“Taller than me, certainly,” Elizabeth said.
“Taller than you? What color is her hair?”
“Blonde, of course. Haven’t we all been assuming it was her who visited Mrs. Warner?”
“I wish Mary were here,” Emmie said.
“She is here,” Elizabeth told her. “She’s in her room unpacking.” She left us and returned with Mary.
“Mary, do you remember the first time I visited the Howells’ apartment?” Emmie asked.
“Yes, ma’am. When you were working for the charity.”
“Yes, that’s right. I asked to speak to Mrs. Barclay and you said she was out, but that her sister might see me.”
“Yes, ma’am. Then she came out and talked with you. Mrs. Dyer.”
“Who’s Mrs. Dyer?” Elizabeth asked.
“She’s Mrs. Barclay’s other sister. Three sisters. And now two of them widows.”
“What happened to Mr. Dyer?” I asked.
“Died in the Spanish war, of fever. Down in Florida.”
“I don’t imagine they staged that,” I said.
“I just assumed it was Mrs. Howell,” Emmie said. “When did Mrs. Dyer leave?”
“They all left that Saturday morning. Mrs. Dyer went home to Baltimore and her sisters went to the boat.”
“What time did they leave for the boat?”
“About eight, I think.”
“Mary, I thought you were at your sister’s until Sunday?” Emmie inquired.
“It’s a small place they have, ma’am. And two babies. And her husband drinks. I thought it would be all right if I came back early.”
“Yes, of course.”
Mary went back to her unpacking.
“This doesn’t really change anything,” I said. “It still couldn’t have been either Mrs. Barclay or Mrs. Howell who visited Johnson, because he saw the woman after their boat set sail.”
“Of course, he may have mistaken Friday for Saturday,” Emmie said. “But that will be resolved when Mrs. Howell arrives.”
I telephoned the Cunard line and was told the Etruria wasn’t expected to dock before five. Then I phoned Tibbitts again and asked if he could have Missuses Howell and Barclay detained on their arrival. He said he’d contact the harbor patrol and phone me back when he learned anything. Then Emmie and I left for the jail. Corwin was surprised to see Emmie.
“The D.A. won’t like this,” he said.
“Tell him I’m a stenographer,” Emmie said.
The D.A. arrived and Corwin told him we were employees of Koestler. Then Marquisee was brought in, looking like someone who’d spent the last three days in jail. The D.A. had him sit down and then told him to explain all that had happened.
“It started a few weeks ago. I was having stomach problems.”
“Stomach problems?”
“Yes, painful ones. After about a week of it, I went to a doctor. He said it might be something I ate, and to see if it just went away. And it seemed to, right after that. But a week later it started again. I went to see the doctor again and he said maybe it was some paint we were using. I said, I don’t do the painting, but he said maybe it came from that anyway. So I started checking on that.
“Then one evening I came home, and there’s this lady in the house. She said, ‘Clara’s very sick.’ ‘What’s wrong with her?’ I said. ‘She took this poison.’ It was rat poison. Then this lady says, ‘I think she’s been trying to poison you.’ I asked who she was, and how she could know that. She wouldn’t say, but she said that Clara had an insurance policy on my life and would collect eight thousand dollars if I died. Then she showed it to me. It was just what she had said. ‘Clara wanted to use the money to gamble,’ she says. I knew Clara took money from the house to bet with. Everything this woman said seemed to be true. Then she said, ‘There wasn’t enough poison to kill her.’ Well, she could see how angry I was. Then she says, ‘It might be best if you just do it. Then no one needs to know.’ I asked what she meant and she said, ‘Use your hands.’ Well, now Clara was going through something awful. She was throwing up blood, and I actually felt sorry for her. So I did it. Just to stop it. I barely touched her, but she went limp.”
He paused for a bit, looked at each of us, and then the D.A. asked him to go on.
“Well, then this lady says, ‘You’ll need to put the body somewhere so it won’t look like she died here. Maybe in a cellar you’re digging.’ Then she left.”
