The Museum Murder

by MacIntyre, John T. ;

  “Yes,” said Duddington briefly. “Some business.”

  “I was going over some Greek armor and saw you come in with Mr. Haviz. And, then, a while after that, as I talked with young Mr. Gregory, I saw Mr. Sheerness come in. The business you were called in on, Mr. Chalmers, was possibly about his gifts to the museum?”

  “Yes,” said Duddington. “It was about Sheerness and his things.”

  “I saw him come out of the office a few minutes ago,” said Marsh. “He looked angry.” The man paused a moment; it seemed as though he expected Duddington to say something. “He slammed the door after him,” he said.

  “It is not difficult to make Sheerness angry,” said Duddington. “He goes around primed for it most of the time.”

  He walked down the corridor and out at the street door. He did not turn and look back, but somehow he had a feeling that Marsh was standing motionless, his coat drawn about his spare form, looking after him.

  VI

  DUDDINGTON PELL CHALMERS had a bath; then he stretched out in a big cane chair in a suit of cool pajamas and nodded for a space; he read some from Montaigne in a little tree-calf edition edged with gilt and printed in fine legible old type. Then, as seven o’clock struck, he began to think of his dinner. He could hear Turvy moving about in the kitchen, and some notions for snacks of food ran in his head. If there were any slices of cold meat, now, they would make a tasty bite if he had Turvy score them with a knife and rub into them a paste made of French mustard, cayenne, and butter; and then grill them nicely. A pint bottle of cold ale could come with this, and some browned toast cut from the end of a French loaf. That would be enough for a hot night, though a few mushrooms done with some lobster would be attractive, and Turvy always handled mushrooms cleverly. Duddington considered this and thoughtfully picked over the matter of his wine and cigarettes.

  “Then,” he said, “I could dress leisurely and get down town in time to see the last act of one of the revues.”

  A breeze had sprung up, and shadows were forming in the east; the trees in the park were moving, and the city’s noises had died down. Duddington was just about to call for Turvy to talk his dinner over with him and tell him to run the bath full of cold water once more, when the telephone rang. He lay still, the evening breeze coming deliciously in at the window; he heard Turvy leave the kitchen and go into the dining room.

  “Hello” Duddington heard him say. “Yes, this is Mr. Chalmers’ apartment. Yes, he is in. Yes, sir, but just now he’s asleep. My orders are not to disturb him at such times unless the matter is urgent. If you can leave a message I’ll give it to him when he awakes.” There was a brief pause; Duddington heard a rasping voice; then the rattle of the receiver as Turvy dropped it. The man hurried into the hall and knocked upon his door.

  “Mr. Chalmers!” he said, and his voice was shaking. “Mr. Chalmers!”

  “What is it?” said Duddington, sitting up. “What is it? What’s wrong, Turvy?”

  “Something terrible has happened, sir!” Turvy opened the door, and his pale face could be seen in the dim light. “The police just called. From the Museum, sir, Mr. Custis was found a half hour ago, lying near the staircase. He was dead. He’s been murdered!”

  Duddington came out of the chair with a bound like that of a huge rubber ball. Cold water and dinner, both, were forgotten; he dressed hastily.

  “What else did they say, Turvy? Were there any particulars?”

  “No, sir. The policeman who called said they desired you there at once because you are one of the trustees of the institution. And he said to tell you they will also summon Mr. Haviz.”

  “Get a cab, Turvy,” said Duddington. He buttoned his sleeves, put on a collar, and knotted his tie. Custis! Dead! Murdered! “How did they say he was killed?” he asked Turvy.

  “There was no mention of that, sir. The officer seemed only interested in getting you there; he was in a great hurry.”

  Duddington pulled on his coat. Near the staircase! And a half hour ago. The light must have been faint there at that time; semi-dark; and the crooked figure of Custis lying, perhaps, with the bitter face turned upward.

  “Murdered!” said Duddington. “Good God, what a shocking thing!”

