Death for Dear Clara

by Q. Patrick

  Something would have to be done.

  “I realize,” the chief was saying quietly, “that I can’t expect anything to break yet, Jervis. It’s still less than two days since Mrs. Van Heuten was murdered. No case of this sort ever did break in two days. But somehow you’ve got to quiet the press down. And you’ve got to keep the Walonska woman and Gilda Dawn out of it. After all, we know they didn’t do it. Women like that don’t commit murder. It’s absurd; it’s …”

  “On the contrary, sir, I’m afraid it’s not at all absurd.”

  The chief glanced up sharply. Inspector Jervis swung round. Detective Timothy Trant stood in the doorway, looking very young, very calm and rather tired.

  “Trant!” exclaimed the chief. “I’ve just been telling Jervis that we’ve got to narrow this thing down. As long as it’s unsolved the Van Heuten murder’s an infernal machine and liable to explode right here in the Homicide Bureau at any given minute. Something’s got to be done.”

  “I agree, sir.” Timothy dropped into a chair.

  “Well, Trant,” put in Inspector Jervis hopefully, “are you out of that dead-end we were in last night?”

  “I think so,” said Timothy.

  “You mean you’ve got some evidence?” The chief’s eyes brightened.

  “No, sir—no evidence. Not a particle of evidence,”

  “A motive, then?” cut in Jervis. “This is the first case I ever struck without the shadow of a motive.”

  Timothy inclined his head. “I’ve found a motive, all right. Eight of them, in fact.”

  “Eight motives!”

  The chief and the inspector gazed at him with incredulity.

  “Yes. There are eight people concerned in the case. The eight visitors. And, although I’ve got nothing to prove it by, I know that each one of those charming individuals had a very strong reason for wanting Mrs. Van Heuten dead.”

  Jervis whistled.

  “But if you’ve got nothing to back you up—” began the chief.

  “Exactly, sir. That’s the ironic part. I’ve got nothing whatsoever to back me up.” Timothy smiled ruefully. “But I’m pretty sure now what Mrs. Van Heuten’s racket was. And I think I know who murdered her and Tolfrey.”

  His words produced a mildly stunned effect upon the other two men. It was the chief who found his voice first.

  “Well. Trant, w-what do you intend to do?”

  “That’s what I’ve come to ask your permission about.” Timothy leaned forward, his face very alert. “I’ve got no evidence and I never will get any. The murderer was too clever or too lucky to have left any clues behind. There’s going to be only one way to break this case—and I want you to let me have a stab at trying it.”

  “But what …?”

  “A confession, sir. When you’ve got nothing on a person, you’ve got to bluff him into a confession. That’s what I want to do. All those eight people have been lying steadily, but they’ve let slip enough half truths to give me a lead. If I can have them all to myself for this afternoon, I think I can guarantee one confession at least—and possibly eight.”

  The furrow smoothed out of the chief’s forehead. “If you can do that. Trant,” he said eagerly, “I’ll okay any scheme you feel like suggesting.”

  “Thanks. Well, sir, I want the Princess Walonska, Gilda Dawn, Beatrice Kennet, Mr. and Mrs. Hobart, Mr. and Mrs. Bristol and Madeleine Price all around at the Literary Advice Bureau at two-thirty this afternoon. I want a plain-clothes man at the front entrance and another one outside the washroom behind the screen. I then intend to go politely berserk and see what happens.”

  “It’s pretty risky,” murmured the chief, remembering the formidable gleam in the eye of the Cheney lawyer. Then he added: “But it’s worth it for a confession. Anything’s worth it. I give you a free hand, Trant.”

  “Fine.” Timothy grinned. “And if anything goes wrong, you can always fire me. There’s only one thing I’m worrying about. All those eight visitors are going to be as close as clams. If only I had something definite to pry one of them open with—just something, however irrelevant. Once one of them broke, I think the rest would follow suit.”

  At that moment, the door was pushed open and the stout figure of Sergeant Danvers hurried into the room. His face wore the expression of one who brings important but disquieting news.

