“Go back to the Central,” said Paul briefly.
They went back to the Central, and Rivington asked to see the postmaster. After some little delay they were ushered into that official’s office, and as clearly as possible the detective stated his business.
“I have reason to believe,” he said, “that a parcel was posted yesterday in this district, addressed to a Mr John Clayton and probably to this post office. But I have enquired both at this building and the other post offices without being able to find any trace of it. Could you suggest what is likely to have happened to it?”
“Do you know where it was posted?” asked the postmaster.
“No, I’m sorry to say that I don’t,” replied the detective.
“Or what time?” asked the other.
“No, I can’t tell you the time either,” said Paul. “But I should think it was sometime during yesterday afternoon or evening.”
“I guess if it was addressed to any of the post offices in this city,” said the postmaster, “it would have arrived by now. If it had been posted yesterday afternoon it would have reached its destination last night. How is it addressed — ‘To be left until called for’?”
“I believe so,” said Paul.
“Well, it ought to have arrived by now,” declared the postmaster. “I’ll call up and enquire.”
He picked up a telephone and spoke rapidly for a moment. Laying down he looked up.
“The parcel department are going to see if they can trace it,” he said.
Paul thanked, him, and waited. In ten minutes a buzzer rang and the postmaster picked up the telephone again. For some time he listened, interjecting an occasional “Yes” to the report that came over the wire. Then he turned to Paul with a shake of the head.
“No trace of it at all,” he said. “They’ve been in touch with the post offices at Beverley Hills and in Culver City, and no parcel with that address had been handed in at any of them.”
Paul and Elmer Myers went back to the car.
“I guess it’s a washout,” said Elmer Myers, “and I’ve promised that guy, Rodd, to have it ready for him at four o’clock.”
Paul rubbed his chin in perplexity.
“I don’t know what can have happened to it,” he confessed. “Spearman must have posted it, or had it posted. Wait a minute, he must have had it posted. He couldn’t have posted it himself because Bob was watching him, and if he’d come out with a bulky parcel such as the film would have been, Bob would have noticed it. So he must have got someone from the Beverley Wilshire to post it for him. I think our best move is go along there and make enquiries.”
Myers agreed rather dubiously. Although he would have clutched at a straw in his extremity, he was feeling so pessimistic that he had not very much hope of the result. The reception clerk at the Beverley Wilshire eyed them askance. The news of Mr Spearman’s death had already reached the hotel. The rooms he had occupied were in the hands of the police and the newspaper reporters were buzzing round like flies.
There was bound to be a pretty big scandal, and scandal is anathema to any hotel. It means the falling off in the number of guests, and in consequence a falling off in the amount of tips received by the staff. So that not only affects the management, but everybody employed. The reception clerk, recognising Paul as the man who had accompanied Captain Willing on the first visit to Mr Spearman, and holding him partly responsible for what had happened, was inclined to be ungracious. He listened, however to what the detective had to say, and promptly referred him to the manager. The manager was busy, and they had to wait a precious quarter of an hour before they succeeded in obtaining an interview with that august personage. When at last they did so he was inclined to be impatient and a little irritable.
“I guess you’d better see the porter,” he said. “I can’t help you. This is a dreadful business altogether. The reputation of the hotel is ruined.”
Paul was duly sympathetic, and went in search of the porter. The porter who recognised Elmer Myers and had visions of a possible tip, was more amenable.
“Nope,” he said, “I didn’t take any parcels for Captain Chase, sir, and I don’t think any -of the bellboys did, or I should have seen them go out. Of course, one of them might have done so when I was attending to somethin’ else. You’d better ask them.”
Paul asked them. He interviewed all the bellboys separately, but they all shook their heads and definitely stated that they had taken no parcels to the post for Captain Chase. Myers was in despair.
“It’s no good, Rivington,” he said. “Either Spearman didn’t know what he was talking about or you misunderstood what he said.”
“I certainly didn’t misunderstand what he said,” retorted Paul, “and I’m convinced he knew what he was talking about. Somebody in this hotel posted that parcel — or rather was given it to post — and I’m going to find out who it was.”
He went back to the porter.
“Can I see the chambermaids who were on duty yesterday?” he asked, “and anybody else whom Captain Chase could possibly have given that parcel to?”
The porter, whose visions of a tip had been amply justified, proceeded to make himself useful. He found the chambermaids and the valet, but their answers, as the others had been, were negative. Paul had almost given it up when one of the maids offered a suggestion.
“Williams might have taken it, sir,” she said.
“Who’s Williams?” asked Paul quickly.
“Sure, he’s the floor waiter, sir,” said the girl.
“Can I see him?” said the detective.
She shook her head.
“He hasn’t come in yet today,” she answered.
“Why?” asked Paul.
“I don’t know, sir,” she replied. “He just hasn’t come in.”
Paul went back to the worried manager.
“I want to find a man called Williams,” he said.
“He’s ill,” answered the manager shortly. “His wife rang up this morning to say that he had been taken ill last night. What with this scandal, and with being short-handed — ”
Paul interrupted him.
“Will you give me the man’s address?” he asked.
