“Custis seems fixed in your mind; but have you thought of anyone as his aide other than Haviz?”
Marsh nodded his head.
“Tonight,” he said. “I’ve considered a number of people and a number of things. People and things passed in and out of my mind, for there was nothing to hold them by; but one of the things kept with me, Mr. Chalmers.” The man’s voice sank to a whisper. “Something went wrong with Custis’s plan—if he had one. If he had, it went forward to a certain point and then collapsed. An oversight. A mistake of some sort. And his death was the result.”
XXVI
WHEN Duddington left Marsh, he went into the office; Lynch sat at Custis’s desk. Moore and Curley and Andresona were standing about. The inspector was gathering up the sheets of paper upon which he had taken the statements of the people called in, and he snapped a rubber band about them.
“I’m about through here,” he said to Duddington. “What else remains to do will be done at headquarters.”
“You’re really going to take someone there, are you?” said Duddington.
“I’m going to arrest Gregory,” said the inspector; “and I’m going to take Slade, Marsh, and Haviz along for further questioning.”
“They’ll talk at headquarters,” said Moore confidently. “None of them people have seen anything, yet. Nor heard anything.”
“I haven’t had a chance to speak to Haviz,” said Duddington to Lynch, “but I will in the next ten minutes.”
Lynch watched him as he walked about the office, his hands behind him, his head down.
“What’s on your mind?” said the inspector.
“I’m turning over a number of things,” said the young man. “Some of them damned curious, too, but rather shapeless and not yet fit to talk about.” He paused at the open door of the storeroom. “You had the back door open awhile ago, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” said Lynch.
“It was all right,” said Moore. “Locked tight.”
“I’ve only gone out that way once,” said Duddington; “and, if I remember, there is a small yard, then a walk with a gateway.”
“Right,” said Moore. “The gate was locked, also.”
Duddington stood silent for a moment; then he said:
“I think I’ll have a look myself; it’ll refresh my memory.”
He started into the storeroom, and Moore called after him:
“Here’s a key for the back door.”
“I have one,” said Duddington. “There was one for each trustee, you know.”
The lights of the storeroom were on; marks of the search the police had made were everywhere; but the silver figure of Diana stood untouched, and Duddington saw the crushed bits of plaster still upon the floor about its base. At the back door he drew out his keys; then, after fumbling with them for a moment, he looked rather blank. He took each of them separately; his apartment key; one to the safety deposit box at the bank; the locker key at his country club; one to the small room at home where he kept a few dozen of wine. But there was no key to the museum’s back door!
He frowned and went over the keys again; but the desired one was not among them.
“What could have become of it?” he said. “I haven’t lost it, for I’d have lost the others with it. I’ve always carried it on this ring, and it couldn’t possibly have slipped off.”
He went toward the office, thinking to borrow one of the two keys the police had taken from the safe; but he paused.
“If I do I’ll have to tell them my key’s missing; and right away there’d be the old Harry started.”
A thousand questions would be asked him; he’d be grilled as badly as the others had been. And why not? The key to the back door! Why, the possession of that slip of cut metal would...
“How’d it get off my key ring?” said Duddington. “It must be my keys have been stolen, this one key removed, and the others put back in my pocket.”
But, devil take it, who could have done such a thing! Not Turvy. Oh, no, no! It couldn’t have been Turvy. It was someone else; it might have been a pickpocket, perhaps in a crowd. He’d known some of these gentry to be amazingly clever. But then, why should one of them fancy his keys? More especially a particular key? No, a pickpocket wasn’t the explanation. There was more to it than that. A good deal more. He stood, thinking hard. It was best to take the matter up short, to look at everything that would seem to have anything to do with it. He’d never had much use for the key. Indeed, now that he looked back upon it, he couldn’t have used it for several years, perhaps more. He recalled one time he’d unlocked the back door so Custis wouldn’t have the bother of opening the safe for his key. But that was a long time before. There was another time or two—once when he was going about the building with the insurance people. But nothing recent. He did not recall——But, wait! Just a second, now! Just a second. There was a time! And not long before. No more than a few weeks. While he’d been in town the last time. He hadn’t opened the door himself. No. He’d given the key to someone. He’d taken it off the ring and given it to this person. It was one afternoon. A hot afternoon. Something had been delivered, and Custis was absent. Slade had come to Duddington for the key. Yes, it was Slade. He’d given it to Slade.
“I was standing in the outer office,” said Duddington, “and Slade came in and asked Haviz for his key. Haviz told him he’d have to get mine. So I took the key off the ring and gave it to him. There were a number of people present. I’d been talking to Haviz, Mona was there at her desk with MacQuarrie. He was reading off a list of something, and she was taking it down on the typing machine. Marsh was there, too, sitting near the door, waiting for Custis.”
Yes, he’d given the key to Slade. He knew that. It was perfectly clear. Some old Dutch pewter had arrived—it had been bought for the museum at an out-of-town sale by MacQuarrie. That was it! And it was a list of those items MacQuarrie was reading to Mona. Yes, it was getting perfectly clear. It was all coming back, now.
