I groped my way to the bathroom. There was no
window here, and I could turn on a light. I washed the
blood off my hand. It was only a superficial cut from a
piece of that falling glass; in all the uproar I’d been so
charged with adrenalin I hadn’t even felt it. I rooted
around in his medicine chest for a Band-aid and stuck
it on, but the blood continued to ooze out around the
edges, so I wrapped a towel around it. I wouldn’t
bleed to death from a scratch like that.
There were two windows in the apartment, one in
the living room-bedroom, facing Montrose, and the
other in the kitchen, looking out into the alley. I
closed the door from the kitchen, tore a blanket off
the bed and draped it across the curtain rods of the
window in here to cut off any seepage of light, and
switched on a lamp. The furnishings were meager; it
wouldn’t take long to search the place. A dresser
stood against the front wall, next to the door going
The Long Saturday Night — 110
out into the shop. The bed was in the corner beside it,
under the window. At the foot of the bed was the door
to the bathroom, with a small clothes closet beside it,
while a desk stood against the wall opposite the
window.
I started with the dresser drawers, and by the time
I’d finished them I knew somebody had beaten me to
it Whoever it was had made some effort to replace
things with at least a semblance of order, but there
was no doubt the place had been gone over. If there’d
been any clue here as to Frances’ identity or how
Roberts had learned it, there was slight chance it was
here now. He’d had two nights. Getting in had been
no problem, apparently; if he’d had a key when
Frances was living here, he probably still had it. The
locks hadn’t been changed. Then I remembered
Scanlon and Ernie had been in here looking for the
name and address of Roberts’ next of kin. Maybe that
was all it was. I moved on to the desk.
In the drawer were a dozen or more letters, thrown
in haphazardly in their envelopes after he’d read
them. Two were from his brother in Houston and were
apparently the ones from which Scanlon had obtained
the address. The others were all from girls, mostly in
Houston and Galveston, handwritten on a variety of
different pastel shades of stationery—though several
of them would have been safer written on asbestos—
and through all of them ran the same complaint: why
didn’t he write? Apparently he’d had a way with
women, all right, but when they were out of sight he
forgot about them. I skimmed through them hastily,
reading a line or two in each paragraph and tossing
them back into the drawer, not really expecting to
find anything that had any bearing on his murder. The
last one I picked up was postmarked Los Angeles
sometime in November and in addition to being
written on rough lavender paper it was perfumed. It
was only three pages. I raced through it and had
already tossed it aside in disgust when I did a double
take over a word on the last page. “. . . clippings. . .”
Clippings?
I grabbed the letter up again.
The Long Saturday Night — 111
“. . . you rascal, you never have even acknowledged
those clippings you asked me for last summer, and
when I think of the trouble—and risk—I went through
to get them for you, well, honestly, I think you’re a
cad, sir. That’s spelled s-t-i-n-k-e-r. The librarian
almost caught me cutting them out of the papers in
the file, and wouldn’t my face have been red? At least
you could tell me whether they were the ones you
wanted— and also, Mr. Mysterious Roberts, what you
wanted them for. Don’t tell me you know the girl!
Because if you do, I don’t know whether to be worried
about you, or just jealous. She must have been really
something, in spades, and a dreamboat for looks,
judging from the pictures. That is, if you like the type.
Meow! Now you write to me, you villain, and tell me
all . . .”
