by Zelda Popkin
Mary and the Inspector exchanged glances.
"Then you did know what bank Andrew was going to this morning? You told me this morning that you didn't."
"But you can see why, now, can't you? I didn't want to tell on Irene and Bill. You'd ask me how I knew he was going there and I'd have to tell about them."
"Miss Lennon, I'm from the homicide squad. Not from the vice squad. Right now, I don't give a hoot about your girl friend's morals. But I do want to know about that phone call. I want you to think. Think hard. I want you to try to remember every word that you heard while Bill was on the phone."
"But Inspector, don't you realize? You hear things but you don't hear them. Because you're not paying attention to them."
"Every word," the Inspector insisted. "Every word you heard Smith say."
Evelyn wrinkled her forehead. "Well," she said at length, "after he got on the phone I heard Bill say 'Hello, Mac.'"...She paused. Mary Carner wrote the salutation on the inside of a match book. "'I wanted to see you tonight.' Then 'New Rochelle.' After a while: 'She did, did she?' I guessed they were talking about Celia. Then, 'Something funny.' ...You understand, there were a lot of words in between that I didn't hear. Those words I'm telling you didn't follow one another. there was talk in between that I didn't hear. 'She's pretty slick.' ...'Arranged that way.' ...I'm trying to remember every single word. But it doesn't mean much, does it? That's all I remember till I heard him make the date for this morning. Honestly, that's all."
The Inspector looked over the scattered words Mary had scribbled on the bit of cardboard. "You win," he said. "It doesn't mean much."
"Evelyn," Mary said suddenly, "what do you know about a man named Chase?"
Evelyn looked up, startled. "Nothing," she said thoughtfully. "Except that he had an account in the store. For Lucille Waverly. And Andrew was a little bit upset because she was buying such a lot all week."
"Miss Lennon," the Inspector asked sharply, "did you know that Andrew kept a separate file of men who carried accounts at the store for their lady friends? You did, eh? Do you know why he kept that file locked in his own office?"
"So people who had no business with it couldn't see it. That's all."
"Did he ever make any use of information he got out of that file? Eh, did he? He and Bill Smith didn't go in for anything like blackmail, did they? Shaking down men who carried these accounts, eh?"
Evelyn bowed her head. "I don't know," she said faintly.
"I don't know. I don't know. That's all you keep saying. Listen, sister, I'm pretty damn sure you knew what McAndrew and Bill Smith were doing to make money. You're too smart and you were too close to both of them not to know. And you got word to Smith somehow to stay away right now. I know you did, and you know you did. And there's another thing. What about those flowers McAndrew gave you last night?"
Tears started again to Evelyn Lennon's eyes and her lip trembled—"Why do you want to know about them?" She whimpered. "They were my last present from him. They were white gardenias. My favorite flowers. Three in a shoulder corsage, tied with silver ribbon."
"Did he, by any chance, get a boutonniere for himself at the same time, or break off one of your flowers?"
Evelyn turned puzzled eyes upon her questioner. "Why no. He didn't take one of my flowers. I wore them all home. And later on, they were wilted and I threw them away."
"Where did McAndrew buy them?"
"In some florist's. He went out around five o'clock for about ten minutes and he came back with the corsage in a little green box."
"You didn't see where he bought 'em? No idea?" He paused, struck by inspiration. "Say, you didn't give a posy last night to our friend Smith, did you? No—tell you what—You don't have to give me the answer right now. You can give it to me at headquarters. I'm going to take you down there. Yep. That's what I'm going to do. You know a lot, little girl. You know a lot more than you've remembered so far. I'm going to give you an automobile ride. Yes'm, a ride down to headquarters. Rides like that are swell for bad memories. And anyway, we don't as a rule examine material witnesses in restaurants. There's much more privacy at Centre Street. You'll tell us, and your girl friend will tell us plenty before the day is out. Get your things together."
Evelyn Lennon began to shake. Ash-white, she quivered from head to foot—lips, hands, limbs. Trembling, she pulled her coat about her, reached for her bag. While she groped for her apparel, Tony came quietly into the room and put a small white envelope into her hand. "A boy, he bring this for you, Miss Lennon."
