by Joan Sanger
“Hell, I don’t. I always feel like a damn fool putting that question. I could see that Watts thought it was blamed queer, too.”
“Forget it then. Or call it just another of my crazy hunches. At this precise moment I’ve a peculiar longing to hear your theory of the case, Johnny.”
I chuckled. “My theory? Theory? Singular did you say. Good Lord! I’m inundated with theories, man. Over production. Drugging the market. I can let you have almost any kind of theory you want. Romantic ones! Sinister ones! Mercenary ones! Insane ones! Theories to fit the Tall and Slender, the Stylish Plump, the Short and Stout. You ask for a theory? God, man! I’m fairly wimbling with them.”
“Quit stalling and let’s have them.”
“All right, I’ll try to be sober. First, there’s that charming little damosel, Miss Isabella Wyndham. You know, every time I feel the least discouraged about the ultimate possibility of our unravelling this mess, I want to call for a cop and a pair of steel handcuffs and once more ring the doorbell of the stately old Wyndham mansion. Remember the fishlike coldness of her face at the window, that day? Brr! Man, if that sister didn’t actuate Wyndham’s killing, she simply had a lucky break. She would have one day. Anyhow, I don’t trust her. She’s Suspect One. That woman has the eyes of a fanatic and the cunning of a cat. And something is preying on her mind. We saw that the first day. As further evidence there was that note she sent to Parson Stone the morning after our visit and that peculiar letter of warning she sent to you to keep your nose out of her affairs. And what of her pledging the bulk of the Wyndham fortune to a Chinese mission? It sounds like buying your way into Heaven to me. ‘Who bids highest? I’m a poor crawling sinner. I hated my brother and all that, but I gave my money to convert the heathens!’ No sirree! I don’t like her.”
“I don’t either. But these days we don’t indict a person on sheer prejudice, Johnny.” He nodded off across the water toward El Morro Castle, and I, having picked up a little of the history of that gloomy old fortress, knew precisely what he meant.
“But I’m not relying on prejudice,” I countered hotly. “There’s her side-kick, Parson Stone. What exists between those two? What brought a seemingly poor student to Havana at the height of last season? Even more to the point, what brings him back here now? I’ve a notion he’s all against our little investigation. I’ve a further notion he’s against us. Anyhow, the day I ring the Wyndham bell, I’m bringing an extra pair of handcuffs for that young prize package. He’s part and parcel of Theory One! And he stood to profit by Wyndham’S death you can rest assured.”
Alcott bent his head forward as though absorbed by what I was saying. It was a generous but unconvincing gesture. No matter how impregnable I might deem my logic, I knew he would take the same facts and integrate his own theories. Nevertheless, I was encouraged and plunged on.
“In short, I believe Miss Wyndham had no love for her brother and a good deal to fear from him. I think she felt his fortune in her hands would serve much better ends. She may even have heard of the possibility of Stephen’s marriage and the chance of losing his portion for good and all. Between herself and Stone was a tie of long association and perhaps something stronger. She sent Stone to Havana where she knew Wyndham was staying. As for the rest. . .”
But Alcott cut in meditatively. “The rest? That hinges largely on these questions. Could Stone have known of Wyndham’s plan to leave the poker crowd that night? Could he have conceived and executed this particular design to murder and dispose of his body? What of the lights and the burnt mark on Ford’s wall? You’re 100 per cent right as far as you go, old punk, but to build a complete case in this instance, I’ve a hunch we’ll have to concentrate on method as well as motives.”
I accepted his challenge. It was easy. “All right. Young Stone could have had someone aiding and abetting him, couldn’t he? After all, there was a locked closet which it seems Wyndham’s nice thoughtful friends didn’t even bother to look into. And that timely darkness could have been part of his method or it could have been merely coincidental.”
Alcott nodded his head. “Don’t bet too much on coincidence.”
I brushed past his objection. “Well, my main point is I’d arrest Parson Stone and Sister Wyndham at the drop of a hat if it weren’t for a few other curious facts.”
“Four to be exact,” Alcott put in with a knowing smile. “Four other hale, hearty and perfectly adequate suspects.”
“No, three.”
“Are you starting with Barton Dunlap?”
