The insistent ringing of the doorbell and the assertive knocks assaulted Marcella's ears. She flung open the door in irritation and glared at those who dared to disturb her evening peace. “It's 9:00 at night. Do you mind?” she demanded.

On her doorstep stood Officers Marlowe and Spade. They gazed back at her, unmoved.

“Not at all,” Spade said with a shrug.

“What the hell are you doing here? And so late in the evening?” Marcella questioned. “Honestly, are you making house calls now?”

“Sure, if you want to look at it that way,” Marlowe said. He held up his hand, presenting a short form legal document. “We have a warrant, Mrs. Montgomery.”

“A warrant?” Marcella echoed, affronted. “For what? You are not searching my house!”

“Not your house, no,” Marlowe agreed. “Though we can if we deem it necessary. We're here to search your garden.”

“My— My garden?” Marcella stammered, her face turning an unflattering shade of gray. “Why— Um, whatever for?”

“Got a tip,” Spade said by way of explanation. “Now, please step aside, ma'am.”

He and Marlowe pushed past Marcella, followed by five other uniformed officers. The entire posse marched toward the back of the house, then out into the large, sprawling garden.

“Marcella!” Jefferson barked from the second story landing. “I'm trying to sleep! Just what in the blazes is going on down there?”

“Nothing, Jefferson!” Marcella called back, her voice coming out pinched and frightened. “Nothing at all! Go back to bed!”

“You better not be inviting men into my house late at night for group fornication, you minx!”

“I haven't! For pity's sake, you old troll, go to bed!”

Securing her silky robe more snugly around her translucent lace dressing gown, Marcella dashed after the officers. As she joined Marlowe and Spade on her fieldstone patio, she was horrified to see that the quintet of other officers were digging up her rose bushes.

She yanked on Marlowe's arm, demanding his attention. “What is the meaning of this?” she cried. “And why are your uniformed thugs destroying my prize-winning roses?”

Marlowe pulled his arm away. “Careful, ma'am,” he warned. “You don't want to add assaulting an officer to your rap sheet.”

“Rap sheet?!” Marcella parroted. “I don't have one of those, thank you very much! What the hell are you talking about?”

“We received information that former Gilded Grove Ladies' Book Club president Karen Sterling may not have died of natural causes,” Spade informed her. “She may have had help. From you. And a significant dose of morphine.”

The world spun and Marcella reeled. She took Officer Marlowe's arm again in an effort to remain upright. “That's...” she began, her voice no more than a whisper. “That's simply not true. No, no one could claim that. Karen Sterling was old and very ill. She drifted off to sleep and never woke up.”

“Yeah. And you were in the room with her when that happened,” Marlowe said, once again dislodging his arm from Marcella's grip. “Strange coincidence, isn't it? No autopsy was done because the Sterling family didn't request it, but we contacted the nurse assigned to Mrs. Sterling during the last couple of weeks of her life, and she told us she had a syringe and a vial of morphine vanish from her medical bag.”

“The nurse?” Marcella blanched. “That's who accused me?”

“Nah,” Marlowe said.

“Then who? Who said I may have killed Karen Sterling?”

Marlowe and Spade both fixed her with a smug look. “Camilla Otis,” they said in unison.

“Camilla?!” Marcella exclaimed. “Ridiculous! She knows nothing! She wasn't — I mean, that is…”

“She wasn't what?” Spade goaded. “She wasn't there?”

In an attempt to salvage the imploding situation, Marcella took a deep breath and placed her hands on her hips. “In the room, visiting Karen before she was taken from this world all too soon?” she rephrased. “No. Camilla wasn't there. I was Karen's favorite.”

“Were you, though?” Marlowe asked. “Mrs. Otis told us that you and Mrs. Sterling often butted heads. Argued. Fought. And more importantly, she told us that Mrs. Sterling was all set to name Camilla Otis as the next book club president.”

Marcella's mouth fell open. How? How could they know about that? How could Camilla know? It wasn't possible! She'd never uttered a word to anyone about Karen Sterling's last moments or the old sow's final plans to give the book club presidency to Camilla. That was a secret she'd intended to take to her grave. So, how?

Marcella turned her head in the direction of her garden as she fought to compose herself. The horde of faceless policemen continued to massacre her rose bushes. She was out of time.

“If Camilla is under the impression that that is the way in which Karen Sterling met her end, why only mention it now?” Marcella asked, trying to deflect the damning attention away from herself. “Because she's in jail for murder? Because this is her one and only bargaining chip? You must see what she's trying to do!”