  The cab was below, and he got in; and he was set down in front of the John Gregory Memorial in less than a half hour. Two policemen were at the door. Duddington told them who he was, and they called a sergeant.

  “Oh, yes; you are to go in, Mr. Chalmers. Inspector Lynch spoke of you a while ago.”

  Duddington entered. There was a single light in the corridor; some policemen in uniform were loitering about. One of them told him Lynch was in the office. The place was pale and depressing, and Duddington felt a chill creep over him as he glanced toward the staircase and saw a huddled shape on the floor near it, covered by a Chinese robe. A heavy-browed, rather sullen-looking young man in the gray uniform worn by the museum’s watchmen stood just inside the office door.

  “How are you, Slade?” said Duddington.

  The man nodded; he seemed a person of few words; his heavy jaw protruded truculently, and his head was lowered.

  “That’s Inspector Lynch inside there,” he said. “He’s been asking for you.”

  There was a tall, well-made man of about forty years standing in the inner office beside Custis’s desk; he looked keen and businesslike, more like a lawyer than a policeman. He was talking to another man, a short burly person who had his hands shoved deeply into his coat pockets and wore a heavily knotted, highly colored tie with a large pin in it.

  “I don’t seem able to get this man Haviz anywhere,” the short man said. “He hasn’t been in his rooms since noon. We rung him up at his studio, and at the Skillet Club, where he’s a member, but couldn’t make him. One of the people who got on the ‘phone at the Skillet Club told us about a restaurant on Fourth Street where he’s in the habit of going. But there was no luck there, either.”

  “Very well,” said Inspector Lynch, “Try again in about fifteen minutes; if you can’t get in touch with him, send a man out to pick him up.”

  “Right,” said the stocky man. He had caught sight of Duddington and now called across the room. “Want to see anybody?”

  “Mr. Lynch, I think,” said the young man, advancing. “My name is Chalmers,” he said to the inspector, “I am one of the trustees of the museum and was telephoned for a while ago.”

  “Oh, yes.” Lynch greeted Duddington with a smile and a nod. “Glad to see you, Mr. Chalmers. I’m sorry to have to get you here on such a business as this.”

  “What have you found out?” said Duddington, disturbed. “Are there any particulars?”

  “So far, almost none. The watchman,” he indicated the sullen-eyed young man in the gray uniform, “found the body just as it is now, except for the covering, and telephoned the police. I was at dinner, but came down at once, finding Mr. Moore,” motioning toward the stocky man, “and a squad belonging to the precinct that got the call.”

  “You’re quite sure it was murder, are you?” said Duddington.

  “Absolutely. Stabbed right through the middle of the back; it couldn’t be suicide, the way it was done.”

  “Are there any indications as to who might have killed him?”

  “Not yet. But Moore’s men and mine have combed the building and settled one thing, at least. It’s an inside job. You know how this building is arranged, with its locks and fastenings and grated windows. Everything was sound and tight. If an outsider killed Custis he’d still be here; the only way he could have gone out would be by way of the front door, and then the watchman would have had to let him out.”

  Duddington was appalled.

  “You think the crime was done by somebody belonging to the place?” he said. “That’s rather shocking, isn’t it?”

  Moore cocked one eye at him, a corner of his mouth drawn down.

  “The watchman says you were here until late this afternoon,” he said.

  “Yes,” said
Duddington, mopping his face. “So I was. I came with Mr. Haviz, who is also a trustee, to see Custis.”

  “Do you mind saying what for?” asked Moore.

  “Not at all. As a matter of fact,” said Duddington, still mopping his face, “that errand is why I’m in the city. I was at a little place I have in Connecticut, and Custis wired me he desired me here this afternoon. You see, Custis was also a trustee of the museum. He said the matter was important, and so I ran down, got in touch with Haviz, and we came here together.”

  Moore was about to speak again, but Lynch motioned him not to.

  “Mr. Custis was not merely a curator of the Museum, then?” said Lynch.

