“The fellow at the desk saw them go out early, 7:30 this morning,” Kimball answered for him.
We left the manager and went back outside.
“Where do you think they went off to?” I asked Kimball.
“I think they just realized if they hung about here all day someone might see them. A lot of people come in from New York on Sunday. I bet they’re just laying low somewhere out here.”
“Is there a morning train back to New York?”
“There is. Leaves just after eight. But no one saw them go to the station, or get on the train,” Kimball told us. “Of course, there aren’t a lot of people at the station at eight o’clock Sunday morning. But they didn’t buy a ticket here.”
“They may have bought tickets on the train,” I said.
“Sure. Or they just went somewhere else out here on the island,” Kimball said. “Why would he go home to New York if his wife is looking for him?”
“Of course, she’s found them here,” I pointed out.
“Yes, but they don’t know that yet,” Emmie said.
Kimball went with Emmie and me to observe who boarded the six o’clock train back to New York. There was no sign of our trio and it was only after it left that we learned it was the last train of the evening. We’d be staying the night in Patchogue. Since both Howell and Sally had met Emmie and me, it was agreed we should stay at another hotel in town, Roe’s, just by the station. Emmie registered us under an alias, Mr. and Mrs. Rawdon Crawley. I wasn’t sure I cared for the implication, but doubted the clerk was on to it. Then the three of us went into the dining room for dinner.
“Do you really think they’ll be back here Tuesday for the boat?” Emmie asked Kimball.
“Why not? They left before we got here. He doesn’t know about his wife being around. Furman said he could get to Cuba in that boat.”
“The Caribbean?” Emmie smiled.
“But maybe they do know his wife is around,” I suggested. “She could have come in last night. If Howell saw her, it would explain the quick exit this morning.”
After dinner, Kimball went to relieve his colleague and Emmie and I went for a long walk on the beach.
25
Having exhausted the opportunities for public entertainment on a Sunday evening in Patchogue, Emmie and I went back to our room. Just after midnight, I turned out the light.
“You don’t believe Howell and Sally are still out here on Long Island someplace, do you, Harry?”
“I don’t know. Maybe if there’s someplace one of them is familiar with—someplace they can hide out for a day or two, until the boat’s ready. But I doubt they just went down the island and got a room in another hotel. They must know people will be looking for Sally.”
“What about Mrs. Howell? She has the same problem.”
“Yes, but I’d guess she went wherever she expects them to be. She seems more interested in tying up loose ends than in getting away.”
At five the next morning, I was awoken by drops of cold water being flung at my face. Emmie wanted to talk.
“I was thinking of what you said about Mrs. Howell, Harry. I mean, her wanting to wrap up loose ends. What about Mary?”
“Mary doesn’t seem to have had any idea about the scheme. She didn’t even catch on to the ruse with the trip to Europe.”
“Yes, but Cynthia Howell couldn’t know that for sure. What if she found out we took Mary away? She may suspect it was because we thought Mary would tell us something.”
“Oh, people pilfer each other’s servants every day.”
Ten minutes later, I was dressed and downstairs trying to put a call through to the apartment. Emmie insisted we warn Mary of the potential threat. Unfortunately, the lines were tied up—or down, or whatever the excuse du jour was—and it was decided we should head back to Brooklyn as soon as possible. I checked with Kimball to make sure Howell and Sally hadn’t returned, and then we boarded the first train of the morning.
“You know, Harry, there’s also Mr. Johnson. He knew about the scheme. He’s in danger, too.”
“The welfare of a debt collector who colludes with poolroom operators and blackmailers is not paramount among my concerns.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right.”
After that I dozed some, but just around Massapequa I was roused by a thought.
“You know, Emmie, Sally and Howell could be at any of the places we’d checked before.”
“Is there someplace you have in mind?”
“The house on Rush Street. Sally has stayed there before, and they make it their business to be discreet. I think we should go there first.”
