainclothes detective sergeant was lounging against the counter in an attitude of disinterest. But Blake saw that he was watching even more alertly than the cop.

  It could be anything, Blake told himself. They don’t even know that Stella is dead yet. Still the warning bell went on clanging inside his brain: take it easy, take it easy, take it easy. Suppose they have found Stella. It’s been seven hours since I found her body. If they have found her, they’ll be looking for me.

  The stout woman was trying to lift a heavy suitcase from the floor without waking her baby. Blake reached beyond her and picked it up. “Let me carry it out for you,” he said. “You look like you have more than you can handle.”

  “Thanks,” the woman sighed. “We were just going to the corner. I’ll have to catch a city bus out home.”

  “At this hour, with the baby?” Blake protested. “I’ll stake you to a taxi.”

  The woman shook her head. “I couldn’t let you spend the money.”

  “Well, you are going to let me,” Blake said emphatically. He had turned his head and was looking down at her as they passed the detective. Blake hoped they looked like a travel-weary couple and child, tired and argumentative. At least the detective didn’t give them a second glance.

  The woman was too exhausted to argue any more. Her face shone with relief when Blake helped her into a taxi and paid her fare in advance. “I can’t repay you,” she said.

  “You have repaid me,” Blake told her. He stepped back from the cab. She was staring out at him, frowning puzzledly as the car leaped away from the curb.

  The outgoing bus was just pulling out of the terminal exit. Th
e cop and detective would be out of the bus station in a moment. Blake wasn’t convinced yet that he was being sought. But there was no use in taking chances. He stepped into another cab and gave his home address. “Just drive by slow,” he told the driver.

  The street was silent and deserted when the cab turned into Fifth Avenue. Blake told himself he was just jumpy. “It’s all right,” he said. “You can stop at the curb. I’ll get out.”

  He had paid the hack driver and stepped out on the sidewalk before he saw them. At first, it was just shadow against shadow and then shadows moving in the gloom. And he knew he had walked into a trap.

  His heart began to thud raggedly. He felt the backs of his legs tremble slightly. The place was alive with cops. They’d found Stella. They’d had time to prepare for his return, if he dared to. There wasn’t a police cruiser in sight along the street and yet the shadows were crawling with cops.

  He started up the short walk to the entrance of the red brick apartment building. He moved casually and he didn’t look up to his window on the fifth floor. Somebody tipped off the cops that Stella was dead, he told himself coldly. Who could have called? In his mind, the thought kept recurring: frame-up. It’s some kind of frame-up. He tried to tell himself he thought that because he’d been a private snitch so long that he thought like one, even when his own wife was murdered. But the suspicion persisted. He pushed open the door and stepped into the small corridor. He saw a shadow start down from the first landing.

  The door of the automatic elevator was standing open. Blake stepped into it. As he closed the door, the man rounded the stairs and started into the foyer. Blake pushed the basement button and it seemed a creeping eternity before the mechanism began to groan and the elevator creaked downward.