“I knew the door was locked,” said Slade sullenly. “And I didn’t touch the body.”
“How long a time does it take to get from the front door, where you were standing, to the staircase?”
“Oh, about thirty seconds, I’d say.”
“You did not stop on your way between the two points to do anything else—something you saw needed doing, or something you’d forgotten?”
“No.”
“Are you quite sure, after you looked at your watch, you didn’t hesitate? You seemed to have had it in your mind that Custis might appear at any moment, and if he didn’t find you there ready to let him out he’d reprimand you. Didn’t you think it best to wait a little longer and make sure about him?”
“No,” said Slade. “As soon as I saw what time it was I started. I remember I was still putting the watch back in my pocket as I walked up the six steps from the front door to the corridor level. When I got to the place where the body was lying no more than thirty seconds had passed. Two or three seconds after that I was in the office, outside there, calling the police station. That couldn’t have been later than six thirty-one. I’d be willing to swear it wasn’t that late.”
Duddington saw a frown upon the inspector’s face, and the strong jaw was set.
“That will do,” he said curtly. “You can go.”
Slade was moving toward the office door when Duddington spoke to him.
“Is there a clock in the corridor that you can see as you stand at the door?”
Slade paused.
“No,” he said. “The only clock on this floor is the one here in the office.”
“You didn’t look at that by any chance as you were telephoning?”
“No.”
“You went entirely by your watch?”
“Yes,” said the man. “I always do.”
“Would you mind letting me see your watch?”
Slade took it out, a heavy, old-fashioned, hunting-cased piece, and handed it to Duddington. The fat young man opened it and looked at the dial. He pursed up his mouth and blew out his cheeks. And then he looked at Lynch.
“I rather expected that,” he said quietly. “It’s run down; and the hands are indicating exactly six-twenty-eight!”
XX
LYNCH took the watch from Duddington’s hand and looked at it; then he turned to Slade coldly.
“For a man whose work depends so much upon an accurate knowledge of the time, you seem to handle it with a good deal of carelessness,” he said.
Slade stared at the inspector, and then at Duddington, with astonished eyes.
“I’ve had that watch for fifteen years,” he said, “It was my father’s, and it’s a good watch. I don’t think I ever let it run down before.”
Lynch stood looking at him, disbelief in his eyes. Then he said:
“If you don’t mind, Slade, I’ll keep this for a little while. I’ll return it to you later.”
“All right,” said Slade.
When the man had gone the inspector nodded to Duddington good-naturedly.
“That was a good point,” he said. “I’ll admit it never occurred to me at all.”
“I thought it might be possible,” said Duddington, “and that we’d better have a look. However, it doesn’t really add anything to the sum of our knowledge.”
“It shows that Slade was telling the truth as he understands it, at any rate.”
“We can’t be sure of even that,” said Duddington. “A watch can be made to run down if you know how to do it; also the hands can be made to indicate any hour you desire.”
A furrow came upon the inspector’s brow; he looked intently at the fat young man.
“You think Slade, perhaps, anticipated a possible checking up of the time and had the watch ready fixed?”
“Such a thing is possible. Understand, I have no real faith in the idea, or in any other part of your surmise concerning Haviz. I pointed the thing out to you because I thought it was the fair thing to do.”
“I’m obliged to you,” said Lynch. His jaw was set; it was plain to see he didn’t care for Duddington’s attitude. “However, if I see a chance—even a small one—of Haviz having entered the museum after his visit to Sheerness, nothing can keep me from coupling Slade and him together in some enterprise which cost Custis his life.”
“Would you, really?” Duddington stared at him. “What, then, becomes of your theory of Billy Gregory?”
“I have not disturbed that,” said Lynch. “It is still fixed in my mind. This matter of Haviz may be an extension of the same thing. Who knows? It’s been my experience one can never tell where one clue in a crime ends and another begins until the whole thing has been worked out. It looks difficult to connect young Gregory and Haviz, and yet a half hour ago it would have seemed equally difficult to connect Haviz with Slade.”
“But I would not call what you’ve been shown in their case a connection, exactly,” said Duddington.
“Maybe not,” said Lynch. “But, at least, it is a lead which I mean to follow out.”
They discussed this point for a few minutes, then the door opened and the gray-haired, good-humored policeman, Monaghan, came into the office.
“I’d like a few further words with you, Monaghan,” said the inspector. “Awhile ago, when I spoke to you, you said you sat on the museum’s front steps from the closing hour until the police came in reply to the call from Slade by telephone.”
“Yes, sir; I was there.”
“You never left the steps? You were always in sight of the front door?”
“I was.”
“It must have been rather tiresome.”
“Well, a little bit, Inspector: but a man gets used to a thing like that after a while.”
Lynch had been studying Monaghan, so it seemed to Duddington, inch by inch; and now he said:
“From the look of your hands I’d say you were at one time a baseball player.”
The gray-haired man smiled.
“Why, yes,” he said. “Years ago. I was in the big leagues for a while,” with some pride. He looked at his hands. “You can’t back-stop for those strong lads and not get a finger knocked crooked here and there.”
“Do you still keep an interest in the game? Do you follow the scores in the newspapers?”
