The Cases of Lieutenant Timothy Trant (Lost Classics)

by Q. Patrick

  “Maaaaah!” bawled Colvin.

  Trant nodded. “I entirely agree. You rate all the credit for breaking the case. But he was smart too. When he saw the trooper searching the fat man, when he realised that the crime had been discovered, that the ticket was too hot to handle, what an ingenious way of disposing of it! To conceal it in an inflated blue balloon so he could let the wind blow it away if we turned our attention to him.”

  The trooper was back with the dishevelled little vendor handcuffed to his wrist. Trant patted his nephew’s head.

  “Well, Colvin, sorry to break up your day, but I’ll be busy for a while. One of these nice troopers will take you home.”

  Colvin glowered suspiciously: “Will he buy me a yellow pig, Uncle?”

  “Sure, Colvin. He’ll buy you every yellow pig at the fair—and charge them to the State.”

  The Glamorous Opening

  Lieutenant Timothy Trant of the New York Homicide Bureau sat, somewhat subdued, in his orchestra seat

  at the Macready Theater, waiting for the curtain to rise on young Larry Race’s first Broadway offering. At his side, blonde and resplendent, Dodo Mulligan chattered, brandished her rolled program at entering celebrities, and managed to look even more celebrated herself. Idly Trant marvelled that the glamorous Dodo should have chosen for her escort anyone as unchic as himself. But there again, perhaps being seen with him was the height of chic in reverse: Ex-Wife of Famous Radio Commentator First-Niting with New York Police Detective.

  “Darling … divine … ravishing.”

  Dodo Mulligan’s flow of words overwhelmed him as she gesticulated with smooth white hands on one of which gleamed a huge emerald-encrusted ring. At dinner she had told him it had just been given to her by one of her admirers. “It’s Russian, doll. Belonged to a divine Czar or something. So amusing, don’t you thing?”

  Trant thought how satisfactory being the ex-wife of Willie Mulligan must be. In the world of society and celebrity, Willie Mulligan with his daily radio chit-chat wielded a Czar’s power. And, in spite of the recent divorce, most of his prestige still clung to Dodo, who was revered and courted on all sides. Why didn’t anyone ever revere and court lieutenants in the Homicide Bureau?

  The house lights were lowering when a tiny man swaddled in a muffler darted down the aisle with a dark, pretty girl. Dodo gave an excited gasp as the two latecomers squeezed into the row ahead.

  “How thrilling! He’s come after all.”

  “He?”

  “Hunt Brickell—the play critic on the Standard. This afternoon he was stuffed with cold tablets. But I should have guessed he’d make it. Will there be murder tonight!”

  Trant perked up at his favorite word. “Murder?”

  “Bloody murder, darling.” The curtain rose and angry

  shushes suppressed Dodo’s voice to a hissing whisper. “That girl with him, his wife—she’s fallen madly in love with Larry Race who wrote this play. And he’s just as wild about her. Hunt’s just found out. Larry’s penniless. His whole future hangs on the play. A bad review from Hunt will slaughter it. And will Hunt’s typewriter be dipped in venom! Darling, this is sensational.”

  From then on, although Trant enjoyed the play, part of his mind kept drifting to the little muffled man sitting in front of him thinking up vitriolic phrases with which to destroy the career of the man who threatened his happiness. This was a classic murder set-up, in which the wife or the playwright should obviously kill the critic before his lethal review could get into the papers. Trant, who doted on murder as much as Dodo doted on gossip, wished rather wistfully that Life would sometimes behave a little more like Fiction.

  In the first intermission Dodo swept him into the foyer, tapping distinguished Hollywood elbows with her pocketbook, waggling her program at jewelled dowagers. Relentless as a beagle on a hot scent, she steered Trant to a corner where the little critic, still wearing his muffler and fastidiously clasping his program, stood with his pretty wife and a distraught young man with a mane of blond hair.

  “Darlings!” Dodo swooped on them. “Lieutenant Trant—Mr. And Mrs. Brickell and our terribly clever author of tonight, Larry Race. Hunt, doll, you shouldn’t have come with that dreadful cold. Right back to bed after your review! I insist. Give me a cigarette. I’m dying.”