I threw the letter aside and began pawing through
the drawer again. There were no clippings, and no
other letter postmarked Los Angeles. I yanked the
drawer out and looked under it to see if they were
stuck to the bottom. I swung back to the dresser and
did the same with the drawers in it. There was
nothing. I went through them again, more thoroughly
this time, unfolding the clean shirts, unrolling socks,
and tearing out the paper liners in the bottom. I tore
the bed apart and examined the mattress, searched
the pockets of the suits hanging in the closet and felt
the linings of the jackets. The knowledge that what I
sought had actually been here was maddening. Well,
they might still be here; there was still a chance he
hadn’t found them either. I went through the two
suitcases in the closet and poked at the linings, tore
the papers off the shelves, looked in the sweatbands
of the two hats I found, lifted the dresser and the desk
away from the wall and searched behind them, tore
up the rug, turned over the chairs and checked their
cushions, examined the wallpaper, looked in the water
tank of the toilet in the bathroom, and under the oldfashioned
tub. I peered through the barrels of two
shotguns, and felt inside rubber boots. I couldn’t turn
on a light in the kitchen without blanking off the
window, but I’d found a flashlight that would be safe
The Long Saturday Night — 112
enough, so I started out there, tearing papers out of
cupboards, looking in cereal boxes and in the stove
and refrigerator, even in the ice cube trays, and
minutely examining the linoleum for traces of its
having been disturbed. I found nothing. If he’d kept
the clippings here, George had already got them.
I went back into the other room, closed the kitchen
door, and slumped wearily on the bed. It was fourthirty;
it had taken almost an hour. A car went past on
Montrose, its tires squealing as it made the turn into
Clebourne. In my mind I could see them criss-crossing
the town, flashing their lights into doorways and
shrubbery, blocking the exits. Take no chances; he’s
insane, and he may be armed.
I craned my neck and stared up at the ceiling.
George’s offices were directly over my head. Reaching
over on the desk for the phone, I looked up the
number in the directory dialed it, and sat smiling
bitterly as I listened to it ring. I shrugged, and let the
receiver drop back on the cradle.
I’d better call Barbara and remind her. She should
be back at her apartment by now. She answered on
the first ring. “Hello?”
“Duke—”
“Oh, thank Heaven! I’ve been scared blue. Where
are you?”
“In Roberts’ apartment. Look—they’re going to find
my suitcase in the office. Remember, stick to your
story and there’s nothing they can do; there was no
way you could have known I was back there—”
She cut me off. “Never mind that. What did you find
out from Doris?”
I told her. “She won’t admit it, but she knows Junior
broke in here that night to burglarize the place. She
wasn’t able to get hold of him to tell him I’d had to
break the date with Frances, so he thought he was
going to have the place to himself and could find
where she kept the Saturday receipts from the shop.
But of course he walked in on two people, and I don’t
think there’s any doubt now the other one was
George. I just checked, and you can hear the phone in
The Long Saturday Night — 113
his office from down here. For having a girl friend on
the side, in a small town, you’d never find a cozier
arrangement. I suppose he worked a lot at night.”
“Yes, and usually alone. I used to see the windows
lighted at night when I’d be coming home from a date
or from a movie. He never asked for any stenographic
help, so I just assumed he was reading law on cases
he was working on.”
“It was a beautiful set-up, all right. If anybody—
Fleurelle, for instance—tried to call him, all he had to
do was go out through the, kitchen, up the stairs, and
answer it. But when Junior walked in on them that
night, he must have lost his head. I doubt he intended
to kill him—he was just taken by surprise and hit him
too hard with something. They probably didn’t have
any trouble getting the body out of here, since they
could bring the car into the alley right to the back
door, but from then on there was a lot more at stake
than a scandal and divorce.”
“Then on top of that, she pulled out of the
arrangement and married you.”
“Right. So all George had for his trouble was a
potential murder charge hanging over his head—”
She broke in, “And Roberts probably didn’t even
know about that part of it at all.”
I grinned coldly. It was hard to imagine
sympathizing with a blackmailer, but you could almost
feel sorry for poor Roberts. He had a nice safe racket
going, extorting money from a girl standing in front of
him, and all the time he was inadvertently threatening
to expose a homicide committed by a very dangerous
man standing behind him. “It’s a miracle he lasted as
long as he did. That’s actually what got him killed—
the fact he didn’t know George had any connection
with her at all. But if he exposed her, the whole thing
might come out. What he was gouging her for, God
only knows, except that it must have been something
that happened before she ever came here.”
“But how do you suppose Roberts could have found
out about that?”
