Death for Dear Clara

by Q. Patrick

  “Then this isn’t going to be a public inquisition?” asked John Hobart with a sardonic smile revealing very white teeth.

  “On the contrary. It is going to be as discreet as Mrs. Van Heuten herself.” Timothy’s tone changed. “All you people visited Mrs. Van Heuten here on the afternoon of her death. I’ve found out that each one of you came as a potential murderer. Please take my word for it that the only way the innocent ones can eliminate themselves is by telling the truth.”

  Amid an ominous silence, he took from his pocket the list of visitors which had been typed by Madeleine.

  “Miss Price very efficiently recorded the order of your various arrivals the day before yesterday. I’m going to try to reconstruct that afternoon. I shall be in Mrs. Van Heuten’s office, behind her desk. If it’s not too wild a flight of fancy, I want you all to think of me as Clara Van Heuten herself.”

  He beckoned Bobby and together they moved to the inner door. He turned.

  “By the way, there’s a plain-clothes man outside in the passage who’d rather not let any of you go by.”

  “Unlearned in the law as I am,” drawled Muir, “I have a feeling you can’t hold us here against our wills.”

  “Very true, Mr. Muir. But if you did start scattering, I’d have to transfer this session to police headquarters.” Timothy glanced very innocently at the Princess. “And some of you might find that a little awkward.”

  Alone with Bobby in the inner office, Timothy sat down behind Mrs. Van Heuten’s desk. As the boy drew up a chair, he selected a pile of blank shorthand pads from his notes.

  “I’ve got this all fixed, Bobby. I’ve written each person’s name at the top of a pad. Your job’s to scribble under the right headings. You see, I’m going to work out a separate case against everyone and I want to keep them all apart.”

  Bristol’s pale, rather tired face looked puzzled. “Is this a gag, Trant, or do you really have something against them? I can’t conceive why anyone could have wanted to kill Clara.”

  “Neither could I for a long time,” said Timothy slowly. “But I’ve changed my mind. You told me once Mrs. Van Heuten was thoroughly respectable, sympathetic and a very good friend. Well, Bobby, she managed to fool you just the way she fooled practically everyone else in New York.”

  He rose and pulled the screen away from the washroom door.

  “You see, Bobby, she had two entrances to this office. If I felt like being dramatic, I could make those doors symbolical of her two occupations.” He pointed to the door from the waiting-room. “Through there came the authentic clients of the Literary Advice Bureau.” His finger moved to the back entrance. “Through this door, Mrs. Van Heuten carried on her relationship with her other, less reputable clients.”

  “Other clients?” exclaimed Bobby in astonishment.

  “I don’t blame you for not realizing.” Timothy had resumed his seat behind the desk. “You see, out of those nine people who visited Mrs. Van Heuten on the day of her death, eight of them belonged to the back entrance. You were the only genuinely literary client among the bunch of them.”

  “Well,” said Bobby weakly, “I’ll be darned.”

  “But I’m running ahead of myself. As I’ve a case against everyone, I might as well start off with my case against you.”

  “Me?”

  “Naturally, Bobby. You didn’t want to be left out of it, did you?”

  Bobby smiled rather nervously. “Okay, Want me to take it down?”

  “Most certainly.” Timothy handed him the pad headed Bristol. “According to Miss Price’s list, you left Mrs. Van Heuten at about half-past three. From the Advice Bureau you went right around to Salter’s to hear the news on your novel, The Laughing Angel. That’s right, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. But not so fast, for God’s sake.” Bobby glanced imploringly up from his moving pencil.

  “All right. You arrived at Salter’s, and Lawrence Graves told you he was going to turn down your novel. You were disappointed, of course. You were mad, too, because you either knew or guessed that Graves was the man who’d double-crossed you with Helen. You more or less accused him of rejecting the book for personal reasons and …”

  “Wait a minute.” Bobby’s tongue was curled in intense concentration around his upper lip.

  “And,” continued Timothy, “to prove to you that the turndown was on the level, Graves showed you the complete records on the book, records that included a certain letter from Mrs. Van Heuten.”

  He produced from his pocket the letter Graves had given him that morning and flicked it to Bobby, The boy took it and glanced up.

