The Big Book of Female Detectives

by The Big Book of Female Detectives (retail) (epub)

“There was no policeman in the hall,” it said. “Such negligence on the part of the authorities is a lucky break for me. I am here to kill you both. No, do not scream. That would force me to fire in the darkness and possibly only maim you. I am giving you this moment of darkness for your prayers.”

  The voice was ghastly, unrecognizable. It is what the voice of Death would sound like, Liz thought.

  “It will all explain itself,” the voice went on. “You sent for Liz, Sister. They know that. It will be clear that you wished to confront her with evidence of her guilt. She killed you out of spite, herself from remorse. The picture will be plain.”

  There was no sound in the darkness but the tiny clicking of Sister Ursula’s rosary beads.

  “You are wise to attempt nothing,” the voice went on. “Since you must die, die in peace.”

  The light came on. Liz’s blinking eyes saw the figure in the doorway, and her brain whirled. Then she heard the shot.

  But it did not come from the automatic pistol in the figure’s hand. That automatic fell to the floor as blood spurted from the hand holding it and a look of terrified amazement spread over Uncle Brian’s face.

  For Liz, the darkness grew and enveloped her….

  Sister Ursula was sitting by the bed when Liz opened her eyes. She shuddered as memory came back. “Is it all over? Was it really Uncle Brian?”

  Sister Ursula nodded.

  “Where is he now? Was he killed?”

  “He was only slightly wounded. He’s down at Headquarters. Lieutenant Latimer phoned a few minutes ago. Brian Cain is making a complete confession.”

  “But how did you know?”

  “Two things made me sure,” the nun replied quietly. “One was the bottle and the other was the food poisoning. You remember I said there was one sure way of allaying Hatch’s suspicion?”

  “Yes, drinking it yourself. But how was it accomplished?”

  “By drinking it himself—and then taking an emetic and an antidote before the poison could begin to work. There was some tincture of iodine missing from Dr. Frayne’s bag, too. Diluted, that is a specific antidote for strychnine. The murderer drank with Hatch, then left him promptly and visited the bathroom. And of all the people in this house, only your uncle showed the effects of such treatment, though he attributed it to indisposition.

  “Also on his word alone depended the evidence of the bottle. There was no bottle. The poisoned liquor was given in Mr. Cain’s silver flask, relic of the twenties, which would never be noticed by police carefully hunting for a liquor bottle belonging to Hatch.”

  “But why should he have made up the bottle scene?”

  “To distract us from the important fact that he had admitted being in Hatch’s room. Why did he admit that? Because Roger Garvey saw him there. Garvey was afraid the murderer would kill him. Why? Because Garvey knew something dangerous. How did the murderer know he knew? Because Garvey had told the murderer, probably with a threat of blackmail. When the murderer refused to pay for silence, Garvey thought he was scheduled to die.”

  “Uncle Brian tried to kill us,” Liz said. “Why didn’t he kill Roger?”

  “He was too wise,” Sister Ursula said. “There was no need of it. Instead he drew the teeth of the blackmailer by admitting the visit himself, and adding a distracting touch with the bottle.”

  “Have you seen Roger?”

  “Yes. He talked this morning. And his blackmail was not for money. You remember when he was pressing your uncle for a job? After he heard Mr. Cain deny returning to Hatch’s room, he tried to use his knowledge as a lever to get that job. It never entered his head that Mr. Cain might refuse.”

  “But he has a good job here.”

  “His employer may die soon, ending the job. But that was not the main point. Employed by the Cain aeroplane plant, he might get draft deferment, which he could not hope for here. He risked his life, as he thought, with a murderer and got himself shot by the police, in order that he might not be shot by the enemy.”

  “But if you knew all this, why didn’t you tell Ben and have him attend to Uncle Brian?”

  “I did tell Lieutenant Latimer. That was why we arranged last night’s scene. We did not have a case for a jury. We needed more evidence. You remember that your mother’s shuffling of rooms ended up with your uncle and me in the servant’s quarters? I arranged to explain my theory to you loudly enough so that he would hear it in the next room. I hoped that he would betray himself, and Lieutenant Latimer was ready in the closet when he did.”