“And when the cases had been carried in,” said Duddington to himself, “Slade returned the key! I’m sure of that, for I came into this room and locked the door. I locked it carefully and tried it afterward to make sure.”
And then the key? What of that? He tried to picture himself as taking his key ring out and replacing the key upon it. But he couldn’t. He’d been still talking with Haviz; they were discussing the purchase of the pewter items, and Haviz was of the opinion the museum was going rather too far in its featuring of such things. He was for fine art, and not so much handicraft. Duddington had disagreed; he’d rapped with the key upon the edge of a table to emphasize a remark. That was as clear in his mind as though it had just happened. And then he’d put the key in his pocket! The little cash pocket inside the larger pocket of his coat!
He remembered the coat he’d worn. The day had been a hot one; almost as hot as the one just passed; and he’d worn a linen suit. A suit of gray linen. And when he’d reached home an hour later, he’d taken it off.
“I haven’t worn it since,” said Duddington. “Not once, since.”
He went into the inner office; Lynch and the other policemen were no longer there, and Duddington sat down at the telephone and called his apartment, Turvy replied.
“Yes, Mr. Chalmers,” he said. “The gray linen suit. Yes, it is here. A key, sir? Very well; I’ll look.” Duddington waited for some minutes; then Turvy spoke again. “I’ve looked in all the pockets, Mr. Chalmers; but there is no key. I have looked carefully. I have especially looked in the small pocket inside the right-hand coat pocket, sir.”
“You are quite positive, Turvy?”
“Quite, sir.”
“Very well. Thank you.”
Duddington hung up the receiver; he sat very still. No key in the little pocket. Well, he’d expected that, but he’d wanted to make quite sure. The suit had gone to the laundry since he’d worn it; and it was quite possible the people at the laundry——
“Now, just a moment!” he said
. “Let’s have a moment on this. The laundry, eh? Now, wait. This might be something.”
He put his elbows on the desk, and his chin in his hands; he stared straight before him. He remained in this posture for some time, rigid, and not moving, his mind fixed. Then he relaxed, leaned easily back in the chair and reached for the directory. In a few moments he’d called the laundry; and after the bell had continued ringing for a little while, a man’s voice spoke surlily in his ear.
“Is this the White Laundry?” said Duddington.
“Yes; but there’s no business done at this hour. You’ll have to call tomorrow.”
“Are you employed at the establishment?”
“I’m the watchman.”
“Thank you. Perhaps you could tell me where I might get in touch with the proprietor?”
The man, none too willingly, gave Duddington a number; and in a little while a maid at the proprietor’s home was speaking. Mr. Evans was out. He’d gone to play pinochle with some friends. He did not care to be disturbed in the midst of his game. But Duddington persuaded her, and in a few minutes more he had Mr. Evans.
“What’s the matter?” said the laundryman. “Can’t I have an evening to myself? Must somebody always go a-trailing me up? I put in twelve hours a day in the office; that ought to be enough work for anybody.”
Duddington replied that the matter was one which had the interest of the police. And when he’d mentioned what he desired to know, the laundryman said:
“I couldn’t give you any information on that at all tonight. People are always leaving things in pockets; I can’t keep track of them. If you’ll call in the morning my foreman, maybe, can tell you something.”
Duddington persisted, however, that the morning would not do; the needed information must be had that night.
“Within another half hour at the most,” said Duddington severely. “A great deal depends upon speed.”
So the telephone number and name of the foreman were forthcoming at once; and when called he answered in person, brisk, immediate, and with none of the reluctance of the others.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Chalmers,” he said, “I know your name; we’ve had it in our books for some time. It’s the kind of a name a person remembers. We’ve given you some trouble lately; I hope there is nothing more.”
“No,” said Duddington, “nothing more. What I’m calling you for now is to ask about that same matter. With the package of collars I got from your branch office this morning there was an enclosure. Do you remember?”
“Very well. I’m sorry about that, Mr. Chalmers but the whole thing was an oversight. You see, when your linen suit came in for cleaning, one of the girls at the place went through all the pockets. That’s one of the things she does; and right away she found the key.”
“The key!” said Duddington, a break in his voice.
“Yes, a small, flat key. I didn’t see it then, but I did afterwards. The girl who found it put it in her apron pocket and then forget it; and at noon that day she started away on a ten days’ vacation. That’s why, when your friend came and asked for the key that afternoons no one could tell him anything about it.”
“I see,” said Duddington, stirring in his chair. “Yes, of course.”
“When the girl came back to work she turned the key over to me; I called your apartment but was told you’d gone for the summer. So, then, I put the key in an envelope, wrote your name on it, and put it in a bundle of collars we had of yours, writing the word ‘enclosure’ on the list tied to it.”
“So you remember my friend who called for the key,” said Duddington. “I hadn’t thought you’d do that.”
“I didn’t see him myself,” said the man. “But my wife did. She’s in charge of the branch which handles the work in your district.”
“Oh, yes, of course,” Duddington meditated a moment, then he said: “I wonder could I speak to her; you see, the matter is rather important and quite urgent.”
“She’s right here,” said the foreman. “Just a moment.”
