The Cases of Lieutenant Timothy Trant (Lost Classics)

by Q. Patrick

  “It does?” Trant was reflective. “We’ve got the Killian and Prentice prints already. Better get the secretary and the maid.”

  Trant moved to the corpse. Henry Walgrove didn’t look as if he’d been a pleasant person. He was huge and too well fed. Trant could imagine him buying the right suits, the right hair tonics, exuding specious joviality—and not paying his bills.

  Doc Sanders looked up sourly. “Bullet entered just below the heart, Trant. Took an upward course, probably piercing the heart and coming out just below the left shoulder. From the powder marks, I’d say the shot was fired from a distance of three or four feet.”

  “Very interesting,” said Trant.

  “What’s interesting about it?” snapped Sanders, “Just another bullet, another body.’’

  Trant was glancing round the room. There was something wrong about it. It was so polite and orderly, in contrast to the disorderly library. The cushions on the couch and the over-sized chairs were plumped out as though no one had ever sat on them.

  “Guess he was shot in here, Doc? Wasn’t moved?” he asked.

  “Moved? Course not. Besides, who’d be able to move a great hulk like that?”

  There was another door leading from the room. Trant went through it into short corridor. The door of the room beyond was open. He saw Gay’s secretary sitting behind a desk. She was somewhere in the thirties, small, with a pinched, ladylike look around the nose. Trant grinned at her. “I’d like to see the maid, please, Miss Dunlop,” he said. Miss Elise Dunlop scurried away. There was a blank piece of paper in the typewriter. Trant started idly to tap out: The quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog. Hearing Miss Dunlop’s return, he quickly pulled out the sheet and stuffed it in his pocket.

  “This is Lucy,” said Miss Dunlop, introducing a blatantly attractive girl with long, overexposed legs below a brief maid’s uniform. Lucy grinned at Trant and sat down, crossing her legs. The secretary withdrew.

  Lucy burst out: “It’s me that—”

  “Just a moment, Lucy. When did you tidy the living room last?”

  “The living room? Just before the corpse—that is Mr. Walgrove, showed up.”

  “You haven’t tidied since?”

  ”What d’you think I am? Hiding evidence—”

  “What I think you are has nothing to do with the case.

  Now, Lucy, give.”

  Lucy gave—enthusiastically. Around a quarter of six she’d answered the front-door buzzer. Mr. Walgrove was there, asking for Miss Killian… No, Lucy didn’t know him. She’d only been here a few weeks. She had him wait in the hall and announced his arrival to Miss Killian and Mr. Prentice in the bedroom.

  “The bedroom, Lucy,” he queried.

  Lucy winked. “The bedroom. Miss Killian was fixing herself to go out.”

  Miss Killian and Prentice had exchanged what Lucy called “significant” looks. Mr. Prentice had said: “I’ll take care of this, Gay.” Miss Killian had tried to argue, but Mr. Prentice had hurried out to the hall. Lucy had been sent back to the kitchen—but not before she’d heard loud words from the hall. “Curiosity made me pause,” said Lucy.

  In a few minutes, sounds of a struggle had come from the library. Lucy tactfully returned to the kitchen. A short time later she heard a shot, and ran to the sound. She reached the living room to find Miss Killian and Mr. Prentice bending over Mr. Walgrove and Miss Killian exclaiming: “He’s dead.”

  Trant said: “You’ve been shown the gun?”

  Lucy nodded. “It’s Miss Killian’s all right. Keeps it in the drawer of her bed table. Scared of burglars.” She gave Trant a smile, luscious and knowing. “One of them did it, Lieutenant. Either him or her and—”

  “Thank you. Lucy. Now please call Miss Dunlop.” Lucy left reluctantly.

  Elise Dunlop came in and sat down with the impersonal quietness of someone about to take dictation. She had little new to offer. From the office where she’d been working on Miss Killian’s autobiography, she’d heard a shot. She’d hurried to the living room and discovered Miss Killian, Prentice and Lucy.

  Trant asked: “Perhaps you’ll explain what Mr. Walgrove was to Miss Killian and why.”

  Elise Dunlop flushed. “Miss Killian told you to tell all.

  Remember?” said

  “I know. I … This is most embarrassing. Mr. Walgrove was Miss Killian’s husband.”

  Timothy blinked. “But for years Miss Killian has been notoriously unmarried.”