  “So you saw that, did you? I thought it was pretty beastly after she’d pretended to like the book so much.”

  “Of course you did, Bobby.” Timothy grinned. “It was your motive for murdering Mrs. Van Heuten. She cracked your book up to your face and then you found she’d damned it with faint praise to your publishers. You were all worked up about Helen’s disaffection anyway. Stung by the knowledge that Mrs. Van Heuten, your only real friend, wasn’t such a real friend, after all, you returned to the Advice Bureau, went up the back way and stabbed her.”

  Bobby did not speak until his pencil had laboriously recorded every word. When he looked up, his face was rather bewildered as if he were unsure of how serious Timothy had been.

  “I may be what is commonly called highly strung,” he said at length. “But I’m hardly as neurotic as all that. Incensed artist slays woman who belittles his genius. I only wish I believed in my genius enough to murder people who didn’t appreciate me. I’d probably be a far better writer. And then there are a few technical errors, aren’t there? How did I know about the back door, for example?”

  Timothy smiled. “The author in you divined it.”

  “And then there’s the problem of Tolfrey’s murder. How did I kill him when I went up to his rooms with you?”

  “That’s very elementary, Bobby, You’d already been up before. You waited around for me and …”

  “And used you for an alibi,” added Bobby, impressed. “That’s worth recording. Wait a minute, Trant. And I’ll read it back.”

  “Don’t bother.” Timothy’s voice was very serious again. “That was just a comic interlude before we get down to business. As the only genuine literary visitor, you’re not going to figure in the following song and dance. But,” he added, “there are three things, Bobby. You and your wife saw Tolfrey in that restaurant a few hours before Mrs. Van Heuten’s murder. Did either of you tell him you were going to the Advice Bureau?”

  “Why, no.” Bobby shook his head emphatically. “I didn’t. And Helen—why she didn’t say a word to him.”

  “Another question. Did Graves know your wife was planning to visit the Advice Bureau?”

  “He—” Bobby looked rather anxious. “When I was at Salter’s, Helen said something about going around to see Mrs. Van Heuten. She was mad about that letter and …”

  “And Graves was present?”

  “Why, yes.”

  “Thanks. Now, Bobby, and this is important, do you remember exactly what Mrs. Van Heuten said to your wife when she telephoned to her at Salter’s?”

  The young man shrugged. “Tell you the truth, I was pretty het-up. Didn’t really listen. Something about royalties not paid on my first book—just business details.”

  “I see. By the way, you told Mrs. Van Heuten about Helen wanting a divorce to marry Graves, didn’t you?”

  “Why, yes, you know …”

  “Fine.”

  Timothy’s eyes were thoughtful as he pressed the buzzer for Madeleine Price.

  “Perhaps you’d ask the Princess Walonska, Gilda Dawn, Beatrice Kennet and Mrs. Hobart to come in. I’m ready to see them now.”

  XXIII

  A moment later the door from the outer office opened to reveal the four women. As always, Patricia led the way. There was a gleam in her eyes reminiscent of the erstwhile dangerous débutante. Gilda Dawn and Beatrice Kennet were clos
e at her side, while Susan Hobart, pale and strangely withdrawn, lingered a few paces behind.

  Timothy drew up chairs and they sat down in silence, their gazes fixed steadily on his face.

  “This is going to be rather awkward,” he began quietly, “but it’s got to be done.”

  “We’re ready to hear what you have to say,” murmured Patricia evenly.

  Timothy laid his hands on the desk. “I’m going to start off with a few rather crude facts. You four ladies were the last known people to see Mrs. Van Heuten alive and the first to arrive at Tolfrey’s party. You had every opportunity to commit both crimes.” He tapped slowly on his papers. “I’m sure you’d explain all that away as bad luck, but you’ll have to be more specific before you can explain why you came to visit Mrs. Van Heuten that afternoon armed with four revolvers.”

  Bobby glanced up from his shorthand in astonishment. In the ensuing moment of silence, Gilda Dawn tilted a platinum lighter to a cigarette.

  “You must be a sap if you expect us to admit that,” she said.

