by Q. Patrick
“Still at No. 12 Potter Street.” Cobb’s smile was reassuring if a trifle forced.
I struggled to collect together my confused fragments of memory. “But what happened? Did I—did I fall off the roof?”
“No, but you tried your darnedest.” Even in my half consciousness, I could tell from the grim note in Cobb’s voice that something pretty serious had happened. “You got all het up and tried to dash over the slippery tiles. You didn’t seem to realize how dangerous it was, so I had to stop you in the only way I knew how. I grabbed you with one hand, gave you a crack on the jaw with the other.”
I fingered my face, feeling a large, painful swelling around my lower lip. “Let me thank you,” I said ruefully, “for a very unconventional way of saving my life. By the way, what time is it?”
“Five o’clock in the morning.”
As he spoke, I began to remember things more clearly: the trap for Mrs. Bellman’s murderer, the rain-drenched roof, that figure poised on the very edge of the tiles with wild, clutching hands, that final cry.
“But the woman!” I exclaimed. “What happened to her?”
“It’s all over now.”
“You’ve caught her?”
“She’s caught herself.” Cobb’s voice was low. “She wasn’t as lucky as you, Westlake.”
“You mean—she fell?”
He nodded. “She died instantly. They’ve taken her to the morgue.”
“But who was she?” I pushed myself into the sitting position. “It was the woman we were after all right—Mrs. Salt.”
“And she—she was one of the boarders here?”
Cobb nodded again, and his blue eyes twinkled. “The answer to all your questions will be yes—and no, Westlake. Do you feel fit to hear about it?”
“Good Lord, yes. I’m all right. Give me a cigarette, for Pete’s sake.”
“In the first place,” he began, “I feel I ought to congratulate you, doctor, not only for digging out all the important facts in this case, but also for thinking out a plan which actually worked— worked so well, in fact, that it almost cost you your own life as well as that of—another person.”
“You make me feel like a murderer.”
“You needn’t have that death on your conscience. Mrs. Salt wasn’t a woman. She was a fiend. She was a diabolical creature who didn’t stop at killing fish, fowl and human beings to gain her own selfish ends. She’s better off where she is.”
“But who the devil was it?”
“I already told you it was Mrs. Salt. The woman who contrived
to murder her own stepdaughter so as to be saved the expense of looking after her. There was also the possibility—which must always have haunted her—of having the child’s identity disclosed. The woman who tried to buy this house so that she could destroy all traces of her guilt—and then had nerve enough to stay on here and try to frighten Mrs. Bellman into retiring. The woman who called to Mrs. Bellman the day you arrived and who later sent you out on a fool’s errand with a fake phone call.”
“But the voice,” I said. “Why didn’t I recognize it?”
“Ah, why didn’t you?” Cobb’s eyes were still twinkling. “Just think if there’s any one around this place whose voice you haven’t heard much?”
“Mrs. Brown?” I queried.
Cobb shook his head. “Try again.”
The inmates of No. 12 passed in review through my aching head. Not one of them, it seemed, fitted that high-pitched, rather querulous voice I had heard over the phone. Then, suddenly, I realized what Cobb meant,
“You don’t—you don’t mean Mr. Washer’s sister?”
“Got it.” Cobb was smiling frankly now. “We’ve investigated the lady and found that she occupied an attic in the house next door. She wasn’t in there much, but it was a convenient spot for any one who wanted to keep an eye on the chimney stack of your apartment. She could climb over here quite easily—that is, when the roof wasn’t slippery. That’s where she was trying to get to tonight and where she came from that other time when you scared her away.”
I was thoroughly awake now and more capable of logical thought. I glanced at Cobb swiftly. “But—there are a thousand
buts. First of all, how about that laundry bag with Mrs. Bellman’s name on it? And then we decided definitely that all those crazy tricks which were played on Mrs. Bellman could not have been the work of an outsider.”
“Could not possibly have been the work of an outsider,” echoed Cobb.
