by Zelda Popkin
"But how could Margaret have known where Evelyn Lennon was going to be at one o'clock?"
"I haven't the least idea. But she might. You ought to know best who might have heard you make that date."
It was over an eighth floor telephone that she had made that futile arrangement with William Smith. Low as her voice had been, still someone might have overheard. Someone might have told Margaret Rogers—or told someone else who might have been interested. The telephone operator might have squealed. A department store was like a sieve. Everything went right on through. You couldn't keep a thing secret—except a murderer.
"Just one thing more, Irene," Mary said. "'Could you possibly recognize that writing as belonging to anyone on this floor?"
Irene thought about it. "No," she concluded. "I couldn't. You know we all print. When you're planning a lay-out you block letter in your text."
"Could you get me samples of everybody's printing here?"
Irene shook her head. "That's going to be awfully hard, because I'm in bad with old man Daly as it is, and if he finds me minding anyone else's business, I'll be out on my ear. I'll do it if I can. Is that good enough? Gee, I've got to beat it back. I've been here fifteen minutes."
When Irene had gone, smiling and apparently pleased with her contribution to the day's enigmas, Mary Carner drew a chair before the open window of the rest room and lighted a cigarette. "Not that I'm tired," she told herself, "or that I can spare the time, but I've got to have a minute to think this over." Since half past nine, she had been jumping like a flea from one idea—one lead—to another, with no time for reflection. A mad rushing around, and very little actually done. Even now, trying to summarize in her mind the devious alleys through which the investigation had been led, she could not get beyond Irene Gates. There are some things, she thought, that are so obvious that their very obviousness makes them suspect. Irene Gates had gone to all that trouble to point out a speck of red on a strip of gray-white paper, to tell that elaborate story about the eighth floor's newspapers. A girl in the advertising department would of course be the very person to suggest a connection between that strip of paper and the eighth floor, but again, Irene Gates had a thoroughly good reason for doing so. That reason might be to divert attention from someone in whom Irene had a special interest—the missing William Smith, for instance. The Gates girl was quick and clever. She had taken the detective's cue quickly enough. When they had confronted her with Evelyn Lennon's story about her association with Bill Smith she had been thoroughly brazen about it—the well, what-of-it-stuff. She might have been glad of the chance, though it meant a sacrifice of her personal reputation, to provide an alibi for a person who possibly meant more to her than a job at Blankfort's. And she had told them not one word more than she wanted to.
Those two girls, spending the night alone in the apartment with Bill Smith, a strange menage, in which the young women were as free in their relationships as men—could not have failed to know more a little about the mysterious business their male companions were engaged in. They were both intelligent and alert, Mary Carner told herself. Certainly they must have asked questions—have kept their ears and eyes open. Evelyn Lennon might have been made blind and deaf by her passion for the man who was dead, but not the Gates girl. She at any rate kept both her feet quite completely on the ground. And nothing was as baffling as frankness that told you nothing. You couldn't put your finger on the spot at which frankness became concealment. The ingenuous manner was a marvelous disguise. There was no doubt whatever that Irene Gates was trying to protect Bill Smith, and herself through him. True enough the hall boy and the switchboard operator had said that a gentleman had gone upstairs with the two girls a little after nine—a gentleman they knew well, and both boys had been in the foyer from half past nine until midnight and had not seen either the girls or the man leave the apartment. But the boys might have been lying. They might have been lying for a ten dollar bill. And was it not possible that the slippery Mr. Smith who had been able to elude the entire city police department all this day, might very easily have been able to avoid the notice of a pair of easy going, none too observant colored men? He might have used a staircase or a fire escape. McAndrew might have let him into the store and he let himself out. There were so many important things to consider. Here she'd actually been jesting with Irene about things, wisecracking about Reilly and the peddlers he protected, wise cracking—a sharp image crackled brightly through her tired brain and interrupted her train of thought: the gardenia peddler—right outside the door was someone selling gardenias. She and Whittaker had thought only of yesterday's white carnations, of today's talisman roses, in connection with the men who wore flowers in the store. They had been so sure—why anybody in the store could have gone right outside the front door and bought a gardenia.