The Long Saturday Night — 114
I told her about the letter from the girl in Los
Angeles and its reference to clippings. “I’ve searched
every inch of the apartment and there are no clippings
here, so Roberts either kept them somewhere else or
George beat me to ‘em. It still doesn’t make much
sense, anyway; the news stories could only verify
something Roberts already suspected, but she came
here from Florida, he was from Texas, and the
clippings must have been from a California paper.
Naturally, I was hoping that one of those detectives in
Miami or Houston would turn up some lead that
would indicate she and Roberts had known each other
before, but since that didn’t pan out we’re still as far
from home as ever.”
“Except for one thing. Roberts was a policeman at
one time.”
“Yes, there’s still that.”
“What happened in Doris’ apartment?”
“I pulled one of my dumb stunts,” I said ruefully. I
told her about reaching for her to shake her. “So
when about the last stitch she had on came off in my
hand—”
“Yes, hardly anything would be more calculated to
reassure a girl already about to jump out of her skin
than tearing off her bra. But never mind; what do we
do now?”
“Now?” I said. “You’re going to keep denying you
even knew I was in town. And I’m going to thank you
for all you’ve done. Over and out.”
“But can’t we tell Scanlon what we’ve found out?”
“We can’t prove a word of it. And besides, there’s
nothing so far even to indicate George killed Frances,
or any reason he would have—”
“Reason? He hated her.”
“Maybe, but there’s no proof. George is a lawyer,
and he’s covered in every direction. He’s too smart to
leave anything to chance.”
“But he’s already made one mistake we know of.
When he killed Roberts, that thing about the differentsized
shot.”
The Long Saturday Night — 115
“It was a minor one, and nothing that’d ever tie it to
him. Anyway, they’ll be here before long.”
“They’ll never think to look for you there.”
I told her about cutting my hand. “As soon as it’s
light they’ll pick up the trail and follow me right in
here.”
‘’But maybe I could pick you up there at the mouth
of the alley—”
I interrupted her. “Not a chance. They’ve got the
whole town staked out by now, and anything moving
will be stopped and searched; they’ve probably got
road-blocks on the highway. There’s nowhere to go,
anyway. Thanks again for everything, Barbara. You’ve
been wonderful.” I hung up before she could protest.
I sagged wearily down on the bed, past all caring,
and stared at the blood-soaked towel around my hand.
Footsteps scuffed along the alley, and I heard another
car go careening up Montrose. Somewhere a man
shouted. I looked around at the mess I’d made of the
room searching it, and groped in my pockets for a
cigarette. The pack was empty. I wadded it up and
threw it in a corner. Well, at least they’d come out
even—the cigarettes, and the short happy life of John
Duquesne Warren. The telephone rang. I reached over
listlessly and picked it up.
“Listen, Duke,” she said excitedly, “I’m going to tell
them where you are.”
“I hadn’t thought of that,” I said. “It’s a good idea; it
should get you off the hook—”
“Please! Will you stop talking about that? If they’re
going to find you before long anyway, we have
nothing to lose. I’ve got the glimmerings of an idea,
and I need some leverage.”
“What is it?”
“No, don’t get your hopes up; it has about one
chance in a thousand. But you don’t have any where
you are now. Is it a deal?”
“Sure.”
“Good. Now, listen—tell Scanlon what you’ve found
out about Junior, and about anything else you want,
The Long Saturday Night — 116
but don’t express any suspicion of George at all.
There’s another man mixed up in it, but you have no
idea who he is.
You want George to defend you, and you want him
there when they question you. Insist on it.”
“Okay,” I said. I couldn’t even guess what she had in
mind, but as she pointed out I had nothing to lose.
“Good luck,” she said softly. The receiver clicked.
Five minutes passed. I sat waiting for the sound of
sirens. They’d converge on the building, surround it,
throw their spotlights on the doors, and order me to
come out with my hands in the air. The phone rang
again.
I picked it up. “Hello.”
“Mr. Warren, listen—this is Barbara Ryan. I want to
talk to you; it’s very important. I’m calling from the
sheriff’s office, but don’t cut me off till I explain.” I
frowned. What was the matter with her? I opened my
mouth to say something, but she went right on
talking, not giving me a chance.
