by Joan Sanger
Dunlap raised his eyebrows. “Do tell me. what can be the use of that?”
I wondered myself. The question had come to me on the scribbled memorandum from Alcott.
“Just a roving fancy!” I smiled and pushed my pad and pencil a fraction of an inch closer to him.
Reluctantly Dunlap replaced his imported camel’s hair coat and Bond Street hat and took up the pad and pencil I offered.
“Really now!” he said, as after a moment’s thought he began to diagram the position of the men at the poker party. “This makes me feel miles off in all my own conjectures, don’t y’know!”
“How so?”
“I was convinced that someone from the outside had entered the room during the period of darkness, or that Wyndham himself had walked out to meet his death!” he said pointedly.
“What made you think that?”
“Oh, nothing much. Only I’ve an indistinct impression don’t y’know, of the connecting door to Ford’s room having been opened in the dark!”
I looked at Dunlap searchingly. “But you said you were pretty tight and remembered practically nothing.”
“Nevertheless, I had a definite impression of Ford’s door being opened, don’t y’know. Wyndham and I were sitting at that end.”
“You were seated just next to Wyndham?”
“I think that’s what I’ve indicated, isn’t it?” This was said with but thinly veiled sarcasm, but I paid no heed.
“Aside from the opening of Ford’s door, did you hear anything else suspicious during that interval of darkness?”
Dunlap smiled. “Really, I was half asleep, don’t y’know. Even the events you described to me a while ago seemed as though they were taking place a hundred miles away.”
I glanced with curiosity at the diagram which he had placed before me and which is herewith reproduced:
Dunlap watched me reflectively. Then abruptly he seemed taken with a bright idea.
“Oh, I say. The man for you to talk to is Meenan: He was sitting on the other side of Wyndham, don’t y’know.”
“H’m. I’d like to talk with Meenan. Only, unfortunately, he’s dead!”
“You don’t mean it.” Dunlap broke out in what seemed genuine surprise. “Why that fellow seemed to have the constitution of an ox!” He shook his head reminiscently. “He and I were matching drinks that very night.”
I looked Dunlap in the eye. “Nonetheless, he died three days ago and under, what to some, seem rather peculiar conditions.”
“Oh, I say now. You don’t connect him and the Wyndham murder, do you?”
“I don’t connect him with anything just now. But to some, it’s got an ugly look.”
I started a new line.
“Were you sober enough to gather any impression of young Charles Stone when he came in?”
“I’m afraid not. Anyhow, I’ve never liked that chap and if I told you that I’ve a hazy impression that he seemed fidgety and uncomfortable throughout that evening, I wouldn’t know how much was prejudice and how much good Bacardi Rum!”
“Then let’s forget Stone! Do you know of any motive that anyone of the six men there that night might have had for doing away with Wyndham?”
Dunlap wrinkled up his forehead. “I can’t help you out a bit, really. You see, Wyndham and I had drifted somewhat apart these last ten years. On my side marriage and a temporary residence abroad. On his, these everlasting expeditions and his passionate prepossession with polo and boating and all that, don’t y’know. Last season down south was the most I’d seen of him in years. And then that was due only to the pull of old times. No real intimacy left, y’know.”
I nodded and started anew.
“Man to man, what did you think of Jose Sanchez’ insane outbreak in the room that night?”
Dunlap shrugged. “Sanchez knew, like everyone else, that Wyndham had once—er—looked out for La Caros.” He paused. “By the way, have you ever seen that girl?”
I shook my head.
“She’s superb, really!”
I gathered I was talking to a connoisseur. The tone he used was just about the same one might employ in describing a particularly good brand of sherry or a well-prepared roast.
“But Lola as the motive for the murder! Really now!” Dunlap smiled with tolerant amusement. “It just hadn’t occurred to me, y’know! Wyndham’s affair with her was over and done with, having run its own volatile little course all the way from Rio where it started one warm night, to New York where it ended one chilly day. But all this you doubtless know. Anyhow, you asked about Sanchez’ outbreak? My own belief is that it was nothing more than a temporary irritation or just bad digestion. Jealousy’s a rather overrated emotion, don’t y’know!”
