Lieutenant Peabody nodded. “Go on. Tell me please, Miss March, everything you can remember. Everything he said.”
She told it all again as she had told Matt. Neither of the men seemed to move as she talked. Except for her voice the room was very quiet; she could hear like a remote accompaniment the deep murmur of traffic sounds from Lake Shore Drive. Again when she had finished, Lieutenant Peabody seemed to review all the record with which she had now provided him and had instantly stored it away in his filing cabinet, as she talked. He said finally to Matt, “How did you get hold of the child?”
“Well,” Matt said, “it was a long process. In spite of all our efforts we were never successful in communicating with Stanislowski.”
Peabody gave a little short nod which seemed to be one of his characteristics; it was very brief and effortless, as if he wished to conserve his energy. He said to Laura, “He told you that, in fact, your letters may have made it only harder for him to escape?”
Laura nodded. “Ah,” Peabody said and turned to Matt. “Go on, please.”
Matt said, “We had, of course, got in touch with all the relief agencies. During the war, as you know, thousands of Polish people were shifted around from one camp to another, displaced persons. We thought it possible that Conrad Stanislowski had turned up in one of these camps or at some relief agency. In a last effort to comb the various agencies for him we discovered that there was a child by the name of Jonny Stanislowski in Vienna, and according to her birth certificate which was on file at the orphanage, she was the child of Conrad Stanislowski— our Conrad Stanislowsky, the son of Stefan, Conrad Stanley’s brother—”
Laura listened while Matt explained it in detail. Lieutenant Peabody nodded. “No doubt of the child’s identity,” he said. “What did you do then?”
“I flew to Vienna. The American Army Headquarters and the relief organization helped me straighten things out. She was his child all right but her appearance at the orphanage was a little on the mysterious side. Certainly her father had not brought her there, she had arrived in the escort of a man named Schmidt. We assumed either that her father was alive and for some reason had no way to care for her, or that he was dead and some friend of his had managed to get her into the orphanage. This was the most reasonable theory. And, of course, as the will reads, Stanislowski could claim the fund only if he fulfilled the conditions. He didn’t turn up in America; the reason didn’t affect the interpretation of the will. On the other hand—Jonny was his child.”
Lieutenant Peabody nodded. “So you felt obliged to bring her home?”
“Certainly,” Matt said. “I—we couldn’t leave the child in an orphanage! Obviously the thing to do was to bring her back to America. Besides, it was a question whether or not her father was dead; if he were dead, then she was her father’s heir, and we felt that there was no question of Conrad Stanley’s intention in establishing the fund.”
“Ah,” Lieutenant Peabody observed.
Matt hesitated for a second as if it had been a question. “It’s a perfectly clear situation,” he said. “If her father was dead—”
“But you don’t seem to have been able to prove that he was either dead or alive,” Peabody said mildly. “However—please go on. You brought the child here.”
“Yes. The American Army Headquarters helped cut red tape. When I took her away I left the letter outlining the whole situation with the head of the orphanage. There was full information about the Conrad Stanley will in it, and the names of Doris Stanley, Mr. Stanley’s widow, and, of course, the name of Miss March and the other trustee, Charlie Stedman. We really had nothing on which to base a hope that Conrad Stanislowski himself would turn up in America, ever. At the same time we had a moral and humane responsibility for the child. And there was also the consideration that if her father were dead, she was his heir. In any event we all knew what Conrad Stanley would have wished us to do.”
The Lieutenant turned to Laura. “Now, as I understand it, Miss March, this man this afternoon told you that he had received that letter?”
Laura said, “Yes. And he must have had it, otherwise he wouldn’t have known my name. He wouldn’t have known that Jonny is here.”
The Lieutenant neither agreed nor disagreed; he said thoughtfully to Matt, “There must have been, then, a sort of time limit to this will. That is, you were prepared to accept it as a fact, either that Conrad Stanislowski was dead or that he was not going to arrive here and take out American citizenship papers and claim this fund.”
