by Jane Steen
“And they told him? Is Mr. McCombs under suspicion, then?”
“Naturally, yes, as a matter of routine, but he’s been with us since we opened the store in ’72. Before that he was one of Sol Bermann’s most trusted employees, so it’s unlikely he was in league with the robbers. He’s certainly guilty of carelessness. It would have been a stupendous sale, and McCombs was eager to accommodate the buyer, who’s a Cincinnati manufacturer—quite genuine and able to prove his bona fides—staying at the Grand Pacific. He ascertained the vault would be opened ‘early,’ meaning in the first hour of trading, and sent a note to the Grand Pacific arranging for the customer to visit the store at the end of that period. That was yesterday evening. The employee charged with delivering the note to the customer was supposed to put the note into his hand personally, and she did try to do so at first, at six p.m., only to be told that the customer had gone out. She returned at midnight, and being told that the customer had come in at ten and was now undoubtedly in bed—they wouldn’t tell her the room number—she left the note there for him, and it was delivered to him with his breakfast. So there are a dozen different theories about how the note might have been read, although the customer swears it was in a sealed Rutherford’s envelope. He burned the note, unfortunately, being himself a cautious party.”
“Seems to me it’d be the lady who ran around Chicago with the envelope in her pocket we should talk to,” one of the police officers said. “What kind of lady is out at midnight anyway?”
“Oh, she’s down there with Mr. Rutherford. That’s another whole set of problems,” Joe said briefly. “In any case, Nell, when the customer arrived and was met by Mr. McCombs, the two of them got an unpleasant shock when two other men turned up and pulled pistols on them.”
“In the store?” I could hear the astonishment in my voice. “How is that possible? Didn’t it create a panic?”
“The miscreants played it very well.” We had reached the basement, and Joe pulled open the door for me, then ushered the policemen through. “Pretended to have recognized the businessman from somewhere or the other, then once they were close enough, they threatened the two men and had them lead the way to the vault room. We’ve always told McCombs not to offer resistance to direct attack—to cooperate fully. No amount of money is worth a man’s life.”
“So were they caught? The robbers?”
Joe shook his head. “One of the men we hire to spot pickpockets and shoplifters became suspicious at the last moment and rounded up half a dozen men and sent the closest cash boys out to find a police officer. They found McCombs shaking like a leaf as he tried to work the combination, the unfortunate customer tied to a chair, and the two men with neckerchiefs around their faces like a scene from a penny dreadful. The robbers shot high to make the men back off and vamoosed right through the sales floor, which caused a certain amount of excitement, as you’d imagine. We’ll be in the papers for sure. They ran off toward the Exposition Building. Three of the doormen gave chase as well as the policemen, but the robbers were fast, and once they made it to the railroad depot, they got clean away.”
“So nobody’s under arrest.” We had reached the antechamber of the vault.
“Not this time.”
It was Martin who answered me, but one of the policemen chimed in.
“We’re just here to interview witnesses, ma’am. And check around, you know? There’ll be a detective over later. We’re taking this pretty seriously—there’ve been too many of these robberies in the last couple two, three years. You the owner?” he asked Martin.
At this point, various introductions were made, and I had time to look around. Not that I needed more than a fraction of a second to see who was present; the small room was now uncomfortably crowded. Martin, of course, looking formal and strange to my eyes in his immaculate tailoring, his white-blond hair bright in the light from the gas. Mr. McCombs, sitting in one of the armchairs, pale and uncomfortable. And Thea Lombardi.
39
Story
Getting through even the preliminary inquiries was a lengthy business. The policemen seemed thoroughly familiar with the operation of a time lock; they entertained themselves by comparing the various makes and models available, which was all very well but had little to do with our own case. Martin explained that the opening time changed daily, going over much of the ground Joe had covered and declining to give precise details on how they chose and communicated the correct hour. His reluctance offended the officers of the law.
“You think we’re corrupt, I guess,” said the more senior of those gentlemen once the others were done blustering and trying to bully Martin into supplying further details. He had been silent so far, this officer, letting the other men talk. His eyes roved from Martin, to Joe, to the unhappy-looking Mr. McCombs, and to Thea’s still, graceful form.
“I think it’s a foolish man who says more than he needs to.” Martin’s tone was not unfriendly, but I saw by the tightness of his jaw and the carefully schooled expression on his face that this interview was dredging up some hard memories. He’d seen rather too much of the Chicago police in the year of Lucetta’s death.
“Hmph.” The senior officer turned to Mr. McCombs, who had been crossing and recrossing his legs and fidgeting so that he looked more guilty every second. “So we come to the matter of your arrangement with the gentleman from Cincinnati—who is where, by the way?”
“He wouldn’t wait.” Mr. McCombs bit the inside of his lip, speaking quickly. “He left all of his forwarding details and has promised to return to Chicago, but he had a train to catch.” He hesitated. “I—may I—” He looked round wildly at the crowded room, the four officers, then at Thea, then at me. He flushed brick-red but drew a deep breath and faced the senior officer squarely. “I really must visit the washroom.”
