“She’s still unconscious,” she told Homer. “But the other lady can talk to you.”
Room 304 was in the west wing of the hospital. It was a bright place, well windowed and pleasant. Sue Bates sat up in bed, her round face bloodless, her eyes deep and dark, and rimmed with heavy shadows. She held a small handkerchief in her hands and pulled at it unceasingly. Her head was bandaged. When Homer sat alongside the bed, she managed a tired smile.
“It’s good to see you, Homer Bull. A little more of your Inspector McElmore and you’d have had to visit me on alternate Thursdays at Bellevue.”
Homer gave her a cigarette. “Dick is harmless enough, Miss Bates, but he’s the worrying type. When a man like Earl Chance is stabbed, well, it makes the case urgent. The inspector is anxious to clear it up quickly so that the boys on the newspapers will give him peace.”
“Why couldn’t he say so, the big oaf?” she smiled. “I’m not a difficult woman, in spite of my penchant for easy collapse. Matter of fact, this business breaks my record—I’ve never fainted twice in the same day.” She made a little face. “Or would you call the second time a faint? That would make it three faints. I was hit shortly after Mrs. Dunkel revived me, you know.”
“I didn’t know. Tell me about it.”
“Here we go again,” she sighed. “It was all very simple, really. After you and the inspector left the penthouse, I was revived by Mrs. Dunkel and a bottle of smelling salts. I found myself resting on the couch, near the big window. I was alone in the room.”
“Where was Mrs. Dunkel?”
“I’m coming to that. I was quite groggy when I awoke on that couch, and it took me a moment to get my bearings. Then I heard Mrs. Dunkel talking to someone out in the hall. I waited for her to come back into the room. She never came back. Instead, I was struck on the head by somebody—and that was that.”
“She must have been hit in the hall. But didn’t you hear a scuffle?”
“I heard nothing. I was in no mood for listening. I expected, of course, that Mrs. Dunkel would return to the living room. When I heard steps approaching I assumed that she was coming back.”
“Then you can’t remember the sound of the voices, the strange voices in the hall? They were men, of course?”
She nodded. “I didn’t know it at the time. When I awoke, I was in the library, on the floor. My arms were tied behind my back and there was a gag in my mouth. I heard breathing nearby and soon rolled over to where Mrs. Dunkel lay. Then I heard voices in the living room. There were two men talking.”
“You were wide awake at this time?”
“Wide awake and scared to death.”
“What were these men talking about?”
Sue Bates shrugged. “I’m damned if I know. I gathered that they were searching for something and they hadn’t found it. I heard the sound of papers rustling. They must have opened the desk in the living room.”
“Could you recognize these voices if you heard them again?”
“That would be easy, I think. One of them spoke like a movie gangster. The other had a slightly foreign accent. But his voice was high-pitched. I’d know that voice anywhere. But, better than that—” here she shuddered, “I’d know the figure of the man who belonged to that foreign accent. He was terrible.”
“You saw his face?”
“I saw all of him—in silhouette. He was framed against the big window. He had a small head on a big body. He wore a slouch hat.”
“Good,” said Bull. “We’re fortunate in having you as a witness of this man’s silhouette, Miss Bates. Artists notice things that ordinary mortals take for granted. It’s too bad that you didn’t have the opportunity to see that fellow under light. You might have been able to pick him out of a police line-up.”
“I am able,” she said, “despite the fact that I didn’t see him in light.” She seemed suddenly filled with new energy and leaned forward on her hands with a grim smile. “I saw his silhouette—yes. But the silhouette I saw wasn’t the type of thing you can forget easily.”
“You must have seen his profile.”
“I did see his profile. It was a combination of all the spectres of fiction. Why, I could almost draw you a picture of that face.”
“I could use that picture.”
“You shall have it,” she said, “as soon as I can hold a pencil. I want to sketch you the view I had of that beast’s nose. I’m sure I can give you his nose.”
“The nose? He had an unusual nose?”
