“I want you to send a telegram for me.”
“Hell, is that all?”
“It’s enough. Let’s see—you’re on Mountain Time
there, so send it about eight tomorrow morning,
straight wire. Phone it in from a pay phone, so there’s
no way they can trace it back to you. Got a pencil
handy?”
“Right. Commence firing.”
“TO WARREN REALTY COMPANY, CARTHAGE,
ALABAMA. IMPERATIVE YOU CONTACT LOUIS
NORMAN AGENCY NEW ORLEANS PHONE
CYPRESS FIVE EIGHT THREE TWO SEVEN
REGARDING PENDING DEAL FILE NUMBER W-511
The Long Saturday Night — 63
REPEAT WILLIAM FIVE ONE ONE STOP WILL CALL
YOU LATER SIGNED WEAVER.”
“Check.” He read it back. “Anything else I can do?”
“No,” I said. “Gracias, amigo.”
“Por nada. How bad is this thing, pal?”
“Real bad.”
“Okay. I’m holding it.”
“Hang on.” I dropped the receiver back on the hook,
and walked back to the parking lot. The old car ran all
right. Beyond Pass Christian, Mississippi, I stopped
and bought some sandwiches and a quart thermos
which I had filled with coffee. I pulled into a motel,
slept until midnight, and went on. It was three-fifteen
A.M. When I came into the outskirts of Carthage.
* * *
North of the highway in the west end of town is an
area of jerry-built houses and old shacks surrounding
the cotton gin and ice plant. I turned left at the city
limits, went over two blocks, turned right again, and
parked near a weather-beaten frame apartment
house. A half dozen other cars stood overnight at the
curb in the same block, and this one could stay here a
week or more before the police wondered about it,
even with the Louisiana license plates. I looked up
and down the shadowy street; it was deserted, and all
the windows were dark. I slid out, grabbed the
suitcase, and walked back the way I’d come, in order
to cross the highway before it widened into the welllighted
thoroughfare of Clebourne Street.
When I came out to it I could see two or three cars
parked before Fuller’s neon sign, six blocks to my left,
but nothing was moving anywhere. I hurried across
and down the street on the opposite side to the corner
of Taylor, turned left, and started toward the center of
town, feeling naked and exposed and scared. A dog
barked, somewhere inside a house. The street lights
suspended over the intersections swayed slightly in
the wind, setting up weaving patterns of shadow
under the bare limbs of the trees. I looked nervously
The Long Saturday Night — 64
behind me and down the intersecting streets,
watching for Cap Deets on his patrol. My shoes made
a grating sound on the sidewalk. Two blocks. Three. I
passed the intersection of Mason Street, and midway
up the block to my left was the softly glowing sign of
the Carthage Funeral Home. I shuddered inside the
topcoat, and hurried on. I reached Fulton. It was as
empty of life as the rest. All I had to do now was cross
it, turn left toward Clebourne, and make the last half
block to the alley behind the office. I was in the open,
still thirty yards from the mouth of the alley, when I
heard the car coming along Taylor Street behind me. I
broke into a run. Tires squealed softly as the car
began its casual turn into Fulton, its headlights
swinging. Just before they reached me, I flung myself
into the alley and flattened against the wall behind a
utility pole. The car went on past, toward Clebourne;
behind the pole, I couldn’t tell whether it was a police
car or not.
I remained plastered limply against the wall for a
moment while I groped in my pocket for the keys and
selected the right one. The alley was dark except for
the window at the rear of Fuller’s kitchen, and there
was no sound except the humming of the exhaust fan
above it. I strode over, unlocked the door, and
breathed softly in relief as it closed behind me. The
door into the outer office at the far end was closed, so
the passage was in utter darkness, but I needed no
light. To my left was the door to the washroom, and
just beyond it, on the right, was the side entrance to
my office. I groped my way along to it, stepped inside,
and closed it.
To my left, a faint crack of light along the floor
marked the location of the door opening into the outer
office, facing the front windows and the street. Behind
my desk, over on the right, was a small window on the
alley. I felt my way back to it and checked to be sure
the slats of the Venetian blind were closed, but even
then I didn’t dare turn on a light. The glow of the
window would be visible in the alley. I rolled my
topcoat into a pillow and lay down on the rug in front
of the desk. They’d never think of looking for me here.
