I'll Sing at Your Funeral

by Hugh Pentecost

  “No old school spirit,” said Cain, with a malicious grin.

  Bradley ignored him. “Now I’ve got to handle this the tough way. You are all suspects. You will each be put on the grill privately. We’ll pry out every bit of gossip and rumor. I don’t think any of you realize what that means. I want you to think for a minute … to decide whether it wouldn’t be better to keep on informally, telling what you know in front of everyone involved. If that isn’t the way you want it … ” He shrugged his shoulders.

  Summers and Margo, behind her desk in the corner of the room, began talking earnestly together. Rosokov remained seated in the big chair, stroking his wife’s shoulder with a huge paw.

  “We are willing to telling you anything we can, Inspector,” he said, “but we have already done this, eh, Julie?”

  Madame Rosokov nodded.

  “I am coming here every day for a lesson. I am hearing talk about people, especially from Beany who is smelling scandal in a new-mown hayfield. But I am not listening, Inspector. What do I care about people doing this or doing that? I am an artist. I think about singing; I eat, singing; I sleep singing.”

  Julie Rosokov continued to nod confirmation.

  “You are asking about Lydia Egan,” Rosokov continued. “I met her. Sure. She is a pupil here. She is small. Not like Julie, but small. She is also not like Julie in that she is having a flat chest like a boy. She is saying to Margo, ‘I am finding a wonderful place to buy gloves … very cheap.’ Or, ‘I am seeing a movie picture with Clark Gables. Don’t you think he is being wonderful?’ Phooey! I should listening to this! This is all I know.”

  “She was a great admirer of your singing, Dmitni,” said Madame Rosokov.

  “This is nothing new,” said Rosokov. “ ‘Oh, Mr. Rosokov, you are having such a wonderful voice!’ she is saying. I say, ‘Sure, it is good,’ I say. I should make her jumping out windows for this? Besides,” — and he rumpled his wife’s curly hair — “Julie would tearing me into little pieces if I am looking at another woman. She is terrible when she is angry!” And he roared with laughter.

  Then there was silence once more. Bradley turned toward the corner of the room. “Well, Mr. Summers?”

  “I’ve told you all I know about Lydia … Inspector.” Summers was weary but firm. “As for this business tonight … ” He shook his head.

  Bradley looked around at the others. “All right!” he said sharply. “Murphy, there’s a police stenographer in the hall. Have him brought into the main studio.”

  One of the uniformed cops went out.

  “The gloves are off,” Bradley said. “Mr. Summers, I’ll begin with you. The rest of you might as well make yourselves as comfortable as possible. You won’t be leaving for some time.”

  “Wait a minute, teacher,” said Cain. “You don’t want me, do you?”

  Bradley scowled. “What’s on your mind?”

  “Thought I’d like to stroll out for a drink,” said Cain.

  Bradley hesitated. “Okay,” he said. “Only don’t talk to reporters. And come back! I may need you.”

  “Right,” said Cain.

  2

  The hallway outside the studio was deserted except for policemen. Cain saw heads pop out of half-closed doors along the corridor as he made for the elevator. He discovered that Murphy was at his heels.

  “It’s okay for this guy to go out,” he said to the cop at the elevator, “but Bradley wants him back. Tell the boys downstairs.”

  One of the two elevators had evidently been commandeered by the police, for the policeman ran it himself.

  The main foyer was crowded with reporters. A couple of flashlight bulbs exploded as Cain stepped off the car. He was surrounded.

  “What’s going on?”

  “Who got killed?”

  “Has Bradley made an arrest?”

  “Who are you? What’s your name?”

  Cain shouldered his way toward the revolving door. “Sorry, boys. I’m on parole! No talking. Bradley’s orders.”

  “The hell with Bradley. I heard it was a girl singer. Who is she? Was it some guy she’d been sleeping with who gave her the works?”

  “If you promise to keep it off the record,” said Cain, “I’ll give you the lowdown.”

  “Shoot!”

  “Let’s have it!”

  “It’s Rudolph Hess!” said Cain. “He landed on the top of the building in an autogyro.”

