“And you held the wire,” finished Duffield dryly. “Meanwhile, this bird—or somebody else—was beating it around to the box you’d left and knifing Mrs. Letts!”
Higginson nodded slowly. “Yes,” he agreed. “I guess that’s what happened, Duffy.”
“It was a man on the telephone, though. You’re sure of that?” The detective’s voice was strident. Outside, the witnesses pricked up their ears.
“Oh, it was a man on the telephone, all right,” cut in Dallas, with a faint sneer. “But it wasn’t necessarily a man that did this job.”
“Why so, Chief?” There was disagreement in Duffield’s query.
“Motive,” answered the chief laconically. His voice sank. “You can’t imagine a man caring enough, one way or another, to kill this old woman, can you?”
“One way or another about what?” asked Duffield.
“Anything,” said Dallas vaguely. He added: “If it was a man, Duff, it’d be a case of robbery—and the necklace would be gone. Look at it!”
“Mmmm,” admitted the other. “It’s a whooperdoo, all right.”
“It’s a lallapaloosa,” said Dallas.
“Ever any attempts on her before, Hig?” asked Marlowe.
“Not in my time.”
“Is that her glove?” The detective indicated a long and crumpled white object on the floor of the box.
“It’s hers,” answered Higginson gloomily.
The left hand and arm of the murdered Mrs. Letts were bare to the shoulder. The right hand and arm were gloved to a point above the elbow. They all studied the impassive woman for a moment, while Mrs. Letts’s eyes continued to stare blankly across the empty pit. She seemed to be accepting, with her usual placidity, this new experience of death and dissolution.
Her opera glasses lay on the floor a little distance from the body. Duffield picked them up. “Looks as if somebody had stepped on these,” he observed. “This scratch is pretty fresh.”
Higginson shrugged. “Afraid I did that, Duffy,” he confessed. “Last week. She lent ’em to me—at ‘The Love of Three Oranges,’ I dropped ’em and kicked ’em around a bit.”
“At the what?” demanded Duffield, incredulously.
“ ‘The Love of Three Oranges,’ ” said Higginson. “It’s another opera.”
“My God!” said Duffield.
“Forget that,” snapped Dallas, impatiently. “It’s obvious what happened. Hig got his call—I suppose he did—and left the box. While he was gone, the dame who did the job slid inside, crawled up behind the victim, and pushed a knife into her back. A very neat job too! Not a sound, apparently—although there might have been a little squeal, with perfect safety. I understand there was noise enough on the stage to cover almost anything. There was during the last two acts, anyway, while I was here. Then she slipped back to her own box and waited for the show to go on. All we’ve got to do,” he concluded sardonically, “is find the woman.”
The coroner was thoughtful. “It took nerve,” he remarked, at last. “You think one of these dames…outside…?”
“Sure, it took nerve,” said Dallas. “No, I don’t think one of these we’ve got did it—not necessarily. But they were nearest to this compartment. Maybe one of them saw something—or heard something. Anyway, if there was any society row on, they’ll be sure to have heard of it. We’ve got to start somewhere. Let’s have ’em in and get it over with.”
“All right,” said the coroner. “When did Higginson discover Mrs. Letts was dead?”
“At the end of the first act. He didn’t notice anything wrong when he came back. It was dark in the box. He was tired of waiting at the telephone, and he sort of sneaked in and took his seat quietly. That right, Higginson?”
“That’s about it,” agreed Higginson.
“When he did discover it, he called me,” concluded Dallas, “and I called you. And here we are,” he added cheerfully.
“How about the usher that called Higginson away?”
“Left with Higginson and didn’t come back. Knows nothing about it—he says.”
“Call them in,” said the coroner.
There entered first, as it happened, Miss Sally Cardiff. The summoner—Detective Sergeant Duffield—for obscure reasons of his own (reasons having to do with her eyes and hair)—had singled her out as the first victim of the inquisition.
She stopped short inside the curtains. Her eyes were very wide. They were even eager.
“Then it’s true!” said Sally Cardiff.
