by Helen Reilly
“Miss Borrow came through the front door of the station house. She didn’t go out the back. A cab was drawn up there. We put the mannequin in the cab. It was driven to the station. I had the cabman, one of my detectives, announce in a good loud voice that he was going to absent himself. I knew that whatever was going to be done was going to be done fast, probably just before the train pulled in.
“As the detective left the cab he pressed the button controlling that excellent little device, the lighting of the mannequin’s cigarette, which glowed again up here tonight in the mist just as it glowed above Franklin Borrow’s body in the window of Garth and Campbell’s. As soon as the girl appeared to be alone in the cab the killer opened the door, struck and withdrew.”
The Scotsman pointed to Judith Borrow.
“If that blow had struck Miss Borrow she would be dead now.” The girl shivered a little, sitting erect in her chair, slim hands folded in her lap. Irene’s golden gaze lingered on her. Muriel said, “Oh, how awful.” No one else said anything.
“And now I’m going to tell you something,” McKee said, “something which I’m quite sure certain people among you already know, something I told Miss Borrow and Mr Savage earlier this evening.” He lifted Shearer’s messages, tapped them.
“Judith Borrow is Luke Cambridge’s daughter. Her mother, later Franklin Borrow’s wife, was married to Luke in Douglas Bluff, Colorado, on”—he looked down— “August 22, 1912.”
A sound like the ripple of a little wind swept through the assembled gathering. Gregory Cambridge’s empurpled face was turned on Judith Borrow where she sat quietly, listening. Leslie Cambridge said in a loud voice, “Uncle Luke? I don’t believe itl God damn it, I don’t believe it.” Muriel laid a restraining hand on his sleeve. McKee said,
“The marriage of Luke Cambridge and Lucia Joyce was a mistake. She recognized it. She left Luke at the end of a week. After her daughter Judith was born she got a Mexican divorce.” He touched a sheet of paper on the desk in front of him labeled Telegraph Bureau and added, “And later married Franklin Borrow. Judith was brought up to think Franklin Borrow was her own father. Her mother never told her the truth. Back in that hotel in Colorado in 1912 Franklin Borrow and Luke Cambridge had both wanted the girl who was the harpist there. Borrow was still in college, Luke was older. Lucia Joyce picked Luke Cambridge and Borrow left his job in a huff. But later when he learned that Lucia Joyce had been divorced he sought her out. He loved her and they were married.
“Mrs Borrow died. Judith returned to New York. A few months ago Franklin Borrow was informed by his physician that he had only a short time to live because of his heart. He hadn’t been able to save any real money. He wanted to provide for the daughter he had learned to love as his own. He got in touch with Luke Cambridge and gave him the facts which Luke had not known up to that time, for Lucia Joyce never spoke to or communicated with Luke after the interlude in Douglas Bluff.
“In response, Luke Cambridge went over to see Franklin Borrow in Borrow’s house in Fieldston on January the second of this year. Luke was a cold, proud, asutere man. Pride was all he had left. He had been deeply wounded by his unfortunate marriage, a marriage that had lasted hardly a week. Failure was the thing he hated most. He had failed and he didn’t want anyone, ever, to know it.
“Nevertheless, he was fundamentally honest. He wanted to do the right thing. The difficulty with him lay that in trying to do the right thing by his daughter and by the rest of his family he resorted to the secrecy that eventually destroyed him.”
District Attorney Dolan asked a question in a low voice. The Scotsman answered him, then turned back to the ring of chairs with those rigid figures seated erect on them and went on,
“On the night of January second Luke Cambridge thought he was alone when he went to Borrow’s house in Fieldston, but as a matter of fact he was followed. Whoever followed him found out the truth, a truth that threatened the expected disposition of Luke Cambridge’s estate. That threat was about to become a reality when Luke made the appointment with Borrow to come here to Edgewood and notified his lawyer, Mr Stone, that he would probably want to see him later on that evening. That would have been fatal because, once that outside agency had been called in, there could have been no retreat, no evasion, no suppression later.
“It couldn’t be permitted to happen. In order that it shouldn’t happen Franklin Borrow was shot and killed.
