by Q. Patrick
Timothy glanced at his watch. Half past three. He crossed to the telephone, dialed a number and waited while the monotonous burr sounded in his ear.
At length a voice replied—a languid and indignant voice. It said:
“Who?”
“Trant, Mr. Muir.”
“How utterly depressing.” Derek Muir’s yawn at the other end of the wire seemed to stretch the receiver. “Don’t tell me I dropped an eye-lash in Mr. Tolfrey’s bathroom?”
“No, Mr. Muir.” Timothy’s voice was very soft, “I only want your personal opinion of Columbia University.”
For a long moment the wire seemed completely dead. Then Derek Muir’s voice sounded again, curiously altered.
“You think you’re being intensely clever, don’t you?”
“I do,” confessed Timothy “—rather. Thanks, Mr. Muir. Goodnight.”
Ten minutes later, Timothy was lying in bed, his burning cigarette an orange point of light in the darkness. Never before in his professional career had he amassed so much raw material and been granted so few leads. But things were beginning to slide into place now—a pattern was imposing itself upon the confusion of inconsistencies.
As Timothy fell into a deep, satisfied sleep, certain definite episodes from the lives of the eight visitors stirred like dreams in his weary mind.
The Princess Walonska had stolen her husband’s photograph from Dane Tolfrey’s apartment.
In his salad days, John Hobart had offered to pay Mrs. Van Heuten twenty per cent of his literary earnings in his first productive year.
Derek Muir had received two hundred and fifty dollars from a man he claimed to have met only once.
Bobby Bristol, although he still loved his wife, had given a surprisingly bitter consent to a divorce.
The fragile, ingenuous Susan Hobart had offered Timothy a blank check to discontinue the case.
Timothy’s head moved contentedly against the softness of the pillows.
“No wonder,” he murmured to himself, “I didn’t quite like Mrs. Van Heuten.”
XX
Next morning, the newspapers greeted Timothy at breakfast. After Tolfrey, had come the deluge. Somehow Jervis had been able to check the press the day before, but there was no longer any sign of restraint. Two murders in two days. Mrs. Van Heuten had the headlines and every guest at Tolfrey’s “Murder-party” was riding on the crest of a publicity wave. There was a photograph of Patricia Walonska leaving the police station after a midnight grilling. There was also an enormous likeness of Gilda Dawn. Timothy’s lips curled as he imagined the scene over breakfast at the Sutton Place mansion. He could visualize, too, the tearing of hair that would be going on at the Homicide Bureau. The worst had happened; they were all now at the mercy of the formidable and influential Cheney family.
“Inspector Jervis,” concluded one paragraph, “assures us that he expects an almost immediate arrest.”
Timothy remembered the perplexed furrow on the inspector’s brow when he had left his apartment last night. There had been no hope of an immediate arrest then. Heroic Jervis, manfully upholding the Homicide Bureau in time of stress.
But Timothy himself did not go around immediately to join in the general gnashing of teeth at headquarters. There were several things to be done first.
After breakfast, he telephoned the Princess Walonska’s house and asked for Mrs. Hobart. A guarded voice informed him that Mrs. Hobart was no longer a guest of the Princess’. She had left the night before to be with her husband. They were at the Hotel Rutledge.
Timothy’s eyes widened slightly when he received this news. Then, gradually, the smile returned. In it was the satisfaction of the panther stealing up on its quarry. He called the Hotel Rutledge.
“Mrs. Hobart? This is Detective Trant.”
“Ooh, yes,” The reply was soft, flustered.
“The day before yesterday, Mrs. Hobart, you mentioned having heard a sound while you were with Mrs. Van Heuten at the Advice Bureau. Will you tell me once again what that sound was?”
“Of—of course. It was a rustle, Mr. Trant—a rustle from behind that screen. I’m sure of it. You’ve—you’ve got to believe me.”
“I’ll do my best,” said Timothy quietly and rang off.
He crossed to a drawer and produced the black briefcase which the Princess Walonska had loaned him. Deliberately, he pushed into it all the manuscripts he had read the night before. He descended to the street and called a taxi.
