Mike Shayne Mystery Magazine, Vol. 8, No. 6, May 1961

“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.