  Fussily the little critic disentangled a cigarette case from the papers in his breast pocket. “Bed will have to wait.” He tapped the pocket significantly. “Right after my review, I’m visiting my lawyer.” An icy silence descended on the group. Hilda Brickell tried to fill it with an awkward compliment on Dodo’s ring. Hunt Brickell peered at it, snapped: “Your last piece of loot, eh, Dodo?” and sneezed.

  Instantly Hilda cried: “Hunt, you should take your cold tablets.”

  Larry Race, the victim propitiating his executioner, exclaimed: “I’ll get you some orangeade, sir.”

  He hurried off and beat his way back to them with a paper cup, jostling against Dodo, and holding the drink respectfully while Hunt Brickell produced two tablets.

  “I’m afraid it’s pretty horrible stuff, sir.”

  “Who cares?” snapped Brickell. “I can’t taste a thing anyway.” He swallowed the tablets, drained the drink, and dropped the paper cup on the floor.

  Dodo was whisked into another group and Trant was left with the triangle. The extreme nervous tension of the three, which would have embarrassed the average man, fascinated Trant. These were people on the very edge of violence. Anything might happen, he thought.

  And then, suddenly, it did. As Dodo sailed back to them, Hunt Brickell gasped, dropped his program, and collapsed onto the floor. Mrs. Brickell screamed but, unexpectedly, shied away and clung to Larry Race. It was Dodo who, flinging down her program, plunged to the critic’s side. With her pocketbook still clutched in her hand, she pulled off his muffler, calling: “Doctor! Quick!”

  As Trant stopped at her side, the critic’s body was twisted by a violent spasm and his mouth stretched into a dreadful, smirking grin.

  Incredulously Trant thought: “Strychnine! Heavens above, they’ve done it! Strychnine in his orangeade!”

  A doctor was brought. He and Larry Race, with Mrs. Brickell fluttering around them, carried the critic to the theatre manager’s office. Dodo gathered up her things, and Trant, automatically retrieving Brickell’s scarf and program, followed. For fifteen harrowing minutes, the doctor did all he could, but by the time the second act was well under way with neither playwright nor critic to watch it, Hunt Brickell went into a second convulsion and died.

  Trant had his murder. But perversely he felt almost guilty, as if his irresponsible reveries had somehow brought it about.

  One of them? Or both of them? Trant continued his interrogation of the stricken Hilda Brickell and the gaunt, defiant Race. The body had been covered by a rug. Dodo, magnificently poised, stood by the door.

  “You admit Mr. Brickell found out you were in love with his wife, Mr. Race, and that he also suspected her feeling about you?”

  “Of course I do. There’s no sense in denying it.”

  “And he was going to be very unpleasant about it?”

  “He was. One way or another, it would have been a mess.”

  “Now, Mr. Race. You could easily have poisoned his drink when you brought it, and no one would have noticed.”

  “But he didn’t!” blazed Mrs. Brickell. “Larry didn’t!”

  “He didn’t?” Trant turned to her. “He had an excellent

  motive to kill your husband—before his damning review hit the press.”

  “Damning review!” Hunt Brickell tossed her dark head. “Do you imagine Hunt would ever let personal feelings interfere with his professional integrity? He was loving the play. Look at his program. He always wrote notes. Everyone knows that. Ask Dodo. See for yourself what he wrote.”

  Trant retrieved the program from beside the dead man’s muffler and unrolled it. He inspected each page and then looked grimly at Mrs. Brickell. “I’m sorry.
There are no notes here.”

  “No notes? But—but of course there are!”

  Suddenly Trant felt the fizz of excitement which the unexpected always brought. The program in his hand was rolled. Unlike Dodo, Brickell had not been a program roller. He glanced at the virgin program thrusting up from behind Dodo’s pocketbook.

  “Dodo, when you dropped your things you must have switched programs with Brickell.” He took the fresh program from her and opened it. Against the cast of characters he saw neatly jotted notes. Enchanting … the spirit of youth reborn in the Theater …

  He smiled wryly at Mrs. Brickell. “I’m sorry. I did underestimate your husband’s integrity.” His eyes shifted to Dodo. “Smart. Picking a policeman for an escort, priming him ahead of time with other people’s motives for murder. Very smart to switch programs, too. I suppose you’d guessed his notes would be favourable.”

