Hue and Cry

by Thomas B. Dewey

  Mrs. Fogarty shook her head and played with her skirt.

  “I’m afraid,” she said, “I really couldn’t…

  “Miss Mason asked Bill to marry her, didn’t she?”

  “Oh no!” Mrs. Fogarty looked frightened. “I’m sure—”

  “She told Bill she was going to have a baby. Bill said it wasn’t his child and she said she’d make the town think it was. Isn’t that what she said?”

  Mrs. Fogarty looked bewildered. She wouldn’t say yes, but she didn’t say no, either.

  “Then Bill told her he’d heard about her going to the Sheraton Hotel with Don Eastman and Tommy Rowe. He tried to make her see that she was heading for trouble, and she wouldn’t listen. She began yelling at him, telling him she’d let everybody know the child was his and she’d ruin him in the Service. Isn’t that right, Mrs. Fogarty?”

  Mrs. Fogarty sat quite still. After what seemed a long time she said, “Yes. That’s true.”

  “And the next day,” Singer said, “you told her to leave your house.”

  Mrs. Fogarty nodded. “Yes,” she whispered.

  Singer went over and laid his hand on her shoulder.

  “I understand, Mrs. Fogarty,” he said. “It was just that you couldn’t bring yourself to say it. This town is proud of you and Bill.”

  That was Singer. What a sweetheart!

  Mrs. Fogarty patted his hand. “Thank you, Singer,” she said.

  Singer went back to the desk.

  “I don’t know why Curly told Bill Fogarty about Miss Mason and the Sheraton Hotel; but I know he did, because when I wired Bill and asked him what he and Miss Mason quarreled about, he wired back telling me to ask Curly Evans. I never had a chance to ask Curly. The next time I saw Curly, he was dying.”

  Weaver jumped up.

  “Wait a minute!” he said. “I didn’t know about all this—”

  Singer raised his hand.

  “Just a moment, Mr. Weaver. I won’t be much longer.”

  Weaver sat down.

  “The scene with Bill Fogarty was Miss Mason’s first attempt at what is known, I believe, as a shakedown. Bill Fogarty would have been a good, substantial husband. When she knew she couldn’t scare Bill into marrying her, she went after something else. Money. She didn’t want to marry the man who was actually the father of her child. But she knew she would need money. She went to the real father for it, because she thought that although he didn’t have it, he could get it.

  “But he just laughed at her. She was desperate and she threatened to expose him as the peddler of drugs she knew him to be.”

  Everybody looked at Don Eastman.

  “That scared him,” Singer said. “He knew she could expose him, and he knew it would go hard for him if she did. So in order to mollify her, he helped her plan still another shakedown, this time with someone who did have the money, somebody who had been seen with Miss Mason even more than Don had.”

  Now they were looking at Tommy Rowe.

  “He thought he had it all fixed up. He thought she would go to Tommy Rowe and that Tommy would either marry her or give her money. But she didn’t go to Tommy Rowe. She went to somebody else. And she got paid off. And Don Eastman began to worry, because Tommy hadn’t told him whether she had gone to him or not, and he got so worried that he was desperate. So the night before last, Don Eastman stole a knife from the bakery where he worked and at one o’clock in the morning, or thereabouts, he crept down the hall to Miss Mason’s room. He saw her lying on the bed and thought she had fallen asleep, or had taken too much liquor. He plunged the knife into her heart.

  “On the dresser in her room lay a bundle of money—nice, new, crisp green bills wrapped in a bit of white paper. Don Eastman picked up the money, turned out the light in Miss Mason’s room, and went back to his own room. He thought he had killed her. He thought so until tonight when I said she had been poisoned. He thought he had sealed up forever the evidence she had against him on the narcotics traffic.

  “But he was wrong. The evidence against him had already been gathered—and written down—by Curly Evans. Enough evidence to send not only Don Eastman but someone else to the penitentiary for ten years at least.

  “I know Curly Evans wrote it down. I know he carried it with him. Because Bill Fogarty told me that, too. And I know that the evidence somehow got lost when Curly Evans was shot. Joe Spinder and I found Curly in one of the dressing rooms at the tourist camp, and when we carried him out, a sheaf of papers fell from his pocket. We were too busy then to pick them up.”