The admission of this all-too-human need seemed to release the tension that had been building in the room. Something that might almost have been a twinkle crept into the senior policeman’s eyes. He nodded. “But two of my men will wait outside the door.”
“You can all four stand and watch if you want.” Mr. McCombs sprang to his feet and made rapidly for the exit, followed by two police officers. “Frankly, the alternative is too horrible to contemplate.”
There was a moment of silence as we listened to the three sets of hurried footsteps. Once all the sounds died away, Joe spoke.
“Do we have to remain down here now you’ve seen the vault? I don’t like keeping the ladies in this stuffy atmosphere. I don’t see why we shouldn’t continue our discussions over a cup of coffee.” He looked at the two remaining officers. “Unless you have other ideas.”
“We might want to take the two of them down to the precinct, at that.” The senior man contemplated Thea, pulling at his mustache. “There’s a couple of detectives been working on these jewel thefts, and I think they’ll want to hear the details firsthand when they get back from Aurora. First time they’ve tried a daylight raid—if these are the same people and not some kind of imitator—and first time it might be possible to get some kind of description. I’ll send for a police matron for the young lady.”
“Is Miss Lombardi under suspicion?” I asked.
“We can’t discount the possibility of an inside job.” The police officer sighed. “Still, as Mr.—Salassi?—says, we don’t need to all stay down here. Kind of stuffy, all right.”
“Salazar. Our partner and general manager, in case you’ve forgotten. Does my wife need to remain?” Martin looked directly at me for almost the first time. “She’s been unwell and only returned from the country today. She has nothing to do with this.”
“If I can insist on staying, I do insist,” I said quickly. “For Miss Lombardi’s sake. I’m her—” I stopped. What was I? Not her guardian, certainly. I didn’t think Thea would call me her friend. And she hadn’t lived with us for almost two years. “I’m her employer in the sense that I’m a partner in this store.” I made my voice as firm as I was able. “The o
nly female partner and an intimate of her late mother. I think her brother would want me to stand beside her.”
“A brother?” The officer made a quick note in the small book he carried with him. “Any other family?”
“None whatsoever.” Thea spoke coolly, but there was a flicker of decision in her eyes. “There’s no need to disturb my brother. I’d like Mrs. Rutherford to stay with me.”
Mr. McCombs’s embarrassment seemed to have overcome the shock he’d received from the robbery. By the time he and the two officers entered Joe’s office, he had recovered much of his usual dignity. He declined the offer of coffee.
Joe had chairs brought in, so we were all seated in what resembled a reasonably congenial atmosphere. The police officers had not wanted to sit down, but their senior man indicated that they should. He placed himself directly opposite Thea, who continued to regard everyone with no sign of fear or emotion. I received the impression that the police officer considered her demeanor something of a challenge, although I didn’t know why I thought so.
My attention was mostly on Martin. He had pulled a long piece of tape from the stock ticker and was studying it carefully, apparently deep in thought, as we waited for the senior officer to continue the discussion. Was he angry with me for insisting I stay? That impenetrable expression disguised some strong emotion, I understood that much, but I was unable to read him. Our nearly two and a half years of marriage might never have happened for all the notice he took of me. I was going to have to confront him later to find out what was wrong; the anticipation of that moment made it hard to concentrate on the present proceedings.
The senior officer, whose name, I finally discovered, was Culshaw, took Mr. McCombs carefully through every movement since he had broken with the normal procedure and insisted on being given an approximate time for the opening of the safe. Why did he make this exception? Because, said the head of the jewelry department, the customer was adamant he would be leaving on a train at midday and did not want to waste his time coming to the store if the vault wouldn’t be open. He had been “quite rude,” as Mr. McCombs put it, about the whole timed lock system, which he claimed was a ridiculous over precaution. If his wife’s cousin, a regular customer, hadn’t written her about the diamond parure she’d seen at the store, he’d never have come near Rutherford’s—he didn’t know why he’d even bothered to come to the store instead of writing—and so on.
“Do you remember the name of the wife’s cousin?” one of the other policemen asked. Captain Culshaw looked annoyed, but his expression changed as Mr. McCombs gave the name of a very prominent Chicago family. “Easy enough to verify,” he commented as he made a note in his small book. The bulk of the notetaking was performed by the youngest police officer, whose tongue stuck out of the side of his mouth in concentration as he scribbled.
“So after you spoke with the Cincinnati party, you sent a note to the third floor insisting that they tell you the exact time?”
Mr. McCombs’s soft brown eyes widened in outrage. “Of course not. That would never do, or why have a system at all? I just wanted to see if my prospect could be here early enough to view the parure and, I hoped, give me the chance to conclude the sale. If he couldn’t, I was going to suggest I arrange for the Chicago family to see it and try to negotiate the deal through them. I was sure I could persuade the third floor to hint if the opening time were early, middle, or late. It’s been done before.”
“Has it, now?” Joe looked at Martin, and I saw the same expression on both men’s faces. “It won’t be done again.”
