Pulp Crime

by Jerry eBooks

  “We’re interested only in finding the one who killed her, Mrs. Carpenter,” I said. “Now, can you tell us anything else that might help? For instance, do you know whether she was in fear of anyone? Had she ever said anything at all that might give us a lead?”

  “No, she never did. It seems quite plain to me that she was robbed.”

  “Why so?”

  “Because she wore the ring when she left the house, and yet it was not on her finger when her body was found.”

  “A lot of things could have happened,” I said. “Robbery’s a possibility, of course.”

  A knowing look came into her eyes, and when she spoke there was a subtle suggestiveness to her voice. “Unless something else happened, that is. Unless, let us say, one of the people who found her took a fancy to the ring. It would be quite simple for him to appropriate it.” She smiled faintly. “Such things have been known to happen, have they not?”

  “Just a minute,” Paul said sharply. “If you’re trying to say that we—”

  “Hold it, Paul,” I said. “Mrs. Carpenter is just upset, that’s all.”

  “I’m not in the least upset. I never permit myself to become upset.”

  “About this man she was engaged to,” I said. “We’ll want to talk to him. Can you tell us anyone who might know who he is? Any girl friends Lucille had who might know?”

  “She had few friends. Naturally, the way she twisted herself around, showing off all the time, she’d be lucky if decent girls even spoke to her.”

  “Did she have a job?”

  “Yes. She worked for a photographer.”

  I lifted the pencil again. “Where?”

  “His name is Schuyler. The studio is somewhere on Fifty-seventh Street.”

  “You know the address?”

  “No, I don’t. You’ll have to look it up.”

  I studied her a moment. “Can you think of anything else that might help us, Mrs. Carpenter? Surely she mentioned friends or acquaintances. A young girl would have some social life. How about church groups, or clubs, or night courses at one of the colleges?”

  “I’ve told you all I can,” she said. “It was only during the last two or three months that she began going out much. Before that, she went out only now and then. And if she ever told me the names of any of her men friends, I’ve long since forgotten them.”

  “One more thing,” I said. “She was nineteen, and she had a job. If things were strained between you two, why did she continue to stay with you?”

  Again Mrs. Carpenter glared at her husband. “She didn’t realize the full extent of my dislike, I’m quite sure. Mr. Carpenter prevailed on me not to ask her to leave. Then, too, we charged her considerably less for her board and room than she would have paid elsewhere. Even so, things were coming to a head. I had almost determined to give her notice.”

  I stood up. “I guess that’ll be all, Mrs. Carpenter,” I said. “Mr. Carpenter, will you come with me a moment?”

  He glanced at his wife, as if for permission, and then he got slowly to his feet and followed me back through the squad commander’s office to one of the interrogation rooms.

  “We’ll be only a moment,” I said. “I wondered if you had anything to add.” I grinned. “I thought maybe we could talk a bit more freely back here.”

  The expression on his face told me he was genuinely surprised to find that anyone was willing to show him any consideration.

  “Cora’s just plain wrong about Lucille,” he said in a voice that sounded as if it were accustomed to making apologies. “Just plain wrong. Lucille was a pretty girl, and I reckon she knew it well enough, but she sure never did anything wrong around the house. She—well, I guess she just figured I was her uncle, and that it wasn’t a heck of a lot different than if it was her father. Maybe she did run around the house half naked sometimes, but she sure never done it for my benefit. She just never thought anything about it, that’s all.”

  “I can understand why she might have kept things from your wife, Mr. Carpenter,” I said, “but I thought she might have said something to you. About the man she was engaged to, I mean.”

  “Nope. She never did.”

  I nodded. “Can you think of anything that might help?”

  “No, sir, I can’t. Not a thing.”

  We went back to the squad room. I arranged for an unmarked car to take Mr. and Mrs. Carpenter home, and then I typed up the results of the interview and added them to the file on Lucille Taylor.

