The Gorgeous Murderer Page 3

  She dropped the hand, stood up, and returned to the mirror. She looked upon the ragged bleeding scratches in the soft flesh, saw her reflection blur as the tears came to her eyes, and she smiled, frightfully, in hysteria. Her mouth opened, her lips contorted, and she screamed, frantically.

  She screamed… Screamed. Screamed.

  V

  ON THE THIRD DAY OF March, at five minutes before midnight of a hot humid moonless night, Oscar Blinney lay spread in bed in Room 202 raptly reading a paperback mystery novel. He lay, uncovered, nude except for boxer shorts, legs apart, heels dug to mattress, pillows piled beneath his head.

  When the first scream penetrated, he swung up, sitting bolt-upright, scowling, blinking, uncertain as to whether or not he had imagined it.

  The screams came, fierce, piercing, hideous. He flung away the book, leaped from the bed. The screams were from 203. He ran to the closet, dragged down a bathrobe; running, he pulled it on, burst out of his room, pounded on the door of 203, tried the knob, opened the door, slammed it shut behind him, quickly took in the scene in the brightly lighted room. It was as if she did not recognize him, even though she had met him in the tea room. It was as if he were a complete stranger to her, a man without a clear-cut identity.

  She saw him, looked at him, looked through him—screaming, screaming—mascara making dirty blue-black lines of the tears on the wet face. He crossed, grasped her shoulders, shook her. She slobbered, laughed violently, gasped, choked.

  He slapped her, hard, across the cheek, and she fell to the bed, face down, whimpering. He went to the phone, lifted the receiver, said, “Quick! Send a doctor to room two hundred three! And call the police! Quick!”

  THE MAN IN CHARGE was Andrew Borrelli, lieutenant of detectives, young, deeply-tanned, quiet, competent, and sympathetic. He waited, while the doctor examined Pedro Orgaz and pronounced him dead. He waited, while the doctor attended to the scratches on the body of Evangeline Adams. He waited, while the doctor injected a sedative into the body of Evangeline Adams.

  “Not too much, Doc,” he said. “I’ve got to talk with her.”

  “Don’t teach me my trade,” said the doctor. “I know.”

  He waited, while police photographers took pictures. He waited, while the body of Pedro Orgaz was carried out. He waited, while Evangeline Ashley, in the bathroom, washed her face, composed herself, and changed to a housecoat. He waited, while, during that period, Oscar Blinney told him why and how he was in the room when the police arrived. He waited, until the doctor departed, until the uniformed policemen were gone—with two of them stationed outside the door.

  He waited until Oscar Blinney was seated and Evangeline Ashley was seated, smoking a cigarette held in trembling fingers. Then he said, “All right, Miss Ashley, let’s have it, if you please.”

  “Yes,” she said, gulping. “Yes.”

  He led her, easily, quietly. “Let’s just give it a fast run-through, huh? Mr. Blinney here tells me your name is Evangeline Ashley. A very pretty name indeed.”

  “Thank you.”

  “My name is Borrelli, Lieutenant Borrelli. You’re a resident of this hotel, Miss Ashley, aren’t you? Here? This room?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Do you work, Miss Ashley?”

  “Yes. Here. Downstairs.”

  “In the hotel?”

  “In the tea room. I’m a hostess in the tea room.”

  “And… the deceased… did you know him?”

  “Yes, sir, I knew him.”

  “His name?”

  “Orgaz. Pedro Orgaz.”

  “Know his occupation?”

  “He owned… owned… Club Columbo.”

  “You feel all right, Miss Ashley?”

  “Uh… yes, sir… yes, sir, I do.”

  “Would you like a drink, Miss Ashley?”

  “Yes. I mean, may I?”

  “Of course.” He smiled. “This is not an inquisition, Miss Ashley. You’re going to give me a statement of the facts, what happened here, a sort of preliminary statement. After that, we’ll go downtown and you’ll give us a formal statement. After that, and after consultation with the man from the prosecutor’s office, we either hold you and you get yourself a lawyer, or we release you, and you still get yourself a lawyer. Now it is my duty to inform you that whatever you say may be held against you. It is also my duty to inform you that if you wish you may say nothing. Up to you.”

