A Most Immoral Murder

by Harriette Ashbrook

  “If any,” Spike supplemented. “Yes, Mr. Fairleigh, there is one and quite a definite one. You see, since last we met we’ve had a talk with Mr. and Mrs. Polk.”

  In the silence that followed this statement, there was an almost imperceptible tightening of the lines around the lawyer’s mouth.

  “We had a talk with them,” Spike went on, “and they told us about—Edward. What we want to know now is, who is he?”

  “He is the child of a friend of mine who died soon after his birth. The father had been killed six months ear—”

  “We heard all that,” Spike interrupted, “from the Polks. What we want to know now is just who he is.”

  “I’ve just told you.”

  “What was the name of his parents?”

  Fairleigh hesitated for just the fraction of a second. Then his answer came quickly. “That is something I am not at liberty to reveal.”

  “It seems to me, Fairleigh, that there are far too many things that you are not at liberty to reveal.”

  “I have always enjoyed the confidence of my clients. I feel it hardly honorable to betray it now.”

  “ ‘Honorable’… ‘a man of honor’…The phrase flashed again through Spike’s mind. Aloud he said: “ ‘Betray.’ That’s a good word. The one they always use, isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “I’m talking about betrayal and honor and all that sort of thing.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t follow you.”

  “I’m talking about this child, Edward, and his mother, and at the risk of being melodramatic, I’ll use your own words, Fairleigh. You betrayed her, and then refused to make an honest woman of her.” The lawyer stiffened and at the same time blinked. It was as if someone had given him a smart rap on the head. “Are you,” he said slowly as if trying to make sure in his own mind, “trying to intimate that I am the father of this child out in West Albion?” Spike nodded.

  Fairleigh shook his head. “No,” he said, “I’m not.”

  “Then why for fourteen years have you supported him?”

  “That again is something I cannot tell you.”

  “Please say what you mean, Fairleigh. Say ‘won’t’ instead of ‘can’t.’ ”

  “As you will.”

  “All right. Suppose you’re not the father. Then who is?”

  “The father is dead.”

  “We’ve been told that several times now. What we want to know is who he was before he died.”

  “That again is something I—”

  “—won’t tell,” Spike finished off. “All right, since you won’t tell us who the father is, tell us who the mother is.”

  Fairleigh’s only answer was an adamant silence. Spike laughed softly. “It’s all right. You needn’t say anything. It just happens that we know the answer to that one.”

  Fairleigh’s eyebrows arched in silent inquiry.

  “We know who the mother of the child is. I’ve just been talking to her.”

  Suddenly the lawyer put out a wavering hand and clutched the edge of the desk.

  “The mother—talking to her—herself?”

  “In person.”

  “Then you’ve seen her—you know—”

  “We’ve seen her—we know—”

  “Where is she?” It was a peremptory command. “Don’t you know?”

  “No. Tell me—tell me quickly.”

  For the second time Spike felt himself brought up short, checked abruptly in his rapid fire questions. He eyed Fairleigh, puzzled at first, then with a strangely speculative gleam in his eye.

  “Perhaps,” he said, “I have made a mistake. But less than twenty-four hours ago your secretary, Maysie Ealing, admitted that she was the mother of this child.”

  It was Fairleigh’s turn to be flabbergasted. “Miss Ealing, my secretary, told you—that? Told you that she was the mother of this child, Edward?”

  “Not under that name naturally. She hasn’t seen him since he was a baby.”

  “But—but that’s preposterous.”

  “Then she isn’t?”

  “No, no! It’s ridiculous! I can’t understand…”

  “How long have you known Miss Ealing?”

  “Six or seven months.”

  “How come she’s your secretary?”

  “My old one left to get married and I advertised for a new one and she answered the ad.”

  “Ever see her before she answered the ad?”

  “Never.”

  “Is she a good secretary?”

  “Excellent.”

  “Have you any complaints to make of her?”

  “None whatever.”

  “Did you ever find her—ah—prying?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Poking into business that was none of hers.”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t it ever strike you as queer that the murder of her mother should be so obviously linked with the murder of your client?”

  Fairleigh hesitated. “Yes, it did.”

  “How do you account for it then?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Do you know of any reason why the person who murdered Prentice Crossley and stole $85,000 worth of stamps should also murder Mrs. Deborah Ealing?”

  “None.”

  “Do you know of any reason why Maysie Ealing should claim to be the mother of a child whom you are prepared to swear is not hers?”

  “I have no idea. I am as completely puzzled on that point as—”

  The end of the sentence was cut off by a commotion outside… a woman’s high-pitched voice… a scrambling of feet…

  Fairleigh stopped, listened. Spike, the district attorney and the inspector turned their eyes toward the door.

  “I don’t care who’s there. I’m going in.” A woman’s voice came distinctly now through the glass partition. At the sound of it Fairleigh started violently. He rose from his chair, made for the door. Before he could reach it, it burst open. A woman, throwing off the restraining arms of office workers, rushed into the room, rushed at Fairleigh.

  She saw no one else. It was as if the other three men were not there at all. She grabbed Fairleigh’s arm and her voice poured forth in a torrent of words.

