There was no hope of sleeping, so I filled the
percolator, measured out the coffee, and plugged it in.
When I went back to the living room I noticed idly that
one of her gloves was lying on the sofa where she’d
dropped it when I lunged at her. I’d seen it when I
came in from the hall, but had paid no attention. The
other was lying on the rug in front of the sofa. She’d
been too scared and in too big a hurry to remember
them when she’d gathered up the suitcase and purse.
It was odd, though, that Mulholland hadn’t seen them;
he’d thought the suitcase was mine. Curious, I
stepped over to the hall doorway where he’d been
standing, and looked again. The sofa was Danish teak
with pearl-gray cushions, the glove was black, and he
would have been looking straight at it. Well, he was
too busy admiring himself to notice anything.
I remembered then what George had said about my
behaving as if I were jealous of him. Could people
have actually believed that? I disliked him for the
posing and arrogant jerk he was, but it went back a
long time before the Little Theatre production of
Detective Story, and had nothing to do with it.
Anyway, there weren’t many love scenes in the play,
at least between McLeod and Mary McLeod, the two
parts they’d had. I’d objected to her being in it, but
The Long Saturday Night — 37
only because of the long hours of rehearsals, five
nights a week for over a month.
I paused, frowning. . . . No, hell—she hadn’t liked
Mulholland herself; she thought he was a conceited
ham, and I could remember her lying in bed laughing
about the times he had blown up in his lines.
My own feeling about him was the result of a
number of things, none of them having to do with
Frances or the play. A couple of years ago he’d beaten
up a sawmill hand and sent him to the hospital for no
particular reason except that the boy was drunk and
making a nuisance of himself and he, Mulholland, had
an audience of admiring young punks in front of the
drugstore. Any other officer would merely have
arrested him and got him out of sight, but not our
hero. I’d witnessed part of it, and with my usual tact
I’d chewed him out and threatened to report him to
Scanlon, with the result there’d been bad feeling
between us ever since. He was a master of the
calculated insolence of standing almost in your way
along the sidewalk, so you had a choice of taking a
half step aside in order to get around him or of
bumping into him with the appearance of having done
it deliberately. But jealous of him? Hah!
You don’t think he was the only one, do you?
I cursed. Damn that girl, anyway! I tried to push the
telephone call out of my mind, but it kept coming
back. And I still didn’t know why Frances had
suddenly decided to come back from New Orleans.
Did it have something to do with Roberts’ death? But
how could she have known of it? She hadn’t received
a phone call from here. No, I corrected myself; she
merely hadn’t received any at the hotel. She hadn’t
called me from there, had she?
I wished I could find out who the girl was. It was
almost certain that I knew her. I stared at the
telephone, wishing it would ring, and at the same time
wondering why I thought she’d bother to call again;
she’d gotten rid of her accumulation of poison for the
day and was probably tucked cozily in bed sleeping
the sleep of the just. She must be a girl friend of
The Long Saturday Night — 38
Roberts’. I tried to remember any I’d seen him with,
but came up with a blank. Being over 30 and married,
I was completely out of touch with any crowd a single
man Roberts’ age would be likely to run around with. I
suddenly thought of Barbara Ryan; she might know.
As I reached for the telephone, I looked at my watch
and saw with surprise it was 1:15. It was a sad time of
night to wake anybody up, but maybe she wouldn’t
mind. She lived alone, in a small efficiency apartment
about a block off Clebourne in the west end of town.
“Warren,” I said when she answered. “I’m sorry to
wake you.”
“I wasn’t asleep,” she replied. “Just reading. And
I’m glad you called. Is it really true, what they’re
saying now, that Roberts was killed by somebody?”
“There doesn’t seem to be much doubt of it,” I
replied, and told her about the different sized shot.
“That’s what I heard, but I just couldn’t believe it.
Who do they think did it?”
“No idea so far. But here’s what I wanted to ask you
—would you know anything about Roberts’ girl
friends?”
She appeared to hesitate. Then she said guardedly,
“Well, I’m no authority on the subject. Just what do
you mean, Duke?”
“What girls he dated.”
“Oh. Well, me for one. I’ve been out with him two or
three times.”
That was news to me. “What kind of guy was he?”
“Pleasant enough, good dancer, a little on the toosmooth
side. He gave me the impression he took
pretty good care of Dan Roberts.”
“What do you know about any other girls?”
“Not much. I’ve seen him with one or two others at
various times.”
“Do you remember any of them?”
“Hmmm . . . Nadine Wilder . . . Midge Carson . . . I
can’t think of any others at the moment. Why?”
