Next the detective drove to Washington Heights to get the messenger boy out of bed. The boy said a man had signed for the envelope. So Kilkenny had the boy get dressed and took him down to the West 100th Street police station.
The Dunnes were still there, being re-questioned by a lieutenant of the homicide bureau. Kilkenny took the messenger in for a look at Roger Dunne.
“Ain’t him,” the boy said. “Fella signed fer me dis mornin’ was kind of a young guy. Had more hair’n this fella, sort of yella hair. Sort of a pale guy.”
“Sound like somebody you know, Mrs. Dunne?” the detective asked.
“He’s probably trying to describe my brother Anthony,” Penelope replied.
“This look like your brother’s writing?” the detective displayed the signed receipt.
“Yes, I suppose that could be Anthony’s hand.”
“Your brother in a habit of sending for your phone messages in your name, Mrs. Dunne?”
“Why no, he’s never done it before to my knowledge. I don’t know what could have come over him—unless he overheard me this morning phoning some of my friends about that peculiar warning last night. He might have been curious about who could have phoned a message like that.”
“Who do you think phoned it, Mrs. Dunne?”
“I can’t imagine. You wouldn’t think a man would care to leave a message like that with a third party, so it would naturally be someone who didn’t know I was using the telephone-answering service. And all my friends know I use the service.”
“All your friends?”
“I can’t think of one who doesn’t know.”
“By the way, Mrs. Dunne, just why do you use this service?”
“A matter of economy. I missed a telephone call from my broker six months ago, and it cost me a thousand dollars. I decided it was cheaper to pay the fourteen dollars a month to have someone watch my phone twenty-four hours a day, whether I’m in or not. I—”
“But you do have an idea who it was phoned last night?”
“I—no.”
“Haven’t any idea who called Pierre Laurence ‘the white-haired boy’?”
“Well—this is a terrible thing to say, I know—but Tom Norfolk always used to say that Pierre was the white-haired boy around my place. Tom denies making the phone call, though. I phoned him this morning, jokingly, but he didn’t think there was anything funny about it. He said he didn’t do it. And I believe Tom. He’s a very bright young man, and—”
“Did Norfolk know this Laurence very well, Mrs. Dunne?”
“Well enough to detest him thoroughly, I understand,” Roger Dunne volunteered.
“You couldn’t expect them to be bosom friends exactly,” Penelope said. “They were both after the same girl.”
“That’s this Frye girl?”
“Julia Frye. She’s quite rich.”
Kilkenny looked questioningly at the lieutenant who had been listening from behind his desk. The lieutenant shook his head.
“Haven’t been able to pick up Norfolk’s trail yet,” he said. “He’s supposed to be in Connecticut with this gal.”
“Oh, how stupid of me!” exclaimed Penelope. “I’ve just thought of something.”
“Yes, Mrs. Dunne?”
“Funny I didn’t think of it before, but I didn’t, and there you are. Pierre Laurence himself used to call my brother Anthony ‘the white-haired boy’.”
“Laurence called Grove that?”
“Yes. And that would explain everything, wouldn’t it? That would explain why Anthony sent for those message slips. If he overheard me phoning someone about what someone else said was going to happen to the white-haired boy, why naturally he’d worry, poor boy.”
“Naturally,” said Kilkenny.
“Poor boy,” echoed Roger Dunne.
There was a moment of silence. Then the lieutenant said, “I hope you won’t mind if I ask you to stay with us a little longer tonight, Mr. and Mrs. Dunne. We’ll try to make you as comfortable as possible. This isn’t the Waldorf-Astoria, but we have some cots so that you can rest until we’re ready to talk to you again.”
“See here, Lieutenant,” Roger Dunne protested. “If there are going to be any accusations against Mrs. Dunne or myself, I should like to remind you that I have a right to communicate with my attorney.”
“No accusations, Mr. Dunne,” said the lieutenant. “We’re just asking your co-operation, that’s all. Is that too much?”
“We’ll help with everything in our power,” said Penelope Dunne, sweetly. “Won’t we, Roger dear?”
There was venom in the smile that she gave her husband.