  “Tell me—tell me now where he is—I’ve waited fourteen years—I can’t wait any longer—now you’ve got to tell me—what have you done with him—my David—my baby—my little David—”

  It was Linda Crossley, pale, disheveled, with a look that was half madness, half savagery in her wild, lovely eyes.

  CHAPTER XXIX - A Goofy Hunch

  THE DISTRICT ATTORNEY started forward, gripping the arms of his chair.

  The inspector rose, made a quick step toward the woman.

  Employees excitedly crowded the doorway leading into the outer office.

  Spike glanced quickly in their direction and slipped out a door at the side leading into the adjoining private office.

  “My David—my baby—tell me where he is.”

  The impassioned cry seemed to burst through the first astonishment that had held Fairleigh motionless, staring.

  “Linda! Linda, where have you come from?”

  He tried to force her to a seat.

  “No, no—I’m not staying here. I want to know where my child is—now, this minute.”

  “Hush, Linda, not now!” Fairleigh’s glance leaped from the district attorney to the inspector, to the crowded doorway. But the woman did not see them. It was as if they were not there. Her voice rushed on, repeating, demanding.

  “Where have you kept him—you’ve got to tell me now—that was your bargain with him—you know it was—when he died—”

  “Linda!” He broke in, shaking the words from her. “Quiet! I’ll tell you, but not here, not now, not with all these people.” There was alarm in his voice as if he must stop the woman’s talk at all costs.

  “Get them out, then.” She tore herself from his grasp, turned toward the gaping office worke
rs. “Get out! Get out! Leave us alone.” Her voice was strident, shrill.

  The crowd at the doorway retreated. She turned on the district attorney and the inspector. “Get out! Leave us alone!”

  Fairleigh spoke. “I think, Mr. Tracy and Mr. Inspector, if you would leave me alone with her for a few moments…”

  “Not a chance.” Herschman’s voice was like a sharp rasp.

  “She’s in a terribly wrought-up state and I’d like—”

  “I know what you’d like but you’re not going to get it. I don’t trust you, Fairleigh, so now I’m going to stick around and find out for my—”

  “Stop it! Stop this foolish talking and tell me where my child is—who are these men?—what do they want?—what business have—”

  “Listen, lady,” Herschman put in, “answer me a few questions and I’ll tell you where your child is.”

  “You know?” She released her hold on Fairleigh and turned toward the inspector, her eyes blazing.

  “Yes, I know, but first—”

  “Then tell me, tell me where he is—what does he look like—I haven’t seen him for fourteen years—fourteen years I’ve wanted him and longed for him, but he wouldn’t let me see him—I haven’t known where he was or who had him or even if he was alive at all—he said not until he died would I know—that was his punishment—he said I was ‘bad’—when he was dead he didn’t care—he said that then Mr. Fairleigh could tell me—but as long as he was alive I wouldn’t know—I wouldn’t

  “Linda! Please!” Fairleigh tried to stop her but it was no use now. She poured forth the story to Herschman.

  “Fourteen years—he must be a big boy now, almost as big as his father, and he’s mine, he’s all I have—but I’ve never had him—only once, right after he was born—just once I held him in my arms, my baby, my little David, and then they took him away, and I never saw him again, and he was all I had, part of me—and of David—big David— and all these years I’ve lived and hated and waited and wanted him dead—and now he’s dead—you’ve got to tell me—where have you got him—he said he didn’t care after he was dead—what—”

  “Listen, Miss Crossley I” This time it was Herschman who shook her, trying to stem the flow of her hysteria. “I’ll tell you where he is. But first you’ve got to answer some questions for me. First you’ve—”

  “No, no, tell me now—take me to him—let me see him—then I’ll answer anything, do anything, say anything—but my child first—my little David—”

  She was obsessed as only a woman can be, possessed by the urgency of her own purpose. She was like water held back, piled up, that finally bursts its dam in a wild, rushing flood that cannot be stemmed but must run its course.

  Herschman relinquished her arm, defeated for the moment.

  “Your child is with a family named Polk in West Albion, New Jersey. I’ll take you to him and then you’ll—”

  She was already at the door, dragging the inspector with her, her eyes alight with a hungry, half-mad expectancy. The district attorney followed close on their heels.

  Fairleigh leaped forward tried to restrain the three of them. “Linda! Inspector! Mr. Tracy!”

  She shook him off, turned on him savagely. “Leave me alone—you wouldn’t tell me, but now I know.”

  The district attorney pushed Fairleigh back with a firm hand. “And stay here,” he said significantly, “until we get back. Please do not follow us out there.”

  It was not until they got into the car outside that they noticed the absence of Spike and the second police car containing Mellett. But they didn’t stop to investigate. The car turned its long shining nose toward the Holland Tunnel, wound its way through the tortuous streets of lower Manhattan. Linda Crossley sat between the two men, tense, her hands in her lap gripping nothing but her own taut emotions, her eyes staring at the back of the chauffeur as if by some urgent telepathy she might increase their speed.

  They turned into Varick Street, started north. The road was clear and the lights were green. They sped forward. Then suddenly the chauffeur crashed on the brakes with a grinding squeal, and the three in the back lurched forward.