“Momentarily the danger was averted. Later, when Judith Borrow was summoned up here to Edgewood by Luke, the status quo was again threatened. Judith Borrow didn’t know that Luke was her father. She couldn’t be permitted to know. Nor could Luke be permitted to complete the action he had been contemplating when Borrow was murdered. So Luke died.”
The Scotsman leaned forward across the desk. “When Franklin Borrow was shot and killed the murderer made two mistakes. The first was to push the up instead of the down button on the show-window control, which was how New York got its most bizarre corpse in recent history. The second mistake was to fail to notice the shadowy presence, not during the killing but a few minutes before, of one Arnold Jones, deceased, the handy man in the display department.
“Jones had a pretty good idea of who this killer was from the fact that the said person did not come forward and announce openly having been with Borrow at Garth and Campbell’s after the investigation into his death began. Jones came up here to Edgewood. He looked the situation over, found the candidate he wanted, went into the drugstore on the corner and made a telephone call, putting the tap on.
“The person whom he tried to blackmail”—the Scotsman shook his head sorrowfully—“and it was neither more nor less than plain and simple blackmail, told Jones to be at the end of that narrow street leading into the town parking lot that night and he would get his money, or at least the first installment. Jones didn’t get his money. He got two bullets in his body from the same gun that killed Borrow.”
McKee paused. He lifted the squat black automatic, laid it down again.
“This gun. It was snatched up from the desk on which Borrow kept it, pointed at his defenseless back and the trigger pulled when he was in the lowered show window, attending to the mannequin. The killer was in a hurry. The gun was slipped into—shall we say?—a hiding place on the person.
“This killer didn’t want to use the gun on Luke Cambridge. It was important to be elsewhere when his death occurred. So poison, poison that was swift and sure, was resorted to. But when Jones had to be gotten out of the way his death and the manner of it, in the middle of a crowd, provided an excellent opportunity for getting rid of a lethal weapon whose continued possession was an incessant threat. Two slugs into the man from Garth and Campbell’s and throw the gun away as soon as any revealing fingerprints were wiped off.”
The Scotsman sat back. “So much for the gun. So much for the basic motivation of these crimes. And there was another one. The murderer, desperate now, tried to set fire to this hotel to get rid of Jones and Judith Borrow and Savage”—he smiled a little—“and perhaps me all at one swoop. That attempt was kept quiet.”
A dead silence reigned.
Irene Cambridge sat with her shoulder pressed against her husband’s. Ellen, her round childish face a stiff mask, was pressed into the sanctuary of Toby Newell’s encircling arm. Muriel and Leslie Cambridge were each absorbed, vibrant—and waiting. Judith Borrow and Savage sat quietly side by side, the girl’s slim, dark face ravaged. The young man’s detached aloofness was back again, but his eyes followed the inspector closely.
The line of detectives at the walls waited stolidly. Rasmussen and the district attorney were conferring in whispers. McKee pulled a sheet of paper toward him. There was a list of names on it. He looked directly at Gregory Cambridge. He said,
“Mr Cambridge, I’ve asked you before and you’ve lied to me repeatedly. I ask you now again. Where were you on the afternoon Franklin Borrow was killed?”
Gregory Cambridge didn’t answer. If the Scotsma
n’s approach was forceful and direct Cambridge’s block-house stubbornness was just as forceful.
“All right, Mr Cambridge,” McKee said. “If you won’t tell me I’ll tell you. You weren’t at the public library looking up a newspaper story about a development at Kenilworth. You were in Garth and Campbell’s and your daughter saw you. Am I right, Miss Cambridge?”
He turned to Ellen. The girl’s soft lips parted. Her eyes were frightened as she said, fair head raised, “Inspector, I did see—Dad,” and burst into tears.
McKee ignored the tears. He said quietly, “You lied about that and you lied about other things, Miss Cambridge.” He turned back to the girl’s father.
“Just to keep the record straight, as far as your activities on the night your brother was murdered are concerned, Mr Cambridge, you said that you were at home with your wife between seven and eight o’clock that evening. As a matter of fact, you were down in town at the newsman’s buying a magazine.