  Dodo stared: “Darling—”

  “The ring, of course.” Firmly Trant removed it from her finger and fiddled until a pressed catch released the jewelled face to reveal a tiny compartment. “The divine Czar’s poison ring. So amusing! And so handy for dropping strychnine into the orangeade. Particularly when Race was holding the drink right by you while Brickell fumbled for his tablets. And you knew Brickell’s cold would keep him from noticing the bitter taste.”

  Dodo Mulligan’s glare was ominous now. “But you’re out of your mind. Why? Why?”

  “I should have guessed that, too. Brickell was a literate guy. I wondered why he said ‘your last piece of loot’ when grammatically he should have said ‘latest. But of course he meant ‘last, didn’t he? He was going to make sure it was your last. When did he threaten to expose your looting activities? This afternoon, I suppose. No wonder you were in such a hurry to kill him.”

  Dodo Mulligan looked haughty as a challenged Empress. Trant’s gamble had been terrific. Everything depended on proving a motive. Tautly he crossed to remove the blanket from the dead man.

  “When Brickell mentioned his lawyer he tapped his pocket as if he had papers … I wonder …” His fingers slipped into the pocket. “No papers now. So you sneaked them into your pocketbook while you were loosening his muffler.”

  He swung to Willie Mulligan’s ex-wife and snatched the pocketbook from her hand. Inside it, he found an unsealed envelope. He opened it and read out loud:

  “Dear Mr. Mulligan”: “I feel I should warn you, as a reputable public figure, that

  I am going to report your ex-wife to the police. Although I am sure you have no idea of this, she has been using scandalous information, taken from your confidential files, for the purposes of blackmail. I first began to suspect her when I heard she had received a valuable ring from a certain celebrated actress who later confessed to me that your ex-wife had extorted it from her by threatening to expose a past indiscretion. Subsequently I have come across more of Dodo Mulligan’s victims. In view of these discoveries, it is clearly my duty to …”

  He broke off. “Yes, Mr. Brickell was a man of integrity. He was cautious, too. He held up mailing this letter until he could make sure from his lawyer that it didn’t constitute slander. Too bad. If he hadn’t been so cautious, he might still be alive.”

  Murder in the Alps

  (Editors’ note: As pointed out in the introduction, the following story is a revised version of “Girl Overboard” in a new setting. The attentive reader may wish to note the changes.)

  Young Lieutenant Trant of the New York Homicide Bureau sat in the palm lounge of Switzerland’s most elegant winter sports resort, feeling bored. Around him, international skiers, turned night owls, were dancing and laughing as if Europe were still a playground. In the third week of a month’s vacation, Trant was tired of mountain climbing, glamor and skis. His one authentic enthusiasm—his passion for murderers—had been starved.

  He watched the dancers, hoping rather wistfully that one of them would drop dead under mysterious circumstances. Jimmie, the British ski instructor, paused at his table, bringing with him a strong smell of liniment. Trant, who had his own aches and pains, asked sympathetically: “Hello, Jimmie. How’s the arm?”

  “Still somewhat painful, sir.”

  Jimmie, with his sun-bleached hair and lazy smile, had been imported by an astute management to make the British clientele feel “at home abroad.” He was the dream-boy of the English guests, particularly the female ones, and knew it. He was also colorfully informed as to the gossip of the Hotel St. Laurent. Trant, who took an unorthodox interest in the backstairs of life, had made the Yorkshire-born ski instructor his particular crony.

  “And what of our girl friend and company tonight, Jimmie?”

  He nodded across the lounge to a corner table where two young men and two girls, well sun-tanned, were making a stormy but striking quartet.

  “Lady Mavis’ party, sir?” Although Jimmie’s speech and presence would have done credit to a duke, his British training kept him invariably respectful. “I’m afraid trouble may be brewing again, sir.”

  “Trouble,” remarked Lieutenant Trant, “is something which Lady Mavis Mariner carries around like a pocketbook.”

  Jimmie grinned. “She is a bit of what you might call a magnet, sir.”

  “A magnet for males.”

  Trant alerted, for at the other side of the palm lounge the blonde had risen in apparent pique. Turning her back contemptuously on her companions, she skirted the dancers and made her way to Trant’s table. She sat down and gave him a blinding smile which she then switched to Jimmie.