Lord, how slipshod they had been about the whole business. Any number of detectives running around in circles and getting nowhere. What a lot of chasing around they had done. Running around after Bill Smith, chasing up to New Rochelle, down to the Empire City Bank. That was the whole trouble, To catch a murderer you had to have the legs of a centipede, and be able to race in half a dozen directions at once. Checking up on the Lennon girl, running after Smith, checking up on Mrs. McAndrew, on Joe Swayzey, a whole day of hectic effort. All leg work and no brain work. Yet they had turned up a couple of good motives and half a dozen suspects—a jealous wife, an avenging brother, a betrayed, desperate sweetheart, cocaine sniffing prowler, a mysterious business associate. Too many leads, and as a matter of fact their investigation had not actually begun. Forty people were in the store last night when McAndrew was murdered. Any one of them might have killed the man or seen him murdered, but not one of them had been questioned. Not one of all those people who were in the store had been questioned. The simplest, most obvious thing had not been done at all. The realization was overwhelming. It actually stunned her. They called themselves detectives. Oh, fine detectives they were! Had allowed themselves to get all steamed up about the leads that had dropped into their hands.
She sighed wearily. But that after all was Pursell's fault. He hadn't let them. You couldn't take forty employees of Blankfort's from their jobs on the day of the anniversary sale to question them about a murder. It sounded stupid, really. Selling boy's shorts at twenty-nine cents and wrapping up bundles of socks and two-for-forty-eight cents playing cards was more important than finding out who killed a man and why. Pursell and Blankfort had been absolutely lousy about the whole business. They took McAndrew's murder as a personal affront. She smiled wryly to herself. Well, after all, when you go to all the trouble of planning a big smash for the fiftieth anniversary of your store—plan a publicity stunt like bringing the Governor's wife down to open your store, prepare a sale that you really expect will bring you in some cash—it's a bad break to find murder stealing your thunder. A bad break for Blankfort's to be involved in this mess at all. Ten minutes of five. At five o'clock, Pursell had promised them, they could actually begin their investigation. She put out her cigarette.
Upstairs again, she dropped into the chair beside Margaret Rogers' desk. That young lady smiled amiably at her, and went with her work. At ten minutes of five Margaret Rogers invariably became very busy. Gettitig ready to go home took her all of fifteen minutes. Her carefully marcelled, henna-tinted hair had to be groomed with the aid of a small, round hand mirror, a large quantity of invisible pins and a pair of practised fingers. Her lipstick had to be applied, removed, applied again; her rouge coaxed into place and toned down with powder. Her nails tapered off, and occasionally a shred of cuticle removed with infinitesimal pains. Miss Rogers felt that her time should be her own after five and she liked to be ready to leave the store promptly.
Immaculate at last, she turned to Mary Carner.
"Well?" she said, a trifle belligerently, "catch anybody?''
"A number of people."
"That's good. Any of them kill McAndrew?"
"Six or seven of them."
"Male or female?"
"Both."
"It's a good trick if you can do it."
"All right," said Mary. "Let's cut out the cracks. I want to know something. Were the afternoon papers delivered to your desk today?"
Miss Rogers smiled. "Sure," she said. "They had a piece about McAndrew. There was a lot of running around and calling up papers to make them keep it out. Daly thinks he's got such a pull with the papers."
"It didn't help him much today. Everybody had it on page one. Not much. Just a report of the finding of the body."
"Say, that was a hell of a trick sending the reporters up here after Blankfort. Who thought of that?"
"Inspector Heinsheimer," Mary smiled at the recollection.
"The big shot almost killed them. You've never seen him when he gets mad. He threatened to beat them up if they didn't get out. He said they had a hell of a nerve bothering him on a day like this with the rumors and suspicions of the police department."
"That was tactful of him."
"Oh, John H. is pretty touchy these days. Things aren't breaking for him."
"I know."
