by Q. Patrick
“There’s always the will,” put in Jervis.
“But I don’t see how any will could explain away the crazy things we’ve come up against already,” persisted Timothy. “In the first place, there was something phoney about Mrs. Van Heuten herself. I don’t know what it was, but she doesn’t make sense as a character.”
“Too good to be true maybe,” suggested the chief.
“Exactly, sir. And there’s something phoney about that business of hers, too. It seems innocent enough with its bum manuscripts and its three dollar reading fees. But I think it made too much money. And there’s that back entrance. People don’t keep unlocked, secret back doors in their offices for nothing.”
“In this case,” said the chief, “it seems to have been kept for the exclusive use of Dane Tolfrey.”
“And there’s something phoney about him,” said Timothy. “He’s the very last person you’d have suspected of being Mrs. Van Heuten’s best friend. He got a big check from her this afternoon. I’m pretty sure he didn’t get it for nothing. And he had some sort of a brawl with Mrs. Van Heuten’s first visitor—the fellow who calls himself John Smith. That man’s a phoney, too. Visiting Mrs. Van Heuten under an alias. It’s going to be tough locating him.” He grinned wearily. “It’ll be tough locating the girl who prophesied the murder, too. She’s about the craziest thing in the whole set-up.”
“But she wasn’t admitted,” said the chief. “At least, she couldn’t have committed the murder.”
“It’s possible she’d already gotten in by the back entrance,” said Timothy slowly. “And then made that second appearance on purpose.”
“You mean to throw suspicion off herself?” queried Jervis.
“Exactly.”
“A smart idea,” put in the chief. “But, surely, if she’d done that, she’d have made a point of leaving her name. There’s no sense in giving yourself an alibi and not carrying it through.”
“Besides,” added Jervis, “if the secretary’s telling the truth, how could that girl have known about the second door?”
“Which brings us back to where we started,” said Timothy. “We’ve only got the secretary’s word to prove the girl existed, anyway. And Miss Price is as phoney as the rest of them. I think she’s lying about something and I’m sure she’s scared.” His eyes were grave. “I also think she’s rather the criminal type.”
“Any chance she did it?” asked the chief hopefully.
“More than a chance. But I don’t see why. She’d only been working there a week.”
“Maybe Mrs. Van Heuten got on her nerves,” put in Jervis sardonically.
At that moment the telephone on the desk jangled. The chief answered it, listened and then put back the receiver with a sigh of relief.
“Thank God for that,” he said. “They’ve covered those fingerprints you brought in, Trant. They were smudged but we got enough to tell that none of them check with the ones on the knife.”
Timothy shrugged. “I had a hunch they’d be Mrs. Hobart’s. I was fooled.”
The chief looked at him intently. “You don’t really think those women are mixed up in it?”
“They’re mixed up in something,” said Timothy. “They were jittery as hell at that cocktail party. And why did they all go there together anyway? Not for a good time, obviously.”
“But you said they were all staying with the Princess,” said the chief.
“Which makes it even screwier. Patricia Cheney is New York’s ace snob now she’s acquired that title. Why should she have a dubious movie actress and a loud-mouthed writer staying with her? And why did they visit the Literary Advice Bureau in a battalion? If they went there for literary advice, I’m prepared to eat every one of their manuscripts, fiction or non-fiction.”
“You’re making it very hard for yourself,” said the chief.
“It’ll probably get harder,” grunted Timothy. “I haven’t got onto the other visitors on that list yet—Robert Bristol and Derek Muir. But I have a morbid feeling they’re going to link themselves up in this, too. Nine visitors—all of them phoneys.”
VIII
The chief spent a few moments discussing the respective duties of the two officers. Inspector Jervis was to take complete charge of the routine end of the case, while Timothy Trant was to concentrate on the nine visitors.
“We’ve got absolutely nothing against any of them at the moment,” concluded the chief. “Until we can prove motive I want you to go easy as hell, Trant. Interview them, but not as suspects. Use tact.” He grinned. “But I don’t have to sell you on tact. I’m ready to give you your head one hundred per cent.”