“Then what the hell? You don’t mean to say her brother helped her?”
“That is a possibility.” Cobb’s voice was enigmatic and it was hard to tell whether or not he knew the answers to my questions.
“But I don’t see how—”
“Suppose we work it out together, Mr. Washer was a rather effeminate man. Our friend, Miss Davenport—that is, Mrs. Jay— hinted some slightly unpleasant things about his—er—characteristics. Let us suppose he wanted for some reason to help his sister by disguising himself as a woman. You yourself saw Miss Washer and noticed a strong physical resemblance. He was artificially sun-tanned, of course, and she wasn’t, but a thick layer of powder would hide that. Miss Washer was a visitor— an outsider—and couldn’t possibly have played those fantastic tricks on Mrs. Bellman. But Washer could. He could also have disguised himself when necessary in order to give himself—or his sister—an alibi.”
“Yes, he could have done that all right, but neither he nor his sister could have killed the cat, for example. They both had perfect alibis. The piano was going continuously before and after Mrs. Bellman came up to my room—and later, while I was on the roof.”
Cobb had pulled out this unlighted pipe. “I asked you yesterday, Westlake, if you were a musician. I didn’t realize at the time what a sensible question it was. You said you could recognize Shopping—or whatever his name is—because your daughter plays his pieces. But, apparently, you aren’t musical enough to recognize the difference between a piano and the same piece played on a good victrola.”
“Victrola!” I echoed.
“Yes. Washer had other mechanical devices in his room besides that sun lamp. One of them was an electric victrola—the kind that will play a dozen records without attention, and then play them again. All his records were piano solos by Chopin, the same pieces that he played on his own piano. All he had to
do was to switch himself off the piano stool and switch on the victrola. That gave him a swell alibi for any hour of the night or day. It’s an old trick.”
“It strikes me,” I said, “that we’re getting rather a lot of criminals, aren’t we? You said just now that Mrs. Salt was the guilty party and now you are accusing both Washer and his sister. Is Mrs. Salt twins or triplets or something?”
Cobb laughed. “The answer is again yes and no. Mrs. Salt was the only person who did everything. But she came here originally disguised as a man and then invented a sister for that man—a sister who had a room next door, who could come in and out either by the roof or through the front door—a sister who could provide him with a perfect get-away after he’d disposed of the body.”
“You mean—”
“Yes. There never was a Mr. Washer and the Mr. Washer who didn’t exist never had a sister. There was only Mrs. Salt.”
“For the love of Mike!” I murmured weakly as my aching head fell back against the pillows.
Killed by Time
Inspector Groves, of the homicide squad, banged down the receiver and took his raincoat from its peg. It was still dripping wet.
“Get the boys together,” he shouted. “We’re going downtown, call’s just come through. Sounds like murder.”
A few minutes later he was out in the rain, crowding his men into a police car.
“Where to?” asked Collins, the police photographer, as they sped through the morning traffic.
“Doctor Cobden, 329 Somers Street.”
Collins whistled. �
�Not Harmon Cobden, the brain surgeon?” The inspector nodded. “What do you know about him?”
“He’s the doctor who saved the chief’s life after the Red House raid. Took a bullet out of his head as easy as clicking a shutter. A great old guy! Hope he’s not croaked.”
“No.” Groves lurched sidewise as the car swung into Somers Street. “It’s his son-in-law. Julius van Holdt. Body’s just been found in the office by a party called Hazeldean—the doctor’s secretary.”
As the car drew up, Inspector Groves and his men jumped out and hurried up the steps of a small house which crouched low between two enormous modern apartment buildings. They were admitted by a slight, blonde girl of about twenty-eight. Her eyes, under the rain-drenched hat, were wide with fear.
“Thank Heaven you’ve come!” she said. “I’m Constance Hazeldean. I found him just after I came in to work this morning. Nothing has been touched. Doctor Cobden is upstairs with his daughter. She’s been ill for some time. He’ll be down just as soon as he can leave her.”