The Long Saturday Night — 39
“I had a weird telephone call from a girl who
wouldn’t give her name, and I had a hunch she knew
him pretty well.”
“I see.” There was that barely perceptible pause
again, and then she added cynically, “Well, she could,
quite fast, if she didn’t watch her step.”
“A wolf, then?”
“Operator is the word. Oh—about the two I named—
if that telephone call was the usual sort people don’t
sign their names to, I doubt it was either of them.
They’re both pretty good kids. Nadine works for the
power company—”
“And the Carson girl for Dr. Wyman,” I said. “I know
them both, and I don’t think it was either. But if you
remember any others, would you call me?”
“Sure thing. And if there’s anything else I can do,
just let me know.”
“Thanks a lot.” I hung up, and stood there for a
moment wondering how many other people had heard
rumors about Frances and Roberts. Those pauses
hadn’t been hard to read; she had a good idea what
that girl had told me and was afraid of being backed
into a position where she’d have to lie about it or
confirm she’d heard the same thing.
My head was throbbing again. I went down the
hallway to get some aspirin from the medicine chest
in the bathroom. As I turned the corner beyond the
den I saw there was a light still on in the bedroom,
and I suddenly remembered the shattered doorfacing.
I’d have to repair that before Malvina saw it;
she’d wonder about it and talk. She was the colored
girl who came in to do the housework twice a week,
but she wouldn’t be in again until Saturday, I could
repair it tomorrow. Or today, I thought, remembering
suddenly that it was Friday now. Maybe I could glue
back the strip the bolt had torn off. But as I came
nearer I saw it was too badly splintered and gouged;
I’d have to replace it with a whole new facing and
paint it. I’d been intent on the doorway and hadn’t
looked beyond it into the room itself, and now as I
stepped inside I stopped in surprise. Her suitcase was
The Long Saturday Night — 40
on the bed. Beside it was another one, open, and a
pile of dresses and underclothing.
Hadn’t she taken anything with her? I looked
stupidly around the room. The bed, a king-sized
double over seven feet long, extended out from the
right-hand wall, flanked on either side by closets,
while directly opposite the doorway, in the rear wall,
was the fireplace. The door to her dressing room and
the bath, the one I’d failed to break in, was on the left,
and open now, and just beyond it was a full-length
mirror, opposite the foot of the bed. The only lights
burning were the rose-shaded reading lamp on the far
side and the one inside the dressing room, but as my
glance swept across the mirror I caught the reflection
of something dark on the floor on the other side of the
bed. I came on into the room then, leaned over the
corner of it, and looked squarely down into her face,
or what was left of it.
My knees melted under me and I slid down onto the
foot of the bed, clutching at the spread to keep from
going on over the corner of it and falling on top of her.
I kept opening and closing my mouth and swallowing
to hold back the oily ground-swell of nausea running
up into my throat, and pressing my face into the
bedspread as though I were convinced that if I could
close my eyes tightly enough the picture would go
away. Maybe it was the instrument itself that was the
worst—or its position—the dirty, fire-blackened
andiron lying across the column of her throat where
he’d either dropped it or tossed it after he was
through with it.
I turned the other way and tried to get up, but slid
down and sat on the floor, facing the mirror, and for a
second when I first saw it, I didn’t even recognize my
own face, greenish-white, staring, and shiny with
sweat. My gaze started to slip downward to the
reflected horror of what was on the other side of the
bed, but I turned my head and tried again to get up.
The telephone began to ring. There was an extension
on the night table just beyond where she was lying,
and the insistent clamor of it ran through my head
like a white-hot saw. I made it to my feet this time and
The Long Saturday Night — 41
walked unsteadily into the bathroom. Pulling down a
large towel, I came back and managed to get it spread
across her head and the upper part of her body. The
telephone went on ringing.
She lay on her back, still fully clothed in the dark
suit she’d worn when she came in except that her legs
were twisted awkwardly and the skirt and slip were
pulled halfway up her thighs, apparently from
brushing against the bed as she fell. Still on my knees
beside her, I caught the hem of the skirt and tried to
pull it down without touching her, but when the leg
moved and rearranged itself under the tugging, as if
she were still alive, nausea hit me again and I had to
turn away to keep from vomiting. It was the senseless
brutality of it that was so sickening. Why had he
beaten her in the face that way? I finally got the skirt
pulled down, and stood up, still trembling, and wiped
the sweat from my face.
The closet door, between the night table and the
rear wall, was open. Apparently she had been taking
clothes from it, and when her back was turned he’d
lifted the andiron from the fireplace and hit her the
first tine, the blow that crushed the top of her skull.