  Singer reached into his hip pocket and pulled out his handkerchief. I reached up into the switch-box.

  “I know that those papers must still be lying somewhere down at the tourist camp where Curly was murdered. And I think Mr. Weaver and his men ought to go down there right now and get them.”

  I pulled the master switch and the lights went out. Suddenly it was dark as pitch in that lobby. Somebody screamed—I think it was Mrs. Fogarty. Somebody said, “Goddam it”—and I know that was me. Then I heard Singer’s voice say, calmly, softly, “All right, Joe,” and I came to life.

  I beat it back through the dining-room and the kitchen and into the alley. Pete Haley’s car was parked at the entrance to the alley, facing North Street. I opened the right front door and lammed in.

  “Okay, Pete,” I said. “Start her up.”

  No answer. I looked at him.

  Pete was asleep. He was snoring.

  “Goddam it, Pete, wake up!”

  I hit him in the ribs with my elbow. He grunted. I saw a car come tearing around the corner by the bank and head north. I got out and slammed the door and ran around to Pete’s side of the car. I socked him in the head and in the stomach. He woke up.

  “Move over,” I said.

  I helped him and he crawled out from under the wheel. I saw another car come ripping around that corner as I stepped on the starter. As I got into low a third car went by, and then I was out in the street, cussing at the top of my voice.

  Way up ahead I saw a tail-light moving fast and swerving a little as it hit the railroad halfway to the edge of town. I kept my foot down on the floor. Pete’s old crate was pretty shaky, but it was big and powerful and moved right along.

  Pete was coming to life. He took off his cap and scratched his head and rubbed his face with both hands.

  “Where we goin’?” he said.

  “See that tail-light up there?”

  “Yeah.”

  “We’re going wherever it goes.”

  “Oh,” said Pete. “Goin’ north.”

  “Yeah,” I said.

  It was going north all right, at about sixty-five miles an hour.

  “Say,” Pete said, “there’s a thirty-five-mile speed limit now, you know.”

  “I know.”

  “Better slow down.”

  “Go back to sleep, Pete.”

  “Can’t,” Pete said. “Git nervous with somebody else drivin’.”

  “Don’t be nervous,” I said. “This won’t last long.”

  “Hope not,” Pete said.

  Suddenly that tail-light up ahead seemed to stand still.

  I got ready to set the brakes—then it disappeared, and I saw the headlights shift and turn off to the left. That was the tourist camp road and I felt a little guilty when I plowed Pete’s tires into that bunch of rocky ruts. I slowed down a little.

  But the car ahead didn’t slow down. He got into the winding part of the road before I was over the first hump. I missed a rut and swerved, and a branch swished into the windshield, then came through the window and slapped Pete’s face.

  “Take back a little, young feller,” Pete said. “Ain’t that much hurry.”

  “Oh, yes, there is!”

  I was in the woods now, bumping and twisting along, and I couldn’t see any car ahead of me. I kept thinking: I didn’t see any papers in Curly’s pocket.… What paper?… There weren’t any papers!… But that Singer—he sure made them think t
here were… That Singer!

  Then we came out into the clearing by the bathhouse and I had to jam on the brakes to keep from plowing into the car. It was a nice new car. I’d have hated to scratch it.

  I jumped out and yelled at Pete to come along. There were three cars lined up in front of Pete’s. I passed them and made for the bathhouse. There were loud voices coming from the other side of it and one of them was Don Eastman’s. He was doing most of the talking. The other voice, I figured out, belonged to Tommy Rowe.

  But there were three cars!

  “You did it,” Eastman was saying, as I came around the corner of the bathhouse. “You killed her. You went up there and had a drink with her and poisoned her.”

  “You’re crazy,” Tommy said. “Why should I kill her?”

  I stopped to listen. Pete came pounding up behind me, and I grabbed his coat and stopped him.

  “That Singer Batts,” Don said, “he was just making that up. Marian did try to shake you down. You were afraid to ask your old man for money. You killed her.”