The inspector pressed forward. “Where’s the body?”
The girl led them through the patients’ waiting room and stopped before the door of the office.
“In there,” she said, a little quaver coming into her voice. “Do you mind if I leave you now? I don’t think I could stand—“
Groves nodded for her to go and turned to a policeman.
“See that no one leaves the house, and don’t let any one in either—not even the reporters.”
The inner room was still in semidarkness. From one window streamed a ribbon of light which fell upon the calm, handsome profile of a man lying on a couch as though in slumber. The rest of the room—the desk, the shelves of medical books—were merged in an indistinct grayness. Only the face on the couch stared out in cruel relief.
The inspector threw back the curtains, and the whole room leveled into uniform light. It seemed a very ordinary office of a doctor. There was no sign of struggle or upset. The couch on which the dead man lay stood out about a foot from the wall opposite the door.
In the stronger light, the face of Julius van Holdt was no longer calm or handsome. One eye was closed as if in sleep, but the other—or rather, the place where the other had been—was a hideous red gash, a gaping void. It was as though someone had stabbed persistently and accurately at the eyes with a sharp, thin weapon.
Groves turned to Collins. “Reminds me of that Muloney case,” he said soberly. “The bird whose wife stuck him in the eye with a hatpin. Remember?”
The photographer nodded as he and the finger-print man started operations. Meanwhile, Groves proceeded to make a detailed survey of the room. The windows were locked, and a thin layer of dust showed that they had not been opened recently. By the side of the couch was a chair on which stood a tumbler containing a few dregs of liquid.
Groves sniffed without touching the tumbler.
“Better let that wait for the doctor, Collins,” he grunted. Then, going round to the other side of the couch, he stared up at a large antique clock, fashioned from heavy metal, which hung on the wall above him. Close under the dial dangled two lead weights, scarred with numberless holes and indentations—some old, some quite recent. He stood a moment, passing a hand over their rough surface, and then a gleam of moisture on the couch caught his eyes. He traced out a small damp patch which left a faint stain on his fingers.
“Funny,” he muttered. “That’s certainly not blood.”
He turned as a little man with a pair of bright, birdlike eyes appeared in the doorway.
“Oh, hello, doctor.”
The medical examiner took off his raincoat and started an immediate inspection of the body.
Some minutes later he shut his bag with a snap. “Well, I’m through for the time being,” he said. “I’ll send for the dead wagon.”
“When was he killed?” Groves asked.
“Somewhere between six and seven-thirty this morning, as far as I can tell.”
“What with?”
“None of the ordinary weapons—except, possibly an ice pick. I can’t say exactly, but there are lots of handy implements around a brain surgeon’s office.” He picked up the glass. “I’ll take this with me for analysis. If anything comes out at the autopsy, I’ll phone you.”
He hurried out of the room, and Groves whistled for a policeman.
“Avery,” he said, “tell Joe to get the dope on all the people in the house. Check up on their movements last night, and between six and eight this morning. It doesn’t look like an outside job to me.”
After the body had been removed, the inspector started to examine the members of the household. He began with the now-recovered secretary.
“There’s not much to add to what I have already told you,” she said. “Mr. van Holdt has been sleeping in the office for the past two or three nights.”
“Just a shakedown, eh?”
“Yes, the top story is used by Doctor Barry as a laboratory.”
“Barry?” Groves cut in.
“He’s Doctor Cobden’s assistant. Has been for three years. He lives here most of the time as he and Doctor Cobden are conducting a series of important experiments on the brain tissues. Some evenings I help them after the patients have gone, but I never spend the night. Mrs. van Holdt is using the only spare bedroom, so except for the servants’ quarters—“
“But,” the inspector broke in, “if Mrs. van Holdt was his wife, why didn’t—“
“If you want to know about the domestic life of Mr. and Mrs. van Holdt,” interrupted Miss Hazeldean coldly, “you’ll have to ask Doctor Cobden. There he is now.”
