Death for Dear Clara

by Q. Patrick

  “Oh, no. I mean …” A flush darkened Muir’s cheeks. “He just lives around the corner. If you could endure being alone in this delightful room for a few minutes, I could get it for you.”

  “Don’t do anything foolish like—forgetting to come back, will you?”

  “My dear fellow, I’m far too inert.”

  With surprising swiftness, Derek Muir slipped into his smoke-blue suit and hurried out of the room. The whole procedure could not have taken more than sixty seconds.

  Timothy was surprised at this sudden eagerness to obtain the manuscript from “the friend who lived around the corner.” But he was surprised at everything about Derek Muir. Like the other personalities in the case, this young man didn’t make sense.

  With the room to himself, Timothy started a thorough search, hoping to pick up something of interest. Appearances, at least, did not lie about Derek Muir. He seemed an extremely casual person. A drawer in the dressing table was crammed untidily with old letters. Timothy glanced through a few of them. Strangely enough, they were wholesome, unmysterious documents which, after winding through exhortations to wear warm underwear and assurances of a perennial, if impecunious welcome home to a small Iowa town, were signed, “Your Loving Mother.” They were mostly addressed to Derek Muir at a Hollywood hotel and bore a recent postmark.

  Derek Muir’s mother’s letters disproved her son’s claims to being a born New Yorker. They also, apparently, served as a hiding place against the rapacity of Mrs. Perkins. Slipped in odd envelopes, Timothy found bills to the total of two hundred and fifty dollars.

  Dane Tolfrey, presumably, had sent all but one hundred dollars of Mrs. Van Heuten’s check to this obscure penurious boy. Derek Muir was a distinct enigma.

  He grew even more mysterious when, pushed into the woodwork of the mirror behind an unframed photograph of a rather too unframed blonde, Timothy found a small piece of pasteboard. It was Dane Tolfrey’s card. On it was scribbled:

  “Clara Van Heuten,

  Literary Advice Bureau

  To introduce Mr. Derek Muir

  A Very Accomplished Killer.”

  With a puzzled frown, Timothy slipped this unconventional introduction into his pocket just as Derek Muir re-entered the room. The young man was panting as though he had been running. He carried a typewritten manuscript.

  “The masterpiece! I don’t know whether the police have any influence in editorial spheres. If so, perhaps you’d put in a good word for me.”

  Timothy took the story. Muir’s name and address were typed at the head of the first page. The detective skimmed the opening paragraphs. They were surprisingly well written. From those few sentences, at least, this story seemed far more promising than the accepted manuscripts he had read in the offices of the Literary Advice Bureau.

  He glanced curiously at Muir. “Mrs. Van Heuten turned this down?”

  “Very definitely.” Muir had removed his suit again and was arranging it on the hanger with caressing care.

  “That’s odd. Looks like a good job to me.”

  “You flatter me.”

  “I’ll flatter you to the extent of taking it along with me.”

  Derek Muir’s fingers froze on the suit. “But—but it’s the only copy and …”

  “Don’t worry. You’ll get it back.” Timothy smiled. “Meanwhile, don’t let Mrs. Van Heuten’s attitude discourage you, Mr. Muir. With perseverance, you ought to be able to earn enough by writing to make borrowing from Mr. Tolfrey unnecessary.”

  Derek Muir turned very slowly to face him. “If that is what’s referred to as a shot in the dark, policeman, I’m afraid it’s a lamentable failure. I don’t know a Mr. Tolfrey.”

  “You don’t?” Timothy took Tolfrey’s card from his pocket and flicked it into Muir’s hand.

  The young man shrugged without the slightest trace of confusion. “I see I was mistaken,” he murmured. “Apparently, I do know a Mr. Tolfrey. But I assure you the name had completely slipped my memory. To me, the man who gave me that card was just an inebriated individual whom I met in the bar at Longval’s.”

  “Who was inebriated enough to give Mrs. Van Heuten’s name and address to a complete stranger?”

  “Exactly. You see, he happened to get onto the vital topic of my unsold manuscripts.”

  “And why did he describe you as a very accomplished killer?”