  “That guy Carpenter bugs me a little,” Paul said. “Being in the same house all the time with a girl like Lucille could give a man a lot of ideas. Maybe he got charged up, and she nixed him, and he got mad about it.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Or maybe she didn’t nix him, and his wife found out about it, and she got mad.”

  “Could be,” I said. “You feel like some coffee?”

  “Always.”

  “Let’s grab a cup, and then go see her boss.” I found the address in the directory, and then Paul and I signed out and left the squad room.

  4.

  The Schuyler Studios, Inc. was on the fourth floor, with windows opening on Fifty-seventh Street. It was apparently a good-sized outfit, judging from the number of lettered doorways we passed on our way to the reception room. The reception room itself, however, was quite small. We told the male receptionist who we were, and after he’d talked a moment on an intercom, he led us back to Schuyler’s private office.

  “That’ll be all, Mr. Stacy,” he said, rising. “Won’t you gentlemen sit down?”

  We sat, and I told him our business. He was a big man, about forty, with hair grown gray at the temples and a face that would have been rugged except for the eyes. The eyes were strangely soft, with that moist sheen that women’s eyes sometimes have. When I had finished, he picked up a letter opener from his desk and turned it over and over in his fingers, shaking his head slowly.

  “It’s hard to believe,” he said. “She was such a young girl, and a very pretty one—and to die like that . . .”

  “We’re trying to get a line on her friends,” I told him. “Can you help us?”

  He thought a moment. “You know, that’s very strange. She was a very quiet, unassuming girl, but quite personable. And yet, now that you ask, I can’t remember her ever mentioning anyone.”

  “How about other employees here? She must at least have gone to lunch with someone.”

  “She was the only girl. All the rest are men. And I’m almost certain she never went to lunch with any of them. She wasn’t exactly a cold person, but she did tend to keep aloof from the men here. I’ve heard them talking about her, now and then—as men will. I gathered that none of them had ever dated her, or in fact even talked to her very much, except as pertaining to business.”

  “How did you get along with her, Mr. Schuyler?”

  “Quite well. I was very fond of her. She did her job, and my clients seemed to like her. Especially the women. And in this business, that’s important. We deal with a great number of account executives and art directors, and many of them are women. Lucille was quite a favorite with them.”

  “You ever see her outside the office?”

  His mouth tightened a little, but his eyes retained that almost feminine softness. “Just what do you mean?”

  “I mean, did you ever see her socially? Did you ever take her out?”

  “That’s a rather unusual question.”

  “There’s nothing personal,” I said. “We have to follow a certain routine, Mr. Schuyler.”

  He nodded slowly. “Yes. Yes, I suppose you do. The answer to your question is no. I have had a number of young women working for me, during the fifteen years I have owned this studio. I have made it a strict personal rule never to become involved, in even the most innocent way. Sometimes girls—especially ones as young as Miss Taylor—misinterpret a friendly interest. And even so, I am quite happily married. I have a daughter fifteen and another seventeen.” He smiled, and the friendliness came
back into his voice. “Does that answer your question?”

  I nodded. “How long had she worked here, Mr. Schuyler?”

  “Let’s see . . . Oh, about three months. I can check and be exact, if you wish.”

  “That’s close enough,” I said.

  “Wait!” He leaned forward. “Maybe I can help you after all. You asked about her friends. Well, up until about six weeks or two months ago Lucille used to receive calls from some man. Someone named Vince. He called quite often. I’d hear her mention his name when she said hello, of course.”

  “But he hadn’t called her recently?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “Were their conversations friendly, would you say?”

  “Yes. Judging from Lucille’s tone of voice, I’d say they were a bit more than friendly—if you know what I mean.”

  “You ever hear her mention his last name?”

  “No, I’m afraid not. I couldn’t help but overhear, of course, but I didn’t make a point of tuning in. I’d just hear her say ‘Hello, Vince,’ or ‘Good-by, Vince,’—you know.”

  “Uh-huh. Can you think of anything else that might help us, Mr. Schuyler? You remember anything else from these telephone conversations—anything to indicate that she and this Vince might be planning to get married?”