  “Yeah?” said Tommy. “Then where did she get that dough?”

  “What dough?”

  “The dough that was on the dresser, that you stole.”

  “Why, you dirty—” Don took a poke at Tommy.

  Then they were all over each other, clawing and yelling and kicking like a couple of schoolgirls. Pete started forward.

  “Wait,” I said. “Let them go to it. Save us a lot of trouble.”

  Headlights flashed behind us and a car ground to a stop. I heard Singer’s voice.

  “All right,” I said to Pete. “Let’s break it up.”

  We waded in. I drew Don Eastman. I was getting used to pushing him around. I even liked it a little by now. Pete grabbed Tommy and held him up, with both his huge arms pinning Tommy’s tight to his chest. I pushed Eastman up against the bathhouse and held him there.

  Around the corner came Singer, Weaver, and the guy in the black hat.

  “There’s your man,” Singer said.

  The guy in the black hat stepped up to Eastman, flashed a card, and slapped handcuffs on him. The guy looked at me.

  “Thanks, bud,” he said. “You’re tough. How about coming into the Service?”

  “No, thanks,” I said. “I handled my last narcotics case one minute ago.”

  He grinned.

  Weaver had gone up to Tommy Rowe. The uniformed cop was with him.

  “All right, son,” Weaver said. “Stick out your hands.”

  “No,” said Singer. “He didn’t kill Marian Mason. There’s nothing against him.”

  “Then who in hell did?” Weaver said. “What kind of rat race is this?”

  “There goes your murderer—over there.”

  Singer pointed. A dark figure was skirting the edge of the trees in a wide circle back toward the parked cars. “Wait!” yelled Weaver, starting to run over that way. The figure stopped, turned, and came walking slowly back to where we stood.

  “I’m sorry,” Singer said and turned his head.

  “That’s all right, Singer. You had to.” It was Mr. Rowe. His voice sounded very tired. “I’ll go quietly,” he said to Weaver.

  For a moment Weaver was speechless.

  “You did it?” he said finally. “You killed her?”

  “Certainly,” Mr. Rowe said.

  “And that other guy—Evans. Him, too?”

  “Yes. I was sorry about Curly. I killed Miss Mason because I hated her and wanted to protect my son and the town from her. But I killed Curly because I was afraid. I didn’t need to kill Curly. I know that now. But I was afraid.” He smiled. “Never kill because you’re afraid,” he said. “It will trip you up every time.”

  “But the poison,” Weaver said. “Do you always carry strychnine around with you?”

  Mr. Rowe shook his head.

  “Singer figured that out,” he said. “He’ll tell you about it. I killed Curly with an old gun I’ve had for years at the bank. You’ll find it in the top right-hand drawer of my desk. I haven’t even cleaned it.”

  Weaver took Mr. Rowe’s arm and they started off. Then Mr. Rowe stopped and looked back.

  “So long, Tommy,” he said. “Take care of your mother.”

  And they disappeared.

  Tommy was leaning against the bathhouse. I thought he was sobbing, but I wasn’t sure. After a minute Pete cleared his throat.

  “Come on, Tommy,” he said. “I’ll give you a ride to town.”

  “I’ve got my own car,” Tommy said.

  He moved away and disappeared, too. Pete started to follow him, then stopped.

  “Joe,” Pete said, “will you bring Mr. Rowe’s car back to town?”

  “Sure,” I said. “’Night, Pete.”

  “’Night,” Pete said. He went around the corner of the bathhouse.

  I stood there, muttering to myself.

  “What was that, Joe?” Singer asked.

  “There’s still some whisky left at home,” I said. “Let’s go finish it up.”

  “I’ll go,” Singer said. “But I won’t need any more whisky. It’s carried me through this case.”

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll drink yours.”

  We went over and got into Mr. Rowe’s car.

  CHAPTER 15

  Back in the suite, I’d taken off my clothes and mixed a drink. Singer was sitting at his little work table.

  “I still don’t see how you knew,” I said. “Break down. Let me in on it.”

  Singer laughed.

