“I don’t know who,” Monteath said. “As a matter of fact, I didn’t know we had any. But it must have been something like that.”
“Probably,” Bill said. “And it was quite a—shindig, I gather.”
“Phew!” Monteath said. “I’ve been to some parties, pretty much all over. But—phew!”
He was invited to tell about the party. He did, summarizing, organizing adeptly what he had to tell, now—at home, obviously, in the précis—letting the details he furnished speak for themselves. The party came clearer to Weigand in outline, although the colors, so vivid in Pam North’s narrative, faded somewhat. But little new was added.
“—thought this man was shooting at us,” Monteath said. “Wilmot had told me he’d loaded up with blanks, so I fired to scare the man. Well—you can guess how I felt when he toppled over. Very—lifelike the whole thing was.” He paused. “Deathlike would be a better word.”
“An odd sort of joke for anyone to play,” Bill said.
“Very. Shocking sort of—joke. Shocking taste, of course.”
“This mannequin,” Bill said. “I gather that Wilmot had gone to some trouble to make it—well, distinctive. As if he’d copied the face, from life. Did you feel that?”
“I didn’t particularly then. Too much going on and I was—well, call it upset. Thrown off base, you know. But, as I think about it, I suppose one could say that.”
“But it didn’t remind you of anybody you’d known? Met before anywhere?”
Monteath appeared to be surprised. He shook his head. Then he stopped shaking it and looked at Bill Weigand with intentness.
“You’ve got something in mind, haven’t you?” he asked.
“Not necessarily,” Bill said. “It’s an obvious question, Mr. Monteath.”
Monteath continued to look at him. Then he appeared to make up his mind.
“Rather beating about the bush, aren’t you?” he asked. “Why not come out with it?”
“Right,” Bill said. “This trick rather—well, it was a little a case of history repeating itself, wasn’t it? I’m talking about this incident in Maine, of course.”
“I supposed you were,” Monteath said. “You’re thorough, aren’t you? Go back a long ways? And—far afield?”
“Probably,” Bill said. “We’ve no way of knowing what’s important, you know. About Maine?”
It had been, Monteath said, a ghastly business. He’d hoped to forget it; most of the time, he had forgotten it. He would admit that Wilmot’s trick had—brought it back.
“Intentionally, you think?”
Monteath shrugged. He said, then, that he supposed so.
“At least,” he said, “perhaps not the whole—er, prank. But my part in it. If that’s true, it was a peculiarly—malicious thing to do.” He paused. He had been looking away; he looked now at Bill Weigand. “Not a thing anyone would kill about,” he said. “You’re not getting that idea?”
“I shouldn’t think it would be,” Bill said. “Do you want to tell me more about this Maine incident, Mr. Monteath?”
“No,” Monteath said. “I obviously don’t. But I’m obviously going to, aren’t I? Well—”
Monteath told briefly, almost dispassionately, as if it had happened to someone else, of the events long ago in Maine. He added nothing by his story to what Weigand had heard already. He described Joseph Parks.
“Obviously,” Bill said, “he didn’t resemble this mannequin of last night. Wilmot didn’t try to carry it that far.”
“Obviously,” Monteath agreed. “The mannequin didn’t resemble anybody I’d seen before. I said that.”
“Yes,” Weigand said. “I remember. So—after the party last night, you stopped by the Norths’ apartment. Then?”
“Went downstairs, found a cab, went back to the Waldorf, went to bed. It was about two-fifteen when I took my watch off, put it on the night table. But if you’re asking me to prove this—” He made a gesture. “How can I?” he said. “I had my room key with me. Even if I hadn’t had—” He shrugged.
“No,” Bill said. “But then, I haven’t asked you to, Mr. Monteath. Of course, if you happened to be able to identify the cab you took.”
“Really, captain,” Monteath said. “You don’t expect that?”
“No,” Bill said.
“I know nothing of Wilmot’s death. I had no reason—no real reason—to kill him. But I’d say that in any case, of course.”
“Of course,” Bill agreed. “However—” He stood up. Monteath stood, too.
“I’m planning to take an afternoon train for Washington tomorrow,” Monteath said. “That’ll be all right?”