  “Married? Why, no. I’m sure she would have mentioned such plans to me, though. That is, if she planned to take some time off, rather than just quit outright. She’d almost have to, you know.”

  “Yeah. Well, is there anything you can tell us, Mr. Schuyler?”

  “I only wish I could. As I said, I was very fond of Lucille. I’d be only too anxious to help, if I could.”

  On our way down in the elevator, Paul turned to me and grimaced. “A real cold fish,” he said. “As long as something doesn’t scratch him or his own family, he doesn’t give a goddamn. But I’ll bet if one of his daughters got looked at cross-eyed by some guy, he’d be after us to put the guy in the electric chair.”

  5.

  We drove back to the station house, checked the message spike for calls, read the flimsies in the alarm book to see if there had been any new arrests or detentions that concerned us, and then I called the morgue at Bellevue to see how Lucille Taylor’s autopsy was coming along.

  The assistant M.E. to whom I talked said it had just been completed. The cause of death had been a severed spinal cord, resulting from a blow or blows to the back of the neck and head. The lacerations appeared to have been made with a blunt instrument, such as a length of two-by-four. One or more of the blows had dislocated the vertebrae enough to sever the cord, after which the vertebrae had slipped back into place. The assistant M.E. seemed quite pleased that he had discovered this so quickly.

  I told Paul the result of the autopsy, changed the official designation of Lucille Taylor’s file from “Suspected Homicide” to just plain “Homicide,” and added the autopsy finding to the original Complaint Report form.

  Then Paul and I got down to routine. We collected all the arrest records for Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday, divided them equally, and began going through them for pickups made near the Hudson River. It was our hope that Lucille’s killer might have been pulled in on some other charge after he had put Lucille in the water. There had been several pickups, but most of them had been too far downriver to look right for us.

  Next, we checked the list of men pulled in for morning lineups, starting with the one held Tuesday morning. There was nothing for us there, either.

  The phone on my desk rang and Paul, who was closer, answered it. He nodded to me, and I picked up an extension. It was Schuyler, the photographer for whom Lucille Taylor had worked.

  “I’m afraid the shock of Lucille’s death affected my memory,” he said. “I’ve just recalled that I did hear her mention that man’s name. That ‘Vince’ I told you about. I remember now that she called him once, while I happened to be passing near her desk. She asked someone to call him to the phone, and she used his full name. I don’t know why, but for some odd reason the name seems to have stayed with me.”

  “Fine,” Paul said. “What is it?”

  “Donnelly. Vince Donnelly. I remember distinctly.”

  “Thanks very much, Mr. Schuyler,” Paul said. “That’s a real help.”

  “Well, I certainly hope so. It was unforgivable of me not to have thought of it sooner.”

  “It’s only natural, sir,” Paul said. “We appreciate your calling us.” He spoke a moment longer, and then hung up.

  “We’ve got a package on a guy by that name, Paul,” I said.

  “Yeah. I know. Want me to pull it?”

  “Uh-huh. Seems to me he lives on Seventy-second Street, just the way Lucille did.”

  Paul went to the next room, brought back the package on Vince Donnelly, and put it down on my desk. “You’re off again, Jim,” he said. “He lives on Seventy-third Street.”

  “All right,” I said. “So fire me again.”

  Vince Donnelly was twenty-three years old, had drawn a suspended sentence in 1950 on a grand larceny charge in connection with a stolen car, and had been convicted on a similar charge in 1951. He had done eighteen months. Since then he had been pulled in twice for questioning, but had not been booked. He lived less than two blocks from the address where Lucille Taylor had lived with her aunt and uncle.

  “Maybe we’ve got ourselves a boy, Jim,” Paul said.

  “Maybe. Let’s see what he’s got to say.”

  6.

  We spent the better part of two hours looking for Vince Donnelly, and then gave up and went back to the station house. Donnelly had moved from the Seventy-third Street address some two weeks before, and we were unable to turn up anyone who knew his present whereabouts.