“Unusual?” Sue Bates closed her eyes and laughed. “That nose was a perfect gem—a perfect gem, I tell you. I’ve never seen one like it. If I were asked to invent a monstrosity like it, I doubt that I could have exaggerated it to beat nature. It was the fattest, the lumpiest nose; the biggest nose I’ve ever seen in all my life!”
After Cassidy placed the huge pile of newspapers on his chief’s desk, he left in a hurry. McElmore roared his rage to the ceiling.
The inspector wasn’t fond of newspapers or the men who write them. The gentlemen of the press harassed him. When he was on the police force he had developed an acute disregard for reporters as a breed. Newspapermen, in fact as well as fiction, would always annoy the police, he decided. In their never ending search for headlines, they sat like leeches in the outer rooms of the station, forever making phone calls to their bosses, forever playing a dirty game of poker while they waited for the sensational news break that would advance them to other work on the paper.
He studied the headlines on The Ledger. This was Waddell’s work, beyond a doubt. Big ears must have released the story to every one of his pals in the business. The Ledger headline was ripe with horror:
POLICE SEARCH FOR FIENDISH KILLER WITH BIG NOSE!
Important Clues in Killing of Editor Point to One Man
The Daily Press had more imagination:
LOOK FOR THE MAN WITH THE LUMPY NOSE
Citizens Urged to Help Police Locate Killer of Famous Editor
He scanned the other headlines hurriedly and then dumped the pile of papers into his basket.
Cassidy came in.
“What do you want we should do with all these people, Chief?”
“People?” shouted McElmore. “What people?”
“Downstairs. There’s a gang of ’em in on this newspaper business. They say they got clues about the man with the nose.”
For a moment McElmore’s rage throttled him. He banged his fist insanely on the desk. “I’ll kill that Waddell. I’ll murder him with my bare fists.” He sat down heavily. “How many people came in?”
“I didn’t count ’em, but there must be maybe a hundred down there.”
The inspector wiped his brow. He phoned Homer Bull.
Bull wasn’t surprised.
“I told Dumbo to break the story, Dick. I also told him to release it to every paper in town.”
“Fine!” roared McElmore. “Wonderful! I suppose it would have busted your heart to let me in on it, hah?”
“Just a hunch, Dick. We’re doing no harm when we tell the public we want this man with the big nose, are we? After all, somebody may have seen him, somewhere in the city. Perhaps one of his neighbors will give us a lead. Aside from all that, there’s another reason for releasing the story. I’m working on the assumption that our big man with the nose wasn’t in this thing alone. Maybe the old lady saw his two confederates last night—we can’t be sure. At any rate, I want those confederates to feel that we have narrowed the search to their big friend. In this way we’ll throw them off guard.”
“Oh, yeah? Listen here, Homer, if you’ve got a lead why don’t you come down here and tell me about it?” McElmore’s voice was full of a deep hurt. “What in hell am I supposed to be doing down here, anyhow? You run a newspaper story and bring in a couple of hundred clucks for me to talk to. What do you want me to do with them?”
“Very nice,” sneered McElmore. “You’re practically telling me that the whole mess is worthless. Don’t think I can’t see what you’re driving at, Homer. You’re telling me that this whole idea was just a gag, aren’t you?”
“I’ve never written a gag in my life.”
“Well, you’re in the business from today on!” shouted the inspector and hung up.
Cassidy waited at the door. “What about them people downstairs, Chief?”
McElmore sighed. “Tell them to sign their names and addresses on index cards, Cassidy.”
“Index cards? What for?”
“We expect to throw a tea party next Wednesday,” the inspector said sharply. “We’re going to give parties downstairs every week from now on, understand?”
Cassidy nodded dumbly and went out.
In Homer’s apartment, MacAndrews said, “Was McElmore angry?”
Homer Bull grinned and leaned over John Hedge while the cartoonist finished his drawing. It was a large charcoal sketch done in a bold and heavy style, which was the way Hedge made his notes.