  “Perhaps,” continued Timothy, “if those stories you were kind enough to lend me had been genuine, you could have claimed that you intended to extract literary advice from Mrs. Van Heuten at the point of a gun.” He shook his head sorrowfully. “But, since I’ve talked to the Students’ Overnight Typing Service at Columbia University, it’s too late now.”

  “Even—even if those stories weren’t ours,” cut in Susan Hobart breathlessly, “we did go to see Mrs. Van Heuten about a manuscript, Mr. Trant—we did.”

  “Exactly.” Trant selected from the papers in front of him the document which Mrs. Van Heuten had started to write—the document which Jervis had thought was a will. “This is it, isn’t it?”

  A faintly sardonic smile moved Beatrice Kennet’s mouth. The Princess Walonska bristled.

  “Before you make any more extraordinary accusations, Mr. Trant, perhaps you’ll be good enough to tell us what possible motive we could have either for threatening or murdering Mrs. Van Heuten?”

  Timothy did not speak for a moment. He returned Patricia Walonska’s gaze.

  “Do you want me to tell you your motive? Or will you save me the trouble and tell it yourselves?”

  “Give us a break, Mr. Trant,” put in Beatrice Kennet acidly. “I’ve always yearned to hear a police reconstruction.”

  “All right. On your own heads be it.” Timothy looked down at his hands. “I’ll let you have it just the way I figured it out. Oddly enough, the first clue came from the Princess herself. She said once that Mrs. Van Heuten’s respectability was her major asset and hinted that she knew how to capitalize her social position. Now you can’t capitalize social position very much in literature—certainly not to the extent of a Park Avenue apartment, high power entertaining and over a hundred thousand dollars in the bank. It was only reasonable to suppose that Mrs. Van Heuten had exploited her respectability, her social position and her knowledge of human nature in another more profitable manner.”

  “You can say nothing better than anyone I ever met.” drawled Gilda Dawn through blue smoke. “You ought to be in the picture business.”

  “And,” Timothy continued quietly, “as profitable enterprises and extreme respectability are inclined to be bad bed fellows. Mrs. Van Heuten needed an assistant. You four have shown a marked reluctance to admit Mr. Tolfrey’s acquaintance, but you have underestimated him. Despite dat old debbil brandy, he was not as drunk as he was plastered and he was as shrewd a judge of human nature as Mrs. Van Heuten herself.” He paused, his lips rather pale. “Now, do you ladies feel like telling the truth?”

  “Carry on,” said Beatrice Kennet with dangerous serenity. “We’re hanging on your lips.”

  “Very well, then. Let’s build up a character portrait of Tolfrey. We know he traveled around Europe a lot; we know he had innumerable acquaintances in every social sphere. Louise Campbell told me that he often brought clients to the Advice Bureau and that Mrs. Van Heuten gave him a sort of unofficial commission. Now, Mrs. Van Heuten was inclined to be mean with money. And yet, on the day of her murder, she gave Tolfrey a check for three hundred and fifty dollars. That’s a lot of money for a commission on three-dollar-a-thousand-word clients. Isn’t it possible that Mrs. Van Heuten was giving him a rake-off for getting her other, non-literary and far more profitable clients?”

  For the first time since the interview started, Susan Hobart seemed really to be listening. She leaned forward in her chair, her face very tense and white.

  “Now,” said Timothy, “things start slipping together. Let’s assume Mrs. Van Heuten and Tolfrey were partners in a business for which Tolfrey obtained the clients. What sort of people would the clients be? Obviously friends of Mr. Tolfrey’s. And we know a few of his representative friends. There is, for example, the Prince Walonski who was friendly enough to give Mr. Tolfrey a large, silver-framed photograph of himself. There is also John Hobart, the polo player, who knew Tolfrey well enough to sock him on the jaw and pay him a casual call a few minutes after his arrival in New York. Although I haven’t any proof yet, I feel that Tolfrey was also quite intimate with Mr. Davenham, the English actor and almost ex-husband of Gilda Dawn, and also with Mr. Lovering, the well-known archeologist who, I suspect, will soon be the ex-husband of Miss Kennet.”

  There was a moment of deep silence.