  “That was publicity. This happened long ago. They’ve been separated for many years,”

  “Divorced?’’

  “Miss Killian does not approve of divorce—on religious grounds.”

  “Then …?”

  “He was not a good man.” Miss Dunlop looked bitter, “For years now, he has been living on Miss Killian. Never worked much. Always knew Miss Killian was good for a touch.”

  “And why was Miss Killian always ready to—be touched?”

  “Partly because she’s loyal to people who’ve been close to her. Partly because she didn’t want the unpleasant publicity Mr. Walgrove could make for her.”

  “He came back today for another touch?”

  “No. I believe Miss Killian sent for him.”

  “Why?’’

  She hesitated. “Miss Killian has not been well. Her heart. Her doctors advised her to give up acting. I believe she planned to tell Mr. Walgrove that there’d be a big drop in her income and she wouldn’t be able—”

  “You’re sure that’s the reason, Miss Dunlop? You’re sure she didn’t send for him because she’s fallen in love with Mr. Prentice and finally wants a divorce?”

  Her eyes flared. “There’s nothing like that between Miss Killian and Mr. Prentice.”

  “Sure?” Trant handed her the note he’d found in Walgrove’s wallet. “This mean anything to you?”

  She read it. “The things it says about Miss Killian and Mr. Prentice are lies.”

  “You don’t know who the lady signing herself ‘L.’ is?”

  “I know nothing about Mr. Walgrove’s affairs, I’m sure.”

  Trant handed her the photograph of the toothy woman in the swimming suit. “Know this lady? Lila something?”

  Elise Dunlop studied the photograph. “Why, yes, I believe I do. It’s Mrs. Lila Ridell.”

  “Who’s she?”

  “A woman in Boston. Prominent socially. Wealthy, I believe. A widow. I’m from Boston, myself.” She coughed. “Not that I knew her. We never moved in the same circles. But …”

  “Any connection between her and Walgrove?”

  Miss Dunlop said tartly: “I presume so—since you found the photograph in his pocket.”

  “Touché, Miss Dunlop.”

  One of the men came in to say that Captain Dalton had arrived. Timothy grinned at Miss Dunlop. “This is it.” he said. “The Inspector’s going to raise the roof when he finds out I let Miss Killian and Mr. Prentice go.”

  As he spoke, the phone rang. Trant picked up the receiver. A matronly voice said: “I want to speak to Mr. Walgrove at once.”

  “Who’s calling please?”

  “Mrs. Lila Ridell. Mr. Walgrove is supposed to pick me up here at the Pierre and take me to Medea. He hasn’t arrived. It’s most annoying. What on earth’s the matter?”

  “I’m afraid.” said Trant politely, “Mr. Walgrove won’t be able to make Medea, Mrs. Ridell. It’s most unfortunate, but right now he’s not—feeling very well.”

  * * *

  Trant was right about Dalton. He exploded when he heard that Miss Killian and Mr. Prentice were not there. He was even angrier when he examined all the evidence and personally interviewed Lucy and Elise.

  “You're crazy, Trant, trying to get fancy on this case? Straightest sailing I ever saw. Miss Killian wanted to marry this new young actor. Called her husband to tell him he had to get a divorce. He refused, threatened to make a scandal about Prentice, and held her up for plenty of dough. Prentice got mad. When Walgrove ar
rived, they quarreled. Prentice got the gun. Shot him.”

  “Yes?” queried Trant meekly.

  “If you’d been as efficient as the dumbest leg-man on the force, you’d have had Prentice arrested by now.”

  “I would?” Trant let his eyes stray to the neatly plumped cushions of the sofa and the chairs. “I suppose you’ll be going down to the theater to arrest him right away?”

  “That’s exactly what I’m going to do.”

  “There’s a perfect set of prints on the gun, know that?”

  “All the better.”

  “Not necessarily—you see, when the report comes through, we’ll find the prints are not those belonging to Mr. Prentice.”

  Dalton was no believer in half-measures, he gathered up a reluctant Miss Dunlop and an eager Lucy as witnesses in his case against Prentice. Trant called headquarters for the fingerprint report lo be phoned to the theater. The four drove downtown.

  Medea was almost over. While Dalton fussed in Prentice’s dressing room. Trant watched the final scene between Jason and Medea. Gay was magnificent. Prentice as Jason was good too. Trant felt sad that their great evening must end so unpleasantly.