The lieutenant nodded to a uniformed policeman who escorted the couple from the room. When they had gone, he said, “Kenny, we picked up that guy Barney Weaver a little while ago, but we lost him again.”
“Lost him? How the hell—Who lost him?”
“Berg and Chambers,” the lieutenant said. “They’d been up looking over Weaver’s room, and found he was all packed, ready to clear out. They came down stairs and hung around outside, waiting for him. He came by, all right, but he must have smelled we had a tail on him because he didn’t try to go in. The boys followed him down to the corner and grabbed him while he was coming out of a phone booth.”
“And I suppose he doubled back and they lost him in the phone booth,” Kilkenny said, biting the end off a match.
“No, they lost him at the corner,” the lieutenant explained. “Their car was parked across the street, and there was quite a bit of traffic passing, so they were waiting for the green light. All of a sudden, this Weaver jumps out of his coat and dives right through the traffic.”
“I suppose Weaver ran one way and the coat ran the other,” Kilkenny said. He spit out a piece of match.
“The boys got the coat,” the lieutenant said. “He jumped right out of it, with each of ’em holding a sleeve, and slid between two trucks and got swallowed up in the traffic before they could get him. Berg says it was such a close squeeze between the trucks that if Weaver had a patch on the seat of his pants, he’d never have got through. Chambers jumped right after him, but the fender of a laundry wagon hit him and knocked him down. Lucky it just bruised him a little. Berg had his gun out but he didn’t shoot, because there were too many people in the way, and anyhow he didn’t see Weaver. They shook up the neighborhood, but they didn’t find him. He probably got away on one of those trucks.”
“Nice work,” Kilkenny said. “Berg and Chambers must be pretty proud. Where are they now—already pounding a beat in Queens somewhere?”
“They’re down at Grand Central station,” the lieutenant said.
“I see,” Kilkenny said. “Two weeks’ vacation with pay and a medal for distinguished service.”
“They’re running down a couple of baggage checks. There were a couple of checks in Weaver’s coat, and they’ve gone down to see what it was he left in Grand Central.”
A shrill yapping came from the next room.
“Those damn dawgs,” the lieutenant said. “I forgot about the dawgs.”
“The Japanese boy still here with ’em?”
“He’s here. I’ve been keeping him until he identifies these photographs.” The lieutenant opened a drawer.
“Who’s that?”
“Barney Weaver.”
“Husky-looking brute,” Kilkenney said. “Where’d you get the pictures?”
“The Sanderson girl’s room. The place was full of ’em. The Jap says he knows Weaver pretty well. Was in some class with him at Columbia.”
“Let’s get to work,” said Kilkenny.
Haruzo Matsuki was waiting in an anteroom with Penelope Dunne’s Pekinese, and protested volubly, if somewhat unintelligibly, when he saw Kilkenny.
“Ah. So grad you have come, O-mawari-san,” he sputtered. “You musto granto my freedom instantry, I hope.”
“Keep your pants on,” said Kilkenny.
“Have not yetto finished evening tassukuzu,” M
atsuki protested. “Am negrecting one Great Danishi dog in Westo End Avenue, one fockuzu terryah in Amstadammu, one corry dog in penthouse—”
“You can go when we’re through with you,” the lieutenant said.
“Butto evening walking awready ragging behindo time. If continuing so, Matsuki facing ross of income, I hope not.”
“Sure, sure, we know all that, Matsuki. Just look at this photograph and tell me if you recognize the man.”
“Ah, yes. Mistah Weavah. We are intomato friendzu.”
“This the Barney Weaver you know?”
“Ah, yes.”
“This the man you saw in Mrs. Dunne’s apartment when you called for the dogs this evening?”
“Ah, yes. Whatto unrucky—”
“That’s all,” Kilkenny interrupted. “You can go back to your dogs now, Matsuki. We’ll call you again when we need you.”
As the Japanese went out, another door opened and two plain-clothes men came in. One carried a suitcase and the other had a bulky paper-wrapped bundle under his arm.
“Hello, Berg. Hello, Chambers. I heard you fellows have been playing a little hide-and-seek.”