After a short conference with Jervis, Timothy left headquarters and hurried home to his bachelor apartment—the one unpoliceman-like luxury he permitted himself.
Though a hard-boiled member of the regular force, the young detective saw no reason to be spartan in his private life. His apartment was comfortable without being ultra-modern or depressingly decadent. It boasted no orchids, no priceless objets d’art, no first editions. There were no specially monogramed Persian cigarettes, no quaintly shaped pipes of meerschaum or any other material. At his bedside, there lay no limply leathered Religio Medici. And his colored boy, Oscar, while reasonably efficient, was utterly without story value.
Timothy was a utilitarian who used his apartment as a place where he could count on snatching food and sleep rather than as a bizarre setting in which to be picturesque.
While he hurried through one of Oscar’s uninspired meals, he considered what little he knew to date about the person who had murdered the intriguing and respectable Mrs. Van Heuten. He had more than a hunch that he was up against an adversary worthy of any policeman. Timothy liked his murderers that way. A half-hearted criminal was as uninteresting to him as a half-hearted bull is to a toreador. And, like a toreador, Timothy never lost respect for a worthy adversary, not even if he was lucky enough to defeat him.
It had been genuine admiration which had prompted him to send roses to a certain particularly charming and unscrupulous murderess an hour before her arrest. And less than a month ago, he had lent one of his own suits to an ultra-smart young murderer who had resented the damage done his clothes during a much-resisted arrest. Timothy had acted impulsively and in genuine admiration of the man’s defiant dandyism. He had personally seen to it that the murderer’s suit was cleaned and pressed for the trial. Only at the last minute had it occurred to the detective in him to have his cleaners transfer the clothes to the analysis department of the Homicide Bureau.
There the eye of science had discovered, adhering to the cloth, minute particles which could only have come from the scene of the crime; and the benzedine test had revealed on the sleeve a speck of blood which, although sponged into invisibility, was finally instrumental in sending the man to the chair.
In Timothy, the impulsive human being and the shrewd detective always worked in harness. That was one of the secrets of his success.
He was just getting up from the table when the telephone rang. A gloomy voice sounded from the other end of the wire.
“Trant? Barnes. Jervis put me onto trailing a guy called Tolfrey. Told me to keep in touch with you.”
“Yes,” said Timothy eagerly. “I was expecting to hear from you.”
“Well, I’m round at the Regina Hotel. That’s where this Tolfrey lives, see? He came straight here from that Park Avenue apartment. Cockeyed, if you ask me. First thing he does is to cash a check with the manager. Then he sends for a Western Union boy.”
“Good. Anything else?”
“I’m getting kind of pally with the telephone operator.” The gloomy voice sounded even gloomier. “Kind of cute blonde. She don’t let me listen in on the calls because she says she’d get fired and I’m not letting on I’m the police. But she gave me the three numbers Tolfrey asked for.” There was a rustle of paper. “Want me to check on ’em?”
“No. I’ll do it.”
“Okay. Lipscombe
2-1916. Derwent 3-2683. University 4-3200. In that order.”
Timothy jotted the numbers down. “Swell, Barnes. Keep me posted. And if I’m not here, go on calling.”
He telephoned Jervis and passed on the numbers. “Check on them,” he said. “If they look interesting, put a man on to watch the place. I’m going to give them the once-over myself.”
Timothy called the chief operator for the Lipscombe exchange and after convincing her that he was from police headquarters extracted the information that Lipscombe 2-1916 was the residence of a Mrs. Sarah Perkins on West 124th Street.
Mrs. Sarah Perkins did not sound too promising. But at least she rated an interview.
A taxi took him to West 124th Street and drew up before a block of shabby, dismal houses. Mrs. Perkins’ abode seemed slightly more shabby and dismal than its fellows. Drab yellow shades hung behind grimy windows. In the light from the street lamp Timothy read a faded wooden sign on the wall, bearing the unsavory legend: “Rooms for Rent.”
A rooming house. That sounded more hopeful.
