by Zelda Popkin
Inspector Heinsheimer stepped forward. "Here," he said. "take this card. Take it to Johnny O'Hanlon at the Galongahela Club. I put the address on the card. He'll get you the baby clothes. Tell Inspector Heinsheimer said to see what he can do about getting you a job. Go on now, and don't be hanging around department stores no more. You might get into trouble. All right, all right. Cut the thanks. And don't forget to make your mark under the star in November." He sat down grinning. "Whaddya gonna do? You can't run them guys in. Maybe I sound like Red, but I can't blame them fellows if they steal. Bet you're getting plenty of them nowadays."
"No more than any other store. Today's a bad day for us. When there's a sale, like there is today, it's hard to have enough eyes for the crowd. With us beng short-handed today, with Mary off the floor—on account of the McAndrew affair…. Now, listen, while you were away, Rosenbloom of men's furnishings was in and he identified Swayzey all right as the man that came in here with a suitcase last night. Says Joe has changed his suit. He had a brown one and a brown tie on yesterday; has gray and blue today (so it looks as though he did get home last night). But he's the same guy. Rosenboom identified the suitcase too. I turned it over to your finger-print man. I'm afraid we won't get much more than Peggy Manton's finger-prints. She's handled it enough to mess up the rest. But we'll see. Peggy brought around a clerk who saw Swayzey looking over their stock at about five o'clock last night. That helps me, but it doesn't help you much because Magruder swears positively he let Swayzey out of the store at half past five. And we have nobody yet who saw him or heard of him in the store between half past five last night and half past nine this morning. Now, Peggy Manton is positive she found that handbag inside her department, and if Swayzey came back to look for it this morning—which he probably did—he came back to look for it in the place where he left it hidden, and the place where he looked was the place where Andrew McAndrew's body was hid, which was in back of the lingerie department, on the other side of the door. So somebody carried that bag through the door and left it on the other side. And I think the person that did it is the murderer. Am I right?"
"Well," Inspector Heinsheimer grunted," that wouldn't surprise me at all."
"We'll get a warrant sworn for Swayzey. Attempted larceny. Anything. He's a parole violator. That's enough. And that'll keep him handy. But we won't get far with him, because he did go out of the store, and unless we find somebody who saw him come back—and nobody got into the store last night without being seen because the doors were locked and guarded, and nobody got in without being recognized—we can't pin a thing on him. He's just a coincidence, that's all."
"I think Chris is right," said Mary Carner. "I'm quite sure we can eliminate Swayzey. But we can't eliminate his handbag. It was there. A silent witness to what went on in that corridor last night."
"Don't forget that we have other witnesses, too," Inspector Heinsheimer put in. "A pearl button ripped out of a white shirt, some dark blue silk, and that cute little gardenia. I don't want to brag, but the department has solved crimes with even less than that. Remember the Anna Aumuller case. That was before your time, I guess, Miss Carner. A piece of oilcloth, just an ordinary piece of oilcloth gave us the break there; and the Peacox torch murder in White Plains. A scrap of figured dressgoods brought that one around. You can read about your fancy crime psychologists and scientific crime experts, but good detective work—the kind that solves real crimes—means a hell of a lot of leg work and patience and not missing a single trick."
"White shirts are a kind of uniform around here," Chris said with a trace of weariness. "Every man in the store wears one. And a good many men who don't work here wear them. The blue, I think you'll find out, was necktie silk, and it's my opinion that the murderer of Andrew McAndrew took away his victim's tie after his own was torn. That's my idea about it."
"But the Lennon girl's dress was blue and it was ripped along the shoulder."
"Inspector," Mary suggested, "what kind of a fool would Evelyn be to come to work in a dress that was torn—especially if it had been torn the way we surmise it might have been? If the Lennon girl got her dress torn in a struggle before McAndrew's death—and remember, so far we have no evidence that she was in the store at all after closing time last night—all the evidence is to the contrary—she's not such a fool as to come down here today in the torn frock. She probably ripped it rolling around on that couch in the rest room where I found her. She's a big girl, I'll grant you, too, but I doubt she had the strength, even if she were desperate, to strangle McAndrew and shove him into that place."
