“No. He might pick up a few customers, that’s all. Westland wasn’t very active, anyway.”
“Yes, he said he had a private income. I suppose you have, too.”
“Not I. All I have is what I make.”
“Well, who would benefit by Westland’s death?”
“I expect Wharton would be the only one. He’s Westland’s nearest relative.”
“Is he hard up?”
“I think he is. Woodbury handles his affairs when Westland isn’t there, but I heard he was pretty hard hit in a couple of things.” Bolston smiled at Crane. “I don’t want you to get an idea that I’m trying to make you go after him. I haven’t the slightest suspicion of him, but I don’t think it would do any harm to check on him.”
“You don’t know anything else about him?”
“He plays golf and gambles, and goes with that horsey Lake Forest crowd. That’s all I know.”
“No scandal about him?”
“Never heard any.”
The room was hot, and William Crane raised a window. Air, pouring through the opening, cooled his face and hands. Leaning out to look at the street he said, “I wish I could find out just where all of you were on the night of the murder. That might give me something to go on.” Streetcars made muffled noises on the snow-padded rails.
“What makes you think it must have been one of us?”
“Who else would have had a motive for putting Westland out of the way?”
“I don’t see that any of us would have.” Bolston put his hands in his trouser pockets, thrust out his legs. His socks were a ribbed black silk with a faint trace of white in the vertical stripes. “Why couldn’t someone have killed Mrs. Westland just to get her out of the way and at the same time fix the evidence up to implicate Bob? That would be the easiest way to throw the police off the trail. Maybe she had a lover who was tired of her, or she knew something about someone.”
“Lovers don’t usually kill their sweethearts when they get tired of them, but you may be right.” Crane sipped the rye. “The whole thing is going to drive me crazy.”
“Me too,” said Williams. “Every time I think of that fellow in jail depending upon us to save his life, I get the shakes.”
Bolston said, “If you’d like to find out where everybody was on the night of the murder, I’ll be glad to help you.”
“Do you know where the others were that night?”
“No—only myself.”
“Where were you?”
“I haven’t much of an alibi. I went to the theater, stopped for a drink at the athletic club, and then went home.”
“Who went to the theater with you?”
“I went alone, but I drank with Peter Brady at the club. He drove me home about twelve o’clock.”
“Are you married, Mr. Bolston?”
“No, but my Japanese valet will tell you I spent the night at home.”
“All right. But who’s Brady?”
“He’s a lawyer. His office is at 160 North La Salle Street.” Bolston was smiling. “I don’t think you will have to check with him, though. Even if he did take me home, I’d still have had time to do the murder.”
Crane said, “We’ll probably find that most of you could have been there. But if we can absolutely eliminate anybody we’ll be that much better off.”
“I hope you have luck.”
Crane questioned Bolston about the discovery of the body, but he told the same story as Miss Dea and the manager. On the Friday before the murder, Woodbury had given him a message from Mrs. Westland that she wanted him to come over on Monday morning on his way to work to look at some bonds. “Wanted some advice about investments, I guess.” He’d stood back while the house detective broke open the door and then hurried in with the others. He didn’t look around the apartment to see if everything was locked, he’d left that to the police.
Crane asked suddenly, “Did you pick up the pistol and smuggle it out to protect your partner?”
Bolston took a long drink from his glass. “Do I look that much of a fool?” He was amused. “I didn’t see any pistol, and if there had been one, I couldn’t have picked it up without being seen.”
“No, I suppose not,” Crane said. “Do you remember how Mrs. Westland was dressed?”
“Not very well. She had on a green gown—” Bolston was apologetic—“but I can’t tell you what else. You know I was terribly shocked.”
“I know,” Crane said. “I didn’t expect you to remember much. I just wanted to know if she was fully clad and not in a pair of pajamas or something like that.”