  “What the hell?”

  Another car with the insignia of the New York police department had cut alongside, crowded the inspector’s car over to the curb. A man jumped out. It was Mellett. He motioned to the district attorney to get out, to come with him to the other car whose curtains were mysteriously drawn.

  The district attorney looked puzzled but followed him, stuck his head inside the other car.

  “Philip! What on earth—”

  Spike held up a peremptory hand for silence. “Can it just now, Richard. Detail Mellett to go along with her and you and Herschman come back to Headquarters with me.”

  “But why—”

  “I know it sounds goofy, but I’ve—well, I’ve got a hunch. Don’t ask me what it is, but just come. You can trust Mellett to go along with her and deliver her back. Only hurry.”

  There was something in the terse insistency of his tone, something authoritative and sure despite the nebulousness of the ‘hunch.’ The district attorney hesitated, then went back to the other car, motioned Herschman to get out.

  There was a brief colloquy, swift directions to Mellett. Then Herschman and the district attorney came over to Spike’s car.

  “What the hell—” It was Herschman, but Spike cut him short.

  “Not now, Inspector, Just do as I say without questions. We’ve got to beat it back to Headquarters quick.” The car was already in motion. As it swung away from the other one they could see the face of Linda Crossley looking back, bewilderment, question, mingling with that urgent, mad expectancy.

  The three men did not speak. Traffic gave way before the screaming siren of their car. They raced past green lights and red. In ten minutes they were at Headquarters, tumbling out of the car. The y didn’t wait for the elevator but ran up the broad, marble stairs to the second floor.

  Spike was in the lead. The other two followed, but at a slower pace. He went up the stairs two at a time. He made straight for the district attorney’s office, burst it open, dashed across the room.

  When Herschman and the district attorney arrived he met them at the door, on his face a look of fears confirmed.

  “Look!” He pointed toward the desk.

  They looked. Their faces went blank.

  “But what is it? What’s the matter?”

  “Here! Come close.” He motioned them across the room to the desk. “There!” He pointed to the blotter, to one of the leather corners.

  The district attorney and the inspector leaned forward, peered at the tiny bit of paper that stuck out from under the diagonal of leather.

  Dark blue… “post office”… a queen’s head… two penny…

  It was the two-penny Mauritius “post office” stamp, missing from the collection of the late Prentice Crossley. Its catalog valuation was $17,000.

  CHAPTER XXX - Worse and More of It

  THE THREE MEN stared at each other.

  “What—what does it mean?” The district attorney looked toward Spike for an explanation.

  “I don’t know. I only know that—” He hesitated, glanced from his brother to the inspector. He motioned them to sit down.

  “What I’m going to say sounds goofy. I don’t expect to be believed. I can’t understand it myself. The only thing I do know is that as soon as that woman, Linda Crossley, came into Fairleigh’s office I had a feeling, a sense of—How shall I put it? I hate to use the words ‘psychic’ or ‘intuition.’ They sound silly—and feminine. What I mean to say is that I had a feeling so strong that I couldn’t resist it. I felt that I must get back to Headquarters. That something was drawing me here like a magnet. Some strange force that couldn’t be resisted, some—”

  He paused and looked at the two faces of his audience. They were not encouraging but he went on.

  “Anyway, I left the office and went downstairs and got in with Mellett an
d started back. Then I had a feeling that I should have waited for you, so I went back to Fairleigh’s. They told me you had started to West Albion. I knew you had to go through the Holland Tunnel, so I caught you there, and—”

  “Never mind about all that,” Herschman interrupted impatiently. “What about this?” He pointed to the stamp. “How did that get here and what does it mean?”

  He pressed a buzzer and almost immediately Lovelace, the district attorney’s secretary, appeared.

  “Who’s been here since we left?” Herschman demanded.

  Lovelace, a quiet young man of extreme earnestness, blinked behind the heavy lenses of his spectacles.

  “No one.”

  “No one called to see Mr. Tracy?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Anyone been in this room?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Sure?”

  “Of course. Anyone coming in here would have to pass me in the outer office, and no one has.”

  “You were at your desk all the time?”

  “Yes, sir. The only time I left it was to come in here myself to get a letter from the file.”

  “Notice anything when you were in here?”

  “Anything? No.” He was plainly bewildered.

  Herschman gave him a curt nod of dismissal.

  “Well, no one got in by that door,” he said when the secretary had left, “but what about that one?” He indicated another door on the farther side of the room. He got up and walked across and opened it. It led into another office, temporarily unoccupied, which in turn gave onto the hall.

  “In other words,” said Spike, “whoever left that stamp in here, came in that way.”

  The inspector nodded. His brows were knitted in a frown.

  For fifteen minutes the three men sat in the district attorney’s office trying vainly to explain this new and puzzling angle of an already inexplicable puzzle.

  At length Herschman rose. At the district attorney’s desk he picked up the stamp with a tiny pair of metal tweezers, laid it carefully on a piece of paper which in turn he put into an envelope. “I’m putting this with the others,” he said, and started toward the door.

  Spike rose too. “Listen, Inspector, let’s look at the one they took from the hand of Mrs. Ealing.”