“While you were standing in front of the newsstand a cab went past with Miss Borrow in it. You got into your car because you had recognized her from her picture in the paper and you drove up toward your brother Luke’s house. You didn’t take the car all the way up. We looked for tracks and there weren’t any. But I’m willing to wager”— the glance McKee directed at Gregory was cold, steely— “I’m willing to wager, Mr Cambridge, that you walked into Luke’s house. What happened to your brother’s will?” The question was short, abrupt.
Gregory Cambridge looked at him. He said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Doesn’t plain English mean anything to you, Mr Cambridge? I repeat, what happened to your brother’s will?”
For the first time Gregory showed signs of wilting. But he still managed to maintain his front. “Nonsense,” he muttered, “arrant nonsense.”
The Scotsman’s voice took on an incisive ring. A thrust jaw, the raising of a blunt delicate forefinger, emphasized his cool pronunciamento.
“You took your brother’s will and the copy of the will and you destroyed them. You didn’t know that we were going to find out that Judith Borrow was Luke’s daughter.”
“The will!” It was Muriel Cambridge who spoke on a spent breath. Irene, Toby Newell and Ellen were staring aghast at Gregory. Beside Muriel, Leslie Cambridge stirred restlessly. “The will,” Muriel repeated. “So that's what happened.”
McKee shifted his attention from Gregory to Leslie.
“Mr Cambridge,” he said, moving the sheet of paper in the middle of which the butterfly’s wing still glittered, “you owed your uncle a considerable sum of money. You were due to benefit under his original will. You didn’t want a rank outsider horning in on what you thought was your just cut. You knew or could have known from your wife, Muriel, that Borrow had an appointment up here with Luke on the night he was killed. You were in Garth and Campbell’s that afternoon. You had quite a number of cocktails, didn’t you?”
“Cocktails!” Leslie clapped his hand to his head. “Cocktails! Can’t a man have cocktails without ”
“Without being convicted of murder?” McKee’s brows rose. “That remains to be seen. But you did collect butterflies, didn’t you?”
“And if I did—so what?” Leslie’s loose lips were shaking. McKee nodded. His eyes narrowed as they rested on Muriel. “What goes for your husband goes for you, Mrs Cambridge. The night before last you went to Luke Cambridge’s house secretly, didn’t you? You were looking for that butterfly case of your husband’s. You were afraid it might point toward the hydrocyanic which killed Luke. You didn’t find it then, did you?”
The Scotsman’s hooded brown gaze traveled on, came to rest on Irene Cambridge, still sitting close to her husband, coppery hair gleaming in smooth waves under the small brown hat.
“Mrs Cambridge,” he said, “you were in Garth and Campbell’s on the afternoon Borrow was killed. It is my opinion that you actually went down into the display department and that you were the woman the girl at the counter saw going down.”
“You’re right,” Irene flashed, sitting suddenly upright, the lines of her really superb figure fully revealed. “I knew about that telephone call of Luke’s to Gregory asking Gregory to pick up Borrow. Luke had been acting queerly for more than a week. I knew there was something wrong and I felt instinctively that Mr Borrow was at the heart of Luke’s strange behavior. I determined to try and find out what the trouble was, why Luke was so upset. I did go down there and I did talk to Borrow. But I left before ”
McKee swooped down on her, figuratively. He said, “Chapter and verse, Mrs Cambridge. I see you’re sticking to the text. Perhaps you don’t know it but your husband was also in the display department in Garth and Campbell’s that afternoon. Your husband was following you, just as he’s been following you and keeping a sharp eye on you for some time. Why? The answer is perfectly simple. I’ll explain. When you went to the display department you left all right, but when you left you took Franklin Borrow’s keys with you.”
The Scotsman’s electric gaze moved from the ivory-faced woman confronting him to Toby Newell.
“You, Mr Newell,” he said, measuring his words, “you met Irene Cambridge by appointment at Franklin Borrow’s house in Fieldston on the night he was killed. She telephoned you and you drove over in a hurry. You knew the way because you were the one who followed Luke Cambridge over there on the night of January the second, but that time you used a rented car in the hope of escaping detection, at least I presume so.”
