Death of an Angel by Frances Lockridge Page B

captain? So everybody changes his name. Or her name.”
    â€œSuppose,” Bill said, and his tone was mild, but it was a policeman’s tone. “Suppose we shorten this, shall we? Miss Shaw tells me this theory about a man named Latham. Tells it, and at the same time throws it down. You listen. Sit on the top step?”
    â€œThereabouts,” Carr said.
    â€œUntil I indicate I’m not buying the story,” Bill said. “Then you come down.”
    â€œAnd,” Carr said, “you start to reach for your gun.”
    â€œRight,” Bill said. “It’s just as well you didn’t. Have you got a gun, by the way?”
    â€œMe?” Carr said. “You’re as bad as the lady, captain. Same things, probably. She acts melodrama. You probably run into it. Why the hell should I tote a gun?”
    â€œI don’t,” Naomi said. “I’m a comedienne. Even in Timbuktu you ought to have heard that.”
    â€œPakistan,” Carr said. “You know, in Pakistan you miss some of the most important news, honey. About girls from Kansas City getting to be stars on Broadway. Backward place, Pakistan.”
    â€œI’m sure,” Naomi said. “You’ll fix that. Fill it all full of dams.”
    â€œYou played a gangster’s moll in Second Precinct ,” Carr said. “Got shot for a second-act curtain. Before that you were a maid in This Mortal Coil . You screamed in that one. Didn’t get shot. All very comic.”
    â€œOh, God,” Naomi Shaw said. “Always. Always! ”
    â€œI said, suppose we cut this,” Bill reminded them. “Miss Shaw gets me here to listen to this—this afterglow of a dream. You, Carr, listen to see how it goes over. When it doesn’t go over, you come down and start this—whatever it is. Now—you let me in on it. Right? And— now ”
    â€œI—” Naomi said.
    â€œYou,” Bill said, and pointed at Carr. “You rest that pretty voice, Miss Shaw.”
    â€œWhy—” she said, and Bill looked at her. “Oh,” Naomi Shaw said.
    â€œO.K.,” Carr said. “She got it into her head I killed Fitch. Then she got it out of her head—or I got it out. But she’d already telephoned you, so she could turn me in. Then—”
    â€œThat isn’t it at all,” Naomi said. “I wasn’t—”
    â€œMiss Shaw,” Bill said, “will you try to keep quiet? For five minutes?”
    â€œWon’t do you any good,” Carr told him. “Used to say that myself and—”
    â€œAnd,” Bill said, “will you skip all that, Carr? She thought you’d killed Fitch?”
    â€œSaid she did. Thought I got jealous, after all these years. If I couldn’t have her, nobody could have her. Gets things like that out of these plays she acts in.”
    Bill looked at Naomi Shaw, and just in time. She closed her lovely lips with exaggerated care.
    â€œWell,” Bill said, “were you jealous?”
    And then Carr hesitated. He looked at Naomi Shaw, and she looked at him, through wide dark eyes.
    â€œAll right,” Carr said. “She gets under your skin. Also, she didn’t love that polo player. Just kidded herself. Wouldn’t have—”
    â€œI suppose,” Naomi Shaw said, “I really love you?”
    And Carr looked at her for some seconds and then, quite slowly, in a tone almost matter of fact, said, “Yes. You can’t get away from it.” Naomi said, “Oh, God,” in a voice dripping with hopelessness. Carr turned back at once to Bill Weigand.
    â€œShe got this idea,” he said. “She called me up at my hotel, just as I was turning in. She was—well, pretty upset. She told you she hadn’t been able to cry, but she was crying then, all right. Kept saying I’d killed him and that they’d find out—they’d be sure to find out. Meant you