I raised my eyebrows in interest, but did not contradict.
“One thing more. Were you smoking during the evening?”
“Yes, I think so. Why do you ask?”
Why? Why indeed! It was another of Alcott’s damn fool questions. “Oh, nothing particular! There’s just one important point more. You said that when you were finally convinced that Wyndham had met with foul play you went directly to Miss Isabella Wyndham. What convinced you that Wyndham had met with foul play?”
“Because,” Dunlap hesitated a flicker of a moment, then abruptly his jaw set in a hard line of decision. “Because lately I’ve learned that a person who had every reason to expect to see Wyndham on the morning of February fourteenth neither saw him nor, in fact, received any word from him from that day on. As I told you, Stephen Wyndham was harum-scarum in general . . . but an omission of this kind was completely out of character!”
“Was this person he was to see—a woman?”
Again Dunlap hesitated and folded his gloves into careful creases. “I really don’t like to answer on that, y’know!”
“Was the woman in Havana?” I persisted.
“No, Pinar del Rio.” He flushed. “You know, you’re deucedly clever the way you worm things out of me.”
But somehow I had a notion that I wasn’t as clever as Dunlap would have me believe. Nevertheless, the interview terminated with a fanfare of good will. I thanked Mr. Dunlap for his time and effort. I received profuse assurances of his willingness to cooperate at any time.
When he was gone I turned to Alcott.
“That stuffed shirt of Pompousness is going to be pressed into service a damned sight more often than he knows!”
“I wouldn’t rely too much on that!” Alcott said, with a twinkle in his eye.
He handed over Farrel’s card, pointing to the last line. But I started at the top.
Barton Dunlap. Penthouse, 405 East 57th Street. (Over this, in Farrel’s writing, was a marginal note. Adjoining penthouse empty.) Studied law. Never practices. Member of all socially important clubs. High stepper. Temporarily short on funds and long on women. Vanity show girl in lead just now. Saw her in his apartment this A.M. Not bad looking. Divorced by wife, Carol Sutherland Dunlap in Paris last summer. Granddad supplies family funds. Dunlap off for Cuba this afternoon.
“Off for Cuba!” I said in a disgruntled tone. Then I sat up. “Jesus, that’s a queer coincidence.”
Alcott absently nodded and lighted a cigarette. One of the men from his office came up.
“Mr. Alcott, you’re wanted on the phone. The party says it’s urgent.”
Pete looked up nonchalantly. “Have the call switched here.”
He picked up my phone. I heard every word he said. “Yes. This is Alcott speaking . . . Who? . . . Oh yes, Mr. Stone. We got her warning but it makes no difference . . . (Pause) No, it’s impossible for me to see her today. . . . Yes, quite impossible.... Why? Because in less than two hours time, Mr. Ellis and I are leaving for Havana.”
PART TWOHavana
Chapter XI “X MARKS THE SPOT”
How we ever got off on the Florida Special that afternoon, I’ll never quite know. We ran dizzy circles, we snapped out orders, we pulled wires, we coerced assistants. Most memorable in my
mind was the half hour session we had with Tim Gerraghty.
Before we went to the chief’s office, I was all for explaining to him in detail the precise nature of the leads which were drawing us to Havana. But Pete would have none of it.
“If we’re going to get anywhere in this mess, we’ve got to keep our mouths shut with everyone. Everyone! Do you get me?”
I got him but still I didn’t quite see how we could manage so abrupt a walk-out with any kind of countenance. It seemed cock-eyed! Crazy! Mad!
“Oh, to hell with all that. Now that I’m started, I’m going through with this Wyndham case, no matter where it lands me! However, you do what you want to!”
But Alcott’s enthusiasm whipped me into line. Before my eyes swam visions of the story we would ultimately land.
“Aw, I’m with you, of course.”
“Then quit kicking. I’ve got enough saved to carry us through.”