Matt said, “We had to come to some sort of conclusion. You are quite right, Lieutenant. There was a time limit to the will— three years. That is, if Stanislowski did not turn up in that time or couldn’t get to America or we had no word from him, then the Stanislowski provision of the will was to be waived.”
“Three years,” Lieutenant Peabody said. “You say Conrad Stanley died three years ago. The time limit is about up.”
“Yes. In January.”
After a moment Lieutenant Peabody said thoughtfully, “So he got here just in time. What was to happen to this fund if nobody turned up to claim it?”
Matt replied again, “That’s all in the will. After a three-year wait, if Conrad Stanislowski failed to turn up and claim the money, or if we could not discover him, then his portion of the estate was to be divided between other heirs.”
“What other heirs?”
Matt said too easily and too matter-of-factly all at once, “It would have gone in equal shares to Mrs. Stanley, to Charlie Stedman and to”—he nodded at Laura—“Miss March.”
“I see.” The Lieutenant looked dreamily at Laura.
Matt said, “Miss March was a sort of ward of Stanley’s, that is, not legally, but Conrad Stanley was a friend of her father’s and helped Laura with her education. Laura then worked for him as his secretary. That is why he made her a co-trustee for the Stanislowski fund. Charlie Stedman is the other trustee. I think I told you that. He is a manufacturer, and an old friend of Conrad Stanley’s.”
There was again a short silence in the room. Laura sensed rather than saw a kind of uneasiness in Matt; perhaps it lay in his stillness, or in the intent yet somehow guarded way he looked at a tiny silver box of matches he was turning in his hand.
Then Lieutenant Peabody said quietly, “It’s odd that you should find the claimant to all this money murdered, isn’t it, Miss March?”
EIGHT
THERE WAS A LITTLE clatter as Matt dropped the silver box on the table and rose. Laura said in a suddenly brittle voice that did not seem to belong to her, “Lieutenant Peabody, I did not kill Conrad Stanislowski in order to get a third of his money.”
“My dear young lady!” Lieutenant Peabody managed to look rather shocked yet his dreamy gaze was very observant.
A curious cold kind of anger flicked Laura. She said directly, “I thought that’s what you meant.”
Matt glanced at her with a quick flash of approval.
The Lieutenant said very politely, “I’m sorry. I was only reasoning logically that now that the claimant to this fund is dead, a very large sum of money will be divided among you, the other trustee and, of course, the widow. So in a sense it is advantageous to you that Conrad Stanislowski died.”
Matt said, “You’ve forgotten the child.”
The Lieutenant eyed him. “I see. What exactly did you intend to do about her? I mean, if this man had not turned up this afternoon?”
“That’s why we brought her from Vienna, Lieutenant. I thought I made that clear. We regarded her as her father’s heir and we thought it logical to assume that he was dead. In any event, whether he was dead or alive—”
Peabody interrupted. “Let me get this straight. Did Conrad Stanley specifically mention any heirs of his nephew in his will?”
“No, he didn’t. You can take a look at the will yourself.”
“I’ll do that, Cosden,” Peabody said quietly.
Matt said, “Mr. Stanley drew it up for the most part
without legal aid. He was like that. Of course, it’s a perfectly legal document, all clear and properly witnessed. He referred to his nephew by name, he had never seen him and he had had no communication with him. In fact, he must have been himself a little uncertain as to whether the nephew was still alive. Nevertheless, he had a feeling about his name and his blood relatives and, as I told you, Conrad Stanley always felt that he owed so great a debt to America for the opportunities it had given him that he wished to pass on this opportunity to his nephew. The three-year provision was, I suppose, in his mind a reasonable provision, meant to cover the very likely contingency that his nephew would not be found. Naturally, since he did not know that his nephew had a daughter, he made no specific provision for the child. And, of course, he made no provision at all to cover the exact situation which had developed, that is, that we were able to find Conrad Stanislowski’s child but were not able to find Stanislowski himself. But however the will might be interpreted, Conrad Stanley’s intent was very clear. Our idea is that the trust fund should be continued until Jonny is of age and should then be turned over to her as her father’s heir.”