“We been at Grand Central,” Berg said. “Weaver checked these two packages at separate stands about two hours ago.”
“We think the suitcase belongs to the dame he was phoning when we almost picked him up,” Chambers said.
“She got red hair?” Kilkenny asked.
“We couldn’t tell over the phone,” Berg said. “But we heard him talking to a dame called Vivian, and the initials on the suitcase are V.S.”
“Very clever,” said Kilkenny. “The girl’s name is probably Vivian Sanderson. What’s in the package?”
“We didn’t open it yet,” said Berg.
“It don’t feel like a torso,” Chambers said.
“Put ’em here on the desk,” Kilkenny said. He opened the suitcase, looked inside, closed it. He handled the paper bundle carefully, examining all sides before he cut the cord with a pocketknife.
He lifted out the automobile license plates, holding them by the edges, and handed them to Berg.
“Get on a phone and see who these belong to,” he said. “No, not my phone. Go into the squad room.”
When Kilkenny picked up one of the pelts in the package, his expression changed. Tentatively his fingers stroked the luxuriant fur, as though to assay it. There was instinctive admiration, almost reverence in his touch. Thoughtfully he picked up the telephone and called Dr. Joseph Rosenkohl.
“Hello, Rosie,” he said. “Kenny again. Look, didn’t you say you had a brother-in-law in the fur business?… Is he there tonight?… He did, eh? I don’t blame him. How was the mohn kuchen?… I’ll bet… Look, will you ask your brother-in-law something for me? We’ve picked up some animal skins. They look like foxes, only I never saw any this color before. They’re cream-colored, with a white neck, black ears, black tail, and a dark streak down the back. There’s a lead slug fastened to each skin, that says ‘Super-Platin, Norway’ on it. What I want to know, is this just dressed-up dog, or does it sound like real fur?… I see… Yes… Sure… Well, who would know more about it? Haberman? Fifty-Seventh Street? I’ll see him in the morning. I got enough for tonight… Thousands, eh?… Boy, boy!… A guy named Barney Weaver checked ’em at Grand Central. I don’t know his father’s name. Maybe. I’ll let you talk to him when we get back… Thank your brother-in-law for me, Rosie. ’Night. See you at the morgue.”
The sweeping movement with which Kilkenny replaced the telephone instrument was a gesture of triumph. He faced the lieutenant with a jutting underlip and a smile of satisfaction.
“I think we’re getting somewhere, Lieutenant,” he said. “These furs are platinum foxes and they don’t grow any place in the world except Norway. They’re practically worth their weight in platinum.”
“Where does that get us?” the lieutenant said.
“Well, valuable furs—that’s a motive.”
“Motive for who?” the lieutenant asked. “The furs were checked by Weaver at the same time as a suitcase belonging to the Sanderson girl, and some auto license plates we don’t know who they belong to. Looks to me like we’re getting too many places at once.”
Kilkenny did not reply. His lips twisted into a savage grimace. Then he leaned over the corner of the desk and spat. The brass cuspidor rang.
Berg came back with the license plates. He said, “This number is registered to Anthony Grove, three hundred sixty-nine Riverside Drive, Manhattan. It’s a Buick coupé.”
Kilkenny nodded. He looked at the lieutenant. “No word on Grove, Lieutenant?” he asked.
“Nothing,” the lieutenant said. “Did you see his mug?”
“No. Got some pictures?”
“In the next room,” the lieutenant said.
They went into the lieutenant’s office. Kilkenny picked up a photograph the lieutenant slid across the desk. It was the standard identification bureau double pose, full face and profile, with the numbers across the bottom.
“Not a bad-looking guy,” the lieutenant said.
“What’s his record?”
“Grand larceny. Embezzled twenty grand from some Wall Street firm. Paroled a year ago.”
“His description gone out?”
“On the Teletype an hour ago.” The lieutenant nodded.
“Think it might be a good idea to give his picture to the papers tomorrow?”
“Might. I’ll ask the inspector. What do you think of Mrs. Dunne’s story?”