"Pursell finally calmed them all down. He talked to the reporters. Told them the management of the store didn't know anything about it. He thought the man had just had a stroke, he said, and had died before help could get to him, but he said that if the police department had any more information they'd have to get it from them. The reporters were pretty sore at Blankfort."
"So's everybody. Even the police. He hasn't been much help today."
You can't blame him. He's nearly cuckoo with all the excitement here today. I wouldn't be surprised if he had a stroke himself."
"Let's not worry about that now. Tell me something. Do you stamp the papers 'Office Copy'?"
"Yes," said Margaret. "All the papers were on my desk when I went out for lunch. I went out at twelve. I came back at one, and they weren't here. One of the boys must have taken them around to the executives while I was out. All the executives get them, Mr. Pursell, Mr. O'Connor, Mr. Daly, Mr. Blankfort and the advertising department."
"Who takes your desk while you are out?"
"Nobody special. When I'm out to lunch, anybody that happens to be around directs people. Why do you want to know?"
"Just checking up on something."
"All right, don't tell me. Expect me to tell you things when you don't tell me."
Mary shook her head impatiently. '"Don't be childish. If you have any information that you think might do us any good in this investigation, it's your duty to tell me."
"Oh yeah," said Miss Rogers. "If you want information why don't you ask those girls who were pretty cliquey with McAndrew?"
"Who, for instance?"
Miss Rogers bit her lip. "You know as well as I do. Evelyn Lennon. Irene Gates."
"Are you telling me?" Mary Carner sighed.
"Well, there's your answer to who killed McAndrew. Evelyn Lennon did and nobody else."
"I have heard," Mary Carner said deliberately, "that you were pretty fond of Andrew at one time yourself."
Miss Rogers blushed faintly under her rouge, but she returned Mary Carner's gaze with an unflinching stare. "Who said that?"
"I can't tell you."
"Well, you can tell whoever told you that I found out what sort of scum Andrew McAndrew was five years ago. You can tell her for me that I didn't let him make the same kind of fool out of me that he made out of her. He's never been any good. Chased every woman who ever came within ten feet of him. A louse if ever was one. And the woman who gave him what he got last night gave him what he had coming."
"How," asked Mary Carner quietly, "did you know it was a woman?"
Margaret Rogers smiled. "You thought you caught me, didn't you? Well, Carner, I don't know that it was a woman, but this much I can say—it should have been."
"Were there any others beside Evelyn?"
"I can't say. There might have been. There was Celia up in New Rochelle, remember. Celia had the damnedest habit of finding out about things. She had a perfect nose for scandal. But she wouldn't divorce him, and she couldn't get him to change his ways. Just hung on to him and nagged."
"You think she knew about Evelyn and him?"
"Sure. I think he bragged. He would. He took me to a show once, and I had Celia in my hair next day. He bragged just to get her goat."
"Did you ever meet his friend Bill Smith?"
Margaret shook her head. "I never met any of his friends. I went to lunch with him once or twice, to dinner and theatre once—and when I realized what he was and what Celia was, I was through."
"But you held a grudge all these years?"
Margaret Rogers looked up. '"Don't be silly," said sharply. "He wasn't worth that much thought. I saw what he was and I dropped him like a hot potato. Anybody that wanted him could have him. Lennon acted as if she was glad to get him. She was welcome."
"He had a lot of sex appeal for a middle aged fat man."
"He had money to spend. I don't know where he got it from. But he had money to spend. And these are hard times. If a girl is to see any shows, get any amusement at all, she has to find somebody who can pay for them. Call that sex appeal if you want to. I don't. But it looks to me like Lennon's going to pay plenty for her good times."
A gong reverberated through the store. Margaret Rogers took her handbag and gloves from her desk.
"So long," she said. "Maybe I've told you something and maybe I haven't. But a lad that plays females the way McAndrew did, gets what he got. See?"
"Wait a minute, Margaret. Wait a minute. There's something else you can tell me."
Margaret put her bag down. There was a petulant expression on her carefully made-up face. Wrist on hip, she cocked her head impatiently.
"Well, what?"