  “I’ve nothing to hide.”

  “Very good, Miss Ashley. May I prepare your drink?”

  “May I do it myself?”

  “Why, certainly.”

  She rose, poured bourbon into a tumbler, went to the bathroom to add water.

  “How about you, Mr. Blinney?” said Lieutenant Borrelli.

  “No, nothing, thanks,” said Blinney.

  She returned, sat down, drank, set the glass away.

  “All right, then,” said Lieutenant Borrelli. “You say you knew Mr. Orgaz, knew he owned Club Columbo. Were you well acquainted with Mr. Orgaz?”

  “No.”

  “Fairly well acquainted?”

  “No.”

  “How well acquainted, Miss Ashley?”

  “I once worked for him.”

  “Ah, so. You once worked for him. When, please? For how long, please?”

  “It was in November, early November. I worked for him for about two weeks.”

  “In what capacity?”

  “I was… a sort of waitress at Club Columbo.”

  Lieutenant Borrelli coughed. “Waitresses at Club Columbo? You sure you weren’t… er… a dancer?”

  “Waitress.”

  “But there are only waiters at Club Columbo.”

  “This wasn’t in the club proper. I worked in the Upstairs Room. You know, where they gamble.”

  “No, I don’t know. Is this some sort of private club, the Upstairs Room?”

  “Maybe. I’m not sure.”

  “All right, you worked as a waitress in the Upstairs Room in November for about two weeks. Were you fired?”

  “I quit.”

  “Why?”

  “He got fresh.”

  “Who?”

  “Mr. Orgaz.”

  Lieutenant Borrelli smiled. “You happen to be a very beautiful young woman, Miss Ashley. Getting fresh is a relative term. If you’ll pardon me, you naturally inspire ‘getting fresh.’ I myself, if I met you under different circumstances, might… ‘get fresh.’”

  She smiled, for the first time. Blinney admired the adroit, easy manner of the soft-speaking young lieutenant. “Yes,” she said. “Of course. A relative term. But he really got fresh. He made some real nasty passes, and some real nasty propositions. It got to a point where I just couldn’t work there. I quit.”

  “I see,” said Borrelli.

  “But the moment I quit, he became contrite, almost nice. It was as though he suddenly realized that I simply wasn’t the type. He practically implored me to return to work, that he wouldn’t bother me, but I had had enough of it. Then he insisted upon helping me find a new job. He told me to apply for work as hostess in the tea room downstairs, even told me that he’d arranged that I could have a room in the hotel. It was as though he had made a mistake and wanted to make it up to me. And, in a way, I felt sorry for him. I felt I had misjudged him. I got both the job and the room.”

  “You saw him?”

  “No. Not once. We talked on the phone. That’s all.”

  “Didn’t see him once until tonight?”

  “That’s right. I appreciated what he had done for me, but that was it. He called me once or twice, for a date, but I refused.”

  “And then—tonight?”

  She tapped out the cigarette. “I was here,” she said. “It was about eleven o’clock or so. I had a couple of drinks; I was sitting around reading the paper. I got restless. I got my car and drove over to Wolfie’s. I had coffee and a bun, sat around, then came back here.”

  “What time?”

  “
I’m not sure. I’d say about a quarter to twelve.”

  “Yes?”

  “I was about to take a shower and go to bed when there was a knock on the door.”

  “Yes?”

  “It was Mr. Orgaz. He said, through the door, that it was important, that he was in some sort of trouble, that, please, he wanted to talk to me. I let him in.”

  “What happened then, Miss Ashley?”

  “He was drunk, terribly drunk. He babbled some incoherent nonsense for a few moments, and then he came after me. I was frightened to death. I ran for the door, but he caught me. I tried to fight him off. He was mad, drunk, insane. He tore at me, ripped at me, all the while cursing, saying horrible, frightful things. I was wild with fear. He pulled at my clothes, grabbed me, kissed me. I broke away. He was after me.

