Death Wears a White Gardenia

by Zelda Popkin

  The salesman was expostulating loudly! "I can't hang around here all day, just because I had the tough luck to find that stiff. I got business to do. I'll lose my job..."

  The District Attorney alone had risen as Mary Carner came in and his bow to her was courtly. "I am most happy to find you here, Miss Carner," he said in a high pitched, tremulous voice.

  Graham Van Namee Hodges had been District Attorney of New York for two years. They had been two years of incredible tribulation. Lifted by a wave of temporary popular indignation over civic corruption from a snug, thoroughly comfortable place on the judicial bench, where his sixty-nine years were turning gently into seventy, he had been thrust almost against his will into the turmoil of the District Attorney's office. A genteel old man, kind, scholarly, member of the best clubs (scion of one of the city's oldest families), he had neither stomach nor mind for the role of public prosecutor or political scapegoat. Yet some dogged stubbornness in his nature had kept him there after two years of failures and heartaches that had lowered his blood pressure, ravaged his body and addled his brain. It was a hopeless notion that by some miracle of personality he might exorcise evil from the community, and thus vindicate the faith that the forces of righteousness had placed on him. There was genuine pleasure in his voice as he repeated, "I am most happy to find you here, Miss Carner."

  "I'm glad to see you too, Judge Hodges. You are looking well."

  "Thank you. I'm afraid I'm not feeling as well as I look. I had been planning to leave this very week for White Sulphur. And now this...." His gesture took in the crowded room.

  "It is distressing, Judge Hodges."

  Their manner was as courteous and well-bred as lady and gentleman meeting at tea. Inspector Heinsheimer broke in impatiently....

  "We've been waiting for you, Miss Carner, to hear..."

  "Oh, yes, Inspector. I've brought Miss Lennon with me. She was Andrew MeAndrew's secretary. I think she'll be able to help us. But, before you talk to her, may we have a few minutes alone?"

  "Sure," said Whittaker. "Mazur, take these two men and Miss Lennon into the anteroom. We'll send for them as soon as we need them."

  "F'Gawd's sake," the salesman began, "you can't keep me here like this. I got my work to do."

  "Can I telephone?" begged Joe Swayzey. "I want a lawyer."

  "You're not under arrest, yet, Joe. You don't need a lawyer."

  Evelyn Lennon said nothing. She followed Mazur meekly as he marshalled the men out.

  "Now, as for this unfortunate occurrence," the District Attorney began, "the circumstances—your anniversary sale, the presence of the Governor's wife in the building at this time—makes it difficult, perhaps inexpedient for the police authorities to take charge of the situation as they would in ordinary cases of homicide. Mr. Whittaker has suggested to us that possibly you and he might be best equipped to handle the investigation of this affair. In cooperation with myself, Inspector Heinsheimer and Police Commissioner McLandon, iv he decides to take personal charge, of course, when he returns from Buffalo. The police and I have not forgotten your brilliant work in the matter of the Hotel Lansdowne jewel robbery, Miss Carner; your assistance in the Dellavie matter. Speaking for myself, I shall, particularly since Mrs. Hodges and my physician are insistent that I leave for White Sulphur this week, be glad to avail myself of your cooperation. I must say I am most pleased with the manner in which Mr. Whittaker has taken hold of this matter. His promptness in notifying the authorities, his discretion in leaving everything untouched and guarded, so that we were able to get photographs of the position of the body, to check the adjacent woodwork for finger-prints, to search the rear portion of the store..."

  "I'm delighted you feel that way," Mary put in briskly. "Mr. Whittaker and I are anxious to be of assistance. After all, we do know the store—the people in it. If an insider was responsible for McAndrew's murder, we'd be in the best position to find that out. "And we don't like crime any better than you do. You know that, Judge Hodges. Yet naturally, we are anxious to protect the store's interest, to see that there is the minimum of sensational publicity for this establishment without impeding the processes of the law."

  "Mr. Blankfort is a very good friend of mine," added the District Attorney. "I believe his charming wife is to have tea with Mrs. Hodges this very afternoon."

  "All right," Inspector Heinsheimer broke in, "then let's cut the sociability, Judge, and get down to business. We have established the cause of death; we have closed the entire section of the store where the body was found, and the police are searching it. We've talked turkey to Swayzey, found a button and a quarter, and a few strands of silk. What've you got, Miss Carner?"