Evelyn tore the envelope open. A fragment of gray-white paper fluttered out and fell into her lap. The Inspector seized it before she had a chance to pick it up. In pencilled letters, printed close together across the slip of paper, he read: "Keep your mouth shut" No signature. Nothing more.
CHAPTER XIV
Within the half hour, while Evelyn Lennon sat, white and weeping, under the unsympathetic eyes of a police matron in a detention room at headquarters, police teletype machines carried to every corner of the city and its environs a brief, none too specific description of one William Smith, wanted for questioning in connection with the murder of Andrew McAndrew. There was no doubt that he had eluded them at Tony's—whether by that shrewd proprietor's connivance (Attilio maintained in the face of determined and hostile questioning that he had not laid eyes on Bill Smith that day), by some legerdemain on the part of Evelyn Lennon, or some protective instinct of his own. Yet, the detectives concluded, it was undoubtedly he who had managed to get word to Evelyn.
A boy had brought the note, said Attilio. What kind of boy? Just a boy, a boy about sixteen. No uniform. He said, "Is this Tony's? Is a Miss Evelyn Lennon here? I was told to give her this." By whom? Attilio hadn't asked. Why should he? That was all. The boy went right away. Was he tall; was he short? Was he thin? Was he blond or dark? White or negro? White boy, maybe about sixteen years; maybe in a gray overcoat or a brown overcoat. That was all they could get out of Attilio. The proprietor was obviously disturbed by the whole business.
The mysterious note had been written on a of gray-white paper, no more than an inch wide, pinked along the upper edge. It had been enclosed in a plain white envelope, of the pre-stamped variety, sold ready for posting at the postoffice and unmarked save with the printed name of Evelyn Lennon and the address of Tony's. The origin of the scrap of paper was apparent: it had been torn from a newspaper. A double black-ruled line, and the printed number 2 on the back fixed its origin as the upper right hand corner of a newspaper's front page. With the penciled printing, however, they had much more difficulty. The letters were large, square, carefully formed and entirely noncommittal.
Inspector Heinsheimer declared at once that Smith, on his way to keep the appointment with the Lennon girl, had picked up an early edition of an afternoon paper, had learned that the slaughter of Andrew McAndrew had been discovered, and realizing that his crime was known, had dispatched a warning to Evelyn to say nothing which might incriminate him. The only obstacle to the immediate corroboration of his hypothesis was that Evelyn Lennon declined to be certain that the note had been indited by Bill Smith. She had never, she declared, seen a scrap of printing penned by his hand, and was as a matter of fact altogether unfamiliar even with his handwriting. Mr. Smith said it with phone calls or in person.
Nor could Irene Gates give them more help on this point. Inspector Heinsheimer went back to interview her before he drove downtown with Miss Lennon. Irene Gates proved a far more composed witness than Evelyn Lennon had been. A well-built, dark-haired young woman in the early thirties, with quick, bright black eyes and a sophisticated manner, she had immediately assumed an air of willingness to cooperate and had actually given them very little real help at all.
No, she couldn't positively identify that printed scrap of paper as coming from Bill Smith's hand. After all, when you had never seen a man's printing, and his handwriting very little (she had no letters from him, she maintained), how could she be expected to know whe
ther he had or had not written this?
Yes, she assured the Inspector and Mary Carner, Evelyn had told the truth about last night, and since she had told it, there was no point in her being secretive about it any longer. They had been informed that Bill had spent the night with her at the apartment. All right, then, no use hemming and hawing about that. The detectives might think what they liked about her. She was fond of Bill; she was an independent adult woman and felt she had a right to do what she pleased in matters like this. She had known Bill for several years, but had become intimate with him only recently. They had gone out together—she and Bill, Evelyn and Andrew. No, she didn't know anything about his business. He had told her he was a broker, and he seemed to have plenty of money to spend. Andrew vouched for him, and that was sufficient for her. She didn't see why they thought it extraordinary that she had made no further inquiries about his financial and social connections. That wasn't what she was interested in. "You check up in Bradstreets or the Blue Book when you're thinking of marrying a man. I haven't any intention I haven't any intention of marrying Bill. He's just a friend."
