Hunt in the Dark

by Q. Patrick

  I was beginning to listen now.

  “I was all het-up after I’d heard her call him Garr. We wanted Garr more than any man in America. Maybe this was Garr, we figured. And the colored woman had given us grounds for holding him. On the evidence of the handkerchief, we held him and the other men on suspicion of kidnapping, and made a search of the place. We found nothing, of course. And all this time, the colored woman was getting wilder and wilder. That’s when she started shooting her mouth off about the Purple Star being a ship that Garr was going to blow up. She swore we’d find you all down here at the Purple Star.” He smiled ruefully. “I guess we were a bit difficult to convince. But she’s a strong-minded lady. She convinced us—and here we are.”

  He was telling us the rest. They had arrived only just in time; but they had made a perfect haul. Thanks to Aloma, they not only had Garr; they had also caught Captain Fischer, Ruby and Nikki, and their underlings, red-handed, on the ship.

  “With Pauly’s evidence,” he was saying, “we can round up all the other small-time agents. And with your evidence, we can get Garr convicted a dozen times over. You’ve done us a great service, Mr. and Mrs. Duluth. In one night you’ve averted the biggest disaster in shipping history and cleaned up a gang we’ve been hounding for months. You’ll be public heroes.” He laughed. “As I’ve always said, in this line of business, you have to be an amateur to get results.”

  With a certain amount of relish, I thought of Garr’s penultimate remark to us, before he handed us over to the boys in the

  back room. I would like to have warned you from the beginning that this is no line of business for amateurs. Mr. Garr, the arch-professional, was now securely under lock and key, while us old amateurs were very much alive and kicking.

  Nuts to you, Mr. Garr.

  But, through all that hurried, confused explanation, I could think of nothing but Aloma. Aloma, who had saved us from ourselves twice that night, was the real heroine of the hour. Single-handed, she had battled against the incredulity of the FBI Single-handed, she had defeated Garr. Aloma, doubtful of our ability to take care of ourselves, plodding out into the night after us in her satin gown; Aloma fighting with the cop on the street corner for our lives; Aloma, ferociously exposing the quiet little bespectacled bookseller; Aloma bending-and picking up that small yellow handkerchief.

  The handkerchief—

  I turned to Iris. The purple hat, a museum piece now, still perched on her head, she was staring out over the rail across the dim silhouettes of the ships. “Iris, honey,” I said, “that handkerchief, did you drop it on purpose?”

  She glanced at me. She made a little grimace. “I thought there was just a chance someone might find it.”

  “But—”

  “I didn’t say anything about it. I didn’t want to raise your hopes.”

  All the FBI men and the dock police seemed to be collecting around us on the deck now. There is no more comforting sensation than being surrounded with G-men and dock police. They were all grinning and making complimentary remarks. The deck of the Purple Star, which, on Garr’s schedule, should have been nothing now but so much kindling, had turned into a kind of outdoor reception room.

  I wasn’t paying much attention to the complimentary remarks. Now that the vast, world-shaking dangers were over, I found myself lost in gloom—because of Aloma. We had ruined her second wedding night with Rudolph; we had utterly undermined her efforts to keep him on the straight and narrow path of virtue; we had all but had him blown into a million pieces. What hope was there now of retaining her services: none. She had saved our lives out of the nobility of her character. But after tonight, she would never want to see us again. Ensconced in some remote Harlem love-nest with Rudolph, she would forever be beyond our reach.

  “—wait till the papers break with this story,” one of the G-men was saying.

  “Iris,” I said dolefully, “this is the end of Aloma.”

  “—your names will be household words,” said the G-man.

  Iris wasn’t listening. “I know it, Peter,” she sighed. “Never mind, darling. We’ll just have to love each other that much more.”

  And then, as she spoke, the ranks of men separated as if before some royal guest of honor. Majestically leaning on Rudolph’s arm, Aloma swept toward us. The ivory satin gown was a little frayed, but it in no way detracted from her splendor. Her eyes were sparkling; her hand was squeezed chummily into Rudolph’s large dark fist.