  As the curtain fell to sweeping applause, he made his way back to Prentice’s dressing room and Captain Dalton. Soon the young actor appeared, tall and with a certain splendor, in his Grecian robes. He looked tired and under a terrific strain. His gaze moved cautiously lo Dalton and then to Miss Dunlop. “Why, Liz, what …?”

  Dalton broke in: “Prentice, this isn’t going to take long. I got a couple of witnesses here, so it’s no use lying. You met Walgrove in the hall, yes?’

  Prentice dropped to a chair. “Yes.”

  “You both went into the library, started quarreling, fighting. Yes?”

  Prentice said quietly: “Yes.”

  “Then you followed him into the living room. You had Miss Killian’s revolver. You shot him.”

  Prentice shrugged. “Okay. Why string it out? Yes, I shot Walgrove.’’

  Captain Dalton beamed. In his satisfaction he hadn’t noticed that the door had opened; Trant had. He turned to see Gay Killian on the threshold. With her dark hair streaming over her Grecian robe, she still brought with her the illusion of Medea—wild, beautiful, with tragic grandeur. But behind the shining facade there was a terrible exhaustion.

  She took a step toward them. In a clear, firm voice, she said: “That’s a lie! Robert didn’t shoot him. He’s only saying that to protect me. I killed Henry Walgrove.”

  Trant said quietly: “Why don’t you tell us what happened, Miss Killian?’’

  She sat down on an old wooden chair, the simple robe swirling around her. “I was always going to tell you the truth. I just wanted this last chance to act tonight. That’s why I’m so grateful to you, Lieutenant. Robert quarreled with my husband. There was a stupid fist fight. Robert became ashamed of himself. He came back to me in the bedroom to apologize for such childish behavior. He’d grazed his knuckles. I sent him upstairs to the bathroom for iodine. Then I got my revolver and went into the living room. Henry was standing by the mantel.”

  “Where did you sit?”

  “There on the couch, close to him. I tried to argue. I saw it was no use. He—became impossible. I shot him.” Her eyes, poignantly tender, moved to Prentice. “Robert dear, it was foolish to protect me. I prefer it this way.”

  Trant asked: “It’s still rather confusing what you and Mr. Walgrove were quarreling about, Miss Killian. Up to now we’ve been wrong, haven’t we? It wasn’t you who wanted a divorce to marry Prentice. It was your husband who wanted a divorce to marry this rich and doubtless admirable Mrs. Lila Ridell.

  Gay Killian nodded.

  “And you, who don’t believe in divorce, Miss Killian, were refusing to give it to him?”

  “I wouldn’t,” she flared with sudden passion, “He’d ruined my life. I wasn’t going to let him do the same to another woman. He was only after her money, her position, her …”

  “Exactly,” put in Trant. “And when you refused the divorce, he threatened to make a scandal about you and Prentice. Right?”

  Gay looked up at him pitifully. “Do we have to go on with this? I’m ready. Please let them take me away.”

  Prentice’s face was white as his robe. He took a step toward her. “Gay …”

  The phone on the dressing table rang. Trant picked it up. He listened. “Yes.” he said. “That’s just what I expected.”

  Dalton snapped: “The fingerprint report?”

  “Yes,” said Trant, hanging up.

  “Whose are they?”

  “Miss Killian’s, of course.” Trant smiled at her almost affectionately. “I always knew they would be.”

  Things were straightforward enough again for Captain Dalton. He said: “Well, Miss Killian, I guess if you come along with me …”

  “One moment,” put in Trant, “May I ask a few questions?’’ Dalton gave a pettish: “Guess so.”

  Trant watched Gay thoughtfully. “You and Mr. Prentice love each other very much, don’t you?”

  The actress’ gaze flashed to Prentice and then back to Trant. He said: “It’s corny, but I’m afraid ‘valiant’ is the word for you. I was suspicious when you made such a point of being fingerprinted. Just a shade overdone. I guessed then that you’d deliberately put your prints on the gun to incriminate yourself.”

  “But …”

  “Just now you said you were sitting on the couch when you shot Walgrove. I’m afraid you weren’t. No one sat on that couch or on any of the chairs after Walgrove arrived.”

  “Then I was …”

  “Standing? No. Miss Killian, I’m afraid you weren’t standing either.”

