Death Wears a White Gardenia

by Zelda Popkin

  "Where I spent the night?" Celia NicAndrew repeated. "I spent last night where I always spend the night. I suppose it's part of this rotten mess that I have to give an alibi for myself." She shrugged a shoulder. "Well, all right, here it is. At six o'clock Andrew telephoned and said he wouldn't be home to dinner. Said he'd have to work late. 'That's no news,' I said. 'I've heard that before. You're meeting her again.' 'I swear I'm not,' he said. 'I told you I was getting rid of her.' He had promised me that. Sure, I knew all about them. I'm nobody's fool. I said, 'Andrew, just this once, to prove to me that you're on the level about that, come on home.' 'I can't,' he said. 'I can't right now. Later. I'll be home around half past ten. I've got things to do in the office.' 'With Evelyn, I suppose,' I said. 'No,' he said, 'without Evelyn, and you can come down and see for yourself....'" She stopped, covered her mouth with her hand, as if startled by her own words.

  "So you came down to see for yourself," the Inspector finished.

  "I did not," she snapped. "I've too much pride for that. I went next door to my neighbor's. Mrs. Richard Addison, 447 Glenkagl Road. Her telephone number is New Rochelle 9959. You can call her. I played contract there with her and her husband and her sister until half past eleven. And then I came home. Andrew wasn't there. Well, I was used to that. I hadn't really expected him. It wasn't the first time he'd spent the night with her. And so I went to bed. About ten o'clock this morning, I got the telephone call and here I am.

  Evelyn Lennon stirred in her chair. Words came falteringly, but decisively to her lips. "She's been telling a pack of lies," she said. "She wasn't home. At eleven last night she came to my house and the doorman wouldn't let her up."

  "That," said Inspector Heinsheimer slowly, "is very interesting. Especially since the Medical Examiner tells us that Andrew McAndrew was killed about ten or eleven o'clock last night. It's very interesting, indeed. It puts a quite different complexion on the whole affair. Reilly, tell Greenstein I want him to take a run up to Miss Lennon's house and get the night doorman. Bring him here. What's the address, sister? And of course you might bring in Mrs. Richard Addison and her husband and her sister."

  "You scoundrels," began Mrs. McAndrew, "it isn't enough that she's murdered my husband, but you even listen to her lies...."

  "Mrs. McAndrew," the District Attorney said slowly, "we would like to give you, in these tragic circumstances, every possible consideration. But you'll have to help us by controlling your temper. I am certain you are as anxious as we are to find out who murdered Andrew McAndrew."

  "You don't have to look far. She had good reason to. Ask her if she isn't going to have a child..."

  "She's told us that she is," put in Mary Carner, "and that it's Andrew's."

  "Mrs. McAndrew," Judge Hodges started again, "I should like you to answer this question frankly." He paused, leaned forward earnestly. "Did you love your husband?"

  Celia McAndrew's thin lips quivered. The tight ridges of her pale face began to break up and the muscles of her cheeks to twitch. "More than he loved me. More than he deserved," she whispered brokenly. "I wouldn't give him up."

  "What'd he want to bring that up for?" Inspector Heinsheimer growled to Chris Whittaker. "There's enough questions to ask if you just stick to facts. Mrs. McAndrew, do you remember what kind of necktie your husband was wearing when he left home yesterday?"

  "He left before I was awake. I haven't an idea."

  "Did he ever wear navy blue, of the type your brother is wearing?"

  Celia McAndrew glanced at her brother quickly. "No," she said. "He wore dark gray suits—hardly ever blue. What difference does that make? Wasn't he wearing a tie when he was found?"

  Evelyn Lennon moved in her chair. "I think I remember. He had a black tie with white dots yesterday. I noticed it matched his suit."

  Mrs. McAndrew's mouth twisted in a sneer. "She would know!"

  "Oh, f'Gawd's sake," said the Inspector.

  Mary Carner took a crumpled white handkerchief from her bag. She put it on Whittaker's desk close to Celia McAndrew's hand.

  "Mrs. McAndrew," she asked, "is this your handkerchief?"

  A startled expression leaped into Celia McAndrew's eyes for a fleeting second, but it vanished as quickly as it had come.

  "No," she snapped, and she turned her head and buried it in her brother's coat sleeve.

  "My God," he exclaimed, "what are you trying to do to her? Crucify her? She's just been made a widow. You've got no right..."