  She brushed through the congratulations of the FBI men. She came right up to us.

  “Miz Iris,” she said, “Miz Peter, Rudolph and me’s been thinkin’ over our future plans like we said we would.”

  “Yes—” I said gauntly.

  Aloma smiled ravishingly at Rudolph. “Rudolph’s decided he just can’t do without me bein’ around all the time.”

  My heart sank. Iris looked tragic. We steeled ourselves. “But,” said Aloma, “Rudolph’s kind of gone on you-all too.

  An’ we was figurin’ how maybe—well, there’s plenty of room and I could do with someone helpin’ around an’, maybe Rudolph ain’t so hot right now fo’ a butler-valet, but under my trainin’ and guidance—”

  I couldn’t believe my ears. I said, “You mean Rudolph wants to come to us as a butler?”

  “As a couple,” said Aloma conjugally. “That’s what we’d be—a couple. An’ if it’s a question of extra money goin’ out, doan’ you worry ‘bout that. Bein’ with people like you after where he’s come from’s all Rudolph wants.”

  Rudolph grinned shyly.

  It wasn’t happening. I pinched myself. I looked at Iris. Her lips were trembling.

  “But, Aloma,” I faltered, “after the terrible things that happened tonight—”

  “Tonight!” Aloma tossed the word back at me. “You know somethin’, Miz Peter? Sometimes, aroun’ yo’ place, ev’ything was

  so awful quiet, I could of screamed. But tonight—” She beamed. It was the most stupendous beam Aloma had ever beamed. “Tonight. Tellin’ you the truth, I haven’t had such fun since the time Rudolph busted into the Municipal Trust.”

  She broke off with an appalled glance at the swarms of dock police and FBI men. Then, hastily slurring it over, “Well, Miz Peter, is it a deal? It’d be doin’ us a great service an’ it would rehabilitate Rudolph for good an’ all.”

  Rudolph shuffled his feet. Iris was smiling ecstatically. “A deal?” I echoed, “Aloma, it isn’t a deal. It’s a dream.”

  The Woman Who Waited

  When the patrolman lugged open the door of the parked car, the body almost tumbled out. Inspector Macrae’s mouth crooked in distaste. Alive, Ellery Trimble had been dandified as an elderly show-window model from his own Twin-Town Department Store, the one big-league emporium in the dual-community of Stuart-Cartersville. He didn’t look so fashionable dead. Crumpled over the steering wheel, Stuart-Cartersville’s most prominent citizen was just a bundle of clothes, a pudgy travesty of a face and one plump, dangling hand.

  There was blood on the cheek. But Inspector Macrae wasn’t looking at the blood. He was staring at the insane confusion of silk—real silk—stockings which sprawled across the corpse like grotesque, elongated caterpillars.

  “Shot with his own gun, you say?”

  “Yep, Chief,” replied the patrol man. “We found it on the floor by his side and Miller checked with the people over at the store. It’s the revolver he kept there in his office. But it ain’t suicide. The wound’s all wrong. And then them stockings. They must have been ripped out of a package he had with him. We found the torn paper. No one don’t throw stockings all over themselves and commit suicide. It’s murder.”

  “Kind of crazy thing a woman might do.”

  “Sure it was a dame. Miller an’ I found a whole trail of dame’s foot-prints running away from the car. Look.”

  The patrolman shone his flashlight down onto the gravel of the private parking lot behind the Twin-Town D
epartment Store, which Trimble had kept for his exclusive use. There, distinct in the gravel, were the imprints of a woman’s high heels stretching away from the running board of the car.

  “Old Trimble killed by a dame when he was supposed to never have looked at another woman since his wife died!” The patrolman’s voice was awestruck. “And on the very day he opened his new store, too.”

  Macrae grunted. For weeks, every wife in Stuart-Cartersville had been waiting breathlessly for the grand opening of the Twin-Town Department Store’s remodeled building. Mrs. Macrae, who had an eagle eye for a bargain, had been one of the first that morning to storm its glass doors.