“I never miss a game,” said Monaghan, glowing. “It’s as interesting to me as it ever was.”
“Sporting finals of an afternoon, eh?” Lynch smiled at him encouragingly.
“I always have one,” said Monaghan. “It’s like a meal of good victuals to me.”
“Did you have one tonight?”
There was a pause; a shadow fell suddenly across Monaghan’s face, and when he spoke the jolly ring had gone from his voice.
“I did,” he said. “And, Inspector, now I think of it. I was too sure about not leaving the steps outside after the museum’s closing hour. You see, this is a quiet street, and no newsboys come through it. Around about six o’clock I got to wondering what the boys had done today in the games, and after a while I thought I’d venture around the corner to pick up a newspaper at a stand. It only took a few minutes,” he explained, “and it had gone clear out of my mind.”
Lynch smiled at Duddington after the policeman had left the room.
“There, you see. He was absent for ‘a few minutes.’ It really might have been ten or even fifteen. And that absence would give Slade time to admit Haviz if there was a plan of any sort between them.”
“But the man was at his post later,” said Duddington. “How did Haviz get out?”
“I’ve no doubt we’ll find a way for that if it is necessary. But just now we’ll put it aside. What is needed at this time is to prove that he got in.”
Duddington mopped his face; the night as it grew older was getting more and more sultry; the fan in the office was running full speed, but it seemed to do little good.
“Frankly,” said Duddington, “I doubt that Haviz was inside the museum from the t
ime he left this afternoon until he was brought in by Andresona awhile ago. Indeed, I doubt if he was even in the neighborhood of the museum.”
“Well, we’ll settle that one way or another in a little while,” said Lynch.
“No doubt,” said the fat young man. He fixed the inspector with a wide-open eye. “But, Inspector, the person who really interests me now is not Haviz; it’s the same man who got my attention earlier in the evening—Sheerness.”
Lynch met Duddington’s look squarely; and he smiled a little.
“I know,” he said, “you have it in your mind I’m avoiding Sheerness. But, let me assure you, such is not the case. The guilty person is the person I am after, no matter who he is. I don’t mind admitting I’ve made a special effort to keep my mind from Sheerness, and I’ve had my reasons for it. Awhile ago I said to you it was not likely he figured in the case, because a man of his sort usually got what he wanted through purchase or by means of pressures. Now, a shadow has fallen upon him since then, not a deep one, but one sufficiently so to make me give him a second look; but I still hold to my belief about the purchasing and the pressures. If he is in this thing, it is by means of someone he’s bought, someone he’s taken advantage of, someone who couldn’t help themselves. He has not touched the crime directly. If I am right in all this, the best method of reaching that fact is through the active criminal, the person who actually stole the painting and killed Custis. No matter how clever this person is, and he is clever, he’ll be easier to catch than Sheerness. And once we have him in hand, we can, at our leisure, entangle anyone else who may be concerned.”
“Well, that’s quite reasonable.” Duddington nodded his head.
“You are on friendly terms with this man Haviz,” said Lynch, “and, as is perfectly natural, are inclined to defend him. But consider what we’ve just turned up. Haviz, somewhat the worse for liquor, and in a most disturbed state of mind, went to Sheerness tonight and began talking about murder and about a picture Sheerness wanted. An hour later, less than an hour, a man whom Haviz hated was stabbed to death; a painting which Sheerness had coveted was stolen.”
“Yes, I know,” said Duddington, “one thing follows the other quite ominously.”
“A little investigation shows Haviz would have had time to accomplish the crime if he could have gained an entrance to the museum; and a little further search shows his entrance was possible.”
Again Duddington agreed with the inspector.
“It looks as though poor Haviz had got himself into a devil of a mess,” he said. “But, at the same time, Mr. Lynch, let us consider an angle of the matter brought to my mind by what you’ve just said. As you’ve stated more than once, your principal and fixed belief is the guilt of Billy Gregory. If Haviz was in the museum this evening, your opinion is that it was as a companion of Billy’s—a helper. They were leagued together, so to speak.”
“Yes,” said Inspector Lynch.
“You are convinced Billy had a part in the death of Custis. You are inclined to believe Haviz had, also. And you have a feeling Slade is concerned in the crime, likewise. Very well,” Duddington looked at Lynch, his great round face full of inquiry: “If all three had a part in the crime, why did Slade tell Moore, a while ago, of the episode upon the stairs just before Billy left the building?”
Lynch smiled; he did not seem at all put about.
“I’ve thought of that,” he said. “And my answer is that I place the thing alongside a number of others that have come up tonight. So far, I have no answers for any of them.”
Duddington sat down. He felt most uncomfortable. The clock on Custis’s desk showed the hour of ten was very near, and he was hungry. He pictured his apartment on the fifteenth floor, facing the park, high and airy, cool water in the bath, and Turvy in the little kitchen, busy over the deviled grill. His spirit hovered there, anxiously. The slices of beef should not be scored too deeply; a dull knife was best, for if the paste—French mustard, salt, cayenne, and other things—sinks too deeply, the flavor is gone, the dish is nothing. The mushrooms and lobster, too! Much care was always needed with them; there should be a proper amount of heat; there should not be——
Moore came in and closed the door behind him with a snap; he looked at the inspector with delighted eyes, rubbing his hands and chuckling.