  At this moment Dr. Frayne poked his bearded face in at the door. “Feeling chipper again, Liz?”

  “I guess so. As chipper as I can under the circumstances. How’s Graffer?”

  “I haven’t seen him yet. Overslept this morning myself after last night’s strenuous duties.” He withdrew his head.

  “Sister Ursula,” Liz said. “Why on earth did Uncle Brian kill that Fist impostor?”

  “Because Hatch recognized him. At least that’s what I surmise. Do you remember back during the Sinclair campaign when there was talk about the New Vigilantes? They were going to protect and save the State after it was plunged into Socialistic chaos.

  “No one ever knew who the important men in the organization were. The group had fascist connections. The Fists were anti-fascist, and Hatch’s assignment then was to study them in North Beach. As an apparent fascist, he got high enough in the New Vigilantes to meet the leaders. When he saw Mr. Cain again, he recognized him.

  “Revelation of the Vigilante business would ruin the reputation of a hero of modern industry.”

  Ben came in, then, to interrupt them. He said nothing until he had kissed Liz.

  Then as he started to speak, she said. “Don’t ask me how I am and am I chipper. What do you expect?”

  “Ostrich feathers,” said Ben. “At least I can ask how you are, Sister?”

  Sudden realization hit Liz. “And if I am all right, it isn’t much thanks to you, Ben Latimer! You—you used me for bait!”

  Before Ben could answer, the door opened. It was Dr. Frayne again.

  “Don’t worry about your grandfather’s grieving over the news,” the physician said. “He won’t ever know—here.” They looked at him, and he added, “Last night. In his sleep.” Frayne shut the door.

  “He was a good man,” said Ben.

  Liz’s eyes were dry with that dryness that stings so much worse than tears.

  “Now look, Liz,” Ben went on. “Don’t be sore at me. You say I used you. Okay. Maybe that’s even true. I guess it is. But don’t you see why I used you? Sister Ursula wanted to call Sherry, but I vetoed it.”

  Liz’s temper flashed through her grief. “So you wouldn’t risk her precious neck, but with me it was all right?”

  “Uh-huh. Because I can use you, you see. Just like I can use my own hand. I wouldn’t have the right to go risking a stranger. But you’re part of me.”

  Liz smiled up at him. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Sister Ursula quietly leaving the room.

  DETECTIVE: HILDEGARDE WITHERS

  THE RIDDLE OF THE BLACK MUSEUM

  Stuart Palmer

  A DESCENDENT OF COLONISTS who settled in Salem, Massachusetts, in 1634, Charles Stuart Palmer (1905–1968) led a picaresque American life before becoming a successful writer, holding such jobs as iceman, sailor, publicity man, apple picker, newspaper reporter, taxi driver, poet, editor, and ghostwriter.

  The Penguin Pool Murder (1931) introduced the popular spinster-sleuth Hildegarde Withers. Formerly a schoolteacher, the thin, angular, horse-faced snoop devotes her energy to aiding Inspector Oliver Piper of the New York City Police Department, driving him slightly crazy in the process. She is noted for her odd, even eccentric, choice of hats. Palmer stated that she was based on his high school English teac
her, Miss Fern Hackett, and on his father.

  There were thirteen more novels in the Miss Withers series, the last, Hildegarde Withers Makes the Scene (1969), being completed by Fletcher Flora after Palmer died. There also were four short story collections, with the first, The Riddles of Hildegarde Withers (1947), being selected as a Queen’s Quorum title. It was followed by The Monkey Murder and Other Hildegarde Withers Stories (1950) and People vs. Withers and Malone (1963), in conjunction with Craig Rice, which also featured her series character, John J. Malone. The fourth, Hildegarde Withers: Uncollected Riddles (2002), was published posthumously.

  The film version of The Penguin Pool Murder was released in 1932 and spurred five additional comic mystery films. The first three of the six featured Edna May Oliver in a perfect casting decision, followed by Helen Broderick, and then two with Zasu Pitts, including the last, Forty Naughty Girls (1937). Piper was played by James Gleason in all films.