  “Why, you louse!”

  Cain went out onto the street. The night air tasted fresh and clean. There were the remnants of a crowd outside the building, probably attracted by the police ambulance and the radio cars, the latter still parked at the curb. Cain crossed Fifty-Sixth Street to the Wellington Bar.

  “Double rye with a beer chaser,” he ordered. The business of cutting down on liquor to help his voice was getting nowhere.

  The bartender brought the drink. “Somebody got bumped off in Carnegie Hall,” he said conversationally. “Homicide squad, radio cars, and ambulance. Lot of excitement.”

  “No kidding,” said Cain.

  “No kidding,” said a mocking voice at Cain’s elbow.

  There was something familiar about the sardonic-faced young man in a wrinkled tweed suit, snap-brim hat pushed back on his head, a cigarette dangling between his lips.

  “Remember me, Cain? Ray Webster of the Globe.”

  “Came the dawn!” said Cain. “You’re the cluck who got me plastered the night I got back from Spain.”

  “What a memory!” said Webster.

  “That’s the trouble,” said Cain. “I don’t remember. Except your piece the next day in which you quoted me as solving the entire economic, social, and military problem in Europe.”

  “Pretty sound, too,” said Webster. “Let’s sit down at table. I recognized you when you got off the elevator. You see, we carried a story about you only yesterday. Going to be a crooner, I hear.”

  “For God’s sake, man, not so loud!” said Cain. “How about this corner booth and what will you have?”

  “Ginger ale,” said Webster.

  “A wise guy, eh?” said Cain. “Well, this time I’m not being seduced, chum. You can’t ply me with liquor. Not much liquor anyway.”

  They sat down at the corner table.

  “Well, who killed him?” said Webster.

  “Who killed who?” said Cain blandly.

  “The guy who was murdered,” said Webster.

  “How do you know it was a guy?”

  “From the way you looked when one of those monkeys suggested it was a woman,” said Webster.

  “That’s known as the Cain gambit,” said Cain. “Fool’s mate in two moves.”

  “Be a pal,” said Webster. “I know it was in Summers’ studio because the paper said you were studying with him. Was it Summers who got it?”

  “If winter comes,” said Cain, “can Summers be far behind? Sorry, Webster, but I promised Massa Bradley not to say boo to anyone.”

  “Bradley’s a tough guy from our point of view,” said Webster. “He never talks till he’s ready to deliver the murderer to the police commissioner.”

  “Sorry,” said Cain. “I’ve got to play ball with him. Cigarette?”

  He reached in his pocket for his pack, frowned, and removed his hand, holding in it a stopperless glass phial. From it there emanated a faint peach-stone odor. Cain’s eyes lifted quickly. There was no sign of interest on Webster’s face. Cain pocketed the bottle.

  “I would run out of my gall bladder pills on a night like this,” he said. His voice wasn’t quite steady.

  “If this case drags on,” said Webster, “I might be able to do you or some friend of yours a favor. It happens that way. If you’ll give me a break whenever you’re at liberty to talk.”

  “Sure,” said Cain. “Sure. Be glad to. Well, I’ve got to be getting back.”

  “Say, you haven’t touched your drink!” Webster said,

  Cain picked up the glass and drained it. “That’s what
fascinating conversation does for me,” he said. “I lose myself.”

  He hurried out. As he made his way through the police cordon to the elevator, his hand was in his pocket, closed over the empty phial.

  3

  There was subdued quiet in the reception room when Murphy let Cain back in. Summers was apparently still undergoing his inquisition. Carol was back in her place on the couch and Royce was talking to Margo in a corner. The rest of them were listening to Beany Cook.

  “Of course I don’t like to set myself up against the inspector,” Beany was saying, “but I’m certain he’s on the wrong track. Not that I want to hurt you, Carol. I know what you must be going through. But I’m positive that Bill killed himself over Lydia!”

  There was a sharp intake of breath from Joe Egan. “Why?” he said.

  “After all, if the general public found that Bill had driven a girl to suicide, his career would have been at an end … but finished!”