The manager not only could, but did. He gave it with an alacrity that suggested that he hoped by this means to get rid of them. And his hopes were justified in this direction, for as soon as Paul had got the address, Paul took a hasty farewell of the harassed man and set off in search of Mr Williams. As they got into the car Elmer Myers glanced at his watch.
“Half-after-two, Rivington,” he said. “We’ve got just an hour and a half to find that film!”
Chapter 23
STILL MISSING
Mr Williams lived in a small apartment house in a mean street in the lower part of the town. When Paul Rivington and Elmer Myers knocked on the door it was opened by a small thin woman, respectably dressed, who peered at them through a pair of steel-rimmed glasses.
“Mr Williams live here?” asked Paul.
The woman nodded.
“Yeah,” she answered. “He’s in bed, he ain’t well enough to see anybody. Are you from the hotel?”
“Well, yes, in a way I am,” replied the detective.
He didn’t want to frighten this woman by telling her his real identity, and her rather natural mistake had offered a suggestion. “I should like to see Mr Williams for a few seconds if it’s at all possible.”
“I guess it wouldn’t do no good if you did see him,” said the woman. “He’s very bad; he was took queer on his way home last night. The doctor says it was a slight stroke. Is there anything I can do for you, sir?”
“Are you Mrs Williams?” enquired Rivington.
“Sure that’s me,” was the reply.
“Well, then} perhaps you can help us, Mrs Williams,” Paul went on. “I’m anxious to trace a parcel addressed to a Mr John Clayton, and I thought it might be possible that it might have been entrusted to your husband to post.”
“S
ure, sir, it was,” said the woman. “It was brought home with him.”
Mr Myers uttered an exclamation of delight.
“That’s swell,” he breathed. “Where is the parcel — have you got it?”
The woman shook her head.
“Nope, I haven’t,” she answered.
“Where is it, then?” asked Myers sharply.
“Well, you see it was like this — ” Mrs Williams looked from one to the other — “when John, that’s my husband, was brought home queer, I guess I was so worried and everythin’ was so upside-down that I forgot all about the parcel.” She paused.
“Yes, yes — go on,” said Paul.
“And I didn’t remember it again,” the woman continued, “until Nelly, that’s our daughter, came home to lunch. She works just round the corner. She always has her meals at home. She drew my attention to it, and asked should she post it. I guess I thought that was the best thing she could do, so I give her the money, and she took it with her when she went back to work.”
“I see,” said Paul; “now which post office would she post it from?”
“Maple Street would be the nearest,” answered the woman.
“Thank you,” said the detective; he slipped a green-backed bill into the woman’s hand. “Please buy Mr Williams some little delicacy with that,” he said, “and I hope he’ll soon be better.”
Mrs Williams was effusive in her thanks, but Paul was in a hurry, so they had to cut her short and take their leave. Once more they went back to Maple Street, and there they met with a setback. The parcel addressed to John Clayton was there all right, but the postmaster emphatically declined to hand it over.
“Sorry,” he said politely but firmly, “but I guess this parcel will have to be delivered in the usual way. It’s addressed to the Central Post Office, and to the Central Post Office it’s got to go.
Mr Myers groaned.
“What time will it get there?” he asked.
“At a quarter after six,” answered the postal official.
“I must have it before four,” said Elmer Myers, turning helplessly to Paul.
“May I use your phone?” Paul put his question to the postmaster.
“Sure,” said that official, and indicated the instrument with a wave of his hand.
Rivington called the police bureau.
“Is Captain Benson there?” he asked. “This is Paul Rivington this end. Put me on to him will you.” There was a short delay, and then he went on: “That you, Benson?” he asked. “Listen. Do something for me, will you?”
Rapidly he explained the situation, and when he had finished and received Captain Benson’s reply he hung up the receiver and turned to the others.
“That’s all right, Myers,” he said. “Benson’s sending a man down at once with an official order signed by the chief of the detective bureau to hand over the parcel to us.”
They had to wait for the man from headquarters to arrive, and never had waiting seemed so long. The seconds crept by while Elmer Myers fidgeted impatiently and kept glancing at his watch. At twenty minutes to four the man arrived with the order, and the parcel was handed over. Myers opened it eagerly and rapidly examined the contents of the seven black tin boxes it contained.
“I guess this is the film all right,” he said delightedly as he hastily did them up again. “Come on, let’s go and meet that darned bank president.”
They reached Mammoth Pictures Studios Inc. just as the hands of the clock over the facia pointed to four!
Chapter 24
THE TOAST
“The only thing to find out now,” said Paul Rivington, “is exactly how Lamont died.”
He was sitting in Captain Benson’s office of the police bureau at Los Angeles an hour and a half after Mr Elmer Myers had triumphantly produced the negative of the super-film for the benefit of the bank president.
“I expect that we shall find that Guinan did it,” said Benson, shrugging his shoulders. “I guess he’ll confess when we put him through it.”
“You’ve got nothing fresh out of Rennit, I suppose?” said the detective.