  The success of the series gained Palmer employment as a scriptwriter with thirty-seven mystery screenplays to his credit, mostly for such popular series as Bulldog Drummond, the Lone Wolf, and the Falcon.

  “The Riddle of the Black Museum” was originally published in the March 1946 issue of Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine; it was first collected in The Riddles of Hildegarde Withers (New York, Jonathan Press, 1947).

  The Riddle of the Black Museum

  STUART PALMER

  MR. HUBERT HOLCOMB lay on his back in a cleared space at the far end of the long narrow cellar room, beyond the lines of shelves with their dusty, grim exhibits. The flashbulbs exploded almost in his face, but Holcomb did not mind. He did not even blink, for he had been dead since early that afternoon. Between two and three, the assistant medical examiner thought.

  There were a number of plainclothesmen around the body. Inspector Oscar Piper, looking more than ever like a graying, housebroken leprechaun, surveyed the remains without visible enthusiasm. Then he looked carefully all around on the stone floor, not that he expected to find anything. But it was up to the skipper of the Homicide squad to act as if he knew what he was doing. Besides, it gave him time to think.

  But there didn’t seem to be any clues. Nothing, that is, except the long rope of cunningly-woven fine black silk which was still looped once around the dead man’s neck, the ends extending for more than four feet in either direction, like an over-length skating scarf.

  The Inspector relighted his dead cigar and said, “Identification done?”

  Blunt-faced Sergeant Hardesty nodded. “Preliminary. From papers in his pocket. Social Security stuff, letters, all like that. He’s Hubert Holcomb, age 58, lives 422 East 73rd Street, Manhattan.”

  “He used to be headwaiter or something like that at the old Hotel Grande,” put in another detective. “What’d the Doc have to say?”

  “He was strangled, Doc Fink says. A slow, nasty job. No fracture of the vertebrae or the hyoid bone.”

  The Inspector nodded sagely and looked at his watch. Then he turned toward the door, which stood at the other end of the narrow central corridor, and his normally crisp and rasping voice swelled to a roar. “Breck!”

  The door opened and a sweating young patrolman, new to the Bureau, poked in his blank, reddish face.

  “Yes, Inspector?”

  “Any messages?”

  “No, sir. Only word to call the Commissioner when it’s convenient.”

  Piper winced. He had already talked to the Commissioner, or at least listened to him. “Was there nobody else? I was expecting another message.”

  “No, sir. There were some newspaper guys outside, but I gave ’em the bum’s rush. Then there were the usual nuts who always try to get to the scene of a crime. Rubberneck stuff. One in particular—I thought I’d never brush her off, but I managed it.”

  “Good, good,” commended the Inspector absently. Then he turned. “By any chance was this nut you brushed off a sort of angular, middle-aged dame?”

  Breck smiled. “I guess you musta had trouble with her before, huh? Yeah, she was about that. Weight around 135, height five nine….”

  “Never mind that. Was she wearing a hat that looked like it had been made by somebody who had heard of hats but never actually seen one? Did she have a face like Whirlaway’s mother?”

  “Why—yeah, I mean yes, sir. But don’t worry. I told her you were busy with a homicide, and couldn’t be disturbed. So she’s gave up by now.”

  Piper sighed. “That lady happens to be a special side-kick of mine. I’ve been trying to get hold of her all afternoon. She wouldn’t give up, no matter what you said. So go find her, fast!”

  It turned out that the unhappy officer had only to open the hall door, and Miss Hildegarde Withers sailed in, glaring one of her best glares at the Inspector. “Really! I hardly expected—” Then she saw where she was. “Oscar, this is the Black Museum!”

  “So what? It’s one hell of a place to have a murder committed, right here across the street from Headquarters. Fine publicity it will make!”

  “Fine indeed,” agreed the schoolteacher absently. She came slowly along the narrow passage between the crowded shelves, her eyes bulging at the accumulation of gruesome relics. She looked upon knives and swords and hatchets, curved scimitars and straight razors, saw-edged krisses and stilettos with long needle points. There were automatics and revolvers, great horse-pistols which a man could hardly lift with one hand, tiny derringers which could slip out of sight up a gambler’s sleeve, antique blunderbusses and modern shotguns, rifles with barrels as long as a tall man and chased with silver.