McKee’s brows were raised ironically. Toby Newell said nothing whatever. He simply sat and stared at the Scotsman without any expression. McKee continued:
“At any rate, on the night of Franklin Borrow’s death you and Mrs Cambridge met at Borrow’s house. You and she were armed with knowledge, the knowledge that Judith Borrow was Luke Cambridge’s daughter. The two of you took that green dispatch case containing the records of Judith’s birth, hospital registration slip, marriage certificate and so on. Judith Borrow surprised you. You switched off the lightsUhat she had switched on and as she was crossing the dark dining room you, Mr Newell, or perhaps it was Mrs Cambridge, one of you, anyhow, struck her. She fell; you fled.”
The silence remained static. No one stirred. McKee said,
“But what you didn’t know was that Detective Todhunter”—he waved at the little gray man, motionless against the wall—“was following Miss Borrow. And you didn’t know that Michael Savage was also on the trail. He was right there a few minutes later. Running out of the house, he saw the car, in which you made your getaway, the two of you, hit a tree.”
Out of profund stillness Irene Cambridge said shudder-ingly, “But, Inspector, on the night Mr Borrow was killed I came up on the six-eighteen with the others. We got off at the station together.”
McKee smiled. It was a long smile and took in a lot of territory.
“Mrs Cambridge, don’t let us kid, shall we? This isn’t the time for it. I tried that little trick myself tonight. What you did was to have yourself deposited in the darkness at the far end of the platform. When the train pulled in you simply mingled with the people who descended from it. It was fast going to get from Garth and Campbell’s up to the end of the subway where Newell met you, on to Borrow’s house in Fieldston and then back to Edgewood to make it appear as though you had come up on the six-eighteen from Grand Central. But there was time to make it with the speed with which you two acted.”
McKee’s faint smile vanished. He turned to Toby Newell. He said,
“Mr Newell, those keys of Borrow’s that were found under the seat of your car were the keys which you and Mrs Cambridge made use of. They weren’t put there by anybody else. You made an error and let them slide down behind the leather after you opened the green dispatch case, removed and destroyed the contents and discarded the case at the north end of Van Cortlandt Park. You probably looked for the keys afterward and couldn’t find them. But luckily the garage mechanic did.”
The Scotsman was on his feet now. “That crash of yours, Newell. You engineered that crash in order to destroy the marks of the injury to your fender that were sustained when you hit the tree on the narrow back road leading away from Borrow’s house on the night you and Mrs Cambridge left in such a hurry. You felt you had to put on that crash act to hide those incriminating marks when you discovered that Michael Savage was looking the various garages over. Not too good, not too bad. The chemical analysis now being completed will match the remnants of marks on the tree with the materials on your car.”
McKee paused. He hesitated, then said slowly, “I don’t like to do this, but it has to be done.” His glance went from the woman with the lovely profile under the smooth waves of coppery hair to the stalwart young man still encircling Ellen Cambridge with his arm.
“Irene Cambridge”—his voice echoed back dully from the walls of the small, crowded room—“you and Toby Newell have been carrying on a corrupt and clandestine affair with each other.”
He had scarcely completed the announcement when Ellen Cambridge leaped erect. She gave a single small sob and fell. It was her father who caught her. Gregory Cambridge looked stricken. McKee reared himself beyond the rampart of the desk. He glanced once at the “Stag at Eve” on the wall. He said, “Search that man’s coat lying over the back of the chair.” He pointed to Gregory Cambridge’s overcoat.
Detectives sprang to do his bidding. From the righthand pocket Beard drew out a long clasp knife. The blade was unstained. But the tip was broken off. He handed the knife to McKee. The inspector examined it.
He looked up; he said, “This is the knife the murderer intended to use tonight on Judith Borrow but used instead on the mannequin.” He detached a tiny fragment of green wool adhering to the hasp of the knife.
His glance again roved the group of stricken faces extended toward him. Irene’s was half buried in her hands. Toby Newell was looking straight in front of him with terror in his eyes. Gregory had his daughter in his arms. Muriel and Leslie were huddled together like lost sheep. The door opened. McKee swung. It was Dalligan. The photographer held a dripping print in his hand.