“I dunno yet.” Kilkenny spat again. The lieutenant’s cuspidor did not have the clear, ringing tone of his own. The sound was disappointing. “I can’t quite figure her out. She knows something, of course, but I haven’t figured how to get it out of her.”
“Why don’t you take her to the autopsy in the morning?” the lieutenant suggested.
“The Laurence autopsy?”
The lieutenant nodded. “That always affects ’em,” he said. “Sometimes they break down and shoot the whole story.”
“Usually they just shoot their breakfast,” said Detective Kilkenny. “I’ll try to think of something better.”
XV
BARNEY WEAVER COULD NOT HAVE TOLD exactly how he managed to squirm out of his coat. He was almost as surprised as the two detectives he left holding the sleeves. It was a desperate, impulsive movement, timed perfectly by an instinct shorn of all inhibitions, born of a knowledge that he must not be locked up at this moment. He could not co-operate with the police now, because he had already rendered himself suspect by running away from the Dunne apartment. They would not believe anything he said. So he had to remain free and master of the situation if he was to continue looking after Vivian.
When he jumped out of his coat, he streaked through the traffic like an open-field runner in sight of the goal posts. He hurdled bumpers, dodged fenders, breathed gas fumes, closed his ears to screeching horns, squealing brakes, swearing drivers, the two yelling detectives. A huge furniture van cut him off from his pursuers at the moment that a wrecking-car from some garage passed, going in the opposite direction. He leaped aboard the wrecker, sprawled flat among the coiled ropes, jacks, greasy waste, and clanking tools.
After a breathless moment he raised his head to look at the silhouettes of the two garagemen framed in the back window of the cabin of the truck. Apparently they were unaware that he was their passenger; he saw only the napes of their necks. He turned on his side so that he could look back. He saw no sign of pursuit. For a long time he lay there, contemplating the empty hook dangling from the block-and-tackle chains of the derrick in the rear.
When the wrecker finally swung into a garage, Barney lay flat again. The truck rolled through the cavernous gloom to the back of the garage. The driver and the mechanic got out and walked to the entrance where the rest of the garage staff were playing cards on up-ended boxes. Barney waited a few minutes, then carefully climbed out of the wrecker on the far side. In an alcove, beside a sink that s
melled of sand soap, he saw a row of lockers. He opened several, helped himself to a pair of greasy dungarees, stepped into them. They were pretty tight across the hips, but they would do. He took a grimy peaked cap that was hanging in the same locker. Then, thanking his stars that he carried his wallet on the hip instead of in his coat pocket, he took out a five-dollar bill and impaled it upon the hook from which he had just outfitted himself. At the same moment he stopped thanking his stars, because he suddenly realized that the checks for Vivian’s suitcase and the package of furs were not in his wallet. He had left them in his coat pocket, and his coat was at this moment in the hands of the police. That was a damned stupid thing to do!
He made certain that the card game at the entrance continued to hold the interest of the garage staff, then began exploring for a back exit. He found himself in an alleyway that was too dark to be clean, and made his way between close walls and tall odors to the street. The name of the street meant nothing to him, but it was arcaded by the high structure of the elevated. Through the pylons and trusses of the el trestle, he saw the massive ramparts of Yankee Stadium. He knew then he was in the Bronx, and made instant plans to get back across the Harlem River to Manhattan. He intended to make a cautious and roundabout approach to the Overlook Arms Apartments, to arrive in the neighborhood at two o’clock, when Vivian came off duty. She would be shadowed, certainly.
Barney wondered if his greasy cap and overalls would be sufficient disguise to enable him to shadow the shadow without detection. He wanted to talk to Vivian, to tell her that her suitcase was probably in the hands of the police by now, so that further dissimulation was of no use. She would be safer in custody anyhow, as long as he was still at large to dig up the truth. He might even go clean to the police himself if he had no success in his own investigation by morning. In the meantime, he would send Vivian a wire, if he couldn’t manage to speak to her.
He carefully wiped his oily sleeve across his face.
Vivian Sanderson was relieved when Detective Kilkenny had left the Gotham exchange, but she was not entirely reassured. She felt she had probably said something wrong. She would see Kilkenny again soon, she was sure.
See You at the Morgue Page 11