The Long Saturday Night — 65
But everything now depended on Barbara Ryan; if she
believed I’d killed Frances, she would call the police.
* * *
I awoke to gray dimness inside the room and looked at
my watch. It was after seven. Taking the toilet kit
from the bag, I went across the passage to the
washroom to shave and brush my teeth. After I’d put
on a fresh shirt and brushed some of the tint off my
suit, I felt less like the tag end of a four-day drunk and
ready to face whatever was going to happen. I ate one
of the sandwiches, drank a cup of coffee from the
thermos, and sat down in the swivel chair behind the
desk with a cigarette. She should be here in about ten
minutes; she always opened the office at eight, while
Turner and Evans, the two salesmen, came in around
a quarter of nine. I wrote out a copy of the telegram
I’d given Mac, and waited.
The door to the outer office was in front of me, but
off to the left; when it was open, anyone passing on
the sidewalk outside could see in, but wouldn’t be
able to see the desk. I could hear the traffic outside on
Clebourne and the rattle of trash cans in the alley as
me garbage truck went through. Once in a while, very
faintly, there was a clatter of dishes from Fuller’s, just
on the other side of the wall to my right. I thought of
the twenty or thirty people who were in there now,
eating breakfast, and of what they were saying.
Mulholland would be there.
The front door had opened. I heard a desk drawer
open and close as she stowed away her purse. There
were no voices, so she was alone. A minute or two
went by, and then I heard the staccato clicking of the
typewriter. I reached out a hand toward the button,
but hesitated, aware of the suffocation in my chest.
What would she do? Scream? Run into the street? Call
Scanlon? Well, as Mac would say, shoot or hand
somebody else the gun. I pressed the buzzer.
The clicking of the typewriter cut off as if the sound
had been chopped through with an axe. For several
seconds that seemed like minutes, nothing happened.
The Long Saturday Night — 66
Then a chair scraped. I heard the tapping of high
heels, coming this way. A door opened, but it was the
other one, going into the passage. I sighed gently,
wondering how I could have associated with this girl
for a year without discovering she was a genius. To
anybody passing along the sidewalk, she was merely
going to the John. I leaned back in the chair with my
fingers laced together behind my head and looked at
the side door. It opened softly. She was wearing a
gabardine skirt and a soft cashmere sweater that’d
never had that kind of profile when the cashmeres
were wearing it. If there was fear or consternation in
back of the cool blue eyes, it didn’t show.
“Come in,” I said.
She stepped inside and closed the door, standing in
front of the racked collection of guns along the left
wall. Perhaps she had already answered the question,
but I had to ask it anyway. “Do you believe I killed
her?”
“No,” she said.
I wanted to ask why, but we didn’t have much time,
and there were more important things. “Probably a
minority opinion.”
She shook her head. “There’s considerably more
heat than light at the moment, but not everybody
believes it, in spite of the way it looks. I think I’m the
only one, though, who knew you were coming back.”
“You did?”
“Sure. When I realized you wanted Scanlon to know
you took those bonds.”
“That’s right,” I said. “He’d know I couldn’t go
anywhere without money, nor get any after I was on
the run, so I had an idea he’d ask if there were
anything negotiable in that safe. Sit down, Barbara.”
She took one of the black leather armchairs in front
of the desk and crossed her legs. I passed her the
cigarettes and held the lighter for her. “How did you
get back?” she asked.
The Long Saturday Night — 67
“Obviously, I didn’t. My car’s in New Orleans, and if
I’d come on the bus somebody would have seen me
get off at the station. You haven’t seen me.”
“I’ve been thinking I should cut down on the stuff.”
“Even if they catch me here in town and discover
I’ve been hiding out in my own office,” I went on,
“there’s no way you could have known it. You
wouldn’t have any occasion to come in here. The files
and everything are all out there.”
She smiled. “All right, if you insist. And what else is
there I don’t know?”