“Is that settled?”
“No. It isn’t settled yet, legally. It will have to go through the courts. But I don’t think there’s much doubt of the interpretation of the intent of the will.”
“But you have agreed to this among yourselves. I mean Mrs. Stanley, Stedman and Miss March—all of you have agreed to petition the court to continue the fund for the little girl?”
Matt hesitated for a barely perceptible second; then he said, “There is, I’m sure, no disagreement among us. We have postponed the exact and legal arrangement until the date when the estate is to be settled, which would be the normal time to do anything like that. That is, in January. The point is, Lieutenant Peabody, nobody stood to gain by the death of this man who came this afternoon. You’re looking for motives, of course, but that one is out, believe me.”
The Lieutenant said quietly, “Somebody killed him.”
There was another rather long pause. The traffic roar along the Drive had dwindled as it grew late. A heavier fog must be coming in from the lake for the foghorn near the Navy pier gave a low hoarse warning through the night. Presently Lieutenant Peabody shifted his position slightly. He said, “Now let’s go over this interview you had with this man, Miss March, again. First, did you have any doubt as to his claim?”
“No,” Laura said. “At least not while he was here.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“It’s just as I told you, Lieutenant. When he saw Jonny he didn’t speak to her and Jonny didn’t speak to him. He then asked me to tell no one of his arrival, and went away. There was something about him that I believed. I wasn’t sure I was right, though, not to tell Matt and the others of his arrival. In any event it suddenly struck me that if Jonny had recognized him she would have shown some sort of reaction. Even if at the very moment when she saw him she had been startled or perhaps frightened, still it seemed to me that later on she would have shown some sort of feeling. So then I thought that the man must be an impostor. But when I took the Polish dictionary and went to question her—”
The Lieutenant interrupted. “Did you question her?”
“No. It was then that I found her crying. So I knew that she must have recognized him and that he was her father.”
“But you did, at least for a moment, waver in your conviction that he was Stanislowski?”
“Yes. But only for a moment.”
“He gave you no hint as to what he intended to do during these few days when he wished his arrival to be kept a secret?”
“No.”
“You explained to him the entire situation—that is, that he would have to see Mrs. Stanley, Cosden, the other trustee?”
“I intended to phone to Matt then. He asked me not to. He seemed—frightened.”
“That’s an odd thing, isn’t it? Why should he be frightened? He merely came to see you, and to see that his child was safely here, in your care?”
“He seemed frightened,” she said stubbornly.
“Well,” the Lieutenant said, “that’s a matter of opinion, isn’t it? However, he did know all about this will.”
“Yes, of course. He had the letter which Matt left at the orphanage.”
“But he refused to show you the letter. In point of fact, he refused to show you any sort of identification.”
“He said he would have everything in the way of identification we required in a few days.”
“He didn’t say that he was going to see anybody?”
“No. He only told me his address.”
The Lieutenant said unexpectedly, “You are very young to be made a trustee for the Stanley will. You must have thought over your responsibilities very seriously. Cosden here”—he nodded at Matt—“and the other trustee, Stedman, must have warned you that there was a possibility that someone would hear of this very unusual will and attempt to claim the money.”
“Oh, yes,” Laura said. “That’s why I questioned him about his identification. I didn’t want to; I wanted to take him to Jonny immediately.”
The Lieutenant leaned forward slightly. “Miss March, are you sure that he was dead when you found him?”
“Yes! There was no question of it. I felt his pulse. And then I got a little mirror out of my compact and held it to his mouth—” The Lieutenant interrupted. “Did you try to help him?”
“No. No. There was nothing I could do. He was dead.”
“Describe the room, please.”