“Why yes,” Bill said. “I don’t see anything to prevent that, Mr. Monteath.” He moved with Monteath toward the door. He said it was good of him to have come in. At the door, Bill said, “Oh, one more thing—” and Monteath stopped, waited.
“Had you met Baker before last night?” Bill asked. Monteath looked puzzled. He repeated the name.
“The man who was dressed as a child,” Bill said. “In rompers, or something of the kind.”
“Oh,” Monteath said. “That was Baker? No, I don’t remember ever meeting him. Damned embarrassing for him, the poor devil.”
“Yes,” Bill agreed. “It probably was. Annoying, probably. Embarrassing for the girl, too.” He thanked Monteath again, closed the door after him. He stood for a moment, looking at the closed door.
“By the way, sergeant,” he said, “see if they’ve got anything on the cab Mrs. Wilmot was supposed to take to Forest Hills, will you?”
Mullins used the telephone. There was nothing on the cab.
“Supposed to take?” Mullins said.
“Everything is supposition,” Bill told him. “I suppose and you suppose and he and she suppose. Let’s go see the Norths, sergeant.”
“O.K., Loot,” Mullins said. “I can sure use a drink.”
Bill said he was surprised at Sergeant Mullins, but he did not sound particularly surprised.
VIII
Thursday, 6:10 P.M. to 7:20 P.M.
“You can always go by cats,” Pamela North said. “Particularly Teeney. You should have seen them.”
“Hissing?” Jerry said.
“Well, no. Not hissing, exactly. But they just took one look. Then they skedaddled. Teeney first. They simply hated him. And cats know.”
She was asked to be reasonable; was told that cats—and particularly cats like Martini—are unpredictable; that the next time they met John Baker they might be all over him.
“Well,” Pam said, “you just weren’t here, that’s all. They knew there was something about him, particularly Teeney. And she ran and of course the others ran too.”
“She runs a good deal,” Jerry said. “And when she does, the others do. She’s the boss, you know. It’s a case of ‘Mom.’”
He was told he was merely pretending not to understand.
“No,” Jerry said. “I’ll grant that there’s something, as you say, about Baker. From what you say. But I don’t think cats can tell murderers any better than anybody else, just by looking at them.”
“They can smell them, probably,” Pam pointed out. “Also, they’ve obviously got something else. Extra sensory. Anyway, I didn’t say a murderer, necessarily. Just something. Something they didn’t like.”
“All we actually know,” Jerry said, “is that they apparently love burglars. Remember?”
Pam did. It was a time the cats had not distinguished themselves. A sneak thief had broken into the Norths’ apartment and had ransacked it, and there was every indication that the cats had followed him admiringly from room to room, ending with the bedroom, where the burglar had emptied Pam’s box of jewelry onto a dresser and then—rather insultingly—taken none of it. When the burglar had departed, no doubt after kissing the cats goodbye, he had shut them in the bedroom. There is a theory that Siamese cats leap to the shoulders of intruders, holding them for the police.
“We don
’t know the burglar,” Pam pointed out. “He was probably a very nice man, otherwise. You can always go by cats. And if they think there’s something about Mr. Baker, I do too.”
“Listen,” Jerry said. “Baker admits he was at Wilmot’s penthouse before anybody else this morning, and he doesn’t say why. He as good as admits that he was following Art Monteath. He wasn’t at his hotel when he said he was, and could have been off killing Wilmot. He pretends to be an ingenuous, almost half-baked youngster and you say he can be tough as nails. Obviously there’s something. And then to prove it you—you fall back on the cats. Who don’t like any strangers.” He paused. “I’d be willing to bet,” he added, “that they didn’t warm up to your Miss Evitts, either.”
“Oh,” Pam said, “that was different. She was nervous and upset, and of course that affected them. Remember how Pete was when one of our guests stood on his head? I mean on his own head, not Pete’s head. Pete thought—”
“Listen, Pam,” Jerry said. “You mean to sit there, drinking a martini, and tell me Miss Evitts stood on her head? I mean—” He paused. “I’m damned if I know what I mean,” he said.