“We don't care what she's ‘trying’ to do, Mrs. Montgomery,” Marlowe said. “We care about the truth. We care about justice. You know, justice? Heard of it? For example, Camilla Otis killed the man you admitted you loved. You want to see her punished for that, don't you? No one's going to get away with murder in this city. Not on our watch.”

“Not on our watch,” Spade echoed.

“And as to why she only brought it up now?” Marlowe continued. “She told us she only recently came into possession of the knowledge.”

“Pah!” Marcella exclaimed, furious and frightened. “And how, exactly, did she come to acquire such an absurd idea?”

“Wouldn't give up her source,” Spade said simply. He shrugged. “We'll get it outta her eventually.”

“Found something!” one of the faceless officers called. He tossed aside (dismissively, and with no care whatsoever) the last rose bush in the row and held a bundle of plastic aloft in the air.

“Huh,” Spade said, looking from the bundle to Marcella. “Wonder what that could be?”

“Bring it here, Officer Lobe,” Marlowe instructed as he donned a pair of latex gloves.

Marcella felt faint. The very thing she had feared in that moment when she'd first seen Marlowe and Spade standing outside Delmonico's Bistro was happening. Before her very eyes. And she could do nothing to stop it. She was trapped — surrounded by policemen with nowhere to run or hide. They'd never believe she hadn't buried that bundle of plastic.

She watched on in muted horror as Marlowe peeled away the layers of plastic wrapping to reveal an empty glass vial and a syringe. A syringe she'd hoped to never lay eyes on again. The past was meant to stay buried. The dead were meant to stay in the ground.

Marlowe gingerly took hold of the syringe between two gloved fingers and held it up at eye level. A few drops of clear liquid floated in the cylinder barrel.

Marcella swayed on her feet, unable to take a breath.

Spade let out a low whistle. “And there it is. Think that'll test positive for morphine, Marlowe?”

“Yeah, Spade. I think it will,” Marlowe affirmed. He looked down at Marcella, his eyes hard. “Mrs. Montgomery? You have the right to remain silent.”

༺ ○ ༻

Paola Castellano sauntered through the lobby of the police station, a bag stuffed with cash in her hand and a smile of triumph on her face. Three of her husband's burliest grunts followed in her wake.

“Good evening,” Paola greeted the young man at the desk. She glanced at his badge. “Deputy Duffy.”

“Uh, hi,” the deputy said. He blinked at her in surprise, then eyed the trio of huge men behind her with an expression of unconcealed fright. “I mean, uh, good evening. Ma'am. Can I…help you?”

“Yes, I think you can, Deputy Duffy,” Paola replied. Her smile intensified and she slapped the bag of cash down on the wooden surface between them. “I'm here to satisfy the bail payment for Camilla Otis.”

Duffy glanced down at the bag, then back up at Paola's face. “Uh… Really? Did her husband send you? Are you a relative?”

“What difference does that make?” Paola asked, her voice saccharine. “I have the money. The full amount. In cash. My identity and relation to Mrs. Otis are irrelevant. Wouldn't you say?”

“Well, I guess…”

“Good. Then we're agreed. You'll take the money, and release her to me.”

“But…I…”

The three burly men flanking Paola crossed their huge arms over their brawny chests in unison and glared down at Duffy, as if daring him to object.

Duffy visibly shrunk back and gulped. “Okay,” he mumbled. “Sure.”

“Smart boy,” Paola praised him.

With shaky hands, Duffy unzipped the bag of cash and began to count.

༺ ○ ༻

The yellow light from the streetlamp shone down on the sharp brim of the fedora worn by Mack D'Knife, casting his face in shadow. He leaned with languid poise against the lamppost, a cigarette between two fingers, as he watched the police station across the street.

Lots of traffic tonight. First Jack Marlowe and Jack Spade careened out of the building with five other officers like their very lives depended on it. Then the wife of one of his clients entered, three huge Italian men in suits marching along behind her. Not long after, another of his clients entered. Alone.

So many moving pieces, so many advancing positions, but no one could see the whole game board. No one but Mack D'Knife.

Well, perhaps one other.

The P.I. chuckled to himself as he took a drag of his cigarette, his shark-like teeth shining in the darkness.

“It's gonna be a hot time in the old town tonight,” he declared.

༺ ○ ༻

“Put her in the very last holding cell,” Marlowe instructed. “As far away from Camilla Otis as possible.”

“You got it, sir!” one of the officers acknowledged as he and the others escorted a despondent Marcella Montgomery toward the back corridor.

“Keeping them separated, huh?” Spade asked. “Too bad. Could have been entertaining.”