“. . . I had to do it, Mr. Warren. I had to; it was the
only way. I told them where you are. And I want you
to promise me you won’t do anything rash. I’m trying
to help you, if you’ll listen to me.”
It began to soak in then. Scanlon would be on
another extension, and she was talking fast to keep
me from saying anything until she could get her
message over.
“. . . you’ve got to give yourself up. This thing can
be solved, if you just go at it the right way, with
people helping you. We’ll get detectives, and lawyers.
You won’t be alone. But if you try to resist, you’ll be
killed; you won’t have a chance. Mr. Scanlon is going
to move his men into the area in another few minutes,
but I told him if I could talk to you first maybe I could
get you to come out. Just don’t resist. Promise me
that.”
I wondered what I was going to resist with, even if I
were stupid enough to consider it, and then it
occurred to me I was in the back room of a sporting
The Long Saturday Night — 117
goods store and just on the other side of the door
were several thousand dollars’ worth of guns and
ammunition. I was finally beginning to catch up.
Scanlon was convinced I was insane, and could
understandably be nervous about sending men into a
dark building after a maniac with an arsenal at his
disposal. Leverage, she’d said. She wanted something
from him, and this was the way she was prying it out
of him.
Well, at least I could help her a little. Also, the
thought that Scanlon was listening made it
irresistible. “What chance have I got after they get
hold of me?” I snarled. “That bunch of meat-headed
clowns in the Sheriff’s Department couldn’t find their
way out of a phone booth. Why bother to try to solve
the thing when they’ve got me? They might have to
get off their big, fat, political—”
Scanlon’s voice broke in. “You’d better listen to her,
Warren. If we have to come in there after you, or
drive you out with tear gas—”
“Please, Mr. Scanlon, let me do the talking!” I heard
her plead in the background, as though she’d covered
the mouthpiece of her extension. He shut up, and her
voice came up clear again, begging me to give myself
up.
“Well, wait a minute,” I said. “Not so fast. For one
thing, I want a lawyer. I’m a little fed up with being
accused of all the crimes committed in this county.”
“You’ll have a lawyer. I’ll call anybody you want.”
“I want George Clement,” I said. “And I want him
there from the start. They’re not going to railroad
me.”
“I’ll call Mr. Clement right now. Will you do it, Mr.
Warren?”
I hesitated a moment. “Well, all right,” I said
grudgingly. “Tell ‘em I’ll come out the front door with
my hands up.”
“Thank God!”
There was so much fervent and heart-felt relief in it
she almost convinced me. I let the receiver drop back
The Long Saturday Night — 118
in the cradle, feeling like Dillinger or Machine-Gun
Kelly, and wondering what the odds were on anyone’s
refusing that girl anything she decided she wanted.
Before they came, I unwound the towel from my hand.
With that build-up, they might think I had a gun
concealed in it.
I sat back down on the bed again, aware that for the
first time in a self-sufficient life I was completely
dependent on somebody else. I didn’t have the
slightest idea as to what she was up to; the only thing
apparent was that she had to have either Scanlon’s
permission or help, or both. I started back over
everything we’d found out, searching for the glimmer
of light she’d spotted and that I’d missed, but gave it
up. It only made my head ache. Strangely, I didn’t
doubt her at all. That was the only thing I was sure of;
she had seen something. She hadn’t turned me in
merely to get out from under a charge of harboring a
fugitive.
They were there in less than five minutes. They
converged on the building, surrounded it, threw their
spotlights on the doors, and ordered me to come out
with my hands in the air.
The Long Saturday Night — 119
11
“Quiet!” Scanlon roared. “Mulholland, get those
damned people out of here and close the doors. And
tell Simpson to keep the corridor clear out there.
Nobody can even get in or out of this madhouse.”