I let him do the talking with Gerraghty. He did it pretty well. He explained that he had been working at top speed and felt he simply had to get away from the grind for a bit. There was nothing of importance on the immediate calender that his well-trained assistant could not handle. That he realized perfectly well this was not an allotted vacation and that his pay check would necessarily stop. Matter of fact, for the time he was away, he preferred it that way. The point was, he simply had to go.
I remember Gerraghty spilling a little of his mind and then suddenly asking him, “How long do you think you’ll be away?”
“I can’t say just now, but I’ll get some definite word to you in a week’s time. That I promise.”
Gerraghty turned to me.
“And you, Ellis?”
My heart sank. “Well, I think I’ll stick by Alcott just now ... if it’s O.K. with you.”
Gerraghty knit his forehead and looked at me closely. “Same terms? No pay check? No expense account?”
“Yes, sir. Everything’s in good shape....”
We went over matters in detail.
At the door, Gerraghty put his hand on my shoulder, looked dubiously at us both and slowly shook his head.
“Look here, boys! I don’t know what you’re up to. But I’ve a tough notion it hasn’t a thing to do with rest.”
“Maybe you didn’t get to be boss of this goddam paper without good reason,” I laughed.
There was one other leavetaking before we left the old Globe. Short and snappy. It was with Billy Farrel.
“Just a minute, Billy,” Alcott said, cheerily yanking the boy after us as we slid into a down-going elevator. “We’re signing off with the Globe for a little while, but not with you, young man. The point is, I’ve a hunch you’re damned right to keep hot on the scent of that George Meenan lead. I’d do it myself if I weren’t after something still hotter. If you turn up anything worthwhile, shoot it along to us post haste. We’ll make it worth your while no matter what the paper does. A good starting point would be to have a talk with the old boy’s private physician! Or, failing that, with the physician’s secretary. But I’ll leave it to you. The big thing is, dig up everything you can about George Meenan’s death. Yes, even if you have to dig up the old gaffer himself. Well, here we are.... I’ll be sending you our address soon as we have one. So long!”
Outside, I smiled. “The old bloodhound’s still drawn by the Meenan scent, I see!”
“Sure. Either there’s something to that rumor, or else it’s a damned interesting coincidence.”
* * * * *
We caught the Florida Special just as it was lurching out of Pennsylvania Station. Two dishevelled newspaper men with the world’s all-time championship record for speed-packed valises. Worn out, we dropped into the green plush solitude of our last minute reservations and grinned at each other like fools.
“It may be an insane thing to do! But A Ignatius God, we’re off!”
“Johnny Ellis, we’ll be sane and sensible the rest of our lives. I’ll even toss in eternity, if only the hunch leads somewhere.”
Saying which, Alcott settled his gaunt length as best he could, mopped his face and just as we entered the Hudson Tunnel, flatly refused to say another word about Stephen P. Wyndham, his friends or connections.
He was still obdurate in his refusal to discuss the case when some forty-eight hours later, we stood at the rail of the boat, to which we’d changed at Miami, and watched Morro Castle looming large and gray through the dim golden mist of the tropical evening.
Partly from reaction, partly for deeper and more inexplicable reasons, a vague sense of discouragement had settled upon me, obliterating all the more hopeful angles of our mission. Each of us knows that mood. Twilight, a thousand miles between us and every accustomed sight and sound. I began to see myself as a complete fool starting off on this wildest of wild goose chases. Grimly I inventoried our entire stock of provisions, munitions and sinews of war. Fire hundred and sixty dollars, which Alcott had hastily drawn from his account, the rumpled remnants of our two round trip tickets from New York, a letter of introduction to the editor of the Havana Post, and a dismal and growing conviction we’d acted like a pair of sapheads in the supremely important matter of our jobs back home.
“Of course,” I admitted to myself, “it would have all been a cinch, if only we could have explained the entire situation to the chief.” But paramount, I realized was the need for absolute secrecy and quick action. And a real bang-up scoop on this Wyndham case would square accounts with Gerraghty. Anyhow, it was a trifle too late for regrets. The die was cast—whatever the upshot. And wasn’t there old Miss Wyndham’s curse which was to bring us luck?
“Well, all aboard for Havana and maybe a solution of this damned Wyndham mess!”