Slightly taken aback, Dallas answered. “What’s true?” he asked.
“That Mrs. Letts has been murdered!”
“Where did you hear that?” asked Dallas.
“I can see it—now! But I knew it before. It could only be that. Why else should the place be running over with policemen and reporters? What else could all the whispering mean? Why detain the box holders nearest to Mrs. Letts and send the rest of the audience away? And, by the way, I think that was a mistake, Mr. Detective.”
Her eyes sparkled with animation. “Why,” she said, “I knew there was something up when I saw Higginson bolt out of the box. And when you returned—”
“The deuce you did,” said the chief of detectives. He recovered a bit from his astonishment. “When would that be, Miss Cardiff? I mean, when you saw Higginson bolt out of the box?”
“At the end of the first act. I saw him lean over and say something to Mrs. Letts. Perhaps I didn’t actually see it—but I sensed his movement—you know? And a minute later I saw him get up and leave. I supposed Mrs. Letts had been taken ill.”
“Do you know Higginson?”
“I do not. But I have seen him before—with Mrs. Letts.”
“It is Mrs. Letts that you know?”
“Only casually—to speak to—in such places as this. She nodded to us all when she came in, but there was no conversation.”
“Not in the same set, perhaps?” inquired the detective, with pensive malice.
But there was no sting in the question for Sally Cardiff. “Exactly,” she smiled. Then the words burst from her quickly: “Who killed her?”
Dallas laughed shortly and silently. “That’s what we are trying to find out. You appear to be a young woman with ideas. Have you any that might help us to answer your own question?”
Miss Cardiff was suddenly apologetic. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “I just can’t help being curious. I’m a—a nuisance that way! I haven’t a suspicion in the world.”
But her eyes still glanced avidly in all directions—seeing everything, appraising everything. She was burning to ask a dozen questions, and a little ashamed of her curiosity. After all, what was it to her? She was probably under suspicion herself! Oddly, she felt no sense of crawling flesh in the presence of the murdered woman. Only a desire to look—to question—even to touch. To go down on her hands and knees and hunt upon the floor for clues. Good heavens! Was this the result of all her philosophy and reading? To make of her an amateur detective—stirred to a morbid Who-lust by the smell of blood?
For an instant she felt a little silly. Dallas was watching her.
“So you think it was a mistake for me to send away the audience?” he continued. “Just why, Miss Cardiff, if you don’t mind?”
She hesitated. “I hardly know,” she answered. “It was an impulsive remark—perhaps intuitive. I know, of course, that nobody from our own box went near this place; but I suppose I can’t answer for the persons in the box beyond. I think your action struck me as being rather the obvious thing, Mr….”
“My name is Dallas,” said Dallas, politely.
“Mr. Dallas. So obvious, in fact, as in all likelihood to be wrong. You see? That is, the man who did this would hardly—unless, of course, he were very clever indeed, and realized that the obvious thing might be overlooked—”
She was speaking, ultimately, to herself, and frowning very prettily over it, it occurred to Duffield.
Dallas studied her with profound interest. “Why do you say the man?” he asked suddenly.
“But wasn’t it?” she cried. She stooped swiftly to the floor of the box. “Mrs. Letts’s glove! See how it has been torn back from the elbow. No woman ever removed a glove that way. Why, it’s almost inside out. And he’s snapped a button off. Did you find the button, Mr. Dallas?”
Dallas laughed harshly. “We hadn’t quite got around to that glove yet, Miss Cardiff,” he answered, and swung sharply on his underlings. “Find that button, quick!”
Miss Cardiff studied the distance between the chair occupied by the corpse and the low railing of the box. “It might have jumped over the rail,” she observed, “if the glove was removed in haste. And probably it was.”
“Hustle downstairs and see if that button’s under the balcony, Marlowe,” snapped the chief of detectives. “You, too, Duffield!” Then he cleared his throat with some violence. “You are a remarkable young woman, Miss Cardiff,” he continued mildly. “What else does the glove tell you?”
He waited almost respectfully for her reply.