“I am sure she was fully clad.” Smoothly, Bolston got to his feet. “I imagine her maid could tell you exactly what she had on.” He slipped into his Burberry, caught his hat by the brim. “I’ve got to be going—hard day at the office tomorrow.”
Crane asked at the door, “You’ll drop in for the conference at the jail, won’t you?”
“I’ll try to be there,” Bolston called from the hall.
Crane closed the door. Doc Williams, over his drink, said, “The guy’s too busy to save his partner’s life.”
“What the hell!” Crane poured a nightcap. The bottle was nearly empty. “He’s the only one who’s been any help so far.”
“Why didn’t you tell him about Woodbury’s chance to steal the pistol on the night of the murder?”
Crane said plaintively, “A detective has to have some secrets, hasn’t he?”
“If that’s the best we have, we better take up boy scouting.” Williams finished his drink and opened the connecting door to his room. “I’m going to bed and dream about that orange-haired dame that ought to be in the Follies and those mugs who tried to plug us.”
After William Crane had brushed his teeth and had climbed into bed and was about to switch off the light, Williams stepped into the doorway. He had on crimson silk pajamas with a monogram over his heart. He said excitedly, “I know who took those shots at us tonight.”
“So do I,” said William Crane. “Go to bed.”
CHAPTER X
Wednesday Morning
Snow overcoated the jail yard and glistened in the butter-colored sunlight. From a cornice above a window in the Assistant Matron’s office, water dropped, throwing a spray against the windowpane as it struck the cement outer ledge. The sky was the shade of faded overalls.
Westland’s face was astonished. “If they’d go to all that risk to shoot you that near police headquarters,” he said to William Crane and Doc Williams, “they must be getting pretty scared. It looks as though we were close to something.”
“I don’t know,” said Crane. “I don’t know whether the shooting has anything to do with you.”
“But it must have. Nobody would want to kill you, would they?”
“No.” Crane rubbed his sore cheek. “At least, not in Chicago—I don’t know anybody here. But I think I have a pretty good idea.…”
“Look,” Westland said. “You don’t want to take any chances of getting shot. A friend of mine in jail here said he’d be glad to call on a couple of his friends if I needed any help. I imagine they’d be pretty capable fellows to act as bodyguards.”
“Doc Williams can take care of me all right,” Crane said. He stared through the window at a sparrow trying to tug a frozen piece of string from under a rock. “Still, I have a hunch we could use a couple of these boys for something else. Do you suppose you could get two for us this afternoon?”
“Sure. I’ll speak to Connors and have the warden take out a message from him.”
“Connors?” Williams asked. “Is that the labor racketeer who chased Al Capone out of the Truckers’ Union?”
“I think so.”
“Then his pals will be just the sort we need.”
Crane asked, “How will he get in touch with them?”
“You call the warden about noon. He’ll arrange a place for you to meet them.” Westland glanced at the door. “Where do you suppose Emily Lou is?”
“She’ll be along,” Crane said. “We came a little early. We wanted to tell you about the shooting last night, but we didn’t want the others to hear. You’ll keep it quiet?”
“Of course.” Westland appeared surprised. “But why——”
“Just being careful,” Crane said. “I also wanted to ask you about your will. Does anybody know you are leaving your money to Miss Martin?”
“Nobody but my partners and the lawyer who drew the will. I’m sure they never mentioned it to anyone.”
“And then about your wife——”
Warden Buckholtz opened the door for Woodbury and Miss Brentino. The warden was saying tactfully, “It don’t look as though I was going to have the pleasure of you folks’ company much longer.” He closed the door, his face peacefully conscious of having observed the amenities.
“What about Bob’s wife?” asked Woodbury.
Miss Brentino was dressed in a fine-textured blue wool suit, cut with military squareness over her shoulders, snug at the waist, and with a slight flare in the skirt. Her face was like a pale flower over her silver fox scarf. Crane admired her discreetly as he answered Woodbury, “I wanted to ask Mr. Westland how his wife was dressed when he visited her that night.”