“No,” answered Benson; “his attitude’s a mystery to me. I don’t think he did it, but he swears that he did, and gets all lit up if we don’t appear to believe him.”
“To my mind his confession is the most puzzling part of the whole thing,” said Paul. “The only way to account for it — setting aside the obvious conclusion that he really did commit the crime himself — is as I said before, that he’s shielding the girl. That means that he must have reason to believe that she did it.”
“Do you think she did?” asked Benson quickly.
“Candidly, I don’t,” replied Paul; “but I don’t see any other explanation.”
“She may have done it,” said Benson thoughtfully. “This guy Lamont was a nasty piece of work. If she did do it she probably had good cause.”
The telephone bell rang at his side and he picked up the receiver.
“Hello!” he called. “Yeah, when was the discovery made? Just now, eh? H’m! O.K., I’ll send along at once.”
He put down the telephone and pressed a bell.
“Suicide,” he said briefly, “a woman gassed herself.”
A patrolman came in answer to his summons.
“Tell Captain Hymer I want him, and get him to get in touch with the District Medical Officer. There’s a suicide case.”
Paul watched and listened while he rattled off a stream of orders to Captain Hymer, who came in a minute after the patrolman had departed.
“The woman’s name was Irene Claremont She was a film extra, and she lived in an apartment in Cantor Street, 217a. Some people in the building smelt the gas and called the patrolman. He broke in the door and found her. Get along as quickly as you can; he’s waitin’ up there now.”
Paul started when he heard the address. It was the same as that at which they had dropped Mary Henley in the morning. The girl seemed to attract tragedy. Benson leaned back in his chair as Hymer took his departure.
“Well, that’s another,” he remarked. “I guess we’ve had a lot of suicides lately. These girls come to Hollywood from good jobs, thinking they’ve found Eldorado, and find that it’s harder to get work here than any other city in the world. When their savings are spent there’s nothing else left. Not that this particular jane was one of those; she was a regular. She did quite well for a long time, used to be one of Lamont’s favourites. I suppose when he was bumped off the influence was gone, and she found it hard to get work.”
He was chatting to pass the time, rather than anything else, but Paul was rather interested.
“Did Lamont help a lot of girls?” he asked.
“Yes,” said Benson, and winked. “He was always after any new girl who turned up, and when he got tired and attracted by another face he’d drop ’em like hot bricks. And that was the end of most of them. This dame, Claremont, though, lasted longer than any of the others. There was some talk of his marrying her at one time. I expect it was only talk — it doesn’t sound like Lamont at all.”
He chatted on inconsequently, and Paul was on the point of leaving when the telephone bell rang again.
“Yes, Benson speaking,” said the captain. “Oh, that you, Hymer? What is it?” There was a pause and then Paul saw the other’s face change.
“Hell!” he exclaimed, and then: “Say, hold on a minute.” He turned to Paul. “That woman Claremont killed Lamont,” he said. “She’s left a letter behind confessing, and the weapon with it, and there’s one cartridge missing.”
Before Rivington could reply he was back at the phone.
“You fetch it along here with you as soon as you finish.” He slammed the receiver down and pressed a bell. “So that was the jane that Rennit was shielding,” he said. “I never knew there was anything between them. I thought he was sweet on this other one, Mary Henley.”
“So did I,” replied Paul frowning. “Did they know each other? I suppose they must have done, l
iving at the same house.”
“We’ll find out.” Benson looked up at the patrolman who entered. “Have Rennit brought up here at once,” he ordered.
The man went away, and Paul looked across at the other.
“Ask them to bring Miss Henley, too,” he said.
Benson showed his surprise.
“Why?” he asked.
“I’ve got an idea,” said the detective.
“O.K.” Benson picked up the telephone and gave the number of the apartment house. In two seconds he was talking to Hymer. “Get someone to bring Miss Henley back here,” he ordered, “and send that suicide letter along here, too.” He looked at Paul: “She’s coming right along,” he said.
“Don’t have Rennit in until she arrives,” said Paul, and with a shrug of his shoulders Benson gave the necessary order.
They had to wait nearly three-quarters of an hour before Mary Henley arrived. She still looked pale, but much better for her rest. Paul apologised for having disturbed her.
“I expect you’ve heard of the tragedy in your house,” he ended.
“Yes, I was terribly surprised — though Irene has been peculiar lately,” she answered.
“You were friends, weren’t you?” asked Rivington.
“Yes, very good friends,” replied Mary. “We used to share meals together and buy each other’s clothes, and you know the sort of thing.”
“I know,” said Paul, and his eyes gleamed.
He made a sign to Benson, and the captain pressed a bell. The next moment Dick Rennit entered in charge of two guards. He gave an exclamation as he caught sight of the girl, and his haggard face went grey.
“What’s she doing here?” he muttered.
“Sit down, Rennit,” said Paul. “We’ve brought you here to tell you that you’re free. We’ve got the person who killed Lamont, she’s confessed.”
Rennit gave a great cry, and his eyes flew to Mary Henley.
“She’s lying!” he shouted wildly. “She’s lying. I’ve told you I killed Lamont, she had nothing to do with it.”
The Con Man Page 14