  “Bunk!” said Rosokov cheerfully.

  “It’s not bunk,” said Beany. “I know because … well, because he gave himself away to me.”

  “How?” asked Mrs. Wilder. “Oh, I really can’t believe that of Bill. There was nothing in his chart to suggest it.”

  “Well, I’m supposed to be writing a biography of Mr. Summers. But at least half the time I find myself taking over for Margo here in the reception room. Of course if she was a real secretary … ”

  “What a stinker you are, Beany,” Carol said.

  “Either I’m allowed to tell this story or I’m not!” Beany said. He looked around belligerently. “I was in charge and Bill had just finished a lesson. He came out here and quite brazenly picked up the phone to make a call without asking permission. And who do you think he called?”

  “Lydia Egan,” said Cain, from the door. His voice sounded harsh. His hand was still deep in his coat pocket. “He called her, found she wasn’t in, and left his name. Am I right?”

  “How did you know?” Beany demanded.

  “Bradley. He knows about the call and it’s one of the reasons he’s convinced Bill’s out. The fact that he made the call in front of you clinches it.”

  Rosoko’v emitted a rumbling chuckle. “He should printing it in Winchell’s column!”

  Cain walked over and stood by Carol. “Did they give you a clean bill of health upstairs?” he asked. His eyes had an angry glitter in them.

  “Did you expect me to be carrying concealed weapons?” Carol asked.

  “Sister, I know you weren’t carrying anything.”

  Her eyes met his without a flicker. “The omniscient Mr. Cain,” she said.

  Just then the door to the main studio opened and Summers came out. He looked even more haggard. His eyes were red and he raised a hand as if to shade them from the bright light of the reception room.

  “He wants you next, sweet,” he said to Margo.

  Margo started toward the door, but Cain stopped her. “Hold it,” he said. He walked straight into the studio and closed the door behind him. Bradley was at Summers’ littered desk. The stenographer sat under a goose necked bridge lamp, his pad poised on his knee.

  “What do you want?” Bradley asked. “Fresh air revive you?”

  “Not much,” said Cain. “Got a present for you.”

  He took the phial out of his pocket and put it down in front of Bradley.

  “Where did you find it?” Bradley said, after staring at it for a moment.

  “In my pocket.”

  “Mercy!” said Bradley. “When?”

  “1 was having a drink at the bar next door. Reached in my pocket for a cigarette. There it was.”

  “How did it get there?”

  “How the hell should I know?”

  Cain’s voice was so exasperated that Bradley gave him a long, thoughtful look. “But you have ideas?”

  “Sure I have ideas,” said Cain. “The murderer put it there. It was a swell idea, wasn’t it? I was the guy you weren’t having searched. Even if you found it on me I had an alibi.”

  “You could be an accomplice.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake,” said Cain. “Stop cracking wise.”

  “Got any idea when it was put in your pocket?”

  “Not the slightest,” said Cain. “Any time right after the murder. We were all like stampeded cattle. I wouldn’t have noticed.”

  “Uh-huh,” said Bradley.

  “What the hell do you mean, uh-huh?”

  Bradley tapped the stem of his pipe against his teeth, “Only that you were in here with me for about half an hour after the murder. You smoked a good dozen cigarettes in that time. Hand in and out of your pocket for those cigarettes and matches. But you didn’t find it then.”

  “I wasn’t looking for it!” Cain snapped. “It might have stayed there all night without my finding it.”

  “Why are you so burned up about this, Mr. Cain?”

  “Wouldn’t you be burned up if somebody tried to frame you?”

  “You think that’s why it was put there?”

  “Don’t you?”

  “No,” said Bradley. “I think somebody wanted to get rid of it. I had to search people, but I never expected to find the damn thing. It should have been chucked out the window or flushed down the toilet. “I wonder why that wasn’t done?”

  “I’ll bite,” said Cain.

  “The frame-up doesn’t click,” said Bradley, “because you were the one person who couldn’t be framed.”

  Cain drew a deep breath. “I’ve been a lot of things in my life,” he said. “Now I turn out to be a hiding place!”