Her right hand and lower arm extended from under
the edge of the towel; I knelt again and looked at
them, and then raised the corner of the towel to
examine the left. Neither was broken, and there were
no bruises, or any soot, on them; she hadn’t raised her
arms to try to protect herself, so definitely he’d hit her
the first time from behind. That blow would have
killed her instantly, and the rest of it was sheer
sadism or some pathological hatred you could only
guess at.
But she must have let him in; I’d locked the front
door when I left, and the others were already locked. I
became aware then that something had changed in
the room, but it was a second or two before I realized
what it was. The telephone had finally quit ringing. I
turned to it and picked up the receiver, still numb
with shock, and started to dial the sheriff's office.
With a nervous giggle that was near the borderline of
hysteria, I was conscious of thinking it was lucky for
The Long Saturday Night — 42
me I was in the sheriff’s office, with witnesses, when
it happened. Then I stopped, and let the receiver fall
back on the cradle. I was staring with horror at the
splintered door frame.
Mr. Mulholland will please take the stand . . .
I rang the doorbell for a long time . . . Yes, it was at
least five minutes . . . When he finally did answer, he
was all out of breath, and crazy-acting, and wild-eyed.
I could smell the liquor on him . . . Yes, that’s the
same suitcase. I just thought at the time it was his . . .
Wait! The suitcase was in the living room when I
left. He’d have to testify there was no chance I could
have moved it, because I came out the door right
behind him. So it would be obvious she was still alive
then—I stopped. What a defense that would be! By
now I’d already been here at least twenty minutes,
alone, since George had let me off in front of the
house.
I’d told George she was still in New Orleans, when
she was already dead here in the bedroom. Friend or
not. he’d still have to testify.
They already had the motive. The girl had given
them that.
The telephone started to ring again.
. . . and so, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, having
already killed his wife’s lover, he learned from her
hotel in New Orleans that she was on her way home,
waylaid her in the living room . . . where she dropped
her suitcase, fled in terror to the bedroom and, in a
last and futile attempt to save her life, bolted the door
. . .
. . . I give you this andiron . . . these monstrous
photographs . . . who but a man inflamed to madness
by the goadings of a cancerous and unreasoning
jealousy. . . .
I had to do something.
Yes, what? I heard my voice saying it aloud, and
then that nervous giggle again, warning me how near
I was to breaking up completely into hysteria.
The Long Saturday Night — 43
Maybe if I got out of this room where her scream
was still ringing in my ears I could think. But it wasn’t
a scream, I told myself; it was only the telephone. I
went down the hall with it ringing behind me in the
bedroom and ahead of me in the living room, as if I
were running wildly and forever just to stay in one
place on a treadmill in some ultramodern Hell filled
with shrilling telephones all trying to drive me over
the brink into madness. Then in a moment of lucidity,
like a sun-filled hole in a drifting curtain of fog, it
occurred to me that if I answered it the damned thing
would stop. But as I came into the living room it
stopped anyway. I went on to the kitchen, only half
conscious of what I was doing, and from force of habit
poured a cup of coffee from the percolator which had
shut itself off now. I was raising it to my lips when I
saw her face again, and dropped the whole thing, cup,
saucer, and all, into the sink. I turned on the tap and
let the water run. Splashing among the fragments of
china, while I cupped trembling hands and caught
some to wash my face. I didn’t know why. Maybe I
thought it would clear my head. I dried my face on a
dish towel, dropped it on the edge of the sink, and sat
down at the breakfast table to fumble for a cigarette.
Mother of God! Darrow come back from the grave
couldn’t save me.
Fragments of thought went whirling through my
mind, too jumbled and disconnected to make sense or
form any recognizable pattern. It had to be
Mulholland. No one else had even known she was
home. He had seen the glove, and knew all the time
the suitcase was hers. Then he must have killed
Roberts, and she was mixed up in it some way—No, I
thought then, it didn’t have to be Mulholland; it could
still be anybody. She’d let the man into the house, so
it followed she could also have called him and told
him she was home, the minute I was out the door.
And what had she really been doing in New
Orleans? What had she needed all that money for? I
sprang up and ran back to the bedroom, looking
wildly around for her purse; there might be something
in it, some kind of information. How did I know she
The Long Saturday Night — 44
was even in New Orleans today, or last night? She
hadn’t got back to the hotel to check out until
sometime between five-thirty and seven P.M.; she
could even have been here in Carthage. I spotted her
purse on the bed beside the two suitcases, pulled it
open, and began pawing through the litter women
carry around with them—lipstick, comb, mirror, car
keys, tissues, handkerchief. There was nothing here.