  “To this,” continued Timothy, “add the fact that the Princess risked stealing her husband’s photograph rather than have his relationship with Tolfrey exposed. And that Mr. Hobart, struggling manfully to give a convincing literary explanation for his visit to Mrs. Van Heuten, was tactless enough to admit he had promised her a twenty per cent rake-off on the earnings of his first productive year.”

  The four women were gazing at him with obvious indecision. Beatrice Kennet’s cigarette poised in midair.

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” she said. “The young man with the shirts isn’t so dumb after all,”

  “I want you,” went on Timothy rapidly, “to listen to a little imaginary story about the growth of a friendship between two men. I’m afraid it won’t be as professional as Miss Kennet’s works or as gruesome as The Upper Berth, but it has some human appeal. I start with Mr. Tolfrey on one of his many trips to Europe. I see him sitting, say, in a smart Parisian restaurant, eating and probably drinking with gusto. A man is waiting on him who, somehow, seems more distinguished than the run-of-the-mill waiters. Tolfrey—a shrewd judge of human nature—gets into conversation and finds that his wine-pourer is—the very distinguished exile Prince Dmitri Walonski.”

  The Princess had gone rather pale now but she made no attempt to stop him.

  “In a brief chat, Mr. Tolfrey hints that the Prince was born for far better things than serving in a restaurant. He feels he could give His Highness a very satisfactory time in America. In fact, he’s even prepared to pay his passage over. The Prince is naturally delighted. There are more detailed discussions and then the two men set sail together for New York. The Prince is charmed with the New World and eager to meet people. Mr. Tolfrey is only too glad to oblige. He knows the ideal friend for a visiting prince; a woman who moves in the highest social circles and a woman who has real sympathy and understanding. Mrs. Van Heuten invites Prince Walonski to dinner.”

  The Princess had taken out a little white handkerchief and was twisting it nervously.

  “I can imagine that auspicious meeting,” said Timothy. “Mrs. Van Heuten is charming and charmed. The Prince is in need of ready cash? Of course, she’ll be only too glad to help him out. Why don’t they make a little informal agreement together? She advances money and the Prince can pay her back with—er—twenty per cent of his first year’s earnings.

  “In a delightfully polite manner, Mrs. Van Heuten outlines her schemes for the Prince’s entertainment in New York. He must, of course, be very careful about whom he meets. A prince is not to be introduced to a circle beneath his social position. Certainly not a Prince sponsored by the Mrs. Va
n Heuten. Clara is, as we know, a very excellent judge of human nature. She thinks of all her friends—and she makes her choice. She goes to the telephone. One can hear her voice: ‘Patricia, my dear, you must come to dinner on Saturday. Just an informal little party. The Prince is here, you know. Yes, my dear, Prince Walonski!’”

  “You—you must …” began the Princess softly.

  “You’d better let me finish now, Princess. Miss Cheney accepts the invitation with pleasure. As the Prince and Mrs. Van Heuten wait for her to come, Mrs. Van Heuten laughingly whispers: ‘And you won’t forget that little agreement. Prince. Twenty per cent.’ Miss Cheney arrives. The dinner is a big success; the Prince is delightful. After dinner, strangely enough, Patricia Cheney and the Prince are left alone together. What more natural than that a romance should blossom beneath the kind, motherly eye of Clara Van Heuten? What more natural than that two such obviously well-suited people should have been brought together by the respectable and socially prominent Clara Van Heuten? What more natural than that after the wedding. Mrs. Van Heuten should feel entitled to a small financial compensation for all she had done?”

  “There’s no need to go on, Mr. Trant.”

  Patricia Walonska’s voice was very quiet. Timothy saw the expression in her eyes and gave a little sigh of relief. Thank God he had been right and he was going to get away with it.

  “Everything you say is true, and there is no point in trying to hide it from you any longer.” Even now, Patricia had not lost her poise. She rose with a dignity worthy of an abdicating queen. “Clara Van Heuten was exactly as you have pictured her. She exploited her own position and she exploited the people who were ingenuous enough to think of her as a friend. It was a cruel and a very unscrupulous business—a one-sided and extremely profitable matrimonial bureau.”

  “Thank God that’s out at last,” exclaimed Beatrice Kennet. “Now we can let down our back hair and stop being women of mystery.”