  "It may be worth something and may not be. Before I begin, Chris, call the switchboard and tell them if any calls come for McAndrew, put them on this wire."

  Whittaker lifted his telephone receiver and gave instructions.

  "Fine. Wait for a call from a man named Bill. He phoned McAndrew upstairs at about a quarter to ten. Bob O'Toole of the adjustment department took the call on Evelyn Lennon's extension. Told the man McAndrew wasn't in. The man said he'd call back in half an hour. It's very important to get his call and trace it right away. Last name's Smith. Bill Smith. Not very distinctive, is it? He had some sort of mysterious business transactions with McAndrew. Made large sums of money with him. The Lennon girl says she doesn't know what it's all about. She's probably lying. They used to meet and transact their business in a restaurant called Tony's."

  "That's helpful, too," said Whittaker. "New York's full of places called Tony's."

  "Evelyn Lennon knows the address. She'll give you a full description of Bill, too. Next send for Mrs. McAndrew."

  "That's done. She's on her way down."

  "You've worked fast," Mary told her chief admiringly.

  "Yeah. Keep going."

  "First I went up to McAndrew's office, The desk and files were locked." ("That's all right," put in Inspector Heinsheimer. "We've got his keys.") "I called the carpenter and had another lock put on the door. Here's the key." (She tossed it on the table and the Inspector pocketed it.) "I found this handkerchief on the floor, and in McAndrew's waste-paper basket were these two slips of paper. I don't know whether they mean anything or not, but I took them along." She drew out of her bag the crumpled slips of paper, the one bearing the repeated scrawl of "H. G. Chase," the other the list of feminine purchases. "They're in McAndrew's handwriting. Here's a note he wrote last night to Evelyn Lennon. It's on the same sort of memorandum paper and in the same handwriting. The note confirms the fact that he was in his office last night, and the paper in the basket puts him there after nine o'clock. The eighth floor is always cleaned before that time, and the baskets emptied."

  "Hold on a minute, Mary." Chris Whittaker picked up his house phone. "Get me Mike O'Toole. Mike? This is Chris Whittaker. What happens to the paper the cleaning women get out of the baskets on the eighth floor? Yeah. Has it been picked up yet? That's tough. All right, Mike....Gone. Go ahead, Mary."

  "Here's a snapshot I found in Evelyn Lennon's handbag. It checks her admission that she and McAndrew were chummy. And they were. As a matter of fact, she's pregnant, and she says he's the father. His wife knew of their intimacy but wouldn't divorce him. Irene Gates, of the advertising department, who lives with Evelyn, knew of it, and one or two of the others around the store. McAndrew may have been really fond of Evelyn. Probably was. Knew about her condition, she says. In that note he assures her he won't let her down. 'Just give me a chance to get things fixed up.'"

  "Fix what up?"

  "That's what we need to find out. I think Bill could tell us."

  "Get the girl in here," demanded Heinsheimer.

  Mary went out for Evelyn. The girl had been crying again; her cheeks were wet with tears. She put out her hand and Mary pressed it reassuringly, thinking as she did so: "I don't know why I'm so sympathetic toward her. Maybe she did kill him."

  "Don't let go of me, Mary," the girl whisp
ered.

  Mary indicated the chair to the left of Whittaker's desk. The girl sank gratefully into it.

  The Inspector looked over her figure, from top to toe. "She's a big girl, isn't she," he commented. "Go in much for sports—athletics, Miss?"

  Evelyn's expression was one of complete bewilderment. "I play tennis, golf. But what's that got to do—" she began.

  "Inspector Heinsheimer's trying to make you feel at ease," Mary suggested gently. "This is Inspector Heinsheimer of the Police Department, District Attorney Hodges, and Doctor Martin. I want you to tell them, and Mr. Whittaker, all you know about Bill Smith and his business relations with McAndrew."

  "But Bill didn't kill Mac. I know he didn't."

  "What makes you positive, Miss Lennon?" growled the Inspector. "You must have some information yourself or you wouldn't be so positive."

  Evelyn Lennon began to tremble again. "I don't know anything about it, except that Bill and Mac were pals. They were the best of friends. They never quarreled."

  "Uh, huh," grunted the Inspector. "What business were they in?"