  Chapter Ten

  1

  Bradley got up from his chair. “It won’t do any good,” he said, “but I’ll put it to them. There’s just a chance someone may be ready to talk.”

  He walked into the reception room. A murmur of conversation died. No actor ever had more rapt attention upon an entrance. Cain stood behind Bradley, trying to read something in the faces that were all turned his way.

  “We’ve found the phial that contained the poison,” said Bradley, abruptly.

  Cain could sense a tightening of nerves but no one spoke.

  “We found it,” Bradley continued, “in Mr. Cain’s pocket!”

  The eyes were all on Cain now.

  “Cain!” It was Margo Reed who broke the silence. “But I thought you said … ”

  “Mr. Cain still has his alibi,” Bradley said. “Somebody put the bottle in his pocket to get rid of it.”

  “The neatest trick of the week,” Cain said.

  “Exactly,” agreed Bradley.

  “Pat, didn’t you know when it happened?” Edgar Stoddard asked.

  “No.”

  Edgar sighed. “That is something, isn’t it?”

  “Now that you know about this,” Bradley resumed, “did any of you see anything happen that could have been the planting of the phial in Cain’s pocket?”

  There was a general shaking of heads.

  Suddenly Bradley’s mildness deserted him. “All right,” he said angrily. “All right. Have it your way. Play ball with a murderer. Let him silence someone else.”

  “Really, old man, aren’t you exaggerating the situation somewhat?” Royce interrupted. “If we knew anything, obviously we’d tell you.”

  “Sure,” said Bradley. “Sure you would. Have all of you got something to hide? Are you all afraid of your own precious reputations? What kind of people are you?”

  “I don’t think we’re required to take a tongue-lashing from you, Inspector,” Emily said. “Robert is quite right. If we knew anything, we’d tell you. We don’t. It’s your job to find the murderer. But this isn’t a guessing game, and it isn’t your job to interest yourself in our guesses.”

  “Have you made a guess?” Bradley asked.

  “Naturally,” said Emily cooly. “I suspect that all of us have been doing some guessing in the last few hours.”

  “And who have you picked, Mrs. Stoddard?”

/>   “I have no intention of going into that with you, Inspector. If I had evidence it would be a different matter.”

  “I think Emily has expressed the way we all feel, Inspector,” Summers said. “None of us want to hold back facts. I don’t think any of us have. But … ”

  “Can’t you get it into your heads,” said Bradley, “that sitting here in this room is the man or woman who poisoned Brackett? That’s not a guess. That’s a fact.”

  “I don’t think any of us have forgotten it for a minute,” said Margo. “And it’s not pleasant.”

  “Then for God’s sake … ” Bradley began. He checked himself. When he went on his voice was quiet again. “I could take you all down to headquarters under arrest as material witnesses,” he said. “I could turn some of the boys loose on you and I think you’d find that wasn’t very much better than Chief Golden Wolf’s ordeal by fire. I’m not going to do that. It’s three in the morning. It’s been a tough night. Perhaps your judgments are warped. I’m going to give you a chance to think things over. After you’ve had some rest … say at ten tomorrow morning … we’ll come back to our problem. I hope you will see your way clear, by then, to be freer with your information. Now you can go, all of you.”

  Everyone moved hurriedly for hats and coats.

  “Just a minute,” said Bradley. “You’ll all be watched. I’m telling you this so you won’t bother to complain to the commissioner about being followed. Every one of you is a murder suspect and you’re going to be treated as such.”

  2

  George, the chauffeur, was waiting outside the building when the Stoddards and Cain appeared. He explained the police had made him park down the block. His polite servant’s mask had cracked.

  “I’m glad to see that you’re all safe, madam,” he said. “There have been all sorts of rumors going on down here.”

  Cain noticed that the reporters were no longer present. Bradley must have managed that.

  “It was Mr. Brackett who was killed, George,” said Emily. “Please get us home as quickly as possible.”

  Cain and Carol sat on the folding seats as they had on the trip to the hall. Carol made a point of staring out the window. Cain was looking down at his good hand which was knotted into a fist.