“This may be the man you want,” said Hedge. “I saw him for a few minutes in a small stationery store downtown. Made quite a few drawings of his gawky figure, but I saved his head for future sketching because I knew I could never forget that schnozzle.” He rubbed a swath of crayon over the jawbone of his drawing and began to pencil the nose. “You see, Mr. Bull, this was no ordinary nose I saw. There, I’ve got it now—and you mustn’t think I’ve done too much of a caricature.” He handed the finished art to Homer.
Dumbo also bent over the sheet. “What a puss! This guy makes Frankenstein look like somebody’s fairy godfather.”
Hank said, “You can trust John’s memory on stuff like this, Homer—he’s one of the best in the trade.”
Homer folded the drawing away. “Perhaps McElmore will live to understand the reason for our news story now, Dumbo. Thanks a lot, Hedge, you’ve done us a good turn. And now, Hank—on your way; we have business to do!”
CHAPTER 15
Hank MacAndrews left for another excursion in the Bronx.
Homer and Dumbo went to The Quill. Homer studied the place. The Quill was cozy. It had a quiet, dirty charm especially appealing to the small but steady group of artists and writers who made it their spa. There were many small square tables covered with simple checkerboard cloths. An odor of spaghetti hung in the air. You felt yourself inhaling garlic and tomato sauce. You felt yourself liking it. On the walls were many framed pictures, a gallery of cartoon history from Bud Fisher to Peter Arno. Artists came to sit and stare at these and found it hard to leave. All this Arty Domonick liked, because artists rarely sit without a glass.
Dumbo said, “This bartender is quite the man. Supposed to have one of the trickiest memories in the game. They tell stories about him. You heard of him, Homer?”
“I think so. His name is Bimmerman, isn’t it? Isn’t he the man who recognized a lush five years after a default on a beer bill?”
“That’s Adolph, all right.”
“He should prove useful. Unless, of course, his memory works well only from year to year. He may have forgotten completely about last night’s doings.”
“I doubt it,” said Dumbo. “But here he is. I’ll give odds that Adolph comes through. Flatter him and see what you get.”
Adolph Bimmerman was a tall and bony man. His head, an inverted pear, matched his thin frame. He was long-nosed, bald and had the saddest eyes in the world. He looked out at the world with a heavy-lidded calm. Adolph approached Homer’s table, a praying mantis in an overcoat.
“Get yourself a beer, Adolph,” said Dumbo. “Mr. Bull wants to test your memory.”
“Never touch the stuff.” He turned to Bull sleepily. “You got something you want me to remember?”
“Several things. But first, tell me, how many of the local cartoonists do you know?”
The droopy eyes opened until they were almost slits. “How many? I know ’em all. I mean all the regular customers, anyhow. What kind of cartoonist you talking about, comic strip or magazine?”
“Magazine.”
Adolph almost smiled. “That’s easy.” He shut his eyes completely, but you didn’t feel a difference. “These are the gents I know: Bragiotto, Grundy, Hedge, Simonson, Winters, Alfonte, Merritt, Tinnover, Walkerson, Bimmer, Chaney and that cute little doll—Prentiss. Maybe I know a lot of the others when I see ’em only. But all I told you I know by name.”
His recital was as smooth as a script reading. Dumbo slapped Adolph across the shoulder. “Terrific! What you couldn’t do with a smart press agent, Bimmerman. Why, that routine is good for ten weeks in vaudeville, to say nothing of radio—”
“A wonderful gift,” interrupted Homer. “When did you attend the bar last night?”
“After supper. I go out for a bite at six. I come back at seven and stick there ’til closing.”
“You didn’t leave the bar all night?”
Adolph allowed his memory a small instant. “I left it once for about five minutes. This was when I went to the john.”
“You remember when that was?”
“Easy. I left the bar at exactly eleven. My usual time.”
“Now tell me this—how many of the magazine cartoonists were in this place last night?”
Again the heavy lids closed slowly. “I count six. I count Bragiotto, Grundy, Hedge, Winters, Rush, the gagman, Alfonte and Merritt. Grundy and Hedge walked in first.”