“Yep! though I hardly know why. His wife had fallen in love with Wyndham we know, but after all, behind that fellow Dunlap seems to have been a long record of the Roving Eye, and a great capacity for consolation. I think he’s on my Black List solely because he’s a Grade A stuffed shirt and I don’t like him.”
Alcott spoke up quickly. “I’d add to that. I believe Mr. Barton Dunlap was insanely jealous of his wife. The phenomenon isn’t exactly infrequent, you know. Furthermore, he denies the emotion a little too vigorously for my taste. And after nearly a year, his loss is still burning him up. Anyhow, I’m afraid I agree with young Watts. The fellow’s a dog, and a low down one at that.”
I looked at Alcott sharply. “You speak of him with more suspicion than Parson Stone.”
Alcott nodded. “Perhaps,” he shrugged, “I didn’t mean to, however!”
“Of course,” I admitted, thinking out loud. “He did have an equal opportunity of committing the crime.”
“A better opportunity,” Alcott cut in dryly. “If you remember your diagram he was sitting just next to Wyndham.”
“Good God!” I let out sharply. “And his talk about being drunk that night might have been a lot of stale boloney.”
“It’s possible. Only let’s not set our minds on anything just yet. By the by, shall we turn off here?”
We had reached the end of the Maleçon and had to turn some place; that much was sure. But so absorbed was I at this particular moment I hardly noticed when we set our backs against the harbor, with its tangled outline of fishing craft, fortresses, and steamers, and began proceeding up the broad Prada toward the Hotel Sevilla Biltmore. I was much too busy talking.
“And, of course, that Sanchez pair isn’t exactly easy to laugh off, you know. You should have seen those little love birds when I did this morning. Something’s amiss there; take it from me. Our friend Stone may have invented the long knife he saw in Sanchez’ hand, but it’s entirely within character. That’s the worst of it. And from those pink sachéd letters back in New York, we know the lovely Lolita still had a weakness for young Wyndham. She made that very clear regardless of what he may have felt. I’m a little leary of these volatile Southern temperaments. It’s possible our pretty dancer went to warn Stephen Wyndham against José, as was suggested. It’s possible she went for some more cussed purpose of her own. It’s even possible, though at this point I suggest that you take my temperature and call an ambulance, it’s even possible that she and José are in cahoots, and are acting up a little for our benefit. I honestly don’t know; I’m dizzy; I’m going cuckoo. But, anyhow, that is the end of my trail of suspicion.”
Alcott looked at me incredulously. “Not really? You lucky bum! You haven’t even begun to be bothered as yet. Wait till you reflect upon Hugh D. Ford and that neat little sum he withdrew from Wyndham’s account just before his marriage.”
But I cut Alcott off there. “You sound like the tabloids. By the way, have you noticed how that particular item has leaked out and been pounced upon?”
“Well, there are those that smell a rat there, even if you don’t.”
“Rot,” I said curtly. “If you’ll use your brains you’ll remember he wasn’t even in the room at the time.”
Alcott laughed. “Good Lord! Like all experts, Johnny, you show a positive genius for avoiding the minor errors as you rush forward to the major fallacy. How do you know Ford was not present? What makes you so damned sure? Stone spoke of meeting him in the corridor when he w
ent outside. He could have been in the next room all the time. Dunlap told us of that adjoining door opening and closing, didn’t he? And somehow that little scorched patch by the electric plate suggests gently but insistently to my mind that someone was there. Oh, no! Johnny, my boy, you don’t know what worry really is as yet; you haven’t even faintly tapped the possibilities of this case for genuine headaches.”
“How do you get that way?”
“Well, not once in any of your theories, have you mentioned George Meenan’s peculiarly opportune attack of heart failure. I can’t forget that particular episode so quickly even if you can. To be sure, the unknown gentleman who accompanied Meenan to his apartment on his last night could conceivably have been any one of the men you mention, for curiously enough every one of your suspects were in New York at the time. But who was the most likely visitor? That’s what I keep asking myself. And why was it necessary that George Meenan, political backstage boss, should be put out of the way?”
“Oh, you make too much of the matter,” I put in by way of protest. “Farrel told us that was just a lot of wildcat talk.”