“I don’t think I’ll rest easy until we check on Mary. Then we can go to Rush Street.”
I pointed out that if Mrs. Howell were planning to strike at Mary, she probably had already done it. And if we were heading home to a house of slaughter, later would do as well as sooner. She had to concede my point. We arrived at the Bushwick station just before eight. The Stagg Street precinct house was only a few blocks away, so we went up there and I asked to speak with Sergeant Corwin. He kept us waiting and Emmie went off to find a telephone. A while later, she returned.
“I spoke with Elizabeth, Harry. Everything’s fine.”
About 8:30, Corwin finally called us in and I told him about Howell and Sally being out in Patchogue, and her link to the house on Rush Street. Then I asked if he could accompany us there. Before answering, he clipped his first cigar of the day and stuck it in place.
“That’s the 59th. We’ll have to call them first.”
When raiding a disorderly house operating under the protection of another precinct, it’s only common courtesy to inform them in advance. He telephoned the 59th and was told everyone was out on parade duty.
“What parade?” Emmie asked.
“The circus,” Corwin told her. “Let’s see if I can find the captain.”
He went off for what seemed like an eternity. While he was out of the room, I telephoned Tibbitts but he wasn’t in. Then Corwin returned and said that the captain was out.
“This is absurd, Harry,” Emmie announced. “Let’s just go ourselves. If we find them, Sergeant Corwin can explain to Mr. Koestler his reluctance to help.”
That didn’t improve his demeanor any, but he did agree to come along. We walked down Stagg Street and then worked our way to Division Avenue. Here we were met by the crowd. In order to clear a path for the parade, cops were herding people to the sides of the street. Emmie somehow became separated from us and wound up on the other side of the street. It was then that the parade came around the corner. Corwin, suddenly impatient, was trying to lead me down a side street and I considered abandoning Emmie.
But only for a moment. She gave me a pathetic look, something quite uncharacteristic. I broke through the crowd to the other side and then we dashed back before a line of elephants. As we did, I glanced at Emmie and saw a little smile. She dropped it as soon as she noticed I was looking. But I saw it, alright. At Bedford Avenue, we encountered the parade again. But this was the tail end, with the calliope playing a familiar cakewalk. Soon we were on Rush Street and just below the green house, where several partially dressed women were at the windows straining to see the parade. One of them was Sally.
A fellow tried to stop us from going upstairs, but Corwin easily knocked him to the floor. Sally had seen me and was hurriedly dressing when we entered the room. Howell had obviously just risen.
“That’s the girl?” Corwin asked me.
“Yes, that’s Sally Koestler.”
“Why couldn’t you leave us alone?” Sally asked.
“Well, your father wouldn’t like that. I’m afraid Mr. Howell might not be the perfect prospect.”
“I know he’s married,” Sally said. “To a madwoman.”
“Did he tell you about the murder of Robert Barclay?” I asked.
“He had nothing to do with that, that was his wife.”
“Was it?” I asked.
> “Perhaps we should leave them, Harry,” Emmie said. “But you should know, Mr. Howell, your wife is on the loose, and seems to be in a vengeful mood.”
“She doesn’t know we’re here,” Howell said.
“Doesn’t she?” Emmie asked. “She knows you left Patchogue. And she knows about this house.”
“How would she know about this house?” Howell asked. I must admit, the same question occurred to me.
“Because William Huber brought Eliza here,” Emmie explained. “Ask Sally.”
Howell looked over at Sally.
“He may have,” she said.
“And Mrs. Barclay no doubt told her sister,” Emmie concluded.
“There are private detectives waiting for you in Patchogue,” I said. “You have no chance to get to the boat. You need to help us find your wife now.”
“I have no idea where she is,” he said.
“But you knew she didn’t sail for Europe?”
“Not until last Monday, when I read the telegram from her sister.”
“So you fled because you knew she was a danger to you?”