“Then what did you do?”
“Well, I thought of doing like she said. But there was no way I could do that without the fellows who work for me seeing it. So that night, I took out one of my wagons and carried her from the house. Down to the canal there. She sank when I put her in. But she must have come back up.”
“What was the date?”
“The date?”
“What day was it you found this lady in your house?”
“Saturday. Saturday three weeks past.”
“The evening of Saturday the 13th?” I asked.
He thought a bit. “Yes.”
“The body was found on Sunday the 14th,” Corwin said.
“What did this lady look like?”
“She had a dark shawl on, and a hat. She was a good-looking woman, tall.”
“But you never saw her other than this one time?”
“That’s right.”
“When did you move to your daughter’s?” Emmie asked.
“The very next day, Sunday. I couldn’t stand being in that house.”
After Marquisee was taken away, Corwin told the D.A. we were looking into an insurance scheme, so we spent the good part of an hour telling him the story. Then we took a car back to the apartment. Elizabeth immediately went off on an errand. I phoned the Cunard line again and was told the Etruria had just reached the bar and would dock about six.
“Now it seems certain there’s someone else involved, Harry.”
“Yes, it couldn’t have been either Mrs. Barclay or Mrs. Howell who visited the Marquisees, since their boat sailed at eleven that morning.”
“And, you must admit, it couldn’t have been Elizabeth.”
“Elizabeth had dinner with us the day before. You saw her the afternoon of the 13th, but not that evening. She may have visited Johnson just before meeting you.”
“Oh, you can’t see her being that ruthless, can you?”
“Well, I can’t see anyone being that ruthless. If Marquisee didn’t seem such a dull specimen, I’d think he was making it up.”
About five, Tibbitts phoned.
“Cynthia Howell and Eliza Barclay are on the Etruria. When it docks, they’ll be escorted to the customs office. That’s the Clarkson Street pier.”
I agreed to meet him there and then told him about Marquisee’s statement.
“Damn,” he said. “I’ll see you at the pier.”
Emmie and I left for the pier and got there about 5:30. The ship was just now in sight, coming slowly up the North River. We watched it being positioned, and at about six located the customs office. We found Tibbitts and another detective waiting.
“I think the first thing we should do is take her to see Marquisee,” he said.
“Yes, that would settle that part of it,” Emmie said. “But there’s Mr. Johnson, too.”
“I’d rather leave him out of it,” Tibbitts said. “If Marquisee names her as the woman, that’s murder. We don’t need to bother about the rest.”
Emmie looked at me and I signaled her to let the matter drop. It wasn’t until half past six that a customs man brought in the two women. Unfortunately, the “Mrs. Howell” in tow was neither tall nor blonde, and bore a striking resemblance to the woman Emmie had mistaken for Mrs. Howell.
24
Emmie confronted the woman on the matter, and she readily confessed to being Mrs. Dyer.
“You’ve been traveling under your sister’s name?” I asked.
“Yes. But I don’t see what concern that is of yours.”
“But
why do it?” Emmie asked.
“I’d rather not say,” Mrs. Dyer said.
“Lady, you just came into port giving a false name,” Tibbitts told her. “You’d better have some explanation.”
“It isn’t anything nefarious,” she said. “Cynthia was worried Edward, her husband, was being unfaithful. It was her idea that she would make him think she’d gone to Europe.”
“Then spy on him?” Emmie asked.
“Watch him, yes.”
“Where is she now?”
“I expect at their home.”
Throughout this, Eliza Barclay seemed only remotely interested in the conversation. Tibbitts suggested we all go up to the Howells’ apartment and settle the matter. When we arrived, it appeared uninhabited. Mrs. Dyer went into the Howells’ bedroom and when she came out, she told us her sister must have returned to the apartment.
“How can you be sure of that?” Emmie asked.
“Her dressing gown is there, and so are her toiletries.”
Emmie went in the room and came out. “Those weren’t there on Friday afternoon, Harry.”
“When you two went to the boat, where did Mrs. Howell go?” I asked.