  “Number One:” he said. “Mrs. Rowe had heart trouble. Strychnine—good old nux vomica—is often prescribed. In a place like Preston, with a staunch citizen like Mr. Rowe, it is quite reasonable to assume that Doctor Blane would let Mr. Rowe buy a quantity of strychnine, tell him how to use it, and leave him to his own devices. I don’t think he always carried it with him. I imagine he got the prescription refilled yesterday morning. But that isn’t important. I was suspicious of Mr. Rowe almost from the start.”

  “You were?”

  “As I have said, you are a high-fidelity reporter, Joe. In that report you did for me this morning you even included the conversation between Mr. Rowe, Mr. Granger, and yourself—about putting the two boys up for the night.”

  “I don’t get it,” I said.

  “You don’t remember? When you admitted to Mr. Rowe that you had taken the boys in, what was the first thing he asked you?”

  I scratched my head.

  “He asked you, ‘What time?’ That question didn’t fit with the rest of your conversation. At that point, Mr. Rowe wasn’t interested in the two boys themselves—he was interested in whether they had been in the hotel during the murder. His ‘what time’ question showed that.”

  “Okay,” I said. “What else?”

  “Number Two: I knew Curly must have been working for somebody. When we found the hundred-dollar draft on Mr. Rowe’s own bank, I was sure who it was. Then there was the money Don had, the bright new bills. The bank would be the only place here where you would find so many new, crisp bills of such denominations. I knew then that somebody had been bought off. I didn’t think anybody would bother to buy off Don Eastman.”

  “But if he bought her off,” I said, “why did he kill her?”

  “He killed her because he knew he couldn’t buy her off really. He knew she would come back again and again. He could see Tommy in trouble with the Government, and her blackmailing him. Mr. Rowe is a strong-minded man. He wouldn’t have sat around and let anyone blackmail him. Not for long.”

  “How did he do it?” I said.

  “Curly helped him.”

  “Curly!”

  “Curly didn’t know it. Mr. Rowe asked Curly to watch Marian for him and let him know when she was in her room. He stood down in the alley and watched Curly’s window. Curly gave him a signal, and Mr. Rowe went up to Curly’s room. He gave Curly the money and told him to go out on the fire escape and get Miss Mason outside for a few minutes
, then give her the money. He said there was evidence against Tommy in her room and he wanted to get it.

  “Curly went out on the fire escape and called Miss Mason. She expected Curly to be the agent for Mr. Rowe, so she went right out. Curly stalled around and finally gave her the money. In the meantime Mr. Rowe went down the hall to Miss Mason’s room, dumped poison into the glass that still contained some liquor, and left.”

  “But how would he know she had a glass with liquor in it?”

  “He didn’t. He had planned to kill her some other way. Probably by strangling. But he found the liquor and decided to use poison.”

  “What about Mr. Rowe hiding in the bathroom and seeing Tommy come out of her room?”

  “That I doubt, Joe. I think they made that up between them.”

  “Then you think Tommy knew his father had done it?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Of course, Tommy might have had the poison,” I said.

  “Mr. Rowe would never have trusted Tommy with it. Besides, Tommy had no reason to kill Miss Mason.”

  “Then she really didn’t try to shake him down?”

  “I think she did. But not very strenuously. She knew Tommy didn’t have anything in his own name.”

  I thought it over.

  “All right, it sounds logical,” I said. “There’s one more thing. How did those glasses get out of Miss Mason’s room? Who took ’em?”

  “Curly,” Singer said. “Curly was trying to help Mr. Rowe. He woke up in the morning and started out. He heard Nancy Wheeler scream, and he went down the hall to Miss Mason’s room. He saw her dead and he saw the glasses on the dresser. He knew Tommy had been up there and he was afraid he’d be implicated. He took the glasses out of the room.”

  “How are you so sure?” I said.

  “Remember where we found the glasses? Back of the laundry. When Curly came downstairs in the morning, when you were standing by the desk talking to Pete and Harry, he was carrying a bundle of laundry. Remember?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I remember.”

  “I have a question or two for you, Joe,” Singer said.

  “For me?”