Westland said, “She was wearing a green evening gown. I remember it distinctly.”
“Did you notice a pile of change on one of the tables in the living room?”
“Yes, there was some change on the little table. It was with some of Joan’s keys.”
Crane nodded. “I guess nothing had been moved, then, between the time you left and when they found your wife in the morning.”
“That’s right.” Westland was still watching the door. “It seemed to me, when I heard the witnesses testify at the trial, that she must have been shot immediately after I left.”
“My God!” Crane stepped away from the window. “You don’t suppose somebody could have shot her with a silenced automatic from the corridor as you were coming out the door? That’s the wildest yet, but——”
“She came to the door with me,” Westland objected; “and besides, she was shot so closely that the powder burned her.”
“It just doesn’t make sense.” Crane returned to the window. The sparrow was still working on the frozen string. “But I can’t help that.” He glanced at Woodbury. “We can do one thing, though. I want to check on the actions of everybody on the night of the murder. Do you remember what you did, Mr. Woodbury?”
Woodbury looked very French in his immaculate clothes. He was wearing a dark gray double-breasted flannel suit with a faint lighter gray stripe. A soft green shirt with a tab collar harmonized with an olive-green necktie. A handkerchief with a green initial peeped out of his pocket. He replied:
“I talked with Bob about one of his old accounts I had taken over—that was in his apartment—and then I took Miss Brentino to the Black Hawk. I picked her up about ten o’clock, and we danced until after two.”
“Are times about right, Miss Brentino?”
Her pale face, with the darkly luminous eyes, was exquisite in the half light. “I don’t know about the visit to Mr. Westland’s apartment—” Her voice was flat, without inflection. “—but we did dance from ten to two at the Black Hawk.”
Crane looked at her closely, and she met his stare with steady eyes. He thought, Boy, if I only had a little time to spend promoting that babe. He said, “I guess you two have an ironclad alibi.”
She said, “Do you think we need alibis, Mr. Crane?”
Crane remembered an old police dictum. “An alibi is a handy thing to have,” he said.
The door was swung open again, and Miss Martin, followed by Attorney Finklestein, entered the room. She cried, “Honey!” and flung herself into Westland’s arms.
Finklestein’s skin was lemon-colored, and his eyes were bloodshot. He sank into a chair and groaned, “Oy!” Williams noted with surprised approval that he still wore his diamond ring.
Miss Martin pulled herself part way out of Westland’s arms and regarded his haggard face. “Have you any news?” Her great blue eyes under the delicately traced brows were wide and anxious. The white lace collar on her navy blue dress made her pretty face demure.
Westland shook his head. His color was bad, Crane saw: yellow pale, and his skin was without luster, as on the corpses in the cold storage vaults at a morgue. Westland glanced inquiringly at Finklestein, who sat, dejected, one hand pressed to his forehead.
“I’ve got nothing,” Finklestein said. “What’s Crane done?”
Crane said, “Nothing.” His shoulders were cold from leaning against the windowpane.
The lawyer peered around the room. “We don’t seem to have such a full house today.”
Woodbury asked, “What’s happened to Sprague? He was going to have something important to tell us.”
“You ought to know,” Crane said. “He works for you.”
“I haven’t been down to the office yet. Where’s Bolston? He could tell us if Sprague came to work.”
Westland was standing with an arm around Emily Lou’s waist, half supporting himself. “Dick called the warden and told him he wouldn’t be able to get here this morning. Some business he had to see about.”
Miss Brentino’s level voice was casual. “I’ll find out about Mr. Sprague when I go to work.”
“Then there’s the red-coated huntsman,” said Finklestein.
Woodbury was amused. “You mean Wharton?”
“Yeah. Where is he?”
“You can’t depend on him to turn up anywhere,” Westland said. “He may be breaking in a new hunter or training some dogs. He forgets everything when he’s around a hound or a horse.”
