Death for Dear Clara

by Q. Patrick

  “Do you mean …?” she whispered.

  “Yes—” Timothy’s knuckles rapped softly on the glass front of the Prince Walonski’s photograph—“I mean that our host has been in this apartment all the time. Didn’t any of you know that he’s lying in the bathroom—murdered?”

  XVIII

  It was two o’clock. Detective Trant and Inspector Jervis, very grim and haggard with fatigue, sat together in Timothy’s apartment over much needed highballs. The body of Dane Tolfrey had been taken to the morgue; the rooms in the Regina Hotel had been searched, locked and sealed; the guests, invited and uninvited, had been taken to headquarters, grilled irrespective of influence, and finally discharged.

  Out of all this had emerged precisely nothing. The medical examiner had set the murder somewhere around ten. The Princess Walonska and her friends could thus have committed the crime as the first arrivals at the party, but any of the other suspects could have sneaked up the stairs, unobserved, have killed Dane Tolfrey and then returned again in the capacity of invited guest. What clues might have been left on the bathroom floor had been destroyed by the overflow of water. In fact, as in the case of Mrs. Van Heuten’s death, the murder of Dane Tolfrey had been achieved with the maximum of efficiency.

  Two fresh facts which had been brought to light only added further negation to the results. John Hobart’s plane from Winton had arrived in New York at nine. He had had ample opportunity to commit the murder before registering formally at the hotel.

  And as for the only visitor to Mrs. Van Heuten who had not put in an appearance at the party—she also had been perilously near the scene of the crime. Lawrence Graves, chief editor of Salter’s publishing house and proposed second husband to Helen Bristol, rented an apartment one floor below that of Dane Tolfrey at the Regina. Both he himself and Helen Bristol had been there together from half past nine on.

  Timothy put down his highball. The ominous, angry gleam still lurked in his gray eyes.

  “It’s my fault, inspector,” he was admitting frankly. “I underestimated Tolfrey’s powers of recuperation. I thought he was in danger, but I felt we could stall the murderer off with the announcement of his accident and concussion. I had no idea he was going to proclaim from the house tops that he’d solved the murder. As soon as he sent those telegrams, he’d signed his own death warrant.”

  “Can’t blame Barnes,” added the inspector gloomily. “I gave him orders myself to let Tolfrey have his head. I guess it’s just one of those things, and it’s no good making a fuss about it.” His tired, shrewd eyes played over Timothy’s face. “But I still don’t see what made you know Tolfrey was in danger.”

  “That threatening telephone call,” explained Timothy. “A murderer doesn’t risk threatening someone unless he’s pretty desperate. He was terrified. Madeleine Price had seen Tolfrey visit the Advice Bureau that afternoon. It was quite possible she hadn’t; that’s why he didn’t mention Tolfrey by name. But he was scared as hell of Tolfrey because he knew Tolfrey had the dope on him.”

  “And Tolfrey sobers up, realizes he has the important clue, tries to outsmart the police and gets bumped off. That makes sense.” Jervis pulled resignedly at his drink. “If only we knew what that solution of his was—maybe we wouldn’t be creeping along like a couple of old tortoises.”

  “Tortoises!” Timothy echoed the word sharply. “What a fool I’ve been!”

  While the inspector watched in mild bewilderment, he pulled Oscar’s long forgotten record of the day’s telephone calls from his pocket. He gazed at it eagerly. There, imbedded in its setting of irrelevances, was the cryptic sentence:

  …lady long distance with bad connection seemed referring to turtles.…

  Timothy tossed the piece of paper to Jervis.

  “Tortoise …turtle …terrapin …Terrabinny, inspector. That’s what comes of having a culinary minded house boy. Louise Campbell called me this evening.”

  He sprang to the phone, gave the Terrabinny number. At last a rather sleepy voice sounded from the other end of the wire.

  “Mrs. Campbell?” asked Timothy quickly. “This is Trant.”

  “Oh, Mr. Trant, I’ve been trying to get you all evening and …”

  “I know. What’s happened?”

  “It’s Dane Tolfrey. About nine I had the craziest telegram from him. It said that he’d solved the murder and that I’d better take a plane to Canada right away. I can’t imagine what it means.”