  “Oh, that.” Muir was smiling imperviously now. His eyes fixed Timothy’s with faint mockery. “Another blank, policeman. Mr. Tolfrey was merely referring to my particular field of literature which happens to be the psychological murder story.”

  “The manuscript I’ve got here doesn’t look like a murder story.”

  “Oh, that’s just an experiment outside my usual province. Perhaps that’s why Mrs. Van Heuten turned me down.”

  Derek Muir, with the situation well under control, permitted himself to lounge once more on the bed.

  “By the way,” he drawled, “did you find any other of my personal effects particularly interesting?”

  “Just the two hundred and fifty dollars that Dane Tolfrey sent you.”

  “So that’s where the money came from!” Derek Muir pushed himself into a sitting position, an expression of exaggerated surprise on his face. “The police really are an invaluable source of information. I’ve been racking my brain to guess who the good fairy was. Just before you arrived I was forced to conclude that it was an eccentric Western Union boy who had heard of my embarrassment with my tailor and La Perkins.”

  “You claim you have no idea why that money was sent you?”

  “I claim that.”

  Timothy moved a little closer and stared at him.

  “You’re an extremely entertaining young man, Mr. Muir, but as a psychologist in murder, you ought to know that the police are liable to lose their sense of humor at times. Incidentally, while I’m checking up on the more glaring inaccuracies of your story, I hope you won’t desert Mrs. Perkins. We couldn’t bear to have you vanish to … shall we say? … Iowa. But then, a born and bred New Yorker wouldn’t dream of visiting such an uncivilized place, would he?”

  For the first time, Derek Muir seemed genuinely disconcerted. His flush betrayed both anger and embarrassment.

  “I hope you enjoyed reading my mother’s letters. I think her prose style’s rather trenchant, don’t you?”

  Suddenly he rose, “As you seem so disturbingly omniscient,” he said, “I might as well anticipate further snooping by confessing to another slight inaccuracy in my statement.”

  “Don’t say there’s another!” commented Timothy ironically.

  “It refers to my activities this afternoon.” Muir fumbled in an empty cigarette package and was forced to accept one from Timothy. “Naturally, I didn’t care to admit that I lingered around after I left the ill-starred Clara. My motives were romantic rather than sinister. As I left the building, four gorgeous women swam into my ken. Even if I hadn’t known one of them, you must agree that I was justified in waiting about in the hopes that they would come out again.”

  “And you did see them come out?” asked Timothy sharply.

  “Yes. I happened to know Gilda Dawn’s current and now almost ex-husband rather well and I had met her once in Hollywood. Quite apart from the aesthetic pleasure of seeing her again, I was naturally anxious to renew a valuable contact. I waited outside the building for about twenty minutes. Then the four women came out again.”

  “And you spoke to Miss Dawn?”

  “I did. But she didn’t hear me. None of them did. They seemed what is vulgarly called all het up. As they passed me, I heard Gilda Dawn drop a little fragment which might conceivably be of interest to you.”

  Derek Muir stubbed his cigarette and once again a faintly mocking smile lurked around the corners of his over-chiselled mouth.

  “She said, Thank God it’s over. That hunted expression in her eyes—I shall never forget it….”

  IX

  Derek Muir’s unexpected revel
ation made Timothy’s next move obvious. The time had come for an official visit to the Princess Walonska and her house guests. In an attempt to thaw what would inevitably be a frigid welcome, he stopped at a florist’s and came out carrying four large boxes.

  When he reached the Cheney mansion on Sutton Place, he noticed a plain-clothes man lounging inconspicuously on the other side of the street. Jervis, apparently, was taking no chances.

  The door was opened to Timothy by a haughty butler who shot a cold glance at the packages and said:

  “Deliveries? Back door, please.”

  “I’m not deliveries,” said Timothy solemnly. “I’ve come to visit the Princess Walonska. My name’s Trant.”

  The butler ushered him into a large hall where prosperously bewhiskered Cheneys glared from heavy gilt frames at a few portraits of perukued, hungry-looking foreigners—presumably Walonskas.

  “A moment, please.”

  As the butler moved away, Timothy glanced swiftly around the room. His eyes fell on the telephone which stood on a nearby table. With a little grunt of surprise, he put down the four boxes and produced his notebook. Yes, he had been right. The second number which Dane Tolfrey had called after leaving Mrs. Van Heuten’s cocktail party had been Derwent 3-2683.