“The room? Why, it—it is just a room, small, not much in it. A bed, a writing table. He was on the floor, near the table. There was a chest of drawers. His suitcase stood on the floor near the bed. The overcoat he had worn was across the bed. His jacket was on a chair.” She remembered the gray shirt he wore and the red splotches on the back of it. She stopped.
“Any other details about the room?”
She could still see the brightly lighted little room in all its bareness and its tragedy. “No— Oh, yes, I think there were two glasses on the table.”
She knew, of course, that Lieutenant Peabody had already examined the room and had seen everything that she had seen. He said, however, in a very quiet, almost a casual voice, “Did the glasses look clean?”
She hesitated. “Yes. Yes, I think so. I don’t remember seeing anything in them.”
The Lieutenant said, “What exactly did you do?”
“I told you—”
“Tell me again.”
“I—felt for his pulse and tried to see with the mirror if he was still breathing. Then I glanced around the room but I really was thinking only of Jonny and that it was murder. It was—horrible. I only wanted to get away—”
“So you knew at once that it was murder?”
“How could it be anything else? The wounds were in his back.”
“The Lieutenant said, “It seems to me that your mind was working very clearly if you reasoned at once that it was murder.”
Matt said, “It was perfectly clear, Lieutenant. He couldn’t have killed himself like that. It was a physical impossibility. Anybody would have known at once that it was murder.”
“No doubt,” Peabody said. “But it must have been a great shock to you, Miss March. People do not ordinarily encounter a murder. At least people who are not in my profession. You must have been interested in the papers which he claimed to have, his passport and his papers of identification. Didn’t you look for them?”
“No! I never thought of it. All I could think of was Jonny and —and that he was murdered.”
“You are sure you didn’t—say, open the suitcase, search his coat pockets—”
“No!” Laura cried. “I didn’t!”
“What are you getting at, Lieutenant?” Matt said suddenly. “Didn’t you find any papers of identification?”
“Not a thing,” the Lieutenant said. “No passport. No letter from the orphanage. We found no lett
ers at all, in fact. No cards of identity. He had a bill folder with about a hundred dollars in it, American money. There was nothing else. No initials on his clothing, nothing whatever to identify him except of course”—his dreamy gaze shifted to Laura—“his visit to you and his claim to be Stanislowski.”
NINE
“BUT THAT SUGGESTS—” MATT began, but the Lieutenant interrupted. “That suggests that his murderer took such papers. It also suggests, however, that he had no such papers.” He took a small envelope from his pocket. “Another question, Miss March. Did he speak to you when you went to his room at Koska Street?”
“He was dead—”
“He didn’t die immediately after he was stabbed. You knew that. Didn’t you?”
There was a tone in his voice which bewildered Laura. “I thought he must have been alive when the woman, Maria Brown, phoned to me. Otherwise she wouldn’t have known my name. She wouldn’t have asked me to bring the doctor to help him. But he was dead when I saw him.”
“You have described the room exactly as you saw it? There’s no detail you have omitted?”
Laura thought back to that brightly lighted little room which was like a clear photographic image in her mind. “No,” she said slowly, “nothing.”
“As a matter of fact,” the Lieutenant said, “there were bloodstains on the armchair across the room—”
“I didn’t see that. I—”
“And there were a few smears of blood along the floor. It looks as if he was stabbed when he was sitting in the chair. Then he was either helped by somebody else or dragged himself along the floor toward the writing table. In any event he lived certainly for a few moments after he was stabbed.”
Matt said, “He must have been conscious when he told Maria Brown to phone to Miss March; she had Miss March’s name and telephone number. She told her to bring a doctor, and to come at once. She wouldn’t have said to bring a doctor if Stanislowski had been dead then. And don’t forget, Lieutenant, that she did run away from the house, and when she saw Miss March and Jonny on the steps she told them to go away; and she also said,” Matt said with a peculiar, hard note in his voice, “that she shouldn’t have done it.”
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