It was growing light now beyond the dusty windows
of the courthouse; Sunday morning had dawned at
last. The cut on my hand had been stitched and
bandaged. I was handcuffed, sitting at one of the
desks in the sheriff's office. Scanlon and Howard Brill,
another of his deputies, were keeping an eye on me
from opposite sides of the desk, while Mulholland and
another man struggled with the crowd surging in
through the doors and threatening to overrun the
railing and counter inside the entrance. Scanlon’s
face was lined with fatigue, the eyes red from lack of
sleep. I had an idea I looked just as bad, or worse.
I lit a cigarette from the pack someone had given
me. It was awkward in the handcuffs. Brill pushed an
ashtray toward me, his face reflecting the mingled
revulsion and pity with which laymen regard the
dangerously insane; he hadn’t been a policeman long
enough to have acquired the necessary objectivity. I
paid no attention. I was too busy with my own bleak
thoughts and trying to guess what Barbara was up to.
The Long Saturday Night — 120
She was nowhere in sight, and hadn’t been here when
they brought me in. I supposed she’d gone home.
Mulholland had got the doors closed now and come
back. He looked at me, shook his head, and sat down
on the corner of another desk. The scuffling of feet
and the sound of protesting voices and shouted
questions had begun to subside out in the corridor as
Simpson pushed back the crowd. Scanlon said
something.
“What?” I asked.
“Do you want to make a statement?” he repeated.
“Yes,” I said. “I want to make three. I didn’t kill my
wife. I didn’t kill Roberts. And I want George
Clement.”
Mulholland sighed. “Here we go again.”
Scanlon took a cigar from his pocket and bit the end
off it, regarding me with the blank impersonality of a
camera lens. We’d been friends a long time, but he
was a professional from the boot-heels up, and if you
took the money you did the job. You could get sick
later, in private. He struck a match and held it in front
of the cigar. “Clement’s on his way over here now.”
Well, he shouldn’t be long, I thought; this time he
didn’t have to stop and kill anybody on the way. Just
then, there was a commotion at the door as he came
in, readjusting the set of his jacket after pushing
through the crowd outside. His face was composed
and sympathetic as he came over to me. I stood up
and we shook hands, a little awkwardly in the
handcuffs. She’d said to play it this way. The least I
could do was try.
“I’m sorry about this, Duke,” he said in the
comforting tone a veterinarian would use to an animal
with a broken leg. “The whole thing’s obviously a
mistake that’ll be cleared up. I can’t interfere with the
investigation, of course, but I’ll be here in case you
need me.”
“Fine,” I said. “I knew I could count on you. And I’m
sure it’s just as obvious to you as it is to me that the
way to clear it up is to find out who killed Roberts and
The Long Saturday Night — 121
Frances, and why. I think I know why, and if we could
get a little help from the police—”
Scanlon cut me off coldly. “That’ll do, Warren.
You’re not here to make a speech. You’re under arrest
for suspicion of murder, and I have to warn you that
anything you say can be used against you. Do you
want to make a statement?”
“I’ve already made it. I had nothing to do with those
murders. And if you’ll get Doris Bentley in here—”
“Never mind Doris Bentley.”
“Do you want to solve this thing, or don’t you?”
“You’ve got enough charges against you now,
without attempted rape. So far, she hasn’t filed a
complaint, but I wouldn’t crowd my luck if I were
you.”
“Did she tell you what I went there to see her
about?”
“She said you tried to rape her.”
“That’s all?”
“Maybe she thought that covered it. You broke into
her room at three o’clock in the morning and started
tearing her clothes off; if you were just trying to get
her recipe for meat loaf, you should have said so.”
George had sat down at another desk off to my left.
I stole a glance at him as I said to Scanlon, “I still
think you’d better get her in here. She might be able
to tell you where Junior Delevan was killed that night”
Scanlon’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that?”
There wasn’t a quiver in George’s face. He merely
glanced curiously in my direction as though
wondering why I’d dragged that in.
“And Doris,” I went on, “is also the girl who called
you Thursday night and told you I killed Roberts
because he was having an affair with my wife.” If I
couldn’t get action one way, I could in another.
“How did you know about that?” Scanlon barked.
“Because she also called me.”
“Before your wife came home?”
The Long Saturday Night — 122
“That’s right.”
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