The Inspector shook his head: "You're a pretty unmoral person, aren't you?"
"Call it that if you wish. I think I'm just being honest with myself and the rest of the world. A woman capable of supporting herself can do as she pleases about her friendships with men. I hurt no one. However, my notions of sex morality have nothing to do with the case, as far as I can see. The thing you want settle is where Bill Smith was last night. He was with me from six last night to seven this morning. He left my house before breakfast. He said he would phone me this evening. He wasn't out of my sight during all that time. He seemed perfectly cheerful. Anything else you'd like to know?"
She was sorry but she couldn't assist in the matter of the telephone conversation Bill had had with Andrew McAndrew last night. She had gone into the kitchenette to fix some highballs. She believed that the conversation had concerned only Evelyn and had paid no attention to what was being said. They had all retired, Evelyn on the daybed in the living room, she and Bill in the bedroom, when, at about eleven or so, the switchboard operator had telephoned upstairs to say that a Mrs. McAndrew was calling and wanted to come up to see Miss Lennon. Of course, under the circumstances, it was impossible to let her up. Naturally, she felt terribly sorry for the girl: Evelyn was really in a bad way, with her condition, the shock and all; she was anxious to help her in any way she could. She didn't know where Bill could be reached during the day. He was out seeing people—customers. He lived at the Hotel Rushmore. Didn't they know that? Hadn't Evelyn told them that? Well, the girl was more close-mouthed than ever she supposed. When Irene wanted to reach him, she called there and left a message and he called back. But she didn't call him often. He did most of the phoning. She couldn't understand why he hadn't kept his appointment at Tony's, unless he had been prevented by business or had met with an accident. No, she knew of no reason why he should be deliberately eluding the police. He had nothing to fear in this matter. He, at all events, was out of this. Certainly, if he got in touch with her during the day or evening she'd see that he made contact with the police department. Had they tried the Hotel Rushmore? Well, why didn't they, at once? There was always a possibility that he might drop in at his room during the day.
When they insisted upon a description, she added very little to what Evelyn had already given them. Bill was thirty-seven, of medium height, weighed—oh, about 155 pounds, she would say, perhaps a little more—about five foot six or seven. You could never be accurate about that. He had brown hair, gray eyes—she thought but wasn't quite sure—was smooth shaven, good regular features, well dressed in dark blue or dark gray suits and soft hats usually. No distinguishing features that you could pin an identification on. It was funny, she said musingly, that while it was her business to write descriptive advertising copy, she'd be darned if she could find anything more specific to say about Bill Smith. He was a nice looking, rather average person. No collar ad, but attractive. No, she was sorry, she had no picture of him. It was Evelyn who went in for that sort of sentimentality—not she. She was sure he would turn up, since he had no reason for not doing so. No, she answered, with some surprise. He didn't wear gardenias. Didn't as a matter of fact, care for their odor. Evelyn had some last night and he had kidded her into throwing them away.
It was too bad about Mrs. McAndrew, wasn't it? Evelyn and she had discussed her many times with Andrew. There was no doubt the woman was a pill. It was just too stupid, when a woman realized she couldn't hold a man's affections, for her to refuse to permit him to be happy with someone else. Did she think Mrs. McAndrew was responsible for the murder? Well, no—no—it was difficult to think of woman ever doing a thing like that. But of course these neurotic women in the forties—there was no accounting for them and their psychopathic impulses. Chris Whittaker, for instance, from his experience with shoplifters, had once said he thought there was a definite connection between their age and the sudden development of criminal tendencies. Miss Gates looked sad. "I'd feel perfectly terrible to think that Evelyn's affair with Andrew ended like that. That a jealous wife killed him just because he wanted a little happiness. But," she shrugged her shoulders, "it isn't outside the range of possibilities. As a matter of fact, it's the most plausible explanation of what did happen last night."