“The Netherlands Hotel.”
“And the maid didn’t know of this?”
“No, no one.”
“Why was the wire to Mrs. Howell sent here, then?” Emmie asked.
“That was a mistake. Eliza misunderstood,” Mrs. Dyer said.
Emmie, Tibbitts, and I went off to the Netherlands, leaving the other detective to keep an eye on the two sisters. At the hotel, we learned that Mrs. Howell had been staying there since the evening of the 13th using her sister’s name, Dyer. We were led to the room where her trunk remained along with some of her wardrobe. Also, a telegram sent from Queenstown on the 28th, where the Etruria stopped briefly after leaving Liverpool. It read:
Sailing Etruria arrive New York on fourth. First wire sent to apartment in error.
It was addressed to Mrs. Dyer at the Netherlands and signed Cynthia Howell. The three of us sat about the room for a bit.
“Well, this makes things simpler, doesn’t it?” Tibbitts asked.
“Yes,” Emmie agreed. “And it explains why there were no photos in the apartment of Cynthia Howell. It must have been her who went to see Johnson, and Marquisee.”
“Yes, and Mrs. Warner,” I said. “I suppose she thought she had a perfect alibi to clean up the loose ends.”
“Mrs. Warner!” Emmie exclaimed. “She’s home alone.”
The three of us rushed off to the Warners’ tenement on First Avenue. Mr. Gilbo was standing guard at his neighbors’ apartment door.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Someone tried to kill Mrs. Warner,” he said.
“Is she all right?” Emmie asked.
“Yes. A little shaken.”
He let us in and we found Mrs. Warner preparing supper for her protector.
“There you are,” she said. “You received my message.”
“What message?” I asked.
“I telephoned right after it happened. Your new maid took down the message. She seemed like a nice girl.”
“Yes, very nice,” I agreed. “But I’m afraid we didn’t get the message. What happened?”
“She showed up. Angrier than ever. You know, I think she might be a little mad.”
“The same woman who came to you before?” Emmie asked.
“Yes, it was her all right. I think she wanted to kill me. If Mr. Gilbo hadn’t been passing by, I think she would have.”
“When was this?”
“Oh, just an hour or two ago.”
“And then she left?”
“Yes, though Mr. Gilbo tried to hold her.”
“It was like holding a tiger,” Mr. Gilbo elucidated.
“Did you telephone the police?”
“Oh, yes. They came. I told them all about it. Her coming before, and my meeting you. But I don’t think they believed me.”
“How odd,” I said. “Well, Sergeant Tibbitts believes you.”
“Sure I do,” he said.
“Do you want to come back to our apartment until she’s caught?” Emmie asked. “We do know who it is now.”
“I think I’ll just stay here, thank you. Now I can wire Dickie about it, me being in danger, and he’ll come back. At least I hope he will.”
We left them to their supper and outside Tibbitts found a call box. He telephoned the local precinct and asked that they look after her. While he went off to put out an alert on Mrs. Howell, Emmie and I went home for our own meal.
“What do you suppose Cynthia Howell was doing the last three weeks, Harry?”
“Looking for Mrs. Warner and Anna Farrell. And keeping an eye on her husband. And Donigan, I imagine.”
“It was a clever idea, switching names like that. If I hadn’t sent that telegram, we still would know nothing about it. You see, Harry, sometimes it pays to take little risks.”
“If Cynthia Howell finds out it was you who undermined her subterfuge, the risk may not seem so little.”
“She’d need to get by you first, Harry.”
“Yes, that’s just what bothers me.”
The next morning, sometime after eleven, Ratigan phoned.
“Howell rented a boat out in Patchogue. They were supposed to go out yesterday, but something went wrong with the boat and the man at the yard told them it wouldn’t be ready until Tuesday. Howell told him they’d be staying there in town at the Ocean Avenue Hotel, under the name Channing. They weren’t in the room this morning, but they haven’t checked out and they left their luggage behind. My man thinks they’re still out there, waiting for the boat. If you want to go out, let me know and I’ll have him meet your train. The next train leaves Brooklyn at 1:45.”