“That I was listening in on all phone calls—I mean, if
my extension happened to be left accidentally jacked
in. And about an hour from now you’ll receive a
telegram from El Paso you won’t understand. Here’s a
copy of it.”
I passed it over. She read it, nibbling thoughtfully at
her lower lip. “Umh-umh. It would be a little on the
murky side, since we don’t “know any Mr. Weaver and
we have no file number W-511. But being an alert and
clean-living type of girl who’s always right in there
polishing the apple and bucking for a raise, I’d
probably go ahead and call the Norman Agency, since
you’re not here to do it.”
“Right,” I said. “Then when you find out this
Norman outfit is a detective agency and that the
telegram’s from me, you turn the whole thing over to
Scanlon, including the information Norman gives you
—if any.”
She grinned. “Zzzzhhh! What a back-stabbing little
priss I am!”
“You’re a law-abiding citizen who wouldn’t think of
withholding information from the police. So later in
the day when a couple of other telegrams come in,
one from Houston and the other from Miami, you read
them over the phone to Scanlon too.”
“Yes, I suppose I’m just the type that would. And
probably be stupid enough to leave the intercom open
so you’d hear me dialing. Now, is that a full catalog of
the finer aspects of my character, or is there more?”
The Long Saturday Night — 68
“Just one thing. You probably don’t know what the
feature is today at the Crown Theatre?”
“No, but I have a feeling I’m dying to find out. Let’s
see—today’s Saturday, so the box office’ll open at
two.” Her eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “Doris Bentley?
I didn’t think of her.”
“Ernie said Roberts had gone out with her. And,
remember, she used to work for Frances. I’ve got a
hunch there’s a connection somewhere.”
She nodded. “Could be. Do you think you’d
recognize the voice if you heard it again?”
“It’s worth a try.”
“Do you think she knows something about it?”
“I don’t know,” I said. I told her just what the girl
had said over the phone. “There’s another man mixed
up in the thing somewhere, and if we find out who he
is, we might get somewhere.” Then I went on and told
her briefly about the money and the fact Norman
believed Frances had been tailed by a private
detective at least part of the time she was in New
Orleans.
She looked up eagerly. “Could we find out who
hired him?”
“No, but the police can.”
She crossed her fingers. “Good luck. I’d better get
back out there.”
I stood up. “I don’t know how to thank you.”
She smiled. “You can’t. You’re in El Paso.” She
started to turn away. “Oh, incidentally, the phones
will be on the line together, so if we don’t want two
separate clicks, we’ve got to pick them up at the same
time. How about the middle of the third ring?”
“Right,” I said. “Smart girl.”
She went out, through the side door into the
passage. In a moment the typewriter resumed its
clatter. I lit a cigarette and tried to think. There must
be some connection between the money Frances had
got rid of and Roberts’ mysterious source of income
that puzzled Ernie. But how could there be? The seven
The Long Saturday Night — 69
thousand dollars had all disappeared within the past
week, while from what Ernie had said, the strange
business of Roberts’ seeming to have more money
than he took in must have been going on for months.
Well, there was one thing I could check while I was
waiting; all the monthly statements of our joint bank
account for the past year were here in the desk where
I’d been going through them for items deductible on
my income tax return. I softly eased the drawer open,
arranged the twelve brown envelopes in order on the
desk, and started through them, sorting out and
writing down the amounts of all checks she had made
out to cash. On another sheet of paper I put down the
totals by months. It took about a half hour. I was just
finishing when the phone rang.
On the third ring I picked it up, holding my hand
over the mouthpiece. “Warren Realty,” Barbara said.
“Good morning.”
It was a woman’s voice, charged with venom. “Then
it is true! When I heard it, I didn’t believe it was
possible.”
“What do you mean?” Barbara asked.
“What do I mean?” She sounded as though she were
strangling. “I mean that you’re still working for that
monster! Or don’t you have any sense of decency at
all?”
Barbara broke in sweetly, “Oh, has he been
convicted? I didn’t even know they’d held the trial.”
“Well, of all the loathsome—” There was a crash,
and the line went dead. I replaced the receiver.