  Evelyn Lennon's mouth shut like a trap. "I don't know a thing about it," she repeated. "Mac never told me."

  "You don't mean to tell us that being with McAndrew all day, and sometimes evenings, you never heard a word about his outside interests?"

  "No." The word came from between clenched teeth.

  "You can't tell us—or you won't?"

  "I can't."

  "That won't do, Miss Lennon," Chris Whittaker leaned toward her across the desk. "You're withholding information. And you know you are. I don't even know whether the information will be of any importance to us right now, but we've got to find out everything we can about Andrew McAndrew's associates if we are to learn who killed him. Do you or don't you want to help us?"

  "I don't care," Evelyn Lennon moaned. "It won't help me whatever you find out."

  "Miss Lennon," said Inspector Heinsheimer with seeming irrelevance, "do you always wear blue silk to work?"

  Evelyn looked from the Inspector to her frock. Suspicion struggled with surprise in her expression. "I don't see what that has to do...Oh," color rose in her cheeks. "I've torn my dress. I hadn't noticed...." She put up her hand to cover a short, jagged tear at the neckline. "I can't imagine how that happened," she said nervously.

  "You haven't any idea, Miss Lennon?" the Inspector persisted.

  "It must have happened since I got here today. If it had been torn yesterday, I'd have noticed it. I wouldn't have put it on. I must have torn it upstairs.

  "You usually wear this dress to the office?"

  "Yes," Evelyn answered impatiently. "Oh, what difference does it make what I wear, or how I look."

  "None," said Inspector Heinsheimer, "except that Andrew McAndrew liked navy blue silk pretty well himself. Liked it so well, he hung on to a piece of it, even after he was dead."

  "I wonder," Whittaker asked gravely, "whether you realize that you're in a tight spot right now."

  Evelyn sprang to her feet. "I don't know what you're driving at," she screamed. "I didn't kill him. You know I didn't. I didn't know he was dead till I came to work this morning."

  "All right, all right. Keep your shirt on," grunted the Inspector. "I didn't say you did. But we're not yet convinced, I want you to realize this, Miss Lennon, we're not yet prepared to say you didn't. And one of the best ways you can prove you didn't is to be perfectly truthful with us."

  "Is this the third degree?" Evelyn asked wearily.

  The Inspector grimaced in disgust. "There y'are, that's what the newspapers have done to us. You try to solve a crime. You ask a suspect a few simple questions, and he yaps right away about third degree. No sister, this isn't any third degree. And it isn't going to be. This is just an informal get-together of all of us that are interested in Andrew McAndrew's death. You're not under arrest, and if you've been a good little girl, you're not going to be. Now, be a good girl and give us some idea about this fellow Smith. For instance, what's he look like?"

  "Like—like a lot of people. He's not very tall. About medium height and not very big. Just average size. He's about thirty-five or forty. Sort of nice looking."

  "Light or dark hair?"

  "His hair's brown, I think. Eyes—I don't know what color. I never looked closely at his eyes. He dresses well. In dark suits mostly, and soft dark hats. Nothing special about him that you'd notice."

  "That's a description for you," Whittaker groaned. "A nice accurate description of at least a hundred thousand men. For crissake, Evelyn, you've got to do better than that."

  "That's all I know. I wasn't interested in Bill."

  "Where'd he live? Where was his office?"

  "I don't know."

  "I don't know," Whittaker repeated irritably. "I don't know. Didn't McAndrew ever call him from the office?"

  "No," said Evelyn. "You know how Blankfort is about personal calls. Bill called Mac. And we met him at Tony's."

  "Which Tony's."

  "Fifty-fourth Street."

  "East or West?"

  "West."

  "What's Bill Smith's business?" the Inspector demanded.

  "I told Mary before I don't know," the girl persisted. She shifted in her chair. "I don't think Bill had a thing to do with it. You're just wasting your time. There's only one person that hated Mac enough to do this to him..."

  The door opened. The policeman thrust his head into the opening.

  "Mrs. McAndrew's here. Shall I bring her in?"

  Chris Whittaker looked at inspector Heinsheimer. The Inspector nodded. "Let's have both women together."

  Evelyn Lennon jumped from her chair. Her face was chalk white, her eyes dilated. Her body grew taut until the cords of her throat stood out like stripes. Her fists were clenched.