  Gay didn’t seem to be listening now. She was watching Prentice with a kind of dread.

  “If you like, Miss Killian, I’ll tell you the true version of the story you’ve just given. Prentice did come to you in the bedroom after his minor tussle with Walgrove. You did send him upstairs for iodine. But after that, you were scared of what he might do, weren’t you? You looked in your bedside table, found your gun was gone. A few seconds later you heard the shot. You were sure then that Prentice hadn’t gone upstairs. He’d gone into the living room with the gun and …”

  “No,” said Gay fiercely. “No!”

  “Yes,” replied Trant. “I’m afraid yes.” He was still smiling. "But don’t let it break your heart, Miss Killian. You see, your little show wasn’t necessary—because, believe me, you didn’t kill Walgrove. Neither did Prentice.”

  Dalton’s face purpled with exasperation. Trant took from his pocket the photograph of the massive Mrs. Ridell in her swimming suit. “This lady, Mrs. Ridell, is the key to the whole problem. Walgrove wanted a divorce so he could marry her—bless her. You’ve admitted it yourself, Miss Killian. Our Lila is pleasantly well-heeled, the ideal lady to keep Walgrove in clover. Much better than depend-ing on handouts from you. But he knew how you felt about divorce; his only hope was to catch you in a scandal and divorce you himself for misconduct.”

  He paused. “Walgrove, being a slick customer, thought out a plan; he wanted evidence of misconduct. How better than by suborning a member of your ménage into spying for him? Being also the charmer type, he used the romantic approach. He picked his victim and wooed her with promises of rapture and marriage the moment she could obtain misconduct evidence for the divorce.”

  He sighed, “It’s rather touching, isn’t it? He never intended to marry his spy, of course. He was all out for the full blown Lila. But the spy fell for it. And I guess she did a good job. The note we found on his body indicates that.” Trant brought out the typewritten letter signed “L.”

  “The solution’s here, of course. L. was his spy. L. thought he was going to marry her. L. found out about Mrs. Ridell.

  L. knew there’ll be a scene between Killian, Prentice, and Walgrove that afternoon. L. sneaked Miss Killian’s gun. L. heard the fight in the library, heard Prentice go, heard Wal
grove come alone into the living room. L. saw her perfect opportunity and took it. One shot. Wipe fingerprints off the gun. Drop it. Slip away. Come back as if rushing to the sound of the shot.” He turned to Miss Dunlop. “It’s a short distance between your office and the living room, isn’t it?”

  Gay Killian’s secretary glared. “It’s preposterous to suppose …”

  “Your name’s Elise, Miss Dunlop. But I’ve noticed they all call you Liz. L, Miss Dunlop, L.”

  “You’ve no proof. It might just as well be …”

  “Lucy? Oh, no. Miss Dunlop. I don’t think it was Lucy. You see, for an efficient secretary, you should have paid more attention to your typewriter. Of course it was most unfortunate, too, that Walgrove kept your note. Even so, if you’d cleaned the machine, it mightn’t have been so obvious.” He pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket “I’m not much of a typist myself, but I used your machine. Here—compare the type of the note and this paper yourself: the blocked-up ‘e’? The ‘t’ that’s worn at the top? That broken ‘w’? You wrote that note.”

  Trant continued quietly: “Besides, you’re the only one who could have shot him. Miss Dunlop. That’s where the upholstery comes in again. The bullet hit low, traveling upward at a sharp angle. Any of the others might have shot him if they’d been sitting down. But no one was sitting down. And the rest of them, including Lucy, are too tall. You're the only one short enough to have shot him, standing. He double-crossed you, didn’t he? You thought he was going to marry you.”

  Miss Dunlop’s face twisted passionately. “I hated him,” she flared. “I hated Henry Walgrove.”

  Trant said, “I’m sorry. Miss Dunlop. You’ve had a pretty miserable love life, haven’t you?”

  He nodded to Dalton. “Take her away, Captain. She’s all yours.”

  Later, Trant was alone in the dressing room with Gay and Robert Prentice. He said: “I always like cases when there’s something in them I don’t understand.”

  “What don’t you understand?” Gay asked.

  “Since you love Prentice so much, why wouldn’t you give your husband a divorce?”

  A faint flush stained her cheeks. “Now I’m retiring, I suppose it’s all right to come out with it. My manager’s always made me keep it dark: a question of age.”