It was just after ten when he entered the offices of Salter’s Publishing Company. In the waiting-room several earnest young men and one unexpectedly attractive girl were sitting, clasping manuscripts in determined silence, while an impersonal voice from the information desk assured new arrivals and jangling telephones that Mr. Graves was in conference.
The same formula was repeated to Timothy’s briefcase and it was with some difficulty that he convinced the half unseen presence that his immediate business was with Mrs. Bristol.
At length he was vaguely directed to a doorless room where Bobby’s wife was bent industriously over a cubistic design for a book jacket.
She did not seem particularly interested in seeing him. Her green eyes flicked momentarily from her work and she said:
“Oh, it’s you.”
“Exactly, Mrs. Bristol. I apologize for interrupting the course of modern art.”
Helen Bristol pushed back her chair and reached for a cigarette.
“What’s the trouble this morning, Mr. Trant? My liabilities as a wife or my assets as a murderess?”
“Now that you mention it,” said Timothy, holding a match for her, it was rather odd that you and Mr. Graves were at the Regina at the time of Tolfrey’s murder.”
“I thought I’d already exhausted that subject last night with one of your policemen.” The girl shrugged. “But in case you’re concerned about any moral issue, you’ll be relieved to know that Larry’s sister and brother-in-law were there from ten-thirty on, playing bridge.”
“I presume Mr. Graves can give you an alibi from the time you left me at the drugstore until the sister and brother-in-law arrived?”
“He can,” said Helen Bristol brusquely. “But, judging from what I know of you, that’ll mean precisely nothing. Therefore, before you start putting in good time suspecting me of this second murder, I’d like to point out that I was utterly unaware of Mr. Tolfrey’s existence until your sergeant brought the matter up last night.” She flicked ash into a glass tray. “I understand from my cleaner’s that several of your police bandits forcibly removed from them the suit I’d been wearing the day before yesterday. If you’re interested in my personal appearance at the time of the second crime, I was wearing a green tulle dress with white cuffs.”
“And Mr. Graves …?”
“Mr. Graves is fully of age and reasonably articulate.” Helen Bristol rose abruptly. “I suggest you bully him for a change.”
“Exactly,” said Timothy. “That’s just what I’ve come to do.”
Helen swung out of the room and Timothy followed into an office where a large man, who looked more like a serious-minded prize fighter than a publisher, was skillfully edging toward the door the pretty girl whom Timothy had seen in the waiting-room. When he had beamed the neophyte into the passage, Larry Graves gave a snort of relief.
“Female authors!” he exclaimed. “There’s nothing more tenacious in the world.”
“You’ve yet to meet Mr. Trant,” said Helen indicating Timothy. “He’s the police. Larry, and quite indecently interested in our private lives. Perhaps you’ll give him the sordid details of you and me and Bobby.”
Lawrence Graves, vice-president of Salter’s, shot a keen glance at Timothy and sat down behind the pile of manuscripts on his desk. There was something sure and static about his face and figure.
“Can’t imagine why you’d be interested in our dirty linen. Mr. Trant.” His voice was cultured and studiedly without humor. “But if you want my opinion, I consider it�
�s all a thoroughly immoral set-up. I’m a home-breaker and Helen’s an unscrupulous hussy who’s thrown over a devoted husband, after successfully fixing the wandering affections of her middle-aged boss.” The corners of his mouth twitched slightly. “But Things Like That, as my young authors are always telling me n capital letters, just happen in life. And they’ve just happened to sneak up on the editorial and the art departments of an otherwise unimpeachable publishing firm. By the way, Helen, have you got that damn jacket on the Topping book?”
“Don’t change the subject, Larry.” Helen flashed Timothy a lightly malicious glance. “Mr. Trant gets very easily confused.”
“I’m not trying to confuse him.” Graves’ strong face was almost ludicrously serious. “I do feel a skunk about all this, Trant. And I feel particularly skunkish in turning Bobby’s book down. We published his first novel very much against my wishes and better judgment, but I couldn’t go for The Laughing Angel. Apart from making Helen a cross between Saint Cecilia and Queen Mary—the bloody one, I mean—the thing just didn’t have any vitamins.”
Timothy sat very quiet without speaking.