Wait— receipted hotel bill, with her credit card
number. December to January 5th. That was right. I
opened her billfold. It held two fives, and three ones.
She’d had six hundred in cash when she left here,
and presumably had cashed a check for five hundred
today, she’d sold stocks worth six thousand, she’d
paid the hotel bill by credit card, and she had thirteen
dollars. Good God. Then I remembered she hadn’t
been wearing her coat when she came in, one of those
light shades of mink that had cost around four
thousand. I ran back to the kitchen, yanked open the
door to the garage, and looked in the Mercedes. There
was no coat in it.
I came back to the living room and stood by the
desk, staring blankly at the slip from the broker’s
office, still dazed and only half conscious of what I
was doing. What did it all mean? What had she done
with it? Then my head cleared a little, and I wondered
savagely what difference it made. The question was
what I was going to do. Call the police? Run? Call
George, and tell him? Then I went rigid with fear.
Tires crunched on the gravel in front. I heard a car
door slam, and then footsteps on the porch. The
doorbell sounded. It rang again before I could even
move. Sweat broke out on my face as I tiptoed to one
of the front windows, parted the drapes a fraction of
an inch, and peered out. It was a police car, the red
light flashing in the darkness.
It was too late to run. Even if I could get the garage
door open without his hearing me, his car was
blocking the drive. I could get out the back on foot,
but where would I go? They’d run me down in an
hour. I couldn’t see the man in front of the door, but it
must be Mulholland. The bell rang again, three or four
The Long Saturday Night — 45
angry, insistent bursts, then a fist pounded on the
panel. If I didn’t let him in, he’d break it down. I took
a deep breath, trying to get air past the tightness in
my chest, and walked down the hall.
It was Len Owens, the night deputy. He looked
faintly sheepish. “Sorry to disturb you, Mr. Warren—”
My mouth opened. Nothing came out, so I closed it.
“We had a call from Mrs. Ryan,” he went on. “She
was pretty upset. She said she’d just been talking to
you on the phone, and then called back a few minutes
later and couldn’t get an answer.”
I managed a smile, wondering if he could hear the
noise my face made as it split. “I was—uh—lying
down, and must have dozed off. I guess that was it. I
must have been asleep.” Now that I had finally
achieved speech, I couldn’t seem to shut myself off.
“I guess everybody’s a little jumpy, with that thing
about Roberts. Anyway, if you’d just call her back.”
He started to turn away.
You could tell him now, I thought. It’s only been a
half hour. Oh, by the way—my wife’s just been
murdered too. I mean—since you’re here, you might
as well have a look. Sure.
“Good night, Mr. Warren.” He stepped down off the
porch and walked back toward the car.
I’ve been meaning to call you, but what with one
thing and another—you know how it is.
“Good night.” I closed the door and collapsed
against it like the heroine of a 1923 movie. The car
drove off. I could never report it now.
The Long Saturday Night — 46
5
She was apologetic. “I felt silly, sending the police to
check, but when I called right back, twice—and after
that terrible thing with Roberts—”
“It’s all right,” I said. The numbness of shock was
wearing off now and my mind was operating a little
better. “I must have dropped off to sleep. What was
it?”
“Well, not important enough to cause all that
uproar. But you asked me to call you back if I
remembered any other girls Roberts had dated.”
“You’ve thought of another one?”
“No. Not yet. But I was going to suggest you try
Ernie Sewell. He’s worked for Roberts ever since he
opened the store, and probably knows him as well as
anybody in town. Also, Roberts would be more likely
to discuss his conquests with another man than he
would with a new prospect. He was no high-school
type.”
I should have thought of Sewell myself. “Thanks.
That’s a good idea. And there was something else I
wanted to ask you. When Frances called me this
afternoon, do you remember whether the operator
actually said New Orleans, or just long distance?”
The Long Saturday Night — 47
Some people might have asked, “Why?” but not
Barbara Ryan. She’d worked for me for over a year,
but I was just now beginning to appreciate her. “I’m
not sure now,” she said. “All I remember is that it was
from a pay phone.”
“Hold it! Are you sure of that?”
“Yes. The line was open all the way, and I distinctly
remember the operator telling her how much money
to deposit.”
I’m still lying here in bed— What was the object of a
pointless falsehood like that? A pathological
compulsion to lie? And where did the trumpet come
in? Well, maybe it was a jukebox.
“How much was it?” I asked.
“Hmmm. Ninety cents, I think. Yes, that’s right.”