“No, sir.” Mr. McCombs sighed deeply. “I can’t tell you how dreadful I feel about all this. You will have my resignation—”
“Don’t be foolish, man.” It was Martin who spoke. “We all make mistakes.”
I saw his gaze flick to me for just the fraction of a second, and something inside me turned to ice. We all make mistakes. He was having second thoughts about our marriage, wasn’t he?
“What is the name of the employee on the third floor who knows the correct time?” The police captain’s tone was brisk and businesslike, but again Mr. McCombs’s eyes widened.
“I don’t know that,” he snapped. “And what difference does that make to you? What would you do with the information? You’re no doubt in someone’s pocket—you all are.” Martin’s reassurance about his job seemed to have strengthened him, given him back his authority.
“Never mind that.” Martin spoke again, looking hard at the policeman. “That information is never divulged, and any further attempt to elicit details of our security arrangements will not go down well with me.”
At this point, one of the other policemen stepped forward and whispered in Captain Culshaw’s ear for almost a minute. I could have sworn I caught the word “Gambarelli.” Was he warning his superior that Martin was under the protection of his erstwhile in-laws, or was he reminding him of Martin’s own brief spell in the shadow of the noose as a reason for his hostility? I sensed that Martin didn’t trust these officers, and for good reason—the Chicago police were notoriously corrupt. But they had somehow become involved, and we could no longer handle the matter privately.
“We’ll move on to the young lady, then,” said the captain. He jerked his head at one of the other officers. “Did you send for a police matron?”
“I did. She probably got lost on the way, or maybe she’s finding it hard to walk through a store without stopping to look at the pretty baubles.”
There was some sniggering at this. The captain’s mustache moved in a way that suggested a suppressed smile, but he merely said, “That’s enough.” He coughed. “So when you’d found out the vault would be open early, you wrote a note for the customer and gave it to the young lady. Name and address?” he asked Thea.
“Theadora Lombardi.” Thea’s voice was clear, soft, and even. “I live at Mrs. Batham’s boardinghouse on Taylor Street.”
“Why’d you give it to her and not go yourself?” the man asked Mr. McCombs.
“I am the head of the department,” said that personage testily. “Miss Lombardi volunteered her assistance. I allowed her to leave early, at five thirty p.m., and deliver the note before returning to her home.”
“And he wasn’t there.”
“That’s right,” Thea said. “They had no idea when he’d be back.”
“And so you went back home like a good little girl but at—what, eleven o’clock?—you took it into your head to walk all the way from Taylor Street, all those blocks of dark and dangerous streets, back to the Grand Pacific to do your duty.” The captain, who had been looking down at his notebook, now glanced up so that his wide, cynical blue eyes met Thea’s. She flushed a little.
“You know that’s not true.” Her voice had hardened.
“You tried to tell us you came back earlier, didn’t you?” The blue eyes narrowed. “In a big hotel where the staff are changing all the time, it can be difficult to pin down the exact time when something was left or taken. But you didn’t realize Mr. Rutherford was staying in the hotel, did you?”
My heart lurched.
“And he saw you from the staircase,” the police captain finished. “You were there at midnight, in the company of a lady he also recognized.”
“Lady,” muttered one of the police officers under his breath before rising to his feet as the door opened to admit a woman who could only be the police matron. Her skirt, jacket, and bodice were of the severest cut, her only ornament a small metal star pinned to the jacket. She took in the scene as all the men rose to their feet and then accepted the seat they offered her. I was glad I didn’t have to get up; my pulse was drumming in my ears, and I could not have sworn that my legs would support me.
No wonder our house had seemed so empty. Martin hadn’t been there—and he hadn’t told me. The Grand Pacific was where he lived after he’d concluded he couldn’t stay in his marriage with Lucetta any longer. I felt sick.
Thea had said something—what was it? A name?
“A friend of yours?” the captain asked.
“Yes, an intimate friend.”
“A friend you’d spent the evening with? And others?” The policeman stared hard at Thea. “Come now, Miss Lombardi. You know it’s going to take us no time at all to ask at your boardinghouse whether you were there for dinner. A little escapade, was it? Or did you run to your friends and give them the note?”
“I didn’t show it to them.” Now there was a hint of anxiety in Thea’s voice. “I forgot about it. There was a party—we were reading a new play—and I was so interested I forgot. It was Miss Dardenne who reminded me and even said she’d take me to the Grand Pacific on the way home. She took me in her carriage.” She looked straight at me for the first time. “It must have been the hotel people who read the note. They had all night, didn’t they? My friends only care about art, not jewels. Mr. McCombs didn’t actually tell me I had to put the note into the customer’s hands. I thought it would be all right.”
“It sounds more like an escapade to me.” It surprised me how normal my voice sounded, given the state of my heart. I saw Martin’s gaze fixed on me and wondered how much of my distress had shown on my face. I must say something to help Thea. What would her mother have done? What was I going to do now?
“Hmph.” The captain pulled at his mustache again, looking hard at Thea. “How old are you, young lady?”
“You asked me before.” Thea drew herself up and tried to sound mature but couldn’t quite keep a note of sulkiness out of her voice.