  The telephone on Whittaker's desk buzzed. Chris lifted the receiver. "Hello," he said in low and cautious tones. "Hello. Yes, this is Andy. Hello, Bill. Nothing is wrong with my voice. Bad connection. Where are you now? What'd you say? Goddam. He hung right up. He got wise. Operator. Operator. Trace that call right away....What's that? It came from booth number nine in the waiting room at Pennsylvania station?"

  "Hell," said the Inspector, "find a guy named Smith that looks like a thousand other guys in the Penn Station waiting room." But nonetheless he took the telephone, called Spring 7-3100, and gave short, crisp orders.

  While Inspector Heinsheimer was at the telephone, Celia McAndrew's brother came over and whispered in the District Attorney's ear.

  "Oh, certainly," he answered quickly, "I was coming to that. It would have been done before, had not this unfortunate circumstance arisen here." His gesture took in Evelyn Lennon, wan and bedraggled, in the Medical Examiner's chair, and Celia McAndrew tense and rigid, opposite her. "Mrs. McAndrew is anxious to view her husband's remains." He bent again to the Medical Examiner and whispered to him. Dr. Martin nodded affirmatively. "Doctor Martin will go with her." He knitted his brows reflectively an instant. "It might not be a bad idea if Miss Lennon viewed the body too. She might—she might have some suggestions to make."

  Dr. Martin held Evelyn Lennon firmly by the arm and assisted her from the room.

  The door closed behind them.

  "Well?" Inspector Heinsheimer asked. "Which one?"

  The District Attorney cocked his head to one side, reflectively, "Miss Lennon is a tall, strong girl," he said.

  "Boylan's no shrimp, either," the Inspector added.

  "No," said Mary decisively.

  "What was that handkerchief you showed Mrs. McAndrew, Mary?" Chris Whittaker asked.

  "Here it is." She put it on the center of the desk. "It was on the floor in McAndrew's office. It has that peculiar stiffness that handkerchiefs have when they've dried out after you've cried and blown your nose into them. Mrs. McAndrew was using one just like it this morning. This is the sort Evelyn Lennon uses." She placed beside the embroidered square the damp ball she had taken from the weeping girl upstairs. "Ten cent store quality. Initialed E. Of course, she added, "that doesn't mean that Evelyn didn't own one like this, too, but it certainly says that some woman who uses expensive handkerchiefs was in Andrew McAndrew's office after nine o'clock last night. The office was cleaned before that. If this handkerchief were on the floor then, it would, in all probability, have been picked up. My guess is that the woman who dropped this handkerchief was Celia McAndrew."

  "Hmm," said Inspector Heinsheimer thoughtfully. "Hmm." He reached for the telephone and called a Westchester number. "Captain Haines? Captain, this is Gus Heinsheimer in New York. Very well. How are you? Captain, give us a lift on this. Andrew McAndrew, 445 Glenkagl Road, New Rochelle, was found dead in the Jeremiah Blankfort store on Fifth Avenue, New York. Yes. Murdered. Beyond a doubt. Strangulation. Not yet, Captain. I want a thorough check up on the movements of Mrs. Celia McAndrew after six o'clock last night. She says she was playing bridge with Mr. and Mrs. Richard Addison at 447 Glenkagl Road until eleven thirty. Says she went to bed after that. We have reason to believe she was in New York last night. She is in New York now. Mrs. Addison is being sent for, too. Yes, check on all of them. Will you get me a report, too, on Robert Boylan, Mrs. McAndrew's brother? If you can get into the McAndrew house make a search for a torn blue silk necktie and a white broadcloth shirt with two buttons mis
sing and for a black tie with white dots. You can call me within the hour at—what's this number, Whittaker?—Wickersham 9-1234. Ask for Mr. Whittaker's office. I'll phone you if you haven't called me up by that time. Not sure where I'll be. Thanks very much, Captain. I'll appreciate it. That ought to bring us somewhere," he said.

  "Yes," said Mary slowly, "if either of these women had anything to do with the murder. We might have Irene Gates here, too, as well as the doorman of Evelyn Lennon's house. It's worth while to make sure that that girl was actually in bed. But, Inspector, she bent toward the police official earnestly, "you seem to have made up your mind about Celia McAndrew."

  "No," he answered, "but I must say that the widow looks promising."

  "You've ruled out any possibilities in the store? And in Bill Smith, for instance, or this crook that Chris caught?"