  “Jimmie, darling, be an angel and rescue my pocketbook from those dreary people.” As Jimmie hurried obediently off, Lady Mavis, England’s prettiest, wealthiest, and probably most irritating bright young thing, moaned to Trant: “Darling, be nice to me. You’re the only bearable male in Switzerland.”

  Lieutenant Trant, whose taste in women was also unorthodox, felt a certain weakness for Lady Mavis although, apart from a torrid physical appeal, she had nothing to recommend her. She was both silly and selfish and, although she worked overtime to fascinate every man in sight, she remained—he was sure—technically as virtuous as a police matron.

  “What’s the trouble tonight, Mavis?”

  She shrugged. “My dear, so stupid. Just because that divine Larry Howard happens to think I have a talent for the films, Carlos smolders. And that revolting Claire Howard. Really, she thinks I’m trying to steal her husband! So vulgar and American of her.”

  From this rambling statement the experienced police officer in Trant deduced that Lady Mavis, who was currently engaged to the Mexican playboy, Carlos Villanueva, had been vamping the multimillionaire Hollywood producer, Larry Howard, thus infuriating both Howard’s wife and her own fiancé.

  “Really,” continued Mavis, batting her huge lashes and looking almost unbearably luscious, “jealous people are so dismal. Let’s dance.”

  Lady Mavis’ dancing was an expert seduction. Sinuous in Trant’s arms and headily perfumed with Tantalizing, she murmured: “You really are intriguing. So mysterious. I’m sure you do something fascinating.”

  Trant, who knew he was being exploited merely to make Carlos Villanueva and the “divine” Larry Howard that much more dismally jealous, grinned at her affectionately.

  “I’m only clay in the potter’s hands.”

  They went back to the table. Jimmie had brought Lady Mavis’ pocketbook. Mavis dazzled at him.

  “Jimmie, you’re a duck. Please be a lamb and wax my skis. We’re starting early tomorrow and I’ve got to have them done tonight.”

  Jimmie, all ducal gallantry, said: “Of course, Lady Mavis.”

  “They’re in the cabin. My maid will let you in. Just bring them back and put them on the porch when they’re done.” As Jimmie disappeared, Mavis said to Trant: “There’s still nothing like English service, is there? Darling, let’s dance again.”

  Lady Mavis danced long and shamelessly enough with Trant to drive her erstwhile companions, one after t
he other, from the plush hotel lounge.

  Having achieved her objective, she withdrew in pursuit of other game. Trant got trapped into an emotional chess match with the hotel manager and it was one-fifteen before he escaped to his own elegant front room. As he opened the window, an eccentric mountain squall roared in from the darkness outside, scattering everything off the tables and toppling a lamp. He started to restore order, reflecting that Lady Mavis was like a Swiss wind gust.

  She too toppled everyone in her path.

  * * *

  He awoke next morning at nine to an agitated Swiss voice saying: “M’sieur … M’sieur.”

  It was the assistant manager announcing anxiously that the manager wanted him immediately in Lady Mavis’ chalet. When they reached the little lodge, cradled in pine trees, which was the hotel’s most expensive accommodation, they found the manager alone in the living room, looking distracted.

  “M. Trant. Mon Dieu, I need the policeman. Lady Mavis disappear.”

  He told Trant what he knew. Lady Mavis’ Paris-imported maid had come, as usual, from the servants’ wing, to make morning tea at seven and had found the chalet empty. She was familiar with all of Mavis’ clothes and was sure that none of them was missing except the red velvet dress she had worn the night before.

  Ignoring the hovering assistant manager, the manager concluded: “Ah, M. Trant, if I telephone the préfecture there is perhaps the unnecessary scandale. But you, Monsieur— one hears of your so great reputation with the unpleasantnesses of America.”

  Trant, modestly silent, began to search the room and then moved into the bedroom. The bed was neatly made. The heavy plate-glass window was shut. The wrap Lady Mavis had worn the night before was slung over a chair. There was an overpowering—even for Mavis—odor of Tantalizing. A glance at the dressing table showed a bottle of the perfume almost empty. Intrigued, Trant traced the odor to an area by a deep, blue armchair where it seemed at its strongest. He dropped to his knees and observed a faint darkish stain on the flowered carpet. It was still a trifle damp. He discovered a similar smaller stain on a pillow from the sofa in her room.