The typewriter resumed its cadence in the outer
room. There was a momentary pause, and I heard
faint background noise from the intercom at my left
elbow. “Charming old biddy,” she said, as if she were
speaking out of the side of her mouth. “The finance
company must have repossessed her broom.” The
speaker went dead.
I wondered how much of that she’d had to contend
with yesterday, and how much there’d be today. I felt
guilty, leaving her out there to endure it alone, while I
hid. Wrenching my mind away from it, I returned to
The Long Saturday Night — 70
the column of figures, trying to find some pattern.
Roberts had come here and opened his shop in April,
but for the first seven months of the year, from
January through July, the checks she had written for
cash had averaged about $200 per month, ranging
from a low of $145 to a high of $315. Then in August
the total had jumped to $625, including two for $200
apiece. September was $200 again. October was
$365, November $410, and December $500.
It wasn’t very conclusive. From the time Roberts
had arrived in April, until August, there was no
change. Then from August through December she’d
cashed checks for a total of $2100, or an average of a
little over $400 per month. That would be about $200
above the average for the rest of the year. It might be
significant, but it certainly wasn’t enough to account
for Ernie’s story. In a carelessly run business, $200 a
month could disappear without a trace.
But still the similarity of the ways they had come
here was too much of a coincidence. Had they known
each other before? You could concede that one person
might come to a small town where he knew no one at
all and open a business, a town apparently chosen at
random—but two? It was improbable.
I heard the front door open. It was probably Evans
or Turner. But when I looked at my watch I saw it was
already nine-fifty-five; they probably weren’t even
going to show up. There was an indistinguishable
murmur of voices, and then the door opened again.
The intercom came on. “Here we go,” she whispered.
I snatched eagerly at the telephone. The telegram had
come.
The Long Saturday Night — 71
7
She dialed the operator and put through the call. In a
moment a girl’s voice said, “Norman Detective
Agency.”
“Detective agency?” Barbara asked.
“Yes. Are you sure you have the right number?”
“Well, it must be, if this is the Norman agency.
Could I speak to Mr. Norman, please?”
When he came on the line, she said, “This is the
Warren Realty Company, in Carthage—”
“Who’s speaking?” he asked.
“Barbara Ryan. Mr. Warren’s not here, and we’ve
received a rather strange telegram from a Mr.
Weaver, in—”
He cut her off. “Never mind where it’s from; if it’s
what I think it is, I’d just as soon not know. Maybe
you’d better read it to me.” She read it.
“Umh-umh,” he said. “Your telegram’s from your
boss.”
“From Mr. Warren himself?”
“In person. He pulled a whizzer on me, and now
he’s about to pull one on you.” “How do you mean?”
“He wants some information I’ve got for him, but if
you pass it along to him without telling the police
The Long Saturday Night — 72
where he is you’re sticking your neck out a mile.
When he hired me to get this information for him he
didn’t tell me he was hotter than radioactive cobalt; I
had to find that out by reading the papers last night,
like any other dope. And now I’m expecting the cops
to come pounding on the door any minute; they know
he was here in town, and it was Mrs. Warren we
asked five thousand people about yesterday. But
that’s all right; I don’t know where he is, and I don’t
want to know.”
“Would you be breaking any law if you gave me the
information?”
“No. I’ve got a signed authorization to do it, as long
as you have that file number. What you do with it is
your pigeon.”
“I suppose, under the circumstances, I should give it
to the police, along with the telegram. But if Mr.
Warren calls, I’ll also give it to him. After all, he’s
paying for it. You don’t object to the police knowing
he hired you, do you?”
“No. As long as. I’m not withholding information as
to his whereabouts, I’m in the clear. I don’t think it’ll
be much help to him, but we have found out what he
wanted. I mean, what his wife was doing down here.”
I waited tensely. “What was it?” Barbara asked.
“She was playing the ponies.”
That trumpet call! I cursed myself for a tone-deaf
idiot; anybody else would have placed it long ago. It
was the same one they always play at racetracks
when the horses come out to parade to the post. She’d
called from a booth somewhere near the track.
“Are you sure of that?” Barbara asked.
“No doubt of it at all. For the whole week she was
out there every afternoon the track was open. And she
really dropped a wad. At four yesterday afternoon we
located two taxi drivers who remembered taking her
out to the track on different days, so we shagged out
there and started flashing her picture to the sellers.