As she rose to go, Groves saw a tall, elderly man coming toward him. For all his seventy years, Doctor Cobden was a fine, erect figure. A mane of white hair surmounted a handsome, leonine face. Only his eyes were tired and strained with the look of a man who has seen much of human suffering.
He spoke frankly and to the point.
“Julius married my daughter, Myra, two years ago,” he began. “She had not been happy with him, and their life together was seriously impairing her health. For the past month, she has been staying with me under the medical care of Doctor Barry. Acting on our joint advice, she had decided to divorce her husband.”
“Then why was he here?” queried the inspector.
The old man hesitated and then went on slowly. “Somehow or other, he discovered a thing that I thought was known only to myself. My daughter is to inherit a considerable legacy from her mother on her twenty-fifth birthday, which occurs next month. Three days ago Julius came round here and flatly refused to leave. He was in bad shape and I could not turn him out. He had taken to drinking freely and it was very embarrassing. Doctor Barry was obliged to forbid him to see Myra.”
“Did they quarrel about it?” asked the inspector sharply.
Doctor Cobden gave him a swift glance. “They did have words, but—well, that’s hardly to the point. As far as I know, my son-in-law went to bed last night around eleven. Just before that time, he came to my room as he had on the previous nights, and asked for a sleeping draft. He used to say even the ticking of the clock kept him awake. I gave him a pretty stiff dose of bromide. I—never saw him alive again.”
“I don’t blame him for not being able to sleep under that thing,” said Groves, glancing at the clock.
The only servants in the house, Doctor Cobden explained, were a reliable old Negro couple who had been with him for twenty years. Doctor Barry and Miss Hazeldean had been working on an experiment until about ten o’clock. The girl had left shortly afterward.
“Van Holdt was out most of the evening,” the old doctor went on, “and, as usual, came home far from sober. I myself went down and bolted the front door. There was no one with him and nothing suspicious occurred.”
After the doctor had left, Groves went back to the couch. The medical examiner had removed the mattress, and Groves noticed something white in the cent
er of the floor under the couch. He bent to pick it up. It was a stubbed cigarette butt.
“Queer place for van Holdt to stub a cigarette,” he murmured. He was interrupted by Doctor Barry, who had come down from his laboratory. The tall young man was pale and tense. He said he had heard-nothing during the night and had slept soundly until eight-thirty. He had not left the house, but he admitted freely that on several occasions he had words with van Holdt over the health of his patient.
With his consent, Groves spent a few minutes with the prostrate Myra, who told him that, although she had awakened before six, she had heard nothing at all.
Joe came in just before noon.
“I’ve got the dope on this van Holdt guy,” he said. “He’s pretty well known around town. It wasn’t hard.”
What the detective said bore out the information Groves had received from Doctor Cobden. Van Holdt’s reputation was not enviable—especially where women were concerned, and he was desperately in need of money.
“I went over to the apartment house where Miss Hazeldean lives,” Joe continued. “She’s got an alibi all right. There’s a night porter who says for certain she came in before eleven and didn’t leave till eight-thirty. There’s no way she could have sneaked out at the back. But I did find out one thing. There’s been monkey business between her and van Holdt—sure as shooting. Till he came to live here, he was up at her place a whole lot. And,” Joe added, “there’s something else. Myra van Holdt was engaged to Doctor Barry before her marriage.”
After Joe had left, Groves gathered up the slender threads of evidence. Cobden, Miss Hazeldean, Barry and Mrs. van Holdt— all had motives, and there was hardly a decent alibi among them. The only real clues he had found to date were a cigarette butt and a damp patch—both in strange places.
For a long time he studied the couch, the floor beneath, and the clock. He questioned the members of the household about the normal position of the furniture. Then, after inspecting the doctor’s surgical instruments, he returned to work with increased enthusiasm. He was beginning to see more than a glimmering of a solution when the phone rang. It was the medical examiner.