Marlowe set the evidence bag containing the syringe on the front desk and shook his head. “Nah. We don't need those dames screeching at each other all night. You can only hear one woman call another a ‘whore’ so many times before it loses all comedic value.”

“Fair enough,” Spade conceded.

“Doesn't make much difference now, sirs,” Duffy said, handing an evidence log form to Marlowe. “Camilla Otis isn't here anymore.”

“Heh. Funny,” Marlowe sniffed. He took the pen from his breast pocket and began filling out the form. “She get time off for good behavior?”

“It's not a joke, sir,” Duffy said. “She's gone.”

His pen came off the paper and Marlowe frowned. “What do you mean ‘gone’?”

“Gone, sir. Not here. A lady came in and paid her bail.”

Spade smacked his palm against the desktop. “Like hell!” he exclaimed, taking off toward the holding cells.

“You're serious?” Marlowe demanded.

“Yes, sir. Very serious, sir,” Duffy vowed. “I wouldn't joke about that.”

Marlowe ran his hand across his forehead. “You said a lady came in?” he asked. “What lady? What was her name?”

“She didn't say, sir. But she had the money. The full bail amount, every penny. So, I released Camilla Otis to her. I checked the police procedures manual, sir. It's allowed! If a party can pay the bail in full, the detainee can be released,” Duffy rambled. “I checked. I swear!”

“Dammit!” Marlowe cursed. “What did this lady with the money look like?”

“Um, middle-aged, but real elegant,” Duffy recalled, wringing his hands. “Slender, fancy clothes, dark hair. Um…she had three big scary guys with her. Huge! Over six feet tall each, with biceps like melons!”

“Sounds like hired grunts to me,” Marlowe remarked. “What else?”

“What else? Well, uh… Oh! She spoke with an accent!”

Marlowe's eyes narrowed. “An accent, huh? Italian?”

“Coulda been.”

At that moment, Spade bolted back into the lobby in a tizzy. “She's gone, alright! Dammit to hell! Only thing in her cell was this!” He held a paperback book up in the air.

“Mrs. Otis didn't have a book in her cell,” Marlowe negated. “We wouldn't have allowed that.”

“Unless she was hiding it somewhere,” Duffy supplied. “I've heard dames hide all kinds of things in their cleavage.”

Spade made an exasperated noise. “We made her change clothes, Duffy. And this wouldn't have fit between her breasts.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Anyone else come in here tonight?”

“No, sir. Well, not that I saw, sir,” Duffy said, rubbing the back of his neck sheepishly. “I was a little distracted by those three huge, scary men that came in with the lady. And the money. That was more cash than I've ever seen in my life! But no, sir, I didn't see anyone else come or go.”

Spade nodded. “Alright.”

“Let's see the book,” Marlowe said.

Spade handed the book to Marlowe, and the three officers converged around it in transparent curiosity.

It was a tattered, worn copy of The Pursuit of Love by Nancy Mitford. Written on the inside cover were the names of every Gilded Grove Ladies' Book Club member, except Camilla Otis, under the heading:

The Women Who Have Scorned Me

With the exception of Gloria Davenport, beside each name were notes scribbled in tiny letters. The note beside Marcella Montgomery's name read: killed Karen Sterling with overdose of morphine

“Well, I'll be goddamned,” Spade murmured. “Mrs. Montgomery did kill Mrs. Sterling with morphine. We just proved that.”

“Not proven yet, but good as,” Marlowe concurred. “Which means the rest of this information must have merit, as well. Look at this list! ‘Patricia Kent: with husband, illegal importation and sales of handguns and other firearms’.”

“Holy cow,” Duffy breathed. “That must be where Mrs. Otis got the revolver! From Patricia Kent!”

“Think you're right,” Marlowe said. His dumbfounded gaze still on the book, he continued to read aloud, “‘Penelope Fitzgerald: having an affair with my husband. Charlotte Ermantrude: sleeping with someone in my house (Weston or possibly household staff). Darla Vanderbilt: husband is a regular at off-book gambling den in basement of Ritz Hotel. Gini Contini: in bed with the Castellanos, figuratively and literally’.”

Spade whistled in disbelief. “Guess we know how Camilla Otis met Mario Castellano.”

Marlowe shook his head and slipped the novel into an evidence bag. “Duffy, call Judge Loughran. We're gonna need some more warrants. As soon as possible.”

“Yes, sir!” Duffy yipped, reaching for the telephone handset. “Calling, sir! Warrants for which locations, sir?”

“The Kent residence, the Contini residence and business, and The Ritz Hotel to start with,” Marlowe listed. “Tell him we have probable cause and motive.”

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