  “He was curator,” said Duddington; “but he was a trustee, also. Indeed,” said Duddington, “he was more than either. He had rather extraordinary powers. If he insisted upon a thing being done or not done that’s what happened; under the terms of the document founding and endowing the John Gregory Memorial Museum, Custis had what really amounted to the last word. He had been of much service to old Gregory, I believe; and this what might be called absolute control of the museum was, I think, in the nature of a reward.”

  “I see.” Lynch looked at Duddington appraisingly. “Knowing Custis as you did, you may have a knowledge of some facts which would be of service to us. Could you say, for example, if he had any enemies?”

  Duddington pursed up his lips and blew out his cheeks until his face looked like a full moon.

  “Inspector,” he said, “if Custis had no enemies, the world is a meeker place than I take it to be.”

  The keen eyes of Lynch glinted.

  “Can you elaborate that point a little?” he said. “It sounds like a good lead.”

  “Well,” said Duddington, “it’s an old rule and, I think, a very kindly one, never to speak ill of the dead. But this is a situation in which a little plain talk will possibly do good. Custis was a man of the bitterest temper I ever came in contact with. His amusement was to jeer and deride; he loved to goad people. He had an almost uncanny faculty for finding out a person’s weak spots, and then he’d prod at them. He’d open an old wound with all the cleverness of an imp; and he’d rub verbal salt into it for months afterward.”

  “Well,” said Moore, “there’s something! A guy like that is likely to be sent over the bumps any time. Somebody’s got tired taking it,” he said to Lynch, “and suddenly turned round and put the works on him.”

  “Can you fix the time when you came in this afternoon, Mr. Chalmers?” said Lynch.

  “In a conversation I had with Custis on the telephone making the appointment he named four-thirty. Haviz arrived at my place before four; we talked a while and then came downtown. I’d say we were quite close to the appointed time; not five minutes one way or the other.”

  “What time is the museum closed to the public?”

  “The regulations say five o’clock. The night watchman comes on duty a little before that; his first act is to ring a bell which notifies visitors that it’s time to go.”

  “Did you notice anyone in particular when you came in and when you went out?”

  Duddington considered.

  “Of course,” he said, “there were a number of strangers. But when I came into the outside office, there were three people I knew: Mona Rogers, who is employed in the office here; her sister Alma Rogers, an art student; and young Billy Gregory, a painter, and grandson of John Gregory, the founder of the museum.” Lynch made a note of these.

  “Anyone else?” he asked.

  “When we arrived,” said Duddington, “Custis could not see us at once, as he was engaged. We waited in the outer office. A little while later the person he was talking with came out, and we were asked to come in”

  “Who was the person Custis was engaged with—anyone you know?”

  “Yes, MacQuarrie, an art dealer on Fifth Avenue. He stopped and spoke to us.”

  “That was about four-thirty?”

  “Yes; after we’d talked with Custis in this office for a while, Sheerness came in. That’s Sheerness, the art collector and banker. He’d made a gift to the institution which had been found to be spurious. Someone had swindled him. As the thing was important, Custis desired to have us present when the matter was explained. That’s why he had sent for us. Sheerness was angry; he did not believe the figure was a fake and said so. Custis was not very tactful, and Sheerness resented the situation very much. He was here less than ten minutes when he left.”

  “That would be about...?”

  “Four-forty.”

  “Who else came into the office?”

  “No one, while I was there. I left directly afterward. I spoke to Miss Rogers in the outer office as I went out. There were still some visitors in the Museum, but not many.”

  “You saw no one among them you knew, or recognized as being in any way concerned with Custis?”

  “No one but Billy Gregory—but wait a moment!” Duddington checked himself. “Yes, I did. In the corridor, near the door of the picture gallery, I saw Marsh.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s a sort of expert—a man much like Custis was before this museum was founded. He is employed in art matters by people who have some doubts as to their own knowledge.”

  “Did he speak to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you recall what he said?”

  “Why, yes. He said he’d been examining the collections.”

  “Nothing else?”