“You never know with her what she’s thinking. But if she had stayed behind and hadn’t told me, I assumed she was spying on me.”
“Whose idea was it to insure Barclay, then kill him?”
“Hers, of course.”
“But she had no trouble getting the rest of you to go along?”
“Barclay was a bastard. I went through all sorts of trouble to get him a job at the firm, and then I found he was pilfering from client accounts. Some of the insurance money had to be used just to make them whole.”
“And his wife?”
“She never cared for him. Their marriage was something Cynthia arranged. Both Cynthia and Eliza had lost a lot at the bucket shop he’d been running.”
“She had her sister marry Barclay to cover a debt?” Emmie asked.
“It was never stated that simply, but that’s what it amounted to,” Howell told her. Sally gave him a look of concern, and he added, “It wasn’t my idea.”
“Was the insurance scheme your idea?” I asked.
“No, of course not. We found out Barclay had insured Eliza without telling her.”
“You thought he would kill Eliza for the money?”
“Cynthia insisted he would. I don’t know really.”
“And Eliza’s need to pay her gambling debts was another motive?”
“Yes. But you can’t blame her. She’s like a child.”
“What about Huber? Did Cynthia have any trouble convincing him?”
“She had to work him down some. He had confronted Barclay about getting a divorce, and Barclay told him he would give her a divorce, for five thousand dollars. He thought of trying to raise that, but Cynthia pointed out they’d be marrying with no home and a large debt. In the end, he agreed to it, too.”
Just then, Elizabeth arrived. She was accompanied by a man named Gilbert who she introduced as Koestler’s lawyer.
“Who posed as Barclay for the doctor’s visit?” I asked Howell.
“I did. We were about the same age, so that was simple enough.”
“Who actually killed him?”
“Huber wouldn’t do it. Cynthia had to.”
“So you and Eliza could both have alibis?”
“Yes. There had never been anything between us. That was all just to divert suspicion.”
“And then Eliza received the payment.”
“Yes. That was a great relief.”
“Until Donigan’s message arrived?”
“How do you know about that?”
“It was found in your apartment. We thought perhaps your wife saved it in case she needed to blackmail him.”
“That sounds like her. When he sent that note we were all terrified. All except Cynthia, of course. She saw it as an opportunity.”
“And so she came up with the scheme to find other women with debts who might be willing to do in their husbands,” Emmie said. “Didn’t that seem a rather bizarre idea?”
“Yes, of course,” Howell agreed. “It did to me and Huber, at least. Donigan insisted it would work. And now we were all accessories to murder. There was no backing out. Cynthia got the names from the debt collector and Huber wrote the policies.”
“Who posed as the men for the doctor visits?”
“Donigan, for Farrell and Marquisee, I think. And Huber for the other fellow.”
“Warner?”
“Yes.”
“And then Huber killed himself. Were you surprised?”
“Yes. Not shocked, but surprised. Most of his objections were to the mechanics of the scheme, the likelihood of getting caught, and so forth. I hadn’t noticed him being particularly troubled by the morality of it.”
“Do you think he might have been killed?”
“Why? Do you mean by Cynthia?”
“Perhaps.”
“No, I remember reading her the story out of the newspaper that morning. She was as surprised as I was. It’s the one time she seemed unsure what to do.”
“Did you consider dropping the scheme then?”
“Yes, Donigan and I wanted to. Donigan even said he’d give up any claim to the money we received on Barclay. But Cynthia insisted it would be just as dangerous not to proceed. The three other wives now knew about it, she said. Once they’d murdered their husbands, they couldn’t tell a soul.”
“Who killed Farrell?”
“Cynthia. His wife tried, but she couldn’t do it.”
“But when payment on Farrell’s policy was delayed, didn’t you realize the insurance company was suspicious?”