“All aboard for a holiday. And come what may!” Alcott answered cheerily. “By the way, have you ever tasted a real daiquiri?”
Gang planks lowering. The first babble of a foreign tongue. The nearby crescendo of city life. The languorous heat of the tropical dusk. Bus boys, hotel boys, baggage boys, fruit boys, droves of them, dark-skinned, dark-eyed, darting in and about us with the persistence of so many well meaning, good-natured mosquitoes. The incongruous jangle of street cars and taxis. Palm shadowed squares. Twisting, narrow streets. Heavy white facades. Perfume, sweet and heavy in the sensuous breeze. People! More people! Still more people!
At the cheap commercial hotel where we engaged a room we sent all our clothes out to be pressed at once. We had to! Meanwhile, stripped to our B.V.D.’s we drank daiquiris, and suddenly felt like lords.
“Johnny, I’ve been thinking. The best thing might be to go over the ground at the Sevilla Biltmore first. Take a good look at young Wyndham’s suite! Get a clear mental picture and all that. What do you say?”
“You damn fool! I suggested that the first night on the train!”
Alcott laughed. “That’s right. When I was trying out that new solitaire of mine.”
“Yeah. On the same memorable occasion when I tried to get your slant on what Charles Stone really had wanted with us on the telephone.”
“But you knew!”
“That stuff about Miss Wyndham wanting to see us once more? That was only a lot of bull.”
“No, I think that was straight enough.”
“You don’t trust Miss Wyndham?”
“None too much.”
A half hour later, on the strength of our first four diaquiris, we floated over to the Sevilla Biltmore. From my spiritual elevation on a pink, ethereal cloud, I found myself enormously impressed by the stalwart modernity of the hotel and the air of brisk independence with which it reared its ten or twelve stories above the clatter of century old streets.
We found the lobby brilliantly lighted, palm-decked, overflowing with what appeared to my roseate vision the most thoroughly cosmopolitan throng in the universe.
With brilliant astuteness, I caught myself spotting the mid-western families, the handful of fashionably dressed, very sure New Yorkers, the high spirited crowd of “oh-such-nice-
people” whom God had joined together in a cut-rate Havana excursion and nothing short of “home-sweet-home” would ever again rend asunder. With clairvoyant skill I picked out my own version of the soft little spinsters from Squeedunk and Lord-help-us-ville, who had been saving whole lifetimes for the fling. (To be sure, each of the women I selected may have boasted a dozen children or three husbands apiece, but I was in that peculiarly beatific state where facts make not the slightest difference to theories.) At sight I knew all the doughty millionaires whose doctors had recently advised a change of climate. With keen pleasure I pointed out for Alcott’s benefit, the South American planters, who dark-eyed, heavy-set, and restless, kept weaving their way in and out of the crowd. With even more pleasure I pointed out to myslef the slim, eager, dark-eyed girls, bevies of them, sprinkled all over the place, attached, detached, unattachable, laughing, smiling, chattering. For discovering color, verve and life, I recommended four Havana daiquiris. To them I even attributed (though wrongly, as I subsequently found out) the gay, high warble of hundreds of canaries which I seemed to catch quite suddenly above the babble.
“Say, Pete, n’matter what happens, this place is jake with me!”
We found our way to the desk and asked to see the manager. In his own good time, Señor Fiordo emerged, keen-eyed and enquiring. We produced our press cards and explained, quite confidentially, as much of our mission as we thought good for him.
“Ah, yes. I remember well this young Wyndham. He was a very charming American gentleman. Si, si. It was with the emotion of profound shock that we learned a few weeks ago of his most terrible tragedy. So unexpected, the whole affair. Last year when he honored us, everything was . . . how do you say it? All so regular, yes? By the way, it would be a great courtesy if you will see that our establishment comes in for no unpleasant—er—er—notoriety in this matter, yes?”
Reassured on that score, he pressed a few buttons, interviewed an assistant and turned back to us.
“Ah, I am so regretful, gentlemen, but your request to see the suite occupied by Mr. Wyndham, it is impossible tonight. Could you call next week ...?”