“Then he seems to be changing his mind. Take a look at this!”
He handed over a cablegram sent a few hours earlier to us in care of the Havana Post.
AS PER SUGGESTION HAVE BEEN STEPPING OUT WITH SECRETARY OF M’S FORMER PHYSICIAN STOP TWO MOVIES AND THREE DINNERS HAVE NETTED FACT THAT M NEVER HAD SIGN OF HEART TROUBLE IN HIS LIFE STOP THIS PRETTY CERTAIN AS WEEK PRIOR TO DEATH HE HAD BEEN AT OFFICE FOR ANNUAL PHYSICAL EXAMINATION AND EVERYTHING OKAY STOP ALSO LEARNED DOCTOR IN CASE IS CONNECTED WITH CITY HOSPITAL STOP WHERE DO WE GO FROM HERE BOYS
BILLY FARREL
“All of which may be the case,” I grumbled. “But personally I think we have enough on our hands with this Wyndham mess, without dragging George Meenan into the broth!”
“Have it your own way, Johnny.” Pete lapsed into silence, but I was all for third degreeing him a bit.
“Well, where’s your next hot trail of suspicion?”
Alcott looked at me without a smile. “Oh, what’s the use? I could mention a half dozen clues that would make anyone else take notice, but you don’t pay any attention to those I do hand out.”
“That’s rotten unfair.”
“Not altogether,” Alcott smiled. “I told you some time ago not to overlook the disappearance of that little gold medallion.”
“Oh, that,” I said, with magnificent ease. “Lawyer Stone was only trying to keep his nephew out of the case.”
Pete’s eyes twinkled. “There you go. Motives again. Forget them. Most of the crowd there that night seems to have had a motive, and small help that is. No. Whoever planned this crime—or crimes, if you will permit me—was a shrewd, calculating individual with the cunning of a devil and a good bit of luck. Method, Johnny, that’s our only real lead on the Wyndham end. When we ascertain the method, we’ll nail the guilty one.”
“Well, how about getting started?”
For answer, Alcott studied the rear approach of the Hotel Sevilla Biltmore, which almost miraculously appeared just opposite.
“We could start right here.”
The hotel passage that we pushed our way into was fairly deserted. From a partition somewhere down the hallway came the sound of boys’ voices, bell boys I presumed, talking away in a soft jargon of Spanish. Much further off we caught the faint rattle of dishes and the far-off odors of a kitchen. A few feet from the doorway a portly old fellow in a rocking-chair struggled to read his evening paper in the dim illumination of the exit light.
Glancing up, he spotted us as Americans. “What do you want?”
His directness took us by surprise. On the spur of the moment Alcott pushed me forward, a convenient goat for the sacrifice. “I’ve a friend here who’s looking for a job as night watchman at a hotel like this. Any chance here?”
The fellow scratched his head and looked me over critically. It was easy to see that I didn’t quite come up to his high ideal. Nonetheless he gave a toothsome smile and broke the news gently as possible. “No use. Night man myself. Six years now.”
Alcott seemed vastly impressed. He let out a low whistle. “That’s a record. Great Scott! We happen to be writers and we’ve knocked around a bit. But I guess a fellow gets to see a whale of a lot more of life in a job like yours.”
The night man agreed. In fact he launched into detailed proofs of the fact that threatened to become endless. I was just beginning to get a little surfeited with the minutiae of our new acquaintance’s autobiography, when Alcott broke in. “You’ve got a wonderful memory, all right. But at that I’ll bet there’s plenty you forget.”
The fellow shrugged. “Not much.”
“All right. Let’s see about that. Do you remember, oh, about a year ago two men who happened along this way on a very rainy night?” Pause. “My guess is that they had no business down here and perhaps asked you how to get upstairs without going out in the rain again.”
The night watchman looked at Alcott sharply and his smile suddenly vanished. “So many people come and go here. I no can say things like that.” But any one with half an eye could see he was lying.
“Oh, you’d remember these fellows all right. There were only two who went up and three who came down; and one at least was very thoroughly drunk.”
But apparently the night man’s wonderful memory had failed him completely. He shook his head and looked oddly uncomfortable. “No. I no remember anything like that at all.”