We didn’t have any luck until we hit the $50 window,
but he remembered her all right. She’d been throwing
The Long Saturday Night — 73
it in to the tune of $200 and $300 a race, especially
the last couple of days. We also found where she
hocked the coat. She got $350 for it, a mink worth
three or four thousand. If Warren’s lawyer could get
enough husbands with bingo-playing wives on the
jury, he’d be a cinch to beat it.”
“Do you have any other information?”
“Two items. We’re certain there wasn’t any other
man involved. And equally certain somebody was
having her tailed, at least part of the time.”
“You mean followed? By a private detective?”
“Yes. I told Warren about it yesterday. Later we
found out for sure.”
“Do you know the agency this detective works for?”
“For himself. He’s a kind of fringe-area gumshoe
named Paul Denman. That about wraps it up as far as
we’re concerned. Warren has a balance due him from
the money he paid us, and we’ll send you a check.”
“Thank you very much.” She hung up.
I stared hopelessly at the wall. Horses? It was
insane. In the 18 months we’d been married she’d
never mentioned horses, and she’d never gambled on
anything except bridge at a tenth of a cent a point.
But it didn’t matter; it obviously had nothing to do
with her being killed, and the whole thing had been
for nothing. No. There was Denman. When we found
out who was having her followed, we might have the
answer to everything. Barbara was dialing again.
“Sheriff's office, Scanlon speaking.”
“Mr. Scanlon, this is Barbara Ryan. I have
something here that perhaps you should know about. I
—uh—” She hesitated.
“Yes, what is it?”
“Well, it’s a telegram. And it seems to be from Mr.
Warren.”
“Warren?” he broke in. “Where’s it from?”
“El Paso. Texas. But maybe I’d better read it to
you.” She read it, and went on. “I couldn’t make any
sense out of it at first, but when I called this Mr.
The Long Saturday Night — 74
Norman he turned out to be a private detective, and
he said the telegram’s from Mr. Warren and that
legally I’m obliged to turn it over to the police—”
“Good for you, Mrs. Ryan. Hold on a minute.” I
heard him giving orders to somebody in the room.
“Get over to Warren’s office and pick up a telegram
Mrs. Ryan’s got for us. And make it fast.” He came
back on the line. “Now. What else did this Norman
say?”
She repeated the conversation, and asked, “What
should I do if Mr. Warren does call?”
“Give him the information, but don’t tell him we
know anything about it. Keep him on the line as long
as you can. We’ll alert the telephone company and the
El Paso police.”
“Well, all right,” she agreed reluctantly. “But I still
feel like a Judas. He thought he could depend on me.”
“Mrs. Ryan, get it through your head—Warren’s
either the coldest-blooded murderer of this century,
or a dangerous maniac in the last stages of paranoia.
Take a look at it yourself—ten minutes after he beat
his wife to death with an andiron, he was in my office
accusing me of persecuting him, and demanding a
lawyer to defend his constitutional rights. Personally,
I just think he’d forgotten he’d killed her. He even
told George Clement he didn’t know when she was
coming home. And when Owens went out there to see
why he didn’t answer the phone, he’d been asleep.
Good God in Heaven—probably in the same room!
He’s dangerous to himself and to everybody else, as
long as he’s at large.”
“You refuse to consider the possibility he could be
innocent?”
He sighed wearily. “Listen. Everybody’s innocent
until he’s proved guilty, even a maniac. And I’m not
trying the case, anyway; all I’m trying to do is grab
him before he kills somebody else.”
“But what about this information from Norman? Or
even the fact that Mr. Warren hired him in the first
place?” “
The Long Saturday Night — 75
“To investigate his wife, after he’d already killed
her?”
“No, no. I mean the fact that somebody else was
having her followed, before she was killed. If you
could find out who hired this man Denman—”
There was pity in his voice. “You mean you don’t
know?”
“He couldn’t have.”
“God knows how many detectives he’s hired. We’ll
probably hear next he’s having me investigated. Or
Roberts.”