“Like some men with a woman,” Crane observed.
Finklestein scowled, asked, “What have you got to amuse yourself today, Mr. Detective?”
“Plenty. I’d like to ask a few more questions, and then we’ll get started.”
Finklestein said, “It’s about time.”
“Oh yeah?” Williams looked at the lawyer through half opened lids. “I don’t know what you’re complaining about when you——”
“Never mind.” Hands in his trouser pockets, heels against the floor, Crane balanced on the window sill. “Miss Martin, just as a matter of form, we have been trying to learn where everyone was at the time Mrs. Westland was murdered.”
Westland’s eyes were angry. “You needn’t bother her with that stuff.” He stepped toward Crane.
“Oh, I don’t mind answering.” Miss Martin smiled at Crane. “I know you have to check on everybody. I was home that night, from seven o’clock on.”
“Were you with anybody?”
“Yes. My uncle and aunt. We played backgammon and listened to the radio and then went to bed about twelve-thirty.”
“O. K.” Crane said. “O. K. Another name off the list.” He arched his back, pushed himself off the window sill onto his toes. “Now I’d like to get the details of that telephone call you thought came from Miss Martin. Was there really such a call, Mr. Westland, or did you make it up?”
Westland appeared angry and embarrassed. “Of course there was a call. Why do you suppose I went over to see Joan?”
“And you thought it was Emily—I mean Miss Martin?”
Her dull red hair pressing Westland’s cheek, Miss Martin said, “Of course he thought it was me. I don’t blame him for——”
“I did then,” Westland said, “but I don’t now. The voice on the phone used words Emily Lou wouldn’t have used.”
Crane squinted one eye. “You mean she—swore?”
“Of course not. I mean she said things which weren’t quite grammatical.”
“What did she say?” Crane was leisurely pacing up and down the room. “Tell us all you can remember of the conversation.”
Westland’s eyes closed, wrinkles creased his forehead. “It’s been so long … Well, the phone rang and I answered it and a voice said, ‘Robbie?’ It sounded like Emily Lou,
and I said, ‘Why, hello, Emily Lou.’”
“Good,” said William Crane interestedly. “Go on.”
“Then she said, ‘Honey, the awfulest thing has happened. Your wife just called me up and said she’d have me arrested if I didn’t stop seeing you.’” Westland squeezed Emily Lou’s arm. “I can’t remember exactly what else she said, but she told me my wife had called her a ‘slut.’ I remember she said, ‘She ain’t goin’ to get away with that.’” Westland shook his head at Crane. “I realized later that Emily Lou wouldn’t have said that. The woman on the phone was excited, but she quieted down when I told her I would go over and see Joan.”
Crane asked, “Whose idea was that?”
“Why, it was mine. I said, ‘I’ll get dressed right away and…’”
“She didn’t say, wait until morning?”
“Why, no. I said——”
“How did the conversation end?”
“I said, ‘Don’t worry, Emily Lou,’ and she said, ‘I know I can depend on you, honey.’”
“Does Miss Martin call you honey?” William Crane asked.
“Certainly. Why not?”
“Quite proper of her.” Crane jingled some coins in his pocket. “But I can’t say it helps us.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Neither do I,” Crane admitted; “but I still have another question left.”
Finklestein asked, “Only one?”
Crane ignored him. He watched Woodbury, who was swinging his right leg from the table, out the corner of his eye and spoke to Westland. “Do you think your gun was in the cabinet drawer up to the night of the murder?”
“Yes, I am quite sure it was; at least, I saw it in the drawer on the day before the … death.”
“Then it must have been stolen sometime during the evening, because your man, Simmons, saw it there when he was cleaning on the afternoon of the death.”
Westland looked surprised.
“He didn’t say anything about it for fear it would cause further trouble,” Crane continued, watching Woodbury. “Now, Mr. Westland, did you have any visitors that evening?”
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