  “I snatched up a bottle and I hit him over the head. The bottle broke to pieces but still he came. He was on me, on top of me, and I slashed out with what was left of the bottle in my hand. And then he dropped to the floor. And that’s it. I know I screamed. I know I was hysterical. I know Mr. Blinney was suddenly here in the room, and I know he slapped me, I know he slapped me, and I thank him…” And she was sobbing. And she put her hands to her face.

  The young lieutenant looked toward Blinney, shook his head, looked away. He went to Evangeline Ashley and lightly touched her head with an open comforting palm. “Miss Ashley,” he said, “I’m not married, but I have four sisters. If you’re telling the truth, whatever you did, I compliment you for it.”

  She looked up with wet, beseeching eyes. “I’m telling the truth.”

  “All right. Please get dressed. You too, Mr. Blinney. Go to your room and get some clothes on. We’re going downtown. Make a bundle of the clothes you were wearing, Miss Ashley. We’re taking them with us. They are, as a matter of fact, evidence in your favor.”

  Oscar Blinney went to his room and got dressed. Lieutenant Andrew Borrelli collected the bottleneck and fragments of the broken whiskey bottle and tied them into a neat package within a clean towel. Evangeline Ashley dressed, combed her hair, put lipstick to her lips, and brought the clothes she had been wearing, in a small suitcase, to Lieutenant Borrelli. Together, the three went “downtown.”

  There, under crisp, expert questioning by the Man From The Prosecutor’s Office, Blinney’s story and Evangeline Ashley’s story were reduced to sworn signed statements. Scrapings of skin from Miss Ashley were compared to scrapings from beneath the fingernails of Pedro Orgaz by sleepy police technicians, and sampling of Miss Ashley’s lipstick was compared to the smears on the mouth of the dead man. Additional photographs were taken of Miss Ashley’s shoulder and breast wounds by suddenly-wide-awake police technicians. An autopsy was ordered upon the body of the deceased.

  At 5:05 A.M. Miss Evangeline Ashley was released upon her own recognizance, on direct instructions from the Prosecutor’s office. She was accompanied home by Mr. Oscar Blinney.

  VI

  ON THE MORNING OF the fifth day of March, the last will and testament of Pedro Orgaz, a strange document, was offered and admitted to probate. It was concise and unambiguous. Whatever he owned he devised and bequeathed to his wife, Theresa Columbo Orgaz. He specifically ordered that upon his death there be no services, no funeral, and no attendance, not even by his wife or children.

  The preliminary hearing of Evangeline Ashley went smoothly, quickly, politely and co-operatively, without rancor or dispute. Oscar Blinney testified to the screams; and what he saw when he entered Room 203. He testified further that he had called for a doctor and for the police. He was shown the torn clothing and identified them as the clothing Miss Ashley had been wearing when he entered the room.

  Lieutenant Andrew Borrelli testified that the police had arrived with a police physician and that there had been no need for the services of a private doctor. He gave his version of the scene in the room and introduced the evidence the bottle-neck and the fragments of the broken bottle. He corroborated Mr. Blinney’s testimony with regard to the torn clothing.

  Evangeline Ashley told her story, bearing up superbly, and shedding only a tear or two. The police physician testified to the condition of the deceased and the condition of Miss Ashley with emphasis upon the scratches on her shoulder and bosom. A police photographer authenticated photographs of the wounds upon the body of Miss Ashley. A police technician testified that sampling of Miss Ashley’s lipstick compared exactly with the lipstick-smears on the mouth of the deceased.

  Another police technician testified that scrapings of skin from the body of Miss Ashley were identical with the scrapings from beneath the fingernails of the deceased. An expert from the police laboratory gave testimony that autopsy disclosed sufficient alcohol in the stomach and blood of the deceased to substantiate a judgment of thorough intoxication.

  And then there was introduced into the record four separate certified copies of convictions in the criminal history of the deceased from the files of the Canadian police.

  Complete acquittal of Evangeline Ashley was a foregone conclusion from the first…

  And they were inseparable—Evangeline Ashley and Oscar Blinney. He was with her morning, noon, and evening. He was consumed by her, his attentions completely enveloped.

  They swam together, walked together, went on trips together, went to restaurants together, went to clubs together, ate together, and drank together. He marveled at her resilience; within a few days she had bounced back; she was gay, smiling, bantering, beautiful. True, she drank a great deal, but after what she had been through, could he blame her? He himself was drinking much more than was his custom.