The foreman’s wife spoke to Duddington, and he at once recalled the cheerful voice of the blonde girl of the morning. And she recalled the man who’d tried to get the key, perfectly.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Chalmers. He came to the office the very day your bundle was sent in. He said a key had been left in the coat pocket; and we searched, but couldn’t find it. He was a good deal disappointed. Well, all I know about his being a friend of yours, Mr. Chalmers, is what he said. I hope nothing is wrong. Yes, sir; he was a tall man, not very well dressed; and he was thin. When he talked it was like listening to an actor; and he had wild kind of hair. I wouldn’t have remembered him so well, maybe, if I hadn’t seen him this morning when he came with you to the office.”
“Wait,” said Duddington hastily. “Just a moment. What makes you think he came with me this morning to your office?”
“Why,” said the girl, surprise in her voice. “I saw him. He was outside. While you talked to me he looked in through the window. But,” and there was a little note of alarm in the voice, “maybe I was wrong. Maybe he hadn’t come with you. But he was the same man; and I thought he was standing there waiting until you came out.”
XXVII
IN THE corridor, a few moments later, Duddington encountered Lynch.
“We are all set to go,” said the inspector. “And if you haven’t spoken to Haviz you’d better do it now.”
“I’ll report on him at once,” said Duddington. “But first I must have a word with Marsh.”
The inspector looked at him inquiringly, his eyes narrowed.
“You seem to have a good deal of business on hand,” he said. “What’s up?”
“Wait,” said Duddington. “Wait for a little while, Inspector. It may be you’re going to be surprised.” He was about to pass on, but paused again. “I’ll venture a prediction: you’re going to take someone away from here on a charge of murder within fifteen minutes. Who is it going to be?”
“Gregory,” said Lynch, truculently.
“Not Gregory,” said Duddington. “I’ll stake my head on it.”
Marsh was talking with one of the policemen, farther along, and Duddington drew him out of earshot and said to him:
“You are pretty well acquainted with all the scouts and hangers-on in your business, I think, Marsh.”
The man smiled his tight smile, and he gestured with both hands.
“There are a good many, but I’ll venture I know most of them, Mr. Chalmers.”
“Very well. And now, listen: for the next few minutes I want you to fix your thoughts on a tall, thin man, whose clothes need pressing, whose hair needs cutting and brushing, who has an elaborate way of gesturing and talking.”
A glint of excitement showed in Marsh’s pale eyes.
“There’s no need in my putting in any time on him, Mr. Chalmers,” he said eagerly. “I know him as well as I know myself.”
Duddington was hugely satisfied.
“Good,” he said. “Keep him in mind just as you have him. In a little while Inspector Lynch will ask you who he is. And I depend on you to tell him.”
Duddington entered the exhibition room, where he’d left Haviz some time before. The man sat in almost the same position, his hands clasped about one knee.
“I knew you’d be back,” he said with a nod.
“It would have been before this,” said Duddington, “but I fell into a couple of surprising matters that kept my attention. However, here I am; so fill up your pipe again and let’s talk.”
Duddington lighted a cigarette; Haviz knocked out his pipe on the window ledge and charged it once more.
“The police have a curious effect upon me,” he said. “Awhile ago I set out to tell Lynch everything I had to tell, and yet I couldn’t do it. Years of concealment, of fear of exposure,” a spasm of pain shooting across his face, “takes one’s courage, Chalmers. It takes it, every drop.”
“Though you hid it pretty well, I saw you were having trouble,”
said Duddington, striking a match and holding it to the bowl of Haviz’s pipe, “and so I thought it best to get rid of him and for you and I to have it out together.” He leaned back comfortably in his chair. “I think, old chap, I have a fairly good idea of what happened to you tonight, so I’ll venture on telling you what took place, and why; but if I should go wrong anywhere, check me up.”
But he would not start with that night, he said. No. He’d go much farther back. Twenty-five years! The time when Haviz first came to New York, paint in his blood, the desire for fame in his heart, his brain teeming with plans for the future. He painted while the light lasted each day. He hadn’t many friends; but a picture dealer, a crooked, bitter little man, seemed to favor him. This dealer sold some of his pictures at good prices. And as their relations grew more fixed, the man said he’d sell more—provided they were of a kind which he would mention.
“He did mention them,” said Duddington, “as you know to your cost. Spurious works of dead masters. He proposed to age and sell them; and you’d share the profits with him.”
Haviz had taken his pipe from his mouth while the fat young man talked; his jaw had gone slack, his color was yellow and ghastly under the lights.
“How do you know that?” he said.
Duddington replied that a couple of questions had brought it to the attention of the police not more that an hour before. But it appeared to be a thing suspected for years; possibly gossiped over by people who knew them both. Yes, Custis mentioned what he wanted; and Haviz had agreed. There had been two of the fake pictures made; at least, that was the number spoken of. But two had all the evil possibilities of two dozen as far as Haviz’s security and peace of mind went; for, witness: One of them had just reappeared, brought to public notice after years of semi-oblivion by the death of its owner. The owner’s estate must be settled, and this painting, for which a huge sum had been paid, was to be disposed of.
The Museum Murder Page 19