Jerry North looked at his empty glass and shook his head thoughtfully. He arose, and Sherry spurted from his lap, and spoke of grief. Jerry moved toward the drink tray and the doorbell rang. “It’ll be Bill,” Pam said, and was proved right. It was also Mullins. Jerry moved on to the drink tray, making more martinis; for Mullins, an old-fashioned. And Pam North told of Martha Evitts’s distracted visit, of Baker’s arrival, of his admissions and his changed demeanor, of his denial of murder which was, nevertheless, coupled with tacit approval of Wilmot’s removal.
“Except,” Pam said, “that he seemed to think it was premature. And, I was just telling Jerry, the cats don’t like Mr. Baker. They think there’s something.”
“By the way,” Bill Weigand said, looking around. “Where are all the cats?”
“Oh,” Pam said, “they ran, probably. They usually do when—”
From his mixing tray, Jerry made a sound.
“Well,” she said, “it was entirely different with Mr. Baker. But if you won’t see, you—” She abandoned it. She told Bill Weigand that he ought to talk to Mr. Baker himself. She was told that that was planned, but that the well-known problem of catching the rabbit seemed to have arisen. “He’s no rabbit,” Pam said. “Not Mr. Baker. What hunts rabbits?” She considered. “Dogs,” she said. “Cats. Owls, don’t they? People. Mr. Baker is on that side.”
“He admitted following Monteath?” Bill asked, and was told that he had, all but.
“But not,” Bill said, “whether he caught up with Monteath? If he wanted to. Or—found out what he wanted to find out?”
Pam shook her head. She said, “Mr. Baker isn’t what he appears to be, is he?” and waited.
“Apparently not,” Bill said. He sipped from his glass. “Neither is Mr. Monteath, come to that,” he said, and sipped again. “Mr. Monteath killed a man,” he said, and got, “Bill! No!” from Pam.
“Not recently,” Bill said. “Not here. Probably there’s no connection but—coincidence. However, there is that. He shot, and killed, a man trying to break into a cottage he had.”
He told them.
“The man had red hair!” Pam North said.
Bill smiled faintly, he shook his head.
“He must have had,” Pam said. “Somebody’s made a mistake.”
That was possible, Bill agreed. He thought it very doubtful. The man—Joseph Parks—had been heavy-set, had had black hair. It was not a matter on which the records of the Maine state police would be likely to be in error.
“I don’t understand it,” Pam said. “It’s all—wrong. Isn’t it? Because red hair has to come into it.”
“Or,” Jerry said, “for red hair read red herring.”
“Really, Jerry,” Pam said. “Actually, the man Mr. Monteath killed—and you say nobody minded, Bill?”
“I suppose Parks minded,” Bill said. “No—the police didn’t ‘mind.’ At least, there was nothing to do. No charge to bring.”
“This man, this Mr. Parks, was just the opposite of the dummy, wasn’t he?” Pam said. “Heavy-set and the dummy was thin; black-haired and the dummy had red hair. I suppose there wasn’t even the scar?”
They all looked at her, including Jerry.
“The scar?” Jerry said. “What scar?”
“You don’t really see things, do you?” Pam said. “The dummy had a scar through one of his—its—eyebrows. It went through diagonally. The left eyebrow, I think and—”
“Wait,” Bill said. He was sitting forward in his chair. “You’re sure about that, Pam?”
“Of course,” Pam said. “When I look at things I see them. You know that.”
“A scar like this?” Bill said, and traced a line through his own left eyebrow with an index finger.
“A little more across,” Pam said. “But—yes.” She considered. “I thought I told about that before,” she said.
“No,” Bill said. “No. I wish you had, Pam. Because—I saw a man with a scar like that this afternoon.”
“With red hair?” Pam said. “A thin man with red hair and the scar. A live dummy?”
“Not particularly thin,” Bill said. “Gray more than red. But a few years ago—yes, he might have resembled Mr. Wilmot’s mannequin. And—he was going into Mr. Wilmot’s store. Probably to see Mr. Wilmot’s general manager. I did have a man follow him for a bit just on—well, I suppose because you make so much of the red hair, Pam. My man lost him.” He smiled, faintly. “If I’d known about the scar, I might have used two men. I—”
He finished his drink, rather abruptly. Mullins, who had been sipping his, was startled, was aggrieved, by the decisiveness of the gesture. He raised his own glass quickly, Bill said, “Mullins, I think we’d better—” and the doorbell rang.