“Well, you showed up. But Donigan thought he could alter some files and cover up the other two policies. And Farrell’s wife couldn’t tell. It seemed we might weather it. Then I found out Cynthia was still trying to get the last two women to kill their husbands. It was madness. I contacted Donigan, and he agreed. He told Cynthia he’d persuaded his brother-in-law, someone higher up at the insurance company, to help cover up what had already occurred, but if that wasn’t the end of it, he would reveal everything. He said his brother-in-law suggested both Eliza and Mrs. Farrell leave town. The next day, Cynthia and Eliza boarded the boat to Gibraltar. Or at least I thought they had.”
“Did Mrs. Dyer know anything about the scheme?”
“No, certainly not. She’d only arrived a couple days before.”
“Or your maid, Mary?”
“No, I don’t think so. We weren’t that foolish.”
“Do you know what became of Anna Farrell?”
“No. I imagine she left town, too.”
Just then Tibbitts came into the room.
“Well, well,” he said. “You caught up with them.”
“How’d you get here?” Corwin asked.
“I’ve been following Cynthia Howell. She came over across the river, then I lost her. I called Stagg Street and they told me you were here.”
“How’d you find her?” I asked.
“She came back to the hotel, late last night.”
“You couldn’t just take her in?” Corwin asked.
“I didn’t want to. I figured she might have some unfinished business with her husband. And maybe a good idea where he was hiding. We followed her out this morning, but she must have seen us. We lost her at the ferry landing over here.”
Then Tibbitts made a lunge toward the bed where Howell was sitting. Howell had pulled out a gun. He stepped back from Tibbitts.
“Do you want to come with me?” he asked Sally.
“She most certainly does not,” Elizabeth answered for her.
Then he shot himself. Or tried to, anyway. He fired several times, but the gun appeared to be empty. Tibbitts and Corwin tackled him and took him down to the street. The rest of us followed. Then Elizabeth and the lawyer took Sally home.
“What about Mr. Johnson?” Emmie asked
“What about him?” Tibbitts asked in return.
“He
knows about the scheme and he could identify Cynthia Howell.”
“His place is just up the street from the ferry landing,” I added.
We left Howell with Corwin and went off to Broadway. There were a couple cops stationed outside the door of the Sumner Johnson Agency. Tibbitts preceded us inside, where a sergeant was interviewing Johnson. His girl, Kate, was on her stool reading her dime novel, seemingly unaware of the draped corpse at her feet. Tibbitts asked the sergeant for the story.
“That woman came in here about an hour ago,” he began, pointing to the body. “She said she wanted to see Johnson. The girl told her he was making his rounds, but would be back later. The woman said she’d wait. When Johnson came in, she jumped on him and tried to stab him with this,” he said, showing us a kitchen knife. “Then the girl picked up that embosser there and crushed the woman’s head.”
He walked over and pulled back the blanket, revealing a tall woman lying face down. Her carefully coiffed blonde hair was marred by a mass of drying blood. It was a gruesome sight. So much so, Kate took time from her reading to marvel at her handiwork.
“She’s dead alright,” she confirmed. Then, after a brief smile—a well-deserved expression of self-satisfaction—she went back to her reading.
Tibbitts turned the corpse on its side so we could see the face.
“Is that her?” he asked.
She bore a definite resemblance to Eliza Barclay. But her countenance wasn’t quite as benign. In fact, after seeing that determined and decidedly malicious face, it would be difficult to argue that Kate hadn’t made the correct choice in the matter.
“We’ve never seen her before,” I said. “But she fits the description. Johnson should be able to tell us.”
“He says he doesn’t know the woman.”
“He’s lying,” Emmie said.
“Now see here, madam!” Johnson protested.
“This is the woman you gave the names of Mrs. Farrell, Mrs. Warner, and Mrs. Marquisee, isn’t it?” I asked.
“I don’t recall that episode.”
Emmie encouraged the policemen to beat Johnson into a confession, but persuasion eventually succeeded. Later that day, Mrs. Dyer identified her sister’s body.
Crossings (A Harry Reese Mystery Book 2) Page 24