  I called Headquarters, gave them Donnelly’s description, and asked that an alarm for him be sent out. In a few minutes the teletype machine in the squad room began to clack, and Paul and I walked over to it and watched the words form across the paper, just as they were doing in all the other squad rooms in New York.

  ALARM 4191 CODE SIG L-1 AUTH HBR SQD. 4:31 P.M. HOLD FOR INTERROGATION—VINCENT C. DONNELLY—M-W-23-5-9-165—LIGHT BROWN HAIR—BROWN EYES—MUSCULAR BUILD—BIRTHMARK OVER RIGHT EAR—SLIGHT LIMP—UNKNOWN BUT HAS REPUTATION AS FLASHY DRESSER.

  “I haven’t eaten yet,” Paul said. “How about some chow?”

  I nodded. “Good idea.”

  “How about the Automat? I like those pecan rolls.”

  “Okay. Sign us out, will you, while I put Donnelly’s package back in file?”

  “Check.”

  When we got back to the squad room there were two messages for us. One was from Lieutenant Mason, at the Twentieth Precinct, saying they’d picked up Vince Donnelly and were holding him for us. The other was a note to call a Miss Peggy Webb, who had phoned to say she had important information in connection with Lucille Taylor’s murder.

  I called Miss Webb at the number she had given. She impressed me as intelligent and sincere, and very tense. She assured me she knew who had killed Lucille Taylor, but she said that she didn’t want to talk about it over the phone. When I asked her to come down to the station house, she refused. I arranged to meet her at the entrance of the Jacoby Camera Supply, on Sixth Avenue between Forty-seventh and Forty-eighth.

  I told Paul about the call. “I guess we’ll have to split up,” I said. “You’d better get over to the Twentieth and start in on Donnelly. If this Webb girl has anything, I’ll call you there.”

  “Sure,” Paul said darkly. “Naturally. Of course. I go tangle with a damned punk, and you go off to see the girl. I sit over there in a hot squad room with a thief, and you sit in a nice cool bar, making time with . . .” He broke off, sighing. “I think I’ll take it up with the commissioner.”

  I grinned. “You’ve got the commissioner on the brain.”

  “What brain? If I had a brain, I’d never have been a cop in the first place.” He reached for his jacket. “Well, I’ll get
over there and see what gives with our friend Donnelly. Don’t get lost with that girl, Jim.”

  “I’ll try not to,” I said.

  7.

  Peggy Webb turned out to be a very thin, very plain girl of about thirty. She kept twisting her handbag in her hands and, except for the moment it took me to introduce and identify myself, she never met my eyes once.

  “I read the story in the paper,” she said, staring out at the traffic on Sixth. “Right away I knew who did it.” She glanced at the doorway of the camera shop and then back at the traffic again. “I work here now. But I used to work for the Schuyler Studios. I worked there for four years—until Lucille came there.”

  I leaned back against the plate glass front of the shop, studying her. “Who do you think killed her?”

  “Schuyler killed her.”

  “That’s a pretty serious accusation, Miss Webb.”

  “I realize that.”

  “How do you know he killed her?”

  “It had to be him. I know it, just as well as I know I’m standing here. It caught up with him, that’s all.”

  “You mind explaining?”

  “That’s why I called you, isn’t it? Schuyler and Lucille were having an affair. I was his right hand around that place for four years, and then one day Lucille shows up. Right off he starts breaking her in on my job. And that’s not all. He started her in at more money than I made, after I’d been there four years. Oh, it made me sick to watch the two of them. They thought nobody knew what was up. But they were wrong. Here he was, more than twice her age, and she sitting there smiling so prissy and nice—it made me want to throw up.” There was a hard set to her features now.

  “Still,” I said, “that’s hardly—”

  “Have you talked to Schuyler?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he tell you he was married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did he also tell you that he was just a photographer’s assistant, till he met his wife? Did he tell you that she was a very wealthy woman, and that he married her for her money? . . . No? No, of course he didn’t.” Her voice grew tighter. “He isn’t dumb. Not that one. He wouldn’t have let go of his wife any sooner’n he would let go a gold mine.”