Jerry went to it. In the doorway there was a man of indeterminate appearance, backed by a tall policeman, who was by no means indeterminate.
“Look what I got, captain,” the uniformed man said. “From the description it’s—”
“Yes,” Bill said. “It certainly is, isn’t it? We’ve been looking for you, Mr. Frank. We’ve been looking all over.”
“And here he is,” the patrolman says, “here he is, calm as you please, like he owned it, trying to get into the Wilmot place.” He jerked a thumb upward, indicating the penthouse. (It was rather, Pam thought, as if he indicated Mr. Wilmot’s present “place.” If so, he took an optimistic view.) “Didn’t even look around to see if maybe there was somebody watching. Didn’t notice there was a seal across the door. Didn’t—”
“Right,” Bill said. “Thanks, Foster.”
“The sergeant said you’d be here,” Patrolman Foster said. “So I figured, I’ll take this guy down to the captain and—”
“Right,” Bill said. “You did a good job. I’ll pass the word along. Meanwhile, you may as well get along back up.”
“Yes sir,” Foster said. He went.
“Now, Mr. Frank,” Bill Weigand said.
“I’m sure, sir, I didn’t realize you were looking for me,” Sylvester Frank said. He spoke very nicely. “I certainly made no effort to avoid the police.”
“No?” Bill said. “Nor to get in touch with them, did you?”
“Really, sir,” Frank said. “I had no idea that I could be of any assistance—”
“Come off it,” Bill said. “You were trying to get into the penthouse just now. What did you want there?”
“Some possessions of mine are in the apartment,” Frank said. “When I read this afternoon of this very tragic event, sir, I—”
“This afternoon? You read of it this afternoon?”
Frank said, “Yes sir.”
He was told that that was interesting. He was asked where he had been. “Since,” Bill said, “you weren’t at your room.”
“Oh, no sir,” Frank said. “That is, I was there, last night. Today I went
to visit my mother. In Hoboken that is, sir. I try to see her at least once a week. She’s quite old and not well and I’m all she has, sir.”
He was told that that was very interesting. He was invited to continue.
“Thursday is my day off, sir,” Frank said. “The usual day off. I generally visit my mother. She hasn’t long to live, I’m afraid, and I try—”
“Right,” Bill said. “You’re a dutiful son. We’re all touched. You visited your mother. Then, this afternoon, you learned that your employer had been murdered. Probably you were very upset?”
“Indeed yes, sir.”
“So you came here—to Mr. Wilmot’s apartment that is—and tried to get in to get these—what did you call them?—possessions?”
“That’s quite true, sir. I have a key to the apartment, of course. It seemed—quite a proper thing to do, sir.”
“There was a police seal on the door,” Bill said. “I suppose you didn’t notice that?”
“No sir,” Frank said. “If I had, sir, I would not have attempted—”
He stopped because Weigand was emphatically shaking his head.
“It’s no good, Frank,” Bill said. “You were seen there this morning. Walking up the penthouse stairs. Don’t you realize we check up on things, Frank?”
Frank hesitated. Then he changed.
“I’m afraid I didn’t tell you all the truth, sir,” Frank said. There was trepidation in his voice.
“No,” Bill said. “You didn’t, did you?”
“I’m afraid I—well, I hoped I hadn’t been seen, sir,” Frank said. “Joe—he’s the elevator man, sir—”
“I know,” Bill said.
“He wasn’t in the car,” Frank said. “He often isn’t. People call him to do things, you know.” He paused. “It’s not really what I’d call a well-run building,” he said, with disapproval. “So I ran the car up myself and—was it somebody on the top floor saw me, sir?”
Bill nodded. He waited.
“I saw nothing that will help, captain,” Frank said. “I did go to visit my mother. And it is quite true that I wasn’t trying to—to avoid the police. You’ll believe that, sir?”
“No,” Bill said, “I’m afraid not. You went to the penthouse around ten this morning. A little after ten. You let yourself in. You saw your employer on the floor, dead. So—you went to visit your dear old mother in—”
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