"Do you remember a man named Chase? H. G. Chase. He came in to see Blankfort this morning. Do you remember what he looks like? Know anything about him?"
"What do you want to know that for? Oh, I forget. That's not my part. I'm supposed to tell you everything and you tell me nothing. That's the way a detective gets credit for solving mysteries. You ask me questions and I give you answers and then you get credit for a great brain. Sure, I remember Chase. He's no stranger here. He comes in to see Blankfort every now and then. Don't you ever look at your pay check? It's drawn on the Empire City Bank. The store keeps some of its money there. He comes in to see Blankfort every now and then. On bank business, I guess. But what's he got to do with this? I can't see him in this mess at all. He's a little guy. Dried up. Yellow skin. Eyeglasses. Gray hair. Looks scared of his shadow. Talks in a whisper. You don't mean to think he could have killed McAndrew? Why he couldn't have killed a flea."
CHAPTER XVIII
At ten minutes past five General Manager Pursell made good on a promise. He had sent an imperative memorandum around the store, and in consequence the corridor before Chris Whittaker's small office in the basement was filled with a noisy, excited congregation. It was for the greatest part a crowd of men—men in blue denims, and business suits of conservative gray. Circulating open-eared among them were plainclothes men of Inspector Heinsheimer's staff, their deliberate unobtrusiveness contrasting emphatically with the belligerent boredom of the uniformed policemen who stood beside the stair cases and doors. There was no mistaking these detectives for anything other than they were. Their very unobtrusiveness made them as conspicuous as though they had been clad in scarlet. Heavy set, heavy jowled men, they were, who seemed to have been cut out of one piece of cloth, by a single pattern and stroke of cutter's shears.
There were a dozen women in the throng, and they formed a little huddle off by themselves. Moved both by some illogical sense of propriety as well as by the employment laws, Pursell allowed no female employees to remain in his store after half past five. He shooed out, if they lingered, the advertising copy-writers, still struggling with a recalcitrant paragraph, the over-zealous secretaries and heads of stock. Feminine e
xecutives departed with the salesgirls and packers each night at a few minutes after five. As they hurried toward the subway, these working women invariably encountered another stream of women, plodding from the Second and Third Avenue "Els" and buses, over to the great office buildings and glittering shops along the Avenue. These new arrivals were peasant women, with broad cheekbones and soap scrubbed faces, heavy and shapeless of body, or thin, worn-to-the-bone, parchment gray old drudges, dressed in ancient garments—a purifying army, which took over the stores and offices of the city after the fashionable shoppers and smartly clad stenographers had all gone on home.
To the cleaning women this evening's deviation from routine was the signal for a display of the festive spirit. They nudged and they giggled; they chattered in Slavic, German, and mangled English, and they whispered behind reddened workworn hands, titillated with excitement. A few of them had already changed from their street clothes to house dresses and aprons. All of them were glad to defer, for even a little while, the task of scrubbing lavatories, vacuum cleaning carpets, polishing show cases and dusting woodwork. But what was it all about? Why had they been sent for to wait in the basement with the men who wore boutonnieres, with policemen in uniform? As exciting as going to the movies, this was.
The little door with the black letters on it that said "C. F. Whittaker, Private" opened and shut a couple of times.
The first time a girl opened the door and walked in, a very pretty girl in a nice suit, who looked a little bit tired and worried. With her, to the profound astonishment of the cleaning women was a cadaverous elderly woman in a thin, rusty black spring coat, the sort of woman who might have been one of their own group, had she been somewhat younger. Reilly, the nice cop from the corner was with them too, and he had the old woman by the arm. After the good looking girl, a fat important man in a brown suit went in, and then Mr. Blankfort. The big boss. Only Katie Kovacs and one or two of the others knew who he was. But they told the rest, and the whispering rose to a sibilant surge as he passed by. Mr. Blankfort shut the lettered door with a bang, and it remained closed a long while—ten minutes anyway—while the women giggled, and the rnen in the morning coats and sack suits grumbled and shifted from foot to foot.