  “Anything else?”

  “Just—just that he had written out his solution and sent it to you special delivery. Haven’t you got it?”

  Timothy gave a low whistle. “Thanks, Mrs. Campbell. I’ll call you again in the morning. Goodnight.”

  He slammed down the receiver and turned to the inspector, his mouth very grim.

  “So we are going to know what Tolfrey’s solution was. He’s sending it to me special delivery.”

  “Sending it to you!” Jervis sprang to his feet excitedly. “But—but you ought to have gotten it by now.”

  “Whew!” Timothy gave a little grunt. “I think I’m losing my mind, inspector. I never opened my mail; I …” He took the unread letters from his pocket. With the others was an envelope bearing the elaborate arms of the Regina Hotel. “So much for the model detective. I had it with me all the time.”

  “Open it,” exclaimed the inspector eagerly. “With any luck this case’ll be sewed up before it’s even started.”

  Swiftly, Timothy tore open the envelope and drew out several sheets of note paper. Jervis hovered at his elbow. Together they read:

  Dear Mr. Trant of the carmine shirt:

  For the first time in five years I am strictly sober. Since it will probably be another decade before I find myself in the same remarkable condition, I am expressing myself in pen and ink while my fingers are still penworthy. I think you’ll be mildly interested in what I have to say—because it solves the ludicrously elementary problem of Clara Van Heuten’s murder.

  As a general rule, my sympathies are entirely with murderers, criminals and everyone individual enough to be antisocial, but I happened to be very fond of Clara—and I am, perhaps, even fonder of making a monkey out of the intensely superior young men who seem to represent law and order these days. Foolishly, perhaps, I resented your rather flamboyant attempts to extract information from me at the cocktail party. This is a polite endeavor to put you in your place.

  My own movements on the afternoon of the crime should make everything clear to the meanest of intellects. I admit I was sozzled that day. In fact, I’ve been happily oblivious ever since, as I expect your hotel bloodhound has told you. That’s why you’ve received no information from me before. But now, in this temporary oasis of sobriety, I can remember everything in the minutest details.

  Some time in the early afternoon I went around to Clara’s office to borrow money, collect a debt—call it what you will. I entered by the back way, was amply rewarded by a check for three hundred and fifty dollars and departed. Clara was alive when I arrived—and alive when I left. If you don’t believe me ask Bobby Bristol, the milk-imbibing Muir or the Four Illustrious Clients.

  Clutching the check in my hot little hand, I hurried around to my bank only to find that it was past closing time. I had three hundred and fifty unobtainable dollars—and no cash. Like a homing pigeon I sped on the wings of alcohol back to Clara. Once more I went up by the back way. I was half-way up the fire tower when I heard someone coming down. I failed to be surprised when I saw Louise Campbell—although sober reason should have told me that she ought to have been in some God-forsaken town in Pennsylvania. I was, in fact, delighted to see her. Louise was a sport and touchable, I felt, for some ready cash. I decided not to bother poor dear Clara again and obtained two dollars from Louise for a taxi back to my hotel where I knew I could cash the check.

  You must understand that I did not think anything horrible, sinister, suspicious or any other adjective of detective fiction about this at the time. It w
as only after a brief period of sobriety that I pieced things together. Louise Campbell was in a place where she couldn’t possibly have been. She was agitated, pale, nervous, etc. She even tried to run away when I started to talk to her. But there is one thing of extreme importance. As she opened her bag to produce her loan, I distinctly noticed that her handkerchief was spotted with blood. And later, when I paid my taxi fare with one of her dollars, the driver remarked upon the sanguinary nature of the bill.

  Having placed Mrs. Campbell very guiltily and blood-stainedly on the scene of the crime—I will wind up with a simple piece of deduction. Louise, as I happen to know, benefits in Clara’s will; she needed money and Clara was more generous in death than in life. The murderer obviously entered by the back way; and to the best of my knowledge, only Clara, myself and the secretaries knew that it was always kept unlocked. Now, Clara didn’t murder herself. And I didn’t murder her. Q.E.D. Louise Campbell is the fiend.