“I did my best to let him down lightly when he came in day before yesterday,” continued the publisher earnestly. “I told him he might do something good eventually, but this book just wasn’t for us. I showed him the whole file on it, readers’ reports and everything. And that was that.”
Still Timothy did not speak.
“I expect,” cut in Helen tartly, “that Mr. Trant suspects you turned Bobby’s book down out of personal spite toward the man whose wife you stole.”
Graves looked rather annoyed. “If he thinks that, he can see the files for himself. Get them, Helen.”
Mrs. Bristol was absent for only a second. She returned with a sheaf of papers, which she put down on the desk. Graves’ pugilist fingers ran deftly through them.
“Our readers’ reports, Mr. Trant, were all distinctly unfavorable. And even Mrs. Van Heuten herself, who was Bobby’s patron and friend, didn’t have a good word for it. Here.”
He tossed Timothy a three weeks old letter. It read:
My dear Mr. Graves:
At the author’s request, I am writing to you about The Laughing Angel, the second novel of Robert Bristol whose Parabola you published a year ago. At the time when Mr. Bristol’s first book was sent to you, I pointed out that he came from a wealthy and socially prominent family and that his personal connections alone would insure you against any financial loss on the book. I feel I must tell you frankly that those circumstances no longer exist. As an old friend of the author’s I hope you will publish the book, but I realize that the matter depends entirely upon your own opinion of its rather doubtful merits. Truly,
CLARA VAN HEUTEN.
Larry Graves was leaning over the desk. “You see, Mr. Trant, even Mrs. Van Heuten knew it was a flop. You must realize that I turned it down as a publisher. It’s ridiculous to suppose I had any other motive.”
“I agree,” said Timothy mildly.
“And now,” cut in Helen Bristol, “perhaps you can understand why I was mad at Mrs. Van Heuten. When I had lunch with Bobby that day, he was all excited because Mrs. Van Heuten had been enthusiastic about the book. I looked up the reports on the book and saw she’d written to Larry that it was lousy; that she’d been leading Bobby up the garden path. Larry’s painted me as a cheat and a wanton and everything else, but I am genuinely fond of Bobby. That letter made me see red. Can’t you understand why I went around to the Advice Bureau to give that woman a piece of my mind?”
“I thought, Mrs. Bristol,” said Timothy, “that you told me Mrs. Van Heuten called you up the afternoon of her murder to ask you to use your influence in persuading Mr. Graves to publish Bobby’s book.”
“She did,” snapped Helen.
“Wasn’t that rather inconsistent? To write a letter advising you against publishing the novel—and then to call up and ask you to publish it?”
Helen Bristol flushed.
“I suppose you think I’m lying. If you do, there’s no point in my trying to argue. Let’s leave it at that.”
“All right.” Timothy had slipped Mrs. Van Heuten’s letter into his pocket. “But you and Mr. Graves seem to misunderstand me. Mrs. Bristol. I didn’t come here out of any morbid desire to pry into your relationship with Bobby or Mrs. Van Heuten. I merely came to ask Mr. Graves’ professional advice.”
Helen Bristol’s green eyes stared in irritated surprise.
“Then why the hell didn’t you say so?”
Timothy shrugged. “You didn’t give me a chance.”
With a toss of her head, Helen Bristol swung on her heel and hurried abruptly out of the office.
“I’m sorry if I offended your bride-to be, Mr. Graves,” murmured Timothy. “But she’s a rather impulsive person.”
There was a slightly hostile gleam in the publisher’s eye.
“What do you want?”
Solemnly, Timothy pulled open the zipper of his briefcase. He produced Polo Parade and handed it to Graves.
“You published this book, I believe?”
“Yes.”
“Who wrote it?”
“It was written under the pseudonym Trooper, but the author happens to be Colonel the Right Honorable William Darcy Wormsby-Williams, D.S.O., K.C.B., and other alphabetical distinctions—the Governor General of His Majesty’s province of Senegambia, Upper Bengal.”
Timothy gulped, but there was a look of relief on his face.
He produced from the briefcase the short stories which had been given to him by the four women and Derek Muir. Gravely, he passed them to the editor.
“Do you see anything at all odd about these manuscripts, Mr. Graves?”
The large man concentrated on them in silence. At length, he pushed his chair back and gazed at Timothy incredulously.