"And you think that lets her out?"
"That and her alibi. I feel that Evelyn Lennon is just one of the victims of this mess."
"How about Smith?"
"Well, how about him? You answer that one," Mary said. "I'm not sure yet. I'm inclined to believe that they told us the truth about Bill's presence in that apartment last night. A girl like Irene who wants to hold her job, and knows that scandal won't help her do it, doesn't make up a tale about sleeping with a man unless she cares so much for him that she'd sacrifice her good name to save him. Maybe. Girls do things like that. It's worth remembering, however, that both those girls, separately and without prompting, told the same story. Both of those girls—Evelyn Lennon and Irene Gates—however, know much more than they told us, about McAndrew and Smith's affairs. Irene is particularly bright, and I am certain that she, at any rate, must have been aware of the blackmailing activities these men carried on, if indeed they were blackmail.
"The way to find out if they were actually blackmail," Chris said, 'is to call on a few of the gentlemen whose initials got into the little black book. And maybe they'll tell you and maybe they won't. Maybe they're just waiting for an opportunity like this to let go and tell the police how they've been shaken down.You can't tell, though, about suckers like that. Look at what the Dewey investigation dragged out. Sensible businessmen paying racketeers through the nose, just because they were scared pink. And hadn't the guts to come to the police."
"And you think this is something for Dewey?" the Inspector asked.
"Oh, no. This is a racket. But it's no business. This is something for us—for you and me and Mary. We're the investigating committee. You've got the book, Inspector. I'll verify the names and addresses for you just as soon as we get access to those files again."
"Oke. We'll fine-comb the town till we get this guy Smith. I have an idea he hasn't traveled very far from the home grounds even yet. We'll go through his baggage, if any, at the Rushmore. You can't tell. In spite of the bad name Irene Gates gave herself, there might be a torn white shirt and blue necktie lying around there. I don't think he's gone very far."
"Both girls," Mary Carner said, "told us that he talked to Andrew on the telephone from their apartment last night, and from there made that appointment to meet today at the Empire City Bank. That note Andrew left in Evelyn's desk told her he'd be in late because he had to go to a bank in the morning. The Empire City, is, don't forget, Chase's bank. If we're right about our surmise on the black book, it may be that Bill Smith and Andrew McAndrew were all set to shake down Mr. Chase for Miss Waverly's extravagance. Looks as if they were all ready to put H.G.C. into the little black book."
"But somebody stepped in and took McAndrew off the scene," Chris interrupted.
"Yes," Mary went on. "Pursell saw him in his office at just before ten, right after or before McAndrew talked with Smith on the phone. According to Pursell, McAndrew had his hat and coat on and said 'Good-night.' That seems at the present to be the last time McAndrew was known to have been alive. Either he went downstairs with a person who wanted to talk to him very privately, or on the main floor met that someone. He must have felt at ease with that individual, for he took his hat and overcoat off and put them on the counter. Probably, unless we find someone who heard noises to the contrary, he went willingly through the door. We can gather that something that was said or done during that very secret conversation moved the mur
derer to rage and he flew at McAndrew's throat. McAndrew defended himself—but not well enough. He ripped his opponent's shirt and tie. Picked off his gardenia. His opponent must have been a pretty strong man to pick up that heavy limp body and wedge it into that cubicle. It was no light task. It may have taken two men. Unfortunately, our friend Swayzey had found that closet first. To stow the body away, our murderer had to remove a suitcase. He dropped it as soon as he left the scene. He dropped it in the body of the store, probably on his way to the main entrance. That seems to indicate that he was a person who was not afraid of being seen in the store."
"Very good, Miss Carner. So what?"
"Just this, Inspector. Either the murderer of Andrew McAndrew was Robert Boylan, brother of Celia McAndrew, whose presence in the store was noticed during the approximate time of the murder, and had the physique and through his sister the motive to commit the crime, or it was some person connected with this establishment whose presence in any part of the store at any time would have excited no particular comment."