“You see,” she answered, holding out the glove for his inspection, “in a long glove of this sort there is a gusset, or opening, in the center of the palm; it extends to a point some inches upward on the wrist. This is buttoned at the top by three buttons, and it’s easier to open the buttons and work the hand out through the opening than it is to take off the glove. That’s the way Mrs. Letts would have done it, herself, if—for instance—she just wanted to cool her fingers.”
“I see,” said Dallas. “And a man wouldn’t do it that way?”
“He might, I suppose; but it’s unlikely. His first thought would be to turn the glove back at the top and rip it downward.”
“And a woman wouldn’t? I see!”
Miss Cardiff turned the glove back into its proper shape. “Now here,” she continued calmly, “is a point that is perhaps in favor of your theory. Notice how the finger tips are stained. They are—”
But Dallas fairly snatched the glove from her hand.
“It’s blood!” he crowed. “By George, Miss Cardiff, it’s blood!” By his gleeful shout he tacitly accepted her, for the moment, as his fellow worker in the vineyard of detection—a tremendous compliment.
Miss Cardiff retrieved the glove and sniffed it. “No,” she said, “it’s rouge. I thought it was; that’s why I said what I did.”
For an instant Dallas was petrified. Then, “Of course!” he bellowed. “Of course it’s rouge!” He smiled. “Then it was a woman, after all.”
“It may have been,” admitted Miss Cardiff, and then they both looked accusingly, for a moment, at the dead lips of Mrs. Emmanuel B. Letts. It was plainly to be seen that no rouge had been upon those lips for a long time. Certainly no scarlet rouge.
The chief of detectives thrust his head over the railing and called down to his searchers below.
“Just got it, Chief,” floated upward the voice of Duffield. “By golly, she was right! It popped over like a blooming poker chip.”
“Come up here again,” said Dallas jovially, “and take some lessons from a detective that knows her business….By George, Miss Cardiff,” he continued with enthusiasm, “you are a howling wonder! There’s one thing, though, that you won’t discover for a time—and neither will I.”
Miss Cardiff looked anxious. “What is that?” she asked.
“Why the murderess found it necessary to remove that glove. It’s certain that Mrs. Letts didn’t take it off, herself; so the other woman must have. You’ve made that clear, at least.”
Miss Cardiff’s brow cleared.
“Oh,” she said, “I thought you knew why the glove had been removed. Surely the impression of the ring is quite plain on the poor woman’s third finger. And from the little bulge in the corresponding finger of the glove, the stone must have been a heavy one. Obviously, a valuable ring has been stolen.”
Dallas sat stunned. For a long moment he stared his complete amazement. When he spoke it was in a husky whisper.
“A ring,” he echoed. “A valuable ring?” Then his eyes swung to the gleaming, glittering toy on the dead woman’s throat. His bewilderment at last found other words. “She took a ring—and left that necklace?”
“Of course,” smiled Sally Cardiff cheerily. “The necklace is an imitation.”
* * *
—
Could a woman have committed the crime? Sally Cardiff doubted it. Dallas, of course, was simply prejudiced. Intuition was a funny thing. It whispered to Dallas—a man—that a woman had done this deed. To Sally Cardiff—a woman—it whispered that a man had done it. Perhaps she, also, was prejudiced.
The blow, of course, delivered from behind—and by a person stretched along the floor, and therefore upward—had been, no doubt, a vigorous one. But there are powerful women in the world. And perhaps the murderer had not stretched himself on the floor to deliver his blow. Mrs. Letts had sat well back in the box—it was dark—he could have been in the shadow of the curtains. It was all really much simpler than it appeared. But the glove button was an evidence of masculinity, Dallas to the contrary notwithstanding.
And yet—what of the rouge on the finger tips?
Women, at times, shook hands with one another. And not heartily, as men did. They purred softly and touched finger tips! It was possible that Mrs. Letts had greeted some such creature before entering the box—and that the creature, an instant before, had dabbed at her lips.