  “Green just turned in his report, sir.” He eyed the chief uneasily. “He’s been checking up on the movements of the Princess Walonska before the crime.”

  “Well?” snapped the chief.

  “In the first place, sir, he found out she’s had the Denton detective agency at work for the past month.”

  “She did?” cut in Jervis, amazed. “What’ve they been doing for her?”

  Danvers scratched his head. “Just about the craziest thing you could think of. She’s had ’em on the trail of Gilda Dawn, Beatrice Kennet and that Mrs. Hobart.”

  “My God!” exclaimed Timothy.

  “And that’s not all. Green picked up something else pretty cockeyed about that dame. On the day before Mrs. Van Heuten’s murder, she walked calmly into Lines and bought—four revolvers.”

  “Revolvers!” Timothy’s eyes were suddenly bright. So that explains those briefcases.”

  “What do you mean?” asked the chief.

  Timothy was smiling again now. “Last time I saw Her Royal Highness at home, I asked her to lend me a briefcase. She thought about ringing for the butler and then decided to get the briefcase herself. In other words, she just remembered in time that the revolvers were still in them.”

  The chief bent forward. “You think—?”

  “Yes,” said Timothy, “I know. Those four women went to visit Mrs. Van Heuten with four revolvers.” He rose and turned to Sergeant Danvers. “God bless you and fate, sergeant. You’ve given me the one thing I needed—a knife for opening clams.”

  Leaving the chief’s office, Timothy made all arrangements for the “confession” party at the Advice Bureau and obtained the dossiers on the case which had come in the day before. He spent the rest of the morning poring over them and scribbling with feverish concentration.

  At length he extricated from the confusion of facts and fancies, four basic requirements for the murderer of Mrs. Van Heuten. First, that he had been terrified about something connected with Dane Tolfrey and the back entrance. Secondly, that if Mrs. Hobart were telling the truth concerning the noise behind the screen, he had been concealed in the washroom while the four women had their interview with Mrs. Van Heuten. Thirdly, that, since the women had left the office at four-fifteen and Louise Campbell had found her employer dead at four-thirty—if the Princess’ contingent could be exonerated—the crime must have been committed between four-fifteen and four-thirty. Last and most definitely, that his motive for murdering Mrs. Van Heuten had had nothing to do with literary advice.

  It was just past one-thirty when Inspector Jervis appeared at the door. He was smiling broadly and holding out a long gray envelope.

  “I’m bringing you the comic relief, Trant,” he said. “You know how they are up in the analysis department—absent-minded scientists.”

  Timothy glanced up from his notes. “What’ve they done?”

  “Old Doc Grimes just came rushing down. Said he had the Van Heuten case sewed up. He’d been snooping around and he found a coat with traces of blood on the sleeve. He checked it up and swore that the molecules or hemoglobin or what-not showed it was the same type as Mrs. Van Heuten’s blood.”

  “What’s the catch?” asked Timothy, taking the envelope.

  “Just that you ought to be more careful, Trant.” Jervis’ grin seemed stretched almost to snapping point. “You know those birds’ll analyze anything they can get their hands on.”

  “I’m still in the dark,” said Timothy mildly.

  “Well, here’s the laugh.” Jervis broke into a ponderous guffaw. “The coat they worked on happened to belong to you. That’s the analysis department’s solution, Trant
. You’re the murderer.”

  Timothy put the report in his pocket. His fingers were trembling slightly.

  “Perhaps,” he said, as he moved to the door, “that’s the most brilliant bit of analysis to date.”

  XXII

  Punctually at quarter past two, Timothy Trant walked into the outer office of the Van Heuten Literary Advice Bureau. Beneath his arm, he carried the Princess’ briefcase stuffed with all the evidence that had been compiled during the course of the case.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Trant.”

  Madeleine Price was sitting behind her desk, calm and impassive as though the clock had been put back and she were still working in her capacity of substitute secretary. She had taken off the little red hat, and there was nothing but the suggestion of make-up on her cheeks to hint at the monumental changes of the past two days.