“When?”
“About ten after ten. I know on account of the big clock opposite the bar. I know these two eggs well.”
“See if you can remember when the others came in. I mean in the correct order,” said Bull.
“Easy,” said Adolph again. “After Grundy and Hedge in comes Bragiotto. He walks to the back and sits down in a booth. Then he orders an Old-Fashioned. After him comes Lincoln Winters and Ned Rush. They each drink a Whiskey Sour and walk out. Next comes Alfonte. Alfonte comes in with a dame. They drink Scotch. After that Merritt ambles up to the bar and starts drinking Bourbon.” He looked sadly around the table. “How’s that?”
“Excellent. Can you recall the order of their leaving the place?”
“Sure. Why not? It’s like this: Grundy and Hedge walk in, and after them Bragiotto. Then just when Winters comes in, I notice Hedge and Grundy leave. Unless they both went to the john, they left by that side door. But anyhow, they don’t come back. Next, Winters finishes his drink, smokes a cigarette and leaves.”
“How long did Winters stay?”
“Not long. He leaves after maybe ten minutes. Next comes Alfonte and a dame. The dame is short, with black hair and a crazy hat. They sit in a booth. I make them each a Tom Collins. In comes Herb Merritt. Herb talks to me for a while and drinks two shots of Bourbon, looks around, waves to Alfonte and scrams.”
Homer played with his beer. “All this happened before eleven?”
“Right. When I went to the john at eleven on the nose I know only Bragiotto and Alfonte and his girl are left from the magazine gang.” Adolph slowly lit a cigarette, dragged deeply and settled back in his chair. “When I come back from the john, they are all gone.”
“You mean they left during the five minutes you visited the back room?”
“That’s it.”
“Phooey!” moaned Dumbo. “That puts us right smack behind the good old eight ball again.”
“Maybe,” said Bull. “But we have a working start on Dino, at any rate, thanks to Adolph. I wonder, Adolph, whether you can remember how many drinks our friend Bragi
otto had?”
“Ask me something tough,” said Adolph. “Bragiotto had five Old-Fashioneds. He must have been stinking to the ears.”
“You made them stiff?”
“Bragiotto don’t drink ’em light. All kinds of eggs got all kinds of ways they like their liquor. This Bragiotto is an old customer so I know what to do for him. Every time he comes in for Old-Fashioneds I know he’s on a bender. It happens like clockwork almost with that guy.”
“How drunk does he get?”
“Stinking!”
“What happens to him?”
“Nothing happens. He starts singin’ some Dago stuff, then he starts yellin’ about politics. After that he just sits there soppin’ it up. By the time he hits the fifth one he’s ready for bed. He folds up on the table.”
Homer beckoned to Domonick. The owner dropped his sheet and minced over to the table. “Adolph fix you up? You fix him up, Adolph?”
“Adolph’s done a good job,” said Homer. “Now it’s your turn, Domonick.”
“Me?” Domonick made a wild gesture of surprise. “I got a memory like a soup strainer. What could I know?”
“You tended the bar at eleven, didn’t you, when Adolph left it? Who paid Bragiotto’s check?”
“Bragiotto?” A sudden wave of panic swept Domonick’s mobile face. “You mean Dino didn’t pay up?”
“Sure he paid up,” drawled Adolph. “I saw the tag in the bunch when we checked the receipts last night. Five Old-Fashioneds it was. He must have paid it up. Didn’t you see him leave?”
Domonick shook his head energetically. “I didn’t see nothing. I didn’t see him leave.” He scratched his head and made a horrible face. Then his eyes opened wide. “I remember now. Dino must have lammed outa here when I was down at the front of the place. He must have laid his dough on the bar and scrammed out of the side entrance. That’s what he done, I tell you. I woulda’ spotted him if he left by the front.”
Bull turned again to Adolph. “Wasn’t he too drunk to leave under his own power?”
The Man with the Lumpy Nose Page 12