Then it could have been New Orleans. It was a cinch
it wasn’t local. I yanked my thoughts back on the
track. An idea was beginning to take form in my mind,
but I was going to need help—help from somebody
very smart and somebody I could trust. George would
fill the bill on both counts, but I couldn’t ask him; his
professional code of ethics wouldn’t allow him to be a
party to anything unorthodox and probably illegal,
even if he knew I was innocent. He’d simply tell me to
call the police. Barbara could do it, if she would, and
if I could figure out a way to keep from implicating
her.
“Listen,” I said, “I can’t explain now, but in the
morning Scanlon is probably going to be asking you a
lot of questions about me. Answer everything he asks,
fully and truthfully, except don’t tell him I asked you
or even mentioned it. Got it?”
“Well, it sounds simple enough in an
incomprehensible sort of way; I think I can swing it.
Anything else?”
“If he should ask if anything’s missing from the safe
in the office, inventory it, and tell him. That’s all. And
thanks a million, Barbara.”
I hurried back to the bedroom. Avoiding the other
side of the bed and being careful not to disturb
The Long Saturday Night — 48
anything I didn’t have to, I quickly changed into a
dark suit, fresh shirt, and tie, and hauled one of my
own suitcases out of the closet on this side, a tan
leather two-suiter with my initials stamped on it. I
threw in a suit, several shirts, changes of underwear,
and the toilet kit with the spare electric razor, and
just before I closed the bag it occurred to me a
picture would help. The only photograph I’d ever been
able to persuade her to have made was the wedding
picture; it would have to do. I swung around to the
dresser to pick it up, and stared blankly. It was gone.
It was impossible. It’d been there just—I stopped,
aware I couldn’t remember when I had seen it last. I
was so accustomed to its being there, it might have
been a week since I’d actually noticed it. Maybe
Malvina had moved it. I yanked open drawers, and
looked on the dressing table in the bath. It had
vanished. She’d never liked it, so maybe she
destroyed it, though I was certain I must have seen it
since she left. I swore nervously. This was wasting
precious time; I couldn’t stand here doddering like an
old man. I had a small copy of the same photograph in
my wallet; it would have to do. I slammed the suitcase
shut, hit the light switch, and went down the hall.
Grabbing the topcoat and a hat, I killed the rest of the
lights, and slipped out the kitchen door into the
garage.
I tossed the bag into the Chevrolet, and eased up
the big overhead door. The street was deserted and
dark beyond the driveway. I backed out and closed
the door. The only way to do it was as naturally as
possible, I thought. This time of night it would be very
easy to tell whether I was being followed, and
especially by the police. The County cars and the two
owned by the city police were all marked. I turned left
one block before Clebourne, drove west on Taylor for
three blocks, turned right on Fulton to come out into
Clebourne just west of the office, the way I always
drove to work. Clebourne Street is quite wide, and
still has angle parking. I slid into a space in front of
the office and got out. Three cars were parked in front
of Fuller’s, just to my left, but none of them was a
The Long Saturday Night — 49
police car. The tinsel made a scaly, rustling sound in
the wind as I stepped across the sidewalk and
unlocked the door. There was nobody in sight along
the sidewalk.
The big fireproof safe was against the back wall,
between the door leading into my office and the one
going back to the washroom and the rear entrance on
the alley, but a light was always left on it so it was in
full view of the street. I walked straight back to it,
fighting an impulse to look over my shoulder at the
windows, knelt, and began turning the knob through
the combination. The last tumbler fell in place. I
pulled the door open, took out my keys, unlocked the
steel door inside, and slid out the brown Manila folder
I wanted. It contained something over $18,000 in
matured Series E bonds, mostly 500-and 1000-dollar
denominations. I closed the safe, spun the knob, and
before I turned around I took out a cigarette and lit it.
There was nobody in sight beyond the windows. I
went out and locked the door.
I was just backing the Chevrolet away from the curb
when a police car came around the corner from
Fulton behind me. For an instant I felt a quick stab of
fear; then I saw it was only Cap Deets, the night
patrolman, in one of the city cars. He waved, and
went on past. My only danger at the moment was
Scanlon, in case he was having me watched to see if I
tried to leave town. Or Mulholland, I thought grimly, if
he were the one who’d killed her. I drove on down
Clebourne at a casual pace and turned right into
Montrose as if I were going home. There was nobody
behind me. Two blocks over I turned right again and
was headed back parallel to Clebourne. When I
reached the west end of town I cut back to Clebourne
and the highway, checked the mirror once more, and
breathed softly in release of tension as I bore down on
the accelerator. When I passed the service-club signs
at the city limits I was doing 70.
* * *
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