  Timothy glanced around the room. It was scrupulously tidy, with the afternoon sunlight playing frivolously on a little circle of chairs.

  “An excellent job, Miss Price.”

  “Your plain-clothes men were very helpful.” Madeleine smiled. “The extra chairs were their idea. I suppose you’re not going to tell me exactly what all this is about?”

  “This,” said Timothy slowly, “is going to be a session against lies, Miss Price, and I thought Mrs. Van Heuten’s charming office was a very suitable locale. Everyone in this case has been lying to me—yourself, I regret to say, included. I’ve decided the time of retribution is come. And I’m afraid retribution is going to raise the wrath of the gods in some quarters.”

  “You mean—” Madeleine’s voice was rather breathless—“you mean you’ve discovered who committed the murders?”

  “Mr. Tolfrey’s death has warned me against boasting.” Timothy smiled. “I’ll admit I am entertaining a few rather embarrassing suspicions. One of them, I’m afraid, concerns you.”

  He opened the briefcase and sorted through the sheaf of papers inside until he found a small newspaper clipping.

  It was from a paper of five years before and read:

  …is it true that Madeleine Price and her sister’s husband were eloping at the time of the fatal accident?…

  “I’m going to give you this, Miss Price. Later I’ll want you to answer a few leading questions and I think you’d prefer to be prepared.”

  Madeleine took the cutting, stared at it and went rather pale.

  “But—but what …?”

  “Come on.” Timothy’s tone was brisk. “The rest of the gang’ll be here soon and I want you to help me with a little experiment.”

  He indicated the inner door.

  “I want you to go into Mrs. Van Heuten’s office. Sit at her desk and talk—softly first then getting louder and then rising to a discreet scream.”

  Rather puzzled the girl disappeared into the inner office. Timothy shut the door behind her and sat down at her desk. He waited a moment, hearing nothing. Eventually he heard a faint, indistinguishable drone; then, quite distinctly, a scream.

  Smiling, he hurried into the inner office to find Madeleine obediently behind the desk.

  “Just checking up on you,” he said. “Looks as though you were telling the truth. From your desk you wouldn’t have been able to hear ordinary conversation in here. If you’d been typing, you might not even have heard a scream.”

  The girl looked rather indignant. “I told you that a long time ago.”

  “But you told me so many things.”

  Madeleine had half risen, but he waved her down.

  “Stay there, Miss Price, and do the same thing.”

  He moved to the door behind the screen which, at his instructions, had been unlocked by one of the plain-clothes men. He slipped into the washroom, shut the door and bent down to the keyhole.

  “Go ahead, Miss Price.”

  This door was hardly more than six feet from Mrs. Van Heuten’s desk. Very plainly, he could hear Madeleine’s voice in a half whisper.

  “One, two, three,” she breathed.

  “Four, five, six,” she murmured.

  “Seven, eight, nine,” she exclaimed.

  “Ten, eleven, twelve,” she shouted.

  “Thirteen,” rose to a shrill scream.

  Timothy re-entered the office.

  “Very well done, Miss Price.”

  Madeleine’s steady eyes met his. “And what have I proved this time?”

  “Just that, if you’d been hiding in that washroom instead of sitting at your desk, Miss Price, you’d have been able to hear every word that was spoken in here.”

  “Do I have to perform any more antics?”

  “Thanks, no, Miss Price. You’d better get back to the outer office and think about that newspaper clipping. I want to be alone.” Timothy pushed her gently toward the door. “By the way, have you got cigarettes for the guests? If not, run out and ask the plain-clothes man in the passage to get some. He answers to the name of Joe and you can tell him to charge them up on his expense account. Let me know when all the visitors have arrived.”

  She was crossing the threshold when he-called:

  “Can you do shorthand, Miss Price?”

  “No.”

  “Excellent.”

  As soon as the girl had left, Timothy hurried back to the door behind the screen. He entered the washroom and passed through the second door into the small passage which led to the fire-tower. He glanced through the opening in the wall to the deserted courtyard five floors below and moved along the little parapet to the second plain-clothes man who stood on guard at the head of the stairs.