  The Inspector bent gingerly over the corpse and fingered one of the silk stockings. Real silk at that, hard to get as it was.

  “Well, what d’you know?”

  You know a lot more about a man when he’s dead than when he’s alive, Macrae decided that next morning. Until the murder, he, like everyone else in Stuart-Cartersville, had known Ellery Trimble only as a model widower who lived a life of respectable ease with his debutante daughter in one of Stuart’s most elaborate homes. Investigation, however, had revealed the startling fact that there had been a second Trimble residence—an intimate little apartment in Cartersville, rented under an assumed name, where a well-bribed janitor had observed but kept unpublicized a steady succession of discreetly muffled feminine guests. Ellery Trimble’s personality, apparently, had been as dual as that of the community itself, a Jekyll in Stuart, a Hyde in Cartersville.

  That a woman should have murdered him no longer seemed remarkable. Now it was merely a question of—which woman?

  A lead on the woman came with unexpected speed. One of the salesgirls at the Twin-Town Department Store, a Miss Dora Churt of Hosiery, called headquarters to report that a strange woman had been waiting for Mr. Trimble last night after the store had closed. She and two other employees had noticed this woman. They thought the police should know.

  Inspector Macrae reached for his hat.

  Twenty minutes later, he pushed through the sensation-hungry crowd outside the closed department store and was let into its crepe-hung entrance by an earnest and elegant young man who introduced himself as Donald Douds of Sporting Goods. As a streamlined elevator raised them to Hosiery, Donald Douds discreetly let it be known that he was one of the three who had seen the unknown woman and that, in his capacity as Admirer-In-Chief to Miss Dora Churt, had persuaded her to call the police. He also made it clear that he was meant for higher things than selling sports clothes.

  Passing through a deserted and austerely modern lampshade section, they reached Hosiery. Inspector Macrae snorted when he saw the incredible decorations and the huge black mirror which stretched over one entire wall. He remembered the Twin-Town Department Store when it had been a plain, honest, cash-over-the-counter establishment. No trimmings, no fancy Doudses then.

  Two women were waiting by the glass hosiery cases to the right of the closed door, which led to Mr. Trimble’s private office. One of them was a tallish, pretty girl with light brown hair in a smart jade green suit; the other was older, dumpy, greying with pince-nez and a sensible mouth. The pretty one was Miss Churt; the other was Miss Grace Godson from Table Linen.

  Under the loving eye of Mr. Douds, Dora Churt told her story calmly and briskly. Last night, after the store had been closed to the public, Mr. Trimble had come out of his office and asked to look at the dwindling supply of real silk stockings. He wanted some as a surprise present for his daughter. He selected twelve pairs, but Miss Churt had pointed out they were not the right size for Miss Trimble. Trimble had looked rather awkward and had said he would take them anyway. She wrapped them up for him and he carried the package back into his office.

  Miss Churt’s pretty face was puzzled. “It was then that I noticed this woman. I hadn’t seen her come in, but she was standing there at the entrance to Hosiery from Lampshades. She was clasping and unclasping her hands and staring toward the door of Mr. Trimble’s office. I didn’t think much about her. I was tired after the strain of the gala opening and I wanted to get home. Right then Mr. Douds and Miss Goodson came from the back of the store. They stopped to say goodnight to me. I pointed out the woman and said something about. I hoped she wasn’t going to start buying things and holding me up. I wanted to get home. Then, after Mr. Douds and Miss Goodson had gone on through Perfume, the woman suddenly hurried to the door of Mr. Trimble’s office and went in. A few minutes later, just as I was leaving, they both came out together. Mr. Trimble called good night to me. And they went away.

  Inspector Macrae said: “And none of you saw Mr. Trimble or this woman again?”

  “I heard ‘em.” Miss Goodson’s pince-nez quivered on her plump nose as she proceeded in a clipped, telegraphic style. “Left the store after all the others by the back entrance. Took shortcut across Mr. Talbot’s parking space; quicker that way. Saw his parked car. Heard voices inside, quarreling. Heard woman carrying on, saying: ‘You bought them for someone else. Don’t lie to me.’ Didn’t investigate. None of my business; in a hurry to catch the trolley home. That’s all I know.”