  A spare middle aged woman, dressed in modish black, stepped hesitantly into the room. A heavy, ruddy-faced man in dark blue serge was directly behind her. The newcomer looked falteringly around for an instant. Her eyes, lusterless and faded blue, fell upon Evelyn Lennon and changed to flame. Her black gloved fingers turned to talons, and she leaped, with a look of profound and bitter hatred distorting her countenance, at the rigid figure of the pale red haired girl. Once she slapped her across the face, twice and then again. Blood spurted from Evelyn Lennon's nose. She put her hand to her face, saw the trickling dark red fluid, and it spurred her to motion. She lunged toward the smaller woman, her fingers groping for the scrawny throat. Mary Carner leaped to her feet, and through her mind ran a thought, sharp and bright as a lightning flash: "That's how McAndrew was killed."

  Mrs. McAndrew moved quickly. She side-stepped the lunging hands. "No you don't," she screamed. She sank her fingers into the girl's crisp hair, and pulled with all her might.

  The men were on their feet now. They had been still for the first minute of the extraordinary battle, quiet and observant. They moved now toward the embattled women.

  It was the burly man in blue, however, who grasped the smaller woman by the arm. He tugged at her clenched fist. "Let go," he shouted at her. "Let go. This is no way to act, Celia."

  Mrs. McAndrew's fingers reluctantly relaxed. They came away with long strands of auburn hair clinging to them like tentacles. She shook off the hair with a grimace of disgust. "It's too good for her. This is too mild for her," she muttered. "The filthy creature. She stole him first and killed him because she couldn't have him."

  Evelyn Lennon did not answer. She swayed for a second and then fell back into Mary Carner's arms.

  "Jeez!" exclaimed the Inspector. "What've we got here? The psychopathic ward?"

  The Medical Examiner took the girl from Mary Carner and put her in his own seat. "I'll take care of her," he offered. "You handle the avenging fury."

  "A most extraordinary scene," gasped Judge Hodges.

  The policeman knocked on the door again. "This fellow out here, Walter Ginsburg, wants to know can he go now," he said.

  "Oh, for crissake," Whittak
er groaned, "haven't we got enough troubles without him? Whaddya say, Inspector, shall we let him go?"

  "O.K. Tell him to beat it, Reilly, but to hold himself ready if we need him. And Reilly," he crooked his finger, "come here. Tell O'Rourke not to let him out of sight, to keep an eye on him," he whispered, "and tell Ginsburg he's gotta keep his mouth shut. And hang on to Swayzey. We need him."

  The man in the blue suit held Mrs. McAndrew's arm tightly, and there was genuine embarrassment in his manner as he turned toward the Inspector and addressed him deferentially.

  "My name's Boylan—Robert Boylan," he began. "I'll have to apologize for my sister. She's been under a great strain. She waited all last night for her husband to come home and it made her pretty nervous. She just heard this news and sent for me. We got right on the train and came on in. Seeing that girl here was the last straw. You'll understand her natural feelings..."

  "Indeed." The District Attorney broke in sympathetically. "Hysterical outburst. Most unfortunate. If Mrs. McAndrew will seat herself," he indicated the chair which Evelyn Lennon had vacated, "and if you can help her to compose herself, perhaps she may be able to render us some assistance."

  "Yes," the Inspector said, "we'd like to hear from her where she spent last night."

  "That," the District Attorney added, "is just a matter of routine." Heinsheimer glared at him.

  Mrs. McAndrew had seated herself stiffly in the chair beside Whittaker's desk. She was still panting a little, and her nervous tension was apparent in the tight pressure of her lips, the tautness of her throat. She glared at the girl slumped in the chair by the wall. Then she removed her gloves and dabbed her eyes with a clean white handkerchief. Mary Carner, scrutinizing her carefully, noted that her clothes were very good. The hat, she concluded, had come from Blankfort's French room, and the short jacket of tightly curled Persian lamb was no bargain-counter merchandise. At Mrs. McAndrew's wrist diamonds gleamed in a little watch. "McAndrew," Mary said to herself, "got a hundred a week here. The missus looks like real money." But principally, Mary Carner was interested in the handkerchief which Celia McAndrew had drawn from her purse. It had a blue gray border of the embroidery called appenzell.