  The man grinned around a cigarette. “Jervis sent me, Trant. I didn’t get no orders.”

  “Orders are simple,” said Timothy. “If anyone tries to come up those stairs or come out of the Advice Bureau’s back entrance, arrest them politely and firmly with the accent on the firmly.”

  “Okay.”

  “Got handcuffs?”

  The man grinned again and patted his pants pocket.

  When Timothy returned to Mrs. Van Heuten’s office, there were confused sounds of arrival in the outer office. He had just laid out his different groups of papers when Madeleine appeared, very much the impersonal secretary.

  “Everyone’s come now, Mr. Trant.”

  “Fine. I’ll be right out.”

  Timothy smoothed his hair, straightened his tie and went into the waiting-room.

  He had never before seen every one of the suspects gathered together in one place at the same time. They made a striking and rather formidable group. Patricia Walonska and Gilda Dawn stood by the window, while Beatrice Kennet sat on the arm of a chair near them, her legs crossed, a cigarette tilted in her gloved hand. Susan Hobart, divorced for the first time from her female companions, was sitting by her husband on a divan her tiny fingers enveloped in his large brown hand. Derek Muir, indescribably elegant in a startling new gray suit, was exchanging frivolities with the untidy Bobby Bristol, while his almond eyes moved from time to time with a rather hungry expression toward the Lotus Lady. Helen Bristol stood apart from the others. Her uncompromising chin was thrust forward, her very green eyes were the first to flash to Timothy. She was smoking a cigarette as though she hated it.

  There was a general stir as Timothy entered. He caught at once the sustained tension in the atmosphere. Eight pairs of eyes regarded him, curious and hostile. He knew he was treading on very dangerous ground.

  “I’m glad you’ve all come,” he said pleasantly. “I hope you’ll make yourselves comfortable because I think we’re in for a long session.”

  “Are we permitted to know why we’re here?” Beatrice Kennet’s black eyes bored maliciously into his face. “Or is this just a surprise party?”

  “It’s chiefly a surmise party, Miss Kennet. But I’m afraid it will involve a couple of surprises for us all. I’ve pieced together a few facts and I want you people to confirm them. I know you’ve all got out of the habit of telling the truth, but I hope you’ll be franker today. Under the circum
stances, I rather feel you will. And if you are, I should soon be slipping softly and silently out of your lives.”

  “But meanwhile you’re not going to be so silent,” suggested Derek Muir, edging neatly toward Gilda Dawn. “Don’t tell us you’ve solved the murders?”

  “That, Mr. Muir, is a leading question. But I can tell you one thing. I’ve solved enough to realize how embarrassing this is going to be for all of you. At this stage of an ordinary case, you’d be expected to make official statements in the presence of a police stenographer. Owing to the—er—unimpeachable reputations of you all, I’ve decided to abandon that. I’m having the meeting here rather than at headquarters and I want you to know that any records I make which do not connect directly with the murders will be destroyed at the end of the afternoon.”

  He glanced at Madeleine behind her desk.

  “I’m going to ask Miss Price to pinch-hit for the police stenographer and make shorthand notes for me.”

  Everyone glanced with elaborate unconcern at Madeleine. She looked rather startled and said:

  “But—but I told you, Mr. Trant. I can’t write shorthand.”

  “You can’t?” Timothy’s eyes widened with assumed disappointment. “How unfortunate. In that case, I’ll have to call for a volunteer. How about you, Mrs. Bristol?”

  Helen inhaled jerkily at her cigarette. “I’m supposed to be an artist, not a stenographer. Why not ask Bobby? He took a course in shorthand once.”

  Timothy hesitated.

  “I’ll make a stab at it, Trant,” cut in Bobby a trifle awkwardly. “I’m pretty rusty though.”

  “You won’t be by the time we’re through, Bobby,” Timothy smiled amicably at his unresponsive audience. “I need hardly remind you that Mr. Bristol and myself will be gentlemanly enough to treat everything as confidential.”