  Macrae watched the three of them. “What did this woman look like?”

  Both Dora Churt and Douds opened their mouths, but Miss Goodson got in first. “Young. Around twenty-five. Not tall. Shorter than Miss Churt. No hat. Dark hair. Black dress.”

  “That’s right,” put in Dora Churt. “And she seemed very keyed-up, jittery.”

  “Good figure,” added Donald Douds with a faint smirk. “More the petite type than Dora. Personally, I go for them bigger.”

  Inspector Macrae nodded soberly, “And you have a theory about this woman who—waited for Mr. Trimble?”

  “With Miss Goodson hearing that quarrel, it seems pretty obvious.” Dora Churt let Mr. Doud’s hand stray to her shoulder. “Mr. Trimble bought those stockings although they weren’t the right size for his daughter. That means the daughter business was just a line and he was buying them for some other woman. I guess this woman we saw had been a—er—friend of his, heard him buy the stockings, realized he was buying them for some other girl, stole his gun when she was in his office—and killed him out of jealousy.”

  “Exactly,” said Donald Douds.

  The less respectable side of old Ellery’s life had not yet been made public. “What makes you think,” asked the Inspector, “that Mr. Trimble was the sort of man to carry on with women?” Dora Churt flushed. “I—I guess it’s all right to tell. Donald knows. When I first came to work at the old store, Mr. Trimble asked me if I would go over the stock books with him one night at some apartment in Cartersville. It was obvious what he meant and—well, I refused and …”

  “I see.” Inspector Macrae’s face was impassive. “Then that give a pretty clear picture. Trimble was tired of this woman and had started to stray. The stockings made her realize it. She snitched his gun, murdered him in a fit of crazy jealousy, tossed the stockings all over him and made her getaway. All we have to do now is find the woman.”

  “Disgraceful behavior,” snorted Miss Goodson. “Man of his age.”

  Macrae’s gaze had moved carefully over the elegant Hosiery Department. “Perhaps you’d be good enough to let me know just where you were all standing when you saw this—this woman who waited.”

  Miss Goodson still dominated the picture. She pushed Dora Churt back until she was standing between the counters and Mr. Trimble’s office. “Dora was there.” Pince-nez wabbling, she gripped Doud’s hand and pulled him beyond the mouth of a corridor which led from the back of the store. “Mr. Douds and I came this way. We walked down, paused to talk to Dora.” Still guiding Douds, she paused. “Then we saw the girl. Over there.” She pointed to the entrance from Lampshades. “We walked on straight through to Perfumery.” She and Douds passed on to a third exit beyond. “That plain enough?”

  “Very plain.” Macrae had moved to the spot where the two of them had paused to speak to Dora
Churt. “In fact, I don’t think we have to find out anything else at all. Look.” He pointed dramatically to the entrance from Lampshades. “The woman who waited for Mr. Trimble. You see her? She’s come back. She’s standing right there at this moment.”

  As the two joined the Inspector, Miss Goodson squeaked, “Yes, that’s the woman!”

  They stared toward the entrance from Lampshades. Standing there, it seemed, right by the doorway, was a woman’s figure— the figure of a girl who seemed to be shorter than Dora Churt, a girl who seemed to have darker hair, a girl who seemed to be wearing black.

  Then the tableau altered, for Macrae left them and moved to Dora Churt’s side. Suddenly, standing next to the woman who had waited for Mr. Trimble, was a shorter, darker image of Inspector Macrae himself.

  “Smart.” The Inspector’s voice was relentless. “Very smart, Miss Churt. Smart to build up a story about an imaginary woman who had your own motives for murdering Trimble—jealousy because he’d been having a secret affair with you and, from the stockings, you discovered he was switching to another girl. Smart to call the police and tell them about that imaginary woman. But smartest of all to fool two perfectly good witnesses into believing they had actually seen this woman who didn’t exist.”