  They were together morning, noon, and evening, and at night he was filled with wild dreams of her. He was certain that she responded to him, physically, although she had made no overt act. He had not kissed her, not once. His innate shyness, the timidity that was so much a part of his nature, smothered and enshackled him. He suffered, and his dreams grew wilder.

  On the thirteenth day of March, Evangeline Ashley sold her car. She had inserted an advertisement in a newspaper and a buyer had eventuated. The buyer got a good buy. He paid $3200 for a “used” car which had been purchased four months prior for $5200, the “use” of which had entailed the driving of 2800 miles. The car, in fact, was brand new, but Evangeline Ashley was jubilant. She had asked $3200 and had received $3200.

  “Oz,” she said, “tonight we really do the town.”

  “Great by me,” said Oscar Blinney.

  “On me,” said Evangeline Ashley.

  “Pardon?” said Blinney.

  “On me,” said Evangeline Ashley. “Oz, you’ve been a brick, just wonderful to me. I don’t think I’ve ever known anyone as considerate and kind. And it’s been costing you, pal. Well, tonight, the party’s on me.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about two hundred dollars. I’m putting three thousand in my Savings Bank, which shall give me a grand total of eight thousand, but the remaining two hundred bucks—tonight we blow it. The party’s on me, and I don’t want to hear another word out of you.”

  “I think that’s silly.”

  “That’s the trouble with you. You won’t ever be silly. You’re just too damned serious. Now just listen, and listen carefully. Me? I’m going to the bank, and then I’m going to the beauty parlor, and I don’t want to see you for the rest of the day. Rest, lounge, swim, do as you like. At ten o’clock this evening, you’ll call for me, like a boy-friend, you know?

  “You won’t have a long way to go, but, very formal, you’ll call for me. You will have a beautiful orchid for me, and you’ll be wearing dinner clothes. You’re a real handsome guy, but you’re going to look your handsomest. And then we’ll go out and we’ll really turn this town over, but we’ll turn it over, pal. We’ll burn that two hundred bucks, but all of it, and not in one place.”

  He called for her at ten o’clock. He was now deeply tanned and the gleaming white dinner jacket provided handso
me contrast. The grey eyes seemed greyer. The thick blond crew-cut hair, burnished by sun and freshly brushed, seemed thicker, blonder, and very youthful. He smelled of health and masculine perfume.

  She was ravishing in her silver strapless Parisian evening gown (no underwear) and her high-heeled silver pumps (no stockings). In ten days the scars of Pedro Orgaz’s fingernails had disappeared as had the scars (if any) of her affair with Pedro Orgaz. The beauty parlor had added additional tints to the gold-blonde hair and had swung it up into an intricate hair-do that revealed the tiny, close-set, inviting ears. Blue eyes were wide and clear and white teeth flashed in the sensuous sheen of smiling, full-curved, magenta-glistening lips.

  It was a night to remember. They drank and drank again in all the clubs, big and little, and ate and drank again, and listened to music and watched entertainment and danced, and she was terribly beautiful, and all the men looked upon her.

  And then as they sat at table at the Strain Of Melody and listened to the music and sipped their highballs and looked out through the blue haze upon the dancers, he saw his old friend Ken Burns and he waved and Ken Burns waved in return and Evangeline Ashley waved.

  “Do you know Kenny?” said Oscar Blinney.

  “Who’s Kenny?”

  “The fellow who’s waving.”

  “I’m not waving at him. I’m waving at Miss Moore.”

  “Who is Miss Moore?”

  “The gal who’s dancing with the fellow who’s waving.”

  “Oh,” said Blinney and through the churning blur of alcohol it all sounded very reasonable.

  Ken Burns worked at the bank with him. Ken Burns had taken his vacation at the same time he had. Ken Burns had gone to visit relatives at Coral Gables. And now Ken Burns was at the Strain Of Melody dancing with a beautiful willowy brunette and Ken was waving and he was waving back and Evangeline was waving at the girl with Ken and it all seemed normal and reasonable. And then Ken and the girl came to them at the table and sat down.