  The Princess Walonska’s telephone number was Derwent 3-2683.

  So that explained the presence of Jervis’ plain-clothes man outside. First Derek Muir and then Patricia Cheney. Was there no end to the complexities surrounding Mr. Dane Tolfrey?

  “I’m sorry, sir.” The butler was at his side again. “The Princess is seeing no one this evening.”

  “There I’m inclined to disagree,” replied Timothy firmly. “Not only will the Princess Walonska see me, but so will Miss Kennet, Mrs. Hobart and Miss Dawn. I happen to be the police.”

  He proffered his official badge to the butler’s flustered gaze.

  “Excuse me, sir, a moment and …”

  Once more the butler clattered away across the parquet flooring. His footsteps were followed by silence—a long ominous silence. Then, very remote, Timothy’s ear caught another sound—the confused sound of several people moving at once. It clarified into the sharp clicking of feminine heels, growing nearer and nearer.

  Then, through an open door at the extreme end of the hall, four women appeared—the Princess Walonska and her three remarkable guests.

  Their entrance at Mrs. Van Heuten’s cocktail party had been impressive. Now it was portentous. All four of them wore striking evening gowns; the Princess was in black, Gilda Dawn in flame, Beatrice Kennet in saffron, and Susan Hobart in narcissus white. There was something strangely martial in their advance on Timothy. The Princess was obviously the generalissimo but each in her different fashion was ready for battle.

  The four women remained standing in front of the detective regarding him with hostile eyes. None of them seemed to consider speech necessary.

  “Good evening.” Timothy glanced at Susan Hobart. “I hope Mrs. Hobart has recovered from her faint.”

  The little millionairess murmured: “Oh, yes, thank you.”

  There was another stony silence.

  Timothy started to unpack the four boxes of flowers. Then, smiling at the Princess, he said, “In your husband’s country, I hear, crossing a threshold without a gift isn’t done. I’ve brought one for each of you.”

  From the first box, he took a dozen crimson roses.

  “For you, Princess. I believe they’re called the American Beauty.”

  Without a word, Timothy placed the flowers down on a table. Timothy lifted flame roses from the next box.

  “I don’t know their name, Miss Dawn. But they have glamour. And, as a stroke of luck, they match your dress.”

  Automatically or absent-mindedly, the Lotus Lady registered Film Heroine Receiving Flowers. She held the roses a moment against her camera-conscious cheek. Then, catching the Princess’ eye, she tossed them disdainfully after the American Beauties.

  Timothy was handing a dozen orange roses to Beatrice Kennet. “Independence Day, Miss Kennet. A striking and hardy home-product.”

  “Presumably for a hardy perennial,” snapped the authoress. “I’ve no use for a police offering.”

  Unabashed, Timothy lifted the last bunch of roses, fragrant and white.

  “For you, Mrs. Hobart; a rose that labors under the name Frau Carl von Deuschki. Fragile, tender, and timid.”

  With an impulsive exclamation of pleasure, Susan Hobart clasped the roses to her breast.

  “Oh, my favor …” she began, only to break off as Patricia Walonska said stiffly:

  “Why not get to the point, Mr. Trant?”

  “I’m afraid my Slavic gesture wasn’t a success,” Timothy shrugged apologetically. “Too bad, I wanted to make up for the rather low trick I played you this afternoon.”

  “You mean the quaint antic with that canapé tray?” asked Beatrice Kennet. “Fourth rate Holmes.”

  “In a very Oppenheim situation,” agreed Timothy. “But it may ease your minds to know that the experiment wasn’t successful. None of your fingerprints, blurred though they were, matched those on the knife that murdered Mrs. Van Heuten.”

  Behind their screen of lashes, Gilda Dawn’s eyes darkened ominously. In a momentary lapse from glamour, she exclaimed, “Fresh guy, eh?”

  “Not fresh, Miss Dawn. Call it the light touch.” Timothy sat down on the edge of the telephone table. “I try to be a little less heavy-handed than the average detective. But if you four ladies don’t appreciate me, my occupation’s gone. And next time you’re involved in a murder, you’ll have to cope with a far more embarrassing policeman, who might even third-degree you about alibis, pry into your private lives and scratch the parquet with hob-nailed boots. I’m sure the Princess wouldn’t like that.”