“Well,” he said, “you never can tell. The thing that looks least sometimes turns out best.”
“What’s up?” asked Lynch.
“I’ve just had a talk with Curley,” said Moore. “You know, you said it would be a good idea if a man went over the neighborhood and got in touch with storekeepers, or householders, or anyone like that, I told Curley to get on that because he’s least like a cop of all the men on the job. And he’s turned up something, Inspector; something that looks mighty good.”
“Is he in the building?” said Lynch.
“Yes; I told him to wait, you might want to see him.” Moore opened the door and spoke to someone in the corridor. He returned, followed by a slightly built young man who looked like a clerk. He had a precise, dry air, and his slim hands kept fingering his hat brim.
“Moore asked me to go out and cover the vicinity, Inspector,” he said in reply to Lynch’s question. “It’s not much of a place to get information in, as the houses are almost all dwellings and look kind of blank in front. I tried a number of them, but they knew nothing; they were acquainted with none of the museum people and had not been at the front windows any time during the early evening. They asked me more questions than I asked them, and some seemed to be pretty well convinced I was a suspicious character. One, a chauffeur, had stood in the street for a space somewhere from five-fifteen to five-thirty; he’d noticed people coming out of the museum, but he had no notion who they were or how many there were.
“When I got around the corner, on the side street, I hadn’t much hope, for I was entirely out of sight of the museum’s front doorway. But the windows on the north side overlook it, and I thought there might be a bare chance of someone having noticed something. There are some little shops; one is occupied by a cobbler, another has cut flowers on sale; but both those were closed. The only place open was a bakery, with a small lunch bar, rather well along in the street. I went in and got a cup of coffee and a sandwich. The proprietor is a Pole, and he began to talk as soon as I gave him a chance.
“He didn’t know anything about the museum. It was a place where statues and pictures were kept; he’d never been inside of it. But he had an idea they didn’t do much business, for just opposite his place was the gate where all freight for the place went in, and there wasn’t much of it. Sometimes they didn’t get any stuff in for a month.”
Lynch had listened to the young plain-clothes man with some impatience.
“What did you find out?” he asked. “What did the bakeshop man really tell you?”
“He said he knew Marsh,” said Curley. “This man we’ve got here tonight. And he said Marsh had been in and out of the bakeshop every night for the past two weeks, sometimes three and four times the same night; he’d buy cigarettes, he’d drink tea at the counter and talk! But that was only a pretense: what he was really doing was watching the back door of the museum.”
XXI
THERE was a frown upon the inspector’s face as he looked at Curley, and it was quite plain to Duddington he did not welcome what he’d just been told.
“Are you sure there’s no mistake?” he said. “Are you positive Marsh is the man the baker means?”
“I arranged about ten minutes ago for him to see Marsh without being seen. He’s sure.”
“Have you got him in the building?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s in the corridor, now,” said Moore. “I got a man to take Marsh upstairs and keep him there until I sent him word, for it seemed to me he’d best not know we’d heard of this.”
“Quite right,” said the inspector. “Let’s have the baker.”
In a few moments a foreign-looking man came
in; he was short and heavy-limbed and his eyes blazed with excitement.
“It is the police!” he said to Moore. “The police are in the place! But why am I here? What have I done?”
“It’s all right,” said the precinct detective. “Don’t worry. You’ll be out of here just as soon as the inspector has a little talk with you.”
Lynch looked at the slip of paper Curley had given him.
“You are Peter Krimposki, a baker, and your place of business is in the street on the north side of this building?”
“I am Krimposki,” said the man. “I bake and keep a lunch place. I sell good food at not much expense. From my window I see this building.”
“You are acquainted with Marsh, the man you were asked about?”
“Yes, I know him. I have known him for a long time. He is the only one from this place to buy from me. Often he will come in and drink tea and smoke.”
“Would this be during the day or night?”
“The day. I have never seen him at night until ten days—maybe two weeks ago. Then he came in and talked. He smoked and ate buns. Sometimes we played checkers. He is not a good player.”
“What gave you the idea he was watching the back entrance to this museum?”
“At first I did not know he watched. I serve him what he wants; I take his money. And, as I say, sometimes we would play checkers. He is a nice man. He knows a lot about Europe. Of Poland he knows much. He would stand by my lunch bar and talk, and I would listen. It was then I noticed. Always he watched the gate that the freight goes in for this building. Two, three times my baker told me he saw him in the street above my place. He was standing in a doorway; and then he watched, too.”
“You saw Marsh awhile ago? Curley,” indicating the plain-clothes man, “pointed him out to you?”
“Oh, yes. I saw him outside in the entry. I peeped through a door that was open just a little.”
“And you are sure it is the same man?”
“Oh, yes, I am sure, the same as I would be sure of myself.”
“That will be all, Mr. Krimposki. You may go.” And then, as the baker gestured his relief, Lynch added: “A little while later I may want to speak to you again.”
The Museum Murder Page 15