If only the weapon could be found! Mrs. Letts had been wearing an evening dress of silver metal cloth. It had been cut high, since her back was none too lovely. The knife had penetrated the cloth to reach the flesh. Miss Cardiff hummed softly to herself. There were possibilities in the situation. But the knife was with the murderer—or the murderess. Have it your own way, Mr. Dallas! Probably it had been cleaned, anyway, and restored to its original innocence.
“And yet…” murmured Miss Cardiff, puckering her forehead.
It was quite late. Indeed, it was quite early. It was, in point of fact, 3 A.M. Mrs. Letts had been dead about six hours, roughly speaking. Maybe five-and-a-half. Let Dallas figure it. What difference did it make? But it did make a difference—didn’t it? It was a legitimate supposition that the murderer—who was not a fool—had selected his time. Roughly. He couldn’t be sure of Higginson, of course. Higginson might have left the telephone without waiting for the “important message for Mrs. Letts”; in which case…Anyway, the murderer had worked rapidly.
He had telephoned from somewhere inside the opera house. Even Dallas must be sure of that. However, there were a number of telephones in the building; they were scattered about the several lobbies and lounges, in convenient corners. For that matter, there were telephones in the office! At the ticket window! In every room occupied by a member of the management!
It was a shocking thought.
“Tut!” said Miss Cardiff.
A minute later it was less shocking. Even a member of the official staff would not have been fool enough to telephone through the switchboard. He would have gone to a public telephone. His call would then be received by an outside operator and would re-enter the opera house by way of another public telephone. The number of the second public telephone would be known, of course, to the murderer. Very simple. Very clever.
Miss Cardiff drew her robe more comfortably about her shoulders. The room was cooling off. It seemed that weeks had passed since her interview with Dallas. She had been at home for more than an hour. On the way home there had been much conversation. The others had been able to tell Dallas nothing at all. Young Mr. Castle had been all for arresting Higginson at once. The Hassards had seen nothing—heard nothing—but the opera. Had the occupants of the other box? They were a
ll closer to Mrs. Letts than the Hassard group. Closer socially. They knew more about her.
But what was there to know?
There was Emmanuel B. Letts, of course. He was still living—somewhere in the East. The divorce had occurred at least ten years before the première of “The Robber Kitten.” It had been quiet enough: whatever scandal attached—and there was nothing sensational that one remembered—had attached to the banker Letts. As far as the murder was concerned, he seemed a bit out of the picture.
Miss Cardiff reviewed the episodes of the opera. Mrs. Letts had died during the first act. At what point? Was the uproar, at the moment, particularly furious? The overture, after all, had been the noisiest part of the performance; and Mrs. Letts was placidly alive when the overture had concluded. She recalled a trifling incident to prove it. The overture had ended, the applause of the audience had subsided, and the lines of the opera had begun. Mrs. Letts had put up her glasses and leaned forward in her chair. After a time she had leaned back again. That was all. But it proved conclusively that Mrs. Letts was not murdered during the overture.
But did it prove…
“Oh dear!” murmured Sally Cardiff.
Was it conceivable that Mrs. Letts had been murdered in that instant of leaning forward and leaning back again? The moment would have been admirably propitious for a murderer intent on avoiding the chair back. And the racket, at the time, surely had been sufficient. Diaz was singing an aria describing his exploits as the Robber Kitten, and doing a good job of it. The house was intent on the stage. Immediately thereafter there had been a duet between Diaz and Colchis, which could hardly have been described as a lullaby. It was a bit screechy. The orchestra, in the instrumental intervals, had been consistently boisterous. A tiny little scream in Mrs. Letts’s box might well have gone unnoted.
Miss Cardiff continued to recall the incidents of the evening. Something had struck her as odd. What was it?
After a moment it occurred to her. The man in the orchestra pit who had looked like Palestrina!
She bit her lips on the fantastic thought that flashed through her mind. Mrs. Letts was a noted patron of the opera. She knew everybody. Without her guarantee it was doubtful if the opera could survive. Undoubtedly she knew Palestrina.
The Big Book of Female Detectives Page 109