  Obviously, the Princess would not have liked that. Obviously, too, she had no use for Timothy.

  “We have nothing to say that can conceivably be of any help in poor Clara’s death,” she remarked. “But if you must question us, get it over and done with.”

  “Very well, Princess. And, as this is just a preliminary canter, I needn’t waste much of your time. Exactly why did you go en masse to the Literary Advice Bureau this afternoon?”

  Instinctively the four women had drawn closer together. There was a short silence.

  Patricia said: “We were taking stories to Mrs. Van Heuten.”

  “Stories?” Timothy’s left eyebrow expressed incredulity. “All four of you? But at the cocktail party …”

  “At the cocktail party, we just said we weren’t clients,” broke in Gilda Dawn, who had reassumed her Lotus languor. “We aren’t. But we happened to have written stories. We thought it would be amusing …”

  “…to let Mrs. Van Heuten give them the once over. I see.” Timothy turned to Beatrice Kennet. “By the way, Miss Kennet, if you weren’t a client of the Literary Advice Bureau, why is your name printed in large letters across the prospectus? As I remember, you’re quoted as saying: The world will never know how much I owe to Mrs. Van Heuten.”

  “I suppose I can answer that without incriminating myself.” Beatrice Kennet passed a hand over her sleekly cropped hair. “For a while I struck a bad patch. Just before I got married. Drink and the Devil and all that. I was rather in need of cash. Mrs. Van Heuten offered me a thousand dollars for a puff. I puffed.”

  “So what you owed Mrs. Van Heuten was a thousand dollars. Isn’t this all rather confusing? At the cocktail party you said you’d never dream of showing anything you wrote to her, and yet you took a story to her this afternoon.”

  “There’s nothing criminal in that, is there? The others were taking stories. I thought I’d tag along.”

  “I hate to sound incredulous,” persisted Timothy. “But we found no stories under any of your names in the Advice Bureau’s office. Of course, you may have used noms de plume. Or then again, Mrs. Van Heuten may have refused to consider all four manuscripts. She seemed to have q
uite a passion for rejecting her bread and butter.”

  Timothy sensed a slight uneasiness stir that closely grouped band of women.

  “We didn’t say Mrs. Van Heuten kept our manuscripts,” put in Gilda Dawn quickly. “As a matter of fact, she was very busy at the time so we took them away. We were going to let her have them again tomorrow.”

  Timothy grinned broadly. He glanced around at those four implacable faces, raising a hand like an auctioneer waiting for bids.

  “Any other explanations? No? Okay. Sold.” His gaze settled on Patricia. “When you left Mrs. Van Heuten, I understand you told the secretary not to disturb her on any account before five o’clock.”

  “Mrs. Van Heuten asked me to.”

  “You haven’t any idea why she wanted to be left alone?”

  “Not the slightest.”

  “You realize, of course, that so far as we know, you four ladies were the last to see Mrs. Van Heuten alive?”

  Susan Hobart’s hand, white as the satin of her dress, fluttered slowly to her mouth. But the Princess remained unmoved.

  “Someone had to be the last to see her.” Her voice was dangerous. “I’ve already told you, Mr. Trant, that we know absolutely nothing about the murder of Mrs. Van Heuten.”

  “That’s too bad.” Timothy shrugged. “I was hoping you’d noticed something unusual about her; heard some noise or …”

  Beatrice Kennet glanced at Gilda Dawn. There was a brief pause, then, rather too precipitously, Susan Hobart exclaimed:

  “But I did hear a noise, Mr. Trant, just after we’d come in, a faint kind of scuffling behind—behind that screen!”

  For an instant a flicker of surprise crossed the Princess’ eyes, then she added firmly:

  “Now Susan mentions it, I remember hearing something of the sort myself.”

  It was very unconvincing.

  “Exactly what kind …?”

  Timothy broke off as the telephone by his elbow rang. His fingers moved instinctively. But the Princess was too quick for him. With most unregal swiftness, she had snatched up the receiver.