“All right, Mr. Scanlon, if you don’t want to look into
this, I’m afraid I can’t cooperate with you. I’ll tell him
—”
“Hold it!” he broke in. “Don’t get yourself in
trouble. Of course I’ll check it; that’s what I’m here
for. I’ll ask the New Orleans police to question this
Denman, but you know as well as I do it was Warren
that hired him.”
“I still say the whole thing’s a horrible mistake; I
know Mrs. Warren was still alive after he left the
house with Mulholland.”
“It’s no good, Mrs. Ryan. You admit yourself you
can’t place the time nearer than fifteen minutes; it
was before he left, when he was bawling me out.”
That was puzzling. What the devil were they talking
about?
“All right,” she said then. “I’ll do it.”
“Good for you. You’ve been a lot of help.”
“I do think, though, you should let me know what
Denman says.”
“I will.” He hung up.
I heard the deputy come in and pick up the
telegram. In the next two hours there were five
telephone calls, three of them from newspapers
wanting background information, one from a man who
identified himself and said he thought I was innocent,
and the last from a man who didn’t identify himself
and said when I was caught and brought back I’d be
The Long Saturday Night — 76
lynched. She signaled on the intercom when she went
out to lunch so I wouldn’t pick up the phone. It rang
once while she was gone. When she returned, she
came on down the passage toward the washroom and
pushed open the side door. She slid a chair up close to
the desk and sat down.
“What was that about with Scanlon?” I asked.
“I’ve only got a minute, but that’s what I wanted to
explain. I tried to call you last night—I mean, night
before last—to ask if you’d heard the story going
around town that Roberts had been murdered instead
of accidentally shooting himself. But the line was
busy.”
“What time?” I asked quickly.
“That’s the trouble. All I’m certain of is that it was
right around eleven-forty-five, between there and
midnight. They say it was eleven-forty-five when you
left the house with Mulholland, and that you’d been
on the phone, talking to Scanlon. They think that’s
what it was. God, if I’d only looked at the clock.”
“There’s no doubt she called somebody, as soon as I
was out the door.”
“But why? To get herself killed?”
“I don’t know,” I said helplessly. “I’m so fouled up
now I’m not sure of my own name. Norman’s
information was no help at all.”
“Well, there’s still Denman. I wanted to tell you, if
necessary you can talk back on the intercom. Evans
and Turner aren’t here, and nobody can hear you from
the street. I’m facing the other way, so they can’t see
my lips move. If somebody comes in, I’ll cut the
switch.”
“Good girl. You’re wonderful.”
She grinned sardonically. “I guess I’m a born cloakand-
dagger type. But it’s almost one; I’m going to call
Doris Bentley.”
She went out. I picked up the phone and waited
tensely while she dialed.
“Crown Theatre.”
The Long Saturday Night — 77
“Would you tell me what the feature is today,
please?” Barbara asked.
“Yes. It’s Gregory Peck in ‘The Bravados’.” My pulse
leaped; I was certain it was the right voice.
“And what time does it start, please?”
“At one-thirty-five, just after the news and the
cartoon.”
“Thank you.”
Barbara hung-up, and in a moment the intercom
hummed. “What do you think?” she asked softly.
I pressed the key and leaned close to the box. “She’s
the girl; I’m sure of it.”
“What now?”
“I’m going to talk to her.”
“How can you?”
“We’ll wait till the picture starts and she’s not busy.
Can you do an imitation of a long-lines operator?”
“Sure. But, listen—if she reports it to Scanlon, he’ll
know it’s a fake. The phone company’s watching all
incoming calls.”
“I don’t think she’ll report it, for the same reason
she’s never identified herself. She’s not eager for
publicity.”
“Here’s hoping.”
I waited nervously while a half hour dragged by.
The chances were she’d refuse to admit she was the
one unless I could scare her. She obviously didn’t
want to be identified, either because she was mixed
up in this thing herself, or from a natural
disinclination to admit she’d been in Roberts’
apartment—which was the only way she could have
found the lighter there. The intercom came on, and I
heard Barbara dialing.
“Crown Theatre.”
“This is long distance. We have call for a Miss Doris
Bentley. Is she there?”
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