"That," said Chris Whittaker soberly, "goes for everyone who was here last night. The window trimmers, the advertising department, the porters, the watchmen, Blankfort, Pursell, and even me. We all had the run of the place. That puts us all on the spot. Well, we'll have the round-up of the gang at five o'clock. We'll get somewhere, then—maybe."
"Miss Carner's summing up," said Inspector Heinsheimer, '"seems to cut out Swayzey and Bill Smith as possibilities. Swayzey, I'll agree to for the present. The time he left the store is pretty well known. He couldn't have come back, you say, last night, without being noticed, but then he might have. Well then, could Smith, if he had wanted to, have gotten in between ten and eleven o'clock?"
"If someone let him in."
"That someone might have been McAndrew himself."
"Yes."
"I gotta find Smith."
"Good luck," said Mary Carner.
"If Smith didn't know anything about this affair, what about that note that was sent to Tony's to warn Evelyn Lennon to keep her mouth shut? Who else but Bill Smith knew she was going to be there? Who else but Smith—and ourselves? Nobody."
Mary Carner's brows were closely knit in a tense, unhappy frown. Who else knew? Who else? Who else could have known? Why, any number of people could have known. She heard herself making the date over the phone in Evelyn's little office—with the Inspector and Chris Whittaker crowded close to her. She remembered that her voice had been low, and the door had been shut. But a switchboard operator might have been listening in. She heard herself telling Evelyn in the crowded anteroom to get her hat and coat, to go to Tony's. And she recalled a third time when she had mentioned the rendezvous at Tony's and that time her voice had been pitched high with excitement.
She fairly shouted at them. "In this very room I told where we were going. Don't you remember? I had an argument with Pursell. I said, 'Oh heavens. Tony's isn't far. Just over on Fifty-fourth Street. Near Eighth Avenue. I'm using my lunch time.' The room was full of people when I said it."
Chris whistled. "Pursell." Then he shook his head and laughed. "It doesn't click. Pursell's the last fellow in the world to drag into this. He's hard-boiled—just like any general with an army under him—but straight and decent as they come. There's nothing that might in any way link him hostilely with McAndrew. I'll bet on that. He had little to do with him and that little civilly. There's no tie-up whatsoever."
"But he was on the premises last night—and he gave the lie to Celia McAndrew today," said the Inspector.
"Celia McAndrew had by her own admission been lying before that. Celia's lied plenty," Whittaker answered.
"It won't do any harm to keep an eye on Pursell."
"Easy enough to do that. He's right here under our own noses all the time."
A policeman opened the door. "Your car's back, Inspector."
"O.K. I'll go along to headquarters. I'll take Swayzey down with me. We'll start working on Mrs. McAndrew and the Lennon girl. I'll be back to talk to your general manager and the rest of the crowd." He turned to Mary Carner, took her slender hand in his heavy paw, and patted it with paternal solicitude.
"Don't look so worried, sister," he told her gently. "This is the first time you been on a murder case, isn't it? One of the things you'll learn when you've been working on crime detection as long as I have is not to take things too seriously. You've done jigsaw puzzles, haven't you? Well, what do you do when you can't find the piece you need? Instead of stewing about it you start working on another part of the picture, and pretty soon you've got two parts that fit together, and you find out that the dog's leg you thought you were working on is actually a grand piano. A little corner of this and a piece of that sooner or later gives you the whole pattern. Crime detection's like that. You check up on one thing, and when it don't get you nowhere, you try another until you get two pieces that fit, and the puzzle begins to look like something. There ain't no master minds in crime, sister. Remember that. No master minds. The guys that kill other guys ain't any smarter than you or I." He laughed. "That's why we can catch 'em. Sometimes we miss them because they get a good break and duck out before we get on to 'em. Hell! Didn't we catch the fellow that poisoned the man up in the Guggenheim plant and the only clue we had to him was that he tore a telephone book in half? We'll get this guy, if we haven't got him already, if we just keep moving. Bring me Bill Smith and I'll give you the whole picture."