  There were ropes and infernal machines, hammers and blackjacks and sash-weights and hatpins, and a hundred other articles the exact use of which one might only imagine. But the general effect was all too clear. She stood among a thousand weapons, each of which was collected here in this room because it had done a man to death. Here was Manhattan’s version of the world-famous Black Museum at New Scotland Yard, with an American accent.

  “Mercy me!” said the maiden schoolma’am. “Look at all the dust and spiderwebs, too. Makes one want to get busy with a broom!”

  Piper lowered his voice, so that the detectives at the farther end of the room could not hear. “Makes me want to get out of here,” he confided. “Just a minute, Hildegarde. The body is back there. But before you have a look, let me fill in the picture. At two o’clock this afternoon three men were admitted to this place. They were all strangers to each other, all very interested in having a look at the Black Museum. The attendant in charge was called away to the phone on some routine matter, and while he was gone it happened—apparently an impromptu job. As he came back he heard somebody yelling for help and pounding on the door, which he had locked from the outside. When he got in he found that Holcomb was strangled, and each of the survivors was pointing at the other and screaming ‘He did it! I saw him!’ ”

  Miss Withers sniffed. “That simplifies our problem. Only two suspects.”

  “Yeah, it simplifies things to the point where I’m about to get rousted out of the Force. Because the Commissioner hit the ceiling. He’s given me until six P.M. tomorrow to solve this thing, or else accept indefinite suspension without pay. And it’s a physical impossibility to solve it. The killer was smart enough to tell exactly the same story as the innocent bystander. And you can’t break it from motive, because Holcomb was a little nonentity whom nobody could have had reason to bump.”

  “So far as we know,” Miss Withers reminded him gently.

  “Yeah. So I sent for you because—well, two or three times in the past you managed to stumble on the truth, with your blind luck, and—”

  “Blind luck!” echoed the schoolteacher indignantly. “I stumbled, did I? Well—”

  But whatever else she was about to say was lost as Miss Hildegarde Withers found herself staring down at the body of the rotund little old man with the polishe
d bald head, the face still purplish and distorted, the silken rope around his neck. “Oh, dear!” gasped Miss Withers, and turned away.

  “What we figure happened,” Piper continued, “is that when the attendant went out of the room, the three visitors split up and went wandering around looking at what interested them. Holcomb came back here, and one of the others followed him, snatched up that noose, and had him strangled before the other man knew about it or could do anything.”

  “I see.” Miss Withers was peering at a nearby exhibit, consisting of a champagne bottle, the base of which had been smashed into jagged shards, now tipped with brownish-black stains. The card propped before it read: Bottle used by Stanik Bard in murder of Hyman Kinch, Hotel Grande Ballroom, October 1921.

  “Now if you want to see the attendant—” Piper was saying.

  “I would rather see the card. All the exhibits have cards. If the murderer reached up and grabbed the most convenient weapon, namely the noose, then where is the card?”

  The Inspector demanded of his detectives if any of them had seen a card on the floor. Nobody had. Everybody looked. But it was Miss Withers who first gave tongue above the quarry, perhaps because she started looking at the end of the room farthest from the corpse and nearest the door. The card, still in its place, read: Assassin’s noose, Moslem origin, used by Ab-el-Harun in murder of Mary Malone, Central Park, August 1917.

  “I remember that case,” the Inspector was beginning. “I saw him burned, too—”

  Miss Withers looked at him, and sniffed. “Oscar, I think I’ve seen enough of this place. It seems to have a definite odor.”

  “I know what you mean. Remember, I used to keep some of these exhibits up in my office—the ones I’d worked on, I mean. But I got the feeling they gave me the willies.” He held the door open for her. “Now I suppose you want to see the suspects? They’re pretty big shots, both of ’em, and have to be handled with kid gloves. We’re holding Charley Thayer, the wonder boy of politics, and Dexter Moore, the famous war correspondent.”