Undismayed, Alcott dug out a dollar bill from his pocket and tossed it to him smilingly. “I can see it sometimes pays better to forget than to remember. Just the same, you’ve been a lot of help. Good night.”
Outside among the clamoring realities of the gay Southern night, Alcott turned jubilant. “That’s one fool hunch that worked all right. Johnny, my boy, I think we’re in for a break.”
He should have said “breaks.” A car whizzed by, barely missing us. Mercifully, I was yanked back from near death by Alcott’s vise-like grip on my arm.
Safe on the pavement, Alcott opened up. “Damned queer that car shooting by like that!”
“It was on the wrong side of the street!” I managed to gasp.
“H’m. And it turned the corner before I could see who was in it!”
“Well, that time I beat you! There was a dark, heavyset fellow driving, who looked suspiciously like José Sanchez!”
“God, no! He wouldn’t dare an attempt like that! No matter how hot he thought we were on the Wyndham trail.”
But I couldn’t argue the matter with Alcott just then. I felt cold sweat gathering on my forehead, and in desperation reached into my pocket for my handkerchief. In pulling it out, Miss Wyndham’s letter of warning fluttered, phantom-like, to the pavement. “Bad fortune follows those who meddle needlessly in Wyndham matters.” A long shiver passed over me. Suddenly I felt icy cold despite the warmth of the night.
Alcott picked up the note. As he handed it back he looked at me narrowly.
“Not getting superstitious, are you Johnny?”
I scratched my head and grinned. “Well, I own up there have been times in my life when I’ve enjoyed myself more. Just the same, the old Wyndham curse isn’t turning me back just yet awhile.”
“That’s the stuff. Anyhow, before you decide too definitely that that crazy driver was Sanchez, it might not be a bad idea to call his estate and see where the charming gentleman is to be found.”
We found a telephone exchange and a pretty little dark-eyed operator put through our call. The report came back that Señor Sanchez had been absent all evening. Further, he had left no message as to where he could be located.
I turned to Alcott in triumph. “I guess that will hold you for a while.”
But Pete was non-committal.
It got me sore.
“For Christ’s sake, sometimes it’s more than a duty to spill one’s mind, it’s a positive pleasure. Of all the pigheaded punks I’ve ever seen.
. . .” I broke off, overcome for words. “Yes, and while we’re on this subject. You can kindly illuminate me as to the purpose of that wild dash of yours this afternoon.”
For answer, Pete treated me to a dose of silence. Very soothing silence, to be sure; during which time we tramped through the humid night, past monuments and people, past spectrally white buildings and palm-lined public squares, in fact the greater part of our way back home. Only when we had nearly reached the gate, Pete bestirred himself to talk. “Gosh! I hate acting this way, old timer. The trouble is I’m groping in the dark myself, and it’s all so devilish difficult to explain. When I rushed out this afternoon, I wanted to catch the late Havana papers for an ad.”
“An ad?” I echoed, more mystified than ever.
“Here. Take a look.”
He tossed a slip of paper over to me and I read the English part.
$500 Reward for information of any strange or untoward event occurring on or about the night of February 13th last, which might tend to throw light on the end of a young American millionaire who disappeared at the time from the Sevilla Biltmore Hotel. Communicate with Chief of Police, Havana.
When I finished I shook my head glumly. “Good Lord! You’re a bigger fool than I suspected. A little experience of this sort of thing and you’d know you’d be swamped by communications from every blamed nut in the United States and West Indies.”.
“I rather hope so.”
“Well, you’ll manage this yourself. That’s sure.” I spoke glumly. Suddenly I felt inexpressibly weary. Luckily for me, we had reached our gate. I pushed into the garden, knowing without looking that the hour was very late. Somewhere in the darkness I heard the fountain dripping softly. Despite my mood, the night seemed charged with a warm, magical peace. Then suddenly, when we were more than half way across the garden and nearing our door, a shadow slipped past us. It was a broad, heavy-set shadow, strangely clumsy with speed. Then I gripped the rail of our balcony, for in the light of the street lamp, I caught the gleam of thick lens glasses. When the outer gate clicked, I swallowed in a kind of relief.