  As I mentioned above, I have a sentimental proclivity toward law-breakers. And I’ve always thought Louise rather a nice girl. I have advised her (Western Union) to make a get-away as quickly as possible. I thought that by mailing this to you through the more devious channels of special delivery, I could give her a sporting chance to flee without incurring the odium of obstructing justice. I hope she makes it, but I couldn’t resist letting you know the truth. All things considered, it’s far too amusing a joke on the police force to go untold.

  As you may know, I rather pride myself on my “sardonic” sense of humor. I have invited all your suspects to a party tonight at which, after making them writhe for a bit in individual and quite private squirms of guilt, I intend to tell them the truth. I hope they enjoy themselves. I’m sure I shall.

  Yours for justice,

  DANE TOLFREY

  P.S. By the way, if you do apprehend Louise, you might return to her the two dollars I borrowed. I think my reconstruction is worth it.

  Timothy tossed the sheets of paper down on the table. He and the inspector stood there a moment, staring at each other.

  “Mrs. Campbell!” exclaimed Jervis at last. “And she was in Terrabinny tonight. The only one of the gang with a perfect alibi; the only one who couldn’t have killed Dane Tolfrey.”

  “Exactly. And the only one of the gang who couldn’t have killed Mrs. Van Heuten.” Timothy dropped into a chair. “She explained all that to me this afternoon. I’m as certain as I can be of anything that she was telling the truth.”

  Jervis’ fingers fumbled for his drink. “So we’ve been sold a pup, Trant. The wrong solution.”

  “The wrong solution,” agreed Timothy slowly.

  “And where the hell are we now?” The inspector’s brow was furrowed with perplexity. “If Tolfrey wasn’t murdered for having the right solution—why was he murdered?”

  Timothy picked up a cigarette and lit it deliberately. He puffed a slow ring of smoke.

  “There seems to be only one explanation, and it’s ironical enough to have amused the late Mr. Tolfrey himself. The murderer, we knew, was afraid of him. When he heard he had a solution, he’d naturally have taken it for granted it was the right one.”

  “And he stabbed Tolfrey without realizing that it was only Mrs. Campbell he suspected.” Jervis mopped his brow with a large handkerchief. “So Tolfrey was killed by mistake. And we don’t get anywhere.”

  “It’s not quite as bad as that. At least we know now that Tolfrey knew something about the murderer that was dangerous enough to get him killed.”

  Jervis scratched his ear. “But if he knew something that important about the murderer—why did he suspect Mrs. Campbell?”

  “This,” said Timothy, “is where my brain starts to reel. But, as before, there’s only one explanation. Tolfrey had the dope all right, but he hadn’t realized exactly what the dope was or how important it was.”

  XIX

  After Jervis had gone, Timothy lingered over his drink, still thinking of Dane Tolfrey. Yes, he was sure now of the motive that lay back of this second murder which had come so swiftly on the heels of the first. The murderer had overestimated Tolfrey’s intelligence. Mrs. Van Heuten’s “oldest friend” had had it in his power to solve the mystery of her death, but he had been sidetracked by the obvious-seeming guilt of Louise Campbell. What was it that he had known about her murderer? Could it have anything to do with that back entrance? Timothy cursed Dane Tolfrey for the childish antic which had cost him his life. If only he knew what the ninth visitor had known—then he might perhaps make sense of this ever-growing chaos of nonsense.

  It was late. But Timothy had no impression of being tired. This second tragedy had put him on his mettle. It had been a challenge and he was not going to rest until he had taken at least one step in the direction which would eventually lead him to the murderer.

  His thoughts moved back over the complex and conflicting revelations of the past thirty-six hours. Louise Campbell could definitely be eliminated as a suspect now that this second death gave her so palpable an alibi. And Madeleine Price had received that warning telephone call from the murderer in Timothy’s own presence. She, too, could be counted out, although she was still involved in her separate five-year-old mystery of the fatal motor accident.

  Everything moved remorselessly back again to the nine visitors—rather to the eight of them that were left. Those eight fantastically diversified people, all of whom had a plausible explanation for their business with Mrs. Van Heuten, all of whom seemed to lack the slightest motive for wishing her dead, all of whom were afraid, inconsistent, hostile—and marked with every sign of guilt.