“Odd?” he exclaimed. “I see something damned odd about them.”
“What?”
“The names on the title pages.” Graves scratched his head. “I’ve lost a lot of money backing my enthusiasms for the short story, Mr. Trant, and these are some of my favorites. The manuscript marked Walonska is a rather bad translation of one of De Maupassant’s earlier works. The manuscript marked Hobart is Marion Crawford’s famous horror story, The Upper Berth. The manuscript marked Muir is Katharine Mansfield’s celebrated Bliss. And the manuscript marked Gilda Dawn I’m not quite sure about—I think it originated with Ring Lardner.”
Timothy made no comment. “How about the one signed Beatrice Kennet?”
“Oh, that’s genuine Kennet all right. I remember reading it in The Ladies’ Pictorial a few years ago.”
“A few years ago? Thank you. This exceeds my wildest dreams.” Timothy rose. “Mind if I use your phone?”
“Go ahead,” muttered the perplexed Graves.
Timothy dialed University 4-3200.
“Columbia University?”
“Yes.”
“If I want some manuscripts typed in a hurry around nine o’clock at night, what do I do?”
“Just a moment, please,” replied the voice “and I’ll connect you with the Students’ Overnight Typing Agency.”
Timothy waited in exhilarated silence.
“Yes?” said a voice eventually.
“Did a Mr. Dane Tolfrey call up two nights ago to have some stories typed?” asked Timothy. “Somewhere around nine o’clock?”
“One moment and I will consult the files.” The brisk voice faded and then returned. “No,” it said. “No Mr. Tolfrey called.”
Timothy’s face fell. Then he added quickly: “Did anyone from the Van Heuten Literary Advice Bureau call?”
“Oh, yes.” The voice thawed. “I attended to that order myself.”
“It was a man that called, wasn’t it?”
“Why, yes.”
“And he ordered four stories to be sent to the Princess Walonska’s house and one extra to be sent to a Mr. Derek Muir.”
“That is correct.” The voice at the other end of the wire obviously prided itself upon its efficiency. “The gentleman who called explained that Mrs. Van Heuten wanted to give a style test to some of her clients. The titles and authors’ names were to be omitted. The clients were supposed to guess.”
“How nice for them,” commented Timothy. “Were any particular stories ordered?”
“As I recall, there was only one stipulation made—that a story written by Beatrice Kennet should be included. The others we were to select from one of our anthologies of the world’s great short stories.”
Timothy’s smile was bordering perilously on a grin now. “Just one thing more. Do you remember if Mr. Muir appeared in person to collect his story before the typing job was finished?”
The voice reflected. “Now I come to think of it, he did. He was rather in a hurry. He took the final sheet right out of the typewriter while there was still a few more lines to be completed.”
“You’re a very efficient young woman,” said Timothy.
“I beg your pardon?”
“I just said—goody, goody. Goodbye,”
Timothy put down the receiver and turned to Graves.
“This,” he said, “looks rather like being one of my gala days.”
He had moved to the door when he turned.
“By the way, Mr. Graves, I believe Mrs. Bristol told me that Salter’s used to rent the office immediately beneath the Van Heuten Literary Advice Bureau. Is that correct?”
Lawrence Graves seemed to have given up being surprised.
“Yes,” he said faintly. “We’ve only been over here six months.”
“And at the moment,” continued Timothy, “your late offices are occupied by the Americo-Japanese Rayon Company, Incorporated, aren’t they?”
Graves threw out his hands. “I haven’t the slightest idea,” he barked, “but I wish you’d hurry up and go. You’re playing havoc with my digestion.”
XXI
There was feverish activity at the Homicide Bureau. Buzzers were ringing; telephone operators were doing their desperate best to locate Detective Timothy Trant. In the chief’s office, the chief himself sat with Inspector Jervis, his face very grave. Already the Cheney lawyer had paid an ominous personal visit to announce that any slanderous assertion against the Princess Walonska, made either by the police or the press, would be met with immediate legal action. The long distance wires from Hollywood had been jangling. Ideal Motion Pictures had had a great deal to say concerning the “unnecessary and humiliating indignities” to which their most profitable asset, Miss Gilda Dawn, had been submitted.