Certainly, she went on, in answer to their questions, she'd be very glad to afford them the opportunity to check up on her movements and Evelyn's and Bill's the night before. There was the doctor to whom they had gone about Evelyn. Unless it was absolutely necessary she wouldn't like to give his name. Why get him into trouble? The switchboard operator, the hall man, and the elevator operator of their house would be able to corroborate their statements, beyond a doubt, if any one wanted to check up on the matter of the time they had gone out and come in. Would she have to go to headquarters? Not now. Well, that was a relief. A job was a job, and, lord knows, the time she had already spent hanging around down in Whittaker's office with Evelyn and talking to detectives would certainly not make her popular in the advertising department today. This affair might easily cost her her job. "I certainly hope not," she added. "Lord knows I need the job."
Yet, it was Irene Gates, who, rattling along in her blithely hard-boiled manner, furnished them with a clue which, of all the odds and ends they had picked up following the discovery of Andrew McAndrew's body, had possibilities, had they possessed the wit and resourcefulness to follow it through, of bringing them to the very hands which had throttled the life out of the credit manager. Turning over the scrap of paper on which Evelyn Lennon had received her mysterious warning, Irene had frowned and said, "This is queer." The tip of her shining crimson finger-nail picked out a smudge of red on the edge of the scrap of newsprint.
"How did this red ink get on this piece of paper?" she had asked.
Inspector Heinsheimer had, however, more important things on his mind at the moment than an infinitesimal red fleck on a scrap of newsprint. His whole intelligence was concentrated for the moment on finding a man, and not an ink spot. He sent Irene Gates back to the advertising department, assigned a plain-clothes man to watch her, dispatched Evelyn to headquarters in his car, ordered two detectives to the Hotel Rushmore to look for William Smith, and in the event of his absence from the hotel—of which contingency the Inspector was unhappily certain—to search his effects and learn what they could about his habits.
"A lad that was smart enough to duck from a perfectly innocent lunch date," he fretted, "isn't going to hang around a hotel lobby waiting for us. We probably won't find him, but he can't stop us trying. That Lennon girl might loosen up once she gets to headquarters. Give a woman a chance to do a little quiet thinking next door to the Tombs and she usually gets to remembering pretty good. Now then, let's see what's doing in Whittaker's office."
The conclave of weeping women, assorted suspects and police officers in the anteroom of Chris Whitaker's office had dwindled down to a nervous
and cowed Joe Swayzey, munching a sandwich under the watchful eyes of Mazur, the detective, to the colored doorman of the apartment house in which Evelyn and Irene lived, to Reilly the policeman and to a police headquarters stenographer. The District Attorney and his assistant were gone; the Medical Examiner had preceded the corpse downtown. And Whittaker, it appeared, had some other business on hand.
A thin, anaemic looking man in a shabby coat, too short for his spindly arms, too narrow for his stooped shoulders, sat blanched and twitching before the desk, dropping tears on its glass top, looking despairingly at a little heap of infants' white woolen garments which lay between him and the detective.
"But she didn't have a thing for the baby," he wailed. "Not a stitch. She is coming out of the hospital tomorrow and she didn't have a stitch for the baby."
"You know it was wrong to steal. If you had gone to one of the relief agencies..." Chris Whittaker's voice was stern, but not unkind.
"I'm out of work for two years. We were getting some home relief. Rent money. Groceries. A little coal. But there wasn't a stitch for the baby. It was our first....Now I'll have to go to jail."
He put his head down on his arms and sobbed heart-rendingly. Chris quietly took a long sheet of paper from his desk, wrote in a few words, pushed it in front of the man. "This," he said, "is a confession. It says that you took merchandise from Jeremiah Blankfort and Company without paying for it and that you promise to keep out of this store from now on. If you sign it, I can let you go. Read it over, so you'll know what you're signing."
The man's bloodshot eyes roved wildly over the page: he wrote a wavering signature at the bottom.
"All right," Chris told him. "You can go now."
"You're not going to arrest me?"
"No."
The man seized his battered hat. Just once, he stared at the little heap of woolen baby garments. His lower lip trembled.