CHAPTER XV
As the afternoon raced toward five o'clock the police department continued to be "it" in its game of hide and seek with Mr. William Smith. They learned, to their profound annoyance, that at one thirty he had checked out of the Hotel Rushmore, leaving no forwarding address. At two fifteen, searching the room formerly occupied by him, the detectives had found an empty gin bottle, a squeezed-out tube of shaving cream, a copy of the morning Times, intact, and a paper book of matches, inquiring pertinently in red ink printed on blue: "Are you proud of the girl you escort?" A curious and slightly irritated desk clerk had assured them that Mr. Smith's room key had been on the rack all night and that at about eight o'clock in the morning he had picked up the key at the desk. That, the clerk said with an air of boredom, was not unusual for Mr. Smith. Check for Irene Gates.
About Mr. Smith's habits and activities the management knew little—little, that is, of the sort of thing the police cared about. Mr. Smith had been a guest at the hotel off and on for four years. He paid for his room on a reduced weekly rate when he was there. But frequently he traveled and left forwarding addresses like the Statler in Buffalo or Cleveland, the Sinton in Cincinnati, the Edgewater Beach in Chicago—first class hotels always. This time he had left no forwarding address, but that was not unusual for him. He had frequently left hurriedly and had written later telling them where to send his mail. Occasionally he had requested them to turn his mail over to a Mr. McAndrew, a heavy set, middle aged gentleman. Yes, Mr. McAndrew had been in Mr. Smith's company quite frequently when he was in the city. The employees of the hotel were familiar with him.
Mr. Smith had been, according to the clerk, a well-behaved guest. The detectives must realize, of course, that the Rushmore was a quiet residential hotel, catering to ladies and gentlemen. As long as the clerk remembered, and he had been there fifteen years, it had never been necessary for police authorities to make inquiries about a guest of the hotel. Mr. Smith had paid his bills on time—by cash or check. The check was on a nearby branch of the Corn Exchange Bank.
The clerk's description of William Smith's personal appearance tallied with Irene Gates' and Evelyn Lennon's, which meant, of course, that it was no helpful description at all. Mr. Smith had left carrying one large suitcase of the expanding type, of black leather, and a small leather hand bag, with a zipper top. He had left a trunk in the storeroom of the hotel. If they got a court order, they might examine that. Mr. Smith had kept that trunk there for over a year, and with proper authorization, the clerk said, he would let them open it—that is
, of course, if it was absolutely essential to open it. No, the man had not taken a taxicab from the hotel. He had left carrying his own bags. Yes, the clerk agreed that was unusual. No, he had not seemed agitated or unduly excited. His manner was as usual. No—the clerk was certain of this—Mr. Smith did not have a newspaper with him.
He had entered the hotel about twenty after one; asked that his statement be prepared at once. Came down in ten minutes with his bags, took his bill, paid it, in cash this time, informed them he would send a forwarding address, declined the services of bell hop or porter, picked up his bags and disappeared around the corner.
Of course, the clerk went on to explain, he might have decided to walk to Grand Central Station. That was only three blocks away. Had they tried the terminal? Checked up on trains going out? Or to the Hudson Tube. At most he had only an hour's start on them. And if he wasn't being too inquisitive, might they tell him exactly why they wanted Mr. Smith?
To the radioed description of the missing William Smith was promptly added the description of his two pieces of luggage. But it availed the detectives not at all. With the entire police force searching for him, Bill Smith and his two bulky suitcases seemed to have been swallowed up by the city. On trains and ferries, on subways, in taxis and on the streets they looked for a well dressed good looking man in the late thirties carrying two pieces of black luggage, but the day and the search brought them nothing—no sight or rumor of his presence.
This information the Inspector delivered to Mary Carner and Whittaker by telephone, when he called to find out whether Irene Gates had received any telephone message from her lover and whether the anxious calls for McAndrew and Evelyn Lennon had persisted. The detective assigned to the advertising department reported that the girl had remained at her desk all afternoon and had not been called on the phone. Plainly Bill Smith had successfully gone into hiding.
When the Inspector called to pass along his information Mary Carner was forced, however unhappily, to tell him that another gentleman had joined the game of hide and seek. This time the disappearing man was Horace Greeley Chase.