Timothy had considered, then reconsidered, changing his shirt for West 124th Street. Now he gave an unofficial flourish to the maroon tie and rang the bell. Within a few seconds the door half opened to reveal a nondescript woman who brought with her a smell of yesterday’s face powder and last week’s cabbage.
“Mrs. Perkins?” asked Timothy politely.
“Yeah. Who do you want?”
There she had him. Timothy had not the slightest idea whom he wanted to see, although he had a strong suspicion that it was not Mrs. Perkins herself. Rather vaguely, he murmured:
“I—er—came to see one of your roomers. An—er …”
“Oh, I might have guessed who you wanted,” broke in Mrs. Perkins with heavy sarcasm. “He wears them fancy shirts too. Well, young man, if you’re going to see him you’ll save me the trouble by reminding Mr. Muir there’s two months to pay on the rent and …”
“Mr. Muir?” cut in Timothy.
“Isn’t it him you want?”
“It certainly is.”
Mrs. Perkins had most definitely rated the interview. Here was another tie-up between Tolfrey and that seemingly innocuous list of visitors. First there had been the mysterious John Smith who, on Tolfrey’s own admission, had socked him on the chin that afternoon. Now, Tolfrey had telephoned to the third visitor, Derek Muir.
“Fifth floor back,” Mrs. Perkins was snapping as she admitted him into the more villainous odors of the hall. “You might also tell Mr. Muir that if what that Western Union boy brought just now was money—and I know it was because I asked—he’d better pay me or else—” the threat rose in raucous crescendo—“or else I’ll go up there myself, varicose veins or no.”
Money … Western Union! At a breath, Mrs. Perkins had saved him hours of work. Tolfrey had cashed Mrs. Van Heuten’s check with the hotel manager and had sent for a Western Union boy. It took no great detective ability to guess where that money had gone.
But why the haste? And why to Derek Muir?
Timothy almost broke his neck running up the ill-lit stairs.
There was only one door visible on the fifth floor. A languid voice called “Come” when he knocked, and the detective entered one of the dreariest rooms he had ever seen. A very handsome young man in a dark blue shirt and no pants was lounging on a bed staring at his suède shoes. His bored, twentieth century elegance was in startling contrast to the dilapidated Grand Rapids setting.
“A visitor. How fascinating.” He glanced at Timothy from large, uninterested eyes. “Excuse the nether nudity but one must preserve one’s pants. If you feel an urge to sit, avoid that red plush atrocity.”
“Thanks, I will.” Timothy took the only remaining chair. He regarded this extravagant young man with interest.
“You appear reasonably human,” Muir was drawling, “but I suppose you’re merely another manifestation of La Perkins’ varicose veins. She can’t take the stairs so she sends the most unlikely emissaries. Is it the rent this time? Or are you coming for my last light bulb? I hope you’ll spare the telephone.”
“I’ve got nothing to do with Mrs. Perkins,” said Timothy.
“Then, if it’s not a rude question, who exactly are you?”
Derek Muir rose and crossed to the stained mirror with its frieze of photographed blondes. He started to pass a desultory brush across his thick black hair.
“I,” said Timothy, “am the police.”
He turned back the top of his vest pocket, half revealing the official badge. With slightly raised eyebrows, Muir stared at it and then at Timothy’s shirt.
“Have the police been subscribing to Esquire?”
“The police are investigating the murder of Mrs. Van Heuten.”
“I thought this would happen as soon as I read the short but pointed paragraph in the papers.” Derek Muir abandoned his brush and sank back onto the lumpy mattress. “That odd-looking secretary was just the type to remember names.” He shrugged. “At least this has the advantage of originality. Throughout a monotonously uneventful life the police have never yet paid me the compliment of interest in my affairs. What does the law want of me now?”
“The law,” said Timothy, “would like to know why you visited Mrs. Van Heuten this afternoon.”
“Perhaps you could tell me,” sighed Derek Muir. “It was a pitiful waste of time. That is, it would have been if time mattered.”
“Presumably you had some reason for visiting her?”