  The eight visitors! Once again Timothy saw them as subtly linked together by some invisible thread, menaced by the respectable Clara Van Heuten, and yet, at the same time, menacing her. He knew now that he had two mysteries on his hands. The mystery of what had lain behind the Literary Advice Bureau; and the mystery of its founder’s murder.

  Only gradually did he realize how unscalably steep was the pile of evidence against him. He suspected the eight visitors of having some ulterior motive for their interviews the day before with Mrs. Van Heuten. And yet all of them, except Helen Bristol who had not been admitted, claimed to have gone to the Bureau for literary advice; and all of them had produced manuscripts to prove it.

  Timothy’s eyes moved to the table where lay the sheaf of manuscripts which he had collected on his various rounds and which the incredibly swift course of events had left him no time to read. Somewhere, he felt, in that pile, with its short stories, its novel and its book on polo, lay the clue to the genuineness or falsity of each visitor’s claimed desire for literary advice.

  Timothy replenished his drink, drew up a chair and prepared himself for the new rôle of literary critic.

  He began by skimming Bobby Bristol’s long and rather hectically typed novel, The Laughing Angel. After one hundred of its five hundred and twenty pages, Timothy laid it down, He had found out what he wanted to know. To a layman, perhaps, this story would lack interest and pace, but Timothy had found it absorbing. The Laughing Angel herself was a woman—a woman described in passionately microscopic detail. And there was no mistaking the original from which she had been drawn. This novel was a realistic and probably flattering portrait of the green-eyed, determined Helen Bristol.

  Timothy knew for certain now what he had only sensed before. His boyhood’s friend had been, and still was, desperately in love with the wife who no longer had any use for him.

  Timothy paid rather scant attention to Polo Parade by Trooper (alias John Hobart, alias a ghost unknown). It was a typical text book for snobs, its technical explanations seasoned by Calcutta curry and Hurlingham heartiness. The style was of the ultra-British variety. Doubtless, reflected Timothy, as he set down the book, Mr. Hobart would account for that by claiming to have engaged the services of an English ghost.

  Noticing once again that the book had been published by Salter’s, Timothy dismissed it in favor of the literary offerings of the
four celebrated ladies.

  Beatrice Kennet’s short story was typical Kennet, dealing with amorous executives and stenographic self-sacrifice, and written in a sparkling prose that certainly needed no advice from Clara Van Heuten.

  Miss Kennet’s companions, however, had something slightly less expected to offer. Patricia Walonska must have written her story in the wild-oat period. For it was a risqué and decidedly salacious Parisian bed-room farce. Gilda Dawn, reverting presumably to her pre-lotus days, presented a sentimentally tough sketch of love and life among the more illiterate gangsters; while Susan Hobart, the wide-eyed millionairess, had let herself go. Her candidate for prose recognition took the form of a particularly gruesome horror story, redolent of haunted cabins and frightful monsters emerging from the deep.

  Timothy was smiling when he turned the last page. So these were the manuscripts which Clara Van Heuten was to have read at three dollars a thousand words!

  He picked up the final typewritten sheets—the story which, as Derek Muir informed him, had been rejected by Clara Van Heuten. Timothy was interested in this slight pastiche coming as it did from the pen of an author who was reputed to specialize in crime and murder. Nothing could have been less criminal than this delicately written description of a young but far from modern wife who was waxing rapturous over the prospect of her first dinner party. It wandered fragrantly through pages of exquisite prose only—at a moment of hinted heart-break—to come to an abrupt halt in the middle of a sentence.

  Timothy’s smile was wider now. There was a gleam of triumph in his eyes. For a while, he leaned back in his chair, clanking softly the half dissolved ice in his highball glass.

  Then, clear and vivid, one fact rose up in his mind—one fact which had been lost in the kaleidoscopic muddle of the last thirty-six hours.

  Dane Tolfrey had telephoned to Columbia University. And the Princess Walonska, Beatrice Kennet, Gilda Dawn and Susan Hobart had all been afraid of Columbia University.