  “He mentioned several people he’d seen in the museum—young Gregory, Mr. Haviz. He spoke of Sheerness also. He wondered what Sheerness’s visit to Custis meant. He said he’d noticed Sheerness was angry when he left; that he’d slammed the door after him.”

  “Slammed the door!” said Moore. “Well, that’ll stand looking into. More people have attracted attention to themselves by that little thing with a door than any other way I know.”

  “Was that all?” asked Lynch. “Did Marsh say anything else?”

  “No; I left the museum after speaking with him, and went home, where I was when your man called me on the telephone.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Chalmers,” said Lynch with a wave of the hand. “You’ve given us that first little push which is so necessary.” He turned to Moore. “Have Brace call Sheerness and MacQuarrie,” He hesitated a moment. “Have you any idea, Mr. Chalmers, where this man Marsh might be found?”

  “Not the faintest. Though,” as an afterthought, “MacQuarrie might be able to tell you. He’s in constant touch with men of this kind and no doubt has their addresses.”

  “We’ll ask him about that when he gets here,” said Lynch to Moore, who had looked at him inquiringly.

  Moore summoned a sergeant from the corridor and instructed him to secure the telephone numbers of both MacQuarrie and Sheerness.

  “And tell them to step on it. Police business.”

  “That other party just came in,” said the sergeant. “Edwards, the day watchman.”

  “Want to see him now?” asked Moore of Lynch.

  “Yes; send him in, Sergeant.”

  “Right.” The sergeant glanced at the young man in the gray uniform and, lowering his voice, spoke a few words to Moore. Then he handed him a card with some lines written on it. “Cunningham looked it up. What you said was O. K.”

  The sergeant went out; Moore, after glancing at the card, handed it to the inspector.

  “As soon as I heard that fellow Slade’s name I pinned something to it. Just about the time I fixed for it, too,” he added, with much satisfaction.

  A subdued sort of man was brought in by a policeman; he was about forty years of age and looked like an anxious householder and father of a family.

  “Are you the watchman who was on duty here today?” asked the inspector.

  “Yes, sir; and,” eagerly, “I went off at five o’clock. I know nothing at all, absolutely nothing about what happened here this afternoon.”

  “Your name is Edwards, I believe,” sa
id Lynch, paying no attention to his words.

  “Yes, sir; George Edwards. And I’ve been watchman here for six years. Slade,” and he indicated the heavy-faced young man in the outer office, “came about two years ago. We work turn about. He’s on the night shift one week, and I’m on the day; the next week we change around.”

  “You were here all of today, I suppose?”

  “Oh, yes, sir. From seven-thirty this morning. That’s when the night watchman goes off. I sweep up the floors and dust; then the doors are opened to the public at nine-thirty.”

  “Where are you usually stationed during the hours the museum is open to the public?”

  “Mostly in the corridor, sir, near the front door. But sometimes I walk through the exhibition rooms to see what’s going on. There’s never any real need of that, though, because all the portable items, that is, things that might be picked up and concealed, sir, are under heavy glass.”

  “Did you notice anything out of the customary today at any time?”

  “No, sir. It was much the same as any other day.”

  “Nothing at all that attracted your attention?”

  “No, sir.”

  “When you go home at night, Mr. Edwards, do you ever tell your wife—maybe as you are both sitting at supper—about any of the happenings of the day?”

  “Oh, well, I suppose everyone does that.” Edwards rubbed his hand around the crown of his derby hat; his anxious look was broken by a wan smile. “The wife likes a little gossip after being taken up with the children all day; and I often speak of things just as a kind of relief to her.”

  “When the call came for you to come here this evening, what were you doing?”

  “Having a smoke by the window. I don’t get a chance for it during the day, and sometimes I’m hungry for it when I get home.”

  “Was your wife there?” Edwards nodded. “Would you mind telling me what you were talking about?”

  A startled look came into the man’s eyes; he fumbled with the hat and shifted from one foot to the other.

  “Well, sir,” he said, “to tell the truth, we were speaking of Mr. Custis.” He gestured fearfully toward the corridor, and it was plain he had suddenly visioned the huddled figure on the floor.