  "I haven't ruled out anybody, Miss Carner, but the domestic triangle looks like good stuff. It always looks like good stuff. We'd be dopes to disregard it."

  "Indeed," broke in Judge Hodges, "sometimes it's well to pay serious attention to obvious things. You detectives, if you'll pardon me, have been spoiled by fiction. In the stories fiction writers concoct about crime detection, the least likely person, the person one never suspects, is always the murderer. The obvious suspects are always innocent. Consequently, there has grown up a distressing tendency to ignore the obvious.

  "Like Joe Swayzey."

  "I wasn't thinking especially of him. I'm inclined to regard him much less seriously than Mr. Whittaker does. I think he's merely a coincidence."

  "And the people in the store last night?"

  "Mr. Whittaker tells me there were a considerable number. He is having a list compiled of all persons known to have been in the store last night. We do not intend to ignore anything or anyone. I'm sure the Inspector will see that they'll all be carefully interviewed."

  "Yes, of course," Mary Carner's voice bore a trace of impatience. "It's of the utmost importance to talk to every person who was in the store last night. That, it seems to me, is more important even than checking up on Mrs. McAndrew. To find out who was near that back passage after nine o'clock."

  "The door there was locked, Mary," Chris Whittaker put in. "The delivery entrance on the 47th Street side was locked at seven. Only the Fifth Avenue door was open. It's hard to judge how many of the employees of the store knew of the existence of that row of closets. Crooks like Swayzey who make it their business to be well acquainted with department stores would be apt to know about it, of course, but most of our people never have any business in that particular part of the store."

  "I gather," the District Attorney broke in, "that you mean to imply that it was a most unlikely place for an outsider like Mrs. McAndrew to stumble upon. Unless her husband voluntarily led her there."

  "If I follow you," said Inspector Heinsheimer thoughtfully, "you want to suggest that he did take her there intending to do away with her, and got it in the neck himself. Horsefeathers! 'Scuse me, Judge."

  "You seem to be pretty certain that she was present when the murder was done," Mary Carner said. "Remember, Swayzey knew that closet was there."

  "Swayzey," repeated the District Attorney. "Oh, yes, he keeps popping up in this investigation—without any real reason. He's here, but he doesn't seem to fit into the picture."

  "He's a thief with a long record," Chris Whittaker told him. "I've known him for years. But, as far as I know, he's never been tied up with anything but shoplifting and narcotics. Nothing worse. He was in the store last night, and he was in the store this morning. Of course, he's a cocaine addict, and that may mean something, but if it was he that killed McAndrew, I have my doubts he'd be hanging around this morning, unless he couldn't get out last night."

  "Yeah," assented the Inspector, sighing heavily, "that old line about a murderer revisiting the scene of his crime is that much hooey. They run like hell away from the place."

  "Unless," added Mary Carner, "they have a good reason for wanting to come back. To get something incriminating, for instance. If Swayzey came here to lift merchandise, which, after all, is the explanation we would ordinarily give for his presence here, he must have hidden something and come back for it."

  "And why not," said Christopher Whittaker. "Let's have him in here again. Mazur," he called, "bring Swayzey in."

  CHAPTER VIII

  When he shuffled back into the room, his wrist held tightly by the lean hand of Detective Mazur, English Joe had lost all poise and nonchalance. The man who faced the detectives in the crowded room was a terrified animal. His eyes shifted from one face to the other, searching for a flicker of compassion. The little mustache had shifted slightly askew on a twitching upper lip, and no one could possibly doubt now that it was phony. Even the white gardenia that Joe Swayzey had borne so flippantly in his lapel had wilted before the enemy. The darkening edges of the waxen petals looked listless—no longer the fair and insolent badge of the debonair.

  "Sit down, Swayzey," said Chris Whittaker. "Made up your mind to talk?"

  "I ain't gonna say nothing till I get a lawyer," the man answered doggedly.

  "O.K., boy. Suit yourself," Chris Whittaker shrugged his shoulders as though it was a matter of no moment. "Do you think," he asked with an air of impersonal curiosity, "that the cheap mouthpiece you lads hire to beat a larceny rap is good enough to handle a murder charge?"

  "Murder?" Swayzey sneered, his pale lip trembling slightly, "I don't know whatcha talkin' about. I didn't kill him. You dopes. I didn't kill him. I never saw that mug before. I don't even know who he is."

  "He didn't happen to interrupt you while you were making a haul, did he?" Whittaker suggested, helpfully.