“A very misguided one. I was hoping to obtain Mrs. Van Heuten’s celebrated advice on a—a manuscript of mine.”
There was a slight faltering in the blasé tone, but it was almost imperceptible. Mr. Muir was obviously as sure of his ability to cope with the police as he was of his powers of repartee.
“So you’re a writer?” asked Timothy.
“Having failed to impress Hollywood with my profile, I have taken to the pen.”
“You’ve published much stuff?”
“That is apt to be a tactless question. I have yet to see myself in print.”
“Then writing’s not your sole source of income?”
“The sole source of what income I have.” Derek Muir waved an expressive hand. “As you may judge from my domicile, it is not excessive.”
Timothy’s gaze rested on the new smoke-blue suit which was carefully draped over a hanger on the wall.
“That outfit looks as though things were looking up a bit.”
“Deceptive, alas! Certain stores extend credit rather optimistically. A born and bred New Yorker can nose them out.”
“Suppose we keep to the point,” said Timothy. “You were telling me about your manuscripts. Mrs. Van Heuten gave you advice?”
“I regret to say she merely gave me the air,” Derek Muir sighed. “She claimed that she couldn’t help with my particular type of writing. Apparently she only advised authors with whom she felt spiritually in tune.”
“Did she charge you a reading fee?”
“Oh, no. She was far too lady-like. No advice, no reading fee.”
The business procedure of the Literary Advice Bureau was becoming increasingly puzzling. How could Mrs. Van Heuten, whose sole income came allegedly from reading fees, afford to turn down prospective clients? Timothy glanced up, his gray eyes very casual.
“By the way, Mr. Muir, what was the Literary Advice Bureau?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean—what kind of a racket was it?”
This question did nothing to disturb Derek Muir’s poise.
“If you’re hoping for any sinister revelations, I’m afraid you’ve come to the wrong man. I know nothing about the Literary Advice Bureau.”
“You weren’t a regular client?”
“Regrettably, I couldn’t be a regular anything. As a matter of fact, I never met Mrs. Van Heuten in my life until this afternoon. I only just got in under the dead line, didn’t I?”
“Only just.” Timothy’s e
yes had hardened. “Miss Price tells me you left the office at three-forty. Perhaps you’ll give me some idea where you went after that.”
“I have the distinct impression that I should be obtaining the services of a good lawyer.”
“Why bother?” asked Timothy. “This isn’t an official visit. And you’ve evidently realized that you aren’t under the slightest compulsion to tell me the truth.”
“But it’s most inadvisable to lie to a policeman, isn’t it?” Muir’s tone was mocking. “Luckily, the truth is singularly un-embarrassing. Having left the office at three-forty, I did not sneak furtively in by a back entrance at three-forty-three and stab Mrs. Van Heuten with a paper-knife.”
“What makes you think there was a back entrance?” asked Timothy, keeping his voice casual.
“Oh, there’s bound to have been.” Muir smiled back at him unconcernedly. “After all, murderers always sneak furtively through back entrances, don’t they?”
“So the back entrance existed only in your imagination as an author?” said Timothy. “What did you do when you left the office?”
“I returned to my home, sweet home.”
“Mrs. Perkins could confirm that?”
“Probably not. I made every effort to avoid her. Her avarice for rent occasionally exceeds the varicosity of her veins and she gives chase.”
“Then you don’t have a very satisfactory alibi?”
“A lamentable one,” agreed Muir sadly. “But I am confident of escaping serious consideration as a suspect. After all, one does not normally murder a woman one has known for only nine minutes. Mrs. Van Heuten was hardly young and alluring enough to arouse the sex-fiend that lurks in us all.”
Timothy glanced at him without smiling. “Perhaps you’d let me see that manuscript Mrs. Van Heuten rejected.”
Derek Muir did not speak for a moment. Then he murmured:
“Afraid I don’t have it here. I lent it to a friend to read and …”
“You only have the one copy?” suggested Timothy. “Well, I’ll be leaving here in a taxi. I can take you along and we’ll pick the story up at your friend’s house.”