“All right, I’ll be on it,” I said. “It’s definitely Sally Koestler he was with?”
“The description matches. Who else would it be?”
I told him about Mrs. Howell’s adventures. Emmie and I packed bags in case we’d be gone overnight and then rode the Long Island Railroad out to Patchogue.
“So now we’re looking for Edward Howell and Sally Koestler, and the homicidal Cynthia Howell,” Emmie said. “Do you think there’s a chance the Howells have been working together this whole time?”
“It’s crossed my mind. But what about the telegram? Howell thought it was from her and bolted as soon as he read it.”
“But perhaps he knew it wasn’t from her,” she said. “If he was aware his wife was in town, he may have gone off to warn her that her sisters were returning.”
“And Cynthia instructed him to elope with Sally? As a hostage?”
“Yes, something like that.”
“When he left with Sally, Cynthia didn’t expect to be in need of a hostage,” I pointed out.
“It’s too bad, really.”
“What’s too bad?”
“Well, it looks like we may find Howell and Sally out on Long Island. I was just hoping for a more dramatic ending.”
“Like a chase on the high seas? They set sail, hoist the Jolly Roger, and head off for the Caribbean?”
“Well, something like that,” she admitted. “But absent the clichés.”
“It would make a gripping yarn, Emmie. But I’m afraid too long for our market.”
We arrived in Patchogue a little after four. An operative named Kimball met us and took us around to meet Joel Furman, the man who was renting the boat to Howell.
“How did you know to look for Furman?” I asked him.
“A repair bill in that file of Howell’s.”
The house was on a knoll, overlooking the inlet.
“I rented him the boat last week,” Furman told us. “He came by last Tuesday, but I had to rig it and get it on the water. I handed it over to him yesterday, but the rudder shaft had got bent somehow. We had to take it back out.”
“Did you know Howell?”
“I did some
work on his own boat. He had to sell that, he said.”
“When was he supposed to return for the boat?”
“I told him Tuesday. No earlier. Like I told this fellow this morning, Howell said they’d be staying at the Ocean Avenue Hotel, under the name Channing. Mr. and Mrs. Channing.”
“And Mrs. Channing was a young girl?”
“Yes, a small thing. Blonde hair, just like this fellow described.”
“If Howell left the hotel, would you have someplace else to contact him?” I asked.
“I’m sure I have his New York address if you want it,” Furman said.
“No, we’ve been there.”
“Are you working for his wife?” he asked. “She was just here.”
“Mrs. Howell?” Kimball asked. “When was this?”
“Oh, maybe two hours ago now. She said she was Mrs. Howell and asked me if I had heard from her husband. I told her no, of course. Then I sent a boy over to the hotel to let ‘Mr. Channing’ know.”
“Did you recognize her?” I asked.
“No, I’d never met her.”
I asked him to describe her. It sounded like Cynthia Howell.
“I saw her get on the 3:55 to New York,” Kimball told us. “I had no idea who she was, or that we were looking for Howell’s wife.”
“We thought she’d been in Europe until last evening,” I told him.
Then Kimball walked us over to the hotel. Another operative had been watching the place, but had seen nothing of the “Channings.”
Kimball asked if he’d seen the boy go inside to deliver a message.
“I did see him go in. He came out and spoke to a lady. But it wasn’t this Sally Koestler.”
He described the lady, and it was the same one who had visited Furman, and later got on the train.
“She must have suspected Furman was lying and followed the boy,” Kimball said.
“Yes, then probably paid him to tell her about it.”
Kimball took us into the manager’s office.
“Of course, we didn’t realize the situation,” he said. “Please assure Mr. Koestler we will cooperate however possible.”
“When did they arrive?” I asked.
“Monday. They checked in that evening. We had no reason to suspect anything.”
“When was the last time anyone here saw them?” I asked.
Crossings (A Harry Reese Mystery Book 2) Page 23