  "I don't know what you're talking about."

  "Listen, Swayzey, one of our stock boys met you around five o'clock last night in that back passage where McAndrew 's body was found. You asked him the way to a lavatory."

  "Sure, ain't this store's customers allowed to go to the terlet?"

  "Customers. Since when are you buying?"

  "All right. Here's the slip, big boy. Ask your neck-wear salesman if I didn't pay him one dollar and fifty cents for a brown silk necktie at about a quarter to five last night. And since a lot of guys seem to need alibis this morning, find the old geezer that stood at the front door last night, and ask him if he didn't let me out about half past five. I got stomach trouble," he added.

  "Wait a minute," Chris Whittaker examined the slip. He picked up the house phone, said: "Get me men's furnishings. Furnishings? Who's 49? Rosenbloom. Put him on. Rosenbloom, this is Whittaker, downstairs. I want some information. Did you sell a brown silk tie, stock number 911, price $1.50, just before closing time yesterday? Check it up with your book. Sales slip number D20599. You did. Remember the customer? What's that? Tall, English accent, little dark mustache, white gardenia. What's that? He had a tan suitcase. You noticed the suitcase especially. Fay Winter noticed it too. That was what made you remember him. Tan cowhide, you say, slightly worn. You're sure of that? You could identify him? Thanks...So far so good, Joe." He jiggled the telephone hook again and ordered the operator: "Find Magruder. Send him in to me. Right away."

  "I suppose, Joe," he said, "you took your suitcase out with you when you left last night. You carried out a suitcase at half past five and Magruder never peeped. Never stopped you to find out whether you were carrying an empty or half the store. Is that it? Well, then what in hell did you come back for this morning?"

  Joe Swayzey was silent. "Why don't you find out, smart guy?" he muttered.

  "We will. Give us a chance."

  "And by the way, Swayzey," Inspector Heinsheimer drawled. Is it your custom to go out to business with a white gardenia?"

  Joe glanced swiftly down at his coat lapel. Momentarily, affection brightened his eyes and his nostrils quivered. Then fear crept back into his face, and he muttered: "Yeah. I like gardenias."

  "You were, I believe, our Mr. Rosenbloom mentioned, wearing one last e
vening," Whittaker suggested.

  "What's that to you?"

  Magruder, the watchman, opened the door and stumbled into the room.

  "You sent for me, Mr. Whittaker?"

  "Uh-huh. Take a good look at this fellow. Ever see him before?"

  Magruder looked. Magruder smiled. "Sure, I let him out of the store at half past five. He said he was in a terlet; excuse me, Miss."

  "Did he have a suitcase?"

  "Say, listen, Mr. Whittaker. I know my job in this store. D'ya think I'd let a guy out with a suitcase at half past five, without asking him to open up? I know my job. He was the last customer out. He had a little thin package with our wrapping paper on it under his arm, like a necktie box. It looked O.K. to me."

  "Was this gentleman, did you notice, wearing a white gardenia when you let him out last night?"

  Magruder looked from Whittaker to Swayzey, saw the flower, and beamed. "Sure," he said. "Sure. It looked pretty natty, too."

  "All right, Magruder. Something else. How late were you here?"

  "'Til about eleven."

  "How late did the rest stay?"

  "Not after quarter of eleven, certainly."

  "Where were you all evening?"

  "On the Fifth Avenue door till six. After that I was all over the place."

  "Magruder, think carefully, what time were the windows finished over on the side near silk underwear—47th Street, middle of the block?"

  "Oh, they were done early. By eight o'clock anyway."

  "Who has keys for the delivery entrance?"

  "The head porter, the night watchman and I—and I dunno who else. Maybe Pursell has, too. He has all the store keys—"

  "All right. Thanks."

  "That's all you want of me, Mr. Whittaker?"

  "That's all now."

  Chris turned to Joe Swayzey. "Well, that's that, Joe. You came in with a suitcase, and went out without one. Came back for your haul this morning, when you knew you could walk out of the store with a bag without being searched. Pretty smart, Mr. Swayzey. I ought to remind you it's been done before—by your own self, I believe. Perfumes, I think you were interested in then. I want to congratulate you for your cleverness in picking the salesmen's storeroom to hide your suitcase. It's a very convenient spot. Right next to silk underwear, too. Only when you came back, you found someone had taken your pretties and left a stiff instead. Is that right?"